Monday, November 23, 2009

my boy elroy.

my cast is coming off in a matter of days. tell me you hoes are excited?! i typically don't give a shit about SHIT, but the whole foot thing this time around has been a bit more of a challenge. to save me time, money, and humiliation, my gp does my gyne exam when she does my yearly. (you might recall the mention of my cavernous vaginal canal a blog or so ago.) two months in this fucking cast and boot contraption has rendered the muscles in my leg nearly unusable; my foot muscles have atrophied so much that last week when the podiatrist cut off the old cast it just sort of flopped around, dead fish-like.

you know what that makes me think of?! that incredibly excellent video for "epic" by faith no more, with that poor goldfish flip flopping all around and dying at the end. i LOVES me some faith no more! really and truly. whatever happened to those dudes? god, mike patton is genius. i was listening to "the real thing" on the train the other day and seriously almost wept. so effing good. you know who else you sluts should be listening to? andrew bird. really, get on the bandwagon already. he's the shizzz.

you know what weirds me out more than anything else at the doctor? the effing breast exam! i have had ALL SORTS of awful shit done to my mouth and my booty hole and every place in between, and none of that phases me nearly as much as that sixty seconds of clinical, technical titty-twisting. eww, it just makes me feel like i have two gross sacks of flesh hanging off my chest, you know? lying there with my arm over my head trying to make small talk while that bitch squashes my tits and rolls them into my stubbled armpit (i NEVER remember to shave before the doctor!) makes me want to die. she also does that test where she cups them in her hands (less sexy than it sounds) then walks across the room to stare at them before making notes in the computer. notes, my paranoia imagines, that read "almost touching knees this year" or "consider national geographic cover shoot." godawful.

so i scoot down to the edge of the table, trying not to rip the delicate tissue paper napkin these assholes call a "gown" and try get my feet in the stirrups, and my useless leg muscles locked into the worst cramp i've ever felt in the history of ever. i almost rolled off the goddamned table! all of my hairy lady meat (i have yet to get that wax) was totally gross and exposed, and my doctor is trying to work the cramp out with her hand while i grip the table in a near-futile attempt not to fall. my foot is cast to restrict the mobility of my achilles tendon so that it will hopefully heal and negate the need for a fucking surgery i can't afford. the problem is that the other muscles from hip-to-toe are also restricted, which means they haven't really flexed or even moved in almost eight weeks. it's like dragging around a fucking wooden limb.

crisis was averted, thank goodness. she just moved the stirrups far out and used the goddamned hubbel telescope to peer into my inner recesses. she also put her whole hand inside, and i was so busy trying to mentally count the number of fingers digging around my snatch ("do i really feel a fucking thumb?!?!!") that i almost slipped and fell AGAIN. so i'm itching to get the hell out of this cast, once and for all. i've never before been so excited to stretchhhhhhhh. my insurance is only going to cover three measly physical therapy sessions, so i'm probably going to go to pregnant-lady yoga again because yes, i am still lazy. (if you have no idea to what i am referring, search through these little bloggedy blogs for a little gem called "when are you due?" and have yourself a laugh or three.) i am also anxious to go to the gym (no, really!) if for no other reason than no one at bally's got the memo that my foot is fucked up and they have been charging my sweet ass forty bucks a month in membership dues i can't cash in. jerks!

i also am going to need a pedicure, but we'll have to get into that some other time. i might just be the one hot bitch on earth who cannot STAND pedicures. maybe i'm just self-conscious about these huge feet? no, my loves. that isn't it. because big people shouldn't have little feet. it just looks weird. so i don't give a shit about that. i just hate to have tiny, salty asians talking shit about me to each other while they gouge (potentially hazardous, possibly bacteria-laden) tools in and around my goddamned nail beds. and they are always too rough with that cuticle shit, too. i shudder just thinking about that fucking CUTTING. the shit's always slippery, and i never goddamn understand just what the FUCK they want me to do. sit WHERE?! put my foot WHERE?! move WHERE?! that shit wears my ass out.

the bowtie should have been the first indication that there would soon be a problem. this dude, a friend of a friend of a friend type person, went out of his way to introduce himself to me. let's start here: if you read what i write and love it, you should absolutely tell all of your homeskillets to read it, too. i love that. maybe that means i'll be famosa sooner rather than later. so some dude was directed to these here vagina chronicles by someone who thinks i'm awesome (and...i mean...DUH), and then felt further moved to inquire as to whether or not i'd like to accompany him to dinner.

i don't know. i feel like i'm telling this wrong. so i get this weirdly formal introductory email from a dude named ELROY (best name in the history of ever) and, after professing his love for my written word (and who wouldn't), he asked if i might like to go to dinner. which should be absolutely flattering. except. in addition to the awkward formality of that email, he was also kind of a judgmental little bitch.

