Posts Tagged 'Hot Lunch'

and also i shouldn’t talk to coworkers about Hot Lunch

There’s a reason I defriended him on Facebook. I don’t want to know about the new girlfriend who has the same name as me. (Whoops one coworker let that slip a few months ago.) I also don’t want to see the photos of them together… on an exotic vacation. (Whoops I got to hear about that tonight.)

So here is what happens when you combine large quantities of wine, self-pity, jilted rage and Adobe Illustrator.

Hot Lunch, this is for you. I hate you so much. And also I calculate you owe me about $1,074.88 for the movies, the dinners out and that plane ticket, you cheap-ass bastard. Enjoy.

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Guys’ Night

There is one quarter of a pound of 100% prime black angus fighting its way out of my stomach.

Guys’ Night!

Jungle Cat is in B-town, which means a get-together is in order. Guys’ Night! I’m talking Jungle Cat, who is on a professional guy business trip, and Hot Lunch, who recently got delivered two simultaneous issues of Men’s Health… these guys are ALL GUY. So I am full-on prepared to guy it up. I suggest the Ram, where we can drink brewskis and watch sports. Guys’ Night! I instigate “Chicks, man” conversations such as “Chicks, man, they’re so unpredictable with their emotions.” Guys’ Night! And, “Chicks, man, why don’t they treat their cars better… would you leave old Burger King wrappers in your living room?” GUYS’  NIGHT! And, “Chicks, man. They pretend to be happy wives and mothers for 16 years and then suddenly start acting like teenagers and sleeping with random losers and playing the victim when you’re not totally ok with it.”

Guys’? Night?

Man, serious undertones and elephants in the room can really bring down Guys’ Night. Take two guys who were recently screwed over in the exact same way by their now ex-wives and add to it that one of them happens to be the guy who months ago tore my heart out and put it back in and tore it out again and put it back and– To battle the mindgame of talking about broken hearts with mine sitting right there next to me, I did what any guy would do on Guys’ Night. I stepped up my drinking.

Guys’ Night!

Guys’ Night ends at 9pm when Hot Lunch has to go relieve the babysitter and Jungle Cat has an early morning conference to prepare for and I’m tottering back to the car between them, confusing my words and talking loudly about personal things. Our waiter says more than once pointedly, “Have a safe night.” At the time I was confused as to why he was warning us about drunk driving when I was clearly the only one inebriated. Now, looking back on it I feel scandalized that maybe he was referring to the fact that I was the only one inebriated. Just drunk little old me in my silk dress and two guy friends and no panties. (Nothing ruins Guys’ Night like VPL.)

Guys’… Night?

Don’t worry, waiter, I choose my friends carefully. Even the dipshits like Hot Lunch are good guys. We dropped Jungle Cat off at his hotel and me off at my apartment, where I very calmly told Hot Lunch, “Not having you around has left a huge gaping hole in my life… …Welp, good night,” and then refused to let him walk me to my door. He still tried to walk me to my door (some nonsense about it being so DARK out) and so we ended up doing this awkward thing with me doing a fast drunk walk to try to leave him behind and him following along like a really sheepish predator.

Guys’ Night.

Sometimes, you just gotta be a guy and do those guy things, like eating meat and talking about titties and watching ball-related activities in HD and passing out from booze and sobbing at about 10:15pm, then waking up at 2 am too disoriented to know anything except that a large amount of alcohol-and-stress-soaked free-range beef is making up its mind which is the fastest route out of your body. You know, guy stuff.

Two rounds of Alka-Seltzer and a huge deuce is the Guys’ Night cure, according to Men’s Health. Then the hot, angry beer and burger bomb in your stomach might finally ease down enough from code red for you to fall back to sleep for a couple hours before you have to get up and go back to your job.

GUYS’ NIGHT!

you look like a thumb

Don’t blame me, Hot Lunch. Blame Dave Barry. He’s the one who said white men can’t shave their heads without looking like giant thumbs. And yet you insist on proving this point every time you save money on a haircut by getting it buzzed at Q-Cuts. (I mean Q-Sluts, as you prefer to call it.)

