Calling People Names

The middle

2012-01-18T20:53:00.000-02:00

Imagine you’re going to meet a person that you’re already crazy about...for the first time. You’ve spent years playing the getting to know you game without physical contact. You’ve already had arguments and disappointments, secrets and inside jokes. There’s not much you don’t share with each other and even though contact is usually a daily thing, you still can’t fight the stupid grin that spreads across your face when they call. Now imagine you’re a closet romantic that thinks this is going to play out like one of your novels.

Did this meeting go well in your mind?

If it didn’t include an impromptu meeting with your alcoholic father, immediately followed by a late night condom run, then it’s nothing like what actually happened.

I suppose he thought we were long past the point of romantic endeavors. Certainly we’d discussed the fact that we were, more than likely, going to “do it” (...on his couch, on the marble hotel desk which, in pictures, looked to be about the right height, but was actually just a tad too tall) and he even asked about my condom preference. But I figured all of that tactical talk would take a back seat once we were face to face.

Instead I found myself, minutes after unwillingly introducing him to the booze swilling bane of my existence, standing in front of a condom display. He’d forgotten to get them before I arrived and we had to pick up some things for our road trip anyway so...problem solved. But after thirty seconds or so of standing at my side and staring too, he high tailed it off in the opposite direction, telling me to choose and that he’d get started on the rest.

As he’d always been more easily embarrassed than me, and as I watched him walk briskly away, I figured the “I forgot” line wasn’t exactly true. I turned back to the display, having no idea what to choose because, obviously, it wasn’t my penis that needed fitting. And then of course there was the problem of how many – too few and we might have to go back, too many and he might think I was planning on staying undressed the entire weekend. But when some strange man appeared and grinned at me, I just said fuck it, grabbed an economy sized box and ran.

“I can’t believe you left me there”, I said when I caught up with him. He was laughing and, when he commented on the giant box I’d chosen, I couldn’t help but laugh too. It wasn’t romantic at all, but it was us, the way we’d always been – ridiculous, teasing and relatively comfortable despite the odd nature of the situation. I wanted it that way, of course, but I wanted romance too.

There were parts of what followed that somewhat satisfied my need for the romantic stuff. Our first kiss, for instance, was amazing and so much like the dream I’d had months before. Granted it was on a different couch, we weren’t being watched and it was followed by sex, not recreational vehicles. But it was him, those were his hands on my face, and I had the same overwhelming feeling of falling head first into something I was absolutely powerless to control.

But after the initial kiss, romance was temporarily forgotten. I didn’t care how much I’d liked him up until that point; I honestly hadn’t expected him to be so...well, hot. Intense. Aggressive.

Frankly, that was my usual role and I just couldn’t seem to fill it where he was concerned. Partially because the way I wanted him was so different, so new to me. (The only other person I’d ever had feelings remotely similar for...we never slept together.) And partially because I may or may not have taken a little something to help calm my nerves. Either way, I enjoyed every minute of it, romantic or otherwise.

Well, almost. He did have this peculiar habit of randomly putting his finger in my mouth. Naturally, my first thought was, “Oh, he wants me to suck his finger, maybe bite it. Ok. They do that in porn sometimes. I don’t see the point, but sure, why not.” Only once it was in there, he just kept moving it around like he had no idea what the point was either. A small, and endlessly amusing, price to pay for the rest, really.

The next morning was fine at first, but with hours to drive and topics apparently thin on the ground, there wasn’t much talking. I was trying to fight my way out of this particular limbo – you know the one? Where you’ve slept with your friend, fallen even harder for them and are so terrified of spooking this person that’s even more afraid of relationships than you are, that you’re stuck in your own head analyzing every single thing they say and every single thing they do and attempting to act accordingly, thus making the situation more awkward than it would have been in the first place.

Yeah, that one.

The normal me would have slipped a hand in his lap and been like, “So...how was the sex? Which part did you like best? Do you think we could forgo the finger in the mouth thing? Word.”

The new flustered and anxious me was more like, “So...great sex last night! Hey, I love that song...turn it up!” Then there was singing.

I did, finally, manage to grab his hand and hold it awhile...attempting to convey what I couldn’t seem to say out loud: “I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been, but somehow...I’ve also never been so happy. I hope you feel the same.”

The physical contact reassured me that he was really there, we still had days left together and it definitely wasn’t the sex that I wanted so badly. And I promised myself (because that had worked so well in the past) that I wouldn’t think about how it might end until I had to. Until I was boarding a plane or until he told me he didn’t want me. Whichever came first.

The leap

2011-12-28T21:11:00.000-02:00

We stare at each other across the table.

Nothing is going to happen unless I make the first move and that’s fitting – our entire relationship is based on the dance...around and around, him wanting me to take the lead, me wanting him to do the same. In the end, with every argument and every decision, I always acquiesce, and I’m sure this will be no different.

I’m tipsy, a little sluggish, and though he’s participated in the earlier merriment, he’s completely clearheaded. This, more so than anything, makes me nervous. I’m wondering if I’m reading his signals wrong. And they have to be signals because he would never come out and say what’s on his mind. Dragging the truth, dragging any sort of feeling or desire out of him is exhausting. This may be the first time we’ve physically met, but I’ve known him long enough to understand what he may not: As long as someone else is making the decision, he’s not really responsible for what follows.

Be that as it may, I want him.

We move to the living room and he deliberately sits on the far side of the couch and grins. It’s clearly a challenge and I decide I’m tired of playing games.

I crook my finger. “Come here.”

“What”, he says, still smiling. He slides a little closer and I meet him halfway.

It’s only the second time in my entire life that I’ve kissed someone I have genuine feelings for...and though I’m not prepared for it, I’m immediately aware of the difference.

He pulls back, hands on either side of my face, our breath still mingling and says, “It’s been a long time coming. Three years...”

I’m suddenly too wrapped up in what’s happening to be rational, to be me. As I follow him up the hall, I try to tell myself one last time that it doesn’t mean anything. But when he kisses me again I forget all my promises, all my warnings...

And I think, “How could he not feel this? He must – it’s unreal.”

100 Words: The beginning

2011-11-06T20:07:00.001-02:00

I sit around the fire with a group that thinks they know me. Someone poses the question: What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?

Responses are as expected – sex, alcohol, arrests. When it’s my turn I follow suit, telling a drunken story they’ve heard before. But all the while I’m wondering who else, like me, is hiding the truth.

*****

I don’t write fiction. I write about my life. And for a long time I’ve been omitting a rather significant detail.

What’s the craziest thing I’ve ever done? I fell for someone I’d never met.

I fell for one of you.

Double sided

2011-11-02T16:35:00.000-02:00

We trudge up the gravel drive, disheveled and cold in what’s left of our costumes. The green felt hat in my hand is soaked round the edges after being knocked from my head and into a puddle by the witch at my side. Christine giggles about nothing in particular, still holding a beer and a stolen bucket of pretzels, refusing to believe the party has ended before daylight.

As we near the front door she’s overcome with laughter, clutching her sides and dancing in circles. I still don’t see what’s so amusing, but of course I’m nowhere close to her level of inebriation. Perhaps it’s that on the other side of that door my family is asleep, blissfully unaware of the ruckus that’s about to happen, and she’s always rather amused by the discomfort of others.

Darkness and a cold nose greet me at the door. I pat Tank’s head, pausing to listen before I allow her inside. A symphony of heavy snoring, his and hers, creates a welcome cover for the racket of Christine’s entrance, but I’m not sure how long it will last.

I push her to the bathroom first and quickly get into warmer clothing. The bedroom is a disaster – costume packages, tights turned inside-out, jeans and jewelry cover the floor. I start tossing things toward the closet and shoving what I can into corners to clear a path before she comes back and stomps on it all.

We pass each other in the kitchen – one tiptoeing, the other galloping. I spend as much time in the bathroom as possible, hoping that if she wakes them she’ll do it when I’m in another room and clearly not at fault, but all seems quiet when I poke my head out the door and listen. “Maybe she’s already passed out”, I think, crossing my fingers and making my way back.

But of course that isn’t the case because there she is, sprawled on the floor of the dining room, grinning at me like a toddler, shoving pretzels in her mouth and Tank’s mouth, alternately, but with equal enthusiasm.

“What the hell”, I hiss at her, throwing my hands up in exasperation.

“Me and Tank Tank are eating pretzels”, she slurs loudly. “So good...so good!” And the giggling starts again in earnest.

I can’t help but laugh a little. She looks so ridiculous. “Get up from there, you idiot!”

She stumbles up and into my room, launching herself upon the bed so hard that she rolls and hits the wall, scattering pretzels all over my sheets. I sigh, turn out the light and crawl in next to her. Now that she’s stationary, I relax a bit. We laugh, swapping memories from the party, and I shush her when she gets too loud. Parts of my body are still cold, as if there are icy hands pressing against my skin, and no matter how many layers I add they aren’t thawing out. As she chatters away, I try to decide if it’s worth it to find my electric blanket.

“Did you hear that”, she asks.

“What?”

Before she can answer, there’s a loud banging on the window.

“It’s Claire”, Christine shouts. “Hold on, Claire! She’s coming! Quick, go let her in!”

I jump up and run for the front door. Claire charges in clutching a white trash bag full of clanking bottled beer, the tiny cape on her Wonder Woman costume from the children’s section billowing out behind her. She collapses on the floor of my closet, crying.

Christine immediately goes into “comfort mode” which, more or less, sounds like: “this is what’s happened to me in my life and it’s so much worse than what’s happened in yours so suck it up and let’s talk about me some more”. I sit silently on the edge of the bed, watching them, wondering when it’ll be over and I can get some rest. Christine is repetitive when she’s drunk and after locking eyes with an exasperated Claire, I finally say, “It’s not a pissing contest.”

“I know”, Christine replies, though I doubt she has any idea what I mean.

I manage to get Claire out of her costume and into a pair of my pajamas, thinking I’ll put her to bed across the hall. But no, suddenly they’re both filled with good spirits and renewed energy.

“Let’s do something crazy”, Claire says, running over and turning on my bedroom light.

“I’m down”, Christine shouts back.

“It’s freezing and I don’t think it’s a good idea”, I say, inching my way toward the bed. My reluctance is like a red flag and they both turn to me, eyes narrowed. “You guys, I’ve got to pick up my kid in the morning and I’ve already taken off my bra...”

“So have we”, Claire shouts, lifting her shirt and shaking her boob at me. “Look at my nipples!” Christine lifts hers as well and they chase me around the room waving their tits and shouting, “Show us your nipples!”

Twenty minutes later I’m rattling through the woods in a “stolen” Ranger, the trash bag full of beer knocking against my left side. After being tackled and assaulted, dry humped and yelled at, I finally gave in. They decide that we’re going to a high school party around the corner...in our pajamas. As Claire careens around fallen trees and Christine bounces and shouts, I hang on to the rail for dear life and watch each breath as it leaves my body, the mist curling into darkness.

We arrive at the house and I’m relieved to see that the party is already over. The house is dark and only two cars remain in the driveway. Claire pulls right up to the steps and, while the engine idles loudly, they argue about who should beat on the door. I say nothing until they turn around to go back.

“Can we take the road this time, please?”

“Pussy”, Christine shouts.

“Fine”, Claire says, glancing over at me. “You aren’t having fun, are you?”

“Sure”, I reply without conviction. Any other answer would probably lead to Christine attacking me with her chest again, knocking me off the side of the Ranger and onto the blurring asphalt. I’ll most likely end up with pneumonia as it is, so avoiding road rash seems like the smart thing to do.

We park and I walk fast toward home, hoping they don’t think of something else “fun” to do before I make it through the door. I’m going to sleep and I’ll lock them out if I have to. But though they swap ideas back and forth, and taunt me for being a spoilsport, they seem to have lost the majority of their energy.

I crawl in the bed, shivering. I’m done trying to keep them quiet and if they wake up everyone, so be it. It’s on their heads.

Christine giggles next to me and Claire curls up on top of the piles of clothes and shoes in my closet, talking to her ex boyfriend on the phone in hushed tones. I hear my bedroom door creak and clearly the others hear it too, and know what’s coming, because Claire attempts to shut herself in my closet and Christine dives under the comforter.

My mother peers through the crack in the door, glasses reflecting the light she’s just turned on in the kitchen. When she sees that I know she’s there, she opens it all the way and glances around at the mess suspiciously. “What’s going on it here?”

I sigh and give her a look that clearly says, “Help, I’m being tortured”. She smiles at me – always delighted by my misery. Christine pokes her head cautiously out from under the covers and says, “Hey Aunt Karen”, before collapsing into giggles once again.

Mom points her finger at her and says, “Shut up! That’s enough!”

“Yes, ma’am”, Christine shouts, diving back under the covers. She is overcome with glee at finally being caught.

Mom sees Claire, still huddling in the closet on the phone. “What’s it doing in the closet?”

“It’s talking on the phone”, I say, as if that explains it all.

She shakes her head, points another threatening finger at Christine and walks out, closing the door behind her. Moments later I hear the swish of the broom sweeping across the dining room and I know she’s cleaning up pretzels.

I lay still and wait for the giggling to subside, ignoring her until I hear the tell-tale heavy breathing. She’s finally passed out. Claire hears it too and waves goodbye, making her way across the hall to an empty room, still talking on the phone. “Just like in high school”, I think, falling asleep moments later.

*****

“They kept me up until 3:30 and you know it was freezing!”

My new neighbor, Crystal, nods sympathetically. She and her son are going trick-or-treating with me and my daughter. In fact, since they moved in six months ago, we’ve been spending a lot of time together...much to the irritation of my friends.

“It’s not that I don’t want to have fun”, I continue, “It’s just that I was done for the night and I didn’t want to wake up the whole damn household. And then of course she was way more drunk than I was and getting on my last fucking nerve. I had to get up the next day to go get the kid, you know? We’re not 17 anymore.”

“I get it”, she says. “I would’ve been irritated too.”

When we arrive at my friend’s neighborhood, we all climb up on a trailer filled with hay. My cousin Ashley is there with her kids and it’s a full ride. The four-wheeler pulling the group weaves through the thickening crowd of trick-or-treaters.

It’s a gorgeous evening and the kids are having a blast. I’m sitting on bales of hay with other moms, actually enjoying their company – laughing at the kids and watching the leaves go by as we speed on to another street. I realize that I’m having just as much fun on this family friendly hayride as I did at the party the other night...and definitely more fun than I had after the party.

*****

I didn’t expect to like Crystal when she moved in, simply because I hadn’t met another mother that I enjoy hanging out with. My experiences were limited to being judged by them for being single or being bored by their constant talk about kids and husbands. I found out, though, that we have a lot in common. She’s not obsessed with her child and she still knows how to have fun – we spend as much time hanging out with our kids as we do on our own, going out and cutting up.

I thought that maybe I wasn’t having fun with Claire and Christine because I’m getting too old for that kind of nonsense, but now I don’t believe that’s entirely the case. When I wanted to quit that night and they wouldn’t let me, it was just like every other time they’ve harassed me for not being able to go out because I’m at home parenting...or talked shit because I’m too tired from working all day and taking care of the kid to entertain them. They never take no for an answer.

It’s been refreshing to meet someone like Crystal – someone who accepts and understands both parts of me, who lets me be the one I need to be at just the right time. And, of course, it also helps that she makes a kick ass batch of Jell-O shooters.

I’m not abandoning the others, far from it. But I think we may be long overdue for that “there’s a time and a place” talk. Maybe they’ll accept the calmer, mom side of me if I stop giving in, and show them that I’ve accepted it too.

Last day

2011-09-28T12:50:00.000-02:00

“I think I’m going to buy some of those diet chips”, Diane says.

I prop my bare feet on the edge of her desk and cross my ankles. “Make sure you read the bag carefully. Some of those diet and sugar free foods can cause anal leakage.”

She throws back her head and laughs, the sound echoing down the corridor. I smile and shake my head as she launches into a story about a woman that had to have her asshole reconstructed, due to her penchant for taking the dirt road. I’m going to miss these daily dicking-off fests more than I originally thought. And I’m going to miss her.

I remember the first time I sat in this chair, in her horribly messy office, wearing a brightly striped sweater, black skirt and black old lady pumps. I was a nineteen year old kid with a month old baby at home and I had no idea what I was doing. Diane sat me down, explained the job, spent a half hour gossiping and then showed me around the suite.

I immediately wanted to work here, not even considering the corporation as a whole...just this little area where the work space rang with laughter and the halls smelled of coffee and someone’s breakfast burrito. It was my first “real” job.

But though the woman who hired me is my supervisor, she’s never been just a boss. From the day I interviewed until this moment, this last day we get to sit here together as employee and employer, she’s also been my friend, mother and psychiatrist.

She cosigned for my first loan to help me establish credit, she made cakes on my birthdays and sat drinking wine with me all night on her living room floor. Just recently, when I had to go to the doctor for what was apparently vertigo, she came, without asking, in sweats and tennis shoes on her day off. Just in case I needed someone to hold my hand and drive me home.

She’s lectured me, made me listen to the same stories over and over again, occasionally irritated me so much that I wanted to scream...but I love her. She gave me a job, she gave me a chance and she’s continuously put up with all of my tardiness, grouchiness and immaturity.

And now, after weeks of wondering and waiting, the day has finally come. The transition from old job to new will be complete tomorrow, when I pack up the last box and they cart it two blocks away. I’ve been excited about taking a step up the career ladder, about more money and more opportunities to grow and learn. I’ve been excited about my new chair and my new title, about rubbing elbows with presidents and COO’s. Excited and a little terrified, but not sad. Not until now. Not until it really hit me that in order to grow up and move up, I’ll have to give up a few things too.

This is the last time I’ll sit around with no makeup on and a frizzy ponytail, barefoot and relaxed in the privacy of an office that’s more like home. The last time I’ll dance on tiptoe around her door and primp in front of her mirror to make her laugh. The last time I’ll drink coffee and shoot the shit for an hour in the mornings. The last time I’ll wear flip flops and leggings, play games when no one is looking and close my door for an hour with a current bestseller.

And perhaps the saddest thing of all, right up there with saying good bye to her and other coworkers I’ve come to think of as family - this is the last time I’ll sit at this desk and write.

The mature notch

2011-09-13T22:11:00.000-02:00

We sit at opposite ends of his slippery leather couch, holding drinks neither of us need. I watch him bring the glass to his lips, mustache momentarily disappearing, and I wonder what on earth I’m doing here.

He’s telling me about his job, something to do with engineering. I’m interested and I’m not – I feel as though he’s filling the time according to some rule of sexual etiquette I’ve never learned. Set the scene, chat up your prey, seduce them slowly and deliberately. That’s not the way younger men do things. It’s not unwelcome exactly, just unfamiliar.

He leans over, lifts my feet and settles them in his lap. Still talking, he massages them, making slow deep circles. I haven’t had a pedicure in ages and normally I’d be embarrassed by my rough heels and chipped nail polish, but I find I don’t care. It feels nice, but the smile he gives me as his hands start to travel higher, stroking my ankles and calves, doesn’t have the effect I think he intends it to. It’s suggestive and rather cheesy. I’m more amused than aroused.

We only met hours ago, introduced by a mutual friend, yet already he knows more about me than any one night stand ever has. That’s partially her fault – telling him over dinner that I write a blog, encouraging me to tell him my crazy stories. And because I didn’t think it mattered, because I looked at him and saw nothing but a friend of a friend whom I’d likely never see again...I did. We shot pool and threw out statistics and sordid tales like playing cards.

“I’ll stay because I’m drunk, but I’m not having sex with you”, I’d said only a short while ago. The streetlights in the parking lot made him look like a pirate when he smiled – black hair, whiter than white teeth, deeply tan skin and that damn mustache. We both knew I was lying.

We stop speaking and he stares at me, the cheesy smile becoming a dirty leer. I can’t help but grin back because this feels rather ridiculous. I’m going to fuck him for sport, because he’s 20 years my senior, because I’m drunk and curious. I’m not sexually attracted to him at all, though he’s moderately good looking. I’m even more amused when I realize his reasons may be similar – he might fuck me for sport, because I’m 25 and I doubt women my age beat down his door on a regular basis.

He stands up and pulls me to my feet, leading me down one hallway then another. His room is open and spacious, shuttered windows cover two walls. The bed is tall, headboard cattycornered causing it to jut out into open space. Soon I’m sprawled across it naked and for once, not even a second of self-consciousness plagues me. Maybe I should stop sleeping with men I’m not initially attracted to more often.

I’m surprised by how good he is, how attentive and tireless, how kinky. For someone I’m sleeping with just because I can, he’s exceeding my expectations. But occasionally he looks at me in a really intense way, almost glaring, and with that mustache...I have to stop myself from laughing.

I fall asleep next to him, which is something I never do. Not the sort of cat napping I tend to do before sneaking out with my panties in my purse, ensuring they have no idea that I snore and occasionally drool, but hard sleep, only waking when he nudges me for more sometime near dawn. I scratch “low libido” off of my older man mental stereotype list.

*****

He asks me out to dinner and, before I really have time to think about it, I say yes. He’s been reading my blog and he likes it. It’s strange to know that a one night stand could read what I write, but even stranger still that I’m seeing him again. I’m not sure I can write about him, knowing he’ll read it.

There’s standing room only at the bar while we wait for our table and I suck down three Jack and Cokes before we’re seated. He has just as many, but I have a feeling that’s a regular occurrence. I want to have sex with him again because it was good, but I’m not sure I can do it sober. His age is no longer a novelty notch for my belt and more like some strange self-experiment I shouldn’t be doing.

He asks if I like wine and I say that I do. He asks if I like red or white and I say that I prefer white. He says he prefers red and orders that, assuring me I’ll like it.

The waitress pours a little in our glasses and though I consider it, I don’t do the pretentious swirling and sniffing. We both raise our glasses to our lips and he nods at the waitress. I nod too, even though I think it’s rather bitter, and she fills our glasses, leaving the bottle on the table.

“Do you like it”, he asks.

“Yes”, I say, to be nice.

The dynamic has changed with this dinner. I’m nervous for the first time and I think it’s because it feels like a date. I’m filled with mixed emotions about it – I’m amused, horrified, excited. Somehow just sleeping with him doesn’t seem as bad as going out with him.

We empty the bottle of wine and I feel infinitely more relaxed. I totter out the doors in my heels, pausing to pull a pair of sandals out of my purse – it’s a long walk back to the car and I doubt I can manage it in those death traps. It’s a nice night for it though and the conversation and laughter flows easily. His laugh is very high pitched and it makes me laugh harder, turning it all into a big vicious cycle.

When we get back he offers me a drink. I take it, shedding shoes and pants as I meander back through the hallways to his bedroom. I climb up on his bed and decide I’d like nothing more than to jump on it.

I haven’t jumped on a bed in years, but here I am in my lacey boyshorts and shirt, drunkenly bouncing around his mattress like it’s a trampoline. I have no idea what he makes of this, since I’m too busy laughing and enjoying myself, but when I stop, he’s right there at the edge, pulling me to him. I wonder if he thinks I’m finally acting my age.

*****

He invites me over to his place to watch the bowl game. I’m reluctant because I have my period and that means if I go, I’m going for the express purpose of hanging out and nothing else. Spending time with him without sex on the menu seems like a waste, and possibly another step in a direction I’m not sure I want to go, but I’m bored. I don’t care if he sees me looking bloated in a pair of leggings, with minimal makeup.

We drink beer and watch the game, playing beer pong at half time. When my team is still losing badly in the third, I make him turn it to something else. We get on his computer, look up YouTube videos that make us laugh and share them with each other. I sit on his lap and it feels a little awkward, but most likely just for me.

Moving to the couch, I watch some sort of criminal drama show he’s put on. When he returns from the kitchen with more beer, it’s to a commercial with a Star Wars reference. Laughing, he bends down in front of me, eye to eye, and says, “Aly, I am your father.”

I’m appalled and I know my mouth hangs open as proof. He is, indeed, almost exactly my father’s age. I internally shake myself and laugh to hide how much that goofy little sentence rattled my cage, but I doubt it’s convincing. I’m not sure which part bothers me more: The fact that he could be...or the fact that he said it, even jokingly.

*****

We go out for drinks and play pool at a bar around the corner. I’m having a good time and getting fantastically drunk until a group of young couples comes and sits in our empty area. They’re playing other games and apparently waiting to use the pool table I don’t want to give up.

He solves this problem by inviting a couple to play against the two of us. Soon we are laughing and chatting with them and he’s buying everyone rounds of shots. The girl playing opposite me is a hair stylist and we talk shop. She gives me a business card with her name on it and drunkenly mentions a discount. We are fast friends now, as only two drunken women who are strangers can be, and she rolls her eyes at me when her boyfriend admonishes her for not paying attention.

“So are you two dating”, she asks. Her face says she’s genuinely interested in the answer and when I look up at him, his expression mirrors hers.

“Um, ha ha.” I shrug and laugh, then decide to go the easy route. “I don’t know”, I say looking at him again, “are we dating?”

My knee jerk instinct was to reply “well, we’re fucking...”, but when I saw his face I wasn’t sure if I should.

“Yes, I guess we are”, he says.

A short time later, I see someone I know. It’s only Travis, my cousin’s old high school boyfriend, someone I only speak to out in public, but I’m suddenly very self conscious about my...date. He starts to come toward me to say hello and, rather than letting him come all the way over, I meet him halfway.

We hug, exchange pleasantries, cover the usual “who have you seen, who’s doing what” topics and he introduces me to his girlfriend. I see Travis glancing over at our pool table curiously, but I offer no explanation about my company.

“Who was that”, he asks when I return.

“Oh, that was just an old friend from high school. He dated my cousin for a long time.”

He makes a comment about me not introducing him and I feign surprise, apologize. I’m drunk after all – social niceties easily escape me. But I’m relatively sure he isn’t buying it.

The boyfriend of my new, drunk friend tells him how lucky he is to be taking me home. Maybe he thinks so too. Maybe that’s why he chooses to ignore my poorly concealed slight. Maybe we really are using each other equally.

He makes me breakfast the next morning and we sit at his dining room table. This is new.

I look at him and try to imagine introducing him to my friends and family as my boyfriend. Premature, yes, but all this time I’ve been spending with him makes me picture it and, in my head, it looks painfully awkward.

*****

We go to a Mexican restaurant near his house. I order a burrito and he laughs at my exaggeratedly Southern pronunciation. But this dinner feels different. I think we’re both losing what little bit of interest we’ve had in each other.

I’m not around often enough, I don’t contact him much, and I happen to know that he’s seeing other women, going out of town with them. I don’t mind, since I’ve been sleeping with someone else when the mood strikes me, but I have a strange feeling that he thinks I will.

Or, maybe I’ve had it all wrong from the beginning. Maybe he’s not my fuck buddy that I’m sort-of-but- not-really-dating because classifying it makes me feel weird. Maybe I’m his...and all these dinners, drinks and hangouts are just bonuses for sharing the fountain of youth.

*****

That was the last time we saw each other.

The next time we spoke was through text message, discussing plans to hangout. He was supposed to let me know what we were doing and after the original “let’s do something”, and my affirmative reply, he just never wrote back.

I didn’t even pursue it, didn’t bother to ask what the hell happened, because I already knew. He’d fallen in love with another woman he’d been seeing, someone closer to his age. Go figure.

I wasn’t hurt and when I look back on it, we had a good time together. You can’t really regret great sex and fun dates. I was, however, a bit angry about the invitation he never bothered to cancel – I found it extremely rude. But still, even after that slight, I couldn’t write about him.

He asked me once, after we’d seen each other a few times, why I hadn’t written about him yet. He was well aware that I generally don’t leave an interesting man, date, or sexual encounter untold.

At first it was because I thought he wouldn’t like it – no man I’d slept with or dated had ever had access to my blog before. I figured he wouldn’t want me to put all of his personal business out there. It’s certainly not for everyone. But no, he seemed to really want me to talk about him. Maybe it had something to do with ego.

When he told me to go for it, that he didn’t care, I was actually excited. I’d been a little disappointed that there was finally something I wasn’t technically allowed to write about.

But when I tried...the words wouldn’t come. Somehow, knowing he’d be reading it had me blocked. There was the tiniest part of me that didn’t want to offend him in any way, but the main problem was this: What if he disagreed about our time together? What if he said it didn’t happen quite that way? I didn’t want to be challenged.

That was last year and I’ve since realized a few things about writing and relationships.

Everyone sees things differently – writers especially. There are details that stand out in our minds that other people find so insignificant, they don’t even register. And more importantly, everyone feels things differently. Everything I’ve said about my time with him is true – it’s what I felt, it’s what I thought and if it differs from the way he remembers it, that doesn’t make it wrong. It just makes it mine.

I’ve wasted a lot of time these past few months trying to avoid things, people, emotions. It’s one of the reasons I’ve had such a hard time writing...because writing, for me, is the opposite of avoidance. This story is my way of giving fear and avoidance the middle finger, a step toward getting back some of what I feel I’ve been missing. And, of course, to finally give him the post he deserves.

Allergic reaction

2011-09-06T19:14:00.001-02:00

I went to Dr. Kelly for help on someone else’s recommendation, when I was not only at the end of my rope again, but gnawing on it.

I was no longer seeing the Diane Lane look-a-like therapist. After months of sessions I found I couldn’t do it anymore. She seemed kind and she listened, but for some reason I didn’t completely trust her.

I put off finding a new therapist, because that’s what I do, and in the mean time things spiraled out of control. I spent almost an entire weekend in bed, in full melt down mode, and did something completely out of character. I talked to my mother.

Here was a woman that knew about curling up in a ball and checking out. All these years of living with this anal retentive, overly-emotional control freak that drove me nuts...and in the midst of my mess, I finally saw her. I felt ashamed of my inability to comfort her when that was probably all she’d ever wanted, ashamed that emotional displays make me uncomfortable and physical affection has a time limit.

She crawled into the bed and lay beside me while I cried. I didn’t want to talk, I didn’t want to be touched, but I didn’t want to be alone either. She’s never understood much about me at all – but this she knew how to deal with, this she could handle. When I had trouble breathing, she coached me right through it, calming me down.

I was too far gone to be embarrassed and when my sister crawled up and lay on the other side, sandwiching me between them, I just accepted it. Most days I feel as though they’re both vultures, waiting for me to show signs of weakness so they can swoop down and pick at my flesh. But that day I lay bleeding and they didn’t once take a bite. And when I finally told them what why and how, or at least as much of what why and how as I could spare, they told me not to worry and then they let me be.

Each day after that I got a little better – I got up, I cried less, I stopped staring into space and actually concentrated on something, anything else. I laughed, I went to dinner and I returned phone calls I’d been avoiding. Sometimes I’d get angry or disgusted with myself, for being what I call “melodramatic”, but generally I just “dealt with it”. And by that I mean I put it all back inside and locked it up.

I knew I needed to do something different, to seek out another therapist or take more than the occasional Xanax to numb the things that crept out of that locked place from time to time, but I didn’t. I took Dr. Kelly’s number and it joined the receipts and lipsticks at the bottom of my purse.

Until one day, not too long after my meltdown, I was sitting at work. I’d picked up my favorite fast food for lunch, brought it back to the office and ate every bite. Nothing was wrong at all on the surface, I felt fine. Except suddenly, I seemed to have something lodged in my throat.

I could still swallow, still breathe, but it was uncomfortable and I couldn’t seem to make the lump go away. I drank an entire bottle of water, even took out a mirror and examined the back of my throat just in case, but there was nothing. I got a fluttery feeling in my chest like my heart had grown wings and they were beating rapidly at my insides. My face grew hot and when I stood up I felt disoriented.

My boss walked by, glanced over and stopped. “What’s the matter? You’re very pale.”

“I don’t know. I feel strange...and like there’s something caught in my throat.” I explained all my symptoms and she told me to hold on, disappearing around the corner.

She brought back a nurse from the next department – one of the sorts that have a degree for paperwork purposes only and haven’t really practiced much medicine. I relayed my symptoms again and she nodded knowingly, perma-tanned fake boobs wobbling with every jerk of her head.

“It sounds like you’re having an allergic reaction. What have you eaten today?”

I looked at her, horrified. “Only Chick-fil-a...and I’m not allergic to anything!”

She nodded again. “Well, that’s what it sounds like. They use peanut oil, you know. Adults develop peanut allergies later in life all the time.”

“Oh no! No, no!” I had to take deep breaths at that point; the fluttering was making me supremely uncomfortable. Did people my age have heart attacks? What the fuck did Orange Boobs McGee know about it anyway? But the others immediately agreed with her and I couldn’t think of an alternate reason.

One of the other employees ran across the street and returned a few minutes later with a box of Benadryl allergy tablets, shoving two in my hand. I swallowed them and waited. For twenty minutes I paced back and forth between my office and my boss’s, sitting down and getting up over and over again, ranting.

“If I’m allergic to Chick-fil-a, you might as well go ahead and kill me now. Either that or I’ll eat it anyway and stab myself with an epi-pen every time!”

She laughed at me, but when I didn’t fall to the floor racked with convulsions she quickly lost interest. I decided I needed a second opinion.

“Mom”, I said with false calm after the receptionist connected us, “there’s something wrong with me.” I told her the problem, explaining how the feeling in my throat hadn’t gone away but got better and worse, better and worse. I told her the nurse’s theory about an allergic reaction and the Benadryl.

“But she’s got fake tanned fake boobs and I couldn’t real...”

“Alyson, do you have a Xanax in your purse?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because you’re not having an allergic reaction, you’re having a panic attack. You have no allergies, nor have you developed any. Take the pill, concentrate on breathing slowly in through your nose and out through your mouth and call me back in twenty minutes.”

“Oh”, I replied, stunned. “Ok...”

When I called her back and reported positive results, she sounded a bit smug. “What kind of nurse would tell you something like that?” But I didn’t really blame the Boobs MD up the hall – I hadn’t recognized the real problem either. I’d never had a panic attack out of nowhere before, not like that. I’d always been very upset to begin with, agitated or crying, before one presented itself. The seemingly random arrival of this one scared me and for it to happen at work, to cause me to lose an hour of my time, well that wasn’t acceptable.

“It’ll be alright”, she added after her rant.

“Thanks mom”, I said. And I really meant it.

I dug through the debris of my purse, pulled out the doctor’s number and took her next available appointment. I still had to wait a week and during that time I experienced several more attacks, including one in the car that was so bad I had to pull over. When I finally walked through her doors, I was doubling up on my precious, actually illegally procured Xanax.

Sitting in the exam room waiting on her, I wondered how much to say. Doctors can be funny about people admitting to taking drugs that don’t belong to them, but how else to explain how I’d been dealing with the problem thus far?

I was shocked when a woman that looked no older than me walked in and, truth be told, slightly miffed. I didn’t want a new doctor, I wanted someone more established. She looked more like a TV MD than the real thing.

But the minute we started speaking, I changed my mind. For an hour we talked – I answered all her professional questions and then, somehow, I was telling her about my dad and about therapist Diane Lane. And without divulging too much, she told me she’d been through some very similar experiences. My new doctor was young and optimistic – she seemed to “get it”, and she was only a family doctor. There was likely no couch in her office, in fact I didn’t even know if she had an actual office.

It wasn’t that I found someone to relate to, there were plenty of people that could say, “Yes, I know exactly how you feel and I’ve been there”. There was just something about her that put me at ease; I trusted her. I even told her about the pills. And I’d never once had that feeling with Diane Lane. With her, I’d laid out the things I thought she needed to know, resenting it and her, even if I wasn’t aware of it at the time. I wanted it to work, so I forced it until I couldn’t anymore, but gave just enough to get by and little else.

