WHEN THIS TOPIC SHOULD BE DISCUSSED:

1) Third date.  Preferably during dinner or drinks.  By this time you (probably) haven’t bang-a-ranged and the flirting has escalated because as you know, you have sex on the third date because it’s the three-date etiquette.

2)After sex.  Preferably when you’re both clothed and packing in to your respective car.  It’s funny.  It lightens the mood.  And if the other person is somehow offended, it creates a clean getaway.

While you’re naked and about to stiffle the pickle is NOT the opportune time to mention this topic.

Speaking of experience as a half-black girl, whenever I hear this I want to cringe because then we’re making assumptions about the quality of sex based on an ethnicity instead of the variation between preferences of women in an area of a certain intelligence.  So basically, it unintentionally sounds ignorant therefore a turn-off.

Since I’ve only had sex with white guys, I can’t tell you if being with me is the “Ultimate Black eXXXperience”.  Actually, I think if you asked any mixed race girl if she was ‘like her race in bed’, she would just probably a)be confused and b)kind of hate you.

If all boys (and girls) run around assuming that there is any sort of correlation between an ethnicity or region and the quality of sex, then we can safely assume that having sex with any Brazilian is like the two-minute preview of Brazilian fart porn.

Boys, I’m just looking out for you.

If you have been following my blog religiously like you should be, you probably noticed my inclination to not… how do I put this eloquently?… shit where I eat.  If you have been following my blog, you will have noticed in the first post (follow your f(h)art) I did briefly mention a coworker entanglement but to abbreviate the latter, the entire interaction is not worth the mention mainly because 1) it was stupid and 2) he wasn’t even cute.

Circa July of this past year my pro skateboard photographer ginger Jew boyfriend decided that he couldn’t deal with having a girlfriend anymore and at 2am one fateful morning, decided to tell me exactly that via text message (which could probably be described as karma, since, well, look what I’ve been doing).

Reacting like any sensible, level-headed and emotionally stable 23 year-old individual, I reacquainted myself with some special pals–Jim Beam and Jack Daniels– and we did mature, responsible “talking” about the potential damaging situation at hand.  In summation, two weeks I came into work early reeking of … sensibility… and spent my shift burrowing my emotions into newly released DVDs.

It was about two weeks into this routine, that early one morning my boss walked in with the new guy.   And however movie-moment/hackneyed as this sounds, it was undeniably one of those slow-motion, air lightly breezing, and BOOM–the most handsome boy ever to step foot in that warehouse was nonchalantly swaggering one foot to the next on his way to meet our motley crew of early morning workers.  He was a towering 6’3, brown hair, crystal blue eyes, dimples…. SWOON.

I enjoy working the early mornings mainly because 1) no one is what I would consider overbearingly stupid, 2) I like and am good at the work I do, and 3) everybody is an asshole (which what I do best).  Here I am, drowning in liquor from my week and a half of “sensibility training” and in walks one of the only guys I would, if he were a serial killer, ask him to rape me before he chopped me up into little pieces and threw me under his floorboards.  Our manager called us all to form a circle and–LO AND BEHOLD! we were being forced to actually look him in the face and tell him our names (in my case, within a far enough distance without also getting him drunk).

Everybody stood there awkwardly staring at one another, waiting for someone to take the initiative so we could all get out of this somewhat social moment together.  After a few seconds of pensive silence:

“Well, as you can see from all the lively conversation, this is why we all work in the back,” I interject.  An uncomfortable laughter ripples through the circle and the New Guy instantly broke the distraction with:

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”  Oops?

Because I liked my job, well, I made sure all of that curiosity stopped right there.  I showed up to work more disheveled making my hangovers look exponentially worse than they actually were, I’d only wear makeup if it were applied the night before and I slept in it, and at all costs I avoided any sort of contact with the New Guy.  If I were forced to speak to him, the words were nearly whispered and succinct.  ”Yes.”  ”No.”  ”Kay.”

One Sunday morning, an hour after I started my shift, someone gently tapped my shoulder.  The interruption caused a slight annoyance, yet when I lifted my head, taking the Ipod earbud out of my left ear, the sight of the freshly showered New Guy smiling made everything drip away.

“I’m supposed to help you today.  Sorry, I’m late.”  Whatever, I don’t care.  Is that Old Spice I smell?  SWOON.

