Shoulda been a spy

Thank god it's over.

As I told you before, I was planning a surprise party for the cute neighbor for Saturday. The process was very stressful, mostly because people are extremely rude and refuse to RSVP, but also because the cute neighbor was being a bit difficult when it came to getting him to the party.

At first, I thought it would be simple: I would simply tell him I was making him dinner and let him know what time to show up. But then he decided he might like to go out. Nothing fancy, just invite a few friends to our corner tavern for a beer. When I pointed out I wanted to cook for him, he told me I could just do it Sunday. Hmmm... ok, time to move on to a different plan. I figured I could create an emergency to get him to my house, but had to make sure he didn't schedule an outing too early in the evening. I told him I had to work on Saturday, so there wasn't a way for me to be able to go out until 8:30ish (when I had told people the party was going to start). He said he could start without me. Not helping.

Then on Thursday, while I was still stressed as to how to get him to his own party, he says to me, "By the way, my parents told me today that they're coming down this weekend."

Fuck, fuck, fuck! How am I supposed to get him and his parents to my house? I panicked. I thought about calling the whole thing off. Why, oh why, did I plan this whole mess in the first place? But then I calmed down. I took a deep breath. And I realized one thing: if the cute neighbor's parents know what's going on, he will definitely get to his own party! Perfect! One problem: how do I tell them? I don't have an email address or phone number for them. So, later that evening, while the cute neighbor was in the bathroom, I grabbed his cell phone, located a number for his parents, and scribbled it down quickly before he had any idea. I should totally be a spy.

On Friday, I gave them a call and explained the situation. They told me to tell them when and where, and they would make sure he got there. They even called back on Saturday to make sure they had all the details straight. Hurrah! I relaxed. (A little bit.)

With the cute neighbor thinking I was baby-sitting all day, I baked and cleaned and cooked several skillets of bacon all day long. By 8pm, most of the guests had arrived- except D.B., who was bringing the keg. I stalled the cute neighbor by telling him I was stuck in traffic. (Lying via text message is remarkably easy.) Eventually we had to get started without D.B. or the keg.

I called the cute neighbor and told him I had just gotten home. I needed a few minutes to get ready. He should come over and I would give him and his parents a snack.

He agreed.

We assembled in my living room, killed the lights, and waited.

He opened the door...

SURPRISE!

And he was. I had pulled it off. Whew!

About 15 minutes later, D.B. showed up, wearing a Peter Pan costume meant for children ages 4-6. His belly was hanging out, his bulge was showing, and his pants were splitting in the back. It was definitely worth the wait.

Promises of pedicures

I had a traumatic night last night.  It all started fun enough, when I realized the particular socks I was wearing were particularly slippy on my hardwood floors.  Once one realizes they are wearing slippy socks, one physically cannot get to the kitchen without running and sliding.  It's a proven fact.  So I slipped and I slided.  I was Tom Cruise from that one movie I've never seen (but with pants on), until  I was on the floor swearing after a giant splinter assaulted me.  Are you thinking what everyone else I told this story to was thinking?  "Wow, you must have been going pretty fast."(after first thinking, "wow, those floors are real wood?") Yes, yes I was going fast.   That bitch was deep.  So deep that I hopped away from my roommate, Bernard, as he came after me with pinching fingers.  So deep that I sat whimpering on my bed with unsuccessful tweezer attempts.  So deep that I called my mother for motherly-splinter-removal-secrets.  Unfortunately, she did not have any motherly-splinter-removal-secrets.  She offered moral support, infection fighting advice, and a reminder that I need to send her a check for my cell phone bill.  "I. am. in. a. crisis. Mother."

I was about to turn to my good friend Google, for endless advice in 0.423 seconds, when Bernard barged back into my room wanting a shot.  For the next 5 minutes I lay on the floor with my foot in the air, groaning and yelling "Get it ouuuuuut!" while Bernard leaned over me with tweezers in hand saying things like "I'm in deep, can you feel it?"  Our other roommate probably didn't know if I was in labor, or just getting laid.

I may have entered into a state of Splinter Induced Delirium.  The life of my foot flashed before my eyes.     I apologized to it for still having a little chip of November's nail polish on my big toe.  I regretted not making better use of my pumice stone.  My right foot deserved better.  If it made it through this, I promised it a pedicure so nice, the left foot would be jealous.  I imagined the rotten plank of wood festering in my sole.  I imagined infection.  I imagined having to go to the ER, feeling stupid for going to the ER for a splinter, yet needing the ER because I had a fucking piece of wood in my foot.  It was festering.  What if I lost it to to necrotizing fasciitis?!  What if Bernard's refusal to mop the floor has made it a hotbed of flesh eating bacteria that is now festering in my foot?! Damnit Bernard!  What if I lose my foot?  What if I lose my whole leg?!  What if while I slept, a man throws my prosthetic leg into the fire, thinking it was a log?!

