Merry Christmas!

Well Pretty Ricky’s story about his friend’s daughter passing is legit. I’ve seen the mass emails regarding the passing and the impending funeral due to the mom being a colleague. I’m not sure if he was referring to the mom when he said it was the daughter of a best friend. Sad.

We talked at work the next day and he apologized again and later on got to telling me what a good heart I have. I try.

Somehow I ended up promising him a homemade carrot cake. A few weeks ago, my friend Sasha told me about a banging carrot cake she made and I immediately thought of Pretty Ricky because he loves the stuff. So at one point when he and I were talking, carrot cake came up and I told him about Sasha’s cake and said I’d try and see about getting her to make one for him. It later occurred to me that I could just go ahead and make it myself. I’m not really into baking and cooking like that, but I’m decent at it when I try; I know how to follow a recipe. Sasha emailed me a link to the recipe as well as some of her personal tips. I needed some clarification about a couple of things but otherwise it’s not a complicated recipe. It’ll be my first homemade cake.

At work the other day, Pretty Ricky used the carrot cake that a coworker had made as an example of what he DIDN’T want. I had a piece and found it to be dry and bland. That was his assessment as well. And there was no icing on it, which didn’t help matters. What’s a carrot cake without the cream cheese icing?

To get a piece of the cake, he led me to the office of the administrative supervisor. The supervisor was at her desk and there was another female sitting in the chair on the other side of it, but she was bent down and I couldn’t see her face. As I was grabbing a piece of the cake, Pretty Ricky started talking to the girl and introducing me. He introduced her as his granddaughter and coaxed her into saying the same, but I had already realized that it was his 13-year-old daughter. She’s so cute, with a head full of long, thick hair. It was neat to meet one of his kids.

It’s clear that I have a soft spot for Pretty Ricky. I still find him extremely attractive, and truth be told, if he wanted to be more than friends again, then I’d be with it. But I’m definitely not going to put myself out there and make any moves. For one, I’m not sure if he sees me in a romantic way anymore. For two, I don’t want us falling out again and not speaking to each other.

He’s so totally captivating though.  After work on Christmas Eve I was there for like an hour and a half shooting the breeze with him and Matt and this other guy and I could barely take my eyes off of him.

Night From Hell

Well, first things first, I would just like it known that I knocked Pretty Ricky’s paper out of the park. Not only did it get an A, but it was the SOLE A out of all the papers. He showed me his score and the overall grade breakdown of the whole class. There was 1 A (his), a few Bs, mostly Cs, and a few Ds. So damn, I still got it even 6 years out of college. I got an A on a term paper for a class I’m not even taking. I remained modest by remarking on how the paper was a collaboration, and he told someone else that I “critiqued” it for him and helped him get an A (and I’m not offended by that…I mean, it’s not like I expect him to go around telling people I wrote a paper for him), but clearly it was my creation. It was my research and my writing. From scratch. And it got an A. I’m quite proud of myself. Maybe I should go back to school and get my Master’s. Eh…

So anyway, Tuesday night was my job’s Christmas party. My third one. The first one I went to in 2008 was primarily for one purpose: to try and get friendly with my gorgeous boss who had me enthralled from first sight – Pretty Ricky. Clearly he had his sights set on me as well because as soon as I walked in he beckoned me from across the room to a seat right beside him and I sat there for the whole night. Mission accomplished. Several people were headed to a bar afterwards. I asked Pretty Ricky if he were going and he said he was. I asked if he could drive me because I was a little tipsy. He said yes. He drove us to the bar where we got a little more tipsy, then there we were, driving back to his place. And the rest is history.

Last year, Pretty Ricky and I weren’t on good terms when our Christmas party came around, but I still had feelings for him, feelings that he had fairly recently woken up from hibernation. So I figured this party would possibly give us a chance to smooth things out and rekindle. Perhaps life would come full circle and things would go like they had at the first one. Boy was I WRONG. This time, several other females had his attention for most of the night and that just made me feel like shit. He blew me off whenever I tried talking to him and that hurt me. I never did anything to make a scene, but my longing for his attention was obvious and I basically made a fool out of myself. Not a good look.

And so for this party, I figured that for the first time, I’m going to go and have a good time and not be worried about Pretty Ricky or anybody else. And that’s exactly what I did! It was fun. I wore a red a-line dress and some lacy black stockings. Looking back, the combination of the two ended up looking a little racier than I had intended, but I thought it was cute. I always tend to be overdressed at these things because most of my coworkers wear jeans. I’m always the only one really decked out. But I don’t care, it’s a party and I love dresses.

