Explaining relationships formed through blogging, to people that don’t blog, can be touchy. Many don’t get it – they don’t understand how a complete stranger can become a dear friend.
Even with the boom in online dating and social networking sites, there’s still a stigma attached to internet-born relationships – especially, for some reason, in relation to blogs. It’s oddly more acceptable to jet off to meet a friend of a friend of a friend on Facebook, than it is to spend time with a person whose life you’ve been reading and commenting on for years. Blogging, for me, is far more personal than a daily status update and a handful of pouty faced photos.
I’ve trusted a few close friends, that I knew would understand or at least be accepting, with the truth about my online dealings. Some read my blog and some only know about it, but what they all have in common is that they realize the relationships I’ve made here are no less valid than ours. Different, but no less valid. The ones that read it see it first hand – in how comfortable I am being honest and in the way people respond in the comments: relating to my current situation, being compassionate whether they understand or not, laughing with me or simply letting me know they stopped by. The ones that don’t read it simply know that it makes me happy, and that’s good enough for them.
I’ve been writing here for over six years and I’ve made a lot of friends, but up until two weeks ago I’d never physically met any of them. I’d made plans on several occasions, but for one reason or another they always fell apart. This year I was determined to make it happen and with some long overdue luck, a no nonsense attitude and the help of my completely oblivious father’s yearly gift of a plane ticket...I met three amazing people.
The first was Jerrod, who writes the blog Breaking Awkward (some of you may be more familiar with his old blog title, The Yellow Factor).
We’ve been friends for a little over two and a half years now – talking so frequently that he became one of those people I contact immediately when something notably good or bad happens. I don’t remember who found who first, but we began good-naturedly insulting each other and the rest, as they say, is history.
Jerrod just so happens to live in Oklahoma a half hour away from my stepfamily, who I visit every summer. After weeks of planning it was decided that we’d not only hang out while I was in town, but we’d also take a weekend trip to Kansas City to visit another blogger, Paige.
However, just because the plans seemed to make themselves and everything was already arranged, from the hotel to the road trip play list, doesn’t mean the execution was entirely easy.
See, the only person that knew I hadn’t actually met Jerrod was my sister...and she was sworn to secrecy in order to avoid rioting. I knew that none of them, especially dad, would understand or approve. All they were told, before I got there, was that I’d be spending a weekend in Kansas City with friends and bumming around Oklahoma City with them too. And, before I got there, dad was completely fine with it. He didn’t press me for details.
We went straight to sleep when we arrived at their house around 1am Thursday morning. I was supposed to meet Jerrod Thursday night and had arranged for my stepsister to drop me off in the city. But that afternoon my dad suddenly decided that I was 12, not 26, and I wouldn’t be going off for the weekend with someone he didn’t know...especially a man.
We were sitting on the patio glaring and occasionally shouting at each other, neither of us willing to concede defeat, until he pointed out the obvious.
“I’ll be taking you into the city to meet this motherfucker and if you don’t like it, you can stay your ass here...where he’ll have to come get you and then I still meet him. Period.”
Poor Jerrod was going to meet the infamous Jimmy, whether either of us liked it or not.
I was terrified and, knowing Jerrod, I was positive he would be too. I’d long since gathered that he isn’t used to people like Jimmy.
I’ve only ever introduced three men to my dad, with embarrassing results, and though Jerrod wasn’t a boyfriend the scenario actually seemed worse to me because we’d never met before. I didn’t picture my first blogger meeting including my drunk, obnoxious father telling stories about his dick.
But that’s exactly how it went down.
He rushed me out the door that evening, interrupting my makeup routine every few minutes and making me furious in the process, because he had to drop off some air conditioners (don’t ask, I don’t know) at his “brother’s” house. I made my sister come along because she’s usually a calming influence, but he’d been hitting The Crown all afternoon and there was no controlling him.
He spent the ride to his “brother’s” deliberately scaring the shit out of me by telling me the horrible things he was going to ask Jerrod and by insisting that he wouldn’t meet him anywhere but at a biker bar called VictimZ. Yeah, Victims with a fucking Z.
“Tell him to get his ass in there and have me a beer waitin’.”
Of course I didn’t. It was bad enough I actually had to type out the name to that ridiculous biker bar and have Jerrod reply with, “I put VictimZ in and Google maps laughed at me.” I was mortified.
