Thoughts on Marriage: A Many Part Series in Which I Burn Bridges and Insult a Lot of People (Part III)

I’ve been putting this one off for a while. All right, much like Nick Hornby did in “High Fidelity,” here it is…the money shot, the reason we make these lists. To get down to the nitty-gritty, the shit, that one person Who Utterly Fucked Up Your Life.

Now, I don’t want to give him too much emotional credit here—there are others I’ve been way more in love with—but this is the one that left marks, the ones that stick around. You know, like anyone who’s been through a shitty-ass divorce, i.e. sleeping in some dive motel—or, in my case, on an air mattress—bank account drained, etc., I am well-acquainted with the CMT-made-for-TV-special relationship, like clothes-on-the-lawn, shotgun-aiming, you-knocked-up-my-inbred-half-sister special starring Leann Rimes and whoever she’s fucking now.

It’s basically a Lucinda Williams song.

I had no business dating this one, let’s call him oh, Bar Charm. Bar Charm was all that—western-shirt wearing, young Mickey Rourke-ish looking, buying rounds all night for everyone. Bar Charm and I should’ve remained exactly what we were for each other at the time—rebound fucks.

You should know this, but I’ll reiterate: Never make Rebound Fuck your boyfriend.

Anyway, after a couple months of dating, we were getting ripped one night on $17 martinis at Mandalay Bay in Vegas and were bored outta our minds.

“What should we do next?” I say. “I don’t feel like going to the Klondike, or going to the titty bars.”

“Um, don’t know,” he says. “Something we’ve never done before.”

I’m kinda woozy, but feeling good, a warm, like anything-can-happen-and-will-happen tonight good.

“Maybe we should go get married,” he says, taking a sip.

“Married? Oh yes,” I say, starting to laugh. “Oh, yes, that might be awesome.”

The more I thought about it, the more the idea appealed to me at that moment—yes, what could possibly be more rock’n’roll than rolling up to a Vegas chapel and getting married?

So, a few phone calls to secure details—and  this is before the iPhone or Google days, friends–a $1,500 check cleared at the cashier’s window and a driver who knew how to get to the court house, there we were, sitting in the back of the limo. The second before we were to pull away, it finally hit me that this was no joke, no funny we-got-wasted-last-night and guess-what-we-did story. That tomorrow morning, I would be married—and I could picture the divorce proceedings in my mind already. And no number of martinis would turn that nightmare into anything resembling fun. Though it would also be pretty rock’n’roll to be divorced by age 27 after a few months of marriage.

But still.

So, I backed out at the last second. After that debacle, you’d think that we’d learnt us a lesson. Nope.

The second proposal came at probably one of the most awkward, inopportune moments ever—and this is probably the most embarrassing thing I will ever write about myself, so take note. In a rash moment, driven by depression, stupidity and hormones, I decided to quit my job and move cross-country with Bar Charm. Before we took off, he turned to me and said, “So, this is a long drive.”

“Uh-hum,” I said.

“Well, at some point during such a long drive, you’re gonna have to cut loose,” he said. “And let me know when you do.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I said.

“Well, all I’m saying is that you’re going to have to fart.”

“I think I can refrain.”

“So you say,” he says. “But sooner or later, you’re gonna have to fart.”

Yes, sooner or later, just east of Denver, I finally cut one. Not a big one, it was quiet and didn’t smell that much, so I was just gonna light up a cig and crack the window and pretended it didn’t happen. But then I opened my big mouth.

“Well, you win.”

“Win what?”

“I just did it,” I said. “I finally let one go.”

He looks over, digs into his lefthand pocket. He pulls out a box and hands it my way, flipping it open.

Oh, shit. It’s a diamond ring.

Now, I don’t know about all the single ladies out there wanting a ring put on it, but I’m pretty sure that my idea of getting proposed to didn’t involve letting one fly on a 27-hour car journey from Vegas to Chicago. It was a pretty dumb way to propose to someone—almost as dumb as asking someone you’ve been dating fewer than six months to marry you. And there was no way I was ready to get married.

“Um, so I think we should really just live together before we get engaged,” I said.

And, man, did that not go over well. In fact, it went over so well, that Bar Charm decided not to speak to me throughout the entire state of Nebraska—and if you’ve ever driven through Nebraska, you know that’s a long-ass time to give someone the silent treatment.

