Always a bridesmaid (and they don't get ANY attention)

Last Wednesday night I stopped at Papa’s house on the way home. It’s something I do at least two or three times a week, just to say hey and see what’s happening. Usually it’s nothing much – just Papa sitting in his recliner watching TV, his Filipino girlfriend Tess flitting back and forth between the kitchen and the bedroom doing god knows what, my teenage cousin Dave sulking and texting on the couch, and Tess’s mom staring at a wall next to the ever present slow cooker of plain white rice. The dogs wander around in their winter sweaters, occasionally barking at each other and jumping from couch to couch.

Everything seemed to be in order. I kicked off my shoes and climbed up in the corner of the couch closest to Pop’s chair, tucking my legs under me. I’ve never been able to just sit on those couches. They’re enormous and squishy and if I sit correctly, my feet won’t touch the floor. They’re a bit like bouncy houses – you have to fight your way in and out of them.

We talked about holiday dinner plans and we talked about his health. We talked about football and we talked about the dogs. He told me he bought the kid a Barbie Jeep for Christmas, as well as one for my cousin’s little girl and bikes for the boys. And like so many Christmases before, I thought, “Honestly, who needs Santa Claus when you have a Papa?”

After twenty minutes of the usual conversation, it tapered off. I stared at the TV, not really watching, just relaxing. Tess sat at the dining room table behind us doing paperwork and the dogs finally settled down. That’s when he decided to spring it on me.

“Oh”, he said lazily turning his head toward me. “Tess and me are gettin’ married.”

The pause was only about two or three seconds, while my mouth hung slightly open and I glanced from one to the other. She looked back at me from the table; glasses slipping down her nose and pen poised over paper, clearly waiting for my reaction. He was less concerned, as always. Papa has always done exactly as he wished and people can either fall in line, or move out the way. He was already looking back at the TV, big spotted hands resting on his belly and large, bare feet lifted comically in the air.

“Wow! Congratulations!” I wasn’t happy or unhappy, just surprised. I didn’t think they’d ever get married, though she’s been around for about eight years now. A lot of drama surrounded their early relationship (drama that would take a very long to time to explain properly) and at times most of us wondered just what she was doing there. Was she employee, girlfriend, companion, or...something else? It seems we finally got a definitive answer.

“Thank you”, Papa said.

I glanced back at Tess and asked, “Are you excited?”

“Not really”, she replied in her choppy accent. “We together living already. No change.”

“Papa”, she called, “you excited?”

“Yeah, darlin’”, he said while winking at me, “I’m thrilled.”

She snickered and went back to her paperwork. He mentioned that it was going to be held there at his house in mid March and I sighed. I’d been planning a trip that I was very excited about...set for mid March. But missing Papa’s wedding would, in his eyes, be akin to spitting at them. Plans would have to be shifted.

*****

Christmas morning started slowly with coffee cups, robes, and the distribution of presents. Then, as usual, it picked up speed – paper flew, unproductive skating around in socks and underwear ensued, and my godmother’s family came over to quickly exchange presents before we left en masse for The Grandmother’s.

Sheryl (that’s my godmom...but not my favorite one) walked in decked out in her red robe and Santa hat, coffee cup clutched in both hands, followed by her son Tony and daughter Sam.

We all met each other when Leigha and I started taking dance lessons – I was about nine and Lee was two. Sam and Lee were instant friends and quickly became inseparable, which in turn made our mothers inseparable. They became best friends and we’ve been so close to their family ever since, that the title of godmom was just given to Sheryl, to make explaining our closeness to outsiders a bit easier. (It’s also, I believe, a southern thing – calling people family when they really aren’t.) Two years ago, when she split up with her husband, Sheryl and Sam moved into the house next door. Ray was her roommate for a few months before he moved in with us, then she met her boyfriend Brad and he moved in with her.

Tony, at 27, is two years older than me and we’ve had...indiscretions...in the past that always make being around each other awkward. Or rather, I feel awkward because he clearly never got over me. And he feels a bit like unfinished business that I don’t particularly want to finish, yet somehow (only when he isn’t around and I temporarily forget how annoying he is) feel compelled to finish. He’s very smart, a bit nerdy, and cute...but he irritates the piss out of me. He’s one of those people that don’t listen when you speak; he just waits for his turn. And with an ego as large as mine, I need someone that’s more interested in what I have to say.

