Stage 5 Clinger

Growing up, brunch seemed like a classy thing that classy people did. Innocent enough, they usually seemed to accompany baby or wedding showers. However, now that I am an adult, I realize it is much more then that–especially in Denver because it is a pretty serious thing these days. Brunch means bars full of BWG’s (Basic White Girls, as I call them) and bottomless mimosas.

So when I receive an invite to brunch, sometimes it seems harmless, but sometimes I receive text invites from my girl Romana that looks like this:


When Romana and I go to brunch it is not always innocent. One time at brunch, I began tipping the waitress a dollar every time she refilled our champagne glasses, which made her love us, and she even tried to catch me as I fell out of the chair halfway through eating (she didn’t cut me off, either). In my defense, I had dropped something and was trying to pick it up when I fell, but to everyone else–including my friends–I just looked like a lush.

Another weekend at brunch ended with me throwing my cell phone in the alley and taking selfies with the guy at the weed store after a $200 purchase.

What I have learned is: I should not be allowed to brunch. If I did not know that a week ago, I do now, and you will understand how I learned through the course of this story.  The story is the tale of the brunch that followed the text above from Romana.

Romana met at my house and instead of immediately calling an Uber, I made her come inside, having answered the door with a towel on and yelling across the street to her. As she impatiently waited for me to get ready, I had to listen to her complain about the fact that she was still faded from the night before. Eventually we call an Uber to pick us up, because that is what responsible adults so.

By now it is lunchtime, but we still want brunch, so we immediately order drinks. The bartender, who is Romana’s friend (the sole reason we were at the establishment), pours the rest of the Tito’s in a glass and tops it off with a splash of OJ. He then makes me a strong spicy bloody with a side of bacon.

The day continues with sliders, more bacon, and then a concoction he called, “Afternoon Delight.” All I can remember is that it had had vodka and cucumbers in it! Romana and I sit at the bar the entire day. The first 6 hours include taking a break to smoke weed with the bartender, making new friends who are cycling in and out of the open spots next to us at the bar, and lots of chatting via Plenty of Fish (POF) and Bumble.

Somewhere between hours 6 and 7, I show her the profile of a guy on POF and ask her thoughts. She tells me he is not attractive, so I clearly do not take her advice and instead invite him to the bar. He shows up with his friend and I’ll admit he is more attractive in person, but he is still not my usual type. Despite that fact, the vodka running through my veins proves it does not discriminate and after we do a lot of making out in the bar, I invite him back to my place. I ask him to drive but he let’s me know that is probably a bad idea (oh right, because alcohol!) and so we call an Uber.

Once back home, I walk into my house and say hi to my roommate and refrain from any sort of introduction because I cannot remembers the poor feller’s name, which is also why he has no name in this blog.

After we go to my room for some acrobatic exercises we lay in my bed–he takes this as the opportunity to cuddle and ask me about my life, hopes and dreams, I take it as an opportunity to hint that he needs to get the F out of my house. When he then mentions going home…in the morning…I realize he will never leave.

I tell him I need to throw up but cannot do it with him there: no luck, he doesn’t budge.

I lay in bed and moan as if I am pain, still no reaction.

He does tell me that I should just do it, that he does not care and he does not react to my response when I tell him I cannot do that–I have never been able to throw up with people around  (a lie).

I seek help from Romana:


He continues to cuddle, rubbing my back with his tiny rough hands which does not help anything. Then I think, “Wow, I really am going to be sick!”

He then gets up, grabbing his wallet and phone, and I think, thank goodness, but he sits back down when he realizes that his phone somehow broke and will not do anything.

At this point I take it upon myself to handle the situation in a site sightseers manner, and I let him know I hate to be rude, but he needs to go, because I don’t feel well. Again, no movement. So I say, “I would drive you but I do not have my car here, I met my friend somewhere else.” This was another lie, however this one had two good reasons behind it:

  1. I had been at the bar for 8 hours, and clearly should not be driving (the same reason why we called an Uber)
  2. I did not want him to know what I drove in case he decided to slash my tires cause he was more of the crazy girl here then I was.


So, I then let him know, “Hey, we should go upstairs…I called you and Uber and it is here!” 



I felt like such a douchebag, but a refreshed, hungover one, who immediately went to throw up and was reminded by the greasy lining of my throat that bacon is as delicious when it is in vomit.

The next day I woke up, made about 20 bagel bites, then fell back asleep until 2. I received a text from the Stage 5 Clinger who was inside of me 18 hours prior and immediately felt the need to jump in the shower and refuse to respond to him.

So the toughest question I’ve ever have to answer in my adult life is: brunch, or no brunch?


With love, J!

The Raunch Ranch

This is a story of a summer love, full of everything romantic–from sipping Evan Williams around camp fires, 30 racks of PBR, horses humping in the window, stolen birth control, broken hearts, and violence. Luckily B has already told her shotgun wedding story so I can focus on other things in the post below, since that clearly deserved its own post!

Two days after I turned 21, I moved to a ranch in  western Colorado. I was in a bunk with 4 other girls, and I’m pretty sure it was smaller than an elevator. I was there for approximately 3 hours before I was dressed like someone from the 80’s, slamming drinks, and having a dance party with only one other person — my new bff, Kameron. Everyone else was looking at the two of us ladies as if we were crazy, which was and still is very accurate.

Looking back, most of the summer was a blur, but what I remember goes something like this: the next day I started work, which until the ranch opened, was spring cleaning the three dozen guest cabins. I then met one of the wranglers (read: horseback riding guides), Brody, who was a good ol’ Texas boy and only 20. I am not sure if we became friends because I was old enough to buy beer or because I am so fucking irresistible, however whatever the reason, we hit it off. We run to town and I seal our friendship with cheap whiskey and a 30 rack of Pabst, which I made him carry to the cabin for me.