And it didn’t get much better once we got to Chicago. I pretended to be engaged for a month or two, and then we just didn’t talk about it anymore, the ring (and a quite nice one at that) stayed in its box at the bottom of my sock drawer. I spent the better part of that year living in a hell I couldn’t unravel—no job, then a shitty job with a crazy bitch for a boss, coming home to Bar Charm, who I’ll just refer to as Piece of Shit now, because that’s pretty much what he turned into, daily regaling me on the State of Me and how fat, ugly and stupid I was becoming—“Look at your head. You’re a fucking Pumpkinhead! Your head is too big for your body,” “You’re a shitty writer. You were just lucky to have a job.” Etc. “Where’s my saltines and hot dogs?” he’d yell after I’d come home from the grocery store, but he’d never go himself. “Goddammit, you spend $100 on food, and there’s no saltines and hot dogs!” He’d get drunk and belligerent—he even pissed the bed one night he was so hammered. Sweet Christ, I could go on and on…

Anyway, after about a year of this, we were sitting at the Empty Bottle in Chicago one night, he was blathering on about his stupid job that he hated, and I had had enough. I turned to him and said, “I hate you.”

“I hate you, too,” he said.

“So, let’s break up,” I said.

“OK,” he said.

We clinked our bottles of Old Style to the agreement. And while he still claims that he broke up with me—which I call bullshit—I will never forget that the closest I came to getting hitched was to this guy, who just so happened to end up marrying one of his ex-girlfriends he’d go on and on about during our entire relationship. “So-and-so is so great. She would never wear something so ugly.” “So-and-so is so great… she would never do something that stupid.” He’d constantly talk about all his exes, and how great they were, and how I was failing him as a girlfriend. So when I found out, via the Facebook, they’d gotten hitched, I asked him about it, and he sent me, I swear to fucking God, an extensive, numbered list of the stages leading to his marriage. It was truly an e-mail that still, to this day, I think about slapping up on the blog word-for-word just so others can witness the clusterfuckery of it all.

“I give it 18 months,” I wrote him back. He has since de-friended me on the Facebook.

So, what did I learn from all this? I’m still figuring it out, but several years in therapy, thousands of dollars later, studying why I tend to date dickbags, I am single, but decidedly so, and, for better or worse, I don’t put up with any jackass behavior from anybody. And I look around and still see so many women who do—and I think…

“Why are you letting them get away with that?”

Thoughts on Marriage: A Many Part Series in Which I Burn Bridges and Insult a Lot of People (Part II)

Now the next contender. This guy was the Crazy Redhead who used to call me Mrs. Tits (he is also the only living witness on this earth of my Smoking Vagina). Ah, yes, I think we were sitting on the couch, maybe one or two months into dating, and he’d already said the whole “I love you” bullshit—by the way, what the fuck is up with guys saying “I love you” so fast? I mean, I can know in two months in that I really, really like you, I love having sex with you, etc., but I’m not about to launch the Big Three. Anyway, we’re sitting there and Crazy Redhead says, “I know that I’m gonna marry you. We’re totally going to get married.”

Ok…I still hadn’t decided if I was going to make him The Boyfriend yet.

So, fast-forward a few months and Crazy Redhead has moved into my apartment, a decision based much more on economic factors than emotional ones, which is a big fat fucking mistake—“nothing but the cold, hard rent check to keep us together” is no reason to live with someone.

Now, Crazy Redhead was actually not that bad a guy. He was generous. He was an awesome cook and loved to make dinner. He liked people and was genuinely a nice, pleasant guy to be around. He was pretty smart and amusing. But I made the mistake of taking him with me when I moved cross-country, when I should’ve left him behind and for that I felt—and still feed—bad. So bad, in fact, that I supported his ass for months—buying him cigarettes, booze, even lap dances (hey, it’s Vegas)—while he looked for a job.

Well, when he finally did get a job, it didn’t get much better. He worked in the bar/restaurant industry—and there tends to be a lot of drinking/drugging going on there. I worked during the day, he worked at night, so our hours were completely incompatible. When he’d get home, he’d sit there, already drunk, and drink a bottle of Captain Morgan’s, then get into a magnum of cheap wine and chain-smoke at our computer playing video games all night. Meanwhile, he could barely pay his bills when he owed me thousands of bucks and refused to help me out with any of the “adult” things a couple has to do, like, oh, say pay bills or clean the house. Then he’d allude to us getting hitched or cementing our relationship further.

“Why don’t we buy a house together?” he said one day.

“Buy a house?” I said. “We can’t afford that.”

“Of course we can,” he said. “So-and-so Jackass I Work With said they bought one that’d been foreclosed on and it was real cheap.”

“You owe me five grand,” I said. “You can barely pay your half of the rent on this cheapass place, and you think we’re gonna buy a house together? You mean I’m going to buy this house and you’re going to live there rent-free.”

But what I was really thinking was that there was no way I was going to embed myself in real estate with this mofo.

So when he compared me to his mother one day—“Hehe, I used to ignore my mom all the time, and she’d just do it for me,” he said when I asked him to wipe the Captain Morgan’s off my computer keypad so I could work—his fate was sealed. I was kicking his ass out.

