Wedding day, part two - The reception

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!”

Here's a quarter

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?

My biggest pet peeve

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 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:



Online dating

I have this crazy idea that I’m positive no blogger has ever had before, because I’m just that original.


I’m going to join a dating website.

90% of this decision is based on the wealth of material that’s sure to crop up, 5% is based on the fact that I obviously can’t meet anyone anywhere else, and the other 5%...well; let’s just say that if I do it, The Grandmother has promised to stop harassing me about going to church to meet a “nice man”. One day, when she’s older, I’ll tell her about the nice man, the nice seminary student actually, that I met at church and played hide the holy relic with in the back of his jeep. He made the sign of the cross in all the right places. Our father, who art in heaven...how loud I screamed your name. Amen.

Seriously, I’ve been circling around this idea for awhile now. I’ve gone from being adamant that online dating is for losers, to being genuinely curious. It seems like everyone is doing it now. But, just in case anyone decides to make fun of me, I have a full proof plan that goes a little something like this: Bitch, I will Cut. You.

Now that that’s settled, I need to make another plan – a plan of action. This is where you guys come in. (That’s what she said.) I welcome any advice from those who’ve done the online dating gig before, and even advice from those that haven’t done it but think they know everything about everything anyway. (Yeah, you know who you are.)

I’m sure there are certain things that, for the sake of being fair, I need to include on my profile. They say that honesty is the best policy in general, but is the same true for online dating? For instance, when I tell them I’m the single mother of a kindergartener, do I go ahead and lay it all out there?

“When I was 18 I fucked my much older boss because I thought he was sexy, but it turns out that he wasn’t that sexy, he was just fertile. Now I have a five year old daughter that whines constantly and has an unhealthy fascination with her own vagina, which we actually call a “boo” because apparently “vagina” is not an appropriate word for a child. She also has a small problem with kleptomania that I’m addressing, as needed, by sneaking the things she takes back without anyone knowing in order to avoid embarrassment.”

Do I tell them outright that I live at home with my mother, her boyfriend, my teenage sister, two retarded cats, and a mastiff puppy that eats my underwear? Do they need to know the family dynamics?

“There won’t be any sex happening at my place, in case you were wondering, so I hope you live alone or have nice roommates. I generally can’t even masturbate in peace so sometimes, when I do get a little alone time, I get so excited that I injure myself and then I’m out of commission for a few days. So if I use the word “recuperating” in response to a request to hang out, that’s probably what’s going on and if you still want to get together, you shouldn’t expect anything more than a blowjob. And only if you really deserve it.


Furthermore, if you decide you want to be ‘old fashioned’ and pick me up from my house rather than meet me somewhere like a non-stalker, you will likely be subjected to a heated inquisition. My mother will ask you if you are gay, if you are aware that I may be gay and if you are - why it doesn’t bother you, if you are aware that my womb was once occupied (well, twice occupied, but I hope she’d leave that first one off knowing how some people feel about murder), and if you’ve heard of the private school she attended 27 years ago. However, there is no need to worry about my father as he lives 1200 miles away and only comes to town when there’s a bulk sale on cocaine. But should we eventually decide to get married (you never know, stranger things have happened), you should know that he will likely die before then from liver damage, so you’ll have to pay for the wedding on your own.”

As much as people say they want the whole truth and nothing but the truth, full disclosure can be a little daunting. There’s the issue of likes and dislikes.

Do I really tell them that I like to read books about vampire teenagers and make fun of fat kids on slip-n-slides? Do I tell them I hate most sports and am bored to tears by anything even remotely related to hunting, fishing, and the outdoors in general? Men around here are crazy about racecar driving. Do I tell them that I think watching a bunch of cars go round and round in a circle for over half the day is the most ridiculous hobby I’ve ever heard of in my life?

“Also, I dislike children. I plan on never having another child, so if you want any you’d better be ready to make it worth nine months of torture and be ready to hire a nanny. And the only way you could possibly make it worth it is with money. And handbags...I like handbags.”