I am not even sure what happened next, but before I knew it I had laid my claim to Brody, despite this advice from Kameron:

“Do not fill up on the appetizers before the entrees come!” (she was referring to the fact that all of the seasonal workers hadn’t even arrived yet)

At first I was confused because I was not hungry. Then I realized she meant my hunger for men, and I understood, but still ignored her advice. The best part about her advice is that she had laid her own claim to another feller on the ranch, a tall, lanky guy named Ben. Her advice was sound, however it was too late for the two of us. We had made our beds and now had to lie in them — literally, we worked housekeeping for part of the summer and we made the beds and then laid in them. When B and I were lucky enough to get assigned a housekeeping shift together, our activities included short-sheeting one out of every three beds, getting drunk, and jumping on beds topless while yelling out Garth Brooks lyrics.  But I think that is your pretty typical summer job experience, right?

My average day on the ranch went something like this: I would wake up (still drunk) for the breakfast shift in the dining room and because I am a responsible adult, I would continue drinking to avoid a hangover. Then we would have a break before lunch, and usually this was time to smoke some weed with the cooks before heading back down for lunch. After lunch, Kameron and I would sit in the walk-in behind the bar and drink liquor.  Eventually I would mosey over to the boy’s bunk where we would smoke cigarettes and drink beer until dinner, then after dinner everyone would get together for beer pong and usually a ridiculous themed party–anything from Rock Star Party (where I spun in circles and let a chair fly through the air, because that is what rock stars do!), Redneck Party (where I feel inclined to let you know that Kameron was the pregnant drunk ‘priest’ who conducted B and Josh’s wedding), Cowboys and Indians (where everyone was a cowboy [real fucking original] except Kameron who was the lone Indian), and even Costume Party where B was the perfect Dwight Schrute. Then came the infamous Birthday Party, however you must wait a minute for that tale…

Brody and I had gotten to the point where we were cuddling up to each other every night, all 6 feet 2 inches of him, and all 5 feet 4 inches of me, in a twin size bottom bunk bed. Brody was a virgin (which at the time I respected, however those shenanigans would no longer fly–I can hardly be a virgin for a week before I want to murder someone). Nonetheless, we would cuddle, make out, fool around and use our hands, and I would use my mouth to eat. I am obviously talking eating sausage…meanwhile my little virgin Brody was saving tacos for his wedding night (that fucker), so I would get a couple fingers but that was it.

Still, the attention and connection was nice, even adorable sometimes.  Before I go further…it is necessary to share a night that B was in our bunk putting together what seemed to be a million piece puzzle.  Brody and I stopped in to say hi, and with his cowboy boots he pretended to step on the puzzle–a joke that B was not ok with. She looked at me as if she would murder him and as we left she expressed her concern that one day Brody would actually ruin her puzzle.  We reassured her that it would be okay as we went to the nightly bonfire and cracked a beer.

A few days later I was working the dinner shift and there were not any guests in the kitchen, which was normal, however there were also not any employees around, which was very odd, especially because it was Taco Tuesday.  I sat there with nothing to do, drinking a margarita (in a soda can for disguise) and ate until I was interrupted by B who came running into the restaurant. She was looking for me–upset because Brody got hammered, and in a drunken attempt to find me, stepped onto the deck of our bunk, tripped, fell, went straight through the window,  and landed directly on B’s puzzle. Glass and blood everywhere!

Note that my very favorite part of this story is that B did not run all the way to the restaurant to inform me that Brody had an accident and that he was being stitched up.  She did not even tell me this all occurred because Brody was looking for me (which I found adorable!). She came in and simply wailed, “Brody fell through our window! I told you he would ruin my puzzle!!!” before she grabbed a plate and made herself something to eat.  I stared at her for a moment and then ran down to check on him. When I got to our bathroom, he was covered in blood, and his drunk boss was trying to wrap his arm up with vet supplies for the horses. Brody was completly obliterated and the situation was too obnoxious to stay around, so I went back to work and apologized to B as the maintenance crew started cleaning up the broken window and the causality that was her puzzle.

As the summer went on there was other nonsense around the ranch, which included a dumb twat named Laura stealing birth control from another girl. This was extra stupid since you can’t just take birth control on the days you have sex and have it work–but this dummy was 18 and didn’t know that. Luckily, she had no pregnancy issues that summer.  However, the victim whose week of BC was stolen was soon knocked up.  At the time, it was pinned on the guy she banged most, but by the end of summer it came out that it had actually been her boss’ baby, which was especially problematic because her boss was engaged–to her other boss. Oops!

Other ranch shenanigans included Ben (Kameron’s man) getting beat up and hit with a crowbar in the ranch’s bar, one employee packing up and leaving in the middle of the night (when the ranch manager called the girl’s mom to ask why she’d left so abruptly, the mother wasn’t the least bit concerned and just said, “Well, she is strange”), one of our foreign housekeepers hitting a tree in the housekeeping van, one girl arriving from Connecticut and leaving the next day because she thought Colorado was located where Ohio is and she didn’t want to be so far away from home,  and me waking up one morning to two horses getting it on in the window to the room–because the bunk was obviously located in the middle of the horse pasture.

By mid-summer Brody decided that he did not want to date me anymore. I told him that was fine, as long as I did not have to see him hook up with anyone else, which he agreed was fair. I was sad, but lucky for me, the rodeo was in town and I headed to the bar with the girls. I got motorboated by cowboys all night, and made out with man after man.

The next day, my broken heart was still not healed. First, Kam tried to give me a pep talk, which went something like this:

“You do not want to spend your life with Brody anyway! It will be a life of oats and grains, in the heat of Texas!” She then started to chant it, “OATS AND GRAINS! OATS AND GRAINS…..OATS AND GRAINS!!!”

That did not make me feel better so next, my girlfriends pooled their money together and took me to town to get my hair cut and colored, which was so sweet! On the way back to the ranch, we picked up hitchhikers (only for a couple miles), before turning onto a dirt road shortcut back to the ranch.  We stopped when we saw a cow in the middle of the road. B, being the outdoors woman she is, got out of the car to get the cow to move, however the cow was very frightened.  B thought it would be funny to chase it, and indeed it was hysterical!  When I thought it could not get any funnier, the cow jumped approximately 6 feet over a fence into the pasture. B turned around, confused and full of laughter, which made my heart even happier!