He had no money, of course, and the cash cow that had been me on my meager, pathetic journalist’s salary was shut down, so he had to Greyhound-it all the way home. I drove him to the station at midnight in downtown Vegas to catch his bus—and man, is that a fucking scene, homeless folks storing empty cans and half-eaten chicken wings in lockers, prostitutes working the room, the lowest-of-the-low in Vegas trying to scrape up enough cash to make their getaway—and watched him get on it with his bag. Then I hauled ass back through the parking lot to my car so I wouldn’t get mugged.

Now, kicking Crazy Redhead out wasn’t an easy choice—one that wasn’t just decided on a whim, but with months of agony. At 26, I couldn’t deal with playing nursemaid to a 29-year-old alcoholic Man Baby, and there was no way I was marrying him. So, off he had to go. But it certainly wasn’t anything I was particularly proud of or happy about—and, in fact, he was probably one of my only friends in Vegas at that point, so it was downright lonely for a while.

Months later, he e-mailed me that a woman showed up on his doorstep with a 5-year-old kid, claiming it was his: “I am indisposed right now as there may be a possibility that I have a child in this world.”

I called him immediately.

“What the fuck?”

“Yeah,” he said, filling me on the details. “From a coke bender years back, a one-night stand. I don’t even remember her.”

“So, is it yours?” I asked.

“It looks just like me,” he sighed.

I never heard from him again, but, in spite of it all, I still hope it worked out OK for that one, kid and all. I chalked up his outstanding $2,000 debt to me as a universe doing me a favor—I had officially dodged that bullet.

Thoughts on Marriage: A Many Part Series in Which I Burn Bridges and Insult a Lot of People

Recently, as I was doing some errands around my Precious Brooklyn Neighborhood, I stopped at a local store that sells a lot of cool shit—handbags, dresses, lingerie—and for the first time ever, I think I really looked in the jewelry case.

Now, I’m not a big one for jewelry, especially fancy, expensive jewelry, as I’m pretty much guaranteed to lose it in a toilet somewhere, or jumping into some body of water or other. But this time, there were a couple rings that caught my eye—one was an awesome diamond number, three slim platinum bands, covered in tiny diamonds. Goddamn, did I think it would be nice to have that—and even better to have someone who wants to give it to me.

There’s an Old 97’s song, “Question,” where the beautific Rhett Miller sings, “Someday somebody’s gonna ask you / A question that you should say yes to / Once in your life…” Well, I think most people probably agree that yes, it would be nice. Especially from someone like Rhett.

You might be asking yourself, dear reader, at this time, if I have ever come close to being married. I certainly write about shallow topics—seedy bars, meaningless encounters, mediocre men and even more mediocre one-night stands—enough for you to think that I am a callous, heartless lady devoid of achieving any sort of emotional connection that lasts more than three beers.

Well, I’m here to prove you wrong. And now, some thoughts on marriage.

I could’ve been married by this point. Probably three times over (which means I could be thrice divorced by now. Thrice!). Let’s relieve these gems I have let slip through my bony-ass fingers.

The first guy I’m pretty certain would’ve married me, was Mr. All-American High School. Yeah, he was a football and baseball star in our teeny-tiny community, Homecoming King, and so on. We had next to nothing in common as I was the Brain and he? Not so much. Anyway, after a dismal year-plus courtship, he described to me, one evening at his crappy apartment, his dream wedding.

“I want to have a baseball-themed wedding,” he said. “Wouldn’t that be great? Like everyone dress in their whites and then have the groomsmen hold baseball bats up to walk through?”

Are you fucking kidding me?

I knew immediately that all this talk of “baseball weddings”—his ideal fantasy—was on the Big Fat Highway to Hell for me—a hell in which I would be married to an ex-jock, stuck in my hometown forevermore, who thinks that having a sports-themed wedding is a good idea. I pretty much jumped out of that one shortly thereafter.

By the way, this kinda talk was going on when I was 19—and nobody at the age of 19 should be involved in any sort of wedding talk whatsoever. At 19, you should be concerned with getting through finals and figuring out how to get into bars without an I.D. Not walking down some stupid church aisle under a bunch of Louisville Sluggers and thinking about Little Pink Houses and picket fences and procreating.

Update:  Oh, and Mr. All American did indeed do this wedding–with someone else. A couple years and puppies later, he got caught with his pants down, literally, fucking someone-other-than-wifey in the back of a cop car when he was on-duty. (Oh, he also became a cop, as if it wasn’t bad enough already.)

Oh, I’m only getting started. Next up…What Ever Happened to That Crazy Redhead Who Saw You Smoking With Your Vagina?

The Brigham-Young Relative Value Scale for Sexual Conduct

A week or so ago, I posted about Numbas! What they mean, what they don’t mean, what counts and what definitely doesn’t count. In the time hence, it has sparked many differing opinions about what counts as sex and what does not.

