“Good call,” I agreed. “I forget, how old is he? It’s probably like his forty-fi—”
“It’s his fiftieth,” she interrupted.
“Fiftieth? Oh . . .”
“What, is that too old? I mean, I know he’s older than the guys you usually date, but who cares?”
“No, it’s not too old,” I said, unsure if I meant it. Age doesn’t usually matter a ton to me, but fifty just sounded older than I was used to. But then I remembered that I’ve met a lot of childish fortysomething-year-olds, so maybe the only way to date a man who has his shit together is to date someone with more than a decade on me.
The night of the party, Renee, her boyfriend, and I all went out for pre-party cocktails. By the time we got to the party, Renee was pretty lit up, which is par for the course for her. She’s one of those people who likes to “test” strangers when she is out drinking. She has a tendency to go on the attack and if someone is able to spar with her and keep up, she deems them worthy of a conversation. However, if her loud, sometimes offensive antics annoy the person, Renee dubs them an asshole.
When I first met her, I sort of marveled at the way she had the balls to say anything, regardless of who might be insulted. Renee was a tough girl from Brooklyn and I was a not-so-tough girl from Arkansas. But the older we got, the more I realized that the people who were unamused by her weren’t the assholes. Not everyone goes to a bar wanting the person next to them to say things like, “So do you like to take it in the ass?” before they even ask you your name.
But Renee had been a friend for a long time and I had a hard time figuring out how to tell her when she was embarrassing me. The few times I tried, she got very angry and defensive, asking me why I was so concerned what other people think.
“I’m not,” I told her, “I just think there’s a line between trying to start up conversation at a bar and attacking people for no reason.”
That led to her not talking to me for a few days, then one day calling me to tell me she wasn’t mad at me anymore. I’m not sure what kind of apology that was, but I accepted it. Like I said, we’d been friends for a really long time. I knew her well and I knew that she was a good person. I decided to forget trying to get her to stop acting that way when we went out, and to just start going out with her less.
Anyway, we showed up to Mike’s house about an hour after the party started, which I feel is the perfect time to show up at a party when you don’t know too many people there. That way, you aren’t one of the first few guests standing around like an asshole making awkward small talk with people you barely know, but you’re also not there so late that everyone is hammered. Mike looked cute and paid just the right amount of attention to me so that I knew he was glad I was there, but also played polite host to the rest of his guests. At one point, he was talking to Renee and me, and out of nowhere she started talking about how many sexual partners I’d had.
“Just take a guess!” She clapped joyfully.
“Um, no, don’t take a guess. . . ,” I interrupted, wondering what the fuck she was thinking.
“Oh, don’t be a party pooper!” she snapped.
“I don’t really need to know—” Mike started to respond.
“But just guess!” she said insistently. Luckily, Mike was smart enough to act like he needed to fill a bowl of spinach dip that had clearly just been filled and excused himself.
“What are you doing?” I asked Renee, humiliated.
“What? I’m just having fun,” she said nonchalantly.
“This isn’t fun, Renee. Seriously, are you wasted or what?”
“Oh, like you’ve never been drunk before?”
“What?”
“Look, your last boyfriend wasn’t comfortable with you and your past. And that was awful. So I think you should make sure the next guy you go out with likes you for who you are.”
I actually believe that Renee thought she was coming from a good place when she did things like this (it’s possible I believe this too often about people). And she was right; my ex-boyfriend hadn’t accepted me for who I was. But I got out of that relationship and vowed never to be with someone like that again. When I was in my twenties, I was a little bit slutty, that’s true. In my defense, I grew up in a small town, so when I moved to Los Angeles I was just excited to have so many options. I mean, I could have sex with people I didn’t go to high school with? Jackpot! And if anyone I date wants to have a conversation with me about it, they’re welcome to, but it certainly doesn’t need to take place at a party with a friend mediating.
Plus, there are some things you grow up and grow out of, and at a certain point in your life you realize what those things are. Yes, I like to drink and have a good time, but things that were funny when I was in my twenties, like falling asleep at bars, lost their charm when I hit my thirties.
I’m not pretending that in my thirties I haven’t had some evenings that could technically keep me out of heaven if God is a real stickler for everything in the Bible, but the older I’ve gotten, I’ve had many, many fewer of those nights.
I knew that arguing with Renee when she had convinced herself that she was being helpful was useless, so I changed the subject and cut the evening short in order to avoid an argument.
The next day, Mike texted me and asked me out on a date for the following weekend.
Well, Renee didn’t scare him off, so if nothing else, he’s a durable man, I thought.
Our date plan was that he would pick me up after a friend’s three-year-old’s birthday party (I appreciated that he didn’t try to get me to attend that event with him) and we would meet Renee and her boyfriend, John, for an early dinner. Hanging out with Renee again might seem like it was a bad idea, but she and I had since talked and I felt like I at least got her to understand that bringing up my sex life was pretty fucking rude, in any situation, but especially when I’m with a date.
