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

Hey, By The Way, You’re Naked

The Batty Broad likes to get her sweat on.  Which isn’t difficult, by the way, since sweating is one of the things that I do best (I know, when will the list of everything I am really good at ever end?  Jealous?) When I was in 7th grade gym class (as if there was any way of being more awkward or uncomfortable) , I once said “God I’m sweating” aloud.  To which my gym teacher replied, “Girls don’t sweat, they glow”.  Well then I must have been 3 mile island because I was glowing like a leaking nuclear power plant.  Was she joking?  Could she not see that there was sweat pouring from every orifice, including my eyelids?  I must be some kind of hybrid man-girl.

Ever since my sweat glands decided to become, let’s just say “overactive”, I have had a love/hate relationship with exercise.  I love how it feels to have a great workout, or play a great game of tennis but I am not always pleased with the outcome of looking like I was caught in a ten minute downpour after physical activity.  Which is why the Batty Broad has always loved swimming.  I mean first of all, you are already wet so being noticeably sweatier than any grown man isn’t an issue.  Secondly, it’s great exercise.  My only issue with swimming is that inevitably, at some point you have to be naked.

Now the Batty Broad is not exactly a prude.  I mean nudity isn’t really something that bothers me per se.  I just don’t particularly want to be naked in front of people that I don’t know.  Actually, other than my husband (TM – The Man), I don’t want to be naked in front of people I do know either.  Listen it’s not something that anyone is missing out on, I assure you.  I am normally non-plussed by most things involving interactions with other humans (known or unknown).  But I mean NAKED is just…well, what do you do with naked?  My aversion, I believe, is directly related to an incident in which I woke up on a nude beach surrounded by naked people (but that’s a story for another time).

Which brings me to why, although I love to swim, I dread going into the women’s locker room after being involved in a wet (but non-sweaty) swim workout.  I feel like I’m on a covert op, stalking out the locker room to ensure that there aren’t naked people and that my locker isn’t close to any naked people and that, god forbid, I don’t have to actually be naked in front of other people.  But try as I might, it’s just unavoidable.  I have had many awkward and uncomfortable “naked situations” but an incident in the gym locker room last week has made me seriously start considering never changing in a locker room again.

So last weekend I went to the gym to give my ass a break from me sitting on it all the time, and swim some laps.  It was a beautiful day so the gym was pretty empty and I was pretty excited about the prospect of possibly neither having to be naked in front of people or seeing naked people.  I go to the gym with my swimsuit on already so that the possibility of being naked prior to my swim is eliminated.  I have a routine:  go in with swimsuit on under clothes, take clothes off, swim laps, come back and shower off (taking off swimsuit in the shower) and then wrap myself in a towel, head to the locker and try to keep towel around me as long as possible while trying to put clothes back on.  Just that last part is kind of a workout all by itself, it’s quite the scene.  But I have a system.  I don’t have to be naked (very much) nor do I have expose my nakedness to anyone else in the gym.  It’s a little OCD but it protects my psyche and prevents me from having to walk around the gym wondering who has seen my naked.

Everything was going as planned but before I could actually start my Cirque de Soleil moves, trying to keep a towel around me while also trying to put on clothes, I hear the shower turn on.  Uh Oh.  Okay, keep calm, don’t make any sudden movements.  Just keep proceeding with the plan and everything will be okay.  Yes this is me talking to myself.  I do however, look around to see if there is somewhere I can hide.  I hear the shower turn off and  and the woman is clearly drying herself off.  I start trying to hurry but then another woman walks into the locker room and proceeds to get naked  right across from me.  OH MY GOD…I’m trapped.  I make a mental note that I am going to have to carry a small paper bag with me in my gym bag because I’m starting to hyperventilate.  I slap myself across the face (internally, I mean I’m not crazy – despite this story) and start channeling Cher in Moonstruck – “Snap Out of It!” because the thought of passing out in the ladies locker room, half naked and being surrounded by other naked people is a real possibility here.

