The Crimes of Inanimate Objects

My fiance is fast on his way to becoming my ex-fiance. It has not been the easiest process (and has not been without a fair bit of bad behavior on my part), but its high time he got a loser-ex post of his very own.

I'm going to try to tell this story without falling into "why my ex deserves to rot in hell" territory, so there's going to be a good bit left out. But what's left is still pretty nuts.

Let's start by saying that, of the contributors to this blog, I am likely the most tolerant, most liberal, and least affluent one of the bunch, with the shortest list of deal-breakers. I'm also the only one still stuck in the South, so maybe I just have less to choose from. At any rate, I put up with things that, frankly, I don't think RGB would. In fact, last time I saw her, she point blank told me that she had very serious concerns about my current relationship. I'm pretty sure she told me that I SHOULD NOT marry my fiance. And she was, as she so often is, right. But this blog is not about the serious reasons for the demise of our relationships, so we aren't going to get into that.

I'm a bit of a partier (causing RGB to despair of my poor behavior on numerous occasions). So, naturally, I often end up with men of a similar mindset. My soon-to-be ex-fiance (let's call him Beethoven) is an example of this.

Beethoven had (how shall I put it?) a problem with illegal recreational substances--and not just the relatively innocuous one you're probably thinking of. He has since gotten over this, but when we were first dating it was bad. Unfortunately, it took me quite some time to understand just how bad it was.

One night, after we had moved in together, he came home quite intoxicated--alcohol, plus other things. I tried to get him to go to bed, but we ended up in an argument instead. He left and I went to bed.

Several hours later, I awoke to screaming coming from the living room. I walked into the room to find Beethoven sitting on the love seat, yelling at my body pillow (which was propped upright on the sofa), accusing it of having stolen the television. And, indeed, our large and expensive flat-screen television was gone.

You can imagine my confusion. I was still groggy and Beethoven was telling me that a pillow had stolen our television. Looking back on it, several years later, it has become no less absurd.

To this day, we do not know what happened to the television. Beethoven has no memory of the night and our best lead implicates a navy blue body pillow in the theft.

So, beware of rogue pillows. Apparently, they are more sinister than they first appear.

Hail to the Victors

I am a sports fan. Unabashedly and undeniably so. Mostly I watch football, with smatterings of Hockey and Baseball in there sometimes. I even watch college football (Go Longhorns) even though my college team wasn't really the best. (We did have an AMAZING rookie this past season really rock it out tho! So proud!)

So I understand exuberant support of one's college team, and even having such strong feelings for a school that was never even attended. However, there is a fine line between devoted fan and obsessed fan.

Wolverine worked security at one of the Big Three back when I lived in Michigan. He was a huge fan and dreamed of going to the Big House to watch a game, even though he had yet to attend college.

We went out drinking one night to a dueling piano bar. The two show masters decided to rev up the school rivalries by playing the Michigan fight song as well as the Michigan State fight song. They solicited donations into two pots, one for Michigan, one for MSU, on their pianos. Partiers could put money into the pot - $1, $5, whatever they wanted to - and whichever pot had more money would continue to play the song. If the other pot all of a sudden surpassed the one currently playing, then the winning school's piano took over the noise and played the school's song. This went back and forth as the MSU fans fought with the Michigan fans to get their song played. The winner was determined by whichever pot reaching the end of the song before anyone from the other school had contributed enough to stop the song.

Anyway, this got Wolverine all sorts of riled up. As the drinks continued flowing, he refused to stop singing. He was too drunk to drive and it was freezing cold (Michigan winters...), so we took a cab back to his place.

This is where it got annoying.

Wolverine was holding his keys out when we arrived at his apartment. The stubborn ass of a man then decided that, despite the fact that I was freezing and he didn't have a jacket, we could not go inside until he and I had sang the entire Michigan fight song at the top of our lungs.

First, I tried reasoning with him. It's cold. I'm cold. Give me the keys. You're being an idiot. Someone's going to call the cops.

Second, I tried wrestling the keys from him. "RAPE! RAPE!" Sure, make the cops come faster. Give me the damn keys!

Third, I tried browbeating him. Just give me the keys. You're drunk. You're an outright idiot. Stop being a dickhead. You are SUCH an ass.

Fourth, I halfway gave in. How about you sing it to me, then we'll go in.

None of this had any effect. He had a plan. Sing the song at the top of our lungs or we're staying outside all night.

So I re-hailed a cab and went home. Drunken stupid sports fans make lousy boyfriends.

The Game

BJA and I both have boyfriends, so it has been getting tougher to come up with new posts. While this doesn't really count as an ex story, we feel that these losers have earned themselves a special place on our blog.

Last Saturday, we went out with some other friends and were soon accosted by two... interesting-looking gentlemen. Oh, why am I trying to be nice about this? They looked like fricking rednecks. One was sporting a wolf shirt with a leather vest. The other was wearing a tight (I mean like so tight there was visible nippleage) and unflattering (he did not have the body to be wearing anything tight) bright yellow New Mexico shirt and motorcycle boots. Even with a motorcycle convention going on in Washington, they were still sorely out of place.

As they approach us, New Mexico announces "I usually don't talk to ethnic girls, but you guys are really hot."

Um, what? Ok, aside from the fact that is massively inappropriate to say to anyone, it also was a little confusing to me. I would not describe either myself or BJA as being ethnic. We're both of European ancestry, just like the rednecks. I am assuming that BJA was the "ethnic" one of us since she has dark hair and eyes, but either way, it's still a stretch. BJA thinks it may have been my dress, which had a pattern that may have been vaguely Indian-esque.

The conversation continued with them basically sounding ridiculous and BJA and I politely making fun of them in a way that went completely over their heads. I finally slipped in an insult that was low-brow enough for them to get. And they found it to be significantly more funny than it actually was. After they had themselves a little giggle fest, they revealed to us their plan.

