The Stag

Location: Eddies, one last time... (maybe?)

Time: 11:45 pm

My friend was once again bar tending at the local dive down the street from my work. Mel and I were suppose to go together at the end of our long closing shift, but she had to be up early.

She said she would grab a beer with me, but I could tell by her seven am wake up call that this would be a greater favor than she really wanted to give. I lovingly let her off the hook when I found out two of my other friends would both be up there as well.

I reached the bar after work by myself, and I have never even walked into this establishment alone. I leaned up to the bar and said, "Where are they?"

Jamie, the bartender told me they had left five minutes ago. "But I texted you five minutes ago?"

Apparently, he really thought they were going to stay, even though they got their food to go. I looked around at the other two people sitting at his bar and realized, he may have just been desperate.

"James, I don't know if I'm that guy. I don't know if I can sit here. I'll give you one beer and then I'm out." He told me it was going to be okay, and poured me a beer that tasted like a shot of Nyquil.

I complained and he grabbed me a beer from the back bar. I sat playing with my iPhone, going on facebook, texting people and attempting to guilt them out for not being there, and then feeling guilty for guilting them.

Once Jamie and I went over our usual repertoire I looked at my phone and noticed only fifteen minutes had passed.

I was grasping for straws, "So, what's your favorite television show right now?"

The problem was, I couldn't leave him, and part of me wanted to prove I could sit there for an hour without codependency rearing it's ugly head.

He poured me a second beer. I asked him to hand me the box to play the virtual poker game that was being shown on most of the televisions. A man sat down next to me, and also had a box.

"I don't even know why you're playing because I am a crazy poker player," I darted to the man taking up my once ten bar stools of space. He grimaced without saying a word.

I am a very competitive person by nature. I guess that's not the right word. I am a shit talker by nature. I am willing to say I am the best at everything, and then when I fail I become belligerent, even without the consumption of alcohol.

"Oh you mucked your cards? What did you have a two and a four?"
"You weren't expecting me to come at you with a three of a kind of queens, were you?"
"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get all your money back eventually, NOT."

I guess he didn't find my annoying banter amusing, and pressed, "All In," on my key pad when I was not looking. I had a nine and a seven. I was toast.

"What the hell? Why would you do that?"

"Guess you should've stopped talking."

Just then I looked around for someone to have my back. And I realized I was there alone, and I had forgotten. I was actually having fun without the need for a friend, a boyfriend, or even a family member. Even though I was now playing with my fake five hundred dollars as opposed to my once seven thousand.

He laughed, and I laughed even though on the inside I thought he was an asshole.

I realized in that moment that may be what I was looking for wasn't a man. Maybe all this time I just needed the esteem in myself to go at life alone. When we started a new hand of Texas Hold 'Em I looked at my cards in the digital device and I had two kings.

I didn't need a king anymore, but I decided I would beat this sucker's ass one last time.

The Almost Every Man

I called my blog, "Norm!" because of the way the television show "Cheers" always announces him when he arrives at his favorite bar. It wasn't that I wanted to become a lush like him, but the idea of having an extended family that you only see in one place intrigued me.

I find it very interesting that people can make relationships based on having a drink with someone once a week or in Norm's case every night at a local bar.

I wanted to add what people lovingly refer to as Normism's onto my blog. It is a YouTube video that people have made with his favorite quotes. I hope you enjoy.




Also, this happens to be one of my favorite openers from "Cheers," because it brings the entire bar together, and reminds me that camaraderie is really the main reason for grabbing a beer.

The Hammock(s)

"How's it going Mr. Peterson?"

"It's a dog eat dog world, Woody and I'm wearing Milk Bone underwear."

Two weeks ago I attended a bachelorette party. My best friend lives in New York City, and her friends were coming up to visit her.

I essentially crashed a bachelorette party. Who wants to crash a wedding anyway?

I have been to a strip club before. Is it strange that I am a heterosexual woman, and I have only been to a female strip club?

I should add into the equation that I have a lot of male friends, and in order to hang out with them, and get a strange quirky experience I had to accompany them.

I will say a female strip club is everything you see in the movies. They are winding and grinding up on that pole. They are lap dancing for just twenty bucks more. But I have yet to see a champagne room. I am beginning to think it could just be a figment of men’s dirty, sexual fantasies because a lap dance or “special attention,” must mean she likes you, not your money.

But then again, the women’s strip clubs that I have been to were not exactly high-end. I doubt there was even champagne available as a beverage, much less to pour it down some naked woman’s body.

Marie sent me the information detailing the activities we would be doing during the weekend.

Kate: What is this Club Duvet VIP, fifty bucks a ticket? I have to pay fifty bucks for what? I am not made out of money, Marie.

Marie: We are attending a male strip club.

Kate: Oh, I guess if the money is going towards a good cause.

I immediately went to a site titled, Hunkmania.com, and bought us two VIP tickets.

The first night we dined on Thai food, and went to a ping-pong bar, which was strangely owned by Susan Sarandon, who was also present.

Kate: Dare me to go up to her and say I loved her in The Banger Sisters?

As I was saying this she shoved the exit door open, and a friend whispered to me that she had refused to take a picture with one of them, ahem.

We then left the ping-pong bar for a Korean karaoke bar. A girl and I walked in to check it out and they had all separate rooms to sing in, and they were open till six am. When I heard this information I became both elated and frightened by the future’s outcome.

When I woke up in hangover hell the next morning, I thought I could not go on like this. I would take the Bolt Bus home once I regained feeling in my legs, and would be home in five hours for my mother to put a damp washcloth on my face, feed me Nyquil, and watch chick flicks till the drug kicked in.

But wait… I couldn’t leave. Not without seeing cowboy hats and banana hammocks.

Marie and I reached Club Duvet, and bypassed the line because we did pay twenty extra dollars to be VIP. Horny, drunk women cursed us with abandon, and I felt like Beyonce entering some hot New York City invite-only club.

But I was entering a male strip club.

We were running about a half hour late, and arrived just in time for the show to start.

The room was solid white. The floors were white. The walls were white. The beds were white.

Yes, we viewed the show lying on beds.

As the first performer came on, Kid Rock’s “Cowboy,” belted in the background. He saddled up onto the stage and called upon people with the number one.

I would later learn these were the numbers given to the future brides who were suppose to join them on stage for their dance.

Our reigning bride began to whine. “When is my number going to be called? I want to go up there!”

We calmed her down by having one of the many strippers walking around come to “entertain” her.

He immediately slammed her face down on the bed, and began to hump her like a jackrabbit. He then turned her over and pulled up her dress, pulled down her dress, and ripped off his pants. He simulated every sexual innuendo the mind can conjure up. He finally picked her up, throwing her around like a doll, till she was lying toward the rear of his back, and he was screaming, “Put the money in my underwear.”

Marie and I laughed but only because we were nervous. We were lying at the head of the bed, and he began crawling towards us.

