Monthly Archives: February 2013

Weekend Update

There are very few rules in my household: be a good human, make moderate attempts to keep things clean, replace stolen beer.  And most importantly, pennies are required in penny loafers.

Out on the Cupid pub crawl, the one that I swore I wouldn’t attend and then took back a day later, I once again had to remind a frat boy friends of the rules.

“Sam!” I said by way of greeting, pointing to his shoes and clearly disappointed.

“I’m not in your house!” he responded.  “I KNEW you were going to stay something.”

Needless to say, pennies were immediately procured.



We lasted about 45 minutes on the pub crawl before abandoning ship (so many people, so much claustrophobia!) for a non-pub crawl location.  I was standing at the bar ordering a round of drinks when a lady with two nose rings and curly hair started talking to me.  She had just moved to town from Baltimore, wasn’t a huge fan of D.C. so far and had also ditched the crowded pub crawl.


I didn’t realize she was hitting on me until Sam walked up behind me and lazily put his arm around my shoulder.  She took one look at him, another a me and walked back to her friends.  I should note that I’m equally as clueless when men are hitting on me as well.




Sam said something or other to a girl at the next table over, which just so happened to piss off her meathead looking friend.  We’re not entire sure what he said, but whatever it was, encouraged the meathead to flex all of his bravado.


Sam has a fair amount of tattoos– I’d say a lot by D.C. standards, and just a few by Chicago or New York City or really anywhere else standards.  I overheard the dude shit talking to his friends about Sam, which I’m sure was easy to do as 6’something Sam was at the bar getting another drink and well out of earshot:


“I don’t have tats!  I don’t need them to be tough.”  Because clearly, all these flowers I have tattooed on my body make me tough as hell, yo.    Two points for you.


The meathead continued his mumbled shit talking and rounded the whole thing out with a solid, “I thrive on confrontation, man!”


I desperately wanted to walk up to him, punch him in the face and then ask if he was now thriving.  Luckily, I was talked out of it.




One of the younger frat boy friends joined us on Saturday as well.  I’d never met him before, as he’d recently graduated and moved to the D.C. area.  People were instructed to wear pink and red for the pub crawl, which prompted me to ask the following question.


“Are you wearing a pink shirt for the pub crawl?”
“I have a girlfriend,” was his response.
“Oh,” I said, “I’m not hitting on you.”


And then we both felt incredibly awkward.


Note: Sorry the formatting is incredibly weird.  I’m just sick of trying to fix it.  

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At it’s finest–

Online dating, at it’s finest:

I emailed a 29 year old guy last week on OKC who’s profile I clearly didn’t read all the way through the first time around, as I later realized that he had two young girls and an ex-wife.  I didn’t respond when he emailed me back, but still received the following message yesterday morning:

This is Tim’s wife. He is not divorced. We were actually trying to work on things. I met him online and he left his exwife for me. We have two girls and now he’s trying to do the same thing to me. Trust me for your own good stay away. 

Whoa, nelly.


In person dating, at it’s finest:

I attended a house party in Bloomingdale Saturday night with many many D.C. hipster kids.  There was roughly 100 deviled eggs (I ate about half) and a three man band that included a drummer, guitarist and a dude with a banjo that only sometimes wore socks and shoes.

We sang and danced to a wide variety of cover songs– everything from “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places” to R.Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix)” and did a whole shit ton of foot stomping, because that is the preferred way to dance a couple cocktails in.

Once the band finished and the Pandora station turned up, the dancing continued.  The banjo playing dude (with his shoes back on) started to dance himself over to me, and in what can only be described as a hipster mating dance, lassoed me to him with his blue flannel shirt.  Essentially, the most hipster way to hit on someone.  Ever.

Dating mixers, at it’s finest:

A bunch of the boys– frat boys and frat boy friends alike– have decided to attend the Living Social Cupid bar crawl this weekend and invited me along.  As I’ve learned in the past, going out carousing with the boys is like an (pardon my language) automatic cockblock.  No one wants to hit on the lady surrounded by many many dudes.  I’ll stay home, thank you.

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