So I tell myself to just keep changing and it will all be over soon.  BUT THEN, shower lady decides to make her appearance and her locker is right next to me!  I’m halfway through changing and trying not to look at her.  Now shower lady doesn’t even have on a TOWEL!  No, she is prancing through the locker room with nothing but a smile and shower shoes on.  Okay, wait.  You aren’t concerned about being bare-ass (and all other bare things) in front of total strangers but you need to cover your feet?!  Worst of all, shower lady would like to engage me in conversation. Awesome.

Shower lady (who is COMPLETELY NAKED) – Hey,  how are you?
Me (in my head) – How AM I?  What are we old friends?  Um, well, until you decided to stand less than a foot away from me with nothing but shower shoes on I was having a pretty good day.  Have you heard of personal space?  Oh my god, where do I look?
Me – I’m good, how are you?  Why am I encouraging her?
Shower lady – I’m good!
Me (in head) – that’s GREAT- feels good to be naked in front of total strangers does it?  Are you on some list of sexual deviants that I should know about?
Me – smiling, because I am at a total loss here.  I mean what do I say?  So, how are they hanging?  Because lord almighty they are hanging.
I may have become temporarily blind for a moment

MEANWHILE, the other naked lady, who is in the shower now is MOANING.  WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?  Have I been transported into the middle of a David Lynch movie?  Is Dennis Hopper going to arise from his grave and make an appearance as the creepy ladies locker room janitor?  I start chanting in my head – there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.  WHY IS SHE MOANING?  Is she in pain?  Worse yet is she “enjoying” herself.  I throw up a little in my mouth.

Back to shower lady who has now decided to not only talk to me but actually ask me to TOUCH her.  She hands me a bottle of lotion and says, could you put a little of this on my back?  I can’t reach the middle.  I am so completely dumbfounded that I actually take the lotion for fear that she might start lotioning the rest of her body right next to me.  Fortunately I am fully clothed now, so it’s only the tiniest bit less creepy but not by much.  She is STILL completely naked.  At this point I want to say to her – Hey, um, did you know that you are NAKED?  Like maybe she forgot that she doesn’t even have underwear on.  She is however still wearing those ever so conservative shower shoes.

So I decide to get it over with and just rub some lotion on her back.  I’m not sure how you say no actually so I just tell myself “how bad can it be?”  Here is a piece of advice.  Don’t ask yourself that question if you really don’t want the answer.  Answer:  pretty bad.  Because as soon as I start putting the lotion on her back – SHE starts MOANING.  So now I have shower lady moaning and lady who is still in the shower moaning.  Have I inadvertently wandered onto a middle aged porn set?  Is Ron Jeremy around the corner?

I figure out if I just hurry up the moaning will stop and then I can leave and won’t have to listen to lady in the shower moaning either.  But lady in the shower suddenly isn’t in the shower anymore.  She is standing across the room, looking at the two of us and then she says:  ”that looks like it feels good”.  So before this turns into some bad 70′s, made for TV, Linda Blair starring prison movie, I put the lotion on the bench.  Say “I have to go” and skedaddle out of there.  If you have never skedaddled, it’s a lot like running but faster.

As I wander out of the locker room, dazed AND confused, I trying to imagine how I will ever go back into the YMCA ladies locker room again.  My ears are ringing and I’m pretty sure my eyesight has been compromised.  I’m hoping that I won’t be dreaming of old, moaning, naked ladies holding bottles of lotion tonight.  I’m not sure what just happened but maybe I have had a small glimpse of hell.  I vow to pray more reverently.

The Batty Broad has decided that she would rather be a sweaty “glowing” man-girl then risk another incident of partial contact nakedness.  Whatever you do, don’t approach me with a bottle of lotion any time in the near future.  There could be blood shed.

You have been warned.

