Deuces, 2017

The last time I blogged was 4 weeks ago. I wish I could tell you the reason it’s been so long is because I met someone amazing and haven’t had any shit material to report on…but alas, there’s more to share.

My relatives flew in for the holidays and I’ve been busy having family fellowship for weeks. I’m talking eating, laughing, drinking, seeing each other every night of the week fellowship. Ladies night, Christmas eve, Christmas day (x2), science museum, church, rides at mall of America, outdoor pizza oven party, trip-packing party…and that was all before New Year’s Eve. I love how we roll.

Before she came home to visit, my cousin called from NYC one evening and said: “I feel like I should skip my workout and go straight to drinking tonight.” I feel like that approximately 5 times a week. If I enjoyed the taste of alcohol more, I would drink my early thirties away.

Generally I feel like drinks are too filling or too sweet or too nasty tasting for me to enjoy them in copious amounts or on the daily. If I’m not feelin’ good by the end of my second drink, you can forget it. Now I’ve had more than that on a few celebratory occasions. Ok, a few times more than a few occasions… But usually I am so full from eating, I don’t have enough room to gorge on booze.

If I couldn’t drink while dating, I think I’d blow my foot off. I give mad credit to those who practice sobriety. In life, but more importantly, those practicing sobriety on first dates. They have the strength of a bull to put up with all the anxiety, discomfort and silence that may come with a first date, completely sober. I think I can count on one hand the occasions I’ve not had a drink on a first date.

I wouldn’t say I need to drink for liquid courage – I’m a bit too outspoken sober, the way it is. I’ve come to the conclusion that I have a few cocktails on all the dates I go on, in order to give me liquid hope. Hope that the evening I’m embarking on isn’t going to be a waste of my fucking time, like it has often ended up being. There are some dates with certain dudes that I’ve highly regretted spending even one hour of my life on. For an example, when I’ve walked into a restaurant and found that the guy I was meeting resembled a dwarf-like version of his photos.

Single gals know that some guys embellish their height prior to meeting, because women can be particular (a few might say shallow) about this characteristic. And I’m not judging either position; I think it’s an insecurity thing for both parties and it’s a bummer when we can’t see eye to eye. Yesssss, that just slipped right off my fingertips.

The most unforgettable short-changing I had, happened a few years ago when I was set up on a blind date. I planned to meet this guy in my workplace parking lot. This was when I was a funeral director and I walked out of a particularly difficult workday, looking forward to meeting this good looking motorcycle rider. I walked over to where I told him to park and he was sitting in his extremely lifted Chevy pickup. He opened the door and a stepladder came down. He descended to me like a lil’ fucking elf.  I couldn’t believe my eyes and I’m certain the shock was evident on my face when he had to get on his tiptoes to hug me.

It might as well have been that bad. As the date went on, it was evident that this guy had a big case of small man syndrome. He couldn’t stop talking about himself and his accomplishments and all the things he owned. He was a bit of a sadass and I felt sorry for the little fellah.

My lesson there wasn’t that I couldn’t date people who were shorter than me, but that I couldn’t stand dating a guy who felt 4’9” on the inside. I almost laughed in the middle of our dinner thinking about him taking out that stepladder and giant jump down off his truck to meet me. No doubt that was the last time I’ll ever call a date ‘shortie.’

A few months ago, I showed up for a 3rd-ish dinner date (more on that later) at a guy’s place. When I got there I wished I was 3 glasses of wine in, and had arrived in an Uber. I almost shit when I saw what he was wearing. Hideous womanesque slippers, a white undershirt that was so small his stomach was peeking out of the bottom and hipster jeans so tight his crack was blossoming out of the top. This guy wasn’t big either, he had an average build and I had wondered if he’d shrunk all his clothes right before I got there. I mean honestly, don’t people look at themselves in the mirror before greeting the public? ButtGut had asked me to come over 2 days beforehand. I’m trying to tell you he actually planned to look like a sloppy mess when I came over for dinner. These people.

Thank God for fight or flight, because I immediately devised a plan that would provide a small window of time I’d be stuck at his place. I wanted to leave immediately but settled on 1.5 hours being the minimal time to not be rude to him. I told him I had to meet my dad for something (which I did have to do at some point that week) and I planned to leave as soon as possible. The whole 90 minutes I was there, I kept seeing his mid-drift, front and back. It was all party, no business, everywhere.

