Party with the clit killer

Saturday night I went to a birthday party for a friend.

This friend has parties often and it’s usually the same old crowd. Therefore, I wouldn’t say I was excited about the party in particular. More that I was excited not to be sitting on the couch in my pajamas, yelling at the TV and swilling out of a large wine bottle. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, right?

My family drove me nuts all day so by 4pm I decided I was going to get ready and leave early. It took me even longer than usual because everyone had an opinion on what I looked like.

Mom: You’re not wearing your hair like that, are you?

Aunt C: What’s going on with your hair?

Mom: You have on too much make up.

Aunt C: No! I didn’t mean it like that!

Mom: I did.

Lee: There’s something wrong with the front of your head.

Mom: Are you wearing that? *attempts to button top up to my chin*

Me: ARRRRGH! FUCKERS!

I didn’t feel like straightening my hair because it takes a very, very long time. The only problem with going au natural is that sometimes things work out and sometimes they don’t. And by things, I mean my giant, curly fro.

I ended up pulling the front up in a barrette, which, coupled with my dress, leggings, and flats, made me look like a 13 year old from the 80’s. Radical.

I packed up my wine and went to my cousin’s house to hang out until the party. For two hours we discussed controversial issues like men’s double standards and the merits of ineffectual fathers. I finished the leftovers of one bottle and we went on our merry way.

It was rather cold and drizzly. I was cursing myself for wearing that ridiculous outfit when I’d have been far more comfortable in jeans and boots...like everyone else in attendance. I wandered around and greeted a few people then stopped to check out the refreshment table. Thankfully L and W (the two girls I’d come with, in a completely non-lesbian way) began stuffing their faces too. Except they were stuffing their faces with chips and ranch dip and I was more inclined to stuff mine with meatballs.

As I resumed my mingling I noticed several things:

1) It was only 9pm and there was already a drunken woman swinging from a bench press pole and making sexual innuendos to inanimate objects. Best part? It was the birthday girl’s 50 something year old mother.

2) There was the token creepy old guy that shows up to every party within a 30 mile radius of the house he still lives in with his parents. This one happens to be about 7ft tall and sleeps with anything that breathes. He was clearly on the prowl.

3) The guy I ran into the last time I was out on the town was there. I was pretty wasted that night, but he regaled me with my violent antics. Apparently I punched him in the stomach. Hard. He was laughing about it, but I could see him eyeballing the drink in my hand and calculating how many I could have before he needed to disappear.

4) There was the gay guy swigging vodka out of a brown paper bag and doing some sort of air humping dance. If I were him, a gay man at a redneck shindig, I’d be swigging out of a brown paper bag too.

I had a good time at first. I drank my wine, danced a bit, took some shots. The party was half in their garage and half in their driveway where they’d set up two fire barrels that everyone was gathering around. (It’s the country, ok.)

I was standing with my back to one of the barrels, laughing with a few other girls, when a friend came running over.

“Ya’ll! Omigawd! Have you seen (insert first and last name)?”

Everyone but me turned and looked where she indicated.

“He’s so hot! You should go talk to him”, she said, addressing the girl on my left. “He’s got a great job and he’s really sweet...” She continued spouting his virtues to the single man eater, who didn’t appear the least bit interested.

I was well on my way to being drunk, so when I heard the name of the guy I’d hooked up with on New Years Eve, I quietly panicked. It couldn’t be the same one, I thought. He doesn’t hang out with these people.

“What did you say his last name was”, I asked my friend. She repeated herself. “What’s his mom’s name? Does she work at that Dr.’s office?”

She frowned at me. “I don’t know.” She called for her sister and relayed the question to her, who answered in the affirmative.

I must have looked a bit horrified. In fact I know I did.

She leaned toward me and whisper-shouted, “OHMIGAWD YOU FUCKING SLEPT WITH HIM DIDN’T YOU?!”

“SHHHHH! Shut up! Jesus fucking Christ!”

“YOU DID! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU SLEPT WITH HIM! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

I wasn’t exactly sure what the big deal was. The way she was acting you would have thought I’d slept with the mayor.

“But he’s so nice”, she said.

“So?”

“You don’t just sleep with a guy like that.”

