Life In The Weird Lane

"Hey Man, are you available next weekend? I want to serenade Danielle again."

That is apparently a real sentence said by a real man who lives right here in the United States of America. My co-worker told me that he was asked to be a part of a makeshift barbershop quartette put together by his buddy to serenade his wife. So many thoughts swirled around my head once I stopped laughing so hard I was momentarily blind. First, this is a level of sticky sweet hokeyness I would never wish to be a part of. Overtures made via jumbo tron, people springing from cakes, men stripping to a group of squealing girls, sky writing, and awkward friend serenades all fall somewhere just above drugless root canal on my list of leisure activities. Secondly, I want to meet this man's wife. I can't seem to get a second date, she is pulling down repeat serenades. I will bring my steno book and see what I can't glean from observing her operations. Off the top of my head? I suspect she might be skilled in the powers of hypnosis or do-it-yourself frontal lobotomies.

This story reminded me of the only time in my relationship history that I have been publicly recognized (humiliated) by my significant other. It is now referred to only as "The Poetry Slam". A day that will live in relationship infamy.

It started innocently enough. ( I always say that. Note: Get new Lead in.) We had just moved into our new apartment are were hosting all our local friends to warm the place as you do. A lot of booze, a little BBQ, lots of people crammed into a small space we didn't own, the usual. Then it happened. Most of this next part was told to me by my friends who watched in horror as I drank white wine directly from the jug in the kitchen.

My Ex, who shall remain nameless, let's call him, Narcissus, gathered everyone around for some kind of announcement. Some people later told me they thought he was going to propose. No, no, not a proposal. Instead he proceeded to read a 12 page book of poetry he wrote when he was in High School. Now, not everyone had come inside for the first announcement, but once poetry was promised the husband of my good friend from college ran outside and announced "GUYS! he's going to read poetry, GET IN HERE" With friends like that, who needs enemies? Anyway, clearly the old friends knew it wasn't a proposal. I can't blame them for wanting to witness the inevitable humiliation. No one goes to Nascar to watch left turns all day, they come for the potential fiery crash. This was a guaranteed car crash, an impromptu stop on the Whitney Houston revival tour or Sarah Palin campaign speech. Good Stuff, Cheap.

He recited poems on such subjects as Dutch Babies (a fattening breakfast item apparently), his favorite hometown breakfast locale "OId South", and, my personal favorite, his high school sweetheart. After the one about his high school love, I heard a collective "Awww" come over the crowd. I peaked my head out just enough to shake my head and say "Not me" then returned to my jug. Some one of my sweet girlfriends tried to defend me and asked why on earth he would be compelled to read a poem he had written about another girl at our housewarming. A valid point, and I do appreciate her attempt to come to my defense. Yet, alas, she unwittingly made it worse. His brow furrowed almost audibly and he said "I'll be right back" and shut himself into our bedroom. I wish this night had continued to follow the teen horror movie arch and he had been carried away by an ax murderer after this declaration. No such luck. He emerged ten minutes later with an uninspired ode to me that he read to the group. I was so flustered that I dropped the jug, shattering it and spilling the remaining contents all over the kitchen floor. A silence fell over the place. Cricketeers. A couple people got up to help me slop up the wine. I overheard my friend Sarah soberly mutter "Wow, Jacqui is a really good girlfriend. I never knew." That story still comes up a minimum of twice monthly. Frankly, I wish more people had been there. Hindsight, it's one of the funnier moments of my life.

Sometimes I think maybe I'd like to meet someone "normal". But who am I kidding? Normal isn't my color of wonderful. I love a good story.

To friend or not to friend?

So I found this guy I had/have a major crush on on Facebook. Yeah, I searched for him. I'm an internet stalker. Last I knew he was all anti, but I knew it was only a matter of time before Facebook drew him in because, after all, it's taking over the world. The question is: do I friend him or not?

Friending someone seems innocuous enough. I mean some people have like 5,000 friends. Some people have "friends" they have never even met in real life. But I'm getting conflicting advice on this one. I mostly want to friend him because I want to scour his pictures and try and figure out if he's dating anyone. And also because I'm hoping reminding him of my existence will remind him of how cool I am and that he's madly in love with me. And then we will live happily ever after. Or I will just reveal that I'm a creepy internet stalker. Not that I'm above that. I don't mind being labeled.