I used to think, that if I ever got married that I would definitely want to go to a male strip club. As he edged over in a gray thong with his butt crack hanging out, I started to think maybe Sunday teatime would suffice.

He sniffed up to Marie, and she immediately retorted, “I think I’m okay. I think we are both okay.”

He soon left and manhandled the other women in our group. This would happen four more times with four different strippers.

We all kneeled up on the bed to give the bride-to-be her toast with champagne (yes, they had champagne). As I handed Marie my glass, I realized I had something sticky on my tights.

Kate: Oh my god. There is something fucking stuck to my tights. I think its gum. It’s still wet. Who the hell would spit out their gum?

Marie: I didn’t have gum. Did you guys have gum?

Everyone around us answered no.

Marie: Kate, I bet the stripper accidentally spit it out when he was creeping up to us.

Disgusted does not even spell out my feelings as I took my fingers, and attempted to prod off the gooey, sticky remainder.

After the show ended at eleven, the bar was open to the public as a regular dance club. Men by the hundreds enveloped inside, and I began to question if these seemingly straight men knew that just a half hour prior men were dancing around in leopard print thongs and forcing fake hunkmania dollars down their underwear.

Kate: Did you know that just a few minutes before you got into this club that men were nearly naked humping my good friend on this bed right here for money?

He claimed he did not, and I saw him whisper to his male friend. They both looked at each other with bewilderment and some part of me was proud of myself for giving them this unforeseen knowledge.

We ditched the naked club for a regular bar in the Lower West Side. I stood outside waiting for the rest of our caravan to arrive.

When Marie’s cab finally pulled up I had made friends with both of the bouncers. By that time, we had been outside talking for about ten minutes, and they both were asking me if they could come party with us later.

During the night, I found myself outside talking to them a lot, and they both seemed to take a keen liking to me. The only reason I know this is because the dialogue began to take a turn.

Bouncer #1: Babygirl, where you staying tonight? (Bites lip) You think maybe you got a spot for me at your crib? (Bites lip again)

Bouncer #2: Well, you could always come back to my place and chill.

Bouncer #1: Nah, you don’t want to go back to his place. You want to hang with me, right cutie? I know how to do things right compared to this guy. (Wink)

Bouncer #2: Oh you think so? We’ll let the lady decide.

I stayed inside till they both were no longer on duty. Even though at points it was no better indoors.

A man approached me and said, “You owe me a Bud Light.”

I had no idea who he was. I just said the appropriate, “No, you owe me a Bud Light.”

For the first few hours it was cute. But by the tenth time he came up to me and said it, I was getting annoyed.

“You’ve been coming up to me for two hours. You are clearly not going to buy me a drink or you would have. Have a nice night.”

He tried to hand me his half finished beer, and I excused myself.

I joined Marie up at the bar, where she was talking to one of the bridesmaids. I turned to my left, and saw a guy sitting alone. He was my age, cute, glasses, nerdy, looked like an art student (by that I mean in touch with his feelings, and I later learned he was an art student), and so I began to talk to him.

We talked for about a half hour, (that’s what Marie tells me) until the bar was closing, and he had to go.

Nerdy Guy: Thanks for talking to me tonight. I was here all by myself, and it was really nice that you took the time to get to know me. Not many people do that in this city.

I patted his back, and wished him a good night. I probably could’ve corrupted him, but it just didn’t feel right.

When I woke up the next day, Marie reminded me of all the people I hit on that night. I was shocked but also extremely pleased with myself.

On the train ride home later that day, I sat back and thought, maybe it wasn’t the bars, and decided to give them one last chance.

The Beard

"What's the story Mr. Peterson?"

"The Bobbsey twins go the brewery. Let's cut to the happy ending."

The weeks leading up to my Uncle’s wedding, I was a hot mess. My mom who had a last minute work issue had to stay home instead of attending the wedding with me. She had sworn up and down, bought her own ticket to Sarasota, Florida to go with me, and even booked us our hotel room. Then all of a sudden, BAM, like usual, I found myself dateless.

I have been to five family weddings in the past five years, and have never had a real date. I am fully aware my mother should not be titled my “date,” but she was all I had.

I only found out she was standing me up the week before. There were pros and cons to this development.

Pro: I get to stay in a hotel room all by myself.

Con: I’m scared of the dark.

Pro: I can watch and rent any cheesy movie or television show I wanted.

Con: Is there someone hiding in the shadows?

I am the family member whose grandmother stays in their hotel room because I am single and everyone else is in a couple. I love my grannie more than I love myself but wouldn’t it be smarter for her to stay with a couple? Aren’t weddings meant for single people to get laid and people in a relationship to re-examine if they love each other as much as the two people getting hitched right in front of them?

“I’m sure Katie would love for her grannie to stay with her,” my family would say, nodding, and forcibly pushing me towards her. I would reply that I would love nothing more, except maybe to not be cockblocked at yet another wedding.

It’s not surprising that the one nuptial I wanted a date so terribly was my Uncle’s wedding to his boyfriend. I think there cannot be a better place to meet a hot, single, heterosexual male than at a gay wedding. That’s when it dawned on me, I had to find someone and quick.

I had passed the concept around to my friend Josh about him flying down to Sarasota with me. We eagerly toyed with the notion for hours, him excited to be going to a gay wedding because he was brought up by two gay parents, and me excited people might actually think I had a boyfriend for once. I knew my grannie would rather the possibility of that, than to stay in another hotel room with me again.

After I dropped him off I decided to look up rates for him to join me. The cheapest I could find was a five hundred dollar ticket roundtrip. I closed the computer, leap-frogged into the armchair next to me, and pouted.

I moped for over an hour when my mom turned to me and said, “Oh for god sakes it’s only money right? You have all that financial aid; you live at home, and have a job. Just buy the damn ticket, Katie.”

I turned quizzically to my mother who was making get-up motions with her hands, and then pointing at my laptop. I never thought she would encourage me to spend that much money. I crawled out of the chair, opened the page, and clicked, “Add to Cart."

I did, however, make her press the “Finish and Pay,” button, while I cursed nervously nearby.

I called Josh and we both screamed with pleasure. Neither of us had been on a vacation in a while, and this was just the break we needed from school and work.

When people found out I was taking Josh they all jumped to conclusions.

“You two are going to hook up.”

“Oh my god, something is totally going to happen.”

“Weddings are too romantic for nothing to transpire.”

They seemed to forget that he was one of my dearest friends. He was also my ex’s best friend, and one of my best friend’s ex-boyfriends. But the more I heard it, the more I became fearful about the trip. What if “Unchained Melody,” led us to groping each other in passion?

That Wednesday, after my Writing for Online Publication course, I stopped by Josh’s house to give him his confirms and e-tickets. We smoked a cigarette and joyfully jumped about at the thought of our soon to be tanned bodies hitting the pool, and singing karaoke at a bachelor-bachelor party at a gay bar.

When we finally arrived in Sarasota the next day, we sat down for only a matter of minutes before we were rushed to go to the bachelor party.

