Old Guys Hit On Me
Well... not hit on me... but stare at my chest until I am forced to say things like, "What the fuck are you looking at?!"
And then they do that I-don't-have-boobs-but-if-I-did-I'd-grab-them-like-this Motion, and tell me I have nice ones. I say they are rude, but they keep staring. And making The Motion. And telling me I have nice ones.
And then their bald (but young, shaved bald, not old, in-need-of-Rogaine bald) friends tell me that the guy hitting on my friend is not, in fact, in a band and on his way back home to Ireland tomorrow, but rather he has been living in Philadelphia for three years working at the shipyard.
And then he tells me I am beautiful and forces me to take back a certain statement I made in response to a comment this friend made on a certain blog entry*.
A-chem.
And then Christine's boyfriend walks by and yells "Way to slut it up, Jess!!" and I am sent into a fit of hysterics and decline the invitation back to the shipyard, despite the fact that Baldy is somewhat cute AND has a yummy accent.
Ahhh beer.
* Hoping if I don't come out and say what that statement is, some of you will be too lazy to check. Or... maybe hoping you won't be too lazy, because let's face it, if I wanted to leave it out altogether, I could have.
*****
Part Deux of this weekend included checking out Body Worlds at the Franklin Institute. We spent lots of time pondering things like, "Do guys' balls hang over the sides of bicycle seats like that if they are contained in the sac?" and "Why did they pose that pregnant mother like she's getting a photo shoot done for Playboy?"
We are very cultured.
And then they do that I-don't-have-boobs-but-if-I-did-I'd-grab-them-like-this Motion, and tell me I have nice ones. I say they are rude, but they keep staring. And making The Motion. And telling me I have nice ones.
And then their bald (but young, shaved bald, not old, in-need-of-Rogaine bald) friends tell me that the guy hitting on my friend is not, in fact, in a band and on his way back home to Ireland tomorrow, but rather he has been living in Philadelphia for three years working at the shipyard.
And then he tells me I am beautiful and forces me to take back a certain statement I made in response to a comment this friend made on a certain blog entry*.
A-chem.
And then Christine's boyfriend walks by and yells "Way to slut it up, Jess!!" and I am sent into a fit of hysterics and decline the invitation back to the shipyard, despite the fact that Baldy is somewhat cute AND has a yummy accent.
Ahhh beer.
* Hoping if I don't come out and say what that statement is, some of you will be too lazy to check. Or... maybe hoping you won't be too lazy, because let's face it, if I wanted to leave it out altogether, I could have.
*****
Part Deux of this weekend included checking out Body Worlds at the Franklin Institute. We spent lots of time pondering things like, "Do guys' balls hang over the sides of bicycle seats like that if they are contained in the sac?" and "Why did they pose that pregnant mother like she's getting a photo shoot done for Playboy?"
We are very cultured.
posted by Jess at 7:54 PM
4 Comments:
Dude. He had an irish accent? I don't care what he looked like. You are permanently excused to engage in any sort of bar-related hookups with accented individuals of irish descent.
Search for soulmate? Over.
I do believe the comment was how you were "over" hooking up with random bar guys in Thriladelphia.
Well, exceptions can always be made. And hell, I'll take bald over the flock of seagulls 'do our other drunken friend rocked. PLUS as bar hookups go, he wasn't half bad. Did you get a number? Maybe we'll have to go back...
Kate - Or English accents, eh??? ;o)
Whinger - I'm glad you see it as I do.
Christine - He hooks up with random girls in bars. So trashy. I don't want his number.
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