In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Bill Clinton, I am here once and for all to finally settle what counts as sex and what does not. Also, since no two encounters should be considered equal, I’ve also deduced a point system—much like you pocket more cash if you hit the trifecta at the track, you should get more points for executing a more difficult sexual tryst—i.e. a threeway is worth more than that one frat guy you picked up at Señor Frogs and banged in Panama City in 1985. In fact, let’s not count that guy at all.

(Note: This pertains to per person/encounter assuming it’s a one-time encounter. So, say, I have a Boyfriend who I’ve banged about 230 times in the past year–he still counts as one. Unless we had a threesome or did something else on this list).

Man-woman, heterosexual sex: 1

Gay sex: 1

Gay sex if one guy claims to be straight: 2

Lesbian sex: 1.5

Woman-on-woman sex if one person claims to be straight but “experimenting”: 2

Woman-on-woman sex if drunk, in college and both claim to be straight and “experimenting”: -1 (you can lose points, too, for being cliché and predictable).

Man-woman-woman threeway: 3

Man-man-woman threeway: 5 (difficulty of execution means it’s worth more)

Man-man-woman threeway if the guys actually touch each other: 10 (rarely happens, even though they are dying to do so, and in fact, are just using the threeway excuse as a way to get naked with their best bud)

Parapalegic sex: 3

Sex with an animal: -2 (I’m not a fan of this ever since I read the D.H. Lawrence story about the woman banging her greyhounds, or whatever kind of dogs they were)

Donkey sex in Mexico: 3 (Only if you do it, not if you watch it)

Sex with your partner’s best friend: 2 or -2, directly proportional to how awful or awesome your significant other is.

Truck-stop sex: 2

Truck-stop sex on meth: -3

Sex while imagining your partner is someone else: -1

Anal sex: 2 or 3, pending degree of difficulty

Cheating sex: 1, but if the husband is a cop, you get a 2

Internet sex: -3

Phone sex: -2

Sex without orgasm: -.5 (If you only get halfway there, or not even close, it shouldn’t count)

Sex with a small dick/vacuous vagina: -1 (Same deal)

Sex in a van down by the river: 5

Blue-collar sex: 2

GED sex: 3

Community College sex: .5

Bachelor’s: 1

Master’s: 1.5

Ph.D.: -2

Sex with Joan Jett’s guitar tech while wearing an eye patch: 5

Vacation sex: 2

Sex at a Sands or Beaches resort: -8

Sex with a premature ejaculator: -1 (and so annoying)

Orgy sex (more than four people): 1.5 per person involved

Fingerbangin’: .5

Fisting: One for each finger you get up there. Fist = 5!

And, like any point systems, there are some variables to be worked out. Here, Roommate Jim’s list, what he says, “I like to call the outliers.”

Bad make-out session with tooth or forehead crash: .3

Bad make-out session with too much saliva: .4

Bad make-out session with not enough saliva: .2

Nonreciprocal oral sex: .6 for receiver; .2 for giver

Reciprocal oral sex: .75

Reciprocal or nonreciprocal oral sex with not enough saliva: .4

Hand job: .5

Hand job with nondominant hand, as determined by couch position: .5

Hand job, as determined by partner’s unwillingness to give oral: .4

Quiet sex due to proximity of parents: .8

Loud sex due to proximity of parents: -2

Breast fondle with awkward bra removal: .25

Breast fondle with masterful bra removal: .4

Quiet sex due to proximity of employer: 4

Quiet sex due to proximity of congregation: -20

Discovery of pad or tampon without warning: -5

Discovery of opposite genitals than expected: -10

Sex with sports team mascot: 2

Sex while pretending your partner is a team mascot: .6

Sex with Brett Favre: 1 for girls; 5 for boys

Post-sex fist bump or high five: -2

Sex with partner who has poster of Monet’s Water Lillies : .5

Sex to Jeff Buckley’s “Grace”: 1.5

Sex to Meatloaf’s “Bat out of Hell” (I or II): Just really fuckin’ sad.

All these factors should reveal your one and only true Numba! And open your mind to a path of sexual enlightenment. As promised: 14.

Shit I Say

Everyone loves “Overheard in New York” or “Texts From Last Night.” Well, get ready to add another one to the list: Shit I Say.

On clothes:

“This T-shirt is American Apparel. That means it’s made by sluts.”

On whether my beer is locally brewed and hence considered “sustainable”:

“Mine was pissed out by fairies in Ireland and delivered by unicorns ridden by Leprechauns.”

On dating:

Friend: “And that is why I’ll never date another guy from Philadelphia.”

Me: “That’s how I feel about adopted guys.”

On the news biz:

“The Times is like the Death Star, if it would’ve gotten halfway blown up, and half of them are missing arms and shit.”

On nerds drinking:

“That’s what happens when nerds drink.”

On I-have-no-fucking-idea-in-what-context-this-comment-came-from:

“You know what? I’m just gonna pee on that campfire…”

On my friend’s slutty friend:

“Did she make my T-shirt?”

