Foolery

Rounding Off the Asshat Week With a Q&A

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Come on admit it. There is no Chas, Nick Ass Hat, Smedley, Sparky or Gubby.  I think its time for you to come clean and admit that "Orland" is a mythical place located in a snowglobe sitting on your desk in your Manhattan high-rise office.  The truth will set you free!*

It's time to take a few Nick Asshat questions, but first, an apology.  I never expected this to be longer than a one-post story, and here it became FOUR posts.  And I never intended this to be Nick Asshat Week, but here we are.  So sorry, and I will be giving Nick a rest for a while.  BUT NOT FOREVER, because even now he is up to his shenanigans, I assure you.  There will always be more to hear from that guy.

The Mom Bomb said:  Admit it: This Nick Asshat is a creature of your imagination. It's impossible for so much assery to exist in one human being.  Miss Bomb, Nick is as real as the mole on Cindy Crawford's face, and realer (it's a word, tonight) than 92% of all the boobs in California.  I wish my imagination were that cunning, but it's not.

scuse me ma'am, but I work for Heidi Fliess asked:  Yea, but was he any good in the rack?  In a word?  Nope.

Crazy FrogPoot queried:  Were you Always that easy?  Maybe more impotently, "are you STILL that easy"?  Poots, if I'm your idea of "easy," you must have gone broke in college.  I am, however, a sucker for seeing a man cry.  There are two ways to go at that point: out the door, or straight into the arms of the Devil himself, and I obviously chose the latter.

MommyTime wanted to know:  . . . are Chas and Gubby the same person or two different people. And if the latter, how does Gubby fit into this whole story? I'm sorry if the answer should be obvious, but I've read the whole Asshat series and I still an unsure.  MT, Chas is my husband, whom I have known since age 29.  Gubby is one of my best friends, whom I have known since age 15.  I can't say for sure which one is more mentally challenged -- Gubby for hangin' out with the freak for close to 30 years, or Chas for marrying the freak.  But Gubby and I talk on the phone several times a week, and his phone number on the caller ID readout is DARN close to Nick Asshat's.  I've been fooled three times now, unfortunately.  Also?  Gubby leaves hit-and-run smart-ass comments here, and Chas does not.

Mental P Mama inquired:  Is Asshat married now?  Yes, he is.  We went to their wedding a few years ago.  It was lovely, but it's hard to get past the weirdness, still, you know?

ok, where was I just had to say:  I love the threesome photo, but I do not like "the end" part. Can't you just keep going?  I'll give you a break from N.A. for a while, but there is still more to tell.  Plus, I have to grill the husband for more tidbits.

Asthmagirl pressed:  ahem... so then what happened?  "Then" has been a series of gradually less uncomfortable get-togethers.  They are pretty pedestrian.  I still have to go back farther in time, B.C. (before Chas), and tell some jealousy stories . . .

Bob Cleveland pointed out:  I note that the representative snapshot of Nick didn't reveal a hat.  May I assume the reason to be that your last name of choice for him is indicative of where you told him he could put it?  Bob, where were you when I was getting all uppity?  I could have used your guidance in the assertiveness department!  And really, so few donkey owners these days are capturing their donkey moments in hats -- why is that?

Jason offered: Pardon me if I missed this detail, but why is "Asshat" his name?  Because any other appropriate appellation would have catapulted Foolery into the R-rating.  And because his real name is just too darned unique.  And because it made me laugh so hard I made donkey noises.



*Thanks to the real Gubby for finding this comment.  It remains one of my all-time favorites.

The Adventures of Nick Asshat: The Light Dawns, Part Four (End)

(Photo stolen from grasshopper25 on Flickr)

Yes, you read that right:  Nick Asshat showed up.  On my first illicit date with his best friend, just after I ended our entanglement for his cheating on me.

There we were, at a little table in Panama's, when who should walk past the window but Nick Asshat.  Chas and I shot each other a glance, but we were trapped.  Trapped!  There's NO escape from an Asshat on the town.

Nick saw us and did what any Asshat in his position could be counted on to do:

he joined us at our little table in Panama's.

And, so you get the full effect of this moment, I need to give you some idea of what Nick looks like.

Pretty much like this, minus the suit.  And he's drunk.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

My apologies to Steve Carell and the suit for any unwanted associations.

ANYWAY, Nick did join us at our table.  He was either blithely indifferent to the awkwardness of the situation (i.e. clueless), or he was taking the high road, extending the olive branch, if you will, burying the hatchet and mending fences.*

Or, just drunk.  Lay your bets please!

There was some stilted, idle chatter, and then Nick Asshat moved on.  And so did we, very quickly thereafter.