So... here's the deal with this guy: I went to the bar with my two married friends (a couple, hetero) and there was this guy in a yellow shirt who was hot like whoa sitting behind me. You should talk to him, my friend says. And I was all, no, he's sitting alone at a two-top, clearly waiting for his date, I'm not talking to him. And then the weirdest thing happened: HE started talking to US. Turns out he vaguely knew my friends through other mutual friends and he recognized them. That was my in.

Just after I had downed the last of my second beer and was feeling way too confident and ready to get my flirt on, his friends arrived and he moved to a bigger table. So, buoyed by three I.P.A.s, I pulled about the ballsiest move I've ever tried. As we were leaving, I walked over to his table where he was sitting with about six of his friends, said something to the effect of I had enjoyed meeting him and wished we could have had the opportunity to talk more and slipped him my number.

And then I reverted to a giddy 13-year-old as I fought the urge to look over my shoulder as I ran away. We actually had to drive right by him sitting outside and we got stopped at a light right next to his table. I ducked down in the back seat and said to my friends, "Ishelooking?Ishelooking?Ishelooking?Ishelooking? And then I tried to will the light to turn green. Didn't work.

The whole fun of that stunt was pulling it off and feeling like a rock star. I never expected him to actually call me. But he did. We hung out four times. We mostly rode our bikes around the city and got drunk. He thought I was really funny and told me so. See, drunk me is a real interesting gal. Sober me, it's hit or miss. So I had to make sure alcohol was involved every time we hung out so I could keep playing comedian. This was a lot of pressure that lead to hungover days at work, mystery bruises and broken bike parts.

But we got along really well and he kept asking me to hang out/and/or returning my phone calls and agreeing to hang out with me again. We had great conversations. (At least I think we did, the parts that aren't hazy.) I was basically in lurve.

On the last "date" he left his bike in my apartment and we walked to the bar. You can see where this is going. Or at least I did. Or thought I did. He would have to come inside to retrieve his bike and I would convince him to just ride it home in the morning. We were totally going to make out. At least.

Except that when we got back to my place he grabbed his bike, hoisted it over his shoulder and fled my apartment like the building was on fire. He didn't even take the time to buckle his helmet. He gave me the cursory, one-armed, obligatory hug, with his bike BETWEEN us, (yes, he actually placed a physical barrier between us so he wouldn't have to touch me too much) as he mumbled something vague about hanging out again. He then jumped down six stairs and knocked over plants and lamps in his haste to get away from me. He made a him-shaped hole in the wall as he ran through it, you know, like on cartoons. He did NOT want to make out.

I discussed this scenario with my friends and we all came up with the same obvious, undeniable conclusion: he had explosive diarrhea and had to get home quick. It's called the Theory of Occam's Razor: the simplest explanation is usually the right one.

After that I didn't hear from him for a few days, and not known for my patience, I decided to force the issue. I texted and asked if he had a good time the other night because he left in kind of a hurry (understatement of the year). He replied something totally cryptic and said he was in a weird place right now and asked if I wanted to get together so he could explain it all. (Translation: (ex)girlfriend's got me by the balls.) Since I saw no reason to meet up so he could reject me in person (over text message will do just fine, thank you) and tell me whatever head-casey sob story (because he was a faux-sensitive, hipster guy) about why he couldn't date me, and since I do not play armchair psychologist to that bullshit (I have enough neuroses of my own to keep myself occupied, thanks) I politely declined, said I had had a lot of fun with him and if he ever wanted to hang out again, he had my number. Clearly, he must have fallen off the face of the earth because I never heard from him ever again.

Until nine months later when I Facebook stalked him. So the question remains: Do I friend him or not?

Relish, part II

Except that I did. Hear from him again. And before I knew it, we were dating. Well, having sex at least. And I still was not sure if I liked him or not. He was kind of boring and straight edge and a conformist. Suburban. Vanilla. Underwhelming. Yawn.

But turns out he had one redeeming quality: He was the best sex I've ever had in my life. Honestly, I had low expectations for him, but dude has got moves. It was like I didn't even have to tell him what to do, he just KNEW. It was like he read my mind. It was the kind of sex you have only with someone that you've been with for a long time and you know each other really well and know exactly what the other person likes.

I had suspected that this (the best sex) might be the case for a while. But I was skeptical. At first I thought it might be due to the fact that I had been celibate (not for lack of trying) for nearly a year and I had actually just forgotten what sex was like. So I thought perhaps my standards had been lowered and I withheld judgement for the moment. But after giving him several tries, they were all fantastic and I had to conclude that Relish was awesome in bed. I wanted to meet his ex just to shake her fucking hand.