When we pulled up to drop off the stupid air conditioners, he made us get out of the truck to meet the guy. He was about seven feet tall, wearing overalls with no shirt and had a bandana wrapped around his long hair. After unloading the cargo, they immediately started laughing and punching each other in the sides like children.
“C’mon man”, dad said while jabbing at him repeatedly. “Ride with us! My daughter comes down here to visit me, then thinks she’s going to take the off to Kansas City with some motherfucker I haven’t met! Oh hell no. I told her to have him meet us at VictimZ.”
His brother stared at him for a moment and then, to my absolute horror, they both burst out laughing. “Oh shit”, the guy said, looking at me with a mix of pity and amusement.
“Aw, I’m not going to help embarrass your daughter, Jimbo”, he said.
But dad talked him into getting in the truck anyway. I sat in the backseat with my sister, silently panicking.
When we pulled into the parking lot fifteen minutes later, I saw Jerrod’s car across the street. Dad didn’t even look around – when I hopped out he locked my things in the car so I couldn’t leave until he allowed it, and they immediately disappeared around back into the “beer garden”.
I waved at Jerrod, who was still hiding in his car across the street (not that I blame him), and he drove over. I walked around to the driver’s side, he got out and that’s how we first set eyes on each other. In the parking lot of a rundown biker bar with my father waiting for him in a beer garden, which was actually nothing more than a dirt-packed backyard with big wooden spool tables and rusted chairs made of scrap metal.
He looked worried, but accepted my apology for the oddness of our first meeting and followed me around the corner. Dad’s brother had parked himself at a table a respectable distance away with my sister, who wasn’t allowed in the bar.
“Where’s dad”, I asked.
“He went in for beer.”
A moment later he came wandering out the door with an evil grin on his face, clutching a bucket of beer. I introduced them, watching as my 5’7 father looked up at Jerrod and shook his hand...and it was apparent by the flash of tendons that he was squeezing the shit out of him.
“Drink a beer with me”, he said, shoving one into his hands.
I reached for one myself, twisted off the top and turned it straight up.
Then other than a few “motherfuckers” (in reference to other people this time, not Jerrod), a few embarrassing remarks and a demand to know if Jerrod could “fight”, they proceeded to have a relatively normal conversation. They talked about what they did for a living and where they lived and how long they’d been there. But even so, I knew my dad and I was going to be keyed up until we got out of there.
Jerrod, who was apparently no longer worried, laughed at me for being so visibly nervous, sucking down the beer and lighting a cigarette when I’d planned on not smoking at all. “Relax”, he said.
And I’d just about managed it because we’d finished our beers and I felt as though escape was just around the corner.
But no – dad insisted that we weren’t going anywhere until we went inside and met his other “brothers”. Apparently they’re all in the same biker gang or something – they wear one spur on one boot or some such nonsense so they recognize that they’re “related”.
As we both trailed reluctantly behind dad Jerrod said, “I thought you said we didn’t have to go in...”
“Sorry”, I mumbled, “I didn’t think we would.”
The ceiling was completely covered in bras, except for a small square of removable tile where a stripper pole was shoved inexpertly through a jagged hole.
“I put the pole in”, dad told Jerrod proudly. I shook my head and sighed.
He tried to call over a long haired old man that was absorbed in some sort of game, but the guy was taking his time. There were a few tables of degenerates (mostly really ugly women) that were giving us the stink eye. I wasn’t sure if they were simply unfriendly or plotting to kill me and take off with my Coach bag.
While we waited for the old guy to grace us with his presence, dad decided to tell Jerrod a lovely little story.
“This is my hangout, man. One time I got so drunk that this woman drew a smiley face on the head of my dick and I didn’t even know it. She called my wife and told her she did it, so when I got home she said, ‘You’re not getting in this bed like that with a smiley face on your dick!’ I woke up the next morning and was like, shit, man!”
“Dad! That’s enough! Don’t ever talk about your dick in front of me again. Ever.”
They both laughed and I glared at Jerrod. “Don’t encourage him.”
The old guy chose that moment to make his way over and we were introduced, though I can’t remember his name, and he hugged me uninvited...as all dad’s weirdo friends seem to do.
“This is my daughter’s boyfriend”, dad said, launching into his complaint about me taking off for the weekend again.
“He’s not my boyfriend”, I interjected, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment.
They all ignored me and dad launched into his dick story again for the benefit of our new companion. “Hey remember the time...”
“Yep”, old guy said, “it was my old lady that did it.”
I was close to hyperventilating at that point and, thankfully, none of dad’s other friends seemed to be there so he was ready to go. We were finally off the hook.
