You Can’t Party Like Girls from Pennsylvania

The Batty Broad has lived in a few places and by a few I mean 29.  Yeah, I get around.  When you “get around” as much as I do you meet a lot of people.  When you meet a lot of people you go out and party with said people.  So let’s just say I’ve been to a few parties – you can do the math.  Needless to say, given my life and my track record, the odds of party moments going awry are pretty high.  So you would think I would learn or be more prepared or just stay the hell home.  But the Batty Broad lives by the words of Doris Day – que sera sera (whatever will be, will be).  Unfortunately where the Batty Broad is concerned, something gets lost in translation and the end result is more along the lines of “whatever! let’s do this!”.

So when I headed out the door to have a “goodbye Pennsylvania” dinner with my best girlfriends, you would think that maybe I would have been prepared for what was about to happen.  I’ve known these women for years and we had gone to dinner on a regular basis for years with very little incident.  There was the time I had to leave because my daughter was in a car accident (thankfully she was okay) and the time I showed up and one of the girlfriends wasn’t drinking because she was preggers (shocker) but usually its without incident.  There is great food, many cocktails, and enough time to digest those cocktails so that we are not driving under the influence.  We usually close the place down.

But this was no ordinary dinner. I was about to leave my best girlfriends and move 3,000…yes THREE THOUSAND miles away.  We needed to celebrate…life, love, friendship…with lot’s of white cosmos.  It was like a scene from sex in the city, except all of us are Samantha (committed Samantha, not super slutty Samantha just to be clear).  And we were ready to have FUN.

The night started out as usual.  Drinking, eating, gossiping, commiserating, talking to people in other booths around us, making friends with the wait staff, more drinking…the usual.  Well not completely.  We drank enough white cosmos…11 were ordered, to warrant having to have someone pick us up and have a sleep over.  I know I drank 4, possible 4 1/2, it’s a little fuzzy but there is great debate on who drank how many…  So the girlfriend who lives closest calls on her hubby to come pick us all up.  Lucky him!  While we are waiting, the same girlfriend decides that the night is not over yet.  We are NOT done.  This is the moment when drunk brain has now taken over and decides that it is a MIGHTY fine idea to continue this revelry.  The sound of the doors of hell opening starts ringing in my head.  I ignore them.  Big mistake.

After we pay the bill that contains more liquid than solid purchases, we head out with the sober hubby to gf 1′s home.  On the way she has informed him that we are going to go out to another bar in town and he is our designated driver.  He looks super stoked…

We get to her house, freshen up (what does that mean exactly…what are women always freshening?) and then head back out to a local bar full of college kids.  Sounds like a great plan, right?  Drunk brain says YES!  Three drunk brains say YES!  So off we go.

The bar is crowded but not too bad and someone orders me a kamikaze and then another and then another.  Drunk brain is replaced by pure alcohol.  The gates of hell are fully open and the hounds have been unleashed.  Then the fun begins.  Drunk gf #2 is suddenly much more drunk than I remember her being just a short time ago.  We get in trouble for being loud in the bar and are forced to move upstairs.  We are incorrigible.  On our way upstairs drunk gf #2 lays one on a handsome young man standing in the doorway.  He does not resist.  Even my drunk brain is registering that something weird is going on.

Upstairs there is a DJ setting up.  He has to wait for the people who are in the room to finish eating so he can start the music.  This is not satisfactory to drunk gf#1 and she proceeds to harass him and the patrons to try to move things along.  For most people this would get you thrown out on your ass but she is charmed and people seem to just do what she wants.  Note to self: steal that power from her.  Needless to say, things got set up much faster than expected.

Meanwhile I am starting to feel not so hot.  I decided that I must pray to the porcelain god for mercy to save my brain from drowning.  It’s not pretty.  Oh, that’s right…I’m not 25 anymore.  Note to self: act your age.  At this point I lose track of what is going on and of drunk gfs #1 and #2.  I call my boyfriend to check in and despite my drunken ramblings he apparently still loves me.  Sucker.

I make my way out of the bathroom (after freshening up of course, lots and lots of freshening up) and find drunk gf #1 and #2 on the dance floor.  I am pulled on to the floor to dance with drunk gf #1 (or something I think was dancing) and notice that although this song is upbeat, drunk gf #2 is slow dancing with someone.  At least I think that’s what she is doing.  After the song is over I notice my slow dancing girlfriend is gone and go to find her.

She is at the bar and appears to be every variation of the term “drunk off her ass” but since I am also “drunk of my ass” I am not really aware of how weird this is.  Until she bites me.  I put my arm around her and she bites my arm.  WHAT THE HELL?  Okay something is not right here.  That is not a normal response for her or anyone, except Mike Tyson.  I ask her if she is okay and she starts to respond but before she can finish I must head back for some more worship in the bathroom.

