Tag Archives: Friends

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.


Mr. Clean

14 Mar

When I was in college I had a friend who looked exactly like Mr. Clean – including the gold hoop earrings.  He was a nice guy, the kind of guy you could date long term, but not the kind that you want for a quick romp.  I had a few girlfriends who had crushes on him, he didn’t quite do it for me.  I tried to like him “like that”, just didn’t feel it.  We were lacking the spark, at least on my end.

He was good friends with Lawman, one of my secret boyfriends who was hot like the sun.   Now Lawman was the the type of guy that could sweet talk any girl into losing her panties at the foot of his bed.  He and I had crazy chemistry. On Thursdays of my senior year we had a class together at 3:00.  We’d meet at 11:00 at the student center and spend hours together flirting with one another.  The best time ever.  He had a pretty crazy girlfriend who he cheated on pretty frequently.  They ended up breaking up, I slept with him, and then she wanted to kill me in a bar.  It was great.  Mr. Clean knew all the sordid details – all of them, because Lawman told me that he had told Mr. Clean.

A few months after I hooked up with Lawman, Mr. Clean started pursuing me pretty hard.  I had known he liked me, and he amped up the flirting.  Still wasn’t quite where he was, even though there were times I thought, “maybe I should just date him, he’s a nice guy.”  One day he showed up at my house for some forgotten reason.  I was in the kitchen with my back to him when suddenly he was standing behind me, pressed up against me with his head buried in my neck.  Okay, he had my attention.  “Why not?” I thought.  Turned around and we started making out.  No spark.  Have you ever kissed someone when you weren’t feeling it?  It’s kind of like eating very bland food – not a great experience.  He propped me up on the counter and we kept making out.  Meanwhile I was trying to figure out what I needed to do to get him out of the house.  Instead, I just went along with it.

He tried to lure me into the bedroom, but I wouldn’t budge – my ass stayed planted firmly on the kitchen counter.  Then, he did something exceptionally irritating: he attempted to try a bit of dirty talk.  He was telling me all of the things he wanted to do to me once he got me into my room.  I’m totally down for some dirty talk.  The right words can be wicked hot.  Tell me what you like.  Tell me what you’re going to do to me.  Tell me what you want.  Tell me what you’ve been thinking.  Fucking hot, right?


Not this guy.  It was the tone of his voice along with what he was saying that was awkward as all fuck.  I think there were too many, “mmm’s” in there.  I’m pretty sure I was rolling my eyes behind my closed lids.  Way to kill the mood.  I finally figured out a way to get him off me and talked him into leaving.  I believe it was under the guise of “ruining the friendship” or some other bullshit.  That was the one and only time we ever hooked up and I ever had to listen to him saying, “mmm…your body would feel so good underneath mine.”


Some men are almost poetic with the way they can string together a few dirty words, while others can attempt the same thing and totally kill a lady boner.

Protected: Small town dating

23 Feb

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God Save the Queen, 2013

26 Aug

Like many couples, Oingo Boing and Jersey Belle (whose name I may change to Ginger Belle because I love targeting all my ginger jokes at her) do this awesome thing every single night when they go to bed.  No, not each other.  Rather, they have a lovely custom of saying a lovely string of things to one another.  There’s a really lovely bit in there about their love for all things British and our upcoming trip to the UK – where we’ll proceed to sight see, eat our faces off, drink too much, and someone (probably me) will end up vomiting.

God Save the Queen, 2013

Skinny England

Half price.

Skinny England.  It’s the reminder that we are less than thin by UK standards.  Let me in on a little something – this I know from personal experience – if you’re a size 14 in the US, you’re a size 16 in the UK.  Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a size 16 in a sea of size 6’s?  Not awesome.  And know what else?  Somehow, every single time I go to the UK, I try to remind myself that I need to drop at least 15 pounds and I end up gaining 10 just before I go.  My muffin top digs traveling.

In preparation all my travels later I’ve vowed to drop at least one pant size – seeing as how I’ll probably go up 2 when I start binging while I’m overseas.  For the last few Monday’s I’ve woken up and said, “Today’s the day.  Skinny England is on!”  Take today for example.  Packed my breakfast and lunch and vowed I’d eat a good dinner when I got home.

  • Fish tacos – good
  • Fruit – good
  • Bagel with cream cheese that I took over the granola bar I’d packed – bad
  • Ham and cheese sandwich on whole grain bread – not too bad, except for the fact that I buttered the bread
  • Potato chips – really?  What the hell is wrong with me…
  • Banana – good
  • Coffee with non fat milk – OK
  • Coffee with cream and 4 sugars – seriously?
  • Handful of M&M’s – I just can’t
  • Three MASSIVE chocolate cookies – I give up

So, instead of just starting all over tomorrow, I’ll just go ahead and say this week is shot and go ahead and gain the two pounds I’m destined to gain this week.  Tomorrow?  Margaritas!!  And probably some pie.

Reunited and it feels kinda good

21 Oct

At 38 I still feel like I’m in my 20’s. I have friends my same age who say they feel old. Some, like Foxy, are ready to throw money at the nearest plastic surgeon and have them fix imaginary wrinkles. Trust me, there are some who DEFINITELY look old, and act old, but there are very few days in life where I feel old. As far as I’m concerned I can party like the rest of them – just as long as I’m in bed by 11.

