So last night, I went on an 80’s Movie “Date.” If you are unfamiliar with these kinds of dates, it’s when a person takes you out not because they dig your chili, but because they are about to lose a bet a la the 80’s teen movies where the popular guy takes the totally uncool, but strangely attractive school nerd girl to prom because he’ll lose his T-top Camaro car-bra to Tad The Jock if she actually looks hot at the dance. Er sumting.
Anyway, the cat I went out with has a running deal with his roomie that they both have to take out a different girl every month. She can not be from their normal circle of people, nor can she be the type of girl they usually meet, e.g. no lawyers or law students. It would appear that November was a particularly dry month for both of them, being as he freaked out and scraped the bottom of the barrel to find my darling little charming self grinning up from the depths on the very last day of the month.
Now, these outings can range from strictly platonic to genuine love interest. My 80’s Movie Date was of the former kind, thank God. I’m also pretty sure that if I had actually been interested and went out only to discover that I was being wined on a wager, it would have turned non-romantic faster than the time that carnie with the third world dentistry leaned across the table from me and said, “Do you believe in destiny? We’re so natural together!” Luckily, we were already pals, and I also had a heads up from a very amused third party who not only helped him with his bet, but hooked mama up with a free dinner.
And you know what? It was actually really fun! We boozed and laughed and spent a large portion of the date discussing my apparent baggage and the potential pitfalls that it may cause in the future. I mean, I kinda thought telling guys that I will set their entire family on fire, then skin them alive if they ever even entertained the thought of cheating on me wasn’t a big deal, but apparently, it is. Whoops! So I guess I have some stuff to work on, but don’t we all, really? Heh. Heh heh. Ahem.
In short, I highly recommend the 80’s Movie Date. They are super fun and even insightful. So next time your buddy says, hey, my friend has this bet…totally go. Even if it’s just with a friend.
Breakup Rules
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Breakups suck major asshole. Each and every one of them! You can say it was mutual or that it was an amicable, but I will squint at you, point a gnarled finger, and shriek, “LIAR!” Because I totally know better.
Believe me, I’ve dumped and been dumped a fifillian times and they’ve all blown bull rhino balls. And don’t think that you are some unique little snowflake and that nobody has ever had to deal with the pancreas wrenching emotions you experience during a breakup…everyone goes through a breakup of some sort. In light of this fact, we may as well take this shiny opportunity to brush up on our Breakup Rules:
1. No Stalking. Now you’d think that this would be an easy one to follow, but for some reason, getting the torch causes normally sensible people to commit unreasonable acts of cell phone abuse. This is, of course, directly related to the Free Binge Drinking Pass one receives when one is shit canned. But trust me, nobody wants to get a creepy unintelligible voicemail where the ex refers to the breakuper by their previous, private pet names and then threatens suicide. For the love of God, lock up your phone when you think you might be tempted. It’s for the best.
2. Give Their Shit Back. No Excuses. Throw away little gifty things, pawn non-marriage related jewelry, and box up the rest of it to return. If it makes you feel car sick to do the swap in person, give their stupid mesh t-shirt and queerbait Jack Johnson CD to a mutual friend and let them to the dirty work.
3. Rebound. Both of you. Discretely. And don’t blow your wad on someone you actually kind of like. Rebounds, much like the people with whom we engage in said activity, are supposed to be angry, hot, and short.
4. Be Graceful. You will inevitably run into your ex. Smile, wave, exchange pleasantries if you must. Of course, the breakuper must avoid all shared bars, gyms, and grocery stores during the initial breakup period…it’s just polite, but if you must have a close encounter of the burned kind, make sure you look damn good.
5. No More Drama. Do your mutual friends a favor and shut the fuck up. Hearing you vent about how he ate your heart, shat it out, then force fed it to you makes them uncomfortable. Get your own friends or hire some, but leave the mutuals out of it unless you want them to ditch your whiney ass too.
6. Get Over It. Do it the right way. Seriously get cool with yourself. Light a candle. Read It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken. Go see a councilor. Do yoga. You will get over it!