I was dashing past them, trying to get things together, when Sheryl stuck out her hand. I should have expected it, but I was as surprised by the ring on her finger as I was by Papa’s announcement a few days prior.

I hugged her and said the appropriate things, glancing over her shoulder as I did and catching sight of mom. She raised an eyebrow and I raised both of mine back, because I’ve never been able to just do the one without squinting comically. And though, due to my lack of facial dexterity, our expressions weren’t exactly alike, they certainly conveyed the same message. “Hmm...I wonder if he would have proposed so soon if Ray hadn’t just given mom a ring...”

Perhaps it was an uncharitable thought, but there’d been enough competition between Sheryl and mom in the past to warrant it. And of course we’d never say it aloud...in public.

She said they hadn’t set a date yet and that was the end of that conversation. We exchanged presents, oohed and aahhed over them, and they left. And in the rush to get our things together and make it to The Grandmother’s on time for lunch, I promptly forgot all about Sheryl’s diamond.

*****

I returned to work yesterday feeling rather grateful. There are women out there that would love to quit their jobs and be stay at home moms, but I’m not one of them. Quit my job...yes. Twenty four seven parenting...no. After four days of opening presents, cleaning up, putting together puzzles, playing in the snow, coloring, and going to the movies – I was officially done. And I was proud of what I’d accomplished. I managed to be a fun, minimally irritated mom that didn’t once pick up a book and say, “Get outta here kid, ya bother me”.

I worked straight through the morning, quickly catching up with my inbox. By lunch time I had to slow down to make sure I had enough to last me through Thursday. So it was a little after that, when I was dicking around on Twitter and doing a lot of nothing, that my office phone rang, showing Papa’s office number.

“Hello?”

“Hey”, he shouted in my ear, the unmistakable echo of speakerphone making him even louder.

“Hey Pop. What’s up?”

“Tess has something to ask you!”

I could hear the murmur of several voices in the background and a few stray giggles.

“You want be my bridesmaid?”

“...what?”

“You want...”, she began, before being interrupted by Pop. “Do you want to be a bridesmaid in the wedding”, he shouted.

I paused, the loud static of the speakerphone echoing in my ear. “Um...sure. Thanks.”

A whole room full of people immediately burst out laughing.

“Ok”, he yelled, “talk to you later!”

“O-ok...”

I placed the phone back in the cradle and stared at the computer screen, my eyes glazing over. Then I began laughing in a very disturbing manner as my brain kicked into attack mode. It all hit me at once...

Ok. So I’m a bridesmaid again. How many is that now? Four? Five? Wait...I’m supposed to be in mom’s wedding in October, and now Papa’s in March? Wow. Sheryl is engaged...please no. I was just in a wedding three months ago. People are just picking me as a joke now. This is getting embarrassing. I’m THAT girl. And I can’t even use the excuse that I don’t care about getting married because that’s not necessarily true anymore. Did I really just think that out loud? It’s only because I’m selfish and want presents and a trip....probably. Oh.My.God. I’m going to be an old maid with a closet full of pastel dresses! This is not happening. Not only in MOM’S wedding...but my GRANDFATHER’S. I am so fucking sad right now. Couldn’t say no to Papa...unheard of. I think there’s a Xanax in my purse...

PING. My phone lit up with a text message from my friend and neighbor, Claire.

“OMG! Tess just called and asked me to be a freaking bridesmaid in their wedding!!”

“Me too”, I sent back. Wow, I thought, she’s not only asking the veterans, but also the neighbors.

PING. My phone lit up again, but not with Claire’s reply. It was from Marie, my cousin’s wife.

“Did you get asked to be a bridesmaid too?”

Sigh. Now she’s asking out-of-state relatives. “Yes.”

“lol. Did you say yes?”

“What the fuck was I supposed to say?!”

“I know, me too.”

“I just might off myself”, I said.

“You can do the remake of 27 Dresses!”

“I know. I hate you.”

“I’m just picturing 80s puff and lots of taffeta.”