We said our goodbyes at the truck, with Leigha sitting unhappily in the driver’s seat ready to cart dad and his friend off to “church”, which is what his biker group calls sitting around drinking and talking about their penises.
As I climbed in the passenger side of Jerrod’s car, dad may have said something to him like “take care of my girl”, but I was so relieved to be getting away that I wasn’t really paying attention.
He got in a moment later, looked at me and smiled. “It’s ok”, I think he said. My nerves were still jangling a bit as we drove away, sure that any moment he would turn around and take me back, wondering what in the hell he was doing taking off with a relative stranger whose father was a drunken biker not above breaking his kneecaps just for lifting an eyebrow the wrong way.
Instead he seemed amused by how unsettled the whole thing had made me. “I think that helped make it less awkward, don’t you?”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Yeah, I guess it did.”
I wasn’t entirely sure if I felt that way or not, but later, when I could laugh about it, I realized he was right. It had.
What I was sure about at that moment, though, was that there had never been a first blogger meeting even remotely similar to ours.
But maybe that was a good thing because, after all, our friendship began unconventionally. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The VIP section
Several years ago I was in a gas station, minding my business, buying a forty and a pack of cigars. (Or maybe it was a pack of sour gummy worms and a Mountain Dew...whatever you need to tell yourself.)
I had the classic stoner (gummy worm addict) look going on – frizzy hair piled into a disheveled bird’s nest on top of my head, big sunglasses covering red eyes, and a t-shirt with a fraying decal on the back of a naked man and woman running under big letters spelling “Carolina Streaker”. Real jizz in your pants kind of stuff.
I paid for my contraband, went out the door and back to my car. I was smoking a cigarette and staring at the front of a huge black bus when I reached for my drink and realized it wasn’t there. Cussing, I got out and headed back toward the gas station. But as I reached for the door handle, someone yelled and I glanced back.
WHAM!
I collided with a man coming out the door, dropped my cigarette, and, if my muddled memory serves, shouted “Fucking Christ”. He apologized and grudgingly so did I, still looking down and brushing the ashes off my pants leg. Then we did the dance. You know the one? Left, left, right, right, sorry, sorry, left, left, right, right, pause, um ok, I’m going to go this way while you...no I said this way...ok...goddamn it, just be still!
The whole thing probably only took 10 seconds, but in my memory it slows down to a crawl. I suppose it’s my subconscious way of torture. Because during that last pause, before we went our separate ways, I finally looked him full in the face and noticed...
I’d been door dancing with Edwin McCain. Cue open mouthed shock and staring at suddenly VERY visible side of black bus with his name in GIANT letters and, oh yeah, his FACE on it. *slow clap*
That was my first disastrous brush with a celebrity. I mean, unless you want to count the time before that when I got so drunk I made out with a guy in a bar because I thought he was the front man from that band. You know the one? With the tattoos and spiky hair? And the ripped arms and holey pants? That guy.
And maybe also a girl that looked exactly like Kerri Russell. If Kerri Russell wore fishnets and rubbed her nipples suggestively in bars, which I’m sure she doesn’t. Not classy, fake Kerri Russell.
Oh, wait, and there was that time two years ago when my favorite band in the entire world, Ludo, was playing at a local tavern. It was a small place that my best friend and I frequented so I was positive I’d finally get to meet their lead singer Andrew Volpe. I’d already gotten two of the members to sign a CD at their last show, but somehow I missed him. And don’t get me wrong, I love them all, but Andrew Volpe makes my nipples hard.
Anyway, while waiting for the first few bands to play I got epically hammered and left for a quickie with the fireman because he lived in an apartment right next to the bar. All I remember about that was showing up, bouncing around on top of him and laughing for what I thought was about 15 minutes but turned out to be a lot longer, and hauling ass out the door still pulling on clothes and screaming, “I’m gonna miss Ludo!”
By the time I got back they were almost through with their set. I wrapped my arms around a wooden post between the stage and the bar and sang along with my favorite song and one other and it was over. A little while after they packed up, Rachel had to pry my grasp open and half carry my ass out the back door. And while she was helping me stumble across the parking lot I was shouting, “FUCKING LUDO WOOOOO! WOOOOO! YEAH!”
“Hey...you know they’re standing RIGHT there”, she said, embarrassed and irritated I’m sure.
“FUCKING LUDO WOOOOO!”