So I spent two quick minutes avoiding his enticing stare, trying to explain my methodology to him in five or less words per sentence.  ”And seriously, don’t fuck it up.”  Nail in the coffin he would never sleep with me right?  I didn’t want to be that rude but the dimples, and the eyes, and the giant hands I constantly thought about slipping slowly up the back of my shirt as he pressed the stubble on his long face against my neck smelling of …that… Old Spice…

I looked over at him and he looked so… handsomely confused.  Rushing around in a panic, too scared now to even see if I could answer his questions.  I walked over, I alerted him of my presence, and I tenderly, even sweetly guide him through my previous work.  He catches on quickly and I smile to show him that I’m impressed.  At the smoke break, I coyly walk up to him, “I don’t know if you smoke or anything, but, like, this is usually our smoke break.”

I could tell you about the friendly banter when he appeared out front for the break, I could tell you we had worked together prior, I could tell you he admitted to internet stalking me,  and I could tell you the minute I got home, I worked up the courage to send him a message inviting him out drinking that night where we could watch my friend’s bands and… talk.

Even though that part is a sweet, somewhat interesting, I’d definitely have to say the really awesome part of the story was waking up the next morning completely nude, head throbbing, and locking eyes with the fully-clothed New Guy lying next to me, in what I imagine was horror.

“Why am I naked?” are the first words out of my mouth.

“…Uhhh… you don’t remember what happened last night?”

Oops?

I lean one arm on the pillow, lazily and drunkenly placing my head on my hand.  I let a small smirk spread across my face and with a goofy, sarcastic voice I say:

“Well…. I hope you weren’t a virgin.”

A pause for theatrics.

Arms wide  ”Welcome to The Work Place*.”

*Work place changed because, like, I think I could get fired for saying the real name then including a story about seducing then exploiting a coworker.  Or something.

(but apparently, also with me, busy hands can still make their share of trouble)

Bowling class–It was one unit, twice a week, one hour per class, and I was awesome at it.  I ended up with a laid-back bunch of Ag majors and got highest scoring girl in my class (I got a snickers bar and a paper, I was elated).  Anyway, my spring quarter of school, I needed just an extra unit to get loan money so I took bowling again.

Bowling was not as cool the second time around.  As I sat down to randomly join a team, the boy I sat next to began to berate me for assuming it was okay to sit there–apparently, I had the audacity to not ask if that seat was someone else’s seat, some friend of his who might be trying to crash the class and he didn’t know if they were showing up but he wanted his friend on his team but that was only if his friend didn’t sleep in and or didn’t get that other class he was trying to crash during this same exact time.  Because it was BOWLING, I let him have his god damned seat.  Moved.  Ended up with a team of misfits.  We were not underdogs.  We sucked.  Bowling… just not as cool.

Then I saw him.

He was 6’0, dark haired, five o’clock shadow, thick non-threateningly muscular body, adorable smile–swoon.

Despite the dismay I had in caliber of my team, I figured I could temporarily… ignore this small detail to daydream and admire the nice-looking boy a few rows over for two hours a week.  It wouldn’t be until one fateful night downtown that I would have my first encounter.

I was waiting at the bar for a whiskey diet, distractedly looking around for people I would know– more importantly, showing off my new pumps and “going-out” shirt.  I turn to my side and see Him there.

him “hjkdslahjklhj dhakme aim”

me “uhm… what?”

him “I zaid… you’re een my bowling class, yes?”

me “uhhh, yeah… Hi.”

him “hfjdahks mmekfh lajlks mehjkalf heimdm ehaka, yes?”

It was then I realized he was foreign–not a big surprise since at this point I had only been hit on by people I could barely understand.  I realized some words that confirmed he was a German exchange student, engineering (I think?), and he was here just enjoying ze budveiser (I think?).  After a few minutes of awkward conversation where I answered questions according to what I thought he could have possibly asked if he were in a conversation with someone who was in his bowling class and he wanted to like.. get to know them or something… I decided I needed to vacate because the improv was wearing thin.  It was only my luck I ran into him later, in my home–the dance floor, and he grabbed my hand and brought me close.  He right-handed my left hand, left-handed my lower back, and Patrick Swayzied like no other man has before (well, mainly because Dirty Dancing was soo 1987 and I’m sure he didn’t know how to dance any other way).

Thus, I began the tryst with Ze German:  dinner, movies, sleepovers, etc.  He spent a good portion of the time not understanding my obscure pop culture references and saying, “Ahhh, can you repeat zat?”  I, on the other hand, spent a good remainder of the time to tell him to just stop talking.   The whole thing was fun and exciting for like a second but I started to notice he was getting considerably.. comfortable with me.

THINGS YOU SHOULD NOT DO WITH ONLY KNOWING A PERSON THREE WEEKS:

1) I was vegan at the time.  I explained that I didn’t eat cheese or meat– as well as other things obviously, but highlighting those as key factors.  One night, he told me he would bring me dinner.  He did.  He brought me a pizza.  A cheese and pepperoni pizza.

