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The Chess Player

17 Mar

You know sometimes on a Friday all you want to do is crawl in bed. As you’re settling in for the afternoon thinking about what you’ll do for dinner one of your friends calls and convinces you to go out for a drink.  So you grumble under your breath while you get dressed and do your make up and say yourself, “I’m going to stay out for max two drinks, and I’ll be in my flannel jammies by 8:30.”  You drive downtown because uber is stupid expensive due to peak hours and think that driving will make it easier for you to sneak out early.  And oh look, a princess parking spot in front of the bar!

You’re winning already.

You head upstairs, see your friends and think it’s a good idea to start with a gin and tonic (extra limes) because your friends have been drinking beer since noon and you kinda feel like you should catch up even though you’re going to stay out for max two drinks.  More people start arriving and it turns out they work for your old company and so you start making all of the connections and someone asks you why your drink is empty and you order some water because you’re pacing yourself because you’ll have to drive home later.  And then it’s time to order an orange crush and you are talking to your friend’s boyfriend and he asks what you’re drinking and when you tell him he tells you you’re “crushin it” and you can’t help but lolz.

That’s when he introduces you to the tall drink of water who just moved to the area a few months ago.  He’s 33.  He’s smart.  He’s interesting.  You casually sip your drink while you flirt with him for awhile.  You’re introduced to other people who end up standing between the two of you so you move on and glance over every once in awhile and he keeps looking at you.

You’re finishing your drink and it’s time to go home.  Some of your friends are getting ready to leave for another bar and you’re going to go ahead and go and then the tall drink of water asks, “are you coming?” as he’s being dragged out the door.  Game time decision here.  That’s when you say to your other friends, “let’s go for one drink.”

So you find yourself walking 10 blocks to the next bar and when you get there he’s saved you a seat and asks you if he can buy you a drink.  Meanwhile you’re thinking, “what the fuck is happening and why the hell not?”  Because when was the last time you went out to a bar, met someone who was cute and charming who wanted to buy you a drink and who you wanted to flirt with?  You sit down and order the drink and he sits next to you.  When two more seats become available he holds the seats and your friends try to cock block you and you say, “no, no, you sit here and I’ll move down,” so you can sit next to him.

You sit your ass down on that barstool and you order another drink.  You find yourself talking about travel, and work, and family, and regrets, and basketball, and moving to a new city, and all sorts of stuff while he gazes at you with his blue eyes.  You start talking about chess and find out he’s one of those guys who can read all the moves in advance and you ask him if he can do that in life and he tells you, “usually.”  You wonder if he already knows how this is going to play out and if he’s calculating what moves he’ll make to get the outcome he wants.  You ask yourself, “I wonder if he knows how old I am?”  Obviously you look for an opportunity to drop it into the conversation and when you do he doesn’t blink an eye, he just goes with it.

Your other friends decide they’re going to leave, so only the two of you are left.

The Chess Player keeps gazing at you and he grabs your hands, and he gives you this look, and you ask, “what’s that look?” He responds, “I’m thinking about kissing you,” as he tugs your hands towards him and you lean forward.  That’s when you start making out at the bar.  In the middle of March Madness.  Surrounded by people cheering on UMBC.  It’s just the two of you.  Suddenly it’s 10:30.  You’ve been at the bar over three hours.  Where did the time go?

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asks.  You find yourself saying, “yes”.  He picks up the tab and you walk the 10 blocks back to your car to drive to his place.  You’re thinking, “am I really going home with this guy?  Yes, yes I am.”  When was the last time you went home with someone you met at a bar?  Was it college?  Shortly after, at least 10 years ago.  A lifetime ago.  Sure, you had an exceptional romp the night before – thanks to Tinder – but this is the type of chemistry real life has produced.

Why not just go with it?

You’re at his place.  It’s pretty swanky.  Incredible view of the city.  Then you’re on the couch and your top is on the floor, quickly followed by just about everything else and he says, “we can always go in there,” gesturing to his bedroom.  You hop off his lap and lead him into his room and crawl into his bed.  There you proceed to lose every last stitch of clothing and remain for the next couple of hours.

When it’s done, he wraps his arms around you and you lay there and talk about work and whatever and nothing and he says, “you’re hot, you know that.  Right?”  You say, “thank you.” and think to yourself, “maybe I’m kinda decent looking if I’ve made out with four guys in eight days and ended up in various states of undress with each of them.”  You ask him if he had played this out and calculated the moves it would take to get to his bedroom.  He says, “yes.”  He tells you he’d read the signals.  There were only two options, yes or no, and the signals all pointed to yes.

He says, “you can stay.”  You get up and get dressed, he asks for your number.  You walk out.  He texts you before you get to the car.

You think to yourself, “I’m a fucking sex panther.”

Reset the counter.

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The cost of adulthood

27 Feb

As a college student getting drunk was a breeze.  All it took was a combination of hard liquor and watered down shitty beer, or watered down shitty alcohol.  My fave combos consisted of:

  • 1 mind eraser, and a pitcher of Coors Light
  • 1 shot of Goldschlager, and 4 Long Island Iced Teas

Total cost?  Approximately $10-15 per drunken night.  Hangovers?  Nope, none at all.  Ah, the good old days when my body could handle the booze.  I’d wake up the next day and was perfectly fine.

