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.