Monday, May 26, 2008

Heaven and Hell...but mostly just Hell.

He is officially and without a doubt bat shit ass crazy and there's no other way to put it.
Saturday night, I gathered a few people to go try a club downtown called Seven. And, the best part about Seven you ask? The Seven Deadly Sins martinis — Pride, Greed, Envy — all that good shit and I probably had about seven of them then decided to explore the world outside of sin and down a couple of pomegranate drinks as well. Not only did I spend my life savings, my martini sloshed brain thought it to be a good idea to text batshitass crazy man with a single word: "Boo."
Why? WHY did I fucking do this? Because a few hours later as Lacey and I, the last two women standing, were stumbling up the street looking for a cab, *ring, ring* and it's batshitcrazy. It's just one of those things. I've been out of the house for more than two months and I haven't spoken to him for probably a month, so I've been having these thoughts. These thoughts that the past couple of days have proved to me are irrational. I'm thinking, he can't be this completely insane. He didn't mean those things he said to me, he feels guilty and horrible and remorseful and he wants to go to a therapist, so we can at least be friends. There's no way that he thinks that what he did was correct and now he's had some time to think about it, let it sink in and will apologize profusely to me.
Or the exact opposite...
I answer the phone and he's obviously just as shitfaced as I am...Never a good sign...and he sounds like he's at a bar or a party. The tone in his voice is oh-so familiar as well - just the way he would sound when he was on the defensive and fighting as irrationally and dirty as possible. I delve into the reasoning behind my text and in my drunken stupor I listen to his response - "the way you were acting, you deserved it."
Never in my life have I ever acted in such a way that somebody would say, "you're a stupid fucking cunt," then go online, send messages about how much of a crap ass I am to their ex, then solicit women for erotic photos and relationships online. That's like something out of a goddamn horror movie, no, worse, a soap opera and it happened to me. I still don't know what I did to make him feel like this. Oh wait, I did nothing, he's just BATSHITASSCRAZY!
When I tried to bring the conversation back to rational, he just hung up on me. And, while most men would be reading this and picture me nagging incessantly into the phone, that is just not it. It's like trying to reason with a 3-year-old, speaking softly, calmly, S-L-O-W-L-Y, but he continues to throw a temper tantrum. I've never felt so helpless and beside myself or frustrated than when I was trapped in an argument with him that he started about NOTHING after he switched on the crazy. I'd say that change happened in about July or August of last year and progressively got worse.
I sent a text message again just saying that I'd like to at least work some things out. He agreed to call me the next day. Then, Lacey and I found our way back to Kate and Sam's where I apparently created quote history with, "uh! Fuckinnnn' hoof covs (shoes)! Gonna vom...on your face!" I don't recall such intelligent banter, which probably explains why I woke up at noon the next day in one of the bedrooms, sweating my balls off, still in my dress and clutching my purse. At least I wasn't still wearing my shoes. The words, "It hurts to live," were used several times that day. Fuck you Seven Deadly Sins!
Well, he kept his promise and we played phone tag a bit that day before he finally caught me well after midnight. The tone in his voice was a bit different, but it still had that I'm-fucking-insane-and-I'm-unable-to-maintain-normal-relationships edge to it. And, he had been drinking, of course. He was at the lake with his alcoholic dumbass friend - and I'm not just saying that - he is actually certifiably an alcoholic dumbass. Anyway, we get to talking and eventually he brings up some event from several months ago where we were out with Sam, my best friend's boyfriend, and two of his friends. Batshitcrazy had to leave early because he had to get up and go to work early the next morning (a second job he took on Saturdays which I later found out was because he was trying to save up to buy a ring...I'm confused why he would want to marry me since I'm such a cunt and all...). I decided to stay out with the guys because they are completely plutonic. Batshitcrazy and I had even talked about it before we went out and he said he didn't care blah, blah, blah...then he was mad at me for three days...or apparently for eternity since he was bringing it up again.
After asking him what the problem was, he said, "you were hanging out with a bunch of guys!"
"And?" I respond.
"That's what little whores do." He said.
I could almost hear the get-in-the-kitchen twang in his voice.
"I wasn't aware that having friends with penises including one that is my BEST FRIEND'S BOYFRIEND, meant that I was a whore."
"I'm not saying you're a whore, but that's what little whores do."
I don't recall myself doing that often, as in hanging out with just guys, but really when it's friends, I'm not concerned with genitalia. OoooooooooooK. He's got an excellent theory going there, but I'm done with that. We move onto the next topic and yes, it gets better.
It turns into a discussion about beliefs. He tells me he was always worried and saddened at the fact that he knew we could never be together forever, meaning after death, because I didn't believe in what he believed.
"You either go to Heaven or you burn in Hell!" He screeched. "That's just the way it is!"
OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD. This is not real. And completely out of left field.
Then, his voice started cracking, yes, my friends, he began to cry. Then he stuttered out:
"If you really love someone, you believe what they believe so you can go to Heaven and be together forever..."
Where the hell did he get this bullshit? Fuck you dude. Don't act like this is my fault. You're the abuser. I'm just a heathen.
Apparently, the man found Jesus in the past two months. I mean, that's what his dad did after his wife (batshit's mom) caught him boning her best friend. Then after wifey divorced him, he married the best friend and they also divorced. So, really, it only seems natural. It's the only solution to being a complete and utterly astonishing asshole and despicable human being. Finding Jesus heals all sins! Right?
How about try therapy or some non-crazy pills? Or perhaps, since you and your dad grew up religious anyway and you guys are such good devout Christians, try not committing the unthinkable act of selfishness in the first place. I'm pretty sure that Jesus doesn't want to deal with your crazy ass either. Hmmm, maybe that's why I never really warmed to his dad...
Well, soon after this delightful conversation, his phone died and while he called me the next day, I have no desire to speak to him for the rest of my life (or afterlife for that matter). I get it now. He actually IS that insane. He feels no remorse. He is not sorry and he actually believes what he did was correct. So...fuck him. He's gone off the deep end and there's no turning back. I'm now sleeping better at night without all those irrational thoughts of rationality floating around in my head.
And, I just have to say it one more time...BATSHITASSCRAZY!

