Dirty Deaux: New Orleans

Surprise!  I’m back and it’s time to wrap up this chapter of my romantic history because I really don’t have the energy to discuss what exactly my problem was with this dude, mostly because I believe that the sheer amount of discussion was the exact problem—

Everything was a discussion.

It was as though my life had turned into an endless round of “Guess What She’s Going to Do Next!”  Followed by a bonus round of:  “Ask Her Why!” and “Let’s Make Her Feel Like an Idiot!”:

him: why do you take your trash out in the morning?

me: because.

him: do you want me to take it out tonight?

me: no, i’ll get it.

him: why not?

me: because I just normally take it in the morning.

him: well what’s the difference?

me: what? i have food that was bad and i don’t want it rotting in there all night.

him: why did you buy this computer?

me: because i needed a tv and a computer and this one is all of those.

him: why don’t you like gps?

me: because it makes you stupid.

him: why do you use graph paper?

me: because i like to make straight lines.

him: why do you use a ruler with graph paper?

me: because i like to make straight lines.

him: what’s wrong with the eraser that comes on the pencil?

me: they’re shit.

him: why do you have so many rulers?

me: why do you talk so slow?

him: why don’t you just set up the grill in the back yard?

me: wha? on the LAWN?

me: i’m going to new orleans.

The end.

It was like having a kid but worse.  He asked a lot of questions.  Fine.  Except that he didn’t ask a lot of questions because he wanted to ‘know’; it was because he wanted me to be wrong.  Of course, I’m the asshole though.

So, in a classic, chicken-shit move, I bolted.

It doesn’t take much to get me to skip town these days—Especially, given that the one and only; long-lost, Dirty D, was back in his hometown and my 2^nd favorite city, for a very small window of time before setting off for grad school.  And just being honest:  Even if there were only a 4% chance that I would get to share the company of a boy who is smarter than me, can out-flirt and out-ghetto me—all in the same sentence, all with effortless execution…then I would move mountains, cities, and boyfriends, apparently…to make it happen.

OK – Stop.  There is no scandal here.  D and I met under professional pretenses, and disappointingly enough, we have remained as such.  Although, professional is defined loosely in our situation because back in the day, it didn’t take long for either of us to see through the other’s “young professional” facade which quickly led to us spending many a morning like a bunch of hood rats, bullshitting about our old, hard-partying ways and lovers past and present.

Not to mention that anyone who is so slick that he can go to a company Christmas party and ask one of our managing directors, “Which car do you think will get me the most pussy?” and have him ANSWER (Aston Martin DB9) without skipping a beat–will always be a legend in my book.

Anyway, he left our banking bubble 2 years prior to my own departure and we kept in touch via email, gchat and Skype—but Skype makes for sore eyes so New Orleans was a long time coming…and boy, did she get me good this time.

After a short but long-overdue reunion on Bourbon Street, D and I parted ways–professionalism intact; he was off to B school and I was off to the next activity on the NO agenda:  group outing.

A mixture of old and new friends, generally = fun, albeit risky equation, given the potentially volatile mixture of variables (me), but in this case = I have never had a better example to more clearly illustrate the exact type of fuckery that my life consists of, so of course, I illustrated it, but I made sure to put the picture at the bottom…so read on, dear friends (or press ‘ ctrl + End’ to get to the pictures, dear dummies) AND…here goes:

Girl meets boy.

Girl likes boy.

Drink, drink, drink…

At this point, it’s safe to assume that I did something retarded to relegate myself to ‘wing girl’ status … because that’s what I do when I like someone, because I make sense…

Drink, drink, drink…

Strip Club:

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Uh, I don’t even really remember the whole thought process that led to us getting to the strip club, but I think it had something to do with shots.  Anyway, we settled into a table, got a few rounds and I filled the time by teaching other girls in our group how to fold dollar bills longwise (like a hotdog…or..) which is supposed to encourage the dancers to pick the $$$ up with their butt cheeks…Yes, that’s right.  All class, all the time.

Drink, drink, drink…

Girl sees Boy getting a lap dance…(like 3 feet away from her.)

So, being the grown-up that I am, I shake it off, and attempt to push it out of my memory, along with the slew of other shit that I’d like to un-remember from that night by Drink, drink, drinking…

Details are blurry at this point:

Now, I don’t know what it is about me that makes me think that I’m always in trouble, but I do, and I think it might have something to do with my inability to censor myself–Especially when the aforementioned lap dance-ER; who was also dancing on stage, well within earshot of our table, prior to dancing on the lap-dance-EE’s..lap– flags me down to come talk to her as I was on my way to the restroom.

Methinks she might’ve heard me…and methinks she’d like to discuss…and then she says:

“Do you know that guy you’re with?  Is he like a nice guy?  Because he gave me his number and I don’t normally date customers, but I was wondering what you thought to see if I should even bother calling him.”

Surprise!  Methinks wrong.

This naked, young woman totally caught me off guard before I could even start with my whole:  “What?  Pffft!  No…I..no, that wasn’t what I said at all, OMG – that is so crazy!  I was just joking—It wasn’t even my joke really, I think it was Chris Rock’s, and it wasn’t even about that…” speech and so then the wheels started turning:

Inner Monologue:

Wha?  Are you kidding?

Is someone seriously just fucking with me?

This motherfuckerhere just gave his number to Tits McGee and now SHE is seriously sitting here topless, smoking a cigarette–asking ME–if she should date him or not??

AM I ON A FUCKING JAPANESE GAMESHOW RIGHT NOW?

What if the ash falls?

This is insane.

What’s worse, (a) a stripper with a seemingly solid standard of business ethics and morals or (b) a dude, who gives his number to a stripper?

How far would this ho like to take this conversation?  How far do I want to think into this?  Can we ask the audience?  Phone a friend?  Wait.  Where are my friends?  Who was supposed to be watching me?  Jesus, my neck hurts…Did she just say grapes?

External Monologue:

What?  Oh, him?  Well, yeah – he’s a good guy.  He’s nice, smart—has a good job. He actually just moved to New Orleans, so he doesn’t know too many people, but he’s a really good guy…

Yes, of course you should call him.

Yep.  I channeled my inner-yenta and gave that dude the most glowing personal recommendation that a drunk, dejected me could manage.

What else was I supposed to do?  I might have taken a few jabs to the ‘ol ego, but in the end, I left that tittie bar more confident than ever—knowing that I look trustworthy enough to be a goddamn stripper life-coach.

So I’ve got that going for me.

Opposite days of summer….

Next up:  More fail in NYC and of course, fall, winter and spring…

Xoxo – k