At the end of our appointment Dr. Kelly gave me two prescriptions – one for long term use and the other for more Xanax to use for panic attacks until the first had time to build up in my system. She said she thought therapy was something that I should continue with and she would call two of her colleagues for referrals, that I should keep trying until I found the right one, that it had taken her several tries too.

“It’s a shame”, I told her on my way out, “that you aren’t in that field.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll find the right one. Call me anytime.” And I’m sure she really meant it.

One, please

2011-08-24T15:47:00.001-02:00

Several weeks ago I had the sudden urge to go to the theater alone.

Oh, the thought had crossed my mind plenty in the past – mostly because of some charming scene in an old movie, set in New York or Paris where people do that sort of thing. Wishing I were worldly enough to be that lone person on the screen happily watching a screen, wishing I were somewhere else.

But maybe it isn’t about geographical location so much as the way our theaters are now made – the bright tackiness of the animated concession signs and the electronic scrolling marquees. I don’t think there’s anything romantic about them at all, which is odd considering how often they’re used for the specific purpose of dating. And it seems nearly everything has a stigma attached to it and here, now, going to the movies alone makes you either weird or a loser.

There’s still a part of me that wants to seem glamorous and mysterious, like the characters in those old films, but this new feeling wasn’t at all like those occasional fantasies. I wasn’t thinking in black and white, about the décor or the pillbox hat and the gloves I’d wear when I’d ask the man behind the counter for a single ticket. In fact, at the time, I couldn’t say exactly what I was thinking. I just knew I needed to go, and I needed to go alone.

My first attempt fell flat when I made a pre-movie lunch visit and ended up with a tag-along. Specifically my godmother’s nephew, whom I happen to think is wonderful but who wanted to see a comedy I could’ve done without...at least until the video release.

Walking alongside him toward the theater’s giant cave-like entrance, I couldn’t decide if I was more relieved or disappointed. Relieved because, obviously, I wouldn’t have to walk past the handholding couples with a tub of popcorn, avoiding eye contact lest one of them notice a single in their midst. Disappointed because, had he not wanted to go, I was sure I would’ve done it. I would have gone alone.

By the following Friday I was so fed up with work and everything else that I left several hours early, intending to drive home and rest before going out to dinner. But before I’d gotten very far I changed my mind. Checking movie times, I noticed I would just make one of the “to see” items on my list if I went straight there.

Once the decision was made and I knew I wasn’t going to make any stops that might deter me, I became a little nervous. What if I ran into an ex on a date or worse, my boss? Would it be really sad to get my own popcorn? I’d always shared before. What if the theater was full and I had to sit wedged between two couples? Who really cares about going to the movies alone anyway?

Still, I parked and strode with defiant, false bravado to the outdoor counter. Though who this defiance was intended for wasn't entirely clear: myself, the general public or perhaps a little of both.

Two teenage girls left the window with stubs in hand and I stepped up. “One for the 4:20 showing of The Help, please”, I told the sulking young guy on the other side.

“Enjoy the show”, he replied on cue, handing me the ticket.

Even with fake steel holding up my spine, I decided to draw as little attention to myself as possible and avoid the concession stand. I’d be heading for dinner soon enough anyway. Somehow eating alone in a theater seemed worse than just sitting alone in one – logic I still haven’t quite figured out.

But halfway there I was stopped by an elderly man tearing ticket stubs in half and having far too much fun with what appeared to be a grocery store scanner. I suppose it was meant for paper tickets ordered online, but he was using it to scan women instead.

He was making a rather big to-do over two middle aged ladies in front of me, holding each of their hands in turn and scanning their forearms while proclaiming loudly that they were in perfect health. As they walked away laughing, I worried that he’d do the same to me. I didn’t want him holding me up, making me stand out in the open longer than necessary. I also worried that he wouldn’t. I didn’t want him to treat me differently because I was alone.

“Hello! Welcome!”

I smiled and handed him my stub, glancing at his name tag.

“Jim” must have been in his late 60’s and suddenly, rather than worrying about what he thought of me or what the other people scattered around saw when they looked my way, I wondered how a man like him ended up in this place full of sullen teenagers and couples. What made him come back to work at his age? Money? Boredom? Loneliness? Did he go to the movies alone too?

“How’s your day going”, he asked, handing me back the torn copy and reaching for my free hand.

I gave him a real smile this time. “It’s going great. How’s yours?”

“Fantastic!” He swept the red light over my forearm, taking his time and muttering comically to himself. “You’re absolutely perfect”, he finally declared, his voice echoing across the lobby.

“No high blood pressure? Heart problems?” He was delighted that I’d teased him back.

“Not a bit! But holding such a beautiful woman’s arm, I can’t say the same for myself!” He grabbed his chest and rolled his eyes heavenward. I found myself laughing and hoping that he had a woman every bit as exuberant at home, waiting for him to put his vest and name tag aside and tell her about the people he’d seen, the smiles he’d encouraged.

As I turned to go I noticed that we were being watched by a few dubious looking teenage concession employees. I gave them a wave, said goodbye to Jim and headed toward theater four. Almost there, I heard Jim shout, “Enjoy it, honey!”

I spun in a circle, shot him two thumbs way up in the air, and disappeared through the black entrance with the sound of his laughter in my ears. I wasn’t sure if he was extremely perceptive or simply very friendly, but the tension and self consciousness had abated remarkably with those few moments of interaction.

I was smiling as I made my way down the slightly inclined hallway, the wall of the theater lowering on my right. But when I cut the corner and encountered the stairs leading up, I saw what I’d forgotten was a possibility: a full house. I stood there for a moment, unsure whether I should take a seat I hated down in front and crane my neck or brave the packed and coveted upper deck, squeezing past people and muttering apologies.

I started climbing before I could talk myself out of it, up and up, until I reached my favorite row, second to last. An older couple sat on the end and I excused myself, side-stepping past their knees and into the mostly empty center. I sat down, relieved, and placed my purse in the seat to my right.

I’d arrived just in time for the previews and as the lights went down, aside from the one occupied by my purse, the few remaining seats in my row began to fill – couples on either side. I was hyper aware of the woman sitting to my left, worrying whether it was proper etiquette to leave the shared armrest bare or if it belonged to me because I’d gotten there first. I decided to place my hands in my lap, just in case.

And then I forget them all and lost myself in the screen – laughing, frowning, holding back tears. I forgot to wonder if the row behind me noticed that I’d sat down alone or if the woman who’d offered me a free popcorn voucher did so out of pity. I forgot to wonder if the couples on either side were wondering or whispering about me.

I’ve always watched movies with an intensity that sometimes annoys the people around me. I attempt to shut out everything and become completely transported. The same goes for reading. And if something or someone disrupts that, though I may not always show it, I get agitated. The exception to the rule usually takes place out of the theater, if I’ve seen a movie before and the person I’m watching it with hasn’t. Then the majority of my attention switches to them – studying their reactions and comparing them to my own, hoping they laugh and frown at the same parts, that they like it as much as I did.

But I was alone – there was no one to nudge me or stage whisper exclamations during the dramatic parts. I owed none of these strangers my attention and I didn’t care whether they enjoyed the movie or not. There was no one to please but myself. And when the lights came up and the end credits rolled I felt satisfied, relaxed.

I ambled down the stairs in the thick of the crowd, my mind still partially back in 1960’s Mississippi. Back up the dark hallway, out into the lobby, I moved with them at a pace entirely different than the one I’d had going in.

As I passed the ropes separating those coming and going, I saw Jim waving from his post. I waved back, even though I wasn’t completely sure it was me he was waving to, and moved out the row of glass doors into the hot evening.

I had just enough time to make it to the restaurant where, when asked what I’d been doing with my afternoon, I told my companion I’d taken a solo trip to the movies.

“Wow”, she said, looking at me with a mixture of awe and confusion. She was impressed because she could never have done such a thing, but at the same time she didn’t know why I’d felt the need to do it in the first place.

I could’ve told her that it was about making myself happy and not relying on someone else to do it for me, or that I just “wanted to”. I could’ve told her that it was about conquering a fear, defying a stigma, or half a dozen other things that had crossed my mind since I’d exited those doors. I could’ve laid all my thoughts out about why and how, about what it all might mean.

But I simply smiled and shrugged. Because that’s the beauty of being alone – I don’t really have to explain myself to anyone.

MeetingZ - Part Two

2011-07-28T15:35:00.001-02:00

I’ve become so used to expressing myself through written words, that I think my basic communication skills have changed somewhat.

I’ve never really been the best communicator to begin with – I’m easily frustrated with people and weighing my words before I say them is not something I’ve ever been in the habit of doing. I’ve always been rather impetuous, foot permanently wedged in my loud, open mouth, not really caring how I come across to others. But with writing it’s different. I’m deliberate - I think very hard about what I want to say, every word is placed just so, and then I go over it again.

You would think that my life would influence my writing, but in fact I believe it’s the other way around. I’ve become considerably calmer, more thoughtful – I’m not the same person that started this blog six-ish years ago. In fact, I’m not even the same person that was writing here two years ago. We could argue that I’m simply “growing up”, and I’m sure that plays a part in these personality changes, but I think writing is at the heart of it.

Mostly it’s a good thing, and I’m not saying it’s all that drastic (I’m still essentially the same person), but every now and then I’ll think it’s made me less fun and spontaneous...too controlled, especially when I meet new people. And, it seems that what I’m thinking translates better from my head to my fingers, than from my head to my mouth. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation and think, “I could have explained that better in writing” or “That would’ve made sense had I typed it”.

In the early hours of my road trip to Kansas City with Jerrod, I had those thoughts. I got nervous because the last thing I wanted was for him to think I was boring in person. And when I get nervous I do one of two things – make inappropriate jokes or say nothing at all. Being, at that moment, all up in my head, I went with the latter, which did nothing to help the situation and only served to make it seem more awkward. At least that’s what I was (overly) thinking.

“Why aren’t you talking”, he asked me, possibly more than once. I had no idea how to answer – first, because I wasn’t going to admit that I was having some sort of blogging induced social anxiety and second, because I honestly wasn’t sure what the fuck I was supposed to say. We’d spent years discussing every topic, having “favorite thing” battles, arguing points and giving advice – I was drawing a complete blank on something we hadn’t talked about yet. And so, in the periods of silence between tentative conversations...I sang. A lot.

We’d agreed to have a playlist battle of sorts before I arrived, but true to form, I left my iPod behind. I didn’t think our taste in music was remotely similar (he’s a Coldplay fanatic, I’m an Afroman aficionado), but he surprised me. With the exception of two or three songs, I knew them all.

There was a good bit of country music and when I sang along, it was his turn to be surprised.

“I thought you hated country music”, he said.

I smiled. “I never said that.”

He’d apparently stocked up on the country with the sole purpose of irritating me, but I forgave him because not only did he not succeed, he also added rap songs because he knew they were my favorite. And the one Ludo song I’d convinced him to listen to in a long ago conversation, after weeks of harassment.

I was thawing out, becoming more relaxed. I realized that a five hour drive was nothing; we’d talked on the phone that long plenty of times, everything was fine. He knew me already – he wouldn’t find me boring. And so what if we revisited a few topics? It would be like a refresher course since his memory is, remarkably, even more riddled with holes than my own. “I didn’t say that” or “I don’t remember” are two of his favorite phrases.

I insisted that he join me in car karaoke, but except for a few mumbled verses and some guitar noises he remained tight lipped. Until the song he thought to shock me with came on and I squealed, delighted, launching right into the lyrics.

“Man! You know this!?” Foiled again, he was.

It was the Tenacious D song “Fuck her gently” and my excitement must have been catching because he forgot about his previously adamant refusal to sing and shouted the good parts along with me.

The rest of the trip was easy – we talked about writing and about the night before with Jimmy...which I found I could laugh at a lot sooner than anticipated, simply because he was so nice about it. He made fun of my lunch order at the drive through and my excitement over the herds of cattle. But, in my defense, baby cows are cute. Plus there isn’t much in the way of scenery between OKC and KC, and he refused to play the “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” game, so I had to get my visual kicks where I could.

As we drove into Kansas City, over the little interstate bridges, I was glued to the view out my window. It was gorgeous. Our major cities back home aren’t very major at all, so when I see a skyline filled with tall buildings I’m always a little in awe.

We both immediately noticed our hotel, standing tall amongst the other buildings but set apart by the round dome at the very top – which I knew from prior research, was a revolving restaurant called Skies. I was excited about the whole weekend in general, but especially about the hotel.

We parked in the attached garage and made our way through the side entrance into the lobby. It was huge and open, busy but not overly crowded. My suitcase wheels squealed and clacked behind me as we approached the desk, seeming to announce to the entire room that, yes...I was a little out of place. Everything was marble, chrome, glass and plush furniture. Escalators led up to open balcony-like walkways filled with cafes and coffee shops. A mammoth piece of modern art hung from the center, hovering over an empty grand piano, not providing any light but still giving off the impression of a chandelier with varying lengths of silver wire tipped with silver balls.

Room keys in hand, we headed for the elevators. There were two sets – the first only going up to floor 28 and the second for floors 29 and up. I didn’t notice the difference at first and stood in front of the closest bank of elevators, which for some reason really amused Jerrod.

An older man, clearly another guest, was waiting at the second bank and as we approached he said, “These are only for the 29th floor and up.” I thought for a moment that I detected a note of snobbery in his voice, but I couldn’t really be sure and I was too happy to be rude. Besides, I was wearing a t-shirt proclaiming that “awkward mornings beat boring nights” – who was I to judge?

“Yes, I know. We’re staying on the 29th floor”, I replied with a smile. And, as it turned out, he was perfectly nice on the ride up.

There was a floor to ceiling window in the elevator bank of our level and the view was absolutely breathtaking. Not only have I never stayed in a hotel that nice, I’ve never been that high up in a building before either. There were some “wows” and then both of us reached for our phones, snapping pictures like dutiful tourists, before heading up the hallway.

The room was lovely, done in blue, green and beige, modern and comfortable but not extravagant, with dark wood and granite furniture. And it came complete with the same amazing view as the hallway, albeit from a slightly smaller window. More pictures were taken, Jerrod let Paige know we’d arrived and I called first dibs on the bathroom.

Poor Jerrod got a little crash course in just how high maintenance women can sometimes be but, being in a giving mood, I interrupted my (perhaps excessive) routine so he could have a quick 10 minutes to get ready.

I was nearly finished, halfway through applying mascara, when there was a knock on the door.

I wasn’t really sure what to expect from Paige. She and I had talked a good bit through Twitter, Facebook and email. We read each other’s blogs. I knew her basics, that she was friendly and fun to goof off with (she was, after all, my Twitter wife) and I wasn’t exactly nervous to meet her, but it’s rare that I get along with other moms. Inevitably, they go on and on about their children and, inevitably, I want to vomit all over their mom jeans.

I knew for a fact that Jerrod was going to be a quiet, dry humored guy that would probably need a bit of loosening up. But then, I’d already had years to figure him out. Paige was still part mystery.

And an attractive one at that. I opened the door to find a slightly edgier version of the Paige I’d seen in pictures – one sporting several tattoos, big hoop earrings and fantastic heels. She smiled and we both said hello with just a bit of a squeal, as girls are wont to do, and hugged. I stepped back and let her in, retreating to the bathroom for final touches as she marched into the room, calling to Jerrod.

When I joined them a few minutes later to decide where we’d be going for dinner, I saw that she’d casually draped herself across the foot of the bed and I couldn’t help but smile. There was no way you could be uncomfortable around a person like that, so obviously at ease with themselves.

She decided to take us to the Country Club Plaza so we could walk around and choose a place to eat. On the way there she played rap music and weaved through traffic like a demon. Her opinions on children, even her own, were scarily similar to mine and she definitely wasn't wearing mom jeans. I decided it might be love.

The plaza was beautiful – with a big fountain in the center, statues and flowers everywhere. Shops I was salivating to go into lined the streets and though Paige said we could, I said no so as not to subject poor, manly Jerrod to anymore feminine torture than was strictly necessary. I figured he was in for it anyway once we both started drinking.

It was sunny and breezy so we found a bar and grill with a patio, intending to have a few pre-cocktail cocktails and eat before moving on to somewhere more dynamic.

Jerrod had the nerve to make fun of me for ordering a BLT, then order fish tacos for himself. His plate may have been more aesthetically pleasing, but I had the last laugh because mine was better than his – as evidenced by the thickest, most heavenly seasoned bacon known to man.

It wasn’t quite six o’clock and we were done eating - Jerrod and I were tossing back double Jack and cokes, though I’m actually ashamed to admit he was a little more adept at it that I, and Paige was drinking whatever new concoction struck her fancy. Pretty soon our table was littered with glasses and we were making lesbianish remarks for the benefit of our rather thick (not in the good sense, I wouldn’t know) waiter, who most definitely wanted Paige’s vagina. I was also positive that, even in my rapidly advancing state of inebriation, he was looking at Jerrod with envy.

There was never a lull in conversation, never a dull moment, which is I suppose why we looked up hours later, realized night had fallen and that we wouldn’t be going anywhere else. The patio that had been relatively empty in the daylight was now packed full of girls in tight dresses and guys in button ups and Sperrys.

“Douchy”, Paige called it, and I had to agree. Nevertheless, it was fun – a veritable smorgasbord of hilarity.

Like the girl at a table, filled with people, that was kissing some guy. He got up suddenly, walked away and, not a moment later, she was puking silently onto the patio between her feet, her friends across the table taking no notice. Paige, adding to our amusement, wryly informed the waiter that there was a cleanup necessary in the corner.

Or...like the table full of lesbians behind us, their group growing larger as the night wore on. I’m still unclear about how we knew they were lesbians in the first place, though I’ve no doubt Jerrod, even with his notoriously spotty memory, could clear that one up. Especially since I think he’s the one that somehow discovered their eating habits in the first place.

Or...like the most amusing subject of our attention that evening, beating out even the silent vomiter: Tyler.

Tyler was a deep young man with a burning desire to connect with someone, anyone, so long as they didn’t document it on film.

He asked to join us, we of course said yes, and then he told us all about himself. He claimed to be 23 years old and the heir to a wealthy farming business. I highly suspected that he was chock full of bullshit, but it didn’t matter because he was rather nice to look at and Jerrod seemed to find him highly amusing. He was very...earnest, Tyler.

Unfortunately our time with him came to an abrupt halt when Paige pulled out her camera to take his picture. He may have said no, I don’t rightly remember, but one second he was there...and the next all we saw was his back disappearing into the crowd. We all stared after him openmouthed for a moment before the laughing started. Speculation began about why Tyler didn’t want his picture taken – most of it having to do with witness protection, the mob, or being an ex con. When a girl approached us a few minutes later and said he’d randomly sat down with too, I decided that he must have been working some kind of scam. It’s always the pretty ones.

We stumbled from the bar and out onto the sidewalk shortly after that, all in good spirits. Probably having made as lasting an impression on others there, most notably our waiter, as Tyler did with us.

The night hadn’t turned out at all how I’d expected it to – it was better. The nervousness I’d felt in the car on the way there hadn’t returned at all and, though I knew I’d likely be dealing with a wicked hangover the next morning, I couldn’t wait to do it again Saturday night.

MeetingZ - Part One

2011-07-19T17:39:00.002-02:00

Explaining relationships formed through blogging, to people that don’t blog, can be touchy. Many don’t get it – they don’t understand how a complete stranger can become a dear friend.

Even with the boom in online dating and social networking sites, there’s still a stigma attached to internet-born relationships – especially, for some reason, in relation to blogs. It’s oddly more acceptable to jet off to meet a friend of a friend of a friend on Facebook, than it is to spend time with a person whose life you’ve been reading and commenting on for years. Blogging, for me, is far more personal than a daily status update and a handful of pouty faced photos.

I’ve trusted a few close friends, that I knew would understand or at least be accepting, with the truth about my online dealings. Some read my blog and some only know about it, but what they all have in common is that they realize the relationships I’ve made here are no less valid than ours. Different, but no less valid. The ones that read it see it first hand – in how comfortable I am being honest and in the way people respond in the comments: relating to my current situation, being compassionate whether they understand or not, laughing with me or simply letting me know they stopped by. The ones that don’t read it simply know that it makes me happy, and that’s good enough for them.

I’ve been writing here for over six years and I’ve made a lot of friends, but up until two weeks ago I’d never physically met any of them. I’d made plans on several occasions, but for one reason or another they always fell apart. This year I was determined to make it happen and with some long overdue luck, a no nonsense attitude and the help of my completely oblivious father’s yearly gift of a plane ticket...I met three amazing people.

The first was Jerrod, who writes the blog Breaking Awkward (some of you may be more familiar with his old blog title, The Yellow Factor).

We’ve been friends for a little over two and a half years now – talking so frequently that he became one of those people I contact immediately when something notably good or bad happens. I don’t remember who found who first, but we began good-naturedly insulting each other and the rest, as they say, is history.

Jerrod just so happens to live in Oklahoma a half hour away from my stepfamily, who I visit every summer. After weeks of planning it was decided that we’d not only hang out while I was in town, but we’d also take a weekend trip to Kansas City to visit another blogger, Paige.

However, just because the plans seemed to make themselves and everything was already arranged, from the hotel to the road trip play list, doesn’t mean the execution was entirely easy.

See, the only person that knew I hadn’t actually met Jerrod was my sister...and she was sworn to secrecy in order to avoid rioting. I knew that none of them, especially dad, would understand or approve. All they were told, before I got there, was that I’d be spending a weekend in Kansas City with friends and bumming around Oklahoma City with them too. And, before I got there, dad was completely fine with it. He didn’t press me for details.

We went straight to sleep when we arrived at their house around 1am Thursday morning. I was supposed to meet Jerrod Thursday night and had arranged for my stepsister to drop me off in the city. But that afternoon my dad suddenly decided that I was 12, not 26, and I wouldn’t be going off for the weekend with someone he didn’t know...especially a man.

We were sitting on the patio glaring and occasionally shouting at each other, neither of us willing to concede defeat, until he pointed out the obvious.

“I’ll be taking you into the city to meet this motherfucker and if you don’t like it, you can stay your ass here...where he’ll have to come get you and then I still meet him. Period.”

Poor Jerrod was going to meet the infamous Jimmy, whether either of us liked it or not.

I was terrified and, knowing Jerrod, I was positive he would be too. I’d long since gathered that he isn’t used to people like Jimmy.

I’ve only ever introduced three men to my dad, with embarrassing results, and though Jerrod wasn’t a boyfriend the scenario actually seemed worse to me because we’d never met before. I didn’t picture my first blogger meeting including my drunk, obnoxious father telling stories about his dick.

But that’s exactly how it went down.

He rushed me out the door that evening, interrupting my makeup routine every few minutes and making me furious in the process, because he had to drop off some air conditioners (don’t ask, I don’t know) at his “brother’s” house. I made my sister come along because she’s usually a calming influence, but he’d been hitting The Crown all afternoon and there was no controlling him.

He spent the ride to his “brother’s” deliberately scaring the shit out of me by telling me the horrible things he was going to ask Jerrod and by insisting that he wouldn’t meet him anywhere but at a biker bar called VictimZ. Yeah, Victims with a fucking Z.

“Tell him to get his ass in there and have me a beer waitin’.”

Of course I didn’t. It was bad enough I actually had to type out the name to that ridiculous biker bar and have Jerrod reply with, “I put VictimZ in and Google maps laughed at me.” I was mortified.

When we pulled up to drop off the stupid air conditioners, he made us get out of the truck to meet the guy. He was about seven feet tall, wearing overalls with no shirt and had a bandana wrapped around his long hair. After unloading the cargo, they immediately started laughing and punching each other in the sides like children.

“C’mon man”, dad said while jabbing at him repeatedly. “Ride with us! My daughter comes down here to visit me, then thinks she’s going to take the off to Kansas City with some motherfucker I haven’t met! Oh hell no. I told her to have him meet us at VictimZ.”

His brother stared at him for a moment and then, to my absolute horror, they both burst out laughing. “Oh shit”, the guy said, looking at me with a mix of pity and amusement.

“Aw, I’m not going to help embarrass your daughter, Jimbo”, he said.

But dad talked him into getting in the truck anyway. I sat in the backseat with my sister, silently panicking.

When we pulled into the parking lot fifteen minutes later, I saw Jerrod’s car across the street. Dad didn’t even look around – when I hopped out he locked my things in the car so I couldn’t leave until he allowed it, and they immediately disappeared around back into the “beer garden”.

I waved at Jerrod, who was still hiding in his car across the street (not that I blame him), and he drove over. I walked around to the driver’s side, he got out and that’s how we first set eyes on each other. In the parking lot of a rundown biker bar with my father waiting for him in a beer garden, which was actually nothing more than a dirt-packed backyard with big wooden spool tables and rusted chairs made of scrap metal.

He looked worried, but accepted my apology for the oddness of our first meeting and followed me around the corner. Dad’s brother had parked himself at a table a respectable distance away with my sister, who wasn’t allowed in the bar.

“Where’s dad”, I asked.

“He went in for beer.”

A moment later he came wandering out the door with an evil grin on his face, clutching a bucket of beer. I introduced them, watching as my 5’7 father looked up at Jerrod and shook his hand...and it was apparent by the flash of tendons that he was squeezing the shit out of him.

“Drink a beer with me”, he said, shoving one into his hands.

I reached for one myself, twisted off the top and turned it straight up.

Then other than a few “motherfuckers” (in reference to other people this time, not Jerrod), a few embarrassing remarks and a demand to know if Jerrod could “fight”, they proceeded to have a relatively normal conversation. They talked about what they did for a living and where they lived and how long they’d been there. But even so, I knew my dad and I was going to be keyed up until we got out of there.

Jerrod, who was apparently no longer worried, laughed at me for being so visibly nervous, sucking down the beer and lighting a cigarette when I’d planned on not smoking at all. “Relax”, he said.

And I’d just about managed it because we’d finished our beers and I felt as though escape was just around the corner.

But no – dad insisted that we weren’t going anywhere until we went inside and met his other “brothers”. Apparently they’re all in the same biker gang or something – they wear one spur on one boot or some such nonsense so they recognize that they’re “related”.

As we both trailed reluctantly behind dad Jerrod said, “I thought you said we didn’t have to go in...”

“Sorry”, I mumbled, “I didn’t think we would.”

The ceiling was completely covered in bras, except for a small square of removable tile where a stripper pole was shoved inexpertly through a jagged hole.

“I put the pole in”, dad told Jerrod proudly. I shook my head and sighed.

He tried to call over a long haired old man that was absorbed in some sort of game, but the guy was taking his time. There were a few tables of degenerates (mostly really ugly women) that were giving us the stink eye. I wasn’t sure if they were simply unfriendly or plotting to kill me and take off with my Coach bag.

While we waited for the old guy to grace us with his presence, dad decided to tell Jerrod a lovely little story.

“This is my hangout, man. One time I got so drunk that this woman drew a smiley face on the head of my dick and I didn’t even know it. She called my wife and told her she did it, so when I got home she said, ‘You’re not getting in this bed like that with a smiley face on your dick!’ I woke up the next morning and was like, shit, man!”

“Dad! That’s enough! Don’t ever talk about your dick in front of me again. Ever.”

They both laughed and I glared at Jerrod. “Don’t encourage him.”

The old guy chose that moment to make his way over and we were introduced, though I can’t remember his name, and he hugged me uninvited...as all dad’s weirdo friends seem to do.

“This is my daughter’s boyfriend”, dad said, launching into his complaint about me taking off for the weekend again.

“He’s not my boyfriend”, I interjected, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment.

They all ignored me and dad launched into his dick story again for the benefit of our new companion. “Hey remember the time...”

“Yep”, old guy said, “it was my old lady that did it.”

I was close to hyperventilating at that point and, thankfully, none of dad’s other friends seemed to be there so he was ready to go. We were finally off the hook.

We said our goodbyes at the truck, with Leigha sitting unhappily in the driver’s seat ready to cart dad and his friend off to “church”, which is what his biker group calls sitting around drinking and talking about their penises.

As I climbed in the passenger side of Jerrod’s car, dad may have said something to him like “take care of my girl”, but I was so relieved to be getting away that I wasn’t really paying attention.

He got in a moment later, looked at me and smiled. “It’s ok”, I think he said. My nerves were still jangling a bit as we drove away, sure that any moment he would turn around and take me back, wondering what in the hell he was doing taking off with a relative stranger whose father was a drunken biker not above breaking his kneecaps just for lifting an eyebrow the wrong way.

Instead he seemed amused by how unsettled the whole thing had made me. “I think that helped make it less awkward, don’t you?”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Yeah, I guess it did.”

I wasn’t entirely sure if I felt that way or not, but later, when I could laugh about it, I realized he was right. It had.

What I was sure about at that moment, though, was that there had never been a first blogger meeting even remotely similar to ours.

But maybe that was a good thing because, after all, our friendship began unconventionally. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

ABC's of dating

2011-06-29T19:50:00.000-02:00

The problem with change is that it’s often opposed by fear or force of habit. Wanting to be or do something different is easy, the execution...not so much.

For instance, it took me a long time to get over the fear of going back to school. Or at least to get over the fear enough to actually apply to one and make concrete plans to attend. I’m still terrified of being in a classroom again. I was stuck in a routine headed nowhere because it was safe and it was what I knew, but I wanted to go so badly that I finally said “enough” and grew a pair.

But my latest dilemma is a little more complicated than forcing myself to wade through paperwork and red tape. It’s not about just being afraid of change or being stuck in a rut. It’s also that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.

Remember when I got tired of the single life, couldn’t seem to meet anyone new, and ended up dabbling in the online dating thing? And remember how, for my troubles, all I got was a few dinners, a few posts and a sore asshole? Yeah. And remember how I said I was done with that bullshit because it was time consuming, irritating and the majority of the guys are psychos?

Sigh. Well several months ago I inadvertently got drawn back into the snake pit. Seriously, it was not intentional.

I received an email one day from the dating site saying I had a new message. That was strange, seeing as how I hadn’t been on the account in months and, consequently, hadn’t had a message in months either. Apparently if you aren’t on there often, they don’t chat you up.

Being a curiosity killed the cat sort of woman I decided to see what it said and, as it turns out, it was from a guy I’d gone to high school with. I remembered him immediately – a tall, dark, bearded kid that wore big black tennis shoes and a trench coat all the time. In fact, he referenced his appearance himself in the email: “It’s me – Big creepy guy in the trench coat? I saw your profile and decided it’d be rude not to say “hi”.”

“No, no it wouldn’t be rude at all”, I thought, “Because we never spoke to begin with.”

What I said, however, was nice yet dismissive. Something along the lines of, “Yes, I remember you. Thanks for the message. See you’re still stuck in this godforsaken town too. Hope you’re doing well.” The subtext being, “Yep, we walked down the same halls. This is weird. You’re weird. High school sucked balls. Kthanksbye.”

What began then could best be described as a whirlwind of weirdness. I started to receive text messages and phone calls from exes that wanted to “hang out”, “catch up” and, my personal favorite, “go for a little swim...wink wink, nudge nudge”. And, I assume, because I’d logged onto my dating account, my inbox starting blowing up there as well. I went from no prospects to way too many in record time. It’s like they were all on the same period cycle or something.

I was chatting with guys again and trying to decide who, what, when, and where again. I’d forgotten how exhausting it could be and I quickly realized that one thing I am not good at is juggling men. I had a hard time talking to more than one of them at a time because I would mix up details and forget things.

Not only that, but I like to focus all my energy on one thing, which is basically the anti-thesis of online dating. It’s not a hard thing to do when you’re the queen of the one night stand, don’t call me I’ll definitely be blocking your number club. But that wasn’t me anymore...or I didn’t want it to be. I still craved sex, sure, but it was now more about wanting the (gag) connection.

And it’s tricky because I’m such an overtly sexual person. I often don’t realize until later that I was being suggestive in the first place. Or, sometimes I know I’m doing it but I still can’t seem to stop myself. It’s hard to make a deeper connection when I’ve always been so immersed in the physical side of things.

So, I decided that since I was apparently giving dating another shot, I should take steps to change all that about myself – to make a concentrated effort to A) keep my hands to myself, B) watch my dirty mouth, and C) (the most difficult) stop thinking that wanting to have a relationship made me a needy girl and being ashamed of the fact that I was tired of being single.

At first it seemed to be going well. I went on a date with a really nice guy and we started talking on the phone and texting quite a lot. Occasionally there was a bit of flirting, but it was harmless and not at all risqué. I was feeling good about it, really excited that I was not only keeping myself in check but that we had so many interesting conversations.

But apparently we’d reached the statute of limitations on harmless flirting and interesting conversation, because he decided to nudge me in the opposite direction. With his penis. Or rather, with a plethora of pictures...of his penis.

Let’s see, there was one that was clearly taken at an upward angle, but zoomed in to make things appear larger than I suspected they actually were. There was the one following that at a slightly different angle that validated my suspicions about the first. And then there was “the montage”.

Allow me to commentate:

Photo 1: “This is a picture of my crotch covered in jeans. See that there? That’s the tell-tale bulge of my things-may-appear-larger, side-mirror-penis. Now wait for it, don’t get excited!”

Photo 2: “Oh! Oh! Look! He’s coming out to play! He’s a little shy at first, I know. That’s why he’s only poking his head out of my natty boxer shorts.”

Photo 3: “SHAZAM! Here he is in all his glory. And see?! He brought two ugly, hairy friends to make him look better!”

The whole thing was hilarious, with each picture arriving mere seconds after the other, but at the same time extremely disappointing. First, because I’d gone to such lengths to try and behave myself and he had to cheapen the experience. And second, because it was ill timed, terrible photography.

After that guy there was another with nearly the same story – great conversations, funny, interesting. Then the invisible switch flipped and he was making random comments about my tits and the like.

He didn’t actually use the word “motorboat”, but it was implied. And though I find the concept funny, the reality is actually quite awkward and slightly uncomfortable. It’s like when you’re running and not wearing a sports bra so they’re bouncing all over the place, only imagine them going that fast sideways, back and forth, instead of up and down. Though, given a choice, I’d certainly rather be “motorboated” than run without a sports bra...or run at all, for that matter.

Where was I?

Ah, then there was the slip up.

The “I’m feeling sorry for myself because I can’t seem to meet anyone nice, so I’m going to agree to dinner with a guy friend that’s always liked me because, after all, we’ve been having lunch often and it’s been just fine.”

And even though I’d established ground rules about our friendship, mainly “you can compliment me all you want and we can be friends, but nothing else”, I ended up drinking way too much beer.

And even though we didn’t have sex, I did end up on my back.

Because he said, verbatim, that he’d been “dying to eat this pussy for years” and being under the influence I thought, “Self, how could you deny a dying man the treatment he needs?” I figured, why the fuck not?

I’d had sex with him years ago and that was horrific, so I wasn’t going there again. I’ve not had many good experiences in the oral sex department, and in fact I usually decline any offers, but I’d heard a rumor once from his ex girlfriend that he was excellent at it. So I shrugged and said, “As long as we don’t have to play Wheel of Fucking Fortune, go for it.” And he did.

I must say, though I was disappointed that I managed to break my ABCs of change rules, she was right. He was excellent. The only problem was, after two go rounds I was pretty sober and he refused to stop. I think it must have been some kind of ego thing, to see how many times he could make it happen. And no matter what some people may say, you can always have too much of a good thing. Especially if it comes with a nonstop commentary and demands to look at him, while he looks back with a creepy wet childish grin that screams “LOVE ME! I ALWAYS CLEAN MY PLATE!”