Men, who had no business doing so, were walking around shirtless. All of the good-looking bartenders were fully clothed, while the bird chests walked around like they owned the joint, spitting in corners, and snarling at customers. Not only was the scene a conundrum and hilarious, I knew this was only going to make my time more awkwardly special.

The big thrill was that there was going to be karaoke and a drag show. Josh was excited because he’s a singer in a band, and always loves showing off. He also loves nothing more than singing songs by George Michael, Wham!, Prince, Michael Jackson, and Meatloaf.

“I think I am going to sing ‘I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That),’ by Meatloaf. What do you think?”

I smiled, “Go get ‘em.”

My other girl cousins were married or had been married. For years, I seemed like a lost cause. I saw them all find love, and my entire family had been completely supportive and happy for them. I wanted that.

Josh strutted in front of the microphone, immediately began tapping his foot, and started scanning the audience with his pointer finger. He unbuttoned his shirt with his other hand to reveal just a bit of chest hair, and wailed into the mic.

My uncle wobbled up to me and slurred, “This guy is fucking great! He’s amazing.” We would find out soon after, that we believed my uncle and my cousin were rufied during the party.

His boyfriend leaned in, “Seriously Kate, where have you been hiding this guy?”

Soon after, my cousins, my other uncles and aunts, it seemed the whole bar were giving me the thumbs up.

Meatloaf was the closest I have ever gotten to boyfriend praise for someone who is not even my boyfriend.

The following morning I woke up in Josh’s double bed. I turned seeing his face, and jumped from his bed into mine. I looked at him angrily, and he just laughed.

“We had a few beers with your cousin and your uncle when we got back, and you passed out. At about four am, you wandered into my bed. You were just sleepwalking Kate, don’t worry.”

I do have a pension for sleepwalking, but I could not help thinking that maybe his performance of “Careless Whisper,” by George Michael had even impressed me.

As we watched two people exchange vows that love each other more than any two could even try, during a sunset service on the beach, it became clear through my whispered tears that I wanted that kind of happiness for myself. Josh and I looked at each other and smiled, we both knew it just couldn’t be with one another.

As we shuttled back to the hotel for the reception, we all sat in a circle around the pool, eating and chatting, dancing and singing, happy that such an occasion could even happen. If anything I was there to see two men be joined together because they loved each other above anyone else, and others’ irrational views had no relevance on their commitment.

After a few glasses of wine, I retired to my room for a breather. I started to cry as I usually do near the end of wedding receptions (blame the cocktails), but instead I had a rational thought, and decided not to do this anymore. I would not cry about my singlehood at another wedding.

I marched back outside, and my uncle shouted, “Kate, if you come back outside you have to do an embarrassing dance!”

I shook my tush to the left and the right, and tried to do the twist on the splashed on ground. This apparently was not good enough.

All of a sudden Josh yelled, “Kate look out!”

And just like that my new uncle had thrown me in the pool. I splattered to the surface of the four-foot water, and looked at Josh who was wearing all white. He was soaked from head to toe, and his top, now completely see-through.

“I tried to warn you,” he smirked and leaned down to hand me a towel.

“It’s okay. It felt good.”

A few weeks later, my mom pulled out my suitcase from the wedding. “It’s time we clean this out, you are such a dirty girl!”

She pulled out a plastic bag from the weekend duffel.

“Oh my god, I totally forgot…” I trailed off.

“Totally forgot what? What is in here? Katie Ann, there is mold all over these clothes!”

She threw the entire bag in the trash, which included a swimsuit, a dress, and my favorite gladiator sandals.

As my mom muttered obscenities taking my garbage down to the garage, I recalled telling Josh I didn’t want the towel, instead I chose to wade in the water for an hour, backstroking from one side to the other, forgoing the revelry and the champagne, for one last lap with myself.

The Others

"Hey, Norm, What's up?"

"My blood-alcohol level."

I noticed that it has become hard to pay attention to good-looking male suitors when there are too many creeps trolling around as well. Do two freaky weirdos cancel out a great guy?

I am almost sick of going to bars. It seems to not be leading in the direction I had once hoped. People have told me that they met their mate at a bar, but I do not seem to be following with that same luck.

Recently, I attended a concert, and it made me think, what are different venues that I could frequent in hopes to meet, "the one?" Suddenly, Bars were Out, and every other kind of adventure was In.

Concerts

Concerts are a great place to meet men. Even though I did not have as much luck with my man, (mainly because he was busy... I sadly presume) I did see other promising men fluttering around. Every man that was at that concert, looked like Ryan Gosling, and yet, I paid attention to none. Instead I pushed them out of the way, scoffed, and left with my tail between my legs, pouting.

If I had only noticed that all of the men looked like identical twins to my dream lover, I would have definitely put on a better game face towards them. The moral of this story is: if you find the lead singer of a band attractive, nine times out of ten his duplicate will be somewhere in the audience, and what's that old song lyric, "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with?"

Weddings

I've heard that weddings are a great place to meet men. I have already been a bridesmaid six different times, and each time I have had no luck. However, there is enough word of mouth about there being results in finding a mate at weddings, and enough movies are based on the same prognosis.

I'd say whether I am putting on the inevitable ugly bridesmaid dress, or wearing a sexy number to be the stand-out, there are men attending and waiting there just to hit on yours truly.

Gym

People enjoy seeing people working on their fitness. I know watching a guy sweat, lift a weight heavier than my weight, and then towel off, sounds like a great reason to go to the gym.

If that is not reason enough, I can also lose some excess weight I gained from the bars, and become a sleeker version of myself.

Parks

A good amount of men love being outdoors. You can pass any park on a Sunday afternoon, and catch men playing volleyball, baseball, basketball, and soccer. My favorite recreation spot is Nottoway Park in Vienna, Virginia. My friends and I on a lazy Sunday will find ourselves driving by this park, and stalling in the lot, just watching at least twenty men, some with their shirts off jumping, running, and battling it out for a leather sphere that goes in a net right above their heads.

The concept is simple, and the view can make for a great way to pass the time. Next time, maybe we'll get out of the car.

School

Just walking around George Mason's campus I see a number of single men. I know most long-term couples say they met in college, and some people are even high school sweethearts. School is the best venue to meet a date at. There are many opportunities to meet people, whether it be in class, walking around, or joining a club.

The point of joining clubs at school is to meet new people, and get a new experience. I might join a club tomorrow, and see where that experience takes me.

There are so many other places to meet men. I am going to personally go out tomorrow and go to the gym, sign up for a club, and play some soccer outside. I'll be damned if, "the man," isn't going to hold me down. If you can think of other spots to find a mate leave them in the comment section under this blog.

Coming up next.... blogs about a Gay Wedding, and a Male Strip Club. Come back soon?

The Third Wheel

"How's life treating you Norm?"

"Like it caught me sleeping with its wife."

People say alcohol brings out the truth. But tonight, I am going to examine a situation where no alcohol was involved. A night where I really wanted to meet a man, one man in particular, and have things finally, for once, go my way.