There they were, Andrew Volpe and the lot of them, standing in a group outside by themselves loading up and witnessing my embarrassing drunken display. Rachel knew better than to take me over there and hurried us to the car.
So apparently I’m terrible with celebrities. So terrible, in fact, that when my stepsister Jess told me we’d gotten VIP passes to meet Kendra Wilkinson and sit in the holy grail of club seating, I was a tad nervous.
Every summer, while I’m vacationing in Oklahoma, we go out drinking and dancing at least one night. This year I spent almost the entire week ping-ponging between my bed and the pool so I was happy when she finally said, “Friday night we’re going out”.
Friday afternoon we went to a movie and then did a little browsing for shoes or maybe a new shirt to wear out that night. I was relaxed, full of Chili’s chicken crispers, and aimlessly wandering the aisles flicking through racks, when I heard Jess talking excitedly on the phone. I made my way over to her just as she was hanging up.
“My friend got us VIP passes in to hang out with Kendra Wilkinson tonight, but we’ve got to dress up and wear something with pink in it.”
My first reaction was excitement - Holy shit! VIP? Really? That’s fucking awesome! Ooooh, Dave is gonna be so jealous when I tell him I met her! Go Kendra! Go Kendra!
My second reaction was panic - Wait? Dress up? Ohmygawd, I’ve got nothing to wear to a VIP party! I have no clothes! Nothing pink! SHIT! Wait...all of the girls there are going to be a size two with gigantic fake breasts and wearing pink see-through Band-Aid with built in herpes repellent! I don’t know if I want to do this.
In reality, I had a suitcase with six and a half dresses shoved in among the t-shirts and shorts that say COCKS across the chest or ass, and a firm grasp on how to avoid anything herpes related. (What? It’s a college sports team. Scouts honor.) I say six and a half because one was actually a skirt that I briefly considered turning into a strapless dress in the event that I wanted the natives to see how tan my ass cheeks have gotten this year. (For the record, I now have the ass cheeks of a Mexican. Just like my boobs. Ole motherfuckers.)
We spent the next few hours frantically trying on dresses and shoes. I suppose it was a bit more frantic on my end because I’d found the most beautiful bright blue stilettos that I was sure I couldn’t live without...yet also sure there was no way I’d manage to pair them with anything pink without looking like Malibu Barbie – the cracked out version. Somehow knowing that didn’t stop me from trying anyway.
In the end Jess threatened to leave me there, so I settled on buying two pairs of the same stilettos – one in black, one in silver – and waved a longing goodbye to their shiny blue sisters. I found a strapless dress with a tight teal bodice and a flowy skirt with swirls of different colors, including pink. It was a bit louder than my usual style. I’ve always been a bit of a solid colors, straight lines, lot of black type of girl. But it was crunch time and everyone else seemed to think it was perfect. (Or they were tired of my bitching and I actually looked like an over tropical, special needs tourist.)
We got ready at Jess’s house in record time, just taking quick showers and retouching makeup. I threw some mousse in my hair and decided to just let the afro go. By then I was less anxious and more resolved. I wasn’t going to suddenly get better looking. Best to just say fuck it and drink a lot.
We got to the club around 10:30, sat down in a booth and had a few drinks before making our way to the VIP area. And it was insane.
The tiny section was surrounded by people – baby hookers in skin tight dresses everywhere! There was a low wall around the area with two roped entrances guarded by men with their arms crossed in an imposing manner. Chases and couches with pillows and a few low tables were stragestically placed and men and women, dressed from skater pro to Las Vegas hooker, buzzed with anticipation. There was even one girl who had a dress cut down to her waist...and the boobs hanging almost as low to match.
It wasn’t what I expected and I was relieved. From the phone conversation with Jess’s friend, I thought it was supposed to be a more intimate affair. The word “table” was tossed around and I was afraid I’d be stuck next to some bunny with a double decker bus on her chest and a penchant for calling me “Excuse Me Peasant Please Move”.
Not at all. There were probably about 30 or so people in our little box and the rest of the hundreds were looking out from the balconies, the stage, and pressed up against the barriers like bloodhounds scenting a bitch in heat. They were salivating, I tell you. And from my perch on a low couch near the dividing wall, I could feel their hot breath on my neck. It was a little exciting. Not the hot breath part, that was kind of gross. I mean the atmosphere – knowing that I was sitting in a place they all wished they could be sitting.