When I emerge, all hell has most certainly broken loose.  Drunk gf#1 and hubby tell me that drunk gf #2 is outside and is very, very drunk and sick.  I make my way down the stairs and find my friend outside in a chair almost unconscious.  Since everyone is drunk, decision-making becomes very challenging.  Drunk gf #1 wants to take her  home but gets distracted by running into her sister.  Hubby doesn’t want her in his car because she is very, very sick.  I have decided that drunk brain must go take a break because I have to figure out what is going on and how to help her.  A crowd has gathered.

I try to have a conversation with drunk gf #2 but she is incoherent.  I know she has been drinking but this seems very strange to me.  Of course before I can assess anything the police AND an ambulance show up.  Oh crap.  Okay drunk brain, go take a nap, I have to work here.

Since drunk gf #1 is of no help and hubby doesn’t want to get involved, I tell them to go home.  I help the ambulance people subdue drunk gf #2, who is now telling me she hates me.  I talk to the police who are apparently going to cite her for public drunkenness.  Seriously?  I gather her things and my things and ask if I can go with her to the hospital.  They strap her in, and I get in the front and try to pretend I am not fully intoxicated.  Apparently I’m a good actress.

At the hospital drunk gf #2 has become belligerent.  They can’t get her to cooperate and I can’t help because I tell them I am her friend and they won’t let me in the room with her.  They keep yelling, “are you on any meds?” but she doesn’t respond so I yell back “she’s on blood pressure medication”.  I am so tired and smell like alcohol and vomit so I decide the best thing to do is get out the way while they figure out what is wrong with her.  I sit on a stool for a while but I am freezing.  Where they hell is my coat?  I try to break into her phone to call someone but don’t know the password and not sure I should call someone in the middle of the night.  I realize my phone is dying and I’m not sure how I’m going to get home.  I realize that I have no way home and I can’t stay here in the emergency room so I am forced to call my very nice, soon to be ex-husband to ask him if he can pick me up.  It’s an hour drive for him each way.  I lie down on a gurney and fall asleep clutching my purse, her purse and two pairs of shoes to my chest.  I’m sure they thought I was dead.  No one woke me up until my soon to be ex showed up and was looking for me for 20 minutes.

I leave her purse, shoes and a note with her since she is passed out.  They won’t tell me what is wrong with her or give me any updates but I leave my phone number any way.  My soon to be ex husband looks like he wants to hose me down and scrub me with a hazmat brush before I get into his truck.  Yeah he’s gonna miss me.  I go home, plug-in my very dead phone and go to bed.  No freshening up, just bed.

The next day gf #2 calls me but I am too far away to come get her and also still intoxicated.  She has to call a family member to pick her up.  The final diagnosis is that she had a potassium deficiency.  Nothing funny here.  She could have died.  She felt like death for a few days, had to take a bunch of medication and felt horrible.  She also was embarrassed, but it wasn’t her fault.  Sometimes I think she is a secret Catholic with all that guilt.

Needless to say…that is called partying like a Rock Star.  If there is not belligerent drunkenness, random kissing, getting thrown out of an establishment, puking, more drinking, dancing, harassing people, being cited for public drunkenness, police, ambulance, hospital, and someone doesn’t almost die, then you can’t say you really partied.

I assure you…you can’t party like girls from Pennsylvania.

You have been warned…

Drinking, Knots and Awkward Moments aka “The Cherry Stem Incident”

The Batty Broad tries really hard to be a nice person.  It’s a challenge.  Not because I don’t want to be “nice”, more because other people make it so damn hard.  A lot of my conversations where I try to explain why something unexplainable happens begin with “Well I was trying to be nice…”.  You would think that I would learn.  But, no.  The biggest problem is that trying to be nice often gets me into situations that end up being, well, awkward.  To be fair, these awkward moments are preceded by some (usually oblivious) action on my part that opens the proverbial gates of hell and then anything can happen…and usually does.

One such “awkward moment” occurred a few months back when I was on a business trip to our home office.  On this particular trip, I had to endure 3 weeks of “boot camp” aka training on our products.  It was bad enough that this “boot camp” was 3 weeks long but the instructor of said “boot camp” just happened to be the company’s token pompous ass.  I spent 3 weeks fluctuating between three states: confused, completely confused and pissed off.  Most of the time I was experiencing at least two of those at the same time.  It was hell.  I’m fairly certain that it would have made Marine boot camp look like a walk in the park.

So when one of our co-workers invited me and another co-worker out for drinks, I could not say no.  If anyone needed a drink, it was me.  I had been considering actually slipping in a bottle in a brown paper bag to sip covertly while our Drill Sargent, ahem, trainer attempted to “train” us.  I wasn’t really gaining any useful information out of this “class” so being intoxicated seemed like it might have been a better state then the aforementioned confused, completely confused and pissed off.  Alas, I have a Jimminy Cricket conscience so that was out of the question.