Signed -

The Batty Broad

Versatile Blogger Award

The Batty Broad loves awards of any kind.  The other day I discovered that I have saved all of my ribbons from cheerleading camp, which are completely useless but clearly point out that I was coordinated at one time in my life.  So it was pretty exciting to receive the Versatile Blogger Award from  Erin  from Analyfe!  Read her blog.  She’s pithy, smart, interesting and inspiring.

So, here are the  rules of the game:

• Thank the person who gave you the award and link the blog back to them
• Tell us 7 things about yourself
• Pass the award to 7 bloggers
• Contact the bloggers to let them know they’ve received the award

You’re not obligated to pass this along but don’t break the chain, man!

7 things about the Batty Broad:

1.  I refuse to associate with people who have no sense of humor.  Life is challenging and if you can’t laugh at yourself and each other, why go on?

2.  I have moved 28 times in my life.  I don’t recommend it.  It does however ensure that you don’t keep a lot of unnecessary junk.  I mean after you have moved your sports trophies a few times, the garbage can seems like a fitting final resting place.

3.  I have a deep abiding passion for books.  I am fairly certain that I would not have survived my childhood without access to a library.  Even though I would spend every hour of my day reading and learning if I could, I don’t have a lot of books (see fact #2).  My dream would be to have a library in my house.

4.  I’m the person you want to tell your problems to.  Everyone does, even strangers.  I don’t have an agenda or feel that it is necessary to place any judgement on people, so I think they feel open to talking to me.  We are all struggling and trying our best and having someone who is really able to listen and provide objective, non-judgmental feedback is something we all need.

5.  I will never ceased to be amazed at the effect music has on me.  Music should be one of the major food groups.  I could live without many things but music is not one of them.  It’s like air to me.

6.  The older I get, the more I realize that I am less certain of what I know all the time.  I think everyone, should ask themselves everyday – but what if that isn’t true?  I mean at least consider the possibility.  We spend so much time looking at things in a single direction, that we don’t even realize there is more to the story then we ever imagined.

7.  I’m going to leave #7 open so that you can ask me a question.  I like Erin’s idea about this…so have at it!

And the awards go to:

1. Mr. Blog at http://bmj2k.com/
2. Don at http://crabbyoldfart.wordpress.com/
3. John at http://notesfromtheboss.wordpress.com/
4. C.L. Tanager  at http://cliftonltanager.wordpress.com/
5. Ruby Two Shoes at http://rubytwoshoes.wordpress.com/
6. Shear Viscosity at http://sheartravesty.wordpress.com/
7. Tannerleah at http://stopannoyingme.wordpress.com/

Thanks for your entertaining and awesome blogs!

Signed

The Batty Broad

Alex, I’ll Take “Things That You Push In With Your Thumb”…

The Batty Broad comes from a long line of batty women.  Being batty isn’t the same as being crazy (although there is plenty of the crazy gene floating around our pool), it’s more about living a life that appears to be part of a long running slapstick comedy.  I know, I know, that sounds like barrel full of monkeys (which begs the question exactly how fun is a barrel full of monkeys – is it just me or does a barrel full of monkeys sound more like the beginning of a horror movie?) but the reality is a batty life is full of embarrassing moments, towering inferno type disasters and a whole lotta pain.  It is, however, hilarious.  So us batty broad’s have that going for us.

The Batty Broad’s mom is not batty really.  I mean she is actually a classy broad, more like a dame.  But she has, on occasion, encountered a batty situation or two (okay I’m lying, it’s more than two).  One such occurrence happened while she was working at Payless Drug Store many moons ago.  For those of you who have never heard of PayLess Drug Store, it was a store akin to a Rite-Aid (which purchased PayLess) or a CVS.  You know a place to run in and get your various sundry items that are of a health or hygienic nature.  My Mom, who I will refer to as CB (Classy Broad) happened to be working as a cashier on this particular day which has gone down in the annals of our batty family story.

