Confessions of an Audiowhore

Editor's Note: I wrote this to submit to Nerve.com for their "People I Never Intended to Sleep With" Contest. while my submission was late, I thought I'd post it here for your enjoyment. 

Admittedly, I am a music snob, so my internal Wild Flag should have started waving immediately.  We met at the bar the night of the Archers of Loaf show. Impressed by my beer-and-bourbon order, we talked about this and that, discovered we had an affinity for other single (barrel) music fans, and exchanged numbers. He had never heard of the Archers, but was in a good company of fans, so I let it slide.

After about 2 weeks of much idiotic texting (apparently no one calls anyone anymore), we decided to meet for a date – a drink and a show. The Love Language. I know, how romantic. During our pre-show beers, he made the following fatal mistake.

He asked me, “So, who’s your favorite band?” I hate this question. It’s the one you ask when you have nothing else to say. I struggled, producing bands I’ve been into for years, and threw in a few I thought he might know. As a Michigander, I expected him to be a fan of The White Stripes. “No, not really,” he grimaced. Instead, he revealed that he was in fact a fan of Kid Rock “not even ironically!” I cringed inside, especially when he said he couldn’t find anyone to go with him to the show in a few weeks, and put his hand on my knee smiling as if I would find this charming.   

  

I did not, but I was pretty horny. After a few beers, we headed to see the band. After a few more beers and a bourbon, I let him slide his hands around my waist. After another bourbon, I felt myself leaning against his Midwestern-Kid-Rock-loving chest. After another bourbon, I let him talk me into going home with him on the premise that he would “pay for a cab in the morning.”

That part I didn’t remember as well until the next morning when he handed me a $20. I chirped, “oh yeah, thanks” trying not to feel like a prostitute and continued to fumble around for my clothes. Well, before that exchange, we had some fairly unremarkable sex (in which when I suggested he “slow down a little,” he replied “I don’t have much time” having to be at work in 30 minutes). After he came (and I was nowhere near it) we took a shower and I prepped myself for the trip home in the harsh light of a sober Saturday morning. Made harsher still by the fact that my underwear was nowhere to be found and I was wearing jeans.  

He sent me a text a week later that said “guess what I found?!” looking to see if I’d come to collect. Since I’d kept the money and walked home, I figured he’d paid for my loss. Though I was tempted as I did really like that pair of underwear. Far more than the hairy, bad-in-bed man I left on the doorstep.

Hopefully he found solace in his favorite band, I always do.

From 0-30: Poetry Lesson

Sometimes the stupidest things make me think of you. I'm talking completely useless reminders that have only one apparent goal: to make me miss you. It happens enough that I decided to stop being so sad and annoyed by it and just be grateful that I loved someone so fucking much that even when he turned out to be a complete loser, I was strong enough to get over.    

This time, it was the Neo-Futurists on This American Life that sent me into the depths of your memories. Its a scene between a man and a women in which instead of words, they simply exchange meaning.

Him: Statement.
     Statement.
     Statment. {cough}
     Question?
Her: Agreement.
Him: Reassuring statement.
     Confident statement.
     Confident statement.
     Overconfident statement.
Her: Question?
Him: Elaborate defensive excuse.
     {audience laughter}
Her: Half-hearted agreement.
Him: Insecure statement.
     Distracted statement.
     Absurd statment.
Her: Clarification question?
Him: Panicked bullshit explanation.
     {audience laughter}
     Quick meaningless comic nonsequitur.
     Fake laughter.
     Fake laughter.

LESSON EIGHT: Lord T was right, 'tis better to have loved and lost than not loved at all. (Even if sometimes it makes you feel stupid for ever doing so at all).

From 0-30: These Boots Were Made for Walking

LESSON SEVEN: Listen to your friends, get a good pair of boots

I don't know much about heels, but I do know this: I can count at least five of my favorite women in the world who wear boots religiously. These women take the act of purchasing boots about as seriously as you take breaking in a new pair of Chucks. You don't buy boots unless you love 'em, and you don't throw away Allstars until they are literally broken. 

I woke up today, greeted by the first rains of Hurricane Irene and thought, what does one where out in a hurricane? The obvious answer is rain boots, but I thought it would add a little style to the whole affair by taking some advice and strapping on my Fryes before heading out on the town to battle constant downpour and 60 MPH winds. 

I have no doubt that I made the right choice, on the boots or the ladies... now if I could only meet a nice man named Chuck.