They were trying to get rejected by as many girls as possible. They wanted to know if we had any advice for them. I politely gave them two of my worst pick up lines and suggested they used them. Then their entourage came over to talk to me and BJA. The rest of the entourage was about as interesting as Wolf Shirt and New Mexico. Clearly, they were not putting this plan to work. I told them to get on it (trying to get them to leave) and they turned around to the girls behind us (while still looking like they were in our group). I told them to try talking to people on the other side of the bar, as far away from us as possible; because they'll look more reject-able if there are no women with them. They took the hint. I think deep down, they were grateful that I gave them each one more rejection to add to their count.

I get it. They go out and try to pretend like they want to get rejected, that way when they do get rejected, it was part of the plan. And if they don't get immediately dismissed, they think their victims will find themselves special when they're let in on the plan. It's not clever. It's not cute. It's annoying.

Look, guys, seriously, don't play games like this. If you want to talk to a woman, just go for it. Don't make up stupid-ass back stories. Don't tell me you're from out-of-state if you're really just from over the bridge. Don't ask me if I saw the fight outside. Don't pretend to be taking a survey. Don't pretend to show me a magic trick. Just don't. Be honest about your intentions. Even if they are just to get in my pants.

Through the Looking Glass

When I was ten, my best friend and I stole some coins out of a dried-up fountain to buy a couple of sodas. That was the beginning and end of my life of crime. Shortly thereafter, I came to recognize and appreciate the norms and rules of society as well as property rights. I suppose this never sinks in for some people.

People like Fred, whose long and storied life of crime began well before, and continued long after, I met him.

This brings me to the story of his 22nd birthday, which he decided to ring in with an Alice in Wonderland themed party. This included him dressing up as the Mad Hatter. Not so shockingly, he promoted it as a party in which all sorts of illegal drugs would be available. Apparently this was the type of life he desired prior to his security clearance.

As much as I love the NOPD, I had no desire to celebrate my loser ex’s 22nd birthday in jail, so I opted not to attend his druggy party. But, whether I wanted to or not I still got to listen to all Fred's planning details. One afternoon, when I arrived at his apartment I was shocked to see a pink and yellow plastic play house.

"We're going to put a keg inside!" exclaimed Fred. I told him that was a cute idea then asked where on earth he even bought a playhouse.

"Well, we didn't buy it."

"Did you dumpster dive or something?"

"No, we took it from a playground...in front of a church."

Yeah that's right -- there really was nothing else to say.

Between the drugs and stealing from church, the majority of Fred's normal friends decided not to attend and, the party guests ended up being the weird druggy friend-of-a-friend type of crowd. I only knew one person other than Fred and his roommate who ended up going to the party. She felt uncomfortable and didn't stay long. Apparently Fred sat alone on the couch eating pan after pan of pot brownies while moping that no one cool had come the entire time.

Maybe this was him being smited for stealing from a church.

I'd like to say that he grew from this experience, but that's not exactly what happened. In fact, when he found a Wal-Mart ad in the paper for the playhouse a couple of months later, he proudly announced to anyone who'd listened that he wasn't a "sucker" like anyone who paid $29.99 for the playhouse. Classy, classy guy.

Snow Patrol

A few years ago there was this insanely crazy blizzard in my hometown. Worse, it happened over the first spring break in my life that my parents hadn't planned a getaway vacation. I was looking forward to hanging out with my friends, enjoying some time outside, and spending some quality time with String Bean without worrying about getting to school or practice on time.

Well, the snow ruined all that. It began snowing on Monday. Four feet later, I was snowed in and playing Life with my younger brother and parents by candlelight. You don't know real pain until you have one of those little cars stuffed with pink and blue "people" and your father says, "I hope this isn't what I really can expect from your life."

I couldn't wait to escape. On Wednesday, we finally figured out how to get out of our house and to my friend Becky-lou's. (Obviously a made-up name, get over it.) We spent the day watching movies, acknowledging the fact that all other options were buried under four feet of snow.

Meanwhile, String Bean had escaped from his house and headed to a friend's home, who apparently was having some sort of blizzard related drinking party. That night, they proceeded to get wasted. String Bean calls me, drunk, and screaming. Turns out a fellow partyier thought it would be hilarious to draw a... specific body part.. on String Bean's face when he passed out. Needless to really say, String Bean was peeved.

Instead of being an adult, String Bean abandoned ship. He careened (without a coat) into the snow towards his own home. Remember - he's drunk, he has a phalic symbol on his face, and he's increasingly growing closer to frostbite and/or freezing to death. Logically, he calls me.

My young and naive head could not wrap around the idiocy String Bean was engaging in. But, "savior" I felt I was, I begged Becky-lou and her father to let us drive his SUV through the snow and out of the neighborhood into the main town where StringBean was apparently wandering. Mind you, it was now icy, and the plows hadn't come through, so it was only what had melted down or been shoveled by hand that we could travel over.

The 10 minute trip took much longer than it should have because of the snow and the inability of the SUV to operate as a snowplow. We spun a few times, but fortunately got out in one piece and without having slid into a pole or curb. But the situation wasn't getting any better. StringBean wouldn't answer his phone. He was lost in the snow drifts.

After driving almost aimlessly through the deserted snowy streets of my home town, I spotted a lone figure stumbling through the piled-up snow. Sure enough, it was String Bean, who proceeded to beligerently tell me off for "following him". Like I really wanted to be trudging through ice and snow to save his ass.

We left after about 20 minutes of unyielding insults and anger, when I finally realized what a douche I was dating. If he refused to get in the car and was going to be a drunken ass, there was no use fighting with him.

Come to find out the next day that String Bean had been approached by another vehicle shortly thereafter. This one had flashing red and blue lights and a couple of cold and bitter men with flashlights who were justifiably a little peeved at this drunken idiot wandering around without a coat with a p*nis on his face. Fortunately, the officers decided to give String Bean a ride home, but not before giving him a breathalizer and a ticket for being drunk in public.

The next day, when we all could finally get cleanly out of the neighborhoods and the snow plows had done their part to clear the roads, I talked to String Bean about his frozen escapade. He defended his actions by claiming he was, ahem, NOT drunk. Didn't seem to register that he had a ticket indicating otherwise. And to top it all off, somehow it was my fault that he had been out in the cold.

Yes, String Bean. And I drew the p*nis on your face, too. I got crazy skills.