I see online dating as a way of cutting through all the bullshit, a way for people to let you know who they really are before you come out the pocket for dinner and drinks. Or at least, that’s how it should be. I’m sure there are dirty liars and perverts on there. It’s the internet after all.

That brings us to profile pictures. I want to put up an attractive picture that makes people want to look at my profile, but wouldn’t that be false advertising?

There they see this decent looking blonde girl with fantastic fucking eye shadow (thankyouverymuch), but she doesn’t look like that except maybe half of the time. Sometimes she doesn’t put on makeup for a week and dude, she’s got some really dark under-eye circles. They take her home and nail her like Bob Villa on steroids, go to sleep, and wake up with Medusa. There’s mascara everywhere, hair stuck to the drool on her face, and her snoring could rival the noise from the chainsaw massacre.

Wouldn’t it be more prudent to put up a shitty picture? If they’re attracted to me then, imagine how much they’d like me when I fixed myself up! It would be like Extreme Makeover every other weekend.

But I guess all of that seems relatively easy compared to the issue of actually going on a date with someone. What if they put up a picture from years ago and instead of a 30 year old, I end up sitting across from some dude with a ventilator and a pair of false teeth? Do I stick it out and see if he’s got money? Has Anna Nicole been dead long enough to have a replacement?

Oh my god. What if I agree to meet with some guy and when I get there he turns out to be my mom’s ex boyfriend, Spongebob!

The longer I think about it, the more terrifying this situation becomes. I think I’ll get a taser, just in case. Is it legal to tase your date because he’s your mom’s ex boyfriend or because he smells funny?

So many questions!

I’m planning on setting up my profile tonight, so if you have any suggestions, warnings, or advice – come out with it now. Or, if after reading all of that you decide you just can’t live without me and there’s no need for me to look any further, tell me that too. But only if you’re loaded. I can’t support my crumb snatcher on love and sexy time, you know. Well, technically I could support her on sexy time, but my grandma would be really upset if I took up prostituting.

Seven things I like - Part four

4. Office intrigue (alternate option: being noticed)

Friday

“Guess who’s in the lobby?”

A redheaded coworker from down the hall stood grinning ear to ear in front of my office. I figured she was getting excited about the old Xerox man again, so I just shrugged.

“The new account manager. And he’s gorgeous.”

That caught my attention for a brief second before I remembered that our taste in men is vastly different. “Meh”, I said and shrugged again. She gave me a look that clearly said “You’ll see” and shuffled back down the hall.

A few minutes later, while I was absorbed in Excel spreadsheets, the Big Boss (who, ironically, is a very small man) stopped in the same spot my coworker recently vacated and cleared his throat. I looked up and he introduced me to the man at his side. (We’ll call him Juan.)

And for once, Red was right. He was gorgeous – incredibly tall and muscular with dark hair, dark eyes, and a naturally tan complexion many women would skin him alive to have. And he had an incredible smile. I was suddenly very self conscious about my less than put together state.

But after he left, my boss said the magic words: “It’s a shame he’s married. Got a six month old baby too.”

Sigh. Yes, a crying shame. Oh well, I thought, at least I can still enjoy looking at him without worrying what he thinks of me.

Monday

I strutted into the office wearing the lovely new heels I bought on vacation and stuck a pose in front of my boss’s office. “Ta-Da!” My favorite grey pencil skirt and turquoise top completed the ensemble. She gave me the teasing “I know who you dressed up for” speech and after a swift, yet completely true, denial...I went in search of coffee.

An hour or so later, when Juan came strolling in, I was standing in my boss’s doorway once more. He did a double take and said, “Well! You’re all dressed up this morning!”

“Yeah, this is how I’m supposed to look.” I laughed and took a sip of my coffee.

“Hmm. Yeah, because Friday you were, um...whew.” His unpleasant facial expression did the rest of his talking.

My mouth dropped in disbelief. Did this man, who’d only met me once before, just allude to the fact that I looked like shit on Friday? Granted I did look like shit on Friday, but that’s not the point.