2) One morning as we were alone in the house, he went to go to the bathroom.  Considering my bedroom is right next to the bathroom and my door was open at the time… I noticed that the bathroom door… was also open and I was hearing… sounds very close, but could have been mistaken for… defecating.

3) He left a toothbrush.  ”I’m here like all ze time, hahaha!”

So I started to phase him out.  In all honesty, I was tired of dissecting all of my hilarious jokes so that it could translate and I was tired of being Patrick Swayzied EVERY time we went out and… he left a toothbrush… at my house… so like, I just needed some space.

One night I decided to go downtown with my roommate and relive the single life that I so desperately desired, when I get a text message…

“were r u?????”

I send him to some bar and spend the night drunkenly avoiding any sort of sign he might be in the same vicinity of me.  Bars close, my roommate and I raid late-night Mexican food place, and pass out in respective sofas.

I woke up in my bed, groggy and that distinct taste of hard alcohol sitting in the back of my throat.  My eyes opened slightly to see the harsh white light pouring through the slits of my condo blinds serving as a reminder, thump-thump, that last night was a good night.  The bed moves which I think is, whoa, like.. I’m drunnkkk, but when I turn over, I see the unmistakable physique of a large German body.

uhm… whhhhat?  I don’t… recall… but …. maybe… Chelsea, remember.  It was walk home, El Nabor’s, Family Guy, Nachos, Couch… did I… let him in?  I must have.  Annoyed with myself for letting him come over, I shake his shoulder, tell him I need my phone, and go to the bathroom (where I closed the door).

As I sit down, I realize that I have 20 text messages, 12 missed calls, and 2 voicemails.

“were r u??? i’m at Black Sheep!”

“i cant find u!!! were r u????????????”

“i want see u.  i cant find u.”

I exit the bathroom.  I stand in my doorway.

“Uhmm, German…. how did you get in?”

“Ohhh, hmmm, yeah… funny story…. I broke in.”

(originally posted 3/14/2009 via http://chelseabrowntoffski.tumblr.com/post/86480080/humor-is-in-the-eye-of-the-person-who-got-their-house)

There was a time after the Jackass that I found myself in this funk, this moment of utter vulnerability, and that vulnerability specifically involved being only attracted to significantly older, completely inappropriate, surfer-skate rat kind of men.  My definition of older includes: pruned, wrinkly faces, a highly noticeable generation gap mixed between conversation, and blonde hair–copious amounts of ocean-soaked, sun-bleached old man hair.

His name was the 37 yr old and as far as I remember, I didn’t refer to him as anything else.  Our love affair started one obviously inebriated night when Michelle and I got tanked and decided to schmooze all the bartenders–I happened to be sitting in his seat and I knew it was lurve.

The great thing about him is that we never actually really hooked up.  He would come over, watch a movie, and in the morning he’d be gone– Four AM construction site calls and he’d be in San Francisco until the next weekend.

But as all good arrangements eventually turn sour, so our non-committal liaison turned into a …ugh…. a relationship.  He began to flake on our night hang-outs, seriously, that’s fine… whatever.  And then he started calling…7am, 2am, 4am, whenever he were home… and in all honesty, he started to really hurt my game… continuous phone calls into the early morning (wtf) … and as it is me, I let this progress as such.

One night, actually the last night that I ever decided to hang out with him, he was supposed to come over after my lab class at around 9:30.  He texted me that he was going out for sushi with one of his long-time friends (lol, long-time friends.  cause he’s old) and 9:30 was great in spending the perfect amount of time with these people, time for him to go home and time to get himself ready to come over since he had work again at 7am.

These following text messages describe the night that he lost his goddamned mind.

February 12, 2009 via text messages.

(9pm, he calls me when I am still in class and because I am still in class, I do not answer)

(9:10pm) me: outta class. whats up.

(9:12pm) him: at sushi. i’m buzzed.

(9:16pm) me: cool. are you coming over?

(9:22pm) him: i have a few drinks in me.

(9:28pm) me: ok…so you’re not coming?

(9:36pm) him: i want 2. buzzed. (oops, he’s using numbers. not the best sign)

This next hour of text messages were not recorded because the ones he sent to me didn’t make any fucking sense to which I either responded with “sure” and/or “ok”.

(10:45pm) me: ok, are we going to do this or what?

(10:46pm) him: cum get me.

(10:49pm) me: uhm excuse me….wait. you’re not at home?

(10:55pm) him: i’m at mccarthys (the local old men bar).

Now, if you are a boy and like to test my limits, I’m just going to tell you now… it’s not the most wise decision.  By this request to come pick him up from the bars he was assuming that a) I would actually leave my house in pajamas IN THE RAIN to pick him up downtown, b) I would have to pick him up whenever he would like which is whenever he was finished, and c) I actually liked him enough to continue talking to him after this conversation.