So, once again I said enough. No more online dating or hooking up with exes. “Self, you are unable to become involved with a guy, past the point of introductions, without getting penis pictures and offers to use your tits as bongos. Your vagina is not a frozen yogurt buffet for the needy and you just need to quit while you’re limping back in last place.”

Then I met someone – a friend of our new neighbors who has been hanging out on the lake with us nearly every weekend.

At first I didn’t even think of him that way. I simply liked hanging out with him, and everyone else, and thought he was funny. Then one afternoon we were floating together, cracking jokes and I realized, “Uh oh. I think I kind of like him.”

We’re both generally flirty people anyway, but it was when others started drawing attention to certain things that I really started to wonder if maybe he liked me too. Like when we all sat drinking one night on the dock and he lay down with his head in my lap, then held on to my hand when he finally got up to leave, releasing one finger at a time as if to hold on longer. Or how he somehow always ended up beside me or directly across from me on every boat ride and at every dinner. There were dozens of little signs that, had my confidence not been so wrecked by all my dating failures of the past, I probably would have jumped on, said “A Ha!” before suggesting, “Yo, let’s go make out behind the bleachers.” Or, you know, the classier, simpler version: “I like you.”

But maybe wasn’t good enough for me, I wanted to be sure. So I talked to his friends, our new neighbors, who’d quickly become my friends too. Basically I got the he’s always been a little flirty, but he’s actually quite shy speech. “I know he wants a serious relationship and he doesn’t just hop into bed with people”, she told me.

I decided then that my strategy would be to let him take his time and, if he was interested, he’d make a move when he was ready.

Unfortunately patience, shy men and subtlety are not on my list of specialties. So far I’ve gotten two kisses on the cheek, one “you’re so beautiful”, and a lot of disappearing acts. I’m not really sure any of those count as “moves”, except possibly the disappearing acts and that would be a move in the opposite direction. No bueno.

There’s apparently something fundamentally wrong with me, because it can’t be all these guys. I don’t know how to date AND I don’t know how to wait (patiently) for the sex.

My solution to this was to ask other people for advice, but unfortunately my friends and certain family members aren’t really qualified to give it.

Proof?

Claire: “Fuck him. He blew you off that one time. Ignore him. Wanna take a shot of this?”

Leigha (Yes, my 18 year old sister, Leigha.): “You should do what I do because it totally works. I don’t pay them any attention and they come running. Play really hard to get, mmk? They like it. Sigh. I love the game.”

Dave: “Put it on him. GET SOME, AL.”

Mom: “They all want one thing. Stop giving it to them. You did? Well, search me then!”

Grandma: “I’ve seen these commercials for products that help extend the penis. Does he own a house?”

Claire: “He’s probably gay anyway.”

Rachel: “You need to go out and get some strange.”

And we’re back to the beginning again, with virtually no improvement save for the realization that oral sex doesn’t always suck. The whole time. Back at the beginning with no idea what I’m doing, no current prospects (unless you count the one that’s “probably gay and wants you to be his beard”), and a cancelled dating profile.

The changing bullshit is hard.

Lakeside reflection

2011-06-21T17:07:00.001-02:00

I spend the winter months praying for summer to come quickly. Spring is beautiful here, but it’s merely a pleasant stop on the way to a more satisfying destination. I watch the trees turn green, white blooms float to the pavement, and I start counting down the days until I can take that first dive into the waves only yards from my door.

As always I am impatient and before the chill has left the water completely, I’m running down those weathered planks at full speed, bracing myself for the shock.

Summer weekends begin and end in the water. Before the sleep can be rubbed from our eyes, Hannah and I are shoveling down breakfast and tugging on swimsuits. She gets coated with sunscreen, dancing impatiently from foot to foot, chattering about jumping off the tall platform.

“I can do it all by myself, mom. I can swim without a lifejacket too! Please, can I?”

From the moment she steps outside, she turns as dark as an Indian. It’s in her blood, in fact. Dark brown eyes, brown hair and brown skin with just a hint of her white bottom peeking from the edges of her swimsuit – the opposite of her naturally fair mother, who has to work extra hard to become nothing more than golden and still burns her nose every other weekend.

Appearances notwithstanding, she’s a summer child just like I was – pouting as the sunset signals it’s time to go home and marching, red eyed and exhausted, up the hill with water dripping from her hair, wet feet squeaking loudly in rubber flip-flops. Stomping up the back stairs and onto the porch, she strips down and hangs her suit over the tall chair, our towels immediately following. Then, with a sudden burst of energy she runs into the house, the white parts of her skin glowing like another swimsuit and, giggling, announces to the household that she’s naked.

After bath and dinner, bed time comes quickly. She’s asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow and, though I no longer run bare assed and giggling through the kitchen (at least when people are home), I copy her night routine down to the open mouthed breathing. The sun can be draining, no matter your age.

And we do it all again the next day.

Instead of doing cannon ball after cannon ball and bouncing up and down on a tube full of other children, I spend as much time as possible floating on a lounger. But now I’m the voice that controls the mayhem rather than the one behind it. Chasing down reluctant children to apply more sunscreen, diving in to rescue this or that float, shooing away the stupid goose, toting coolers and arranging towels, docking boats and giving Jet Ski rides – that’s what I traded (most of) my cannon balls for. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

All grown up, my family and friends surround me like aptly placed buoys, clutching cold beers in colorful koozies. Their children run with mine and we laugh, reminded of old feuds and excitements that are being played out all over again, right before our eyes.

I’ve spent every summer since the age of two on this lake, in this little cove. It’s where I learned to swim, with an old fashioned belt around my waist. It’s where I held my first sparkler on the Fourth of July and where I nearly drowned learning to ski. It’s where I lost my best friend in the world and where I sat and cried every evening, watching the waves wash up on shore, until I found the courage to keep going without him. It’s where I celebrated every single birthday until the age of 16, when I became too cool to have parties.

I’m happy that I get to watch Hannah grow up walking the same banks, making similar but new memories with her generation of our family. I’m happy every time we’re gathered around the gazebo with our Papa, watching him smile and pick on her the way he’s always done, with every grandchild. I feel lucky that I have a place that’s so special to me and I hope that, twenty years from now, she’ll be looking back, just like this, and feeling lucky too.

Foreign friends

2011-05-26T15:04:00.001-02:00

Today I've got a guest post up at the lovely Baglady's blog while she's away on holiday.

Go have a look.

All the world's a stage

2011-05-06T20:55:00.004-02:00

I leave work early and stop at the gas station, hurrying inside to prepay. I have an appointment in half an hour and I cannot be late.

There are three people grouped behind the counter – two girls and a boy. They have the look about them that says they’ve just arrived at work and aren’t yet bored with their surroundings. It isn’t a look I wear much anymore, but then...I start my day at 5am.

When someone asks me what I do, not just my title but about my daily activities, I always struggle to explain. I don’t want to sound boring, but I don’t want to lie either. “I process patient and employee occurrences, organize that data into reports and send it out to important people that barely know my name. Something, something, trending...something, something. I also give out parking decals to new employees, process parking tickets and play an exorbitant amount of online mahjong.”

The response is usually a tiny nod followed by a short and uninterested “oh”. And I can’t fault them for it because, if someone delivered that spiel to me, I’d probably react the same way. I receive far better treatment simply by wearing my badge and saying nothing – the corporation I work for generally speaks for itself. “Oh, you work for them! Wow, that’s great.”

I’m wearing dark dress pants and a dark top – colorless but for the light blue photo badge hanging from my neck and the silver sandals on my feet. Dark sunglasses cover my face, masking dark circles. I haven’t worn makeup to work in over a week, nor have I fixed my hair.

“Hey, how’s it going”, asks one of the girls behind the counter.

“Fine, thanks.” I give her my trademark I’m not interested in communicating tight lipped smirk.

“Do you know what yesterday was?”

There’s a secretive sort of smile on her face, one that says she knows a joke that, if I’m lucky, she might just share. The other two edge closer to her, the same smile on their faces.

“4/20”, I say matter-of-factly, handing her my money.

“Yes, but what day was it”, she asks me again, searching.

I wonder if she wants me to say it was Wednesday or if she wants me to lower my sunglasses and prove that I’m one of their brethren. Maybe they’re conducting a survey or trying to find a new dealer.

“Um...”

“National smoke day”, the three of them chorus loudly before I can say anything else.

I can’t help but give them a real smile, simply because they’re so damn happy to be stoned, working in a gas station and conversing with random people. I was like that once. Well, a waitress...but still. I smoked a lot of pot.

“That’s what I said. 4/20.”

They laugh as I walk out the door, delighted. I imagine them making a mark under a tally labeled “Yes” before gearing up for the next customer and I have the sudden urge to actually smoke, to stroll into the dentist’s office with glazed eyes and a cheeky grin and say, “Do you know what yesterday was?” But of course I can’t.

*****

I arrive at 4 o’clock on the dot and am greeted the minute my foot crosses the threshold by the elderly receptionists. It’s a case of they know me, but I don’t know them. Mom works at the pediatric office next door, sharing a parking lot and sometimes a lunch with the crew at the dentist’s. Southerners are a nosy, gossipy bunch so after spending a bit of time with a woman that likes nothing more than to complain about me, they treat me with more familiarity than another office would. And because I often have a “give them what they want and they’ll leave you alone” mentality, I play along, returning their greeting with an equally casual “What’s up ladies?”

“Are you ready”, the tech asks the second I close the door, popping up around the corner.

“Yes.”

“Come on back.”

There’s no check in process, no forms to sign, and I follow her down the hall. She takes her time, even pausing to straighten a frame.

I sit on the ugly brown lounger and cross my ankles while she lays out instruments on the connected table. Her white scrub top is too tight, but the blue bra matches her pants quite well. She’s about my age and relatively new, though I can tell they’ve told her who I am and what my connections are before I arrived. She keeps her head down and avoids making eye contact as she moves about the room, saying nothing. “That’s the slutty, ill tempered one”, I imagine them warning her...and I’m probably not far off.

She mumbles that the doctor will be with me in a minute and leaves, never once introducing herself.

I busy myself with looking around at the décor. I’m willing to bet that nothing has been updated in this office, other than the dental equipment, since the 70’s or 80’s. Hideous brown paneling still covers the walls, floor to ceiling, and the posters are so old they’ve turned color around the edges. The front room is even worse – with an enormously puffy, cream colored leather loveseat that looks like it once belonged to one of those larger wrap-around sectionals. My favorite part though is the shiny wooden clock that hangs by the desk. It’s shaped like a large plaque – the bottom dedicated to the gold numbers and ticking hands, the top dedicated to a glossy photo of a young, big-haired Reba McEntire. It’s completely kitschy, but it makes me smile.

“Well, look here!”

The dentist strolls through the open doorway, grinning. He’s gotten a bit round over the past few years and his thick, wayward hair has gone completely grey. He’s the original church going gossip – knows everyone, talks about them and doesn’t care who knows it. His best friend is Mike, a guy who also happens to have been friends with my parents since before I was born. And because he knows about this connection, Mike is his favorite person to talk about when I come for an appointment. He talks about Mike’s demon redheaded wife, Mike’s brief affair with the nanny (who also went to church with all of them), and most of all...Mike’s lifelong torch for my mom.

But today, before he launches into the Mike stories, he decides to grill me for information. I figure he must be getting low.

“So how old is your daughter now?”

“She just turned six.”

“God almighty”, he says, chuckling. “Haven’t had any more slip-ups have ya?”

I raise my eyebrows at him, more amused than offended. “Not yet. So far just the one.”

“Being more careful, eh”, he asks with a grin.

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Got yourself a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Well why not?”

“I’m not very good at monogamy”, I reply with a straight face. I’m not exactly sure if that’s true anymore, since I haven’t tested it out in a long time, but it’s the sort of thing he expects me to say.

He throws his head back and roars with laughter. “Honesty! Ooh boy, at least she’s honest! I like that!”

He talks continuously while he x-rays my teeth, asking questions and laughing so hard the mute tech pokes her head around the doorframe. He finally gets to Mike when the cleaning begins.

“Poor Mikey Mike”, he says.

I simply blink and wait, since his fingers are in my mouth.

“I bet he’s real upset that your mom is getting married. Poor Mikey Mike. Is he coming to the wedding?”

“Uh hooo ooooh.”

“Yeah, that oughta be something. I wonder if he’s going to bring that redheaded wife. Oh, poor Mikey Mike!”

“Mmm hmm.”

I start to count how many times he uses the phrase “poor Mikey Mike” and by the time I rise from the chair, drained of my information and pumped back full of his, I’m at 18.

He walks me to the front desk, leans against it and crosses one leg over the other. “You take care now, you hear? Behave yourself...get you a nice young man.” He grins and slaps me gently on my back.

“Yeah maybe”, I say with a smile.

He shakes his head and clucks his tongue as he walks back down the hallway. “Poor Mikey Mike...”

Even though he’s nosy, I quite like him. I could go to another dentist, upgrade like a lot of people I know that got tired of the tacky old place and prying questions, but I won’t. When they ask why I stay, I tell them that he waves away payments if I need a cavity filled, simply because he likes me and thinks my mother is pretty. And he does.

But it’s also because, unlike most people, when he asks me how I’m doing I can tell that, all gossip aside, he genuinely wants to know. It’s in his eyes. Of course I’d never take him up on it, never show what he’s telling me it’s ok to show, but it’s nice to know I could.

*****

I haven’t been home long when I get a text message from Claire:

“After midnight tonight, I can’t go back in the house anymore. I’d like to smoke one last cigarette on my porch and I’d love it if you’d join me...if you want.”

A week ago they were my family – Claire and her sister were closer to me than my blood sibling that sleeps right across the hall. But because of things that having nothing to do with me, or with those two really, a rift has opened that I’m not sure can be bridged.

I haven’t heard from her since the day her mother received the papers, when she sent me a message that seemed cloaked in anger and blame, then refused to respond to anything I said.

“Tell me when and I’ll be there”, I type back.

A little after ten o’clock my cousin and I slip on our shoes and walk quietly out the door. She’s just as anxious to see Claire as I am.

We walk briskly, shoulder to shoulder, down the gravel road. When we’re halfway there I see her, standing alone under a streetlight in front of the house she used to call home, with her favorite hippy purse draped across her chest and trailing down her side, platinum hair piled atop her head in a messy bun.

My mastiff, Tank, reaches her seconds before we do and she bends to pet him. I can’t help but think about her dog that’s buried only feet away in a yard she can’t visit anymore.

She straightens and we stare at each other.

“Hey”, she finally says.

“Hey”, we reply. She moves to hug my cousin first and I shouldn’t feel slighted, but I do. Our hug is brief, hesitant, and when we pull away she blows out a shaky breath.

“This is hard. Weird.”

I nod in agreement.

“C’mon.” She turns, walks toward the door and we follow, subdued. “It’s so...empty”, she finishes lamely.

She pushes the front door open, turns on the light and walks to the middle of the kitchen. She lifts her arms and holds then wide, dropping them almost instantly in a gesture of futility. I look past her to the living room, but there’s nothing to see. The house is stripped bare and of more than just furniture. There’s no future here, and the past is colored with doubt and fresh paint.

The three of us move to the screened in porch that overlooks the lake, sitting Indian style in a semi circle on the hard floor. The big cushioned swing is gone and as we each light a cigarette, I realize the tacky giant green ashtray is too.

We talk haltingly about what’s happened on either side of battle lines drawn without our consent. As much as we want to keep ourselves separate from the conflict, it’s clear there are things we simply can’t say to each other...and that speaks louder to me than anything we’re actually saying. No matter how close we’ve been for the past eleven years, the fact remains that our core loyalties lie elsewhere.

A few cigarettes and the bare minimum of small talk later, we rise to leave. Her family doesn’t know she’s here and she has to hurry back...and vice versa.

My cousin walks ahead, but Claire and I pause in the kitchen again, facing back into the house.

“This was my home."

I nod, not knowing what else to say. She sighs and walks away. I move to follow, but something catches my eye. On the glass and gold light fixture that used to hang over the kitchen table there’s something green. It’s one of those rubber bracelets, the kind that have words and symbols etched into them for causes and the like. I turn it over to see what it says.

“Happiness.”

Without even thinking about it, I slip it on my wrist as I walk out the door. It never occurs to me to offer it to Claire.

We say goodbye in the driveway, exchanging another round of short hugs, and promise to call each other soon. I don’t know if we will, but it seems like the thing to say.

My cousin and I walk silently back up the gravel road toward home and I can feel her still standing there, watching. My fingers absently pull on the bracelet, circling round the inside, and that’s when I feel the crack. Looking down I notice the smallest notch in the green rubber and I think to myself, “If you don’t pull on it anymore, maybe it’ll stay intact.”

But I know better than that. I won’t be able to stop touching it, testing it, pulling on it. Maybe that’s why it was hanging there in the first place – maybe they knew they couldn’t stop themselves either.

Wedding day, part two - The reception

2011-04-11T18:25:00.001-02:00

I stood near the bottom of the staircase and watched Tess walk slowly across the lawn. The bridesmaids had taken a side route on the way in, staying on the pathway, but she was forced to teeter down a row of uneven stepping stones in heels she was unaccustomed to wearing. The result was an awkward, painfully long procession and the music had ended by the time she finished her struggle up the stairs.

When she was finally situated the bridal party turned to face the couple, as previously directed. Unfortunately for me, turning to the side gave everyone in attendance a generous view of my left breast. I could see mom staring and I knew she thought the display of cleavage was my way of rebelling against an event I didn’t want to participate in or an attempt to make the hideous dress work in some way. But it wasn’t.

When I’d picked up the dress the top was already straining so I took it to a seamstress to reinforce it, to avoid any possible mishaps. But as soon as we started walking around the grounds taking pictures, the threads began to pop, stitch by stitch, until it was even more gaped open than when I bought it. Everyone in the wedding was, at regular intervals throughout the afternoon, overcome with laughter about my wardrobe malfunction – taking it in turns to making popping noises.

While the preacher started his spiel, I tried to inconspicuously raise my bouquet to chest height. It no doubt looked ridiculous, but it was better than the alternative – flashing my family, friends, neighbors, and the president of the American Pilipino association, who’d flown in from New York to witness the blessed event. The greenery was poking me unpleasantly and making my boobs itch, but I suffered in silence.

“If there is anyone here that can show just cause why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace”, the preacher shouted threateningly. There was the tiniest pause for breath and he started to speak again, but was suddenly interrupted by loud and repetitive shrieking.

Larry the Goose, Tess’s web-footed mate, was objecting...when a lot of people wanted to, but wouldn’t. I’d always hated that goose, but I found myself feeling rather fond of him at that moment. The preacher had to wait until Larry finished honking, and everyone had stopped laughing, before continuing.

That's his bad eye. He has one that works.

When the service ended after the second longest prayer in the history of prayers (the first was at the rehearsal), Papa and Tess slowly and awkwardly descended the stairs – she was all wrapped up in her dress and he had to take one step at a time, sideways, because of his leg braces. I was told later that my father picked that moment to pipe up and say, “Well, there goes my inheritance.”

They reached the bottom and went off on their way, which was our cue to start ascending the stairs one by one, meet a groomsman on the top platform and be escorted out. I’d fought to get my cousin Ben as my partner, since the alternatives were an old family friend that irritated me and my cousin Ashley’s letch of a husband.

He winked at me as we made our way to the top and I rolled my eyes. We met, hooked arms awkwardly (since he’s a foot taller), and started down. Days later, when I was looking through pictures of the ceremony, I saw one of Ben and me walking the aisle. In it we’re looking at each other, my neck craned up, his down, and grinning like idiots at some whispered joke I can’t remember. It looked just like a picture of me with another Ben, in another wedding, ten years ago. The dress was different, the hair was certainly different and it wasn’t the same cousin – but it made me remember a moment I’d almost forgotten, and I think that was worth being in that fiasco of a wedding and almost flashing my nips to all and sundry.

Anyway, we were forced to spend another hour taking pictures on the stairs while all the guests made their way through the buffet. I was pissed because I knew there wouldn’t be a single meatball left by the time we were finished, and I let it be known.

“How much longer is this going to take”, I asked a photographer. She was shorter than me, which is rare in people over the age of 12, so I used that to my advantage and gave her my best ‘I’m leaning over you, glaring, and you will be intimidated’ pose.

“I don’t know”, she said, not at all unsettled. She and her fellow photographer seemed to find me quite amusing, despite my best attempts to be the opposite.

“All the meatballs will be gone”, I grumbled, not for the first, or even the second, time. I can be rather single minded when meat is involved.

After more laughter, someone’s child was sent to fetch me a few meatballs (I got the last three) and someone’s boyfriend to get me a beer. Then I stood by a column and waited my turn again, stuffing a whole ball in my mouth and “mmming” inappropriately.

While I was rolling my eyes and blissfully chewing, my cousin poked me in the chest and said, “Hey, what’s all that green and orange stuff on your tits?” I looked down and sure enough, there were splotches of color all over my exposed cleavage. Confused, I rubbed at a spot with my finger and it immediately came off.

“It was the flowers”, a woman passing by said, peering down my dress. “You had them stuffed in there and they bled.” Everyone laughed at my expense, again, and I just sighed, shrugged and popped in another meatball. It was a testament to how hungry I was that I let the stuffing and bleeding remark go without comment.

My family is roughly the size of a professional football team – including managers, coaches, water people, and all those other random folks standing on the sidelines – and each little family unit had to take a picture with the happy couple.

My father showed up in jeans, work boots, a black t-shirt and a button up black and orange Harley Davidson shirt with the sleeves ripped off, the frayed edges sticking out several inches. There were plenty of other people wearing jeans, but none stood out quite as much as he did. I sat uncomfortably on the steps under the crook of his left arm, hid my beer behind the bouquet and tried to smile like I meant it. But I’m pretty sure, all things considered, it could be a candidate for the awkward family photos website.

The caption would read: “Just married Grandpa poses with his wife, an ex-mail order bride from the Philippines who is no longer suspected of murdering her first husband (hooray!), his son, a man that proudly shows everyone his cell phone collection of busted old lady titties...even at funerals, his two granddaughters (anorexic on right, Boobs McGee on left), and his great granddaughter, who only moments ago wiped boogers on the back of his tuxedo.” Or something like that.

The reception was in full swing by the time we made it to the patio. I went straight to the bar, grabbed another beer and walked away from them all – around the side of a building, up the hill and to my house. The first order of business was to get out of that stupid dress.

I was gone for about half an hour, at the most. The sun had been shining all day, but as I made my way back to the party in a slightly more comfortable dress, the sky had turned grey and the wind had begun to pick up.

Joining the huge circle of people around the dance floor, I noticed that only half of them were watching the Pilipino dance crew do their thing with balance beams of some sort. The other half was staring worriedly at the steadily darkening sky.

It held out until after the first dance and what I call “the money dance”. Apparently it’s a Pilipino custom for the couple to dance and people to come up to them (males to the bride and females to the groom), pin money on their clothing and take a turn round the dance floor.

Tess’s friend took the microphone from the DJ and explained the procedure to the crowd over the playing music. The first few minutes were rather awkward as everyone, including myself, looked around at each other and balked. Our reluctant faces, turning this way and that, said it all – “Ha! Fuck that shit! I came here for the free booze.” Finally a decent number of people started participating, but I have no doubt that it was just to get Tess’s friend to stop barking loudly into the mic.

I snuck away to the smoking crowd by the boat house and hid there until the first rain drops began to fall. The band and the DJ were swiftly moved to a covered area, just before the bottom dropped out. I was bummed because it made our dancing area considerably smaller, but it only lasted long enough to drive away the majority of the old people and non-family members. The guests dwindled and that was alright by us – more beer.

And while I was drinking more beer, I got a play by play of what I’d missed before the dancing. Apparently Papa and Tess were cutting the cake, surrounded by photographers and guests of course, and the minute they shoved it in each other’s faces, his pants fell down. The long table cloth obscured the scene from those facing them, only showing Papa’s surprised cake-covered face and Tess rapidly disappearing from view. But those to the side of the table got to see a very large, very old man in his underwear...and his tiny new bride, fumbling around on the ground, attempting to jerk his pants back up. And as expected, dirty old man that he is, Papa is still quite pleased about the incident.

I returned to the house once more, as the rain was all but finished, and changed clothes again. As I squished back down the hill in my rain boots and jeans, I saw dad walking around the perimeter with a glass jar in his hand. Some idiot had given him moonshine and I thought to myself, “Well, here we go...”

As the evening wore on, the band and the DJ taking it in turns to play a mix of country and every line dance known to man...twice, dad started to make his presence more known. Though Papa finally confiscated his moonshine, some damage was already done. He spent an hour with his arm around a visibly uncomfortable Ray, telling him how glad he was to be gaining a “husband in law” and how to tell when mom is going to “flip her shit”.

Responding to the desperate look in Ray’s eyes, my sister and I attempted to distract dad and draw him away. It worked, but only when he suddenly decided to physically force me to dance with him to a slow song. Though I tried to resist, he was having none of it and I knew if I continued to refuse, he’d get angry. So to keep the peace I swayed in a circle, avoiding his drunken stomping as best I could, while everyone snickered and shot me thumbs up.

My cousin’s boyfriend was the next recipient of his unwanted attention. I was standing with the two of them in front of the garage when he zigzagged right up to us and threw an arm around her.

“Who are you”, dad demanded of her boyfriend.

He answered, holding out his hand to shake, but dad just stared at him. I knew that look so I wasn’t surprised when he slurred, “I’ll black both your fucking eyes, boy.”

The poor guy turned white as a sheet.

“Shut up, Dad. Leave him alone”, I said, glaring at him.

After a few minutes of tense conversation, dad decided that “the boy” was alright, mostly because he had horses and motorcycles and, wouldn’t you know it...so did dad! What a fucking coincidence! A connection was made. Then the band struck up a fast song and dad shouted, “It’s time for the Jimbo Shuffle! Everybody to the floor! Jimbo Shuffle!” He zigzagged back up to the crowd, violence temporarily forgotten in his excitement.

But once he’d regaled everyone with The Jimbo Shuffle (which is the only dance he does: feet together and arms bent at the elbows with closed fists, he slides a few feet to one side and then the other, pumping his arms in a circle at the same time...a lit cigarette usually firmly clenched between his lips), he approached my cousin’s boyfriend once more.

“I’ll black both your fucking eyes. Don’t think I won’t you sonofabitch.”

He’d completely forgotten their truce, probably even that they’d spoken at all, and we had to intervene once more. They then had the same conversation as before and dad tugged him down the ramp to see his motorcycle while my cousin watched in horror. Fortunately, though, she didn’t have to worry for long. Dad’s ALDD (Alcoholic deficit disorder) kicked in and he started half running back up to the band shouting, “FREEBIRD! FREEBIRD!”

You’ve heard of “My Father, The Hero”? This was “My Father, The Epitome of Southern Stereotypes”. He requests the eight minute version of Freebird every time there’s a live band. Once, when we went to dinner, he embarrassed the shit out of me by asking the lead singer of a reggae band, “This shit is ok and all, but ya’ll know any Skynyrd? Freebird!”

A little while later, I realized just how far behind the others I was on the drinking scale.

There was a random pole, that looked like a stop sign post without the sign, sticking out of the ground in one of the flower beds bordering the overhang where the band was playing. And facing that pole, dancing in front of it as if it were an audience of one, was my neighbor. An hour later, she still hadn’t stopped gyrating and so I approached one of her daughters.

“Your mom’s been over there alone, dancing with that pole for over an hour.”

She glanced over and rolled her eyes. “I know. I wish she’d go home.”

Every now and then someone else would notice, comment, chuckle and go on about their business. That’s why I was surprised when all hell suddenly broke loose.

I was dancing with Claire when Leigha came running up crying. Apparently the daughter I’d first spoken to cussed out my mom for looking at her mom – at least that’s what I was able to gather from Leigha’s dramatics. It was over before I made it off the dance floor, but I approached the daughter and asked her what the problem was. The more she spoke, the angrier I became and I finally just held up my hand, said “no” and walked away.

I stalked into the house, fuming, with Marie on my heels. I knew I was doing the right thing by walking away and not escalating the situation, but that didn’t lessen my anger. I distracted myself by cleaning up the girly mess scattered all over Papa’s bed and floor.

Maybe 10 to 15 minutes later I was relatively calm and Marie and I had finished cleaning up, ready to head back outside. That’s when Leigha came running in, crying again. The first thing I thought was, “Dad tried to black both of what’s-his-name’s eyes and now they’re dancing around trying to slice each other’s nuts off with broken beer bottles!”

“They’re fighting”, she said. “Throwing beer and screaming and...”

We ran back through the house and out the door. I placed my family members first – Ray was off to one side talking to a neighbor, Mom talking to another neighbor, and dad was swaying alone in front of the band, completely oblivious. It was clear that he wasn’t the antagonist this time and closer to passing out than punching someone out. But who was? Where was the fight?

“They left”, Leigha said, pointing up the hill at a group of people that I recognized as our (yes more) neighbors – the pole dancing woman and her two daughters et al. The story came out in bits and pieces. Supposedly Claire went up to my mother to apologize for her sister’s behavior and when she did a family friend asked her to stop using profanity in front of the kids. She popped off at him, he yelled at her, she threw a beer at his head and that’s how the, apparently, three minute brawl started.

I was never a big fan of the wedding in general, but I was appalled at the way they disrespected my Papa by fucking up his reception. Not to mention completely shocked that it hadn’t been one of my family members that started the whole thing. The party ended abruptly and we’ve never called it a night so early before.

(Because of those events (and others that have happened since) there’s now a rift between my family and theirs. I’m broken hearted about it because I’ve been friends with those girls for 11 years.)

The band and the DJ started packing up an hour or more before they were supposed to and the few people that were left stood in an uncertain circle at the edge of the patio. No one was really sure what to do.

My sister looked as exhausted as I felt and so I said, “Are you ready to go home, Lee?”

“Yeah”, she answered immediately.

We told everyone goodnight and started our short uphill walk toward home.

“You know what? I just knew that, if anyone was going to start shit, it was going to be dad. And look...it wasn’t even anyone from the family. How crazy is that?”

She looked over at me and laughed. “I was just thinking the exact same thing.”

And somewhere in the dark, left behind, likely swaying back and forth in the middle of wedding debris, we heard dad singing.

“And this bird you cannot change! Oooooooh!”

Cousins

2011-03-30T17:39:00.002-02:00

As a small child I remember being baffled by her girly demeanor. Growing up next door to a house full of boys, I was a combination of awkward bookworm and tomboy so I imagine she was just as baffled by me too.

Her mother dressed her in fashionable dresses, leaving her waist length brown hair loose and lovely, while my mother stuffed me into overalls and cut my frizzy bangs at an awkward angle. When I went over to play there were tea parties instead of teepees made of sticks and dress up games instead of chase. She had shelf upon shelf of Barbies, all in their original boxes, and when I tried to play with them I was reprimanded. She was prissy and I was rough, as different as two little girls could possibly be, yet every time we had to be parted we cried and begged our parents for just a little more time.

At the age of twelve we got what we asked for, but in the worst possible way. Her parents were in a boating accident – her father killed on impact and her mother in a coma with severe brain trauma. She and her brother moved in with our Papa, right next door to me.

I remember fighting my way through the adults until they allowed me to sit next to her at her father’s funeral. I clutched her hand and looked straight ahead. And when the minister finished a monologue with “for all the Days of Our Lives”, we looked at each other, unable to stop the grins and tiny giggles that escaped simultaneously. It was our favorite soap opera, we watched it with our moms all the time, but we knew how much her father had hated it.

I was so excited when she started attending my school. We didn’t have any classes together, but we saw each other at lunch, recess and of course every day at home.

But it soon became apparent that our differences, however easy to work around when we hadn’t seen each other daily at home, weren’t so easy to ignore anymore. She became part of the popular crowd and I took a backseat, watching from the sidelines as she crooked her finger and got all the things most young girls are interested in – the good looking boyfriend, being a member of the cheerleading squad, and being invited to all the coolest events and parties.

I was jealous and resentful that she walked in and things seemed to fall into her lap, but I kept that to myself and I felt guilty for even feeling that way. Her father was gone and her mother was the child rather than the parent, living next door with a nurse maid. How could I possibly begrudge her the attention? She deserved to be happy and enjoy life as much as possible.

But my feelings of discontent grew as, little by little, she developed a habit of putting me down in front of other people. She would have her friends spend the night and I would be there, sitting on the edges, only included as an afterthought or a joke. I would go home crying, devastated about the way I was treated, but too afraid to stand up for myself for fear of losing the good parts of our relationship.

And there were a lot of good parts. When we were alone or just with family, we were the best of friends. We had sleepovers and inside jokes. She comforted me when my dad went on drunken rampages and I comforted her when she was depressed about her family. And the summers were the best – spending every day in our bathing suits with our other cousins, swimming and tubing, riding our bikes barefoot in the hot afternoons, picking handfuls of honeysuckle and exploring every inch of the woods around our houses. She played a major part in a lot of my fondest childhood memories.

Then, when we were 15 and 16, in the summer of 2001, our cousin Ben died in a Jet Ski accident. And we turned to each other first. I was home alone with my sister, doing chores as quickly as possible so we could go swimming, and she was just down the hill at her house, vegging and waiting on us to finish. We each got a call about the accident from someone different, but at the same time. After I hung up I took off running through the house and out the backdoor, across the porch and down the stairs, shouting her name...and she was doing the same. We met with a crash in the grass a few yards from my house and held on.

Later we prayed on our knees and I’ve never begged God for anything as hard, before or since, as I did that day in the hour after receiving the news of the crash, waiting to find out if he survived. And when he didn’t, I became something she was already well on her way to becoming – reckless.

The three of us had been born three months apart – her birthday was in March, mine in June, and Ben’s in October – and though he was the baby, I’d been the only one to really hold back on the partying, only occasionally indulging in smoking or drinking. But soon after his death I was sneaking out of the house with her, getting high most days and drunk every weekend.

She still treated me badly at school sometimes, and even at home if the neighbor girls were around, but the closest I ever got to confronting her then was a letter that she shrugged off. Because of Ben, my fear of confrontation had turned into my fear of losing her...and I was willing to be occasionally miserable in order to keep us close. I made every concession I could and when it sometimes became too much, I avoided her for a week or two to get my head on straight, always eventually giving in. After all, we’d been through so much together.

People began to notice how unbalanced our relationship had become, namely my mother, and started badgering me about standing up to her, about taking instead of always giving. Instead I continued to run when she called and I let all the resentment, all the hurt and anger continue to build up.

After we graduated and went our separate ways, it got a little easier. We still saw each other often, but not every day. In the past my attitude with her had been largely submissive, obviously, but because of the stuff I was going through, every little thing set me off. Combined with all those stored up years of fat jokes and nerd jokes, it turned me into almost as big a bitch as she was. She was thinner and had better hair, but I was witty and well read. I took every opportunity to make her look like an idiot, but with a smile on my face and more cunning than she’d ever managed to use when insulting me in public. And for a long time I was satisfied with that, with what I thought of as subtle retribution.

Over the next few years I still gave far more of myself than I thought was fair, but I’ve always been sort of a masochist. Then (I believe) the addition of being a parent stole the last shred of patience I had for the old games. I finally began to let her know that I thought she was ungrateful and took advantage of me (albeit often with my help), but instead of a reaction I expected (anger, sadness or denial), she practically laughed in my face. That, and an upsetting diatribe about what a shitty mother I was, ended it. I turned my back, ignored her calls, and went on my way.

