oopsie daisy

Sometimes You've Got to Sacrifice Your (ahem!) Morals to Get a Little Ass

The first time I meet Jeff, I am sitting on the back patio of my favorite restaurant having brunch with a friend and he is bringing us our eggs benedict and mimosas. He’s tall with dark hair and a makes-you-melt smile, slightly “alternative” – which, in all reality, just means he is wearing a leather cuff around his wrist – and completely charming. It’s likely I am seeing someone, but that doesn’t keep me from putting on a circus act of over-the-top flirting, a standard I set that day and maintain enthusiastically for the next three years.

Jeff is one of those San Francisco waiters who is good at what he does. Whether or not he is actually happy to see me every time I walk into the restaurant, usually without a reservation, but always with an inappropriate comment about how we should go make out in the bathroom (clearly a joke as the bathroom at that restaurant is barely big enough to fit one person, let alone one person standing up with another on her knees - kidding!), he makes me feel as though I am a guest of honor. Of course, I choose to believe that he is actually elated every time I dine there because I have what some people like to call an inflated ego. I just call it drunken confidence. Also: I like to think I tip well.

I never see Jeff outside of the restaurant, though I did flirt with the idea of going to see his band play one time and throwing my panties on stage; sadly, I am too stingy to part with my $18 lace thongs… Rather, our relationship exists completely within the four walls (and patio) of my favorite restaurant in the city. There’s not a whole lot of talking that can be done when one of the parties involved is working, but every time I go there, I learn something new… where he’s from, that he quit the band, wants to start doing voice over work, looks better clean shaven… has a girlfriend.

Last night, I walk into the restaurant and he comes over to say hello. I (jokingly?) tell him I’m losing interest in him based on the fact that his relationship with his girlfriend is so serious.

“Actually,” he says, “she’s not my girlfriend anymore.”

This should make my heart flutter, but he’s smiling when he says it in a way that only someone who is completely in love can smile, and instead of fluttering, my heart sinks.

“…She’s my fiancée.”

My dining companions start gushing, but no one can hear what they’re saying over my dramatic howl of “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” that echoes off the restaurant walls and is accompanied by a swift punch to Jeff’s arm. (I wish I could blame the fact that I still hit when I’m upset on growing up with brothers, but I have to say I think it’s just that I’m kind of a brat.)

Jeff proceeds to tell a story that involves a hot air balloon ride and a bungalow and a diamond ring and something about his fiancée is the type of girl who jumps up and down when she’s excited and I pour a third of the wine bottle into my glass and start chugging.

When he leaves, my girlfriends also fill up their wine glasses and someone tries to cheers to our girls' dinner. I interject with a toast of my own. “To divorce.” Three dirty looks later, I amend the toast, “Fine. To affairs.”

But then it hits me. The answer to my problem is not divorce or affairs…

Jeff returns to the table shortly, rubbing his bicep with a wounded look on his face and that’s when I say:

“So. Jeff. Congratulations. I mean it. Seriously. Also, just of curiosity… how does your fiancée feel about threesomes?”

He’s going to check with her and get back to me.  Let's just hope he tells her what a good tipper I am...

Sometimes It Just Takes a While to Get There

A few weeks ago, I blogged a drunken text message exchange between Aubrey and myself. You may be (not-at-all) shocked to know that shortly after I sent her 17 texts messages begging for “Help!” I still managed to flag a taxi and convince the driver to take me to another bar in order to meet up with the guy I was seeing who was also spending his Friday night getting wasted. I mean, who cares if you are so drunk you can’t type coherent text messages when sex you won't remember the next day is on the table, right? And by "on the table," I think you get that I could very well mean "on the living room floor" or "in the bed" or a host of other places...

I woke up the next morning with a hangover that could only be cured with day-drinking, and that pretty much set the tone for my entire Memorial Day weekend. Wake. Drink. Sleep. Repeat... Along with more mistakes than I care to admit on The Blog, one of which involves a vague memory of a cheesy limousine and cougar strippers from Reno.

However, it all came to a screeching halt when I was two Bloody Mary’s and several mimosas into a Memorial Day Saks Fifth Avenue shopping spree and I received an email that my mother had just been taken to the hospital after a spell of dizziness and nausea caused her to collapse during her second Pilates class of the day. Yes, that’s right. For every Pilates class my mother took before noon that day, I drank at least three cocktails during the same time frame. We have SO much in common.

(Also: by “it all came to a screeching halt,” I mean that I called the hospital in Napa, was assured my mother was absolutely fine, and so continued shopping and drinking with my friends well into the late afternoon. All the while continuing to check in with the hospital for updates on my mom, of course. I mean, I’m selfish, but I like to pretend that I’m not. Especially when people are watching or whatever.)

