I went on a couple of dates with this guy I met at Walmart who we’ll call George Glass for reasons that are both unimportant and irrelevant. I’d like to point out that I met him in the parking lot because he so chivalrously offered to shovel my car out when it was stuck in a snow pile that I thought was a good idea to park on top of, and that I wasn’t just trolling the aisles for rando’s..

..George Glass was nice enough to help while I sat inside his already heated brand new Audi A6 (that should have been my first red flag that he was a total psycho, anyone who drives a brand new Audi shouldn’t be shopping at roll back prices), but decided to give him my number when he asked for it.

He called a few days later and asked me to dinner. I clearly texted my three best friends and asked what I should wear in addition to sending them the address of the restaurant just in case I went missing.

I had a really great time and he turned out to be super nice. After a few dates at various restaurants he invited me over to his condo for a “night in”. He said he would order takeout and asked me to bring a movie. That was his first mistake.

I have awful taste in movies. I mean, I don’t think it’s awful, but most people do. I live for SyFy, watch Alien vs. Predator 2-5 nights a week and spent most of last weekend watching all 5 Resident Evil movies.

Anyways, I had a super stressful day at work and was running late. I stopped home before heading to his condo because I wanted to change out of my work clothes and grab the movie. He texted me that the food had arrived and I panicked because I felt bad making him wait.

I was annoyed but quickly threw on black yoga pants, a black running fleece, grabbed one of my favorite hand-to-hand combat movies and looked in my fridge for something to bring. I had two twisted teas, three cold snaps and a miller light. Perfect.

So I show up on George Glass’s doorstep dressed as a fucking ninja with an underground prison fighting movie and a Stop & Shop bag of random fridge beverages. If that doesn’t scream “wife material” I honestly don’t know what does.

George Glass began to serve me a plate of what looked like squid arms and donkey vaginas. Not that I know what a donkey vagina looks like, but if I had to imagine one, it was what I was expected to eat for dinner.

Homeboy ordered Thai. That’s a pretty ballsy thing to order without asking someone if they like or eat it. I politely pushed some shit around my plate and took a bite. I tried so hard to muscle it down but it’s like my body knew it was donkey vagina and rejected it. BOOM – I vommed all over my plate at the dinner table.

George Glass looked at me with a blank stare and asked if I was okay. I smiled and asked where the restroom was. I sat in there for a few minutes contemplating if I should just jump out the window or drown myself in the tub, but decided to own it best I could and walked out laughing and spitting some bullshit about acid reflex.

I then almost immediately had a heart attack when his psycho ugly cat came bombing around the corner, out of fucking nowhere, chasing a bug.

I don’t fucking do cats.

I’m 1-allergic, 2-hate them because I think they’re all shady as fuck and would murder their owners in their sleep if given the chance and 3-what normal, single guy owns a fucking cat?

I said I didn’t feel good and went home. I never hung out with him again, and actually defriended him on Facebook JUST so I could write and share this post because I’m not trying to be murdered later.

Sooo…what did we learn from this? Don’t date guys you meet at Walmart.

Side note: I recently learned that a guy I work with is George Glass’s cousin. I discovered this when homeboy friended me on Facebook and George Glass was in his default – turns out, the whole family is apparently psychotic. Here’s a conversation between us via office communicator. I just..I can’t.

 

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Twitter: Hippie - Insane Tony

We all have that one friend/acquaintance/girl we don’t even really like that over-analyzes every situation. She analyzes shit to the point of you wanting to smack her across the face while screaming you CANNOT be this dense. Instead, you just quietly sip your vodka soda while thinking, “this bitch is fucking bat shit.”

It’s like she processes things in a completely different manner and you just don’t follow or understand where she comes to the conclusions that she does. That or she’s just fucking brain dead.

The best is when she gets dumped but doesn’t want to accept it.

Dear Jesus, hold onto the designer fedora that you clearly only wear while traveling to warm climates or shopping at outdoor venues, because homegirl turns into a three gallon scoop of psycho in a two gallon bucket. That.Shit.Explodes.

Her Ex texts:  “Hey – what’s up?”

She immediately proceeds to screen shot the message, send it to you and her closest 45 friends to get everyone’s take on what it means and to ask how she should respond. Hey, here’s an idea: how about you fucking say hello back before he remembers that you’re 50 shades of cray..

The best is when she tries to convince you he likes her, but you know he’d rather have chlamydia then be seen with her in public. He clearly justifies this to her by explaining that he’s “not ready for a relationship” but “still wants to hook up”..