The invitation to go out for dinner and drinks was actually a group invitation but only four of us actually ended up willing and able to go.  I saw the rest of my co-workers stumbling toward their hotel rooms like survivors from a zombie apocalypse so my guess was sleeping seemed like a better idea to them than drinking.  Fools!
So off we headed to a local restaurant for “Ladies 80′s  Night”.  This was appealing to me for two reasons: 1.  There would be cheesy 80′s music and 2. If you bought two drinks, you got to eat for free.  What a deal!  It ended up being a foursome comprised of two men and two women which I didn’t think much of at the time but probably looked like the most awkward double date in history.

As my focus was on drinking and not much else, I made short work of a chocolate martini and ordered a second drink.  Meanwhile, my good friend DR who is supposed to be my lifeline, begins to become engrossed in conversation with one of our male co-workers.  This leaves me sitting very close to and having to hold a conversation with the other male co-worker who I do not know but has begun to flirt with me.  Awesome.  So rather than dealing with the situation with maturity and a sense of self-preservation, I order another drink.  I reason that maybe alcohol will help me to ignore his completely overt advances.

After I finish my second drink, I realize that the food still hasn’t arrived and that I am starting to feel a little tipsy.  So I order a third drink.  Don’t ask why, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  I glance over at DR who is STILL engrossed in conversation and is too far away for me to kick under the table.  When the third drink arrives I realize that I have tipped past the point of tipsy and into the land of feeling no pain.  It’s a good land to be in but there is one problem with hanging out there – you aren’t really paying attention to what’s going on.  Which is what leads me to that “oblivious action” that precedes all awkward moments in my life.

The drink that arrives has a cherry in it – with a stem.  The Batty Broad is multi-talented and one of my many party tricks is the ability to tie a cherry stem into a  knot with my tongue.  Not the fake kind that so many women try to do…oh no…the kind that you learn in girl scout camp.  I’m that good.  So WITHOUT thinking of the situation and the very obvious flirting that has been going on and my level of intoxication – I put the cherry stem into my mouth and perform my standard party trick.  I take the stem out of my mouth and place it on the table and go back to my drink.

Meanwhile, there is a recognizable sound coming from the back of my mind…oh yes, the gates of hell have opened.  Before I can react I see the flirtatious co-worker pick up the cherry stem that has just been in MY MOUTH and place it into his mouth.  As I try to gather my wits so that I can figure out WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON, I can’t seem to find them as they are swimming in a pool of chocolate martinis.  Damn.  Just when I think things cannot get worse I become an unwilling participant in a scene that can only be described as horrifying.

The flirtatious co-worker slowly pulls the cherry stem out of his mouth, demonstrating that he has a much better party trick than The Batty Broad because he has UNTIED my carefully crafted girl scout knot!  I am both impressed and nauseous.  As if THAT is not bad enough, he then turns to me and hands me the cherry stem.  Then with a sly smile he leans in very close and says, “imagine the things we could do together”.  Gulp.

I want to get up and run but given that I have had three martini’s and no food that seems unwise.  I once again try to get DR’s attention but she is oblivious to my plight.  So I do the only lady-like thing I can think of and excuse myself to go to the bathroom.  When I stand up I realize that the running option is completely out of the question.  I make it to the bathroom and try to figure out an escape plan.  Unfortunately that stupid conscience of mine will not let me leave my friend DR (who is going to be in BIG trouble later) alone with two male co-workers so I head back to the table and sit as far away from my cherry stem knot untying lothario co-worker as humanly possible without switching tables.

The good news is that I have finally found my wits.  I FINALLY get DR’s attention and make it clear that I am not “feeling well”.  Which is not a lie.  I just don’t explain that my nausea is from being grossed out and not from intoxication.  There is an awkward goodbye which is far less awkward than the preceding cherry stem incident.  We make our way back to the hotel and I finally get to tell DR what has been going on at my end of the table.  Her reply is to laugh hysterically.  Nice.  I go to my room and hope that I won’t remember any of this the next day.  Alas, this is not the case.

DR spends the next day giggling every time she sees our flirtatious co-worker look at me.  I spend the next day trying not to throw up in my mouth.  As usual, it was awkward.

If you hang out with me in the future, it’s best to make sure that I eat before I drink and please don’t let me order any drinks with a cherry.  You never know what might happen.

You have been warned.

Signed

The Batty Broad

A Guy Named Barry, the Racetrack, An Orgy, British Sailors and a Cold Waterbed or How I Became a Serial Monogamist – The Final Chapter

The Final Chapter  and Afterword

Oh Hi,  Barry’s Extended Family…

As I made my way out of Barry’s cave of unconsummated copulation and headed down the hallway I was stopped in my tracks by two things.  First, there were pictures of small children on the walls.  Second, I had just stumbled by a child’s bedroom.  This struck me as pretty odd considering Barry told me that he lived here with his brother.  So either Barry and/or his brother are creepier and far more demented then I had originally thought or there is a family living here.  I was truly hoping that it was the latter.  I still had the tire iron but the math wasn’t on my side.  Two perverts + one exhausted chick with a tire iron = a visit from the coroner.