The very next day I had promised to throw a birthday party for two of my friends and the dumb-dumb Laura who stole the BC. There were enough jello-o shots to feed a third world county and enough beer to fill the fishing pond.  I left in the middle of the party, and the next day Kameron calmly told me that Laura and Brody were making out.  This was not OK and I looked at Kam and said, “I am going to beat this bitch up!”

But first I was responsible and made a plan. I borrowed $100 from B for gas money, asked a friend to drive me home to Denver that night, and called my old boss at Olive Garden asking for my job back (he said yes). Then, as everyone came in for lunch I walked up to Laura and asked if we could talk. She was actually shaking in her boots and agreed. I calmly looked at her, asked her how the party I threw for her was, and then I got ready to swing. At that same moment she turned and ran away. Kam ran after her, pulled her by the shoulder and yelled, “Face her like a man!” but Laura she got away, ran in the bathroom and locked the door.

Kameron and I walk angrily back to our bunks when one of the ranch owners came tearing down the dirt road in his minivan, got out and started yelling, telling everyone, “They do not get a crumb of food or drop of water for the rest of the day!”

That is right. We had left work, tried to physically attack someone, and we were still employed. I looked at this joker and said, “I don’t care if I cannot eat, what makes you think I am staying here? I fucking quit!”

His response was, “Quit! You cannot quit, you are fired! You have acted like a high schooler since you got here!…and Kam, no food or water for you!”

I looked back at him and said, “You can’t fire me…I just quit…and I am leaving!”

Next thing I know, I’m packing my clothing in trash bags, thrilled to be leaving yet trying to comfort my girlfriends who are crying.  As the summer goes on I am back at Olive Garden, mailing presents for my friends at the ranch, including an extra phone (on my phone plan) for B–almost a decade later we are still on the same family plan and everyone seems to think its bizarre, but she and I know it makes perfect sense!

I also made another trip back to the ranch, staying in my old bed, eating in the employee dining area, talking to the owners (who legit did not remember I  had quit)! That night, we all went out to celebrate the summer solstice with a stolen bottle of tequila from the bar. Ironically, the name of the tequila was “Two Fingers,” and after a round of shots, Kameron held up the bottle and said, “Hey guys! This is all J got this summer…two fingers!”

With Love, J!

PS: This ranch was by far the most fucked up place I have ever worked and it is by far the place I loved the most, as I made some of the best friends I have ever had, who I still have to this day! Looking back, I would not change anything about that experience!

PPS: A few months ago I saw on Facebook that Brody got married, and I really do wish him and his wife the very best (including all the oats and grains their hearts desire)!

Creepy McDavis, The Creepiest Kid on the Block 

When I meet a guy, I always ask myself one thing first, and that is, “How will he get along with my brothers?”

No offense to my brothers, but I ask myself this question not because it is as important to me that they all be best friends, but because my brothers are going to make fun of the poor bastard forever–no matter what.  I guess the question really should be, “Can I, or this new man, deal with it?”

Now when I say forever, I do not mean they will stop after a little while. I legitimately mean forever. I learned this 11 years ago when I was 18 and dated one guy in particular, who my brothers still make fun of to this day.

George and I met through a mutual friend, and our first interaction was me sharing an irrational rant about how I wanted to get married and have a family. Thank you to the high heavens, it never happened, because at 29 the thought of getting married and having a family is still terrifying to me. I was reminded of this the other day when I was babysitting my nieces and they were playing with dolls.  My 5 year old niece said, “This is my wedding day! And this is my soon-to-be husband Chuck!” She then asked me, “Auntie J, how old should you be to get married?” to which I responded, “Well, I am 29 and not married.” She looked at me and after some thought decided, “I think I will be 23….”

I immediately texted B to share this story with her, saying, “At 29 I am still terrified of marriage, especially if it is to a man named Chuck”

I am glad I have grown up since I was 18, because I do not think the names Chuck or George would be acceptable for my future husband!

Anyway, after our first night out, George and I went out once or twice more before we broke up–the first of 8 break ups that would occur over the next couple of years. We never had a very healthy relationship, and looking back he was such an asshole.  Evidence to support this conclusion are the time he told me I needed to lose weight, or when he told me that I was not allowed to have fun unless he was with me–and he was very serious.

We had good times, too.  You know, like when I would go to his house–and by “his house” I mean he was 24 and we would go to his bedroom in his parents basement–and play Guitar Hero. If you’re thinking we would go there and do other things, you are mistaken, because even though I had lost my virginity, he had not, and the most intimate we would get was the romance of hand jobs and dry humping.

Then there were his sisters.  I think they may have actually been sent from the devil. The night I met them I had come down with the flu, but George would not let me cancel, so we go get cheap pizza at the bowling alley, which I immediately dropped on the floor because I did not have strength to hold it when it was handed to me.  His sisters thought it was because I was a moron, and rolled their eyes at me. Thanks. Even once they knew I was sick, they did not care.  They thought I was rude and for the next 2 years were never nice to me again.

Ever since that experience, if I am dating someone and they tell me they have sisters, I am instantly terrified, and I vowed that day to never be “that” sister to my brothers’ wives! I have certainly failed at that at times, but once I remember George’s sisters I try to straighten up!

As if his sisters didn’t suck enough, there were his parents.  The traveling team of truck drivers with the class of hillbillies and attitudes worse than their daughters. They hated me as well, and come to think of it, I have never had a good relationship with any of my boyfriends parents.  Maybe the trend was set by George’s parents.

For whatever reason, George and I continued to date, then we’d fight, then we’d break up, and then we’d date again. He worked days in a department store and I worked nights as a server, and we lived an hour away from each other which did not help our already terrible relationship.

The first nickname he received from my three brothers was, “Johnny Cash” which he earned because he wore all black to work every single day. That is a nickname that I could have lived with, however my brothers are never ones to disappoint, and eventually came up with something they thought was better–meaning I thought it was worse.

