We sit in a deli, munching on chips and waiting for our sandwiches. I trace the black and white checks on the little table and glance around.
There’s a young couple to our right, good looking and likely aware of it, if their faces are any indication. It’s the look I wear when I’m made up – chin raised a bit higher, a slightly haughty, bored with it all expression. They stare silently at each other across the table and I’d be willing to wager that the only reason they aren’t speaking is because we’re within hearing distance.
To our left is an elderly couple, their bodies curved toward each other like weathered parentheses. I can only imagine what lies in the protected area between them, but that doesn’t really matter because, like most sentences, everything I really need to know is already out in the open. Further explanation would just ruin the effect of their shared side of the table, or the battered ring on his exposed left hand.
A group of teenagers sits, barely visible, around the corner of the counter. They’ve ordered their food to go, talking and laughing loudly amongst themselves while they wait. The crew making our sandwiches seems to find their exploits more interesting than the other patrons do.
And what about the two of us, this final pair? What, if anything, do these people notice about the way we sit and the way we speak to each other? I try to picture ourselves through a stranger’s eyes and it’s difficult.
She recently dyed her hair a dark, chestnut brown and I wonder if it dilutes our other physical similarities. I don’t think I look good as a brunette and prefer to keep as close to our original blonde as possible. Dark versus fair – she calls herself “the good twin”, but we have different opinions on what constitutes goodness. In fact, we have differing opinions on just about everything. Can they tell?
Our sandwiches arrive and, between bites, we continue our conversation. She lowers her voice, while my louder tone mingles with the laughs round the corner. We’re discussing a trip I’m taking soon and, though she isn’t angry as I expected her to be, she doesn’t understand my wanderlust. Everything she wants is right here in her own country, in her own backyard. She thinks everyone should be content with what they already have. It’s only one of the many ways we frustrate each other.
I complement her on the choice of restaurant and she smiles, offering me a taste of her sandwich. I don’t give compliments and she very rarely shares with me. She claims I always take what I want anyway, and perhaps that’s true. But we both seem to be trying harder today, and I wonder if our thoughtfulness seems as new to those around us as it does to me. Like the palpable awkwardness of a first date, can onlookers tell that we are more at home screaming at each other than having a normal conversation?
We’ve just finished wrapping up what’s left of our meal when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up and into the smiling face of the old woman, her husband waiting patiently behind her.
“You look just like your mother”, she says, patting me once.
“Thanks”, I reply.
I glance across the table expecting to see my own face, twenty years older, smirking back at me. But I don’t. This is the moment when she always says, without fail, “Actually, I’m the better looking one” or “She’s the evil twin”.
Instead she says nothing. And suddenly I wonder if what she, and everyone else, has been seeing, is my reluctance to be like her.
Showing posts with label I'm getting old. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I'm getting old. Show all posts
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Thursday, November 18, 2010
I don't think, therefore I fuck up.
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 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!”
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Spring has come to Whoreville (Alternate Title: Don't judge me, asshole.)
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Monday, December 21, 2009
Turns out I HAVE been kidnapped. By aliens.
Friday night I went out with friends and got a bit wasted. Well, if “a bit” counts as stumbling around and playing grab ass with other women.
At the second bar I ran into a guy I used to know in high school. Well, I was in high school at the time...he wasn’t.
He worked at the same place I did and had a pregnant girlfriend who also worked with us. Being 16, that didn’t matter a bit to me and we ended up starting a quiet affair. And by quiet, I mean quiet. Only one person ever knew about it and she wouldn’t have opened her mouth if you paid her. Mutual dirt, see. She was a much bigger whore than I was.
On our breaks we would sneak around the side of the building and make out. He even once talked me into a blow job, right out in the open. I later found out that there were cameras in that area. If anyone saw anything they never breathed a word, thank gawd. I’m sure they would have had a good laugh though. I wasn’t nearly as talented back then. Maybe there was a bit of arm flailing and awkward head bobbing.
We never actually had sex, but we came pretty close a few times. He would sit close to me at work and just stare at me, big brown eyes saying, “I’d like to dip you in cheese and spread you on a cracker”. Occasionally he would lick his lips. It was all quite ridiculous.
Sometimes he’d have to call me from a phone booth and he would stand there for an hour, just to “hear my voice”.
I don’t remember what our conversations were about, but there was a song called Dilemma by Nelly and Kelly Rowland and he would play it on the phone and sing it to me. It was “our song”. Years later, every single time I hear that song it reminds me of him. Not in an “I wish I could go back and do it again” way. More like a “that was interesting but I feel kind of shitty for doing it” way.
