Thursday, January 6, 2011

New Year's Resolutions and the Perfect Man

In an effort to break away from my usual type (skinny, wildly effeminate, complete and total douche bag), I've begun compiling a list of all the things that a man could do to make me happy, leaving out the usual top-of-the-lister: An incontrovertible desire to emotionally destroy me. I'm not saying I am karmically worthy of the following traits, but honestly believe that at some point everyone should have something good happen to them, and gosh darn it if my number isn't up by now. But before we get to the list, let's take a dip into the shallow end of Lake Flaccid.


2010 was the year that life decided to serve me a big heaping portion of crap chowder, and at midnight between the two years, I hoped that 2011 might serve me something a little less steamy. January marks my attempt to control my alcoholism and so far I'm at day 3 and all I can think about is booze.  Last night I went through what I would describe as purgatory; my body would not fall asleep, AND was riddled with panic attacks and night terrors, (or, alcohol withdrawal). Annnnnd- oh happy day! The root of the anxiety turned out to be true in real life the next morning! Thanks January, so far you've proved only that you are the bastard, fetal alcohol poisoned son of December, and fuck that guy. My usual response to being hurt is to drink copious amounts of alcohol every day until black out, but obviously this is not an option at the moment. I have no shame in admitting that the past two days I've consumed one to six whole pints of Mint Chocolate Pity-Party, mostly because, well, I have no shame.

It's crazy after three days of not drinking the childish emotions that I've tried to sedate and numb out of me for the past 5 years that flood back. "Boo hoo life is so hard, people are like, so unfair." Rather than the drunken wrath of Maggie that would normally know how to utterly mishandle and drunkenly text this situation at 3am, we've got Maggie from before she started drinking- 14 year old Maggie who still had braces and a hymen. How would she handle it? Light candles, write poetry, and cut herself? Instead of that youthful glimpse of angst, I'm resolved to continue not drinking and get the fuck over it already. I'm Maggie fucking McCombs, and I've dealt with far greater shit than this.

I've never been one for drama, (I like to save my mean, degrading, and occasionally racist thoughts for writing humorous stories), which is why I have never understood how people legitimately and passive-aggressively do things to hurt people outside of the literary realm. Thus, I'd like to start the list with the number one deal breaker in any relationship from here on out.

1) Do not, under any circumstances, do anything to maliciously, intentionally emotionally hurt me- making me jealous and flirting with girls in front of me is unacceptable and will not be tolerated. Especially post-break up when the shitdick decides to sleep with friends/people I have to work with.

After that, the list is pretty simple. 

2) If you don't like soccer, you can stop reading now. If you are a Seattle Sounders fan, stop reading and drown yourself.
3) Be %100 stab proof. This is to say that when my Italian rage bubbles up and spills onto surfaces around me, be able to withstand the burns.
4) Drop everything at a moments notice to make me guacamole- and not that pussyshit mild kind, I mean the kind that lights your mouth up in sun flares.
5) Have the comedic timing of a fucking legend.
6) Be able to clean up cat shit, and not complain about it. Listen, she's almost 9 years old, she has earned the right to crap wherever she wants to.
7) Be able to co-captain my official title, "Ambassador of Fun".
8) Have at least 7 different funny voices and/or accents in their arsenal. 
9) Enthusiastically share my passion for judging people.
10) Must possess GREAT ass. Bitch gotta have something to brag about to her girlfriends.
11) Knows, and will perform in front of a crowd, the boy part in Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow's 'Picture'.
12) Let's be honest, if you have any sort of accent (ok let's narrow that down a bit, I'm talking about Irish, Scottish, English, Australian, New Zealand, etc. [the hot ones]) you get a free pass to my panties.
13) If I say, "Get up, we're going to Spain." You better have your fucking bag packed in less than 15 minutes.
14) Must love sex, but that's a given.

And that's about all it takes, really. Alright, so I'm a bit picky. Basically, I'm looking for a guy who can entertain me more than I already entertain myself. So... the bar is set pretty sky high.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

The Long Awaited Yet Thoroughly Consistent Account of How I Am an Asshole

Well, it was a speech impediment. I should know by now, and let this be a lesson to future suitors; if blacked out Maggie will not sleep with you, you can be sure as shit that sober Maggie won't, either. According to my phone book, I have gone on dates with approximately 5 Chris's, all of which ended almost as soon as they began. Sorry to all the Chris's in the world, but you're out. (Let me just tell you now, in case you have trouble reading his quotes- I've replaced all the L's and R's with W's, which in real life was even more difficult to figure out.)

