Who you calling plain?

Why is it that every time I go out of my realm of comfort (ie: my zip code) the douche bags flock to me? Not to say that the douche bags in my area code don't flock to me as well. I just usually know them by name and can ward them off with rude comments such as, "Whew, that rash is really clearing up from the cream you recommended!"

I take my lovely cousins up on an offer to celebrate our other lovely cousin's 21st birthday (Irish-Catholic family, there's millions of us) at a local bar near the city.

Sure, no prob. I'll go. I"ll branch out. 'Ya know, be social. No biggie.

And so it begins...

Douche bag #1 & #2

There I am, drinking a beer, dancing to the soulful sounds of Whitney Houston, minding my own damn business...when, out of nowhere, the largest human being I've seen outside of a WWF ring emerges: googly eyed from too many shots of something and apparently sweating from—I don't know—walking two steps over to where we were standing?

I clench my teeth, my arse, and my fists. I've faced douche bags before, I will take this one on just as I have all the rest: with my insults, mean looks, and beer bottle ready if need be.

Now, we all know the girl rule: leave no wo(man) behind, don't allow any groping, and do not—I repeat—do not turn your back on any potential douche bag.

So, we remain grounded. (Move when I move. If I cross the circle, swallow the gap and move closer together. If I do a sidestep and need to switch places with you, get outta my way and get outta my way fast. Ready, break!)

We are strong, mean, and do not give off the air of, "talk to us, we're friendly!"

The douche bag stumbles over to us, resting his huge, sweaty back against mine. I am trembling. Fear has taken over and I am praying to God that his sweat does not roll off his gross face onto my left-freaking-arm, which doesn't have a sleeve on it (I am a victim of fashion abuse I tell you! Didn't the person who invited one-sleeved shirts think to warn consumers that they leave one very good, worthy arm open for douche bag germs?!).

Quick, think. Cat-like moves are a must at this point. Move, move, move! I slither, like slim, to the opposite side of the girl-circle. I even mix in a dance move or two. Hey, I may be in harm's way but a sista can still break it down.

Douche follows. Man, this guy's good. Despite his orger looks, he may be a quick one. I slither back, two spots over, thinking my quick moves may have confused the orger. No such luck. I feel a mammoth, hairy paw touching my exposed limb.

HELP ME GOD, I MAY HAVE JUST CONTRACTED THE HIV VIRUS!!!

I turn. Scared, weak, and exhausted from trying to out maneuver the douche. He stares. Where you ask? I'm not quite sure. I think one eye was pointing South and the other was pointing West....hmm, the direction of my house....ironic? I think not.

"Gahahauehahalhgalkjlkjsdf," douche bellows
"Um, excuse me?" I ever so politely ask.
"Ghalalkausodiufoiu," he bellows again. The paw points to the bar.
"Shot? You want me to take a shot with you?"

Eh, why not. I give the man credit for at least not giving up. Don't judge me, you would have too!

Douche #2 (apparently douche #1's friend) was waiting for me at the bar. We strike up a conversation, as any normal gal would do with someone that has just bought them a shot. Come to find out, he actually is an educated douche! And for one mere second my guard has come down and I am actually enjoying the company.

"So, where do you live?" douche #2 inquires.
"West Chester," I casually reply, checking all exit signs, and making a mental note of whether or not any substance other then alcohol has been placed in or around my drink.
"Sweet, so would it be easier for me to come to West Chester tonight? Or, for you to just stay here?"
"Pardon me?! I'm sorry, I could have SWORN you just said...," I spat.
"No, seriously. Me, West Chester? You, here?"

Am I missing something? Did my panties just fall to my ankles? Let me check...OK, no, they are still around my rear. Did hell just freeze over? (finger in air) No, there isn't a chill in the air.

"I have to use the restroom." Were the only words I could muster my baffled brain into producing. I prance off. Determined to never speak to this son-of-a %$#@! again.

I return to my people. Who, are just as dazed and confused as I am. Douche #2 appears out of the darkened crowd of drunken bodies.

"Eh, you didn't say goodbye," my disgruntled shot-provider spits.
"Oh, really? I didn't? BYE!" I spit back, annoyed that I'm even required to say a formal goodbye to such scum.
"What?"
"I said bye."