So when I walked into the bar Friday night and saw him standing there, looking five times hotter than he used to, I was thrown for a loop. Being drunk helped a bit too.
He walked right up to me with a big grin on his face and said, “You don’t remember me do you?”
“Oh, yeah...I remember you”, I replied.
This was followed by a few nicey nice, what’s been going on questions. He mentioned his kid and I said, “So are you and what’s-her-name still together?”
“No”, he said smiling. “What about you? Are you single?”
“Terminally.”
He laughed and said, “You know, every time I hear that song...I think about you. For the first couple of years I looked for you everywhere: around town, Myspace, Facebook...”
“I don’t have a Facebook...”
“I know, but you do have a Myspace...”
“Never use it.”
“Used to.”
“Yep.”
“You’re still beautiful.”
Thinking: “Ooooooh shit.” Joking, I actually said, “You haven’t been pining away for me all these years, have you?”
He leaned closer and said, very serious like, “Yes, I have.”
At a rare loss, all I did was blush, smile, and fiddle with my drink.
He asked for my number and I gave it to him before my friends dragged me out the door.
He’s already texted me four or five times since then, but I’ve yet to respond.
I know you’re thinking, “Why the fuck not!”
There are several reasons:
- His baby mama is badass crazy. That’s drama I don’t need.
- He’s hot. Really hot. But I don’t feel any overwhelming sexual chemistry.
- At this point I’d just be using him for sex and my ego.
- It could never be anything but another fling.
I know. I’ve finally gone off the fucking deep end. Turning down sex that’s bound to be great (he’s storing a miracle grown cucumber in his shorts). Turning down ego stroking. Worrying about using a man. Ugh!
Who the fuck is this person and what has she done with me? Just what does she think she’s holding out for? And when is she planning on getting laid again, damn it?
In other news:
I’ve seen the bum one more time walking down the same road, but no one has seen him since. The motion lights have been repaired and the metal baseball bat is a permanent fixture.
As a matter of fact, I was on my way home the other night and I came to a license check. When the cop pointed his flashlight around the car, he noticed the metal bat riding in the passenger seat.
“What’s with the bat?”
“It’s for protection.”
“Against what?”
“Sexual deviants, bums, and the occasional rowdy house guest.”
“Cute. Are you concealing any firearms in the vehicle?”
“I’m not allowed to have firearms, but there are two Nerf guns in the trunk, if that’s relevant.”
Clearly irritated, “It’s not. Have a good evening.” He handed me my license back and waved me on through. I waved to the rest of them as I passed. Most of them have seen me half naked. Might as well give um’ hell when I get an opportunity.
In other, other news:
I’m feeling a little uninspired lately on the blogging front. Feel free (that means do it now) to help me out any way you see fit.
At the second bar I ran into a guy I used to know in high school. Well, I was in high school at the time...he wasn’t.
He worked at the same place I did and had a pregnant girlfriend who also worked with us. Being 16, that didn’t matter a bit to me and we ended up starting a quiet affair. And by quiet, I mean quiet. Only one person ever knew about it and she wouldn’t have opened her mouth if you paid her. Mutual dirt, see. She was a much bigger whore than I was.
On our breaks we would sneak around the side of the building and make out. He even once talked me into a blow job, right out in the open. I later found out that there were cameras in that area. If anyone saw anything they never breathed a word, thank gawd. I’m sure they would have had a good laugh though. I wasn’t nearly as talented back then. Maybe there was a bit of arm flailing and awkward head bobbing.
We never actually had sex, but we came pretty close a few times. He would sit close to me at work and just stare at me, big brown eyes saying, “I’d like to dip you in cheese and spread you on a cracker”. Occasionally he would lick his lips. It was all quite ridiculous.
Sometimes he’d have to call me from a phone booth and he would stand there for an hour, just to “hear my voice”.
I don’t remember what our conversations were about, but there was a song called Dilemma by Nelly and Kelly Rowland and he would play it on the phone and sing it to me. It was “our song”. Years later, every single time I hear that song it reminds me of him. Not in an “I wish I could go back and do it again” way. More like a “that was interesting but I feel kind of shitty for doing it” way.
So when I walked into the bar Friday night and saw him standing there, looking five times hotter than he used to, I was thrown for a loop. Being drunk helped a bit too.
He walked right up to me with a big grin on his face and said, “You don’t remember me do you?”
“Oh, yeah...I remember you”, I replied.