i don't get it, and maybe you hoes do, but are we in the midst of some sort of victorian renaissance that i haven't yet heard about? or are dudes FINALLY experiencing the crippling doubt and self-esteem heretofore only witnessed in thirteen-year-old girls? because if you feel the need to question, or even reference, my sexual activity within two sentences of first telling me your goddamned NAME, the problem is yours. not mine. i don't typically spend a lot of time reading something i've written once i consider it finished, but maybe i need to rifle through some of this old shit and see just what the fuck these dudes are talking about. there are a pointed few direct references to specific sex acts in this blog, but this dude was acting like this was the daily dick diary or some shit.

i mean, maybe that's what i should fucking write. is that what you dudes want? a list of penises and the men to whom they are attached, complete with length, width, and girth, the length of the coitus, and specific details about how good (or not good, ahem) the experience was? complete with days of the week and the times of day?! although if i do that you understand you wouldn't have anything to read, because i've said more than once that I HAVE NOT HAD SEX SINCE MARCH. do you get it, elroy? being sexy and filthy and naughty doesn't equal whore, it equals a hilariously good time. so get the shit straight. and if you say you read, maybe you should actually READ. especially before you bust out your scarlet letters.

i said yes. because why not? what did i have to lose other than a little time and possibly some dignity? we spoke on the phone a couple times (and he was just so strange) and made plans for saturday night. i don't let dudes pick me up anymore, and not because i'm worried about anyone seeing where i live. i never really believe that someone would stalk me. sorry, i just don't. and if you want to waste your time sitting in front of my building trying to figure out if my bathroom light is on go right ahead. i think that shit is flattering. anyway, i like to avoid that "hi, this is my car" thing and the long ride to someplace fancy enough for my liking.

a few months ago, that dude teddy picked me up in his navigator and it had glowing neon blue lights outside and inside and was just so embarassing i didn't even want to get out when we got to the restaurant. i was hoping they'd serve my roast chicken and pommes frites curbside. ugh! and he kept pointing out the tv screens and the gps and all the other shit that might make some clucker take her panties off then and there. ugh! ugh! i was literally horizontal all the way to bistro 110, and then when we got there i almost broke my face trying to balance on the rail thing in this stupid boot before he came around to help me fall out. (two more fucking days. hallelujah.) and i was standing there trying to make the apology eyes to the valet for having to park that stupid beast with the spaceship lights and he looked back at me like, "bitch, please."

can i just say, i totally do not understand the getting excited because some douchebag has a nice car thing. i'll take a nice dude on the bus over an asshole with a mercedes any day of the week. dudes with nice cars are almost like super-hot dudes in that they think the car (or his face) just does all of the work for him. preston would act like that truck was an extension of his penis, and maybe if it had been we'd still be together. (zing!) for real, though, he would just be like, "you know why i'm dope?" and point at the expedition while i stood there thinking "i should kill myself. how have i been with a dude this stupid for this long?" ultimately, i'm a fat nerd who likes to read books and watch tv and sleep and listen to music and get tattoos, so all that shit is wasted on me. but dudes like that always wanna be all in my face, trying to make me care about rims and sound systems. boring.

next! so i got really nicely cleaned-up, not just my regular dinner self but my extra dinner self, because he'd suggested carnivale and i lurve that place. we had our fabulous s+s+l birthday dinner there in june and it was totally amazing, so i was totally stoked to go back. i spent the entire week imagining which ceviches i was going to get. bitch loves some ceviche! cleaned up, took a cab, got out, walked in. everything's cool.

until.

he'd told me on the phone that he was 6'5" and thin, easy to spot, and he also told me he's always on time. i, of course, am never. so i got there and saw him at the bar immediately. his back was to me, but i could tell he was talking. i like to touch people inappropriately and weird them out (just ask lauraaaage), especially when it's unexpected and in such an awkward situation, so i walked up and placed my hand on the small of his back and said, "elroy" in my best, bottom-of-the-diaphragm voice. he jumped (ha ha) and spun around, and before i could even register whether he was gross or not i realized he'd been deep in conversation. with a dude he obviously knew. and from. the look of. things. had brought him. INTENTIONALLY.

why the fuck does shit like this always happen to me?! my DATE brought a DATE! and not just any date, mind you. he brought jeffrey, his best friend.

let's step aside for one second to make a note about how people who have names that are associated with obvious nicknames and they refuse to let you call them by one of those nicknames are the worst people in the fucking universe. just think of how much ragingly toxic asshole i would suck if i bristled every time you called me "sam." i don't have time for all of the "andrews" and "edwards" and "jeffreys" of the world. i want the andys and the teds and the jeffs. it immediately draws a weird line in the sand, doesn't it? when you have to call a motherfucker william?!??!! you know that shit irritates you.

