Oh bunnies....it's about time I tell you all about the Great iPhone Ganking of 2009.
Ready? Here goes:
The weekend before last, I went to my friend Jill's birthday party and got retardedly drunk during the pregaming portion of the evening. By the time we got to the bar (Grand Canal), I was entering tunnel vision mode, which is usually a precursor to Blackout Boulevard. In order for this story to make the most sense, I should probs explain the layout of the place before going any further...
So, you walk in the front door of the Grand Canal, and you are suddenly in the midst of a throng of people. Directly in front of you, there is a bar that runs the length of the wall, and to your left there is a small stage with a band playing obscenely loud Bruce Springsteen and other shit I don't like. To your right, there are the kind of stairs that they have in split-level houses. Eight steps go up to a loft where they host private parties, and eight other steps take you down into a cozy little mini bar area with a few high top tables and a big, built, and beefy half-black bartender named Rewell.
Now, being drunk me, I of course sidled up to the empty bar downstairs, ordered myself two Coronas, and used my wily ways to convince my dearest Rewell to put the limes in the bottles for me (because my little thumbs are just sooo small and the lime always squirts in my face! God I love far-too-obvious innuendo). After tipping him generously (with money, not smiles*), I roamed around and hung out with my friends for a bit. Eventually, I drained both bottles and returned to Bar Rewell just in time to collect on the drink that one of my guy friends owed me. Sadly, my lover didn't know said drink was for me, and hadn't used his big, manly hands to force the lime into the bottle...for SHAME.
Upon seeing this, I strutted my shit back up to the bar in an attempt to flirt a little more with my future boo. Unfortunately, the guy at the table next to where I was standing didn't recognize the love vibes in the air, and turning to me, asked, "UH, are you just trying to talk to me?" The answer was obvs no, but he and his friends were sufficiently attractive, so I wound up befriending them and introducing them to my group of girls. Pretty sure I facilitated some sloppy makeouts that night, so high five to me.
Anyway, at some point during this fab meet and greet, the following convo ensued:
Me: Hey, it's my friend's birthday tonight (pointing to Jill), do you think we can get behind the bar for a photo or two?
Jill: Yeah, fun!
Rewell: Sure you can, come on back.
Diana (who was sloppy.com): I WILL PAY YOU TWWEENNTTYY DOLLARS FOR A PHO-TO BEHIND THIS BAR!
Me: Yeah, Di, you should get in it too so we can use it for our bday picture!
Diana: OF COURSE I'M GETTING IN THE PHOTO, I JUST PAID TWEENNNNTY DOLLARS FOR IT!!
Me: Haha, okay, whatever.
A photo shoot followed, and I'm pretty sure (I hope?) that Rewell refused the $20. My man cannot be bought!!
As the night went on, things just got sloppier. At one point, this kind of cute, and yet slightly trashy, guy and his awkward friend started talking to me by the bar (right in front of my lovah!), but I let it happen. A few minutes into our compelling chat, Diana stormed up to me and yelled, "THE BARTENDER WON'T GIVE ME FREE DRINKS!!! WHY NOT!??"
I told her to chill and that I'd see what was going on with mah boo. Actual convo:
Me: So, my friend is demanding free drinks. Can you just give her a Vodka Tonic, make it look free, and I'll pay you in like ten minutes?
Rewell: Haha, bitches (as in females) always want free drinks! Here you go.
Crisis averted, I gave Di her drink, talked to the Trashy Twins for a bit longer, and slowly made my way back across the bar to give Rewell some cash moneys. I must have blacked out for a minute or two, because the next thing I knew, I was standing there with my bag and another Corona in front of me, a pile of dolla dolla bills in my hand, and no wallet to be seen. Immediately, I turned to the Trashtacular Twosome and said, "Look guys, if you have my wallet, just give it to me, I won't care!" Of course, the negatively attractive one spotted it on the floor behind me, and I had to spend the next fifteen minutes apologizing my ass off for accusing them of ganking my shit...but only after I gave Rewell a napkin with my number and a crude drawing of my wallet on it, complete with instructions to call me if he found it, or you know, "just to chat." God I'm awkward. On the good news front? My drink and Di's Vodka Tonic were both on the house! Flirting WIN!