While I definitely knew that the date was doomed from the beginning, I had not entirely prepared myself for the crash-and-burn strategy that was apparently his way of 'flirting'. We met on the corner of a busy sidewalk, which terrified me because, if you remember, I have no recollection of what he looked like. What sauntered up to me was probably the epitome of someone I would not only never give the time of day to, but probably would have made fun of. Great job, drunk Maggie, always picking up the charity case. It's like drunk Maggie already knows she's the wing man so she just goes straight for the DUFF (Dumb Ugly Fat Friend). He had obviously just ran his fingers through his greasy hair, which created a sort of, white-boy corn rowed look of finger mark lines. Chubby, acid wash jeans, and wearing a leather jacket- he also possessed what I think no boy should ever, ever yield- a goatee a la Evil Spock. The kind that is a full oval of gross hair all over upper lip and splattered over the entire chin. Blech.

In my head, I was thinking about Neil Patrick Harris from How I Met Your Mother. What I wanted to say was, "Oh God, I'm so sorry. I had no idea my friends were filming a prank on me." And proceed to Lemon Law him and get the fuck out of there. Instead, because I have a fear of confronting people and hurting their feelings for something that is quite obviously not their fault but the nature in which they grew up, we walk along the side walk while deciding what to do on this date. Here's the thing- I'm an indecisive person. I love when a guy says, hey let's go here, or let's do this, and surprise me with something fun/new/interesting/adventurous. This characteristic of mine was brutally taken advantage of when he said, "Gwow in the dauhk mini gowf?" Nothing says 'adventurous' like the redecorated basement of a Taco del Mar.
"........sure."  Oh, and he knew it would be oodles of  fun because he had taken his 8 year old nephew there the week before. I found myself in a rare position. Already I was getting annoyed at having to try extra hard just to understand what he was saying. Normally I am the kind of person that will give people a chance to at least attempt interesting or witty conversation. But in this instance, I honestly had zero desire to listen, understand, or share anything with this wholesale flower distributor.

So, we descend into the dungeon below the 90's Mexican greasery to be greeted with (imagine the music right at the beginning of Shaun of the Dead), black light, dilapidated scenery from Pirates of the Caribbean, the ride. The two high schoolers manning the front desk look at me, then look at him, then back to me. It was the single most humiliating second glance I've ever been given. We spend the next 45 minutes awkwardly trading my purse back and forth between shots, ("I have no pwobwem howding a puhse, I gwew up with thwee sistuhs,") while I completely destroyed him at mini golf. I even black-heartedly convinced him to bypass the family of Mexicans who had been slowing down this whole process. Throughout the torture he kept asking "What we wuh playing foh". In just about any other circumstance, I would have said "a drink", because I usually win at things and I also like having free alcohol. He had already mentioned that he, "doesn't nohmawy dwink," which is an obvious deal-breaker for yours truly. Plus the thought of spending more time with him was overwhelmingly distressing.

He suggested getting a bite to eat, (me: "How about coffee?"), so we go to the Starbucks around the corner. My friends keep feverishly texting me for updates- "How's it going?" "Awful." "Get out of there!" "On my way." Forced, awkward conversation in which I was rudely texting my friends about where I should meet them- classy. Although to be fair, about half way through my chugged coffee he did level with me: "I'm what you might caw sociawy inept." Right.

The poor boy didn't even know how to order coffee. After ordering his Mocha, (I take my coffee black and will judge you if you order anything with whipped cream on it), he did not leave a tip AND made a snide comment about the barista. I'm a fucking waitress, buddy, and barista'd my way through college. Eat a dick. He didn't even know where to stand after ordering, just sort of waited (hovered) around the counter for it. Who in the 21st century America does not know the rules of a coffee shop? While waiting (as I tried to get down as much coffee as quickly as possible without suffering esophageal burns), his sparkling conversation consisted of, "Have you seen those commuhciaws for that cwazy bwenduh? It was devewuped by a guy fwom NASA. It bwends anything. Wike wocks, wood, a twig... You name it!"
Are you fucking kidding me? Where did this guy come from? To be fair- I'm a level-10 crazy, nightmare of a woman, and he was trying his hardest, but... weally?

I even tried to sound understanding when he said to me, "Do you evuh find yowsewf wawking awound and feew wike you just don't fit in anywhewuh?" Maybe back in high school when I hadn't gotten the lasso around my hormones yet, but come on- this is Portland, there are freaks everywhere. In my head I was planning my escape route to my friends, who were literally a half block away, drunk and merry at the Portland Beerfest. I swear to christ I could hear my friends, the beer, and the city of Portland calling my name.  I made some lame excuse about needing to catch a ride out of downtown with my friend, and she was leaving at 8, so... gotta run! Outside the Starbucks was even worse, I didn't know how to end it with Cassanova, but he was obviously optimistic. "So, wouwd you want to do this with me again sometime?"
"No. ... ... ... Sorry."
A handshake later and I was free again. Free from the restricting ties of boredom. It was like pulling off a band aid. Except I would do anything for those two hours of my life back. So I circled the block, joined my friends at Beerfest, and thus the night was saved.