What Happens In Vegas Should Always, ALWAYS Stay In Vegas: Part The First

I know I don't usually post about dating in That Ain't Kosher, but to be honest, that's because I've pretty much forgotten what dating is. All my female friends are appalled by the lack of penis in my social life, but that's nice for them because they're not the ones who actually have to hit on me. I never know when I'm being flirted with and basically have the romantic skills of a frustrated fourteen year old boy- when I went to NOLA with Sara she let me know that when it came to dudes checking me out I was "borderline retarded." She's married, so she must know what she's talking about.

I took this advice to heart when my friends and I went to Vegas for the Superbowl and I actually noticed when some Van Wilder, Alpha-Kappa-Whatever-looking motherfucker glanced in my general direction. After about twenty minutes of intoxicated conversation I found out that he lived about an hour away from me in SoCal and that he was with a bunch of dudes. We wound up watching the game with said friends and I managed to get him to change his bet from the Pats to the Giants. HAHA! Sad Tom Brady FTW! Also, score one for my bank account.

I hung out with Van Wilder (shortened to "VW," or simply, "The Bug") and his boys for a couple of days, and by "hanging out" I mean, um, stuff hung out. Of our clothes. There was a lot of tequila, yo. And a taxi, if I remember correctly. A taxi in which we did things. And after these things I got dropped off at my hotel, and invited him up to my room, and I don't think he got the gist of what I was implying, because The Bug went back to his room alone and I wound up back in mine. With more tequila.

Later I was informed that the cab driver had called him a "fucking idiot." I mean, The Bug was ridiculously hammered (which I soon learned is pretty much his natural state), but when a girl is practically doing a striptease in your lap and invites you up to her hotel room, you fucking do it. Hell, when a girl is practically doing a striptease in your lap and invites you to discuss the Higgs boson with her, you fucking do it. You can admit that you don't know what that is later, when you're manhandling her boobs like you're controlling the Enterprise.

Actually, a lot of men have gone here before.
And not that boldly, either.

In my defense, I never actually expected this to go anywhere past the slot machines. When was the last time anyone ever said, "I met my husband/wife/future deductible in Vegas?"

Oh. Except for those times that people get wasted in chapels and shit.

Anyway, about a week after we were both settled in our respective living spaces, The Bug actually texted me. He and his friends, who were cool as shit BTW, were going to the Laker game about twenty minutes from me that weekend, and if I was free, were down to hang out. Yeah. I bet. They also wanted to stay over, since the drive back was really far, but hey, I was feeling generous. And tequila-y.

So basically, we all got pretty smashed again, and uh, yeah. Shit happens. They left the next day, and I figured that was that, but we actually corresponded pretty steadily. Yeah. "Corresponded." I also hung with his friends a lot, too. Like I said, cool as shit.

So this went on for a few weeks until one night when I got a call from him. He was already an hour late and when I picked up the phone he was in jail. JAIL. He had been biking to my place, too drunk to drive, and gotten a BUI. Classy. There were some muffled sounds and then he hung up, and I spent the next few days trying to get in touch with him. I even got sent to voice mail.

Oh, fuck no. FUCK NO. Delete.

I immediately called everyone I've ever met since I was ten years old to bitch to them, and spent the rest of the night on my lesbian neighbor's couch watching shitty re-runs of American Idol.

Also, did I mention that this assclown is 25 years old? Throughout this entire hilarious (?) chronicle, the Nipclique kept sending me emails that looked like this:

About a week passed of me completely losing my shit, and then I got a text from his friend. He informed me that a few days ago, The Bug had had a family emergency (he sent me photographic evidence, lest I thought this was a classic case of dudes sucking each other's dicks to cover for each other), and that eventually, I will get a phone call and to hang tight. I'm not supposed to know anything though, so "keep this on the DL."

So, armed with this new information, I waited. For about a month. His friends were still awesome, so we kept hitting up bars and such. I also received periodic information on this clown- such as, "he really likes you, but he's dealing with a bunch of bullshit right now." Meaning, "he's a pussy and he's too scared to call you." Then, one evening I was home, probably watching the SyFy Channel or some crap, and I got a text. From his friend. Saying that The Bug is now "feeling better and 'down to fuck.'"

People like this actually exist. Like, in reality. I could not make this up if I tried. I responded that that was eloquent as fuck, and I would be right over. Then I called like, eight of my friends.

I'm aware that I should have cut this entire group out of my life by now. Just go with the story.

Another week passed, and his group was in town for a birthday party. The Bug, of course, did not accompany them. However, I did get an apology from the guy who Cyrano'd that romantic proposition from before, claiming that The Bug, is, in fact, an idiot. FYI, girls: when the members of a guy's own crew use the word "idiot" to describe him, that is WAY MORE than a red flag- you have now hit Defcon 1.

I received a request- through a third party, of course- for a meet-up that weekend. Supposedly The Bug would be coming back from the airport and wanted to discuss how badly he had fucked up. He didn't even plan on staying over (right), and he said that even if I hated him, he would settle for "being friends."

So of course, being the stunning, dynamic intellectual that I am, I SAID YES, and you can probably all guess how that turned out.

