How to Make Your Boyfriend Hate You

If you’re new around here, you may want to start The Grown Up Story from the beginning. But you may not, and that’s okay too. This story stands alone.

The Grown Up and I had been dating for approximately a month when I decided to bring him along to a birthday party for a friend of mine, Brad. He was several years my senior-we were celebrating his 30th birthday, and it was kind of a big deal.

My girlfriends and I had spent the previous year hanging out with Brad and his group of friends, drinking, flirting, drinking, drinking, and more drinking. It was a group of hot messes all dealing with their own version of relationship anxiety (each of us were battling our own volatile demons from relationships past), and in order to forget about them, we drank. A lot.

Recipe for disaster - new boyfriend plus bar.

By the time The Grown Up came around, we were all starting to drift to our own spaces and rebuild the worlds that crumbled to bring us together. So I hadn’t actually hung out with this group in a few months. But was anticipating a shit show of a party-one we’d been talking about for a year, and so of course, I RSVPed yes for both The Grown Up and myself.

We arrived for dinner at an upscale bar in the suburbs, where we sat near one of my most lovely, cheerful friends who was SO giddy with excitement to meet The Grown Up. She squee’d and oohed and awwed because he really was smart and wonderful as I had described to her. She told me, as good girlfriends tend to do, I deserved someone this amazing,  and I believed her.

Unfortunately, she would not be joining us for the second half of the evening. And none of my other girlfriends had decided to join us for the epic birthday party to end all birthday parties. So I had a grand total of two actual friends (the birthday boy and his bestie) and several acquaintances to hang out with me and my new boyfriend on a party bus downtown to a bar in Wrigleyville.

Why was I the only one who couldn’t see this was a recipe for disaster?

So we hopped on a party bus, and the Grown Up made quasi friends with some of the guys in the group. If you recall, on our first date he revealed he wasn’t good with people, but it felt like he was doing a pretty damn good job with them from where I was sitting.

When we got to the bar, though, all hell broke loose. There was drinking on the party bus, and then we had a table just off the dance floor reserved for bottle service. For those of you who may not know, bottle service is when they have full bottles of liquor at your table for your group’s consumption. Needless to say, I got pretty fucking drunk. The Grown Up wasn’t a big hard alcohol drinker, so he had a couple of beers, but nothing crazy.

I dragged the poor man on the dance floor and rubbed up on him like a horny college student. We danced with my friends, and some of the girls in the group became my dance floor besties, grinding on each other in a fight to be the sexiest group of girls under the colorful LED lights. We weren’t. The music seemed to get louder, the smoke thickened around us, and the room started spinning. I was there, but I wasn’t.

Eventually, The Grown Up returned to our table. I followed, realizing that I wasn’t being the generous, sweet girlfriend that I wanted to be. He seemed, frustrated, but I didn’t know how to respond. So, I apologized. For what, I don’t even know. Was I apologizing for being drunk? For him not having a good time? For not knowing everyone in our group? For my friends who weren’t entertaining enough for him? I just knew I felt awful. And drunk. And feeling awful and drunk is never a good combination. So  I drank more. I sat down on an elevated booth bench that extended out past the booth and The Grown Up stood in front of me, trying to make conversation over the music. It didn’t work out well.

Somehow, whilst sitting (SITTING) on the booth bench, I managed to fall over. I wish I could tell you how. I really really do. But I couldn’t. And I fell. Off the bench. Onto the floor. Like a complete asshole. I wasn’t even showing off that time. I fell down, and The Grown Up helped me up as I apologized. Again and again. We collected my purse, and the items that had fallen out of it. The Grown Up was growing increasingly frustrated, and we couldn’t just…leave because we had taken a party bus to get there. We were slaves to the party schedule.

We left the dance floor area, and proceeded to sit at a table downstairs, where I continued to apologize profusely for my errors. The Grown Up tried to chat with me, but I could tell that I was irritating him. I thought I was going to start crying right then and there. But I didn’t. I braved through the awkward last 45 minutes with my boyfriend of less than a month and got on the bus. I continued to apologize until the moment I passed out in The Grown Up’s arms on the bus, about 2 minutes into the drive home.

On the drive home, The Grown Up was almost puked on. Someone DID puke, just not on him. Someone almost spilled beer on him. He ended up helping clean the bus a little bit. He gave extra money to the person who organized the party to tip the driver extra. And I slept. Like an asshole. And kept apologizing when I woke up.

We left the bus and The Grown Up drove me home. I was supposed to sleep at his place, but he took me home instead. I panicked. And apologized even MORE.

I was a hot mess. I felt sick to my stomach. I had really fucked things up, this time, I was sure of it. What was I thinking?

The Grown Up told me to go inside and sleep it off, that we’d talk the next day. But I couldn’t understand in my idiot drunken stupor what was going on. Was he breaking up with me? I didn’t know. But I was terrified.

Eventually, I went inside. And cried myself to sleep.

I really hoped he would call the next day.

How do you handle problems when you’re drunk? Have you ever freaked out about your relationship because of something you did or said? What’s the stupidest thing you’ve done while drinking?

Click the image for the final story in the tale of The Grown Up.

