Why? Because, though it was only Tuesday, the week was off to a very rough, unsexy start.
Bummer #1:
My cycle was acting up. There’s nothing like an “Am I knocked up?” freak out to drain all the energy out of an otherwise bubbly girl. (And there’s nothing that confirms how smart a breakup was until you realize how terrified you would’ve been to reproduce with your ex.) When I saw a single pink line appear on the magic wand otherwise known as EPT, I thanked the reproductive Gods. Another bullet dodged.
Ahh, but the stress fest was just beginning…
Bummer #2:
Slump Buster texted me out of the blue after three and a half months sans contact.
(For my newer readers, a quick recap: Slump Buster was the man who broke my 14-month-dry-spell back in January, after which, I fell hard and he fucking trampled all over my heart. More than once. After months of fleeting bliss interspersed with agonizing mind fucks and a cross-country pregnancy scare, I asked him not to contact me anymore. He obeyed…for a while, then requested a reunion during which I kinda-sorta thought he’d pop the question. Obviously, he didn’t. Our last exchange involved me repeating the no-contact plea and his multiple phone calls ending with a voice mail stating that, just to be clear, he was the one ending things with me...and it was all this blog's fault. Uh-huh.)
So, there I was, fresh out of BodyFlow class, basking in my yogic glow, when the little red light on my Blackberry flashed.
Are you OK out there in the world? Slump Buster wanted to know.
The text was sent from Slump Buster’s “secret” cell phone. Did I forget to mention that? Yes, the man has two phones. And no, I did not know that until the bitter end of the relationship...when I “caught” him in a lie thanks to a Facebook photo…at a cage party. (My dating life is stranger than fiction, I tell ya.) Guess which phone number I’d had all along? The B-list number.
That should be water under the bridge, but dam it (that’s an environmental--and perhaps a beaver--pun, people, ‘cause Slump Buster loved to hate my puns), I’m still pissed about that. Just looking at the text made my skin explode with acne. Icky visual, I know, but that’s how powerful an effect that man has on my hormones.
And yet…the yearning for the 100% pure and unadulterated Alpha pheromones that Slump Buster emits is still alive and humming deep inside…hmmmmmmmmmmm…
But as Dessa reminded me via CD as I debated about whether or not to reply to the text, “You’ve been here before. You know where it goes. It goes down.”
So I ignored Slump Buster’s text, as well as the subsequent text a couple hours later…but it took a humungous peanut butter and banana sandwich to keep my mouth occupied and my fingers off the phone so I wouldn’t contact the last man I was really ga-ga for.
Speaking of ga-ga…
Bummer #3:
Despite sending several sexts to Josh Miller (the yummy drummer of The Goondas that I’ve been crushing on) inviting him to cook up some trouble with me over the past couple weeks, my booty calls had been ignored. (Hmph.) How embarrassing was it going to be to have to face him and pretend that I hadn’t telephonically thrown myself at him and been rejected?
Ugh. It was all too much. As my aural engagement neared, I dreaded going to the show unaccompanied. I considered—and even went so far as to draft—a text to Playboy to see if he wanted to, well, play with me and the boy band. Ultimately, though, I recognized my insecurity for what it was and stretched out on the floor, put my feet up-the-wall, and covered my face in a cold wash cloth until departure time arrived.
To psych myself up to go out, I thought about the sadistic pleasure I get from showing up at events where I know my presence might make someone uncomfortable. Whether I bugged Josh or he bedded me, the night would be a win-win either way. So I went.
I arrived at the very hip Nick & Eddie venue just as The Goondas were setting up their equipment. To my surprise, "my boys" (because that is how I think of them: incestuous jail bait, though they’re all legal and unrelated) looked really different than I remembered from our Debauchery Pasta interview a month prior. Andy had a new crew cut and ‘stache (Him: “I grew it out on tour.” Me: “And that’s all the facial hair you have to show for it?!”); Josh was clean-shaven and looked…well, short. Jackson looked about the same, as did their teddy-bear manager (who I lovingly refer to as “Cody Broccoli”), and Brenden, well, we’ve never spoken offstage so I’m not sure what he looks like in a normal capacity.