In the long stretch of months that we didn’t speak, I had plenty of time to think about our situation. I admitted my areas of wrong doing (to myself, and later to her), but I still felt good about my decision to cut off contact. At first I felt healthier, and generally happier, without the added drama.

But soon I missed her to the point of nearly caving and calling. I missed the stories that only we shared, the laughter and all night gab sessions. She’d always been the first person I told everything to and though I knew I needed the space I’d created, it hurt.

It was nearly two years ago that, after months and months of silence, we had our first adult discussion about why things were the way they were. She was living with her then boyfriend and, for reasons that had nothing to do with me, was alienated from the majority of our family. I’d been the last one to cut off contact and the last one she’d expected it from. As I sat there on the couch I could literally see the toll it had taken on her and it shocked me. For the first time since I wrote her that letter in my childish, bubbly script, I told her how I really felt...about everything. And she listened without a trace of a smirk or hint of a laugh.

We were up all night and well into the morning, crying and confessing, hugging and promising. Underneath all the negativity that surrounded our relationship, we’d always loved each other.

And over the past year we’ve really worked at changing the way we interact. I’ve become more assertive and outspoken with her...and she’s curbed her temper, become more thoughtful. But it’s a process and, though she’ll always be my family and I’ll always love her, there’s a scar there. I knew we could never go back to being those two little girls, arguing over which game to play and nothing else, but I hoped we’d still fight tooth and nail to stay together, just like they did. I hoped we’d still go to each other first when shit went down.

I hoped, but until this past Monday, I really wasn’t sure.

*****

I woke at 5:15 to the radio alarm playing Lady Gaga and the phone bleeping and flashing red. I switched off the music, reached for the phone and turned over on my back, squinting at the bright screen. Three missed calls, all within the last 10 minutes, were from her.

And then I saw the text message, sent a mere three minutes before: “He shot his self in the face beside me. Help.” I jumped up and fumbled for my glasses, putting them on to make sure I’d read it correctly. Unfortunately, I had.

I hit redial and she answered immediately, sobbing and managing to tell me that she was going to the hospital; he was still alive. “I’m on my way”, I said. “I’ll meet you there.” The moment we hung up I ran around my room tugging on clothes. I grabbed my purse, slipped my feet into flip flops, alerted my mom and ran out the door.

It takes an hour to get there in good weather, but it was freezing and pouring down rain that morning. And while I navigated the dark, wet roads at a pace I wouldn’t normally, I thought about what I’d say to her. Even without knowing all the details I was horrified. I wasn’t thinking about him at all – I didn’t wonder why or how. I liked him alright, but I’d only met him a few times and he was still just the boyfriend to me. All I could think was, “After everything she’s been through...dear god, I can’t even begin to imagine...I’ve got to get there.”

Arriving at the hospital, I parked and ran through the rain, cursing my flip flops and lack of umbrella. My glasses fogged as I sloshed through the lobby, wet pants legs clung to my ankles and dripping hair was plastered to my neck. I rode the elevator alone to the third floor, getting out in front of another, nearly empty, lobby.

We saw each other at the same time. She was sitting in a chair next to two women and as I moved toward her she stood up and took a step, clearly unable to do more. But we crashed into each other with the same force that we had on that summer day ten years ago.

I held her thin, shaking frame tightly, until her knees started to buckle. Then we sat and I held her over the armrest, noticing that the two women she’d been sitting beside were staring. The one closest to us introduced herself awkwardly over my cousin’s crying. It was his mother. “I’m glad you’re here for her”, she said.

After a few minutes I was able to let go and she began to tell me the story. The more she spoke, the sicker I felt. She’d told me before that he had anger and depression issues, had threatened to kill his self before, but the way she’d relayed it made it sound like it was all in the past. Apparently things were strained and he “flipped out” too often. She’d always been able to calm him and talk him down before, but not this time.

And still, after I knew the details, I couldn’t think about him and his issues. I didn’t think about how I’d laughed with him at the wedding the weekend before, how young he was or about what a blow it was for his family. All that would come later. What I couldn’t stop thinking about was how close she came to being killed, how horrific it must have been to witness such a thing and how maybe, if I’d been talking to her more often, she would have told me everything from the beginning and I could have helped her get out of the situation.

After speaking with his mother, it was decided that I would take her back to their neighborhood to get her dogs safely put away. She has two Great Danes that she loves more than anything and they were scared and alone. She immediately agreed and we left.

I didn’t think we were going into his house where it happened because the dogs were at his mother’s right around the corner, but she said she needed her keys. I was hesitant, but I couldn’t let her go alone so I followed her into the entryway. While she went to the bathroom immediately inside the front door, I stood in the foyer. I stared at a cell phone lying halfway open on the carpet, surrounded by broken glass and shredded items, and shuddered.

When she came out we decided to get some of her clothes so we wouldn’t have to come back, but that required us going through the master bath and into the closet, where he’d done it. I’ve always been an extremely squeamish person, covering my eyes during anything bloody on TV and occasionally vomiting when around bodily fluids, so she told me I didn’t have to go in there...that she’d already seen the worst. But again, I couldn’t let her do that alone.

I cannot go into detail, but it was the most grisly thing I’ve ever seen in my life. She was unable to go all the way in after all and I had to make my way around the closet, picking things that were clean and holding my breath. I steeled myself and thought of nothing but getting her out immediately. It wasn’t until she was settled back at the hospital that I made my way to the bathroom and was sick.

All day we sat and waited, alternately speaking to friends and family as they found out and called to check on her. She broke down every once in awhile, finally passing out from a pill and exhaustion for about half an hour.

He made it through surgery, but was still critical. His parents were able to see him for a moment late that afternoon and they allowed her to go in too. She wouldn’t leave the hospital until she’d seen him anyway, and when she came out she nearly collapsed. I said “enough”, and took her home with me.

*****

These past few days have been exhausting, emotionally and physically. She’s getting a little better each day and truthfully, I’m in awe over her ability to keep going. He’s as stable as he can be at the moment and won’t be awake this week so she’s staying away from the hospital for now. Yesterday she saw a trauma therapist and it went well. She’s still staying at my house and between our family, his family, and their friends, there’s someone with her all the time. I’ve been managing the phone calls, the insurance information and anything else that crops up. Making sure she eats and rests.

I’ve been silently struggling a bit, trying to comfort her and keep things together. It’s a repetitive, draining task and I’ve never had to deal with anything quite this difficult before. But I love her and I’m going to keep helping her and listening, distracting her and making her laugh. And though I’d never wish this tragedy on anyone, ever, positive things have happened as a result. She’s getting therapy, which we’ve been trying to get her to do for a long time. Bridges are being mended. He’s going to get the help he needs.

And I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that we’re going to be ok. Because when everything fell apart she dialed my number...and I fought my way there, without hesitation, to hold her hand.

Wedding day, part one - Preparations

2011-03-24T17:09:00.000-02:00

I was determined that after the last two weddings I was in, I was not going to do everyone’s makeup. It always stressed me out and had me rushing into my dress at the last minute, feeling not as put together as the others. But unfortunately, one of my faults is that I have a hard time saying no to something that’s going to make me look good...like turning some busted bitch into the belle of the ball.

“Oh my god, you did such a good job on her makeup! She looks so much better!”

“I know.”

Own it, I say. False modesty is just silly.

This was, of course, how I found myself standing in a corner, applying foundation to the bride’s face, wondering why no one had had the balls to suggest she wax her mustache before her wedding day. I’d never been that close to her before and had I known how bad it really was, I most certainly would have said something. But there was no point stressing her out about it at that point – what was done was done.

Papa has always had a case of “keeping up with the Joneses”, so what was once, over 25 years ago, a one room fishing cabin is now a three story monstrosity surrounded by random porches and more brick columns than are strictly necessary. On the side of the house that faces the lake, the majority of which is his bedroom, there are huge side by side windows all the way around. The view is spectacular, but I can tell you from personal experience that it loses a bit of its luster after you’ve had to clean those suckers. Still, his room is my favorite part of the house and the one that’s always designated for bridal preparations.

So while Tess sat on a stool facing the two corner windows, the black hairs of her mustache shining in the afternoon sunlight, I applied makeup as quickly as possible. And all around us there was chaos. The bed and chairs were covered in plastic dress bags, bottles of hair spray and various undergarments that would have looked more at home in a torture chamber. The counters were littered with makeup and shoes were scattered at random across the hardwood floor. Bridesmaids and other female family members were running in and out of the room in various states of undress. One hair stylist had set up camp in the bathroom while the other, who happened to be a new neighbor, was stationed just behind me.

John, the new hair stylist, was an interesting character – tall, round in all the wrong places and in complete denial about his sexual orientation. Even I knew he wasn’t batting for the home team, and my gaydar is nonexistent. Ever seen Will and Grace? I’m Grace, with breasts...and hips. If there’s a hot gay guy in the vicinity that isn’t making out with another guy, I’ll probably hit on him.

He was teasing my cousin’s wife’s long blonde hair into a half up 80’s video nightmare. While he walked around her, swinging his hips and flicking his wrists, I saw her eyes dart from person to person, desperately trying to get someone to say something, anything, to stop him. But she was the “MOH” (read: maid of honor / supreme bossy douche bag) and guilty of choosing those horrendous dresses for us, so I just smiled and kept my mouth shut.

One of the girls walked into the bathroom carrying her dress and he stopped teasing long enough to confirm everyone’s suspicions. “Honey, make sure you shut that door! Just because I’m a male hairdresser doesn’t mean I’m gay! God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, mmmk! I’m marrrrrrriED”, he shouted, waving his ring finger in the air.

I caught Marie’s eye from across the room and grinned.

“I did my wife’s hair and makeup on our wedding day”, he continued. “I wasn’t letting anyone mess it up, no ma’am!”

By the time I’d finished Tess’s and the MOH’s makeup, the whole room was ready to kill him. Everyone looked great, with the exception of the MOH, but I thought to myself that I’d made a good decision in asking my godmom to do my hair instead of going with the crowd. At the very least I wouldn’t have to listen to anymore of his shrieking. I figured I had just enough time to finish Tess’s mom’s makeup (which she asked me to do completely last minute) and run up to my house for my godmom to just throw the lot of it atop my head.

Unfortunately it took me a little longer than anticipated. Tess’s mom doesn’t speak any English, other than the names of Papa’s seven dogs, the name of that stupid goose (Larry) and “hello”, so every time I turned my back to grab something, she’d slide off the chair and try to totter out of the room. I’d have to lead her back and mime sitting down and closing my eyes, showing her what to do. But at least I didn’t break up my words into a dozen syllables and shout at her like my Grandma does when someone speaks a different language. Those poor Burmese children down the street are still suffering from post traumatic hearing loss.

When I finally made it home, Leigha had claimed my hair appointment and I was left waiting. Angry about being pushed aside, I grabbed my things and stomped back down the hill, cursing and threatening to walk down the aisle with a frizzy ponytail. That’s when John offered to do it and, feeling defeated, I agreed.

I relaxed into the chair and sighed.

“How do you want it done”, he asked.

“I want the front pulled back, soft curls”, I said, thinking that maybe it would be alright. He walked around my chair, lifting a piece of hair here and there, studying me like a bug under a microscope.

“No big 80’s shit either”, I added, just in case.

“No problem”, he said.

But less than five minutes later, after blow drying it and curling it under with a round brush, he sent someone for his straightener. “I think I’m going to do something different with you”, he said.

At first I panicked, my eyes flicking to the MOH’s unmistakable frizz tower, but after glancing at my phone and realizing that pictures were less than half an hour away, I gave in and thought, “Fuck it. There’s no time.”

“Will you let me do whatever I want to it?”, he asked.

In my experience nothing good has ever followed that sentence, but I glared at him and said, “As long as it’s not big 80’s hair, I don’t care. Just do it.”

And do it he did, throwing out the Adam and Steve line at least two more times in the process.

After spaying me with the bright red can labeled “BIG SEXY HAIR” and something to make it “shine”, he let me stand up. As I walked to the mirror he said, “You could be a model for the makeup store! This hairstyle really opens up your face.”

My eyes opened wide and an involuntary “Oh!” slipped from my mouth. I looked like a lion. I was surprised my reflection wasn't roaring and licking its wrist. He’d styled the front to stand up in an arch and the sides were flipped out and styled the same. I could hear the other hair stylist sniggering in the background, but I waited until he left the room to comment.

“I look like there’s a fan pointed at my head! I’m going to have to run down the aisle so it looks like the wind is actually blowing it back!”

I tried to use a pick to soften the bridge across my forehead, but it was too stiff. “BIG SEXY HAIR” apparently does its job. And there was no time to redo it; we were being called outside for pictures.

“It looks fine”, Marie said.

“You look like a lion”, Cory laughed.

“Ah! What scared you”, Ben asked.

And after an hour and a half of pictures, I walked down the aisle that way. I decided to pretend like it wasn’t happening – like I wasn’t dodging goose shit on a brick pathway in a booger green dress that as soon as I’d pushed my shoulders back had popped the new seams the altering lady had put in to keep the twins from jumping out and yelling “surprise”, with a lion’s mane framing my face.

But, little did I know, I’d soon have more than a hairstyle and escaping breasts to worry about.

The stairs

2011-03-14T19:27:00.000-02:00

I tap my foot impatiently, one step up from the last time I stood on these stairs, and three steps down from the time before that. There’s a bottle of lime beer held behind my back, hidden in the folds of my black and white sundress. I’m wearing sunglasses and I keep my face tilted up to the sun, passively listening to the echo of the preacher’s voice. He’s not saying anything I haven’t heard dozens of times, and been a part of a least half that.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...”

The beginning is as predictable as the conclusion, and though the middle can vary a bit, it’s still heavy with repetition. And it makes me wonder why there is a rehearsal. Everyone, even my sister standing on the topmost step, who has never before been blessed with bridesmaid duty, knows the drill. You walk, you stand, you smile benignly at the couple, and when they ask if anyone objects, you remain silent – no matter how many reasons you may have to speak out.

The place where the couple stands is shaped like a halved octagon with steps spilling down on every side, the bottom row surrounded by brick paths and greenery. The narrow flight of stairs behind the platform leads to the third floor balcony, and it’s at the beginning of these stairs that they put an archway of vines and flowers. There’s no doubt it’s beautiful, but I’ve no desire to stand in that spot. Should the day come that I have the option, I know I’ll disappoint my Papa by choosing a different path, one he doesn’t own. As immersed in the traditions of my family as I am (and there are a lot of traditions), a marriage is personal. And these steps have seen too many weddings, most of them filled with unspoken objections, for me to make them mine.

My cousin Ashley stands to my left, up a step, and her husband stands on the other side, down two from her. She whispers to me that she’s glad she doesn’t have to be his walking partner and I smile, amused because I had the same thought, though I know our reasons are vastly different. She simply wants a break, the feel of a different arm hooked through hers and the novelty of an unfamiliar gait. I, on the other hand, find him repulsive. I’ve learned far too much about his extra-marital habits since I stood gazing up at them on that platform ten years ago, and I already knew enough on that day. Just because she can take him back and forgive, doesn’t mean the rest of us forget – a fact he’s well aware of and, if the constant scowl is any indication, visibly bitter about.

There are three married couples in the wedding party and all of them were pronounced husband and wife on these steps. Two of them have children placed at intervals in front of each gender line, and my daughter stands in front of me – giggling next to Ashley’s. I tug on her ponytail and ask her to quiet down.

“Then I’ll ask if anyone can show just cause why this couple should not be wed, and so on”, the preacher says.

Ashley glances at me with a half grin and does a hacking cough to cover words I don’t catch, but I know what she’s implying. Thankfully it’s so quiet no one else catches them either. And though the majority of us are doing the same on the inside, and aren’t thrilled that our Papa is marrying again, we know better than to tell him so. He’s been with his fiancé for nearly eight years and he’s been pushing for this wedding for a very long time. Anyone that voices a concern is sure to be banned from “The Compound” indefinitely and we are all, in one way or another, too dependent upon him to risk it. I like to think of him as a mob boss – loving all, trusting none, and granting favors to those that please him most.

The bride, Tess, stands in the grass a few yards from the steps, watching with her arms crossed. One of the groomsmen’s girlfriends is standing in for her, as its bad luck for the bride to actively participate in the rehearsal. The wedding has come together in less than three months and Tess doesn’t care about a bit of it – it’s Papa that’s pushed for the traditional ceremony et al. She’s uncomfortable being the center of attention and I can’t say that I blame her, considering her rather checkered past. She answers every question with, “I don’t care”, or “it doesn’t matter”.

The preacher finally concludes his mock ceremony and asks us to bow our heads in prayer. I sigh as I do, knowing it will take awhile. He’s very loud and very long-winded. I notice that at the beginning of every sentence he says “please dear lord” and after the seventh or eighth time, it sounds quite comical.

I lift my eyes from the ground and glance around – it’s an old habit and one I enjoy. I’ve always found it interesting, watching people pray...or pretend to pray. To my right Claire is looking down, eyes wide open and focused on the ground while she scuffs her shoe against the pavement. Her fingers trace the words on the bottom of her t-shirt: “Whose baby is this?” To my left Ashley, Marie, Leigha, and Heather are all standing diligently with their eyes closed and hands clasped in front of them.

I branch out a bit, sweeping my gaze over the spectators and Tess, standing alone in front of the staircase filled with someone else’s family. I watch her laced fingers, thumbs rhythmically sliding over each other again and again, and I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder if she’s starting to get nervous or if her attitude of disinterest extends from the dress and decoration choices, to the man up there practicing his vows to her. I wonder who, out of the two of them, is making the greater sacrifice.

I know that she knows next weekend, when she’s standing under the archway, there will be silent objections. I wonder if she cares. But even more than that, I wonder how many silent objections of her own will be joining their ranks. And if, like the 12 of us standing watch, there are enough to fill these stairs.

Here's a quarter

2011-03-09T14:26:00.000-02:00

I’ve lived in the same small town all my life and, as a result, things are rather predictable.

For instance, I know that the post office is never open after 4 o’clock on a weekday, and even during regular business hours you’d be lucky to get service because of all the gossips taking up space. Every Wednesday and Sunday the restaurants are packed with church goers – breakfast, lunch, and dinner. From 5 to 7, Monday through Friday, most of the county workers will gather at the tiny convenience store just outside of town to shoot the shit and drink beer. And on Friday and Saturday nights, the lakeside bar two coves over from my house has either a live band or a DJ, and the tiny dance floor is always full.

I also know that at every single one of those places, and countless others I didn’t name, someone is going to know who my father is. And they won’t be able to stop themselves from approaching me, no matter how much I discourage it with “don’t talk to me” body language, glares, fiddling with my phone or engaging someone else in conversation. It’s like he’s a communicable disease that they can’t wait to pass on – only for some reason they don’t seem to realize when they’re hacking all over me that I’ve had the pleasure of being infected, straight from the source, for almost 26 years.

I was about ten the first time I really remember it happening.

The old country store a few miles from home was our hangout of sorts. We (my cousins, sister, and I) would swim all morning and then take a snack break in the late afternoon, piling in dad’s truck in our wet bathing suits and bare feet. He had an account there, something they don’t really do anymore, and while he went straight for the beer cooler we would rush to the candy aisle and grab whatever we wanted. I would always get two Slim Jims, one for me and one for dad, saving them to eat together on the ride back home.

Sometimes we’d stand next to him and drink Yoo-Hoos, the white and beige checked linoleum cold under our feet and our hair dripping puddles of lake water. And sometimes, like that particular day, we’d take our spoils outside and spread our towels on top of the tool box of his truck, sitting Indian style in the hot sun and waiting on him to finish “visiting”.

Leigha was a pudgy little thing in her ruffled strawberry one piece, sitting next to me on the box, and Ben was on the other side in his trunks, covered in white flecks from the chest up due to a pack of powered doughnuts. A woman I recognized as a school friend’s mom parked near us and went in, coming out a few minutes later with a bag.

By then I’d remembered her name and called out a greeting. She walked over, looked up and shaded her eyes with her hand. She studied me, her top lip curling grotesquely, and said, “I didn’t know you were his daughter.”

“Um...yeah”, I said, confused.

“Your daddy is a sonofabitch!”

I stared at her and Ben did too, taking a break from licking all the powder off his hands. I knew dad was sometimes mean to me, but I wondered what on earth he’d ever done to Ashley’s mom to make her say something like that.

She said a lot of other things that I don’t remember well, not leaving until Ben flipped her a slobbery bird and said, “Beat it bitch, before I go get Uncle Jimmy and he kicks your butt!” I was too shocked to comment at the time, but later encounters like that would become a regular occurrence.

My dad always made friends easily, so I’d hear nice things every now and then. What he had a lot of trouble with was keeping them, and that’s when the “sonofabitches” would start. Whatever the case, things usually opened the same way. “Hey, aren’t you Jimbo’s daughter?” or “I know you...” or “You’re one of the ______ girls, aren’t ya?”

I learned to say yes and walk away. Lying about it was pointless, especially when I started high school and he suddenly seemed to be everywhere – showing up at the parties I went to and the weekend hangouts. Often times I thought having some old lady come up to me, and yell about how he’d fucked her over, was way better than having the hottest guys in school notice me because my dad was that sucker that acted like he was 17 years old with a fake ID.

When I got pulled over for speeding, the cops knew who I was. When I went to the grocery store, the Budweiser guy unloading his truck knew who I was. When I graduated and moved two towns away, every goddamned mechanic, bartender and waitress knew who I was. My dad, apparently, got around. I got so used to being approached by strangers that I pretty much stopped listening the minute they said his name. I just shrugged, murmured something noncommittal and went on about my business.

It did die down a bit when he moved to Oklahoma. But now...he’s here again, visiting for the longest period of time since he moved away five years ago. And it’s driving me insane.

He’s staying with my Papa, practically next door, and he’s always calling and texting, wanting to know what I’m doing. And worst of all, he’s been hanging out at all his old haunts...which means I haven’t been able to hear the end of it. The occasional stranger or old friend approaching me once every few months has snowballed because of his return home. Now there are also phone calls and picture messages of him around town – it’s ridiculous. For some reason it never seems to occur to people that I already know what he does and I’m embarrassed enough without extra proof, thank you very much.

“Your dad was so drunk he fell off a bar stool!”

“Your dad bought shots for everybody and when the waitress told him that someone didn’t want theirs, he said, ‘so the fuck what, gimmie the goddamned thing and get outta here!’ Then he slapped her ass!”

“Your dad said he was going to move back here and build a house right next to yours!” (Now that one was terrifying.)

I’ve found myself hurrying in and out of places, doing my shopping in the city on my way home from work rather than going to the local, and staying home whenever possible. I feel harassed and irritated and he’s only been here a little over two weeks...with two still left to go.

And after this past Saturday night I’m not so sure I can handle another day, let alone two weeks.

*****

When my friends decided they wanted to have a few drinks at the lakeside bar instead of our usual downtown hangout, I was hesitant. I knew he’d been in there recently, likely more than once, and there was a strong possibility that I’d run into some of his A) brethren, B) enemies, C) women, or D) all of the above. But they promised it would be an early night, no later than one, and I really loved the band that was going to be there, so I found myself agreeing anyway.

The bar has been there forever and, though it’s changed owners and names countless times, it remains the same. I go in maybe twice a year, not counting the times we dock for gas or the like in the summer, because it’s really just not my kind of thing. It’s the trolling ground for some of the funkiest looking redneck cougars I’ve ever seen and the men are even worse.

Ten of us crammed into a corner around two tables, ordering drinks and food. After about an hour of cutting up, listening to the band and drinking the cheapest Jack and Cokes I’ve ordered anywhere, I decided it wasn’t so bad. The people watching was certainly sublime.

Even dressed down, our group looked out of place amid the bikers and the women that, I’d wager, had been ridden harder than any Harley. An older woman with short, dull brown hair danced every song with a man the band kept calling MC Hammer. Her white t-shirt barely touched the top of her jeans and every time she would move her arms it would rise up, showing a disturbing amount of wobbly flesh and the waist band of her white underwear sticking out of her pants. MC Hammer would slouch around her, alternately jumping up then crouching down low to the ground and doing pelvic thrusts at empty air. His eyes were glazed over and he looked like he might start drooling on himself at any minute. When a slow song came on, they would plaster themselves together and move in a jerky circle, occasionally running into the other couples.

There was a taller version of Willie Nelson decked out in silver buckles and plaid, his eyes so squinty and surrounded by wrinkles that I wasn’t sure he had any, dancing with a woman in ripped turquoise that gave new meaning to the term muffin top. There was a younger group of girls, probably late 20s or early 30s, sporting the cropped t-shirt and unflattering flesh trend of MC Hammer’s woman – dancing on each other and whooping when they managed to grab some poor unsuspecting cowboy from the sidelines. A severely thin woman with dark hair down to her waist swayed alone in the middle, with her arms lifted above her head and a beer clutched in a hand adorned with dangerous looking press on nails.

We laughed and drank shots, getting up to dance only once when several couples vacated the floor briefly for a smoke break and, apparently, a make out session on the pier.

“Look you guys”, I said pointing out the window behind our table. MC Hammer was lounging on his side on the railing, one leg stretched out and one bent at the knee, propping his head up on his hand. And his woman was glued to his face; her hands roaming over places I really hoped would stay covered.

Everyone leaned over or turned around to look and even the band members, who were taking a short break, had to peek.

“Ahh, they’re gonna fuck tonight”, half of our group sang in unison, as they often do when spotting outrageous PDA.

It was shortly after, when the band started playing Let’s Get It On in honor of the returning couple, that a girl approached our table. She was tall and heavy set, with streaked strawberry blonde hair cut short. Freckles covered her cheeks and the bridge of her nose – she was almost cute.

“Hey”, she said to the group at large, smiling. “Ya’ll having a good time tonight?”

After a scattered yes, she focused on the girl to my left. “I know you!”

She went round the table establishing family connections and moving past the “do you know’s” with everyone, because that’s the first part of any conversation in the South... “Who are your people?” Then she finally came to me.

“And you. You’re a _______, aren’t you”, she asked, tossing out my last name and pulling a face I recognized all too well.

I stared up at her warily. “Guilty.”

“Uh huh. And you’re Jimmy’s daughter, right?”

“Yes.” I sighed.

Her hand went immediately to her hip and she leaned over the person in front of me, “I’m sorry”, she said without a trace of remorse, “but I fucking hate your daddy.”

I could feel the heat rising up my neck as I stared at her, and everyone else stared at us.

“He’s a sorry piece of shit. No...I really hate him”, she continued, as if I’d accused her of the opposite.

I crossed my legs and leaned forward in my chair. She started to say something else, but I cut her off. “Right”, I said calmly, then turned my back and started talking to the girl beside me.

She walked away a moment later and the chatter started. “Are you kidding? What a dick! So rude! Who does that?”

I was absolutely livid and it was only the antics of MC Hammer that made me crack a smile for the rest of the night. But I wasn’t just angry at her, I was angry with myself too.

I kept thinking of brilliant comebacks hours after the fact, which only made me angrier. I could have said something like, “I appreciate your right to an opinion, but in the future if you have a problem with my father, you should take it up with him and not a stranger. Because that’s what I am to you – a stranger. Not his daughter, in this case, or the head of his complaint department. Whatever sense of entitlement or commiseration you feel spending time with him has granted you, I assure you, you won’t be getting it from me. So why don’t you fuck off.”

Or, “Now that we’ve been properly introduced and you’ve said what you had to say, why don’t you go back to your table, sit down, and I’ll come over and needlessly insult one of your family members in front of your friends. Call it a learning experience.”

Or, “Bitch, you don’t know me. How you gonna come at me like that? I will cut.you.”

Something like that.

And even though I know that responding to her rudeness with that of my own wouldn’t really have been the right thing to do, it still would have felt nice to let off some steam.

After all, I’ve got two more weeks left of this shit. Anyone would be tempted...right?

Fixing it

2011-03-03T21:51:00.000-02:00

Most days the 5am blast of music takes awhile to register. Like chipping away at a particularly stubborn block of ice, the initial cracks are imperceptible – the fluttering of an eyelid, a quiet sigh, the slightest twitching of limbs. But today I’ve done the unthinkable and risen before the alarm.

I tiptoe through the dark house, quietly stepping over sleeping dogs and the odd toy. In the bathroom I leave the light off, locating the contact solution by feel. I drip a bit in each eye, blinking with relief when the liquid allows me to open them completely.

I stop in Hannah’s doorway to check on her, to make sure her covers aren’t on the floor and that she isn’t hanging from the side of the bed like a trapeze artist. She thrashes in her sleep, just like me.

The revolving fish aquarium night light atop the cedar chest allows me to see her face, slack with sleep and miraculously, still on the pillow. I push the pullout trundle back underneath the bed so I can reach her and straighten the covers. The bed is so tall that we leave the trundle out at night, just in case she rolls off. As I pull and tug, working the sheets from underneath heavy limbs, I decide to tuck myself in with her. I’ve got time.

I gently push her over and lie down, covering us both. She smacks her lips and squirms as I smooth back the hair from her face. She’s soft and warm, clean from last night’s bath, her hair smelling faintly of watermelon kid shampoo. And even better than that – she’s quiet.

It’s been a week full of stressful nights – whining, crying and the usual drama. She’s developed a smart mouth to go along with her overly sensitive demeanor – a combination I find frustrating. She stamps her foot and shouts, ignores me and deliberately taunts me. Yet when it comes time for the inevitable punishment, she cries and shrieks like she’s being branded with a hot iron. In reality all I’ve done is say, “You’ve lost your TV privileges for tomorrow” or “give me the DS”.

Hannah is spoiled and I’ve my mother to thank for that. She grins when the screaming starts, often saying, “You’re just getting back what you deserve”. She pets her and overthrows my punishments and guidelines, turning even the simplest of things into a battle. I often wonder, while I’m getting what “I deserve”, why this form of revenge is passed down like tradition. There are times when I wouldn’t wish Hannah’s behavior on my worst enemy, much less Hannah herself, should she ever have her own child.

I close my eyes and wrap my arm around her, drawing her closer. It’s easier this way, while they’re all sleeping. I find it hard to be affectionate with her in front of my family, my mother in particular. She has this odd way of making me feel embarrassed when I show my softer side. She smirks and makes snide comments, just because I’ve never really been the cuddly type, as if I’m doing it just for show. Yet she doesn’t like the “stern” side of me either, often calling me cold-hearted. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t – which is, more often than not, the way everything is with mom.

Technically I’m a single parent, but due to current living arrangements, Hannah has a lot of people telling her yes, no, and everything in between. I know it’s sometimes unfair or confusing for her, but I also know she sometimes works the system to her advantage. And there are days, like yesterday, when it’s just the two of us and she’s unmanageable for reasons I can’t even begin to fathom.

*****

I picked her up from school and brought her home early, saved her from an afternoon of daycare. She was happy for 10 minutes of the ride home, then a switch flipped and suddenly she wasn’t. It got worse as the day wore on, the whining and the unnecessary tantrums, until I’d finally had enough.

“What is the matter with you today”, I said, standing in the middle of her room while she scowled at me and scuffed her sneaker on the hardwood floor.

“You won’t let me do what I want!”

“If you’d stop whining and misbehaving, maybe you’d get to do what you want.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and shouted, “I want to go back to Oklahoma with Grandpa and live there!”

I stared at her, surprised. Where the hell had that come from?

“Right. You want to leave all of your family...your friends, your school, everything...and go live with him? Are you ill?”

“Yes!”

“Yes you’re ill?”

“No! You’re mean and I don’t love you anymore. I hate you!”

I sighed. “If I was really mean, I’d let you go live with him. Then you’d see how good you have it here, kid.”

The rest of the night was a fiasco, with mom contributing to the already escalated situation with her usual remarks. I could feel my temper flaring up and, at one point, had to go outside, jump up and down and scream like a maniac.

When I finally put her to bed, I kissed her quickly on the forehead, pulled out the trundle, and hot-footed it out of there. I even sighed with relief.

*****

I lay here thinking about all of that – what she said and did, how I had to calm myself down and couldn’t wait to get away from her, how I want to kick mom in the shins. And it bothers me. I don’t want it to be this way. I know I’ve got to fix it, but I haven’t figured it out.

I kiss her forehead. “Boog”, I say, rubbing her arm and back. “Boog, it’s time to get up.”

She starts stretching, her body uncurling from mine, and her eyes squinting up at my face. A big sleepy grin immediately follows and I grin back.

“Hey mama”, she says, wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Hey sugar. Did you sleep well?”

“Uh huh.”

“You ready to get up?”

“Can we stay here like this for just a minute?”

“Yeah”, I say, settling back into the blankets, holding her tight.

We lay quietly for awhile; until I hear the others begin to move around. Then I push myself up and out of the bed. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Fruit loops”, she shouts, vaulting up and holding out her arms. I let her jump into mine, causing me to stagger back and my muscles to pull a bit painfully. She’s getting way too big to carry.

She wraps her legs around my waist and buries her face in my neck. “I love you thissssssss much.” She squeezes me as hard as she can with her arms and legs, then pulls back to kiss me.

“This!”, I suddenly think, kissing her back.

When there are days and nights like yesterday, when I can’t take it anymore, when she hurts my feelings and I have to hurt hers...this is what I’ll think about. That’s how I’ll fix it – by remembering moments like this... and maybe, by getting up early a little more often.

The lunch date

2011-02-28T14:19:00.001-02:00

Our first date happened almost seven years ago and I wasn’t attracted to him then. I was young, bored and I liked the way he complimented me with a serious expression, refusing any protests, feeble or otherwise. I let him take me out, I let him kiss me, and I let him buy me things to the point of being ridiculous.

But eventually I got tired of trying to like him “that way”, of letting him touch me when I didn’t really want him to, and stopped returning his calls. I found someone else and conveniently forgot about him, until his name would show up randomly on my phone or I ran into him in town.

Most of the time I ignored his texts and calls, saying only the bare minimum to be polite. I would wave and hurry away when I saw him out. But every now and then, he would catch me in a rough patch. Whether it was due to boredom, loneliness or deflated ego, he’d happily step in and boost me back up. And with an attitude that said I was clearly doing him a favor, I’d let him.

When I didn’t need him, he irritated me. I hated that he always seemed to show up everywhere I went. I felt like he was stalking me at times, but really, if I’m going to be honest (and this is all going to be brutally honest), he wasn’t doing anything that I didn’t allow him to. I never would have admitted it to myself, or anyone else, back then...but I wanted him on the back burner, just in case. Telling him off might have meant alienating him completely. And too, he was so fucking nice that I just couldn’t bring myself to really be mean to him.

Except now I realize that I was cruel to him all along. I knew he was crazy about me, possibly even in love with me. And instead of calling time of death, I let him repeatedly shock our relationship back to life. Let him hopefully watch a bunch of feeble lines on a monitor and wait for them to get bigger, all the while knowing what he didn’t – my heart would never work properly for him.

Seven months ago I made a stab at behaving like a decent human being. I had feelings for someone and, no matter how at odds their words and actions sometimes were, I knew they didn’t feel quite the same way about me. Because they never came right out and said “I don’t want you”, I kept thinking “it could happen”. But it didn’t, it won’t, and I knew there was a distinct possibility they were doing to me what I’d done to him, whether they realized it or not.

So when I received a message asking me to hang out and, as usual, telling me how wonderful I was...I finally said what should have been said ages ago. I told him that he wanted to be more than friends, he always had, and I didn’t. I told him that I couldn’t hang out with him unless he was prepared to accept that. I was proud of myself for not dicking around, for saying it in what I thought was a decent, but clear way. He responded that he was sorry for making me uncomfortable, which made me feel like an ass, and then he promptly disappeared.