Alcohol, Part 3

After the riverboat episode, Fred was in quite a bit of trouble (well, as much trouble as one ever really gets in during college). Since he had already completed the mandatory on-campus alcohol class and counseling following his experiment in pantslessness, they had to give him something a bit more substantial -- the requirement to attend an off-campus alcohol evaluation. This meant that Fred would have to pony up a few bucks to pay for a psychological evaluation. And paying for anything was not Fred's style. Seriously, he wiped his ass with newspapers he found around campus to save money on toilet paper.

Not wanting to give up his life long streak of being unreasonably cheap, he considered his alternatives. His conclusion: find a professor licensed to practice psychology and get him to sign off on the forms. Of course, Fred didn't actually know any professors who fit the bill, so he "asked" that I have my advisor sign off on his papers.

I was appalled that he saw no problem with making me ask my advisor to do something illegal, and unethical for my alcoholic boyfriend (seriously no judgment -- he had a problem). He didn't even want to go talk to the guy, he just wanted to give me the papers and have them get signed.

Obviously, this was a no go. There was no way I was going to ask a professor to put his job on the line because my boyfriend is a cheapskate alcoholic. Fred eventually came up with the money to get the evaluation -- and held it against me for the rest of the time we dated.

I'm a Loser Baby, So Why Don't You....

When to Stop Supporting Your Boyfriend's Antics - Part 1.

In a relationship, it is critical, and even necessary, to support your partner when they fall into hardship or difficult circumstances. However, in certain situations, this particular caveat is null and void.

Stringbean had a knack for "forgetting" to call when he got home after the bar or other activities, even after confirming that he would. We were in a long distance relationship, which made it all the more difficult to maintain trust and closeness that thousands of miles can obviously sabatoge. I'm not one to get upset about not calling per se - I am one to get upset about not calling if you said you would. It's a follow-through thing, nothing more. But that wasn't necessarily the issue during this particular event.

It was October, and I was upset that I hadn't been called the night before, but I continued about my business that day without pause. I was campaigning for a congressional candidate and couldn't have been happier waving signs and getting honked at out in the middle of the road. Then my cell phone rings. Rather than Stringbean calling me, it was a friend of his, whose name I will also protect by referring to him as Squatty.

Squatty: "Hey BJA, just wanted to give you an update on Stringbean's condition."

Why do girls get upset when you don't call when you say you will? Cuz if you get hurt or something else happens, we are left completely out of the loop, and distance only exacerbates the fear and worry.

Me: "What do you mean? What happened"

Squatty: "You mean you don't know???"

Uh... no.

Turns out brilliant Mr. Stringbean had gotten beyond wasted at a party the night before at a friend's apartment. Someone had made a comment that apparently made him angry, and he decided he wanted to leave. His friends, not wanting to support his death wish, told him no. They hid his keys and locked the door, while one of the bigger guys (lest we forget why Stringbean received the nickname...) stood in between him and the exit.

Stringbean was not about to be stopped however. Without thinking (obviously) he decided another exit was preferable. He jumped off the balcony.

It was a third story apartment.

Needless to say, Stringbean wound up in the hospital with broken bones and an alcohol violation. The ticket came from the fall, which I know may sound awkward, but follow me on this one. Stringbean didn't just yell out a carnal yell as he leapt from the balcony, but proceeded to justify his actions at the top of his lungs, disturbing the neighbors, by claiming he was, in fact, a "flying squirrel."

Sometimes I don't even know how to end these stories. And it's ridiculously pathetic this is only Part 1 of "When to Stop Supporting Your Boyfriend's Antics."

Alcohol, Part 2

In my last entry about Fred’s drunken shenanigans, I mentioned that it was uncommon to get an alcohol violation at my school. Well, it's damn near impossible to get two!

But somehow Fred managed to accomplished this. I know, impressive, right?

During his senior year of college, he assisted with freshman orientation -- actually how we met – we were both coordinators. Anyway, one of the events was a party for freshman on a boat that was, of course, alcohol free.

Now, I know that there really aren't alcohol-free events during orientation and a few of the upperclassmen assisting with orientation would have a couple of beers beforehand. But, Fred never knew when to say when.

Consequently, upon arrival one of the event planners – who also happened to be his roommate -- told him to go home. He ignored this suggestion. The orientation director then caught a wiff of Fred and saw that he could barely even stand up and fired him in front of everyone.

Hurt and blaming his roommate, Fred returned to his dorm. Rather than just passing out like a normal drunk person, he decided to get even by pissing all over his roommate's bed.

Not before crying about not going on the boat ride though. No joke, he fricking cried about it. Seriously. Like effing tears pouring down his face, choked-up, hysterical crying. I cannot possibly emphasize this enough. This isn't really relevant to the rest of the story. I just wanted to point out that Fred cried about not riding on a boat.

Prior to his roommate returning Fred was pretty much guaranteed an alcohol violation courtesy of his display at the boat. But, when his roommate returned home to a bed dripping wet in piss and reported him he acquired even more charges. Then, he threw the soiled bedding into the garden below his balcony, thus acquiring even more charges. It was an alcohol violation bonanza!

Alcohol, Part 1

I wouldn't say Fred was an alcoholic. I don’t judge -- well actually I do judge but I don’t make clinical diagnosis so let’s just say he was a damn moron. His escapades are so ridiculous that they need to be broken up in to three different entries – this is the first:

Most college freshmen have crazy alcohol-induced adventures shortly after moving away from home. Of those, a few unfortunate or stupid people end up getting an alcohol violations. At my school, it was really really hard to get in trouble for drinking too much. One would have to do something incredibly stupid to achieve this. Fred did.

Anyway, upon arriving at his room after a night of heavy underage drinking, Fred decided that pants were not for him. Underwear was also not for him. In fact, he wanted to be "Fred just a shirt," and insisted that everyone address him as such. He also, as his moniker suggested, was wearing only a shirt.

He proceeded to parade down the coed hall in just a shirt. A great way to meet -- and alienate -- your classmates during your first week of school!