So around four in the afternoon, Mike knocked on my door. When I opened the door, I could tell that he was either really drunk or had just had a lobotomy. I hoped for the latter.
“Are you okay?” I asked as I watched him sway from side to side, grinning.
“Yeah, I’m great. You ready to go?” He grinned as he twirled his keys in his hand.
“You drove here?”
“Duh, yeah. Why?”
“Well, you seem like you’ve had a few drinks,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Well, yeah, I mean how else can you have fun at a kid’s birthday party?”
That’s when I realized that not only had he shown up to my house hammered, he’d driven to my house hammered after attending a child’s birthday party.
“Okay, well, I’m not getting in the car with you, so there’s that,” I said flatly.
“I’m fiiiiine,” he slurred.
Famous last words of a fool.
“Hang on,” I said, shutting the door in his face so I could call Renee and ask her what I should do.
“Just take a cab here to meet us,” she suggested. “We’re at the restaurant now.”
“Well, obviously we’re taking a cab, but I don’t know if I should even go. I mean, what could possibly go right if this is how it’s starting off ?”
“Probably nothing, but it will be a really funny story for you to tell later.”
She had a point. I mean, I do love a good story . . . and now I’m telling it.
I opened the door and explained to Mike, who was now sweating in addition to swaying, that I would go with him to the restaurant only if we took a cab and if when we got there he drank nothing but water.
“Whatever, fine,” he said, his defenses dwindling in the sun.
When we got to the restaurant, Renee and John were prepped and ready for Mike’s condition. He did seem to start to get his shit together in the cab, at least briefly, so I hoped maybe the night wouldn’t be a total
waste. And if nothing else, it would be an early night and I could check hanging out with Renee off my list. A part of me felt guilty that I’d been spending less time with her—probably the same part that had been listening to her give me a hard time about spending less time with her.
She was on her best behavior that night, or maybe it just seemed that way in comparison to the fact that I was on a date with a guy who showed up drunk from a three-year-old’s birthday party. It’s amazing how comparison can make someone look good by default.
Mike didn’t stick to the “water only” rule, and within the hour he started going downhill quickly. Renee and John made fun of him to his face, asking him what kind of game plan it was to show up to a girl’s house that way, but Mike wasn’t smart or sober enough to pick up on anything that was going on, so for the most part he just giggled when anyone spoke to him.
Maybe he did have a lobotomy today, I thought as I watched him try—and fail—to outsmart a ketchup bottle.
After almost an hour and a half, I’d had enough. I was thirty minutes from my house with a guy whom I was definitely never going to speak to again and I had an episode of True Blood at home on my DVR that was calling my name. I thought about just grabbing a taxi and leaving him there, but then I felt bad that Renee and John would be stuck trying to figure out what to do with him, even though technically this was all their idea and fault. So, I bit the bullet and told him that he could share a cab to my house, then that cab would continue on to his house. That way I knew my fifty-year-old date would get home safely. Now I know how most of the guys I went out with in my twenties felt—well done, karma.
When we pulled up to my house, I opened the car door on my side, and Mike attempted—and failed—to do the same on his.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m coming in, aren’t I?”
“What? No. You’re going home.”
“Why?” he asked angrily.
“Because you’re wasted and I’m not in the mood to talk to you anymore, or probably ever again.”
“What the fuck? Why are you being such a bitch?”
I heard the taxi driver either gasp or stifle a laugh.
“Excuse me? I’m being a bitch? I was being nice by sharing a cab with you so that I could make sure he had your address and that you were awake for at least this much of the ride. I’m getting out now.”
“Well, let me walk you to the door to make sure you get in safely,” he slurred as he continued to wrestle with the door handle.
“What exactly are you going to do if someone attacks me? Annoy them to death?”
With that I exited the car, then asked the taxi driver if he had the address and apologized to him.
“Well, how am I going to get my car tomorrow?” Mike asked, desperate for a way into my house.
“You’re a grown man, I think you can figure it out.”
“Fine. Did you pay for this taxi? You need to pay for this taxi.”
“I need to pay for this taxi?” I said, my voice rising. “Are you insane?”
“Yeah, I didn’t count on paying for a taxi and you’re the one who insisted we take one.”
“Well, consider it a huge discount from a DUI. You’re welcome,” I said as I slammed the door. I handed the driver a twenty for a tip, because I felt really bad that he had to spend the next fifteen minutes with that guy.
“That’s for you, make sure he pays the full fare for this ride,” I whispered.
“Oh, he will. Thank you. But don’t worry, I deal with this bullshit all the time,” he said as he sped away.
I watched him drive off, and my heart went out to him and every other taxi driver in the world.
After that incident, I started spending even less time with Renee. Similar to my feelings about dating guys like Mike and Patrick, who were prone to little bouts of belligerence when sauced, the last thing I wanted was to spend one of my precious evenings off with Renee in a blackout yelling at me over my taste in television shows—and yes, that actually happened.
