Behold: The Nabes

There are some new boys in my life. They are adorable and fun and have good taste in music and like to surf and wear costumes and tell me when I look pretty and they will even cook for me sometimes! And they have an adorable dog that’s besties with my roommate's dog. They are the Nabes! Neighbor + Babe = Nabe (It’s okay, I think they like being objectified.) One has a super cute accent and really long eyelashes and the other has an unruly mop of blonde curls and enjoys fixing lots of manly stuff. And one of their friends likes Wilco and the other one likes Dinosaur Jr. Did I mention they like to wear costumes?



Call Animal Control

And their dog is so cute! He is lazy and non-committal and hogs the bed because he is a boy, but he is a top-notch cuddler. Although he's no longer allowed in our house because he ate my roommate's 10 freshly baked pumpkin muffins from off the counter. And the day before, he ate the package of chocolates that her boyfriend had sent to her from the Bahamas. But he can’t help it if he gets the munchies. (I had some time off from work for Thanksgiving, so like any normal person, I spent it taking pics and videos of two dogs that aren’t mine. I will post the video later so that you will have something awesome to look forward to.)

What else? Ummmm. We went night surfing one time. And another day we made mudslides and drank them in the sunny front yard. And back before it got dark at 4:30, we would always take the dogs up to the little park at the end of our street so they could pee on each other. (Seriously.) Sometimes they grill and build little bonfires in our fire pit. Every now and then they let me tag along on Peter Pans’ Night Out (PPNO), so I am really learning a lot about “dating” in CA. And they offer advice on how to deal with jerkfaces like GPG. Who is coming over tonight. Who I might have hung out with two weeks ago? And maybe the week before that? Whatever! The holidays are tough and I’m going to get through them in my own way. (GPG also kind of paused and stopped talking when he saw the flowers that a nabe got me for my bday. He was very jelsorama, thanks to my nabe.)

Speaking of holidays, my bff told me to get through them by embracing the few things about them that I love. Like peppermint chocolate flavored anything. I am having lots of that. I have also applied this way of thinking to dealing with the cold out in CA. I love boots, but I could only wear them in Florida, like, maybe 15 times a year. Now I can wear them every GD day. In other acclimation news, I sucked it up and bought a warm wetsuit and a space heater. I am down to only two blankets on my bed and I try not to turn the space heater past the second level. Sometimes I wear shorts when it’s cold because I know deep down inside me, there is that little idiot who used to wear her daisy dukes and a tank top every time the temp got above 50 during Ohio winters. I am confident that I can get back to that sort of asinine behavior in another year.



View at the end of my street



As far as this past year goes, it sucked and was super stressful. But now I am settling in at my job and am even starting to enjoy it since I got a promotion. I live in the best house in the best part of town. I can walk to Swami’s and crawl home from the Saloon. I have the best nabes ever. Vegas Model Judger is right up the road. My Fun Couple who moved to Brooklyn will be back for the holidays. And of course I have Sea Pony and her upcoming wedding to plan outfits for. I just need to find a date for that. I have five months to do so…



But You Know It's a Lonely Ride

How are things on the West Coast?

I hear you're movin' real fine

You wear those shoes like a dove

Now strut those shoes

We'll go roaming in the night

Well how are things on the West Coast?

You keep it movin' to your soul's delight

Now I've tried the brakes
I've tried but you know it's a lonely ride
How are things on the West Coast?
Oh and move heaven behind those eyes…

 

I have so many things swimming around in my head, so I’m not sure what to write about since nothing that exciting’s happening. Just a lot of angst and existential dilemmas. The usual. This past week was cloudy and cold so it gave me the sads. But today was sunny, so I’m canceling the move to Oahu. For now.

