Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Special Delivery

In Tove Lo fashion, 'now if we're talking Buddy (hey!)...'

This past fall, Buddy took a much welcomed extended leave of absence from our lives. I want to go into details and explain why but I prefer to go Benjamin Button on you and begin backwards.

Usually on your birthday, you receive calls/texts/Facebook messages from friends and family.  This also seems to be the perfect day for the randoms you've met along the the way to slip through the window of opportunity.  In a previous post, I talked about guys in this category; it's someone you most likely met at a bar and in a weakened, temporary moment of liquid induced insanity, you gave him your number.  So, it's ya birfday and you're trying to party like it's ya birfday, but you get distracted when you see a text message from that loser you met at Mad River 4 years ago, who awkwardly tried to kiss you in his kitchen when you refused to take the 'rooftop deck tour'. I'm digressing a little, but it's actually hilarious that some seem to think this is a smart way to impress a lady. Sure, I'll come up on the deck...if you have a fire escape. 

I don't intend to come across as mean, but I question why this happens; I appreciate a nice gesture but this really got me thinking.  Usually after the 'Happy Birthday' greeting comes the 'Thanks! :)' response but what that means is, 'Thanks, this conversation is over'. In a way, I understand...if he's clueless, he needs a good excuse to come swooping back in like a Knight in Shining Armor but instead of a horse, he's riding in a beat up taxi since he's drunk. I guess they figure a special occasion such as the day you were born warrants lame conversation even though the flame they're hoping to reignite burnt out faster than a candle in a hurricane; in fact, there was never a fire to begin with - except on a bottle of Fireball.

It was my friend's birthday a few weeks back and our boozy friend Buddy skipped the birthday greeting and announces it's shot o'clock.  I'm proud to inform everyone that Buddy has recently graduated from Fireball to Rumple Minze; yes, it's clearly Christmas in July and the Heat Miser has currently frozen his love for whiskey. At that time, we were located about 30 miles away celebrating, but he made the offer quite clear - that he was at 'S&J's' (Stan & Joes) and that he has a case of the Rumps.  It's getting late, but if we make it back to Annapolis, we're only a few short blocks and a Rohypnol away from a good time!  Buddy is told that we won't be making it out tonight - it's been a long day and we're tired.

Buddy's response? 'If you're nice, I'll bring you a slice of cheese' He's been bringing the 'cheese' all along, but what he's referring to tonight is pizza.  Trying to sway the drunk girl with food huh?  Some girls want a sugar daddy but he's under the impression that she wants a Papa John.  If we wanted someone taking food requests at 1:30 in the morning, it'd be Giovanni from Pizza Boli's...not you.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

In every lovely summer's day

In case anyone was looking to follow up on what happened with our friend Buddy, I promise I won't leave you hanging for much longer. Today though, I want to touch on something else.

June marks six months since my father passed away; next Sunday will be my first Father's Day without him. I think about my Dad every single day.  To be honest, some days are very normal and routine, almost like it never happened. When this occurs, I feel a surge of guilt for feeling happy and wonder if he's looking down wondering if I forgot about him. However, there are nights I shed tears because I simply want to talk to him and I can't. I'm still processing his loss and am sometimes surprised at the emotions I'm experiencing. 

My Dad and I did not have a perfect relationship - in fact, we butted heads quite a bit.  We tested each other; both stubborn in our ways, but thankfully we were always able to work out these kinks. Though his life was cut short, he was able to make his dreams come true through steadfast focus and integrity. He was undeniably the most giving human being I've ever come across - generous, but not foolish. He was strong in his morals and didn't hesitate to stand up to deceitful behavior.  He was brutally honest; I learned to stop lying a long time ago when once he asked where my report card was (in my backpack) but I was afraid to show him because of a bad grade - so I told him I left it at school.  I knew I was in deep shit when he then replied 'Ok, I'll drive you to school so we can get it'.

Because of him, I am a better person; even in his absence, his hand on my shoulder continues to be a guiding force.  He said that I made him proud, and I want to continue to do so. We used to discuss what song we would dance to if I ever got married; I told him I'd always liked the 'I'll be seeing you' version by Frank Sinatra.

Yes, I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces - all day and through.

Monday, June 1, 2015

Unlimited Crabs & Ribs

Last night, I had a lot of time to think slash reminisce while I worked on pulling 50 bobby pins out of my hair. #Weddingseason, hayyyy.

Something about standing on a dock at high noon, surrounded by sparkling water brought me back to a few memories from last summer; due to length, this post will most likely be a two part-er. Before I go into details, I'm going to confidently assume that at least 99.9% of anyone reading this has carelessly given out their digits at a bar.  Why on EARTH did you commit such an act? I've broken it down:

1. You were drunk
2. You were bored (and drunk)
3. You're going through a break-up and need a confidence boost (and drunk)
4. You were drunk
5. You were drunk
6. You were drunk

So, yeah...the damage is done.  It's especially funny because in a lot of these scenarios, we'll gladly hand our phone to this person (stalker) so that they may enter their 'name' into your contacts. The following morning, you wake up confused when you notice you have a text from 'Cute Nick' or some turd bag nickname like 'J-Luv' - what? Let's face it, no one calls you J-Luv except yourself.  The message is your standard 'good morning beautiful' followed by a fugly selfie of said Cute Nick or J-Luv, sporting aviators and an Aeropostale polo with a mother fucking popped collar! Ahhhh! Honestly, the first thought that came to mind was if and how that store was actually still in business.