This was followed by a few nicey nice, what’s been going on questions. He mentioned his kid and I said, “So are you and what’s-her-name still together?”
“No”, he said smiling. “What about you? Are you single?”
“Terminally.”
He laughed and said, “You know, every time I hear that song...I think about you. For the first couple of years I looked for you everywhere: around town, Myspace, Facebook...”
“I don’t have a Facebook...”
“I know, but you do have a Myspace...”
“Never use it.”
“Used to.”
“Yep.”
“You’re still beautiful.”
Thinking: “Ooooooh shit.” Joking, I actually said, “You haven’t been pining away for me all these years, have you?”
He leaned closer and said, very serious like, “Yes, I have.”
At a rare loss, all I did was blush, smile, and fiddle with my drink.
He asked for my number and I gave it to him before my friends dragged me out the door.
He’s already texted me four or five times since then, but I’ve yet to respond.
I know you’re thinking, “Why the fuck not!”
There are several reasons:
- His baby mama is badass crazy. That’s drama I don’t need.
- He’s hot. Really hot. But I don’t feel any overwhelming sexual chemistry.
- At this point I’d just be using him for sex and my ego.
- It could never be anything but another fling.
I know. I’ve finally gone off the fucking deep end. Turning down sex that’s bound to be great (he’s storing a miracle grown cucumber in his shorts). Turning down ego stroking. Worrying about using a man. Ugh!
Who the fuck is this person and what has she done with me? Just what does she think she’s holding out for? And when is she planning on getting laid again, damn it?
In other news:
I’ve seen the bum one more time walking down the same road, but no one has seen him since. The motion lights have been repaired and the metal baseball bat is a permanent fixture.
As a matter of fact, I was on my way home the other night and I came to a license check. When the cop pointed his flashlight around the car, he noticed the metal bat riding in the passenger seat.
“What’s with the bat?”
“It’s for protection.”
“Against what?”
“Sexual deviants, bums, and the occasional rowdy house guest.”
“Cute. Are you concealing any firearms in the vehicle?”
“I’m not allowed to have firearms, but there are two Nerf guns in the trunk, if that’s relevant.”
Clearly irritated, “It’s not. Have a good evening.” He handed me my license back and waved me on through. I waved to the rest of them as I passed. Most of them have seen me half naked. Might as well give um’ hell when I get an opportunity.
In other, other news:
I’m feeling a little uninspired lately on the blogging front. Feel free (that means do it now) to help me out any way you see fit.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Peter Pan syndrome and Penis Week
This morning when I left my house at 6:30am my mother stopped me at the door and said, “You do know there’s a towel on your head, right?”
I think that’s a pretty good indication of how today will go. I have my absent minded hat on and it’s blue and white striped terry cloth.
Anyway, isn’t my best friend lovely? I was worried that she might tell an embarrassing story or make fun of my crush on her brother, but there wasn’t one snide remark. I didn’t edit her entry at all...except to put spaces in because I’m anal like that. (No butt jokes please children.) AND not once did she call me a lesbian! Bravo, Rachel. (Haven't read it yet? Do.)
We’ve both been moaning lately about how boring our lives have become. Just the other day I called her on my way home from work and our conversation was a little disheartening.
“What did you do today?”
“Well...” She launched into a list of household duties and internet rubbish. Then came the kicker...
“Oh! There’s this pan that had eggs stuck on it for days. No one has been able to get them off, not even my mom when she came to visit. But today, I scrubbed and scrubbed that bitch and I FINALLY GOT THEM ALL OFF! I was standing there, grinning over my accomplishment, and then...I wasn’t. Because all of a sudden I realized this is the most excited I’ve gotten in a long time, and it’s all over scraping a fucking pan of eggs!”
I howled with laughter. Then I told her about my own excitement.
“We borrowed this really kick ass carpet shampooer. I was tired when I got home from work and I didn’t want to do it, but we had to return it the next day. So, I filled the bastard up with the soap stuff and water, threw all my shit on my bed and started shampooing. And for some reason, I got all hyped up. I was all “OUT DAMN SPOT!” and “HAHA!” and “HEY YOU GUYS! LOOK AT THIS SHIT! LOOK HOW WHITE THIS IS!” Dear gawd...what’s happened to us?”
She was laughing. “I don’t know.”
“I have nothing else pertinent to talk about. I’ll call you later if I have an interesting run in with the laundry.”
“Ok, later.”
And that was that.