For some reason, I think Andy felt the need to reintroduce us all.
“And there’s Josh…” he said, pointing out the hunk o’ beefcake assembling his drum set in the background.
“Ahh, yes. The one that’s been ignoring my texts,” I said snarkily.
Josh smirked knowingly at me but didn’t actually respond. I couldn’t tell if he was being shy or ignoring me like a lowly groupie. Whatever. The rest of the guys were very welcoming and warm.
We went outside, where Andy filled me in on their recent tour: “We saw a lot of really cool stuff…and a lot of really boring shit. Like Indiana.” All the while, Josh smoked a few feet away from me with a “beefy” girl (someone else's word, not mine) who I assumed was the yummy drummer’s flavor-of-the-week…and my cock-blocker. Grr.
Soon the shock rockers took the stage and brought the noise. The Goondas aren’t just musicians; they’re performers. And they play like 20-somethings fuck: loud, hard, and fast, with the climax arriving just a tad too soon. While this gig was mostly tamer than the previous Kitty Cat Klub show I’d witnessed, there was one crucial difference: this time, Josh (who was in my direct line of sight) not only whipped off his shirt, he also shed his jeans. The show ended with him standing and banging away on the drums, clothed only in his boxer shorts. I coulda sworn he was showing off on purpose just to torture me. It worked. I was dripping. And I wasn’t even sweating.
After the show, I talked shop with Cody Broccoli briefly, but as sleepiness descended and the realization that I was so not going to get laid hit me, I said my goodbyes. Cody gave me a very tight hug (Oh my! Not in front of the children!) and I headed toward the door…where Josh was standing smack dab in my exit path.
Now, we all know Man Eater is not one to slink away from confrontation, so I grabbed Josh’s bare, very tan, bicep (So help me, Colonel Sanders, I could eat that man’s arm like a drumstick), leaned in and said, “You are such a fucking tease.”
Josh chuckled and exclaimed, “It’s fun!”
Yeah, but not as fun as fucking me!!!
Okay, I didn't say that. But I wish I had. Instead I turned and walked away, hoping that Josh was watching my fine ass sashay back to my car and regretting what could’ve been a really hot one-night-stand.
I merged onto the highway, driving geriatric speed and feeling drained. I love nothing more than hitting the local music scene and schmoozing with all these testosterone-fueled firecrackers, but it takes a lot more oomph to do so without a wingman.
I thought again about Slump Buster’s text and fought the temptation to reply. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when ignoring someone is the healthy choice and when you’re doing so just to punish that person because it feels kind of good when they want it so bad and you have the power to decide whether or not to give it up. (Phew. Still following?) I was pretty sure my motivation was the former (and Josh’s was the latter. Have I said “GRR” yet?).
Besides, I reminded myself, since when is a text enough to lure me back? Aren’t I due for the Grand Gesture after all I’ve gone through with Slump Buster? Our history merits at least a lavish dinner (I’m thinking lobster) and some serious bling (Tiffany’s?) before I could even contemplate putting my heart on the line for him again.
Okay, that’s not true. I’m not that superficial. But it would take major self-disclosure on his part for me to trust him...and for me to trust myself around him.
So I did the safe (and smart?) thing. I kept my fingers off the phone, arrived home, and did the meditation that my yoga mentor prescribed to me.
“Be careful about the intention you set when you do this,” she warned me. “I’ve seen proof in my own life that this works. It’s really powerful.”
While I won’t give away what I’ve been “om”ing every night for, I’ll just say the evidence has begun to appear…
And with that ambiguous cliffhanger, here’s a video clip of mine from The Goondas’ performance the other night. I regret that it’s so brief, but if you had eye candy like that mere feet away from you (in boxer shorts, no less!!!), you wouldn’t want to watch it through a dinky camera lens either!
And, if I may give myself props, I was flattered to see that Andrea Swensson, music editor for the City Pages (a.k.a. The Twin Cities authority on all things aural) featured this video in her Gimme Noise blog post today! Can I get a “Woot woot”?
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