But then the sex, it went to my head. Do you have any idea what a year-long dry spell does to a person? Especially when the last boy in your bed turned out to be (surprise!) a virgin? And then you accidentally stumble upon what is apparently God's gift to women cleverly disguised in a dorky exterior? That does some crazy shit to your head. I got greedy.

I began Facebook stalking him and wondering who every woman was that posted on his wall. Were they too getting to experience his magic penis? Were they in on his secret? One day he cancelled plans with me because he crashed his bike and was sore. He sent me a pic of his road rash. My mind raced. Obviously it wasn't really a picture of him. It was a photo of someone else's road rash and he was just trying to invent an excuse to blow me off. (In my defense, can't help being skeptical, I'm a journalist. I assume everyone is lying. You know the saying: If your mother says she loves you, check it out.) This was getting out of hand. I was getting paranoid. (I realize that revealing the inner workings of my brain does little to dispel the myth of the psycho girl. Noted.)

Now comes the real problem. Relish tagged along with me for Thanksgiving with my friends. All through the turkey, the mashed potatoes, the pumpkin pie, the Trivial Pursuit (will this game never end?!) my brain was consumed with thoughts of the awesome sex we were going to have later. After we (finally!) got back to my house, he declined to come inside, saying he had to work in the morning and drove home instead. This was also the only time in months that neither of my roommates were home and possibly the only time that this would happen for the foreseeable future. He left me sexually frustrated. Talk about a missed opportunity...

That weekend we went skiing and had sex and it was great. But then he did it again.

He came over on a weeknight to hang out. We watched a movie in my room. On my bed. And by watched a movie I mean I looked at my watch repeatedly and wondered when the damn movie would be over so we could get to the sex already. It was all I could think about it. But the second the credits rolled, he jumped up. And he left. It was only 9 p.m. No sex. Not even any making out. Played the ol' gotta get up early card. Again. And he was about to leave to go out of town for two weeks.

Does anyone see what was happening here?! HE WAS RATIONING THE SEX. When a guy says they gotta get up early, translation: I'm just not that into you. Everyone knows that one. But maybe he WAS having sex with other people and he was just spreading himself a little thin? In any case, he had flipped the traditional gender power dynamic and HE was denying ME.

This would not do...

Email Killed the Sexting Star, Amongst Other Things...

I would like to take a moment to discuss what I believe is the worst thing to happen to single women this decade other than the rising acceptance of wearing tights as pants. (All I'm saying ladies, is cover all of both buns and let there be no chance the outline of your vagina might show. It's simple.) I'm referring to text messaging. You know what? Fuck it. I mean all of it, email, facebook, twitter, google, and yes, blogs.
My recent life has been affected far more than I would like by the all mighty power of instantaneous information. There was a time when we were all forced to wonder a little bit. There was a time when I met a guy, gave him my number, and got a blissful couple days or even a week of wondering when/if he would call, what's his story, what turns his cranks. Unfortunately, I was thirteen during this brief blissful period and I have spent the bulk of my adult dating experiences thereafter staring at an ever increasing number of devices waiting for one type of cryptic message or another. I fill that initial time after meeting someone new with google and facebook searches. Invariably, by the time he calls, I know so much that I have to remember what I learned through unsanctioned internet stalking so I don't let it leak out in conversation before I should technically know it. Upon examination, this is disturbing.
Last Sunday night, while I was in the process of sleeping off that mean hangover?
My ex-boyfriend invaded my bedroom via text message. He said only "I hope you are well ". That might seem benign if you don't know me. But it's not. We broke up just over two years ago. It was the end of a relationship that lasted off and on five years. It was doomed from the start and everyone involved knew it except me. Anyway, the details are for another day. For the purposes of this post, suffice it to say, he left me. It was a rough break up and I went through a couple misguided periods of attempted friendship. Of course, we had sex during these periods. You know, cause that's very friendly, the friendliest even. He took care of my cat (which was once our cat) this past Thanksgiving. When I came back, I felt that something had shifted. I asked him if he was seeing someone. He casually replied "yes, just since last week". Timing seemed convenient there. Not to worry though, he told her we were still friends and she was cool with it.
Oh FANTASTIC, she is cool with us being friends? No one splained it like that before. Is she also cool that we had sex last week? That seems less likely. In that moment, I made a decision. That was it. I was done. I told him firmly, under no circumstances was he ever to contact me again. I deserved the same chance to move on and he was helping me perpetuate a bad pattern. He said he understood and promised to leave me alone.
His respect for my wishes lasted exactly four months, then he texted me at 1AM. That's his general modus operandi. Wait 3 months or so, then text me when I'm finally content. He has radar for my contentment. It's his gift. He texted again two days later to tell me it would never happen again. The weight of the unintended irony exploded my smart phone.
This intrusion mixed with a half bottle of red wine led me to internet sleuth him a little. He also has a blog. There is some revisionist history about us but mostly it's just a chronicle of the happenings in his life. His girlfriend is beautiful. (Run. Like. Hell. Darlin.) His pizza appears to have landed cheese up. Yet, he still wants to rock my boat every few months. Why, you (me) might wonder? Why not? It's just so easy! A few taps on the iphone keys and he's right here in my bedroom. Instant relief for him, instant crazy internet stalker for me. It burns me that I am forced to have enough will power for two people.
The phone sexter you might say would be the flip side of such technology, the happy, fun, intrusion. Well, email killed the sexting star last week. I emailed him something too racey apparently. What did I say? Well I'll tell you so you don't make the same mistake. "I want to make out with you".
His reply? "I don't know what to say when you say things that."