The cost of a drunken stupor now is far more expensive – in more ways than one.  You couldn’t pay me to drink Coors Light now, and a mind eraser with a Long Island Iced Tea would probably be enough to cause a blackout.  Instead I find myself enjoying fancy cocktails that look like art in a glass and cost $10-15 per drink.  My max is usually around 4, BUT a few weekends ago my bill came out to $156.  I have no fucking clue how that happened – that’s what happens when you blackout, you don’t remember shit.

Last night my friend from college came into town.  On his way to meet me for dinner he alluded to a night of drunken debauchery for which we would both pay in the morning.  Fearing the hangover at an 8:30 meeting I was smart enough to pace myself and enjoyed only four glasses of wine with plenty of water.  He enjoyed his vodka tonic, five glasses of red wine, and beer.

At about 11 this morning he sent me a text saying that he was so hungover he thought he had died and was suffering in hell.

I love when other people are hungover and I’m not.

She’s a total bitch!

10 Jan

This:

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Totally reminds of of this: “Tequila” is Mexican for “You Will Want to Die”.

I only wish that I had ended up making out with a shoe instead of on the verge of vomiting to death the next day.

The morning after

2 Nov

I want to vomit and I want to die. Though not necessarily in that order. Long night of drinking turns into a long day of cocktail flu. Swore up and down I wouldn’t drink that much and wouldn’t stay out too late.

Four cocktails and two beers later I looked at the clock and noticed it was past 1:00 in the morning. Guess I was wrong. Thank god I didn’t order one last round at 1:30. Can only imagine how amazing having my stomach pumped would feel.

But we had such a magical and romantic time. He spent hours talking about his wife, and how if she ever cheated he’d leave her, and how he knew they’d be together forever, and how lucky they both felt to have found one another, and how much he loved their new baby. Really romantic. And then there was that awesome time when we were at the bar and our legs accidentally touched so he totally readjusted himself and moved as far away as possible without actually changing seats. It was great.

I want to vomit.  And die.

And then make out with him.  But not necessarily in that order.

My liver’s not what it used to be

24 Oct

Here’s what I learned after my reunion with my friend from college on Monday: I’m too old to be going out on a Monday.  Three beers – with a very high alcohol content – knocked me on my old ass on Tuesday.  As a matter of fact, it’s quite possible that I’m still drunk right now.  Yes, I know it’s two days later, and yes, it’s possibly related to the fact that I had another beer today.

Sunday night it seemed like a good idea to go drinking.  Monday afternoon it seemed stupid.  Monday night it was an amazingly awesome idea.  Tuesday morning I cursed myself while dragging my ass into work.  Tuesday night I was so happy to go to sleep. And tonight going out seemed like a smart plan.

Will let you know how it all plays out tomorrow.  If you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m too drunk to type…until Friday night when I’ll be in my pajamas by 5:30 and will be in bed shortly thereafter.

Getting old is super lame.

The Easter Bunny Can Suck It

9 Apr

Day after Easter and there’s no Easter candy to be found at my house.  No hollow chocolate bunnies.  No Reese’s peanut butter eggs.  No jelly beans.  No damn peeps.  Nothing.  Not a damn sugary tasty bit of goodness.  Why?  Because I was robbed.  Somewhere along the way life took over and decided that I was too old for Easter baskets.

That, my friends, is a chocolate covered load of bunny crap.

Next year I want an Easter basket piled high with stuffed animals, and too much candy.

Know what the Easter bunny did bring me on Easter Sunday?  A gift that made me repent for all my sins – and I’m an Atheist (shocking, I know).  A gift that made me want to bury my head in my hands and cry, or vomit, or vomit and then cry.  That’s right, I had a hangover on Christmas.  I’d like to blame my brother-in-law for that.  No, he didn’t force the red wine down my throat – but it’s his fault there wasn’t something more suitable to my liking at his house.

Note to self: never drink red wine again.  Ever.

Nothing like hanging out at mom’s house while trying to get the house to stop spinning and praying to the sweet baby Jebus that you don’t vomit all over the Easter ham in front of your niece and nephew.

An Open Letter to My Liver and the Livers of my Friends

23 Oct

Dear Livers,

I just wanted to take this time to apologize for the damage that we are about to cause tonight.  It’s South Philly Fashionista’s bachelorette party tonight, and as is tradition, the friends of the bride must make the bride vomit.  This, of course, will require that we also get wasted beyond imagination.  There will be wine, and probably bubbles, and fancy expensive cocktails, and tequila, and shots.  Probably Irish Car Bombs.  And I might be the one responsible for buying those Irish Car Bombs.  I might be, I might not be.  We’ll have to see how the evening turns out.

But one thing is for certain, tomorrow morning we are all going to wake up wishing that we were dead.  That’s what bachelorette parties are all about.  Right?  That and running around with penis straws trying to get dudes to hit on us.  And maybe someone will make out.  And maybe someone will touch a penis.  And maybe someone will cry.  Drunk girls are awesome.

So on behalf of myself, Boom Boom, Jersey Belle, and SPF I’d like to tell you that we love you, and we’re sorry.  And if you’re going to make someone vomit, can you please make it be SPF?

Thanks so much!

Catherinette