Like You Weren't Expecting It

Scene: Ex-Boyfriend’s bedroom, 4am. He rolls on top of me in his sleep and holds on for the cuddle.

"Ex-Boyfriend. Ex-Boyfriend!!!!!!"

"Mmmmmmm."

"You know I can’t sleep when we’re cuddling."

"Mmmmmmm."

"Just get off of me!!!!!!" Pushing and shoving and grunting noises commence. I begin to pinch him.

"You’re so mean." Somehow he is still half on top of me.

"I need to sleep."

"What about my needs?" he says, half-whining, half-muttering. "I need to hold you."

"How fucking old are you?"

He rolls over. And moans to let me know it is very, very difficult.

I realize and respect that my little corner of the bloggy universe hates him and may, in fact, hate me were I to get back together with him.

Ridiculously enough, I am actually beginning to fear that this is affecting my decision-making.

Can I Make Money From This?

Update: This post has been removed due to fear of repercussion from my HR department lest my blog ever be discovered.

I am a paranoid little fucker. Also I am drunk.

Good night.

Office Party Strategy Wrap-Up

I called Ex-Boyfriend tonight.

"So....anyone say anything about the anal sex comment you made Friday?"

"No."

"Nothing?!"

"No, I don't think I really said it."

"Believe me you said it."

"Well, I just don't think it was very loud."

"It was really, really loud, are you kidding me?"

"Well, maybe no one heard."

"They definitely--"

"CB! I prefer to think that no one heard."

"Right. Noone heard."

"Right. Thank you. How are you?"

Though I was not offended by his behavior, I am offended that he has gotten away with it. My boss would have fired me in an instant. This life is not a fair one.

Office Party Strategy

Being not entirely hateful of Ex-Boyfriend, I agreed to attend an office event with him on Friday. I understood that this probably wasn’t the best post-break-up activity but I had no plans for Friday night, his office was offering free alcohol, and Ex-Boyfriend is generally a fabulous drunk.

Upon arrival I found Ex-Boyfriend looking rather handsome and rather drunk in the center of a small circle of people both less good-looking and less-inebriated.

"Hi!" he exclaimed. "You finally made it! Everyone this is CB, my girlfriend!" Girlfriend? I was taken aback, but it only took a moment to regain my sea-legs and shake hands with the co-workers like a good "girlfriend".

Through small talk, I discovered that most of Ex-Boyfriend's co-workers had been kept up to date with the boring minutia of my life. "I’ve heard so much about you! How’s quitting smoking?" "I’ve heard so much about you! Did you ever work things out with your crazy neighbor?"

Oh. Dear. Lord. What I had at first taken to be a straight-forward, "Pretend to have a trophy girlfriend to fit in with the men who have trophy wives" situation, was actually far more disturbing. Ex-Boyfriend had clearly told everyone about me while we were dating, then never told anyone we had broken up. He had continued to answer questions about my life, navigating our non-relationship into serious relationship waters.

Was there some social-climbing work-related reason for this? Or was he just crazy?

Either way, this was a night to drink. I managed to have a great time, running around the bar, screwdriver in hand, taking shots with the assistants (like gravitates towards like) and eating chicken from the buffet. Towards the end of the night I began to get a bit rowdy.

"I could totally chug that faster than you," I told one man getting ready to down a pint of beer.
"Yeah?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said.

The next thing I knew there was a pint of beer in front of me, a barely standing Ex-Boyfriend at my side, and the crowd was demanding that we have our own "Boyfriend vs. Girlfriend" drinking contest. We ducked our heads together and conferred.

"We have to bet on something," he said.

"Agreed. What do you want?"

"What do you want?"

There was a pause for thinking on both sides. Finally I said "Diamonds."

"CB, you know I’m broke right now." He was beginning to slur and I wondered if that could possibly be good for business.

"It’s not like your salary is below the poverty line. You’ll have money again soon, and I want diamonds." It’s hard to dissuade a girl from diamonds especially when she’s had something to drink.

"Fine. If I win I want anal sex."

Before I could reply, Ex-Boyfriend turned to the waiting crowd and announced "Hey everyone! We've got a lot riding on this contest!" He pause to make sure he had everyone’s attention. "Anal sex!"

No one, not a single person laughed. If it were a commercial or sitcom, the sound of crickets chirping would have played to emphasize how absolutely quiet the crowd had fallen.

We chugged our beers. He won. Beer dripping from his chin, he leaned in and said "CB, I think I’m really drunk. Was that bad?"

"Yes."

"Did anyone think it was funny?"

"No."

"I think I should go home," he said, suddenly fretful.

He did not get sex of any kind. Perhaps he will be fired on Monday.

A Late New Year's Resolution

I am somewhat of a compulsive liar. My lies are rarely pre-meditated, nor do I ever lie about anything truly important. (There aren’t that many truly important things in this world though, so that leaves me a lot to play with).

My lies can be divided into three main categories.