Let’s see, I went on some dates with some boring stable guys and also on some fun dates with bad boys who I suspect were looking for more than the peck on the cheek they got. Over it. My friend told me I was trying too hard to find someone. Well of course I am. I figured Peter Pan Diego would be way better for my career. But I also assumed that it’d be easier to find a cool boyfriend here because San Diego has a pretty large concentration of guys who love the ocean, and are active, and are probably semi-smart because they have to have a decent job if they can afford to live here. So since I put a lot of effort into making my life awesome, I thought maybe I should put some effort into finding an awesome guy.

After a year, I can say that I have no idea what makes me happy when it comes to dating. My parents were complete opposites, and their marriage sucked, so I have no desire to date my opposite. (If you still don’t believe that opposites are bad, see all GPG entries.) But someone who’s just like me would be soooo annoying. There can only be one person doing the over-analyzing, and that is me. I am tempted to scrap the dates I have scheduled for this week and just go back to filling up all my spare time with stuff that makes me happy. Oh and I can see you all being like “Yes, Dramazon. Do what makes you happy. You will find him when you least expect it."

Don’t make me puke. I am sooo sick of hearing how everyone found someone when they least expected it. Oh really? Were you walking around with zero makeup on, wearing sweatpants, eating a gallon of ice cream, and wiping the grease from your hair when you met your dreamboat? Because if you really weren’t looking, that’s what you would have been doing!!! I am doing what makes me happy. In fact, I’m a g.d. expert at it. It’s what I do best! And while I was becoming an expert at not waiting around for a guy, I never picked up the skills that you need in order to make a relationship work. So thanks for the great advice, everyone!

What do you think all of the solo vacations, solo concerts, solo road trips, solo surf sessions, solo real estate purchases, solo multiple cross-country moves, grad school, and the riding lessons were all about? I’ve never been one to follow what everyone else is doing (marry, have kids, divorce, marry), but I’m kind of starting to suspect that my independence is a crutch of sorts. I’m assuming your 20s are all about doing what you think adults are supposed to do. And your 30s are all about realizing how doing that is dumb. Or maybe no one is really all that happy, so they have another kid, or have an affair, or turn into swingers in the hopes of finding something fulfilling? That is sad. I am sad. You are sad?

Okay, enough Debbie Downer rambling. Let’s get back to what makes this blog so amazing: pics of me in dresses! I went to Opening Day at Del Mar. I was really excited because I like to wear fancy stuff and I also look really good in hats. I spent a lot of time planning my outfit. The guy I was going to go with, who I had already been out on two dates with, sent me a friend request on fb. I thought that was odd, but figured it was a sign that he liked me. Well. He stood me up for Opening Day! So I had to scramble to go with a friend who is fun because he has an accent and is actually into doing fun things like wearing hats. Here is my outfit:

I wear those shoes like a dove?

Unfortunately, Opening Day wasn’t very fun or fancy. There were a lot of stripper heels and people passed out in the bushes. Lots of great people watching, but I was kind of over after about 10 minutes. But hey, at least I got to check it out. And my horse won its race! But I’d already left and going back to claim my winnings is giving me major anxiety.

Another thing I wanted to do was go on a non-work trip to Vegas. So my friend said he had a suite with plenty of room and I should definitely spend the weekend there. I hopped in my car and made it there in 4 hours. (I was pretty excited about my time.) Obviously, Vegas is super cheesy. However, it is a place where all-night dance parties and high heels are highly encouraged. Sign me up.

Strippers don't wear Alice + Olivia thank you very much!

I am probably the only person in the history of Vegas to not have a fling. My friend acted weird, pouted the whole time, refused to dance or go to any fun pools, and told me that my dress looked stripperish. At one point he told me to get my stuff out of his room because a celebrity doctor had noticed that no one was paying attention to me and decided to chat me up/dry hump my leg. (No it was not Dr. 90210. But he was kinda close.) I am no longer friends with my friend. And when Not Dr. 90210 invited me to his pool on Sunday, I was tempted to go, but I figured it would be more fun to spend the next 7 hours sitting in traffic on the awful drive back to San Diego. Dr. Not 90210 kept texting me to turn around, but I said no, b/c I’m pretty sure I’ll never wake up one day when I’m old and regret not having had more flings with cheesy fake doctors in Vegas. I hope.

