Tuesday, July 1, 2008

The Best Wing-Woman EV-ER!

Saturday E and I spent the entire day on a rooftop pool in Dupont. Her friend, Pool, just bought a condo there and didn’t mind letting two hot girls in bikinis spend all day on his roof drinking alcohol. Aw, what a sweetheart.

We drank mimosas on our roof beach, had some girl talk and did a lot of people watching. At first, we were alone, so that was nice because I have a loud mouth and didn’t have to worry about anyone hearing me say “penis” loudly or talk about wanting to have “sex on a countertop.” E and I do enjoy some raunchy conversations, especially after we get a little champagne in us. Sure, you can take the girl out of Redneckville, but ya can’t take the redneck out of the girl.

So first we’re alone. Then this scrawny guy comes up and spends almost an hour standing on the edge of the rooftop, just staring. I point at him and ask E if he's gonna jump. She said, “Oh, I hope not. Do you think we’d stay out here out if he did?” I gave her a sideways glance before she said, “Well, no, I guess not…Don’t jump!!” Luckily, Jumper figured out the meaning of life or whatever-the-fuck-ever and decided to get a tan instead. And he spent the next 3 hours on the phone. Probably calling everyone he knows telling them he almost jumped off a building, but now has a new appreciation of life and who knows, maybe seeing hot girls in bikinis helped a little.

Then a couple steps out onto the rooftop. Barbie and Ken. They look like they’re right out of a catalogue for Southern Greeks. Lacoste shirts, crokies and hair bows – oh my! I watch them walk out and then get bored at their lack of originality and close my eyes, focusing intently on my tan. All of a sudden, E gasps and pokes me. Between fits of laughter, she tells me that Barbie just pulled down her shorts to reveal, not a bikini bottom, but purple cotton underwear. We then watch Barbie explain what happened to Ken and rush inside to put proper swim attire on. Too many cosmos last night, sweetie?

Eventually, Pool joins us and our gossip talk. I notice Pool flirting with E, teasing her, tickling her, it’s a little awkward to feel as though you’re crashing someone else’s date. They’ve been friends for a long time, I tell myself, until I hear him comment on how she has nice boobs. Uh huh. Friends don’t tell friends they have nice boobs. He’s wanting some action. Unfortunately, the end of the afternoon has arrived, and we have dinner plans. We say our goodbyes, thank him for letting us mooch and invite him out with us later.

Dinner is fine. An odd mix of people, but whatever, I had my beer, and I was happy. And tan. Hurrah. There are six of us at the table, and apparently, there’s a Heiniken special that night so a frail wannabe model (honey, you’re in the wrong town) strolls up to us to tell us about just how delicious that Heiniken beer is. The girl is so small, it looks like the Hamburglar has been stealing all her food. Before she can even get half a sentence out, she looks at me and says, “Oh!” and then bursts out laughing. Not exactly the reaction I’m going for. I survived middle school, but I don’t have to take it anymore.

She awkwardly apologizes and explains that she thought she knew me. E, trying to soothe the poor girl’s nerves, offers up that it happens all the time. Then the girl says, “It’s because you’re the girl next door! But the pretty one – not the frumpy one!” And laughs, finally making it through her required speech about how Heiniken is half off and stumbles away. Uh…not sure where this one’s been living, but where in the world is the girl next door frumpy? I decide to take it as a compliment and try to feed her french fries later.

Our friends leave, and we saunter up to sit at the bar. In the midst of our pleasant conversation, an asshole Marine shows up behind me and starts waving ten dollars in my face. I turn around, and he promptly asks me to buy him a beer. Bud Light. Oddly, this is not the first time this has happened to me. That guy wanted a Bud Light too. Something about me just says “Marine Beer Wench.” The last time it happened, the asshole Marine ended up calling me a stupid bitch because I asked him to stop touching me. Then he screamed that he keeps me fucking safe in my fucking bed. Nice. And these guys are representing us abroad. No wonder everyone hates America right now.