My boss laughed and gave me a playfully stern look. “Yes, Juan. Maybe you can help me enforce the dress code around here.”

He looked me up and down and said, “Visible tattoos. The one on your back was showing on Friday. I’d make you cover them.”

I smirked at him and leaned forward. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t my boss then, isn’t it.” I turned on my heel and walked away.

Tuesday

When I got to work and sat down at my desk I said to myself, “Self, he’s new. He’s young. This is his first major account and he’s probably nervous. He probably heard you and D (my boss) ribbing each other and was trying to fit in. Give him the benefit of the doubt before forever labeling him a pompous fucker...even if his demeanor is telling you just that.”

When he stopped by that morning I smiled and said hello.

“So I just got hit on by this old lady employee”, he said.

“Oh yeah?” I smiled again encouragingly. We could bond over old people hitting on us...happened to me all the time.

“Yeah. I took her the mat ya’ll ordered for her to stand on and she...” blah blah bullshit bullshit ... “then she winked at me and asked if I was going to give her a raise. I told her no and...”

I was standing behind my desk, sifting through paperwork and looking for what I needed him to sign. Without looking up I said, “You should have said ‘yeah, I’ll give you an inch’.”

I was referring, of course, to the mat the woman was standing on which was about an inch thick. (It’s supposed to make standing for long periods of time more comfortable.)

He immediately burst out laughing. “That’s good. You’re witty.” He continued chuckling on his way out the door. There, I thought, that’s better.

Later, when I relayed the conversation to D she also started laughing. But, as it turns out, only because she thought I was referring to his penis and not the mat. Psssh! As if I would refer to a man’s penis when I barely know him.

Wednesday

Juan called my office line and asked if I’d like to have lunch with him, his wife, and their baby. Seeming almost like an afterthought, he suggested I also invite D.

“Um...I guess.”

I wondered why on earth he’d think I’d want to have lunch with his family. I only just met him and yes, though we semi bonded over a shared love of insulting the people that hit on us, I still hadn’t really decided if I liked him that much as a person. He still, at times, seemed stuck up and holier-than-thou.

D, however, was thrilled and couldn’t wait to get her hands on the baby.

He showed up in the suite with them in tow, made introductions, and we all walked to lunch.

The baby was very cute and chubby, if you like that sort of thing, and the wife was very thin and quiet. She looked a tad foreign, like Juan, with a long nose, dark complexion, dark eyes and hair. She seemed very nice, but the whole situation was awkward. His personality switched to, well, goofy.

If I were a nice person, I’d simply think that he was proud of his family and wanted to show them off to his new coworkers, thus creating a bond and ensuring future conversation topics.

However, since I’m not a nice person, the first thought I had was: I’ll bet his wife just wanted to see what kind of women he’s working with.

But after meeting her I decided that couldn’t be it. I settled for thinking: He’s super weird.

Thursday and Friday

I realized that he is indeed super weird.

Not for the first time that week, he sat in my office and basically said a lot of nothing while staring. One minute he would say something borderline offensive and the next he’d be awkward and nice.

I began having elementary school flashbacks of pigtail pulling and name calling, all while assuring myself that I surely had it wrong. There was no way...

Monday morning

I had to take the kid to the second part of her kindergarten registration, so I wanted to look nice. I wore a simple, black cotton dress with spaghetti straps and a low ruffled neckline, and silver sandals. I took the time to straighten my hair, which I hadn’t done in a very long time because it takes forever to tame my curly afro, and wore my usual makeup. Nothing very flashy or different, just how I usually look when I don’t roll out of bed and run screaming “I’m late goddamn it!” out the door.

I arrived at work around 10am, sat down, and immediately started working on reports. A few minutes later, Juan stopped at my door.

“Your hair...” He had a surprised look on his face.

“Yessssss”, I replied slowly.

“It’s straight!”

I widened my eyes with pretend shock. “Yes.”

“It looks good.”

“Thanks.”

“Your eyes...”