A few weeks ago, I went to a concert in DC. But this was not just any concert to me. Ryan Gosling, an actor I would like to assume everyone knows, but I guess I should say he was nominated for an Oscar for Half Nelson. But most women and maybe some men, remember him rain-stained, shirtless, and slamming Rachel McAdams into the wall in The Notebook.

Without knowing anything about him, save for the fact that for a year I religiously stalked him over the Internet, I knew that he was my one true love.

I began following his band (Dean Man’s Bones), which can be perceived as slightly underground, earlier in the year. When he announced they would be touring, that day I set my alarm for 10:30 am, and bought two tickets.

I told no one. For months, held it in during conversations. “Oh my boyfriend just bought me a diamond ring!” “This guy I’m hooking up with looks so hot naked!” “I’m pregnant… with twins!”

I could’ve told them. I could have easily rained on their parade. I was about to come face-to-face with the man that would learn to love me in mere minutes, and our happiness would shine all over US Weekly. People would ask: Why her? And he would tell them: “I just knew when I saw her standing out in the damp, freezing weather, screaming my name, over the other 14 year olds, that she was the one.”

When my female friends asked why I didn’t invite them to go my answer was simple. “You are too good-looking. I would never ask you to go.”

My male friend accompanied me, along with a girl I was trying to set him up with. I felt, that this may be all right, but I still forced her to sign a handwritten note vowing not to even look, smile, or lean in his direction, and also enforced a strict dress code.

I could be longwinded. Tell you how I had a severe anxiety attack on the drive to DC. How it felt like hours getting there. How Josh (my friend) turned to me and said, “You are having an anxiety attack about someone you are not even going to meet.”

I huffed. How dare he assume such absurdity. I had never been more determined of anything in my life.

After Josh nearly force-fed me a Xanax, we were suddenly standing outside of a synagogue. And there lies the no alcohol clause for the evening. I assumed taking tequila shooters with God would be a no-no.

We arrived late, and had to sit on the balcony. The entire place was packed. Packed with women. Hot women. The opening act was a talent show based on different performers around the DC area. I decided to just lay back in my seat, and take deep breaths, waiting to give all my energy to my Ryan.

I also had a couple obstructing my view. Just when I thought the beginning of the show was over, I stood up to gaze down at the stage, and I saw that one of the opening acts was a troupe of belly dancers.

I immediately turned to Emily and Josh, and they both sighed. “We saw it already. We didn’t want to tell you. Don’t let it discourage you.” My mind started racing, questioning what m

y purpose for even coming to this atrocity was. He was going to bang one of those belly dancers, if he hadn’t already.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he won’t want to find a cute brunette after the show,” Emily said squeezing my arm. Reality began to set in, and even I knew I would choose to go home with the belly dancer.

The show started, and as his left boot clipped the side of the stage my heart started fluttering. I realized I hadn’t been this excited in a while. I leaned my body into the pew in front of me, in an effort to keep my balance from not tumbling off the balcony, and belly flopping into the drum set.

From what I recall I gawked, stared, panted, rubbed my sweaty hands on my pants, and played musical chairs with Emily and Josh to get a less obstructed view. The couple I had mentioned had decided to stand holding each other, back to back, and it completely left me devoid of any observation. Accidentally, I said loudly, “That’s great.”

Creepy, weirdo couple: Oh, are we blocking your view?

Normally, I am not intentionally rude. I would typically stand there, and watch the concert between the middle of their two heads, and bitch about it endlessly the whole car ride home. Tonight was not that night, and I told them affirmatively, that they were in fact in my way.

By the final song, I was more in love than ever, and knew I had to get out of there. My mind was racing, he smokes, what if he wants to go outside and have a quick cigarette after this? I quickly bum rushed the emergency exit door as people stood clapping, leaving Emily and Josh far behind. I circled around the building and found nothing. I circled again, and I only found Josh and Emily. I looked at them, and I was disappointed.

I guess as I was running around the building I barely noticed that it was pouring rain, and what must have been thirty-degree temperature. None of us had coats or umbrellas, and I began to hear them discuss the option of getting food.

Before the concert, I had made them both swear that we could stay till two am if need be, and suddenly, my stalkerish plans were being rubbed out in favor of a real hook-up.

They wanted to get food together. Ryan did not want to get food with me. They were actually hitting it off, and I had a pretty good idea who Ryan was hitting it off with.

As they both stated how cold they were, and how food would be an excellent way to end the evening, I realized they were right.

I was cold and hungry.

As we passed at least twenty girls holding court outside with their umbrellas and jackets, giggling to each other, holding pens and cds, anxious and exhilarated by the idea of just a close-up glimpse of Ryan, and I realized I was them. I just forgot a coat and an umbrella.

The Ninja

"What's going on Mr. Peterson?"

"The question is what's going in Mr. Peterson? A beer please, Woody."

Location: Fast Eddies... AHHHH....

Time: 10:30 PM

I was visiting my friend who was guest bartending at Fast Eddies when a man approached me. He was medium height, solidly built Asian man with a ponytail. I became intrigued by this only because I haven't seen that since the Karate Kid movies. My pension for awkward men and awkward scenarios only made this encounter more enticing.

Ponytail: Can I play the game behind you?

He was pointing to the fake computer that was on the bar that I was sitting in front of. People come out to bars now, not to socialize, but to sit in a dark corner, and play texas hold 'em. They also have beer pong on there, which makes me debate... why not just go home, play the real thing, and get drunk the old fashioned way? Why come to a bar to play a drinking game by yourself, on a computer, and pay ten times more for beer?

Ponytail: I think you can just move it to the side, and I can stand to the side of you. You don't even have to give me your seat.

I was trying to be overly cordial, and I began begging him to take my chair. I was hopping in and out of my bar stool. He refused to make me move, and so I began to twist the computer over. He took his place to the side of me, and as I was looking at him I did not notice the computer rotate into my full beer, and onto my crotch.

This was my second beer. I had been there less than a half hour. And I was wearing light colored jeans.

When it looks like you peed your pants, I think that just screams going home solo.

The Pretender

"What's the story Norm?"

"Boy meets beer. Boy drinks beer. Boy meets another beer."

Women all around the country are pretending. For some reason or another, we have all decided that everything we have ever known about ourselves, and everything we’ve always believed in, should be tossed into a bonfire, until our fragments of personality have been singed beyond recognition. As I watch my own livelihood go up in smoke, and many of my friends, I think what is the purpose for this? Why such great action with the possibility of no reaction?

The reason is simple: Men. We want them. Sometimes, we want them so badly, that we are willing to change ourselves completely, and become the ideal version of who we are. But no, that can’t be true.

My ideal does not pretend to enjoy things that I normally would abhor doing. My ideal enjoys writing and reading, and watching television, and sometimes spending obscene amounts of money on something I most likely will never wear.

Am I describing a stereotype? No, I am describing me. The woman every man hates. The aberrations are false; just like you like beer and sports, most of the time we like our own version of shallow shit.