1. The "It Just Sounded Good" lie.
2. A "normal" lie, that, when wielded properly, will get me out of a potentially embarrassing situation.
3. The lie to buttress my losing side in an argument. ("Of course I know the exact number of homeless people in America. Do you?")


True Life: The "It Just Sounded Good" Lie.

Ex-Boyfriend: I feel like our sex just keeps getting better.
CB: I bought handcuffs. (I had not bought handcuffs).
Ex-Boyfriend: Really, what kind?
CB: Gray and fuzzy.

Gray and fuzzy? Must I be so specific in these lies? I spent two hours the next day running around looking for gray fuzzy handcuffs lest I be found out.


True Life: The "Normal" Lie

I had been badly burned in a tanning booth incident (my first and only visit).

"You’re sunburnt," Ex-Boyfriend told me.
"Yes," I replied.
"Where’d you go?" he asked.
"A roof," I said. I hadn’t intended to lie, but once it was there, I had to stand behind it. I didn’t want Ex-Boyfriend to think I was the type of person who would lie about this sort of thing.
"Whose roof?" A reasonable question.
"A.’s roof." I gave myself bonus points for actually having been on her roof in the past week. Less of a lie.
I thought myself safe until Ex-Boyfriend approached to give me a hug and wound up trying to remove my shirt. He stopped mid-maneuver. "You don't have tan lines," he said, looking confused.
"Yes" I said, tossing my hair in my best imitation of nonchalance. "I was naked."
"You were naked on A.’s roof?" I nodded. He continued to stare. "Seriously?"
"Well…" I searched wildly for a likely explanation. "I was drunk." Ha!
"In the middle of the day?" Hmmm…I had forgotten that when sunburns are gotten through natural means, they occur in the daytime.
"Well, you know, I do drink a lot."
"Was A. drunk too?"
"Yes! I don’t drink by myself," I said, surprisingly indignant for someone who was making the whole thing up.
"Was A. naked too?" At this point I realized Ex-Boyfriend was building his own private fantasy of me in some exhibitionist, lesbian mid-day frolic with A. Questions about whether we applied sunscreen to each other were no doubt going to be next.
"I don’t want to talk about it anymore," I said haughtily, leaving him to imagine whatever he cared to.


True Life: The Buttressing Lie

Yesterday with S.

CB: I’ve gained weight.
S.: Where is this coming from? You never say that.
CB: I went to the doctor’s office this morning and they weighed me. I’ve gained weight.
S.: You already called me and told me that you weigh less even though you feel fatter.
CB: Yeah, you’re right.
S.: Idiot.
CB: I still think I’ve gained weight.
S.: Shut up.

Side Note: S. is the only one who ever catches me in these things. Is it because she is a girl? Because she knows me better? Because she is smarter than Ex-Boyfriend? All of the above?

In any case, I need to either stop lying, or get better at it.

Never Admit Ignorance

I was standing by Perky’s desk, going over the latest non-crisis that was causing her to panic ("I mean, really, CB, you don’t think anyone is going to think it’s my fault if the staples aren’t perfectly aligned, right?”) when Boss appeared behind me.

“So,” he boomed, “Are you coming to get drinks later?” I looked at Perky, assuming that the question had been addressed to her, since I had no idea what he was talking about. To my consternation, Perky was looking back at me expectantly. I turned to face Boss—he too was staring at me, as one would when patiently waiting the answer to a simple question.

“Well, I, uh, I sort of have plans,” I hedged, thinking myself very sly. My motto in the work place is never to admit ignorance unless it is absolutely necessary. It is absolutely necessary enough of the time without running around asking people questions willy-nilly whenever I feel a bit unsure of a situation.

“You were invited?” Perky demanded, looking upset.

“Um,” I offered.

“I wasn’t invited,” Perky said flatly.

“So you’re definitely not coming?” Boss asked. It was time.

“I really have no idea what you’re talking about so I don't think I was invited,” I blurted, seeing no way to sugar coat the situation.

Turns out there is an event after work today to welcome a new high up executive. Only the creme de la creme of our little corporate society was asked to come.

I laughed it off. Boss looked at me as if I were a jigsaw puzzle missing a few pieces, an expression I am growing more accustomed to each day.

My Almost Fabulous Night With the Almost Apprentice

Saturday night found S. and I at a pseudo-hip club when someone grabbed me, kissed my hand and began to dance with me. Or rather, began to dance around me. I stood perfectly still and watched him, my usual approach to the very drunk.

"S." I whispered. "He looks familiar. I think I may have gone to high school with him." She rolled her eyes. Our requisite gay male sidekick leaned into me.

"That’s Raj, the bow-tie guy from The Apprentice," he hissed. "Idiot."

Raj tried to pull me closer. D-list celebrity or no D-list celebrity, he was incredibly short. "Um, this is my boyfriend," I said, giving GMS a huge hug. GMS (very gayly) licked my cheek in a gesture of support.

With a little "I am so too cool to care" shrug, Raj turned to JP, another girl in S's and my little group. They tangoed about the dance floor. Things began to get blurry.