I thought about him for awhile after that. I wondered how he was doing and if he would come back around and try to be my friend, or if maybe that was something he’d never be able to do. I crawled even farther up my own ass, and wondered how long it would take him to get over me. How much time was I worth? But after a few months without a word or a glimpse of him, I forgot to wonder.

Then a few weeks ago I was driving home. I’d had one of the toughest, most emotionally charged days of my life. I don’t cry that often, but when I do it’s...volatile. I’d been blubbering for most of the hour it takes me to drive home when my phone went off. It was a message from him. He’d passed me, seen what a spectacle I was, and wanted to make sure I was alright.

Of course that set me off more, but I replied that I was okay. Then he said, after seven months of silence, “I always hoped it would work out between us. I’m still crazy about you.” Etcetera, I’m gorgeous, etcetera, he misses me.

And instead of saying “don’t” or “I’m sorry”, I latched onto those words like a life raft. I said “thank you” and sent a smiley face, knowing it wasn’t a good idea.

“Why didn’t it work out?”, he asked.

“I don’t know”, I said, all the while hating myself. I was feeling rotten and I wanted someone to make me feel better and I knew that, with a few noncommittal responses, he’d do just that.

He comforted me, asked me out to lunch, and I accepted. I was back on the vicious cycle, attempting to justify my behavior like I always had before – by telling myself that maybe this was it for me, maybe I was supposed to be with someone that loved me more than I loved them. He was a great guy, with a lot of qualities just screaming “settling down material”. Maybe I’d read too many romance novels and was overlooking what was supposed to be my chance, while I waited for a passion that didn’t exist. But I knew better – even though I was stepping back into the ring, this time I was completely aware of what I was doing. I was going to sucker punch him, and apparently no amount of self-loathing was going to change that. If I was cruel before, I was downright sadistic now.

Two days ago he showed up right on time for our lunch date. Everyone else was gone when I let him in the front door and he followed me back to my office. I was nervous, but it wasn’t the fluttery nervousness of a normal date. It was a nervousness born of knowing I was doing something wrong, and wondering if he’d call me out.

“You look nice”, he said.

I was surprised by how relaxed and casual he was and I forced myself to calm down too. He didn’t reach for my hand or my arm as we walked to the café, like I thought he would. He didn’t touch me at all.

I’d made jokes about getting a free lunch out of him, because that’s what I do...make terrible jokes. But when we arrived I waved away his protests and paid. I couldn’t have that on my conscious too. And apparently, buying him a club sandwich was supposed to make me feel better.

We sat down at a table by the window and we talked – about our kids, our jobs, and all manner of things we’d missed out on in the months we hadn’t spoken. I found myself laughing with him and feeling comfortable. He didn’t question me or compliment me, he didn’t look at me like he wanted to peel my skin off and wear it like a wetsuit. It felt normal – like two friends having lunch.

On the walk back I looked at his face, relaxed and confident, and I wondered if he knew. I wondered if he thought he was “wearing me down” or if, like me, he simply couldn’t stop himself from gravitating to what he knew would never work, out of some unfulfilled need.

In the lobby of my building he hugged me goodbye and kissed me on the cheek. “That was nice”, he said. And I agreed, smiling and waving as he walked out the double doors and into the parking garage.

But my smile didn’t stick around very long. I’d no sooner sat down at my desk when I thought, “Wait...what just happened? Is he over me? He’s never that casual. What was wrong with him?” I knew I was being an egotistical asshole, but I couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t fawn all over me like he normally would.

Two hours later I received a text message that said, “Thanks for lunch, had a great time. You looked stunning, as always.”

That was more like what I’d come to expect. And because my vanity knows no bounds, I grinned like a Cheshire cat.

I’d be willing to wager that I’ll hear from him again soon, and I’m not really sure what will happen. After exploring every unflattering angle of my behavior, and branding myself with labels I hate, yet completely deserve (like needy and cruel), I know something has to give. I know that, no matter how many times I may try to pretend or convince myself otherwise, he isn’t what I’m looking for. Now I just have to figure out if I’m the kind of person that needs something so badly, they take what isn’t rightfully theirs. I hope not. I hope I can find the courage to push him away for good and learn how to be truly alone, because maybe that’s all fate, God, or whatever decides these matters, is waiting for.

Advice

2011-02-24T20:59:00.000-02:00

Last Friday, amid my sunshiny errands and trampoline jumping, I was dealing with family drama. It started around 9 that morning when I was sitting in my underwear in the living room, radio blasting, repainting my toenails blood red.

“I said what what in the butt”, sang my phone. Muting the radio, I picked up what I knew would be a long, repetitive call. It was my stepmom.

“Your dad has lost it”, she said immediately.

“I wasn’t aware he ever had it”, I replied. “What’s up?”

“I need advice. Tell me what to do.”

What followed was, as expected, a long winded account of all the things daddy dearest had been up to recently. Some of it I already knew, like the story about him throwing an empty bottle of Crown Royal at her on Valentine’s Day. Who needs candy and flowers when you can give your woman something really passionate...like a concussion?

And some of it was breaking news, like the fact that he was, supposedly, on his way to get a U-Haul to start packing up his things. He was going to take the dog, the horses, and the Harley and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it, so there! Dad has a flare for the dramatic and it was apparent that she knew, as well as I did, that he was talking out of his ass and wouldn’t be packing anything.

She wanted to know if she should get a restraining order or if she should wait things out, see if she could get him to leave on a mini vacation to give them some time apart. See, they’re in the middle of a lawsuit with his insurance company and, according to the lawyer, if she filed a restraining order it could jeopardize that.

I heard about how much he’d been drinking and the nasty names he’d called her. I heard “your mother is a saint to have put up with that man for over 20 years” and all the other catch phrases she’s adopted since her knight in shining armor turned out to be exactly what we all tried to tell her he would. I mmmed and ahhhed, and said the same things I always say – that she should have left him when he swayed down the aisle to marry her holding a bottle in a brown paper bag, that he’s crazy, and that no matter what happens between them, she’ll still be my family.

“I’m on my way to work to tell my boss I’m taking the day off to deal with this shit”, she said. “Will you call and talk to him? See what he has to say? But don’t tell him you talked to me.”

I wasn’t the first time she’d asked me to do something like that. I’d tried to explain to her before that questioning dad is an exercise in futility – the man lies so much that he wouldn’t know the truth if it hit him upside the head with a Crown bottle. But I agreed to do it anyway.

He answered on the second ring. “Hey Al, what’s going on?” I could hear the suspicion in his voice already, and I hadn’t even spoken yet.

“Hey dad. Nothing, just enjoying my day off. What are you up to?”

“You been talking to that bitch, huh? She called you didn’t she?”

Ah, paranoia! Signature scent of the guilty.

“No, why would she be calling me? What have you done?”

“I’m leaving. I’m on my way now to get a U-Haul.”

“Ok...why? What are you going to put in the U-Haul, dad?”

“Because she’s a crazy fucking bitch. All my shit, that’s what!”

I was relatively sure that whatever belongings he had in the house wouldn’t fill a large suitcase, much less a truck. If he actually followed through with that threat, he’d probably rob her blind.

He went on to say that he tried to get her to go to counseling (lie), but she’d refused (lie). He was tired of supporting her (lie, the only thing he supports are his habits) and she was turning everyone against him (lie, everyone was already sick of him ages before she came along). And when I expressed my doubt at those statements, and he sensed that he was getting no sympathy from me, he rushed off the phone.

Yeah, I totally called that one.

I rang my stepmom back and relayed the conversation, then attempted to wash my hands of the matter. “I’ve got to get in the shower. I’ve got to get going...errands and stuff.”

Unfortunately it didn’t work that way. Though I didn’t speak to dad again, my stepmom called me with regular reports all day long. She was getting the restraining order, she wasn’t. She was filing for divorce, she wasn’t. She was going to have him removed from the house (because, surprise surprise, apparently he never did go get that U-Haul), she wasn’t. As usual, her indecision was giving me whiplash.

“I don’t understand you women”, I shouted at one point.

That night I passed on all Intel to mom and told her she could handle it from there. She and my stepmom have become quite the pair, gossiping and texting about all of dad’s indiscretions, united by the one thing that initially had them hating each other’s guts.

And so the weekend rolled on. I spent a lot of time doing nothing and every day I put off the phone call I should have made to my stepmom. I heard about the latest happenings from mom, so I knew she was alright. I just didn’t want to deal with the repetition of it all. I hate it when someone asks me the same question over and over. “What should I do?”

The buzz was that she’d spent Friday and Saturday night in a hotel, choosing to leave him in her house rather than deal with him. No one seemed to know what he was up to.

On Monday I was home alone in my pajamas, writing and drinking my weight in coffee. After spending the majority of the day on the porch with the laptop, I suddenly decided my room needed to be cleaned. And around 6:30 when everyone came home dragging the debris of their day, I was still going.

I was unloading the dishwasher, methodically drying cups and glaring at the pile of papers and purses they’d just stacked on my clean dining room table, when mom said quietly, so Leigha wouldn’t hear, “I need your advice.”

Surprised, I simply nodded and finished what I was doing. After I’d seated Hannah at the table with her dinner, I went to mom’s room. She was lying on her bed flipping through a Tupperware magazine.

“Please, tell me you aren’t going to buy more of that shit”, I said, flopping down beside her on my stomach and putting my chin in my hands. “We can’t shut the cabinet now.”

“I’m just looking”, she said, using the tone I call her “little girl voice”, a dead giveaway that she’s lying through her teeth.

I rolled my eyes. “Uh huh. So, what’s the issue?”

“Well...your father called me this morning.” She always says “your father”, like other people say “your asshole dog” or “your snot-nosed brat”. When she talks to me about him, its half gossiping with a girlfriend and half accusation...like it’s my fault that she married him. Which I suppose it kind of was, if you go around blaming fetuses.

I sighed and waited on her to continue. Mom loves a bit of drama with her stories; she’s very good at pauses.

“He told me that he was on his way here from Oklahoma, in Tennessee somewhere, and wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to have him locked up for back child support. (Pause)But! Your stepmom called me and guess what?! (Pause. Pause.)That bastard left two days ago! He’s already here somewhere, hiding out!”

I wasn’t surprised. If he had a signature move, other than breaking shit, it was lying in relation to his whereabouts.

“So”, she continued, “he says that he’ll give me some money on Wednesday if I don’t have him picked up. But I’m fed up with the shit. What do you think I should do? Should I have him arrested anyway?”

I sighed again. She didn’t really want my advice, just like my stepmom hadn’t wanted it either. They wanted to vent, they wanted me to say all the asshole things they couldn’t, and then they wanted to go about business as usual.

“Fine”, I said sitting up. “Supposedly he is getting paid while he’s here, so, if I were you, I’d tell him to have me the money he promised by Wednesday. Then, after I got the money, I’d have him arrested anyway.”

She looked at me, clearly conflicted. “I just don’t know. He says he’ll roll into town early tomorrow morning and swing by to see you girls. He’s still pretending he isn’t here.”

I shook my head and got up. “Well, I suppose you ought to figure it out. But I’m willing to bet you that he’ll be at our door before we go to bed tonight.”

“No, he’s too busy partying.”

I raised my eyebrows, because I can’t do just the one, and shrugged. “Whatever.”

At 10 o’clock on the dot I was sitting on the porch, wrapped up in my robe, reading. I heard a rumble and looked up. A truck with a motorcycle trailer on the back was inching its way down our gravel road, ridiculously attempting to be stealthy. It paused by the garden fence, on the last stretch of road visible before it would disappear around the corner of our house, leading to the driveway. The headlights cut through the dark and I knew he was sitting in the cab, watching me sitting in the chair, the overhead lights making our porch stand out like a theatre stage.

He inched forward and disappeared around the curve. I leaned back in my chair, knocked on the glass door, lit a cigarette and went back to my book, knowing even as I did that it was pointless. I was about to be bothered.

Mom poked her head out the door, responding to my loud rap on the glass. “Told you so”, I said without looking up from my book. I didn’t need to explain. She heard the rumble of the truck, immediately backing up my words.

“You get him out of here before he wakes up Ray”, she said, pulling at her nightshirt.

“He’s here to see Leigha, let her deal with it.”

She made a noise of disgust and turned to stomp off, but Leigha blocked the door. “Alyson, dad says for you to come outside. He wants to see you.”

I glared at her. “You go.”

“Come on”, she whined.

Both of them looked at me expectantly and I knew they weren’t going to leave me alone. In fact, if I didn’t go, he’d probably just come around and climb the porch steps. Resistance, as usual, was futile.

I got up and followed Leigha, defiantly carrying my lit cigarette with me through the house and out the other door. It was my last one.

And there he was, standing in the driveway in his Levi’s and a black pocket t-shirt covered by his signature button up denim, open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his tattooed arms. His feet were planted so far apart that it looked comical. He’s rather short for a man and his stance and demeanor have always reminded me of a rooster. Work boots, ball cap, and a pair of black glasses with a lanyard wrapped around the back of his head completed the never changing ensemble.

“Hey Al”, he said, moving in to hug me. I gave him the sidearm hug, but it was more out of necessity than desire to stay away from him. We were both smoking, but of course he took it as a slight. “Oh, I see how it is”, he said, chuckling. I knew that chuckle and it wasn’t real. He told us that he’d be staying until after Papa’s wedding. On March 19th. A month. Fucking brilliant. I was happy that my poor stepmom was getting a break, but not if it meant a month at my own expense.

However, two days later (last night to be precise), things shifted again.

I was sitting at the patio table with Papa, dad, and my cousin Ashley. I’d come to pick up Hannah and ended up getting dragged into a discussion on my Aunt that ran away from home last week with thousands of dollars and ten cats in a bag. (It’s a long story.) That led into a discussion about vacations.

“I’m taking a vacation just for me, before I start school and get extra tied down for the next few years”, I said.

Dad looked at me in surprise. “You aren’t coming to Oklahoma this summer?”

I stared back at him like he’d lost his marbles. As far as I was concerned, the past week had been the beginning of the end of his marriage to my stepmom. It had never gotten so far as hotel stays and talk of restraining orders before.

“I was under the impression that ya’ll were done?”

He just looked baffled, like he had no idea what on earth I was talking about. Probably because he’d already managed to convince his self that none of it had ever happened. “We’re fine, she sent me a package of things I needed today. I’m going back to Oklahoma this weekend for a quick job.”

“I thought you were staying until the wedding?” I could barely keep the excitement out of my voice. If she was going to be dumb enough to take his ass back again, I wasn’t going to waste my time feeling sorry for her anymore. And I wouldn’t have to worry about him causing any drama here for the next month. Win/Win.

“I’ll be back before the wedding. She’s coming with me”, he said.

Later that night mom cornered me again. “It’s Wednesday and he still hasn’t given me the money. What do you think I should do?”

I’d had plenty of time to think about it by then and I’d decided that there was only one thing I could say to her, and to my stepmom, the next time they asked that question. I had my own vicious cycles to attend to and I was tired of being forced into theirs as well. The tentative relationship I have with him only works because I keep my distance, and I know better than to expect anything more than a load of trouble or a good laugh. I can’t make either one of them stop tiptoeing around him and grow a pair.

I grinned and shrugged. “I have no opinion about that.”

No glove, no love

2011-02-14T17:30:00.001-02:00

There’s a burning feeling deep inside and it won’t go away. Your skin feels inflamed and raw, you can’t stop scratching. You’re worried that someone will find out your dirty little secret, you’re paranoid, and its making you lash out. You’re alternately angry and weepy – life just isn’t fair! And you think to yourself, “Maybe if I hadn’t given in so easily...things would be different.”

And of course by “you”, I mean “me”. And by all of the above I’m referring, in a possibly over-dramatized fashion, to Valentine’s Day. Though I can see how you might have been misled.

If venereal disease was a holiday, I’m pretty sure it would be Valentine’s Day - based on Wikipedia facts and those nasty little brochures they leave lying around in the vagina doctor’s waiting room. I’ve never actually had a venereal disease, but I have had a yeast infection. And if a yeast infection was a holiday, it would be the equally annoying, yet less shamefully soul sucking, Halloween. It puts on an ugly costume and tries to scare you, but you know it’s just kidding.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, right. Valentine’s Day is gross.

It’s largely a meaningless, consumer driven holiday, designed to make single people miserable – either because they’re sick and tired of watching couples be all nasty or because the loneliness has just become too much.

As a strong, independent woman (read: single and with no current prospects), I can’t just go around admitting that it sometimes “sucks to be alone” or that every time the bell rings for the back door of our office I start to break out in hives because I know it’s another motherfucking flower delivery. “No one by that name works here! Go away! Scratch scratch scratch.”

I can’t really pretend Valentine’s Day doesn’t exist, but damn it I can hate it. I can scoff at the idiots that waste their money on stuffed animals and lip-shaped balloons, say “It’s so stupid” to anyone that will listen, and then secretly watch the all-about-love marathon on Lifetime in my pajamas with a tub of ice cream. That’s the more socially acceptable route: You can hate the holiday, just don’t ruin it with your sad sack routine in front of all the happy people...loser.

And I play by the rules. I only get all wistful about not having someone once in awhile, like on Valentine’s Day, and I generally keep it to myself. And it’s never for the whole day because, let’s face it, I’m not really one for romantic hoo-ha.

It’s easy to want the things you don’t have, the grass is always greener and all that, but if I think about it objectively I probably wouldn’t like all that girly hearts and flowers shit anyway.

You know what I think is romantic? Not rose petals, silk, and champagne. Not love poems, watching the sunset, and whispered words of devotion. It’s simple:

Put your dick in a box.

Alright, so that’s not entirely accurate, but it would definitely trump a stuffed animal.

I have one romantic fantasy, and it’s pretty simple. There aren’t any props or gifts and it’s not in a specific location. I won’t go into a lot of details but basically it starts with a look in his eyes and a little leisurely touching, then a bit of clothes ripping, then ends with, well, a bang. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom: Romantico!

Mom says that I shoot myself in the foot where men are concerned, and that if I’d stop giving up the goods so soon they’d probably stick around ~~and buy me stuff~~ for Valentine’s Day.

There may be a grain of truth in that since I just heard that the last man I went out with is suddenly in love with someone else. Not that he was ever in love with me, there wasn’t any of that, but maybe if I’d played my cards right he would have been? I guess we’ll never know. Either way, I hope she loves him back because he’s an alright guy, and there’s nothing worse than loving someone that doesn’t love you in return. Except maybe VD.

Anyway, since I’m alone again this year, I wondered if I should do something different. Maybe start my own Valentine’s Day tradition that has nothing to do with romance, cheap presents, or venereal disease. It should be something healthy, something that keeps me away from the Lifetime movies and doesn’t cause my temper to flare up.

That immediately got rid of the “go out on the town with other single friends” idea. Inevitably, someone always ends up crying and blowing their nose on someone else’s sparkly tube top in the bathroom after they got groped on the dance floor by a guy that kind of looked like their ex, but seemed so much nicer at first. Or, as proof of our independence from all things love and male, we’d end up making out with each other, groping each other, taking pictures and then deeply regretting it the next day when they showed up on some bitch’s Facebook as revenge for when so-in-so just happened to mention that you made out with her boyfriend seven years ago. Nope, not a good idea.

Some other things that were quickly discarded were: going to the gym, making an “I’m not bitter” video blog, and hanging out with high school age children and making prank calls. In the end, though, I just decided to keep it simple:

Put on Phil Collins, take a muscle relaxer and masturbate. My hand won’t feel like it’s attached to my body, therefore, it’ll seem like it belongs to someone else.

“And I can feel it coming in the air tonight, Oh Lord...”

I just haven't met you yet

2011-02-12T18:57:00.001-02:00

I was sitting at my grandmother’s dining room table, relaxed and laughing. The little house was jam-packed full of family, ringing with the sounds of a dozen different conversations.

“We need to go out and do something together, all of us,” I said to my stepmom.

She smiled and showed me a sheaf of tickets, waved them out like a fan. “We’ve got plans for this afternoon. It’s a dance class.” What she meant, she further explained, was that it was a pole dancing class and we would each have our own room and our own instructor.

But before I really had a chance to process that, you called. You called and everything changed. We were going out instead.

I raced to the back bedroom to get ready, but there really wasn’t much to do. I was already dressed, already painted and straightened. I smiled at myself in the mirror a lot, lost in thoughts I no longer remember well.

Time must have sped up because my sister was suddenly at the door, saying you were already there, waiting on the living room couch. That’s when the nerves finally showed up, mixing with the excitement, and I could hear my heartbeat pulsing loudly over the din of my family, still everywhere, still talking. I had to force myself to walk slowly and, rather than turn right and go straight to the living room through the side entrance, go around the long way. I wanted to look at you straight on; I wanted you to see me coming toward you. I just wanted.

They were everywhere – spilling out of the kitchen and into the dining room, taking up so much space. Of course it would make sense that they would be in the living room too, scattered in the armchairs and sitting on the couch, bothering you and asking questions because that’s what they do. But when I turned the corner, I didn’t see anyone but you.

You sat in the exact middle of my grandmother’s faded old yellow couch. The tiny, many colored flowers dotting its cushions looked vivid against your jeans. There was a jacket covering your head and it made me grin and laugh. You were hiding, being funny, and I knew that underneath the folds, you were smiling too. I walked toward you and gently lifted it from your head, tossed it to the side.

Looking at you smiling at me, the nerves left as quickly as they’d come. You didn’t say a word, just held out your arms. It didn’t for a moment bother me that you hadn’t gotten up, that I’d have to climb onto your lap to get to those arms. I put one knee on either side of your body, straddling your lap, chest to chest, wrapping my arms around you at the same time you wrapped yours around me. And my god, it felt good.

For a long time we sat that way – my head nestled in the crook of your shoulder and your face buried in my neck. I could have stayed that way all afternoon, but you finally pulled away. I was a little surprised when you pressed your lips to mine. I wanted it, but I hadn’t expected it. The kiss was long and slow and soft, your facial hair tickling my skin.

When we drew apart again, the sounds of the house finally started to register. “I’ll just go get my coat”, I said, climbing from your lap and hurrying out of the room.

Everything seemed to speed up and everyone suddenly wanted to talk to me. I kept racing from room to room looking for things – my purse, my jacket, my lipstick. It was irritating, but typical. It’s what always happens when I’m trying to go somewhere; I’m unorganized.

Each time I hurried past, in search of one thing or another, I could see you standing impatiently by the door. I wanted to go to you, but I just had to do one more thing, and one more thing, and one more thing.

“Alyson”, you finally said, “let’s go already.”

“I can’t believe you’re skipping our family outing”, my stepmom said from behind me.

I was flustered, but I finally managed to take your hand and walk outside. We made it halfway to the car and I pulled you to a stop. “I forgot my jacket!”

You sighed and gave an exasperated little laugh while the dog jumped around our legs and faces peered out from windows. “Go start the car”, I said, “I’ll be right back.” I watched you get into a red car that looked vaguely like a station wagon before running back inside.

When I returned, you were parking some sort of recreational vehicle with a trailer attached to it down the street. I smiled as I watched you walk back up the sidewalk, getting closer. And then…

I came to, face down in a pile of pillows. Disoriented, it took me a moment to realize what was going on. It was all just a dream.

But somehow I could still feel the imprint of your arms around me and the press of your lips.

I smiled and turned over on my side, rubbing my eyes. I replayed all of the weird elements, of course: my stepfamily being in my grandmother’s house, the pole dancing class, the trailer, the crush of people and the impromptu moment of intimacy in front of them all. But what I kept coming back to, the part that was somehow, against all odds, more vivid than everything…was you. Your lips, your face, your arms, your presence. You were the most unlikely piece of the puzzle – “one of these things is not like the other” – yet you were the part that felt exactly right.

I looked at my bedside clock. It read 7:02am. I would normally never get out of the bed so early on a Saturday, but I was already pushing off the covers and throwing my legs over the side of the bed. I wanted to write it all down before I forgot, before even the silliest details became too fuzzy to remember. I wanted to write it all down so I would remember what it felt like to be wanted, to be with you. And in my head, I’d already picked out the title.

The personality test

2011-02-07T23:39:00.001-02:00

She asks me another question that I’m not sure how to answer. “I don’t know” seems like a cop out and I don’t like saying it. She wants something definitive and lucid, but instead she gets a bunch of rambling that has to be sorted through, like a trash bag when you know you’ve thrown something important away.

I realize she has to think about what I’ve just said, but does she have to stare at me while she’s doing it? She examines me like a specimen under a microscope, and I wonder if she sees the pulse in my neck throbbing faster. The longer she stares in silence, the more anxious I feel. Should I say something else? Should I just wait for the next question?

“I feel like there’s something you aren’t telling me”, she finally says. Her brows are knit together and her head tilted to one side. I open and close my mouth like a fish. I’m not sure which something she means. There are a lot of things I’m not telling her. There are things I’m not telling her that I’m sure she wouldn’t deem relevant to the conversation, but that I want to say anyway. And there are things I’m not telling her because I can’t bear to part with them. I can’t have them shoved under the microscope. I don’t want them examined and pulled apart because I may never be able to piece them back together. I’m afraid to let go of the bits of myself that I think I understand, because there’s always the possibility that she’ll prove me wrong.

I shrug and give a half laugh. She scribbles something on her notepad and I wish I could snatch it from her. Not to read it, just to use it. To flip to a new page and jot it all down, just like this. To show her that I’m not as inarticulate as I appear to be…I don’t always ramble. Maybe we can just email each other instead.

“Do you want to remain in your current position”, she asks. “Is this what you want to do with your life?”

“No”, I say immediately, confidently. I smile because it's the easiest question she’s asked me today.

“What do you want to do?”

“Write”, I think just as immediately. But I don’t say it. Not yet. First I sigh and give her all the reasons I can’t do what I want. I tell her I need to go to school and pick a career that generates more money, as soon as possible, so that I can support my kid. I tell her that it’s not a question of what I want, but what needs to be done. I have a choice to make and, because I find it depressing, I haven’t yet made it. I’m in my current job, not making enough money, not going back to school, because I can’t bear to pursue something that may not pan out financially.

I overload her with information again. She’s got so many things to sift through that when I finally say, “I love to write. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted to do”, it’s weighed down and I know it doesn’t have the effect it should.

We touch on so many different things that I’m not sure what today’s objective was supposed to be. And I know it’s my fault. If I could just give her a straight answer, maybe she could form a valid opinion. Maybe she wouldn’t have parroted my own words back to me. “I don’t know.”

As the session draws to a close, I realize that I’m sweating. I can’t wait to get out of there and, maybe I’m projecting, but I feel as though she can’t wait to get me out of there too.

She says she’s going to give me a test to take home. Seventy questions to help her determine what sort of personality I have and in what occupation I’d fit best. I just barely manage to keep from rolling my eyes. Is this middle school? Is she going to tell me that I don’t work well with others and should be in a profession where I have limited contact with the general public? Will I fit into the “artistic circle” on the career wheel?

“Try not to analyze the questions”, she says. “Go with your gut instinct.”

I take the paper and note that it says “Temperament Sorter – different drums and different drummers” across the top, and I have the insane urge to laugh.

I’m wondering if I made the right decision, if she’s the right therapist for me. I’m wondering if I’ll be able to tell her all the things I’m afraid to. I’m wondering if this questionnaire is going to help. I’m wondering if she’s going to be able to sort through all the garbage I’ve given her and pull out the bits that need to be cleaned up and examined…or if that’s even her place. Maybe it’s mine. I feel more confused than I did before we began, and that worries me.

Then, in small letters off to the side, I see the words “please understand me”. They’re nearly hidden under the grey shadow of a hole-punch mark, from where they’ve been copied many times. I feel the sudden burn of welling tears behind my eyes and the suppressed laughter becomes a thick ball in my throat. The sudden change in my demeanor embarrasses me and I fight it back, hide it from her.

We schedule an appointment for the following Thursday and I leave quickly, walking through the hallway with my head down. Once I’m inside the elevator I breathe a little easier. I ride it up and up, out of the basement and past the next few floors. Once off, I make my way through the corridors, turning left and right, navigating the maze of the hospital on autopilot. And all the while I’m thinking.

Office pet

2011-02-02T21:11:00.000-02:00

At ten minutes after seven I park on the first floor of the parking garage, as opposed to the sixth where everyone else gets shifted. I stroll past the guard booth, sunglasses covering the worst of a face devoid of makeup. The girl in the booth waves and smiles and I return her greeting, just like every other morning. She likes me, thinks I’m funny. “Girl, you are just too much”, she always says. And I am, of course, but not exactly in the way she means.

I unlock the backdoor, walk through the kitchen and around the corner. My office is the second door on the right; the first is a storage room full of gadgets I’m glad I know nothing about. I unlock it, flip the switch and throw my handbag on the desk. Light floods the tiny room from the single florescent panel and it looks exceptionally bright after the damp shadows of the parking garage.

Three walls are papered in pale blue and the back wall is papered in white with small blue flowers. It was a doctor’s exam room when this suite belonged to a medical practice years ago – the mirror and paper towel dispenser are still on the wall over where the sink used to be. I often wonder, when work is slow and concentration is slippery, exactly how many people have been naked in my office. It just so happens that work is often slow and concentration is, more often than not, slippery.

The desk is a hand-me-down from assistants past – an old, unattractive brown affair with chips missing from corners and pieces of sticky tape that would require too much effort to remove. When I returned here (after a two year absence) it was against a side wall, leaving the computer visible to whoever decided to stand in the doorway. The woman they’d joyously gotten rid of in order to have me back was denied the privilege of moving the furniture, told that it would take the IT department sending someone to redo wires and such.

After two weeks back in the saddle I’d said to my boss, “I want to move my office around.”

“Ok”, she’d replied, then immediately pitched in with the rearranging of furniture. The manager in the office across from mine bundled up wires and reattached lines for me in record time. Then, I decided my walls were far too empty and they requested that someone from engineering build me a large set of shelves to hang. And a few weeks later, just like that, there were two men in uniform attaching a beautiful set of off-while shelves high upon the wall behind my head. I’ve always had a “thing” for storage.

This morning I notice that the big plant on my pretty white shelves is flowering. I usually can’t manage to keep a cactus alive. Indeed, the current resident of the blue bowl isn’t the original. I killed it almost immediately.

“You’re not going to water it”, the boss had said, sounding simultaneously amused and exasperated, after I picked it up at a farmer’s market on one of our famously long lunch breaks.

But I was in love with the bowl and imagining how the spidery vines would trail attractively down the front of my barren new shelves, so of course I bought it anyway. And for awhile it was perfect. But as predicted it was never watered and soon died, the dirt clumping together and the dead leaves crinkling up and curling in on themselves. It stayed like that for months before a fairly new employee from up the hall offered to repot it for me.

“I’ve got a plant that will look just lovely in it. Would you like me to take it home and fix it up?”

“Sure”, I’d said with a shrug. “Why not?” She was the same woman that had left a coffee cup (with my initials on it) on my desk at Christmas, along with a candy cane and a pack of cocoa arranged inside with red tissue paper.

And so this morning, the tiny pink blooms sticking up in the air make me smile – because they’re pretty, because they were free, and most importantly...because they came with their own watering lady.

I head back toward the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee. There’s a cup, two packets of creamer, three packets of Splenda, and a stirrer already waiting for me by the pot.

I amble down the hall, stirring the contents of my cup long after the packets have dissolved. It’s habit; I’ll stir it continuously after each sip. Stopping in the boss’s doorway, I lean against the frame and cross my ankles. I’m wearing leggings, a long shirt, and flats – the sort of outfit she’s repeatedly told me she hates. She looks up from a stack of paperwork and frowns at me, but before she can complain about my tardiness or my attire I say, “So guess what”, and launch into a dramatic story about someone I know.

Most arguments or complaints can be avoided if I have a decent story to share. She gets distracted easily and once I’ve given her something “juicy”, she always feels the need to one up me. It works even better if I ask her for “advice”. And so begins our 30 minute to an hour morning “visit”. By the time it’s over, she’s forgotten to be angry and it’s time to get to work.

It’s 8 o’clock when I log into my computer and kick my shoes off under the desk. Plugging in my little space heater, generously donated by another employee because my little office gets chilly, I warm my toes while I check email. A steady stream of people, from the larger, all female department we share the suite with, keeps the walkway in front of my office ringing with noise. Dragging their bags and their lunches, removing their coats and saying good morning to each other and to me – but I wish they wouldn’t. I wish they’d go through the front door instead; it’s closer to their area anyway.

I grumble good morning in response to their chirps and they smile at me indulgently as if to say, “That Alyson. She’s not a morning person, but we just love her to bits anyway.” None of them ever get angry with me, no matter how rude I am. They treat me like a combination of court jester and adorable, destructive puppy.

When the big boss comes breezing by, it’s another matter entirely. “Good morning Sunshine”, he says to me, not pausing at all in his race for sanctuary. He always calls me Sunshine, never uses my real name, a fact the entire office never fails to find amusing. He likes people even less than I do and trying to catch him in the hallway is about as easy as nailing Jell-O to a tree. He’s always afraid he’ll get stuck talking to someone so he keeps his head down and his feet pumping like pistons. An enormous key ring jingles on his belt loop, alerting everyone that he’s on the move.

I am just the opposite. I pad through the corridors in my bare feet, scarlet toenails vivid in the florescent lighting, the four leaf clover tattoo on my left foot defiantly uncovered. Quietly I pull the stack of mail out of the slot by the front door and leaf through it as I walk. I’ve long thought that my stealthy hallway approach was more satisfactory than the big boss’s loud sprint – the cheek pinchers, as I like to call them, never even know I’m there.

I manage to avoid everyone until early afternoon when the boss pokes her head around my door. “Are you coming with us to lunch today”, she asks.

I tilt my head and pretend to consider it, though I really have no intention of going anywhere. “What are they having”, I reply. She quotes the menu and sighs when I make a sour face. “No”, I say, “I don’t think so.”

“Fine, be that way”, she says without heat. It’s the same thing she says every time I decline to join them and, for the past few months, that’s been quite often. I used to go every day, but the truth is that I usually desperately need the alone time. As long as I make an appearance once a week, she’s kept mostly happy.

When they return an hour later, she hands me a packet of chocolate chip cookies. “Here, you ungrateful little shit”, she says grinning. She’s forever bringing me things.

The afternoon drags by. Sometimes I think its worse, being on the bottom floor and on the side of the parking garage, because there aren’t any windows. I once had a nightmare about being locked in the suite, with the entire lot of them, and all the clocks had stopped working. I wandered around jerking on doors and screaming that it was time for me to be let out, while they stared at me with creepy smiles on their faces. It was very Girl Interrupted esque. Thank god I only had it the once – though now that I’ve mentioned it, it will probably happen again. That’s how those things work with me.

At four thirty the boss prepares to leave. Stopping in front of my office, she says the same thing she says every afternoon. “I’m glad you got to see me today.”

“So am I.”

“You’re such a liar”, she says, and we both laugh...just like we always do. But then a terrible thing happens. She deviates from the script.

“We’ve hired someone to fill that position I told you they might make. Some young girl. We might have to move offices.”

“Where would we move to”, I ask.

“I’m not sure yet, but there’s a possibility we could get cubicles or have to share an office.”

Her face is smooth, resigned. Mine, on the other hand, is incredulous – jaw hanging open and eyes wide. “Give up my office?! Move?!”

She shrugs. “We don’t know what’s going to happen yet.”

