Please note that the things that occurred in this post absolutely happened – at least as best as I can recall them. Also, there will be at least one instance of graphic discussion of a sexual nature, so if that makes you uncomfortable, well, stop reading now.

Those who pay attention to this blog (all 4 of you) will remember the tale of an ill-fated date at Greektown Casino with a woman who has since become known in my circle of friends as the crazy waitress. I said at the time that I didn’t think I’d be seeing her again.

Oh, if only.

Here’s the thing…I didn’t plan to. I deleted her number from my phone. I hid her status updates on Facebook (I’d spent enough time with her to believe that un-friending her was a bit of a dick move…remember that Facebook post I wrote? Yeah, Facebook sucks). I stopped going to the the bar she worked at. I stopped being the pursuer.

And then she called me.

The thing that sucks about having self-esteem that is best described as “shitty” is that if a woman reaches out to you it’s exceptionally difficult to just ignore them. And so I again found myself out with her on a series of weeknights where I didn’t get home until 3 am. How this didn’t find me in jail or on the unemployment line I have no clue.

But it wasn’t until two specific Friday nights where my life went from, “Ok, this girl isn’t great for you, but no harm, no foul,” to, “Seriously, what the fuck are you doing…you’re too old for this shit.”

The first happened a few weeks back after a Tigers game. I had been drinking basically since happy hour so I had a decent head start by the time we met up. It was then that she discovered I’d never done chocolate cake shots, so the two of us and her coworker friends were pounding those to catch up.

A while later, they’re off in their own world and I’m in the middle of a not uncharacteristic conversation with some random dude that was undoubtedly about sports or politics or something that doesn’t matter (it’s very curious that I can have spirited discussions with completely random dudes at the bar but I can’t bring myself to talk to women). My waitress friend comes up and says, “Watch my phone, I’m going to the bathroom.” By the time she got back, her phone and the dude I was talking to were gone. Not good.

Well the waitress is a notorious brawler, so as soon as her phone went missing she blamed me for letting this random dude steal her phone. Her friend Liz jumps in and essentially plays the hero, dragging my friend out of the bar.

Liz is going to become a major player in this tale.

So now it’s after midnight, I believe I’ve cockblocked myself, I’ve been drinking since 5, I’ve just done 4 shots, and I don’t feel so good. So I puke. Because why wouldn’t you? I mean, the considerate individual would’ve gotten up from the bar and gone to the restroom, but not me. Nope, I decide to just let it fly onto the floor.

Luckily, I’ve developed a rapport with the guys at Hard Luck Lounge, so they were extremely helpful. Called me a cab (which I didn’t ultimately use, because in my case, yakking tends to sober me up…weird). Except before I left, I realized my phone was gone (at this point I had already blacked out the fact that the waitress had lost her phone). The boys at Hard Luck were helpful but ultimately the thing didn’t turn up. This was an iPhone 4 I’d had for literally less than a week. This was about to put me out somewhere in the area of $700. I was not happy.

When I wake up the next day, I take to Facebook and have some friends help me try to track down my phone. This is when I discover that my lady friend’s phone has gone missing as well. Curious to say the least. But by a sheer stroke of luck, my friend has my phone in her purse. More curiously, she’s replaced her phone by using my credit card. I have no idea why she has my credit card. She says her friend Liz had grabbed them and put them in her purse for safekeeping. Strange, but I have my phone, so I don’t care.

But remember how I said Liz was a major player in this tale? This past week, my friend picks up Liz before they go to work. Liz says she’s got a surprise and hands my friend her missing phone. With no SIM card, no case, and the security code’s been compromised.

This bitch stole both our phones. And my credit card. And then tried to play the hero by (a) not having my friend kick my ass the night the phones were stolen; (2) acting like she had saved my phone and credit card after my friend’s phone went missing; and (d) surprising my friend when she “found” her missing phone.

Seriously people, if you ever find yourself at the Rub BBQ in downtown Detroit, and you get a skinny, moderately attractive blonde waitress named Liz with a tattoo in place of a wedding ring, keep in mind that she literally robbed me and my friend, who’s a coworker of hers. So at the very least, don’t tip her well.

Sadly, none of this compares to this past Friday night.

