Wednesday, March 30, 2011

The Husband and I Should Not be Allowed in Public

The husband and I?  We're awesome.  Sincerely we are.  We ooze awesomeness.  Not ooze in the way an open wound oozes blood and puss and maggots.  Ew.  Ooze as in the way some people think Angelina Jolie oozes sex.  Personally, I think she oozes death.  Her skin is the most ugly shade of gray.  Not a lovely shade of gray like charcoal gray, but the shade of gray zombies are right before they turn green and their skin starts falling off.

We can all agree on this, yes?


Fine.  I will compromise.  Angelina Jolie oozes sexy death.  The least sexy death possible.

What you should take away from those last few sentences is that the awesomeness the husband and I ooze is greater than or equal to the least sexy death possible that Ms. Jolie oozes.  And it is this said awesomeness that will  make you want to hang out with the husband and I.  You'll want to invite us over for cocktails and caviar, introduce us to all your friends, save us a primo seat at the Kentucky Derby, serving us an endless supply of mint juleps, and take us out to dinner.

BUT DON'T.  Why?  Because minty drinks make me want to puke in your face.  And as awful as that sounds, that is nothing compared to the catastrophe that is the husband and I when we leave the safety of our padded-wall home.

Example?  Happy to oblige.

Last night the husband and I went to a sushi restaurant for dinner.  While we waited, I banged my chopsticks on the table to the off kilter beat of the voices in my head.  The sound was less than musical and only highly annoying to those around us.  Then the husband and I talked about how irritating children can be.  The husband launched into a monologue about how much he detests having his meal ruined by annoying kiddies.  He then asked if I thought he'd be a patient dad or just yell at our kids for the slightest infraction.

Me: I'll think you'll be patient.

The husband: No.  I'll yell at them.

He demonstrated by turning to the empty seat next to him and giving a two minute lecture, complete with teeth gritting and finger pointing, to our invisible child.

Me: The rest of the restaurant patrons think you look totally normal right now.

I returned to playing with the chopsticks.

Me: What letter is this?

The husband: L.

Me: Yes!  What letter is this?

The husband: V.

Then the teacher became the student.

The husband (making the letter T): what letter is this?

Me: A?

The husband: No.

Me: S?

The husband: No.

Me: P?

The husband: No, but it rhymes with P.

Me: C?  D?  V?  E? 

The husband: No, no, no, no.

Me: T?

The husband:  YES!

Much clapping and cheering ensued.

Next, I took the chopsticks and repeatedly rapped them on the husband's knuckles.  After several seconds, or minutes, of this, it occurred to me that this may hurt. I began rapping on my own knuckles.

It did not hurt.

I began rubbing the chopsticks together.

Me: Do you think I could start a fire with these?

The husband: No.

Me: Never?  What if I rubbed them together all day?

The husband:  No.


The food arrived and shortly after we launched into an argument, you know, for funsies.  He argued his point.  I argued mine.  He argued his.  I argued mine.  Back and forth we went until finally I said, "I don't remember what we were arguing about."

At some point during dinner I did or said something that made the husband respond, "I will stab you."

My mouth fell open and I stared at him all incredulous like.

The husband: Now you know what I have to listen to all the time.

Me: I am so honored.  I wore off on you and you are finally talking about stabbing.  And you took it to a whole new level.

The husband: What do you mean?

Me: I say 'I am going to stab you,' which means stabbing will commence right now.  You said 'I will stab you' which threatens a future stabbing at an undetermined time.  Wow.

The husband: Yeah.  Wow.

Me: I don't know why you're so against saying 'I'm going to stab you.'  It's an expression.  One no worse than saying I'm going to kill you.

The husband: It's worse.  Because you're describing the way in which you are going to kill someone.

Me: Not true.  You can stab someone without killing them.  Stabbing is much more thoughtful than killing. 

The husband: It's like someone saying I'm going to tie you to a chair, cut out your heart and shove it down your throat until you choke to death.

Me:  So it would be death by choking, not death by heart-being-ripped-from-chest?

The husband: ....yeah...

Me: I'm going to stab you is totally going to catch on.  In three years everyone's going to be saying it.