Soon enough Raj was trying to make out with JP and his trust fund friend was beginning to hit on me, the boyfriend pretext having dissolved as soon as GMS had a few drinks and began running around the club grabbing the asses of cute boys. Being a multi-tasker, I was also trying to call Ex-Boyfriend while convincing S. that I was not, in fact, calling Ex-Boyfriend.

Suddenly Raj and his trust fund friend announced they were leaving. Really, we were all too drunk and happy too care.

Until Raj leaned into JP and murmured seductively, "We’re going to Bungalow 8."

Though I was about 10 feet away, I heard this the way dogs hear high-pitched whistles that go unnoticed by ordinary humans. It was piercing. "We’re coming" I yelled involuntarily. It was how I've always imagined a fit of Tourette’s would feel.

I found it hard to believe that Bungalow 8, who let no one in except the most rich, fabulous and slutty people, would bend that rule for Raj and whatever vagabonds he picked up off the street. But how could I not try?

I filed into a cab with Raj, JP and Trust Fund. GMS and S. followed in another cab. (S. told me they literally followed. As in, she jumped in and yelled "Follow that cab." The driver looked at her like she was an asshole but complied. He sensed it was important.)

In our cab, Raj began to sing "Glory, glory hallejuah." When he gestured for others to join in, I shared a look with JP, but ultimately we sang along, smiling. You sing for Bungalow 8.

Of course when we got there, a bouncer stuck his head outside the door, looked Raj up and down, said flatly “We’re closed,” and then closed the door.

Huh. I had thought as much.

Switching tactics, we went to Marquee, where the trust fund friend bought table service for us all, probably to prove that though not cool enough to get into Bungalow 8, he was cool enough to throw money around for the benefit of people he did not know. We downed the over-priced vodka to wash away the shame of getting turned away at the door while other club goers actually took pictures of Raj with their little cell phone cameras. I suppose I am no one to judge since I probably appeared to be a groupie of some sort. But who knew he had groupies at all? He was on a reality show and he didn’t even win.

I amused myself the rest of the night by fucking with the trust fund friend like so:

"Do you like JP’s shirt? It’s Gucci." It was from The Limited.
"Yeah, it’s great. Do you like my shoes, they’re Gucci too." They were white leather and hideous.
"Yeah, they’re great."

Though ordinarily annoying, the various iterations of this conversation became absolutely hysterical to me, and really, that’s all that matters. And free vodka. Free vodka always matters.

Corporate membership rates combined with mounds of holiday food strewn about the office have, in my mind, forced me to join the gym. After handing in my form and pressing the little "sign me up" button on the computer, I had a bit of buyer's remorse. I had just given away two thirds of my paycheck for something that I have no real interest in, love of or need for.

I tried to make conversation with Perky, who loves talking about all things weight-related (besides her own fluctuating waist line of course). "It’s just a little alarming," I told her. "It could work out that I just paid a ridiculous amount of money for, like, five hours if I don't really make the effort to go there."

Perky looked at me pityingly. "I make it a point to go to the gym at least three times a week."

"Oh," I said.

"Yes," she replied.

I hate when people shame you with their responsibility and healthy lifestyles. I ran off to eat a plate of cookies from the executive meeting upstairs. I now feel sick, but also grateful for the gym membership, so maybe this has all worked out in the end.

New Year’s Eve Follow-up

And here's what happened with the boys:

• “I love you” boy maintained his policy of ignoring me. At one point I sidled up to him and giggled “Hello” in his ear just for the fun of seeing him look around nervously before crossing to the other side of the room.


• Cheater’s girlfriend cornered S. and, surprisingly, began to gush over her. (“Oh my God, S.! You are so funny! We are so hanging out!”). S. tried her best but was eventually forced not only to hand over her phone number but promise to take belly dancing lessons. The boyfriend could do nothing but look on in horror, imagining his dirty little secret and his oblivious girlfriend side by side, gyrating to strange music with jingling coin belts.


• My former high-school fling spent the majority of the night playing hard to get. Or I think that’s what he was doing. He never strayed more than three feet, but assiduously avoided eye contact. At midnight he decided to switch tactics, grabbed me and moved in for the big midnight kiss. I deflected the advance with my ninja-like moves.


• Ex-Boyfriend spent his New Year’s at a combination chic/tacky apartment party (huge apartment, gorgeous view/white shag carpeting, gold-framed mirrors). S. and I decided to go around 1am, since our original party had begun to consist of S., me and the bartender.
  One foot through the front door and I was surrounded by thirty-something women who cooed at me, and made unanswerable comments such as “I didn’t think you could be as adorable as I expected, but you are! You are!” S. ran to the bathroom. I shot Ex-Boyfriend a look. He drunkenly smiled, wobbled his way over and said “I’ve been telling everyone how cute you are and how I want to marry you.” Then he promptly stumbled off in search of more alcohol, leaving me to fend for myself. There are few things in life more alarming than coked-up, lovey, semi-fabulous people, especially when you are drunk and wearing a top from H&M.