“Watch me draw a goatee on this.” I held up my thumb to him tonight while he was trying to look up books in the library catalog. “It’ll be like you’re looking in a mirror.”

He didn’t appear to be listening, but his mouse hand was doing something odd and spastic. I think he was trying to flip me the bird without any children seeing.

I know he likes it. He’s just being coy. At least that’s what all the talk is saying down at Q-Sluts.

don’t make me get out my harsh language

I know, I’ve been slacking. No posts. No funny. No drawings. There are a few reasons.

Reason number one is, I am currently insane. Insane with lady hormones coursing through my system like never before. If you’ve ever been on birth control for a really long time and then went off, then you know what I mean. I forgot how INTENSE things get when not numbed by the pill. The day I shouted that I was on my period, at work in front of several members of the Public? That was just the start of it.

But at least I’m starting to get a handle on the crazy. I mean I’m still crazy. But fewer people are aware of it. For instance. I recently walked into work where they are conducting job interviews, luckily for a position I will have little contact with. I say luckily because today I see a member of the Public who creeps me out. And he is dressed all fancy. Almost as though he expects to be interviewed today. Pants sees my “ugh” face as I walk into the staff office.

Pants: “What?”
me: “So-and-so got an interview?”
Pants: “Ha! I love the disdain.”
me: “Whatever. Like you want to work at a place he has keys to.”

Sunday was Beerfest. The crazy was just starting to set in on that day, lurking underneath the sunshine, the drunkenness and the rejoicing with friends and sharing shade with the random vomit-covered unconscious man. Hot Lunch and I each bought 17 tokens worth of beer and did our best to drink them all. Score at the end of the day, me 7, Hot Lunch 27. Level of drunkenness, equal. Drunk Hot Lunch is flirty affectionate Hot Lunch, always an arm around me, a hand caressing the back of my neck, or his forehead pressed affectionately against mine, gazing into my eyes. I have to remind myself that there’s nothing rekindling between Hot Lunch and me. The arm around me all day was just to keep his drunk ass from falling down. Once home in my own apartment, the buzz is wearing off. And the crazy is rising.

The phone rings.
Hot Lunch: “Are you ok? You were kind of quiet on the way home.”
me: “Not really. I guess I’m kind of sad. And frustrated.”

A few minutes into the conversation.
me: “WHAT I WANT? I WANT YOU TO GET LOST! I’M BUSY DATING OTHER GUYS! YEAH! OTHER GUYS! AND THAT’S YOUR LOSS, DUMBASS! BECAUSE YOU DON’T WANT TO DATE ME! BECAUSE YOU’RE A FUCKING IDIOT!”

And the other reason I haven’t blogged is that my computer died. I think my sister’s wedding killed it. Or maybe it’s scared. Of the crazy.

I ATE ALMOST A WHOLE THING OF RASPBERRIES WILL I EXPLODE??

and also i’ve been practicing drawing.

Carpooling 102

So I didn’t mention it, Reader, but for a while there recently I thought I might be pregnant. I know, I just didn’t want to worry you, Reader, because you’re sweet like that. And it’s not a new story… there’s the usual culprits you hear about: a missing punctuation mark, obsessive thinking about the punctuation mark, and mood swings that were more likely to be due to the obsessive thinking than to a mini Hot Lunch in my belly.

I think it means I’ve successfully made the transition from feeling gooey about Hot Lunch to seeing him as my stupid special friend that the thought of him reproducing through me is like something out of V. I still don’t know how Joaquin and Diego happened. When I first met them years ago, I remember feeling surprised that they didn’t look more like their dad. The fact that they looked just like his angelic baby pictures didn’t matter. Hot Lunch is distinctive to the point of seeming immutable: anything that comes from Hot Lunch must be EXACTLY LIKE him, sporting scratchy goatees and scratchy voices and making inappropriate comments and blaming farts on other people.

This was the picture my imagination was torturing me with. THAT VERY PICTURE. Also the fact that it had been a while since – cough cough, you know – didn’t matter. I was haunted by an image of myself appearing on I DIDN’T KNOW I WAS PREGNANT (thanks for the medical terror, TLC) and the sheer awfulness of the idea made it seem more likely. I was increasingly crazy with it: acting grumpy toward Hot Lunch whenever I saw him… making hangup calls to my ob-gyn… pulling into Fred Meyer’s parking lot at night on my way home from work and chickening out and going home empty-handed.

