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.)

Dramazon's Birthday Week

From CakeCentral.com

I knew the weekend had passed because I didn't hear from GPG for three days.  Even after he said he could do the Saturday night dates.  But Tuesday brings a shower of attention from Jerkface.  He kept calling and texting, even reminding me that my birthday was on Wednesday.  After his fifth call of the day, he revealed that he would like to take me out to a birthday dinner, but had a client dinner on Wednesday, so could I do it tonight (Tuesday)?  Now, I know I had promised my readers that I wouldn't accept anything less than a Friday or Saturday night dressy dinner date, but I couldn't help that 1) I like to milk my bday for all it's worth, and 2) I had a lame mid-week bday.  And in my defense, I had also emailed him that on our next date we would not be having sexy times. (Mostly because I was pissed about the past few weeks, but also because he was physically incapable of performing.  I reasoned that since there would be no sexy times, it meant he actually wanted to put forth some effort and hang out with me because he liked me and not the sexy times.)

I told him that he'd have to come up here.  He said that was fine, and would I mind going kind of early since he was still not 100% after impaling himself?  I said sure and tried to prepare myself for the inevitable letdown.  But I would not be let down without a fight.  I deliberately refrained from warning him that my dog will attack anyone who comes through our gate unescorted - partly because I wanted him to get eaten alive and partly because I wanted to see if my dog would actually like him.  I put on a hot dress and heels.  Then I noticed it was freezing and had to switch to a sweater and jeans.  The dropping temp also meant that my roommate closed the front door so my dog couldn't run out and attack GPG on sight. 

This was actually better, because the fact that my dog couldn't see the scary burglar worked her up into quite a frenzy.  GPG asked if he were about to be eaten from outside my door.  I opened the door so that my dog could attack him, but the damn traitor was instantly wooed.  I followed suit because Jerkface actually brought me flowers.  I know, right?  I mean, he is all about letting me know he will not put forth any effort.  Ever.  And it wasn't the cheapest bouquet that the grocery store had, either.  I was torn between giving positive reinforcement and not reacting so he'd know that a bouquet is a generic, empty gesture.  But it was my birthday, so I proceeded to coo effusively over the flowers.  And then I had to compete with my damn dog, who was sashaying around and showing him all of her favorite toys, like a pathetic, needy, attention whore. Shameless, really.  At least my roommate maintained her icy, awkward demeanor the entire time.

Jerkface says we can go wherever I want for my birthday dinner, so I request the chocolate chip bread pudding place.  We go and have a great time.  I'm not sure what his deal is, but when I told him how my friend had wanted to come get bread pudding but I forbade her lest he think I was trying to trap him into meeting my friends, he is just so darn hurt that I have such an unfavorable opinion of him.  Of course he would love to meet my friends!  And when talking about my fruitless job hunt, he tells me to apply for jobs at his company.  Yeah right, I snort, as if!  Again, he's taken aback by my assumption that he would think I was stalking him if I applied to work at his company.  Maybe he was on meds?

Regardless of his oddly open demeanor, it's nice to just relax and be my feisty, dorky self around someone.  And he takes entertaining me pretty seriously.   Which I love.  Like everyone, he is skeptical about the chocolate chip bread pudding, but he has to admit it's amazing.  After about three hours I am aware I have hearts shooting out of my eyes like a cartoon character. I look like Pepé le Pew.  I try to cover it up, but he sees.

There is some messed up stuff going on here!

The next day he calls to sing me happy birthday.  The day itself is pretty lame because I have to go to the doctor because my face and neck are numb a lot, and it's been a year since my last car accident.  Jerkface even calls to see how the doc visit went.  And then he texts me later to make sure I am going out for my birthday.  That's nice, right?  My girlfriends took me out for more chocolate chip bread pudding!!!  It was fun and I'm pretty thankful I have such awesome friends who help cushion the blow of eventually dying alone. 

And if you're looking for gifts that will scar your four-year-old daughter for life, why not get her a deck of Old Maid cards?  I'm sure she'll turn out just fine.

Jerkface is on a roll and texts me again on Thursday to see if I had a good time on my bday.  We text all day.  And then nothing on Friday.  So I text him.  No response.  Saturday brings lots of blog fodder, but no GPG texts.

Halloween Hex

Last year I was all ready to go with my Halloween costume.  I was going to be Kim Zolciak from Real Housewives of Atlanta.  I was going to have my wig on crooked and walk around handing out copies of my single "Tardy for the Party" while chugging chardonnay from a giant goblet.  I even had a fake cigarette and the perfect red polyester dress from Ross.  And lots of masking tape for my boobs.  But Halloween morning I decided to go to a little surf gathering, and drove 90 miles just to check out some cool boards and see some cool people that I actually enjoy surfing with only because I don't see them that often.  Kinda weird:  I go to great lengths to avoid crowds while surfing at home, but see nothing wrong with driving two hours just to surf in a huge group. 

Neil requested more boobs.  You're welcome.

