Tag Archives: loser

Raz-Ma-Taz Weekend Part 2

As we concluded last time, I was with some of my friends in a different state, drunk, and we were being summoned by the police… (My life kind of really is like an episode of cops.  Such shame.)

We approach the po-po and he immediately goes after the angry girl, accusing her of being loud and dramatic for no reason.  He didn’t even see what happened with the whole rickshaw thing, but he was right.  He told her to remove herself from the situation or he would arrest her.  And off she went. 

When we finally got a cab back to our Motel (it was as close to staying in a motel 6 as I ever want to get) and we all passed out because we had to be up in about, oh 4 hours, to start drinking again.  Being in your 20’s is so rough.

When the morning came we were all dragging ass, but we made it to a bar and had our first beer in hand by 10am.  At 11:30 I decided it was close enough to the afternoon for shots and off we went.  The rest of the day was kind of a blurr, I remember eating a lot of fried cheese – which is disgusting, but we just kept ordering it. 

At some point we made it to someone’s friend’s house where a bunch of PHd students were posted up.  We came in, all drunk, with 2 cases of bud light and a package of meat hooting and hollering like a bunch of cavemen.  It was gross.   The rest of the time being at that house is kind of a blurr too, the next thing I know we’re all standing in the front yard mooning the people across the street and telling them they had AIDS.  I know, I know.

Eventually we made it to another bar, where we drank dark beer and ate more fried cheese, played pool, and danced to Hanson.  And we were the only ones acting this way.  It was like a chill adult bar and I can’t believe we didn’t get kicked out.  Here I am having a gay old time not giving a shit because the only people I know in this state are my friends. 
THEN, these two girls approach us just about the time I’m getting ready to show everyone how good I am at freestyling…. “Gizzy???” Oh. Shit.

It was two of my sorority sisters, one of them lived in a nearby city and the other was visiting her for the weekend.  They were at this bar, with their husbands, not being waste faces, and there I was being the single Gizzy they all knew and hated (for getting our house put on probation for hiring male strippers and buying a keg for my senior night) stuffing my face with fried goods and spilling drinks on myself – just like in college.  Nothing has changed.

In college they were the type of girls that would drink but would never get too drunk.  They were never out of control, never made fools of themselves, always had boyfriends because they were classy and collected.  The non-alcoholics if you will.  And I was the opposite.

Anyway, I bought us a shot to celebrate one of the girl’s birthdays and they were quick to rush me away after that when their husbands approached.  Clearly they know the repercussions of me being drunk better than anyone.  But you know what, who cares, like I told every bartender that weekend – “I’m on vacation so make it a double.”

After that everyone rushed up to me being all, “Omg Gizzy, did you know those girls? How awful.  We are all shitfaced.” Yep, I know.  Give me some cheese. 

At 10:30pm and a mere 8 pitchers of dark 9% alcohol beer later none of us could stand and we had been cut off by our waitress.  And there we were, back outside, playing the waiting game for a cab.  We made it back and no sooner than I could get the key in the door my motel-mate for the weekend pushed passed me and went straight to vom in the toilet…. And she kept going, and going, and going… for the next 4 hours. 

The next day we drove home, all hungover and wanting to die, I found a random half pound hot pocket in my bag that night and the rest is history.  All in all it was a great trip and I’m really happy I went.  So I’ll just leave it at that.

On next week’s episode of Gizzy is forever doomed to be single because she can’t get it together:

Gizzy takes a trip to another city to see old college friends/drink her face off.

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Neal Bledsoe hates my guts.  He won’t accept my friend request.  We have been in a pending friendship status for 4 months now, what is the flipping deal! You’re not that famous.  With that being said, I’m still a loser, and he knows it.

So I’m back for good (hopefully.) I know I’ve made these false promises before, but it looks like the internet is going to stick this time, just like an unwanted pregnancy.

