Thursday, August 12, 2010

friends with benefits.

i am always pleasantly surprised when someone invites my raggedy ass to a fancy soiree. it's not like i don't know how to get dressed and clean it up, i have expensive dresses and tailored suits and shit, but there's no guarantee i won't spend half the party walking around with mayonnaise or taco dip smeared across the seat of my pants or a trail of cookie crumbs leading to my cleavage. and it's almost 100% certain that i'll have complimentary wine spilled down my light-colored shirt or have to excuse myself twelve times because i have diarrhea. i'm just not a good party person. even the thought of a party, as opposed to the more inconspicuous bar or club environs, stresses me out. i like to go to places that are DARK where the music is LOUD. you know, someplace i don't have to worry about sucking my stomach in or making conversation with strangers. i'm the master of clubland shout-talking, that personal impersonal thing you have to do when standing in a crowded room surrounded by thunderous beats and 10,000 people screaming at each other and bartenders and bumping into you trying to get a signal on their cell phones. the lean in super close one hand holding your free ear closed other hand on the back or arm of the person to whom you are speaking mouth pressed to the side of his face so you can holler into his ear lean back so you can watch him nod that he understood what you said lean in again this time with his mouth on your face slide out of the way so some rail with bad extensions can order a vodka soda at the bar lean back so you can smile and nod at what he said set your empty bottle on the bar so you can get your phone out of your purse while he programs your number into his phone and calls you immediately while you both anxiously wait for your phone to light up (chicago bars always have the SHITTIEST reception) and when it finally does he smiles and makes a motion with his hands that means "that's me, save my number" before you depart to return to your respective groups of friends thing.

THAT i kill at. the awkward standing around in a brightly-lit room holding a sweating drink making small talk while sweating and shifting from foot to foot thing? not so much. and i don't think it's me, because i'm charming as fuck. everyone likes me immediately, and i like everyone until they say something dumb. but trying to get someone to TALK to you is hard, which is why going to parties (especially alone) is kind of the worst. i hate to go to shit when the only person i know is 1 the bitch who invited me and 2 the goddamned host, because that basically ensures that i am going to either be standing in a corner all night (bad) or glued to the side of the one person in the room everyone else wants to talk to, too (worse). and i used to hover near the food and/or the booze, but you don't want to be the bitch that ate all of the do-it-yourself fajitas or whatever stupid shit people think is good party food these days. and even if you finish the bottle you brought, you're still the bitch who DRANK AN ENTIRE BOTTLE OF CHOPIN at the party. or you become the default involuntary bartender and food service director. "oh my goodness, guys, you should totally try the bruschetta. it is SO GOOD. let me make a plate for you. oh don't worry about it, i'm just standing here." don't act like it's just me. i've also been the bitch who winds up alone in the designated coat room watching tv on the floor next to an unmade bed piled high with smelly-ass pilling boiled wool (stop buying cheap coats) or in whatever room the dog or cat has been banished to, trying to coax an absolutely terrified small animal out from the dresser it's chosen to lodge itself under and convince it to keep me company in exchange for some petting from a trained professional.

and that mixing drinks bruschetta service is ostensibly supposed to make people talk to me, right? because guilt, at the very least, should make your selfish ass ask what the bitch who just shook you the perfect dry martini free of charge does for a living, shouldn't it? or how she knows the whore whose apartment you are currently trashing?! NEVER. they just take their drinks and a handful of the most easily portable party snack and go back to the nine bitches that came with them. jerks.

ooh, and sometimes i wind up being the DJ. that's not so bad, because most other people on earth have shitty taste in music and never know what the fuck to put on at a party. you can always tell when someone (always a dude) went to great lengths to pull out the seemingly coolest, most obscure, LEAST LISTENABLE shit in his collection to "impress" the people coming to his house. fucking hipsters. people, i might add, who only care about drinking his liquor and eating his food. it's an asshole like me you have to really watch out for, a bitch who went to a fabulous dinner before she got to your place and turns her nose up at the cans of point in your refrigerator. because the second i get bored, most times the second after i've found the host and said hello, i'm standing next to the record player (ALWAYS A RECORD PLAYER!) flipping through all the shit you ran out to dusty groove to buy that morning and laughing at how retarded you are. these days everyone has some sort of ipod hookup, and i have a couple of those teenie ipods that hold a handful of jams and by the time that cibo matto record starts skipping for the third time i swap my shit for yours and make you look like you know a thing or two about eardrums.

i will also look at all of your stuff and silently judge your intelligence while also trying to determine your worth based solely on how much shit you have that looks like it was procured from the salvation army or brown elephant. i don't snoop through drawers and shit because that's boring and i hate knowing people's secrets. i only want to know public shit. knowing thisisprivatepleasedonottellanybody shit is SO BORING and come on people i write a BLOG. only tell me shit i can put on the INTERNET. unless it's juicy enough to occupy space in my brain which, i'm telling you now, most "secrets" don't. bitches always want to tell you dumb shit, like hearsay gossip about someone else that no one can corroborate. psssssh. what am i supposed to fucking do with that?! PLEASE tell me about your illicit affairs, raging drug addictions, grand larcenies, botched plastic surgeries, third-trimester abortions, plots to murder your ex-wives, and any time you run into one of my old boyfriends looking MISERABLE AS SHIT. only. i can't hear about any regular shit anymore, and i'm not interested in your good news. it feeds my petty jealousies. and i really don't like for good things to happen for anyone other than myself. unless something amazing is also happening for ME.