So, I did what any girl would do in this situation after the guy she was talking to had made the wild assumption that she had no dignity and the sex was really that awesome…

(10:59pm) me: ok. on my way. stand outside and wait for me.

Then I turned off my phone and smoked a bowl.

Is this bad karma?  Perhaps.  But not only did he fully expect me to come pick him up as he got shit housed downtown, he was going to need a ride BACK to his house before work 7am the next day in Avila Beach (15 mins away) and all that for 7 mins of unsatisfactory fornication didn’t really seem worth it’s while….

and so he waited.

2:05am voicemail “Chelsea, Chelsea…. where are you?”

2:09am voicemail “I’m waiting here….”

2:13am  voicemail “It’s getting like… wet…”

and I broke my old man chain.

I said that to the mechanic, the beauty school boy, and I’m sure–according to the caliber of boys I’m interested in–it certainly won’t be the last time I say that.

What I’ve found early on is that if I have to roll my eyes, secretly wish myself out of where I am, or laugh when the boy I’m dating tells me what his aspirations are–I probably should save myself the embarrassment of night farting (reference to “follow your f(h)art”) and someone accidentally publicly shitting (“beauty school droppings”, “if you give a boy a bathroom”) and just… fucking… leave.

Along with the mechanic’s dream of becoming a rapper, he wanted to be a millionaire.  “I just know if I keep, like, doin’ what I do–I’ll make it.”  At this time, he was recently laid off from his laid-back Midas job because the owner’s of the store weren’t paying the rent (surprise) and with his track record littered with felonies, it didn’t help that he wasn’t really qualified for anything (surprise #2).

Pause.  Ok.  I know what you’re thinking.

“Chelsea, WTF are you doing with this tool?”

It’s not super complicated.  I am an asshole when it comes to anything involving moving vehicles, my brakes were done for, and he dropped my $500 charge down to $200.  I still needed four new tires, another set of brake pads… I think you see where I’m going with this.

The mechanic wanted to go back to school, study architecture and “make buildings and shit”.  Not sure if he was literate, I told him how much math and, well, reading was involved in studying… anything, especially architecture… “And that’s where YOU can help me…”

Once upon a time, when I fell in love with a boy who was in love with himself…

One day out of the many shitty days we spent together, we adventured to a Guitar Center.  He said for one, I should be so lucky because he was using the last of his gas to take me (queue loud sigh)–to a place I really had no desire to go to.  After he had found out that I knew how to play the guitar, a long time ago and not very well, he was on the prowl to get a guitar into my hands.

Don’t be fooled to believe that he was actually interested in anything involving me… the only reason we were going to this Guitar Center is because of his entrancing trip to a Christian church earlier that week.

To feed his ‘holier-than-thou’ facade, he would make his way to church at least once a month and to all major Catholic holidays.  One night on invitation, he went to this flashy Christian church in the valley where he subsequently fell in love.

“THE MUSIC–WAS AWESOME!  There was, like, this guy…jumping up and down!  I’m a Christian now.”

Not only did this church have over-produced musicians making loud praise music, they were also offering a position to any tom-dick-and-harry who could play an instrument–Hey do YOU play an instrument?? You have the chance to play with the church’s band for one whole weekend!  and of course, the chance to show off in front of 500 impressionable patrons was a boner in itself for him.

“I’m going to get a guitar and just, like, work on one song till I get good.  Then I’m going to do this talent show.”

“Can you even play guitar?”

“UH, YEAH, CHELSEA.”

So now I was at a Guitar Center, sitting on the bench, fender stratocaster in my hand, “I really don’t want to do this.”

“Just play.”

I sat there for about twenty minutes muting my strings playing some old Green Day songs.  A cute worker came over and asked me questions until the beauty school boy interceded and flexed the worker away.  He then berated me with his piercing eyes.  I sighed and went back to my unsuccessful attempts to look cool.

“Are you going to play?  I really don’t want to do this.”

“No.”

“Can you play?”

“YES, CHELSEA. I USED TO HAVE A STUDIO.”

“That doesn’t mean you can play.”

“YES, I HAD A GUITAR AND A DRUM SET AND WE WERE RECORDING….(this is where I tune out)…..AND I BOUGHT A MICROPHONE WITH (a list of characteristics that may or may not be important for the operation of a successful microphone)…AND RAPPING IS…”

“Wait.  You don’t… rap, do you?” (Santa Claus belly laugh)

Pause.

“Well… I can.”

(Obligatory eye-roll)

“No…”

“What?  I can and it’s something I plan on pursuing later in life.”

(Is about the time I wish I wasn’t here…)

“I hope you know that if you want to be a rapper, we cannot continue to date.”