I narrowed the objects in question. The conversation was starting to sound like a joke in the making. “Yesssss.”

“They’re dark...”

“Um...”

“You know, they look kind of...goth.”

“Goth?!”

“Not in a bad way, but yeah, they look kind of goth.”

I sighed. “They do not. This is no different from the makeup I’ve been wearing for the past week.”

We took the issue to D, who surmised that it must just be the straight hair that made it all look different.

Monday afternoon

About thirty minutes before quitting time D said she had to run upstairs for a minute. I nodded and went back to whatever I was doing.

Then he poked his head around the corner. Not Juan, though he’s every bit as gorgeous as the irritating Juan.

Josh.

I’ve worked for this same company twice – once for two years and now again, for almost another two years (with a two year break in between). And in that time, I’ve seen Josh a lot in the halls and in the cafeteria. He’s even been in my office a handful of times and we’ve spoken briefly about work related things. I used to hear rumors about what a womanizer he was, but then he got married and they had a baby. Well, he’s apparently not married anymore.

So there he was – all sharp angles, blue eyes and messy hair.

“Where’s my girlfriend”, he asked grinning. (That’s what he calls D.)

“She went upstairs for a sec, but she’ll be right back if you want to wait.”

He edged completely around the door frame and glanced at my name on the outside wall, then back at me. “Alyson? Are you new?”

“Nope.”

“Are you married?”

I cocked my head to the side and smiled, like I do when I’m wondering what the hell is going on. “No. But you are.”

“I’m divorced.”

“Oh.”

“You’re beautiful”, he retorted immediately.

“Heh...thanks.” I smiled awkwardly.

“I can’t believe I haven’t noticed you before...”

“I’ve met you several times.” I shrugged. “I don’t always wear makeup.” It was a peace offering, forgiveness for not knowing who I was. He continued to stare at me and he commented on my hair and makeup (I mean, what the hell is going on around here all of a sudden?). Then he said, “I don’t suppose you’d want to go on a date with me?”

I’d heard the back door slam a moment earlier and before I could reply there was my boss, D, standing next to him. “No, she doesn’t want to go on a date with you!”

They stood next to each other, facing me in the doorway, and I was dumbstruck. I had no idea what to say. Was this all some kind of joke?

“She’s gorgeous”, he said to D.

“And she knows it”, she replied.

They continued to speak about me as if I wasn’t there for a minute or so. Then he said, “No, I guess you wouldn’t want to go on a date with me.” I smiled, but D started to shoo him out the door. He grinned and said “I’ll see you later” and was gone.

D came back and stood in front of me and I stared at her with undisguised irritation.

“I knew you wouldn’t want to go out with him”, she crowed.

“How the hell did you know that”, I yelled.

“...we call him the man whore? I didn’t think you’d”

“I haven’t gotten laid since fucking NEW YEAR’S! He’s hot AND a guaranteed lay. HELLO!”

“Oh!” She started laughing. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it then.”

“Humph.”

She left and I attempted to go back to work, only to be interrupted again a few minutes later by an older male coworker, B, coming though the door. “Man! You’re hot stuff today!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Josh just stopped me in the hall outside to ask me all these questions about you and tell me how hot you are.”

I smiled, couldn’t help it. But I left it at that.

I really needed to stay late, but right at 4 I rushed out of the office and to my car. I couldn’t sit still any longer. As I drove down the ramps in the parking garage, I replayed the conversation in my head. By the time I hit the interstate less than five minutes later, I realized I was grinning like an idiot.

I actually said out loud, “Jesus, Alyson, knock it off!”

At first I wasn’t sure just what was so great, why I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. After all, it’s not like we actually had a date. Then it dawned on me: I couldn’t remember the last time a man called me beautiful.

It’s sad really, I mused, that I can be won over so easily. But still, it’s nice to hear.

Tuesday morning

As soon as I walked in the door D ambushed me. “I sent an envelope through his department secretary with your phone numbers and a note that said “call her”.

“Thanks”, I replied a tad sarcastically.

