I know some of y'all are sitting here thinking "oh she's back. Great. Now who won the Tory Burch tote?" Well, you don't have to think that any further. Because I am taking another break to post the winner of this contest.
Before I do that, I have to say that we only received two entries for this giveaway, and KMH and I ended up being too busy to actually read the stories when I was in Chicago (well who didn't predict that one happening?) so I picked the winner solo. As a result, I would like to award a consolation prize to HannahLaneCo for submitting a story. Please email me your mailing info.
And now, for the moment of truth,
Ladies, ladies, and more ladies
Please give a hearty congratulations to
Her story made me laugh, it made me cry, mostly because I was laughing so darn hard- that's a Gilmore Girls reference for you. I think Erin is an amazing writer and she needs to write a book. And now, without further ado, I would like to present you all with your Hump Day reading:
Date from Hell
"Fun fact: when I ripped off my wristband, I punched myself in the face. Rad."
Seriously? Am I seriously hearing this? I am aren’t I? Lucky me. For crying out loud, I have been on this date for what – 25 minutes and he has told me his seventh (yes, I have been counting) fun fact of the evening. What the eff? Is he trying to filibuster our date or something? Am I on one of those shows?
No lie. I, so far, have learned about how many of his frat brothers have accidentally peed in the closest (awesome) after a late night of beer pong, what his older brother got him as an embarrassing gag gift (inflatable livestock) for his latest birthday and now this – the explanation as to why the adorable guy I gave my number to last weekend is covering his two black eyes with hideous 1980’s Christian Bale in Heathers style Ray-Bans. Apparently it had something to do with a bar fight over plastic wrist bands and inflatable hats shaped like sharks – I don’t know, I stopped listening after he told me something regarding a urinal. And, did he really use the term RAD? Yup. Good grief.
In a situation like this, I usually can’t help but scour the room, looking for someone who is having an even more pathetic time than myself. Hmmm… Well, at the bar there’s this guy in a charcoal colored suit (that looks like something Chuck Bass would wear – and not in the hot socialite sense – more like the pseudo gay show tunes way) who is trying his damnedest to woo a woman who looks like Marie Osmond. Yikes!
Then, to my right, at the bar – there are three cougars scoping the place for jail bait. Sweet, one of them is wearing a pair of tight white pants with a hot pink thong underneath (I only know because she just walked by me – even my date saw that one). Ick. I feel like I am in a bad movie.
So, this is the current chapter of dating life. I kid you not. After 27 years of being alone: the past 5 of which, I have lived with a one eyed cat, Blinky (what can I say, it was a stray and I felt bad!) and the pizza delivery kid being the only person of the male persuasion who has repeatedly been to my front door, I decided to actually at least start accepting invitations for dates. At least that way, I can hopefully convince my grandmother that I am NOT a lesbian (or “awful daughter that will never give my poor mother the gift of grandchildren” as she constantly likes to tell me – nice, huh?) and keep the, terribly nice but terribly misguided, woman who sits in the cubical next to me to stop trying to hook me up with her nephew (who is the head of his local chapter of Dungeons and Dragons role playing league – enough said) all because I once made the drastic error of claiming to like sci-fi movies (I watched Rocky Horror once in college).
Alright, back to Mr. 1983 who has just pulled out his cell phone to show me – get this – photos of his friends penises so that I “have something to compare him to later on.” Oh my sweet lord. I now know what the most private parts of his 2 roommates, one frat brother and that brother’s roommate look like. Oh boy, this is just getting better and better. I try my best not to raise my eyebrows into that “what the Hell…” look I am told I always give. I know it’s probably applicable here but – I just, for some insane reason, feel bad. I’m not sure if this guy is drunk or nervous but he is really trying hard.
I threw back what’s left of my pinot noir and realize that I really need another glass of wine (or more like the bottle). And, sweet – the red wine is now all over the front of my shirt. Now, this guy has yet another reason to keep looking at my chest. I know he’s probably thinking - ohhh…boobies - and maybe even that he thinks he’s going to see them in real life if he keeps buying me more wine (which, sadly, right about now, is pretty correct).
Wine, my cure for everything: hangover – drink more wine, embarrassing moment – drink more wine, date from hell – drink more wine, taking public transportation – drink more wine, going to spend time with my crazy aunt who swears it’s 1964 – drink more wine, you get the point. What can I say? I like wine. It’s fruity and calms the nerves all at once. You buy it, I’ll drink it – and I’m not so sure that penis boy over her has picked up on that yet, since he has asked me twice if I wanted a shot of “dirty girl scout”. No thanks, had one too many at old roommate’s 21st birthday – I think I’ll pass. Big girl wine, please.
Five more glasses (no, not bottles – I’m not that desperate, I mean crazy) and I am slouching on the couch in this (now) fabulously adorable man’s apartment, trying to ignore the overwhelming smell of gym socks mixed with the Aqua Velva that Mr. Romeo just slathered on himself as well as the urge to pick up and start messing up the perfectly aligned Rubik’s Cube on the coffee table, when all of the sudden – I am being groped by a man who is howling at me, claiming to be ready to treat me “like a vampire.” What the eff? Why, why do I always get myself in these situations? “A vampire”? Seriously? Was he going to try to, oh yes he is, gnaw at my, yep – neck. And, since when did vampires howl? I had to stifle myself from hysterically laughing directly in this guy’s face (fyi : thinking about auto wrecks and dead birds really helps with this – in case you ever find yourself being treated like the living dead).
Just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get worse, it does. All of the sudden, Mr. Wonderful jumps up and runs over to the stereo to turn on his iPod. Maybe he could sense my discomfort and decided to sooth my tension (more like fears) with some mellow music. What does he put on? Milli Vanilli. Blame it on the Rain. Apparently, I had neglected to notice that it was now absolutely pouring outside. Sweet – I was wearing my new $400 Manolos. What a waste of fabulous footwear for this shotty date.
So, now, in front of me this man is singing along to his romantic mood music song selection. Wait, who puts Blame it on the Rain on their iPod in the first place? Seriously? I didn’t even know it was available for purchase. I guess I do now! Lucky, lucky me. Single ladies around the world just squealed with jealousy! You know you did. You know you did! Who wouldn’t? This is the kind of stuff that dream dates are made of.
He sits back down after my private concert and proceeds to continue to suckle me as if he never got up and started to gyrate to a bad 80’s song on his desperately needing to be vacuumed floor. Sadly, it feels kind of good – so, I don’t stop him. I can only hope that he doesn’t leave a mark. That would be fun trying to explain to my cubical mate, who probably would believe that I burned myself with a curling iron.
Alright, I cannot let this continue. Despite the fact that I have certainly had my share of alcohol, I need to catch a taxi and get back to my own apartment, where Blinky patiently awaits my return. When I tell him it’s time for me to fly (sorry about the bad REO Speedwagon pun), he lets out a groan that is not unlike Meg Ryan’s famous outburst in When Harry Met Sally. Apparently my leaving excites him (maybe he has plans with his cell phone and frat buddies? Who knows?).
He tries to give me a fantastically wet kiss good night as I make my way to the door, which I cannot get to fast enough. It made me think of when I was in 7th grade and was coerced into playing Seven Minutes in Heaven. I had to make out with a guy who had about as much experience as I had – which only lead to a disgusting amount of shared saliva.
I think he was trying to get me to stay but, that kiss down memory lane was more of a buzz kill than romantic gesture. And, finally – best of all – he whispers to me: “But baby, you’re going to leave me here all alone throbbing for you?” Is he Danielle Steel? Good grief. I don’t even try to hold back the laughter this time – no more auto wrecks and dead birds. Just leaving is enough right now.