Pretty Ricky came, of course. We hugged and talked a little and took pictures together. He looked good. He had on a pinstripe suit complete with a pink pocket square, so that helped make me feel less overdressed. He looked good.
We all talked and laughed and drank and ate and had fun. These are the times I love my coworkers like a huge dysfunctional family. There were awards and commendations. It was a good time. I took lots of pictures and talked with lots of people and somehow ended up playing “Flip Cup” with beer even though I don’t like beer at all.

The party only went until 11. Afterwards, like normal, the people not ready to call it a night ventured out to a bar. I was one of them. We went and sang karaoke and drank some more and acted kind of dumb and had a good time. I remember flirting somewhat with the big boss (although his wife was right there) and sitting on another superior’s lap and flirting with him and singing “Shout” by Tears for Fears with a coworker. Good times.

Of course I was intoxicated at some point. Because of this, a coworker, Russian, took my keys to make sure I didn’t leave before I was in driving condition. However, I only found this out after I had left and was getting a ride back to my car, which was still parked at the original party venue. I called Russian and he said he’d put my keys in my mailbox at work. Okay, fine. My ride drove me to my building and I retrieved my keys and I got back to my car.

So then I was driving home and my car felt a little funny. It was pulling a little bit. My ABS light came on. Then I started hearing a grinding noise from one of my tires. Uh oh. Pulled over to the side of the highway and sure enough, my rear driver’s side tire had blown. I should’ve figured something like that would happen sooner or later because about 2 months ago it kept going flat week after week and I kept putting air in it and meant to get it checked for a slow leak, but then it just stopped going flat so I thought maybe it was the temperature changes or something.

So here I am on the side of the highway in the middle of the night in the freezing cold with a flat tire. Fortunately, I just happened to pull over behind a tractor trailer that had pulled over to the side for the night. So then there I was, frantically knocking on the cabin door trying to wake some poor trucker up for help. He came to the window after a few moments and I explained that I had a flat tire and needed help. He put on some clothes and came out. I retrieved my donut and jack out of my trunk for him and he got to work. It was probably like 30 degrees out and I was shivering. The trucker suggested that I sit in my car while he changes the tire. I at first refused, figuring that if he’s out in the cold in the middle of the night changing my tire, I could at least stand out there with him. That determination didn’t last long. I couldn’t take it any longer, so I eventually did go sit in my car. He finished and I thanked him profusely and then went on my way.

By now it was probably after 3 in the morning. I had to be up at 4 for to start getting ready for work, so things weren’t looking good. It was obvious at this point that I wouldn’t be getting a lot of sleep. I made it home, parked, and got up to the main door, only to discover that my freaking door keys weren’t on my ring. I hadn’t noticed before. So now I’m locked out of my apartment – GREAT! I called Russian and cursed him out because he’s the one that was fooling with my keys. He insisted that he put my house keys back in my right coat pocket. I checked all my coat pockets, searched my car…nothing. So now I’m fucking locked out, and time is whittling away. I called Matt at work, hysterical. The first option would be emergency maintenance, but Matt couldn’t find a number for them on the corporation’s website. And I wasn’t going to wake one of my neighbors up at 3:30 a.m. because of my retardation. The second option was a locksmith. Matt calls one for me.

This jackass gets there eventually after calling me twice for directions. He tells me it’ll be $200. HA! I’ll pass. For all that I’ll just wait until the maintenance office opens in the morning. I’ll just have to be late for work. He tells me I have to pay him $30 for coming out regardless. HA! again. I told him I’m not paying him something for nothing. I wasn’t advised of any $30 fee and he talked to me twice. Perhaps he told Matt that and Matt neglected to tell me, but that’s something that should be discussed with the person you’re actually going to service. I mean, really, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to know who he is. He’s dressed in a blue jumpsuit with no identifying information on it, and is driving a freaking U-Haul Van.

It was at this time, while I’m out of my car and in the light, that I happen to glance down at my coat and notice that it’s navy blue. Um, but MY coat isn’t navy blue, it’s black. I have someone else’s coat. And I realize that this coat is a little too big…probably a man’s. UGH. THAT’S why my keys aren’t in the pocket…because it’s not my freaking coat. GREAT!

So meanwhile, the jackass locksmith is threatening to call the police and to have my car impounded and all this and that. I told him to go ahead, and I got back in my car and proceeded to ignore him. He’s still standing idly by making his threats, but once he sees that his bluffs aren’t working, he retreats back to his van. His has his dispatch call me and I explain to them that I’m not paying someone $30 for nothing when I myself was never advised of those conditions. If I had known that was the case, I wouldn’t have had them come out. I hang up with them, and then jackass comes back out of his van eventually and again tries to force me to pay him $30. When his demands were continuously refused, he started on an angry, insult-laden tirade which included “Fuck you, bitch,” and  “You look like a prostitute” and calling me a crackhead, which was hilarious in that it was so random. I could see why he thought I was a bitch and my Christmas party outfit might’ve been a little risque, but I don’t smoke crack at all and I don’t look like I do. I’ve never been called a crackhead before. Pure comedy. Surely he was able to conclude that if I wasn’t paying him even BEFORE he cursed me out, then he definitely wouldn’t be getting shit after that. He left.