This is getting super long and possibly very annoying, so I'll divide this into Parts 1 and 2. If it's seriously that suspenseful, I guess you can read the next half of this thrilling saga when I post it in a couple of days. Or whenever I stop being lazy and finish writing it.

SPOILER: I'm currently still single.

THE RELOCATION CHRONICLES, CHAPTER THREE: GO FOURTH AND CONQUER

Because I've been dealing with all my moving stress I forgot two vital things about this weekend:

1) To tell my friends in LA that I was heading back and

2) That today was America's birthday. Whoops.

Luckily, everybody forgave me, even the USA, even though over the last decade I've guzzled down my fair share of her junk food and booze. By the way, for a bitch this old, she looks fucking amazing. Props, America.



ANYWAY...

I realized that I'd totally neglected to make plans for the holiday and hit up my friend M on Facebook. Despite my not telling her I was even coming to LA, she jumped at the chance to hang with me and invited me to a Fourth of July bash yesterday in the Hills.

Allow me to kick off my story by saying that M is pretty awesome. She was the first friend I made when I moved here and the last friend I had when I left. She helped me move and even made me a going-away gift. M is a big sports fan and she's also not one of those boneheaded gold-diggers that you always run into in LA, probably because she's originally not even from here (she's a proud Ohio-an), so we always have a lot to talk about. She also lets me trumpet New York City ad nauseum (emphasis on the nauseum). In short, she pretty much rocks.

So M informed me of this party, and I knew immediately that I had to attend. For one thing, I'm on the East Coast and she's on the West, so we see each other maybe 4 times a year, if that, so that was reason enough. Also- a pool party in the Hills? This promised to be hilarious blog fodder. I was sold.

M, her friend P and I got to the shuttle that would take us to the party, and the guy handing out wristbands told us that it was mandatory that we tip the driver. M shot me a look like, "are you kidding? What a dick." Like, of course we would tip, you don't have to force us. Douche. While we waited (for a half hour!!!) I started talking football with M and this guy who randomly joined in the conversation. Normally I would have been annoyed, but he was pretty cute, so I let it slide.

The shuttle ride was a bumpy ten minutes through the Sunset strip and my dad's old neighborhood. M and I discussed plans for that evening while P carried on a side conversation with a guy who looked weirdly familiar. Later I realized he was Marissa's gardener boyfriend from The O.C. No one else recognized him because they didn't watch the show. M's logic was this: "If they had a show called 'The Brooklyn,' would you watch?" No. No, I wouldn't. Good point, M.

The actual party was just as I had pictured- the house that had been rented out was sick. It was four stories high, with a nightclub, a pool, two bars and a catering service. Later I found out that the monthly rent was almost $30 grand. Jesus Christ- that was almost as much as I made last year.

Most of the girls there were really fucking funny. 90% of them had plastic boobs to match their plastic stiletto heels, full faces of makeup, and tiny triangle bikinis that barely covered their asses. I was worried that my two-piece was too revealing until I got to the house; then I realized I may as well be wearing an anorak and snow pants. A bunch of guys there asked me if I was a model but I figured that was more of an assumption than a compliment; almost every girl there except for my friends seemed to be in that "model/actress/waitress" category. Even M found them hysterical. When I told anyone I was in marketing I was answered with blank stares. I felt like that asshole who dresses up in costumes for little kids and teaches them how to spell shit.

Which ones are smarter?

Also, everyone there was like, nine years old. It's not like I'm forty, but I felt like their babysitter. I'm getting too old for this shit. I should be home watching the Travel Channel.

At one point I went to go get a stiff drink and when I turned around I was face to face with the guy from the shuttle. As it turned out, his friends were the ones throwing the party. We got to talking and I found that he was from Pittsburgh, in LA for a year on a work assignment. He was in architecture, which meant he could at least add and subtract, unlike most of the guys I'd come across at Hollywood clubs. I tried to distract myself from his Pennsylvania accent (we all know what accents do to my loins) and we got into a heated debate about football (Steelers vs. Jets) and hockey (Pens vs. Rangers), which ultimately led to a discussion about why New York City kicks so much ass. When M came to collect me, he asked for my number and told me he would call me. With my wonderful track record, I wasn't holding my breath.

So this morning I was sitting around, enjoying the Fourth of July TV marathons, when my phone rang with a weird area code. I had no idea who it was, so I let it go to voice mail. Then I realized I've seen the area code before- it's from Pittsburgh. I checked the voicemail- it sounded like a guy, but it was muffled, with traffic noises in the background. I called back, but the phone went to voice mail, and was someone else's name, so I just hung up. Was it The Architect? Was it a debt collector (probably)? I don't know, but leave it to me to fuck this one up. Ugh, I hate phone tag- I just hope the number calls back. It's not like I'm frantically searching for my future ex-husband or anything, but it might be fun to have someone to hang out with. And possibly get laid a couple times before I head back home.

So, while I'm still not digging this whole LA deal, at least things might be looking up for me. I'm definitely trying to be more positive, anyway.

Happy Fourth, Everyone!