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Crawl for Cancer

Getting shitcanned to raise money for cancer doesn't exactly seem appropriate, but it's probably the best way to get young people to donate. I mean $45 is a small price to pay for a day of drinking with your friends in matching t-shirts.
I've wanted to participate in this "fundraiser" ever since Whitney and I were nursing our hangovers with Joe's Pizza in Westport one Saturday afternoon and we saw the mob of different colored shirts constantly walking past the windows - some teams with hats, socks and other crazy accessories. After a little research, I found that even though the event was twice a year, it was nearly impossible to form a team and actually participate with the mixture of noncommittal people and the fact that everybody and their mother wanted to sign up. You pretty much have to sign up about two months in advance.
But this time a few people dropped out of my friend Jeff's team and I jumped at the chance to fill in. I knew Jeff and a handful of other people vaguely from the two teams that met at his apartment yesterday morning, but I put on my red shirt and blended with the veteran crawlers. Five bars, a few trips on a party bus, some pole dancing, some regular dancing, a run in with a balloon man on stilts, an unnecessarily long game of drunken sand volleyball in a skirt, the murder of my pink poodle balloon hat and about 20 pitchers of Coors Light later, we ended up shoving pizza in our faces at Joe's. Then, because 75 gallons of beer is not nearly enough, what was left of the group went to power hour at The Dark Horse.
By about 9:30 p.m. I was back at Jeff's place with a bunch of guys and still too drunk to drive home although the hangover headache was slowly creeping in. I learned I'm horrible at Rock Band and made my headache come on even faster by hanging upside down on Jeff's pull up bar and tossing a medicine ball back and forth. I passed out about six times on the couch watching Planet Earth before I finally got up and drove home after 3 a.m. The best part was the fact that I actually thought I was going to be able to make it to another pub crawl that night...I'm sad I missed the golf pub crawl, but since I was drunk, hungover and recovered all in one day, I was in good enough shape this morning to bring all of their hungover asses bagels and listen to the stories.
Now I see why they only do this thing twice a year - you need six months to recover from the last one, but I'm ready. Bring on October. Boo cancer, yea beer!