For my transition back to the blog world, I’m going to do it sloowww and steady because typing up 1000 words about my weekend of sitting on the couch crying to Dear John and eating Chinese food could really turn some people away.  But for now, a post from a few weeks ago that continues to show my loserdom slash new found fascination for baby Jesus…

Here I am cleaning up my frat house and I find this shoved behind the tv:

Come to find out it’s stolen and now no one knows what to do with it because you can’t throw baby Jesus in the garbage.  What nerve.  They will steal baby Jesus, but won’t throw baby Jesus away.  I suggested taking baby Jesus to a hospital or fire station and leaving him because they are “safe places” but that was a no go because there are surveillance cameras on every street corner.  For the hookers. I don’t know what they expect.  Baby Jesus can’t get any love.

Anyway, on to the big St. Patty’s day extravaganza, Gizzy terms: loser-aganza.  I went ca-ca-clubbing Friday night with Chuck and was too ashamed to show my face in the daylight on Saturday.  1 day of drinking is all the embarrassment my almost 26 year old ego can handle.

She took us to some schnazzy apartment downtown where there was some hot husband who would probably cheat with their sexretary’s but it wouldn’t matter all that much because you’d have lots of money in da bank material.   They took us to some upscale club, got us vip, and bottle service, you know really pulled out all the stops because big city girls don’t put out for nothin’.

I caught the eye of the tall funny goon of the group, he lingered for a while and we chatted it up, things were going pretty well and I actually thought I was starting to kind of like him right before I blew it.   There was a little flirtation going on and we kept making eye contact yada yada yada, so I waved him over to come sit next to me on the couch.

Instead of grabbing his head and proceeding to suck face, like I think he was expecting me to do, I pet a section of the couch between us and told him to feel it.  It wasn’t a sexy come getcha some pet where I was like licking my lips and had do me eyes, it was super nerdy slash you’d of thought I owned a furniture store.   I don’t know, I thought we were to that point where I realized he was the tall lanky goon and he realized I was the socially awkward girl who likes to pet couches and we were going to fall in love and live on the island of misfits and have a heard of outcast children.  But it didn’t happen that way, instead he took 10 giant steps backward and screamed, “Did you really call me over here to have me feel the couch!?”  Yeah, is that weird? I wanted his opinion on what kind of animal he thought it was made out of and I thought we were friends and he wasn’t going to think I was a couch loving freak.  But I digress.  Freak.

I did catch him petting the couch later and commenting on how soft it was and me being all, see I told you so, now go tell everyone I’m cool and not a couch hugger.  Just when things were looking up, I fell and slid across the floor only to be hoisted up by security and thrown into a cab – alone.

Hello, hot mess and end of my drinking career as we know it.


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The girlfriend free-trial.

It’s effing FRIDAY, you whores! It’s been one hell of a week for me, and I’m assuming Gizmo too, considering I got this text from her yesterday: “ANnnnd I fucking missed the test because the goddamned hoopty fell apart on the way there and I had to stop and get it fixed.”

Thankfully, ShyGuy is baaaaaaaaack for a special treat! Enjoy it kiddos!

So as Lucky alluded to, I’ve managed to find an attractive young woman who’s actually interested in dating me and that I feel likewise towards. I’m considering myself currently about waste deep in a girlfriend free-trial.

I call it a free-trial because I’m currently reaping the benefits of a girlfriend without having to put much more in than the promise that eeeeeventually I’ll have to fork out some serious dough.

Think of it like the 30-day free trial to Netflix. You go to the website once you’ve decided to join. You fill in all your information that is pertinent: name, address, phone number, movie tastes, etc.etc. Then before you actually begin your free-trial you input your credit card information with the promise that nothing will be charged for 30 days. At this point you’re thinking, “This is gonna be sweet, free movie rentals for a month. I’m not gonna be doing shit-else but getting drunk and watching movies.”

So you load up your queue with movies you’ve wanted to see. Since it’s totally anonymous you have no reservation putting the entire first season of Jersey Shore, (the saddest movie ever) Brian’s Song, and some awesome throw-backs like Ferris Bueller’s and Breakfast Club at the top of your queue. Hey- John Hughes makes a great classic. At least I didn’t say the new Hannah Montana movie.