Facebook allows me to keep tabs and track of a bunch of my old college classmates. In the 15+ years since we’ve graduated there have been marriages, babies, divorces, scandals, new jobs, new houses, more babies, more marriages, and plenty of weight gain all around (mostly around my hips and thighs). While I keep in touch with many of them, like most Facebook relationships, they’re pretty superficial. Wouldn’t reach out to them if there was something stressful going on in my life, but will “like” a picture of a new puppy when I see one.

Tomorrow night something different happens – am meeting up with a friend I haven’t seen in 10 years. In college I counted him as one of my very best friends. He knew everything about young Catherinette. My parents and friends joked we would get married one day. I fought that tooth and nail! We were like “When Harry Met Sally” if they never got together, that was my explanation. And yet we did find ourselves together – for exactly one week. The week started with a black out drunk make-out session leaning up against a refrigerator at someone’s party, and ended in tears in the hallway outside a friend’s room when I told him I couldn’t date him. We remained friends – even after I started dating someone new the following week.

We stuck together through all of my stupid college relationships and when he started hooking up with my skanky ass roommate. He was always someone I could turn to and bitch about my love life. He was a good guy. Except for the one time he walked in on me and my boyfriend and refused to leave the room until we admitted we had been doing it. Of course neither one of us would cop to it so then he sat there talking about basketball and asking us why we were under a blanket when it was 90+ outside. That was the only time I wanted to hit him.

Fast forward almost 17 years and he’s now married with two little girls and I’m still a hot mess when it comes to dating. Awesome to see how some things change, and some seem to always stay the same.

So tomorrow we’ll be reunited and we’ll spend the evening doing catch up. Am looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time. It’s times like this, when I see my friends from back in the day with an awesome life and I’m still single, that I question myself. It’s having to deal with the “why are you still single” question that makes me anxious. Oh, and the fact that I’m part pig now.

Hmm…wonder if this whole “I’m part pig” thing is actually related to the “why are you still single” thing…?

She Flashed Her Pancakes

17 Apr

Being a stupid whore must be hard. You have to have just the right balance of stupid, and whore. That’s too complicated for me. I’d rather focus my efforts on being a drunk whore. Stupid takes too much effort. Besides, there are plenty of stupid whores out there, take Train Wreck for example.

In my last post I mentioned that dumb shit she had done on Saturday. Apparently, it got worse after I left. Take a look at the text exchange I had with Biggie yesterday:


She is a mess.  According to our other friend who was there she “flashed her tits at the bar”.  “Why?” you ask?  Because she wanted attention.  And also, because she is a stupid whore.

A New Take on Passive Agressive

1 Nov

Yesterday afternoon I had lunch with Biggie.  After a rough weekend, he felt there was only one way to turn things around: with bacon.  When he extended the invitation he said he was on the verge of killing someone and he had to get off campus, PLUS he offered to pay.  How could I say no.

Once in the car, and after we exchanged pleasantries (which of course included comments on my fine rack and his disappointment when he saw I was wearing pants), he proceeded to tell me why his weekend had been so shitty.  It wasn’t one thing, but a series of things that led him to his breaking point.  His dog decided it was time to eat his favorite shoe, then proceeded to vomit pieces of it on the brand new white carpet in the living room.  Someone keyed his car at the grocery store.  Saturday morning he went to open the fridge for the cream he puts in his coffee, only to realize he had forgotten to buy some the previous day.  His mother-in-law showed up unannounced and decided it was time to reorganize some closets – for four hours.  After leaving, his wife harassed him all night about going.  He refused since because of the weather, so she decided to stand in front of the TV while he tried to watch a little college football.  And to top it all off, on Sunday night, his wife took a brand new gallon of ice tea out of the fridge and proceeded to drop it on the just mopped kitchen floor.  The bottom popped off and the tea spilled EVERYWHERE.  This set him off and he went into freak-the-fuck-out mode.

He went on a tirade on how much life sucked and why people don’t listen, and blah, blah, blah.  He yelled so much and so loudly that two sets of neighbors proceeded to show up to make sure he and his wife were not in some kind of danger (read: that he wasn’t beating his wife).  When they asked if everything was okay, he proceeded at yelling again.  It all ended in a massive headache.

When he woke up in Monday morning, the dog refused to get up for his morning walk.  It took an extra 15 minutes of cajoling to get him on the move.  He took a look at the car and realized it would require scraping all of the ice off the windshield – making him late to work.  Once he was done with the dog and the windshield he went back inside the house to say goodbye to his wife.  She rolled over, and asked him if his headache was gone.  “Yes,” he responded.  “Good.  You were a total prick last night.” and she rolled over and went back to bed.

As he told me the story I was rolling – especially when she called him a prick.  That’s when he started sharing what she typically does when she gets mad at me.  Her wonderful and creative techniques include hiding his good socks, and clearing out the DVR.  So he’ll wake up to watch a TV show he recorded, only to realize it’s completely gone.  But my favorite – this one had me weeping – is when she walks into the kitchen while she’s there, takes out the pitcher of iced tea he’s just brewed, walks over to the sink, and pours the entire thing down the drain while she stares at him.  She then puts the pitcher on the counter, leaves all the tea bags in the sink, and just walks out.

Almost makes me want to have a boyfriend so I can pull that kind of shit.  Good times.  Good times.