Thursday, May 15, 2008

The Butt Tick Caper

The story I'm about to tell is the type of unfortunate-ness that only seems to happen to me. And it's not necessarily because of my luck. It's because I'm completely ridiculous.
After a rousing game of volleyball complete with dives, full on rolls in the sand and plenty of beers earlier tonight, I headed home and decided it would be a good idea rather than shower the sand out of ass crack right away, to sit my tired self on the couch for a bit, chat with the parents, pet the dogs, watch TV, eat dinner - and all the while unaware that a little friend had attached himself to me and followed me home.
It was well after 11 p.m. before I got into the shower - code word for "mom's completely assed out on the couch" and "dad's nowhere to be seen, so he's probably in bed." As I scrubbed the sand off, I grazed over something little and hard near my butt - Oh fuck, is that a tick? I'm extra schizo now since ticks are apparently rampant this year because the dogs, who have the expensive flea and tick preventative shit carefully applied to them each month, have been carrying the little bastards in from the backyard. Not just the tall grass or deep woods, but the fucking BACKYARD! I brushed over the spot again...OH FUCK! I frantically halfway rinsed the shampoo out of my hair, jumped out of the shower and cautiously looked in the mirror revealing my horrific fear.
There was a motherfucking tick attached to my ass. Oh eeweeweeweewohmygodohmygodfuckityfuckfuckfuck!
After pacing around trying to figure out what to do, I put on a shirt, wrapped the towel around my waist, grabbed a pair of tweezers and headed downstairs to try to wake up some assistance.
Mom = lost cause after she falls asleep. I shake her shoulder and yell "mom" eight times before she even manages to smile widely, with her eyes still closed, laugh, then mutter something along the lines of: "berga-ffff brrr haha OKOKOK."
Now really, I love my dad, but we're not really at the pull-the-tick-off-the-ass comfort level. It's inappropriate for a father to see certain parts of you after the age of 4 or 5, so waking my dad up was a last resort. Of course the fact that there was a tick on my ass made it perfectly logical.
Though it was a strange request, he just smirked (the face he makes in such situations, which reveals he is quite aware he has raised a lunatic) as I fashioned my towel into a diaper and he began the quest to end my tick neurosis - at least for tonight.
Happy that my dad was helping me, I patiently stood there wondering, is it supposed to hurt this bad to have a tick pulled off of you? After several minutes, he determined that he had been trying to rip a mole off my ass instead of a bug. So, no, it's not supposed to hurt that bad to pull a tick off. Goddammit.
He went back to bed, but convinced I was not a crazy faux tick identifier, I got a mirror and sure enough, there it was...except it was further down the butt cheek. It was in that place that is not necessarily defined as your ass, nor your crotch, nor your upper thigh. A place only your boyfriend and your Brazilian wax artist sees.
I took a deep breath, used some lingering dance flexibility to basically fling my right leg behind my head and pulled the bastard off of me with the tweezers. *phew* I walked back into the other room and dropped the still kicking tick into my dad's open hand to prove I wasn't insane.
"Yep, that's a tick," he said, examining it under the light. Crazy veterinarian, just sitting there, playing with a tick. Ew. *shudder.*
Crisis somewhat averted except for the fact that it feels like they're crawling all over me and I now have Lyme Disease and I'm going to die. Dammit.
I'm sure this will be a story told for generations - "Oh that grandma Lara, she was always getting into those type of messes - crazy 'ole broad," they'll say.

In other news not related to a tick on my ass, my first real Back Into The Wild date went quite well. A few drinks, salsa lessons, a few more beers and burgers at Westport Flea Market, a goodbye kiss and then home. Not bad, not bad. Just real and chill. You can't really ask for more than that.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Fabu - fucking - lous!