I was slightly less horrified when Barry told me that it was his brother’s family living there but not by much.  I had no idea what I was going to face at the end of that hallway but given the circumstance of the last 14 hours, I was trying to prepare for anything.  Barry is stumbling down the hall with a big red welt on his forehead, zipper marks on his face and looking like he just went through the spin cycle of a washing machine.  I am following him in what was once a cute summer dress but has now been transformed into a cloak of confusion and acrimony.  As we reach the end of the hallway we end up face to face with Barry’s brothers family.  They are sitting around the breakfast table, looking like a page cut from a Better Homes and Gardens magazine.  Barry and I look like a couple of half-crazed derelicts who have broken into their house and are about to go on a Manson style murder spree.

There was dead silence as the realization that a tire-wielding woman they don’t know is standing in front of them at their breakfast table on a Sunday morning.  Barry, who has not read Emily Post and who lacks any actual human sensibilities, stops long enough to yell out,  ”I’ll be back” and walks out leaving me standing there alone.  I would need Paul Bunyan’s ax to break the tension in the room.  As I slowly back away, Barry’s brother finally speaks.  ”Have a rough night?”, he says with a knowing grin.  I relax a little and glance down at the tire iron.  ”You could say that”,  I reply and then walk out the door as quickly as possible.  The date must be over as I have now completed the walk of shame.

Barry is sitting in the car waiting for me and he’s gunning the engine.    I have given up on any hope that the ride home is going to be any better than every other experience I have had with Barry thus far.  I get in the car and tell him to take me home or else.  I don’t know what “or else” is but I think he’s figured out that I am willing to cause him bodily harm so he should probably just believe me and drive.  The ride back to my house is completed in silence for which I am eternally grateful.

When we reach my house, I get out of the car and start to walk away.  I feel like a hostage that has just been released.  I get about 5 steps across my lawn and Barry calls out to me.  I know I should keep walking but I turn around because I can’t believe that he actually wants to have a CONVERSATION.

Me:  What do you want Barry?
Barry:  That was a wild night, huh?
Me:  Um, what?  That was a nightmare
Barry:  Well it was fun until the parts where you were being a bitch
Me:  Barry, let me make this as clear as possible to you.  Are you listening?
Barry: grinning like the Cheshire Cat – yeah, I hear you
Me:  Barry, I hope that I never see you again.  Don’t call me.  Don’t come into the restaurant.  Don’t drive by my house.  Don’t dream about me. Don’t even think about looking at me if you see me.  Go away and never, never think of me again.
Barry:  Aw c’mon, you know that you want to go out again

OH MY GOD!

I am thoroughly regretting not taking advantage of all the opportunities that I had to end his pathetic life.  I should have checked to see if he had 666 somewhere beneath that golden feathered hair.   Since I am standing on my front lawn surrounded by neighborhood witnesses I decide that it’s best not to assassinate Barry in our driveway.  I will later regret this decision.  Instead I go in the house, change out of my tainted dress and try to decide whether to use bleach or steel wool to cleanse away any evidence that I have been in the vicinity of Barry.  It takes awhile.  I run out of hot water.

Afterword

I would like to say that I never heard from Barry again.  Fortunately I never saw him again but I did hear from him  - indirectly.

I was working at the restaurant a few months later and noticed a group of Barry’s “friends”, including Naked Robe Guy, sitting in the bar.  They were clearly talking about me.  I’m trying to work while avoiding them and hoping that I don’t start having an “Apocalypse Now” flashback.  Finally, Naked Robe Guy intercepts me on the way to the bar, “hey, I know you, right?”  I debate about denying everything but it’s clear that he knows who I am.  Crap.  I feign my best nonchalant response, “uh, yeah I think so”.  He isn’t buying it.  He yells out to the other “friends of Barry” and drags me over to their table.  Will the humiliation never end?  Apparently the answer to that question is – NO.  Naked Robe Guy tells me that he and the rest of the group have a bet and they would like me to settle it.  I’m hoping the question is “Did you know that Barry was accidentally killed during an exorcism?” but alas, no.  

To the audience:  Are you sitting down?  Have you removed all sharp or breakable objects from your proximity?

The question they want to ask me is – Am I stalking Barry?  I almost drop my tray of drinks.  I forget that I am at work and shout – “Are you FUCKING joking?”   The laughter is suddenly replaced with stunned silence, followed by more laughter.  Naked Robe Guy has won the bet and says, “I TOLD you guys that she wasn’t stalking him!”.  I sit down because I think I might pass out.  One of the other guys explains to me that after our “date” Barry has been telling all of his friends that he can’t get rid of me and that I keep calling him and (best of all) that I am IN LOVE WITH HIM.  I throw up in my mouth.  Naked Robe Guy says that he knew he was lying because he saw the look on my face at the “party” and said that I looked like I wanted to strangle Barry.  I refrained from asking him how he could remember all of that while he was intoxicated and engaging in a sex act.  For a brief moment I am impressed.