Immediately after she’s gone, I’m lost in thought:

If I lose my office, I lose my freedom. If we move suites, who will water my plant? For that matter, where would I put a plant? What about my lovely shelves? What about the...wait a minute. Did she say ‘young girl’? Surely not.

The possibility of another young woman being in the office doesn’t sit well with me. And I’m surprised by that because I’ve always moaned about being the youngest in a sea of old people, with no one to relate to. Now that it’s a certainty, that she’ll be here, I’m just not sure it’s in my best interests.

Right now I’m the only one that walks around barefoot, the only one that wears leggings, the only one that comes in looking like she’s just rolled out of bed, the only one allowed to make off color jokes at the department lunches. I’m the only one that leaves rude notes on the refrigerator and the only one that has to listen to my boss talk about her vagina. I’m the youngest, funniest, cutest, grumpiest...I’m lots of “ists”. And there’s a possibility that this new girl could knock things off balance.

The big boss walks by my door while I’m staring into space, imagining a bleak future sitting in a cubicle next to some perky girl that everyone likes more than me.

“Goodnight, Sunshine”, he says, pausing briefly. “Will you be here much longer?”

“No sir, I’m almost finished. Did you need anything else?”

“No, Sunshine. I’m fine. Have a go...”

“I heard ya’ll filled that new position”, I blurt out.

“Yeah...sure did.” He looks at me expectantly.

“Um, just out of curiosity...how old is she?”

“Oh”, he thinks for a moment, looking toward the ceiling, “I’d say she’s about 45, but I’m not exactly sure. Why?”

I narrow my eyes, then remember who I’m talking to, and smile. “Just wondering.”

“Ok”, he says, looking confused. That’s how he always looks when talking to me – confused or amused.

We say goodnight again, he walks away and I gather my things. I wonder if my boss told me she was “young” to scare me, knowing I wouldn’t like it, or if she really is young to her...because she’s in her 60’s.

Then, as I’m walking through the kitchen, intent on the back door, something on the counter catches my eye. And I smile because, obviously, I was being silly. It doesn’t matter if that woman is 25 or 45 – I’ve got this shit on lock.

There are two packets of creamer, three packets of Splenda, a stirrer, and a cup with a big note on it that says “HA HA HA” already sitting by the pot. Apparently she knows how to work me, just as well as I know how to work her.

*Unrelated note: The videos will be posted by Friday.

Amusement ride

2011-01-21T13:48:00.001-02:00

You've always suspected that your moods are a bit more erratic than most people’s. You've often joked about being bipolar, since there’s a history of it in the family, but lately you're actually afraid that it could be true. As opposed to having a few bad days a month or being elated over something that is at least partially deserving of excitement, your mood swings have started to occur throughout the day...every day. It’s like sitting on a roller coaster, blindfolded, never knowing if you’re about to be thrown for a loop or go plummeting down a steep hill. It’s terrifying and yet there’s still an edge of excitement, a twisted expectation of the thrill you know you’re going to get sooner or later.

At a low point during the day you often catch yourself thinking, “In a few minutes, in an hour, after lunch...something is going to change.” And it isn’t a pep talk, it’s simply a fact. It could be something as simple as a coworker walking by and saying “I like your hair today” that pulls you out of the nosedive toward the ground and rockets you back up. The worst thing isn’t traveling the track from high to low and back again, it’s waiting on the highs like a junkie for a fix.

You're terrible at taking medication; you've admitted it before. Taking a pill every day is just something you've never been able to do. There are anti-depressants, birth control, and antibiotics lined up in your cabinet...none of them empty. Part of the reason they’re still there is that you're an extremely forgetful person, and the other part, for some of them anyway, is defiance and fear. “I don’t need you", you think. "I’m afraid you’ll change the things about me that I like. I’m afraid you’ll take away my highs.”

So what do you do when you’re afraid and defiant, confused and wondering why the hell you can’t get off this goddamned emotional roller coaster?

You look up a phone number, take a deep breath and force your hand to stop shaking so you can dial. When a woman answers and asks you to hold, leaving you listening to crap elevator music, you force yourself not to hang up.

“I need to make an appointment”, you say when she comes back on the line. You give her your name and your phone number.

“What’s the reason for the appointment”, she asks mechanically.

You were hoping they wouldn’t ask that question. She wants a one or two word answer; she’s a receptionist not a therapist.

“I...how am I supposed to answer that”, you say, clearing your throat because it feels like you’ve swallowed something thick and distasteful. You give a half laugh, as if to apologize for being vague.

“I’m sorry”, she says without feeling. “Depression, family issues, work problems, marital problems. I need to write something down for the therapist to go on, to be sure that this is where you need to be and choose who you’d fit with best.”

You’re amused by her answer. A receptionist gets to choose where you belong and who you belong with, based on a few random words. You briefly consider telling her marital issues. “My husband has sex with farm animals”, you could say. But you refrain.

“Oh. I guess you can put down depression or family issues.”

It’s true, and it’s not. But there wasn’t an option for “possibly bipolar paired with a salad of irrational fear that happy pills with take away your awesomeness, a side of your dad is a douche bag, and just a dab of you fall for men that can’t love you”. You definitely would have chosen that one.

“Alright, I’m going to match you with...” She names a therapist and gives you a few details about her, tells you where to find the online forms to bring to the appointment, and schedules you for this coming Monday at 1pm.

“Have a blessed day”, she says.

You hate it when people say that.

After you hang up the phone, you feel good. It’s done; you’ve finally made the appointment you’ve been saying you were going to make for the better part of a year.

You go to the website she named. There’s a picture of your therapist – she’s wearing pearls and a matronly looking dress. Her hair is cut into a fluffy bob, but her face reminds you of Diane Lane. You wonder what you’re going to wear – something that says “I may be crazy, but I’m extremely chic”.

You don’t know what’s coming up in the next hour, you can’t tell if it’s a sharp curve, a double loop, or a straight away. But there’s just the tiniest bit of light showing around the edge of your blindfold. And it isn’t a slippery high or low, it’s tangible. It’s progress, something you can focus on.

And maybe, just maybe, this matronly Diane Lane will help you get off of this goddamn roller coaster completely. Because you’re pretty sure that when your blindfold shifted, you caught a glimpse of a corndog stand.

Dear madam,

2011-01-04T19:18:00.002-02:00

Every time I look into your eyes I can’t help but think, “My god, those are gorgeous. Like the golden brown of a perfectly baked pound cake.” And while it’s safe to say that I notice the imperfections – one eye just a shade larger than the other, the scar over your left brow, the occasional dark circles – they don’t make me love you any less. In fact, sometimes when you look less than your best, I think of you as a tragic figure in a novel, that’s been hurt and is in need of tender love and care.

A tragic figure in general, actually...if I’m honest. When I really stop to think about some of the hardships you’ve gone through, it nearly brings me to tears. And is there anything more romantic than tragedy? I daydream about your rescue. About your sudden lottery win, your unexpected discovery and ascent to the top of the best seller lists, your immense sexual satisfaction from the person you want most, and the eradication of Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion and shower gel. All things I know would make you immeasurably happy. I’d give them to you if I were able.

Adoring you isn’t easy, though. I’ve always been worried about what other people would think were they to find out just how involved we really are. It’s not that I’m ashamed of you exactly, but it would be nice if you could behave yourself. Gallivanting around, throwing yourself at people that don’t understand you and appreciate you the way I do...well, it just doesn’t help matters. But it’s time for everyone to know that, for better or worse, it’s the two of us. And you must face it as well – it’s far too late for that “let’s just be friends” line. I love you.

I love the way you wrap your wet hair in a towel, even though you know it’s going to keep coming loose, causing you to curse and flip upside down repeatedly. I love the way you curse, actually – the way you say fuck out loud where everyone can hear, but mutter “darn” to yourself, then get angry because darn is such a pussy sort of word and you’re no pussy. I love the way you walk around the house brushing your teeth, bent slightly at the waist and leaning out so that no toothpaste lands on your shirt...yet it always does.

I love the way you make faces in the bathroom mirror, alternately attempting to look serious and seductive. It’s rarely the latter, but that’s ok because I don’t need you to seduce me. Our love making is perfunctory and that’s as it should be. Our relationship is about deeper emotions and commitment, not finger strokes in the dark (Well, sometimes in the afternoon when you’re stressed. Don’t ever say I don’t take care of your needs.).

I’ve never much liked mouth breathers, but I can’t deny it’s slightly endearing when you watch movies with your jaw lowered like a drawbridge, completely oblivious to anything else. Your lips are a bit too thin and your nose a bit too pointy, but you have simply marvelous tits. I know you’re well aware of this since you’re often seen shaking one or both of them at people...even me, which just makes me laugh.

I love that you often have to remind yourself to make eye contact when meeting someone new – because after some workshop years ago it was stressed that people take you more seriously if you do. Yet consequently, you end up over thinking the whole thing and staring at them in a rather intense, creepy way. I love the way you mingle at parties – staying close to the alcohol and the people you know until you’ve had just enough, plus maybe an Adderall, then making your way around the room introducing yourself like a politician. You’d be a shit politician, by the way.

Your ego is an issue. You have a bit of a problem with thinking everything is about you...all the time. When there’s a nameless insult, you automatically think it’s directed at you. And when there’s a period of silence, you automatically assume you caused it. This is more prevalent on Twitter, but it shows up in other social areas as well. For instance, you tend to believe that every man that smiles at you wants your vagina, even though I’ve told you a million times that isn’t necessarily the case. Those could be pity smiles, my dear. You’ve taken to leaving the house without makeup quite frequently over the past year. Still, I can’t help but admire you in spite of your navel gazing.

In spite of a lot of things, really. Your nose picking habit...in fact, your habit of constantly mentioning your nose picking habit. Your tendency to be louder than 85% of the planet – your voice carries, there’s no need to shout. Your abysmal finances, your refusal to take care of your car or learn how do anything with it other than drive (changing the oil is, I hear, not that difficult), your complete lack of patience, and your uncanny ability to drive people far, far away.

But let’s not dwell on your faults any longer.

My love for you is like a Kamikaze pilot - proudly plummeting toward a target, intent on going out with a bang. We’re perfect for each other. And as long as you’ll let me care for you, I promise I’ll never try to cut you or get you arrested (for anything larger than a misdemeanor), and to let you have sex with whomever you want (provided you haven’t been on an all night drinking binge). Because that’s what a real relationship is all about – trust, sharing, honesty, and the avoidance of herpes.

Always love,

Yourself

My biggest pet peeve

2010-12-30T20:52:00.000-02:00

I’ve got a million pet peeves, just like most people. Every day is full of little irritations.

I can’t stand it when someone leaves the cap off the toothpaste or doesn’t flush the toilet. I loathe backseat drivers, slow drivers, and pedestrians. (Yes, pedestrians.) I hate poor grammar and people that read something aloud, even though I’ve already read it or am in the process of reading it. I don’t like it when people tap things, click things, or make any sort of continuous pointless noise. But my biggest pet peeve, the one thing that puts me so on edge my head starts to hurt and I begin to lose touch with reality – is whining.

Before I go any further let me clear a few things up. Yes, I am aware that I have whined before and will do so again. Yes, I am aware that makes me a hypocrite. Show me a person that isn’t, in some way, a hypocrite and I’ll show you my breasts. Both of them. (The few of you that may or may not have already seen them, or only one of them, keep quiet.)

Also – there is a difference between whining and crying, whining and venting, and whining and confiding. I think I’m relatively good at making those distinctions.

My sister is a crier. I am, predominately, a venter. And my child is a whiner.

I realize that all children whine from time to time, but I can confidently report that the kid does it in excess. It she had cheese to go with her whine, she could end world hunger. If it was an Olympic sport, she would win the gold, break the legs of the silver and bronze winners, and take their medals too. It’s gotten so bad that she only has one tone of voice and that’s the up-and-down-up-and-down cadence of The Whiner.

“MaMA! I WAnt some snACks!”

“MaMA! I WAnt to WAtch SPONGEbob!”

She doesn’t even realize that she’s doing it, so it’s a constant thing. And it’s entirely my mother’s fault (but that’s a different story).

If I’ve had a rough day and the first thing I hear when I walk in the door is “MaMA, MiMI woN’T LET me PLay WIth MY dSSSSSS!”...I start by chewing my lower lip. Then I suggest that there must be a good reason why Mimi won’t let her play with it, and more whining automatically ensues.

“Stop whining”, I’ll say. Sometimes this is followed by a threat, sometimes a bribe, and sometimes I just point to the closet door.

But it never fails – she always counters with: “I’M noT WHinING!”

Really? You could have fooled me, Taylor Swift Jr.

So the kid lit the fire on the whining pet peeve and has been vigorously fanning it ever since. Consequently, this hasn’t boded well for other people. They may not typically be whiners, but if they do it around me, even once, there is a strong possibility that I’m going to A) make fun of them, B) kill them with my death ray laser glare/derogatory remarks, C) begin singing “Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares”, or D) turn around and walk off, muttering expressions of violence.

For instance – my cousin Christine has a tendency to whine about her boyfriend. And though her boyfriend is indeed one of the most irritating and needy individuals I’ve ever met...I still can’t excuse the whining.

“He is constantly calling me and texting me and if I don’t text him back immediately, he starts freaking out. Ugh. I’m so tired of it. I can’t stand it. It’s driving me crazy. And he like, never wants to do anything with my friends and...” Blah, blah, blah, blahbity fucking blah.

To which I reply with something like: “He probably wouldn’t have to harass you by phone if you weren’t off slobbing on someone else’s knob all the time. Oh! SICK BURN! ...also true.”

Then I would most likely mime the aforementioned action by pressing my tongue into my cheek repeatedly in time with hand motions directed toward my open mouth. After which, she’d probably reference the one time I was ass raped. It’s our own brand of vicious cycle.

Anyway...whining. So it bothers me. And do you know when it’s particularly irritating? When men do it.

Yeah, I said it.

There’s the ever popular I want sex whine. “C’mon baby...you know you want to. C’monnnn!”

Listen, jackass. I told you I’m riding the cotton pony and it isn’t going to happen. Period. Times two. (But if I happen to cave just a little bit and end up giving you a blowjob, but stopping ¾ of the way through because goddamn it my jaw hurts, and you decide you want to go all high school and titty fuck me well...just know you’re going to be paying for it later.)

Real men don’t whine. They break headboards with their bare hands and shave their balls with straight razors. Or something like that.

Recently I was introduced to a new form of whining. We’ll call it the “I don’t actually know you, but...” whine. It’s really popular on the online dating scene.

Over the course of the last few months, I’ve come across several of these guys. I’ll start talking to them, emailing them or messaging them. Everything will be copasetic; we’ll be getting to know each other...then BLAM! The whining starts.

“If you don’t want to talk to me just say so.”

“I’ve had my heart broken too many times.”

“It’s been an hour...why aren’t you responding?”

“Merry Christmas! I hope you remember that it’s about the birth of Jesus!” - Ok that one wasn’t whining, but I had to share it anyway. This guy...is getting his own post. It’s going to be a doozy.

“Fine. I see how it is. Just delete my number.”

“No...don’t. Tell me what’s wrong?!”

Honestly, I don’t understand how or why I end up talking to these guys. The first and second time it happened I just stopped responding to their messages. After the third time, I lost it.

“Not only are you a big fat whiner, but you’re also a psycho.”

And he said, “You’re a bitch”.

And I said, “I’m betting you have mother issues so I’m going to forgive you for that one. But you’re still a whiner.”

And he said, “Fuck you, cunt.”

And that’s when a vessel popped in my forehead and I said, “I usually don’t mind that word. In fact, I use it quite often. But the blatant hostility in your response makes that too far, motherfucker. Too far.”

And he said, “C.U.N.T.”

And I said, “You know what, I apologize. You’re right. I’ve been terrible to you. Can we start over?”

And he said, “Really??”

And I said, “HAHA! Pussy!”

Then I congratulated myself by blocking his number, taking a Xanax, and sketching out a design for a new t-shirt:

Always a bridesmaid (and they don't get ANY attention)

2010-12-29T20:50:00.000-02:00

Last Wednesday night I stopped at Papa’s house on the way home. It’s something I do at least two or three times a week, just to say hey and see what’s happening. Usually it’s nothing much – just Papa sitting in his recliner watching TV, his Filipino girlfriend Tess flitting back and forth between the kitchen and the bedroom doing god knows what, my teenage cousin Dave sulking and texting on the couch, and Tess’s mom staring at a wall next to the ever present slow cooker of plain white rice. The dogs wander around in their winter sweaters, occasionally barking at each other and jumping from couch to couch.

Everything seemed to be in order. I kicked off my shoes and climbed up in the corner of the couch closest to Pop’s chair, tucking my legs under me. I’ve never been able to just sit on those couches. They’re enormous and squishy and if I sit correctly, my feet won’t touch the floor. They’re a bit like bouncy houses – you have to fight your way in and out of them.

We talked about holiday dinner plans and we talked about his health. We talked about football and we talked about the dogs. He told me he bought the kid a Barbie Jeep for Christmas, as well as one for my cousin’s little girl and bikes for the boys. And like so many Christmases before, I thought, “Honestly, who needs Santa Claus when you have a Papa?”

After twenty minutes of the usual conversation, it tapered off. I stared at the TV, not really watching, just relaxing. Tess sat at the dining room table behind us doing paperwork and the dogs finally settled down. That’s when he decided to spring it on me.

“Oh”, he said lazily turning his head toward me. “Tess and me are gettin’ married.”

The pause was only about two or three seconds, while my mouth hung slightly open and I glanced from one to the other. She looked back at me from the table; glasses slipping down her nose and pen poised over paper, clearly waiting for my reaction. He was less concerned, as always. Papa has always done exactly as he wished and people can either fall in line, or move out the way. He was already looking back at the TV, big spotted hands resting on his belly and large, bare feet lifted comically in the air.

“Wow! Congratulations!” I wasn’t happy or unhappy, just surprised. I didn’t think they’d ever get married, though she’s been around for about eight years now. A lot of drama surrounded their early relationship (drama that would take a very long to time to explain properly) and at times most of us wondered just what she was doing there. Was she employee, girlfriend, companion, or...something else? It seems we finally got a definitive answer.

“Thank you”, Papa said.

I glanced back at Tess and asked, “Are you excited?”

“Not really”, she replied in her choppy accent. “We together living already. No change.”

“Papa”, she called, “you excited?”

“Yeah, darlin’”, he said while winking at me, “I’m thrilled.”

She snickered and went back to her paperwork. He mentioned that it was going to be held there at his house in mid March and I sighed. I’d been planning a trip that I was very excited about...set for mid March. But missing Papa’s wedding would, in his eyes, be akin to spitting at them. Plans would have to be shifted.

*****

Christmas morning started slowly with coffee cups, robes, and the distribution of presents. Then, as usual, it picked up speed – paper flew, unproductive skating around in socks and underwear ensued, and my godmother’s family came over to quickly exchange presents before we left en masse for The Grandmother’s.

Sheryl (that’s my godmom...but not my favorite one) walked in decked out in her red robe and Santa hat, coffee cup clutched in both hands, followed by her son Tony and daughter Sam.

We all met each other when Leigha and I started taking dance lessons – I was about nine and Lee was two. Sam and Lee were instant friends and quickly became inseparable, which in turn made our mothers inseparable. They became best friends and we’ve been so close to their family ever since, that the title of godmom was just given to Sheryl, to make explaining our closeness to outsiders a bit easier. (It’s also, I believe, a southern thing – calling people family when they really aren’t.) Two years ago, when she split up with her husband, Sheryl and Sam moved into the house next door. Ray was her roommate for a few months before he moved in with us, then she met her boyfriend Brad and he moved in with her.

Tony, at 27, is two years older than me and we’ve had...indiscretions...in the past that always make being around each other awkward. Or rather, I feel awkward because he clearly never got over me. And he feels a bit like unfinished business that I don’t particularly want to finish, yet somehow (only when he isn’t around and I temporarily forget how annoying he is) feel compelled to finish. He’s very smart, a bit nerdy, and cute...but he irritates the piss out of me. He’s one of those people that don’t listen when you speak; he just waits for his turn. And with an ego as large as mine, I need someone that’s more interested in what I have to say.

I was dashing past them, trying to get things together, when Sheryl stuck out her hand. I should have expected it, but I was as surprised by the ring on her finger as I was by Papa’s announcement a few days prior.

I hugged her and said the appropriate things, glancing over her shoulder as I did and catching sight of mom. She raised an eyebrow and I raised both of mine back, because I’ve never been able to just do the one without squinting comically. And though, due to my lack of facial dexterity, our expressions weren’t exactly alike, they certainly conveyed the same message. “Hmm...I wonder if he would have proposed so soon if Ray hadn’t just given mom a ring...”

Perhaps it was an uncharitable thought, but there’d been enough competition between Sheryl and mom in the past to warrant it. And of course we’d never say it aloud...in public.

She said they hadn’t set a date yet and that was the end of that conversation. We exchanged presents, oohed and aahhed over them, and they left. And in the rush to get our things together and make it to The Grandmother’s on time for lunch, I promptly forgot all about Sheryl’s diamond.

*****

I returned to work yesterday feeling rather grateful. There are women out there that would love to quit their jobs and be stay at home moms, but I’m not one of them. Quit my job...yes. Twenty four seven parenting...no. After four days of opening presents, cleaning up, putting together puzzles, playing in the snow, coloring, and going to the movies – I was officially done. And I was proud of what I’d accomplished. I managed to be a fun, minimally irritated mom that didn’t once pick up a book and say, “Get outta here kid, ya bother me”.

I worked straight through the morning, quickly catching up with my inbox. By lunch time I had to slow down to make sure I had enough to last me through Thursday. So it was a little after that, when I was dicking around on Twitter and doing a lot of nothing, that my office phone rang, showing Papa’s office number.

“Hello?”

“Hey”, he shouted in my ear, the unmistakable echo of speakerphone making him even louder.

“Hey Pop. What’s up?”

“Tess has something to ask you!”

I could hear the murmur of several voices in the background and a few stray giggles.

“You want be my bridesmaid?”

“...what?”

“You want...”, she began, before being interrupted by Pop. “Do you want to be a bridesmaid in the wedding”, he shouted.

I paused, the loud static of the speakerphone echoing in my ear. “Um...sure. Thanks.”

A whole room full of people immediately burst out laughing.

“Ok”, he yelled, “talk to you later!”

“O-ok...”

I placed the phone back in the cradle and stared at the computer screen, my eyes glazing over. Then I began laughing in a very disturbing manner as my brain kicked into attack mode. It all hit me at once...

Ok. So I’m a bridesmaid again. How many is that now? Four? Five? Wait...I’m supposed to be in mom’s wedding in October, and now Papa’s in March? Wow. Sheryl is engaged...please no. I was just in a wedding three months ago. People are just picking me as a joke now. This is getting embarrassing. I’m THAT girl. And I can’t even use the excuse that I don’t care about getting married because that’s not necessarily true anymore. Did I really just think that out loud? It’s only because I’m selfish and want presents and a trip....probably. Oh.My.God. I’m going to be an old maid with a closet full of pastel dresses! This is not happening. Not only in MOM’S wedding...but my GRANDFATHER’S. I am so fucking sad right now. Couldn’t say no to Papa...unheard of. I think there’s a Xanax in my purse...

PING. My phone lit up with a text message from my friend and neighbor, Claire.

“OMG! Tess just called and asked me to be a freaking bridesmaid in their wedding!!”

“Me too”, I sent back. Wow, I thought, she’s not only asking the veterans, but also the neighbors.

PING. My phone lit up again, but not with Claire’s reply. It was from Marie, my cousin’s wife.

“Did you get asked to be a bridesmaid too?”

Sigh. Now she’s asking out-of-state relatives. “Yes.”

“lol. Did you say yes?”

“What the fuck was I supposed to say?!”

“I know, me too.”

“I just might off myself”, I said.

“You can do the remake of 27 Dresses!”

“I know. I hate you.”

“I’m just picturing 80s puff and lots of taffeta.”

“I’m praying that whatever she chooses...it’s black.”

“Me tooooo”, Marie replied.

“Help”, I sent to a guy friend a little while later. “Read my Twitter feed and report back.” I’d posted all of my bridesmaid/marital woes.

“I’m not sure I get the full tweet feed on the phone app. What’s going on?”

I broke it down for him again, in layman’s terms.

“I’m gonna need you to propose now”, I said.

A minute ticked by, then PING.

“Awwww....”

*****

It’s official. I am a loser.

My geriatric family members have no trouble finding people that want to marry them. Rather than making a mock proposal or reminding me that marriage is for dummies in order to make me feel marginally better, my friends give me “awwwws” and two page texts of laughter.

Actually, that’s fine! I don’t need a partner. Just because everyone else is pairing off doesn’t mean I should feel pressured to follow suit. And that’s where all these weird feelings and panicky bridesmaid thoughts are coming from – peer pressure. By putting me in their weddings, these people are pressuring me to want my own. They aren’t my feelings – they’re projections! Uh huh.

Whew. I’m glad I’ve got that sorted out.

Q&A action

2010-12-23T16:00:00.005-02:00

Jerrod from The Yellow Factor emailed me a list of questions to answer on my blog several weeks ago. True to form...I'm just now getting to it.

1. How important to you is the seat belt?

I don’t care for it much, though I know it has a very noble purpose. I don’t like the way it dissects my boobs. And how are truckers supposed to look down at my cleavage if there’s a strap in the way? Irritating.

When I was in high school I never wore one, but I started when they changed the law so that you’d get ticketed if you didn’t. Now it’s just habit to put it on, but only when I’m driving or riding with someone particularly scary. Usually if I’m a passenger or in the backseat, I leave it off. I know, I know. “You’re gonna die!” We’re all going to die, people. Besides, do you know how hard it is to give road head while you’re wearing a seat belt?

2. Popping knuckles. Yes or no? If yes, what all do you pop by habit?

I used to pop my knuckles constantly when I was younger. Now they won’t pop at all. But – the funny thing is, I literally cannot listen to other people cracking their necks or backs. It makes me feel violently ill. Fingers and toes don’t bother me, but the rest...no. My friends are always trying to sneak up on me and pop their necks, just to see me gag and run.

I think I associate it with breaking bones. When I hear a bone snap in an action movie or something like that, I freak out.

3. Why doesn't anyone write letters anymore?

Because technology has made us lazy and it’s much easier and faster to type than it is to write a three page missive. I loved writing letters; I even wrote a post about how much I loved writing letters. But after I hit publish, I attempted to actually write a letter...and my hand got tired. Meh.

Also, I have a theory that the eventual removal of the post office is a tactic by the government to turn us all into androids with barcodes on our ass cheeks. That makes complete sense.

4. Vampirepalooza. What is the real appeal?

Robert. Pattinson.

No, honestly, I got sucked (TWHS) into the vampire stuff in the books long before I did with the movies and TV. It’s just like any other paranormal or fantasy craze. Not that I’m comparing Stephanie Myer to Tolkien or anything. That would be ludicrous.

It’s like this: Some men like their murderous wizards and intergalactic Cinnabun headed princesses. And some women like their violent, blood sucking, romance spewing dead guys. It’s all about the fantasy.

And, um.... Robert.Pattinson.

5. What is your morning ritual before work? Does it change for the weekend?

First of all, I’m lucky if I make it out of bed in time to actually have a ritual that doesn’t just consist of screaming “FUCK I’M LATE”, throwing on whatever is on the floor, and running out the door with a Gene Wilder afro bouncing atop my head. When I do get up on time I have a normal routine – bathroom, shower, makeup, hair, and dress. Then, just for good measure, I’ll wander around looking for something...but I’m not quite sure what it is...so of course I end up being late anyway.

Before my recent schedule change, getting the kid ready for school was a part of that routine. She’s inherited my morning hatred so dragging her out of bed is like wrestling a donkey. A sleepy donkey in fuzzy pajamas whose squeals could shatter glass. If I’m in a hurry I’ll toss her over my shoulder and take her to the bathroom, depositing her on the toilet and leaving her there to wake up while I go pick out her clothes. If I’m not, I’ll set her down on the floor and watch as she tries to navigate her way to the bathroom, hair in her face and eyes stuck together with sleep, banging into doorframes and staccato stomping like a zombie. Once I’ve wrestled her into her clothes, I turn on cartoons and she sits on the couch drinking coffee and nodding off.

My routine during weekends is to yell at anyone that tries to wake me up. I eventually stumble into the kitchen, make a cup of coffee, and crawl into bed with my entire family (including one dog and two cats).

6. What makes you laugh, like can't breathe laughing?

Everything from farting to wiener jokes. I’m easy. Inside jokes with friends, my neurotic mother, my stupid cat that makes out with doors, my dad’s accent. I laugh a lot. Plus I’m a mouth breather so...obviously I have trouble laughing really hard and breathing at the same time.

7. What soup is best paired with grilled cheese sandwiches?

Chicken fucking noodle. Duh.

8. You have one song you have to listen to for one year. Nothing else. What is that song?

Afroman – Colt 45.

I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to do a rap video with this song for a very long time. I’ve got the afro and everything.

9. Three legitimate gripes about your cell phone carrier?

- 1. They are liars. They are liars that charge me out the ass because they know that they are the only service provider worth having in our area. We live in Bum Fuck Egypt and no other cell phone carrier has great service out there. Just them. The bastards.

- 2. All of their IT guys in the store are gorgeous. But married.

- 3. Their hold music sucks.

10. What is the one thing that the kid does that melts your heart the most?

Sleeps. First – for the obvious reason that when she’s sleeping, she’s quiet. It’s easy to have a melting heart when there are no demands or size one shoes being thrown at you. Second – because she’s gorgeous in her sleep and I can watch her as long as I want, or curl up next to her and play with her hair. She never lets me play with her hair anymore.

11. Which is smarter. Head or heart?

Head. Definitely head. Or at least in my case it is. My heart is a jackass.
12. Describe the guy on your very worst date.

He looked like an extra in a Lord of the Rings movie. Short, round, thick black hair, and glasses covering beady black eyes. And fish lips – ew! The fish lips! There’s a difference between men having nicely shaped, thick lips...and men having huge, pink, slobbery pieces of blubber attached to their face. You know what I’m talking about? If he turned his face sideways and pursed them, they’d look like a vagina. Gag. And he tried to put them on me. KARATE CHOP, vagina face! WA-TOW!

13. Best restaurant in town. What is it? Do you get the same thing every time?

Its a little pizza place called Roma’s. The guy that runs it is from Cicely? I think. Either way, the pizza is to die for. I don’t get the same thing, no. Sometimes I get pizza, sometimes I get calzone, sometimes I get lasagna, and sometimes I get salad.

14. Pink was the new black. 30 was the new 20. What is the new thing now?

First of all, there will never be a new black. Black is timeless – black...is slimming.

Hmm. Sexting is the new foreplay? Reality TV is the new lobotomy?

15. What non sexual move does a guy do that makes your knees weak?

Ugh. Isn’t the purpose of a “move” to be sexual? You know, putting “the moves” on someone? Asshat.

Ok...reading. And not some stupid magazine or manual...an actual book.

There was this guy in the bookstore I frequent a few weeks ago. He was sitting in an armchair in the reading area, glasses slipping down his nose and a little cowlick standing up on his head, reading this historical fiction book. He was slouched back with one ankle resting on the other leg. And he looked up, over the top of his glasses, and smiled at me. It was almost rape at first sight.

I don’t guess that’s a “move” is it? Reading? Um...dances like Fred Astaire?

16. What is the crappiest thing you have ever purchased from an infomercial?

I have never once purchased anything from an infomercial, though I’ve often thought about it. And I have written down a phone number a time or two, but never used it.

However, recently I was talking to my dad on the phone and he was, as per usual, shit faced drunk. And he decided to tell a lovely little story about ordering five “Fushigi” balls off of the television.

“I swur ta gawd, Al. I erdered five ah dem sonsabitches and nawt one of um werks”, he shouted drunkenly in my ear.

“Not even one, Dad?”

“Nawt one. I even wartched the DVD that come werth it. Sait ta hold it overt da carpet soosta nawt break it if I drowped it!”

By that point I was giggling. First, because he was drunk and slurring, which makes his accent 10 times worse. Second, because the entire time he’s telling me about this magic ball that “goddamnit, ain’t mergic a’tall”, he’s giggling like a girl himself. And occasionally shouting “Fushigi” for good measure.

“Guess wut yer getting fer Chrismas?”

Thank god I knew the bastard was lying. I got Coach sunglasses from him (read: stepmom) for Christmas. He can keep his 5 Fushigi balls.

17. Black or white. Which is better?

Both have their uses, but I prefer black. It matches my soul.

18. Are you a good parent?

If by “good parent” you mean locking the kid on the other side of a glass door when she’s misbehaving...laughing, dancing, and pointing while she screams and jerks ineffectually on the knob, all while shouting “I can’t hear you!” Or that I chase her around the dining room table yelling “give that back”. Or that I tell her McDonalds burned down.

Then yes.

19. Wyoming or North Dakota. You have to pick on to live in for the rest of your life. Which one?

Whichever one has A) milder winters, B) better shopping, C) hotter men, and D) Chick-fil-A.

20. What keeps you relatively sane?

Easy – blogging. It’s my number one outlet. Obviously.

Then sex...closely followed by food. And the term “relatively” in that question is very important to remember here.

I hope everyone has a very Merry Christmas!

Family tradition

2010-12-22T18:48:00.000-02:00

Every year without fail, starting the weekend after Thanksgiving, I get really excited about Christmas. With a family as large as mine, all four weeks leading up to the big day are packed with traditions that simply cannot be skipped, and in the beginning, I wouldn’t even dream of trying. I look forward to decorating and baking, shopping and parties. But inevitably, being a person that possesses very little patience and more than my fair share of egotism, the initial excitement begins to wane.

It all starts with the decorating of the house and the tree. The night before we put everything up, mom begins pouting in earnest. “I’ll have no part of it! It’s all a bunch of mess and I’d rather leave it all out in the building”, she says in a huff. Every year she refuses to participate and while we spend our morning hauling in tubs of ornaments, she stalks from the kitchen to her bedroom and back, complaining loudly about the clutter and butting into branch placement arguments.

The only part of the tree decorating tradition that she enjoys is the music. We crank up Barry Manilow’s Christmas album and sing like a chorus line of trannys drunk on eggnog. Our favorite is Baby it’s Cold Outside, but the CD must play in its entirety at least twice before we can switch to anything else. However, this year was only Ray’s second Christmas with us and he isn’t yet used to protocol. After only four or five Barry songs, he pitched an almighty fit to watch some football or basketball game. Of course he got his way, but by the time the game was over he’d heard enough bitching to last a life time and promptly disappeared into the woods to go hunting. He has yet to learn that fighting is an important part of the process.

Another issue that’s cropped up with our tree tradition is that I’ve become a bit anal about the theme. We have a plethora of ornaments in all shapes, sizes, and colors but in recent years, we’ve kept it color coded. Blue and silver has been the theme of choice for the past three years and, try as I might, I simply cannot have a mishmash of random ornaments. I like it uniform and clean; they have to match. My sister, Leigha, is on board, but the kid is not.

Most people would argue that Christmas trees are meant to be decorated by children and I, almost completely, agree. That’s why we bought Hannah her very own miniature tree for her bedroom, to massacre to her heart’s content. We still let her help decorate the big tree, but only with preapproved, matching ornaments. And when she starts whining that I’m not putting the hooks on fast enough or when she hangs everything together in one huge clump, I can feel my eye start to twitch. As a result, the excitement I felt when unloading the boxes hours before is almost completely gone and in its place is a special brand of irritation, reserved just for the holidays. The funny thing is, once everything is up, she could set off a bomb in the middle of it and I wouldn’t care. It’s the process that matters.

