I’ve been working on a blog post about my best friend since last week. I wanted it to be funny and heartwarming, with a side of “oh no she din’nt!”. At present the almost finished product is a tad sappier than I intended. And I’m currently not in the mood for sappy.
So I’ve been sitting here for a few minutes, trying to decide what I should write about. Nothing special immediately comes to mind. Unless you want to count the million little things that went on over the long weekend that couldn’t possibly produce an entire post.
Like how, on Thursday, I spent four hours banging out unnecessary reports as fast as I could because certain people around here are fucktards with a capitol Fuck. It frustrates me to no end when I know the answer to a question and no one will listen.
No one: Am I a fucktard?
Me: Why, yes. Yes you are.
No One: *silence* Anybody else? I don’t understand the Office Assistant Language. She just does what I say – doesn’t really know what’s going on, poor girl. Can anyone else tell me if I’m a fucktard? *silence* Sigh. *turns to me* Fine! Have a full report on my desk by 3pm! I want charts with lots of color and pictures of gophers fornicating!
Me: *slam, slam, slam* (head hitting desk) I’ll get right on that! *slam*
I guess I could write a long post about frustration in general, but I think I’ve gone that route before: Sexual...check. Work...check. Home...check. Friends...check. Anything with a penis...check. Yeah, frustration is so done around here.
How about an outing with my friend Megan on Friday? I could talk about that?
We went to dinner at a trendy Japanese restaurant, but for some reason it was hotter than Satan’s ballsack in there. I was wearing a dress that, once seated, didn’t cover much of my ass and after eating a bowl of stupid egg something or other soup that she talked me into getting, my legs were super glued to the goddamned seat. She was sweating, I was sweating, everyone was sweating.
And our waiter was a complete sleaze ball.
He had dark eyes and dark hair gelled into ridiculously tall spikes. He wore big silver rings on each hand (not on his ring finger) and the standard black outfit of the other servers. He had a nice face and looked to be about 30 to 32, but clearly thought he looked no older than 25. When he approached the table my first thought was, “I know that guy from somewhere...he looks really familiar”. My second was, “*squinty suspicious eyes*... didn’t I fuck him...?”
That’s me. Keepin’ it classy since 2001...ish.
He got progressively handsy as the meal wore on. By the time we were enjoying a last drink before heading for the movie, he’d gone from shoulder massaging and back rubbing to squatting at breast level and licking his lips. By then I was almost sure he was a guy named Trey that used to run with mutual friends around my town, so I asked him.
Turns out I didn’t know him after all and his familiarity with my...person was even more unwarranted than I originally suspected. Especially when he referred to my breasts as “melons”. I mean, really? Are you a waiter or a pimp browsing the flesh market? I know how hard it can sometimes be to distinguish the two, but here’s a little trick: Nice restaurant = waiter. Seedy bar/alleyway/crack whore’s house = pimp. You’re welcome.
At the movie, Sex and the City 2 in case you were wondering, we had to sit near the front. Poor Megan’s neck started to bother her from all the craning, but other than an infrequent urge to cross my eyes I was alright. The film has gotten some bad reviews, but from what I can tell (and I’ve only seen every episode ever made twice, so what do I know?) the girls are the same as they’ve always been, plus a few years, and there are some great one liners. That’s all the review you’re going to get out of me. I’m not a critic and I almost always find something to enjoy about everything I watch.
We spent the rest of our night in a bar with a bunch of men. She canoodled with her boyfriend and sucked on hot honey wings while I debated the merits of certain cell phone brands and girls that don't like their nipples bothered with a guy whose name I simply cannot remember. He accused me of trying to distract him with my cleavage and I was forced to silently forgive the waiter from earlier because referenced once, it’s their fault. Referenced twice or more, it’s clearly mine.
Still keepin’ it classy, obviously.
Alright, even that didn’t take up an entire page. Would you like to hear about how I got my hair highlighted on Saturday morning, still nice and ripe from my 4am homecoming? Or how I went home and painted my toenails and fingernails with the neon blue polish from the OPI Shrek line? Or! How about how I was so lazy that I missed out on all the boating that day and by the time I made it into my bathing suit there was no one around and I lay on the dock for 10 minutes before a storm came up and blew me away?
How about this one:
On Sunday I ran into this guy at my family BBQ / lake party. I hate it when guys that say they’re going to call you and never do still look great when you see them six months later. (Note to self: Write ode to swim trunks with no lining.) I also hate it when they don’t speak to you the entire day and every time you lock eyes across the gazebo they give you a little knowing smile before turning away. Like they’re just waiting for you to half levitate and float their way, dragging your toes behind you, with giant cartoon hearts beating out of your eyeballs and your tongue lolling out of your mouth. Puleeeassse, fucker! I’d rather masturbate to Larry King Live than let you think you’ve won.
The best part was when I was floating on a raft and he joined a group leaving on a boat ride. As they drove by he stood and faced me, half bowed and blew kisses, grinning like a maniac the entire time. I didn’t do anything except hiss at my friend Claire floating nearby, “Did you SEE that? What a DICK!”
“Yeah”, she replied, “you should have done this...uh uh!” She did the old hand chopping on either side of the vagina motion that I haven’t used since Bush #2 was in office.
“Fuck! Why didn’t I think of that?”
She continued to make chopping motions and grunting sounds, occasionally throwing in a few bird fingers and an arm hook move for good measure. I think that last one was supposed to mean “up yours”, but you can’t ever be too sure about these modern gestures. Now that I’m old I have to be careful about that sort of thing. I wouldn’t want to throw up any new aged gang signs by mistake.
I probably did the right thing by ignoring him (read: not coming up with an appropriate gesture in time). I’m above all that now. I’m, like, thisfuckingclose to being PTA mom extraordinaire. Maybe even a Girl Scout troop leader. Aren’t the little ones called Brownies? I fucking love brownies.
Ohmigawd, look you guys! I managed to make a post with a theme entirely by accident!
*chop chop* Uh uh! Who wants to see my melons?
The Itch - a story
1 week ago