His friends attempted to keep him confined him to his room, but were unsuccessful. The RA, who refused to address him as “Fred just a shirt” promptly called the paramedics who threw him into the back of an ambulance and sent to the hospital for alcohol poisoning.

Fred did accomplish his goal – while getting his stomach forcibly pumped he did get to wear a hospital gown – without pants!

I'm just kidding, they gave him pants. And a big fat alcohol violation.

Bottle of Red, Bottle of White

Have your ever dated someone aspires to be classy? If so you may appreciate the following.

While in college , Fred decided he didn’t want to look out of place at dinner parties (although the only “dinner parties” he ever had to worry about attending involved pizza and PBR), so he decided to become an expert on wine. It seemed a little odd for someone his age, but I didn't mind. After all, it is kind of really sexy when a guy knows his way around a wine list.

Of course, he assumed I would teach him everything myself. But while I do enjoy drinking it as much as the next girl, I really am the worst person to ask about wine. The truth is I only go to wineries for the free alcohol. I usually don't pay attention to anything I am being told about the wines. I can't taste the damn vanilla undertones and I don't really care how the light refracts in your pinot grigio. But, I suppose compared to his friends who exclusively drank everclear, I was the closest thing he had to a sommelier.

Anyway, Fred insisted we go to the wine store one day so he could pick out a few things. When we arrived though, he entered an almost fugue like state of fascination at the sheer variety of wines. He had only ever known Franzia Red, Franzia White and Franzia Pink. The wine store was truly an exciting and educational experience. Standing in the California white section, he asked me the difference between a riesling and a chardonnay. I told him that it's pretty much the grapes they use (there is no doubt in my mind that there is a more elaborate answer than this, but I sure as hell don’t know it…if you really feel the need to enlighten me, go ahead, but I most likely won’t remember anyway).

"Oh, yeah, they use grapes for white wine, right…” he commented. “And so, for different types of red wine, they use different types of watermelon?"

Seriously. And yes, I know there are novelty fruit wines that probably do use watermelon, but that is not what he was referring to.

He was 22 years old and thought red wine came from watermelons. But then again, this was the guy who thought that champagne glasses were called "flukes" (yes, fluke, as in whale tail, or barb, or part of an anchor, or accidental advantage, fluke) instead of "flutes." He probably thought vodka came from hotdogs, too.

I wish I had let him ask the wine store staff this question.

High School Never Ends

I don't know about you, but when high school ended, I was relieved. No more pencils, no more books, etc. kind of relieved. I had college to look forward to! String Bean, on the other hand, wasn't going to college. He had actually graduated the year before me and hadn't managed to find a way to get into a decent community college, let alone a four year institution and a far cry from the ivy league.

Here's the brutal truth about those who don't go to college. For a large portion of them (but by no means all, there are many brilliant non-college grads who do very well for themselves), high school was IT. The highlight of their lives! It was all downhill from there, right? But for those of us who either went to school or at least matured in some manner (although many who even went to college never saw the light of maturity...), we never wanted to revisit our high school years.

So when String Bean said a friend of his was throwing a house party the summer after my freshman year of college, I was perfectly content with going. I'd just come home from college, where house parties meant kegs, having fun, letting loose, and generally having a fantastic time because the cops weren't coming by. I wasn't 21 yet, but who cares? We were blocks from campus and had plenty of friends to make sure everyone could walk at the end of the night, or at least one person could be the one we leaned on. (Very little "law enforcement" in the Big Easy...)

Much to my surprise, String Bean drives us to this hole in the wall house in the middle of lower suburbia on the outskirts of my home town. This isn't a college level party... its not even in an area where college kids live... let alone where cops won't dare travel. Worse - it was some high schooler's house.

She was 14. Not completely unfortunate looking, but certainly not the queen bee of anything, and definitely barely out of diapers. Have you ever noticed how those younger than us think that the more the show the hotter they look? Let's remember that this mindset is only expected from strippers or for costume parties. If your midriff is showing and you're jailbait - you darn well better put some clothing on. This concept apparently escaped these young high school bimbos.

We arrive, I disdainfully examine the "party." Guess what we're here for. We're the alcohol buyers. The high schoolers fish through their pockets for the twenties they stole from their parents' wallets. Needless to say, I wasn't pleased. But I used their money to get some fine liquors I wanted, so I felt at least some sense of revenge.

When we returned, the drinking began. That part was expected. What wasn't on my list of things to do was run from the cops. But that is exactly what happened.

Let's be clear - I had high school parties in high school. But we weren't retarded enough to let the drunk guys go out back and have wrestling contests while blasting music at 1am. And never, EVER did I have to deal with diving over a fence to escape cops who actually care about noise and underage drinking violations.

Since when is it ok to take your girlfriend to a party thrown by 14 year old skanks? Thank goodness that ends after college. Or at least I really really hope I don't run into any losers who think that's ok at forty.

Seriously. Why were we there?

I do not miss high school.

Death of a Salesman

I try not to pick up guys in bars. Granted, it happens, and occasionally I can meet someone who shares my affinity for tasty liquors. Mistake number one should have been meeting the guy at a bar anyway, but whatever.

Salesman seemed perfectly normal. In fact, he was relatively interesting, with a cute laugh and everything. We went out for dinner the next night, and had a great time. He called me a week or so later, letting me know that he would be in town again for a business meeting (he lived an hour or so away) and that he'd like to take me to dinner, again. How sweet, right?

He came to pick me up, and I noticed his suitcase in the backseat. I asked if he had checked into his hotel yet, and if he needed to do that before we went to dinner.

"Well... I didn't get a hotel...I was kind of waiting to see how the night went."

Hang on. Not only did I just discover Salesman to be a cheapskate, he also had assumed I was easy.

In an attempt to diffuse the situation, I told him that in dire circumstances I might could offer my guest room.

He wasn't too much more creepster other than being a hornball, so I set up the mattress in my guest room and told him he'd be welcome to sleep there. In the morning, I woke him up so I could head off to work.

After glancing in my room, he actually got pissy with me that I had a big bed and made him sleep on a blow-up mattress.

