Dear Saturday Night,
I’m sorry, but I cheated on you. It’s nothing personal. The event I am documenting took place on a Friday. After an extremely long day of a conference phone call with my boss and some dumb shit outsourced medical billing company, I dashed home to get in a rigorous run and a shower to clean away my sweat and shave away the winter long leg hairs. What was I last minute skinnying and de-hairing myself for? Why, nothing less than an open bar Christmas party that I had been asked to attend with a male friend as his date. Note the open bar part. That was what enticed me to go. I love my friend Jeremy, but charity banging a tech start up, puffy-vest wearing nerd with black spectacles was not in the works for the evening.
“Don’t worry, I am asking you to be my date as a friend,” he said on the phone earlier that week. Poor guy. I’d met him about five months earlier and I knew he was dying for some action. And I can’t deny the fact that with enough vodka and tequila shots, I’ll pretty much let anything in between my legs.
“I appreciate you being up front, Jeremy.”
So there I was, blow-drying out the sweat from my hair after the stupidly long run, when my best friend, Miguelita called. (Note: Her real name isn’t Miguelita, but she likes to be called that.)
“So, Mama,” she starts, “remember when you drink and somehow you tend to you know…”
“Bang whomever?” I finished for her.
“Right. And you don’t like this guy. So what’s our plan of action so that you don’t go home with him?”
“Miguelita, he lives in fucking Topanga. I’m not going to Topanga to get laid. And I am not bringing him back to my apartment under any circumstances. I’ll just stuff my face at the event, and that way I’ll be to bloated to think about sex.”
“Okay, fair enough.” She seemed to agree.
“God, I wish you were here to help me pick out my outfit,” I thought out loud as the straightener singed my still damp hair, which of course burned my scalp. I’ll never learn.
“Oh great, fashion show time,” she replied a bit sarcastically for my liking. “I guess Jameth will have to do it.” Yes, Jameth, my size 0 roommate, would have to do it.
“Jameth, I need help!” I ran into the living room naked clutching two dresses and a few pairs of shoes.
“Oh, Jay, what would you do without me?” she asked looking up from a plate of kale and roasted brussel sprouts with caramelized tomato. I’d probably look like a circus clown, to be honest. Jameth is very honest and tells me when something “doesn’t flatter my figure,” aka, I look fat. We decided on a deep cranberry dress and brown booties. After a quick uber ride to the Santa Monica destination, Jeremy actually met me outside the car. “Bar first,” we decided before mingling with anyone. The outdoor terrace was frigid but at least there were heat lamps scattered throughout to huddle next to. Not that we were going to spend much time next to the heat lamps, as they weren’t next to the bar.
Some version of a martini for Jeremy and a Kettel and soda for myself. Nothing but the best for Jay on someone else’s dime. After schmoozing with the “CEO,” I realized I was pretty drunk.
“Do they feed us, Jeremy?” I asked, realizing I needed to consume something other than liquid fermented potato and carbonated water. We walked over to the buffet and I scoped the scene of fattening lo mein, white rice, (ew), and then finally, some “chicken” and broccoli dowsed in some brown sauce. I skipped on the white carbs and settled for a small plate of the questionable meat and veggies. I should mention this was an Asia venue. Surprisingly, we were also surrounded by a bunch of Asian techies. Probably because as a tech start-up, that’s the employee demographic. What? Like how many African American coding nerds do you know?
I could tell throughout the night he wasn’t sure how to introduce me. The drunker he got, the more apparent the look of desire in his eyes became. I noticed it, but shrugged it off. Just, those damn black spectacles really didn’t do it for me. Plus he had been talking about how much weight he had gained from traveling and that really wasn’t making me creamy. Miguelita’s words began to haunt me. “You don’t like him, don’t have sex with him.” Which I have done plenty of times. I just get extremely drunk and my legs part like the Red Sea. We ended up going to some after party with another party of two. I don’t want to use the word “couple” because Jason and I are not a couple. The girl, let’s call her Jessica, was my age, except she was married and had this thing called a four month old baby named Ella. And she was “breastfeeding” Ella. So now I know all about formula and having a newborn. It was a new form a birth control. Around 1:30 I got real hungry since we know what my pitiful dinner consisted of.
“Jeremy, I need food now.”
“Take some of Ella’s baby formula. I’m sure Jessica has some stored in her boobs.”
“Gross, Jeremy.” Although what do I know, maybe it’s not so bad?
“Look, either I need you to Postmates me some food, or I’m taking an Uber home.” He couldn’t get the food delivery app to work, so I called myself an Uber.
“Thanks for bringing me around tonight, Jeremy,” I mumbled as I stumbled out of the house. See, I could go out and make it home alone. I know I left Jeremy with a boner, and he has since gotten his payback.
Ironically, only weeks after this party, I was let go from my job. I cried on the couch for a week and then decided to start my own business. I’m not going to go into much detail, but it does involve medical practices. Jeremy does some of the same work I do and luckily for me, had too much work on his plate. So, he farmed out the work to me he doesn’t give a shit about… at the rate he negotiated. Needless to say, our relationship has moved from him wanting to bang me to him constantly yelling at me for the work I do/don’t do, and apparently having an “attitude” or something weird like that. Who would have that the tables would end up turning? This is just life, I suppose.