“Well....” I didn’t know what to say. I’d expected him to call me. After all, he kind of owed me one. When two weeks went by and he still didn’t call, I chalked it up to a one night stand...a relatively unsuccessful one at that.

She continued to heckle me about it and the more she spoke, the more nervous I became. I knew he was standing several yards away in another group, but I couldn’t make myself turn around and look. I was positive he’d overheard her antics, especially when she motioned her sister back over, calling her a bit too frantically.

“She slept with him”, she said to her sister.

“NO WAY”, her sister shouted, dancing in place.

I sighed. There was no way I could casually speak to him now that the loud mouthed twins made it look like I was telling our business to the entire female population. I knew he was embarrassed enough about his performance without being made to think I was spreading the details around. I knew my face was beat red.

When pressed for details about him I simply smiled and shook my head, then wandered off to the kitchen in search of shots. I downed several and avoided going outside for awhile, waiting for them to move on to the next drunken topic.

When I finally returned to the group, I was facing his direction. For the rest of the night I followed him with my eyes, paranoid about what he may or may not have heard. He seemed ok, but I wasn’t. The more I drank and the longer I looked at him, the more disappointed I became.

Why hadn’t he called me? Why hadn’t he at least said hello? Why was he ignoring me? Should I go talk to him? I can’t. What if he heard all of that?

As the night wore on our group got smaller. I ended up standing around the fire with him and three or four other people. He was directly across from me and not once did he look at me. Finally, during a lull in the conversation, I said, “Hey, how’ve you been?”

“Pretty shitty”, he said without looking me in the eyes.

Fuck.

I said maybe one more sentence to him the rest of the night. Then I watched him mack on a girl that was barely old enough to drink (if she was).

Ok, get ready for the rant:

So we slept together. Ok, big deal. So he wasn’t great at it. Ok, big deal. I didn’t bad mouth him to anyone. I was even willing to let him try again sober, which HE suggested, not me. I can understand him being embarrassed. What I cannot understand is him treating me like I’m not there. Seriously? Fucking rude. If I can be nice to him, smile at him, and keep my mouth shut, the least he could do would be to do the same. A simple, “Hey, how are you doing” would have been nice. Or even a “sup” and a head jerk.

Am I overreacting? It was a bit of a blow to the ego, I’ll admit, but there’s just something wrong with the whole thing.

According to my mom he’s this really sweet guy that just picks the wrong girls. He’s really weary about involvement because an ex really broke his heart. According to my friends at the party that know him, he’s a really sweet guy that’s looking for something serious.

Ha. Really? I’ll bet he found that serious thing he was looking for in Miss Pre-Teen’s pants.

That wasn’t nice. Gawd bless him and his erectile dysfunction.

Anyway, I finally left a bit worse for wear. Unfortunately my car got stuck in the mud and had to be pulled out. I’d let my cousin borrow it a bit earlier to pick up a friend down the road and when he returned, he decided to leave the sunroof cracked open and sink my front end into a marsh. Nice. In hindsight I probably shouldn’t have screamed “goddamn it” repeatedly at him out my window. I’m sure I looked a bit psychotic.

On a positive note, that girl will probably be out of commission for the next week. That man is like the Edward Scissor Hands of the clitoris. Ouch.

Note:
I was going to make Erin’s video blog when I got home from the party, but trust me, it wasn’t really the best idea. Now it looks like I might have to do it sober. The horror!

Turns out I HAVE been kidnapped. By aliens.

Friday night I went out with friends and got a bit wasted. Well, if “a bit” counts as stumbling around and playing grab ass with other women.

At the second bar I ran into a guy I used to know in high school. Well, I was in high school at the time...he wasn’t.

He worked at the same place I did and had a pregnant girlfriend who also worked with us. Being 16, that didn’t matter a bit to me and we ended up starting a quiet affair. And by quiet, I mean quiet. Only one person ever knew about it and she wouldn’t have opened her mouth if you paid her. Mutual dirt, see. She was a much bigger whore than I was.

On our breaks we would sneak around the side of the building and make out. He even once talked me into a blow job, right out in the open. I later found out that there were cameras in that area. If anyone saw anything they never breathed a word, thank gawd. I’m sure they would have had a good laugh though. I wasn’t nearly as talented back then. Maybe there was a bit of arm flailing and awkward head bobbing.