“I’m praying that whatever she chooses...it’s black.”

“Me tooooo”, Marie replied.



“Help”, I sent to a guy friend a little while later. “Read my Twitter feed and report back.” I’d posted all of my bridesmaid/marital woes.

“I’m not sure I get the full tweet feed on the phone app. What’s going on?”

I broke it down for him again, in layman’s terms.

“I’m gonna need you to propose now”, I said.

A minute ticked by, then PING.

“Awwww....”

*****

It’s official. I am a loser.

My geriatric family members have no trouble finding people that want to marry them. Rather than making a mock proposal or reminding me that marriage is for dummies in order to make me feel marginally better, my friends give me “awwwws” and two page texts of laughter.

Actually, that’s fine! I don’t need a partner. Just because everyone else is pairing off doesn’t mean I should feel pressured to follow suit. And that’s where all these weird feelings and panicky bridesmaid thoughts are coming from – peer pressure. By putting me in their weddings, these people are pressuring me to want my own. They aren’t my feelings – they’re projections! Uh huh.

Whew. I’m glad I’ve got that sorted out.

When everything turns to shit

Usually when I say “I’m very busy and important” I’m being ridiculous, but lately it’s been completely true. I’ve had meetings constantly about this new database and somehow I’ve become the go-to girl. I’m not under any illusion that this is because I’m smart. It’s likely because no one else wants to deal with it and they know they can push it off on me and it will get done. That and they like sitting in my office and staring at my cleavage.

A lot of these meetings are sprung on me at the last minute and I hate that. I’m a bit sporadic with my appearance so if I don’t know about a meeting ahead of time I could come to work in yesterday’s touched up makeup and jogging pants. This, evidently, is not acceptable anymore now that I’m the go-to girl. No more waking up at six and running out the door 30 minutes later. Now I’m back to my 4:30am alarm setting and it sucks like a hooker with a quota.

I had several days notice on yesterday’s meeting so I was able to dress appropriately. I chose my outfit carefully on the off chance that, this time, the cute consultant would get some balls and wave a green flag. I was also hoping he would find the two Tweety Bird bandaids on my ankle and knee endearing rather than juvenile. I’m a very accident prone shaver. Very.

I teetered into work in heels that were half a size too big. I was convinced that with a little adjustment they could be the next “mama’s getting laid tonight” shoes. I looked good. It’s just a shame I had to walk like a candidate for hip replacement.

The meeting ended up lasting three hours and was very informative, though not in the conventional sense. It turns out the cute consultant is married with two small children. It’s the other eh *shoulder shrug* looking guy that’s single. Someone mixed up their statistics. However, this someone didn’t mix up signals and is pretty sure that the married one has been flirting. Or this someone could have a complex and think that every man she meets is flirting with her. Guilty until proven innocent. I know its backasswards.

Anyway, there went that idea. If they aren’t married, they’re gay. If they aren’t gay, they’re creepy stalkers with small penises. Moving on…

That put a bit of a damper on my day, but I’m pretty resilient. By the time I left work I was in good spirits. I picked up the kid and we sang along with the radio all the way home.

Getting out of the car every evening is a bit of a struggle. I’ve got my purse, the kid’s school bag, jackets, cups, the kid’s artwork, and any number of other odds and ends depending on the day’s events.

I was juggling everything in my arms and trying to put the key in the lock while the kid held open the screen door, standing back a bit. As soon as I pushed it open our 130lb yellow lab flew past my legs, making me stagger on my heels.

I looked after him, a confused expression on my face. Why on earth had he been locked up in the house all day? Then I took two wobbly steps through the door and figured it out.

The smell was like a right hook to the jaw. I almost went down. My knees buckled and I might have said “motherfucker”. The kid followed me in and as I threw everything down on the table she took a few steps past me into the dark house, fingers pinching her nose. “It smells weally weally bad Mama.”

“Stay back”, I said, pulling her toward the door. “You stand right here while I figure out where it is.”

I flipped on the light in the dining room and stared at a large, spread out puddle of what looked to be vomit. There were pieces of leaves, rocks, and chunks of something hard and black…like vomit trail mix. I glared at it, crouching down and taking a reluctant sniff. Nope. Not the source, but of course I hadn’t really thought it was.