After much digging on his part, and delirium on my part, Bernard finally pulls it out looking intact.  That bitch was huge.  We stared at it, in awe. It was nearly an inch in length. "That was in your foot."  I had an incredible urge to take a picture, but I was sidetracked by blood and my immediate need to disinfect/treat the hole in my foot.  I wasn't out of the necrotizing fasciitis woods yet.

24 hours later  it doesn't appear to be infected but it does hurt.   It hurt so much that I considered not going to work today.   I imagined emailing my boss to tell him why I couldn't make it in.  "Sorry, I can't make it in today, my foot hurts. Splinter wound." Followed by "Sir, I don't think you understand the magnitude of this splinter.  It was a B.I.T.C.H.  I'm dealing with a freaking puncture wound here.  If I were in the big leagues (baseball), I would be on the 15 day DL (disabled list)." He would have to believe me: A) Because he knows how I am (i.e. wouldn't be surprised that I was sliding around on hardwood for the fun of it) and B) No one's stupid enough to make up a story so...stupid.   However, I gritted my teeth, I laced up my sneaker, I proudly walked to the T station with one foot dragging slightly behind the rest of me.  I may never slide on hardwood again.

You're doing it wrong

I went on a date last night. With a boy that gives out his number on slapon bracelets.  Who I drunkenly texted.  Who soberly texted me back.  Who gets major style points for bracelets and roses. Who kills it on the follow through.

• I met him last Saturday.  Last Tuesday he texts me to ask if I'd like to get drinks during the week.  I said yes.  He said he'd get in touch with me later on in the week.  
• On Wednesday he asked me if I wanted to join him and his friends at for Brazilian BBQ that night.  I claimed a long day at work.  A first meeting with him and a group of friends?  A sober me and a group of people I don't know, doesn't really mix well.  I clam up.  
• On Friday he texts me at 10:15 pm asking if I wanted to meet up with him and his friends half way across town. Dude.  You're doing it wrong.  Doesn't he know that I was on my way home from a dinner party and all I wanted to do was crochet while catching up on Hulu?!  No, he doesn't know that because we still hadn't gone on a date (which means he shouldn't be last minute texting me to hang with his friends). 
• On Monday he texts to ask if I wanted to get drinks that night.  I had plans.  Why is this guy incapable of planning ahead?  I say I'm busy tonight, how about tomorrow?  Holy crap, we actually made plans to meet up.

At this point I'm kind of wondering if I'm desperate for a date.   I haven't been on a date in a while, and going into it, I knew I wasn't that into him.  But I hadn't been on a date in a while, so it's not like I had anything else going on.  So what the hell?

What the hell?!  I remembered him being adorable. And funny.  Yeah, not so much.  His glasses, his combed hair, his knee-length pea coat.  It sort of screamed douche. There was just something about him that really....annoyed me.   I can't quite pinpoint why.  Perhaps it was his slow uninteresting stories.  Perhaps it was him mocking my sarcasm and not getting my jokes.  Perhaps it was him insisting that I watch a YouTube video that he had made.  Maybe it was when he asked me if I wanted to be his teammate for an eating challenge: 5 pound burger and 5 pounds of fries (Oh, my heart).  He lost me when he told me he really wanted to move back to Alabama and start a family.  He really lost me when he got out his iPhone to show me pictures of his parents.  Duuuuude.  You're doing it wrong.  Something tells me I won't be seeing him again.

Hen Weekends....Beware.

One of my closest friends in the whole wide world is getting married. I am excited about this. I get to be a bridesmaid and wear a pretty dress. I am excited by this also. I've never been to a wedding before, this will be my first. I am mega-excited about this. So, just to be clear, I am honestly excited that my friend is getting married. This post is not about smug-married hating, wedding hating or wedding planning hating. Honest.

This post is about hen weekends. And the over blown affairs they have become.

***Note: According to Vi, hen weekends are known as bachelorette parties in the US, I will be referring to them as hen parties. It takes less time to type.***

As mentioned, I have never been to a wedding. Along with this, I have never been to a hen party or a hen weekend. That is about to change.

I understand the concept of hen and stag parties. Say goodbye to your single life with your friends, have some fun, have some drinks and take some crazy pictures. My issue is, when did this simple concept, this simple idea turn into a money-sucking activity. When did the parties become weekends?

I don't know if this is just a UK thing. But hen and stag weekends over here are HUGE. They have become a new form of tourism almost. There are cities known for their hen and stag weekends. You see the groups of people at the airport, raring to go. Most of them have already started drinking. They're wearing specially designed t-shirts and the hen groups will probably be wearing pink cowboy hats or pink feather boas. Or both.