It was very important to me that Chas understand that this was not a revenge date, or that I had something to prove.  He was being cautious, but I think he believed me when I said that I had been interested in him weeks before, and that I was trying to end my Asshat association.  I was also quite concerned about his friendship with Nick.  "After all," I said, "A date is not worth throwing away a best friend."

"Best friend?" he asked, taken aback.  "Nick isn't my best friend."

I didn't know quite what to say.  "But he told me you were his best friend," I said slowly.

"Well, I may be HIS best friend, but he isn't MINE," he said.  "I've known him too long and too well for that.  I golf with him."

Oh.

You know what that meant, right?

SMOOTH SAILING, WOO-HOO!

And it was, and it is, and it has been now for over thirteen years.  Except when Nick calls for Chas and I mistake his caller ID for Gubby's number, and accidentally answer the phone.  Crap.


*So, so, so sorry for the pureed metaphors.

The Adventures of Nick Asshat: The Light Dawns, Part Three

(Photo stolen from World of Oddy on Flickr)

Then I climbed into my car and drove to where I knew Nick Asshat's friend was working that morning.  I walked up to him bravely, with a determined look in my blurry eyes.  He looked at me, recognized me, and said hi.

And I asked him out for a drink.

His name was Chas, and I had met him three times before.  The first time was in a noisy bar during the holidays, and there was little conversation.  The second time you can read about here, and I hope you will, because it's one of my favorite personal true stories.

The third time I met Chas was at Oktoberfest, about three weeks after the golf course incident.  Nick Asshat and I met up with the same guys, including Chas, who had been out golfing that day.  They were all very nice and had either forgiven me or else had forgotten my un-country-club-like screaming of that day.  And the guy who had caused all the trouble in the first place was very sorry and brought a large bouquet of flowers to make it all better.

So to Oktoberfest, where we hurtled around the hall as only beered-up revelers can.  Nick danced with several people, and so did I, and neither one of us was the slightest bit concerned or jealous.  I spent a lot of time shouting in Chas's ear, and found out that he was very witty and interesting, and seemed to find me charming.  Could I be finally ready to exit this stupid, disastrous Asshat relationship -- the one I explained to family and friends as, "I know, I know, BELIEVE me, I know, but I'm not ready to quit yet" -- once and for all?  Maybe.  I got a fantastic long goodbye hug out of the deal, and I was smitten.  Nick who?

When I got home to my roommate's house that night, she was still up.  "Been out with Nick?  What'd you do?" she asked.  I slumped against the wall in the hallway.  "I met the man I'm gonna marry," I told her, and we sat down and I told her all about Chas.

Chas.  Nick's friend -- Nick's BEST friend, as Nick had told me.  This was ugly.  I had been slowly extricating myself from the relationship, to the point where I could think about seeing other people again, but his best friend?  That was a no-no.  And anyway, I have The. Worst. Guy. Radar. EVER, so what if I were completely wrong about Chas being interested in me?  Still, Nick and I had always promised each other that if one wanted to see someone else, all it would take was being upfront and honest.  I would start by not being available so much.

But the Night of the Perm Date With Nick I was backsliding, and I was as happy in Nick's presence as I had ever been.

Until it all fell apart.

I realized that for the handful of weeks that I had been agonizing over how to tell Nick I was done and wanted to date other people, and to cautiously pursue dating his friend (fully prepared to be castigated for such questionable ethics, of course), Nick had no such crises of conscience.  Nope, Nick just hopped into bed with whiskey-voiced Cindy (and who knows if there were others, really) until he was dumb enough to spill the beans.

Well.  Screw him.  I'm moving on, AND I don't need his permission for anything.  If Chas balks at the idea of dating his friend's Long-Term Entanglement (me) I'll completely respect that, but I'm DONE asking for permission.  It's MY party, I'll be a sleaze if I want to.

And so I found myself outside of Chas's workplace that Saturday morning, looking wrecked and frightening, I'm absolutely sure.  I went inside and walked up to Chas.

"Hi Chas," I said, displaying my fierce command of conversational English.  Show-off.

"Hey Laurie," he answered, and smiled.  He brightened -- did he brighten?  I SWEAR he brightened.  Is he nervous?  'Cause he looks kinda nervous, and --

"I was just wondering if you'd like to have a drink with me," I said.  I vaguely remember sort of lolling on the counter in front of him, chin in hands, resting on my elbows.  It couldn't have been attractive, but it was ME!  Asking a human being out on a date!  And a bold one, too.  I give me some credit for huevos.