I'm no longer a reject of society destined to live in my parents' basement until I'm well into my 30s because...........I found an apartment!
When I first set out to find one, I'm not so sure why I thought it was going to be so easy because, I mean, c'mon, we are working with, well, me, here, so the odds of me being easygoing when finding a place that I must live in a.) by myself b.) with Andy c.) for at least a year and d.) has to be completely perfect and fabulous in every way, are absolutely impossible.
Back in April, I had it narrowed down to three places, each of the complex's pros and cons mapped out on little pieces of paper, agonizing over things such as whether to sacrafice less square footage for a washer and dryer in unit or deciding if vaulted ceilings were fabulous or just extra high places for cobwebs and bugs to hide where I couldn't reach them to annihilate their asses.
Then, when it came down to it, the scarce availability and the location of the apartments that were available within the complex were my downfall. Damn shitastic economy! Forcing would be homeowners to rent and steal the only option I have, which is to rent. Bastards.
Anyway, I'm also horrendously picky, but hell, if I have to live by myself, I do not want to worry that the axe murderer is going to break into the sliding glass door of my ground floor apartment every night. (a.k.a. nix the groundfloor apartments pretty much altogether - sliding glass door or not) Also, a girl has got to live near the clubhouse - pool, mailroom, "wah, wah, wah my blank doesn't work" bitching arena - you know, the important stuff. When my entourage comes to pick me up, I want to be able to look out the window or front door and see them arriving. And, if the the drive to the bars is more than 5 minutes - you can forget it.
Needless to say, the three places I had picked out went out the window partially due to my spoiled bitchiness. However, I decided to venture out of my narrow perimeters a few weeks ago and discovered a little place behind my gym. It was a little further away from the fun - perhaps a three minute drives' worth, yet three minutes I will not be with my friends while I drive - and not exactly what I was looking for, but the amenities were better than any I had seen, as well as the rent and the availabilty. Late last week I took my mom to see this place that I was almost certainly going to sign a lease with and she thought it would suffice - sort of the same feeling I had. And, as we pulled out of parking lot determining that I would fax my application over first thing in the morning, my mom said, "turn left, what's down here," asking me to explore the neighborhood rather than going straight home. Suddenly, a shining beam of light came down from the sky and landed upon a lovely complex full of little white buildings with blue shutters. "These look expensive," mom said.
As we drove past, I noticed the sign and remembered seeing it in an online search, but dismissing it because it was out of my strict apartment hunting location range. Now that I had branched out, we decided to check it out. After we left the little one bedroom with washer and dryer, vaulted ceilings, walk-in closet (must, must, must), lots of storage and added bonus - a garage - my mom said, "I want to live there!"
Hell no, mom, this place is mine. I snagged a little "Andy friendly" second floor place right by pool for under $650 a month and I can move in June 13. It was just meant to be and I'm pissing my pants with glee. Now it's just a matter of finding some poor suckers to help me move in the middle of June in Kansas. At least the pool is right there.
On top of all this apartment excitement, I also have a date on Tuesday. Yes, me, a date, with a real live boy. A nice boy as far as I can tell too. I met him at our usual Thursday night outing to the casino for salsa then danced with him all night at the VooDoo Lounge in another casino Saturday night for my friend Becca's birthday. And, get this, for our date, we're going to a salsa lesson in Westport, then out for burgers and beers. Hmmm, sounds like my kind of guy. Things seem as though they're starting to look up for my living-with-my-parents-as-an-adult spinster ass.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Oh mailman!

I got an e-mail the other day from crazy asking what to do with my mail. I naturally told him to just leave it on the porch and I'd come over to pick it up - no face to face contact.
After my usual Tuesday night kickboxing class, I headed straight from the gym to the old house to pick up the mail. When I was turning left onto the street, I realized I had been driving behind the ex the entire time. It didn't click until the red car started slowing down in front of the house and I remembered he stopped driving his truck around when the gas prices went insane and starting driving a car.
As if it wasn't bad enough that we pulled up to the house at the same time, the new roommate, cigarette in hand, fat in the ass, was on the porch to greet us both.
I sat in the car for a few seconds and figured I could handle this one of two ways. I could either get out of the car, introduce myself, try to be nice, grab the mail and go or...I could get the fuck out of there RIGHT NOW! I chose the latter and sped down the street deciding not to go straight home, but to take a spin around the block to allow them to go inside.
When I came back, both had disappeared, so I quickly made my way up to the front porch to find a stack of mail underneath the leg of a strange table. Strange in the sense that I had never seen it before - it wasn't mine and it wasn't his. The front door was cracked and I could hear the TV on inside. The familiar shape of his head bobbed past the curtains in the kitchen. I immediately felt a wave of ick spread over me.
I drove away exasperated and practically hyperventilating. I wasn't sure whether to cry or scream or punch things. All I know is this is a sign that I'm not over him. I'm not over the fact that that is MY fucking house and some other bitch is living there and I'm not over the fact that that is the life I'm supposed to be leading right now and forever and some abusive asshole ripped it away from me in a matter of months. I'm just not over the anger.
Fuck. I'm never getting the mail again.

