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!

Noah: Volume 2, Book: Crazy

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

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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!

My First Time Was A Tree-t

I recently watched the episode of New Girl called “Virgins.”  It is Season 2, Episode 23, with the synopses: the gang reminisce about losing their virginities, and have a contest about who had the worst experience.

It started me thinking about what percentage of folks have bad first times vs. good first times, and how wide the spectrum of bad-to-good even is.  I happen to know someone whose first time involved a sandwich baggie and a rubber band (option #9 in the book How to MacGyver a Condom), so I’m guessing the spectrum goes pretty damn far in the direction of holy-god-this-was-the-worst-decision-of-my-life.

My own first time was A-OK, so for all of you who are super excited by the prospect of hearing the deets, I apologize.  Meanwhile, for anyone who was completely horrified that’s where this was going, you’re welcome.  That said…buckle your seat belts, because what I am going to do is tell you about the first time I gave a blowjob.

First I want you to have a really accurate picture of where I was in life.  I’d recently finished my freshman year of college and my goal for summer was to have something romantical or sexual happen.  Frankly, any action seemed like a pipe-dream at that point.  What’s the phrase — Guys Don’t Make Passes at Girls Who Wear Glasses? Hmm..that isn’t it.  Oh yeah, it’s — Boys Aren’t Interested if You’re Shy as Fuck.  Not as catchy as the first phrase, but it’s way more accurate.

I had been in one relationship at that point.  My high school boyfriend and I had broken up a few weeks into college.  However, in a court of law I would not be able to say whether he possessed male genitalia (though he did lack breasts), so that tells you all you need to know about how innocent that relationship was.

Then one summer night, my most promiscuous friend from high school convinced me to go along with her to a club downtown.  Almost immediately, she was off in a dark corner with one boy or another, leaving me to fend for myself in a sea of sweaty early-twenty-something guys who had bathed in Axe body spray.  After being groped and dry humped by so many creeps — honestly, where the fuck do they all come from — I thanked the good lord that the night was almost over.  That’s when a pair of firm — but not grabby — hands landed on my waist.  We danced for a few songs before I finally turned around, pleased to see that he was handsome.  He kissed me before we’d even spoken and to my surprise, that landed in the realm of fricken hot.  At the end of the night I scribbled my phone number on a five-dollar bill (classy!!), and a week later I told my mom I was going to a friend’s, but took off to the mall parking lot to meet Nate.

He pulled up next to me, I hopped in his truck, and off we went to his house an hour away to watch a movie. (Current-day me is appalled by how trusting past me was. I did not know that kid.  I could’ve been killed!)  We get approximately three minutes into the movie before he suggests we lay down to watch it, and maybe two more go by when he says, “How much longer do you think I can keep from trying to make out with you?”  I still remember that line, because it was so cheesy.

Eventually we head upstairs to his bedroom, and I am desperately trying to act like I know exactly what I’m doing.  Despite my lack of hands-on experience, I had read a few guides to giving handjobs or blowjobs in anticipation of the day when I might have such an opportunity.  Yeah, that’s right, I studied for sexual interaction.  Don’t you dare judge me.

I’m not really sure how I’m doing with this whole hj thing when Nate tells me to get the lotion from his dresser.  This seems a little odd to me, but I figure he’s the more experienced one and certainly knows what feels good to him, so sure thing!  I note that it’s juniper scented as I pump it into my hand.  For anyone unfamiliar, juniper is a coniferous plant.  So I begin rubbing this pungent lotion all over his erection and all is going well for a while.  Next he announces that he wants to “titty fuck” me.  My blank stare has nothing to do with not understanding his request and everything to do with the fact that my breasts are — at this time in my life — a really solid A-cup.  I don’t know if boobs look bigger when your body is surging with testosterone, but his attempt at fucking my “tits” went precisely as well as I’d imagine using your ass to play a violin would go.

He’s straddling my chest at this point, and knee-walks himself up a few inches with clear intentions of initiating blowjob action.  Great! I’ve already touched my first penis and received my first (and to date only) “titty fuck,” why not knock off first blowjob, too??  I open wide (no teeth — I know this rule!) and immediately gag terribly.

Not because I have a sensitive gag reflex (I don’t).

Not because his dick was huge (it wasn’t).

No, I gag like never before and never since because his dick has absorbed and is still covered in PINE SCENTED HAND LOTION.  Do you know what pine scent tastes like?  Do you know what hand lotion tastes like?  Use your imagination and meld those two wonderful tastes and you’ll have an inkling of how terrible my life was for five minutes back in 2006.  Yep. Five minutes.  That’s right, I CONTINUED giving Mr. Juniper Dick a blowjob — to completion.  Why? Well, it was either due to  Fact #1: when you finally get a dick in your mouth, you own it, Fact #2: I date and give head like a champion, or Fact #3: because I really wanted to stop but still wasn’t sure if this was how blowjobs were supposed to go.

I’ll let you think about which one it really was.  Meanwhile, I’m going to go drink something because my throat has tightened up in disgust from the vivid recollection of swallowing enough lotion that poison control probably should’ve been called.

With love, B!

P.S. Don’t ever go back to someone’s empty house with them when you don’t actually know them.  And, maybe even more importantly, if someone ever asks you to lick their genitals after they’ve been covered in any non-edible substance, punch that motherfucker in said genitals and leave.