When they announced her entrance the crowd went nuts. She went straight past the rope and stood on the lower deck of the VIP section, taking pictures with the people pressed against the edges and waving to those further out. I was proud of myself for not being all “WOOOOOO” or “Ohmyfreakinggawd you’re, like, so awesome” when she finally made it to the inner sanctum. I was actually completely calm and collected when we spoke, shook hands, and took a picture with her. And after having a bit to drink and going from past experiences, I’m thankful someone slipped me a chill pill. She was very down to earth and gracious, which made it easier I guess.
Even those people that say “If I ever meet a celebrity I’ll be totally cool and calm, unfazed...they’re just people” have those moments. Obviously. But maybe I’m finally growing out of my crazy fan stage.
Or maybe, three hours later and in a different club, I flew off a bar stool and busted my ass on the wet floor because I may or may not have heard someone say something about Ryan Reynolds being there and I was drunk enough to believe it AND attempt a gymnastic leap from a sitting position. Possibly. And maybe I blamed it on the slippery dress and a handsy skeezeball to my right wearing too much Axe.
The world may never know.
I had the classic stoner (gummy worm addict) look going on – frizzy hair piled into a disheveled bird’s nest on top of my head, big sunglasses covering red eyes, and a t-shirt with a fraying decal on the back of a naked man and woman running under big letters spelling “Carolina Streaker”. Real jizz in your pants kind of stuff.
I paid for my contraband, went out the door and back to my car. I was smoking a cigarette and staring at the front of a huge black bus when I reached for my drink and realized it wasn’t there. Cussing, I got out and headed back toward the gas station. But as I reached for the door handle, someone yelled and I glanced back.
WHAM!
I collided with a man coming out the door, dropped my cigarette, and, if my muddled memory serves, shouted “Fucking Christ”. He apologized and grudgingly so did I, still looking down and brushing the ashes off my pants leg. Then we did the dance. You know the one? Left, left, right, right, sorry, sorry, left, left, right, right, pause, um ok, I’m going to go this way while you...no I said this way...ok...goddamn it, just be still!
The whole thing probably only took 10 seconds, but in my memory it slows down to a crawl. I suppose it’s my subconscious way of torture. Because during that last pause, before we went our separate ways, I finally looked him full in the face and noticed...
I’d been door dancing with Edwin McCain. Cue open mouthed shock and staring at suddenly VERY visible side of black bus with his name in GIANT letters and, oh yeah, his FACE on it. *slow clap*
That was my first disastrous brush with a celebrity. I mean, unless you want to count the time before that when I got so drunk I made out with a guy in a bar because I thought he was the front man from that band. You know the one? With the tattoos and spiky hair? And the ripped arms and holey pants? That guy.
And maybe also a girl that looked exactly like Kerri Russell. If Kerri Russell wore fishnets and rubbed her nipples suggestively in bars, which I’m sure she doesn’t. Not classy, fake Kerri Russell.
Oh, wait, and there was that time two years ago when my favorite band in the entire world, Ludo, was playing at a local tavern. It was a small place that my best friend and I frequented so I was positive I’d finally get to meet their lead singer Andrew Volpe. I’d already gotten two of the members to sign a CD at their last show, but somehow I missed him. And don’t get me wrong, I love them all, but Andrew Volpe makes my nipples hard.
Anyway, while waiting for the first few bands to play I got epically hammered and left for a quickie with the fireman because he lived in an apartment right next to the bar. All I remember about that was showing up, bouncing around on top of him and laughing for what I thought was about 15 minutes but turned out to be a lot longer, and hauling ass out the door still pulling on clothes and screaming, “I’m gonna miss Ludo!”
By the time I got back they were almost through with their set. I wrapped my arms around a wooden post between the stage and the bar and sang along with my favorite song and one other and it was over. A little while after they packed up, Rachel had to pry my grasp open and half carry my ass out the back door. And while she was helping me stumble across the parking lot I was shouting, “FUCKING LUDO WOOOOO! WOOOOO! YEAH!”
“Hey...you know they’re standing RIGHT there”, she said, embarrassed and irritated I’m sure.
“FUCKING LUDO WOOOOO!”
There they were, Andrew Volpe and the lot of them, standing in a group outside by themselves loading up and witnessing my embarrassing drunken display. Rachel knew better than to take me over there and hurried us to the car.
So apparently I’m terrible with celebrities. So terrible, in fact, that when my stepsister Jess told me we’d gotten VIP passes to meet Kendra Wilkinson and sit in the holy grail of club seating, I was a tad nervous.