I suppose it should be simple. We mold to the person we are dating. We want to understand their knowledge, and to understand it we must unearth it for ourselves. But to the degree that I generally run into, it seems to be abnormally high, and the fact is we can only fake it for so long. The things women normally only pretend to care about, luckily have a positive reaction. It creates instant gratification with men, and often, becomes something two people can bond over. The problem is, is it worth bonding over something superficial when it comes to matters of the heart?

Women today have gone too far. We are becoming submissive, and we can’t help ourselves. It’s not about important things anymore. It’s about believing that seeming overly promiscuous and actually, enjoying playing Madden will win over our guy in mind.

Do they win out in the end? Can we stop ourselves before it’s too late? The clock is ticking to just be yourself before we all become fem-bots of men’s idyllic reality.

Example #1: "Johnny Damon is so hot"

Women today love sports. It seems like you see women at sporting games much more often than ever before. My step-dad brought up a point that it’s a great place to meet men. “Men love seeing women at hockey games, the men are drunk, and just go up, chat them up about Ovechkin, and you’re in.”

But I know nothing about Ovechkin. I should pretend? Yes, he says, I should. The reason for this? Because some girl wearing her jersey like a bikini is right behind me with full knowledge of this man. She must have researched right before the game.

Women that get into football or baseball or even hockey, sometimes golf (for that old guy you’re crushing on), and throw it all around their facebooks/myspace/into conversations/wear jerseys at inopportune times to catch attention. Are you really excited for the game today? Thank God you got out of work early to watch Monday Night Football.

The real question is: whom do you want to be reading, hearing, or seeing this? Not me, I assume.

There are some women who actually are sports fanatics. They are not just shooting shit, hoping to catch a number, or to excite some guy for about 60 seconds. They have general smarts when it comes to the games.

You can catch these women fast too. They are the women who ask first. They do not wait to be asked. They are in your face, with statistics, player’s numbers, and quoting games from 1997.

I am in awe of these women and this is mostly, because I will never be one of these women. Not because I can’t watch a Red Sox double header (no idea what that means, faking it right here), and not get excited and scream the f-word and call the players losers, or because I can’t sit through a football game, and really root for someone because honestly, sometimes it feels good to root for someone.

But because they didn’t try for you, they did it for them. And that is something to be admired.

Example #2: “Oh yeah, I’d be down for that”

We are lying. Straight up lying 90% of the time. We are not down for threesomes, girl on girl, one night stands, anal sex, sending you perverted pictures, giving blow jobs, doing the 69 position (it’s not high school), role playing, or doing it in your parent’s house.

None of these at first glance are hot. Women do always say, “Well, maybe with the right person.” That is the first truth. Maybe with the right person we could do all of the above, and not think twice about it.

The chances you are the right person? Getting slimmer every time you ask.

But we will play it up. We will pretend. We will drunk text you, and tell you we were thinking about some raucous, raunchy night with you, and then randomly, pass out after said text. Is this alcohol coming in to save the day? Or are we running scared because we are just messing with your mind, and had no plans of anything we were saying?

I’m going to say a mixture of both.

Although women love to push the limits sexually, we may just be saying it. I can say, firsthand, we do not know why. We know we want you to get excited and want us, but the explanation after we decide it’s a no-go makes it counteract.

Men always love to say I know women who do this though, women that love doing this.

I have heard women say it too. I have heard women say they love giving blowjobs, and prefer it to sex. I have heard women say that they are bisexual, and would definitely allow a woman to come into their relationship. I have heard women say they enjoy anal over vaginal sex.

Never mind the crowd of men behind me salivating, barely catching their breath, as they linger on these women’s every word. Those women are clearly being honest.

Example #3: “I love your friends, they’re so funny”

I have always liked all my ex-boyfriends friends, kind of.

I think between your boyfriend’s friends and you, there is an oath being taken on arrival. We will be cordial, we will find one thing in common with each other, and if we do not get along, we will soak that one thing for all it’s worth.

I had a boyfriend where my best friend and him shared a common bond, which was smoking cigarettes. That was all they liked about each other. Otherwise, they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. But when they wanted a cigarette before bed, they couldn’t wait to see each other, and sit in silence, puffing.

Nothing is more awkward than meeting the friends. The fact is the friends are always going to slightly hate you. You are taking their friend away. And although, they are happy for you, and are grateful that you make their friend happy, you are still the person cockblocking their time with their friend.

That’s why in movies, television, books, any kind of media, when a girlfriend or wife leaves the boys alone, they all sigh, and say, “Thank God she’s gone.”

Did you ever notice they then go back to doing what they really want to do? That they can’t do it while she’s there? Pretending. It’s both sexes.

We all do love to pretend, but I guess I just don’t see the point sometimes. Will it keep me from someone if I’m not a fan of the Knicks, or if I don’t like the taste of beer, or if I can’t see why Tiger Woods is the shit? Will I get in trouble to be honest one day and say his disgusting friend, is indeed disgusting?

If that is a part of who you are, why does it have to be a part of who I am? I don’t really see that as a form of compromise. It seems more like an intense game of arm wrestling.

Perhaps, this is why I’m missing out on finding love. Maybe it should help I know the Phillies won tonight in the end of the 9^th inning. But I don’t think it will, and even if it did, I wouldn’t broadcast it.

I’d just put it in my blog.

The Flasher

"Pour you a beer, Mr. Peterson?"

"Alright, but stop me at one... make that one-thirty."

Location: Fast Eddies, Fairfax, VA (hey, I said I was a person of pattern).

Time: 11:41 pm till closing time.

Situation: My friend Mel and I had set up to go to the bar after work because she never works Mondays, and picked up a shift for our fellow co-worker.

Our other co-worker Keisha “Who gon check me boo?” was suppose to go with us but decided to be MIA for the evening. This greatly saddened us, so to replace our girlfriend I went with the next best choice, Bryan.

We all were just sitting around, having a few beers, shooting the shit, when the talk of flashing people aroused into the conversation.

I talked about how in my day; I have flashed a few people. This would normally embarrass or insinuate that I was some type of floozy, slut, hobag, whore, hussy, bitch stealing boyfriend, but sadly I am none of these things.

I’m just trying to make the men of tomorrow maybe a little happier. There is nothing wrong with an extra kick to someone’s step over a sexual overture.

Some people may think I do it for attention, and attention is great don’t get me wrong, but I can get it many other ways that don’t involve being a total pervert.

Sidebar: This was also in my young years. When kids are still trying to figure out who they are and who they are going to be. By this I mean, don’t judge me. It’s not worth it.

Mel: One time when I was driving home from a game, it was so hot outside my gay friend and I just got completely naked in the backseat.

Kate: What? I don’t even think that would make me any cooler.

Mel: It was okay though; it was just my gay friend and I, and a bunch of our girlfriends. No one looked.

Kate: Yeah right. One time when I was like 20 I was drinking in my car with my friends in the driveway at my house, and I just took my top off, and drank like that for a few hours.