That’s when I noticed that my bedroom door was open. My bedroom door is never open unless I’m home. I shut it every morning because the cats will park their hairy asses all over my clean laundry that I should put up, but don’t.

As I approached my bedroom the smell got stronger. I held my breath, flipped the light switch and sure enough, there was the fucking source. Shit. Shit. Shit. All over the floor. But not normal piles of stinky dog shit. Hell no. This was diarrhea dog shit. Thick, brown puddles of diarrhea covering entirely too much of my carpet.

I immediately gagged and backed away from the door. The kid was asking questions and yapping at me, but I just waved my hands at her in a shooing manner. Then I lost it.

“OH MY EFFING GAWD! (gag) THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR! (gag) OH I’M GOING TO HURL! (gag) FUCKING (gag) DOG!”

I danced around the kitchen while I screeched, my heels tapping on the floor. I grabbed my cell phone and called my mom, who didn’t answer. Then I tried my sister who also didn’t answer. I needed to avoid the mess and I needed to blame it on someone other than the dog.

I sent the kid to the living room to watch TV while I scouted around for more. I found another crime scene in the playroom. Not diarrhea, but massive piles. I mean massive. They looked like deflated footballs. More gagging and screaming followed.

While I was pacing and hyperventilating in the hallway, thinking vile thoughts about the dog, my sister called back. “THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR!”

“Well I didn’t do it”, she replied indignantly.

“I KNOW you didn’t DO it. Someone left my door open and…”

“I didn’t do that either”, she said.

“Do you understand what’s happening here? I’m practically breaking out in hives! I’m having trouble breathing! I even threw up a little in my mouth! I need you to co…”

CLICK.

Realizing I was going to have to deal with the shit all by myself, whether I wanted to or not, I headed to the laundry room. I dug through the cabinets and armed myself with a new roll of paper towels, carpet cleaner, old cloths, and air freshener. I layered five plastic grocery bags together and started hunting for a pair of rubber gloves.

I had to settle for a pair of bright orange gardening gloves with white grippy dots all over the palms and fingers. I put my hair in a clip, pulled on the gloves, and walked slowly toward my room.

I held my breath and walked in, tearing off a huge wad of paper towels. I had to hike up my skirt to squat down. I was afraid I would go toppling over because of my thin heels, but I refused to take them off just in case my bare feet somehow made contact with the muck. Gagging and cursing the entire time, I threw the first wad in the bags and took off out the door.

And that’s how it went for an ENTIRE hour. Pick up, gag, run out, gag gag gag, cuss, scream, dance in place…and repeat. I looked like Rocky, psyching myself up, pounding the air with my fists. When it came time to scrub the carpet my feet were killing me and my head was pounding. I dumped cleaner all over the floor and tried to figure out how I was going to scrub it without falling over.

The only way was to get on my knees.

And that’s how my sister found me: On all fours with my skirt rutched up, ass sticking out, heels in the air, intermittently spraying air freshener while I scrubbed and cussed at the floor like a deranged person.

After the first few minutes of her taunting I wished I’d taken a gigantic deflated football turd and transferred it to her room. I told her just that while she was lightning candles all over the house. She was not amused.

I had to take a 15 minute break to recuperate before cleaning the second room. Then I went through the same process all over again. On one of my mad dashes out the door to breathe my sister was standing in the kitchen.

“I’m hungry”, she said.

I stared at her in disgust.

“What?”

Later that night I was lying on the couch watching TV with mom. They’d let the dog back in, much to my irritation, and he was crashed within reaching distance. There was a commercial on so I let my eyes drift closed for just a minute.

“What’s…oh…oh!”

That same sickening smell filled the air. The fucking dog let loose a series of farts, each one polluting the air far too close to my head. I promptly jumped up and ran for the bathroom, gagging, while my mom fell off the other couch laughing.

After I finished throwing up I returned to the living room, ashen faced and with tissues shoved up each nostril. “Iz nwat punny. I’m squeamish.”

“PFFFFTRRRRFFFFT”, said the dog’s ass.

“Classic”, Mom wheezed, trying to pinch her nose and laugh at the same time.