Really? Really? REALLY? I have nothing further on this. I'm mystified. Apparently, sexting is like Pretty Woman. No kissing on the mouth, too personal. Write that down.
Then there was all my sleuthing of last weekend's fling. I wasted valuable moments of my life checking to see if he tweeted or blogged about our encounter in any identifiable way. You know, the usual. I feel like women, myself included, lament the fact that no one ever "calls" us anymore. Well the fling called, and I saw his name appear on my phone and almost threw it across the room. The other half of someone calling you, is you having something non-crazy to say, or a series of those things even. I think maybe I only pretend to miss the good old days when people actually spoke to each other. In reality, I'm just hoping for the text so I can carefully craft something coquettish and droll to say in response. That's a tough combo to aim for, but with the right amount of time and thought I've achieved it. I swear.

After a very emotional Sunday, I have decided to try something new. I am going to ask for what I want. I came in to work this morning and told the phone sexer (via combo instant message and text message of course) that I was tired of the men in my life reminding me not to expect too much. Time to throw that recording out. It's been skipping far too long. He respected me for being honest about how I felt and I feel much better. The new me is emotionally unfiltered. Life is too short, hug everyone. You're all getting an electronic hug right now, can't stop me, here it goes.... xoxo - Gossip Girl.

(That pop culture reference was shameless and inexcusable but I just couldn't help it.)

I'm Not A Hipster But I Flip It Like A Sneaker Pimp...

The plot she thickens.

My hangover lasted exactly 48 hours. During this period of time, "God" or the Universe or whatever you believe spins this sphere, sent me glimpses of what happened Saturday night. In the words of my friend Matt "YES, the night Jacqui went to Hollywood!" I've been here four years, and I have never taken it to the limit like that. As I think of leaving here, I think maybe it's good I took it all the way live at least the one time...

I am not good at keeping secrets so I have iterated this story to most of my friends. Not sure why I do that. I'm either seeking approval or attention. I'll let you know when Linda my therapist sorts that one. I'm thinking it's likely a combo. The attention seeking part of me will continue to pay her $100 an hour to discuss... Whoa, she is a genius. Job security.

Anyway. So far, what bothers me most, is the response of the two girlfriends I was with pre-sexcades. The first thing they both said when I gave them the rundown of the pornographic Cat in the Hat Story that was my Saturday night, ya know, I will do you in a hall, I will do you in a stall, apparently I will also do you in your car, Sam I Am, was: "You were wearing pants?!"

I think I would like that to be the title of my autobiography actually. I think Katherine Hepburn would be proud.

I am also bothered by one particular memory that keeps intruding on my day. He did, at one point, ask if we could go to my place. I remember thinking, eh, sounds like the makings of an awkward morning. I think I made some kind of face to indicate that I wasn't into that idea. I don't even think there was a verbal response. Just a blank stare and a pained look is what I remember. I don't know why he didn't offer his place. I think we were likely both of the mind that this should be kept as impersonal as possible. Drunk me is a real interesting gal. I'm going to dog ear this page in my journal to discuss with Linda. We need a couple on this level of intimacy phobia.