She gets dumped? You might as well go ahead and cancel any plans you had in the next six months and possibly even quit your job because you know damn well you’re getting called all day, every day, for nights filled with tears and bitch sessions.

I am HORRIBLE at that shit. I show little to no emotion outside of humor (is humor an emotion? Whatever this is my blog, I do what I want) or the occasional depression stints, but even that I turn into something chic that everyone wants to feel.

Me: “Seriously, though..I hate everything that isn’t wine or Zac Efron.”

Suddenly everyone’s buying Pinot Noir and Red Box is out of High School Musical 3.

Me too, Zac…me, too.

It’s not that I’m a heartless bitch, it’s just that I firmly believe if anything happens to make you that upset, it HAD to have happened for a reason, so why not learn from it and try to see the good? That and I don’t care about a whole lot outside of wine, Lifetime, Phillip Phillips and brussel sprouts. And corn.

I have two points of view I’d like to share, one for Pathetic Pam that’s probably crying in her room while watching Beaches right now (solid movie, no disrespect to Bette – GINGER REPRESENT – just meant it’s a tear jerker) and another for the girl who’s dealing with her.

Pathetic Pam: Cut the shit. Seriously, just..just, no. If he wanted to date you, HE WOULD. You’re not Ally and he sure as shit ain’t Noah, and this isn’t the fucking Notebook. Want to feel better? Then stop crying in your room or bothering your friends unless it’s to go shopping, get drunk or do anything OTHER than complain and be pathetic. You were fine before him; you’ll be fine after him – I PROMISE. And if not well then that sucks and I don’t know what else to tell you other than vodka never leaves and Kate Spade doesn’t lie.

Just be like me:

..and I couldn’t be happier.

Pathetic Pam’s Friend: Bless your heart. But quit feeding the monster that is two steps away from jumping off a cliff and/or making a hair doll out of her ex’s stray pubes. Take that bitch, get her shitfaced and make her hook up with a rando that she can then focus her time and effort stalking. If she refuses to get outta the house then mail her a dildo, change your number and get some new fucking friends.

**PS: We’ve all been one of these two girls, myself included. I don’t know how I would have gotten through a lot of things, especially the past 10 months, without my friends who were nothing but patient and understanding. The point I’m trying to make here is that there comes a point when you need to realize that nice girls finish last so don’t cry over anything that isn’t spilt wine or ruined designer clothing. Or if someone dies, because that’s like, really fucking sad.

The End.

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Twitter: Hippie - Insane Tony

I have two sisters; one older, one younger. So yes, that means I’m the red-headed middle child. For those of you confused; that’s one step above being the red-headed step child. None of us look alike, we literally don’t even share the slightest resemblance and they may in fact be adopted.

I’m fairly confident my little sister, Hermana, is Spanish and may even come from some sort of Mexican background and my older sister, Boobs McGee, has blonde hair, blue eyes and giant tits. My Dad has red hair so we all know I’m legit.

The three of us are super close and talk every day, tell each other everything and even have all the same friends.  We weren’t always like that, though. I used to try and kill my little sister all the time and Boobs McGee used to be so mean in high school that she’d make me sit in the back seat of her car even if no one else was in it. At the time, I found this incredibly embarrassing, but looking back I realize it did nothing but verify my Princess existence, because what 14 year old gets chauffeured to and from school?

Hermana is a bad ass bitch who rocks the “mountain chic” lifestyle for all its worth in New Hampshire while fighting crime next to her mountain-man boyfriend. They’re obsessed with their dogs, which I find weird as fuck, but the lab and dachshund are more well behaved than Boobs McGee’s human offspring so who am I to judge?  She’s always the first one to remind me if I’m being selfish and brings me back down to earth.

We’ve traveled the Country together running hilarious half marathons and I almost always beat her. Not because I’m faster, but because she usually stops half way for an alcoholic bevvy or just hitches a ride because she’s like “fuck this, and you, for talking me into another stupid fucking race, why can’t we just vacation like normal people with no exercise?”  Love her.

Boobs McGee (although much more reserved and not nearly as high maintenance as I), is one of the main reasons I’ve survived as long as I have. In true “big sister” fashion, she taught me the importance of nice clothes, how to hide everything from our parents and always made sure to unlock her bedroom window so I could break in when I’d sneak out of the house late night to walk around our neighborhood like a fucking weirdo as she constantly reminded me I was.