Okay, I've gotta go text Granny Panties Guy to bed.

Summer Summations

I have been putting off reflecting on the past year that I've spent in San Diego. You know, because it just seems a little too boring and predictable. But allow me to be indulge myself (for once) and reflect a bit. . .

(Motown/Coral Lipstick/Shiny Dresses = You're Welcome)

1. For the first time ever, I have an awesome commute. I literally take the scenic route to and from work everyday. If my timing is right, I hit all the lights on my way home and feel like I'm in Starsky and Hutch as I floor it down really steep hills toward the sparkly bay. No more drawbridges to keep me from my house when I really, really have to pee b/c I have a hard time peeing in public restrooms and I've been holding it all day. No more wasting 2-3 hours of my day stuck on the Deadliest Stretch of Road in America trying to get to Boca for class or work. No more leaving for work when it's still dark out and you're sweating because it's already 85 degrees at 6:15 a.m.
2. I am okay with being a renter again. And having a roommate. Didn't really expect that to happen to me in my 30s, but I have realized that I need a heated pool and a water view in order for me to be happy. And I get to see fireworks every night. And you know how I feel about sparkly glittery stuff! And it is fun to talk shoes and get opinions on my date outfits from my roomie.
3. My ego/brain demands that I have a job where I need an access card to get to the office. I have paid my debt to society and I am okay w/ being a corporate d!ckhead once again. I feel very fortunate to have gotten away from high schoolers. And a little guilty for abandoning the altruism that allowed me to make some pretty interesting decisions over the years.
4. No More Project Guys. I will only date guys with jobs who don't need me to provide anything for them. Regardless of how hot and fun they are. And lean. And chiseled. With fantasgreat cheekbones. And soft blonde curls. I am okay with being vocal about not wanting to date anymore losers. This doesn't make me a bad person or a gold digger?
5. My friends are pretty much cooler and better and more amazing than anyone else's. I feel sooooo fortunate to have friends who love me no matter how redonk I am - I don't know how anyone goes through life without people they can trust and lean on when things get sucky.
6. I haven't been surfing that much. I figure I lived in a small beach town for the last 8 years and didn't have anything to do other than surf. So I think it's okay if I do other things right now. Like go to Vegas...

Dog Daze

I am dealing with maybe a little bit of guilt about leaving my dog behind with my old roommate who can't even be bothered to walk her on a semi-regular basis.  My roommate was gone for my last week at the old place, so I probably spent a little too much following my dog around with my camera phone.  I gave her a break from her shock therapy collar, and guess who didn't even growl when the mail lady came through the gate?

Here are shots that I find to be incredibly cute and you can waste 30 seconds looking at them because it's not like I've ever made you look at my wedding album or sit through potty training slide shows of all four of my children.  Behold, my dog's internal monologue...


A lady always crosses her legs.  Even when passed out.



Why must daylight savings affect my eating schedule?

Indestructible frisbee my ass.

I have already tanned on the porch and napped in various locations.  Now I will stare at you until you throw the ball for me or give me a treat.  I'm cool with either.

Treats please? Please??

What is in that bowl?  Is it for me?

Wait, what happened to all of the stuff in your room? Are you leaving me??

I don't know why I feel the need to keep my dog's name private, but I do.  She doesn't need any stalkers.

One Grain at a Time

Birthdays are always a good time for self-reflection.  Or being crazy dramatical.  I went with the latter and decided that wasting four months on some loser who wasn't even my type to begin with was a bad move.  I am trying to forget how much of a dork I was over the whole thing.  I decided to start dating other guys.  Hot guys.  Who live to please me.  And don't suck at foreplay.  But before I get into that, I should tell you how things ended with Granny Panties Guy (GPG/Jerkface).

He didn't call.  The end.

