Instead of heading to another Dive Bar this weekend, we took some time out of our busy schedules to attend a friend’s “space themed” party. And by “we,” I mean the PrissyBitch, myself, and Al (who you may know from such adventures as The Four-Day Birthday Extravaganza). We put quite a bit of work into our costumes: Al and I were constellations (I was Leo, she was Sagittarius) and PrissyBitch was a preppy alien. And for awhile, things were going quite well…until they weren’t.
We got into a rather heated foosball match (along with Ace of Bass), and we started making some out-of-state friends. Matt and Chris were quite nice, but they had this odd friend that they referred to as Big Bear. After beating them at foosball we decided to challenge them to a few games of flip-cup, and we made more friends, including two guys we call Dick and Jake Gyllenhall. They were all from the Boston-area, or Providence.
(This is where I should point out that PrissyBitch and Al are both married and make fantastic wingmen. Anytime I go anywhere with either of them we make friends — usually of the male, drink-buying persuasion — but since they have the force-field provided by giant, blingy diamonds, I end up benefiting from it. )
So, we played a lot of fun, friendly games while Dick and I became friends (read: he repeatedly told me he liked me and that I was cute, and I said, “I know.”) Somewhere along the way, though, our happy little clan of flip-cuppers was infiltrated by Big Bear…which made the whole experience entirely less pleasant — which is saying something, because I was sandwiched between two handsome, flirty fellows and it’s hard to impede on that kind of fun.
I tried to ignore him. I really did. And I did a damn good job of it for awhile. I let all his little snide comments go. I watched as Al and PrissyBitch smiled and shook their heads as he made such inane, and vaguely insulting remarks as, “Look at you, you came to a party dressed like you’re going to an Opera…” or “You guys are like high schoolers…” or “They left their families at home to go to a party…” (note: their “families” include husbands and pets…not children.) Normally I might have offered to punch the guy in the balls, but they’re grown ass women and they can handle themselves…and I was distracted by my suitors.
But then he leaned over to me and said, “Your friends are whores.” A smarter–more sober — man would have seen the irony in calling a couple of married women “whores” for not being willing to sleep with him.
I replied, “No one likes you a$$hole. We’re not friends. Please, stop talking to me.”
The night went on for a little while longer. Then he decided to try his luck with a group of girls who had joined our game at some point, who also seemed to have caught on that he was a complete, raving dick. It was at this point that he decided we were “gross” and he was going to announce it repeatedly, and then say the words that changed the night forever: “She’s been a c*nt all night.”
I don’t think I’m alone when I say that I see red when someone uses the “C” word.
I can let a lot of things go. I take a deep breath, cast a withering glare, or use a well-timed insult to make someone go away. But I’m like the Manchurian Candidate: utter that one word and a switch is flipped in my brain.
On this particular occasion, I started picking up cups filled with stale beer and throwing them, rapid fire at him…it wasn’t until I reached for the full pitcher of beer that my new friends, Matt and Dick stepped in. Matt grabbed the pitcher from me, saving the beer, and Dick stepped between me and the table where all of my ammo was stored.
I would also like to point out that one might be inclined to assume I was drunk and out of control. This was not, actually, the case. A sip or two of cheap beer every round of flip-cup isn’t enough to get me more than a little buzzed. (I am bred from just about every historically hard-drinking race on the planet). I was simply irate. Pushed to my limit like one of those women on “Snapped.” And as the Gay Guru was kind enough to point out to me this morning, “That guy was a woman-hating homo.” So he got what he deserved.
Somewhere in the melee, I looked over at Al and the PrissyBitch (the former urging me to walk away, the latter screaming something that sounded like, “Go for the throat!”) I chose to walk away and head upstairs. This isn’t the Jersey Shore and I am not even remotely Italian, so I chose not to escalate the whole mess to something more dangerous than a beer tossing contest.
Up in the kitchen we made some new friends, and eventually heard from Big Bear’s buddies who mostly apologized for him, and assured us this type of thing happened fairly frequently. (This was after he’d passed out somewhere.) And when it was time to leave (don’t worry, level-headed Al was the designated driver) we even got an invite to visit them in Boston. So, all in all, it was a good night; despite the masshole.