The kid stuck her head out of her playroom.

“Mom”, she said.

“What honey?”

“It still smells like shit in here.”


*The criminal, Skeebo, seems to show some remorse. Refused to pose for his picture and elected to hide under the table in shame instead.*

The Champion

It took me five days to get over that fucking flu. Five miserable, snotty, head aching days. And I know that sweaty bastard has to be the one that gave it to me. HAS to be.

So, before I disappeared last week to smother myself with tissues I’d planned on writing about the aforementioned sweaty bastard that most likely gave me the flu. I was a little hesitant about it. At first I though, “Wow…this probably makes me look like a big slut.” So I put it off.

Now that I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, “Who gives a rat’s ass. I have nothing else to write about…and it’s nothing if not, um, entertaining.” I comfort myself with the fact that I’m not really a slut. There are men out there ten times worse than I’ve ever had time to be. Screw the double standard that will likely never die.

That night I went out with my cousin and his fiancé and another girlfriend of mine. We went to dinner and then to a bar in the small downtown district. I’d usually rather sit home and stare at a wall before I’d go to a bar in my town, especially this particular one. I avoid it like the plague. It’s like a high school reunion every time. Ugh. However, my cousin doesn’t like the city night life like I do and he was paying for all of our drinks so I said, “Why the fuck not?”

It actually wasn’t bad. They had a sort of early St. Patty’s thing going. We went upstairs where it was less crowded to play a couple games of pool. Of course I ran into the usual small town school folks that never leave, (I’m still desperately trying NOT to be one of them.) but it wasn’t so bad.

A guy that my cousin knew well was playing at the table next to ours. He graduated a few years before I did, but I knew him from parties, rumors, and the usual small town run-in. He’d recently gotten back from Iraq, which surprised me. He’d been pretty big into drugs last I heard.

Anyway, he came and said hi to everyone and I could tell he was pretty wasted (but probably only slightly more than I was). When he got to me he shouted, “HEEEEYYYY! JIMMY’S DAUGHTER! WHAT’S UP?”

Yet another reason I avoid small town bars. There’s always one…always…that fucking calls me “Jimmy’s daughter”. I cannot stress just how much I hate being referred to as JIMMY’S GODDAMNED DAUGHTER. As if having the man show up to nearly every party for my entire high school career wasn’t enough embarrassment to last a life time. Not to watch out for me, never that. He was either already there and drunk, passing out god knows what, when I arrived or showed up later. Everyone thought he was fantastic of course. No one else’s dad partied as hard or gave out as many free illegal substances as old Jimbo. He’s a legend. It’s been years and he’s still causing me embarrassment merely by name association. Sometimes when they talk about how cool he was I want to tell them, “Yeah, he’s the coolest! I think it’s great that all of you got to snort my college fund up your noses!” I digress.

I sneered at him. “That’s not my fucking name.”

“I know your name, geeze, Ally...chill.”

We all went back to our games. My cousin started buying shots. About an hour and a half later (I’m estimating), I was lit like a Christmas tree. Everything was lovely! The originally offending party was especially lovely with his military muscles and tattoos. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to sleep with him or not. He’d approached my cousin and expressed an interest I was already plainly aware of, even in my drunken state.

The deciding factor that tipped the scales in his favor? He said, “You know, your dad and I were at (somewhere) once (back when I was still in school) talking and he opened up his wallet for something. I saw your picture and I said, ‘I didn’t know she was your daughter. Nice!’, and he said, ‘Stay away from my daughter’. He scared the shit out of me. He doesn’t live here anymore, right?”

I laughed so hard I spit my drink out, barely missing some poor player.

“No, he doesn’t. We’re leaving soon. Are you coming with me?”

That was all she wrote. He left before we did and I made plans to meet him where I’d left my car. HA Jimmy!

Skipping over the majority of the in transit details, I met the other guy and he rode with me to my cousin’s house. During the drive, we were both more sober and had a pretty decent conversation. Nothing to write home about, but he was a little more intelligent than I’d originally thought. We hung out with my cousin and his fiancé for awhile before they went to bed. I took him to the guest room.

