Tequila Tears

It was Christmas Eve and I had finally laid back down in bed after a friendship crisis had pulled me across town to deal with, to quote Juno, things way beyond my maturity level when my phone buzzed. Again. Heaving a whiny ‘why me?’ sigh, I rolled over and squinted into the screen, which was shining with what felt like the light of a thousand suns.

A little surprised by the name, not to mention the timing, I answered my phone with a confused, “Hello?”

“Hey... come get me,” slur, slur, mumblemumblemumble...something that sounded vaguely like a compliment or a burp, “Hello?? Come get me.”

It was the current lust of my life... a guy that I'd been hanging out with quite a bit and sadly starting to develop feelings for, even though I knew it probably wasn't going to go anywhere. While I found him wildly hilarious and really attractive, he was clearly phobic of anything resembling a relationship and I didn't have the energy or the desire to try to change his mind. Despite that, and my better judgment, I had done little things like giving him a Christmas present (candy & a coozie because a bitch is classy), but I knew from his reaction, I shouldn't really waste my time.

“Are you okay?” I asked, trying to locate the very last ‘give a damn’ buried inside my sleepy little self, “What’s going on?”

“We were doing tequila shots and I’m just... got in a fight with my *hiccup*.... can you please just come get me? We can watch a movie,” he offered, "Let's watch a movie."

I swear, my dog Rukka (who I'd also waken up twice now in the middle of this Christmas Even drama) and I looked at each other like this:

Sidenote: I really have to do a post at some point about how annoying I find the classic ‘watch a movie’ ploy. Because you know how many times a boy has asked me over to watch a movie with the sole intention of enjoying a cinematic adventure? Not never.

“I can’t...my mom is gonna make me get up with my brother at the crack of dawn to open presents and I don’t want to drive all the way there, pick you up and then bring you back before anyone gets up,” I tried to explain with actual logic instead of the obvious ‘I look like a total skeez right now and I want to slip into this sleep-coma and drool in peace’.

“You don’t have to. I can meet them. I want to meet them, your mom and brother and shit...I’ll even wear a polo...”

‘And shit’, I mouthed while he completed the sentence in typical drunk boy fashion.

“Please... I just really want to see you,” he mumbled, “And this way, I can see you AND meet your family."

Coming from a guy who'd taken one look at the inexpensive yet thoughtful Christmas present I'd gotten for him and immediately started to act like I'd drugged his drink and was trying to trick him into a loveless marriage, I was a little lost, but one more 'babe please' had me sighing.

 “Alright, I’ll be there in ten,” I answered, moving out of bed and starting an epic search to locate a pair of sweatpants and my keys.  

Pulling up to his house, I looked up the driveway to see him standing there, annoyingly adorable in a pair of jeans and a very wrinkled polo. I flashed my brights as he stumbled down to my car, falling into the passenger seat and leaning over to give me a hug. First whiff of Patron breath, for the win.

“Hey babe,” he murmured with a sheepish smile and I pressed a quick kiss into his cheek before pulling out and heading the trek back to my place. He started to tell me about the fight, then about the tequila and then he began an epic battle with my radio, which lasted until we pulled up to my house.

As a professional drunk wrangler, I managed to get him inside and up into my bedroom with minimal fuss, although to be fair, there was quite a bit of this:

After he collapsed on my bed, I went downstairs and made him a quick sandwich (sidenote: if any of you make the inevitable ‘make me a sandwich’ anti-feminist bullshit joke, I will choke you out). I also grabbed a glass of water, a few precautionary ibuprofren and scribbled out a quick note to warn my mom about our current house guest.

When I got back upstairs, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes. After using reverse psychology that I normally use on the little kids I babysit, I soon had him medicated, hydrated and fed. And then, drunk llama beer (or in this case, tequila) tears started in full swing:

We talked. For hours. Well, he talked and I listened. He told me about his family and his friends and his problems...and I sat with him laying in my lap, played with his hair and just listened, which contrary to popular belief with the sheer amount that I talk, I’m actually pretty great at.

Eventually, we were both tired enough that we drifted off to sleep after I decided that my mom would be much more likely to make him pancakes and apologize for not having made him a stocking than get upset. And at o'dark'o'clock, as per usual, my brother pounded on my door and in his Rick James voice announced, "It's Christmas BITCH!"

Homeboy came alive like someone being tazed.

Noting the panic and confusion when I explained where he was and that present opening with my family was going to be happening downstairs, I drew my curtains to make the room extra dark and told him to go back to sleep for awhile. He rolled back over and I padded downstairs to go through my goodies while my mom took obnoxious pictures and my brother fake-punched me to steal some of my candy that he was sure was misplaced in my stocking. 