No really, that's pretty much it.  I talked to him last Sunday when he was telling me how much stuff he had to do.  And then he called me on Tuesday night and I didn't feel like picking up.  He's no dummy, he knew I had decided it was "time to start banging the erasers together" (as Brooding Intense Tall Canadian Hero advised me to do).  GPG sent me a funny pic the next day.  I sent a lukewarm response and then ignored.  Texted him a few hours later.  He ignored me.  Was just about to delete the FOUR MONTHS of GPG texts I'd been lugging around in my phone (I would look at them when I needed a laugh), and he texted me just as I was about to press delete.  Decided that was a sign that he liked me and I shouldn't act so rashly.  Woke up the next morning, sent him a text, waited 15 minutes for him to respond, and when he didn't, I deleted all of them.  Along with his phone number.  It felt good.  And humiliating.  Especially knowing that I sent the last text and he didn't respond.  I will have to tell myself I got the last word when I ignore him on his birthday which I know is coming up in the next week or two.

I also needed a new volleyball partner after getting rid of Sexty McSexterson turned Tooly McToolerson.  So when a hot guy asked me to play, I decided to go for it.  But that day ended up being freezing, so we canceled.  He texted me to see what I'd like to do instead, but I was out and about without my phone.  So he texted me two hours later to tell me I was a bad communicator.  Now, this kind of controlling behavior would usually grate on my nerves, but that would make make me such a hypocrite after dealing with GPG's crap.  So I decided to embrace the attention/possible red flag and agree to him taking me to dinner.  I mean, he was tall, knew how to spell, and sent some funny texts - those are pretty much my only requirements these days.

He offered to come pick me up.  I said that was fine.  Then I started to panic and almost canceled because GPG had offered to come pick me up, only because he knew that he would end up back at my place, which would almost guarantee a makeout session.  (Hey James H. - and other readers who think I'm banging the entire tri-county area - making out does not mean sex.)  I couldn't handle another "player" like GPG.  I tried to come up with a good excuse for canceling our date.  But then I thought about how I needed a volleyball partner and I decided it would be okay.

I can't believe it, but google had no pics of mating caterpillars.  I guess they have to wait until they become butterflies.  That is sad.  And beautiful.

He knocks on the door and my dog goes apesh*t.  And then she's a little confused when the guy on the porch has normal looking eyebrows instead of something resembling two mating, furry caterpillars on steroids (burn!).  My date is super hot.  Nicely built.  Cute beard.  Smells okay, but not fantastic.  We get in his car.  He drives fast and plays good music.  We drive past the campgrounds.  I ask if he likes to go camping.  Weird, awkward, prolonged silence.  Oh sh*t.  Oh sh*t.  Did his parents die at the claws of a grizzly?  Was he the subject of a Jon Krakauer book?  It was worse than that.  Waaaay, way worse.  He was a MARINE!  I almost started laughing, since of course he would have to be part of the organization that I'd spent the last week hating.  Then I got scared he was an alcoholic, wifebeating, brainwashed sociopath.  I knew he knew I was thinking this.  I contemplate fake throwing up in my hand to get out of the date.  (Whatever, I was under a lot of stress.)  I wonder if I can jump from the moving car without rolling off the cliff into the Pacific. 

But then I decide that my boots are too cute to go out like that, and I hunker down for what I'm sure is going to be the worst date ever.  We get to the sushi restaurant and I pick the seat that will give me the best view of the numerous hot male diners, just in case.  He asks if I like sake.  I don't want to tell him that warm sake reminds me of urine, so I say that cold sake is okay.  He orders some special sake, since he lived in Japan forever, and it actually turns out to be super yumster.  I had researched the restaurant and ordered the most talked about roll.  It comes out first.  It is gigantic.  Like, uhm, larger than the circumference of a tube of cookie dough. (Not that I know what that looks like.)  And it is cut in thick slices.  I panic.

This is messed up.  Even for me.