Momentary silence.

“Why not?”

In fact, the only time I had ever heard of this happening was in a Dane Cook stand-up comedy routine.  It was an on-going joke about him leaving an impression on the world and his fear that he would never be able to do that.  So to ensure his legacy, he was suggesting committing to very eccentric, very outrageous, absurd life choices.   But to give this next boy the benefit of the doubt, I’m sure he wasn’t consciously trying to make his mark in such a manner.

When I was a sophomore in college, we had just moved into these really nice, picture-perfect townhouses which, on the weekends, got ravaged by keggers and beer pong.  I was on the prowl, taking boys like victims, middle-finger up, woman in revolt!  We were at our neighbors playing an inevitable beer pong game when I start receiving these text messages…

“hey baby, what r u doin”

Rewind to a couple of nights ago, I had just ended it with this boy I was making out with and I was at this random party with a bunch of random acquaintances drinking until I knew people.  For whatever reason, I have an unexplainable preference for extremely white, bald men who have tattoos and look / act like they’re black.  Enter the scene, this faux fur-jacket wearing, flat-brimmed hat sporting, Fubu-shirting dream machine.  I batted my eyes.

We drank, we flirted, we exchanged numbers.  I even went out with him the next night to another random party with a bunch of random acquaintances and there we had the chance to finally… make some progress.

He was calling me after school trying to impress me with his knowledge of Greek playwrights (I was a theatre major at the time), simultaneously asking for help in his Oedipus essays and for just a little company during the lonely San Luis Obispo nights.  I declined, slightly flattered, but had resolved to never being able to take him seriously because of his untied, over-sized shoes (DCs—and he wasn’t even a skater) and because of the way that other girls looked at me when they found out I was with him (that, however, was a good judgment call because he was, I guess, already in a relationship… with two other girls—a factoid I learned after this transaction).  I hadn’t completely written him off as a good time because the moment he texted me during that beer pong game, I responded, “You.  Come over.”

It just so happened that he was making his way back from the bars (which were conveniently located around the corner from my house) and he had wanted to see me.  He walks in, slumps to the wall, looks at me with his devilish grin and I smile.  We play a couple of games of beer pong, going outside for the occasional cigarette and personal time, and to tell you the truth I don’t even remember if we won or not, but that fact has nothing to do with the rest of this story.

In another neighbor’s house, Chelsea finds herself smitten with a tall, kind of stupid looking frat boy who has expressed some interest in her.  She leans over to me, “I think Freddie is really cute.”

“Well, what’s stopping you?”’

“I haven’t really gotten that… opportunity… yet “

Done.  I’m on it.

While in the courtyard, I invite Chelsea, Freddie, and Gangster Boy to get a tour of our house.  “Yeah, guys, come in!  They just look like the same house from the outside” (which is a….lie).  Chelsea and Freddie head up stairs to “finish the tour” while Gangster Boy turns to me and asks if it’s cool to use my restroom.  “Sure, man.  Go to town.”  I leave him there.

The next forty-five minutes was a cornucopia of chaos.

-Someone flipped their car off the freeway into our parking lot.

-We were all fighting whether we were too stoned/drunk to talk to the cops.

-Smoked more bowls.

-Drank more beer.

-Won a game of beer pong!

-Still no boy.

My friend, Melissa, and I decide to check in on him.  The moment we walked into my house, a strong pervasive odor emitted from the open bathroom.  He was lying on the couch, shoes off, passed out.

“UGH, it smells like …. Shit.”

“Shut up, Melissa.  He drank too much and got sick.  God, I hope he’s okay.  That’s so embarrassing for him.”

She walks out and I go into motherly mode.  I start to baby-talk him, coo over his drunken body, and then offer to take him to the restroom.  He mumbles a “yes” and I throw every inch of strength I have to pull this 5’11 muscular boy (because all my ghetto boyfriends will be described as such) into the few feet where my bathroom is.  I struggle to get him passed the door—just a few more steps and I toss his heavy body on the sink.  Gasping for air in the darkness, my hand desperately scales the wall searching for the light switch.  My hand brushes over it and I flip it on.  I screamed.

Now, I don’t know if you have ever heard or if you had heard, even remember, Dane Cook’s legacy routine but the moment the light splashed on to the walls of our cubicle of a bathroom, I screamed:

OH MY GOD, SOMEONE MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE SHIT ALL OVER MY BATHROOM WALLS.

Brown fecal matter was spread all over the shower, all over the walls, all over the toilet, all over the floor.  I flipped out.  I went into stoned-paranoid/panic mode.  “My fucking roommates are going to kill me,” I kept thinking.  I was in such a state of complete shock that I don’t even remember grabbing cleaning supplies and cleaning everything with such precision and urgency.