Three hours later, I woke him up and told him what time it was. After checking his phone and realizing he was going to be late to his own family Christmas activities, he began to slow procession of collecting the belongings he'd scattered around my room the night before and started down the stairs.

Without introducing him to my family, we walked out of my house and went on, easily, the most awkward car ride of my life. And this is really saying something, considering I’ve been in a car ride where I was shoved in the back of someone’s Jeep, wearing a bright green plaid dress, trying to cover all my ladybits while we whipped around on the freeway, inspiring honks and suggestive gestures from trucks full of construction workers.

And so in awful silence, I drove him back to his house where his parents were already starting to head out. Nothing like being the random girl in pajamas and last night’s makeup that’s dropping someone’s son off... especially when he looks like he got in a fight with Jose Cuervo and lost. 

 

I believe I managed really spastic wave/salute before shoving my sunglasses further onto my face and getting the hell out of dodge.

When I didn't hear from him for about a week and a half following Christmas Eve, I was disappointed, but not really surprised. When I got the inevitable, "I think you were getting too serious too fast" text, I didn't even bother pointing out the fact that I wasn't the one who'd fallen victim to the tequila truth serum and dumped out a bunch of emotional bullshit on his lap... I just chalked it up as a loss.

Months later (and a couple ex-almosts between), I got a random late night text from said Homeboy who’d moved into a new place and wanted me to check it out. And bring Jack in the Box. Call me stupid, but (no really, call me stupid), I headed out and hit up the drive-thru, showing up at the new place fifteen minutes later with six tacos and one order of mozz sticks in tow.

We hung out, shared the late night snacks, listened to music and basically had a great time. I ended up crashing over there, which led to me walk of shaming right by an old lady who was walking her dog, although the lady didn't look very scandalized and the dog just looked sympathetic.... but I was still kinda smiling about the randomness of the night when I got out of my car at my mom's house. 

Walking up the sidewalk, I was thinking that maybe I was wrong to give up on douchelord so soon. After all, I knew he didn't have a girlfriend, because I'd asked and it had almost felt like we were back to the way we were pre-tequila eve. I walked into my mom’s house and saw my brother sitting at the table. He looked up with a mouthful of cereal, “And where have you been, huh?”

“Shut up,” I mumbled, walking over and taking his spoon out of his hand to steal some Captain Crunch.

“No, really... where were you?” He laughed.

“Remember that kid that came over on Christmas Eve... *HIS NAME WOULD GO HERE IF I WAS A BITCH AND I DIDN’T PROTECT THE (NOT SO) INNOCENT*? I went over to his house to hang out,” I finished, wondering why he was giving me such a weird look.

“*HIS NAME HERE* that’s dating *SO AND SO*?" he asked.

Of COURSE, my brother would know the girl that Homeboy was dating. 

And of COURSE, Homeboy didn't mention her to me at all, even when I'd asked if he was seeing anyone.

When I texted him to ask if he knew about the connection, he admitted that he did and that he was basically just hoping I wouldn't find out. And that he was hoping I wouldn't say anything to any of the involved parties.

Which I did.

And swiftly got a text that read: Way to open your fucking mouth when I specifically told you to keep it closed.

Moral of the story: if you don't want people to find out that you're doing shady stuff, DON'T DO SHADY STUFF.

Update: 
 There are a few things that I learned from this interaction that I'm actually really grateful for....

• 'wanna be my party boyfriend?' is an awesome pick-up line, even though it sometimes ends with the guy cussing you out via text message due to the above series of unfortunate events. 
• regardless of the fact that the guys I talk to tend to act like douchecanoes, they have REALLY good taste in music and I normally end up getting exposed to new artists who, let's be real, give me way more enjoyment than conversing with said boys.
• beware the word 'swag'

ALSO: Despite the fact that I do not talk to homeboy any longer, because he thinks I'm Satan's mistress due to my loud mouth and general lack of restraint, I don't have hard feelings about the situation(s) or towards him. Shit happens...sometimes, quite literally, (more about this in my next post) and as much as I'd like to put all the blame on the ex-almosts and act like I'm perfect, I'm definitely not.

After all, I'm still kissing all these twenty-something frogs hoping to find a prince and it's just as much my fault for giving them too much credit or meaning in my life as it is theirs for being incapable of human connection.

 

Sorry about the optimism, bro. And if you're reading this, I am a little bit sorry about putting your shit on blast (twice). For what it's worth, I don't hate you at all and I do feel a little bad about us still being on bad terms but hey... you win some, you lose some

:)