So a few days later, that little red envelope comes in the mail. Hurray! And thus begins a month-long bender of Netflix movies, beer, and chips and queso. You get so excited when you see that little red number in your mailbox, and before you know it, you’re addicted to Netflix.
Soon, you’re neglecting your friends just to rush home to get your movie fix. You’ll be staying in on Friday nights to make bread crumb encrusted salmon, green beans, and homemade biscuits with a nice bottle of vino for your beloved Netflix. You begin to constantly check Netflix at work to check the status of your queue or to post comments on your most recent movie date…. I mean night. You even got a new blue-ray DVD player so you can play high-definition movies so your Netflix wouldn’t feel like its being neglected and to show them you care.

But then Netflix starts to aggravate you. It takes a day longer than expected to get a couple of movies, or you get one that’s all scratched up and won’t play. You joined this free-trial with the idea that you’d have fun and be care-free with your viewing pleasures, but now you realize that Netflix has consumed your life and is now more demanding than you expected. Between watching movies, managing your lineup, and dealing with Netflix’s constant nagging to rate and review movies, you’re patience is waning.

But the problem with free-trials is that eventually they end and in the height of your aggravation you forgot that once your free trial- thirty days- is up Netflix starts to automatically charge your credit card that you were required to enter, oh-so-long-ago; just taking money from your wallet. Well shit, that was over three months ago.

So now you’re left constantly irritated with Netflix; fat from only consuming chips and queso and beer for four months and never going to the gym; friendless-having bailed on your buddies every night to spend time fucking Netflix so it doesn’t feel neglected only so it can take all your money, consume all your time and then leave you feeling like you need to change and be more like all the other Netflix subscribers who are sweet and compassionate.

Fuck. Are we still talking about Netflix?

So right now, I’m basking in the foot-loose and fancy-free aspects of my current free-trial. Don’t get me wrong here, I like this broad.
*She actually likes that I call her a broad before any of you ultra-fems get all pissy about how it’s a derogatory or misogynistic term- well not all broads think that …okay?*

But like I said… I haven’t had to start paying for my subscription yet.

So one of my new responsibilities, as a newly anointed free-trial boyfriend, was to meet the parents. And by parents I mean the parents, the siblings, the grandparents, the uncles, and the cousins. Yes, the whole family. If I hadn’t been buzzed most of the weekend, I might have been a little intimidated.

The whole story is a bit long for one post, but I’ll give you the ‘first impression story’.

We took the train. I’ve never been on a train for a trip before so this was all new to me. I was basically told that there would be no taking my slam-piece to Bonetown while we’re at her grandparents house (I respect that). So, I was hoping we could get that out of the way on the train ride up; and so as not to lose my mind seeing her in an itty bitty bikini all weekend and have to conceal the chubby I get on the beach when my neglected libido takes on a mind of its own. It’s a cruel, cruel world as it turns out.

What’s the train equivalent of the mile-high club? The Rail club? (see what I did there) I swear that just came to me. I like it, we’re going with it.

But, when she shows up with jeans on it’s no dice to the Rail club this trip. So, immediately my thoughts go to the next, most pressing concern of mine, booze. I, like an idiot, left my flask on my kitchen counter, full of my favorite tequila, so I suggest we hit up the liquor store before we board. We pick up the beer and I precede spending the train ride making fun of the people seated around us and taking beers to the face. What does this girl see in me?

By the time we get to our destination, I’m sufficiently drunk. Glad I don’t have to drive. As soon as we stop and get off the train, I need a bathroom. (I hadn’t broken the seal once in on our three hour train ride (awesome!-I know right!)).

So while I’m standing in front of the urinal, my mind starts to wander. I start to think about how awesome it would have been to have pulled a Risky Business move and gotten laid on the train. Have her sit on my lap, or taken a trip to the restroom for a quickie. Anyway, these thoughts excite me. Like really excite me, and we all know what happens when a sufficiently drunk horn-dog like myself starts to get dirty thoughts. You guessed it. Boner.

But it gets better. As I’m finishing my business, apparently in my narrowed mind-set, I forget to shake off those last few drops off my pecker. Those drops have got to go somewhere and it just so happens they decided their new home would be the crotch area of my jeans.
So not only do I now have a boner for the first meeting of my new girlfriend’s mom, but it also looks like I pissed myself. So what do I do? Do I try to dry my pants off with the hand dryer? Start thinking of dead puppies or old women?