Believe me, I’ve dumped and been dumped a fifillian times and they’ve all blown bull rhino balls. And don’t think that you are some unique little snowflake and that nobody has ever had to deal with the pancreas wrenching emotions you experience during a breakup…everyone goes through a breakup of some sort. In light of this fact, we may as well take this shiny opportunity to brush up on our Breakup Rules:
1. No Stalking. Now you’d think that this would be an easy one to follow, but for some reason, getting the torch causes normally sensible people to commit unreasonable acts of cell phone abuse. This is, of course, directly related to the Free Binge Drinking Pass one receives when one is shit canned. But trust me, nobody wants to get a creepy unintelligible voicemail where the ex refers to the breakuper by their previous, private pet names and then threatens suicide. For the love of God, lock up your phone when you think you might be tempted. It’s for the best.
2. Give Their Shit Back. No Excuses. Throw away little gifty things, pawn non-marriage related jewelry, and box up the rest of it to return. If it makes you feel car sick to do the swap in person, give their stupid mesh t-shirt and queerbait Jack Johnson CD to a mutual friend and let them to the dirty work.
3. Rebound. Both of you. Discretely. And don’t blow your wad on someone you actually kind of like. Rebounds, much like the people with whom we engage in said activity, are supposed to be angry, hot, and short.
4. Be Graceful. You will inevitably run into your ex. Smile, wave, exchange pleasantries if you must. Of course, the breakuper must avoid all shared bars, gyms, and grocery stores during the initial breakup period…it’s just polite, but if you must have a close encounter of the burned kind, make sure you look damn good.
5. No More Drama. Do your mutual friends a favor and shut the fuck up. Hearing you vent about how he ate your heart, shat it out, then force fed it to you makes them uncomfortable. Get your own friends or hire some, but leave the mutuals out of it unless you want them to ditch your whiney ass too.
6. Get Over It. Do it the right way. Seriously get cool with yourself. Light a candle. Read It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken. Go see a councilor. Do yoga. You will get over it!
Bounce From tha Club, to My Car, to My Crib We Go
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I’m officially a pimp. Not that I wasn’t pimpish to begin with, but like, I’m a complete pimp now because I got my own place. That’s right, babies, I have my very own crib. It’s totally rockin’ and I’m wicked excited about it. It’s an old building, so no, I do not have central air or an effing dishwasher, but I do have mad game now.
I’m so liberated! No more late night calls, “Um, no, Mom. I’m staying at, uh…Cecilee’s tonight. Yeaaaaah, she’ll loan me some work clothes.” Which would be hilarious if she did because I “wore” a pair of her jeans once and lost all circulation in my lower body. I now have Chronic Tingly Pins-and-Needles Leg Syndrome, which is second only to the Perma-Camel Toe I now have from squeezing myself like a bloated sausage into Elli's tiny jammie pants one time.
Anywho, so I can totally have shackers, which I’m double excited about. I even chose a bed that has a huge iron headboard that's perfect for handcuffing bitches when they sass me. I was originally thinking about getting a sleigh bed, but my sister gave me a what-the-fuck look and said, “Baby, nobody ever gets tied up in a sleigh bed.” Amen.
But what freaks me out the most is how much it costs to fill an apartment. I had a whole lot of nothing, too, so it has exhausted my bank account and patience just to get a god damn kitchen together. And I don’t even cook! Well, except for cereal. I make a mean bowl of Cocoa Krispies. Word to The Krispy, bitches.
So I’ll have y’all over at some point so you can stalk me and see my phat pad. I just need to get a couch so your ass will have a place to sit first...
I’m so liberated! No more late night calls, “Um, no, Mom. I’m staying at, uh…Cecilee’s tonight. Yeaaaaah, she’ll loan me some work clothes.” Which would be hilarious if she did because I “wore” a pair of her jeans once and lost all circulation in my lower body. I now have Chronic Tingly Pins-and-Needles Leg Syndrome, which is second only to the Perma-Camel Toe I now have from squeezing myself like a bloated sausage into Elli's tiny jammie pants one time.
Anywho, so I can totally have shackers, which I’m double excited about. I even chose a bed that has a huge iron headboard that's perfect for handcuffing bitches when they sass me. I was originally thinking about getting a sleigh bed, but my sister gave me a what-the-fuck look and said, “Baby, nobody ever gets tied up in a sleigh bed.” Amen.
But what freaks me out the most is how much it costs to fill an apartment. I had a whole lot of nothing, too, so it has exhausted my bank account and patience just to get a god damn kitchen together. And I don’t even cook! Well, except for cereal. I make a mean bowl of Cocoa Krispies. Word to The Krispy, bitches.
So I’ll have y’all over at some point so you can stalk me and see my phat pad. I just need to get a couch so your ass will have a place to sit first...
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