What do I have in common with a 41 year old podiatrist?

White people photographed while loving all things boat related.

A shared love for the sea.  That's what.  So obviously my attractive 25 year old girlfriends and I jumped at the chance to be a part of this bunyon lover's boat party.  A little advice to men out there; if you are unattractive, past your prime, or just like to bang random slutty girls during the summer months, then consider boat ownership as a path to happiness.  We can't say no to boats, especially not nice boats, this has been proven for thousands of years.  Look to the film masterpiece, Captain Ron, if you need further proof.  

At any rate, my besties and I showed up to the marina with bells on.  We drank countless beverages that were prepared by lonely middle aged men and exclaimed in delight, "OMG this yum yum tastes just like lemonade! It must not be very strong. Hehehe!" We straddled swan shaped water floaties and even took a jump on the floating trampoline. I went so far as to talk, nay, flirt, with creepy 40 year old men.  One friend and I agreed to go on a trip to Vegas with short-one and fat-one (I had too many yum yums to remember their real names).  

The pinnacle of the experience was not the vegas invite, nor was it the delish slushy liquor drink machine we found on extra-old-moley's boat.  No, it was something short-one said to me after we shared a lovely conversation getting to know one another.  He looked me, maybe in the eyes, with his trying-to-hard maui jim's and said, "It's great to meet such an average girl out here.  We normally only invite strippers".  

I was swept away by the romance of it all and retreated inside the boat to down more vodka.  It's too bad the season is coming to an end.  I think they would have made for great material.

This entry serves as the end to my internet dating vacation.  I'm back in the eGame and will report on that progress shortly.  

It doesn't count if you're blacked out, right?

I received an overwhelming response to my last post, so I took that to mean it was a great idea to pull a repeat and stay over at Peeter's again last weekend, twice.  I know what you are all thinking, "Seriously, the pee bed guy, isn't this blog about internet dating, why am I reading this, where am I?".  Bite your tongues.  I mean, yea, Peeter brought me back to his place to seduce me atop a urine soaked mattress, while playing hits by Usher to set the mood (did I not already mention that?) but let's give the guy a chance.  (Translated: I don't want to die alone)

So last Thursday a sober Peeter called and asked me out on a date to a new restaurant I've never been to and I hesitated, but finally agreed.  He came and picked me up and…wait, I'm sorry, that's someone else's life.  

Last Friday night rolled around and Peeter and I began exchanging a series of meaningless text messages.  I was busy at Lady Gaga for the first half of the evening.  I was with a straight guy friend who obviously had to do some serious binge drinking to make it through her show, so I blame him for my being drunk that early in the night.  After the show, my straight guy friend and I grabbed dinner (translated: honey wheat pretzels and a bottle of Andre from 7-eleven).  Following dinner we met up with friends at Social.  Thus began a texting conversation between Peeter and I.  I debated doing this, but you deserve to have the facts:

Peeter:  What are you up to tonight? (translated: wanna maybe give me a bj in a few hours?)

JBird: What ate you up to? We are getting ready to go out

Peeter: Great party tonight…I'll let you know as soon as we pick a bar…still up in the air at this point…holler

Peeter: Kincades…very dirty but fun…!

Peeter: This place is ratty but hilarious…..I would consider it

JBird: Dirty, ratty, perfect

Peeter: Not to mention we just made it prep….

JBird: What cool

Peeter: And you love the dirt, lol (translated: I hope you are easy)

JBird: You know me so well darling

JBird: Why don't you make your way towards hubbard (translated: the boys at the bar I'm at aren't paying enough attention to me)

Peeter: i know your style…you WOULD crush this environment

JBird: I'll crush your environment (translated: what the fuck)

JBird: no but just come to social (translated: seriously I need a drunk boy to be all over me in order to boost my self confidence)

Peeter: that is funny now should join me

JBird: Love to, not going to, boo, sad face

Peeter: I might be ripped but where ya at (translated: I get to be as drunk an idiot as I want because I warned you)

JBird: Best be here quick you 

Peeter: I I'm on the way…seriously cannot believe you yalked me inti this…love it (translated: Look I can barely type a text, proving I really am drunk and am therefore really not responsible for anything I do or say)

JBird: Sell me when

JBird: u social

Peeter: 5 mins…lol

Ahh romance.  I'm sorry that you are never going to get the 2 minutes you spent reading that back, but I'm trying to paint a picture here.  After he arrived I met him in the street and instead of having him come inside the bar, decided it was best for us to skip that part and just go back to his place.  While in the cab I had a revelation and decided I should not be going home with this boy and should instead be going back to my straight friend from out of town's hotel.  "Take me to the W" drunky JBird tells the cab driver.  A confused Peeter gives me a look.  "No", she says, "You don't understand, I'm going to my guy friend from high school's hotel room, it's fine."  Peeter tells tells the cab driver where he lives and we go back to his place.  The rest is a bit fuzzy.  And by a bit fuzzy I mean completely black.  I wake up the next morning in the midst of a near strangulation by my adorable chunky necklace (the kind that make guys say, "why the fuck would a girl wear something like that?").  Removing the Anthropologie designed noose around my neck, I take a moment to observe my surroundings.  I am (maybe half naked) on the floor in the corner.  Don't see the boy.  Very confused.  