Before every item in every store had a bar code, there was just a simple little sticky tag with the price.  These sticky tags were placed (or often not placed) by stock clerks who were usually young men working for minimum wage.  In the Batty Broad’s experience minimum wage equals minimum effort.  Due to this clearly well-thought out and executed plan (pause so that we can all laugh), price tags were left off of products more often than they were actually attached.  Shocking, I KNOW.  When the customer, who assumed a price would actually be on their item, reached the checkout they were often forced to wait while the cashier got on the intercom to ask for a price check on the item so that it could be rung up properly on the cash register.  This would then prompt the same stock clerk who didn’t put the tag on in the first place to have to run out to the floor, find the item and get on the intercom to announce the proper pricing.  I’m fairly certain that the aforementioned barrel full of monkeys could have come up with a better system.

One busy Saturday, while CB was working at the front of the store she was stopped in the middle of ringing up a customer due to a missing price tag.  Following the protocol for such issues, she got on the intercom and called out for a price check.

CB:  Price check
Stock Boy: Okay, price check (letting her know that he was ready to run out and find the item and provide the proper pricing)
CB:  Price check on Tampax
Stock Boy runs out to the floor to look for the item.
UNFORTUNATELY
Stock Boy does not hear CB properly and instead of seeking the feminine hygiene aisle has headed over to the hardware aisle instead.
Meanwhile, CB’s line is backing up and the customer (who was not thrilled to have the whole store know that she was buying Tampax) is getting irritated
CB on intercom: Can I get a price check on Tampax?
Stock Boy (who has mistaken Tampax for Thumb Tacks) is standing in the hardware aisle completely stumped.  After hearing CB call for the price check again, he grabs some thumb tacks and runs over to the intercom.
Stock Boy:  On that price check – is that the kind that you push in with your thumb or the kind your nail in with a hammer?
At this point, there is almost dead silence in the store which is then followed by HYSTERIA.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, in the store with the exception of the customer and the stock boy are practically rolling on the floor laughing.   CB, who is a very classy broad, is laughing and crying at the same time.  The customer who had clearly had her fill of humiliation for one day, walked out of the store.

CB decided that rather than continue to try to help the stock boy understand that Tampax are not pushed in with either a thumb or a hammer, headed back to the stock room to provide some much needed guidance.  There she found him standing at the intercom, both types of thumb tacks in hand, being pummeled with Tampax boxes by the other stock boys.  It was like the shower scene from the movie Carrie, except Carrie was a dude.  CB figured that he probably understood his mistake at that point and headed back to the register.

I’m not sure if the poor stock boy ever lived down that moment or if he still shudders when he hears the word Tampax but I bet that the customer who ended up feeling like the punchline of a joke, always checked for a price tag on her feminine products after that day.

The moral of the story is that being around the Batty Broad or kin of the Batty Broad could lead to two things.  Either you will bear witness to the wackiness that revolves around me like the rings of the planet Saturn or you will be sucked into the gravitational pull and be forced to endure said wackiness first hand.  Either way, it’s way more fun than a barrel full of monkeys.

You have been warned.

Signed

The Batty Broad

Poking, Prodding and Other Uncomfortable Subjects

If you are a man and you don’t really want to know what goes on when a woman goes and gets all her lady parts checked out, read no further.  Oh and by the way when I say getting her lady parts checked out I don’t mean being ogled by some ne’er do well bar troll who looks her up and down to determine his chances of getting lucky.  I mean the much-anticipated annual event of a visit to the gynecologist.  This is the only time that a man or woman who you barely know touches your boobs and  pokes in your nether regions and then charges you for it (unless you’re the town hooker).  I mean usually that kind of thing is over in 2 minutes or less and it doesn’t cost a thing unless you then have to go see the gynecologist to rid yourself of whatever gift you might have received from your lustful interlude.  It’s like getting a root canal but you’re naked and the dentist is between your legs.  Sounds fun, right?