Next thing that bothers me is the fact that he called me Monday night... at 11:15PM. I was thinking it was my boss or maybe the phone sexer... super, but no, it was Sexcapades. No rest for the morally questionable it seems. When he asked for my number I found it perplexing. I wasn't going to ask for his. We didn't even do it indoors. Why bother? But I gave it to him since we have a mutual friend. I figured it was just a formality. Then he called, at 11:15 at night. I didn't answer cause, way too soon for a booty call buddy, and what else can it be? Anyway. He left a nice message saying call him tonight, cause "he'd be up" or tomorrow, ya know, when the rest of the people with regular jobs will be awake. I figured I'd go ahead and call him the next day cause I'm adventurous, see what he had to say. After all we're just two adults who blacked out and had sex in a hotel bathroom. Should be an interesting conversation.

Well I got a text at 9:30AM saying "I told "our mutual friend" nothing happened". This a group of middle-aged man children. I am thinking there is a 10-15% chance this is true. I like the effort however. There was some banter during which he revealed some things that lead me to believe that he was not so drunk as I. Hmm. Black Out Drunkenness should happen in pairs cause then no one has to know the truth. I find myself sitting here, wondering, what ELSE does he know about me. I have a tendency to say too much (I know you're shocked I'm sure), so there is a universe of embarrassing things I might have said. I've been watching his twitter feed.. I'll let you know if something shows up that I can claim.

P.S. This all happened while I was wearing a vintage Clash t-shirt that I had just purchased that day. I've been staring at thing wondering who owned it previously. I bet they did it all the way live as well...

Relish, Part I

The story with this guy is going to be a multi-parter. He had a funny name. For argument's sake, let's call him Relish, as in the condiment. You know, green, made from pickles?

So we met online and we hung out three times. I still wasn't really sure if I liked him or not, but you know what helps me determine whether I like someone or not? A good make-out session. They always help with judgement calls. So when he asked me to hang out the fourth time, I was really hoping he would ask me to "watch a movie at his place," which everybody knows is code for making out.

But alas, he didnt suggest that. He didn't have a plan at all. He invited me to his neck of the woods and didn't even have date IDEAS. We ended up walking around town and then we ate salads. And we split the check, he didn't offer to pay. All this is fine, but it's also an indication that this is NOT a date.

We go back to his house and I'm still thinking that I've put in my time and paid my dues by enduring four dates worth of obligatory getting-to-know-you small talk and when are we gonna make out already. In fact, four dates worth of small talk and not making out is overkill. I decide I'm gonna elbow my way into his house and see what happens...

So I'm all standing awkwardly in the driveway waiting to be invited inside, you know, like a vampire, and he gets the hint and is all faux-surprised that I'm lingering creepily, pretending like it never occurred to him I might want in and says, "Oh, do you want to come in or do you have to take off?" I think he felt obligated to invite me in because it was only like 8 p.m., but he didn't really want to. Never one to be so easily deterred by something as silly as the fact that a guy clearly wants me to leave, I say, "Well, I can come in for a few minutes."

So we walk past his downstairs bedroom, and he passes up this opportunity to invite me into it to view his childhood photos/matchbox car collection/Led Zeppelin CD box set/whatever other dumb excuse boys use to lure you into their bedrooms so they can get you into bed. So we go upstairs and drink water and stand around his kitchen in self-conscious silence, while his roommates wander in and out. I'm starting to wonder why he even asked me to hang out tonight.

Even though it's only like 8:30 p.m., he's yawning like crazy so I finally admit defeat, and say I gotta go. I realize that I'm getting neither a free salad nor laid tonight. He walks me to my car, kisses me like I'm his Goddamn grandmother (one kiss, way too polite, no tongue, no ass-grabbing) and he says, "I will call you Sunday."

Uh-huh, sure you will. (In today's dating world, "I will call you" has become a blow-off line. It's akin to letting someone down gently. If someone says they will call you, you can be sure they will NOT call you. It's not a lie. It's code. By telling you they will call you, they are letting you know, as nicely as possible, that they WILL NOT be calling you. Nice seeing you, but no thanks.) And keep in mind we had previously discussed hanging out Sunday night. He did not ask to see me Sunday night or try to make plans right then and there, even though he knew I was free, but instead said he would call me.

By the fourth date, shouldn't a guy be trying to get you into bed? That would be the respectable thing to do. So I leave annoyed that I showered for this and 100 percent certain this guy is NOT into me and that I will NOT be hearing from him Sunday, or any other day...

What Color Is My Shame?

This turned out to be an interesting weekend. I have a shame headache (I'll explain but just know that it's super painful and consuming) so this post is just going to be free form stream of consciousness Virgina Wolfesque. If Virginia ever happened to be into the kinkier side of life.