“I thought that’s what you wanted?”

“It is...I think...” Suddenly I wasn’t so sure. What if he’d just been talking a load of shit and flirting with me like he does everyone else.

Tuesday afternoon

I sat down at the lunch table next to Red and D, and across from Juan and B. We’d been laughing and joking for awhile when D brought up Juan’s comment about my “goth” eyes. He attempted to argue his case, but I interrupted him. Leaning across the table I said, “You know, you comment on my appearance more than anyone I know.”

He had nothing to say to that, instead looking down at a piece of paper he was rolling between his fingers. Everyone else roared with laughter.

A short time later everyone suddenly quieted down and looked to my left. I turned and Josh was standing there with a grin on his face. “Hi”, he said to the table in general and taking the seat next to Juan, across from me.

“Did you get my envelope”, D asked him immediately.

“Yeah”, he replied with a wink, “I’m going to take care of that later.”

After he and Juan were introduced the others continued their conversation. Josh glanced at my tray covered in lunch debris and pointed at the empty yogurt container. “YOplait”, he said with strange exaggeration. “Is that any good?”

I glanced at the container and back at him, catching Juan’s look of barely suppressed glee in the process. “Yeah, it’s decent.”

“What else did you have?”

I told him what I ate, he told me about his meal, and then we were drawn into the surrounding conversation. Red was silently laughing with her head down and Josh, figuring out that she was making fun of him, decided to cut his losses and leave.

“I’ll see you later”, he said with a smile.

As soon as he was out of ear shot, everyone lost it. Juan leaned across the table and wiggled his eyebows at me. “YOOOOplait”, he said mock seductively.

Even I had to admit it was quite funny. Until he said something that, for the life of me, I can’t remember...but it borderline irritated me. And when he followed it up with a line I DO remember, I snapped back.

“You”, he said in a cocky, insulting tone, “have awkward conversations with men.”

“ExCUSE me?”

The tension in the air was palpable. He attempted to make light of his remarks, but his tone was completely contradictory. Everyone started to get up and clear their things and as I rose with them I said, “I’m not talking to you anymore.”

Like a five year old child. Sigh.

Wednesday morning, today

My office phone rang at 9:20am and I answered, already knowing who it would be.

“Hi. It’s Josh.”

“Hi.” I couldn’t fight my stupid grin.

“I was wondering if you wanted to have breakfast with me. We didn’t really get a chance to talk yesterday with everyone around so...”

“I don’t usually eat breakfast”, I replied, then immediately slapped myself in the forehead. What the hell?

He laughed. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to...”

“Oh no, that’s not it! It’s...I don’t know if D will let me.”

“You get breaks don’t you?”

“Yes, but I...um...just...can you hold on a second?”

“Sure.”

I placed him on hold and hit D’s extension. “D! Josh is on the phone! He wants to know if I can have breakfast with him!”

“Now?”

“Yes!”

“Um...ask him if he can wait until later. Big Boss might wonder where you are and” blah blah blah bullshit cock blocking bullshit.

I went back to him and told him that I couldn’t go.

“That’s ok. I’ll try and come by for lunch or just stop by your office later.”

“Ok. Sorry.”

Wednesday afternoon, today

We sat at the same lunch table as the day before, missing only Juan. The others left the seat next to me conspicuously empty and before long, Josh came along to fill it.

We ate, laughed, and had a great conversation about random things. Cars, the weekend, work. The more I talked to him, the more I liked him. But for some reason I had trouble looking him directly in the face for any length of time. He’s maybe too good looking...and with the stubble he was sporting, mmmm. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts, bad thoughts. Deep breaths.

Juan joined us halfway through the meal and sat at the other end of the table. Every now and then I’d look up and catch him staring at me with amusement. It was unnerving and at one point Josh noticed. He asked me a question about him, but I couldn’t hear everything he said. Rather than ask him to repeat himself, I made a “meh” back and forth gesture and a half laugh. No idea if that was a good thing or not.