If that isn’t just a bowl full of cherry’s then lets add in headlamps, KY Jelly, metal instruments, giant Q-tip swabs and let’s not forget stirrups.  Not the fun kind of stirrups like super cool cowboys wear, no these are metal and help you to spread your legs which is a very un-cowboy like thing to have happen to you unless there is a horse between them.  There are few moments in a woman’s life more uncomfortable then lying on a table, nearly naked, with your feet in un-cowboy like stirrups, and having someone (well yes it is a doctor), with half a hand inside you while they push on your abdomen and try to engage you in casual banter.  How ’bout those Phillies?  Could there be anything more uncomfortable?

The ONLY thing that makes this whole close encounter of the awkward kind bearable is that after the first time that you visit, you know what to expect the next time you go.  It’s pretty straightforward.  Get in, get naked, don an ever so attractive “robe”, lay on the table and away we go.  So you would think that DD (dancing daughter), who has been through this annual event several times wouldn’t need to call the Batty Broad 5,000 times at her recent visit (okay maybe it was only 3 – but still!)

Cell phone rings

Me – who is currently on the phone with my one of my favorite colleagues, trying to solve an ACTUAL problem.  We will refer to said colleague as SM (Southern Man  - yes it’s a reference to his geographical location).
I don’t even bother putting him on hold, which I will realize later was probably not the best plan

Me to SM:  I’m sorry, can you hold on one minute?  It’s DD.
Me to DD:  picking up phone – Hello?  What’s up?
DD:  Sorry I have a question
Me:  Okay, what?
DD:  Do I have to take off my bra?
Me:  Uh yes, you have to take EVERYTHING off.  Which isn’t totally true they let you leave your socks on.
DD:  Okay, sorry (giggling) I just couldn’t remember
Me to DD: – hearing SM laughing into my other ear – Okay, I’m on the phone I have to go.
Me to SM:  Sorry about that
SM:  No problem (still laughing)

Cell phone rings again

Me to SM:  OMG – Sorry, can you hold on again?
Me to DD:  Hey, what’s up?  I’m on a WORK call
DD:  Sorry, I can’t remember does the robe open in the front or the back?
Me:  OMG DD how else would the doctor be able to examine you if the robe doesn’t open in the front?
DD:  now really giggling – sorry I wasn’t sure
Me (in my head):  Is she punking me?
Me:  Okay I REALLY have to go now
Me to SM:  I’M REALLY SORRY about that
SM:  Not even trying to hide his laughter. It’s okay, it’s very entertaining
Me:  Sure…I’m sure you really need to know all about what happens at the gynecologist. ha!

Cell phone rings AGAIN

Me to SM:  Ugh…okay I swear this is the last time!
Me to DD:  Seriously?  What now?
DD:  Am I suppose to put my feet in the stirrups now or wait until he comes in?
Me:  Well unless you would like to provide him with a show when he walks in the door it might be best to just wait until he gets there and then put them into the stirrups.  Follow his lead, he’s done this before.
DD:  Okay I just wanted to make sure…I won’t call again.  Love you! Thanks!
Me:  Love you too, you crazy kid
Me to SM:  I have no words.  Can you even continue a conversation with me now?
SM:  That was so funny.  You really do have conversations like this (he has read my blog)
Me:  Unfortunately, yes this is my life

I’m not sure how we continued our previous conversation after that.  I felt like I’d forced him to watch Vagisil commercials on repeat for the past two minutes.  If the Batty Broad actually had the ability to be embarrassed anymore (I believe I lost this emotional reaction somewhere during my high school years when I  fell down the bleachers at a football game in my cheer leading skirt), I might not ever be able to look SM in the face again.  Luckily SM has a good sense of humor and finds me kind of entertaining, so he tolerates my craziness.  Bless him.

I don’t remember if we fixed the problem that we were trying to solve but I’m fairly certain that SM has more information than he ever needs to know about what goes on at the gyno.  He’s filing that under “things I wish I didn’t know” right now.  If he continues to have conversations with me, that file is going to grow rather large.  I guess I should warn him.

Signed

The Batty Broad