The MVP of Wing-Women

“Wanna go to Vegas?”

“Not really….”

Thanks, Vegas. I needed bruised ribs.

“K, so we’re leaving at 7, I’ll pick you up.”

“Wait… when did we agree on anything, and why the hell at 7?”

…And that’s how D convinced me to go to Vegas on less than 36 hours notice, for 24 hours of awesomeness (which is not a word, and I don’t care).

Essentially, D let her vagina get the best of her and we wound up in Vegas meeting up with some guy she sort of liked a year ago who lives in San Fransisco at 4 o’clock in the morning after I told strange old men stories about my kid and divorce.  (I lie my ass off when I get really drunk).  And then we came back to Orange County in time for Superbowl and went to hang out with this guy who likes D who we met that time I was trying to make in-roads with the biker gang. 

Odd enough though, I’m pretty sure I had a better time than D did all weekend.  Yeah, guys love her and she could probably have enough sex to satisfy Charlie Sheen for all of this year and I am somewhat more solitary these days (by choice?), but it was awesome.  She dates, talks to, or makes out with guys I end up loving.  Everytime there’s a new love interest for her, I come up on at least 2 new friends that I adore and that I’m certain appreciate my quirky greatness.

The purpose of this isn’t to brag about how attractive I am as a wing-woman (or is it?), it’s about an interesting realization D and I had while I jubilantly announced how smitten I was by our Superbowl companions.  Why was it, it occured to me, that I always LOVED the guys she dated, and she HATED the guys I fell for?  Actually, nobody likes the guys I date…. which means my taste is really as bad as I have always feared, or… well, I can’t think of a viable second option.

Mostly because I want my friends to agree to show up at my wedding, I’m gonna try to date people they don’t openly loathe with venomous passion… speaking of which I need to talk about the guy I’ve been on a few dates with… next time.

PS. If you have come to this blog in search of Natalie Portman porn… I apologize.  These days everyone in my life is staying clothed, blog and otherwise.

Machetes, The Packers, And Stuff My Mom Probably Doesn’t Need to Know About Me.

Alright kids, we are now commencing “Operation Stop Writing Emo Shit In The Middle Of The Night And Then Deleting It The Next Day Because It Was Not Only Poorly Written But Also Melodramatic.”  Related: maybe posting without drinking wine would help… we’ll do a little research and I’ll get back to you.

Seriously, that emo girl I mentioned before that lives inside of me and writes emotionally charged emails/letters apparently finds her second-wind any time after midnight during the work week.  She also has a penchant for white wine and emotional eating of Chipotle (cough, numerous times a week, cough).  She’s fat.  And ugly.  And I’m going to forget that she dwells inside and write non-suicidal stuff for a little while.  You’re welcome, all 2 of my loyal readers.

I’ve had some lovely conversations over the past 48 hours, and I think they deserve a little recognition… I also have nothing to write that isn’t pitiful, so we don’t have a lot of inspiring material.  Eh.

Conversation between my boss, my coworker and myself:

Boss: No way, if the zombie apocolypse does occur, I am totally getting a shotgun.

Coworker: Eh, I like swords, I think I’d use a sword.

Me: You both are idiots, and will die first in the zombie apocolypse.  First, a shotgun? What the fuck, they’re already dead.  You’ll just give them a puncture wound before they eat you alive.  And second, who the hell are you? Harry Potter? Swords?  Can you even use a sword?

Coworker: Harry Potter had a wand.  Not a sword.  God you’re worthless.

Me: Shut up.  Machetes all the way.  Not only is it bad ass, but I can dismember the zombies and run away. Win, and win.  Also, that’s cardio.  Triple win.

This is alarming for a number of reasons.  Mostly because at 10 in the morning, my office should have better things to do than contemplate the numerous ways of self-defense should reality ever start to resemble a bad 2008 movie.  The life of a legislative staffer, ladies and gentlemen.  Your tax payer dollars at work- finding new ways for me and my fellow public employees to reach new levels of (creative) mediocrity.

Conversation on Monday morning in my office:

Coworker: Where you watching the Superbowl?

Me: I make it an annual tradition not to.  Men seem to really enjoy my disregard for sports… wait, who’s playing?

Coworker: Steelers and Packers. 

Me: Hell yes.  Packers.

Coworker: Why?

Me:  I dig those people wearing cheese blocks on their heads. 

Boss:  It is no longer a mystery why you are single.  Well, it never really was… but now I think you’re just trying to deflect men.

Me:  I’m still baffled by the lack of people in love with me.  So that makes one of us.

No explanation necessary. 

Conversation preceding the Superbowl one via text with Muscles:

Muscles:  So I heard that you have had sex with more than three people. You told me three.  You lied?  It’s none of my business, but come on.

Me: (After debating how worth it it would be to even respond) Yeah… No good comes from a guy hearing a real number.  I shouldn’t have lied, I apologize

Muscles: You’re a big person for being honest. Want to see No Strings Attached with me this weekend?

Hm. Cruel joke? I don’t want to see that stupid movie, and if you read my blog (or if you don’t, more likely, then you can read about my pre-emptive hatred of this movie here)- you know how I feel about it, but whatever. And is he trying to send me a subliminal message?  And every girl lies about their “number,” so don’t you judge me.  Actually, this topic is a whoooole other blog post, and one that I will save for when my mom stops being one of the two loyal readers (hi, mom!).

Conversation with D, the roomie:

D: You peaked in middle school, I peaked five years ago.  That’s life.  But you’re mature and succesful, so it doesn’t matter.

Me: Wait, is that a compliment? 

D: Yeah.

Me: You’re awful at compliments.  You’re saying I peaked a decade ago?  I’ve got plenty of decades left, and you’re saying they’re all downhill from here?

That’s just depressing.  And I didn’t peak in high school, I just discovered how much men loved mean women.  (I may or may not have inspired that retarded book Men Love Bitches… but I don’t know because I didn’t read it).  Now, I am still mean, but older men seem to not love bitches at this age… or they have noticed the 25 10 lbs I’ve gained since middle school.  They love bimbos who yell along to a Ke$ha song blaring in the club while spilling their Red Bull/Vodka all over me.    Or they go to those online dating sites and find someone there so they can continue on their road of blissful ignorance and bullshit existence… There I go, making absolutely NO reference to people I may have dated recently who definitely didn’t stomp all over my heart and add to my already sizeable self-esteem issues.  Nope.  Not at all autobiographical that last little vent.

I’d write more but I have to wash my hair since I haven’t in a long time have a date tomorrow night with an athlete turned local lobbyist… Which sounds like a totally trust-worthy kind of guy, right?

Awesome.