Everyone behaved themselves and when Josh got up to leave, he said he’d catch me later.

Wednesday afternoon, today, an hour ago

Juan stopped by my office and leaned against the frame. Seeing a coffee cup sitting on my desk, he reached for it and said, “Did you make coffee?”

“No, that’s from this morning, but I was thinking about making some. Do you want some?”

“Yeah.”

“Go make it.”

“I don’t know how”, he said with a grin.

“I’ll show you. For future reference, when I need my coffee made.”

“Great.” He followed me to the break room/kitchen.

As I moved around the room cleaning the carafe and getting the filter, we talked about work. While the coffee was brewing I took out cups and placed them on the counter. I opened the top drawer with the packaged sugar, sweeteners, and creamer and interrupted him. “What do you need?”

“This.” He leaned across me to grab a container sitting on the counter.

The conversation turned to his time in the military and as he demonstrated what he was talking about with his body, he boxed me into the corner of the cabinets. For the few remaining minutes we were there, it felt like he was closer than he should be.

Now

I have no idea what is going on. One minute the office is quiet and normal...and the next it’s exploding with testosterone. Where did they all come from?

Juan is married. I keep telling myself that I’m imagining things, reading into things, but everyone around me says otherwise. “He’s got the hots for you”, D and Red keep saying.

Harmless flirting is fine, I can deal with that. It’s the intense looks, the verbal sparring, and the taunting smiles. It’s like he’s deliberately making me crazy.

I will NOT do anything stupid. I have some integrity. Plus there’s Josh for that, and I’m excited about my prospects there.

But just between you and me, no man has ever made me this unnerved.

If I call this "Highway to Hell" would that be too obvious?

Everyone is on their own road to discovery and enlightenment.

Some roads are smooth and black with perfectly straight yellow lines. Some roads have a pot hole or two, a few curves, and maybe the lines are a bit faded. Some are never ending dirt roads under a canopy of trees, the light never quite penetrating through. Some are four lane freeways crisscrossed with bridges, but with plenty of signs to point the way.

I’m going to hazard a guess that my metaphorical road looks a bit like this:

It’s scenic. Around every turn there’s something beautiful. The view from that road is so spectacular that I can’t imagine choosing another route.

Until, that is, those bastard ass rocks start falling from above and smashing around my car that has one too many miles on it, a bumper that doesn’t match, and a fuel tank that’s always hovering close to empty. Oh, and sometimes the gas pedal gets stuck and I go careening around those deadly curves, desperately trying to keep things in line so that I don’t go plummeting off the side of this scenic mountain.

So basically what I’m saying is my road to discovery and enlightenment is trying to kill me. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? Just this past weekend will do.

*Note: If you don’t want to read about my vagina. Stop. Reading. Now.

Friday night I was in the shower. Naked, because that’s how I roll.

I was shaving my legs and my bizness (for you newbies, that means vagina) because Cosmo says it’s the way to a man’s wallet heart...and also I may have let things run a little rampant lately. I mean, it’s not like anyone has been down there checking out the accommodations recently! Don’t give me any shit. Anyway, so I was shaving and I thought to myself, “Self, why not try something a little new and sassy. You can always go back to bald if you don’t like it. Let’s make it PRETTY! OOWA OOWA! Raise the roof!”

Like you don’t dance in the shower and talk to yourself in your head? Psssh, whatever.

“Design, design...what kind of design?”

Animals were out, because I’m not that talented. A circle would be weird, like a button, and that might distract from the real, more important button. Also, it made me think of that phrase “button, button, who’s got the button” and I’d likely giggle at in inopportune time and they’d think I was laughing at them and get all offended, like men do.

That left me with two options: heart or lightening bolt. Both of those are SO done, but I don’t have the dexterity to do a skull and crossbones. With the lightening bolt I could take my pants off and be all “SHAZAM!” With the heart...aw, fuck it. I did the heart because it was the simplest. Nothing says love like a heart made of hair.