The husband: I feel like I just heard Paris Hilton talk about the next big catch phrase.

Me: Please don't insult me like that ever again.

After the greatest conversation in (as the bloggess says) the history of ever, we decided to have a staring contest, because this is totally normal behavior for two grown adults in a fine dining establishment.

After dinner the husband handed me the keys to his truck because he had two beers and we are responsible.  But actually? Me driving at night is rarely a good idea and me driving the truck at night is never a good idea.  Remember the bachelorette party?  The husband would be a better driver after consuming thirty-two beers than I would be totally sober driving the big-ass truck at night.

Why is this? Well, partially because it's so big (that's what she said! ahahahahahaha!) and partially because I like to play games whilst driving.

Example? Why of course I have an example!  So thoughtful of you to ask.

You know what?  I really don't feel like getting into it, but let's just say it involved circling the one way horseshoe shaped parking lots several times and the postal dude working a top secret operation at the post office next to the parking lot was all ????  And I was all, "should I back up and wave?  "Should I circle again and again?  Should I ask him how we get out of the parking lot?  Hee hee that would be hilarious."

The husband:  You should.  Totally hilarious.

I didn't, because I was afraid I would get pulled over for drunk driving and I'd be all, "I promise I wasn't drinking occifer,  Get it? I said occifer, like if I were actually drunk.  But I'm not.  Hilarious." But the occifer wouldn't, in fact, think it was hilarious and he'd be all "book em Dan-o" and I'd be all "who are you talking to?  there's no one there.  maybe you're the drunk one" and then I'd have to share a small cell with Zelda and it would not be awesome.

On the way home we decided we were going to stop the shenanigans and act like adults.

That lasted all of two seconds.

When we got home we read the works of Thoreau and discussed Quantum Physics, sipped seltzer and were the picture of decorum and civility. 

Or we watched South Park.

I'll let you decide.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

You Know What I Just Love? Updated to Make More Sense. Maybe. Probably Not.*

*Monoxide.  I meant monoxide.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't worry about it.  If you do, yay...this day is the worst.  If there are any dioxides on this post replace it with monoxide.  Or don't.  Whatev.

You know what gets me all "yippee!" and "wohoo!" and "right on!"?  You know what really turns me on (in a completely non-sexual way, or maybe sexual, I'll let you decide)?  You know what freaking makes my day?

When I have a thought, an idea, a suggestion, a if-we-don't-do-this-the-world-will-end solution and I have been saying it for months and months and people either stare blankly at me or look at me like I've grown five heads.

And then someone new hops on the scene and is all you know what we should do? and everyone thinks they're f*cking brilliant. 

For example, let's say I suggest that in order for people to live, they should breathe oxygen.

Everyone else: Wow, breathing this carbon monoxide sucks.  I don't feel so good. I think I might die.

Me: Carbon monoxide is a terrible thing to breathe.  It will kill you.  Who ever told you you should breathe carbon monoxide?  What you need is oxygen.  Step out of the car, open the garage, go outside and inhale.

Everyone else: Man this carbon monoxide really sucks.  I'm feeling sleepy.  I wish there was an alternative.

Me: There is!  It's called oxygen.

Everyone else: What are we going to do about this carbon monoxide?  Does anyone know of an alternative gas to breathe.

Me:  I do! I do!  Oxygen!  Breathe oxygen!

Everyone else: DOOM AND WOE!  Carbon monoxide! If only there was an answer!


Everyone else: Caaaaaaaarrbooooooon Monnnnnnnnoooxxxxxxiiiiiiiiiideee.

New person: Hey guys, carbon monoxide is a terrible thing to breathe.  What we need in order to survive is oxygen.  Follow me outside!

Everyone else:  Oxygen!  You are a f*cking genius!  Why didn't anyone mention oxygen before?  Wow, you are an expert at surviving.  Yay for oxygen! Yay for new person!

Equally pleasurable is when you've been working your ass off for months on a project and it is two days, two days, before the big reveal and new person is all you did what?  Why did you do that?  I would have done this.  This would have been so much better.

