My Universe, Brought To You By The Folks At AA August 31, 2008

The Universe:  I don’t think you should drink today.

ME:  But I’ve had a pretty rough week…I got cursed out at work in Portuguese, the side effects from The Implant has been 2 straight weeks of gifts from Mother Nature, AND I’m a little peeved at McCain’s veiled attempt at securing the female vote with this Sarah Palin nonsense.   I am looking forward to meeting up with My Singles for some cocktails.

The Universe:  If you insist. I will turn off your alarm clock so you’ll be late for work.

ME:  Oh, really?  Then I’ll just take my curling iron, toiletries, and drinky clothes with me and change after I work out at lunch.

The Universe:  Think so?  What if several students come by your office, forcing your boss to change the time she goes to lunch; ultimately making you miss your 12pm Step & Sculpt class, thus eliminating your opportunity to shower and change?

ME:  Then I’ll use my lunch hour to go to the post office, mail some letters, and shower after work. Boo-yah!

The Universe:  Oh, yeah? I’ll make sure you forget your change of clothes and your post-shower towel in your car.

ME:  Psst!  I’ll use my shirt to dry off with, my workout clothes to walk to the car, and then change in my car.

The Universe:  Let’s say, hypothetically, that the last student of the day keeps you in your office late and you, hypothetically, won’t have time to do your hair OR get cash from the ATM.

ME:  Easy!  I’ll plug the curling iron in and see how far I get on my hair. If not, I’ll put it in a ponytail.

The Universe:  Hmph!  Then I’ll make sure you don’t have time, are forced to carry the curling iron and all your bags to the ATM. When you get to the ATM, you’ll forget the curling iron is hot and put it between your legs, burning yourself.

ME: HA!  I’m wearing yoga pants so I won’t get burned!

The Universe:  You will if the friction from your sizable thighs put a hole in the pants. 

ME:  You wouldn’t!

The Universe:  Wouldn’t I?  AND I’ll make sure the magnetic strip on your ATM card is messed up by your cell phone, so you can’t get cash.

ME:  No worries, most places take debit cards.

The Universe: Hur-reeeeaaa-llleeee?  Then I will siphon gas from your car so you can’t drive to the bar.

ME:  I know my car, bitch! That light means I have 20 more miles.  More than enough to get me there and home.

The Universe: Alrighty!  (furiously rubs hands together) THEN! I will make sure the bar you meet everyone at cannot be found with your GPS. You will walk past it about 20 times, with sweat beading down your back from the 93% humidity, before a homeless man offers to walk you down an alley to the entrance. And you’ll have to wade through some unidentified wet substance in your new patent leather, open-toed shoes to get there. THEN when you find the door, he will call you a rich bitch for not tipping him.  AND THEN, you will need to climb, not one, not two, but THREE flights of stairs to get to the rooftop bar with industrial size fans that only push heated air into your face.  When you think you’ve had enough, the bartender will confuse you with the only other black woman in the bar and start making a $3 drink you don’t like.  When you gently correct him, he will take 15 minutes to make you $12 mojito that tastes like ass in a glass. While you are waiting for his craptastic concoction, you will be hit on my a slimy, little, tattooed man who claims to be opening a restaurant with Carlos Santana.  You’ll be nice because, at the very least, you can get a hook up on a pair of shoes from Santana’s new shoe line.  You begin to discuss tattoos and show him yours.  As you return to meet your singles, one will make a snide remark about you “taking off your clothes” for a stranger.  And you’ll be pissed. 

ME:  But my ATM card will work?

The Universe:…Well…yes, I guess.

ME:  Then I’ll take it to a new bar and have better drinks in air conditioning.

The Universe:  Not if the new bar has a live salsa band made up of retired school bus drivers, only has seats available in the front row, and a portly sax player who eyes your goodies as if they were bouncing chocolate cupcakes. Even though you stuff bits of toilet paper in your ears, a migraine will start keeping time to the music behind your eyeballs. 

ME:  You win.

The Universe: I always do.

Red Pill, Blue Pill June 10, 2008

The Red Pill exposes you to the truth and the Blue Pill lets you continue in blissful ignorance.

I think this is probably the third posts I’ve written referencing the pills in The Matrix. Weird. Other than the action, I just don’t get the movie. Symbolism, schmybolism. Stop talking in riddles and get to the point. If I directed that movie, it would have been 45 minutes long.

But I do love a good analogy.

Saturday night I had the shocking epiphany that the pill metaphor is the perfect symbol for my dating life. It has been carefully documented that I did not have my first date until I was in college and had some fairly dramatic experiences after that. In the defense of the men who crossed my path experienced Blue Pill Me-when I was completely ignorant, naive, and generally obtuse to all things that everyone else just seemed to know- I probably would have taken advantage, too.   Sometimes it’s just too easy to pass up. I get it.  But I sincerely operated under the assumption that people behaved like I did, where you say what you mean and mean what you say.  What’s the word for that? Oh, yeah, fucking INTEGRITY.  Instead, I got a front row ticket to the  2am Booty Call, seeing/dating/exclusive continuum, and identifying people that were just not right for me show. Now I want my money back.