And, miraculously, Chas accepted, and we made the date.  We met downtown at the Panama Bar & Grill for Long island Iced Teas -- oh good plan, Laurie -- and conversation until a) the bar filled up with college students and b) it became too noisy to hear and c) Nick Asshat showed up.

Yes, you read that right:  Nick Asshat showed up.  On my first illicit date with his best friend, just after I ended our entanglement for his cheating on me.  You do see the thick layers of irony and karma, don't you?

to be continued . . .

The Adventures of Nick Asshat: The Light Dawns, Part Two

I remember very little about the rest of that night, except that I know I went home and cried myself to sleep, or to lack of sleep, probably.  After all of the emotional stuff I went through with that man -- his mother's memorial service, spending time with his little boy, watching his child move far away from him -- and THIS is how it ended.  Unbelievable.  Well, there was only one thing to do now, of course, and as soon as I woke up Saturday morning, that's what I did.

When you go to bed to cry your eyes out, rarely do you take the time out to floss or moisturize.  I certainly didn't remove any eye make-up, because when I woke up I looked like this:


(Photo stolen from quino para los amigos on Flickr)

Except with a fresh perm, fuzzy from sleep, which looked like this:

(Photo stolen from these guys)

So we're left with this:


Yes, that's about right.  So, miserable as I was, I did the only logical thing: I pulled on a crappy brown sweatshirt -- the same crappy brown sweatshirt I'm wearing at this moment, coincidentally -- and some jeans, and sort of washed my face.  Then I climbed into my car and drove to where I knew Nick Asshat's friend was working that morning.  I walked up to him bravely, with a determined look in my blurry eyes.  He looked at me, recognized me, and said hi.

And I asked him out for a drink.

to be continued . . .

The Adventures of Nick Asshat: The Light Dawns, Part One

(Photo stolen from wauter de tuinkabouter on Flickr)

I think I need to tell you about how Nick Asshat and I parted ways.

For a girl who did not date in high school, dated only a handful of times in college, and had precious little experience in the boyfriend department, I suddenly became somewhat popular once I owned my own business and had no time to date much.

I have already mentioned my bad date with Man Named For A Topical Muscle Cream, as well as my would-be bad boy Jay, both of whom I dated during this time.  There were others, but none of them were too serious.  So I was able to date Nick for four or five months, casually, while having dinner or drinks with other guys, too, occasionally.  In this way I saw Nick only at his best -- in an ironed shirt and tie, on his way home from work -- and never saw him drink more than a couple of drinks, not sloshy at all.  Of course, that all changed once I stopped dating the other guys and focussed on Nick.  Then I had full exposure to the raging alcoholic binge drinker and total social deviant that was Nick Asshat On Booze.

But Nick had asked me, during that very first phone call months before, if I were seeing anyone, and Nick chose to remember my answer at the time, which was "kind of."  This set the tone for our casual, no strings attached relationship.  (Just so you don't think I was an enormous slut, I wasn't sleeping with ANY of them.  I may have played the field but I wasn't rolling on the grass.)

"Kind of."  This was the truth, and the truth shall set you free, right?  Except when it locks you up, ties you down, sits on your head and drools on your face.  Nick saw this as his ticket to get skanky, I guess.  I'll never know how many skanks women he played hide the hotdog with dated while we were seeing each other -- I know only about The One Who Stopped The Whole Damn Hotdog Train.  Cindy.

A Friday afternoon in the still-hot autumn in Chico.  I had gotten a fresh perm that afternoon, by the best perm artist on the planet, but one who was not above a Really Big Hair Fiesta.  Something like this, and I don't mean Harrison Ford:



I met Nick at our favorite bar (which was the one he called his "office," I later learned), and we had a beer or two.  It was a festive evening, and we were having an especially good time, the three of us (Nick, me, and my big hair).  But Nick had come straight from doing something that required leather work boots, and he needed to change if we were going to go dancing.  Dancing?  Are you kidding?  All we ever did was eat, drink and play liar's dice -- DANCING?  This was shaping up to be our best date ever.

So we went back to his house, which wasn't far.  He turned on his crappy clock radio while he got changed, and he hit the PLAY button on his answering machine, just across the room from where I sat waiting to go dancing.

EEEEP!  "Hi honey, sexyseedymushygushycrapolatalk, okay, 'bye -- call me!"

EEEEP!  "Hi, it's me again, pouty-woutybabytalkgagmegagmekissykissy

MWAHH! okay, so call me, all right?"

EEEEP!

You get the picture.  There were AT LEAST 7-8 calls, conservatively.  By this time, even though I had heard very few actual words above the blaring crappy clock radio, I had a very clear picture of the wasteland my love life had become over the past several weeks, without my knowing it.