Even though she was usually mean, always ignored my existence and didn’t allow me in her room, she always had my back and taught me how to stand up for myself. It began when she slapped the shit out of one of the neighborhood boys when he called her a bitch at the ripe age of 11.  She also passed on the art of making mushroom bombs to throw at the BRP whenever they came riding down our neighborhood like the wannabe hood rats they were.

Having sisters was great growing up because you have your two best friends around all the time. You have someone to steal clothes from, fight and then hang out with and two people that understand and appreciate you for who you are without ever questioning or making you feel like you’re wrong.

Unless one of those bitches tells mom you have a dentist appointment that you were trying to hide and thought you had gotten away with, then all that shit goes out the mother fucking window and she better run and hide before she is found and badly, badly injured.

But that almost never happens.

Sometimes, I wished I had a brother. Not instead of my sisters or anything, especially since Hermana is pretty much a dude (she’d rather buy a new gun then a Kate Spade bag, plays sports and likes yard work.. psycho) but in addition. Mostly so I could hit on his friends. But that’s what my best friend’s brothers are for – I love always getting what I want.

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…..ME!

I love kids. Especially when they’re not mine. I mean sure, I may or may not have accidentally given one of my best friend’s son adult Benadryl at 6 months old (whatever, all it did was make him sleep for 3 days, soo you’re actually welcome), and I possibly could have vomited on my niece when I was super hung-over but she did NOT move fast enough and wouldn’t leave me alone. Oh, and I perhaps dropped my nephew off at the wrong school once..but other than that, I’m the girl to call when you need a sitter.

Just ask my older sister. I spend a ton of time with her kids, (especially since she bought a house next to my parents and I’d much rather roll my way over there with my bar rando. Also, she doesn’t get as mad when I throw up everywhere). She’s super thankful I’m around, especially since as a result her kids are angels. And by ‘angels’ I mean complete and total psychos.

I taught my nephew the art of salamander hunting, passed on everything I know about sharks (specifically great whites but we focus on the species as a whole out of respect, in addition to aquatic life in its entirety) and joke telling.

My niece? Well that betch is another story. She is literally my 4-year-old best friend. I almost feel bad that my sister somehow managed to give birth and be forced to raise what seems to be my child, but I’m not sorry because she is hands down the most fabulous thing I’ve come across since the Bedazzler.

She is also a daily reminder as to why I myself have not yet recreated.

I’m talking about the same girl who demanded to be taken to Stop & Shop every Sunday because “she gets cheese and everyone tells her she’s pretty”, who always reminds me to brush my hair and put makeup on, even if it’s just “scara and gloss” before I leave the house because “you just never know” and whose always good for a solid eye roll and rude comment when an ex-boyfriend is in the near vicinity.

Ex-boyfriend comes up to us at the beach:

Me: “Hads do you remember [insert d-bags name]?”

Hads: Blank stare. Direct eye contact. Multiple blinks.

D-Bag: “Hey Hads!”

Hads: Turns towards me with same emotionless, blank stare. “Why is he talking to us?”

She is the definition of fierce. Homegirl had her own reality series at 3. Sure, I helped film it and post it on the internet since she doesn’t know how to read, but trust me, that girl is going places. Just the other day I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, her response?

“I don’t even care. I just want to be old enough to wear a bra.”

She also recently told me that she’s decided to “take a year off” from school, but I just don’t think that’s realistic. She’s somehow mastered the art of obtaining multiple boyfriends, though none of them actually know they’re her boyfriend. If I could bottle her secrets and sell them, I wouldn’t need to work anymore.

She’s my go-to for advice on anything fashion related and she’s always sympathetic to my issues. Here we are on Wine-down-Wednesday:

**Disclaimer: before anyone goes to the authorities, there is nothing but water in her glass, she calls it “water wine” and refuses to drink liquids out of anything other than a wine glass. I also feel it necessary to point out that I don’t normally dress like a ninja

Soo basically, consider this an open invite for anyone who may need a babysitter to reach out and I’ll let you know my availability. If you need references, here’s a picture of me babysitting last summer. We’re in the middle of playing my favorite game called “Auntie Jenny is hung-over”. The rules are that I lay on the bathroom floor dry heaving while they bring me Gatorade, chicken nuggets and call for help.

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When I was 13, my Mom used to drop my best friend and I off at the Island Queen dock to catch the first boat over to the Vineyard. We loved going to MV for the day. We did the same shit we did in Falmouth but it felt like we were on a separate continent.