A BJ Story

If any of y’all missed our About page, you need to know that J and I met on a dude ranch.  We were hired on as seasonal workers for the summer (J wound up leaving a bit early and it maaaaaay have had to do with a boy, but we’ll see if she’ll tell that story later).  This story is about me going above and beyond in the name of being the best effing wing-woman there is, taking one for the fricken’ team to try and get my friend laid.  There are a few things you need to know before we get going:

• There were maybe 40 employees on this ranch, and the male to female ratio was 1:4. Pickings were slim.
• Theme parties happened often. None of them were appropriate. I apologize for any politically incorrectness ahead of time.
• The ladies in my bunkhouse had a safe word for when we needed help getting away from a situation we didn’t want to be in, and it was “banana.”

Alright, now you know enough to begin.

On the night of the Hillbilly Party, I was particularly excited because a new boy had arrived to begin work that day.  He was a fishing guide, and while most of the fish boys were weird, I remained hopeful.  If nothing else, I had found the perfect Hillbilly Party t-shirt in town that day: an XL t-shirt featuring a squirrel smoking a joint, demanding someone pay attention to his nuts.  Once I had cut off the sleeves to make it into a muscle shirt and combined it with cutoff jean shorts, an American flag bandana, and a few blacked out teeth, I was perfectly dressed.

After dozens of rounds of beer pong, dancing, and a lot of yelling in Southern accents, someone shouted that there needed to be a shotgun wedding.  The new boy, we’ll call him Josh, was quickly offered up as the groom, and one of my bunkmates shoved me up onto the porch as the bride, knowing that I thought Josh was cute (albeit very quiet and way too into hacky sack to be taken seriously).  Our “priest” was played by my friend who had a pillow stuffed in her shirt, as her Hillbilly Party persona was a woman pregnant with her sixth child by her sixth husband.  Many laughs and a few “AW LAWD MY WATAH JUST BROKE”s later, Josh and I were proclaimed married, and were forced to kiss.  I certainly didn’t mind, but was disappointed to find that he wasn’t a great smoocher.

Later in the night, it became clear that my friend J was very intoxicated.  When I say it became clear, I mean she tried climbing out a window that was a good ten feet off the ground and her boyfriend and I had to rush outside and help her down before she killed herself.  I believe her comment once back on solid ground was, “See, I did it myself.”  J then pulled me away from Josh (he’d become my shadow ever since the marriage kiss) and asked me how I thought she could get him to sleep someplace other than his room that night.  He was supposed to be rooming with J’s boyfriend, and she wanted privacy so that they could fool around.

I, being the quick-thinking gal that I am, decided that the best course of action was for me to invite Josh back to our bunkhouse for the night, because with J having a sleepover, we’d have two unoccupied beds.  I went and asked him as the party was winding down, and didn’t have to do any convincing, which pleasantly surprised me.  (Have I mentioned I was naive?  I was naive.  Adorably so.)

My female bunkmates, Josh, and I walk back to our bunkhouse, I point to J’s bed and the vacant bed and say “you can sleep wherever you want,” and climb up onto my bunk.  As I rearrange my body and my blankets into my preferred sleeping position, I hear the creak creak creak of someone coming up my bunk ladder.  Josh flops himself down between my body and the wall, and I lie there, eyes wide in an effort to signal for help.  It doesn’t work. Everyone in the bunk is involved in their standard going-to-bed routines.  And so no help arrives when Josh says “Hmm…I can’t sleep with a shirt on” and takes his shirt off.  And nobody rescues me when Josh says “Hmm…I can’t sleep with pants on” and takes his pants off.  And by the time the lights get flicked off, and Josh squeezes my back tightly against his chest and whispers, “I’m so glad you’re my wife,” I’ve literally lost all hope that anything good will happen to me ever again.

Once everyone else is asleep, and I’ve realized that Josh’s grip on me will not loosen despite my many attempts to sloooowwwwllllyyyyy slide myself out of his arms and off the side of my twin bed, I softly whisper, “banana,” several times.  Nothing. Safe words mean nothing.

The one remaining blessing in my life was that I had to work the breakfast shift at 6am.  Anyone who knows me knows that I am not an early bird, but I was the early-as-fuck bird that morning, slinking out of bed, quiiiietly opening the noisy bunk door, gennnntly closing the noisy bunk door, tiptoeing on the squeaky wooden porch, and then running to the dining hall as fast as my I’ve-had-no-sleep-at-all legs could carry me.  Who was there, drinking coffee, as chipper and happy as could be?? J. J was.

As I recount my nightmare step-by-step at an increasing volume, J laughs harder and harder, and my urge to go drown her in the toilet grows and grows.  She tells me she didn’t even get laid, I say, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!” and then the ranch owner comes in and asks for his morning drink — vodka on the rocks (yea, I know, that man was a complete alcoholic).

By some stroke of magic, before Josh comes down for breakfast, someone needs a co-pilot for a drive to Denver to drop someone off at the airport.  I offer myself up immediately.  When I finally arrive back that afternoon, I slip into the lunch line for roast beef sammies and think that the day is looking decidedly up!  Then someone hugs me from behind and once again I might as well be in Mordor.  It’s Josh.  He asks, “where has my wife been hiding all day?” and moves further down the buffet.  I turn around to locate a suitable corner to go die in and immediately lock eyes with J — she’s seen the entire interaction.  We both wait two beats, mouth “banana” at the same time, and then erupt into hysterical laughter.

She then helped me avoid Josh for the rest of her time on the ranch.

With love, B!

P.S. Several days after the shotgun wedding, I was told that in Colorado, you don’t have to be a registered officiant or an ordained  member of the clergy to marry people.  Apparently any person can oversee their own marriage or the marriage of two other people.  So…I may or may not have been legally married eight years ago?