On one of my exes upon telling me that he was fucking around:

“The first thought that popped into my mind: Thank God someone else is fucking you so I don’t have to anymore.”

Numbas!

Guys say the dumbest shit when you are getting it on. And while I appreciate the talk—you know, along the lines of “you’re so hot,” “you give the best blow jobs” and “you’re a great kisser,” there are things I don’t want to hear. Especially shit like “Are you on the pill? I really don’t like using condoms,” or “Oh, GAWD, I loved you so much” when I’m trying to have a perfectly decent one-night stand with no emotion attached whatsoever.

But there’s one thing that’s really not sexy-time conversation with someone you barely know—and that is “So, how many people have you slept with?”

Ack, the Numba!

Look, I fully acknowledge that Numbas are important. Hell, I love Numbas—I love betting on 33 at the roulette table, I love knowing when to double down—fuck, I get a sick satisfaction from balancing my checkbook. But I have no need to know your Numba unless we’re full-on dating—and by then, I’ll probably have eked everything out of you anyway due to my super-spy skills at getting people to spill their guts.

Besides, I would like for once to hear a solid number from a guy. “Oh, yeah, it’s in the 50s.” “I dunno, maybe 60?” Or my personal favorite, which seems to be the go-to gray area for every fucking guy in the universe, “It’s in the 30s somewhere. I don’t know for sure. I get around.”

Um, yes, 30s somewhere. I don’t know why you guys can’t count—or why you pretend not to know how. I know my exact Numba, and it is one of these which you will have to guess (and please do in comments below, there  might be a prize) and I’ll disclose it somewhere in a future column: 5, 14, 33, 47 or 67.

Here’s my other bitch about the Numbas. What counts? Personally, unless there is full penetration/fucking I don’t count a guy as a lay.

“What? You don’t count them?” Roommate Jim said one night while we were discussing the oral sex randoms ever so gently peppered throughout our lives.

“Nope, never,” I say. “Why should I be? Do you?”

“Anytime there is any sort of penis/vagina/mouth contact, I count it,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Really?” I say astounded by this turn of events. “’Cause if that’s true, my Numba just skyrocketed!”

So, as I lied in bed that night, I tried to remember all the folks who have gone down on me, like that Mormon during college, or who I have given head to…And then I tried to recalculate my Numba. My brain started to go all mushy, much like it did in August when I lived in Las Vegas, so I decided to give up. Even NASA couldn’t sort that shit out. My new ballpark Oral Sex Inclusive Numba: 12, 23, 35, 51 or 75.

So, I guess I can see where guys get their inflated, bullshit Numbas…and I kinda like it. Now that’s some fuzzy math I can get behind.

‘Someone Smoking Hot Will Be Involved in Your Pants’

I am a rational person. As my friend said succinctly, when I asked him if he believed in God, “I believe in science.” Yes, science is the bestest friend a girl could ask for…it’s given me many, many gifts, such as the Internets, the Gardasil vaccination and the ability to fly away on a few days notice to sit somewhere topless on a tropical beach.

Thank you, Science.

However, I do have one little flaw when it comes to my love of all things logical and fact-based. I am addicted to reading horoscopes.

In fact, I am so addicted that I have about two or three different ones I reference and cross-check with the real-life happenings, although I believe the last time my horoscope was correct was 2005.

Today, for example, I’m scanning the week ahead. And my mind is always in the gutter. My love horoscope (I’m an Aquarius, by the way, so get those credit cards out to buy me a birthday present here pretty soon) said: “You’ll have energy to burn this weekend, and someone smoking hot will be involved in your plans.” But I read it to say, “Someone smoking hot will be involved in your pants.”

I think that sounds much better. In fact, maybe I can turn this unemployment into my own horoscope-writing business.

That said, here’s your Love Forecast for the week:

Capricorn: Don’t overlook the germ of truth in someone’s advice now. You should probably give anal a try.

Aquarius: You already know that you’re gonna be taking off pants, or getting into pants. Just don’t wear pants Saturday and Sunday to save some time.

Pisces: Your great love of water will lead to an unfortunate infection from a hot tub.

Aries: You should probably just give up on finding someone as hot or as good of a fuck as your ex.

Taurus: Your sign is home to so many bullheaded assholes, no one gives a shit what happens to you this week.

Gemini: Twins! Twins!

Cancer: There’s a growth. And it ain’t a good one.

Leo: You’re in the mood to explore some new territory. Dive into Craigslist and sort out that goat-dog-DDF-couple-from-Jamaica-Bay orgy. P.S. It’s your turn to bring the Doritos.

Virgo: You will finally, finally lose your virginity to a guy named Herb at Port Authority.

Libra: Goddamn, you are hot. And so fair and balanced that you talk your way into fucking BOTH of them.

Scorpio: She wants you to come on her face with no warning. Really this time.

Sagittarius: You’ll probably meet an Aquarius who wants you to take your pants off. Just do it.