We literally did nothing but walk around, eat pizza slices and steal shit from stores. I’m not proud of that last statement, and I literally only did it once and then cried the entire boat ride home because I was convinced the Cops would be waiting for me at the dock, but everyone goes through a shoplifting phase and if you say you didn’t then you probably also deny peeing in the shower.

Seriously, no one likes a liar.

Anyways – back in the 1900’s, most adults, let alone 13 year old poor kids from East Falmouth, didn’t have cell phones and weren’t allowed to have pagers because those “were for drug dealers”. Soo in order to tell my mom what time we needed to be picked up, I would have to call her collect from a payphone on the Vineyard.

I clearly didn’t have the 10 cents required to place a call since I was fucking stealing beanie babies, so was forced to call her collect, and she would get pissed if she had to accept the charges.

My favorite part was trying to fit everything I needed to say into the 3 second window that was supposed to be used for your name.

My mom: “Hello?”

[Operator]: “Hello…will you accept a call from…It’sJennyWe’reTakingThe3OclockBoatBackBye”

Worked every time.

Remember when anyone who was anyone had a Nextel as their primary form of mobile communication? Forget Nokia (actually don’t, because Snake was legit) but Nextel brought communication to a whole new level.

Nothing screamed “I’m the shit” like standing in line at the grocery store or out with friends and hearing the coveted “bleep bleep” followed by your friend’s voice saying something super important like “Hey – you there?” To which you’d naturally take out your high grade walkie-talkie and respond back “Yeah, what’s up?”.

And if someone pulled the border-line stalker move of ‘alerting’ you so that your phone would beep until you answered? Jesus, I could only dream of being that wanted.

The best was when you were going back and forth with someone and you both tried to say something at the same time and you got that awful noise that was equivalent to a whale being murdered by a band of Asians. Worst.

Oh and there was also Boost mobile, which was like a ghetto version of Nextel. Apparently it was more affordable, which basically just meant that if you used one you were poor.

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Twitter: Hippie - Insane Tony

Awk Sauce – Episode 1

I’ve had my fair share of relationships, some good, others bad. Some serious, others not-so serious…but regardless of the relationship, I almost ALWAYS have had at least ONE awkward moment with every man (let’s be honest, they’re usually ‘boys’) I’ve ever dated. Here are some of my favorites:

**Disclaimer: If you’re one of said men listed below, sorry for being so awk. Hope you don’t mind that I’m using our past to launch myself into Blogger stardom. And by ‘hope you don’t mind’ I mean I don’t care. 

Me dating:

Bow Tie Guy

I briefly dated a guy that wore bow ties as every day wear. You’re probably thinking, “and you dated this guy..why?!” well..because he resembled Leonardo Dicaprio, was older and distinguished and honestly anyone who has the balls to rock a bow tie deserves a fucking shot.

I don’t really recall any super awkward moments between him and I, other than the time I went to his condo and discovered he kept a mannequin in his closet. Like, that he dressed up. He said its name was “R Kelly” because it was “trapped in the closet” – I instantly found that acceptable. It didn’t end up working out because we “wanted different things”

The Diabetic

This guy was awesome. He was super funny, down to earth and I honestly had a lot of fun on our first date. Until he walked me out of the restaurant to put me in a cab and I proceeded to eat shit and face plant into the middle of Boylston.

He of course helped me up, only to discover that I had ripped my tights and was bleeding profusely from the knees and forehead. He was an absolute doll, and ran back into the restaurant to get me napkins and band aids. I noticed he had blood all over his shirt and I was mortified. I began to apologize but could tell he was annoyed, so naturally thought the only way to recover from this was to make an AIDS joke.

WHAT?!

Me: Oh no, you got blood on your shirt..I’m SO sorry!
Diabetic: It’s okay..not a big deal (visibly annoyed)
Me: Okay..well I’m really sorry….and like, I don’t have AIDS or anything soo

Really? So now I’ve not only just bleed all over this guy after knowing him for a mere 4 hours but now I’m talking about an immunodeficiency virus that literally almost wiped out all of the 1980’s. Now I’m embarrassed, which means I’m nervous, which means I ramble.

Me: Yeah. Sorry, that was awkward, I just meant that I’m sorry I bleed on you, I’m really bad with blood. And needles. Like I would literally die before I got a shot.
Diabetic: I’m a diabetic..

I gave up and went home.

Surprisingly, we dated for a few months and had a lot of fun together. Also, since he had blood sugar issues he always had candy (side note: Gentleman – no matter how weird or unattractive you are, candy will always get you at the very least a hug, and if you are in fact weird and ugly then lesbianhonest dropping $1.99 on a pack of lifesavers is your best investment since lotion and tissues).