I was quietly seething in my fresh perm.

Out of the bedroom bounced a buoyant Nick Asshat, buttoning his shirt and smiling a winning smile.  "Ready to go?" he asked.

"I'm not going ANYWHERE with you," I growled through my set teeth.  Nick looked baffled.

"Wh-why?" he stammered, truly perplexed.

"What kind of person plays his lover-on-the-side's answering machine messages in front of me?!" I demanded.  He seemed to understand at that moment.  To his credit, he didn't try to weasel out of it.

"How long have you been seeing her?" I shouted.

"Three weeks," was the quiet answer.  Now I was crying.  After all, it had been only a matter of weeks since we had . . . since I had . . . oh, crap, I can't quite get the nerve to type it.

I remember very little about the rest of that night, except that I know I went home and cried myself to sleep, or to lack of sleep, probably.  After all of the emotional stuff I went through with that man -- his mother's memorial service, spending time with his little boy, watching his child move far away from him -- and THIS is how it ended.  Unbelievable.  Well, there was only one thing to do now, of course, and as soon as I woke up Saturday morning, that's what I did.

to be continued . . .

Wrapping Up the Week With Some Ass-Hattery

BRRRRRRING!

Okay, phones don't really sound like that any more, but stick with me.

BRRRRRRING!

Checks caller ID . . . ahh, it's Gubby.  Must've forgotten something.  So I say . . .



"Well, hello, Laur!"  Chuckle chuckle.

Oh crap.  Not Gubby.  So Not Gubby.  To illustrate, allow me to share with you the EXACT text from the e-mail I just sent Gubby:

You have to change your cell phone number.

I just answered the phone in a very cheeky way because I thought it was you calling me back . . .

. . . and it was Nick Asshat.

'Cause I write like a loser, even in my e-mails, yes, yes I do (ask Gubby).  And now, please note the answer I just got back from Gubby, my FRIEND, Gubby:

        Haaaaaaaa

        Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

        Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

With a friend like Gubby, who need enemies?  Especially enemies with a cell phone ONE NUMBER OFF -- no, well, it's more like THREE NUMBERS OFF, which is CLOSE ENOUGH when you're NOT REALLY PAYING ATTENTION -- from NICK ASSHAT'S CELL NUMBER.

And tell me, how is it that a husband will risk exposing his poor, poor wife to all manner of telephone asshattery just to keep his asshat golf partner?

Somehow this is all Mr. Foolery's fault.  When he gets home I'm gonna blame him.

Nick Asshat and the Arts

(Photo stolen from rynie on Flickr)

I majored in graphic design in college, and, while I no longer draw or paint, there was a time I did a lot of artsy-fartsy things, poorly.  But I had never learned to paint with water colors.

"Really?" asked Nick, as I drove us home to his house from wherever we'd been that night.  "You've never tried water colors?  Well, I'm pretty good at it," he boasted.  "We should paint tonight."  The opportunity to do something creative and childish in the middle of the night was just too much to pass up, so I agreed.  Nick disappeared into his closet to find his art supplies; he emerged with paints and brushes, but no paper.  We looked everywhere for a substitute, with no luck.

"Let's try Safeway," I suggested.  A brand new Safeway had opened near us recently, and it was, at that time anyway, open all night.  Since it was after 1:00 a.m. or later, Safeway was as good as we were going to get.  So back into the car we went, and we putted over to Safeway for paper.



Up one aisle and down another, no water color paper to be had.  I would have been shocked to find real water color paper, but I was surprised that the nearest substitute we could find was typing paper.  So, with no better option, we picked up the typing paper and got into line.  The store manager himself was at the helm of the only open cash register.  I don't know why he was there at that hour, but he didn't look too pleased about it.  There were a few people in line ahead of us.

Nick was very interested in some ugly ball caps hanging by the register, and he tried one on.  Nick was somewhat drunk, but it was a condition I was used to.  There under the glare of the fluorescent lights in the pristine new store, Nick's buzz was glaringly inappropriate.  And I came to understand two things simultaneously:  the cranky store manager was watching us, and Nick was going to steal one of those caps.

At first I thought I was just reading Nick wrong.  He wouldn't really steal, would he?  Of course not.  He was just a little drunk and very silly, and probably needling me.  But the manager didn't see it that way, I could tell.  He had his eye on us.

Nick was busy bending the bill of the cap the way he liked it.  "Nick, you're bending it," I said. 

"Yeah, it's better this way."  I knew he didn't have much money, and wasn't foolish enough to buy an ugly cap he didn't need, so why on earth would he bend it all up?  Unless . . .