While he made us a simple pasta meal in his kitchen, he was banging pots around and oohing and aahing himself into oblivion. I asked him what was going on, or if he needed help. He told me “No I don’t need help. I’m just really excited to eat this! Chicken Florentine! It’s my specialty!” I don’t want to use the word groaning here, but he was groaning with excitement about how good it was. He couldn’t get over what an amazing cook he was to make boxed bow tie pasta with chicken and alfredo sauce. He sat down next to me to eat and inhaled his bowl of pasta. In between slurping he said, “Isn’t this amazing? Do you like it? I love it.” His drooling and being so impressed with himself was the final nail in the coffin and I thought: this is the last time you’re going to see him Andrea, it’s just an hour of your life. Then the next 10 thoughts were about how unattractive I suddenly found him and how bizarre he looked and was acting. And how I wanted to get the frack out of there. This wasn’t even one of the nights he acted like a severe cheapass. Wait ’til I tell you about that.

My main motivation for staying through the chef’s meal was that afterward, he was going to help me pick out and order a new computer. I will tell you that up until this post, I have been blogging from my iPhone 6sPlus. That is a fucking challenge people. I hope you’re impressed. You’re going to enjoy knowing that I’ve written approximately half of my posts on my phone, while in the bathtub. 2018 will be a new year for me for sure – taking the blog to the laptop.

My college computer is about 10 years old and she’s been circling the drain for a few years now. Even my very-single ass doesn’t have time to blog from laptop hospice.

I don’t know much about computers so it took me awhile to figure out what I wanted and by that time, black Friday was approaching. I figured I might as well wait and get a dealio. Luckily, Buttcrack was a techie and had some expertise in this area.

In spite of his poor clothing choices and his being a stingy wanker, I do have to credit him for helping me with selecting this little device. He knew the memory and drives I needed and which brands were hardy for my price point. Additionally, he recommended I order from the website he recently spent $1800 on an upgraded computer for himself, as they had great black Friday promos. (Remember that number in the future, because it will be important while I’m making a point about his so-cheap-he-squeaks-ass. That is a Dadism right there.)

The universe works in mysterious ways and I would later find out that my bank stopped payment to this janky website because the purchase looked suspicious for the amount of money I was spending, and it being so close to Christmas. I ended up purchasing elsewhere and I’m blogging from an actual computer for the first time. It’s magical.

Buttcrack had this look he would do all the time. I can only describe it as how John Candy looks when he’s laughing in the movie Uncle Buck, but way worse. Or maybe as a ‘man’s douchey eyebrow look,’ if such thing exists.

He had this cackle he paired with the eyebrows he scrunched up in the middle, all dramatic-like, as if he was laughing at something so obvious, that no one else could possibly understand. While he elevated his eyebrows, he would shake his head back in forth in this really small motion that made me want to bitch slap him. You should know that as I’m typing this, I can’t help impersonating this shit and it’s making me hate myself.

I overlooked these weird mannerisms because at first I thought this guy was smart and funny. He was a data-analyst; I had never heard of that career prior to meeting him. When I told my friends what he did, they were all excited because apparently they knew this was a prominent job across various fields. “Ooh that’s a really good job. I bet he makes bank,” a few of them said to me. I responded with: “Boom! The only reason the Good Lord has been making me wait this long to find someone, is because he’s going to be a rich and take care of me.” Then we all laughed.

One time an aunt, who shall remain nameless said, “Andrea don’t marry for love, that fades. Marry for money.” She was kidding, but I got the drift. Money is a huge stressor in relationships. I wouldn’t mind finding someone who can live comfortably and take care of me, but I certainly don’t expect that. Which is why I got edumucated and now find myself blessed with an amazing job.

Quickly, a brief question to get to why dinner at his place was our 3rd-ish date:

Is it a date if the woman pays for herself?

The answer is NO, no it is not a fucking date. If I pay for myself, I am taking myself on a date. If a guy asks me out for dinner and we split the tab, I am still taking myself on a date. And now my night just got ruined by sharing it with a cheapass.

I have a lot of thoughts on this topic and definitely more to share about Buttcrack. Since I can see how long these posts actually are on a computer screen now, I am going to stop writing before you have a seizure from all these words.

Stay tuned for my next post: Date-a-Analyst… It’s going to be a good one.

Happy New Year everyone! Here’s to a ridiculous girl’s blogging dreams (about her dating nightmares) gettin’ realized in the new year. In the meantime, I’ll be praying that I’ll eventually get to rename my blog to Married Piece of Sass before I friggin’ turn 40.

Sip Sip, Hooray!

2 thoughts on “Deuces, 2017

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s