Honestly! What have we become? Is that what adults do Рget excited about cleaning? Am I doomed to discuss things like politics and the weather? Would it be clich̩ of me to go all Peter Pan and declare war on adulthood? Sigh. Probably.
We used to do crazy things!
Like climb into parked vehicles that weren’t ours and talk our way out of getting arrested for it, dance in the fountain downtown, yell belligerently at cars driving by with their windows rolled down, dance with hot foreigners and maybe sleep with them and maybe laugh at each other through the walls because things are a little too vocal on one side and not vocal enough on the other, wear ridiculous outfits on St. Patty’s Day and get so drunk by noon that when they vacate the area for a tornado you wonder where everyone has gone while you were in the bathroom, pull over the car every 10 yards so one of you can puke but on the 3rd stop come back to the car and declare you must go another 5 yards because a couple is sitting on a bench right in the puking area and you’re positive they are getting engaged, get tattooed together, have ridiculous contests that no one else can ever know about, attempt to attack a flock of geese, do the worm and tell the guy that said you can’t dance that he has a receding hair line and sucks at life then do the Pee Wee Herman off the dance floor and hit on his friend, make out with each other and find pictures of it the next day and destroy the evidence, trick a fireman into believing he’s getting a threesome then drug him and crawl around on hands and knees looking for pictures that were probably deleted ages ago but leave laughing because one of you had to dress up like a dominatrix for no apparent reason, teach the kid to tell her grandma she wants to go to the liquor store and get wasted, put I’m Bringing Sexy Back on repeat for 45 minutes and refuse to change it when people complain and instead make them line up and slap your ass.
Yeah, we were cool once.
If I’m going by the conversation from last night, maybe things will get...better. Ok, maybe not.
We talked about the Halloween party (unfortunately she has to work and can’t be there), the costume I chose, what she was going to dress up as for work, my conquest plans for Nate, and her recent drunken night with her boyfriend.
Apparently they ran into a group of his friends and she regaled them with stories of how enormous his cock is.
About the time she was telling me this; I was attempting to put on my robe and holding the phone with my shoulder. My face hit the speaker button and out into the living room came, “...HIS HUGE COCK! IT’S MY HUGE COCK AND YOU BITCHES CAN’T HAVE IT. THE COCK...”
Giggling like an idiot, I finally managed to take it off speaker. My mom sat on the couch gawking at me, which made me laugh even harder.
“What in the hell is that girl talking about”, she asked.
“Her boyfriend’s cock, obviously”, I said.
She rolled her eyes and from the next room the kid yelled, “GOOO COCKS!”
Mom glared at me. I shrugged and went outside to finish talking. At least the kid was associating it with football...
Anyway, maybe one day when we aren’t both broke and tired from work...we’ll got out and get into trouble again. I do so love trouble.
In other news:
I’ll be taking next week off from blogging. I’ll still read and comment where I can, but I need a break...and possibly I need to get some work done. Eh, whatever.
Fear not! Next week I’ve asked some of my favorite male bloggers to take over. It’s sure to be interesting. Just...don’t let a week of yummy men make you forget what’s important around here: Me.
I’ll announce the line up and the topic by the end of the week. (Fellas, remember the deadline is Sunday.)
Oh! AND I just reached 100 followers! WOOT! That's exciting business. Maybe I should do something to mark the occasion? Suggestions? Other than sexual favors please...I'm far too busy. Anyway, welcome to you new folks who have yet to comment. Have a look around and feel free to give me money.
Oh, and one more thing. Those of you that don't have a blog, no picture, and just one letter for your name....say, my mom's initial....who are you? Seriously. Creepy....
Thank you. Come again.
I think that’s a pretty good indication of how today will go. I have my absent minded hat on and it’s blue and white striped terry cloth.
Anyway, isn’t my best friend lovely? I was worried that she might tell an embarrassing story or make fun of my crush on her brother, but there wasn’t one snide remark. I didn’t edit her entry at all...except to put spaces in because I’m anal like that. (No butt jokes please children.) AND not once did she call me a lesbian! Bravo, Rachel. (Haven't read it yet? Do.)
We’ve both been moaning lately about how boring our lives have become. Just the other day I called her on my way home from work and our conversation was a little disheartening.
“What did you do today?”
“Well...” She launched into a list of household duties and internet rubbish. Then came the kicker...
“Oh! There’s this pan that had eggs stuck on it for days. No one has been able to get them off, not even my mom when she came to visit. But today, I scrubbed and scrubbed that bitch and I FINALLY GOT THEM ALL OFF! I was standing there, grinning over my accomplishment, and then...I wasn’t. Because all of a sudden I realized this is the most excited I’ve gotten in a long time, and it’s all over scraping a fucking pan of eggs!”