“God, it smells like… shit in here…”  He mumbled from the sink.

“WELL, MAYBE IF SOMEONE HADN’T SHIT THEN SPREAD IT ALL OVER OUR FUCKING WALLS, WE WOULDN’T BE SMELLING THAT SMELL, WOULD WE?  I SAID, WOULD WE?”

That night ended with him sleeping on my couch, lying on a plastic bag, stripped of any poop-infested articles of clothing and I went to bed, confused, shocked, appalled, in hysterical laughter.

The next morning Chelsea wakes up and walks herself slowly to my loft bedroom.  She shuffles to my bed, sits down, gently whispers my name for me to wake up.

“Chelsea, Chelsea.  Kendal (one of our neighbors) just called me.”

“And…?”

“Well, like, she went on Freddie’s Facebook today and like…”

“YES?”

“Well, like, she said she doesn’t know if she believes it or not but…”

“WHAT?”

“…It said that he was gay.”

“What?”

“Yeah, like, uhm, I think I hooked up with a gay guy last night.”

“Well, that’s okay.  At least you didn’t have to clean up fecal matter when someone decided to shit all over our walls.”

Back in college, Tuesday nights were by far the best nights to drink quickly described by the 3 Ts.

-Tacos ($1 each)

-Trivia (all the rage, as I’m coming to learn)

-Two-fers (my favorite part of the night.  one of the more sketchy bars offers two for one drinks from 9pm-1am and there was always lots of dancing–two enthusiastic thumbs up)

One fateful Tuesday night, Chelsea and I were fighting the homework / party teeter totter.  Usually the teeter totter went as follows:

“Chelsea, I have sooo much homework tonight.  I cannot possibly go out.”

“But Chelssss (yes, we both have the same name), come ONNN.  I didn’t get to go out Friday!”

“Wait, yes you did!”

“But we didn’t get to go out TOGETHER..”

After four years of being roommates, Chelsea has learned to say ‘no’ to me because I often talk her into terrible ideas where she’s ended up missing work or class or hooking up with someone who is extremely interesting (a second of foreshadowing).  Anyway, tonight she let me win and that’s very important in the events to come.

Chelsea only agreed to go to the bar for ONE drink.  My goal is to distract her into at least three or four drinks so the night becomes… a party.

It’s not too hard to drink at this bar.  In light of the 3 T’s, our favorite bar–Frog and Peach–has $1 pint night.  Entering in on our second beer, this tall, handsome mutton-chopped gentleman strolls up to Chelsea.  They begin talking about …oh, “I saw you across the room..” “you have entrancing eyes…” bullshit.  I’m more or less drunk, convincing some boy to buy me my regular whiskey and coke and bumming imported cigarettes from this old bloke, Keith, who used to live in London for 100 years or whatever and I just let Chelsea do her goddamned thing so she would forget we were supposed to be leaving.

An hour or so later, mid-cigarette bumming, whiskey drinking, and made-up story telling rant, this boy with one of those… reggae beanies… walks up and asks, “Girl, would you like to smoke?”

“Absolutely, sir, what have you got?”

This boy wasn’t by any means… attractive.  Nor, did I particularly think his stance on herbal remedies was enthralling but Keith was moving in too close and I was definitely seeking a scapegoat… “Oh, Keith, have you met my slightly hobo-looking boyfriend?  Yeah, he plays guitar unnecessarily in public places and we’re in love.”  Boom.  My new hobo boyfriend asks me if I want a drink.  “You better make that a double, kind sir.”

Fast-forward two beers, two whiskey and cokes, and a shot later, Mutton-Chops and Hobo are starting to look really awesome.  They happen to know each other (cool), they’re roommates (what a small fucking world!), and they’re still buying our drinks (I couldn’t have asked for more).  Mutton-Chops and Chelsea, by this time, have been sucking face in the corner while I’ve been sucking up the vomit rising in my throat–a nice combo of mixing drinks and having the Hobo boyfriend kissing my neck telling me I’m beautiful.  It was almost 2 am and in Chelsea’s drunken hospitality offers our place as a retreat for the night.  Chelsea and Mutton-Chops run back to my house.

“Oh, wait a second.  I need to go get my guitar.”  Hobo goes back inside.  Oh, you thought I was kidding about that unnecessary public guitar playing?  No.  I was not.

On the long walk home, Hobo tells me where he’s from, what college he went to, why he moved out to the central valley–all things that if I would have deemed them interesting, I would have remembered.  “Oh, wait, like, it’s kind of like that song…”  Picks up guitar.  Strums.  Searches for a pitch.

“Dude, I’ve got to piss and I’m not waiting around.”