Mel: Now that’s just bizarre. You are such a whore.

All of a sudden, a blonde, pale skinned man approaches me. Bryan had mentioned that he had been checking Mel and I out, but we both didn’t believe him. He was cute in a way. Kind of Fred Durst meets Lord of the Rings and might be a poetry major. Just saying this because he was wearing a beret.

Drew: I was overhearing some of your conversation, and just thought I would come over and say hi.

Kate: Hi.

Bryan: What exactly did you hear?

Mel: You heard us talking about flashing people and getting naked, didn’t you?

Drew: I just heard you all talking, and wanted to come over. Whad does id mattah whad I heard? You guys arrree cool, man.

He was stumbling hard with his words, his body, and definitely was not articulating.

Kate: So, you were listening to our conversation about being naked?

Drew: Yes, sounded awesome! And I have to come talk to these people.

Kate: Well, that’s very nice of you Drew. We were just getting into why Mel was buck-naked in the backseat of a car one time.

Drew: You are a cool girl.

Kate: Yeah, Drew she is cool. She also loves to have sex without a condom.

Drew: Wow, you’re great too and funny.

Bryan: You were checking them out before weren’t you Drew?

Mel: Yeah right, you were only checking Kate out, I saw you Drew. Kate will show you her boobs if you want her to.

Just then Mel grabs my v-neck with her finger, and tries to force it down.

Kate: We are not playing that way tonight, Mel.

Drew: Oh damn, what we got down there? I wouldn't mind taking a peak.

Kate: Okay, let’s go back to what Mel’s sex partner number is.

We continued talking normally, while Drew was standing there. I had to get her back for the drunkard she tried to push me on blogs ago, but it seemed to not be working the way I had hoped.

Finally, I told Drew it was nice to meet him, and he went back to his seat two barstools away.

Bryan: What was wrong with him? Kate, if you go home with him tonight I will be so proud of you.

Mel: Why would you want her to go home with him? I thought she was your friend.

Kate: You should lose respect for me if I did. And I’m only going home with him if Mel comes too.

Mel: Oh yeah, cause Bryan is not giving us the sex sandwich tonight.

Kate: No, he is sadly not. I call the beret.

As we joked about Drew, and saw him dance alone in front of his barstool, I sat thinking maybe I could talk to him. Maybe we could form a relationship, have a long courtship, get engaged, and maybe marriage? We would have little elves running around in no time.

Just as I was debating my case, a girl, a cute girl, walked in, and picked up some balls to play pool with Drew. Drew has a girl? A cute girl? To play pool with?

And just like that, I lost my soul mate.

The Bars

"What's going down, Normie?"

"My butt cheeks on that bar stool."

My efforts to meet men seem to be not as successful as one would have hoped. It could be the bars, the people I go with, the atmosphere, or it could be me. Let’s just pretend for a second, and be in complete denial, that it is not me. That it’s the bars, that it’s them, that maybe I’m sitting too close to my friends and seeming attached, that you can’t make a strong connection next to a pool table. I think that sounds plausible. The fact is, even if I do seem reserved, even if I am talking intensely with my friends, even if I’m not as plowed as the girl sitting next to me spread eagle with a dress on and no underwear, these factors should not affect someone’s cunning prowess of yours truly. I have decided I must decipher these bars with more thought than I have even debated giving them. I need to get to the root of the problem. I need to blame it on the bars, and just go out thinking, it’s not me, it’s definitely you.

I’ll start with Fast Eddies. I do go there regularly. Probably at least once a week, to do research, not just on what type of guy I want, but to witness people’s attempts at getting laid, even if it’s not sadly with me. But the fact remains; do I even want that from any of the people that frequent that joint? I would have to say most likely, not. I realize this is counter-productive for my general cause, but it is a very convenient bar for me to go to. This could be misconstrued as I do not want to find anyone, and that I am not exactly putting myself out there. But my case is this; at least once every few weeks there is one hot guy there. And every time no one is ever hitting on him. Why? He is the untouchable. He reigns so supreme that he becomes almost a figment of my imagination, an image I must have conjured up because I have had one too many beers. He is the enigma, and he’s frightening. Women see him and assume two things, he has a significant other already, or that every bitch is about to pull hair to get to him. Thus, he goes home unsatisfied as well, and we all kick ourselves, and tell our friends, “Oh he’ll be back, next time I’ll go up to him.” But thinking about it now, he’ll never be back. Why would he go back to a place where everyone is looking at him with shocked awe?

Eddies also has a common clientele. The same people, sitting in the same places, talking about the same things, and nothing changes for anyone, thus why people go. It’s my cushion bar. I can look like shit, smell bad, and drink cheap beer, and not have anyone bat an eye. This, of course, is a huge pro for me, but clearly, not great in the scheme of the blog. The blog wants me to be different; it wants me to spread my wings, let loose, and go home with someone that might be unclean. The blog dares me to change, and I stay in my stagnant old pool hall. Eddies must have hot, normal, men lurking in some dark corner. It is flooded with men, because it is suppose to be a cheap, sports, billiard bar, but they are all busy doing other things, whether it be playing pool, playing the fake video bowling game, playing poker in the front room, singing karaoke, or eating pizza, they are all not zoning in on getting tail.

PJ Skidoos is a tiny bit more upscale, and has a variety of different people. Old, young, college, not college, salary earners, and hourly earners, basically there is something for everyone. There is not much more to do then gaze at people, and try to find your prey. You can either talk with friends or hit the dance floor, both of which have greater possibilities. The less activities you can do at a bar, the greater chance for a social connection, basically because you are bored and have no other choice. For women and men, this bar seems to be an easier setup than others for it’s lack of novelties, and it’s smaller bar area.

For the men out there, I know everyone likes going to Hooters but it is mostly pointless for meeting women. I do not mind going to Hooters with people, but the fact remains that very few women do go to Hooters to hang out. And I would say 9 times out of 10, the waitress is not really interested in you. She is working you, she is making her money, and she will give you that fake number that has the recording saying, “This is a fake number because you are a loser and ugly, and she didn’t like you, so fuck off.” Yes, there really is a number that does that. I wish I had it. Hooters is a place to gawk, not to attract and build relationships. If you have found love at Hooters, cheers to you, but don’t tell your friends because you are the exception, and it will never happen for them. You have already become that 1 in 100 people.

Hard Times is a conundrum to me all in itself. Sure, there are a lot of men there. And it is big, and a lot of Mason students do frequent it, and it does have good chili. And there lies the problem. Chili. Who wants to go home with someone who just ate a bowl of chili with cheese, peppers, beans, ground beef, and to top it off, onions? If you have had six beers, a bowl of chili, and a guy wants to take you home? Just go home. What is going to happen in his bathroom after the coitus is just simply not worth it. He will remember you, and not in a good way. I just can’t believe anyone has made a true love connection at Hard Times, but if you have, you know that it’s real. That must be real love to hear someone farting all night, and most likely, all morning, and still wanting to call them again.