We never actually had sex, but we came pretty close a few times. He would sit close to me at work and just stare at me, big brown eyes saying, “I’d like to dip you in cheese and spread you on a cracker”. Occasionally he would lick his lips. It was all quite ridiculous.

Sometimes he’d have to call me from a phone booth and he would stand there for an hour, just to “hear my voice”.

I don’t remember what our conversations were about, but there was a song called Dilemma by Nelly and Kelly Rowland and he would play it on the phone and sing it to me. It was “our song”. Years later, every single time I hear that song it reminds me of him. Not in an “I wish I could go back and do it again” way. More like a “that was interesting but I feel kind of shitty for doing it” way.

So when I walked into the bar Friday night and saw him standing there, looking five times hotter than he used to, I was thrown for a loop. Being drunk helped a bit too.

He walked right up to me with a big grin on his face and said, “You don’t remember me do you?”

“Oh, yeah...I remember you”, I replied.

This was followed by a few nicey nice, what’s been going on questions. He mentioned his kid and I said, “So are you and what’s-her-name still together?”

“No”, he said smiling. “What about you? Are you single?”

“Terminally.”

He laughed and said, “You know, every time I hear that song...I think about you. For the first couple of years I looked for you everywhere: around town, Myspace, Facebook...”

“I don’t have a Facebook...”

“I know, but you do have a Myspace...”

“Never use it.”

“Used to.”

“Yep.”

“You’re still beautiful.”

Thinking: “Ooooooh shit.” Joking, I actually said, “You haven’t been pining away for me all these years, have you?”

He leaned closer and said, very serious like, “Yes, I have.”

At a rare loss, all I did was blush, smile, and fiddle with my drink.

He asked for my number and I gave it to him before my friends dragged me out the door.

He’s already texted me four or five times since then, but I’ve yet to respond.

I know you’re thinking, “Why the fuck not!”

There are several reasons:

- His baby mama is badass crazy. That’s drama I don’t need.

- He’s hot. Really hot. But I don’t feel any overwhelming sexual chemistry.

- At this point I’d just be using him for sex and my ego.

- It could never be anything but another fling.

I know. I’ve finally gone off the fucking deep end. Turning down sex that’s bound to be great (he’s storing a miracle grown cucumber in his shorts). Turning down ego stroking. Worrying about using a man. Ugh!

Who the fuck is this person and what has she done with me? Just what does she think she’s holding out for? And when is she planning on getting laid again, damn it?

In other news:

I’ve seen the bum one more time walking down the same road, but no one has seen him since. The motion lights have been repaired and the metal baseball bat is a permanent fixture.

As a matter of fact, I was on my way home the other night and I came to a license check. When the cop pointed his flashlight around the car, he noticed the metal bat riding in the passenger seat.

“What’s with the bat?”

“It’s for protection.”

“Against what?”

“Sexual deviants, bums, and the occasional rowdy house guest.”

“Cute. Are you concealing any firearms in the vehicle?”

“I’m not allowed to have firearms, but there are two Nerf guns in the trunk, if that’s relevant.”

Clearly irritated, “It’s not. Have a good evening.” He handed me my license back and waved me on through. I waved to the rest of them as I passed. Most of them have seen me half naked. Might as well give um’ hell when I get an opportunity.

In other, other news:

I’m feeling a little uninspired lately on the blogging front. Feel free (that means do it now) to help me out any way you see fit.

I really need to get out more.

The sad thing about this past weekend is not that I had to deal with irritating and/or unruly family members. It’s that I was disappointed when nothing really happened.

No one came to blows. No one got really drunk and fell in the lake. No one offered me any illegal drugs. And by no one, of course I mean my dad.

There are a few things worth mentioning here and there, but considering the material my family usually presents me with around the holidays I’m deeply disappointed.

Wednesday

I left the office and headed straight home. My dad arrived early that morning and my stepmom flew in that afternoon. I was sure I’d find him on my Papa’s patio, a sloshing brown paper bag in one hand and a cigarette in the other, telling my stepmom in no uncertain terms that she was to fuck off and leave him to his work.

Instead I found him asleep in the recliner. What a waste. I kicked the side of the chair and he continued to snore.