He continues to talk on about the ganja and about… mankind… I literally considered falling asleep in a bush to avoid the annoying drone of hippie talk spewing out of his peace-loving mouth.

“…that’s how I got the job at Mutton-Chop’s house.”

“Excuse me, you work for Mutton-Chops?”

“Well, yeah, kind of.  I clean, I make meals, I garden, I massage, I’m like the butler.”

“Uh, oh, uh, so like… do they pay you?”

“Just in love.  It’s like a communal house.  It’s not even really a house, it’s kind of like a mansion.  Yeah, it’s really cool.  They like to have parties which I’ll like play my guitar at and like, yeah, just everybody loves each other.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“Sometimes on the couch, sometimes next to Mutton Chops.”

Pensive silence.

“Yeah, like, him and I have a REALLY close bond.  Like, his girlfriend, him, and I will share a bed sometimes and it’s like… we’re all in the relationship.”

“HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND.”

“Yeah, well, like, it’s cool.  Because they’re like… polyamorous.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, like, he has sex with, like, whoever.”

“Like just girls?”

“Or sometimes guys.  It’s just like, love, and appreciating someone else’s beauty.”

me = !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Oh my God!  He sleeps with guys!  WHATTT!”

“Yeah, like, it’s not a big deal.”

“No, that is.  Like, his girlfriend puts up with that?!”

“Yeah, like, they’ve got like a really healthy relationship and it’s like, just I care enough for you to experience somebody else.”

“Chelsea is going to fucking kill me.”

(Side note:  The Gays are awesome but in a story to come tomorrow, you’ll understand as to why I react this way)

So, we get back to my house.  It just so happens we are fortunate enough to learn the inner-workings of the hippies.  They both are wearing pajamas under their clothes, they both do not wear deodorant in fear of catching the cancer, and they both brushed their teeth with the same toothbrush that the Hobo has packed for them.  Where it was packed?  I do not know.  Nor did I ask any further questions.

The next morning, Mutton-Chops left.. and also left his Hobo butler-friend for us to drive to a bus stop.  In the car, he played us this song he made up … which sounded very similar-if not identical- to Pete Yorn’s “Young Folks.”  We dropped him off and I looked to Chelsea.

“Please, don’t be mad at me.”

“Be mad at you?  Last night was fun!  Drank a lot more than I was supposed to…”

“Yeah, ok, Mutton-Chops has a girlfriend.  Hobo is his butler and sometimes they sleep next to each other and the Hobo says it’s like they’re in a relationship and they have a communal house where people pay each other in love and they have polyamorous parties where everybody sleeps with everybody and like, everybody is okay with that.”

“Uhm, WHAT”

“Like, Chelsea, I am sorry but you’re the one who invited them over and I was just…

“SO… like…. they sleep with guys… too?”

“Uhm, noooo….not Hobo.  Mutton-Chops does though.”

Silence.

In a face- to -face encounter, I would describe the hours of conversation revolving around his shitty Crips tattoos and all the jokes based on the fact he thought he could rap (which I never witnessed, THANK GOD), or I might have played the many voice mails left by his crazy baby mama mostly describing me as a “slutty ass bitch slut who doesn’t stop callin’ her maahhn,” or the two months after I ended it when I received creepy text/voice messages asking me on creepy dates to places like Saddle Ranch… and the beach….

but since we really don’t have that luxury, I am going to let these three last text messages sum up pretty much everything for you.  Madden highlights by yours truly.

text message 1/3

your a fucking bitch (it’s “you’re”), cause i have kids well fuck you then (not just one kid, plural kids with plural on the baby mamas), and im not a lier (we’ll wait to the end of this barrage of texts to see if that’s true or not), alisa (baby mama #2) is and your (you’re) a fucking cold hearted bitch, have a nice fucking life (well, i’m trying to but…),

text message 2/3

you act like your (you’re) so perfect (because i am), well why dont you go get your hair done how it is supossed (supposed) to be done (?? what do you mean by that?), like from a black hair dresser (Ohhhh right, I wish!), and then your hair

text message 3/3

will be done, bitch, i really liked you (i can tell), i wanted to be with you, but its cool, im fucking like 5 bitches (awesome, let’s date), so fuck you than (then)

game highlights:

• exuberant usage of the word fuck
• obscene abuse of the possessive noun
• and this line:  “well why dont you go get get your hair done how it is supossed to be done, like from a black hair dresser, and then your hair will be done, bitch, i really liked you…”

(originally posted 11/12/2009 via http://chelseabrowntoffski.tumblr.com/post/241729637/why-you-probably-shouldnt-date-your-mechanic)

At a very white, muscular 6’2, his arms littered in stylish tattoos, I found myself incredibly… smitten with his ghetto swagger and black man slang.  He was what we Southern Californians call a “Bro”–a term defined indefinitely by the flat brimmed hat, the Famous Stars and Straps clothing, and the vocab of a 5 yr old.  I met him at a beauty school and the moment he came licking his lips toward me, I knew I was in for some trouble.