I f*cking LOVE it when people do that.  Sincerely, I do.  It definitely does not make me want to say next time, why don't you do it bitch?  If you have all the bright ideas why don't you be in charge?  Oh, wait.  The last time you were in charge and had all these big ideas you f*cking did nothing.  Nothing!  And I had to carry your ass because you don't follow through on shit.

I never want to say that.  I'm all hugs and rainbows and candy coated raindrops.  And I definitely don't want to stab them.  Nope, not at all.

Speaking of stabbing, I was texting my friend last night who is dealing with equally annoying assholes awesome geniuses as my previously mentioned new person.  She may have been a little tipsy on Screwdrivers, which is her one-and-only true-blue favorite drink.  I have known her for years and I know she intravenously injects really likes Screwdrivers and when she is a drinkin, that be what she drinkin.  However, when she texted me that she was going to go to work with her cup full of screwdriver because she anticipates the day is going to end badly, the first thing I think of is that she is going to go to work with a bunch of screwdrivers, as in the tool, in a cup and stab people with them.  I was all wow, I never knew H was in to stabbing.  Turns out?  She's not.  Or maybe she is.  I don't know.  It's hard to really focus on anything other than my own giddiness stemming from new person discovering oxygen thereby ensuring the survival of mankind (thank goodness).

I'm not really sure how to end this delightful tale - as I mentioned all the joy is making it hard to focus - so I will end with this:

1.) I apologize if the use of the f*ck word seemed obsessive, but I can't help it.  I'm so irate happy.

2.) If you tell me that the air we breathe is more nitrogen than oxygen thereby making nitrogen the saver of humanity, I will stab you.  I'm sorry.  I'm not normally this mean.  It's been that kinda day.

Friday, March 18, 2011

And Then a Retired Convict Stabbed Me With a Needle

That title has so much promise, doesn't it?

I finally went to the doctor.  I say finally because this is what the husband has been dealing with since September:  "I don't feel good.  I'm nauseous.  I think I'm going to throw up.  I just threw up.  I dry-heaved.  Nothing came up because I'm too sick to eat.  I have a headache.  I'm dizzy.  I almost passed out today.  I just threw up.  My stomach hurts.  I have pain in my leg.  I think it's a blood clot.  My ears hurt.  I'm dizzy.  I have to throw up.  My uterus hurts.  I think I have a hernia."

The husband has been very caring and supportive: "I'm so sorry you feel bad.  Is there anything I can do?  You still feel sick?  I'm so sorry.  Poor baby. I love you.  JUST DIE ALREADY."

Kidding.  The husband would never wish me dead.  Because when you have someone as awesome as me in your life, you want to hold them close.  So close.  So close that maybe you kinda sorta smother them.  To death.

I typed my symptoms into a WebMD type site and it said I am either really stressed out or have pancreatic cancer.

The husband:  I really hope it's just stress.

Seriously, isn't he the sweetest?

It was the "I'm-pretty-sure-I-have-a-hernia" that finally propelled me to the doctor.  I had one of those eight years ago, and while it was really sexy to have a golf ball sized lump protruding from the area between my va-jay-jay and bellybutton, if those things don't get taken care of they can become strangulated.  And I'm not an expert or anything, but there's pretty much nothing sexy about strangulated bowels.  Also?  It hurts.  Badly.  Really really badly.  And?  You could die.

The night before I decided to go to the doctor the husband and I were watching tv.

Me: Ow.  My boob bone hurts.  My elbow hurts.  My skull hurts.  Can I see your phone?

The husband (hands me the phone): Wait.  Why do you want it?

Me: I'm googling bone cancer.

The husband: No.  Give me the phone back.

Me (hysterical): No!  I have to do it!  I have to!  I have to know!

The husband: Fine.  But then give it back.  Do not look up anything else.

Me: Yippee!

The husband: This is not going to end well.

I googled.  The good news?  I do not have bone cancer.  But that's probably because Google said "there's no such thing as a bone boob."  Really Google?  Really?  The bone boob is the bone between your boobs.  Duh.  And you call yourself a doctor, Google.  Honestly.  You should be embarrassed.

What Google lacks in doctor skills it makes up for in Psychiatry because the bad news?  Google said it's a very high possibility I Have Issues.  Hypochondria and Paranoia top the list.