Every summer, while I’m vacationing in Oklahoma, we go out drinking and dancing at least one night. This year I spent almost the entire week ping-ponging between my bed and the pool so I was happy when she finally said, “Friday night we’re going out”.
Friday afternoon we went to a movie and then did a little browsing for shoes or maybe a new shirt to wear out that night. I was relaxed, full of Chili’s chicken crispers, and aimlessly wandering the aisles flicking through racks, when I heard Jess talking excitedly on the phone. I made my way over to her just as she was hanging up.
“My friend got us VIP passes in to hang out with Kendra Wilkinson tonight, but we’ve got to dress up and wear something with pink in it.”
My first reaction was excitement - Holy shit! VIP? Really? That’s fucking awesome! Ooooh, Dave is gonna be so jealous when I tell him I met her! Go Kendra! Go Kendra!
My second reaction was panic - Wait? Dress up? Ohmygawd, I’ve got nothing to wear to a VIP party! I have no clothes! Nothing pink! SHIT! Wait...all of the girls there are going to be a size two with gigantic fake breasts and wearing pink see-through Band-Aid with built in herpes repellent! I don’t know if I want to do this.
In reality, I had a suitcase with six and a half dresses shoved in among the t-shirts and shorts that say COCKS across the chest or ass, and a firm grasp on how to avoid anything herpes related. (What? It’s a college sports team. Scouts honor.) I say six and a half because one was actually a skirt that I briefly considered turning into a strapless dress in the event that I wanted the natives to see how tan my ass cheeks have gotten this year. (For the record, I now have the ass cheeks of a Mexican. Just like my boobs. Ole motherfuckers.)
We spent the next few hours frantically trying on dresses and shoes. I suppose it was a bit more frantic on my end because I’d found the most beautiful bright blue stilettos that I was sure I couldn’t live without...yet also sure there was no way I’d manage to pair them with anything pink without looking like Malibu Barbie – the cracked out version. Somehow knowing that didn’t stop me from trying anyway.
In the end Jess threatened to leave me there, so I settled on buying two pairs of the same stilettos – one in black, one in silver – and waved a longing goodbye to their shiny blue sisters. I found a strapless dress with a tight teal bodice and a flowy skirt with swirls of different colors, including pink. It was a bit louder than my usual style. I’ve always been a bit of a solid colors, straight lines, lot of black type of girl. But it was crunch time and everyone else seemed to think it was perfect. (Or they were tired of my bitching and I actually looked like an over tropical, special needs tourist.)
We got ready at Jess’s house in record time, just taking quick showers and retouching makeup. I threw some mousse in my hair and decided to just let the afro go. By then I was less anxious and more resolved. I wasn’t going to suddenly get better looking. Best to just say fuck it and drink a lot.
We got to the club around 10:30, sat down in a booth and had a few drinks before making our way to the VIP area. And it was insane.
The tiny section was surrounded by people – baby hookers in skin tight dresses everywhere! There was a low wall around the area with two roped entrances guarded by men with their arms crossed in an imposing manner. Chases and couches with pillows and a few low tables were stragestically placed and men and women, dressed from skater pro to Las Vegas hooker, buzzed with anticipation. There was even one girl who had a dress cut down to her waist...and the boobs hanging almost as low to match.
It wasn’t what I expected and I was relieved. From the phone conversation with Jess’s friend, I thought it was supposed to be a more intimate affair. The word “table” was tossed around and I was afraid I’d be stuck next to some bunny with a double decker bus on her chest and a penchant for calling me “Excuse Me Peasant Please Move”.
Not at all. There were probably about 30 or so people in our little box and the rest of the hundreds were looking out from the balconies, the stage, and pressed up against the barriers like bloodhounds scenting a bitch in heat. They were salivating, I tell you. And from my perch on a low couch near the dividing wall, I could feel their hot breath on my neck. It was a little exciting. Not the hot breath part, that was kind of gross. I mean the atmosphere – knowing that I was sitting in a place they all wished they could be sitting.
When they announced her entrance the crowd went nuts. She went straight past the rope and stood on the lower deck of the VIP section, taking pictures with the people pressed against the edges and waving to those further out. I was proud of myself for not being all “WOOOOOO” or “Ohmyfreakinggawd you’re, like, so awesome” when she finally made it to the inner sanctum. I was actually completely calm and collected when we spoke, shook hands, and took a picture with her. And after having a bit to drink and going from past experiences, I’m thankful someone slipped me a chill pill. She was very down to earth and gracious, which made it easier I guess.