This would scare most people, but I once woke up naked in the dorm room (top bunk, obvi) of someone I'd never met before in college, so I wasn't too worried about it.  I made brunch plans on my phone, dusted myself off and just before heading out the door, stole a pair of his sunglasses to hide the lack of shame on my drunky-JBird-next-morning face.  Note: before stealing sunglasses that you assume came from the $7 rack at CVS, examine them fully - these turned out to be Ferragamo's.  First rule in shacker stealing - don't take something he will want to get back.

The next night went similarly.  Normally the mystery of not knowing what happened at that dude's place the night before keeps me from repeat shacking back to back, but apparently I am very lonely.  Upon returning to Peeter's the next night I quickly passed out on the sofa and awoke to a love note from Peeter left on the coffee table that read, "Went back out, you passed out, be back later".  Don't worry, I saved it for our scrap book.  The next morning (translated: afternoon) I actually lingered at the apartment for a while, clearly still drunk, long enough to watch tv and enjoy a plate of eggs prepared by Peeter's roommate.  The light of day cast some much needed light on this situation.  Conclusion:  I CANNOT go home with this douchey mcdouche face EVER again.  It's not like going home with him is getting me laid (not that that's my goal or anything, but it wouldn't be the worst thing I guess, I mean I'm not a slut, but you know, everyone's got needs, and my numbers seriously not that high, so come on, quit judging me) or getting me free dinners and it's just creating a transportation issue the next day, so no.  No, drunk JBird, bad drunk JBird.  

On a side note, internet dating paranoia has officially set in.  While having drinks with my middle aged colleagues this week, one asked, "So, are you internet dating at all or have you thought about that?"  My face said - "WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU ASK ME THAT, RON!?!?  WHAT DO I LOOK LIKE?!  WHAT DO YOU KNOW? WHAT DID THEY TELL YOU?  I COULD HAVE YOU KILLED FOR ACCUSING ME OF SUCH THINGS!"  Luckily my lips said, "Nope, hehe, I hear it's a great thing for lots of people, but that's just not for me".  

Yea, so…stay tuned I hope.

Um, no…no, that's not urine. I swear.

Disclaimer:  This entry contains mature (translated: slutty) subject matter.  Mom(s) and Mocha should consider not reading.

I've had many rough Sundays over the years.  You know the kind I'm talking about; we've all had them.  One minute it's a slow Saturday night, you're going out to grab "a" drink with friends, the next it's Sunday afternoon and you're taking a two mile walk of shame home in a dress that's been dampened by someone else's urine.  

College friends take pause* - SOMEONE ELSE'S URINE.  That's right.  

We couldn't decide whether or not to go out, so we began that obnoxious girl "to go out or not" debate.

JBird: So what are you thinking, should we go out?

Friend: I dunno I mean I guess I could…do you wanna go out?

JBird: I dunno I mean I guess…I'm sort of indifferent…where would you want to go?

Friend: I dunno, I could go either way.  I don't know where I feel like going…

JBird: Me either…

Friend: I dunno, I could go either way.  I don't know where I feel like going…

JBird: Me either…

Random boy in room: Please stop.  Let's just go out for a drink or two.  No big deal.

(JBird and Friend and random boy leave to go out for "a drink or two")

No big deal.  Just a drink.  Last time I said that was senior year of college and I ended up waking up in an EconoLodge in Greenville, SC with one shoe on, the other having apparently been lost at Platinum Plus (just google it).  Maybe I'll tell that story another time.  Anyways, the events that occurred between this decision and 5AM are a bit fuzzy to me.  I know they involved the VIP section at the Hotel Sax bar, Snoop Dog, a basement piano bar, a loaner tweed jacket, and somewhere between 3 and 27 bourbon and diets.  At some point I was introduced to Peeter.  The combination of my sassy attitude, southern roots and slightly pretentious remarks made me the holy grail of women to young Peeter.  He was enamored; at least that's how I remember it.  "I've been searching this city for years for a girl like you, and here you are", he continued, "I'm done".  At the time it didn't occur to me but in hindsight, Peeter was fucked up.  Drunk as a skunk on Christmas.  Schmammered. Sweet sassy mollassy drunk.  And so was I.