Nope. I shrug it off as I look at myself in the mirror, proud of the pronouncement of my erection through my pants and scoff at how the spot on my pants sort of looks like Mickey Mouse and turn towards the door. Why I thought it would be funny to have Mickey (a male cartoon character) Mouse’s face on my crotch is beyond me, but I did. Have I mentioned I was drunk?

So yes, I met my new girlfriend’s mom with a raging hard-on and a piss stain on my pants. As if being falling-over-drunk wouldn’t have left a lasting impression.

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Protected: I take my sugar with coffee and cream.

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I always drink coffee after I kill a man.

I definitely already wrote this blog post and then exited out of Safari without saving it. So bear with me.

It is safe to say Gizzy & I had a shithole of a weekend as we both had unwanted episodes with our ex-boyfriends, who have sought out to make our current lives a living hell. But that’s not what I’m here to discuss today—I’ll leave that up to Gizzy. Today, I’m talking about my new DC Crush, the Secret Service guy.

After our little 3 am chat last weekend, he told my engaged friends that they needed to “work the magic” with me so things could work out between us—like, whatever dude. So my friends were really into it, building him up and such saying how nice and cool he was and saying that he was just sOoOoOoOoOo into me and thought I was, like, sOoOoOoOoOoOoO hawt.


So after a few days go by, he finds me on Facebook in all of his Secret Service glory. We started sending messages back and forth. At first, it was going okay, but it quickly turned bad, and spiraled into horrible very very fast.

The first few messages, we were just talking about the weekend, if he made it back to DC in time for whatever it was he does, and generic stuff about his newfound bromance with my friend Ben. To which he told me I was just jealous because I don’t have a hoemance. Right, that’s it!

Now, flirting via E-mail has never been my forte, but I guess in situations like these it’s a necessary evil. However, I was hoping he would ask for my number so we could just text, but I wasn’t so lucky (pun intended).

I asked him what he as up to this weekend (the one we just had) and that’s when things went downhill. He told me he was going out with friends to Dupont Circle for some beer and wings. Naturally, I told him I was super jealous because I love beer and wings, and since I’m still doing the detox for a few more days, I can’t have beer and wings.

His response? What detox?

Which was a conversation we had the first time we talked—or else I would have been hammered when we talked at 3 am, not waking up for a glass of water and to piss.

But I didn’t say that, and simply said, “I thought Nicole told you,” and gave him the gist of the detox—a 2 week plan of very very healthy foods and herbal supplements.

To which he says: “So you mean no fun. Why don’t you live a little?”

This pissed me off, to no end. He doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him, so thanks for the judgment buddy. I know he was probably joking, but it’s like…ok don’t go around accusing me of being lame.

Just for the record, I am doing the detox because I felt like I was bordering on “Alcoholic” status for awhile there. And it’s not a life plan, simply 2 weeks, and then I’ll be back in the game. So I think people around me should be a little more supportive.

I told him I was just trying to be healthy and he said, “I will not support your boring life.”

Ok you sir are not my baby daddy, and I’m not asking you to fund my bags of brown rice and soy yogurt. Christ!

For the next five or so rounds of messages, he continued to rag on me for detox. I finally had to ask him if we could talk about something else. He gave me his number Sunday night and told me to text him if I wanted—such a copout for asking me for the digits.

So I sent him a text Monday morning…aaaaand still haven’t heard anything back. It’s Tuesday. What happened to all those things my friends told me? Looks like I’m the loser he just isn’t that into.

But you know what? I don’t even care. I shouldn’t have to put any effort into endeavors like this.

In other news, I downloaded the Sims 3: World Adventures onto my phone yesterday. Best $7 I’ve ever spent.

My Sim has already been married twice, but is currently doing well with her spouse, Nathan. She travels the world on her days off (Thursday and Friday) from the museum. She is having an affair with her boss’ husband and saving money for her first car.

That’s my life now.

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Sympathy card or booty call?

About four years ago, I was dating a guy (imagine that). We had just started seriously dating and I had an event to go to…I needed a “+1.” My problem was, he was going to be out of town on business the same weekend as the event.