I really didn’t want to complain about another sex partner. I didn’t want it to seem like I’m this really hard to satisfy bitch, because I’m not. I just have really, really bad luck. Evidently. So here it goes.

Before I could do anything he had my arms pinned to my sides and was trying to swallow my entire face. I ended up jerking my head side to side so much I’m surprised I didn’t end up with whiplash.

The sex itself wasn’t so bad...at first. Then the sweating started.

Sweat is normal. I understand that, especially given the acrobatics he was pulling out. But his sweating was not normal at all. He started to get slick. I started to get slick. It was fine as long as I stayed on top, but he kept throwing me around all over the place. It started to drip off his forehead and nose and when he pulled me back under him, it started soaking my hair. I was gritting my teeth and trying to decide if it was funny or disgusting when a giant drop fell directly into my eye. INTO MY EYE.

I froze and opened my mouth to say, I’m not exactly sure, but that wasn’t a good idea. I sputtered and coughed and made him get out and go get a towel.

He was apologetic and wiped my face and his. Against my better judgment, activities commenced. That’s when it got weird.

I love talking shit. Love it. It can be quite sexy. Unfortunately, what came out of his mouth was not. I didn’t initiate the talking. He asked me once if I liked it rough. I said yes and he took that as an OK to turn into the Shump Daddy. (Taken from his last name…how clever.)

He started pulling my hair. Ok. Great. Good. Fine.

“…you like that baby?”

“…uh huh…”

(This is gonna get graphic…)

“Whose pussy is it?”

“What?”

“WHOSE PUSSY IS IT?!”

“Um…yours?”

“THAT’S RIGHT! Say its Shump Daddy’s pussy!”

“What!?”

He yanked hard on my hair.

“SAY IT’S SHUMP DADDY’S PUSSY!”

I started convulsing on top of him…with laughter. I was biting my lip so hard, but little noises kept coming out, which he took as pleasure.

“SAY IT!”

I choked it out as best as I could, trying to keep from laughing out loud completely which made me shake harder, which made him think I was about to have a melt down.

“DON’T STOP! RIDE IT LIKE A CHAMPION! YOU’RE A FUCKING CHAMPION! A FUCKING CHAMP! CHAMP!”

I lost it. I stopped and doubled up laughing, out loud this time.

“What’s so funny!?”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He was perturbed. He grabbed my hair in one hand and my throat in the other, not really putting any pressure on it, but the intent was clear. I gasped when he pulled my head back. Which meant game on again, I guess.

He got so excited that he flipped me under him again and, pardon my rough and descriptive phrasing, pounded me so hard if I’d been a nail, he’d have hammered me through a whole stack of boards. You know how guys sometimes do that REALLY fast, vibrating, jack hammer thing? Yeah, it was like that. I grabbed a pillow and pressed it over my face, as much to muffle the laughter as to stop my head from jolting off my neck.

That’s probably the worst of it. It turned out to be about a two hour ordeal. I finally had to fake the most dramatic orgasm I’ve ever faked in my life. And I really, truly hate to do that because then they think they’re great and make other women’s lives miserable. But he was crazy. I didn’t really have a choice.

While he went outside to smoke I started cleaning up the room. The sheets were completely soaked with sweat. I mean SOAKED. They could have just come out of a washing machine they were so wet. I took everything to the laundry room and threw it in the washer. Then I went to the bathroom.

I looked like maniac. My hair was wet and matted, mascara all over my face, bruises starting to show up all over. I combed my hair out with my fingers and put it in a ponytail and prepared to get rid of the Shump Daddy.

Thankfully he went kind of quietly. With a parting, “I really pounded you good, huh?”

I couldn’t answer without having hysterics, so I just nodded.

I went directly home (it was 6am by now) and got in the shower.

The guy had to have been on something other than alcohol. I’m guessing cocaine. Of course I had to tell my cousin and his fiancé about it. They thought it was absolutely hilarious and have been calling me ‘The Champion’ ever since.

Lovely.

It’s that asshole’s fault I got the flu. I know it.

Ah well. Another notch, another laugh and I got 2 ½ days plus the weekend off from work. Still, I’ll be avoiding that bar and the Shump Daddy indefinitely.