I whip around to E and ask, “Seriously. Why does this always happen to me?” She laughs and says it must be because I’m the girl next door. Then she pointedly tells the asshole Marine that no, I will not get him a beer. When he says, “I was gonna pay for it…” she turns to me and warns that she’s about to take out all her anger from the last guy on this one. She can be rather intimidating so he apologizes and gets his own damn beer.

About this time, Pool shows up with his roommate, Drunken Mess. Drunken Mess is drunk, but not quite to mess level until one Irish car bomb and two Scotch on the Rocks later. Unlucky me doesn’t have to talk to him until after he reaches his optimal level of drunkenness. He asks me where I went to school, I tell him even though it was ten years ago, and he tells me he went to Wesleyn. Then pauses and asks me if I’ve heard of that school. I say yes, and he tells me it’s a good school. Whoopidy doo. I went to the number one party school in America. Next!

E and Pool are engrossed in a close conversation. And by close, I mean, they’re touching and nuzzling. I hope neither of them has to sneeze. I turn back to being the best Wingwoman ever and talk to Drunken Mess. He tells me he hates comedy. He hates Will Ferrell and Ben Stiller, and all that “frat boy humor.” I happen to love those idiots, but ok, to each their own. Then he tells me he hates most comedies and doesn’t like any comedians. I don’t know why anyone hates laughter, but the worst is yet to come. I am forced to continue talking to this pompous ass because E and Pool are now sucking face. Great. Drunken Mess keeps telling me he’s from New York, he grew up in New York City, blah blah. One of those. I’m tempted to ask him how his trust fund is holding up, but decide against it. Later, he admits he’s from Queens. Oh yeah, dude, reallll hot shit.

The annoying thing about Drunken Mess is not that he keeps touching my arm, presumably to hold himself upright, or that he hates joy and laughter or that he keeps asking me where I went to school even though I told him three times. No. The most annoying thing is that his eyes are half closed. Every once in awhile, they close completely, and I wait for his head to drop down onto the bar. No such luck. Our champ will not be defeated by Too Much Alcohol. No, he’s not down for the count, he keeps blabbering away about how he’s moving to New York in 3 months…or a month and a half…or a week and a half. He doesn’t seem to know which. E and Pool are still sucking face. This is the longest bar kiss EVER.

Finally, I tell him to keep his eyes open. He gets his feelings hurt and whines, “What’s wrong with closing my eyes? I can close them if I want!” Whaa. Poor Drunken Mess.

Somehow we’re on the topic of brunch. I’m slightly worried that he’s going to be the second guy in DC to ask if he can buy me breakfast, but we start talking about Bloody Marys and he gets all animated and excited. And proposes marriage. Alcohol is clearly the way to this man’s heart. I politely decline. He starts moaning about how awesome I am and why did he meet me now, when I’m leaving in 2 weeks and he’s leaving in a day and a half. I console him that life’s not fair, and he asks me if I'm single. I awkwardly explain that eee, ohh, well gee, I've been on a couple of dates with someone, and I think I like him, but no, we're not serious and I doubt it will be, but he's great and we have a lot of fun, but yeah, I'm single.

I have totally lost Drunken Mess. He just blinks at me. I laugh and tell him, "Blink once for yes, twice for no!" He doesn't get it. He finally says, "Well, I would've married you." Aw shucks.

I cannot contain my laughter, but strangely he doesn't seem to realize I'm laughing at him. Or maybe he does because he orders another Scotch on the Rocks. Hurrah. I won the Bar Guy Jackpot. Grasping at straws to keep him awake, I precede to talk about the football team that’s up on the TV in the bar. "See? The TV? Bright lights?" Oh no. Now he wants to marry me because I like football. This guy has dangerously low standards. Or not. Maybe low standards is what a drunken mess like Drunken Mess deserves.

Before I know it, he kisses me. My lips are tight, my teeth clenched, as I try to wring myself out of his death grip. Yuck. This date is over, dude. Peace OUT. E and Pool already snuck away, and I tell Drunken Mess to take a cab home. He kisses my hand and tells me again that it sucks he’s meeting me now, why oh why, cruel world! I walk over to say goodbye to my friend, the bar manager, who very seriously wants to take Drunken Mess outside and beat him to a pulp. I talk him out of it and go home to eat some bread. I love bread.


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