I started shaving the damn heart into my bizness and I was really concentrating. I had one leg propped on the side of the tub and the shower curtain open a bit for more light. Things were trucking along smoothly for a minute. Then, with one side down and one side to go, disaster struck.

WHAM! The door flew open and smacked into the wall, followed by the unmistakable sound of my sister in a rage.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t really concentrate on her distress as I was too busy with my own. When the door flew open and she started yelling like a banshee, it scared the living daylights out of me. I jumped and my hand jerked up at the same time, causing me to slice my bizness like a Christmas ham. I SLICED my BIZNESS.

On a pain scale of 1-10, I’d give it an 11 ½. Coming in right after the discontinuation of my make up at a solid 9 ½.

Had I known there were people behind her in the hallway I never would have screamed those sailor inspired obscenities, nor would I have opened up the curtain all the way and thrown the razor at her head. Maybe.

The cut was bad, but not nearly as bad as the bloody half heart. Symbolic maybe?

It was a good thing that I didn’t hook up with that guy later on that night. How does one explain a bandaged vagina?

Then there was Saturday.

My sister and I were supposed to leave early that morning and go shopping, but I was so hungover that I couldn’t leave my bed until almost noon. Of course that meant by the time we got downtown it was a madhouse.

The first place we went to was a toy store. There was barely enough room to move. Screaming kids and angry parents crammed the aisles, shoving each other and ripping off limbs when necessary.

I’m a fast shopper. I go in with a list, I get what’s on it, and I get the fuck out. So while my disinterested sister pushed the most busted ass shopping cart known to man behind me (seriously, it sounded like someone was shooting bee bees at a tin can every time the wheels went round and it had a “limp”), I plowed through the people and grabbed.

I was looking at a display of toy guns, you know, the kind that shoots foam dart thingies? I squatted down and found the one I was looking for on the bottom shelf. I reached for it at the same time as this kid, who I thought was after something else. He couldn’t have been more than 14 or 15 with shaggy black hair and he had a spiky belt to cut himself on if his pocket knife ever got dull.

We glared at each other. I yanked, he yanked, and we glared some more. I was too hungover to hang on much longer, all that yanking was making my head hurt. So I did the only thing I could. I accidentally on purpose tripped and stomped on his toes, causing him to yell and let go of the gun.

“Go Lee”, I yelled and took off around the corner. My poor sister tried to keep up with the busted buggy, leaving a trail of noise for him to follow. “Clang, pop, clang, pop, clang, pop.” He came after us, shouting and for no apparent reason other than being on the edge of sanity’s cliff; I turned around and pointed the toy gun at him, mouthed “motha fucka” while I did a little foot to foot dance, and left Lee to handle the damage.

Lee ignored him and he finally let her be. She found me a few minutes later and we finished up the rest of our shopping there without incident. Until we were at the checkout counter and the little shit decided to pop back in and cause a scene. I mean, really! Who does that?

There was a lot of pointing and his mother started yelling at me, saying I’d hit her son. The girl at the checkout looked confused and concerned, like she should turn me in or something. I’d already paid and they were bagging things up so I said, “Lady, I tripped and accidentally stepped on his toe. It’s a madhouse in here!” Then I took off before someone decided to investigate.

Unfortunately I ran into that kid and his mom all fucking day long. I think they were following me. I bought a hat just in case, but my sister refused to wear one because it would mess up her hair. Teenagers. All they care about is themselves.

Then there was the party on Saturday night that sucked ass. And more shopping on Sunday, this time with the mom, who has to scratch and sniff EVERYTHING, turning a two hour trip into a five hour trip. Etc, so forth and so on.

See what I mean? Beautiful scenery: nakedness in shower, lovely new merchandise and a full bank account, parties....etc.

Then BLAM!

Falling rocks and deadly curves: Sliced bizness, annoying teenagers, sucky entertainment and booze, psycho moms...etc.

I’ll bet you thought from the beginning that this post was going to be all mushy and “I’m happy and then people fuck it up by dying” or “Jesus rocks”.

Ha, well jokes on you. I’m not that deep.