Now, I'm pretty proficient with chopsticks.  Well, I'm not catching flies or anything, but I certainly am not self-conscious about using them.  Except in front of people who have spent years living in Japan.  Especially when it's to hoist a gigantic roll into a mouth that has absolutely no hope of accommodating it.  Now, with a roll this heavy, you kind of just have to move quickly, dunk it in soy sauce, and get it in your mouth before gravity takes its toll.  But this strategy was not going to work.  And it's too thick to try to "cut" into two bites.  He wolfs his down with the ease of someone who has a normal-sized mouth, and watches me intently.  He thinks I don't know how to use chopsticks.  I know if I mention that my mouth is too small to fit the sushi, he will instantly think of BJs.  He is probably just thinking that anyway?   But I don't want to add fuel to the fire.

Yep, image is to scale.

I decide to stall by moving the roll from the platter to my little plate.  Bad move, it starts to come apart.  I try to stall more and talk about something else, but now he is looking at me like I'm a weirdo.  I transfer the gianormous behemoth to the dish of soy sauce.  I lose control of it.  It disintegrates.  Uh oh.  Now I have no way to not look like a complete novice/jackass eating it.  I start to eat the rice in my dish one grain at a time.  I wonder what I'm going to do with the yards of seaweed that are creeping over the sides of the sauce dish like tentacles of impending doom.  He looks at me quizzically.

Finally I tell him that the pieces of sushi are too big to fit in my mouth and would he please not look at me while I'm trying to eat them.  He stares at my mouth contemplatively.  He gets a far-away look in his eyes.  I use this time to grab another bite and try to shove it in my mouth before he notices because I had been the one to order the stupid thing and I would have to eat more than one piece.  And then my windpipe closes off and I know I'm going to choke.  But I don't have enough air or room in my trachea to choke.  And I don't have enough room in my mouth to fit any sake to help wash it all down.  And still, he stares.  I somehow manage not to die, and choke the sushi down without the need of any Heimlich maneuvers, and then tell him he can have the rest. 

The conversation is good.  He is hot.  And polite.  And well-spoken.  And hot.  He doesn't seem moronic or brainwashed.  He listens to my meathead Marines story with a patient but pained expression, as if he has heard many similar stories before.  Kind of like when people have to tell me about their favorite teachers.  And yes, I thank him for fighting for our country and all that good stuff.  I mean, really, war is when one country makes people do bad things to another country, and both sides think the other side is evil and wrong.  And then our government says "Thanks, now go live with PTSD for the rest of your life, bye."  And this allows me the freedom to blog about lip gloss.

Then the bill comes.  He is talking and doesn't pull out his credit card immediately.  Hmmm.  This is a test of some sort.  Over the next ten minutes, during our conversation, he moves the bill to the middle of the table.  Okay, we're obviously going Dutch.  Whatever.  I pull my card out.  He doesn't acknowledge it.  Or the bill.  Our waitress is also puzzled.  He finally tells me to put my card back and hands his card to our server.  She comes back and says it was declined.  I am not fazed.  The ex did this on a regular basis.  I just figured most guys waited until the second date to pull this.  Or Valentine's Day.  He shoos away my card again and gives her another card.  Calls his bank and doesn't seemed too bothered.  Okay, so he is either not fazed because his card is always declined, or he is not fazed because he knows he has more than enough money in the bank.  The second card worked and we head out the door.  He wants to go to a nearby bar to continue the date.  Unfortunately, he also wants to play pool.

These are pool players.