      

From 0-30: The Art of Keeping Notes

If my mother is any indication of how I will turn out the older I get, well, I've got a lot to look forward to, and a lot to worry about.

Mostly I'm worried about the fact that she can't remember shit. Poor thing, I imagine its because she has crammed so much knowledge in there over the years that she doesn't really have room anymore for some of the older, finer details. Her mother, my Nana, has a great memory. She's told me details about relatives that have been dead for a century. So I'm not really sure why Mom can't remember anything, as it is certainly not genetics. Though, now that I am edging closer to my 30th birthday, I know that I too am slipping and can't remember as much as I used to.

Insert old lady joke here.

LESSON SIX: Write it down.

I guess no matter what your age, family history, or need for a panic button, it is always a good idea to write it down. Whatever it is. An idea, a story, a lyric, a tattoo design on the back of napkin - if it's somewhere in print, it is likely to be remembered. 

I'm good mix of real forgetful and not so bad. I remember birthdays. The miles between the Asheville and Knoxville (108), between Knoxville and Chattanooga (107), and the miles between Chattanooga and Atlanta (116). I remember the song my mom used to sing to me to when she was in physical therapy school. I also remember the song my Dad used to sing to me in the morning... the whistle too. Don't let anyone ever whistle the Montana Wake Up Song to you, I promise, you will never forget it. 

This time, I decide to write down a goal. I want to finish a story I started and get it published on McSweeney's. I think it will have a chance too... I just needed the dedication of a note to self to motivate me. Like any good note to self, I will share it when I am ready.

Move. Learn. Eat.

This is learn:


LEARN from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.

From 0-30: Booze, a Bike and a Bar

She walked in with her hat turned low, looking every bit the part of a renegade. Taking the steps two by two, she hit the top and glanced around the bar finding it nearly empty. The bartender, previously deep in conversation with one of the only two patrons, dropped his jaw in awe at this presence.

"I'll take a shot of Jameson please. And I'll be right back." She said quickly, "Is the bathroom this way?"
"Alright!" said the now-chipper bartender and pointed toward the back of the bar.
A voice trailed her as she dipped around the bend, "Well that's a hell of a way to start the night!"

Coming back to the bar, she took the shot whole, slide a $10 out of her wallet and asked for the check. The drunk at the bar repeated himself, "Well that's a hell of a way to start the night."

"Yep," she said and smiled, "but I'm not staying long, I'm out on a bike ride." She put her change back in her purse, which happened to be the shape of a boom box stereo (and an actual one too). The bartender looked confused and amused.

"Is that a stereo?" He said and smiled.

"Yep, and it works too!", she turned to leave, "Thanks and have a good night!"

She bounded down the stairs and back into the night feeling at once dizzy on the booze and dizzy on the thought that even in the midst of a great night on your own, you can make someone else's night too.

LESSON FIVE: Always share joy.

From 0-30: Find Out How Hard I Got to Work It

Oh Missy Elliot, is it worth it? Do we always have to work it? Well, if I've learned anything in my nearly 30 years, it's this:

LESSON FOUR: If it ain't worth it, don't fucking bother.

I read this kinda silly article recently on The Frisky that got me thinking about how much of a waste of time it can be to keep yourself locked in situations that just aren't worth it. Whatever it is - money, time, energy, emotions, your future - if it's not worth it, don't fucking bother. This may in fact be why I'm single, and why I don't mind it as much as some of the other single ladies I know.

Who cares if I have a boyfriend? I mean, I'd like to have a boyfriend, but I'm not 22 anymore where some jerk can treat me like shit and it doesn't matter because, "at least I have a boyfriend". I don't want "just a boyfriend", I want someone who rocks my world. I want someone who loves me like my best friends do. I'm too old for the rest of that nonsense... truly, and I know I'm not old... hardly. I just know what I'm not to keen on anymore. I don't have time for stand ups, put downs, cheating hearts, bad kisses - even worse sex - and all the other unreliable (and sometimes down right horrible) crap you get when you date the wrong guy. 

The aimless assholes who still think playground humility is endearing are obviously misinformed. 

That's not to say I don't want to have any fun... I do... but I want to have some fun with a man! Where are they? Surely when you turn 30 the chances of finding an interesting, funny, handsome, nice man get better? Right? Don't answer.

Let's just say, here's hoping he can at least say "bless you" when I sneeze.