I waited a long time for this. And now it's the End of an era

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Get Into Fights In My Sleep, But Nothing Compares To Those Reindeer Dreams

It’s a thing, okay. It’s been a thing since I was a little kid. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and have complete, albeit random and sometimes weird, conversations with people.

The following stories are hearsay. They are my memories of stories from my friends and family. I cannot confirm or deny my sleep talking.

I’ve gotten in fights in my sleep.

I’ll never forget camping with my best friends from grade school for my I don’t know – tenth birthday or something – and we were all sleeping on the top bunk of the motorhome (yeah, my family was cool enough to have a motorhome). The friend sleeping beside me heard me mumble in my sleep, “Oh no you don’t!” which, on it’s own, seems pretty innocent…But when her sister, who was sleeping with her feet to our heads in the middle of us, woke up with a gigantic bruise on her arm where my leg was…and I woke up with a small bruise on MY arm where HER leg was…the midnight tale seemed pretty clear.

Another time, my cousins and I were having a sleepover, and apparently I always fell asleep early. I woke up in the middle of the night while they were playing and watching TV and demanded, “WHERE’S MY PEN?!” I suppose I said this a few times before passing back the fuck out.

There’ve been several other instances of sleep talking in my world, especially with Brian. He always tells me the next morning, “You were talking a lot last night.”

And then I tell him he needs to start remembering what I say.

So this morning. This happened.

I talk in my sleep

I’m pretty sure I…

  1. Have the BEST boyfriend in the world who sends me e-mails when I’m sleeping.

and…

  1. HAVE THE BEST FUCKING DREAMS EVER.

 

Blog friends, do you talk in your sleep? Sleepwalk? Do you hear stories about shit you did while you were under the influence of the sandman? Do you dream about reindeer? Because you should. What do you dream about?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Fit Inside a Box and Other Weight Loss Related Updates

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I do that shit, myself.

Ok, so fitting inside a gigantic grill box doesn’t make me skinny. I get that. But I’m on this weight loss journey. And it’s working. I’ve been eating healthy foods and tracking my movement/activity. I’m down 7.5 pounds since starting this Pocketful of Quirky Grace DietBet and that pleases me greatly.

So much so, that I had one of my little photo shoots just for you guys. Inside a box.

Because this coming weekend (birthday proper is on Friday [also go enter my birthday giveaway]) involves a wedding, a dinner with Brian’s brothers (his younger brother and I share a birthday), house hunting, and celebration with my favorite person on the planet, my family celebrated with me on Monday, as we christened Dad’s new grill.

My brother and boyfriend put the grill together in the backyard, while I chatted with Mom in the house. I thought I’d join the boys out back, so I meandered out there. As soon as I stepped outside, I saw this magical beast of a grill box and I knew what needed to happen.

I crawled into the large box. And I fit! I knew I was going to have fun for hours. Or at least minutes. It reminded me of that time my best friend, Mark, got a new TV…so my pal Liz and I played in the box for hours. And wouldn’t let him throw it away. Yes. We were adults. Obviously.

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The best part was when Brian rolled the box over. I wish there was video of THAT. He’s apparently glad there’s not.

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For the record, the grease stains are from my sunscreen, not sweat. Dicks.

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Who needs glamour shots, when you can have a Quirky Chrissy style photo shoot?

What’s the strangest thing you ever did during your own mini photo shoot? Would you have jumped right into a large empty box? What would you do if you had an awesome box like this?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Every Two Seconds Someone Punches Someone Else in the Arm-And That’s Why We Can’t Have Nice Things…or World Peace

A conversation Brian and I had this morning had me in tears I was laughing so hard. I had every intention of getting on the train and typing it in my phone so that I didn’t forget it. And then I got on the train and got all chatty…and boom. It was lost.

So when I went to write the post at lunch, I was all, SHIT! I forgot what we were laughing about. Or rather, what I was laughing about. Luckily, when you have a boyfriend as cool as mine, he’ll text you a little reminder. And then you win at life.

Brian: What do you want for your birthday?

Me (thinking): I hate this question
Me (talking): I don’t know. World peace.
Brian: Okay. I will give you world peace. Two whole seconds of it.
Me: That’s impossible. The whole world is never asleep for the same two seconds.
Brian: No one has to be asleep. I will give you two seconds of world peace. You don’t have to trust me.
Me: You’re not going to give me world peace.
Brian: Yes I am. I’ll give you two seconds of world peace. It’ll be good. You’ll love it.
Me: It’s not even possible. Something bad happens in every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of…
Brian: No. I’ll give you two seconds.
Me: I don’t believe you.
Brian: You’ll get two seconds of peace. I swear. And I will tell you ahead of time so that it’s an actual prediction, but it’s up to you to confirm it. But you will probably punch me in the shoulder during that time out of spite like a typical human.
Me: I don’t have to punch you in the arm. It’s not going to be two seconds of world peace.
Brian: You’re going to punch me in the arm in those two seconds aren’t you?
Me: Yes.
birthday dessert

This. I want this for my birthday. Cheese in my dessert.

I hate it when people ask what I want for my birthday. So the next time someone asks, I want something really clever to say. Any ideas? What do you want for YOUR birthday?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!