I learned a couple things about myself this weekend. No, no, don't get excited, I still don't know what color my parachute is. Side note, next person who tells me I should read that book gets it between the eyes. I have a theory that no one has ever read it. I think the propagation of the myth that this book solves anything besides what to do with that extra $20 we all have lying around is perhaps one of the greatest money-making coup detat of our generation. I'm going to write a book called I'll Tell You What Color Your Parachute Is If You Give Me $15, try and scoop up part of that market. I did, however, learn that I am a bit of a freak. More on that in a moment.

Friday night started out innocently enough with a nice relaxing 2500 meter swim. I was high on post workout endorphins. I was loving life. I went into the locker room afterward to shower and head home to watch Dateline and drink red wine from Trader Joe's. Ya know, cause it was Friday. I closed the door behind me. I repeat I CLOSED the door. I took my bathing suit off in one of the bathroom stalls and remembered my towel was still on the bench in front of my locker. Meh, I closed the door, it's cool. It's a locker room. I'll just pop over and grab it au naturale. I open the stall door to do the naked scoot over to my towel. Mid-scoot, I realized the door was now all the way open and I was standing there giving full frontal to the pool deck. By my calculations, oh, about 3-5 people got that show. Apparently, the maid Maria is a bit of a stealthy ninja. As I am standing mouth agape, Maria springs from the ether and says "Oh. You want that I should close door?".

Sigh. Nah, not now, it's fine, that's over. Leave it open.

That really set the tone for the weekend.

I'm still piecing together exactly what happened last night. I don't know exactly what I drank, but judging by how I feel today, I'm going with All Of It. It started out innocently enough. I went with a couple lady friends to see another friend's stand up show. I think here is a good time to mention that I had not had sex since sometime in 2010.(Sex has not been Cheap for Me Dr. Smug from aforementioned Slate article). I thought I was doing relatively OK with this fact. Turns out, there has actually been a section of my brain just not getting any blood. Something I drank last night woke it up, and well, that part of my brain wanted to have sex everywhere with a cute relative stranger. I'm not going to claim to know all the details. That would be lying, and I won't do that to you.

I woke up in my apartment face down in my own bed. Good start. I was however cringing like a vampire at the light beginning to stream in through my bedroom window. Then I started the painful process of remembering why I felt like vacating my own skin. Oh. Oh. OH. I slept with cute comedian friend of my friend last night. That's not so bad you might say, and you'd be right, cept there's more.

I texted him when I started to remember the details "Can we please agree to tell this story differently..." He said: "In a stall a hall and a car. It's like our own Planes Trains and Automobiles. Then you lost your shoe like pornderella". Here is a good time to impart a bit of wisdom all single ladies should hear. Do not sleep with comics unless you are down with becoming part of the act. He travels the country and is moderately successful so if you ever happen to hear about Pornderella, well, ya'll will now know where that came from... Hoorah.

I live this pain so you don't have to...

Anyway, as the hangover has evolved and progressed (I swear this one is epic. I have detected 3 levels of misery that each make me want to volunteer to help cool the reactor) I started to remember things. I hate that. I had a vague memory of us going at it in a hotel bathroom, no one had been in there, but then a group of hammered ladies walked in. We stopped and I suited up and told him to shhhhh. I am pretty sure I made the Shhhh noise. For the record, there is almost nothing louder than someone making the shhh sound. Nice. My "plan" was to go out and casually leave and he could come out in a couple minutes.

I have a distinct memory of his smirk as he sauntered out of the stall. The group of party girls stopped, and in my memory, the ringleader said "Not cool. I'm gonna tell."

Horror.

So, I texted him and told him about this memory hoping he would say, nah, that didn't happen, silly worrier! Instead, he says her actual response was: "I veto that!"

Thanks anonymous girl who caught me hooking up in the hotel ladies room. You were right. I could not say it any better myself. Sober me would like to veto that as well. But alas, can't be done. I have a friend who has coined a new word. Unf#*k. It's the lurid companion to unfriend. It probably needs no further explanation. This morning, I thought for a bit about how nice it would have been to hit the Unf*#k button on this one...

Now I'm thinking, probably good I did it now. If this is what happened after a 6 month drought... I shudder to think what would happen if we approached a year. I'm going to bed now. I'm hoping the shame headache will subside by tomorrow AM. I am also hoping he meant it when he swore he wouldn't tell our mutual friends about our sexcapdes. My guess? One of those things won't be true in the morning.