Pros:

-liked to drink (thumbs up!)

-paid for everything

-owned a car

-was a tattoo artist (thumbs couldn’t go any higher)

Cons:

-liked to drink (Wayyy too much.  Then drive immediately afterward.  He also was prone to bragging about my “dyson” and indulging in other sorts of humiliating facts about our sexy life to complete strangers)

-paid for everything (Then would complain about always having to pay for everything.  ESPECIALLY my drinks if we ever went out which I might add, I only had one or two at the most because I–like himself–needed to drive home).

-owned a car (That never drove to my house.  After he would complain about paying for everything, he would insist on me driving to his place in the valley–15 mins away–then we sit around his house and he’d flex)

-was a tattoo artist (which meant that A. his income was completely dependent on how many people he could fit into the week with school and B. that lots of girls were constantly trying to bang him which normally I wouldn’t care about, but he made me feel like maybe I should be caring)

Regularly, I would have bounce-housed out of this situation but I had a couple of things at stake.

-I genuinely loved watching him interact with other people.

-My mom (as he was one of her beauty school students) liked him a lot and really wanted me to give him a chance.

-he was only half way done with my tattoo (which I had gotten at a killer deal on)

-I have a terrible time ending things (reference to ‘follow your f(h)art”)

I even tried ending it several times but he was so charming and arrogant, seven no’s = a yes and you know how that old song and dance goes.

The first time I tried to break up with him we were at a Kinkos.

That day was totally annoying.  I had slept over and we had woken up early (7am-ish) to avoid running into his parents.  We spent the night prior drinking our little hearts out–finishing the bottle of jack we bought and playing several, several games of beer and pool.  We were tired, we were irritated, and we both had some serious bowel movements.  All throughout breakfast, we took our turns silently dry heaving over our meals and excusing ourselves for the bathroom until he suggests that he perhaps tattoo me that day…

just an excuse to see me more and just an excuse for me not to risk dying on the way home.

So we separately drove to a Kinkos around the corner from his house and he showed me how to use their computers.  Mid-search for the perfect picture, he taps my shoulder, “Baby, I got to go to the bathroom.  This stuff is kicking…”  I wave him off because the internet is charging me by the milli-second and I can’t chance wasting time.  Ten minutes later, I printed everything out.  Five minutes later, I stood by the color copier waiting for him.  Three minutes later, I considered texting him… but Nooo, come on.  He had to go to the bathroom, that’s pretty embarrassing already.  Twenty-five minutes from my initial arrival, as I’m walking out, he calls me.

“Hey baby, where you at?”

“UHM, AT KINKOS.  WHERE IVE BEEN FOR THE LAST 25 MINS”

“Oh cool… you coming back to my place?”

“Wait, you’re not here?”

“No, I’m at home.”

“But you said you had to go to the bathroom?”

“I did.”

“They have a bathroom here…”

“I know.”

“Uhm, WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME THAT YOU WENT TO YOUR HOUSE?”

“I just did.”

A very pissed off silence.

“Well… are you coming over?”

“I’ll have to think about that one.  I have to go.”

Click.  No way, man.  You just left me at a Kinkos.  I will not be going with you ANYWHERE EVER AGAIN.

I sit in my car and fume.  I, of course, was completely embarrassed that I would even consider hanging out with a guy (let alone sleep with one) that would leave you places and go home and expect you to instinctively know that they left to go home.  He calls me three times consecutively.  I ignore each one.  What I should have done?  Drive home.  What I did?  Answer on the fourth call.

“WHAT.”

“Are you leaving?!?!”

“Uhm, yeah.”

“But… WHY?!”

“Because…. you just left me at a kinkos.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.  I’m leaving.”

“Please, don’t go… please.. I’m begging you..”

“You know, this is really telling… like if you would leave me at a Kinkos, where else would you fucking leave me…”

“Come on, please, I’m begging you…”

“NO, this is shady shit and I’m not putting up with it…”

“Please, Chelsea, understand….”

“NO, I don’t even know where the fuck I am.  I’m irritated.  I don’t fucking feel well.  You’re a tool…”

“CHELSEA–I SHIT MYSELF”

after I laughed for a good ten-twenty minutes, I drove over to his house.  Now, looking back, what I realized is that that incident is the only reason why I kept him around three weeks longer than I should have.  Because I’m a sucker for a complete asshole who’s humbled–for a second– because he shat his pants.