Cake eater

The good news is, it's over.  8-year-Lisa is officially married and currently on her honeymoon (but has been on Facebook an alarming amount of time).  The wedding was lovely, the weather was perfect, the bride was radiant, the eye-makeup was gorgeous, and the groom's brother was hot (yowza!).   Something that didn't look great, however, was the cake.

The cake arrived shortly after my date and I did.  It did not look good (though we later found that it was delicious).  A friend of a friend had made it, and it was obviously homemade.  You could see streaks of the underlying chocolate cake, there were cracks between the layers, and the hand-painted edible pansies were some of the saddest things I've ever seen.  The bride was not happy (though surprisingly calm).  My date and I suggested a fix, to add real flowers.  She trusted me to get it done right so as I started stealing flowers from centerpieces, my date started cutting them.  And then we went to work.  We kept the pansies for filler and structural support, while adding real flowers to cover them up as much as possible.  It was really fun.  I love having to being creative under pressure! We now believe that as a team, we would make great cake decorators (minus the whole icing thing).  My date said things like "Put this pink one here and it will really pop against this purple."  Needless to say, comments like this didn't really convince me he was straight.  Nor did our very long conversation about Glee on our way there.

The wedding was fun but it wasn't a wild party.  The family started stacking up chairs within a few hours, so we were back to Boston by dinner.  We were absolutely exhausted after getting up so early, so we had dinner, watched a movie, and went to bed by 10.  That's when things got weird.  My wedding date was...on me all night.  Not on me, but....up against me all night.  I'm not saying he tried anything, but I have a big bed.  Violet slept in it with me for a week without ever touching me (except that one time when I hit her in the face) yet this guy couldn't seem to do anything but crowd me.   I was exhausted but I couldn't sleep.  I could feel him breathing on my neck.   In the morning, he was giving me crap for being a bed hog.  Me!?  Then he said how well he slept and how comfortable my bed is, all while playing with my hair.  What the fuck is going on?!

Much of this continued for the rest of a lazy Sunday.  We read in the park, we napped, we watched a movie all while continuing this weird closeness.  It wasn't sexual, it was just cozy.  Maybe he was just craving some human interaction?  I don't know.  But it was weird.  Little brother characters aren't supposed to be so touchy.  

Birthday Booty

Now that I'm old (25! eeeek!) I have a few things to blog about, please do your best to follow along.

1. My secret affair with The Roommate has ended. He texted me at the end of last week, saying he just couldn't take the guilt/awkward situations with his roommate/my former fling, The Karaoke Kid. Obviously the situation was complicated so this is for the best. KK did not find out (as far as I know) but claims he doesn't know why I just stopped talking to him. (Seriously someone needs to teach this guy how to date a girl!). To be honest I was disappointed to no longer see The Roommate (I was just making out with him 2 days previous!). We talked about all being friends in the future but he said he just needed some time before that could happen. Why does he need time?! I feel like I could just be friends with him...as long as I'm not left alone with him....The Roommate also said I need to talk The Karaoke Kid about just being friends. The problem is KK hasn't talked to me in a while and when I tried to start a conversation with him via text, he never responded. I don't really know where I stand with either of them now, which is disappointing because they were my progress in making friends in Boston. Look where it got me! Nowhere. Fine, I'll say it: You were right. But I'll also say: It was fun while it lasted.

2. Obviously nobody wants to have things end right before their birthday, especially when all one really wants to do for their birthday is A. get birthday drunk, and B. get birthday laid. Fortunately, I don't need a man to get my drink on, yet my prospects of Birthday booty were not looking good. If this blog (Fen) has taught us anything, it's that nothing is more dangerous then a lethal combination of wine, an erotic charge (that's smart people talk for horny), and a cell phone full of numbers. After assessing myself as a High threat risk (That's color orange, people!) I needed to take some preventative measures. I've learned something in my 25 years. I deleted The Roommate's phone number before going out. I would have been embarrassed after begging him to come home with me. I also warned my roommie not to let me text and she certainly held me to it. I got yelled at everytime I had my phone out, when all I was doing was texting Violet (who was prodding me to say something TFLN worthy).