Now I don't know about you, but I wasn't raised in a pool hall.  In fact, I think my mom thought it was trashy for her daughter to learn how to play pool.  So I have maybe played pool a total of 25 times in my life.  And it shows.  And I hate doing stuff I'm not good at in front of other people.  I go buy us some drinks and get quarters for the table.  I get enough for one game.  On purpose.  But I am sent back to get two more games' worth of quarters.  This was going to be painful.  Now don't get me wrong, it's definitely sexy to watch a guy play pool.  But I feel like such a cheeseball when I am playing.  You know, the whole phallic thing you're rapidly sliding back and forth through your fingers and whatnot.  Not to mention, I'd worn leggings because I hadn't exactly planned on bending over a table in front of other people.  Seven years later, we finish our games.  I think he wants to kiss me.  In front of other people?  I can't go for that. No. No can do.  He starts snapping his fingers and singing along to whatever song is playing.  In public.  Damn.  And things had been going so well!  We head out to the car and I don't want him coming back to my place now.

So I tell him we should go get - surprise - chocolate chip bread pudding!  He isn't thrilled, but he agrees.  We get in the car and he puts on a Jeff Buckley song and asks if I know who it is.  Please.  He informs me that some lounge lizard originally wrote the song.  "Uhm, did you just call Leonard Cohen a lounge lizard?!"  He is smitten because I know Jeff Buckley.  He starts to sing along.  He has a good voice,  but I hate when people sing around me.  Not sure why, it just makes me feel weird.  (I can't watch more than 10 seconds of Glee.)  He also informs me that he's been playing the guitar for 20 years.  So that's cute.  I'm over the finger snapping in public thing.  We get to the dessert place.  He tells me that he doesn't eat dessert because he enjoys having a nice body.  I make him eat it when it comes to the table.  He admits it's awesome.  He points out that they have his favorite beer.  I tell him that Chimay is also my favorite beer (hello, you get to drink it in a princess goblet), and he is in love with me.

Princess Goblets!  Not my hand.

The bill comes and he pays with the formerly declined credit card without any having any issues.  We walk back to my place.  I ask him what cologne he is wearing.  "Victoria's Secret Very Sexy" is his reply.  I almost laugh before realizing he's serious.  "It's for men."  This is why I love non-metro straight guys.  They are so clueless.  He has no idea that there are places he can go with things that smell way better.  I decide not to kiss him on the way home.  We get back to my place and hang out and chat for a little bit.  He takes it well when my dog slobbers all over his pants.  Then we kiss for an hour.  He is a good kisser.  He is all about kissing my neck.  And I am all about that.   Too bad I was wearing a turtleneck sweater.  So it wasn't as good as it could have been.  But we have plans for Friday, so I will be sure to wear a v-neck then.  I haven't given him a code name because I'm pretty sure if I do, it will jinx things and he will cancel our date. 

Who would buy this?  I mean, really.

A Fly in My Champagne

So Ball Buster and I ride our bikes back to our cars.  It is a long-ass ride and it's now in the 50s.  And I'm in whore shorts.  My scalp prickles with goosebumps.  Ball Buster has reminded me that I used to be a lot feistier in high school,  i.e., I was insanely competitive and over-the-top intense about everything.  Ev er ry thing.  I can't tell if it's good or bad that I've mellowed out (resigned myself to failure) in my old age, so I contemplate crafting a craigslist "missed connections" post that will lure UnHot Topic to an untimely crapping of her pants in hopes of reclaiming some repressed feist.  I get back to my car and change into my third outfit of the day.  In the middle of a public park.  But hey, I'm so used to changing on the side of the highway that this seems pretty tame in comparison.  I shiver in my car, waiting for 4thGradeFriend to come pick me up and take me out for a birthday dinner. 

Since I have fifteen minutes to kill, I try to think of people I can call.  Guess who I think of?   He did get me flowers, right?  And maybe it would be okay to try to contact him on the weekend even though he did not return my text on Friday?  At the very least, he should be aware that I am about to have a super awesome Saturday night without him.  I figure he won't answer.  He does.  He is tired.  Lying on the couch and unable to rally to go out.  I don't buy this, but whatever.  He lets me know he went out with his bros the night before, and again I'm not sure I buy this.  I recount my harrowing Marine encounter and he tells me that those types of things are par for the course with all of the military types around here.  When I tell him about the cute volleyball guys I'd met, he gets quiet.  It is probably because he is dozing off, but I'd like to think it's because he's jealous.