And I wasn't really having fun.  The waves kinda sucked, I wasn't catching much, so I decided to just start pulling into dumpy little closeouts so that my long drive wasn't in vain.  I drop in, get tossed, and as I'm paddling back out I see a flap of skin dangling from my arm.  Which was weird, because I didn't feel my fin hit me.  So I take a closer look and see that a decent chunk of my arm is missing.  And now I'm embarrassed because I have to get out of the water infront of everyone and be the only dork who got hurt in chest-high junk.  The shorepound is a little hard to negotiate, especially while I'm trying to hold my bad arm up and carry my fish with my close to useless left arm.  I look at the blood and feel a little queasy.  I simultaenously have visions of me passing out like a wuss, and/or mistiming my exit and getting washed up infront of everyone like a crippled seal.

Lawless sees me walking up the beach and is like hmm, you should probably wrap that in a towel.  But my towel is a pretty brown and blue special towel that was a present that matches my brown and blue board and my brown and blue bikini.  I tell him that it is a special towel that matches my board and outfit so I can't ruin it with blood.  Lawless rolls his eyes, but I think he gets it.  He begrudgingly offers his towel, which didn't look very special, but knowing Lawless it was made from a combination of virgin vegan free range wool and Malloy brothers pubes or some crap like that.  But then my friend Tweety intervenes and says that putting a towel on it will only hurt more when I have to take the towel off after it has dried/stuck to my bloody arm.  Lawless is glad he can keep his damn towel.  I obviously need a ride to urgent care, but there are waves in Florida, so no one wants to take me.  Tweety is the only one nice/clueless enough to make eye contact, so he has to give me a ride.  And then we almost die about 15 times on our way to the doctor because we keep getting lost and he thinks his gianormous SUV gives him license to make U-turns infront of oncoming traffic.

I texted this to my friends and they thought it was a Halloween prank.

While waiting to see the doctor, Tweety flirts with the receptionist.  I don't realize that I have to take the plastic wrapping off of the giant gauze maxi pad the receptionist gave me, and am basically smearing blood all over everything.   I whine that I'm going to pass out in hopes of getting in faster. This makes her bring me two mini Gatorade bottles. Tweety assumes one is for him because of course she is there to serve him drinks.  So he drinks my Gatorade while I'm about to die from loss of fluids/dignity.  (Wasn't exactly able to change out of my bathing suit, so I'm wearing a wet rashguard tank and shorts that have a wet butt b/c I couldn't take off my bikini bottoms.)  Finally get in to see the doctor, who's kinda cute, and I guess he is turned on by all of the dried blood and the fact that it looks like I peed my pants, so he tells me all of his secret sandbars and what tides they work best on.  He stitches me back up and I'm on my way, but now my arm really starts hurting.  I probably shouldn't have driven home with one arm, but I wasn't about to miss Halloween.

Needless to say, I was unable to summon the strength needed to get my costume on and had to stay home and miss Halloween.  I was upset, but told myself that my birthday was in 10 days, so that would make things better.  And then I got into my 3rd car accident the day before my birthday.  But hey, at least I was able to kill two birds with one stone and have my stitches removed while I made yet another trip to Urgent Care. 

My friend knows I'm down in the dumps and wants to do my hair for me (she was the one who got me the special blue and brown towel), so I go to see her.  On the way there, I get pulled over for speeding, on my birthday, in the dealership's loaner car.  I also had an open bottle of wine in the cup holder (wasn't drinking it - brought it for my friend because I'm classy like that and I didn't have time to stop and buy a bottle).  And since the car was a loaner, I had no idea where the registration was.  I didn't have to fake the tears for the cop.  He looked at the birth date on my license and could tell I was about to have a nervous breakdown.  He figured that there was no way someone would be dumb enough to speed in a stolen car (a Prius, no less) while drinking wine at 4 in the afternoon, and let me off with a warning.

So that was last year.  I was hoping for things to improve this year.  I mean, Halloween was going to be on a Sunday which meant you could also go out on Saturday, too!  I stayed in on Friday, just in case the Halloween Hex was still around.  I also didn't surf, just in case.  And then Sexty McSexterson texted (not sexted) me on Friday all grumpy and refusing to do Halloween.  I tell him that is unacceptable and help him come up with some costume ideas.  I tell him that somehow my friend got me a ticket to this really cool party and he should try to get a ticket and go with his friends and have a good time.  He agrees and is back to loving Halloween, and I feel like I'm a good friend.

Then I find out my friend (Vegas Model Judger) doesn't actually have a ticket for me.  Vegas Model Judger feels bad and heads over to get me one, just as Sexty McSexterson texts me that tickets are sold out and he probably got the last one that was up for grabs.  Things snowball after this, and I end up staying home as everyone else in the whole entire world goes out and has an amazing time while I sit at home watching Trailer Park Boys and texting Brooding Intense Tall Canadian Hero, who now thinks I'm dumb because I thought Halloween was an exclusively American affair. And then the ex texts me that he will always love me, which this always scares me, because I'm afraid he's about to do something bad.   Insomnia ruins my plans of getting a good night's sleep.  I lie awake, cursing the Halloween Hex.