I'm sorry. You made some incorrect assumptions here that I will now point out. These are surefire ways to leave you out of my life completely should the opportunity come up again.

A) I am not easy. Taking me out to dinner twice does not equal coming home with me. You're lucky I even offered the blow-up mattress.
B) You're cheap. Get a hotel. Your business pays for it anyway.
C) Don't assume that you're smooth enough to get in my pants on a second date. You're not.

Salesman could sell things - but not his ability to woo a girl. I'm not buyin.

Why The Dud Cannot be Left Unattended, Part I

I absolutely hate babysitting. I used to watch two of the most unruly children imaginable. If I turned my back for one second to put in a movie, by the time I turned back around, they would have broken something. In addition, one had bladder control issues and once peed every single pair of pants he owned. Basically, I was scared out of ever wanting to have or be around kids at a very early age.

But as much as I hated babysitting two children under the age of 8, it was nowhere near as bad as having to babysit a 25 year old. In a lot of ways, the Dud was worse than the unruly children.

Once, his fumbling around in my kitchen woke me up around 4 in the morning (on a Tuesday), so I went to go see what he was up to. He was standing by the refrigerator with a large drink in his hand and some of it spilled on the floor. With a stupid grin on his face, he told me he just wanted an orange juice. I knew better. I took a sip of his drink and found that it was mostly vodka. Not only was I annoyed that he seemed to think it was acceptable to drink a ton of my vodka (I do not drink cheap alcohol), it was fricking 4 in the morning and I was sleeping. Why on Earth did he need a stiff drink at 4 in the fricking morning?

Not to mention, his late night shenanigans made him not want to get up when I was getting ready for work. I sure as hell wasn't going to let him stay in my apartment unattended after the fiasco from the night before, so i ended up practically dragging him to my porch and calling a cab to come get him.

Sadly, this is only one of several stories about why The Dud cannot be left unattended.

It's Peanut Butter and Jelly Time!

Drunk dialing is not necessarily the greatest idea... ever. While you certainly can get things off your chest that in other circumstances you may not be able to properly put into words (even though you could avoid slurring if you did so without drinking beforehand), phoning exes, currents, or aquaintances is about as immature as you can get. There is simply nothing that can't wait till you're sober that you need to get done. Unless of course, it's for a midnight rendezvous of somesort - then you better not be so drunk it's... how do I put this delicately?... not worth it.

Drunk dialing you may remember in the morning. But there's something worse, and though most people still categorize it as drunk dialing, I think there's such thing as wasted dialing. If you're competely wasted, there's a high probability that you should not be using your phone, period, as you will not recognize how drunk you are when you make the call.

I got a call from an ex - who will now be referred to as "PBJ" after this story - late on a saturday night after he and I had gone out with different sets of friends. He wanted to meet up. Not thinking much of this phone call, and under the impression it was a drunk dial not a wasted call.

I arrived at his place after only having two drinks over the night myself since I had my car. I walked in to a darkened apartment. I saw PBJ sitting on his couch, in the dark, with his poor dog looking quizzically at him for not petting her. He stood to greet me... or perhaps more wobbled to greet me.

He leaned in. "Heeey therrrrrre. Howzit goeeeeen." Yowza - beer breath. But there was some other smell I couldn't quite put my finger on before I stepped back.

"Hey. Wow you must have drank a lot tonight."

"Yeeeeaaaah. But that'z ook."

Then he leans in for a kiss. Now I figure out what that other smell is. Peanut Butter.

"Did you have any peanut butter before I came over?"

Instead of answering like a human being, he lunges in and kisses me. When he steps back again, there is a smearing of peanut butter across my face. The sticky substance is all over my face. Gross.

His next statement: "Owwwwwwwwwww." Turns out he had a cut on his tongue. First he blamed me, but considering he hadn't gotten that far, I knew it had nothing to do with me.

I go into the kitchen in search of a paper towel or something to wipe the mess off of me and to grab some ice for his tongue to help stop the bleeding.

On the counter sits the jar of peanut butter with the knife still sticking out of it. Because I'm civil and a nice person, I decide to try to clean up his drunken snack. Removing the knife from the peanut butter jar, I discover that it's the sharpest knife he had, serated, and HUGE. And there are obviously tounge streaks still on the knife. PBJ had licked the knife during his binge.

Meanwhile, PBJ starts snoring in the living room. I had been there for ten minutes.

Ridiculous.

It wasn't so much that he passed out, nor was it the peanut butter alone. If he had just been ready to pass out, that's fine. No biggie. And some might argue that peanut butter can be... interesting... in certain situations. Perhaps. But if you invite me to come over before you pass out, proceed to make a pass at me, and then still fall asleep... we have a problem. In this situation, it is niether cuddly nor kinky.

And it's definitely not cute.

Lesson to other boys - be very careful when you make midnight treats after a night of drinking. If it is a snack over which you have very little control that may end up all over your face or with which you can somehow manage to hurt yourself - do not invite a girl over. She will leave. And she will be mad you made her smell like peanut butter and gave her nothing in return.

Somebody Save Me

Yay for a joint post!

BJA

Disclaimer: This isn't the happiest post.

I had a horrible habit while dating String Bean that I'm disappointed to look back on now. I let him get away with most of the ways he treated me because I thought I needed to save him. My mom called it "broken-wing syndrome." My brother did it with one of his girlfriends, so this isn't simply a habit of women to pick up a partner who has the best of times just as often as the worst of times.

Let me actually explain a few things. String Bean was messed up in the head. He claimed it had to do with where he went to high school and a certain incident that happened on April 20, 1999... most of you should know what that was. He was injured. Plus his parents were divorced, he lived in a volatile family life with no one to look up to (including one uncle who had a restraining order from the rest of the family). He used his past as an excuse to treat me badly. Or maybe I simply used it as an excuse. He was hurtful, violent, judgemental, and possessive. He cheated, lied, yelled, drank, and mentally abused me in ways that today I know I would never accept.