George and I finally reached the end of our relationship after a few breakups that looked something like this:

  1. He sent me a text and broke up with me.
  2. We got back together and then he picked a fight with me about my job, on my birthday, and refused to see me that night.
  3. I broke up with him and gave back everything he’d ever given me, and he gave me back my stuff.
  4. We got back together, un-returned each other’s stuff, and then he once again broke up with me and threw all of my things in the dumpster

That should have been it. That end would’ve been unclassy enough. But if that was the end, George never would’ve gotten a nickname upgrade.

He started trying to get me back.  We never did, however that wasn’t for lack of trying on his end, cause he started to stalk me. I did not know it at first, but he would sit in the cul de sac across the street from my house and watch me.  I found out once he wrote me a 6 page letter and showed up to my place of employment.

I pulled up to work one day and saw him sitting in the parking lot. I hoped he would get the hint that I did not want anything to do with him when I walked right by and went in another door. He did not. He marched into the restaurant and proclaimed he would not leave until he gave me the letter. A co-worker asked if he should call the cops, to which I said no.

It’s a little ironic that this co-worker who was trying to protect me is now in prison for murder.

George sat in the parking lot for the entire afternoon and finally left, but only after he had 2 dozen long stemmed roses obnoxiously delivered to my work. I remember when I got home and gave the flowers to my mom and told her and my dad about my ridicuolous day, my Dad said two things:

  1. “If he pulls something like this again, I will call the cops and get a restraining order.”
  2. “If someone ever brings you flowers again, and you do not want them, give them to me first and I will give them to your mom as if they are from me!”

After that night, George and I were finally over, but the damage had been done.  He earned the nickname Creepy McDavis, and my my brothers have never let me forget that past bad dating situation even today. Out of fear of their ridicule, one would think I would improve on picking out potential men, however based on the many stories I have shared, and the ones that will continue to come, it is clear that I did not learn from this situation!

With love, J!


Noah: The Final Chapter, “Sex, Drugs, and Rock-n-Roll” 

If you’re new to The Story of Noah, don’t miss Part One and Part Two.

I understand that it will be hard to believe what I am about to say after Noah Part 2, however it is true: I break up really well. You will undoubtedly hear other stories of this in the future, but today comes the ending to the story of Noah. Yes, he cheated on me, yes I went crazy and broke into his phone, and yes, we are still friends. Perhaps it is because we work together, perhaps it is because I went above the call of duty to commit B and E in order to save his dog when he was MIA…whatever the reason, things worked out.

Noah and I broke up on a Tuesday and a week and a half later we were supposed to go to the mountains for a weekend of fun and a BBQ challenge–the first of the two vacations we had booked while drunk and convinced we’d last forever!  I tried to re-rent the condo but did not have luck, so Heather and Robby said, “Screw it, we will split it three ways and all go together!” Best decision ever! By the time we got there after spending two hours in traffic, listening to Taylor Swift for way too long, we were ready for the weekend.

We checked into our condo and then immediately went down to Main Street to check out the BBQ fest, but got distracted by lots of alcohol. At one point I remember sitting together at a patio at a bar, and I was smoking a bowl (because in my mind that seemed ok). The waitress walked out and said, “Are you guys smoking weed?” Despite the fact that we were the only people on the patio, I respond with, “What! That’s crazy!” and pointed to a table inside the restaurant, even though it was very obvious that it wasn’t them–boy I thought I was sly.

The next morning we wake up and I am ready for round two or the party, however Heather and Robby decide they need some time to recover. I decided they have an hour and go to make some incognito drinks and sneak them in water bottles while I talk everyone into hitting the BBQ again, mainly because Robby was so excited to watch the Pig Races. Obviously.

Flash forward couple weeks later, after many happy hours with those two, and us being dubbed the Three Musketeers at work, and Heather and I were grabbing drinks when Noah calls me.

He said that he was unable to go to Telluride (our second vacation) and he genuinely wanted to be my friend and for me to have the condo stay and the tickets to the music festival where Pearl Jam was the headliner. It could have really just been him being nice because he could not re-rent the condo, or if could have been that he had just booked a trip to Hawaii with his new girlfriend and felt guilty, but whatever the reason, we didn’t care.

Heather and I made plans to leave the Mile High City at 6AM, however I did not end up getting to her house for our pre-vacation sleepover until about 3AM. Oops. By 8AM we were out the door, coffee in hand, headed down the highway. The ride there was beautiful and we were so excited. So excited that we had to stop and pee like every hour, which we decided was either due to excitement or due to us slowly aging!

After a 6 ½ hour drive we pull into town and find ourselves at a bar prior to even checking into the condo. We are sweaty and exhausted wearing yoga pants and no makeup. We order some pizza, salad, and of course drinks–I mean it’s already like mid-afternoon and we haven’t had anything to drink, so we had some catching up to do. By the time the salad comes the bar is full of people and conveniently a group of guys has appeared to my left. One guy leans over and asks if we got the spinach salad and my sassy side comes out as I say, “Keep your eyes off my salad, boss!” Later he gets his own salad, one with fried goat cheese balls on it, and asks me if I want one of his balls, to which I respond, “You want me to put your balls in my mouth? Is that appropriate in the middle of the bar?” I then yank the ball off the plate and give it to Heather, and offer some of my spinach to my new friend. He takes a bite and says, “I am getting strong already! Wanna see?” I say, “Way to go Popeye!” He smirks and says, “Why don’t you call me Brock.”

The drinks keep coming and the laughter thickens as we start to make new best friends for the weekend. After exchanging a few made up memes with the tagline, “They’re Fucked” via text, we part ways. Heather and I go check in and shower, then continue getting ready for Eddie Vedder by way of a bowl and some drinks.

Later on, we are in the crowd jamming out and a couple walks by and accidentally spills Heather’s drink. We were already peeved about people running into us and with her attitude from Ohio (yes, Ohio people have quite the attitude!) Heather gave them a look as if they just murdered her son. The boyfriend tries to hand Heather money as the girlfriend profusely apologizes. I encourage her to take the $8 from the guy and they go on their way. Heather rolls her eyes until she realizes the $8 is really $18, so she’s gets us more drinks. Somewhere between Better Man and Black I get a text from Brock that just says, “Let’s Fuck.” I reply with, “Is that supposed to say ‘They’re Fucked’ or do you actually want to fuck?”