Anyway, I continued to talk to the trashmonsters, because I felt AWFUL, but then the cuter one started to make moves...the kind of moves I would have been into had he been 6'2" and blonde, but not so much in his case. So, I did what any normal girl would do...I made up an overly elaborate backstory about how I would TOTALLY be interested in him, except that I had recently begun dating the bartender and didn't want to hit on other boys right in front of him. I then telepathically (and later, verbally) informed my future baby daddy of said plan, and we had several fleeting moments of eye contact and even a mini heart-to-heart by the dishwasher while I was pretending to whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Suffice it to say, the plan was a hit...until the bar was about to close and I realized that within the ten minutes prior, SOMEONE STOLE MY MOTHERFUCKING IPHONE.
I ran around the bar searching for it and bawling my little eyes out, probably looking like an insane person and completely repulsing my, by then, long lost lover. While desperately calling my phone from Erin's, I ran into the Trashy Twins again upstairs. I told them what had happened, and the cute one looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Well, at least you know that we don't have it, haha."
EXCEPT THAT THEY TOTALLY MUST. Literally no one else was near me during the ten minute window in which it was tanged. I'm approximately 96% positive that they saw their opportunity to enact revenge on my reject-y ways and took it. Those little BITCHES!
Epilogue: Rewell and I failed to consummate our love, I wasted my big bday present on a new iPhone, and my parents yelled at my for several hours about the meaning of the word, "responsibility." F. My. Life.
Blerg.
Alright, that's it for the moment my friendlies! Good luck out there, and mind your phones!! And, if you are a sloppy drunk or an iPhone owner (like this girl), buy MobileMe ASAP, turn on the "Find My iPhone" feature, and set up a passcode lock so no one can turn this feature off. This is literally the only chance you have of getting your phone back if something like this happens to you. Also, it's kind of awesome because you can track your iPhone's whereabouts on me.com. So, maybe don't use a password that your stalker could easily decode...but otherwise, enjoy!
XOXO - Christine
*This joke will only be understood by people who have seen "Couples Retreat," which btdubs, was hilarious.
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Life is good.
These creatures can most often be found unce-uncing it out around Boston with Eastern European girls/Guidettes at clubs such as Rumor and Venue. There is little variation in their physical traits, as they are all notoriously characterized by fake tans, spiked hair, and a pronounced lack of sideburns. They are never far from their Muscle Milk, and firmly believe that their bulging biceps negate the gayness of their bedazzled Ed Hardy t-shirts and tight jeans. Sadly, the rest of the world fails to follow this logic, and these men are left to hook up with slutty bitches who have tanned themselves into a new racial category. Avoid these men at all cost, unless you want to spend the morning after between these sheets:
Side note: TG, aka the Bed Wetter, wears Ed Hardy religiously. Though his wardrobe is excused by the fact that he's a great guy and not actually a d-bag, I probably should have seen that one coming. Also, once Liza Minelli has been spotted wearing your favorite t-shirt, it might be time to reevaluate your style choices. I'm just saying...
These men are native New Englanders, and no matter what they're like during the off season, the second you mention a Boston sports team, they immediately revert to fanboydom. Much like in the movie Fever Pitch (which we stayed up til 6AM watching one Saturday night...lame), you must find a way to enjoy sports or your relationship is doomed to fail. Consider yourself cleared for take-off if you can see yourself taking this seriously:
(They're supposed to spell out Papi, not IPAP)
If you'd rather not spend every date sitting around a Quiznos listening to him talk about that one time he got sooo wasted he puked on the vice principal's car...then RUN. Enough said.
While less intense than their counterpart, the NYC Urban Hipster/Brooklynite, the Boston Hipster is still a force to be reckoned with. Characterized by their tendency to rock month-old fads and trendy sneakers, this breed of man can run the gamut from questionably gay to skater chic, though they most often resemble a mix between Pharell Williams and "not gay" Chet from the Real World:
Yum. Can I just leave it at that? No? Okay, well then let me get a little more specific.
When the trashiness of Faneuil Hall finally gets to them, these boys can be found in all of their preppy glory at the Sail Loft, Four Winds, Tia's, and J.A. Stats. Their Lacoste alligators and Vineyard Vines whales serve as Batman style beacons, attracting pearl-wearing lady prepsters (aka all of my friends) in droves, allowing them to be discriminating in their selection of females. Their douchebaggery is only rivaled by that of the Ed Hardy wearing guidos, but is thankfully of a more hilarious, and therefore more acceptable, variety.
Don't worry though friendlies, that's many, many years away!
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