Category — peopels freak me the frak out

Yesterday, after a long day of dental torture, grocery shopping, and bank deposits I picked up Dane in our rented Zipcar and we headed over to Pepinos to pick up delicious burritos for dinner.

Pepinos has a tendency to fuck us over in terms of our dietary idiosyncrasies so Dane usually stands guard to make sure no one reaches for the goddamn fat making cheese while making my burrito and also that the same cheese seeking hand goes nowhere near any vegetables for his. And because I like to help I usually grab a copy of The Mercury and sit down in a corner. For years, this has worked really, really well for us and nothing weirder than getting short chipped has ever happened.

But yesterday something did. And that something was named Jeff. And he was…oh my God ladies…he was HAWT. And, and, and…oh goodness…he sat down and introduced himself to me.

“Hi, I’m Jeff, by the way”.

At least, I think that’s what he said because mostly I was mesmerized by the man shaped pheromone gun aimed at my face.

Internet, I had no idea what to do and it didn’t help one bit that Dane was laughing himself silly watching the whole thing go down.

So I just sat there awkwardly, determined to act like a lady who is happily married, but also totally humiliated that this hot guy was hitting on me, on ME, and now probably thought I was a jerk – or worse – mildly retarded.

As soon as our burritos were ready, I shot out of my chair and mumbled, “nice to meet you” and we left. I thanked Dane for not coming over and messing up my game (even though I clearly have no game and never will) and he said, “Of course honey. That guy was so good looking, I would’ve fucked him”.

We are going to be married FOREVER.

I may have had fourteen margaritas prior to this outing. Megan may have had fifteen which actually is NOT why she ended up gunning her car onto the grass and then back onto the raceway. That happened because she is awesome.

Justin took these pictures – I think while driving his car at speeds upwards of one million miles per hour. He’s like the paparazzi. Or magic.

Last night we went to a special party for a special band hosted by our special friend Dave Allen. I was there to interview the special band for the Mercury. That sounds exciting, doesn’t it? As if my life is a whirlwind of chic cocktail parties, intimate dinners, fashion shows, and rock star parties, right? And, well, I guess it is, isn’t it?

JEALOUS?

Except, here’s the thing. I am AFEARED of people. People totally freak me out, so THANK GOD Justin and Megan and Dane were with me, otherwise I probably would have spent the whole party hiding in Dave and Paddy’s bedroom, re-lipsticking and organizing the pens in my purse.

So Justin (thank you, Justin) led me through the kitchen (after making sure I’d had the requisite two glasses of wine necessary for me to form coherent sentences outside the four walls of my apartment…and the internet) and then positioned me near the band – then left (omg). Lucky for me, a nice girl in a pretty dress happened to be standing behind the band and also next to me, so I said to her, “I’m sorry, are you trapped there? Did I trap you in there with my standing right here?” and she responded with a funny something about not knowing anyone at the party except her friend who was talking to my friend Jon (Jonny) Ragel (we go way back on the intertubes) and after that we were bffs. And her friend happened to be Jenny Tatone who is a music writer (and has written many, many more things than I have for the Mercury) and they took me in hand and introduced me to the band. Yay! Bravo for Kiala the Insecure Journalist.

I’m thinking of having that made into a placard. I have no idea what the difference is between a placard and a card but one sounds more impressive, doesn’t it?

I think I should also mention that those boys are very good looking and the way I handle talking to good looking boys is I pretend that I am a supermodel and everyone knows how well supermodels and rock stars get along, am I right? Also, supermodels are not required to speak much. Or be intelligent, in any way. Or eat. Being a supermodel is surprisingly relaxing. Until somebody (DAVE) sticks a video camera in your face and asks you questions and then posts the vimeo on the interweb and you realize that you are not a supermodel. Do you know what you do then? You go to Taco Bell with your friends for a Fourth Meal.

Still, I’m very pleased to have been thrown to the lions and come out smelling like roses.

Or like lions.

I don’t get similes.