Who asks that? Who asks that when they are as un-sober as we were? Me. I ask that. After many inappropriate and flirtatious texts, I pass out–because I am a good friend and decide inviting him to the couch of a one bedroom condo would be unfair to Heather. I did not want that Ohio attitude on me!

As Heather I wake up the next morning, she’s squinting at the bright sun and says she wants to get brunch. I respond and say, “Agreed! A Bloody Mary sounds great!” Apparently drinking was the last thing on her mind, but I was ready! After breakfast I talk her into another bar–where she says she will take it easy, but before long is going drink for drink with me. I made plans for us to go meet Brock and his gang at their condo. Prior to leaving the bar I send a text, like the lady I am, that says, “Let’s just fuck all weekend, then go our separate ways at the end of it, deal?”

We get to their condo and as his friends make drinks I ask Brock to “Give me a tour of the condo.” We made it to the master bathroom counter and that was that. A while later we go back up to the others and the meme “They’re Fucked” was turned into “They Fucked” and then I pop a combination of weed candy, percocets, and caffeine pills before we head to the bar.

This is when things go blurry. Based on the stories from Heather and some photos I saw the next day on my phone, I believe the following happened: Brock and I play darts and lose, I puke in the bathroom and tell the guys we need to go take a nap (because Heather tells me that have to go take a nap) and then as we walk back to the condo, I hop on the Hot Mess Express and puke my way there. The picture Heather showed me the next day was the icing on the cake. It was me, passed out on the couch, wearing a fedora on, covered in a fur blanket in the July heat. I have no idea what time it was when that happened, but I had intentions to go see Cage The Elephant, only to wake up close to 11 at night after the festival had ended. I immediately yelled to Heather, “I am going out! Are you going with me?!”

An exhausted Heather tells me she is not, but asks me to bring food when I get back. I meet Brock at the bar and am convinced the drink he got me was pure vodka (probably from a plastic jug).

We go back to his condo and as soon as we walk in, I run to the bathroom and throw up everywhere. I clean up the vodka soda, hide the towel, and meet him back downstairs like an adult.  He asked if I was ok, I laugh it off, and we spend the rest of the night naked and rolling around in the sheets until 5AM when he has to fly back home. He gets up to shower as I find come to and begin searching for my clothes.  Once I have my things I knock on the door to the shower–not to the bathroom but to the shower–and as he opens it I say, “Well nice to meet you, travel safe!”

He stares at me and says, “That’s it?” Like a man, I say, “Yep!” I momentarily consider giving him a high five but decide against it, and stumble back to my condo for a short nap before we leave to meet my aunt and uncle for lunch.

After a weekend of drinking and drugs and all-night sexcapades, the last thing I wanted was a 6 ½ hour car ride.  Lucky for me, in true best friend fashion, Heather drove the entire way as I complained of being sore while smelling of alcohol and sex.

I am not sure what made the weekend so awesome.  Maybe it was the memories and laughter with my best friend, maybe it was the regret-free sex, or maybe it was the combination of the first two and the fact that it was done while on the dime of my ex boyfriend who cheated on me. Regardless, it was amazing, and as my favorite t-shirt of the weekend said: “It doesn’t get Eddie Vedder then this!”

With love, J!

Noah: Volume 2, Book: Crazy 

If you missed the first Noah volume: A Biblical Story: The Story of Noah

I like to think that I am a laid back person who is down to earth. Sure there are times when I can be sassy and fiery, but that’s all in good fun and I never think I am better than other people….well hardly! The same cannot be said about Noah–I never felt adequate for him.  We would go out to fancy restaurants where I could not understand what the menu said, and he would order drinks depending on the part of the meal we were on, be it a bottle of white wine for our appetizer, or a fancy brandy for dessert. If I had a dollar for every time I figured out what he was ordering, I may have been able to afford at least one meal we enjoyed.

The day I really understood the different levels we were on was when we were talking about what stores we would choose if we hypothetically could have an endless shopping spree. Without skipping a beat I yell, “Target!” He gives me a bewildered look and responds with, “Saks?” It took me a minute to even figure out what that meant. Don’t get me wrong, we had a lot of fun and I was a fan of getting spoiled with lots of meals out, happy hours, brunches, and anything else I wanted, but we weren’t exactly on the same page.

One day, there was a blizzard and my work got shut down.  Of course it was like the one day I was remotely on time. I decided that I would stay and work a bit since I was one of the only people there, until I got a text from Noah, who was buzzed, asking me to come over. I got there about 10AM and he told me to take a few shots in order to ‘catch up.’ When I asked him if his office was closed too, he told me that it was open but he had given himself a snow day.

After too many shots and mixed drinks, we decided that a good 4th date activity would be making  reservations for a music festival and week away in July.  Mind you it was currently March! The next day, after the $2,500 was spent, we questioned if that was a bad idea. Even if the answer was yes, we said no.  Perhaps that is because it was a non-refundable reservation. Then the day after that, we booked a weekend away in the mountains in June. Sober. Must not have been a terrible idea.

After a few more months of dating, and lots of late nights out at the bar, we were clearly drifting apart.  One night I saw him out on a date with someone else after he ditched plans with me. Instead of crying or saying anything, I silently drove home, upset, because I was worried this would mean that I would miss my vacation.

Ok–life tip–when you find out your boyfriend is cheating on you, if missing vacation is more upsetting than the thought of losing the guy who confessed his love to you the week before, you have a problem.  You also have two options. One, confront him about seeing him on a date, or two, pretend like you didn’t see it so you can make it a month and still go on vacation. Clearly I knew what the right choice was, so I picked the opposite. I made it home and fell asleep after a few melatonin and margaritas.

