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.