"You're not getting that hat," I stated flatly, as if I had any control.

"Yes, I am," he purred.  One nice thing about Nick: he argued with a smile on his face and a bedroom voice.

"Then you'll be walking home," I said, knowing that he knew that I knew he intended to steal the hat, not buy it.  After some more posturing by Nick and the pretense that he no longer liked the hat, it went back on its hook.  The watchful manager rang up the paper and we left without incident.


(Photo stolen from jabmechtech on Flickr)

Back at Nick's house we broke out the paper and the paints.  Nick gave me a few tips about how to use water colors, none of which I remember and all of which were probably wrong anyway.  We turned on a little music and sat on his bedroom floor, painting happily.  Having no idea what I was doing, I sketched a piano in pencil, then splashed on a little paint.  As we worked Nick told me that he had once been offered $3000 for his study of a flower in a window; recalling P.T. Barnum's mantra I simply nodded and kept working.  I was really enjoying myself, and even though my piano painting was awful, I went over it with ink pen for some texture once it had dried.  I was completely absorbed.

A silence in the room made me look up.  Nick was staring at my hideous painting with a baleful expression.  "What?" I asked.

"You're really good," he said sadly.  (Read: You're better than I am at something -- ANYTHING.)  I looked down at the unfortunate rendering.  "You're kidding, right?  This stinks, Nick!"

"No, you're talented," he said, and just like that the fun was over.  We cleaned up the paints and called it a night.

Nick loved to teach me things -- darts, pool, liars dice.  We made a great team at bar games when he called the shots and I did what he told me to.  But if I were to outdo him in any way, it was no longer fun for him.  His volleyball game was in no danger of being shown up by me, nor were his surfing skills.  But I had beaten him in the arts without even trying.  We never painted together again.

And I never took him into Safeway again, THAT'S for sure.

Nick Asshat: Dating Techniques

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Most of the Nick Asshat material I can't write about comes from Mr. Foolery, you know.  There are some real gems, too.  Maybe some day I'll figure out a way.

But I can tell you about Nick Asshat Dating Techniques.  Most of these are from Mr. Foolery's own personal Nick Asshat archives, although I contributed a couple.  Not that any of these worked on ME, you understand.  Nick had ME at "one more round."

Nick would tell any girl any lie at all if he thought it would gain him some ground.  Sometimes he would actually LOSE ground, I'm sure, but being an opportunist (a nice way of saying pathological liar, in this case), he worked on a hair-trigger reflex and he'd run with the lie.

Girl having car trouble?

Nick:  "I'm a mechanic."


(Photo stolen from these guys)

Girl impressed by musicians?

Nick:  "I'm an axe man [guitarist].  I was a member of [INSERT NAME OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA BEACH SCENE BAND FROM THE EARLY 80S HERE]."

(Photo stolen from this guy)

Girl profess an interest in art?

Nick:  "I once sold one of my paintings to this rich guy for $3000."  (That particular girl was Yours Truly, by the way, and the rich guy in question must have been Ray Charles or Stevie Wonder, because I have seen Nick Asshat's paintings, and, well, never mind.)


(Photo stolen from ginghisklown on Flickr)

Girl have a hangnail?

Nick:  "I'm a manicurist."  I kid you not.  I just had this conversation with my husband:

ME:  "He did not."

HUBBY:  "He really did."

ME:  "Well, what was his plan?  How was he gonna help her hangnail?"

HUBBY:  "I don't know if he was going to just give her advice, or pull out his cruddy old clippers and go to work on her nail."


(Photo stolen from these folks)

In any case, I don't think Nick ever thought any of it through -- he just ran with whatever bar lie came out of his mouth.

And if he didn't have an angle to work -- such as a career as a professional jockey or brain surgeon, perhaps -- he tried to be complimentary.  "Nice . . . collar," he said to the lovely brunette wearing a choker necklace.  "It's called a choker," she hissed.  (Hey Nick, typically DOGS wear collars, but nice try.)

And if Nick didn't have a pick-up line?  Well, he threw up on a female bartender once.  Sort of an aborted hiccup or something, that turned into a major YING.  "You just blew chunks on me!" she yelled at Nick as she wiped off her shirt in horror.

Needless to say, the boys did NOT get served at that bar that night.


(Photo stolen from this guy)

Nick Asshat: Oh, Did I Forget to Tell You?

(Photo stolen from Brujita del Sur on Flickr)

Top three things you don't ever want to admit without benefit of a lot of available explanation time and/or alcohol:

 

3.  "I wasn't born this gender."

 

2.  "I once dated a married man."