These conversations are usually short lived, and by short lived I mean non-existent.  We ignore it and in most cases, they take the hint.  Other times, they'll have a conversations with themselves like ''well, it was nice to meet you. I'll be in town for the next week if you want to chill!' Thanks but no thanks; in other words, you're looking for something to poke on while you're on your 'business trip'. What he should be looking for is a stylist to take him shopping for big boy clothing.

Don't worry; I'm getting to my point.  So, there's those guys...the 'J-Luvs' and the 'Cute Nicks' who are never cute but think they'll sway you anyway.  Sometimes, you'll meet an in-betweener - I really don't know what else to call it.  This guy isn't the worst, but you also don't want to be waking up next to him. You're not attracted to him physically, his personality doesn't make up for it either BUT hey, if you happen to run into him when you see him out - you won't decline a drink offer.  Got it?  We'll call him Buddy.

He's easy to dub this because he works part time at Buddy's in Annapolis aka place to eat seafood if you want your head in a toilet later.  Buddy is ALSO a real estate agent and kind of a big deal, as he feels inclined to mention every time he opens his mouth. Buddy was smitten with my friend immediately upon meeting; over the course of a year, we'd run into Buddy on occasion.  Though Buddy was told from the get-go that there was no chance for romance, he continued to show endless devotion with offerings of cinnamon whiskey. We wouldn't be in the bar for more than 10 minutes before he came barreling over with his hot, Fireball breath handing us shots. 'Hey sweetheart!'  That was his choice pet name.  Unless she's your girlfriend or you're a 1920's Prohibition era gangster, stop using that fucking word! 'Ya shee, schweetheart..I brought here shome bootleg whiskayyyy!!'

To be continued...

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

And that's how ya let the beat build...

In the past 9 years of me intermittently living an apartment lifestyle, I've always been on the top floor.  This sitch is not ideal for moving furniture, carrying groceries, or surviving tornadoes.  In fact, I'm pretty sure the only perk is lack of noise.  At my previous residence, the only time I was startled awakened in the early mornin' hours was by the Pizza Bolis delivery guy; his fist was going to Poundtown on the door because 'some' drunk ordered pizza and fell asleep before it arrived - completely justifiable.

Fast forward to August of 2014 - ooh girl, can you picture it?  So, the roommate and I are all moved into our new place, which I need to mention is a 1st floor apartment - started from tha top, now we here.  We were enjoying an intense Netflix bender when it began - 'it' being an exhausting and seemingly endless struggle for the duration of our lease.  I don't know about you, but I am not a big fan of EDM.  I'm especially not a fan when it's blasting loud and proud from the apartment above, causing objects in my bedroom to vibrate.  I'm a pretty lax gal when it comes to tolerating loud music and rowdiness; hell, there were many-a-nights just a few short years ago when it was deemed more than acceptable to crank up my hoodrat playlist during a heavy pre-game sesh.

As the weeks progressed toward fall, the noise grew but my patience did not.  I'll go ahead and call my 2nd floor neighbor 'David' (Guetta) since he seems to think he's a mainstream DJ. David's late afternoon club bumpin' exhibitions eventually went into hibernation; some say you 'can't stop the music' but sometimes you have to before before you're late to your kiosk job at the mall selling E-cigarettes.  I actually have no idea what he does for a living but I'm favoring it's something that requires limited brain activity.  I DO know his real name, as it's posted on his mailbox every month on a piece of paper threatening his eviction if he doesn't pay rent.  Too bad you can't be kicked out for being a total fucking tool.

Before long, I began to be kidnapped almost nightly out of a deep sleep by good ole deejay Dave.  Any weeknight, it would be begin between 12:30 - 3:30 AM and continue on for several agonizing hours.  I like to call any of those time slots the witching, er...bitching hour because that's what I was driven to: waking up and complaining to my roomie about the Douche Rocket that has struck our walls.  When you start waking up like clockwork a la Ryan Reynolds in 'The Amityville Horror', then I think we have an issue.  Now, I think the adult way to handle problems is to go directly to the source, which in this case, involved  several courtesy knocks and a polite request to 'turn your FUCKING music off!'  Keep in mind there actually was major emphasis on the expletive.  I wasn't shocked he didn't open the door, but a little disappointed because I was curious to see what his shit show of a place looks like.

I imagined a hazy, burnout dorm room type place - with paraphernalia everywhere, a ripped up futon and let's just go ahead and throw a lava lamp in there.  There's also a high possibility that he charges $2.00 at the door and if you have a vagina, you get to drink for FREE - from a plastic BUSCH LIGHT cup!  Sadly, I have yet to see the elusive Bro Lair, though the privilege is granted only to the lucky lured ladies who are drunk - and I'm talking about David Hasselhoff lying on the floor eating Wendy's drunk.  If you've never seen the clip, shame on you and Google it.

As if the music wasn't enough, Dave is pretty active during these episodes - fervently stomping around like the Jolly Green Giant.  Speaking of green, I guess he's just anxiously pacing back and forth while waiting for a weed delivery.  I mean, this is Annapolis - might as well act like a pretentious asshole and have your drugs delivered straight to your doorstep. You may be wondering why I hadn't called the cops; truth is, I try to give people the benefit of the doubt - that maybe there's a tiny bit of common courtesy lurking around.

When the bass dropped last night around 12:15, we decided it was time to call the boys in blue.  It must've been a slow night in Nap-town because maybe 7 minutes after the call was made, we heard the 'KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK'.  I opened my door slightly to eavesdrop on the verbal ass whipping - all I heard in addition to walkie-talkie 5-0 static was Dave exclaiming 'I wasn't smoking anything!' I found that funny considering the complaint had absolutely nothing to do with that.  He may have not been smoking, but his sub-woofer was.