The next morning he calls and asks what time we are meeting for lunch and things go on as if nothing happened. We wind up going out to get me more margaritas (yes, I have a problem, but admitting it is the first step!) and then head to his house. After a couple more drinks, he falls asleep watching TV and that’s when I decide to hop on the fast track to Crazy Town. My favorite destination.

I click into his phone and find the girl from the night before, an easy task since they’d been texting all day about how much fun they had the night before. Intoxicated J decided to send a text, something along the lines of, “I hope you understand that we cannot see each other going forward.” Literally anything else would have been better. Unsure how to undo what I’ve just done, I delete the string of messages and block her number. Then pass out.

Later, after we woke up and continued drinking, I almost have a panic attack as I remember what I did.  Life went on until the next morning when this happens:

J: I feel like something is off here, is it just me?

Noah: Nope.

J:Well what is it? (Innocently, of course)

Noah: Did you go through my phone and send a message?

J: What! Of course not! How does that even happen, you have a code.

Noah: Ok, I am sorry I asked, I believe you

J: (full of shock and hurt) How could you think I would do that!

It is a few days until we see each other again, which is out of the ordinary at this point in our relationship. We make plans for dinner, and I know what’s going to happen. Despite the fact that I was technically on a cleanse and not drinking alcohol that week, my bff/coworker Heather and I go get a drink. Or three. When I get to Noah’s, we follow my three Heather drinks with some more, and then walk to dinner. Mid-dinner, after an hour of awkward conversation, I straight up ask him if we are still planning on going to the mountains the next weekend. His response is, “Probably not, right?” I tell him I don’t know what is happening and he agrees at first but then says, “I just feel like you went through my phone and sent a text,” and I nod and say, “Yeah, that’s fair. I feel like you went on a date with someone else.” After he says “Yeah” once more, we leave, because the day’s agenda suddenly included a cry fest and I refused to have it in public.

We end things politely and sadly, and a few days later Noah goes MIA.  I will not go into the details, but it was pretty serious, and my first thought was about his sweet sweet dog.

I burst into Heather’s office at work, crying because I was terrified, spilling the details about Noah’s disappearance while also painting a picture of an unfed, unwalked dog laying in his own pee because his owner is gone, and she shouts, “let’s go!” We drive straight downtown on a mission to break into Noah’s four story townhouse to rescue his dog.  That doesn’t sound crazy!

His door is locked.  This shouldn’t surprise me, as Noah is an adult who doesn’t want to be robbed–probably because his Saks socks are very expensive.  Plan B is to knock on his neighbor’s door and give him a sob story about how I left my key inside.  He doesn’t know Noah and I broke up days ago, so he lets us in and we climb the 50 some stairs to the roof.  In a short dress, wearing wedges but no panties, I very elegantly flop over the adjoining wall to Noah’s rooftop deck, and Heather follows in heels and nice work pants.  Luckily the roof door is unlocked.

Noah eventually showed up at almost 5 in the morning to find me, his ex-girlfriend, asleep on his couch, and hugs me because he is so happy I took care of his dog.

I look at him and say, “I broke into both your phone and your house this week, and somehow the house isn’t the creepiest of the two!”

Sometimes crazy is okay. I do not know if this is actually one of those times, but still.

With love, J!


Douche-bagging. A term that two of my best friends, Robby and Heather and I use. It began for Robby who is the ultimate king of the online dating world.  If I had ad dollar for every time I catch him swiping left or right instead of answering his work emails, I would be able to quit my job.  It began with a business lunch in a classy restaurant when I was in a brand new relationship, and was convinced that I knew everything about love, which could not be further from the truth. I was mocking his dating profile and trying to help him step up his game. Unbeknownst to me, he already had game.  He was pulling so much ass that he had dates lined up for days on end.

After my short love affair, which you will hear about in the future, Robby and I began to share our stories of what others would call “serial dating.”  The idea of serial dating is exhausting, but I want to find someone worth dating.

One Friday night I joined two of my good friends, who are married, for Happy Hour at Hooters. They were asking me what I was going to do that night, as they wanted to live vicariously through me, however at 6 that evening, I still had not made any plans — but was confident I could change that.

On the way home I was exchanging POF messages with a guy named Howard, which should have given me reason enough not to go. As I got home, he texted me and asked me if I wanted to get dinner and drinks, I replied with a yes at 7:26, and as he responded, “Cool, how about 8,” I was already passed out watching the Sopranos, curled up in a blanket.  At 8:15 I receive a text that says, “At the bar.”  I rolled over, saw it, and then fell back asleep. When I woke up and realized what I’d done, I felt awful about accidentally standing someone up, but I still did not get up and go out.  The next day I felt like such an asshole as I told my friends what I did and as Howard texted me, and when I apologized, he was surprisingly super sweet about it.

Sunday morning he texted me and asked me if I was up for “Sunday Funday,” which in my mind brings me back to being a ski bum, drinking morning cocktails, smoking a bowl and snowboarding all day. Because I am a responsible adult, I realize it’s not winter, so that means we stick with the drinking, maybe a bowl, but no riding — not on the first date, anyway, because like you know, I am a lady, ass face!  So, we deiced to get brunch, my favorite basic white girl move.

I meet Howard downtown for brunch and immediately see that he does not look exactly like his pictures online.  He was much taller and thinner–which does not sound like a bad thing, but it was almost in a lanky sort of tall and thin way. As we waited for a table he told me that his parents wanted him to go to Tahoe in a month and said, “Do you want to go?  We will even get our own room!” Ok, here is another flag.  The name Howard was #1, inviting me to a family vacation with his parents was #2, and the need to point out we could get our own room, well that was #3. Of course we would have our own room, but more importantly, you’re psycho if you think we are going on vacation together in a month, as we have not even been seated yet.

We make it through brunch, enjoying the different breakfast cocktails they have. He then tried to get me to skip church with my mom later and go to the Rockies game with him, do yard work, or just go to his house. The answer to all of these suggestions was no, for I had not had so much champagne that I was ready to make irresponsible decisions!