Perhaps the weekends over here are so popular because, being a tiny island, it's easier (and cheaper) to get away for the weekend. For example, Ibiza, Prague and Marbella are very popular. The White Horse recently went on a stage weekend to Cardiff - and that was only for one night. They went to Wales. For one night. That cost the White Horse about £250.

£250. I've just been looking for a holiday, 3 nights in Prague and that's cheaper than a one night stag weekend in Cardiff. Therein lies my issue...the money. Why do you need to spend a fortune to get drunk, in a strange city, when you most probably won't remember much of the night before all because a friend is getting married? It's ridiculous. And unnecessary. It's just an extension of how weddings are becoming bigger than they need to be. It's about the marriage people, not the party.

Plus, it's an added expense to the wedding that you then have to attend. (I don't have this issue with my friend's wedding because as bridesmaid she is very kindly paying for my dress, shoes, travel to the venue and accommodation. We're also planning a fun hen weekend which doesn't involve travelling abroad, I seriously love my friend - and honestly and truly cannot wait for her wedding). If you are invited to both the hen / stag weekend this, coupled with the wedding means you will have to pay for:

Hen / Stag Weekend
* Travel
* Accommodation
* Food
* Drink (lots of drink)
Wedding
* Travel (if out of town)
* Accommodation (if out of town)
* A new outfit (if you're a girl, guys can possibly get away with not purchasing anything new)
* Wedding present

That's an expensive list.

I would like it to be known here, in writing, that should I ever get married I will not have a hen weekend. I will have a night with my friends - some pizza (or similar type of food), some cocktails (I don't drink beer) and some dancing. And maybe a pink feather boa. Just because.

surPRISE!

Last month, I came up with the perfect way to celebrate the cute neighbor's upcoming birthday: throw him a surprise party. As soon as I got the idea, I went full-steam ahead with the plans. I think I might live to regret this.

First, I picked the theme: Neverland. Absolutely perfect. The cute neighbor just won't grow up (seriously, he looks like he's about 22. He's in his mid-30s. And he thinks farting is hilarious, and does it with alarming frequency.) There is also no shortage of costume ideas with Neverland.

I enlisted the help of two good friends of mine who have known the cute neighbor longer than I have and could give me guest list suggestions and could also help out with food (and thus expense). Last week, I sent out the invitations. I've been in a slight state of panic ever since. Here's why:

1. People don't fucking RSVP. Seriously, people, when you get an invitation, and an RSVP is required, please RSVP. Don't wait to see if something "better" shows up (and seriously, what is "better" than a surprise dress-up party featuring Things Wrapped in Bacon and a keg? Nothing, that's what!), if you can make it, say you're going to be there. If you can't, just say no. That's all. Even worse than not responding, is responding "maybe" and saying "I'll try to make it." That really doesn't help at all. I really can't throw a surprise party with a handful of people. Thus the panic.

2. Last night, the cute neighbor suddenly decided he should plan his own birthday outing for Saturday night (the night of the party). I reminded him I was making him dinner (the ruse to get him to my house for the party). He told me I could just do it on Sunday or Monday, closer to his actual birthday. OooooK. This could get tricky. Luckily, I've invited everyone he knows in this city, so everyone he would invite would have already gotten my invitation. I'm just going to tell everyone to play along, then create an emergency to get him to my house at the last minute. Namely, the cat got out, and I need his help to corrale him so my roommate doesn't kill me. It better work.

Between now and Saturday, I have a to-do list a mile long, on top of two jobs and trying to keep everything a secret. I think I might have a mild panic attack before Saturday.

A Single's Awareness Day treat

Happy SAD!  I have some things to share with you, see you don't need dinner/chocolates/teddy bear hearts, you have a Valentine's Day Pub Crawl to hear about.  I went.  I saw.  I crawled.  I got drunk boys to tell me things.  It was a lively day starting at 2 in the afternoon that ended with my friends and I crashing a Hahvarhd party at a museum full of breakables.  Yep, you're totally invested in hearing this story now, aren't ya?

Violet gave me a few tasks accomplish. I'm not one to step down from a challenge.  I didn't accomplish them all, I easily lose focus you see, but damnit I tried.

• Complete a mad libs with random strangers (then share it with us).  *Coming soon, I've lost it in my mess of a room.
• Acquire a condom from a stranger (not the machine in the bathroom).  When you ask strangers if they have condoms, they kind of get the wrong idea.  FAIL.
• Find a mullet (we'll be needing photographic evidence).  Send me to a hipster club I'll take my picture with at least 15 of them, send me on an organized pub crawl, a very non hipster scene and not one can be found.  FAIL.
• Have a bartender create a shot/drink just for you.  Yeah so bartenders dealing with hundreds of people aren't really into the whole shootin' the shit thing that normally leads to specially made drinks.  However, at around 3 in the afternoon I did convince the bartender to use the Whipped cream flavored vodka (their special and yes it did taste like whip cream) with orange juice.  Can you say creamsicle mixed drink? SCORE. 
• Find a person wearing pink panties.  I was wearing pink unmentionables which I normally wouldn't count but I was also wearing pink-heart-argyle socks (because me mother likes to send socks with Vday cards) to complete the ensemble.  Got to give me a point for style.  SCORE. 
• ...and a man with cartoons on his boxer shorts.  In a classic "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" move, I got a flash of Tazmanian Devil boxers.  But wait, it gets better.  Taz was wearing boxers too.  This blew my drunken mind.  SCORE.
• Acquire the autographs of the following:

1. A firefighter.  Apparently firefighters are to good for pubcrawls.  FAIL.
2. Celebrity.  Benjamin Franklin. Huzzah!  Ok so it wasn't really him, but it was a guy dressed like him (it's Boston, this is what people do) who apparently is always dressed like him all over town, so he in himself is kind of a celebrity.  Double SCORE. 
3. A non-U.S. citizen.  My pool partner.  I don't know his name, nor where he was from but he was definitely not from here.  He was majoring in something ridiculous like nuclear particle physics and that's about the only thing I could understand him saying.  SCORE.
4. A Boston native.  Wicked pissah! SCORE.

• Acquire 5 phone numbers from attractive young men.  I got two.  With style.  The first one was written in sharpie on a slap-on bracelet.  It was snapped on my wrist as I walked by.  This is how I want to give out my number from now on.  The second was written on a Valentine, which had hearts and puppies on it.  I lost it but I remember it saying something about being a great teacher? 
• Give out your phone number at least once.  Totally wrote my number on a bar napkin.  Totally nonchalantly slid it over to him.  Totally haven't heard from him.  SCORE.  I also drunk text the SlapOn guy, he figured out I was Gretchen the nurse without me telling him.  I was impressed (FYI, I was Gretchen the nurse). 
• Get the sob story of someone who has just been dumped.  Nope.  But can I just say, there were a lot of unfriendly dudes out.  If you're unfriendly to cute girls at a pubcrawl, then what the hell are you doing at a pubcrawl??
• Sing a duet (there must be an audience) Didn't even try.  FAIL.
• Convince someone you are British (obviously don't show them this list).  Didn't convince anyone of this (lost focus) but did loudly speak in a, for lack of better terms, "British" accent while walking to the subway.  FAIL (because I don't think anyone knew it was supposed to be British). 
• Convince someone you are building a DNA machine.  The one thing I do not talk about when I am drunk (or hardly ever) is science.  Even greatly exaggerated science to sound cool.  FAIL.

Other fun things that happened:  SlapOn guy gave me a fake pearl necklace with a real rose on it.  I wore it (until I lost it, I think when Bernard was putting me in headlocks, trying to stop my "British" banter) but I also proved to everyone that it was in fact, a real rose, by rubbing it on their face.  That rose saw a lot of face.  Another guy asked me if I had plans for Valentine's Day and if I wanted to go to the Olive Garden with him tonight.  No, I said, I have yoga class. Sorry but when you live in a city with an entire neighborhood of good ass Italian restaurants, you say no to Olive Garden.   After a solid 7 hours of pubcrawling we decided we were too cool for such shenanigans and decided to hit a real party.  A real private party that is.  We were with a coworker who had been invited to a grad student reception at a Hahvahd museum (yeah I have cool friends).  We walked in like we owned the place, skipped the name tag table and went straight for the free wine and beer.  I was really into their appetizers, almost as much as I was into touching things I wasn't supposed to be touching.  It's amazing we didn't get kicked out.  

S.A.D. Mission: Impossible

Grayer is going out on a Valentine's Day (S.A.D.) pub crawl on Saturday, and in honor of the occasion, she asked me to make her a goal for the evening. With that, I had a pure stroke of genius, and offered to make her a SCAVENGER HUNT; a list of things to see and do for the evening. I think this is sure to become a tradition for future commercial holidays and vacations.

Grayer, here is your mission, if you choose to accept it...

• Complete a mad libs with random strangers (then share it with us)
• Acquire a condom from a stranger (not the machine in the bathroom)
• Find a mullet (we'll be needing photographic evidence)
• Have a bartender create a shot/drink just for you
• Find a person wearing pink panties
• ...and a man with cartoons on his boxer shorts
• Acquire the autographs of the following:

1. A firefighter
2. Celebrity (You won't be able to find Ben Affleck or Jennifer Garner. They're both here in Atlanta.)
3. A non-U.S. citizen
4. A Boston native

• Acquire 5 phone numbers from attractive young men
• Give out your phone number at least once
• Get the sob story of someone who has just been dumped
• Sing a duet (there must be an audience)
• Convince someone you are British (obviously don't show them this list)
• Convince someone you are building a DNA machine

And that should a good evening make.