I told them the whole story.  They did not looked surprised.  One of the guys who was usually with Barry when he would come in, says “Yeah I should have warned you about him.”  Yeah I little warning would have been nice.  Barry was in need of something  more severe than a warning.  I would have suggested a skull and crossbones.

That was the last I heard of, from or about Barry.

I did actually burn the dress.  It need a decent funeral, it had been through a lot.  I kept the shoes.  Just as the red shoes had worked to bring Dorothy home, mine did the same for me.  I hoped I would never have to use them as a weapon again, but you never know…

A Guy Named Barry, the Racetrack, An Orgy, British Sailors and a Cold Waterbed or How I Became a Serial Monogamist – Ch 5

Chapter 5 – A Cold Waterbed

My sudden freedom from the wrath of Barry has made me giddy and it quickly dawns on me that I don’t actually know what I’m going to do with him.  I can’t take him to my house.  My parents are out of town and I don’t want to risk being alone with Barry in an empty house.  Even though he looks comatose, who knows what’s going to happen when the drugs/alcohol/horse tranquilizers start wearing off.  If someone is going to get attacked in a psychotic rage, it’s going to be Barry not me.   I slap his face to see if he will wake up.  Yes this also provides the only happiness that I have had on this date.  He doesn’t budge.  Wonderful.

As I reach the end of the Bay Bridge, I decide that the only course of action is to take Barry to his house.  Of course, I have a tiny little problem because I don’t know where he lives.  So now I must wake the slumbering ogre to try to get him to give me directions to his house.  I have the feeling that this might be an exercise in futility but I have no other options.  I pull the car over on the side of the highway and get out.  If I have learned anything from the Tales of Mother Goose, it’s to bring weapons when confronting an ogre.  So I prepare to use my 4th amendment rights and grab a tire iron from the trunk on my way over the the passenger side of the car.

I open the door and let Barry fall out.  Unfortunately he wakes up before his face hits the gravel.  He apparently received some tips on “swearing like a sailor” from our British friends and has let loose a monsoon of expletives.  He starts to get up but I place my foot on his shoulder and show him the tire iron.  He looks confused and are you kidding me  - hurt.  He puts on his best “hey we’re all friends here” expression and says, “hey baby, why are you so pissed off”?  Really?  I explain that I am not his baby and that I am not pissed off, I am actually one itty bitty step away from bludgeoning him to death on the side of the road.  And then Barry does the one thing I do not expect.  He starts to cry.

The road back from pre-murderous rampage to sympathy is too long for me to navigate, so I just tell him to stop blubbering and tell me where he lives.  For some reason this makes him stop crying and start smiling.  Great.  I have no idea why his demeanor has changed but will regrettably find out later.  I get back in the car (with the tire iron) and tell him to give me directions and not to even think about touching me.  He just sits there with a delusional smile on his face and tells me how to get to his house in Dublin.  I am not thrilled to know that I have to be in the car for another 30 minutes with Barry but I am relieved that we have a plan.

Everything is going along smoothly.  Barry is staying on his side of the car and I am driving along with the tire iron in my lap in case he gets out of line.  I start to believe that this night might actually be ending without blood shed when Barry tells me that he has to pee.  My capacity for being kind was left either at the racetrack or the orgy but either way I’m not going back to find it.  I tell him to hold it.  He says that he can’t and starts yelling at me to pull over – PULL OVER, PULL OVER!  Crap.  As I pull over I realize where we are – right next to the Santa Rita Jail.  I’m tempted to just drive him up to the front door and push him out but being this close to a prison is freaking me out.

Barry gets out of the car and walks away so that he can relieve himself.  Apparently he hasn’t used the restroom since the racetrack because he’s gone for awhile.  I’m not willing to investigate as I’m hoping there was a recent prison break and they have captured Barry and he is now some convicts girlfriend.  I am snapped out of this glorious daydream by the flashing lights of a police car.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  After all of this we are going to get arrested?  I see the police officer exit the car and start talking to Barry, which gives me the opportunity to slip the tire iron into the backseat so that I don’t end this night being shot.

The officer approaches my side of the car and flashes his light at me.  He asks me what we are doing and asks me if I know what public indecency is.   Is this some cruel joke?  Is Alan Funt going to jump out of the police car and shout, “You’re on Candid Camera?”  I want to tell him that I have experienced all kinds of indecency in public this evening and I’m sure that I have a good handle on that subject but when dealing with the police, it’s best to just answer their questions directly.  I tell him that yes I know what public indecency is and then explain why I am driving the car and where I am going and promise to get Barry home and not let him drive.  The officer acts like he’s suspicious that something else is going on here but he doesn’t have any reason to hold us, so he let’s us go.  I drive off, grab the tire iron again and tell Barry that we are not stopping until we get to his house.