Teachin’ Lessons

Life is all about lessons. And I’m not talking about what you pick up in school, like Pythagorean’s theorem, the law of gravity, or how to avoid getting smacked in the head during dodgeball. No, we’re talking life lessons–like some wisdoms James Dean or Clint Eastwood would impart to you before you become a street-fightin’ man.

It will probably come as no surprise that I like life lessons. And what I especially like about life lessons is doling them out. Now, most of the time, I’m a pretty agreeable, pleasant-enough lady. But, once in a great while, I will be a little ornery, and therefore feel that some of my life wisdoms need be shelled out. This is one such story.

The evening started out innocently enough. The New Year had just begun, it was cold as shit outside, but after days of hunkering down in the apartment, it was time to move. Move, that is, up the street to the local watering hole.  Now, if you’ve read my stuff before, especially the post “I would like to meet one real motherfucking man in this town,” you can pretty much see the scene—smallish, dark bar, a former speakeasy with fancy cocktails and bartenders with white shirts and ties. And tons of dickbags standing around with their big, thick, dark glasses on (a trend that needs to die), flannel, Uniglo scarves nonchalantly yet expertly tied around their necks, doing their effeminate Brooklyn-Man-Thing, which is really just a bunch of posing, smirking and whole lot of nothing.

My friend and I snag a table, an almost unheard of accomplishment since the bar is packed. We’re a couple cocktails in when one of these bespectacled idiots wearing a hoody sits down at our table. I don’t remember what his opener was, but he pretty much does two things within the first couple minutes. He grabs my friend’s ass and keeps saying, “I love my girlfriend soooooo much.”

I hate him immediately. And so, I decide that I am going to teach him a lesson.

“And where is your girlfriend tonight, you know, the one you love so much?” I ask him.

“Oh, she’s at home,” he says dismissively. Nothing pisses me off more when a guy acts like he has complete control over his chick—like he can be out and about doing whatever the fuck he wants, and there she is, waiting at home, patiently, watching the Oxygen network, keeping the bed warm. Fuck that.

“Maybe she’s not,” I say. This clearly disturbs him.

“No,” he says, defensively. “I know for a fact she is.”

“How do you know?” I press. “She could be out, flirting with guys as we speak.”

“No way!” he says. “I love her soooo much” (digs hand further into my friend’s ass) “and she loooovvvess me.”

Meanwhile, Lover Boy’s friend, a decent-looking Lumberjack sort—just my type–is cruising the bar, jumping from one chick to another, trying to pick them up, before settling on an Asian chick who is totally not into him. Both guys are drinking Jameson’s, which they’re keeping in their coats, and offering us refills, so I’m not ready to tell them to fuck off yet. However, I have something else in mind.

“I’m going to teach these fuckers a lesson,” I tell my friend when Lover Boy gets up to go to the bathroom.

At this point, he returns.

“I’m just here to help my friend pick up girls,” Lover Boy says, pointing to Lumberjack, who comes over.

“Um, I don’t think so,” I say. “I think you’re using your friend as an excuse so that you can go out and hit on chicks.”

It is at this time that Lumberjack and I exchange a knowing nod, he starts laughing and pointing at me and says, “That’s it,” Lumberjack says. “She just nailed it.”

The night goes on, yadda, yadda, yadda, more insults are jovially slung, and per my conversation with my friend earlier about getting laid (“just once, to get it over with, like a palette cleanser,” I had said) we’re sitting there and I’m thinking Lumberjack is kinda cute, from the South, has a sense of humor to distinguish himself from the Brooklyn herd—aka he’s still a pig, but he’s a pig with some distinguishing personality. Lover Boy leaves, clearly realizing that he’s not gonna get lucky with my friend and tired of my verbal abuse, so it’s decided that the rest of us are gonna go back to my apartment.

I have no memory of what happens past this point. Apparently, there was a cab, some drinks in the living room, mention of the Fuckit List, “Am I gonna make your blog?” he asks. “I hope not.” And then a door slamming.

The next morning I come upstairs to see Roommate Jim and friend sitting on couch.

“What happened?” I ask.

Here’s the Cliff notes. Lumberjack came back to the apartment, and I guess he was a pretty cool guy, talking sports with the Roommate and all (sorry for ruining your potential Man Crush, Jim), but I kept telling him that he was stupid. I believe the words “fucking retarded” were bandied about. I don’t remember much else, except maybe at one point we would have had sex, but I think I hit his how-many-times-will-I-tolerate-being-called-“fucking retarded”-to-have-sex limit. Perhaps I was just one “fucking retarded” over the line. Perhaps I didn’t feel that he met my You Must Be This Smart to Ride this Ride criteria. Perhaps, even though I didn’t think I cared that he hit on a tranny-looking Asian chick before me, maybe I did a little bit—I mean, palette-cleanser or not, no girl likes being sloppy seconds. Perhaps, and I am so loathe to admit this that it stings, I’m not completely over my ex-boyfriend yet.

