Drunk Dialing

Apparently after a certain point during my outings on weekends weekdays, I begin to utilize my fingers to text and call everyone I know to relay very important information, typically involving people I just met, made out with, people I haven’t seen in ages (college) more than likely, to sing that song they just played at the bar that we used to listen to back in the day in our dorm room and…

…OH-MY-GOD I miss you so much, wasn’t being 18 just so much fun, why do we have cubicle jobs and student loans and DAMN remember how much fun we have the first weekend of each month when the bills come in and we’d party like we would never have money again for the remainder of the month, which we wouldn’t because we wasted it all on rum and cokes, martinis, and dirty drinks, cheap bottom shelf vodka and why can we be in college again. Why aren’t you picking up, I know you are there. I don’t care if you live in Africa, Europe or even NYC and it’s 4 a.m, tell your choice in sexual partners to roll over and go back to sleep and talk to me about that time we had the beer Olympics and I won. Remember? …

This is what I imagine the many voicemails I left must’ve sounded like.

I like waking up the next morning and looking through my outgoing calls to see who I called and I truly enjoy the clueless text messages I get when I wake up“were you drunk?”

I always seem to call the same people. Old roommates, old friends (Don’t worry I know exactly who not to call at certain hours, somehow even being unable to walk properly, it is the one task I manage not to screw up) and the ones who were supposed to go out with me to happy hour that night.

Shame on me.

Hey Doc!

I had a check up at the docs office right after work yesterday– well more like 3pm and I ended up just going home right after because of ill fated reasons. I don’t know, I’ll make up something when HR asks me later.

So anyway, I love doctors not because of their earning potential or how cute and nerdy they are, but because of the questions that they have to ask, especially when they say that “it is confidential”:

Dr.: So, Do you do smoke?
Me: I just recently quit, but I only smoke when I drink –(DING DING that’s a lie. He knew it too.)
Dr.: How often do you drink?
Me: Depending, sometimes Mon-sat, other times one day a week but Sundays I take off; its Lword time. It really depends.
Dr: Well on average about how much do you drink and what do you drink?
Me: About 3-5 drinks in a night
Dr: [interrupting] Beers, right?
Me: No, cocktails, martinis, bottles of wine. I am a wine girl! (As I say this with a huge smile on my face) it’s the French in me.
Dr.: Have you ever use drugs? About how often?
Me: I rarely, if ever, use drugs but I’ll make exceptions on special occasions. I’m kidding. I’ve never done anything illegal.
Dr: [Bewildered look on his face] So, have you been anywhere dirty, wooded, city like? (remember I have bronchitis)
Me: Well, I went out to the Atlanta a few weeks ago, then London. ATL is pretty darn dirrtty.

Dr: What did you do when you were at those places (I guess expecting a serious contemplation of whether I was in heavily smokey/Alcoholic areas, etc.)
Me: I drank and smoked
Dr.: Have you ever tried to hurt yourself?
Me: Well between the drinking, the drugs, and the trip to London and Atlanta, I don’t think I’ve had much time to think about hurting myself.
Dr: [Laughing] Well you know I have to ask.

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And for those wondering about the spinning class this morning – it went well. I slid off the saddle a few times but it was ok. I was mentally prepared but still not physically ready for the 45 minutes of nonstop pedalling up hills and down hills and pretending to go around corners, running red lights and safely maneuvering between cars. I’m not just talking about level 1 or 2, its more like a 6-9.

I have no sensation in my inner thighs. I walk funny and it hurts. I think I’ll just go to pilates. At least with that, I know it will help me in some areas of my physique.

Important lesson learned this morning:

In an effort to become hott sexy trophy wife and to lose the few pounds that I put on over the let me drink away my post-holiday ( I know it’s March already) blues/forget the inventory that I took of my empty life, I made a promise to myself that I would go to the gym this morning since I drank dark beer like a wahoo and smoked a half of pack of ciggs on Monday. I’ve been slacking off and work out right after work but with the happy hours I am forced to postponed my workouts.

Not a good idea to go to a spinning class.

Now let me explain my history with excersise classes. I joined a gym; everyone is fit, beautiful and coordinated. I tried taking a karate class a few weeks ago, it was an intermediate class and everyone was like the Karate kid, and I am not talking part I. So I was the geek in the corner, who the instructor decides to try to encourage me by telling me how great I am doing, while I am getting all the moves wrong and doing everything backwards (like using my left foot instead of the right). So I think to myself, spinning...a stationary bike, I'll sit in the back of the class and pedal...not too hard, right?

First lets begin with what I am wearing, everyone in the class is wearing spandex bike shorts with the padded asses, carrying expensive water bottles (what happened to Poland Springs), and are incredibly fit. Then there is me...in a tiny tank and shorts – I look like I’ve done it before. The instructor begins; by the way, she is one hell of a beauty and during the warm up I am weezing from the ciggs and begin sweating profously...emitting the stench of alcohol as I am sweating off my hangover. Nobody else is breaking a sweat, and here it is we begin to stretch...as in we havent even gotten to the actual excersise yet. The instructor has us peddling hands free while we are stretching our upper body. I begin to slide off the seat...oh no, I mean "saddle". Did you know that there is Spinning Lingo? I hold onto the handle bars for dear life since I can't balance my fat ass on the seat. And I am sweating even more profously, emitting more of the alcohol stench into the air... so here it is, me holding onto the handle bars for dear life, trying to balance my fat ass on the saddle, wheezing, sweating profously, reeking of alcohol. Don't think I am going to meet my future mate there looking like I did.