When we finally do arrive at his house, I tell Barry that he can go inside and that I will sleep in the car.  Barry, who suddenly decides to form the first cogent and logical sentences of the evening tells me that I will freeze to death out here and that I should just come inside.  I can see that there are cars in the drive way so just to be sure I ask him who he lives with.  He tells me that he lives with his brother  - which is not the full story.  I am exhausted, angry and freezing so I agree.  I tell Barry that I am bringing the tire iron with me and give him the evil eye.

We get into the house and go to Barry’s room and I explain he will be sleeping on the floor.  It’s dark and messy and I have no idea what’s going on but it’s either pass out or sleep so I head for the bed.  The bed is of course not a normal bed, with normal blankets or sheets.  No, that would mean that Barry was actually a normal person.  Barry’s bed is a waterbed, which has no sheets, no blankets and is not heated.  If you have never slept on a cold waterbed you can just take my word that it is a miserable experience.  Barry falls on the floor and I grab some piece of clothing to try to keep me warm.  I don’t even want to know what it is.

I manage to fall asleep but just as I have feared, the plethora of illegal substances that Barry ingested has worn off.  And yes, ladies and gentlemen, he wants to have SEX with me.  We have reached the climax (no pun intended) and one of us is about to die in a cold waterbed.  I reach for the tire iron but can’t find it so I grab my shoe and nail Barry in the middle of the forehead with the heel.  I hiss at him to get the hell off of me and knee him in the groin.  He withers to the floor but adds that I am a “shitty girlfriend”.  I have located the tire iron and I push it down on his chest and say, “For the last time Barry, I am not your girlfriend.  I will never be your girlfriend.  Not in this life, not in any life.  Not in an alternate universe.  NOT EVER.”  Barry finally shuts up.

I lay awake until 9 am  and then I stab Barry with the tire iron again and tell him to get up because I’m driving his car to my house, with or without him.  I willing to commit murder, grand theft auto and various other felonies as long as I can get away from Barry.  As I walk out of the room I realize something is wrong.  This isn’t his brother’s house.  I turn around and look at Barry with what I hope is the glare of death.  ”Barry, who lives here?”  Barry looks at me like I’m an idiot and replies, “my brother and his family”, and then marches ahead of me down the hall.  So far I have managed to avoid one thing on this date, complete humiliation.  As I follow Barry, it becomes gravely clear that complete humiliation is around the corner and about to kick my ass.

tune in tomorrow for- the finale and afterword

A Guy Named Barry, the Racetrack, An Orgy, British Sailors and a Cold Waterbed or How I Became a Serial Monogamist – Ch 4

Chapter 4 – The British Are Coming

The sight of my beloved San Francisco provides me a moment of excitement and allows me the slightest hope that at least Barry will finally take me somewhere where we can eat dinner.  I’m starving and the possibility that his demeanor might improve slightly if he ate something rather than subsisted on unquantifiable amounts of alcohol and god only knows what illegal substances, is my first goal at the moment.  My other goal is to figure out how to convince Barry to let me drive the car so that I might have a chance of getting out of this date alive and without committing homicide.

Barry starts yelling “PAAARRRRRRRTTTTTTAAAAAAAYYYYY” as we enter The City.  My brief bubble of hope has now burst as Barry pulls into the parking lot of a very popular night club – Studio West.  I am confused since I have repeatedly told him that I am 19 and this club is for the 21 and over crowd.  Barry, who has once again forgotten that we are on a date, exits the car and practically RUNS to the front door.  He looks like a kid trying to be first in line at the Matterhorn at Disneyland.  I reluctantly follow him.  Barry looks over at me, with a mix of disgust and annoyance and tells me that I “better hurry up”.  As I head up the steps I’m wondering if a stake through the heart or silver bullets are available in this club.  I haven’t decided what kind of creature Barry is but he clearly isn’t human.

When I get to the door, the bouncer OF COURSE asks for my ID.  Which I fortunately or unfortunately (depending on your perspective) do not have.  Hey – I thought I was going out to a local restaurant for dinner.  I didn’t realize that I would be playing some strange adaptation of Around the Bay Area in 14 hours with Phileas Fogg’s evil twin.   Nor did I assume that I would need ID so that someone might be able to identify the body, but given the look on Barry’s face after I explain that I don’t have an ID with me, THAT was something I should have planned on.  Barry is completely FURIOUS but decides that he can “bribe” the bouncer.  He does not succeed in his attempt to get us in but he does cause a scene and is almost thrown down the stairs, leaving me with an angry inebriated date and palpable looks of pity from the crowd.

Barry stomps off to the car.  Is he actually throwing a temper tantrum?  As I reach the car I realize that he is indeed having a full-blown, 2 year old tantrum in the parking lot.  He stomps around the car, kicking the tires, clenching his fists and muttering angrily to himself.  He stops short of actually throwing himself on the ground and flailing.  He suddenly realizes that I am staring at him with a mix of horror and amusement, which he takes as a challenge.  He starts circling me like I’m his prey and telling me what a stupid “girlfriend” that I am.  I restrain myself from telling him that I AM NOT HIS GIRLFRIEND again, and instead tell him that he should just take me home.  Barry is undeterred.

