This week has been thrown out of whack. I stumbled into Monday, not really believing that it could be Monday and sleeping through 2 out of 3 of my alarms. That resulted in a seriously scrubby Bettie rolling into the hair salon after nine hours of disgruntled work. When the first words out of your mouth at a hair appointment are, “you might have to wash it twice”, you know you’re not having a good day. Tuesday was a scary, lonely day due to my failing memory and my phone’s place on my bed rather than in my purse at work. I skipped out on my usual Tuesday martini-fueled socializing night in favor of watching Glee and New Girl, only to have my shoddy TV antennae setup fail on me. By Wednesday morning, I had worn slippers to work. Twice.
Feeling entitled to an after-work martini halfway through my strange adventure of a week, I decided to stop into the bar I had neglected the night before. My lovely lady-friend bartender was at her usual post and so were a few others I was delighted to see. Rather than one extra-dirty martini and some dinner as I had originally planned, I ended up making a marathon night out of it. 90s music was pumping from the juke (courtesy of some leftover credits and a great partner in crime) and I was at rapt attention to a stirring, albeit slightly TMI conversation I was having with a friend about his boyfriend, and well…what he loves about him… As you all well know, the combination of 90s music and vodka makes me a very happy girl and more apt to say yes to more vodka. This happened. I was feeling great, chatting with everyone and making new friends. One of these new friends gestured to a dude standing near us at the bar, and I responded by giving him a knowing look about the guy’s apparel. I made no outward indication of these thoughts. At least not purposely.
Mr. Tap Out was wearing a white Ed Hardy (or similar) zip-up hoodie with NO SHIRT on underneath. It was unzipped halfway revealing a disturbingly tan and hairless chest. His hair was doing something Elvis would have been ashamed of and he had large aviator sunglasses on. Indoors. At night. His powers of perception weren’t harmed by his cloud of douche and he noticed my raised eyebrow of amusement at his outfit. He didn’t like it. He took that as a cue to start screaming at me from three feet away. He yelled things about how I was poor, fat, ugly and hopeless. He also felt the need to tell me that his outfit was $300 and I was mad at him because I was wearing an old T-Shirt. In his defense, I was wearing an old T-Shirt. It had Eric Clapton’s face on it and I had cut it up so that my cleavage would hopefully distract from the fact that I had cut it up. I was also wearing a delicious scarf and some fierce 5-inch stilettos. So…I think you can imagine my shock at his mockery.
In all honesty, I don’t remember much of what I yelled back at him. I do know that I was trying to make the situation less embarrassing for myself and everyone around me, and that it was no doubt much wittier and more hilarious than anything he was saying. I may have suggested we take a bar-wide poll to address this “who wore it better” situation. He didn’t go for it. He did attempt to hit on my friend almost immediately after his murderous tirade on my self-esteem. She replied by suggesting he be nicer to people. He said, “tell someone who cares” in a random Boston accent that only existed for that statement. I’m still running that one through my mind. My friend did indeed tell someone who cares, and got the lovely bartender to come and address the overload of doucheness in the area. She asked him if there was a problem and he responded by hurling his full glass of beer at her feet. It shattered everywhere and he was being escorted out of the bar by two giant security guys, yelling about how we’ll be sorry because his family is famous around town…or something equally “do you even know who my father is?” As he was turning away, and after I threatened him with physical violence more times than I’m proud of, I noticed he had the logo for “Tap Out” tattooed on the back of his neck. That was THE single douchiest tattoo I’ve ever seen, and that includes the guy who proudly showed me his Monster energy drink ink.
Mr. Tap Out wasn’t going down so easily, and waited in all his Jager-bomb rage outside the bar. I was chomping at the bit to let out my inner J-Woww (in a repeat of the incident in Eastown last fall when I punched someone while wearing my bridesmaid’s dress) and desperate to get outside to continue our confrontation and let this guy know he can’t go around calling girls fat and ugly. Even if it’s most likely as a result of his jealousy over my conversation with a new friend. He had a confusing outburst of, “he’ll never sleep with you, he looks like an Abercrombie model!” The guy I was talking to was attractive, but I was definitely not trying to sleep with him. If at some point during your conversation you stand back-to-back to prove you’re taller than a man without your shoes on, you are not trying to see him naked. At least I’m not. At any rate, I deduced that he was probably angry at the world because his homo-erotic feelings didn’t mesh with his MMA persona, and had perhaps gotten him punched in the face once or twice (hence his picking on a girl). I wanted to remind him what getting punched feels like. Keep in mind that I don’t fight. I don’t know how and I’ve never been in a real fight to find out. For some reason, when I’m drinking I think I’m the toughest bitch in town and I don’t let my lack of skills stop me from mean-mugging the best of them.
It’s a good thing I have friends around me who force me out the back door and remind me that I most likely could not, in fact, kick the ass of a big douche-face guy. Thanks pals! My alter ego goes un-proven wrong yet again!