“He’s really tired”, my stepmom said.

“Eh”, I replied shrugging my shoulders.

My Papa has seven dogs. One of them is a round, chocolate colored Cocker Spaniel named Bud. I hate that dog with a fiery passion. If I could I’d have him butchered, skinned, roasted, and served to my Papa’s Filipino girlfriend. This has nothing to do with her nationality and everything to do with the fact that she encourages the fat fuck. (Although I do have my suspicions about her mother’s dietary habits in particular.)

Every time I set foot in the door that dog charges me like a bull. Sometimes the bastard even nips me on the leg. Everyone says it’s because I harassed him when he was puppy, but I didn’t. I was just in the vicinity when he was being harassed by my cousins. They tormented the dog and for some reason, he’s seen fit to torment me in return.

Anyway, I was facing my sleeping dad, my back was to my Papa in his chair and I was talking to my stepmom when I felt a sharp pinch on the back of my leg. I immediately whipped around, ready to kill Bud who had been barking at me for the past three minutes straight. As I turned I shouted, “YOU SONOFABITCH!” and came face to face with my Papa. He was laughing so hard he nearly died.

“You shouldn’t talk to your Papa that way”, he said still laughing.

I glared at him. The fat bastard had pinched the fuck out of my leg!

He spent the rest of the weekend telling everyone the “hilarious story” about how I thought the dog bit me and I called him a sonofabitch. Hilarious indeed.

Because I love my Papa and I know what’s good for me, I went home and made him the apple nut cake he requested for Thanksgiving dinner. I also had to make a pound cake for Thanksgiving lunch at The Grandmother’s. I still maintain the theory that if a man eats my cake, he’s smitten forever. Which is why I never bake for anyone but family.

The rest of the night, that wasn’t devoted to baking, was spent watching movies with my sister. She insisted that I watch a scary movie called Paranormal Activity. I hate scary movies, but I heard from several people that saw it in theaters that after they watched it they didn’t sleep for days and that intrigued me a bit.

But it was stupid. I didn’t find it scary in the slightest. My sister, however, was terrified and begged me to sleep in her bed. We haven’t really slept in the same bed in years. I took the opportunity to make it a miserable experience to keep her from asking again in the future. I’m a bit of a thrasher and she’s prone to nose bleeds.

Thursday

I bundled my cake and various other odds and ends into the car early that morning. I’d promised The Grandmother that I would come over before the others and help with lunch. Of course I was 45 minutes later than I said I’d be, with wet hair and no makeup. It’s become a disturbing trend, looking like a bum.

My Aunt, bless her, recently moved in with TG. From personal experience I know that TG is one of the hardest people on the planet to live with. But in her case I’m not sure what’s worse: staying with her husband or living with TG. I probably would have jumped ship too. The man is an absolute nutter.

I wasn’t there an hour before I was hitting the rum and coke. Eleven in the morning and I was drinking liquor. Dear lord, I’ve become my father.

The minute we returned to the kitchen for orders she said, “Are you two drinking?” Nothing gets by that damn woman.

Of course we denied it. “I’m high on life Grandma”, I said grinning.

“Well that’s the only thing anyone should ever be high on!”

“And Jesus”, I replied.

She glowered.

After arguments over seating arrangements and who was going to say grace (it was unanimously agreed that I wasn’t fit to pray for our health), we finally settled down to eat.

I decided to do the smart thing and give up on my diet for the weekend. It would have been unfair to my family to have me ripping out my hair at the table and salivating all over their turkey and dressing. There was no conversation for the first five minutes or so and I was in a heaven no granola bar could ever take me to.

Being an important member of the family (read: being put in charge of name tags and being a lefty) I was sitting at the head of the table. My mother was at the foot, my Aunt D (a different one) to my left, and TG to my right. I love sitting next to Aunt D. She always smells of pot and looks around like she’s lost. Sometimes she even laughs out loud for no reason and talks to herself.

When everyone finally started talking it was, of course, about politics.

So while my mother flashed me bits of “see-food” from her end of the table, TG and my Uncle yelled at each other across the turkey. All because someone had to mention (angelic face) that TG had ordered Sara Palin’s new book.