Even those people that say “If I ever meet a celebrity I’ll be totally cool and calm, unfazed...they’re just people” have those moments. Obviously. But maybe I’m finally growing out of my crazy fan stage.
Or maybe, three hours later and in a different club, I flew off a bar stool and busted my ass on the wet floor because I may or may not have heard someone say something about Ryan Reynolds being there and I was drunk enough to believe it AND attempt a gymnastic leap from a sitting position. Possibly. And maybe I blamed it on the slippery dress and a handsy skeezeball to my right wearing too much Axe.
The world may never know.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Traveling light
Last night I unlocked the door and walked into an empty house. I placed my bags on the table and stood there, hearing nothing but the quiet rush of cold air. No one careened into my legs demanding attention. There was no shouting, no banging of pots and pans, no blaring TV.
For all my To Do lists, when faced with the reality of being truly on my own, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I wandered around for a few minutes like a ghost, disoriented, knowing there was a light somewhere meant for me disappear into, yet unable to find it.
I finally decided I was being ridiculous so I slipped on my swimsuit, grabbed a towel, and shuffled out the door.
And shuffle I did. Since Sunday my pace has slowed considerably. With no deadlines, demands, or people to satisfy, there’s been no need to constantly check a clock or step harder on the gas pedal.
It was overcast and humid, the grass still wet from recent rains. It’s my favorite time of day to go swimming – right before dark when everyone else is inside eating dinner and the lake is smooth and quiet.
Diving into the water and swimming just beneath the surface is one of the best feelings in the world. It envelopes you, feels like silk rippling over your skin every time you move a limb. I lay on my back underneath it and waved my arms lazily to stay down, looking up at the play of shadow and light.
I came up for air and struck out toward a neighboring dock, intent on swimming laps. But after only a few passes there was a buzzing around my head. I squealed and dunked under the water, swam a few yards, and resurfaced. A horsefly was determined to make my head his resting place and he chased me all over the cove before I finally conceded defeat and got out.
Back at home I took a long, hot shower and did something I never get to do: walk around in a towel. It seems so simple, but it’s a luxury I don’t get often. I was riffling through my dresser, looking for a t-shirt, when my hand found something unexpected – a short, blue silk nightgown with thin straps and a plunging neckline. I’d never worn it before – partially because of where it came from, and partially because it would just be silly to walk around a crowded house in such a thing.
I wrapped my wet hair in a towel and slipped the nightgown over my head. I reached back into my dresser and pulled out the sheer, matching robe. Shrugging it on and standing in front of the mirror, I felt just a tad silly. Maybe other people walk around their homes in silk and satin, but I’ve always been a cotton t-shirt kind of girl. I kept it on anyway. When would I ever get the chance to wear it again?
I could go on to tell you about how I ate a helping of chicken salad and watched the last half of Dirty Dancing. Or how I sat on the dark porch and smoked a cigarette, feeling every bit the old fashioned diva in my silk. Or about when the cat ran out the door and I had to chase after him in the dark, feeling not so much like a diva and more like a lunatic. Regale you with all my solo activities - exciting or otherwise.
Instead I’ll tell you this:
Being alone for an extended period of time is not exactly what I expected. I thought I remembered what it was like when I lived by myself, but I’d forgotten a few things.
Like the fear of walking past an uncovered window, seeing nothing but your reflection surrounded by black, and wondering if something or someone is looking back. Or the way that so much quiet time can make you think about things that you wouldn’t normally have the time or energy to think about. Or that feeling of isolation and disconnect – like you’re the only person in a 100 mile radius (except, of course, for the thing that may or may not be staring in your darkened window).
Last night I stared into space and listened to the fan whir overhead. I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts strayed from one thing to another – my day and the parts I enjoyed, the fear of the unlikely lurker outside my locked doors and bolted windows, how hard my family would laugh if they could have seen me decked out in my fancy night attire. I tossed and I turned, though I was physically more than comfortable.
Finally I picked up my cell phone and went to my messages. In the inbox were two videos my mother sent me earlier that day. In them my daughter is standing by a pool in her bathing suit, hands on her hips, demanding that everyone “watch this!”. She turns and shoots a grin over her shoulder before jumping into the pool, going underwater, and popping back up triumphantly, then running back up the stairs to do it again. I’ve been trying to get her to jump off the dock and stick her face in the water forever, and she never would.