 

1.  "That's not chicken you're eating, by the way."

 

Going back to number 2, Yes, it's true, I once dated a married man.

 

"GASP!  You're kidding!" you say.

 

No, not kidding, unfortunately, and don't bogart the gin while I tell you this.

 

"GASP!  Who was he?" you ask.  Wouldja quit the gasping already?

 

Well, as you can tell from the title of this embarrassing post, it was non other than Nick Asshat.  Surprised?

 

So here's the skinny:  When Nick first walked into my store one fateful November evening, we hadn't seen each other in several years.  His dear mother Maude had passed away that fall, and he came to tell me (in case I hadn't heard), and to tell me that there would be a memorial service for her in the spring.  He was carrying his 7-month old son Victor, who was indescribably cute.  Alas, his marriage hadn't worked out, however, and he and his wife were divorced.

 

Divorced.  That's with an -ed at the end, and generally means "already happened, old news, move on with your life."  Unless, of course, you are Nick Asshat, and then it just means "slip of the tongue" or "bald-faced lie," see also bar lies.  But I couldn't see the lie yet, not for months and months to come.

 

A week after this little visit, Nick called me and asked me out, and the rest is boring history

 

UNTIL

 

Nick happened to tell me (several months later) without filtering his thoughts that his wife --

 

"You mean ex-wife."

 

"-- right, right, whatever . . . well, it isn't official, of course, but --"

 

"WHAT?!  Whaddaya mean, 'not official'?  Exactly what IS it, then?"

 

"Well, that's why Booty was calling.  She needs to file the divorce papers, and . . ."

 

I'm sure I can't tell you whatever the hell he said next, because I was fuming silently on his hideous couch, planning the murder of a troll with a hideous couch.  I'd like to tell you we were having civilized cocktails on the veranda when this happened, and that I threw mine in his face, nearly dousing the exotic French cigarette I was idly holding in its foot-long cigarette holder thingy, but that's just wishful noir thinking.  No, there was nothing noir about this scene; it was all Happy Acres Mobile Home Park.

 

"Oh, did I forget to tell you?"

 

Asshat.

 

Oh, and did I forget to tell YOU that his ex was a stripper?  How silly of me.  And, since her given name was conveniently her stripper name, I shall call her Booty, to protect the -- well, to keep me out of litigation.

 

Booty.  The cutest, brightest, most accomplished moon-faced stripper to come out of a county seat town in a generation, or maybe ever.  She was now in a hurry for that divorce -- can you blame her? -- because she was already on to her next husband-and/or-baby daddy.  And she was closing in on her masters degree.  I think she just wanted to tidy things up.  I don't blame her.

 

So I don't remember just how long this fight lasted, but not long enough, obviously.

 

UNLESS

 

you count the fact that without the endless idiocy of dating Nick Asshat, there would be no Adventures of Nick Asshat.  So there you go.

 

And it really isn't chicken you're eating.  Pass the gin, Bogart.

Nick Asshat: At LaSalles

On this post-Christmas night, as my sugar buzz recedes and my fat-to-muscle ratio is alarming, it's time for another Nick Asshat story.

A date.  We were having a cocktail or two at an outdoor patio of a local club, LaSalles, back in the days when they still served lunch and dinner there and tried to make nice, like a respectable establishment.  Beautiful warm evening, sitting outside on the pleasant patio, twinkle lights strung from the trees, smell of cigarette smoke light on the air, smell of beer heavy on the air, and the sound of a loud Chico band thumping away inside the packed and sweaty, grungy club.  It was my version of Heaven back in the early 90s, when I was single, a small business owner, largely broke and with not a care in the world other than my store.

I'd been seeing Nick casually for a few months.  He had been a volleyball player in college, and he had the confidence and swagger of an athlete.  He was everything I was not -- loud, cocky, tanned and good-looking, and totally sure of himself.  I was his "good ol' Laur" (and if anyone else, then or since, had called me that I would have head-slapped him).  I was completely in love with him by this time, but also quite aware of all of his pitfalls.  Essentially he was one big pit, and I had fallen in, head first.

I'd first met Nick because I worked with his mother, a delightfully quirky woman who had passed away about a year before.  I thought the world of her, and, from what Nick told me, she thought a lot of me, too, awkward and naïve dumpling though I was when first she met me.