We spend the next 3 hours repeating the same scene over and over at different clubs; Das Club, DV8, The Edge.  Every time the bouncer won’t let us in and every time Barry throws a fit and storms off.  Finally he gives up and pulls in to the parking lot at a liquor store.  Yea more alcohol!  He glares at me and tells me to wait in the car and that he will be back.  Right, because I have so many options here.  Where does he think I’m going to go?  I watch him walk into the liquor store but after 20 minutes, he still hasn’t returned to the car. I secretly hope that he is being mugged in the back alley.

Just as I’m about to get out of the car, Barry appears AND he’s brought friends.  Lucky for me, these friends have clothes on.  They are however, completely wasted.  Barry is carrying a brown paper bag with some unidentified bottle of alcohol while the four of them lean on each other for support and gab away like long lost friends.  Barry’s new friends are sailors.  British Sailors to be exact.  For a brief moment I wonder if Barry has sold me for a bottle of cheap liquor.  As the three sailors get in the backseat of Barry’s Trans Am, I realize that my opportunity has arrived.

I grab Barry’s keys and tell him that I AM DRIVING.  God decides that although I am a complete idiot for agreeing to this date, he is going to provide a little grace and Barry gives me the keys.  Suddenly I am grateful that I know how to drive a stick.  The British sailors, who I have dubbed Winkin’, Blinkin’ and Nod, are babbling incoherently with Barry as I start the car and pull out into the street having no idea what I’m going to do next.  I feel like I’m driving around Kindercare on wheels as they jostle each other, laugh, try to vie for my attention and take turns napping.  I receive three marriage proposals, many propositions and listened to  several jokes that made no sense at all.  Even though they are drunk they are actually funny and they don’t try to do anything that would cause me to have to run the car into a brick wall.

Apparently I  possess some serious Mom skills because an hour later they are ALL sleeping.  I find my way back to the liquor store, restore them to consciousness and tell them that shore leave is over for the night.  I seriously consider trying to get them to take Barry  but decide that I don’t want to have to explain why I stole his car to my parents or the police, so I keep him.  As they wander back to their ship (I hope), I am left with Barry.  He is now passed out in the passenger seat, snoring and drooling on his leather jacket.  I could do all sorts of unconscionable things to Barry at this moment and I should, I really should.  The only thing that prevents me from pushing him out the car door as I drive back over the Bay Bridge is a single thought – I am too pretty for prison.

tune in tomorrow for – A Cold Waterbed

A Guy Named Barry, the Racetrack, An Orgy, British Sailors and a Cold Waterbed or How I Became a Serial Monogamist – Ch 3

Chapter 3 – An Orgy – Suburban Bacchanalia

Barry finally stops the car in front of  what appears to be a normal suburban house and tells me to come inside.  It’s obvious that there is a party going on at the house which actually provides a small sense of relief, which is unfortunately short-lived.  It has also become apparent that I am not actually on a date.  I appear to be more of a well-dressed side-kick as Barry just keeps walking ahead of me and then looking back at me with the “well, are you coming?” expression.  Since once again, I have no idea where I am and assume that being inside of a party with other people is probably safer than being alone with Barry, I follow him inside.  Sadly, my assumptions were about to be proven false as I realize that I have stumbled into an actual den of iniquity.  Here I am, in a scene that Tiberius himself could not have dreamed up.

As I stand in the door way, being assaulted by a combination of scented candles, pot smoke and some other smells I hope never to have to identify,  I am attempting figure out exactly what is going on.  It’s not every day that you walk in on an orgy.  Barry, who is neither surprised or daunted by the scene appearing through the smoky cloud of human debauchery, leaves me standing at the front door and disappears into some back room.  Meanwhile I am attempting to remember what I learned in Girl Scouts about being confronted by a bear in the woods.  There are no bears here, although there are some men hairy enough to be bears, but I have the feeling the imminent danger is the same.  I realize that playing dead or yelling to try to scare them are probably not the best tactics so I try to shrink into the corner and blend in with the wallpaper.  Fortunately they are a little too busy to focus through the haze of smoke on what I’m doing, which is giving my best impression of an Edvard Munch painting.

Barry swaggers over next to me, bringing a friend who is wearing a robe.  No there is nothing else, just a robe AND it’s open.  Apparently Barry is planning on providing anatomy lessons on our “date” or maybe he only dates trollops.  Next to naked robe guy is his side-kick, naked panties girl.  Thankfully someone besides me is wearing panties.  I can’t speak for Barry as I’m afraid what he may or may not be wearing under those very tight jeans (actually I hope it’s NOT panties).  Naked robe guy and naked panties girl are very much “under the influence”.  I’m not sure what they are on, but they are really, really happy.  Barry starts introducing me to them, which is awkward enough, but he adds that I am his “girlfriend”.