Ultimately, The Diabetic and I didn’t end up working out because I was too busy wasting time with a Zac Efron/Brian Austin Green look-a-like who sent me surprise presents in the mail. Whatever, act like you wouldn’t have left The Diabetic and his Starbursts for a shot with your 90210/high school tween crush..

Sigh.

Nintendo-No-Friendo

We’ve all had the whole soldier/marine/navy/hot guy in camo that likes automatic weapons fling at some point in time in our dating career. One, in particular, was fun for a while but was more into planning the zombie Apocalypse that he’s SURE is upon us and gaming with his military bro’s than actually acknowledging my existence.

I wouldn’t necessarily say we had any awkward dating moments, outside of my 4 year old niece being creepily obsessed with him. Her and I are absolute besties, so she tends to like whatever I like, do what I do and dress like me (she’s super smart). But for some weird reason, she was OBSESSED with this guy. He literally almost never spoke unless it was about killing something and ran in the complete opposite direction whenever she was around.

The first time she ever met him, she came strutting into the room wearing nothing but a pair of kitten heels, called him the wrong name and offered him cookies. She’s a fucking genius. I even overheard her once on her pink plastic Barbie phone planning an imaginary trip to Martha’s Vineyard with him.

Nintendo-No-Friendo and I didn’t last very long because I prefer human interaction over virtual ones and I annoyed the living fuck out of him. We’re totes good friends now, though. To this day, when I bring a new guy home my niece will just look at the new guy with a blank stare and whisper “You’ll never be Nintendo-No-Friendo” and walks away. She’s my idol.

I totally have more awkward dating moments to share, especially as I hopefully get more dates (though probably not after people read this shit). But bottom line, I’ve learned a lot from my past relationships. Mostly…

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Twitter: Hippie - Insane Tony

I’m sure you’re all wondering how a classy ginger such as myself came to join forces with the rugged Real Cape crew. Well as is everything that happens in my life, it was both random and creepy.

I was originally approached by a Real Cape writer we shall call ‘DaBoss’ and shortly after was additionally approached by a former high school classmate of mine who reassured me that although he thought I was a total Cut-Up-Not-Toasted in High School, thought my blog was hilarious and wanted to talk about the possibility of a collaboration.

From there, DaBoss and I coordinated schedules and I headed over to The Beach House to meet him and the others for a super formal meeting at 1030PM while heavily intoxicated. I obviously ate shit and face planted when walking through the front door because I’m me and awkwardly waited at the bar while the fetus of a bartender hit on me.

One of the ring leaders, we’ll call him “Santa”, because he was extremely jolly and kept asking me to sit on his lap, requested I join him in the back function room to speak. I made a joke about being murdered and he reassured me that rape almost always happens first and he didn’t have time for that. I immediately felt a connection.

The remaining members joined us and we began drinking, I mean talking business. I think I was a little betchy to the Minion they call Ham Sandwich, which I’d apologize for, but he was just so adorbs I couldn’t help but give him a hard time because I wanted to put him in my pocket and take him out when I’m having a bad day for something to point and laugh at. In a loving way, obviously.

Once business was over, one of the crew, let’s call him….Leppy McAwk because he’s super Irish and almost as awkward as I am, began spitting game like a fucking Llama on acid. I was picking up what he was putting down for a short time because he was totally my “good looking stoner” type, but got pissed when he challenged a black girl to a dance off with me.

Why he thought it was a good idea to make a red-headed white girl in an Old Navy sweater attempt to drop it like it’s hot with a Beyonce wannabe is beyond me, but thanks for that. Coincidentally when the night was over homeboy needed a ride home and I was the only one able to bring him. Smooth…

The entire ride home he kept on coming up with ways to try and get me to come into his house but I wasn’t having it. He even went as far as to tell me I could come in for “some water and The Oscars”. Seriously?

I dropped him off and went home to pass out in my 9 year old nephew’s twin bunk beds because I can. The next night I went to Brody’s to visit my heroin-dealing uneducated best friend (previous blog post) and low and behold Leppy McAwk strolled in. His face immediately dropped when he saw me because I obviously called him out on his super sweet pimping skills the night before in front of his pals.

Soo basically the point I’m trying to get at is that when you put together a group of degenerates from the same hometown that share a love of talking shit and pissing people off in a creative and witty way: you’ve got The Real Cape meets The Glitter Ginger, betches.

 

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Twitter: Hippie - Insane Tony