Thankfully, one of my neighbors was coming out for work, and I told him I was locked out. He had his wife call emergency maintenance for me. By this time, it’s close to 5:30 a.m., when I’m supposed to be leaving for work. So it was obvious that I was going to be late. I tell Matt to let my supervisor know for me and then I settle into my nice warm car to sleep until maintenance shows up.

A maintenance man knocks on my car window, maybe close to 6:30 a.m. He lets me in my building and my apartment. Problem solved. I had to pay a $35 fee, but that’s a $35 that I definitely didn’t mind paying after the horrendous events of the past several hours. It can be considered a stupidity tax.

I was a little over an hour late for work. I think my supervisor thought my situation was bullshit at first after hearing it from Matt, probably figuring that I was just hung over or whatever. I was tired as hell, but not hung over in the least. I thank water for that.

There was still the issue of who had my coat and thus, my keys. My maintenance man was nice enough to produce another set for me to use as spares since I was now using my original spare set (perhaps it’d be wise to give my spare set to someone else to hold onto instead of keeping them in my apartment since that didn’t help matters). As it turns out, the navy blue coat belongs to one of my coworkers, and he has mine, complete with keys. I guess I took his by mistake some time during my drunken adventures. He’s on vacation so we have yet to swap, but I’m just glad I know where it is. I like that coat. And now I can get my original keys back at least. So I have two spare sets. Cool.

And this is all why getting drunk on work nights is never a good idea.

On a completely random note, Pretty Ricky told me yesterday that he’s 46. I had no idea he was that old, I thought he was 42. And I thought that because on his Facebook page (that is, when I could actually see it…no longer a possibility since he’s had me blocked for like a year and a half) he had put his date of birth as 1968. I was absolutely stunned that he’s actually 46. He’s an amazing looking 46-year-old.

Our dinner, which has gotten canceled twice now, is supposed to be tomorrow. Yesterday he said he’d like to meet up at 3:00 p.m., so that’s not really a dinner. It’s more like a linner or a dunch. But whatever.


On Friday, I attended a “white party” that one of my colleagues threw. Word of it has been going around for the past 2 months or so, and thus there was a pretty large turn-out. I’d actually been kind of looking forward to it as I’d never been to a white party before, and I haven’t gotten out that much lately. I knew that I was bound to cross paths with some of my exes though, Mr. Smooth being the main one in mind. I knew he’d be there.

I have to say, I looked good. I wore some short white shorts, a white tank top, and these 3-inch Calvin Klein open-toed heels I’ve had for months now and haven’t had a chance to wear. I put my hair into a low side ponytail, and my makeup was pretty. I looked good, but most importantly, I felt good.

I didn’t see anyone I know when I first got there, so I grabbed a drink and sat down by my lonesome to sip on it. More people start to file in, but no one I really know like that. My homie Matt texts me, so I busy myself with responding to him. I’m totally engrossed in my phone when I hear someone greet me. I look up, and it’s Pretty Ricky. I speak back. I’m surprised to see him there because I thought he had to work. He looks good, like usual. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look bad. He goes on about his business – getting food and greeting people – and then eventually seats himself on a couch.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting on a hard stone bench that starts to become uncomfortable. I wanna go sit on a couch, but not with people I don’t know. So I go over to Pretty Ricky’s and ask if I can sit next to him. He says yes. I sit there quietly for a few moments, still drinking. I think I might’ve been on my second vodka and cran at this point. I don’t want him to think I came over there to be in his face, because I definitely didn’t. But on the other hand, I’d like to think that we can carry on a friendly conversation like normal people sitting right next to each other that know each other, so I make some small talk with him.

First and foremost, I ask him what’s going on with his hair. He usually keeps it low cut, but now he has these fruity looking curls on the top of his head. He said he’s going to cut it soon. We talk a little about work and random stuff, nothing major. He decides he wants to get a bottle, so he goes to the bar. He took his little camera bag he had with him, so I figured he wasn’t going to come back.