4thGradeFriend (4GF) shows up and I hang up on GPG.  We head downtown to check out a new restaurant.  The place has a meat-centered menu, so neither of us is very excited.  We head to another restaurant where I ate when half of My Gay Couple (MGC) came to visit.  We sit at the bar because service absolutely sucks in San Diego.  I have little patience for the laid back Cali Cool attitude when it comes to food!  4GF and I check out the wine list.  Now, I'm sure this comes as no surprise to anyone who reads this blog, but I do know my way around the wine list.  So I am super excited to see that they have my favorite champagne at a very, very reasonable price.  They didn't have splits or half bottles listed anywhere, so I thought that maybe they didn't sell much champagne.  And 4GF does a lot of client entertaining, so she is also familiar with wine lists.  She decides that it is my birthday so I should have my favorite champagne. Especially since it was on sale.

That's Pam Anderson.  Not me.  Common mistake, as we are both bastions of good taste.

I get a text from Sexty McSexterson asking how my night is going.  Our birthdays are two days apart, and he was out of town, so we had talked about meeting up for bday drinks at some point.  Since I know he is out of town, I tell him that I wish he were here to drink some bday champagne.  I send GPG a text about how awesome and fun my night is.  He doesn't respond.  This irks me.  But whatever, there is Veuve Clicquot to be dranken.  Sexty McSexterson texts me that he is actually in town and had plans that fell through and was hoping to meet up since he lived right around the corner.  I hadn't seen him since Operation Palm Tree Rebound, but I figured things would be cool.  We could either go the friendly route, or he could be flirty, and then I would have a makeout partner for my bday.  Win/win.  Right?  4GF is married, so she is okay if I am trying to get some male attention.

We decide that since the champagne was so good and so cheap, it really made a lot of sense to order another bottle.  The bartender loves us.  We love us.  He brings us bday cake.  We love him.  Then Sexty McSexterson walks in and we pour him some Veuve and let him eat cake.  Things are cool.  We're friendly.  Then he gets kind of touchy and flirty, which I am more than okay with.  Then 4GF runs to powder her nose.  Sexty McSexterson smiles, and leans in to whisper something in my ear.  I am expecting to hear something naughty. "Is it okay if a date meets me here?" he asks.

"No. No it is not okay," I respond, looking at him like he was the dumbest, rudest asshole on the entire planet.  I mean, seriously.  You are going to invite some skank that you are banging to my birthday outing?  This wasn't happening.  And just then some wannabe Real Housewives of Orange County whore wearing a skirt from Express, circa 1999, walks in.

"Is it someone's birthday?" she asks.

"Yes, it's mine," I reply, turning my back to the two of them.  4GF returns and asks who the skank is.  I inform her that Sexty McSexterson had found something better to do, and was apparently going on a date right next to us at the bar.  I expect them to make a hasty exit.  They don't.  They sit next to us, as if this were completely acceptable.  I am fuming.  I had only invited him out because I didn't think he was in the state!  And after I had saved him from staying at home all alone on a Saturday, this is how he repays me?  You'd think he'd at least buy me a bday drink, but he is the tooliest of the toolsheds, and he doesn't.  And I am so tempted to write some really good burns about what he is spending his money on, but I shall refrain.  Because I have class.  And I know he is reading this.  He is lucky I am more passive-aggressive than feisty these days.  But that could change.

Since they are canoodling, we decide it's time to leave.  We get the bill.  I don't expect it to be too bad, since we'd only split an appetizer and an entree, but we both gasp when we see the total.  Apparently, the bottles were actually four times the amount we'd thought they were.  I contemplate putting a bottle on Tooly McToolerson's tab.  4GF thinks we should ask him for $45 to cover the cost of his one glass.  The bartender feels bad, but what could we do other than laugh because that's all people do when they drink champagne?  We giggle and tip him well and befriend his friends who had just walked in.  They take us to a club and we get our dance on.  I am pretty much dry humping some young, shaggy haired, blonde hardbody, but am sober enough to not make out with him.  We dance up a storm and laugh the whole way home about our champagne shenanigans. 