Monday, May 5, 2008

Back into the Wild

The past couple of days I've felt free - free to move on with my life and, more importantly, place myself back on the market. While I've actually been single for about six months, continuing to live with your ex-boyfriend isn't exactly the best pick up line. Of course, living with your parents doesn't exactly make the boys swoon either, but it's a step up...
While I'm still wounded and probably will be for a while along with being horribly rusty with dating (yeah, I have no game) I'm still ready to go back into the wild and see what's out there...and this past weekend, I saw what was out there.
My friend Kate is the godmother of our other friend Shaunna and her soon-to-be husband Andrew's son and when the couple had a baptism party for the baby, I was invited to help make a dent in the massive amounts of barbeque they ordered. That's when I met the baby's godfather and decided he was fairly good looking, funny, charming - all that good first impression stuff you look for. Plus, he was a successful lawyer and little bit older - early 30s. I thought maybe this age/occupation difference would make him different than most of the men I meet in their 20s.
Rule No. 1 of Back into the Wild Dating: Age and often times occupation, in regards to men, don't mean shit.
I asked Kate about him around the same time he asked Andrew about me and when Shaunna and Andrew decided to have another party for the Kentucky Derby last weekend, everyone decided to play matchmaker.
Everything seemed normal at first - still nice, still charming - though the 65 mint julips were starting to show on his face. By the time I had to leave later in the evening to cover an event for work, he was starting to slip into a sugar and whiskey induced stupor.
I returned two hours later to find that Mr. Mint Julip had switched to beer and had easily guzzled close to 30 Miller Lites. Now, I'm pretty much a party girl. I've been known to get pretty shitcanned wasted from time to time and drink more than one too many beers - even bonging one or two or four while standing in the bathtub to avoid dripping on the carpet - who said beer bonging is only a summer sport? Anyway, I'm talking lots of drunk fun, but 30 beers? Really? I'd rather remain in decent control of basic skills, such as, I don't know, talking perhaps? And, I'd also rather avoid having my stomach pumped.
The two of us ended up outside talking, or attempting to talk, which involved him asking me the same question over and over again and him sitting there for 10 minutes trying to remember the name of a movie that I could give two shits about. Then, after sitting silent for a few moments, he turns and says, "hey, wanna make out? Cuz I do."
Excuse me, what? I thought we were both over the age of 16. Wow, I thought at age 25 I wouldn't have to deal with shit like this anymore. I would like to commend you lawyer man for making me realize that anything is possible.
After telling Kate and Shaunna about my oh-so-tempting proposition, and hearing all the "oh, he's just drunk" excuses, we head downstairs to avoid waking up the baby and, sure enough, I mysteriously end up alone with drunk ass. This time he skips the asking and just goes straight into trying to eat my face and grope my boobs.
No, seriously, did I unknowingly fall into a time warp?
I narrowly escape, but have this strange feeling I will have the pleasure of seeing him again. Damn godfather...
Rule No. 2 of Back into the Wild Dating: There will be many more disappointing surprises than pleasant ones, but you mustn't get discouraged.
And now, back into the wild...

Friday, May 2, 2008

It's really over...or is it?

The day had finally come. The magical day of May 1st when all my shit would be out of the hell hole, my deposit check would be sitting on the table, I would exchange it for the key then I would never have to talk to him again. Yeah...right.
Except when you live in psycho ex-boyfriend land, it's never that easy.
First of all, there was no $250 check from the new FEMALE roommate in sight - did I mention the new roomie is a female he doesn't even know? Therefore, I kept a tight grasp on that house key. You give me money, I give you key. I wasn't aware it was such a difficult concept.
My dad and I hauled the remaining furniture and boxes out to the truck while my mom furiously cleaned my room so not even Mr. Clean sans the bald head and giant gold hoops could complain.
Later, as I was helping my dad situate the new load of shit in my parents' garage, I noticed something rather strange clinging to the bottom of my dining chairs...Boogers. Yes, people, I fucking said MOTHERFUCKING BOOGERS! What is he, 4? If he's going to wipe his nose crusties underneath my chairs, why doesn't he just go ahead and eat paste or better yet pick it and eat it - that way it won't end up under my goddamn chairs.
Still reeling from the booger incident, 5 o'clock rolls around and just as suspected, *ring, ring*, he calls to bitch. "Are you going to patch up the holes in the walls of the bedroom?" he asks. No, actually, I'm not going to patch up the holes in the spotless bedroom with painted yellow walls because the spackle is white and more holes will just be placed in the wall the next day by new fat ass roommate. I will, however, be happy to drive something pointy through your skull then spackle the hole it leaves...
After I ask about the check/key situation, he informs me that he's had the check in his pocket all day...and it wasn't on the table because....? Because he is a scary control freak. I calmly explain that I will not be driving my ass 20 minutes back to the house I just said goodbye to, so I can see his dick nose and listen to his snide comments just to get $250. That was the whole point of the check/key exchange - so we didn't have to see or hear each other...wanker.
Tornadoes then decided to decend upon the land - did I mention I live in Kansas? So, my mom and I are stuck in the basement and I'm still without $250 nor have I gotten rid of this damn key - at least there was wine and pizza. The weather finally decided to stop being all Oz-ish around 10:30 and I bit the bullet and headed back to the hell hole to find a box of food that was apparently mine on the front porch, but more importantly the elusive deposit check. I exchanged his offering with the key, the spackle and a definition of the word "selfless." When he left me a note earlier that day stating, among other things, "I know you're not selfless like me," I got the feeling he needed a little refresher on the meaning of the word - it was just a little token of my appreciation for the past two years.
Until next time Captain Dipshit, because I'm sure with your gentle, kind soul it won't be the last time we meet.

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