Saturday night I went out with Delicious Eyebrows and her friends for a GNO (that’s Girl’s Night Out, not some weird group lady-doctor thing). A word about the nickname. I have been attempting to conceal the identifies of people in my life, in case they don’t want to be just a line in a blog.  My memory sucks, so keeping pseudonyms straight would just be a mess. The easist thing to do is sort them by their roles in my life or by traits that stick out to me. Hence, The Hubster, The BFF, The Coach, Fat Guy, etc. I went to high school with Delicious Eyebrows and whenever I think of her, that is what sticks out to me. Oh, it sounds lame but if you saw those puppies, you would understand. I, literally, have caught myself staring at them. And she can lift one up without using her fingers. If I was a man, that alone would get me to marry her. I haven’t sat down with her to get the 411 on ‘em. Does she wax? Pluck? Take covert monthly jaunts to Germany to get them done by a beer-swilling guy in lederhosen? Do her parents just have an amazing set? I don’t know. I’m not sure if she reads my blog, but if she hates her moniker she’s gonna have to think of a new one herself.

So we were out Saturday night, drinking and dancing, dancing and drinking for someone’s birthday. She’s lived in town for a bunch of years so she has a pretty extensive network of friends. (I’m tellin you! It’s the eyebrows!!) A jumpy case of nerves caused me to suck back the first 2 drinks, because, no matter how many people find it hard to believe, I am naturally a shy person. It takes EFFORT and ENERGY for me to be outgoing and playful and witty. And cute.   So, I had 2 events that spurred the RP/BP theory. These moments are brought to you by the makers of the double vodka tonic.

Dancing + Hot Ass Weather + Humidity= Exposing Mama’s Twins

Because the quickest way to nirvana is dancing in a tank top in a sweaty Texas dance club. Whoo-hoo! 

 

Scene 1: Delicious Eyebrows thinks the bartender is kinda cute, in a pierced lip-raging liberal kind of way. It is my duty to open this door for my girl to walk through, so I start yukking him up, having my standard observational smackdown of Austin vs. Southern California. He must not have been too-too charming because she walked away. His name is Mark (I’m still a little hungover so he doesn’t get a fake name).

Mark: Hi, I’m Mark.

ME: Jenn

Mark: Anytime you want to swing those sweet titties in my face, feel free.

BLUE PILL ME: Wow! He sees, like, hundreds of people in a night and he took the time to single me out. He wants to make sure I remember him, how nice! I will make sure I only order for him so he knows that I am interested, too. Am I interested? We didn’t really have a conversation, but I am sure he will ask for my number and when he gets off work, he will give me a call so we can really talk. At 2am. Geez, it will be just like those movies where the guy sees a girl across a room, only he doesn’t know her, and he does all this stuff to find out who she is. Like John Cusak in Serendipity. Ohhhhh!

RED PILL ME: Sweet titties? What are you, 12? Like bartenders aren’t the biggest whores around. I wouldn’t touch your crazy, diseased ass with a10-foot pole. I’m sure you’re the lead singer in some band and you plan on rocking my world with your weird lip jewelry. Whatever, Mark. They are nice boobies, though. Man, I wish I’d figured that out in high school. I developed early. If I understood their power I would have been much more popular back then.

 

 

Scene 2: I’m at the bar ordering waters from my boy Mark and I meet Married Big Guy and his friend, who clearly hadn’t taken his meds yet. Or they were wearing off. Or he wasn’t supposed to mix ‘em with alcohol.

Married Big Guy: Hey, darlin, how are you?

ME: Good, good. Just drinking water so I can get home to my husband in one piece.

Married Big Guy: You’re married! Me, too!

(we make fists and bump our wedding rings together)

Married Big Guy: This is my buddy, Needs Meds. He’s visiting me. We’ve been friends since WAAAY back.

Needs Meds: Hi

ME: Hi

Needs Meds: Yeah, so I was reading this story to my boy today-

ME: You have a son?

Needs Meds: Yeah. His mother and I aren’t together. She cheated on me, but he is the best thing that happened to me. He’s my little buddy. The other day he says….

BILL PILL ME: Awww! He got his heart broken and he loves his little boy! Listen to the way he talks about him? It’s soooo sweet. He’s not like all these guys just staring at my breast, he’s actually talking to my face. And he’s leaning in all close to me to make sure I hear everything he says. I bet he’s sensitive and caring and gentle. Clearly, he’s responsible and able to show some love. How refreshing. I think I’ll give him my number.

RED PILL ME: Ugh! I don’t DO pity sex. Have you seen my sweet titties?