i mean, please. i introduce myself as "samantha," and will tell you immediately after that introduction that you can call me sam. some people call me sammy. some people call me irby. my sisters call me sa-man-tha, but i think that's just to prove some authoritative point and piss me the fuck off.

okay. so jeffrey and elroy and i are standing at the bar staring at each other for a few seconds before i was finally like, "what, is this a gangbang kind of thing? because i'm not into that." elroy told me that jeff (fuck him) had come along to break up any tension. hmm. in what universe does the addition of an unanticipated third party DISSOLVE tension? i wasn't the least bit tense until i walked in and realized we were a tripod. ew. jeff stayed for a couple drinks until they got us a table, which was too effing bad because he was definitely cuter, smarter, and funnier than elroy. maybe jeff was his cyrano? damn, and i fucked it all up with my crude humor. ah well. that gangbang line was a classic.

elroy was wearing both a bowtie AND boat shoes, and not in the fashion-forward playful way of a pharrell or a kanye, but in the THESE ARE MY REAL CLOTHES kind of way. it was like carlton from the fresh prince. if only he'd done the dance. now you hoes know i don't care about that kind of shit. i look good for these reasons, and these reasons alone:
1 i wear variations on the same thing.
2 it all fits properly.
3 98% of my wardobe is black.
hard to look fucked up when no one can tell what the fuck you have on, eh? i wear: dark denim, black slacks, black blouses, black sweaters, and relaxed t-shirts. i have a couple white shirts and a gorgeous red shirt, but it's mostly grey, black, and navy. and i get away with that shit by saying my style is "classic." easiest shit ever. take notes.

he was also wearing a plaid shirt. all of this is cool if you're having fun with it, but dude obviously was NOT. painful. i mean, my boss wears boat shoes! really, kid?! you couldn't find a timberland or something? (or whatever it is young dudes are wearing these days.) i'm sure you're wondering how old this dude is, and if you guessed fifty-seven i totally understand why, but i hate to inform you that you are incorrect. thirty-fucking-five. and african-american. in BOAT SHOES!!!

he kicked the conversation off by telling me how i am "a little older" than women he typically dates, that he was making "an exception" because he liked my writing so much. at that point i started flagging down the waiter like i had been lit on fire so that we could get a wine list. it was looking like a three bottle evening. come on man, older than what?! i'm 29, not 69. (bwa ha ha 69.) i told him we could leave and go holler at some playgrounds if he wanted, but he didn't get the joke. just sat there. blinking.

i started to talk about myself (totally interesting) and he just kept blinking at me. even through the jokes! blink. i'm a funny motherfucker, so i tell hilarious stories to loosen bitches up, but this fool wasn't even having it. blink. at one point i straight up asked, "why is it you liked my writing again...?" and then his cell phone rang.

i have a surprising amount of etiquette for a saucy bag of snatch, and the cell phone while on a date thing killlllllllls me. it's absolutely unacceptable. i turn my ringer off, and i don't take calls make calls text or even check the time while sharing company with some hot delicious i'm trying to get with. that's so effing rude. so not only did his phone ring, but he answered it! and then got up!! so he could take the call outside!!!

after five minutes i thought, "now this is weird."
after ten minutes i thought, "i hope everything is okay."
after twelve minutes i thought, "un-fucking-believeable."
then i ordered one of everything.

it just gets even more boring from here, lots of apologizing and excuses about some "business issues" he refused to really explain in any detail. blah blah blah. i returned his earlier favor and just sat there, blink-blink-blinking as he scrambled. he ate every single thing that i ordered, and didn't even flinch when the check came. 250 bucks. we went out for drinks afterward (his suggestion) but i already had the warm wine drunks going on so i just slumped in the booth drinking club soda with lime listening to him prattle on about absolutely nothing. at the very end, once he'd had a couple scotch and sodas, he said, "you know something? you could be a lot hotter. you should think about working out."

i accidentally knocked my full glass over in his direction ("oopsies!") and got up to leave. good thing those deck shoes are made for slipping and sliding around out on the high seas (pshaw), because he caught up with me pretty quickly (damned foot) and sorrysorrysorried me half to death. we split a cab because i'm cheap, and when the driver pulled up elroy turned to me and said, "so, do you think i could...?" and nodded at my building.
"of course you can! but why don't we just wait until i'm hotter?" and then i slammed the door in his face. ew and gross and no.

oh, and elroy? 1987 called. it wants its shoes back. dick.