3. So if you're following along, I am drunk and manless on my birthday. However, I had a really good night out, which included delicious dessert, a whole lot of wine, and a few friends, including The Mutual Friend. For those of you who need a refresher, The Mutual Friend has been my strictly platonic friend for over a year now. He's a good friend of my old hookup, Hanging Out Guy, and he too has relocated to Boston. Everytime I've hung out with MF I have to insist to my roommie, that he is in fact, just a friend. We get along really well, have great chemistry, are very flirtatious, but by no means do we have any interest in each other. On numerous occasions I've had to tell my roommie, very matter-of-factly, "He is just a friend, it is possible to be friends with someone without sleeping with them, ya know." Until it's your birthday and you're drunk and manless that is...
I'm not really sure how this happened. Sure, I flirted with him and texted Violet that I was going to marry him, but these are all normal things! I don't know how many glasses deep we were but my wine and his rum and cokes were taking effect. Our knees were touching under the table, he was holding my hand to lead me through a crowd, he was coming home with me on the basis that we were going to have a Disney movie marathon the next day, and then he was making out with me in my kitchen. At some points I started giggling, partly because I was drunk, partly because he is sooo skinny, but mostly because it was The Mutual Friend. WTF? It's not like we haven't been drunk together before. No, it wasn't awkward the next morning, yes, I will continue to be friends with him, and yes, I had a great birthday...

I realize that I keep getting myself into these situations, but in my defense (this time at least) it was my birthday. We all deserve to be Birthday drunk, we all have the right to Birthday booty. Even if he is just a friend.

WTF? Seriously, WTF?

The MTV Movie Awards have a "Best WTF Moment" category. Well MTV, I will see your nominations like the naked trunk surprise in The Hangover and raise you with this: My Friday Night.

Last Tuesday I got horrifically drunk at a work thing. (Don't drink on a school night ladies). Posh Work Guy and I had a discussion that night. A discussion that concluded with us agreeing that on Friday night we'd both be getting some action. With each other. But you all got that.

Thursday night I did a bit of sexfoliation- made even more difficult knowing that I had to go to work beforehand. Showed up at work on Friday and guess who wasn't in the office? He sometimes shows up later in the day because he has meetings so I wasn't too concerned but by one 1pm there was no still no sign. Knowing that I wasn't going to get much done unless I found out where he was and if I was going to get some, I text him. Turns out he was working from home. However, although I thought this meant my sexfoliation was a waste of time, the conversation turned to our 'arrangement'. We ended up having the same conversation we had on Tuesday. Just sober and via text message. It lasted a good 3 hours. Finally I said could we not just meet and discuss this because my head was hurting and I needed to do some work.

We agreed to meet at a pub near his. We met, we drank a bit, we chatted. A guy from work came into the pub and we made a hasty getaway. We went back to his where we cuddled on the couch watching TV. The conversation turned to our flurry of text messages that afternoon. Conclusion? We're friends now and we'll be friends afterwards. Fine. After that, things finally got moving.

And then, well, I'm confused. Things happened, my dry spell came to an end, but it wasn't well, good. Afterwards, he got up to go to the bathroom. When he came back, he was dressed. He asked if I wanted my clothes. Um, what? Well not really, but I figured I should probably get them. We went back in the living room and watched the news (yes, that's right, the news). I was thinking things were awkward. They were about to get a lot worse...

PWG: Sorry but I can't drive you home tomorrow.
(That was fine, having someone drive you around in London is a luxury and I knew he had to do some mechanical thingy to his car.)
Me: No problem. I'll get the tube.
PWG: And you won't be able to sleep in because I have to get up really early to get things done.
Me (half-jokingly): I can just leave now if you want.
Pause.
PWG: If you do then you can wake up tomorrow and know you don't have to go anywhere, won't that be nice?
Pause.
Me: Um, ok, I'll just finish my drink.

WTF?

By this point I didn't want to be there anymore and I didn't get what was going on. At all. I finished my drink and got my stuff together. When he opened the door to his apartment I suddenly clicked that he wasn't going to walk me to the tube station. I had only been to his twice before and had never gotten the tube. I only vaguely knew where the station was. I had to ask him for directions. And he still didn't walk me. He did ask me to text him when I got home. How chivalrous.

