A Dance with the Divorced

4 Jul

Thursday night, I met BP.  He was standing outside of Benchmark waiting for the valet to bring his car around.  I was standing in the doorway for no good reason.  Once I saw that little nugget valet bring around his Range Rover, I creepily went up to talk to him.  Money goggles, the newest form of beer goggles.  At least I’m honest. 

On Friday night, he came out to meet S and I for a drink and he seemed pretty normal.  His friend wasn’t, but I could get past that.  The only weird thing he did on Friday was belt out the words to Usher’s “OMG” after he picked the song out in the jukebox.   Guys singing in a bar is a buzz kill for me.  Usher’s “OMG” is not. 

On Saturday, he invited me to his barbeque.  I love hot dogs and terrorizing new people, so K and I went over.   He had a few guy friends there, the weirdo from the night before and two girls.  All of the guys were dressed in a combination of jersey shore meets pro skateboarder.   Their sunglasses alone were superb.  Superb in a bad way.  Also, in a bad tan line kind of way.  One of the girls was wearing Hollister jean shorts, large hoop earrings, a Day-Glo bathing suit (NOT the Victoria’s Secret kind) and an off the shoulder sweatshirt.  I generally don’t hang out with people such as this so it was an eye opening experience for me.  One that I am thankful for.  Sometimes knowing who you are stems from knowing who you don’t want to be.   

Once we had a few drinks and a few boring introductory conversations, I wandered downstairs to go to the bathroom.  I actually felt like taking a small nap in the air conditioning, so I sauntered over to the couch to cool off.   Side note: never invite me to your party.  However, on my way to the couch, I came across a bookshelf, and being by snoop dawg self I stopped to check out the scenery.  But once I got closer, I realized it was not a book shelf at all.  It was a shrine.  To his wedding.   

I’m not even making this shit up.  I found a framed wedding invitation [with his name as the groom to confirm] and in front of it what appeared to be a rock garden with a variety of stones with personal messages written on them.  Holy no way.    I did a photo shoot of the shrine and then went upstairs to tell K that we were leaving. 

Back on the roof deck, K convinced me that he was divorced.  Like that is so much better.  Unless this guy was lying to me, I was under the impression that he was 28 years old. Married at 25, divorced at 28?  The wedding was in California though, so that seems nice.  

 I pulled aside Day-Glo’s friend and straight up asked her what the deal is.

Me:  Is BP married?

Chachi:  He’s divorced.  It’s almost finalized though.  They just weren’t meant to be, they should have never gotten married in the first place.

Oh RULLY.  Ya think?  After that, I gave up internally.  I could talk for days about why I will never date a divorcee, but it’s not even worth my finger exhaustion.  And I’ve come to the conclusion that my future husband isn’t going to be rich, he’s just going to be beautiful, so no need to gold dig any longer.  I’ll take care of that little honey once I find him.  I’ll shower him in gold if that’s what he wants.   Anything for my babe.    

Back at the party, we stuck around for a bit longer to ensure we got the most bang for our buck.  K and I took shots out of his wedding crystal, made BP take us for ice cream in the middle of his own party, I test drove his Porsche and then we left as quick as we came.   

Don’t worry about the married man, though.  I’m pretty sure he hit it off with Day-Glo and they went out for a sushi dinner after his wife signed off on the hall pass for him.  CHEATER.

Bahaha.  Here’s a tip, errrbody:  don’t get married at 25 and then you won’t be divorced and desperado by 28.  Nobody is going to want to drag around your baggage – even if it is Louis Vuitton. 

 

Congrats you two! Loved the pebble garden!

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