A few days later he asked me if he could make me dinner, which was very sweet. As I pull up to his house I realized that I must have had more to drink on Sunday than I thought–because he was not as cute as I had remembered.  That’s when I had a sudden ‘migraine’ come on. For the record, I get real migraines and they suck: I cry, I puke, and I cannot have any noise around me! So I know full well that I will get paid back for this lie and the next migraine I get will be a killer one, but that’s how bad I did not want to be at his house.

I tell him I have a migraine and he thinks I am lying, but as mentioned, I do get them, so I know how to fake them enough. I finally leave his house after a strange fight and at first I do not feel as douchey as anticipated, because he was being a dick, but that didn’t last. As I was leaving he apologizes, tells me he believes me, and then hands me flowers, because, quote, “I wanted this night to be perfect for you!”

I leave to go home and naturally immediately call B.  She is with her friend Jerry, and I proceed to tell them both everything via speakerphone, saying, “All I want to eat is spaghetti.” B says, “Anytime you would rather eat spaghetti than sex with someone you need to leave and go get spaghetti…or bagel bites!”

I realize her advice is solid, so stop and get bagel bites, and then see the string of texts from Howard.  I think about responding but decide ghosting him and eating bagel bites in my bed would be the best thing to do for the evening!

Was I a douche bag? Yes. I think this was douche-bagging at its finest. To top it off, I call Robby to tell him this story and although I am in the middle of the grocery store sharing this — which is inappropriate enough — he is in the middle of a family dinner, and answers the phone as I ramble on and on. Then, he laughs and tells me to say hi to his parents! Because that is the way this story should end!


As Heather later told me, “If you do not want to be out with someone, then leave! I am proud of you!” So, stay true to yourselves and only go out with someone if you want to be out with them!  And if you only realize you don’t want to be out with them once you’re already out, then still leave!

With love, J!

Another BJ Story…

Despite all the ridiculous stories B and I share, the fact is, we do not live close, and we see each other once a year if we are lucky. When we are together it is a solid parade of shenanigans and fun. There is no one else I can be myself with, not like this, and no one else who can bring out the weird side of me like B, and she is the only person who can embrace it as brilliantly as she does. To be honest, before I introduce her to people I give them one disclaimer, “She is the weirdest person I know, and also the best person I know! You will love her”.

 So, it is spring time in the Mile High City and B was booked to come to town for the wedding of one of our mutual friends, who, strangely enough, were getting married on a Monday.  Because who doesn’t get married on a Monday?!

B comes to town on a Friday and I go to collect her from the airport. I wanted the most hysterical and movie-perfect airport pick up that one could ever have — where I would be holding a sign and we would run to each other and embrace while other people stare at us, convinced that we were carpet munchers and not fans of men!

However this is what actually happened:

I took the wrong route to the airport, so was running late circling around the city rather than cutting through. I am flying down the highway and come up on someone’s ass, riding it until they get over, because welcome to the land of laws — slow cars go to the right!  As I pass this minivan, I was upset at their lack of need for speed and their clear feeling of entitlement to slow me down, so, I flip them the bird and glare at them.  That’s when I realize the person driving the car is a nun, in her habit. It’s official, I feel like a douche.  But I do not let it slow me down, as I wouldn’t get the romantic welcome with B unless I press on!

Ten miles from the airport I get a text saying, “Hello Colorado!” B is early. J is late. The story of my life. I was determined to get to her before she took the shuttle into the airport, however she beats me and says she is OK with curb side pickup, which is an unacceptable option for a best friend who just flew across the country, so I tell her it is not good enough for me! I park the car and literally run in as the tired and jet-lagged B says she will turn around and pretend she hasn’t already arrived, so she walks towards security wearing a hat, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder.  You can see the TSA agents’ confusion and concern mount with every inch closer this girl with a bulging duffle bag gets to going the wrong way through the gates.  I run around the corner before they decide to tackle her to the ground, and we share the most adorable embrace and erupt in laughter!

After a stop for dinner on the way back to my house, we decide that the next day we will go out with some of my friends and my current man friend. We wake up and enjoy the driving range, followed by a cheeseburger with a waiter named “Archie” at a diner down the road. We begin to call him every name in the book, in an adorable way, like Chief, Comrade and Haas. That was how this day began. Next we stopped at the liquor store to get adequately prepared for the next five days and then head to the grocery store because this mama doesn’t drink her Tito’s and soda without two limes! Through the self-checkout we go.  As I struggle to find the code for the limes, B types in the quantity as two and sets them on the scanner. I immediately say, “No! We have three!” She tells me it is too late and we move on. I spend the next two hours referring to us a thieves and she spends it telling me I am ridiculous.

Once we head downtown, my frustration grows as my new man says he cannot make it for meeting up with my coworker Warren and his friends.  B and I go anyway and enjoy everything from delicious apps to ciders and shots of whiskey.  Then we get ADD and find ourselves at the next bar, a beer garden filled with hipsters in tight jeans and man buns.  They all look disgusted when I begin to ask for a lighter so I can have a cigarette — a hobby I only pick up when drinking.

After the judgment from all the basic white girls with their miniskirts on (despite my light hair and fair skin, I am clearly different cause I wear dresses and am better than all of them because I am less judge-y) I go to ask this guy for a lighter and look at him as I say something I have never said before (not being a fan of facial hair), “I like your beard.” He replies, “I like your face.”  I think he was hoping this would go somewhere, however it only leads to my friend Warren and I desperately seeking out the fire pit so we can light our cigarettes.

Later, we find ourselves sitting inside with more apps, cider and whiskey, playing an always appropriate round of Cards Against Humanity. For being as inappropriate as I usually am, I am surprisingly terrible at this game, because people do not always get my humor, which is that of a 13 year-old-boy.  Unfortunately, it is not socially acceptable to play this game with 13-year-old boys so I am destined to never win!

After too many drinks and countless instances of calling the food runner “Comrade,” which was very close to his birth given name of Cameron, we ask our ditzy server for our check. We imagined she would give us the check fast even though she ignored us all night, however she doesn’t. I look at my group of fun-havers and say, “This c u next Tuesday has 2 minutes to bring the check, or I am out!” After a very long 30 seconds I say, “Screw this! I am out!” and b-line it for the back door.