I wish someone had shook me when I dated him and told me how many better guys are out there. Even then, I look back and people I knew did try to help me see it. My parents, his parents, his brother, his friends, my friends... they all told me that he wouldn't change. But I wanted so badly to believe that this man I had fallen in love with, the man I had watched myself grow and change along with and who I had seen what I thought was progress in... I couldn't believe he wasn't the man I "knew" he could be. I was so caught up with the fact that he just had to be the person I thought he was when I first met him - funny, creative, liked going on walks, made me laugh, gave me gorgeous jewelry, danced with me - that I was willing to wait through it all to be the one there for him when he finally acheived it.

I didn't realize that I was trying to be his savior. And the real kicker? I lost friends over it. I lost friends who couldn't bear to see how he treated me and how I treated myself with him. They told me time and time again and I came up with excuses. I thought they were reasons at the time, but they were nothing but excuses.

He cheated because his last girlfriend cheated and he can't open up to women. - No, he cheated because he had no respect for our relationship.

He lied because he had taught himself to cover up his true feelings and didn't want to hurt me. - Nope, he was a compulsive liar who had been lying so long he couldn't stop. And he just didn't want me to know.

He was abusive because he harbored pain and aggression from the shooting. - False. He was abusive because I took it. Because I stood up to him and was in his way.

He drank because he hid his pain through alcohol and hadn't learned to control it. - Wrong again. I even had the stupidity to tell him that song line, "whenever you need something strong, baby, just let me know." If I knew then what I know now...

To any girls who have gone through this - you can't change him. You can't save him. He has to save himself. You can believe all you want that you are the one who will give him the opportunity, the reason, the motivation to change. But you'll be wrong. When he wants to change, he will. But until then you will be hit, abused, cheated on, and otherwise treated as less than the woman you are.

To guys - most of you will never be like this. And I thank God for that. Yeesh, even the guys featured on this blog for the most part will never reach this level of loserex. I mean abusive guys are scraping the barrell!

I don't know what made me write this today. I started talking to an ex of mine and we talked about what we learned from each other and whether or not we learned the MOST from each other. And I have to say, the one who taught me the most about life and love, relationships and myself, was String Bean.

The benefits of this type of blog is we women can vent about things that drove us crazy in our previous relationships. (See CrazyHo for the newly birthed guy version.) Some are the quirky habits that guys can change of course, some are ones that are specific to certain dead beats who most would not imitate, and some are things that perhaps we couldn't deal with, but another girl might. (Think fajitas, early morning booty calls, and tattoos.)

A real man would never do the things String Bean did. No excuses, no reasons, no meds. And I am so happy I figured that out before my boobs started to sag.




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It would be very easy for me to write my horror story of dating Shrek. He was not a good person. There are very few people I honestly feel this way about. In fact, other than Shrek, there is only one person I know personally who I would say is not a good person. While I was dating him, I didn't believe this. I honestly thought that his behavior was a result of his less than ideal upbringing, but that it wasn't ingrained in him -- it wasn't an unchangeable part of his character. I thought he was just waiting for someone to come along and help him. I thought I was going to be the person to do that. By dating him and by tolerating his completely unacceptable behavior, I thought I was saving him. I was really just enabling him.

But, as it has been said before, this is "LoserEx," not "Why My Ex is Going to Rot in Hell." I'm not going to talk about him. The point of my blurb is not to tell the world that Shrek is a horrible person -- everyone else seemed to pick up on that pretty quickly. My point is that you cannot change someone.

On a less serious note: when I met Fred, I saw a lot of things a couldn't stand, but I thought I saw potential to mold him in to the person I wanted to date. Fred was unattractive, slightly overweight, dressed like a retarded child and had absolutely no clue how to behave himself in public.

I thought I would start by pressing the clothing issue. I gave several gentle hints that I did not like the way he dressed. In fact, look back a couple of years on the blog and take note of how many "what not to wear" entries there are. When the gentle hints didn't work, I tried buying him clothes I liked. He would wear them and claimed to like them, yet he never bought similar clothes when left to do his own shopping. I finally banned certain articles of clothing. Specifically the Hawaiian shirts and jorts. He stopped wearing them for a few weeks, then picked right back up again. My grade for changing his fashion sense: F

While this was going on, I decided to work on the area of his appearance as well. Granted, what Fred really needs is a chin implant, but I would never tell someone to get cosmetic surgery. His jaw line was weak and feminine. A chin implant would have given him a better profile and balanced out his other features. Anyway, since I couldn't really bring this up, I tried to suggest other things: a better haircut, bleaching his teeth (they were the nastiest shade of yellow you can imagine), clipping his nails, not washing his face with old spice body wash. He listened to none of my suggestions. My grade for changing his appearance: F

After dating for several months, Fred really started to pack on the pounds. Granted, he was never thin, but HOLY CRAP did he get big. I suggested we do several activities together such as, rock climbing, hiking, joining the new (and really nice) gym next to his apartment and running. He shot down all of my ideas. I would even go to the gym in his apartment building, thinking he would feel motivated to come along. Instead, he spent this time playing on his computer. My grade for changing his weight: F

The worst of all was his inability to behave in any social situation. He was loud, make inappropriate comments and basically was unaware of what everyone else was doing. There is not enough room on the internet for me to mention all the times he proved this. Basically, every time I thought I had him trained enough for a certain social situation, I ended up being wrong. I'll write an entry about this soon, but really, there are too many to mention now. My grade for changing his ability to behave in public: F

Yes, these examples are trivial compared to my problems with Shrek. But, seriously, if stupid trivial behaviors like these can't be changed, it is foolish to think that major character flaws can be.

I Think I'll Have Myself a Beer

Fred decided to rush a fraternity his sophomore year of college. He had missed out on the whole IFC rush shindig both years, but when he heard that a new chapter was starting on campus, he decided that he would give this a shot (side note: joining a new fraternity is for losers who couldn't get in an established chapter).

Since there were no current members of the chapter, the rush events were all very official and held by alumni from other chapters of the fraternity as well as other current members from nearby schools.

Now, I am not 100% sure if this is a universal rule, but I know that it was widely known that at my college, fraternity rush events are "alcohol free." What this means is a fraternity will throw a picnic or poker tournament during the early evening which will have an end time of 8pm. After 8, the fraternity busts out the booze, or goes to a bar and will invite rushees to join them. One fraternity tried to do a true alcohol-free rush one year, and their pledge class quality reflected this poor decision.