Anyway, it was sometime after the purchase of a $500 Marc by Marc Jacobs bag I couldn’t afford and my fourth glass of wine at Nopa that I got a call from the hospital letting me know that despite their numerous and repeated reassurances that my mother was absolutely fine and that there was nothing to worry about, they'd just now decided to put her in an ambulance and transport her to the ER in San Francisco and that someone should be there to meet her.

So I did what any daughter in my position would do… I ordered another glass of wine.

Kidding!!! I did a shot at the bar and then I called a cab.

Kidding!!! I called the cab before I took the shot. Jesus…

Anyway… the order of events doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I made it back to my apartment in time to sober up and change into comfortable clothes in preparation for a long night in the Emergency Room.

After a few cups of tea (I don't drink coffee because I don't actually enjoy the things I notice when I'm alert), I threw on a pair of old jeans and a fleece (stop judging me) and then went into my closet to grab my Converse and a pair of socks. Except when I put my hand into the stack of baskets where I keep my socks, the first pair I touched were slightly damp.

“Hmmmmm,” I thought. “Guess they must have still been kind of wet when I got them out of the dryer."

So I went to grab another pair. Also damp...

Which is when it occurred to me that it had been at least a week since I’d done laundry. (And by "me," I mean "the maid." But I think you knew that.)

So I put my hand back into the basket and wrapped my fingers around yet another pair of damp socks and did the only thing that was left to do… slowly brought the socks towards my face, leaned my nose in close, and inhaled deeply.

Yup. I just made you read that entire blog post about my binge drinking, shopping spree and mother’s trip to the hospital to get you to this moment…

The moment when I realized that the boy I'd had over three nights before... peed all over my closet.

Which obviously meant I had to skip the whole "Mom in the ER" thing. I mean, that closet contains $700 boots for heaven's sake. Every dress, every shirt, every shoe, bra, panty and sock had to be smelled, examined and saved...

Come to think of it, I should probably send him a thank you note. I really hate hospitals.

And after all that? There wasn't even pizza!

As I was leaving work yesterday, I stopped by my friend's desk to say goodbye.

"What are you up to tonight?" she asked.

I explained that I might be going out to dinner with [boy whose blog name has yet to be determined], but that I had no idea where to go. What ensued was a ridiculously lengthy conversation during which she threw out numerous restaurant suggestions each of which I shot down for reasons varying from: "They don't serve liquor" to "He might punch me in the face if I make him go to the marina."

Finally, realizing that the conversation was going no where and that every second I continued to chat was keeping me from my first glass of wine, I decided to be blunt.

"Honestly, we might just order pizza and have sex."

It was at this point in time that I took a small step back and noticed that the what-I-thought-was-an-empty office less than a foot away with its door wide open was actually not at all empty, and was instead occupied by... my CEO.

So I did what any girl who just accidentally informed the highest-ranking corporate officer at her place of employment that she was willing to forego a fancy dinner for a night of pepperoni and fucking should do...

I threw myself on the floor beneath his office window and tried to will myself into invisibility.

"Maybe he has his headphones on," my friend suggested when she finally translated my wild gesticulating and silent shrieks of despair.

I lifted my body a few feet off the floor and peeked through the bottom of his office window... And there he was, headphone-less, his shoulders rising and falling, head shaking.

As I write this, I find myself hoping that he has a mild to moderate form of epilepsy... Hell, let's be honest, I'd take Parkinson's if it meant he was convulsing from anything other than laughter.

Luckily, my friend was kind enough to whip out her camera and capture the moment.

Gonna go ahead and assume the virginal white dress I was wearing wasn't fooling anyone.

Should I Be Offended That He Completely Omitted "Hot?"

Last year, when I started surfing, a friend of my brother asked me if I'd be interested in doing some writing for his website about learning how to surf. I was down, but nothing ever came of it and once winter arrived, I stopped surfing in favor of snowboarding and didn't think much about it...

Until I received this in my in-box a few weeks ago:

Hey Daisy,

I'm checking in to see if you might still be interesting in writing about your experiences with surfing, as we discussed last summer.

I'm hoping for a post (or series of posts) that would makes surfing purists cringe: A vain, shallow, materialistic party-girl's perspective on surfing and its challenges.

Any interest?

That should probably upset me, but I'm too busy admiring my $700 boots and pouring myself a Ketel and soda (with lime) while wondering what super-sexy outfit I'm going to wear to tonight's socialite bar crawl.

Plus, now I want to sleep with him, so I have to say yes.