Good grief man, do you want it in writing? Shall I send a dove? A smoke signal? What else do you want from me!?!?

Douche #1 & #2 stumble off. Annoyed, frustrated, and alone. (Tear) Life can be so hard...

Douche bag #3:

Tired, thirsty, and annoyed I praise the heavens as the last-call lights are turned on. My people and I are herded out the front door like cattle on a ranch. For once, I am thankful to have been asked to leave.

As I stand on the corner (no, my shift didn't just start), replaying the evening's encounters I can't help but wonder...why me? My thoughts are interrupted as I see a young man approaching me from beyond the overpass pillars.

I give him the once over: a pea coat...eh, preppy...a shaved head...eh, pre-mature balding...

"Hello," the man from the darkness says.
"Hello," I state.
"Tell me something...is your name is pretty as your face?"
Giggle, giggle...um, I don't know you tell me!?
"My name is Jill," I sheepishly reply.
"Jill? That is so................................................plain," the man throws in my face.

Douche bag #3: 1
Jill: 0

Just as quickly as he was there, he turns on his pointy-heeled, queer shoes and marches off. Disappearing into the darkness from which he emerged.

Plain! Humph, who you calling plain?

Who knew?

Here I am, in all my vulnerable glory, standing...watching...waiting, as the waters of my demise rise to a frightening level.

Who knew that in the year 2009, toilets STILL get stopped up. Didn't they fix that horrible plumbing issue decades ago? Well, if not, they should have. A stopped-up toilet at a social event can be the ticket to loser ville for a single lady.

"You are forced to use a valuable lifeline, self. One that may or may not be a solid (no pun intended) choice."

I venture out.

Amongst the people. Amongst watchful eyes that seem to question, "Where have you been for the past 15 minutes?" I am dreadfully aware that my re-appearance has not gone unscathed, and painfully aware that the lingering signs of my activities have crept into the public arena. I rush to my lifeline's side.

"Friend, come with me!" I hiss.
"What for? Are you OK?" she asks.
"PLEASE!" I plead.

We're off.

We slither into where the crime has been committed. And the evidence is looking us dead in the eye. I have lost my lifeline in the mere seconds it takes for me to quickly push my stiletto against the door and click the lock: she has whithered into a ball of giggles.

"GOOD GRIEF, WOMAN! Get up! Help me! What are we supposed to do!?!"
"I'm going to be honest with you, I have no idea what to do!"

Rats.

My trustworthy confidant has nothing to offer! I am forced to go back to the drawing board, and figure out plan b.

"Matt. Let's get Matt. He'll know what to do." Chuckles and snickers are heard from the peanut gallery. "SERIOUSLY! Can a girl take a..."

I must trudge on.

We escape. One by one.

"Shut the door!!" I breath.
"Geez, sorry...," my loyal partner whispers.

We find lifeline #2. He is mingling. Enjoying the company around him. Sipping a fruity cocktail (pun intended).

"Come with us!" we say, as we pull his body towards the bathroom.
"What the?" He has little time to respond, before being thrown into the crime scene.

His face says it all. I quickly want to defend myself and blame it on his cheesey dip, but I retreat. I must remain with the grain, not against it.

"Well...," I protest, "what are we to do?"
"You what? In the what?" he stammers. "Good God."
"PLUNGER! Get a plunger!" The fumes must have ceased, because an intelligent thought has surfaced.

He's off. Slinking out the door and through the crowds. Then he's back— good God that was fast, man! (Not something a gentleman likes to hear, I might add)—gleefully holding the plunger in his hand, a cocktail in the other.

"Did you SERIOUSLY just come through the party with that THING!?" I shout. Appalled that my second lifeline may have revealed me to all.

"NO!" he spats, "I came up the BACK stairwell...past the kitchen full of people, past the living room full of people, and through the back hallway...."

No time for explanations. This girl has got to plunge!

And there she goes....down, down, and away. Through the pipes of humility, the waters of shame....I breathe. Thankful that my shame is gone.

We return. Amongst the people. They question why two females and one gay male were just seen leaving a bathroom.

"Hey, you know I'm still gay, right?" Matt protests.

At least all eyes are off me....