Although, I enjoy these bars, and I do go to them regularly, the search for a new, fun, low-key, Fairfax bar is in order. Bars should be like speed dating, and instead they are filled with other attractions such as playing pool and sampling five different types of chili. I’m not saying don’t go to these bars to find your mate, but do be mindful that your odds just skyrocketed. Like I said, it’s got to be the bars, it’s got to be.

The Dick

"How's it going Mr. Peterson?"

"Poor."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"No, I mean pour."

Location: New York City, NY. Multiple bars on the Lower East Side, mainly a joint called, Tonic.

Time: Around 11 pm till 4 am.

Situation: I was visiting my best friend in New York City. She had just started at Columbia’s grad school, and I had just started grad school, so we thought what better way to celebrate that fact than going out and getting plastered.

I arrived via Boltbus on a Thursday afternoon, and got there with my hopes brimming that it was going to be a great weekend. Marie opened the door to her dad’s apartment, and there she was being mauled with homework. I instantly realized this was going to cause a dent in our fun, and gave her a pouty face.

Marie: Kate, what do you expect from me? I really need to get this shit done. I didn’t know I was going to have all of this shit.

Kate: I’m not worried, you’ll get it done, and then we’ll go have fun. While you do that, I’ll look up different places we can have dinner.

I smiled, and she frowned. She wanted me out of there, but my bus didn’t leave till Sunday. She was officially stuck with me.

The night we went out, we had dinner first at this little hole in the wall we always go to when I come to town. I love it because it’s unpretentious but still has a young following of hot executives, but no one really hits on anyone while they’re eating. So, in that scheme of things, it was probably a waste of time. But in the, I wanted to eat something fatty that would soak up the beer I was going to drink later that night, it made perfect sense.

The bar is relatively small, compacted, cramped (any word that sounds uncomfortable), and has about 80 people standing around it. It’s not the most logical of places. Her cousin, Matt met us up there, and we had a few drinks and left.

We headed back towards Marie’s house, and stopped at Tonic. We had been there a few years earlier. The first time this herd of men was taking up the dance floor, and we were being attacked on all ends of the spectrum. I remember watching my friend take it to the ground with her dance move, and the other just bent over swaying her butt back and forth. A man I was dancing with announced they all had fake ids, were in from some place in Jersey, and then began to jackrabbit me.

Like he was having a seizure, he banged into me so hard, for so long, I remember waking up and wondering how I stood there for one full song, and let that happen. I also questioned what kind of person I was after that, and I came up with that I was a pervert.

I decided this time we went to Tonic it would be different. No jackrabbit, maybe no dancing with strangers, just drinks with friends and laughs.

Just as I was beginning to like this place again, was dancing around to “Beautiful,” by Akon, two men approached.

Let me bottom line this: Two very creepy men. So creepy that I have never seen anyone look more evil in his or her eyes. I may be ridiculous, but I am saying this as fact. They smelled, had sinister smiles, too touchy off the bat, and I just wanted them to get the fuck away from us.

They both looked at me, and I gave a look that yelled, “Get away from us! You are disgusting,” so they immediately approached Marie. She’s nicer, more fun, flirtier, and doesn’t really give a shit.

They hit on her for a while, we’d leave a room, and they’d follow. We thought we lost them, they’d reappear putting their arms all over Marie, and she’d just smile while giving me the woman’s universal “help” look.

I needed a cigarette, and to get away from these douche bags for a minute. I walked outside, and the bouncer told me to walk around to the side to light up. I walked around, and saw some of Dick’s friends. I later named the leader of the pack, Dick, which you will see right now.

Friend #1: (extremely thick Russian accent) Your friend, likes our friend.

I had my back turned, and I yanked around, evil eyeing him for a few moments. This forced me into a diatribe, which lasted a few minutes on how that would never be the case.

Friend #2: Oh yes, she will be coming home with him tonight.

Who were these guys? I once again, strongly negated.

Friend #1: No, no, she wants to eat his dick.

As I stood I realized I had never met such a disgusting trifecta of men.

Friend #2: Yes, we can tell, she does. She wants it bad.

Friend #1: Yes, she will eat a dick, yes.

I let them know that we do not "eat" dick in the good ol' US of A.

Friend #2: Oh she’s feisty, do you like doing that too sweetheart?

As I hurriedly walked inside, I turned to the bouncer. He must have been 6’6, 350 pounds, maybe more, and he was just all around frightening.

Kate: Those guys over there are saying that my friend wants to give their friend a blowjob, and it’s totally inappropriate.

At first, I didn’t think he was going to take me seriously. He looked like the kind of guy that didn’t even have time for what I was saying, and maybe wasn’t listening.

Bouncer: Excuse me? What guys? Where?

He was pissed, like scary pissed, like breathing out of your nose with fire pissed.

Kate: Uh, those guys over there, and there are two inside. They are just being completely offensive.

Bouncer: They’ll be taken care of.

Kate: Oh, it’s not such a big deal. I guess they could’ve been joking. It’s okay.

Bouncer: No, I will take care of them. Go have fun.

I walked inside and saw Marie talking to Dick. I turned to him and let him know that I thought his friends were actually being beat to death outside, and he ran out the back door.

I never saw any of those guys again, but I did make a prognosis in my mind of what happened. The bouncer took them all outside, put them in a line, cut their penises off, and threw them in the dumpster.

When I woke up the next morning, I packed up all my stuff, hugged Marie good-bye, and lugged all of my four bags to the bus stop.

I reached my seat, sat down, looked out the window, and smiled. It was the first time I had ever missed Virginia men.

The Worker

"What's going on Mr. Peterson?"

"A flashing sign in my gut that says, 'Insert beer here.'"

Location: Bridges Bar, Fairfax, VA. This bar houses multiple pool tables, but is not a billiard bar. It also has I would say a 20x20 dance floor that is frequented by perverted guys standing in the corner salivating, and one very random ballroom dancer.

Time: 11:45 pm. These will be the normal times because I am a server, and I close my shifts.

Situation: A few guy friends from work asked if I wanted to meet them up there when I finished up.

When I arrive, I look all over for these guys, who are all single, and this leads me straight to the dance floor. There they all are lining the walls of the makeshift floor, bobbing their heads, maybe putting their hands in the air and tipping them back and forth, and in some strange points in the music humping the air even though there is no one near them for five feet.

The scene is Latin men, Asian men, white men, and black men, all standing against the wall. They are all just waiting to make their move, for some girl stupid enough to gyrate their hips near enough to them, thus creating an opening, and boom! They are getting their penises grinded on by a huge butt or a girl seductively taking it to the ground, only to sadly bring it back up again.

This is how American women dance. This might even be how I dance, if I’ve had say, ten beers in me. But tonight, I’ve had one, and might have a second, but that seems pretty tough at the moment.

I find my space next to the wall, and I become these men. Standing there, ogling any big boobed, big assed person that passes me by. And I even push my friends into them.