But I do know one thing: Waking up naked and alone in bed with a pile of porn by my head because of my own dipshit, self-sabotaging behavior? Now that is one lesson I need not learn again.

Happy New Year (don’t piss your pants)

A few years back, when I lived by myself in Chicago, I awoke—no, I was jolted awake–on New Year’s morning to the sound of very loud, aggressive fucking. My gay neighbor downstairs had apparently picked up a treat in Boystown and was either giving or getting the ass-pounding of his life.

It was at this time, as I was lying in bed, that I had one thought: Man, I gotta get laid.

See, it had been a while. I’d broken up with the dude I was sharing an apartment with a few months prior, but I was working insane hours and applying to grad schools. In other words, I didn’t have a lot of free time to go scouring Windy City bars for dick. But after a few dry months, I realized on that blistering cold New Year’s Day that some changes were in order.

Luckily, I had a Nerve profile I hadn’t been paying much attention to…So I fired up the computer and decided to get some action.

It didn’t take long. And so, I arranged on Jan. 3 or 4 to meet Peter, a 26-year-old bass player in a band called the Penthouse Sweets, I shit you not, that desperately wanted to sound like the Replacements but did not. We met at Carol’s in Uptown. Now, Carol’s is a very special place—it play both kinds of music, Country & Western, and is a dive in every sense—it’s dirty, everything’s falling apart, the clientele is a mix of old, hardened barflys, locals from the PJs, gays, lesbians, hipsters, Board of Trade khaki-pants guys and everyone else who stumbles in. The bartenders are true Kentucky hillbillies—my friend once said that she saw the toothless bartender lady do a shot of whiskey while she still had a lit cigarette in her mouth, a skill I hope to master some day.

And so, I met Peter at Carol’s. It was my first Internet date ever—and it was going remarkably well. Peter was drinking whiskey and beer, I was drinking Bud, you could still smoke in bars and we were chain-puffing away. He was cute, tattooed, kinda dumb but funny—definitely fuck-worthy. The night was going so well that I decided to kick it up a notch.

I turn to the bartender, the very same aforementioned toothless lady.

“Two shots of Jim Beam,” I say with conviction.

She glares at me a minute. Then, with probably the most evil glint I’ve ever seen in someone’s eye, she stares at me, reaches down to the bottom shelf and pulls out the big bottle of Hawkeye whiskey. She pours two shots and slams them down in front of me.

“Eight bucks.”

I’m eyeballing her this entire time, but I don’t say anything. Now, in retrospect, I don’t know why I didn’t stop her, but I guess I wanted to impress Peter and I figured that if I started complaining about the pour, well, it would make me look like an asshole.

So, we toast something, slam down the shots and bam. I can tell that it’s going to come right back up.

“Uh, I gotta go to the bathroom,” I say, bolting for the back of the bar.

I barely make it into the bathroom and get the door closed, and I’m projectile vomiting toward the toilet. I manage to hit the bowl, but as the first few heaves come, truly the most body-racking heaves I’ve ever had, I was on my knees, shaking and heaving, and I lost all muscle control. And when I say all, I mean all.

Heave, heave…wait a minute…am I peeing? Seriously?

With each heave, I could feel a rush of piss coming out of me. Puke, piss, puke piss. As this was happening I was weighing my options if I could stop puking for a second to piss, but I couldn’t manage that without throwing up all over the bathroom floor. I decided to stick with one task at a time, get the puking done and worry about the pissing later. Maybe it wasn’t that much piss.

When I was finally done puking, I got up to assess the damage. And there was damage. This wasn’t just a little slip, I looked in the mirror at the huge stain across my butt. I had full-blown peed my pants.

Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Please let there be a hand-dryer, please let there be a hand-dryer.

There was no hand-dryer. Only paper towels.

So, I get up on the sink (there isn’t a full-length mirror either) and am desperately blotting the pee mark. This goes on for like five, ten minutes, and people keep knocking on the door. I realize I can hold off drunk, pissed-off Carol’s patrons for only so long. My jeans are really dark, the bar is kinda dark, I’m hoping that during the walk back to the bar, maybe no one will notice.

I walk back to my seat. Peter gives me a weird look.

“Are you Ok?” he says. “I was about to come looking for you.”

“I’m great,” I say, taking a swig of Bud. “Let’s do another.”

Now, a person would think that would be the end of the evening. But two amazing things happened that night—a transvestite prostitute performed the best rendition I’ve ever heard of “Purple Rain,” including the “whoas, whoa, whoa, whoa’s” at the end, during karaoke night at Carol’s–and I pulled off a full-blown, peeing-of-the-pants incident and still had the best Nerve date of my life. Peter and I took a cab back to my place, we opened a bottle of expensive wine that I stole from Steve Poltz’s friend the week before (which you can read about here) and, dammit, I finally got some hard-earned action.