Armed with this information I went to the walk-in clinic.

Me: I think I have a hernia.

The doctor: Here throw this paper sheet over yourself and take off your pants while I stay in the room.

I did, and it was all very 19th century Victorian romance novel, except without the throbbing manhood.  Unfortunately. Thankfully.

The doctor poked and prodded and declared I Did Not Have a Hernia.

The doctor: Anything else wrong?

Me: Uh...well...since you asked...I feel like I have to throw up, I'm dizzy, I'm nauseous, I have lower back pain...

The doctor: Hmmm. 

Me: I think it's all due to stress.  I've been really stressed out lately.  I think if all the stress ends, the symptoms will go away, but I'm afraid they've developed into something really really bad.

The doctor:  Okay, we'll run some tests.  Are you depressed?

Me:  Haha.  What's depression?  Me, depressed?  No way.  Just out of curiosity, how many Tylenol would it take...

The doctor: horrified expression

Me: Oh!  No!  Not that!  I'm not thinking of doing that!  My friends and I have this pool going:  how many Tylenol would it take to fill a bath tub?  The winner gets five bottles of Tylenol to you know, to, uh, take as, uh, needed.

The doctor: I'm going to prescribe you an anti-anxiety drug.  Have you heard of Xanax or Ativan?

Me: YES!!  I mean, I may have heard of them.

The doctor:  I'm writing you a prescription for Ativan.

Me: Great!  How much you think they're going for on the street these days?

The doctor: raised eyebrows

Me: Kidding!  Kind of.

The doctor: Pee in this cup and then the nurse will take blood.

I pee, return back to the room, clench my fist and start pumping.  Why do I do this?  Well...

When I was fourteen, I got sick.  Really really sick.  My knees swelled up to the size of grapefruits,  my elbow swelled to the size of a golf ball and I had golf ball sized protrusions on my neck.  In other words?  I was hot.

I went to a lot of doctors and had a lot of blood work done to determine what was wrong with me.  But my veins?  They're blood whores and wanted to keep my blood all to themselves.  The doctors had to use butterfly needles - as in, the needles they use on babies cuz they have itty bitty baby veins - to extract my blood.  Even with the butterfly needles, they had to stick me four times, every time, to get my blood.

I handled this very well.  Especially when, after one particularly let's-use-you-as-a-pin-cushion doctor's visit, we found out that my blood got lost on its way to the lab.  My poor mother had to tell me that I had to go get stabbed forty times again and it was the end of the freaking world.  You would have thought she told me I was having my limbs lopped off to be replaced with lobster claws and I would always smell like rotten fish and no one would love me and I could never go in the sun again because my claws would cook and starving children across the world would come after me and start gnawing on my giant claws.

The best was when I had to go to the arthritis doctor.  Arthritis doctor = I-stare-at-old-saggy-people-all-day-and-you-are-young-and-spry-so-I-am-going-to-molest-you.

The doctor was all "take off your shirt so I can feel you up."  And I was all "but the lumps and bumps are on my knees, elbow and throat.  Why do you need to see my boobs?"

I left the visit screaming and crying that I had been molested and my stepdad was all "what the hell happened in there?"  And my mom was all, "nothing. you know K and her dramatics."  Except my mother didn't say that because she is totally supportive.

After feeling me up, the arthritis doctor wanted me to have blood drawn because of course he did.  I started sobbing and wailing and he was all "don't worry, my nurse has never missed a vein in 20 years.  She'll get you the first time."

Guess what?  The bitch missed.

She dug the needle around in my vein. You could see it poking my skin and almost come out the other side.  It took three more sticks for her to get blood.  When she was finished, I took the needle and stabbed her in the eye.

I wish.

The good news about all that was I developed a system for making my veins fat and juicy, hence the fist clenching and pumping referred to earlier.

While I clenched and pumped, waiting for the nurse to come stick me, I started getting anxious.  Really really anxious.  I started dry heaving.  And getting dizzy.  And things started getting dark.  I thought I was going to pass out.  But I didn't because I was all get it together!  Seriously, no amount of training can make you this kind of awesome.  You're just born with it.