I howled with laughter. Then I told her about my own excitement.
“We borrowed this really kick ass carpet shampooer. I was tired when I got home from work and I didn’t want to do it, but we had to return it the next day. So, I filled the bastard up with the soap stuff and water, threw all my shit on my bed and started shampooing. And for some reason, I got all hyped up. I was all “OUT DAMN SPOT!” and “HAHA!” and “HEY YOU GUYS! LOOK AT THIS SHIT! LOOK HOW WHITE THIS IS!” Dear gawd...what’s happened to us?”
She was laughing. “I don’t know.”
“I have nothing else pertinent to talk about. I’ll call you later if I have an interesting run in with the laundry.”
“Ok, later.”
And that was that.
Honestly! What have we become? Is that what adults do Рget excited about cleaning? Am I doomed to discuss things like politics and the weather? Would it be clich̩ of me to go all Peter Pan and declare war on adulthood? Sigh. Probably.
We used to do crazy things!
Like climb into parked vehicles that weren’t ours and talk our way out of getting arrested for it, dance in the fountain downtown, yell belligerently at cars driving by with their windows rolled down, dance with hot foreigners and maybe sleep with them and maybe laugh at each other through the walls because things are a little too vocal on one side and not vocal enough on the other, wear ridiculous outfits on St. Patty’s Day and get so drunk by noon that when they vacate the area for a tornado you wonder where everyone has gone while you were in the bathroom, pull over the car every 10 yards so one of you can puke but on the 3rd stop come back to the car and declare you must go another 5 yards because a couple is sitting on a bench right in the puking area and you’re positive they are getting engaged, get tattooed together, have ridiculous contests that no one else can ever know about, attempt to attack a flock of geese, do the worm and tell the guy that said you can’t dance that he has a receding hair line and sucks at life then do the Pee Wee Herman off the dance floor and hit on his friend, make out with each other and find pictures of it the next day and destroy the evidence, trick a fireman into believing he’s getting a threesome then drug him and crawl around on hands and knees looking for pictures that were probably deleted ages ago but leave laughing because one of you had to dress up like a dominatrix for no apparent reason, teach the kid to tell her grandma she wants to go to the liquor store and get wasted, put I’m Bringing Sexy Back on repeat for 45 minutes and refuse to change it when people complain and instead make them line up and slap your ass.
Yeah, we were cool once.
If I’m going by the conversation from last night, maybe things will get...better. Ok, maybe not.
We talked about the Halloween party (unfortunately she has to work and can’t be there), the costume I chose, what she was going to dress up as for work, my conquest plans for Nate, and her recent drunken night with her boyfriend.
Apparently they ran into a group of his friends and she regaled them with stories of how enormous his cock is.
About the time she was telling me this; I was attempting to put on my robe and holding the phone with my shoulder. My face hit the speaker button and out into the living room came, “...HIS HUGE COCK! IT’S MY HUGE COCK AND YOU BITCHES CAN’T HAVE IT. THE COCK...”
Giggling like an idiot, I finally managed to take it off speaker. My mom sat on the couch gawking at me, which made me laugh even harder.
“What in the hell is that girl talking about”, she asked.
“Her boyfriend’s cock, obviously”, I said.
She rolled her eyes and from the next room the kid yelled, “GOOO COCKS!”
Mom glared at me. I shrugged and went outside to finish talking. At least the kid was associating it with football...
Anyway, maybe one day when we aren’t both broke and tired from work...we’ll got out and get into trouble again. I do so love trouble.
In other news:
I’ll be taking next week off from blogging. I’ll still read and comment where I can, but I need a break...and possibly I need to get some work done. Eh, whatever.
Fear not! Next week I’ve asked some of my favorite male bloggers to take over. It’s sure to be interesting. Just...don’t let a week of yummy men make you forget what’s important around here: Me.
I’ll announce the line up and the topic by the end of the week. (Fellas, remember the deadline is Sunday.)
Oh! AND I just reached 100 followers! WOOT! That's exciting business. Maybe I should do something to mark the occasion? Suggestions? Other than sexual favors please...I'm far too busy. Anyway, welcome to you new folks who have yet to comment. Have a look around and feel free to give me money.
Oh, and one more thing. Those of you that don't have a blog, no picture, and just one letter for your name....say, my mom's initial....who are you? Seriously. Creepy....
Thank you. Come again.
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