And that, friends, is a New Year’s Miracle.

’Mer-kuh! Fuck yeah! (it’s awful everywhere…)

I was sitting somewhere in Dumb Fuck, Iowa, having some of the best Mexican food I’ve ever had in my life (seriously, it’s good there ’cause the natives moved there for all those meatpacking jobs) when I heard a conversation at a nearby table that completely sums up why I left that state in the first place.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Seattle,” says a girl.

“Why’d you wanna go there?” says the guy.

“I don’t know,” she says. “It just looks nice and different and fun.”

There’s a loooonnnng pause at the table. Then the guy says:

“I always wanted to go to Dave & Buster’s.”

There it is, folks…’Mer-kuh.

See, I am an American. And I live in America, but it is the America that is New York City. And New York City is not ’Mer-kuh. ’Mer-kuh is filled with mouth-breathing breeders who think that a pair of Skechers will help them lose 48 pounds; that Taco Bell is “healthy” food; and that their hopes, dreams and aspirations can be fulfilled by a trip to a chain hamburger joint that gives out paper tickets to Whac-a-mole.

I’m from a tiny town west of Des Moines, East of Omaha, in the middle of nothing. The only entertainment is to go drink at the Bowling Alley. So, last Saturday, my sister, brother-in-law and I headed out to the Bowling Alley to meet one of her high-school friends who lives in Chicago now. On the way out the door, Brother-in-Law and I were already dreading the night before it began, him singing, “I’m so excited…. And I just can’t hide it!”

Roommate Jim texts from suburbs of Cleveland: “Im on a party bus. driver’s name is lightfoot. i’ll check in periodically because I know you need details.”

I text back: “Im on way to our towns bowling alley to hang out with all the losers from high schools and deadbeat dads.”

We get to bar and meet Chicago. “Why’d you pick the Bowling Alley? I thought you hated it?” I ask him.

“It doesn’t matter where we go,” he says. “It’s awful everywhere.”

You know what’s not awful at a small-town bar? The prices. After ordering two very expensive whiskeys, which are served in those tiny plastic cups the dentist uses to give you mouthwash in, and beers, the bartender turns to me and goes, “$12.” I turn to my sister. “It’s like drinking for free! We are going to get so wasted!”

We also have a standing bet on when the first baby will appear at the bar.

9:45 p.m. Yep, there’s a baby at the bar. About three, four months old, sitting on Mom’s lap as she guzzles a Bud Light tallboy.

We promptly take a picture of the baby to send to everyone we know. I text Roommate Jim: “Theres a baby at the bar.” He texts back, “Stop!”

Then update from party bus: “Ok, so I nearly pissed myself on the way over. weird vortex. heard bell biv devoe and b brown on the way over.”

Then at the bar: “Ok, saw lotsa plaster face makeup girls mixed with goth lite. jersey douche and midwest frat and failed art students.”

I send him the pic. He texts back: “Ok, no babies. youre up 1-0 on that.”

“I can’t believe I’m drinking whiskey out of a mouthwash cup,” I say. “This bar is so crappy.”

“You know what else makes a bar crappy?” Brother-in-Law says. “When they cover the old crappy bar seats with even crappier, cracked barstool covers.”

Chicago laments his Christmas at home. “My family are fucking nuts,” he says. “My sister’s kids are out of control.”

“Well, our family is fucking nuts, too,” Sister says. “My parents still have a set of encyclopedias from 1977 and ‘computer room’ that you can’t even use ’cause it’s so stacked with junk.”

“Goddammit, I wish my parents had encyclopedias and a computer room,” Chicago says. “They watch NASCAR while their smoke absorbs into my clothing.”

11 p.m. and change: Mom finally leaves bar with baby. It is also around this time that I learn of quite possibly the Greatest Living Feat I’ve ever heard of…. A former classmate of my Sister and Chicago’s recited ZZ Top’s “Legs” in English class as his own poem when they were in high school!

I don’t know about you folks, but anywhere ZZ Top is considered and understood to be poetry is a somewhat magical place. A magical place that may make you want to carry a concealed weapon, but a magical place nonetheless.

It’s also karaoke night at this bar. And after listening to the same folks—Mr. Belt Buckle (country) and the same two chicks—go over and over, I decide to take control and wow them with some “Welcome to the Jungle.” Then we hit them with Def Leppard, Journey and end the evening with Kid Rock. Pow! We not only delighted the crowd—we also managed to leave without getting punched in the face. A Christmas Miracle for All!

And so, I guess like everyone else who had to go out into ’Mer-kuh last week, I survived intact. Sure, there was plenty of dysfunction and passive-aggressive behavior. But I did score two sweet vintage dresses at the Salvation Army for $5. And isn’t that all any of us can ask for at Christmas?