I felt a mixture of things – pride for her little accomplishment, disappointment at not being there to witness it first hand, jealousy that my mom was getting to experience her first beach trip and I wasn’t. But mostly I just felt better. Because as much as I’ve enjoyed (and will continue to enjoy) my quiet time this week, the truth is I’m not actually alone. I won’t ever be again. And who really wants to be anyway?
I relaxed back into the pillows, closed my eyes, and fell asleep knowing I wasn’t so ridiculous after all. I found my light right where I’d left it –
For all my To Do lists, when faced with the reality of being truly on my own, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I wandered around for a few minutes like a ghost, disoriented, knowing there was a light somewhere meant for me disappear into, yet unable to find it.
I finally decided I was being ridiculous so I slipped on my swimsuit, grabbed a towel, and shuffled out the door.
And shuffle I did. Since Sunday my pace has slowed considerably. With no deadlines, demands, or people to satisfy, there’s been no need to constantly check a clock or step harder on the gas pedal.
It was overcast and humid, the grass still wet from recent rains. It’s my favorite time of day to go swimming – right before dark when everyone else is inside eating dinner and the lake is smooth and quiet.
Diving into the water and swimming just beneath the surface is one of the best feelings in the world. It envelopes you, feels like silk rippling over your skin every time you move a limb. I lay on my back underneath it and waved my arms lazily to stay down, looking up at the play of shadow and light.
I came up for air and struck out toward a neighboring dock, intent on swimming laps. But after only a few passes there was a buzzing around my head. I squealed and dunked under the water, swam a few yards, and resurfaced. A horsefly was determined to make my head his resting place and he chased me all over the cove before I finally conceded defeat and got out.
Back at home I took a long, hot shower and did something I never get to do: walk around in a towel. It seems so simple, but it’s a luxury I don’t get often. I was riffling through my dresser, looking for a t-shirt, when my hand found something unexpected – a short, blue silk nightgown with thin straps and a plunging neckline. I’d never worn it before – partially because of where it came from, and partially because it would just be silly to walk around a crowded house in such a thing.
I wrapped my wet hair in a towel and slipped the nightgown over my head. I reached back into my dresser and pulled out the sheer, matching robe. Shrugging it on and standing in front of the mirror, I felt just a tad silly. Maybe other people walk around their homes in silk and satin, but I’ve always been a cotton t-shirt kind of girl. I kept it on anyway. When would I ever get the chance to wear it again?
I could go on to tell you about how I ate a helping of chicken salad and watched the last half of Dirty Dancing. Or how I sat on the dark porch and smoked a cigarette, feeling every bit the old fashioned diva in my silk. Or about when the cat ran out the door and I had to chase after him in the dark, feeling not so much like a diva and more like a lunatic. Regale you with all my solo activities - exciting or otherwise.
Instead I’ll tell you this:
Being alone for an extended period of time is not exactly what I expected. I thought I remembered what it was like when I lived by myself, but I’d forgotten a few things.
Like the fear of walking past an uncovered window, seeing nothing but your reflection surrounded by black, and wondering if something or someone is looking back. Or the way that so much quiet time can make you think about things that you wouldn’t normally have the time or energy to think about. Or that feeling of isolation and disconnect – like you’re the only person in a 100 mile radius (except, of course, for the thing that may or may not be staring in your darkened window).
Last night I stared into space and listened to the fan whir overhead. I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts strayed from one thing to another – my day and the parts I enjoyed, the fear of the unlikely lurker outside my locked doors and bolted windows, how hard my family would laugh if they could have seen me decked out in my fancy night attire. I tossed and I turned, though I was physically more than comfortable.
Finally I picked up my cell phone and went to my messages. In the inbox were two videos my mother sent me earlier that day. In them my daughter is standing by a pool in her bathing suit, hands on her hips, demanding that everyone “watch this!”. She turns and shoots a grin over her shoulder before jumping into the pool, going underwater, and popping back up triumphantly, then running back up the stairs to do it again. I’ve been trying to get her to jump off the dock and stick her face in the water forever, and she never would.
I felt a mixture of things – pride for her little accomplishment, disappointment at not being there to witness it first hand, jealousy that my mom was getting to experience her first beach trip and I wasn’t. But mostly I just felt better. Because as much as I’ve enjoyed (and will continue to enjoy) my quiet time this week, the truth is I’m not actually alone. I won’t ever be again. And who really wants to be anyway?
I relaxed back into the pillows, closed my eyes, and fell asleep knowing I wasn’t so ridiculous after all. I found my light right where I’d left it –
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