Anyway, when there are advisers, people from the fraternity headquarters, or IFC officers present, the fraternity rush events are very strictly dry.

The first event held by the fraternity Fred was interested in was a crawfish boil to be held on the quad one Saturday afternoon. Fred suited-up in his best Hawaiian shirt and jorts and waddled his fat ass over to the party.

After arriving at the party and signing-up as an official rushee, he wasted no time speaking with some of the advisers who were flown in from across the country to establish the chapter. After introducing himself, he asked where the keg was.

An awkward silence fell over the group and several uncomfortable looks were exchanged before one advisor finally explained that rush events were dry. Fred was shocked and proceeded to express this.

It blows my mind that he managed to never figure this one out. He had seen two classes go through rush at this point, and surely he must have heard someone talking about this. Furthermore, I don't understand why he ask someone the whereabouts of a keg if no one around him was drinking.

Apparently he managed to never figure out that alcohol is not served at the official rush events, rather at the unofficial events held later in the evening. After his display, he didn’t have to worry about being invited to one of those.

The Tiki God(father)*

Anyone who knows me knows I love costume parties. Unfortunately, the only time I have the opportunity to go to one anymore is on Halloween. But, back in college, there were always sorority and fraternity theme parties going on so I got to put together a costume about twice a month.

Shrek was not a fan of costume parties and would often bail out of going to mine at the last minute. Several times, he would listen to me all week carry on about how excited I was for the party, nod and smile, then wait until an hour before the buses left the night of the event to tell me he was too tired/busy/sick/whatever to accompany me. This would piss the hell out of me and I would go to the parties anyway and spend the night macking on his friends (you’ve got to appreciate the mature, healthy relationship we had).

Then the day I never expected arrived: the day of a party rolled around and Shrek had not bailed on me yet. The theme: Mafia Madness. Shrek and I spent the afternoon at the costume store to find accessories and such to wear to the party. I was stoked when I found some cute mid-sized squirt guns that I would later fill with a bottle of vodka. I also found a hobby horse for pretty cheap that I could cut the head off of and carry around.

Shrek was not impressed with my awesome finds. He told me the squirt guns were a dumb idea and wouldn’t work. Apparently no one would get the horse head either (because, you know, Godfather movies are obscure). In addition to not liking the items I had picked for myself, he did not like the ones I picked for him—a gangster hat, suspenders, a water gun. He spent a very long time milling around the store, ignoring any suggestions I made.

At last, he found something that caught his interests: a bamboo walking cane. No, really. I explained that this really didn’t fit in with the theme. And he insisted it was a good idea. He proceeded to buy an entire luau get-up. The explanation he offered was that he was a retired mafia boss living in Florida. Huh?

I consider myself an expert in costume parties and as such, I feel that my advice is superior to anyone else's on the matter. One thing that I always think about when I put together a costume is “Will people look at this and instantly know what it is?” A costume should not need a story to go with it. It should be obvious what the wearer is trying to be. If someone asks you what your costume is, that means you failed at dressing yourself.

When we arrived at the party, everyone loved my horse head and totally coveted my vodka guns, especially when the lame-ass bar decided to crack-down on the underage drinking at the party (which is unheard of in New Orleans).

People at the party looked at him like he was retarded. I drank myself into oblivion via my vodka guns (which I refused to share with Shrek because he told me it was a dumb idea). Very few people even bothered to ask about his costume. The ones who did asked if he was told the wrong theme.

By the end of the night, Shrek was running around telling people that the reason he was in a Hawaiian get-up was because I am a bitch and thought it would be funny to get him to come to the party in an inappropriate costume, so I told him it was a luau-themed party. Right. Because I totally wanted people to think I am dating a retard.

Someone went home very sober and very alone that night.

* We had some fun naming this entry. CCG was the creator of the title used, but a close second was one I came up with: "Say 'Hello' to my (retarded) little friend." Clearly, this is the inferior of the two titles, but it merits a mention anyway.

Locked Out

I think that it's about time for me to make another Loser-Ex post. I don’t have too many stories to tell about my recent ex's because they have either been nice guys that I don’t really have any bad stories to tell or I didn’t date them long enough to have any stories other than just a description of their general douchey-ness. So I am going to share a story about a friend’s loser-ex.

Ok, now this friend is a sorority sister of mine and she is absolutely beautiful and deserves the very best. Well, I was dating a guy, let’s call him Fratty Ex, and I decided it would be really cute to set my friend up with his best friend so we could go on double dates. Well, I thought this guy was really nice and that he and my friend would be perfect together. He dressed really well, was from the best part of Houston, went to one of the best private schools in Houston, and was in the best fraternity on campus--all this was important to me at the time, I've since become less elitist. What I didn’t know was his habit of getting ridiculously, outrageously, insanely drunk.

Well, he and my friend had been out a few times and things seemed to be going well. So, she and I went with a group of friends out to a bar to meet up with him and his friends (this was a few days after Fratty Ex and I broke up, but he was back in Houston getting a root canal, so I wasn’t worried about running into him). Well, when we got there, he was already passed out on the bar. After a little while, my friend decided that he needed to go home. I was the driver that night, so I drove my friend and the loser-ex back to his house where she was going to put him in bed and then call me to come pick her up when she finished getting him calmed down. So far so good. I dropped them off and then went back to the bar. After about a half an hour, I checked my phone and saw that I had about ten missed calls from her. I went outside to call her back. When I got a hold of her, she told me that was hiding from the police behind a truck in a big pile of gravel. I went back inside the bar and collected a fraternity brother of his to come help me with whatever was going on. So, the fraternity brother and I drove over to the drunkard’s house (which was also Fratty ex’s house) and I called my friend again. By now, they were in the parking lot of the CVS nearby. I drove there and parked across the street and the fraternity brother and I walked over to the parking lot. When we got there, the guy was laying on the pavement covered in blood and my friend was standing over him crying. I started freaking out, thinking he was dead, but then he started moving. So I calmed down a bit. My friend then told me what had happened.