so i get this email from one of my internet ladyfriends a few weeks ago asking if i might consider accompanying her to an upscale gala-type benefit event and working my considerable wingman magic on her behalf. i am a kind, benevolent person buried beneath all this garbage and hate, so i immediately said YES. which should confirm what you've been thinking to yourselves all along about my needy opportunism. so i should probably say now that this lovely woman and i had never met in real life. which is the CRAZY thing about this internet world we live in. right now i have a shit ton of friends, i mean people with whom i communicate on an almost daily basis, whom i have never actually met. and some of them have never even talked to me on the phone, yet consider me part of their inner circles. and that, coincidentally, is why i love the interwebs the most. because it creates cheap, fleeting relationships that feel really meaningful while you're in them, yet they may or may not yield any long-term reward. and they're so funny and feel so good yet never take away from your real life. unless you get into weirdo internet beefs with people, but that shit is for lames.

speaking of which, some retarded piece of shit bitch sent me an email about my preference for seemingly superficial relationships with men, i could only hope, and to her i say this: i will both acknowledge and accept your criticism if you can somehow prove to me that you have zero internet presence whatsoever and are totally living your life IN THE MOMENT and with bitches you actually KNOW. for serious, i need proof that you have 19 facebook friends and that you know all of them personally, otherwise i'm taking the shit you said and flushing it down my mental toilet. if you're trading comments and messages with bitches you don't know in real life guess what? YOU have superficial relationships, TOO. and it's okay! it's what life in the new millenium is all about, man. feeling thisclose to motherfuckers thousands of miles away from your ass. i'll be thrilled when we can do away with human contact altogether and only communicate via text and smoke signals. or when your robot talks to my robot.

so i agree to go yank on a spanx and go to this shindig. then i spent a week in the hospital blah blah you know the rest blah. so i still wanted to go to the party, even though i knew that i was going to be riddled with abdominal pain and leaking out the back end. because THAT is the kind of fucking friend i am. the benefit was the same day as that HORRIFIC date with herbal tea, and even though i wanted to hurl myself off the nearest building i instead wrote a hate blog, got in the shower, and got my ass on back on the train in support of my girl's vagina. the dry cleaner ruined my party dress (of course) which i didn't find out until i opened the bag (of course) which i didn't do until ten minutes before i was supposed to leave (OF FUCKING COURSE). thankfully i had nice pants and a shirt i wouldn't noticeably sweat through hanging in the closet relatively wrinkle-free.

women really are just better at everything, and even though this was the equivalent of a blind date i was not nervous AT ALL. because bitches don't ruin shit. my hot date was dressed nice, on time (not me...), and wearing skyscraper heels she had to tiptoe around in. just my fucking type. we had immediate chemistry (or was that just me...?) and fell into conversation so smoothly i wondered whether or not i might be dreaming. that's an exaggeration, because i'm not fruity and don't really think things like that, but it was INCREDIBLY REFRESHING to talk to a person with a brain rolling around her head and some goddamned sensitivity.

now the one thing i DO like about parties is watching girls in tiny clothes and super tall shoes tottering around balanced on their tippy toes trying to appear to be having a good time. other than that? TOTAL BALLS. dudes at these things always talk too fucking loud and the women are always drenched in perfume and spackled with makeup. it's gross. and 99.7% of the crowd was middle-aged and white, and that makes me uncomfortable. not because they're scary, but i am terrified of boring conversations about things that aren't exciting. what happens to you white people as you get old? it makes me so SAD. black people always keep some goddamned shit going; that's why our old skin looks so good, because it's full of chicken grease and drama. it's like watching a live-action episode of friends. SNOOZERS. all i heard was kid talk (yawn) and appliance talk (yawn) and mortgage talk (yawn) and the price of groceries talk (yawn) and the cleaning lady might be stealing from me talk (PROMISING). i also fel bad for you because you have to be so politically correct and laugh at terrible shit that isn't funny and listen to such bad music while driving around in your subarus pretending to like it.

you don't want a play by play of the evening, so instead i'll tell you how the gentleman whose dick i was supposed to guide into my girl's waiting hangar never even showed up. we were at the bar, then upstairs, then downstairs, then seated near the stage, then shoveling free cookies (me) and fruit (her) into our faces near the bar, upstairs downstairs upstairs stomachache time to leave. it was a shitload of fun, but i hate to bear witness to anyone's dickfail. and sad that i couldn't use any of the zingers i'd come up with. secretly i'm convinced that my own dick karma will change the more i help other penises and vaginas connect, but all my friends are pieces of shit and i can't set any of them up with one another without risking a bitch kicking me out of her life, so i was really looking forward to the opportunity to perform this good dick deed. le sigh.

the nigerian (ALWAYS) cabbie decided that "i could tell the minute that i saw you that you would talk like a white person" was his best option for a suitable pickup line (seriously?!) the minute we dropped off my paramour, this proving even further why the universe needs to drop a smart phone in my lap. or a hot man in my bed, so that "sorry, dude, i have a boyfriend" doesn't sound like SUCH A FUCKING LIE every time i say it. the other night i was trying to switch trains when this too old to be hollering at me cta worker, and OBVIOUS AFRICAN, grabbed my hand and motioned for me to remove my headphones so he could say "gimme that music" to me. with my hand on my switchblade i said, "are you really trying to rob me on the train platform?" and he said, "i want take you on date maybe sometime." BARF. now that dude should either be killing himself or taking a naturalization class, not almost making me miss my motherfucking train. sorry sir, but i don't like jollof rice that much.

now i'm all mad and shit. moral of the story: women are great and i still am not going to have sex with any africans. OH. and if this doesn't chap your ass off, i got an email from my new ladylove that the dude we'd been up down in and out searching for was TOTALLY FUCKING THERE. probably talking to some asshole about the stock market index or the new consumer reports study on kids' backpacks. fml.