We have a wrapping tradition too. It’s quite simple: I like doing it and no one else does. So everyone piles their presents in the living room and I sit in my pajamas, with a cup of sweet tea (or liquor if it’s readily available) and a movie on the TV. And I trash the place. Scraps of paper, price tags and boxes fly everywhere. And at first I enjoy it, I really do. I love wrapping presents and stacking them under the tree. But no matter what, at least ½ to ¾ of the way through, I get angry that no one will help me and I mutter to myself about how I do everything and the rest of them are lazy bums! But, on the rare occasion that they decide to join in and help, I cringe while they wrap because they do such a piss poor job.

Last year we added the Elf tradition, but like most things that haven’t been in effect forever, it’s almost fallen by the wayside. We bought this book called “Elf on a Shelf” that comes with a tiny replica of the main character. Hannah named her elf Shefford and it’s his job to report back to Santa each night, telling him whether she’s been good or bad. Every morning when she wakes up he’s in a different spot, but she isn’t allowed to touch him or he loses his magic.

Last year, saying “Shefford is going to tell Santa” went a long way in helping with the whining and tantrums. This year...zilch. She’s reached an age where she’s realized that she can pretty much get away with murder and still receive a significant amount of loot on Christmas day. Not only that, but everyone keeps forgetting to move the damn elf before she wakes up. As a result, I doubt Shefford will be making an appearance next year – he and his cheeky painted grin will retire to the North Pole where they belong.

Then of course there’s the shopping. I generally go once with my mother and once with Leigha, but the three of us cannot go together. It causes massive arguments over which toy gun is the best for which germ breeder and whether we really need more wrapping paper. Seriously, we’re those people – standing in the middle of an aisle in the toy store, Leigha and I hissing curse words at each other and attempting to maim one another across the cart with whatever is handy while mom flaps her hands and squeals “Oh! Oh!”, “That’s enough!”, and “That’s it! We’re leaving!”

My sister and mother are both indecisive when it comes to shopping. They will wander through a store for hours, picking up and putting down dozens of things, making virtually no progress at all. Then suddenly they’ll look at the clock and realize they’ve been ensconced in retail hell for far too long and they’re going to be late getting home. That’s when they return with bags full of presents that don’t make a lot of sense, but that cost much more than they intended to spend. And half of them will be for Leigha.

“You know she doesn’t shop well”, mom says to me in accusation. As if it’s my fault she decided to take the teenager that’s more concerned with picking up her latest pair of hooker heels than what is on the list.

It’s a different story with mom and me. I prod her up and down each aisle with military precision – reading names off the list and barking orders. “Get that. No, no! Put that down! What are you doing?! Let’s go, go, go!” I’m a very detail oriented shopper. If I don’t have a list and a clear idea of what I’m getting, I don’t want to go.

But it’s not all business. We laugh a lot too – making fun of the other shoppers and each other. We’ll usually break for lunch or dinner, spreading receipts out on the table and pouring over the list before diving right back into the mayhem. It truly is one of my favorite parts of the holidays – spending that time with her, knowing that, at least for this, she’d prefer to be with me over my sister.

We bake rice krispy treats and cookies, cakes and pies. We make The Dip and little hors d'oeuvres called Christmas stars. We take Hannah to see Santa Claus and provide snacks for her school and daycare celebrations. There are programs to attend, cards to write, and parties for work, friends, and family. December is mapped out from beginning to end, and it can grow tiresome. And still, it seems we add more and more traditions every year. This one is no different.

Ray, my soon to be stepfather, apparently has a family every bit as large as ours. Mom, Leigha, and Hannah have been to their gatherings before, but for one reason or another, I never have. Since they got engaged, attendance to his family’s Christmas became mandatory. “It would be tacky to meet them at the wedding when you’ve had plenty of opportunity to do it beforehand”, mom said. And so on Saturday night, we went.

Ray had been in a fishing tournament all day and would be late, so it was with much bickering and shoving that we made our way to the party without him. I wasn’t sure what to expect. These people knew my daughter, but not me. Would they think I was an asshole for never coming around? And more to the point – what terrible stories had my mother told them about me? Spreading my business, with a special twist, is a habit of hers.

Arms laden with presents and food, we walked single file through the door. They were gathered in a detached garage turned rec room. There was a full kitchen set up on one side and an old wood burning stove on the other. The center was filled with long picnic tables and a few round tables covered in Christmas table cloths and decorative centerpieces. Hanging about a foot from the ceiling, one going around the entirety of the room and a smaller one at the center, were handmade train tracks complete with antique steam engines. They looked straight out of a scene from a Christmas movie. Every inch of wall space was covered – old license plates, pictures, football paraphernalia and, oddest of all, an entire wall dedicated to unopened packets of tools.

There were people everywhere. Toddlers ran through the legs of chatting adults and sullen teenagers sulked in the corner. Younger men hunched over the cooking area (it was a fish fry) and older men sat close to the stove. The women arranged side dishes and flitted back and forth, greeting new arrivals and shoving children gently away from the hot food. It reminded me of a tamer evening at my Papa’s and I immediately felt more at ease.

After shedding our coats and settling on a bench, they started to come over one by one. The men shook my hand and smiled warmly. The women went a bit further – embracing me, kissing and patting my cheek, saying how lovely it was to finally meet me. I’ve never been much of a toucher, but their attention didn’t bother me at all.

We socialized for awhile before Ray arrived, opening the door with a crash and a blast of cold air, euphoric from winning his tournament. He was immediately set upon by everyone, especially the women, and I thought to myself that it explained a lot about his personality. His mother died when he was young and he’s very close to her twin sister, who was there front and center. He seems to be something of a family pet.

Eating next to his cousins, laughing and joking over dinner, I felt like I’d always been there. I hoped that Ray felt the same with our extended family and I made a note to ask him sometime.

There were forty people there, not including small children, and after dinner we were lectured on the rules of gift giving. The game was Chinese Christmas. Each person brought a $15 - $20 gift and put it in a stack. Then we all drew a number to dictate when we could choose a present. Rather than go the normal route and start with number one the organizer, Ray’s uncle, decided to start with number 40 and go to number 20. Then switch to number one and go to 19. And with Chinese Christmas, you always want to have the number that goes last, because you can choose any present you want. The announcement of the new rules was followed by an immediate groan from the recipient of number 40, causing everyone to laugh.

When the game began, our little group huddled up and speculated about which presents we should choose from the stack and which we would steal, given the opportunity. (You can either open a present from the stack, or steal a present someone else has already opened.) As it progressed, I learned a little more about the people around me...and the reason behind the strange wall of unopened tools.

A woman unwrapped a small power drill and waved it in the air over her head for everyone to see. A roar of laughter went up around the room. My family looked around in confusion while fingers were pointed and chatter broke out. Ray’s cousin filled us in. “See that wall over there full of unopened tools?”

We nodded. “Yes...”

“Every year, when we play this game, Uncle Joe steals until he gets a set of tools and then tacks it on the wall. It drives everyone crazy, so they all try stealing them back from him. See that display of knives over there? He does it with those too.”

Another cousin interjected. “And look”, he said pointing over my head to a high shelf, “do you remember that glass? We threw that in the trash ages ago! He must have gotten it out again!”

Everyone laughed. And when, a short while later, someone opened a gift containing pocket knives and Uncle Joe’s eyes lit up, we laughed along with them.

The game continued on – with more friendly ribbing, desserts and drinks and stories. It was probably the most fun I’ve ever had at a family Christmas. And technically, it wasn’t even my family. But they treated us like we were from the moment we walked in the door.

Later, as we pulled on jackets and gathered our things to go, the handshaking and hugs began again.

“Come back soon, you’re family now.”

“It was so wonderful to finally meet you.”

“We’re so glad Ray has ya’ll.”

His mom’s twin, my immediate favorite, hugged me goodbye. There was just something about her face – I couldn’t look at her without smiling. “I’ve given something to Ray for you girls”, she said as we walked out the door. “Merry Christmas! Thank you!” And we were gone.

Ray handed me an envelope with my name on the front as I was climbing into my car. I drove off into the dark, leaving the others with him, and I replayed the night’s events in my head – laughing at the image of a disgruntled Uncle Joe after he’d managed to steal the knife set, then lost it to the very next person. I hadn’t expected it to go that well and I certainly hadn’t expected to have such a good time.

Still lost in thought, I pressed a knee against my steering wheel and reached for the envelope. I broke the seal and pulled out a small white card that said “Merry Christmas” in silver script across the front. As I opened it, a stack of bills fell out onto my lap. I smiled, stuffing the money and the card into my purse.

Oh yes, I thought, that aunt is definitely my favorite. And this, the whole night, is definitely a tradition I won’t grow tired of anytime soon.

You are NOT the father!

2010-12-16T19:56:00.001-02:00

I’ve been dicking around for at least a week now – starting posts, then scrapping them and getting caught up in reading other people’s blogs. Or maybe I’ve been reading more of my own blog than I have anyone else’s. Is that not the height of vanity?

It really wasn’t meant to be that way. It actually started because I wanted to jog my creativity, maybe pull some new ideas from the dregs of old posts. But it ended up with me sucking down diet Pepsi and tweeting about “Extreme Masturbation” in between rereading posts from a year ago and wondering what happened to that girl. She wasn’t having sex very much, but she was funny. And she certainly didn’t have writer’s block.

I know the part of the above paragraph you’re most interested in is “Extreme Masturbation” and honestly, I have no clue where that idea came from. But suddenly I got a mental picture of the sport they call “Extreme Ironing” and I thought, “How fucking badass would it be if they made a reality show about people that masturbated under extreme circumstances? Like parachuting, bungee jumping, rock climbing, scuba diving, race car driving, or getting arrested.” Just imagine – if a dude can keep it up (and finish!) through conditions like those...then he’s bound to be worth a ride. Or a laugh.

Then, of course, I thought it was most likely a moot point. The Japanese probably came up with that idea ages ago.

Anyway, since I can’t come seem to complete a nice, streamlined post, I figured I’d just give you a few updates on the dating front:

I’m no longer seeing Sam because he is a self absorbed bore that wouldn’t stop trying to put it in my butt. Seriously. I’m done. The man is completely incapable of compromise in the bedroom. I asked him to pull my hair once and he acted as if he were completely offended. After things were done and we were just lying there I said, “What is your problem with hair pulling or slapping? Why are you so against it?”

“It’s really just not my thing”, he said. “Plus, when someone asks me to do it...it just seems really stupid and awkward to me.”

“Well I wouldn’t have to ask you to do it if you would’ve just tried it, at least once. Besides, you certainly had no qualms about “asking” to put it in my ass. And pardon me, but that’s really not my thing and I find that stupid and awkward.”

Then he posted a series of rude, racist, and misogynistic “notes” on Facebook. And that, friends, was the cherry on top of the end of my first, ill fated, online dating relationship. But you know what? You live, you learn, and you start sleeping with someone that has your blog address and knows exactly what you like sexually...and has no problem giving it to you.

I mentioned this very briefly several posts ago (only one line, in fact), but yes, it’s true. There’s a man I know in real life that actually has this blog address. It was a bit of an accident, really.

See, he was really the match of a friend of mine that’s been doing online dating too. But after meeting, they decided to just be friends. One night she and I planned to meet for drinks and she invited him along.

We all hung out – eating dinner, drinking, and playing pool. And my friend, not thinking anything of it, mentioned my writing. At first I was a bit surprised. I’m not used to talking about my blog in public. But in the end I decided that it didn’t really make a difference whether he knew about it or not, since he wasn’t a romantic prospect.

But after a night of incessant drinking, laughing, and sharing every embarrassing sex story ever to grace this blog – I somehow ended up in his bed. And there wasn’t much sleeping involved.

Then, obviously, I was faced with a dilemma I’ve never had before. I always write about my encounters, but under a comfortable layer of anonymity. The thought of having the subject of a post analyzing every word I wrote about him was a bit daunting.

I thought, “Well, of course that means I just won’t be able to write about him.” But recently he informed me that he has in fact read my blog, and he has no problem being the topic of discussion. Something about not wanting to hinder my creativity...

My first reaction to that was, “Sweet! A free pass!” But after thinking about it a little more, and actually attempting to write an entire post about him and him alone, I was stuck. I just couldn’t get past the fact that he may not agree with my assessment. And while I’m still unable to go into the amount of detail I normally would, I can tell you this:

The sex was fantastic. All of it. And he’s rather insatiable. I don’t have much to compare it to, but I suppose I’ve been mistaken in the assumption that older men have lower libidos. He’s 43 to my 25 and I’m not sure what he’s like the next day, but after I leave his place I’m exhausted for the next 24 hours.

However, I can’t really give him complete marks because he was practically given a roadmap. He knew just about everything I liked and disliked from our hours of talking shit at the bar. As a matter of fact, I actually told him the face slapping story. And he, unexpectedly, gave it a go...even though we both dissolved into laughter immediately afterward.

We went out to dinner a few weeks ago and I watched the SEC championship game at his house. He makes me laugh when we hang out and it’s actually kind of nice not to worry about what he thinks of me...because he already knows all of the bad stuff. I can just be myself.

I’m under no illusions that he’s a one woman man and I couldn’t say how long this...mm, tryst, of ours will last, but right now I’m just enjoying it. (Except maybe that one time when he kissed me, then said in a rather terrible Darth Vader voice: “Ally, I am your father!” Umm...well, you could be.)

Tomorrow night we’re supposed to go out for drinks and, I think, play a few games of pool. Maybe it’s like drinking beer – the more you drink, the easier it goes down. Maybe the more time I spend with him, the easier he’ll be to write about.

Or, maybe I should just ask him to stop by and give his side of the story – “What it’s really like to sleep with the woman who writes about her sexual conquests, yet never gives them a chance for rebuttal.”

Perish the thought.

Letters to Santa

2010-12-07T20:51:00.000-02:00

I don’t remember a lot about the days leading up to Christmas when I was younger, though I have a general idea of what transpired. I spent the entire month of December anticipating – not really doing anything. There was just waiting and more waiting punctuated with Frosty cartoons and a trip to see Santa at the mall. And though I’ve seen pictures, I can’t recall one solid memory of ever sitting on some fat man’s lap. Unless you count my Papa, of course.

But I remember being full of excitement on Christmas Eve – tossing in my bed for what felt like forever and finally drifting off, only to wake a few hours later with the house still muffled by darkness. I’d force myself to lie there for another hour, knowing mom wouldn’t let me drag my little sister out of bed quite yet. Sometimes I’d creep to the living room and squint through my nerdy, round framed glasses at the piles of presents – trying to decipher what they were by the gloomy silhouettes. Santa didn’t leave wrapped presents at our house; he arranged them artfully around our stockings, like a shop window display.

I’d eventually succumb to temptation, still always before the sun made an appearance, and tiptoe to my sister’s room. I’d prod her awake and make her go ahead of me into our parent’s room to soften the early wake up call. Once Lee had done her thing, mom would get up and start the coffee while I danced anxiously from foot to foot.

Dad was always the last to wander out, stretching and grinning in his old blue robe, knowing we had to wait on him to get started. It was the only day of the year that he was always home and sober, no matter what. He loved Christmas and was always so excited to give us our gifts and watch us get excited in turn. I remember wishing it could be Christmas every day – not for the presents, but to keep him that way, smiling and pleasant.

While our parents sat on the loveseat in their robes, sipping steaming coffee and looking very pleased with themselves, we would exclaim over our piles from Santa Claus. Upending our stockings, we’d eye each other’s lot suspiciously, making sure one wasn’t better that the other. Then dad would dig under the tree and hand out the family presents. Paper would fly and squealing echoed off the walls.

When there was nothing left but the presents to take to The Grandmother’s later that day and a sea of brightly colored paper up to our ears, dad would get a trash bag and gather up the debris. And while mom got in the shower and did last minute food preparations, he would put batteries in our new toys. He would sit cross legged on the floor in his pajama bottoms, robe and coffee cup discarded, and the three of us would play. We would wait until the last possible minute to get dressed and pile in the car.

Now I’m a (and I use this term loosely) grown up and, though all our traditions are essentially the same, the players have switched roles. My part is no longer that of the excited, vision impaired child. I’m now the “arranger”. I’m the groggy adult pulled from her warm bed, forced to ooh and ahh over the presents the fat man gets credit for. The person that cleans the mess rather than makes it, and pays out her ass rather than sits on it.

I envy my five year old this holiday season. All she has to do is sit on the couch, stuff her face with cookies, and irritate me with the incessant ping, ping, ping of her Nintendo DS games. She has no monetary worries, no gift giving stresses, and no desire to best anyone in the cake baking arena. She won’t be bothered with crazed shoppers and her Christmas party will be full of laughter, not the ubiquitous sound of ass kissing.

The major difference between my new role and my old one is not that I buy more than I receive (though that is so pitifully true). It isn’t that I get drunk on wine rather than lie in bed counting the hours till someone comes along breaking and entering, or that I stay up chatting about blowjobs rather than reciting The Night Before Christmas. The major difference, people, is that the mysteries of the holiday have now been revealed. The veil has lifted and as a result, some of the magic has been lost.

Ahem. (Shield your child's eyes. I know you let them read this blog.)

There is no Santa Claus. I repeat: There is NO Santa Claus! Presents are not free and they are not made by elves. There are things called credit cards and one nasty event called Black Friday that was created by Satan and Martha Stewart’s minions. Adults do not get piles of presents, they get bills.

It’s not that I’m a complete scrooge or anything like that. Truthfully, even though it usually hurts me in the end, now I love to give presents a bit more than I like receiving them. (I said a bit more.)

I like watching the kid’s little face light up when she sees her gifts. I like buying things for people that I know they’re going to love, and basking in the warm glow of feeling superior. “They like my present better than yours! Ha, in your face!” I’m absurdly pleased when someone raves about something I got them. Receiving is kick ass, but I’ll agree that giving is more...fulfilling.

It’s rather like my views on oral sex – “Oh, that’s nice...” as opposed to “I noh ou ike it, eeeahh!” How many compliments do you get upon receiving something? None. People don’t just go around saying, “Damn, you’re good at taking that gift!” Or, “Thank you so much for letting me give this to you.” No. The receiver is the one that gives the compliments and gushes with gratitude, and honestly, I’m not always good at handing out thank yous. But I definitely excel at swallowing them.

Anyway, I know people that tell their kids right off the bat that Santa doesn’t exist. My cousin and her husband did that with their three boys, and that was their prerogative. But if one of those little fuckers ruins my kid’s magic prematurely – I will light their bible thumping asses on fire. I may not like giving up the credit for the best presents to the fat guy, but I get to experience a little bit of my old excitement through her and it is kind of nice. It helps to take my mind off the grown up responsibilities – if only for a little while.

As a matter of fact, we’ve been working on her letter to Santa Claus and it’s almost ready to go out. Still being the sweet, blissfully ignorant child that she is, the kid encouraged me to write a letter to him too. “He’ll bring you something too, Mama. You’ve been good!” And you know what? I decided I would do it. Did you know there are places you can mail them to and receive an actual reply?

Dear Santa Claus,

Even though I know you aren’t real, my daughter insisted we both write to you. And since I’ve recently drained the last of my wine bottle and taken a Xanax, I suddenly feel as though anything is possible. You could be out there, hammering away in your workshop with a passel of little people, just waiting to hear from me.

I feel I’ve been rather good this year too. I’ve barely slept with anyone at all, comparatively speaking, and definitely with no one underage. I know you’re remembering the Halloween party, but let me just assure you, I would never have acted on those thoughts. Wait...are you even a mind reader? That’s not important! What is important is that I’m morphing into a sporadically responsible adult, and as an almost always irresponsible child that received presents no matter how many times I was suspended from the school bus, I feel it’s only fair that you cough up the goods now too.

So, without further ado, here, sir, are my requirements:

I would like a pony. That’s a vibrator, not an actual pony. And it must be pink.

I would like a gift certificate to the plastic surgeon. What I want it for is none of your nevermind.

Free health insurance, a new car (and while you’re at it, please pay off my old one first), a book deal, and a foreign boyfriend with a huge penis.

And just to show you that I’m not all that picky, if you’re unable to acquire a foreigner with a huge penis, I’ll settle for a mute, or extremely quiet, American with a huge penis. The rest, though, is non-negotiable. Oh, and while I’m feeling generous...why not throw in a little world peace?

In return, I’ll try to leave out some milk and cookies for you. I can’t promise anything, mind. I never know when I’ll get the munchies or a sudden craving for White Russians.

You need not send a reply just in case you aren’t real. I don’t want to be disappointed before I’m disappointed, you see.

Merry Christmas!

I think that should suffice. I wonder if one of these Santa services would actually reply to that.

Well. There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?

Thanksgiving - Part two

2010-12-03T16:52:00.000-02:00

The atmosphere at The Grandmother’s is vastly different from Papa’s. It’s like leaving a school assembly that only had one or two mouthy students, then walking into a circus tent chock full of clowns. Paper plates replace china, swear words multiply like Mormons, and there are running, screaming germ breeders everywhere.

The two families couldn’t be more different – a fact thrown into glaring affect as soon as I arrived at Papa’s. Stepping out of my car, I waved at a group of laughing cousins seated at a patio table. The tallest one waved back and came toward me, grinning and blowing smoke out his nose.

“Hey Al”, Tim said, wrapping me in a bear hug. He carried the crock-pot full of dip toward the house and I followed with the bastard ass Italian crème cake. I was already planning to force every single one of them to taste it, whether they wanted to or not.

“Hey whore”, shouted Tim’s wife Ellie as I passed the smoking section. “Menstrual chunk”, I deadpanned back, wrestling with my purse and the cake holder. The others laughed.

Pushing open the heavy, sectioned glass door I walked into a wall of barking dogs. There are seven – Gucci, Sonny, Dixie, Mimi, Gracie, Scooby, and Bud. For as long as I can remember Papa has been surrounded by dogs. They climb on top of him while he lounges in the recliner, sit in the front seat and get their own ice cream at the Sonic drive through, go on boat rides and trips to the city. They’re his babies. And just like any other member of our neurotic family, we’ve learned to accept them and deal with the ruckus they cause...if a little grudgingly.

And, just like every other time I’ve walked in that door, the chocolate brown cocker spaniel, Bud, charged me like a bull and nipped the backs of my calves. He’s so fat that he looks like a barrel, giving the impression that if you tipped him over he’d just roll away. Unfortunately, it’s just an impression. I’ve tried rolling him, shoving him, running from him, shouting at him...everything. I finally developed a routine that semi-works: I hang my purse low and angle it between the two of us as I walk in, screaming at him, “SHUT THE FUCK UP BUD, I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU BASTARD!” (or something close), giving Tess (Papa’s girlfriend) time to whack him away with the newspaper. It’s the best I’ve been able to come up with. Once I’ve been in the house for a few minutes, though, he’s fine.

“Hey Pop,” I shouted at a corner table. “Hey darlin’”, he boomed back, getting up and following me to the kitchen. My Papa is a big, big man with wispy grayish brown hair, a jowly face creased with laugh lines, and simply enormous earlobes. With blue eyes full of mischief and a contagious laugh, he’s always reminded me a bit of Santa Claus without the beard. His plodding walk – feet turned slightly out, head held at a high angle and arms crossed behind his back – never fails to make my smile.

Reaching my side he rocked back and forth on his heels, arms still behind his back, and looked into the crock-pot. “Mm, The Dip! You’re early! I’m proud!” Nearly everything he says has an exclamation mark on the end and there’s no doubt about where I got my powers of vocal projection. I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then left him and a few others digging around for tortilla chips.

As I was rounding a corner of the island, waving and saying hello to various aunts, uncles, and neighbors, I was slammed into from behind. “OOF! Gggrrroff!” My cousin Christine had, as usual, launched herself at my back and hung there – arms tight around my neck, sending me staggering about the kitchen, trying to shake her off. She knows I hate it and she does it, I’ve gathered, to draw attention to our physical differences. She’s a rail (though she certainly feels heavy clinging to my back) and I have not, nor will I ever be, that tiny. She’s always been the pretty, petite one; I’ve always been the smart, curvy one. I often speak to her using words I know she doesn’t understand – she’s got her bullets, I have mine.

“You love me”, she screeched in my ear. I finally managed to shrug her off and with a long suffering sigh, answered, “Yes, unfortunately I do.”

After making sure the kid was safely ripping the children’s play area to shreds with the others, I made my way back out to the patio. My cousin Dooby and his wife Marie had driven down from Virginia for the weekend and I was excited to see them. “I missed my lesbian life partner”, Marie said as we hugged. We laughed, then relayed the story behind her greeting to the rest of the group. We’d both gotten wildly trashed at the Halloween party and there was a lot of lap dancing and suggestive picture taking.

For an hour we all sat, taking it in turns to make the others laugh with one story or another. When it wasn’t my turn, I found myself observing more than listening. I’d heard most of it before anyway.

Tim leaned against the brick wall, towering over everyone even while slumped. At 22, one of the youngest in our group, he managed to beat us all in The Game of Life. Recently married to a single mom with a five year old son, he’d secured a great job and bought his first house - a long way from the child of a mother in and out of rehab and the teenager caught cashing stolen checks. He’d met Ellie and her son and quickly became a family man.

After Christine insisted I tell the story of the time I was accosted in the shower by a mountainous blob with blonde hair, Tim laughed so hard he had to excuse himself to go to the bathroom.

Dooby paced restlessly, playing with his cell phone, while Marie sat with her legs crossed, calmly puffing on a cigarette. They’d been together for a very long time and had finally taken the plunge into marriage just a year ago. They argue often, but not in a way that causes concern. Somehow their personalities complement each other – Marie almost always appears bored and unconcerned with everything (except when she’s drinking) and Dooby gives passionate speeches about whatever strikes his fancy.

Having nursed him through his younger brother’s death and an addiction to pills, and staying with him after more than one affair early in their relationship, I’ve come to think of Marie as a bit of a hero. In the beginning I thought her foolish, but somehow she managed to pull Dooby back from the brink of destruction and piece him back together. Every now and then he’d glance up from his phone and look at her, the adoration on his face clear as day.

Soon after Christine and I had horrified the other men with a frank discussion about sex toys, it was time to go inside for dinner.

The huge kitchen quickly clogged up with traffic while everyone attempted to fix their plates. Being a veteran of the bob and weave technique, I was soon settled at the dining room table and tucking in to a plate across from Pop. “Mm, this looks good”, he shouted. I nodded, turning my lips up in a grin, mouth stuffed full of macaroni. He always says that, no matter what kind of food is in front of him.

By the time we’d made it to dessert and I’d forced them all to have a slice of my cake, (“Mmm! That’s good”, Pop said immediately.) we were in the midst of a discussion on what college my sister was going to attend.

“Where have you applied”, my Uncle asked her. He’s one of those bible thumping sorts now, but I remember when he was a drunk, getting into fist fights with my dad on the front lawn. I often find myself missing the drunk, as I’m much better at handling them than I am the “shove the bible down your throat” religious fanatics.

“I think I’m going to go to a small college close to home for a year, to get used to things. Then I’ll transfer to Charleston”, she replied.

“Charleston has one of the highest STD ratings of any college”, mom chimed in.

Puffing up, deep frown pulling his mustache down in a highly comical way, my Uncle glared at Leigha. “You know how to fight that, don’t you?!”

Leigha looked around the table, searching for help. So I gave it to her.

“Yeah”, I said, pumping my fist in the air, “wrap it uuuuuup!”

“NO”, he shouted. “Abstinence...”

“does not make the heart grow fonder”, I finished.

While he harrumphed and sputtered, everyone else laughed. Except for Papa, who ignored the whole exchange, rolling his dessert around in his mouth like a cow and staring past our heads at a western on the big screen.

Packed full of food and moaning miserably, the sexes separated. Tess and the older women attacked the kitchen, fixing up leftover plates for people to take home and washing dishes. The older men crashed in the living room and watched sports through slowly closing eyelids, while the younger ones congregated outside on the patio. Us younger women moved to the table in the sunroom and discussed mom and Ray’s coming nuptials and the possibility of another Charleston bachelorette weekend.

Then Papa summoned me from across the house, bellowing my name and sending the dogs into a barking fit. Lounging in his recliner, he informed me that I was in charge of the name drawing for Christmas again this year. “You got it, Pop”, I said happily. Nothing like being able to ensure your name goes to the person with the biggest spending problem.

I wrote down all the names, tore them into little strips of paper, folded them and dumped them in a Solo cup. Then, armed with a notepad and pen, I danced around the house and had everyone draw. I shoved Christine and Dave away from my notepad and ignored whispered pleas for cheating. There would be no cheating for anyone but me!

As I passed through the living room for the second time, finally finished with the list and very pleased with myself for getting a good name, Papa said, “And she didn’t even hear me!”

“What”, I said, turning in confusion. “What happened?”

“I paid you a compliment and you didn’t even hear me!”

“What did you say”, I asked.

“Nope...I’m not going to repeat myself”, he said, pouting.

I turned to my sister, determined to get an answer. Papa so very rarely compliments anyone on anything other than how well they cook. And when it comes to me, his loving insults are par for the course. “What’s that ugly green blob on your foot”, he asks me at least once a week, referring to my four leaf clover tattoo. Or, “Woo-wee! Where’d you get that new dress, Jackass?! Columbia Tent and Awning?”

“What did he say”, I asked her.

She smiled. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear him! He said he was proud of you, that you’ve been doing so good lately.”

“Well. I’ve been doing well”, I corrected automatically. “Well”, she repeated, rolling her eyes.

“Aww, Pop”, I said, grinning at him.

“Better keep it up”, he replied gruffly.

Feeling happy and tired, I checked on the kid then rejoined my cousins. Slowly everyone started to drift off – hauling hyper children out to their cars, toting high stacked plates, and distributing hugs. As I said goodbye to everyone, I realized that there’d been no fights at all. No arguments, no crying...not even any drinking. I wondered how much of that had to do with the absence of my father and how much of it had to do with how “well” I, the main instigator, was doing.

After making plans for Marie and Christine to pick me up, I kissed Papa goodbye and took the kid home to settle her for the night. We were going to make a beer and cigarette run into town, then meet Dooby and Dave on the dock.

It’s tradition. No matter how cold it is, the younger group always congregates on the dock or on the porch and drinks. We tell more stories, sing old songs (like a degenerate family Von Trapp), and watch the stars through puffs of smoke.

Out of all the traditions, it’s the one I look forward to the most. Not because we drink and talk about disgusting things, but because, unlike the family dinner, it’s not a requirement. No one says we have to spend that extra time together, but we always want to.

Marie, Christine and I spent the trip into town and back listening to old school rap music and dancing. Every now and then a deer would pop out of the tree lined darkness and we’d break, squealing and cursing, before going back to our dancing.

Back at Papa’s we walked, giggling through the yard and out to the dock. Huddling in deck chairs and clutching cold beers, we rolled our eyes when Dooby pointed out a streak across the night sky and started lecturing us on atoms or something. We mimicked him and argued that it was just a mark from a plane, sending him further and further into professor mode.

“How do you know all this stuff”, I asked him with exaggerated interest. “Did you study it, read it in a book somewhere?”

“I read books”, he said. “I know all kinds of things about science. I’ve...” He droned on and on, knowing I was poking fun, but too interested in hearing himself speak to let it deter him. Marie looked at me as if to say, “See? See what I have to deal with every day?”

Two hours crept by before we finally called it a night, hugged, and headed in opposite directions – Dooby, Marie, and Dave crept back into Papa’s, Christine drove back to the city, and I trudged up the steep hill back to my dark house.

I eased through the door, relishing the sudden heat on my frozen face and fingers, and went through my night time routine quickly. “One more month”, I thought as I finally crawled between the sheets, exhausted, “one more month and we’ll do it all over again.” The cooking, cleaning, decorating, shopping, working, parenting, and socializing...all repeated for both sides of the family.

I knew I should be thankful that the day went pretty smoothly, getting progressivly better and ending without any of the usual family drama. But all I could think before drifting off to sleep was, “I wasted all that money on Xanax and not one person got drunk and threw a punch. I hope Christmas kicks it up a notch.”

BONed

2010-12-01T17:16:00.001-02:00

Monday morning started just like any other. I was honing the fine art of procrastination - swilling coffee, possibly picking my nose, and flipping through my blog reader. Being back at work after the long holiday weekend put me rather far behind and, though I was itching to put off the reading and post something of my own, I knew I’d end up deleting half without a glance if I waited too long. I get overwhelmed and distracted quite easily, you see.

My boss, having missed me terribly, wouldn’t stop coming by my office door and making random remarks. “Did you watch the football game Saturday night”, she asked.

“I got home in time to see the second half. I went to see Harry Potter.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You missed the first half of the Carolina vs. Clemson game...to see Harry Potter?”

“Yep. STUPIFY”, I shouted, pointing my letter opener at her.

As usual she laughed a little too obnoxiously. Then, blowing a trumpet blast of a fart, turned around and ran back to her office, red faced and giggling – leaving me with the stench of my own joke. It was quite rancid.

That woman has taught me many things about becoming older and shared lots of valuable life lessons, but none more helpful than: “When you get as old as I am, you just can’t hold it in anymore. My pucker reflex is plum puckered out.” It is, apparently, the only acceptable excuse a Southern woman can use to justify public flatulence. That or “my husband did it”. And try as I might, I simply can't justify getting married in order to let one rip whenever I choose.

I had a can of Dust Free Multi-Purpose cleaner (its compressed air that you spay to clean your keyboard and the like, in case you weren’t aware) so I sent a few blasts into the air around my head to clear the fog a bit, then got back to my blog reading. But as soon as I started, my phone vibrated with a new email. It was a comment notification.

The comment said a few things, lovely things, but the part that caught my eye was “I found you via blogs of note”.

My very first thought was, “Psssh, no way.” My second thought was, “They probably meant ‘through one of the blogs of note’ since so many of my friends have won it. I’ll bet they came over from Philip, Baglady, or Mr. London Street.”

Still, I couldn’t stop myself from clicking the mouse (which, in this case, I am not using as a euphemism for masturbation) until I reached my dashboard and the Blogs of Note tab. And there it was...my URL. I was completely bowled over. My normally dull Monday suddenly resembled a Friday. A Friday when I get off work early, have money in the bank, have a babysitter, and a date for marathon sex.

So now it’s Wednesday and here we are. I’m still insanely excited.

Welcome to all of you new folks and thank you for all the wonderful comments. I’ll be responding to them soon and checking out your blogs in return. If you haven’t yet had the chance to flick through my archives or check out more than the first one or two posts, here’s what you can expect to find (and read more of in the future):

I swear a lot and I occasionally write about sex in a graphic manner – not Harlequin throbbing-manhood- and-heaving-bosoms sort of graphic. It’s a bit more real than that. Like the time some guy insisted I call him “The Shump Daddy” and produced more sweat than an entire football team or, when I realized that I’d have to make an appointment to spend time with my own vagina.

I write a lot about my family (the main characters being my mother, my mother’s fiancé Ray, my teenage sister Leigha, The Grandmother, and my five year old daughter Hannah). Those posts are occasionally sentimental, but more often than not, full of exasperation. I also have a very large extended family and they make plenty of appearances.

And, just over the past few months, I started writing about my foray into the world of online dating. It’s definitely been an interesting experience...sometimes disturbing, occasionally satisfying.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy what you’ve read so far and that you’ll stick around for more.

Next up on the agenda is “Thanksgiving – Part two”, and possibly a rant about a man that is obsessed with himself and taking the dirt road.