Since that night, things have been going a bit better, or at least more normal since then. We actually took in a baseball game with her son and sister and sister’s boyfriend on Memorial Day…it was a fun day…very date-y and not so much, “Hey, let’s go get drunk and see what’s missing the following morning.”

The weird thing about all this is that not only have I not sealed the deal, we haven’t even made out to this point. This past Friday was going to be somewhat normal. Until she got called into work by her douchebag boss, we were going to go to the Tigers game with some of her friends. But we decided to meet up after she got let go from work and have some fun from there. I had thought about getting a place to stay downtown, but she had to pick up her son around midnight so that idea was out the window.

So we meet up after the game. I’m not certain how it comes up but we start discussing strip clubs, so we decide to head out to BT’s in Dearborn. I’ve never been to a strip club with a date, so to describe myself as excited definitely qualifies as an understatement. We get there, grab some drinks, get some singles and my friend starts throwing around tips at dancers.

Here’s where it gets interesting. We get a girl for a private dance. As soon as we get back in the private room, my friend literally starts stripping down and I’m instantly in the middle of a freaking orgy. I’ve got my fingers in places that are quite surprising for two people who haven’t even made out yet.

And then I puke.

Are you fucking kidding me?

In my defense, I must say it was one of the more impressive pukes that ever took place in the private room at a strip club. But not only did I ruin my chances at nailing the crazy chick I’ve been trying to nail for a ridiculous amount of time, it’s happening when there’s a stripper in the room AND I lost my glasses.

Awesome.

It gets better.

As the club is closing, my friend sees a friend of her ex-husband’s. To me, no big deal, people move on. Except her ex-husband is in Jackson prison, and her ex-husband doesn’t like her having any fun. So really, this is probably a bigger deal than I’m making it out to be. But I try to calm her down, which isn’t the easiest thing to do since she’s a bit of a brawler (see above). In fact it’s damn near impossible as she jumps into a cab, screams “Fuck you” at me and she’s off into the night.

It gets better.

Well, not really better, but it’s sure as hell an interesting part to the story.

The next thing I know I’m being woken up by Ferndale police at 7am at a BP< gas station (this will be an important factor shortly). They pull me out of the car, ask me when my last drink was, breathalyze me, and then tell me to go home. Except I take a wrong turn out of the station and go a few miles in the wrong direction. So I turn around.

And run out of gas.

There are two interesting points to make here. Remember the thing about me being woken up by the cops at a BP? There’s only one place I buy gas – BP. I have a BP credit card. So I pulled out of one of the only places I ever buy gas…and then run out of gas.

Awesome.

The other interesting thing to point out is that one of the few remaining benefits of the prior evening was a, shall we say, rather nice scent on a few of my fingers. Except guess what happens when you run out of gas and need to fill and carry a gas can back to your car? Basically all you can smell anymore is gas.

Have I angered the gods somewhere up above?

It’s still not over. As I pull into my house, all I want to do is get in bed. That’s it. Not too much to ask. But nope. As I’m walking in at 8am, my phone rings. It’s a friend of my waitress friends. She’s lost her phone and I need to go pick her up and take her to get her truck. Because I’m an idiot with no self-esteem (and also because she doesn’t remember my puking or her meltdown at the end of the evening), I do. She goes to get her truck with no shoes on. Also, as soon as I dropped her off at her truck (2 blocks from her bar), she went back home (a 10-mile drive). Why she didn’t just get ready for work and then have me drop her off I have no idea.

So to summarize, in the past few weeks, because of this girl, I’ve gotten robbed (this is admittedly a tad over-dramatic, but nonetheless factually true), I’ve puked in a private room at a strip club while I had my fingers inside my date as she’s messing around with the stripper, lost my glasses, got woken up by the police and ran out of gas.

I’m going through what could best be described as a 1/3 life crisis, and I’m essentially paying a shit-ton of money to come up with entertaining stories. At least I’ve got that.

Much as I’d like to say I won’t talk to this girl again, I know that when she asks to meet up for drinks I’ll come running. I’m trying to get to a more normal place with her – dinner, movie, etc. – while also finding the love of my life (which isn’t her). So if you guys know anyone, give me their number and pretend these stories never happened.