So there I am, walking in an area of London I don't know at all, in the cold, at 10.30 on a Friday night. I felt like a cheap call girl. I got home and emailed Vi and cursed the fact that we live in different continents, on different time zones and neither of us is rich enough to be able to afford transatlantic phone bills. Oh and I did text him simply saying: "I'm home." He replied saying have a nice weekend.

Have a nice weekend? If having a nice weekend involves being extremely upset and angry and convinced that I'm bad in bed well then I'm having a marvelous time.

Please, someone, tell me what the hell happened. It was all agreed, all cards on the table. This was going to be a bit of fun. Nothing was going to change. It's possible, look at Vi and the Dark Horse. Now I have to see him at work tomorrow. I want to yell at him, for not walking me to the station if nothing else, but I can't because I have to act like nothing has changed between us, all is fine, as we agreed.

Well all is not fine. And I did not agree to him treating me like this. And I'm really angry.

Fenella's Friday Night = Winner. Best WTF moment.
Grayer's night with KK's roomie = A very, very close second.
Vi getting dumped by the Dark Horse while she was in her underwear. Twice = Joint very close second.

We need to stop having these moments.

Even babies love Hermes

I know this is a dating/relationships/singleton blog, but we singletons love nothing if not our chick-lit, and lately my life has been a Devil Wears Prada/The Nanny Diaries hybrid, only without the Harvard Hottie or the Adrian Grenier boyfriend. *sigh* That and the fact that my love life is still in winter hibernation mode, so I don't really have anything else to write about. Although even if I did, this story still needs to be shared with the world.

I was watching Eloise last Friday, as usual, when Ms. X (Eloise's mother) asked me to run an errand for her, as I also function as her personal assistant. She asked me to run to Hermes, to pick up a gift she had on hold for a friend's baby while Eloise was at her guitar lesson (like any normal 5-year-old). Very Devil Wears Prada. My first thought was: Hermes? For a baby? What are they going to do, diaper the kid with a $500 scarf? What on earth would you get a child, let alone a baby, at Hermes?

I pulled into the parking lot- I declined the complimentary valet parking, thank you very much- and immediately knew I didn't belong. My yellow ford focus didn't exactly fit in with the black Mercedes and Audis that were already there. Not to mention the fact that I was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, and this was a store with a guard at the door, and sales people who wear immaculate designer suits that cost more than my car. I was expecting a scene straight out of Pretty Woman, where the employees look at me with disdain because I wasn't dressed properly, and kind of wished I was wearing thigh-high boots and a halter top in the hopes that I would meet a Richard Gere-type sugar daddy.

Fortunately, the sales clerk was much nicer to me than the people of Beverly Hills were to Julia Roberts, and was very helpful and friendly, despite my attire. When I told him who I was picking up for, he thought for a moment, and said, "Oh yes, it was a bookmark!"

A bookmark? For a baby? He came back with what appeared to be a small, purple hippopotamus. Surely I could buy that at Barnes and Noble? I whipped out Ms. X's credit card, as he said, "That will be $178.60."

178 what? Dollars? Surely, he must have meant rupees? Or pesos? Or soles? But no, he meant one-hundred and seventy-eight American dollars.

For a bookmark? For a baby? Who can't even read? I don't spend any money on bookmarks. I use an old receipt. Or a brochure I don't need. Or a wad of paper I found lying on the ground. Or, if I'm feeling really fancy, I use a free bookmark from the check-out desk at the library.

A hundred and seventy-eight dollars? Good grief.

As soon as I got into the car, I called Grayer. Like I said, this is something that needs to be shared with the world. I mean, how many people know that $178 bookmarks exist? Because I sure as hell didn't.

First of all, if this woman can spend this much money on something that will probably never be used for a kid that isn't hers, then I am clearly underpaid. That's almost as much as I get paid for watching Eloise in a week. Depending on the week, it could be more. She just spent more on a
bookmark than she spends on a week of childcare. There is something fundamentally wrong with that. Second, if anyone gave my offspring a gift like that, I would return it to the sophisticated boutique from which it came, and use that money for something useful. Like starting a college fund.

$178. For a bookmark. For a baby. I will never, ever get over this.