I have a great relationship with my dad, but I'm still a sucker for a guy who pays me a lot of attention and tells me how pretty I am.  I remember noticing our friends had left us at the bar and then I remember looking up from an intense make out session as we were being encouraged to leave the bar.  We then wandered the streets looking for an open bar at 4:30 AM and after failing in this mission decided to make out behind a hotel laundry service container being loaded by Mexican workers.  I then pretended to look around for a cab to take me home.  He then tried to talk me out of going home.  I pretended to resist the idea of going home with him.  Then finally agreed, sealed the deal by saying, "okay, but just know that we are not hooking up.  I'm not that kind of girl".  Clearly the girl who has her legs wrapped around a guy she's known for 5 hours, making out on a street corner at 4:30 AM is not that kind of girl.  Okay.  Keep telling yourself that, drunk sluttly version of JBird.  He assures me that he just wants to "talk" and "watch the sun come up together".  Awww, gayest words I've ever heard. Cab.

We get back to his place.  He pours himself a glass of red and, based on my having a vagina, pours me a glass of white.  On our way out to the balcony I become distracted by the lovely view of Lake Michigan and stumble over something on the floor.  I look down and notice I have tripped on a human body.  "That's my roommate, Bob" Peeter explains.  Bob is fully clothed, and shoed, dead to the world.  To be sure he's not actually dead, I start poking him with a golf club.  He was a live.  Good.  We watch the sun come up.  Trying to be sexy and sit on his lap, I knock over both wine glasses and maybe hit him in the face.  We then take out traveling make out session to the bedroom.  This is where things got interesting.  

Laying on the bed, me on bottom, good ole fashioned, fully clothed, dry humping (since I'm a classy lady and all).  And then I feel it.  No, not that.  It was a a moist sensation, almost like my back was sweating but it wasn't.  Because of past experience, I immediately know.  The damp feeling is mattress urine.  Someone wet the bed the night prior, didn't air out the mattress sufficiently, and recovered it, thinking the problem was gone.  Amateur.  I jump from the bed and calmly ask the gentleman why he has allowed me to lay on a urine soaked mattress.  He fakes a confused look and rambles on about maybe leaving a wet towel on the bed.  Really?  Yea that could be true.  Perhaps he peed all over a towel then placed it under the top sheet before going out that night.  Great.  He then sits down and explains that a friend stayed over the night before and she was very drunk and pissed the bed.  He is so disgusted and sorry.  He thought it was dry.  Well, apparently Sweedish sleep systems need more than 24 hours to dry doucheface.  Glad you spent 3 grand on a mattress now, aren't you.

Let's take a minute and think about this situation.  Girl just laid in pee bed - how can you explain?

1. "I pissed the bed last night, thought it was dry, sorry"  Gross, sick, nasty but okay fucktard (sweatertard).
2. "A chick pissed my bed last night.  She's just a friend"  Sick, gross, and maybe you're a man whore.  But do I care?  Am I jealous about piss bed having taken home another girl before he knew me.  I'm a crazy person, so yea, kind of.
3. "I was taking care of my friends dog and he peed my bed."  I tried that line in high school when I had a party and my boyfriend pissed my parent's bed.  Only it was our cat and the lie worked.  Bye bye Buddy the cat.
4. "I spilled a glass of water"  Classic.  Any dude who wets the bed and convinces a girl of this should marry her immediately.  

Moving on to the scariest part of this story, after laying in the pee bed I still ended up staying over.  I slept there (not in pee bed) until waking up at 2:00 PM Sunday afternoon.  I put my damp pee dress back on, said a quick goodbye, and walked out.  I live about 2 miles from this guy but wasn't about to walk.  I look in my purse before getting a cab to make sure I have money and find none.  I also find no credit cards.  A purse full of bar receipts, a drivers license, gum, lip gloss, and a dead cell phone.  Saddest thing ever.  So I walk.  Two miles.  Curled hair the night before, next day, pee bed head and all.  Nick Nolte mug shot looked like a model compared to me.  Homeless beggars turned away from me in horror as I passed on the street.  Church goers silently judged.  Made me feel young again.  After getting back into my apartment and showering the sins of off my body I searched my purse again.  Sometimes when I'm drunk I hide my credit cards from the drunk slutty version of me.  On this particular night I shoved them into a pack of Orbit gum.  Nice.

All in all, I can forgive the pee, but I'm not sure I can accept that he owns two books authored by Ann Coulter and Gucci sunglasses.  That's what really sticks out in my mind. We shall see.  He might be my soul mate…

*A college tendency to binge drink led to what could be considered a moderate bladder control problem, so an encounter that ends in me being soaked in someone else's pee is new.