A few of my coworkers/friends come in at this point, so now I have other people to chill with anyway. To my surprise, he does come back a few minutes later with a bottle of Patron. He shares with me. All in all, I probably had about the equivalent of a shot and a half in my cup. I sipped on it for a good while instead of taking it all down at once. One of my coworkers bought a bottle of Moscato wine, which I’ve been wanting to try since I’ve heard several people raving about it. I drank the Patron and used the Moscato as a chaser. I really don’t like tequila, but it gets you nice pretty quick. I can tolerate Patron more so than any other kind.

Pretty Ricky didn’t stay around for long, but that’s cool. I saw him around a few more times, but we never really talked again or anything. At least he gave me some liquor; I’m satisfied with that.

One of the subsequent times I did see him, he was talking to Mr. Smooth. Oooooooooooh great, I thought to myself. I wasn’t going to speak at first, but as usual, I really started feeling the alcohol and it suddenly didn’t seem like that bad of an idea.

So I eventually went up to him and spoke. I don’t really know what I said. He spoke back, then introduced me to what I presume is some whore of his. It definitely wasn’t his wife. “This is Marie.” Okay? Kind of a jab in the gut…him flaunting one his skanks in my face. Shortly after that they both walked off elsewhere. Whatever.

Then there was Curly, who I wondered upon talking to Pretty Ricky. I spoke, and he spoke, but I can’t remember what I said…nothing important. He was acting all brand new earlier this week. Someone tagged a picture of him at his 20-year high school reunion hugged up with some chick, who I presume is one of his classmates. Since I hadn’t talked to him in a while, I texted him and told him (jokingly) not to be hugged up on other women because it makes me jealous. He says that’s his high school sweetheart and then he gets into how she doesn’t stress him, but apparently I do. I told him he’s just mad because I don’t let him toy around with me like I’m a little rag doll. Despite the fact that he’s a dick, I’m not really mad at him or anything. I was never too into him, so it’s not a big deal. I spoke at the party and kept it moving. I did try texting him a little bit yesterday, but he never answered. Oh well.

I spent the rest of the night walking around in a drunken haze. I talked to a lot of people (I’m really friendly only when I’m drunk), and even danced. I had fun.

Until I saw Mr. Smooth standing on the outskirts of the dance floor with “Marie,” that is. I don’t know why, but I tried talking to him again. This time he waved me off. I pressed on and asked him if he still wanted a kitten (he’d wanted a kitten months ago and I was in the process of trying to get him one when we fell out). He said no. He then totally ignored me and went on with being in “Marie’s” face. They were all hugged up and dancing and I’m really surprised he’d be that overt with one of his sidepieces given that he’s married and a lot of people from work know his wife. I actually find it kind of tacky.

Well, that did it for me. For one, that “Marie” bitch is not hot. I barely recall what she looked like, but she wasn’t anything show-stopping. So I was a little heated that he’s trying to throw her ass in my face like she was. PLEASE. Secondly, now he’s just being mean. I may have been tipsy, but I was cordial. I expect the same in return, not to be treated like I’m just a piece of trash. That’s not gonna go over so well.

So…I laid into his ass via a series of ignorant texts after I left. I’d reached my breaking point. I went off on a vulgar tirade that included calling him ugly, telling him he’s a piece of shit, and even telling him I hope he dies.

 I settled into an alcohol-tinged slumber shortly thereafter.
When I woke up yesterday morning, I found that he’d replied about an hour after my rant. He told me that if I say anything to him again, he’ll write me up.
LOL! Oh, is that so? You’re a superior who’s going to try to discipline a subordinate (that you had an AFFAIR with, by the way) for talking trash to you OUTSIDE of work (regarding your previous AFFAIR). Right.

So…called his bluff on that bullshit by sending another series of texts during which I welcomed him to go ahead and try to write someone up that he’s had a sexual relationship with, and we’ll see how it works out for him. I told him that he’s a piss poor excuse for a man, “Marie” is NOT hot, and that I hate him. I advised him that this is what happens sometimes when you HURT people, and if he’d stop fucking around on his wife, maybe he wouldn’t have these problems.

I did take back what I said about hoping he dies though. I admitted that that was overboard and I shouldn’t have said it.

I probably should’ve stopped there, but I didn’t. Later in the morning, I found myself still harboring ill feelings about the situation, so I vented to him some more. I told him that I STILL can’t believe he had the nerve to try and diss me in front of his skank and flaunt her like she was some type of upgrade. FAIL. I went on to say that if he wants to write me up, I’ll have no problem putting OUR business out to everybody since I’m not the one that’s married.

I’m really over the top with stuff sometimes, I know. I need to learn to just leave things be.

Be that as it may, Mr. Smooth no longer exists to me. Seriously. What a dick. I wish I’d never met him. I can safely say at this point that we will probably never speak again. Unless I’m forced to cross paths with him or talk to him at work for whatever reason, I’m going to try and forget I ever knew him.