GPG texts me the next morning to see how my night went.  I let him know how much fun he missed.  He lets me know how much he has to do that day.  Awesome.  I delete Tooly McToolerson's late night text and voicemail without a second thought.  Then I delete him from my phone and facebook.  I set about dealing with a difficult, self-professed genius who would like me to write his website for him, but doesn't think he should have to pay for it.  I spend three hours listening to him tell me his life story on the phone.  He uses the word brilliant to describe himself.  Several times.  I make the wry observation that maybe my birthday wish should have been for a year free from all self-absorbed, rude assholes.  To make the day even better, my guy friend points out that GPG likes me enough to take me out for my birthday, but not enough to take me out on a Saturday.  Moving on.  Pffffftttt...

Part One of Saturday Rudeness (Jerkface Isn't Even Involved)

My birthday weekend brought all sorts of fuckery.  And not that kind.  Most of it was due to narcissistic tools.  (Writes the blogger without a hint of irony.) 

Friday was fun because my friend had a big birthday party.  Sure, it was for her birthday, not mine, but I can pretend.  And then on Saturday, my friend from high school invited me to go hiking with her.  So pretty! Then we decided to ride our bikes to do some outside birthday day drinking.   I wasn't sure what clothes to bring, so I brought a few pairs of jean shorts.  My friend borrowed the longer pair and I put on the obscenely short (it's okay b/c they're really baggy) ones.  We walked into the bar and noticed a bunch of shaved, shirtless meatheads who were also in denim shorts.  We secure a table and begin ignoring the weirdos that start hitting on us.

Turns out the guys were Marines, which was great, because my birthday is on the day the Marines were founded.  And I can support the troops if they are shirtless.  Two of them come talk to us, and my friend takes great pleasure in busting their balls.  There is this ugly goth girl who is with them, and we surmise it must be solely for BJ purposes.  She didn't exactly fit in with a bunch of meatheads.  UnHot Topic waits until we get our food to come ask if she can use the ashtray on our table.  Now, I'm not sure what happened next, but I think she tried to smoke at our table while we were eating.  I mean, they didn't have a table, so I don't know why she would want just our ashtray when there were empty ones closer to where she was standing.  Whatever, I am too busy picking out the tomatoes on my chicken nachos to pay much attention.  My friend, Ball Buster, tells UnHot Topic she can't smoke by us while we're eating.  UnHot Topic storms off.  Roidy Daisy Duke Marine comes over and haughtily snatches up the ashtray and turns on his heels in a way that betrays his self-hating closet case status.  He goes back to flexing for his bros.

Don't get all offended if you're a homophobe.  This is hot.  And patriotic.  And a poignant symbol of American freedom.

Roidy Daisy Duke Marine walks past us as he's leaving.  And he dumps a full beer on my friend's food.  Which gets all over my nachos and jean shorts.  UnHot Topic laughs and runs off with Roidy Daisy Duke Marine.  Ball Buster jumps up and starts shouting obscenities at the girl.  I'm kind of in shock, as I'm not really one to get in bar fights.  Or any sort of loud verbal exchanges.  But I make sure that UnHot Topic and the Roidy Daisy Duke Marine are unable to touch my friend.  The bouncers kick the Marines out and try to placate us.  Ball Buster would not be placated, and I think she is hurt that I didn't jump over the railing and grab UnHot Topic by her greasy Manic Panic hair and give her a sound beating.  Ball Buster wants to leave and I offer to follow them to settle the score.  And I also wanted to check out the bars in that direction.   She wisely decides that it's not worth it, and we head in the opposite direction.  We go to another bar and Ball Buster sees some friends.  They are nice and I think I might have found some new volleyball partners.  (This detail is important for my next entry.)