But on Carpooling day, I have backup. Poor Pants is a helpless passenger on the crazy train as it swerves into the Fredbear and I say, “Hold on, I have to stop here and pick up a pregnancy test. And something for dinner.”

“Don’t you want to stop by the deli first?” Pants asks, as I charge right past the counter where we usually pick up quick meals.

“No. I want to get this over with.” We get to the aisle that mockingly stocks tampons, condoms, lube, pregnancy tests and baby food. It is the circle of life aisle.

And tonight it is full of shoppers. Not one, but two men, and a woman shopping for baby food with her baby bawling in the cart right in front of the shelves of First Response. (…think you’re pretty funny don’t you, Life?)

“Oh. It’s crowded. My favorite.”

Give it a minute. Deli comes first after all. On the way back, we pass a display of CAMPFIRE MARSHMALLOWS.

These are the biggest marshmallows I have ever seen. In an unnecessary reminder that maybe an obsession with size is what got me into this problem in the first place, I impulsively grab a bag off the display, rip it open and shove a fist-sized puffed-sugar confection into my face. Pants looks shocked until I hold the bag out to her and she does the same. Commence orgasmic eating noises.

“Unh. It’s so good.”

“And big. It’s so big I can’t fit it in my mouth.”

Ecstasy has slowed our gait and a man passes us by (possibly in a rush to reach the popular prophylactic aisle?) and gives us a good sidelong look, one brow arched. That’s right guys, the ladies know what you like to hear.

We reach the aisle again but it is still a party zone. WHAT THE HELL. “Come on, we’ll just browse the magazines while we wait,” Pants soothes.

While Pants thumbs through Brides, Modern Bride, and You’re-Not-Knocked-Up-and-You-Got-a-Guy-Congrats, I’m glancing through my favorites Fitness and Shape and angrily cramming gargantuan marshmallows in my mouth.

Check the aisle again. Empty except for the mother laboriously inspecting every baby food label with her baby still parked and screaming in front of my Maybe-Baby zone. “If she’s still there in five minutes,” Pants hisses to me, “I’m going to say, ‘Excuse me, we want to make sure we’re not having one of THOSE.” I grunt my appreciation. My mouth is full of marshmallow.

Well, to jump mercifully to the end, it turns out that I’m not positive for anything other than I am positive that peeing on a target is for men. I don’t care for the unexpected splashback. Also I’m positive that taking the test at home was much more soothing than the time I had to take it next to the noisy apocalyptic mystery shitter in the next stall of the public restroom at work (which had seemed more private than the staff restroom where the container might be spied in the garbage… if only I hadn’t recognized a coworker’s shoes later at the exact awkward moment that coworker – thenceforth known as Apocalyptic Shitter – also recognized mine.)

There are no secrets at the Library.

Kevin Nash wants to kick your ass at the Cheesecake Factory

Me: It’s not chocolate bread just because it’s brown. By those rules it could be poop bread.

Hot Lunch: Look, it’s Kevin Nash over there. Walking out toward the parking lot.

Server: Here’s your bread.

Hot Lunch: Yes! Chocolate bread!

Server: Chocolate bread? Cool. I like it. I’ll be back to take your order.

Hot Lunch: See, he said it’s chocolate bread.

Me: He was astonished because he’s never heard anyone call it chocolate bread. Because it’s not chocolate bread.

Hot Lunch: What are those anyway, weeds? (About the ornamental grasses into which he disappeared when he fell off the patio in his chair as we first sat down.)

Me: They could be fescue.

Hot Lunch: They seem like weeds.

Me: One man’s weeds is another man’s fescue. I just wanted to say fescue some more.

Hot Lunch: Apparently. I see you like to rub that in. That you know what that means and I don’t. Kevin Nash is just standing out there. I think he wants to kick my ass.

Me: Except the fescue already did that.

Hot Lunch: It’s cool being by the mall. I love the smell of commerce.