Maude was a fascinating lady.  A tiny, birdlike woman in her early 60s when I met her, Maude lived on coffee and cigarettes and little else.  She often made a cafeteria carton of milk last a week.  She was a walking contradiction.  On one hand, she had been a successful small business owner, divorced mother of one child, hard as nails, clever, frugal, self-sacrificing, and shrewd.  On the other hand, she had been an idealist, a Communist, an actress in the era of Ronald Reagan and a very young Dustin Hoffman (whom she once knew), a free spirit and a permissive parent, and an aging hippy.  She had a mystical streak, as you can probably imagine.  She enjoyed astrology, and was very superstitious.

Small town life was not her style; still, she had moved to Chico to be near her only son, Nick.  She drove as little as possible, and had figured out how to drive without making any left turns.  If she couldn't get there without a left turn, she didn't go there.  Nick missed her terribly after she died, and so did I.  Maude was probably the only thing we had in common.

As I sipped my beer and gazed around the patio, Nick's sloshy drunk act was beginning to take hold.  At first it was charming, but it quickly became embarrassing.  Still, when you're somewhat young and naïve, and you're irrationally hooked on a guy who really isn't into you, it doesn't seem to matter how big a bozo he is -- you're not done until you're DONE.  Or is that just my own failing?

"You know," he began, slurring his words a little and focusing intently on me, "My mom was psychic."

"Really?" I asked, skeptical of such things, but willing to believe anything about dear Maude.

"Yeah," he said, and downed some more beer.  He paused a moment, then continued.  "I can't count how many times she'd predict something, and then it'd come true.  She was never wrong, either," he said.  Whatever she predicted ALWAYS came true."  He had my interest now, for sure.

"Like what?" I asked, intrigued.  Nick rattled off a couple of quick and meaningless stories, set-ups for the punchline.  Then he delivered.

"Like your first day of work with her," he began casually, never taking his eyes off me.  My pulse quickened -- a prediction about me!  Nick continued, with purpose now, letting the words sink in.  "She came home that day, and said, 'Nick, I met the girl you're gonna marry.'"  Nick drunkenly held my gaze for a long time.  His expression was not tender, or shy, or even searching; it was a challenge.

I have no doubt that Nick liked me, maybe was even fond of me.  But he didn't love me, at least not at this point in the game.  He was daring me, probably trying to see what he could get out of this strategy.  It was his killer serve, drunk or not, and it was up to me to return it.

I spiked it.  "[UNCHARITABLE WORD], don't you EVER say anything like that again."

Ball hits sand.

Stunned, Nick stared at me.  Who was this shrew, and what had she done with Laur?

"That is SO manipulative!  Don't you EVER drop anything like that in my lap again," I hissed, and I meant business.  I knew I was in a ridiculous relationship, with no control over anything, and it was only a matter of time before Nick destroyed the relationship anyway, but he had better not toy with my affections.

Nick just blinked.  The beer had made him cocky enough to dangle a carrot in front of me, but the beer hadn't equipped him to handle my utter rejection of the carrot.

I drove his car home in silence, left him, and walked the few blocks home to my apartment.

If Nick ever understood the exchange, or even remembered it, he never let on.

At least he hadn't picked a fight with anyone that night. 

Nick Asshat: Wedding Crasher

(Photo stolen from Laura & Alex on Flickr)

In the last days of my "relationship" with Nick I knew his entire repertoire of oafish behavior, and yet was so completely and embarassingly under his spell that I let most of it pass without much comment.

Idiot.

I was surprised and hurt to find that he was planning to attend a friend's wedding one late summer Saturday night, and hadn't asked me to come, too.  About two questions to Nick and I learned that he was crashing the wedding.  This was deemed okay, in his book, because the friend in question was a volleyball buddy.  What, volleyball players are oafs?

Anyway, Nick was getting a ride to the wedding, an hour away, with several of the old volleyball team.  They had a van, and Nick wormed his way into it.  Lied his way into it, actually; Nick told them more than once, nervously, that he had forgotten his invitation.  What -- did he really expect that they'd be checking invitations at the door for forgeries?  But for my part, no amount of talking sense to him worked; he crashed that wedding.

Nick got supremely drunk, which goes without saying.  He sat at the head table to eat his pirated dinner, pulling a chair up to the front, right in front of the bride, and clearing a space among the bridal table decorations.  One of the groom's best friends walked up to Nick and asked him what the Sam Hill he was doing at the wedding party table.  Nick didn't like that very much and his mood turned ugly.  "Somebody's gonna get punched," he warned, before moving to another seat.

The bride, who is by nature as easy-going and gracious as almost anyone I know, had had enough of Nick by the garter toss.  When Nick pushed to the front of the assembled bachelors and assumed the stance of a defensive rebounder, effectively screening out other potential garter-snaggers, the bride snapped.  "Get him outta here!" she hissed.  Under the circumstances I'd say that was rather charitable.