Now this was an adventure I have never been on, one lovingly referred to as “dining and dashing,” and I figured my friends were better people than me and would have stayed, making me the asshole who didn’t leave any money. Clearly I need a better choice of friends, because they all take off as well. As I run down the street, I trip over the sidewalk, break my classy $10 Wal-Mart sandals, and I blame it on the bad karma I’ve just earned — it clearly was not due to the uneven sidewalk or my many alcoholic beverages.

The night manages to wind down after a while, but not before I try to push over trash cans that are bolted to the ground and talk to everyone we pass on the street. B and I took the trash can incident as a sign we should head back to my house…or the grocery store. We soon find ourselves at the checkout line with: the largest pack of bagel bites available, Eggo waffles, beef jerky, Jones Soda, Gatorade, two types of cookies, and one package of cheese danishes from the bakery.  On the way out, B laments that neither of us have the patience to locate pennies so that we can tandem ride the mechanical horse.  I point out that it would be highly inappropriate for us to do so, as one of us is not wearing panties, and that plastic saddle is a place for innocent children, not a naked beaver.  B sighs and says that I am quite right.

We wake up the next morning covered in crumbs and a pizza sauce stained comforter, and decide to go to brunch with Warren and my man friend Noah, because the only acceptable follow-up to the previous night is bottomless mimosas and roof top patio drinks, which is also the only way to properly begin a Sunday Funday!

B and I continued the weekend in the mountains where I was hungover by the time dinner hit that night and naturally ready for more tomfoolery the next few days, where we even paid for everything we ordered and bought at the stores!

With love, J!

P.S. The icing to the cake on this story is a couple months later, when I meet Noah’s mom. We are walking to brunch, as Noah says, “Ask J about the time she ran out on her tab at that restaurant.”  Hard to believe that that relationship ended shortly after, and while I can say it wasn’t because of that incident, let’s be honest…I am sure it did not help anything!

Best. Pick-up line. Ever.

Disclaimer: Credit on this goes to the handsome man who said this on our date last night, kuddos baby!

“If your left leg was named Christmas and your right leg was named Thanksgiving, could I come see you between the holidays?”

Clearly we are going to continue to date with awesome lines like this.

The Story of Chaz

I have always been against Tinder. It is perhaps the stigma of it being only a hook up site or maybe the fact that I dated a guy for 4 months who had a girlfriend that he met on there and one day broke the news to me that they never broke up and now she was pregnant. Now granted that didn’t help, but I didn’t like it before that either.

Aside from Tinder, I have tried other sites–because as rude as it sounds, it is nice to be able to immediately judge someone by their online stats. Then I had a friend introduce me to Bumble, and although you cannot see things like people’s heights and religion like you would on POF or Match–it still seems classier than Tinder.

Now that I have talked down to the options for random hook ups on these sites, forget it all and pretend like I did not say it as this story begins. The story of Chaz.

Before I share too much, I will give my personal disclaimer that I while I try and not use people’s real names in these posts, including mine, there is no way around not using this name, as no made up name could do this guy justice.

When I was swiping one day, I saw jeans and boots show up–no face. However, that was enough to make me investigate further and see a very handsome guy. So we begin with generic conversations and all the appropriate how are you’s and how was your weekend themed questions. Over the next couple days the conversation carried on and turned into chats of an inappropriate, yet fun, nature.

Chaz asked me if I wanted to get together, and because I’m a lady, I told him he had to take me to dinner first, as I knew it would not be an innocent night by the end.  As Tuesday evening rolls around I am getting ready for our date at the bar. Naturally, I had my reservations, perhaps because his name was Chaz, yet I still went to meet him.

He showed up in cowboy boots, which made most of my hesitation disappear. The rest the was wiped out by the three vodka sodas I ordered which I did not accompany with food. We had good conversation and got along well. Then, imagination of other activities kicked in, so we went back to his house.

I will spare all of the details but let you visualize the next morning: me leaving to go home and get ready for work, dressed in pajamas, bra-less, in cowboy boots, without any trace of regret.

That day at work, in between the flirtatious texts back and forth, we attempted to make plans.  However, it was mid-week and with lots of meetings we had to wait until Friday. But Friday never happened. Why?  Because Thursday took over and so did what I believe to be his insanity.

I don’t want to get too political, but it is somewhat needed for this next part. We are living in a time where some people are anti-police and are fighting for lots of different freedoms and their own personal beliefs. Chaz is a young white male who couldn’t support the Second Amendment more if he tried.

Come Thursday night, I texted him and it was a while before he responded which seemed odd. Eventually he told me that his day was awful, he was very upset and stressed. After gathering more information I found out it was because of another incident involving a police officer shooting a civilian, which happened on the other side of the country. This was a completely acceptable and normal reaction, however his next moves were not. First he hopped on the imaginary train and took the express track to crazy town.

I asked if he wanted to watch a movie or hangout to try and relax and he said no, because he was busy fighting with people. I was confused by this, as he lives alone and he said he was at home, so I asked more questions and he explained that he was fighting with people on the internet and on the phone.  When I asked who, he said he had called the police department where this most recent incident occurred and began to harass them.

Clearly there was no future for us at this point, but I had never encountered an individual like this, so I didn’t excuse myself yet.  I recommended that he stop doing this because they would call the cops. He told me it was too late, as the local police had already been called.  When I let him know he could get arrested, he responded, “Oh, they won’t take me alive!”

Moments later I get a text that says, “Police are here, brb.”  After no follow up, I actually started to look on news sites, expecting to see some crazy headlines and stories, however it never happened. Later he texted me nonsense and when I tried to make sense of it, he said, “Sorry, I took some sedatives, but the cops left so now I am going to watch TV”.

That was the end of our crazy short love affair. We never talked again.  Strange, I know.

Be safe out there, and follow your heart — within reason!

With Love, J!