oopsie daisy

I Guess I Should Just Be Glad He Didn't Say "Ass"

A few weeks ago, I was deathly ill with tonsillitis. Like 103 fever, pus-covered throat, hallucinating, out of my mind sick. I looked disgusting, smelled even worse and was sweating through my pajamas like a junkie in rehab.

Despite all of this, The Boy was kind enough to deliver popsicles, gatorade and a complete disregard for the fact that I was mere moments away from my final demise.

Boy (feeling my skin): You're burning up...

Me: I know. It's awful. I'm hot, but I'm freezing and then suddenly I'm covered in sweat. It's disgusting. I'm gross. (Insert daisy's trademarked pouty face here.)

Boy (eyes aglow): But just think about what this fever is doing to your vagina. I mean, imagine how hot it must be in there...

We All Remember in Different Ways

Second in a series themed, "Why I Drink."

The Boy: You're not going to be all sad and depressed on September 11th, are you?

Me: No, why?

The Boy: Because I want to honor the day by drawing a building on your face and airplane wings on my dick.

Me: ....

The Boy: And then 17 minutes later, I'll do it again.

Lesson Learned: Beer First. Bathroom Second. Now I Know.

The intensity over last weekend's pre-season battle between the Niners and the Raiders started before I even got on the bus that would take me to the bus that would take me to Candlestick.

The Boy and I were in the Cole Valley liquor store mulling over which tallboys to buy for the bus ride/Candlestick parking lot, clearly a big decision that required a lot of back and forth that went something like:

Him: Kind of hard to go from mimosas at brunch to tallboys.

Me: We should just get High Life, the champagne of beers. That'll ease us right into it... OH MY GOD! Tallboys are only $1.99? That's AMAZING!

While I pondered if I wanted to get two High Lifes or mix and match with a Miller Lite, a guy wearing a Raiders' hat walked into the store, looked us up and down and said:

Douchebag Raiders' Fan: Shouldn't Niners' fans be buying wine?

I was too shocked to respond because, frankly, I didn't even think Raiders' fans knew how to find adorable little neighborhoods like Cole Valley; perhaps he got lost looking for Haight Street?

Fast foward an hour or so and The Boy and I were making our way to our gate, sipping our tallboys, when we see a group of Raiders' fans hovered over a guy who is more or less out cold on the pavement. That's right, the game hadn't even started, and the fights were already breaking out. We saw three ambulances with sirens on before we even went inside.

Come halftime, I was a few beers deep, so I made an executive decision I'd come to regret later: First stop, ladies' room. Second stop, beer. I got in the bathroom line, which extended well out into the concourse, and stood there minding my business and playing with my iPhone, when all of a sudden a girl with lots of eyeliner, way too much lipstick and head-to-toe Raiders' gear inserted herself in front of me and proceeded to get comfortable.

"Excuse me," I said. "Um... you just cut in front of me?"

The Raiders' fan turned around, looked me up and down and unleashed an attitude unlike anything I've witnessed since I escaped Mormon reform school in the early 90s (true story, only by "escape," I mean "finally got to leave after 14 months"). "Watch you talkin' about, CUT IN FRONT OF YOU? I was HERE already. You don't know whatchyou sayin'..."

This went on for, what I felt, was too long, so I just looked at her with an eerie calmness and said, "I'm sorry... but I don't speak that language."

Oh, to watch an angry Raiders' fan go from a 6 to a 10 in under two seconds.

"YOU DON'T WHAT?" she screamed and she stepped up closer to my nose and threw her hands up in a jerky motion I'm not sure I could repeat, much less explain in writing. "We ALL speak the same language, yo." Ok, maybe she didn't say "yo," but I'm having a hard time writing the dialect in which she was speaking or the slang she was using. "You need to shut the fuck up 'don't speak that language'."

It was at this point that her friend turned around (oops! looks like maybe she was there before me) and asked what was going on. (Something like "Wassup with this ho?")

"This bitch said she don't speak my language!"

"Don't speak our language?" the friend yelled... and also proceeded to get up in my face, hands flailing, booze screaming.

This went on for about a minute, all the while I kept my head down, mouth shut, eyes and fingers on the iPhone.

"Yeah, that's right you stupid bitch. Shut the fuck up. Don't talk. Don't speak our language. Fuck you."

At which point, because I have some anger management issues that I don't ever plan on dealing with, I replied, even more calmly and sing-songy than the previous time, "Again, so sorry, but I just don't understand what you're saying."

Within seconds, I had two girls inches from my face, screaming at me, guy Niners' fans who'd jumped into the argument screaming at them, and several yellow-jacketed security personel... all in the bathroom entrance vestibule.

Security Lady (arms out, back to me, facing the Raider's fans): "Ok, calm down, calm down. What's going on here?"

Raiders' Fan: "She said she DON'T SPEAK OUR LANGUAGE!"

And because that is the most ridiculous argument for anything ever... I was ushered into the ladies' room while the security officers and the Raiders' fan had a little chat.

Moments later, the entire stadium was cut off from beer due to unruly fan behavior... Just when I could have used one the most.

Luckily, The Boy made the first Douchebag Raiders' Fan's insult- and my dreams - come true by stealing a bottle of wine. I might have to keep him around.

 

Does that look like the face of a girl who'd get in a fight in the bathroom line?

UPDATE: I originally posted this picture - which showcases a boy on my right - when I had a 102 fever. Clearly, I was not in my right mind. I hope this modification remedies the situation and restores my readers' faith in everything I stand for.

Publish

Also: Thank you to Drew (and his brother Adam) for the sweet 3rd row seats. I hope the stolen wine was enough to repay you...

Why I Drink: Because it's easier than admitting that I am a complete cliché

First in a new series themed, "Why I Drink."

Last night at my apartment...

A Boy: Do you have a pair of pliers?

Me: Yeah, I think so.

I go to the closet and return with a brown and white striped Henri Bendel shopping bag that serves as my toolbox. After rifling through my collection of flimsy tools with blue plastic handles, I finally produce, with much flair, a pair of pliers. I hand them to A Boy and bat my eyelashes.

Me: Aren't you proud of me that I know what pliers are?

A Boy: Yes. Except... that's a wrench.

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...