Cheers.

Thanksgiving - Part one

2010-11-29T21:00:00.003-02:00

After nearly five days of cooking, cleaning, decorating, shopping, working, parenting, and socializing...I’m absolutely exhausted. I can’t remember ever being that busy during a Thanksgiving weekend before. Probably because the older I get, the more responsibility gets heaped upon my head. What I sometimes wouldn’t give to be a chubby 10 year old, sneaking pieces of ham out of the kitchen before dinner and stuffing them in my face behind the cover of Gone with the Wind, which was the only book large enough to sufficiently cover my indiscretions. There was, apparently, more than one reason that I read that sucker fifteen times.

*****

Wednesday night I spent alone in the kitchen, awake till nearly midnight, perfecting my Italian Crème Cake. Mom was having another one of her strange vomiting episodes and had locked herself in the bedroom, Ray was out hunting, and my daughter and sister were spending the night in the city at The Grandmother’s. It should have, by all accounts, been a relaxing night, but I think my trip to the grocery store started it off on a sour note.

I used to hate going to the grocery store, but I realized that the reason for that wasn’t necessarily the place, but the person I went there with. My mom is a terrible shopper. She’ll spend hours upon hours wandering up and down every single aisle, sometimes more than once, even though she has a list of very specific items. We call it “scratching and sniffing” – she has to examine everything. Not only that, but like a willful toddler, the minute you turn your back she’s disappeared down another aisle and you’re left hunting for her until it’s time to check out.

Now I love going to the grocery store – provided I’m alone. But Wednesday night was another matter entirely. I’d been at the makeup store finalizing my jewelry party business and decided to pop over to the local Publix as I heard they had good sales on some of the things on my list. (Yes, I just typed that sentence. Alert the media: I’m a loser.) It was the night before Thanksgiving so of course I knew it would be busy, but I’d been up since 4:30 that morning and I simply wasn’t prepared for the adrenaline fueled Mario Kart experience.

Feeling rather lucky because I’d swiped a front row parking space, I sauntered through the sliding glass doors. There were only two carts left in the rack and after a stare down worthy of an old Clint Eastwood film, I ended up pushing the token noisy cart toward the bakery while a Mrs. Doubtfire look-a-like whooshed away to the opposite end with the coveted, silent Lincoln Town Car of grocery carts. Mine was completely lopsided and the wheels were all at funny angles. I walked slowly and it went “BANG, clack, BANG, clack, BANG, clack”. Then I walked faster just in case it made a difference. “BANG CLACK BANG CLACK BANG CLACK”. It didn’t – slow, it sounded like a metallic rocking chair; fast, it sounded like a moderately impressive fireworks display.

Despite the fact that the entire store could hear me coming long before they saw me, I still had to shove and shoulder my way through every aisle. What, at any other time, would have been a 10 minute trip turned into a 45 minute bloodbath. By the time I was down to the last item on my list I’d made three circles of the entire store because I wasn’t very familiar with its layout, shouted at four people, had my foot rolled over twice, and bumped the heels of an unsuspecting, yet entirely deserving, Mrs. Doubtfire.

I was looking for the blocks of Velveeta, but couldn’t find them anywhere. I’d been up and down every aisle and asked two employees - one directed me to aisle 10 and the other was either very dim or didn’t understand English. Finally, on the verge of a near meltdown, I saw a boy of about 16 coming out of the back with a cart of boxes. “You”, I shouted as I hurtled toward him in my busted cart. BANG CLACK BANG CLACK BANG CLACK. He looked like he might be about to piss himself, no doubt I looked crazed. “For the love of Christ, please TAKE me to the motherfucking Velveeta! If one more person sends me to aisle 10 again and I come up empty handed, I’m going to have a conniption!”

He edged his hip against his trolley of boxes, nudging it out of the aisle. “Y-yes ma’am”, he muttered and took off with his head down, with me hot on his heels. BANG CLACK BANG CLACK BANG CLACK. We were back on aisle 10 again and I could feel my neck turning red. Coming to a halt in front of the tiniest display of cheese known to man, on the very top shelf, he looked at me and said, “Here you go ma’am. What kind did you need?”

I glared at him, told him what I needed, he handed it over, and with a parting “thank you”, I began to walk away. “You’re welcome ma’a”, he started to call, but stopped when I whipped around and said, “STOP calling me that!” He went scurrying in the opposite direction and I, completely worn out and irritated with myself for behaving like a shrew, shuffled to the checkout.

While I was unloading my 20 or so items onto the conveyor belt, another teen came rocketing around the corner and started helping me, tossing my things toward the checker like it was a marathon race. They really want me out of here, I thought without amusement. As soon as the girl handed me the receipt, the blonde, floppy haired teenager took off with my cart. Bewildered, I hurried after him. BLANG CLACK BANG CLACK BANG CLACK. “Where are you going with my cart”, I shouted at him.

“I’m helping you to your car”, he shouted back over the din.

Irritated once again, I caught up and yanked the cart to a stop. “I don’t need help out! I only have five bags!”

“Are you sure”, he asked suspiciously, seeming reluctant to let go of the handle. What the hell is the problem here, I wondered. Do I look old and incapable? Have I a sign on my back that says “secret shopper – don’t piss me off"?

“I’m 25, not 50. I think I can handle it, thank you.”

He shrugged as if to say, Fine, have it your way, grouchy old lady, and with a wave and a sarcastic “have a Happy Thanksgiving ma’am!” he was gone. I ground my teeth together and stalked out the door. BANG CLACK BANG CLACK BANG CLACK. I hate being called ma’am by anyone over the age of seven, unless it’s done so in a funny sort of way.

Arriving home 45 minutes later, I immediately attacked the kitchen. Flour, powdered sugar, and dripping utensils littered every surface and the electric mixer was whirling, like my hips, to Shakira and other random “hot hits”. The mixer is one of those giant ones with a spinning bottom that requires nothing more than an occasional push when things get a little heavy and a swish round the edges. The longer I worked – separating eggs, measuring, hip shaking – the more exhausted I became. I blame that, and not the fact that I’m an occasional idiot, for the wooden spoon incident.

One minute I was running it along the edges, knocking the sugar and such back into the batter, and the next I let go of the handle, thinking, for some reason, that it wouldn’t get caught in the insanely fast moving mixing blades. But, of course, it did. With a huge bang and a lot of grinding it got sucked in and stopped the mixer. I screamed, tugging on the handle and trying to dislodge it, but the grinding only got louder. Then our mastiff puppy, Tank, started to howl because I was screaming. Being a complete genius, it took me another 20 seconds of tugging, screaming, and shouting at the dog to “fuck off” before I thought to unplug the damn thing.

The rest of the night was spent cleaning up huge piles of dishes, attempting to bang the kinks out of the bent mixer parts, and digging powered sugar out of my nostrils from my messy attempt at cream cheese frosting. It was not one of my best days, yet against all odds, the cake turned out brilliant. Sans sugary boogers, of course.

Thursday morning was a whirlwind – packing things to take to the city, getting ready, and finally arriving at 11am to find The Grandmother bitching about the amount of work Thanksgiving meant for her. I rolled up my sleeves and dove into the kitchen, ignoring her as much as possible and sneaking pieces of food off the platters. I was not feeling at all thankful by the time we sat down to dinner two and a half hours later.

Dinner at The Grandmother’s is a great deal more formal than at my Papa’s, which we had to be at by 5:30 that evening. At TG’s the good china and silver get laid out, there are flowers on the table, and everyone has an assigned place. Over the years I’ve managed to bully my way into having a seat at either the head or the foot of the table, mostly by complaints of being left handed. That means that I not only have more elbow room that everyone else, but I can also get out quickly and to the last of the dressing before anyone else, which is crucial.

Though the atmosphere tends to be more staid and the conversation tends to lean more toward the political, I can usually point it in a cruder direction. But with my Aunt Donna bursting into tears because she’s off her meds again, my Uncle Bruce lecturing my 18 year old sister on decorum, mom still suffering from her night of stress induced vomiting, and my Aunt Christie off to New York with her boy wonder, there was no one to laugh with me and I just didn’t feel up to it. I didn’t even say the word “vagina” once, which is simply unheard of.

Unusual too, there was only one shouting match. Everyone was eating dessert, except for me because I was stuffed to the gills with dressing, when mom said, “Do you want to go help The Grandmother clean up the kitchen or do you want me to do it?”

She laid out the bait and waited to see if I’d take it. Rather than go for the whole bite, I just nibbled a bit. “Well, I know what you’d like me to say”, I replied sleepily, stretching out further on the couch.

While everyone else laughed she glared at me, then shoved herself out of the chair and stalked to the kitchen. Even though I knew I’d likely pay for it later, I was so tired from cooking and cleaning already that I couldn’t bear to get up.

Unfortunately a short time later she conveniently forgot our previous conversation and came stomping back in, appearing to address the room at large, but most definitely directing it toward me. “Are any of you going to come in here and help her wash these dishes”, she shouted. The men looked at each other, confused. Surely she wasn't speaking to them? Aunt Donna stared off into space and my sister and I stared at each other, both urging the other to go without a word.

Mom started shouting some more and, grumbling, I shoved myself off the couch and plodded to the kitchen. “Isn’t fucking fair, I’ve been slaving away all last night and this morning and what have you done. Shit, that’s what.”

Not really addressing her, but definitely getting the point across that I was grumbling about her, mom started shouting even louder. We yelled at each other across the kitchen while The Grandmother flapped her towel in the air and tried to outdo us with cries of, “Honestly!” And, “You shoo on out of here! Girls! Girls!”

In the end I washed all 70 million of the dishes, stubbornly refusing to put a single fork in the dishwasher and relishing every muscle ache, sighing loudly every few minutes in martyrdom. I barked orders at my sister and once all was finished, The Grandmother praised my help but not my temper. “Patience is golden”, she said to me, as she always does.

“I’m more of a rusty bronze”, I replied, as I usually do.

But the day wasn’t yet over. I still had one more family and one more dinner to attend to. I was relatively sure, however, that there wouldn’t be any cleaning involved and for that I was infinitely grateful.

Still, a family gathering of alcoholics, foreigners, drug addicts fresh out of rehab, and shamed whore cousins was bound to turn up some kind of drama. Surely?

Ray

2010-11-24T10:43:00.000-02:00

It was a beautiful summer afternoon and I was sitting in my usual spot – draped across two chairs on the screened-in porch with a book in my lap. Mom was frantically running around getting ready for a date my godmother, and next door neighbor, set her up on. Every few minutes she would stand in front of me, demanding my attention and opinion on the latest outfit change. After the fifth or so interruption I was ready to let her have it, but I thought better of it and held my tongue – she’s very sensitive and I knew that, after her last failed relationship, she was more fragile than usual.

While I cannot sympathize with her decision to stay with an abusive husband for 25 years, I can appreciate how hard it must have been to rejoin the dating world after a soul sucking divorce. And just to add insult to injury, the first man she dated was a complete and utter lunatic. If she ever liked anything about him, beyond the attention, I would rather not know about it.

My father was a difficult man to live with and an even harder man to love. I know what it’s like to love him, to hate him, to crave his attention, to wish him dead – and I’m only his daughter. When I ask myself how she could care for the man, the only answer I can come up with is that I should take my feelings and amplify them times 10 – but that’s really not an answer at all and I know I’ll never completely understand.

So instead of yelling at her to “stop bothering me, I’m reading”, I helped choose her outfit, jewelry, and makeup. I complimented her on her shoes and straightened her hair. I’d done those things for her often enough (sometimes I feel more like her stylist than her daughter), but that afternoon I was nicer about it. I didn’t sigh every time she asked me a question and I didn’t yank her hair and demand she hold still. Instead I asked about their plans and assured her she’d have a good time.

When her date arrived she brought him to the porch for introductions. While mom went inside to finish up, he sat down at the table. My cousin, sister and I grilled him like a cheese sandwich. After the last guy caused such an unwelcome stir I was determined to weed out any psychotic tendencies right away. I was in complete obnoxious mode, but he just sat there smiling, laughing, and taking it all in.

He was a big bear of a guy with a casual smile and demeanor. He talked fishing with my cousin, laughed at my jokes, however inappropriate, and when mom returned he seemed content to stay and chat. They ended up leaving an hour later and I remember saying to the others, “I think I like that guy.” His name was Ray.

Over the next few weeks they went out constantly – we rarely saw her at all. He played in a pool tournament every Tuesday night and she started accompanying him. On the weekends they went to dinner, movies, and parties with his friends. It was a big deal, a huge change from the way her life had been – stuck waiting at home wondering where her husband was, never allowed to do much of anything, not being able to keep friends because of the way he behaved. She was having fun and we were happy for her.

My godmother had known Ray for a long time. He was a quiet guy, never volunteering much about himself, so we gathered our information from her. He’d been in a long relationship with a woman, I think about four years, and they lived together. She cheated and he left her. When he started dating mom he’d been single for a year or so. After leaving his previous girlfriend, his father started having health problems so he moved in with him to help out.

By the time he and mom were a thing, he was ready to move out of his dad’s house again. My godmom was newly divorced and renting the house next door. She needed a roommate and thinking it would be pretty cool to have mom’s boyfriend living so close but not living-in, she asked Ray. He said yes.

Over the next several months it was chaos. Ray couldn’t stand having to share the TV with my godmom’s preteen daughter, and vice versa, so we sometimes found him passed out in front of our TV with the remote clutched in his hand. Football, fishing, hunting, racing, and repo shows – that was Ray’s standard fare.

He wouldn’t sleep over, unless it was on the living room floor, so mom spent a lot of nights next door with him. That suited us just fine as she had the most comfortable bed in the house and we would take turns taking it over while she was gone. He ate with us, he went to Sunday dinner at Grandma’s with us, and he started attending my sister’s cheerleading functions.

After one too many mornings of tripping over his bulk on the way to the bathroom, I finally shouted at him, “No one cares if you sleep in her bed, Ray! For the love of god!” He officially moved in shortly after that.

It was anticlimactic, as most things with Ray are. One day he was sleeping on the floor, the next we were clearing out drawer and closet space, and instead of sports programs being on only in the late evenings, they were on constantly. There wasn’t really a period of adjustment – he just fit right in with our odd, all female, group.

The fights between my mother and I are legendary, especially in relation to the raising of my daughter. One of our biggest issues is that she undermines my authority - undoing any disciplinary action I’ve taken, whispering remarks in the kid’s ear and mocking me to make her laugh, allowing her to do things I wouldn’t normally. When Ray came along, I finally had an ally. He was usually quiet, but whenever he saw mom pulling her shenanigans, he called her down. And though she would never listen to what I had to say, she certainly listened to him. It was brilliant, and though we still have a way to go, I can honestly say things have gotten better because of his support and occasional interference.

He would sit on the couch wearing his standard evening fare – tube socks pulled up as far as they could go, grey sweat shorts, and a Clemson t-shirt – while we screamed at each other across the bar. Without pausing in his patting of my cat Nugget, who’d switched loyalties and became Ray’s most adoring follower, he would shout, “That’s enough!” Then, “Alright, this is the way I see it...” and using his hand palm out like a flight attendant, he’d point at each of us in turn and say who was right, who was wrong, and to what degree. Often mom and I would find ourselves so amused by his simple breakdown of our longest, most trying battles that we’d simply give up and laugh.

He and I bonded long before he and my sister did. We were the ones snickering in a corner at family dinners and making jokes about the men at the recycling center. We’d stand, shoulder to shoulder, in the kitchen and peer into a pot of mom’s latest concoction, look at each other with half smiles and raised eyebrows, saying “huh uh, I’m not eating that” without uttering a word. He’d watch my TV shows, complaining for the first few minutes then forget that he wasn’t supposed to like them and start firing questions – “Who is that? What’s she doing?” In turn, he got me addicted to football in a way I’ve never been – to the point of actually knowing the name of a play or what a flag was thrown for before it was announced. He became my friend.

I can’t pinpoint when he became more like a dad. Maybe it was seeing him wear the parent’s t-shirts to support the cheerleading squad and my sister every single weekend during competition season, showing up to every football game and sports banquet. Maybe it was hearing him shout “Hey Hanny” every time Hannah and I walked in the door in the evenings and watching him help her with her homework. Maybe it was hearing him sing his made up song every morning to wake us up when our alarm clocks wouldn’t (“Everybody! Everybody! Everybody in the house get up!”). Or maybe it was when, after being gone for a week to Oklahoma, my sister and I returned well after midnight and crawled into the bed with him, each of us settling into the crook of an arm. And it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

But of course, like any other family member, there are days when I want to throttle him. Days when he’s eaten the last of the cookies or drunk all the Pepsi, days when we fight over control of the remote because we want to watch our reality shows and he wants to watch the fishing channel, days when he can’t pick up on my bad mood and teases me past the point of sanity, days when he is so stubborn and opinionated and such a...southern man...that I can’t stand to be in the same room with him.

Yet all those things I listed make me smile, because honestly, when I look at the big picture, having a dad that irritates me and hogs the remote is a great deal easier than having one that’s an alcoholic and a borderline sociopath. I will always love my father, but the majority of the reason I do so is, sadly, because I have to...because it’s what my blood dictates. Loving Ray hasn’t just been easier, it’s been healing.

For the past year, of the two Ray and Mom have been dating, everyone kept asking me when they were getting married. I’d asked both of them that question myself, together and separate. Together their answer was, “We’re not”, or a joking, “When the other one asks me”. Separate, their answers were more definitive. Mom definitely wanted him to ask and he seemed scared to death of the idea. While mom had been married for over 20 years, Ray had never been. (He’s actually 34 to her 44, which I’m sure made a difference.) The only answer I could ever give people was, “I have no idea. Maybe they won’t.”

Then, just two weekends ago, they went on a trip to the mountains in Tennessee. They came home that Sunday afternoon laden down with gifts from the outlet stores and restaurant reviews (which, as far as our family is concerned, is the most crucial aspect of any vacation story). Hannah and I sat on the couches pawing through our bags of goodies and waiting on my sister to return from cheerleading practice so we could paw through hers too.

When she got home Ray told us that he’d bought us both Christmas presents and if we wanted, we could have them early. He was visibly excited, while mom was visibly exasperated. Apparently she’d tried to rein him in, make him wait until the holidays, but he simply couldn’t help himself. It was endearing.

“Is it electronic”, I asked.

“No. Why”, he said.

“Because if I open it, it has to be something I’ll want to use a lot between now and Christmas. Otherwise, I’d rather wait.”

He laughed. “No, it’s not electronic.”

“Can I wear it?”

“Alyson”, mom shouted in reproach.

Ignoring her, I soldiered on. “Is it black or brown?”

“Why only black or brown? It could be purple”, mom replied.

“Nope. I have a feeling it’s one of the two.”

“Do you want it or not”, Ray asked, avoiding all of my probing questions.

“Yes!”

He brought them out one at a time, grinning from ear to ear. And they were, of course, Coach bags. Beautiful brown Coach bags (though mine is bigger and more beautiful than my sisters. Ha!).

But while we were oohing and aahing over every zipper and compartment, mom left the room unnoticed. It wasn’t until they were both standing in front of us and Ray said, “And look what I got your mother”, that we looked up.

Expecting to be outraged by a handbag larger than my own, my jaw dropped. She held out her left hand and wiggled her sparkling finger. For a minute there was silence – then utter chaos. My sister and I vaulted off the couch and rushed not mom, but Ray, hugging him and shrieking our delight. I was completely out of the blue and it was clear that though they didn’t expect tears, they weren’t expecting such a powerful response either.

The past two weeks have been full of excitement – telling everyone about the engagement and talking about wedding plans. Mom never had an actual wedding so even though it won’t be a lavish affair, it definitely won’t be another trip to the courthouse.

It didn’t occur to me until just the other day, though, that after it’s a done deal things might change. Will they move? Will Ray act differently? Will mom? I haven’t asked them about their long term plans yet and, even if I did, I doubt they’d be able to give me an answer.

I’m hoping he still plays a large part in my day to day life and if they move, they don’t move far. Because I’ve gotten used to shouting “Hey diddy” when I walk in the door, arguing over who is going to eat the last taco, and getting bear hugs at the most random, yet always appropriate times. I’ve gotten used to trips without drama, fights without bruises, and dinners with more laughter. I’ve gotten used to having the kind of family, and the kind of dad, I always wanted.

I don't think, therefore I fuck up.

2010-11-18T19:20:00.001-02:00

I rarely mull things over before taking action. Some call it spontaneity, some call it stupidity and some, like my father, get colorful and call it “getting a wild hair up your ass”.

The phrase “you don’t think” was shouted at me more times as a kid than I can count. It covered a wide range of misdemeanors, including but not limited to the time I – threw our poodle out the window, ran into the heating and air system with the four wheeler, wrote “I hate dad” (except I used his full name) 100 times instead of the allotted punishment of “I will think before opening my mouth”, coerced the neighbor’s children into eating chewy cat treats, and snuck out of my bedroom window with the family dachshund.

In my early 20’s I did appalling, dangerous things, mostly to do with sex and/or alcohol. Now I might not go home with a man covered in tattoos, including one shaped like a postage stamp that says “TRAMP”, named George that I said five words to at the bar (I believe they were, “your dick better be huge”) anymore. But I will, apparently, still do a lot of things without thinking about the end results first. The majority of them are just little things, but they serve the purpose of showing me that, even though I’m now mostly old and lame, I’m still essentially the same irresponsible person.

For instance – I decided last week that I was going to sell jewelry, host a book party and take orders to help out a friend that’s doing it on the side. (Selling jewelry I mean, not sex. Though if she were, I wouldn’t judge. This economy is a bitch.)

First of all, I’m terrible at sales. “You’d better buy something or I’ll karate chop you in the vagina” aren’t the words of a person that does well in retail situations. And if someone chooses not to purchase something even after that eloquent, empty threat of a sales pitch, the parting words aren’t much better – “I hate your face”.

Then I suddenly decided that instead of just getting book orders, I’d have an actual party. Ostensibly this was because I would get more orders that way, but once I started moving forward with the plans I thought, “Why the fuck did I say I’d do that?” It had completely slipped my mind when I said, “I’ll have a jewelry party”, that I’d actually have to, you know, go through with it. I’d have to send out invitations, make phone calls, make food, clean the house more so than usual, and sit in a room full of old ladies.

I don’t like old ladies and I don’t like cleaning. Actually, one of the most common questions I’m asked by family and friends is, “What do you like?” Or they simply state, “You don’t like anything.” I have a reputation for being rather cranky. I digress.

I couldn’t back out because I already had two book orders and my friend really needed the show. So Monday night I sent out my “invitations” – also known as a mass text message basically saying, “please come, there will be food”. Once they show up, I figure I can manipulate them into buying some damn earrings or something. However, the people that I know are attending are such a diverse group that I’ll likely be running interference the entire time. All I need is for my boss to walk up on a conversation like this: “You know she’s always talking to her about her vagina.”

“No!”

“Yes! And she said that sometimes she doesn’t make it to the bath...Oh...hello...”

Another good example is how I ended up agreeing to sing in a Christmas program at a church I don’t attend. I was standing in a group of people, minding my own business, when a doctor that works with my mother (who also happens to be my daughter’s pediatrician and a lovely woman) asked me about my years in the high school chorus.

“Your mother told me you used to sing with Ms. G, is that right?”

“Yes”, I replied with a smile.

“Well we’re having a Christmas Cantata and we’d love to have you be a part of it! You’re a soprano right? First or second?”

Gone was the real smile and in its place the panicked fake, a cross between wild eyed hysteria and a sudden stomach pain that means its deuce time. “Erm...yeah. First...or I used to be. It’s been a long time.”

“Oh, but you never forget those competitions! They were so much fun! There are a lot of us that took Chorus in school so we just love being in choir, gives us that old feeling.”

“Uh huh....” People don’t forget! .....

“So we meet every Wednesday night at 7 and some Sunday nights...”

“Sounds like fun”, I said too loudly.

“I can’t wait to see you there! Bring your mother.”

“Ooook! I’ll be there!” Wait...what? Tourettes! Tourettes!

And that’s how my mother ended up bringing home a CD sent by the Doc for me to practice with before the first rehearsal.

That was the first week in November. I haven’t made it to one practice yet, nor have I even attempted to listen to the CD. If I would have actually taken a moment to think about my answers before croaking out some bullshit, I wouldn’t be put in the position of looking like an asshole for not turning up. Or looking like an asshole when I eventually cave, listen to the CD, stand in front of a church full of people, and squeal in a choir robe, reeking of Saturday night’s beer blitz.

However, everyone has their limit. I can’t go on being irresponsible forever, can I? And after last weekend’s incident, thinking before I act, or agree to things, may just become my new favorite pastime.

My mom and her boyfriend left to go to the mountains and I immediately said to myself, “I’m going to have a party!” Then I enlisted my friend and neighbor, Claire, to help me invite the usual crowd.

I’d forgotten a couple of key elements when I decided to throw a party at my house that Saturday night:

1. Both Carolina and Clemson were playing and both games were critical.

2. Claire is overzealous when it comes to football. This is an understatement.

3. People get drunk at parties.

4. The usual crowd is quite large. My house is not.

At 6:30 Rachel, my sister and I arrived back at the house with a handle of Jim Beam, two cases of beer, and an extra pack of cigarettes. Claire came walking in a few minutes later with her insanely hyper Weimaraner in tow, decked out in her Clemson finest, and immediately flipped the TV to football.

Things started out fine – a few more people showed up within the next hour and we were all just hanging out and drinking a few beers. We made plans to play a game of Things when more people arrived.

Then it all started to go downhill rather quickly – Claire broke out the liquor, Claire took shots of liquor, more people showed up, Claire took more shots of liquor, Rachel hid, my sister curled up on the couch with some boy I thought was a deaf/mute, Claire coerced other people into taking shots, still more people showed up, someone kept making really loud jokes about “snatch”, and I...I was close to having an anxiety attack.

Before Clemson even made it to half time, I couldn’t hear myself think it was so loud in there. Rachel had forced herself into a tiny ball in the corner of one couch, one girl was puking in the bathroom, Claire had the remote shoved down her pants so no one could flip to the Carolina game to check the score, and someone had smoked all my cigarettes.

I’d only had two beers and I made myself drink those. I was too anxious to have fun at my own party. I stood on the perimeter, observing like an outsider for quite awhile. It was surreal watching them all interact without me at the center.

It wasn’t until I saw how much of the liquor bottle Claire and those had drunk that I moved into action. One of two things was going to happen – I was going to force myself to get drunk in order to deal, or I was going to scream at them all to get the fuck out.

So I drank. I shoved my way through the tangle of them and I poured a row of shots, downing them one after the other. A guy standing next to me clapped me on the back and said, “I hear ya”.

I walked around mopping up spills, picking up trash and throwing away beer cans. I approached my cousin Dave and said, “Go. Go now and get the fire barrel.”

“Ugh, I don’t want to. I’m hanging out.”

“Go get it now or die. These people have got to clear out some.”

About an hour later the majority of them were playing cornhole under a spotlight in the driveway and standing around a fire barrel gossiping. I’d managed to exert a bit of control, but while I was doing it, I was also killing the bottle of Jim. It was preferable to killing Claire, who was the only person who couldn’t be managed. She banged on the windows when Clemson scored, she banged on the counter when the other team scored, she screamed “break his fucking neck” at the top of her lungs in five minute increments, and by the time the game was over she was stumbling around in a huff...still with the remote in the front of her pants.

Several people left and I was able to really start enjoying myself. We stood around and talked outside, I found my spare pack of cigarettes, and we played cornhole and Things. I wish I would’ve saved the slips of paper from the Things game because they were the best part of the night. Well, that and when Dave was going to give me a piggyback ride and instead of jumping up from the ground like a normal person, I ran up the stairs of the patio and launched myself at him from the top like a spider monkey – sending us both plummeting to the ground. Poor Dave.

At 3am, when the only two people left were Claire and a guy friend of hers, I was rather drunk and ready for my pajamas. Rachel played bad cop and sent them home while I crawled into bed.

I woke up at 9:30 the next morning with a marching band in my head. My very first thought was, of course, “Why the fuck did I say I’d have a party?”

The damage to the house was minimal – just a sink full of dishes, a dirty floor, a few scattered beer cans (I’d picked up the majority as they were sat down because apparently I’m OCD about that), and a bit of a mess on the patio. Rachel, my sister and I cleaned up pretty quickly.

The main damage that was done wasn’t to the house, it was to me. Though I managed to have a decent time by the end of the night, I’m pretty sure the beginning scarred me for life. I can confidently say that I will never have another party again – never. From now on, I’ll stick with having a few bottles of wine on the porch with three or four people.

And if the memory from the night before wasn’t enough to make my resolution stick, Claire made it iron clad. She came walking in when we were about finished straightening up, smiling and completely hangover free, though she’d been by far the drunkest person there. I was still a bit put out with her behavior, but nothing a day or so wouldn’t fix. After all, I’ve certainly been the obnoxious drunk before.

Then she asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

I told her about how anxious I’d been, about how the spilling and the screaming and the general mayhem had almost sent me over the edge. Without actually pointing any fingers, I tried to gently imply that she’d been the one at the helm of that shipwreck.

She nodded earnestly and leaned toward me. I stared mutely back, waiting on the apology that was my due.

Looking me straight in the eyes and laying her hand atop mine, she said, “I know, girl! I could never have a party at my house. All those people! I don’t know what you were thinking!”

The stalker's book of irritating faces

2010-11-15T16:53:00.001-02:00

The internet has brought people watching into a different arena. You can see someone do their daily routine on a YouTube video, read and track their every move on Twitter, see what their interests and passions are on a forum. You can find out what they wore that day, what they had for dinner, and with certain people who over share (that shall remain nameless), you even know how many times they got off the night before.

In some cases you learn more about a person by watching their videos and reading their words online, than you can by watching their hand gestures and lip movements from the bushes across the street with a telephoto lens. Am I right, guys? What some call “cyber stalking”, others call “sitting in my swivel chair and wearing a bib to catch the drool while I look through all 793 of your photos instead of driving past your house three times a day, hoping to catch a glimpse as you walk by the window”. Or, you know, “social networking”.

I’ve found that I’m occasionally more interested in a person via their online dealings than I am if they’re in front of my face. I think it’s mostly about safety: I can watch them without worrying that they’ll come up to me. I can click an X and they’ll go away. I can laugh at pictures of them and they’ll never know. I can pick my nose and wear my pjs covered in baby chickens without fear of discovery. But there’s one site I’m on the fence about - Facebook.

Truthfully I don’t spend a lot of time on it. I only reopened my account this past summer (which I swore I’d never do after my very large Aunt, whose main hobbies are sucking down troughs of sweet tea and reading Harlequin novels in a recliner all day, bombarded my wall with messages not three minutes after I clicked on accept) when pictures of me started cropping up all over the place. I decided I would reactivate it so I could swap photos with my friends easily, etc and so forth. And for the most part it’s worked out quite well, especially since my Aunt has now forsaken FB in lieu of some new gaming site.

I’m not sure why, but I find Twitter far more interesting. (Maybe because I only use it for bloggers and there's no pressure to behave.) The only reasons I really pay attention to someone’s Facebook updates are if: they look like they can benefit me in some way, I’d like to see them naked, they are about me or contain pictures of me, or I happened to see a vulgar word. Vulgarity always gets my attention.

I don’t mind admitting that I’m very particular about who I accept friend requests from. The main reason for that is that I don’t really like people. The second, and more accurate reason, is that if I start accepting whoever, my blog could get out there. Then I’ll be forced to start a new one about baking pies and making flower arrangements, rather than whom I got busy with the other week (Which, in case you were wondering, is the 43 year old I haven’t written about because he has the link to this blog and that would be so rude (right?). Hello, R. Round two? RAWR!). And no one wants that, least of all me. I’m terrible at flower arrangements and I prefer cake.

But there are people that I can’t say no to. Though I am particular about whom I accept there’s no way I can turn down a friend request from, say, my kid’s grandmother. Or as I like to call her, “The Non-In-Law”. (My mother calls her “Heinous Hair”, but that’s another story.) I don’t particularly want her to have my updates and I definitely don’t want to see my feed bombarded with her ridiculous mystery eggs and fake lost cows. And it may sound completely illogical, but when she sent me an instant message through there the other day, I got really aggravated. Contact online was not necessary – especially since she has a million other ways to get a hold of me. Stalker.

Hell, before we’d gone on our first date, Sam sent me a request. I was absolutely appalled. I remember saying to my sister, “The motherfucker has gone and infiltrated my Facebook! If I say no, he’ll think I’m hiding something. If I say yes, he’ll find out things I might not be ready for him to find out yet...which doesn’t count as hiding, so shut your pie hole. I mean, give me a chance to say hello before you feel me up, am I right?”

“What? Feel you up? But I thought you hadn’t...”

“Go away! You suck at this game!”

No matter how particular I am, I always end up with a few people that make me want to vomit. I occasionally put up a bit about my kid, but it’s never really touchy feely. Write a whole post that makes fun of her giant behind yet also shows how much I love her? Sure, no problem! Write a paragraph update on FB about how she makes tears come to my eyes every time she punches me in the ovaries, not because it hurts, but because she’s such a glorious miracle from God? Hell no.

When a certain friend posts a status about her toddler or puts up photos of her family I think, “How are you even old enough to have a family? Are you on uppers? Please, for the love of Christ, stop posting every five minutes about how wonderful your life is and how your child said something completely dull.”

Case and point –

One of my updates: “So apparently my crumb snatcher starts Kindergarten on Wednesday. Man, I feel old.”

One of her updates, paraphrased because writing it outright makes me gag: “Like, waiting on my fantastic husband to get home with my little prince. I’m so lucky. Blessings and, like, flowers, hearts and heavenly trumpets, venereal disease is a total myth, ya’ll!”

I can handle that kind of thing in small doses, but this is like an everyday occurrence...saying the same exact shit. And each update is half a fucking page long. Get a mommy blog for fucks sake! Ahem. I’m hoping I can delete her unobtrusively in the near future.

Don’t even get me started on the damn farm and treasure hunting stuff. I haven’t explored it all, but I asked a friend just what exactly they were supposed to do on this Farmville shit. Apparently all you have to do is click on things and holy crap! You’re a farmer! There was a longer explanation, but it all boils down to this: It’s the most boring “game” I’ve ever heard of in my life. Maybe even more coma inducing that golf.

But, as of this past weekend, you know what the best thing about Facebook is?

Signing in, glancing at your feed to see if there’s anything there about you (because hello, that’s what it’s all about), and instead being slapped in the face with a picture of the guy you’ve been seeing and a woman that’s hotter and skinnier that you. It sucks, even if you weren’t crazy about him. Because no woman wants to find out, through the fucking internet, that the guy she let put it in her ass, against her usual better judgment, has been shacking up with someone that’s better looking.

The only positive aspect is that I don’t have to wonder anymore. Now I know why he hasn’t called lately – It’s not because he’s dead or I offended him. He’s just balls deep in some hot old broad.

I guess my main issue is this – It isn’t blog land. I can’t say anything I want. Well I could, but I was taught to respect my elders and, as much as the Non-In-Law and other older family members irritate me, I can’t bring myself to call them fuckers or demand they stop bombarding me with their stupid cartoon crops. And I can’t tell my old friend that I don’t give a rip roaring shit about her completely generic kid. And I can’t post a comment on a photo that says, “It really doesn’t matter if you’re a little bit prettier than me. He’s just going to shove your face in the pillow anyway. I said What What in the Butt.” Because feelings could get hurt.

And because, in case you weren’t already aware, Facebook is real life dot com.