My Uncle hates Sarah Palin and began a loud and lengthy monologue on her less than adequate intelligence. TG loves Sarah Palin and began even more loudly interrupting him. Soon they were shouting and pointing at each other while the rest of us played ping pong with our heads.

D turned her glazed eyes on me, smiled and asked me to load her plate up with more turkey, my mother flashed me another chewed up mouthful of food, and my sister texted her boyfriend.

A typical American family dinner.

My sister, the kid, and I left around 4pm in order to make it to Papa’s for dinner. Never as formal as TG’s, everyone fixed their plates when they felt like it and sat scattered about the house.

For the first time in years there were no eggrolls and no pig with an apple in it’s mouth. And though I didn’t eat anything except for a bit of my own cake, I was happy I didn’t have to look at a whole pig. There’s something disturbing about them and for some reason they always make me think of that book Lord of the Flies.

My dad passed out with his pants unbuttoned minutes after dinner and there was no liquor consumed by anyone. I’ve never been so disappointed in my redneck side of the family.

Friday

In a moment of weakness I agreed to help my Aunt pack up her things and move them to her storage building. She hired Two Men and a Truck to help.

I showed up at TG’s at eight that morning, grumpy and hating life. We drove the 30 minutes to her house and waited for the movers to show up.

Two Men and a Truck finally came. Or rather, three hung over stoners. The leader was a skinny white guy and his cohorts were two hulking black men.

They took forever to get started, laughing, joking and complaining about needing a drink. I went about my business, packing things here and there, but before long one of the hulks started following me around and questioning me.

Where are you from? Where did you go to school? What year did you graduate? Do you know so-in-so? Do you mind if I call you “babe”?

What? Fuck off dude. It’s 10 in the morning on the day after Thanksgiving. I’m sweating like a whore in church and all I want is to take a shower and crawl into my bed with a book. Yes, I mind if you call me “babe”.

He continued to follow me around throughout the morning, offering his help to me instead of assisting the other two guys with the really big stuff. I eventually got my ipod and tuned everything out.

I was standing in the dining room wrapping pieces of glass from a china cabinet in bubble wrap. The song Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry came on which never fails to make me move, maybe even head bang a little, and I started shimmying around. Right when they shout “You’re crazy but I like the way you fuck me!” and I was doing the required pelvic thrusts against the table, there was a crash to my right. I looked and stopped mid thrust when I saw a large leg protruding from the living room ceiling.

The guys were supposed to be getting a few things from the attic but one of the hulks wasn’t walking on the beams and fell through the ceiling. It took me half an hour to calm my Aunt down enough to get her moving again. What made it worse was that the guys found it absolutely hilarious.

After almost five hours, with a timely appearance from my mom’s boyfriend, we were finished. The movers and my Aunt headed to the storage building while Ray and I headed to TG’s to unload his truck. He suggested we stop by Chick-fil-A for lunch since neither of us had eaten that day and knowing my diet was already shot to shit, I agreed.

Bliss. Food. Oh, mayonnaise...how I love you.

Moving on.

By the time I made it home that night I felt like I had bricks tied to my limbs. After a bit of excitement over a package of pig faced gummies I received in the mail (which I’ve decided may have just been the highlight of my weekend) and a shower, I was asleep by 7:30. Only sick people and geriatrics are in bed by 7:30pm. The shame!

Saturday

The only thing I did all day was read, watch the Carolina vs. Clemson game, and lounge on my Papa’s couch. I did drink a beer with my dad to celebrate the Cocks winning their first game against Clemson since 2006. WOO!

I also managed to find out that my dad will still be working in New Jersey after all. We’ve planned my visit for late February. New York and handbags...here I come.

Sunday

We spent that morning cleaning and rearranging furniture, the afternoon picking up last minute things from the store, and the evening putting up the Christmas tree.

Throughout the day, my sister’s boyfriend and I became quite close.

He smiled at me. I gave him the finger.

He said pass me the hooks. I said fuck off.

He touched my sister inappropriately. I made a finger cutting throat motion. (That one gets um’ every time.)

Yeah, I’m pretty sure my weekend sucked balls. It’s ok if you say so. Just be nice about it.

On a positive note it’s almost time for my yearly vagina violating appointment. They have Jesus posters on the ceiling. Oooooh baby.