One afternoon, Renee called me and left a really nice message that basically said, “I know you’re busy and I know you’re never in town, but we can at least catch up on the phone.” Now, we all know how I feel about phone calls, but at this point I did have a one-hour daily commute to work at Chelsea Lately during which I either listened to Howard Stern or made obligatory phone calls (hands free, of course) to my mom and such. So the next morning, I decided to call Renee on my drive in to work, knowing she would be up getting ready for work, too. This also happened to be right around the time I found out that Alex was married, and to be honest, I knew I could use a friend to talk to about it. Despite her negative qualities, Renee could be a pretty good listener and advice-giver at times. Plus, she’d left such a nice message—maybe our friendship deserved another shot.
“Hi!” Renee answered. “It’s eight o’clock in the morning, what are you doing up?”
“I’m driving to work, silly,” I laughed.
“Oh, that’s right, you call that work,” she said.
Ugh, is this really how we’re starting off this phone call? With her taking a jab at me? I wondered.
“Yes. Anyway, how are you?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I’m fiiiiine,” she said, slightly slurring.
“Have you been drinking?” I asked.
“Huh? I had a little champagne this morning. What, like you’ve never drank before?” She scoffed. (This was always her go-to defense.)
“Well, not before work in the morning, no.”
“Ohhhhh, good for you,” she replied snarkily.
What the fuck?
“All right, well—”
“I had one glass, I’m fine.”
“All right, well, you sound—”
“Forget it, what’s going on with you? I miss you!” she said, her tune changing completely.
“Not much, I’ve just been out of town a bunch, you know.”
“I know! What about boys? Have you met any boys?”
“Um, well. Ugh, yes. I was talking to this guy, his name is Alex . . .”
“Okay, and . . . ?”
“And I don’t know. I really liked him and then . . . well, I just figured out that he’s married.”
Renee started laughing uncontrollably.
“Um, Renee? I’m not joking.”
“I know,” she said, still laughing.
“Okay, well, I really thought I liked him and, you know, it sucks.”
Renee was still laughing, so I just hung up the phone.
A few days later, Renee texted asking me if I wanted to get dinner; I didn’t respond. A couple days after that, she called me but I didn’t pick up. About a week later, she texted to ask me why I was ignoring her and to say that surely I wasn’t too busy to text her back. I didn’t respond. The next day, she called me and I decided to pick up.
“Finally! I was beginning to think you were ignoring me,” she said before I could even speak.
“Well, I kind of was.”
“Why?”
“Because of our phone call the other morning, Renee. That wasn’t funny.”
“What phone call? What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Are you joking?”
“No, what?!”
“You don’t remember me calling you the other morning?”
“I don’t know, I get a lot of phone calls—just tell me what you’re talking about,” she demanded.
That’s when I realized she really didn’t remember. Or at least she was pretending not to—either way, this was a problem. So I took a deep breath and told her about how I had called her to talk to her about my life, at her request, and when I’d opened up about something that was really bothering me, she had laughed hysterically.
“I’m so sorry. I really
don’t remember that at all. John and I had a fight and I was drinking a lot the night before, so I think I was still drunk or something and one drink set me off. Please don’t be mad at me.”
Can you be mad at someone for something they don’t remember? I don’t know for sure. What I do know is that as much alcohol as I’ve had in my life, I’ve never been cruel to someone I love for no reason when drinking, or started fights with complete strangers because I was overserved. I’m not saying I’m the world’s greatest drinker—as I said, I’ve made my share of mistakes—but I’m a pretty harmless one. Unless you count drunken text messages.
I’m not sure if I was mad at Renee or just hurt. Either way, here she was apologizing and I decided the least I could do was accept it. So, we made plans to have dinner a couple nights later. She told me to pick the place and she’d come to me—in a taxi. I mentioned maybe I’d invite another friend of ours, Jess, whom I hadn’t seen in a while, and everything seemed good to go. But as usual, it was not.
The afternoon of our dinner date, Renee called me to find out what time she should come over.
“I made a reservation for eight o’clock at that new place by my house. Jess will be here at seven thirty if you want to come by—we can have a drink here first,” I told her.
“What? I thought we were staying at your house and ordering in!” she whined.
“Why did you think that?”
“Because that’s what we talked about.”
“No, it isn’t at all what we talked about. I said I’d pick a restaurant.”
“Well, I don’t feel like going out. I just want to hang out in my pajamas at your house and talk and watch TV.”
“Okay, well that’s a totally different plan. And Jess already has a babysitter; I doubt she wants to go sit in someone else’s house when she has the opportunity to go out.”
“Well, what about what I want to do?” she demanded.
“Look, you said, ‘Let’s go out.’ I said I’d make a plan and I did. And quite frankly, I never get the opportunity to go out in this city anymore and I’d like to. So just be here at seven thirty.”
“That is not what I want to do. Fine, you and Jess just go out to dinner. I wanted to see you and I can’t believe you pulled this!”
Has Anyone Seen My Pants? Page 12