So, he said it would be okay if I asked someone else to join me. I decided to ask my guy friend Sam. We had been friends for awhile and he was fun; we’d gone to an event like this before, no pressure. So, I asked Sam’s roommate if he thought Sam would be interested in joining me. He said, of course, and I said I wanted to ask him to the event in a fun way (like prom in high school). So the roomie gave me a key and said, do what you want.

My roommate and I blew up some balloons and put them in his room, along with a poster that was asking him to the event. I was pretty excited at how cute it looked and couldn’t wait for Sam to get home and see it.

Well, the hours passed and I heard nothing. The next day, I ran into Sam’s roommate at the mall. I asked him what the deal was and he said he didn’t know. The deal was, I was being blown off, by someone I thought was my friend. Since I was writing for the school paper at the time, I used that as an outlet to publicly bash Sam for being a coward—I wanted him to at least tell me no.

Years passed and I never heard from him. I ran into him several times during my blooming career as a bartender, but just acted like I didn’t know him. But last week, he caught me on Facebook chat.


He asked me all the usual questions—how have you been, where are you living, what job are you at now? etc…until he said: “When are you cooking me dinner? I’ll bring the wine.”

“Smooth,” I said, to which he responded, “Yeah, just like in college.”


“Yeah, until you rejected me.” I said.

“Well, you got me back with that column,” he replied.

He went on to tell me that he wanted to apologize for rejecting me, blaming his actions on being a “scared little boy.” What-the-eff-ever. Then, he tells me that he even took pictures of what we did to his room; he liked it. WEIRD. I said, okay so you liked it, but still rejected me? Then, he told me he even kept the column I wrote about him…what the hell? Does he have a damn scrapbook? THEN, he tells me he wants to buy me a drink to make up for it.


I love alcohol. And it’s not like I’m sitting over here with a list of people to kill, Billy Madison style or anything. But I just don’t want to get into all of that. It’s been years, I don’t care anymore, we’ve obviously both moved on, so whatever. But being me, I figured his invitation for a drink was one of those invites you know will never happen, so I said sure. To which he says, “after all, you were my first date in college.” WHAT?!

The conversation was pretty much left at that. I couldn’t handle the weirdness any longer.

Sadly, a few days later, Sam’s mother went in the hospital for open heart surgery and passed away less than a week afterward. For me, death surpasses any other drama, so I sent him a text message saying how sorry I was for his loss and to let me know if there was anything I could do for him.

I should have mentioned that I didn’t mean a booty call.

He said thanks. And left it at that. Until yesterday.

Around 7:45 am, on my drive to work, he sends me a message asking me if I would like to hang out this week. “Hanging out” and getting a drink are two different things. I don’t want to put myself in a situation where I’m alone with him, on his couch, or otherwise and he’s trying to put the moves on. In a public place? Eh, okay. So I say sure.

He says, “Well I took off work this week…for obvious reasons. So just let me know.” Well damn. I honestly didn’t want to waste a night of relaxation for wriggling out of someone’s death grip, so I threw out Tuesday night—a night I hang out at a local bar & grill with my friends. I wrote him back saying my friends and I hang out there every Tuesday from 5 until whenever, so he was welcome to join. I figured it was nice enough, he wouldn’t be spending his evening alone, and could enjoy some food and drink. He said, okay cool. Awesome, everyone wins.

Or so I thought.

I didn’t hear from him again yesterday, but I wake up this morning to my text message buzz—6:31 am Sam: You should’ve come cuddle with me last night.


I didn’t know what to say, and probably should’ve just said nothing. But this blew my fucking mind. We haven’t talked or hung out, much less seen each other in four years and he’s saying we should’ve “cuddled” last night? Yes, I know, I’m single, what do I have to lose? A night of decent sleep in my own bed, dammit! Just because I’m single doesn’t mean I’m easy and looking to bed hop. So I reply with, “I should’ve gone to bed earlier,” Alluding to be being tired as fuck (thank you, nightmares of my ex having sex with other women). His reply?



I stuck it out and didn’t reply to that. I am willing to try and cheer someone up or be there for them during a moment of loss. I am not, however, willing to “cuddle” with basically a random person just for funsies.

Here’s to hoping he doesn’t show up tonight.

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