I am continuing the voyeuristic part of this evening, and for a while I might be the leading contributor.

Totally forgetting about my own personal manhunt, I light cigarettes, and swig beers, laughing, and almost becoming one of the boys. The polar opposite of what I am suppose to be doing here. That is when I get a tap on my shoulder.

A man I do not recognize, looks me directly in the eye, and says: Kate?

Kate: Hi, yeah, it’s me.

I looked at him quizzically for some time, and had no recollection of who this person was.

He then says: It’s me, Carl (this is not his real name, you’ll know why I changed it shortly).

Kate: Carl? Carl! Oh my god. You look so different I didn’t even recognize you!

Just then I look back, and see my guy friends giggling. They don’t know what I know, and they think this man has come to hit on me. Little do they know, that it’s a no.

Carl: Yeah it’s been so long. I think the last time I saw you was at the Fairfax Fair. What have you been up to?

Kate: You’re right it was! That was years ago though. Nothing really, I just started school again, and I’m pretty nervous/excited about that. What about you? Do you have a job?

Carl: Well, I wouldn’t call it a job. But it gets me by.

Kate: You sell pot, don’t you?

Sidenote: The way I know this is because Carl was always a stoner. We went to middle school together, and he had always been like that. And normally people grow out of their childhood ways, but I knew different with him.

He was different.

But I try my best not to judge. Afterall, I never judged my dad for having a pot plant next to my playroom when I was a little girl. I could not possibly start now.

Carl: Heh, yeah I dabble in this and that. But I hope to get my dream job real soon.

Kate: And what is that?

Carl: I’ve always wanted to be a tow truck driver. Right on, right?

Kate: What? All tow truck drivers are such assholes!

This conversation continued for a few minutes. Basically us just going back and forth about what towing companies were rude, and employing possible killers. This conversation while I swayed next to the wall on the dance floor, and my guy friends attempted to listen, but the music was too loud.

He finally walked away, and I was relieved. I could go back to my predatory gaze on the dance floor. But of course, the men insisted on hearing about it.

Web: Who was that?

Bryan: He was totally hitting on you. You should try to slay.

That needs a sidenote: people at my work have their own strange language. Slay means sex.

And I find it funny, even though it’s not, and I am older than most of them, so admitting I laugh at it takes away any street cred I have, and also some of the feminist objections I would normally have to the meaning of the word.

Kate: Guys, you don’t understand. It was most certainly not like that, and it never will be.

Web: You never give people a chance!

Bryan: Just do it, stop being so picky. He was a good-looking dude.

Kate: You didn’t hear our conversation, and you don’t know who he is. And I hate to judge people, and shouldn’t tell you my objections.

Web: Come on Kate, just out with it.

Kate: I knew him from grade school, and I have it on very good authority that his mother fucked her cousin, and made Carl. Are you happy now?

Web: Wait, hold up! Come onnn, you're just fucking with us. Are you saying Carl’s inbred?

Bryan: I don’t care what you say; you should still go home with that guy tonight and make it a smash task.

Like I said, their own language. And I didn’t end up doing any of the above, and I think my mom would be very proud of me for that fact.

The Abstinent

"What's new Normie?"

"Terrorists, Sam. They've taken over my stomach and they're demanding beer."

I have been single for five years. The first two were voluntary. I had just gotten out of a tumultuous relationship, that both exhausted me, and made me realize the only relationship worth having is a special one. The past three years I have bounced around with different men, and have been infatuated with all of them for an elongated amount of time. My friends make fun of my “crushing,” because it becomes a full-fledged sport or hobby that I have to win at every challenge. The problem is, I very rarely win, and end up walking away from the situation with my tail between my legs. It would make sense if I one day decided to stop acting in this obsessive, over-analyzing, loving, angry, manipulative, endearing (only to myself) way, however, I am a person of pattern. And I believe that if any person should show a pattern, they most likely will follow that pattern until it is forced into breaking or they die.

I decided to write this blog about going out and attempting to give any lame-ass I see a chance. People call me picky, that I have a type, and that I will never allow myself to be happy. But don’t most people know what they want, and go after it? And it has always made me physically nauseous to look at couples that are just with each other so they do not have to be alone, or because they were waiting for someone better to come along. What’s the use? What’s the point? But I suppose I am getting older, and while I am still in my “younger” years I should take advantage of being the girl that wears only a tight skirt and pasties to the bar, and who inevitably goes home with whoever or whatever is left at last call.

I don’t know about all that. But for people that think I don’t put myself out there, and try new things, or that I am unwilling to give any man a chance. You asked for it, and here’s to you.

Location: Fast Eddies Bar and Grille (Might have added the Bar and Grille to make it sound nicer than it actually is, it is a dive billiard pool hall across the street from my work)

Time: 12:00 AM. Around this time is normally when any man with any shred of decency has already left. I would say most likely home to their wife or girlfriend.

Situation: I arrive with my friends, Mel, a girl that bartends where I work, and my friend, Webster, a cook from our work, and we sit at the bar. We sit for a long time chitchatting about past failed relationships, and how Web is a nice guy and deserves a nice girl. This is a common theme when the three of us go to the bar together, and if Mel and I are drinking wine, we most likely end up crying. It is kind of sad that nice guys always finish last, but not sad enough that I am willing to be going home with Webster or probably any nice guy tonight. I think that’s why we were crying, why can’t we just like the nice guy? Why is it always the disgruntled loner who I know I will never make completely happy? Anyway, I digress.

The end of the night is nearing, and it seems my newfound courage is coming up with not even one result. Just as I begin to think about this, a man stumbles into my barstool, and then into my face. He keeps his entire body half onto my barstool, and half on the ground. He tells us his name is Andrew, and continues to close talk to me the remainder of the time we are there. At first he talks to everyone but me, even though his facial stubble is touching my face. He greets Mel, tries to have a weird exchange with Web, and then finally turns to me.

Andrew (overtly drunk, bad breathed, slightly good-looking but this is only casually observed and then intentionally overlooked because I notice he is there alone): “I hate sex.”

Kate: “Excuse me? Who hates sex?”

Mel: “Kate loves sex, don’t you? You should tell him how much you love it.”

Kate: “Mel that is really unnecessary, and you are being such a bitch right now.”

Andrew: “You like to have sex? I guess I do too. But only without a condom, no way else, that’s the good shit.”

Kate: “Wow, that’s a good call. I bet you’re right.”

Mel: “Hey Andrew, do you have a ride home? I bet Kate would be willing to give you a ride.”

Kate: “You are so inappropriate. I am not even going your way, I’m sorry.”

Andrew: “I didn’t even tell you where I live.”

Kate: “I’m not going that way. I just know.”

Web: “Kate, you don’t have to drive me home, you can just take Andrew here.”

Kate: “You are both ridiculous. Nice meeting you Andrew, I think your cab is here.”

By some stroke of luck, they had cut him off, called him a cab, and it was outside waiting for him. Until next time Andrew.