I have a lot to update you readers on, but as a way to satisfy the cravings of your soul, I am turning the floor over to my dear friend. This dear friend and I met by chance one Christmas season and though we did not make out that weekend, we should have. We share so many commonalities from political beliefs to good looks that it is incredulous to think we are not soul mates. another thing we share is our almost perfect ability to attract nothing but morons, tools and toolettes alike. This dear has a track record much like my own. Even when we're not looking for a dbag, we find them. He finds the women who belong with my men. My men could build the shed these women would live in. He collects the jellies to my peanut butters, the peas to my pods. Please get excited and read on. His story will amaze you. I will be back.
I would like to first introduce myself. My name is PR and I’ll be guest blogging here at the Toolshed. At first glance I probably seem like a tool, but with closer inspection you will find that I simply play the same game. I’m a disciple of Mystery, Ronald Reagan, Social Distortion and every Red Bull girl out there who ever made the mistake of double dating on me. I think Tucker Max is a douche in general and I really make an effort to treat women with the highest degree of respect. But the West being what it is, we’re all a little nuts out here from the constant sunshine and exorbitant taxes. The creator of The Toolshed was gracious enough to allow me to contribute. I live in out west and work in the public policy/public relations arena. I first started documenting my dates and escapades about a year ago in the form of emails to two very good friends. Love me or hate me, this is one of my stories:
There are milestones in every person's life that mark who they are, what they are, and where they will be one day. The birth of a child, a game winning touchdown, beating that douchebag frat boy in a keg race, all good examples. However, there is nothing quite like spending someone else's money and getting away with it. Bankers and financial CEO's get away with it every day. But unlike them, I do not face any public outcry or media scrutiny…yet.
That very thing happened to me last weekend. I knew that Haley was in the city and had been expecting her to crash at my pad. So I stay at work past 5 and receive a call from her. She's at the Hyatt all by herself (score). I tell her I will get there when I get there, she tells me to shut up and hurry the hell up. I am not concerned because she doesn't know anyone else in town and as is often the case, I am the only game in town.
There's a guy in another office down the hall that dresses very well and is obviously well liked by the ladies. He has a name, but I didn't bother to remember it. Instead, I call him "Dapper Dan." Anyways, Dapper Dan is in his office working late and I drop by to say, "sup?" and give him the obligatory bro-fist-pound. I feel great about myself and better than Dapper Dan because I know I am Hyatt and Hottie bound, and he isn't.
I leave the office with an obscene amount of swagger in my walk. This is it I tell myself: the dream of every overweight 40-something single software salesman. Let's face it, this chica bonita is as close to a "10" as they come. So many of my friends are either getting married or have a ball and chain, but not me. But the great work of theatre known as my single years will end one day. I can just see it now: weekends with the insufferable in-laws at their beach bungalow, endless shopping trips to the newest mall, cutesy photo shoots for the Christmas card, involuntary trips to farmers markets, picking out new shades, yard work, dinner parties, never doing or saying anything right and of course, a spouse-imposed curfew. Not that I have anything at all against married couples, I’m just not ready for it yet. To commit to such a thing would be a disaster for me.
Upon arrival she tells me she has a bf that she loves very much but is all alone in the city and is bored. I laugh at this, or more accurately I laugh at him. Cruel you think? I think not. I believe in free will, individualism and the pursuit of happiness. I ask her how she can justify such infidelity. She says boredom. She asks me the same question, and I tell her "flexible morals." I ask her what she is doing here, and she replies with "none of your business." Hmm..okay, but what are you really doing here? She says an exam. I don't see this as truthful given her body language. She tells me to drop it. I drop it.
You know that scene from every movie where a dude's buttons get completely ripped off of his dress shirt? There are seven buttons on a dress shirt. Needless to say, someone is now missing three (score), and f*ck if he knows how to sew them back on.
I mean Haley really is beautiful. She's modeled for Nordstrom apparently and has been doing such things since an early age. Why she studied finance is beyond me. She's always wearing a new perfume (which is always fantastic) and maintains that oh-so-excellent tight body despite eating like an NFL lineman every time we go out. She's prone to mood swings, "Don't call my mom hot!," and "you are so emotionally unavailable sometimes!" And I like a girl who can wear heels. I especially like the fact (and this may be bordering on bizarre) that she's one of those girls that every older guy stares at when she walks by. She sets the bar for me, always reminding me of how high I should aim. Of course sometimes my vision gets blurry. Hey, it happens to the best of us.
A great night was had. We drank and ate our weight in gold. And who paid for all of this? Ha ha. Well, "Daddy" financed the entire thing. Daddy is an environmental lawyer and would just implode if he knew about everything. I'd cash in my IRA to see his face when he opens up his credit card statement. Thanks Sierra Club!
I woke up and did the cliché tip-toe to gather my things. In the movies the hot girl rolls over and says, “call me” or “leaving so soon” complete with an adorable smile while clutching the sheet. Not this one. She coldly snaps, “where the hell do you think you’re going?” No good morning, no giggle, no request for more time with me. I tell her I have a meeting and have to go. I don’t know why I did this, but I just needed to leave.
I left the Hyatt and walked to the gym with my tussled hair and missing buttons. People stared and I just giggled to myself. My neck had hickey’s, I reeked of alcohol and looked like a common vagrant in dress clothes – as if I had received them from a charity “Dress For Success For the Homeless” but instead of going to an interview I went back to the streets begging for change for another 40.
After the gym (40 pull-ups in a row!) I had breakfast at the Irish pub around the corner with coffee and the latest issue of The Economist. As I devoured the second poached egg I thought about how ridiculous my life has become, how terrible of a person I am, and other asides. And then I said "f*ck it" and ordered a Bloody Mary. I downed that and went back to bed for the rest of the day…I needed it.
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