Well, after I had dropped them off, they were trying to get in the house, but the guy, in his drunkenness thought he didn’t have his keys (which it later turned out had been in his pocket the whole time). So, he decided to break a window instead, by punching his arm through it. Unfortunately, the house is a duplex and the landlord lives in the other half of the house, and he had gotten mixed up and broken the landlord’s window instead of his own. The landlord’s alarm went off and so the guy decided to run and my friend had to run after him. That’s how they ended up hiding in a pile of gravel. My friend told me later that while they were laying in the gravel, he kept trying to cuddle with her, while soaked in blood. And then they went over to the CVS parking lot, which is about when I showed up.

Well, my friend, the fraternity brother, and I were trying to get him up off the ground, but he kept yelling that he would only listen to Fratty Ex. As I said, Fratty Ex and I had just broken up and I really didn’t want to call him. I eventually gave up and called him at like 2 in the morning when he had had a root canal not twelve hours before. Fratty Ex (thankfully) told his friend to listen to me. After that it got a little easier. The three of us got him up off the ground and into my car. We drove over to their house, where there were about three police cars. The moment we pulled up at the house, the drunk friend sprang out of my car and ran into the backyard where he tripped and passed out. The fraternity brother ran after him and so my friend and I were left to deal with the cops by ourselves. My friend was crying and freaking out too much to talk, so basically I was the only one able to talk to the cops. The landlord was actually really cool about it, he was just happy that it hadn’t been somebody trying to break in. Well, the landlord wanted me to take the drunk guy to the hospital to get stitches. So, my friend, the fraternity brother, and I got the guy back into the car where he proceeded to bleed all over everything (to this day, I still have a six inch blood stain on the back seat of my car) and went to the emergency room. But once there, we could not get him out of the car. He simply latched onto the edge of my car seats and refused to move. After about 45 minutes we gave up and just drove him home.

The next day, he woke up and called my friend to ask why he was covered in blood.

Oops, I did it again

Men are pigs and women are bitches. I don't know which came first, but they sort of drive each other.

Tonight I went to the bar with my sister and a friend. It was a fundraiser event for the fire department so the place was swarming with firemen and fire skanks. The three of us were probably the only respectable women in the bar (at least we were the only ones who weren't acting like complete whores).

Full disclosure: my ex-fiancee is a firefighter. I know the culture pretty well--or at least well enough to know that I wouldn't hook up with another firefighter if he were the last man on earth. Even removing my boyfriend from the table, every man in the bar had a snowball's chance in hell with me. To signal this, I stuck my ring on my left hand--boom--I was married.

But firemen aren't know for their intelligence.

A fireman who knows my friend came up to our table and introductions were made.

This particular fireman was on duty, wearing a uniform and just "dropped by to check out the party." Yeah right. He dropped in wearing a uniform to see if he could tag a fireskank in between his off-duty friends taking turns. Dumdum had a certain penchant for doing this too--he preferred some bar called Orange Balls though.

Being who I am and having an audience and a little bit of cider in me, I smiled real sweetly and asked "did you bring your truck? Oh, can I have a tour?". I see his eyes light up like only a man's who is about to get a handjob in the backseat can and he leads me out of the bar.

At this point, everyone at the table thinks I'm pursuing him except for my sister who knows me too well and knows damn well that I am going to get to play on the engine for awhile and then the poor fireman is going to have to buy me a beer and then I am going to simply leave the bar without talking to him again. This is actually my favorite bar activity--hands down.

Sure enough, I go downstairs, spend about ten minutes playing with the lights and sirens and putting on turnout gear and generally entertaining myself and having a good time while fireman is practically licking his lips. Then I decide to drop the bomb on him:

Him: "So, you seem to know a lot about fire fighting, what did you, date a fireman or something?"
Me: [starting engine] "Nope, I was engaged to one."
Him: "One from [name of department which current fireman also works for]?"
Me: [turning lights on] "Yep."
Him: "Who?"
Me: [putting helmet on my head] "Not important. Hey, will you take my picture?"
Him: "So you two broke up or something?"
Me: [turning everything off] "Yeah, he wasn't ready for commitment and he got really fat--it is better this way."
Him: "Good for you, you should go out and get yourself a hot piece of something."

At this point, it is blatantly obvious that he is insinuating he is the "hot piece of something." Please.

Me: [climbing down from truck--in three inch heels, no less] "I already have one."
Him: "Oh?"
Me: [handing him his helmet] "Yeah, okay, well, thanks for the tour. That was fun. Bye!"

And I ran back into the bar.

An all-star night would have been if I got him to buy me and my six closest friends shots and give me cab money (I actually did that to some LTC once--and then the LTC ended up stationed at the same post as my boyfriend and we ran into him at a ball and THAT was awkward as hell), but unfortunately, there were only three of us and the bagpipes were on my nerves and I wanted to leave so I didn't even press this guy for a beer. I should have taken one for the team-I suck.

I Couldn't Care Less

More and more I am finding that bars in this area tend to be the biggest freak shows. Last night I left work early and ended up at dollar draft night with a couple of friends (I can never turn down cheap alcohol). After an hour or so, I found myself surrounded by the damn nerd herd. Anyway, I was feeling particularly stand-offish and just wanted to hang out with my friends.

The ringleader of the group seriously began to invade my personal space, blabbing about who-cares-what. I kept my eyes glued on the nearby TV screen. After about 10 minutes of his rambling, he noticed that I was not paying any attention to him, so he asked if I liked Sports Center (it was the show that was on at the time). I told him "Not a chance. It's just that I could not possibly be less interested in anything you have to say right now."

He started laughing! I couldn't believe it. He thought that it was a joke.

Seeing that this wasn't working, I then pulled out my cell phone and started texting all my friends, telling them that I was talking to the biggest loser in the world. I hoped that he would look over at what I was saying.

He may have, but that didn't stop him from talking to me. His only redeeming quality was that he was willing to throw down the plastic for my bar tab from before he arrived.

The rejection hotline was made for people like him. Although, he probably thinks that is all a joke too. What a moron.