I was relieved to learn that it wasn't Nick Asshat who had stripped down to his tighty-whiteys to dive into the pool and fetch a huge floating flower arrangement.  It was, of course, one of the volleyball crowd (those ruffians!), and after he retrieved the giant bouquet, he heaved it up onto the top of the volleyball van and proceeded to drive the van around and around the sweeping circular driveway.  The apparent goal was to see how fast he could drive before the bouquet flew off the van.  Again -- NOT Nick Asshat, this time.  Small comfort.

In fewer than two months I would be free of Nick forever and dating his old volleyball teammate and golf partner, Chas.  In just over three months Chas and I attended a Christmas dinner party of a newly-married couple, who of course were the couple whose wedding Nick had crashed.  How awkward to have to explain to them that I had been dating the clod we were laughing about -- but how nice to get that ugliness out of the way early, since we were all to become such good friends.

I will carry a black mark on my record forever, though -- the mark of Nick Asshat.

Nick Asshat: The Name Game

(Photo stolen from Zombie37 on Flickr)

I think we need to check in with Nick Asshat.

Dating Nick!  Ah, so many special moments to choose from.  I'd have to first have about a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck to tell you some of the bigger stuff, so tonight, let's discuss Nick's aliases.

Nick and I once went to an outdoor "Shakespeare in the Park" performance.  While we milled about during the pre-show carnival we signed up for some kind of drawing.  Nick filled in our names for us:  Fleagle and Snork.  At the time I thought it was cute and funny that he chose names from the 70s kids show "The Banana Splits."

But what I learned over time was that Nick knew better than to leave his real name anywhere he went; he used a variety of pseudonyms.   Never for anything legal (oh God, at least as far as I know), but for golf reservations and such, especially for times when drinking would be involved (which describes most times Nick left his house).  Public drunkenness, loud and obnoxious behavior -- whatever name he had given would likely have a permanent home on a blacklist, and would be rendered useless for the future.

I continued to receive regular mailings from the Shakespeare in the Park troupe for years -- addressed to Snork LaGrone.  I can only assume that their newsletters went out to Fleagle Asshat as well.

You Can Run, But You Can't Hide From Nick Asshat

(Photo stolen from this guy)

I'm starting a new section of this blog.  This is dedicated to the baddest Bad Boyfriend there could ever be, just short of criminal behavior.  I'll call him Nick Asshat.

I don't really feel like explaining the nature of our relationship, since it was STUPID, and I'm tired.  And it's not just tonight, I promise you; I wrote a whole entry that took me two days, and I've never posted it.  I guess the magic of Nick is either just too hard to take in full doses or it's funnier in tiny vignettes.  So every time I remember something (or Chas reminds me of something, since he knew Nick YEARS before I did) I will post it.

Anyhoo, here's my first Nick entry.  There are SO many more of these, so if you like them, let me know.

Nick was a binge drinker.  During a time when we were casually dating but just as good friends, we had an agreement -- HA!  I was flapping my lips again;  I had an agreement, and Nick ignored it -- that we could see whomever we wanted, but that we should be upfront with each other.  So I started dating a great guy I'll call Jay.

Jay could very well have been my Bad Boy, if I weren't already entangled with Mr. Asshat.  He sort of mumbled-whispered-growled when he talked, and he was very sexy.  Problem was, I was in love with Mr. Asshat, and Jay was playing the field.  Ah, what could have been, sigh.

Every time Jay and I went out, guess who we'd run into?  That's right, Nick.  There he'd be, stumbling in on the latest wave of partiers through the door.  On more than one occasion Nick actually had the juevos to join Jay and me at our table.  I remember playing Liar's Dice with Nick at least once while on a date with Jay.  But I wasn't always so genial, and we'd usually finish our drinks and leave, only to be found later by the sloshy Mr. Asshat once again.  And, since he usually drove wherever he went, plowed or not, and since I wasn't eager for some innocent pedestrian to die, I drove Nick home in his car at least once while Jay followed in his car, mumbling-whispering-growling in a not-so-sexy way.  Yes, any relationship I could have had with Jay was doomed.

Jay asked me once, "Are you telling him where to find you?  Because it's just weird that he shows up EVERY TIME we go out."  I agreed, but assured him I was definitely not telling Mr. Asshat where we'd be trysting that evening.  The truth was, Nick hit up pretty much every bar in town any Saturday night he was out.  Our only real choice in Nick avoidance was to leave town or stay in, and our relationship wasn't strong enough for either of those options.  Sadly, Jay faded away.  We're still friends, however.

And, as my consolation prize, I still had Nick Asshat.