Wait, what?!  What just happened.  I don’t even like this guy and am plotting on how to escape from this date like my life depends on it and he introduces me as his “girlfriend”?  This is the moment I know things having taken a turn for the worse.  Yes, I have become the woman in the horror movie who goes out to the scary woods in her night gown, in the dark, to see what the “noise” is.

Naked robe guy and naked panties girl don’t care who I am and probably won’t remember me but they are interested in engaging in a sex act not 3 feet from where I am standing.  I’m not sure where Emily Post stands on the proper etiquette for dealing with such situations but I’ve decided that “getting the hell out of here” is the only course of action.  As I head out the door, Barry catches up to me and says, ” didn’t your Mother ever teach you any manners?”  To which the only appropriate response is, “take me home, now!”  Barry informs me that I am acting like a little kid and that I am really “ticking him off”.  But he gets in the car and tells me that he is going to take me home.

He starts to drive and I realize that he has taken whatever substance naked robe guy and naked panties girl had indulged in, because he looks even more intoxicated then he was when we left the race track.  Unfortunately, the substance has had the opposite effect on Barry as he has suddenly developed tourettes.  I am debating on whether stabbing him in the eye with my cute red pump is the best course of action considering that he is driving.  Maiming him at some point, seems like a fitting end to the evening.

I’m too busy concentrating on what he is saying and how he is driving to notice that we are NOT headed to my house.  Barry tells me that we are going to San Francisco for our actual date.  Since I do not look pleased by his statement, he decides that he will explain to me that all women are the same and that I am just like his ex-girlfriend.  I grab Barry by his leather jacket and explain to HIM that I AM NOT HIS GIRLFRIEND!  As we head over the Bay Bridge, I consider how this night will end.  I’m fairly sure that someone is going to get hurt and I decide that it’s not going to me.  I also decide that I’m burning this dress.

tune in tomorrow for – British Sailors

A Guy Named Barry, the Racetrack, An Orgy, British Sailors and a Cold Waterbed or How I Became a Serial Monogamist – Ch 2

Chapter 2 – The Racetrack – Horse Racing and Hookers

First stop on the “night of my life” was the racetrack.  No I am NOT joking.  Barry parks the car, says “let’s go” and promptly exits the car.  Apparently, he thinks that I know the “secret plan” or that I am a pet, because he looks back at me with the “aren’t you coming” expression before heading straight for the betting counter.  I debate for a minute about whether or not the parking lot of the racetrack is safer than the racetrack itself and opt to reluctantly follow Barry.  I walk in and catch up to Barry as all eyes turn to look at me.  Normally, bringing the room to a halt and having everyone stare at you might be a good thing, in this case it’s just super creepy.  It’s not just because I am truly overdressed for the racetrack, or that I am the youngest person by decades (next to Barry) but simply because I definitely do not belong here.  I look like a kindergartener in a crack den.  Do you know who is at the racetrack on a Saturday night?  Compulsive gamblers, degenerates and hookers.  After our date was over I realized that Barry fit into the first two categories and possibly the third (I can’t be sure).

After Barry places a bet, he then proceeds to get a drink.  He wants to buy me a drink but the bartender asks for my ID and I remind Barry that I am 19.  A fact which will escape him many times before this date is over.  He looks at me with a mix of disgust and irritation and walks over to the track to watch the race.  I follow behind him, because I am too scared to be alone in this place which is one step above hell.  When I catch up to him my Latin temper has finally emerged and I say, “What in the hell are we doing at the racetrack?”  To which Barry replies, “watching the races, what are you stupid?”

God was rolling his eyes at me at that moment.  God – “Hello!  Can I make it any more obvious to you that this guy is a complete putz?  Run, don’t walk to the nearest exit!”

Now, I am fully aware that when God speaks to you, you should listen but given that I had no way to get a hold of someone, no money, and am far away from home, it looked like I was stuck with Barry and all the other degenerates at the race track.  After the race, in which Barry loses the money that he bet, he decides that he needs to go to the bathroom.  Which leaves me standing there waiting for him and being propositioned for a different kind of “date” by at least 5 men.  I finally shout, ” I am not a hooker!” and they leave me alone.  We end up watching two races, Barry loses more money and buys two more drinks.  Actually he tries to get me to buy him drinks but as I remind him AGAIN, I am only 19 and can’t buy him drinks.  He is pissed.

So now I’ve gone from irritated and scared to panicked because Barry is angry, semi-tipsy and behind the wheel.   He tells me that he has to make a stop before we head to San Francisco, so we get back into the car and he takes off again.  I am sitting next to him wondering  if:  a) I am going to live through this experience, b) if the next stop is robbing a bank,  c) if I will ever be able to wash the stench of human despair off of my cute summer dress.

tune in tomorrow for – An Orgy