I am going back for the 6am class tomorrow. If it doesn’t work out. I’ll just go back to my good ole lifting.


In all seriousness, as intelligent and charismatic as I have the potential to be, I can't play politics. If I dont like you or if you are an asshole to me, I sneer and give you a blank stare back. I try really hard to find the bright side of things and try to communicate that but...I can't pretend that I am happy with the bullshit that I am fed. And that, as I have come to learn, is my demise.

Hence, my new goal is to become a trophy wife. And considering how 50-60% of mariages in this country end in divorce, if I do find "true love"...chances are it isnt. I’m only kidding. My type A personality will never allow me to be a housewife let alone be someone’s sex slave.

I dominate and I make the rules.

Second Chances

I believe in second chances when it comes to relationships. BUT and that’s a huge but. I guess it depends on the situation that you are both in or actually, where you left off. Like a lot of people I know who have been on breaks and have gotten back together and gone on breaks again and eventually broke up.

In my case though, when I was in a position (at the time) where I felt I needed a second chance. Well I should really say a “third chance”. I could have sworn we would have ended up back together, because what I thought we shared was priceless. I will admit also that I the time we were dating, I was overprotective and a jealous freak. It was all new to me. I’m sure you all have experienced a time when you were in a real long-term relationship and all that mattered was your significant other. It was me. I was scared, nervous but overall excited to have found the other half of my heart. Besides the fights (which we did a lot, because of my insecurities) there were times when I felt complete and that person understood me. I could have done something horribly wrong, and she would still stand by me; not that I have done anything remotely absurd but I knew in my heart that she would be there for me.

I was wrong the entire time though. A little birdie told me the truth which was that she knew the relationship we had was not going to last and had to do something about it and it totally wasn’t what we all thought sparked the break up. I was not perfect, I did a lot of things that I regret, but if I knew that things were going sour because the chemistry was no longer there I wouldn’t have invested my time and spilled my heart out to her. I was in denial I guess. But who wouldn’t be. I knew she still loved me and I am sure it was as hard for her to let me go as it was for me to forgive myself and move on.

This weekend, I spent the majority of my time in bed – fighting my bronchitis. I had the opportunity to re-read some of my entries from a dark time of my life (for those who were there, reading my blogs and possibly thought I was a lunatic but still stood by- thank you) and I couldn’t help but visually return to that time where nothing seemed bright and everything was cold and dark. And I said, “You got over her, THANK God”. I had to remind myself that I did because at the time, I thought my world was chaotic, nothing mattered and happiness was over-rated. “Forget the re-occurring dreams these past few weeks, it might just means that I am wondering what is happening.” It is completely harmless.

I don’t blame anyone for what happened. Not even myself. I have passed that stage where everything fell on my shoulders. “I could have done this or I could have done that – to save my relationship” but the time came. It was her time to end it because of her own reasons. Everything happens for a reason. She fell in love, moved on and what I wanted most for her – happiness. And as for me, I am stuck in the revolving doors – relationship, single-hood, happiness and relationship, single-hood and happiness. Not complaining. Why should I right? I got a taste of both worlds and I get a chance to write about my disasters. It’s amusing.

Second chances are meant to be looked at deeply. In some cases it works and in other cases it becomes a revolving door, which you cannot stop from spinning.

She irks me

There is a very saccharine-sweet saying about people coming into your life, leaving footprints on your soul and you never being changed. Or something ridiculously adorable like that.

Other people, I think, come in to your life, get under your skin enough to irk you and then leave you completely conflicted and generally annoyed. And you can’t, no matter how hard you try, forget them. You could bang your head against the kitchen counter until your brains were all mixed up like scrambled eggs. And the first thing you’d think would be, “I wonder what so-and-so is doing right now, other than ignoring me.”

Most of the people who crawl under my skin like bugs are women, but not all women affect me in this way. There are the ones I scarcely remember — first dates or a drink bought — hell, some that I’ve kissed — who left little imprint, negative or otherwise, on my life, save a funny story from college or an odd, awkward moment in passing. The women who might not even earn a second thought until I’m actually trying to think about them.

When I first started really writing this, there was the Pearl. And she got under my skin so badly that I picked every little moment and interaction apart until it meant nothing. And I can safely say now that some things just don’t have second meanings or special symbolism. Life is not always so complex. A phone call is a phone call and a certain beer isn’t your special beer together. It’s just a drink. And for some reason, for some inexplicable reason, some day, you just stop caring. And you feel kind of silly about the hours and hours and days wasted on this person and the sheer volume of tears shed, which could fill the Gulf of Mexico. Or so it seems at the time.

The Pearl is something else – really. She irks me to the point where I just roll my eyes and pretend to listen. She has the habit of turning every situation against you and belittle you until you feel sorry for yourself for even being such a pest. The thing really is the fact that she is the creat[or] of drama. It follows her and lingers in the air and it gets through your pores and eventually, you are involved. There is always the “you are so rude to me” and my reply “stop being so narsatistic” and the “you are schitzo” and my reply “ it isn’t polite to call someone you care so deeply about a dysfunctial term”. It ends with me hanging up and her constructing more ways to crawl under my skin.

I have never – ever being treated like the way she treats me. But fuck. I am like a puppy on a leash and she knows exactly how to lure me back into the doghouse. 

Where is the animosity?