The nurse came in.  He was big and bald, with a goatee and LOTS of tattoos.

Me:  You're the nurse? You look like you just got out of prison.

The nurse:  That's because I did just get out of prison.

I suddenly felt much better about getting my blood drawn.  Prisoners are experts with needles.  That's why they all have such great tattoos.

He got my blood with the first stick.

The moral of this story is twofold:

1.) If you ever need to have blood work done, drive to your state prison and ask for the most tatted up dude there.

2.) My pee work and blood work came back normal.  My doctor's visit was three weeks ago.  My prescription for Ativan sits in my purse, unfilled.  Because the thought of taking anti-anxiety meds makes me anxious.  And also?  Recent studies show the number one side effect of anti-anxiety meds is your limbs falling off and lobster claws growing in their place.  And I think we all know how that ends.  Not well, my friends.  Not well.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Bachelorette Party: The Day After

An escort and a high class hooker dressed in green walk into the Walmart of a sleepy beach-side town drawing stares and whispers and "how much?"s.  They buy cock rings.  Multi-colored vibrating cock rings.

They walk back to the car.  The "how much?"s get louder and more insistent.  But the escort and high class hooker have no time to offer their services.  They are on their way to a sex worker convention.

And so began C's bachelorette party.  I can't tell you what happened next because we all drank too much, blacked out and have no memory of what occurred.


We're adults.  Sophisticated, classy adults.  We sipped sherry by the fire while Harriet played the harp and Marian recited Shakespeare.  We pitched in and bought C a high necked, long sleeved, ankle length lace nightgown and tried to educate her on what would happen on her wedding night.

"His what goes where?!" she gasped in horror.

"Close your eyes, pretend you like it, and it will soon be over."

We retired early, woke early and went for a stroll in the gardens before a delightful breakfast of tea and English muffins.  We bid adieu and promises of "see you in less than a fortnight," trailed on the wind as we rode off in our horse-drawn carriages.

The End.

Now that all the parents have stopped reading, here's what really happened.

I got a concussion and then drove into oncoming traffic.  True story.

In my defense I was in my husband's truck and totally sober.  (And by totally sober, I mean I was actually sober, not sarcastically sober.)

Before that happened I Andretti-ed around the hotel parking lot, which is to say I circled the parking lot like race car driver Mario Andretti but with a lot more five point turns.  This happened after I drove up to the guardrails blocking the entrance to the parking garage and hopped out in my tight shiny green dress, sans my six inch heels, making me a Barefoot and Pregnant high class hooker.  The ticket dispenser machine proclaimed that it was jammed, which I read as "stab the ticket-dispensing button forty times and wait for nothing to happen."

I finally made it to the hotel room where I was given the highest compliment I have ever received in my entire life.  D said that no, I was not a high class hooker, but A Call Girl, which in the sex worker hierarchy is a step up from your common street walker.

After throwing back one, or five, drinks, the eighteen - yes I said eighteen - of us ran across the street because oncoming traffic?  Who cares?  It's a bachelorette party bitches.

What happened next is quite possibly the single greatest thing about bachelorette parties.  The Entrance.  But not just any entrance.  The entrance of the bride, C, and her friends.  And if I'm being completely honest - it is the best policy, you know - my friends and I?  We're freaking HOT.  It's not bragging if it's true.

We walked in -  a single file line of hotness - eyes forward pretending we didn't notice that the entire restaurant halted to watch us.

We were escorted upstairs to a long row of connected tables where the waitress took our drink orders.  Mine went something like this:

Me: I'll have a Chardonnay.  No!  A Cabernet.  I mean Char... no Cabernet.  Yeah, Cabernet.  Wait, is that what I drink.  The red...yeah, Cabernet!

Waitress: Can I see your id?

Me: What?  Don't I sound like I order drinks all the time?

We soon realized there was another row of tables set up behind us and unanimously decided that our bachelorette party would kick their bachelorette party's ass.

Except it wasn't a bachelorette party.  It was a birthday party, a sweet 16 or some other such nonsense.  A parade of cinched waists, perky boobs and elastic skin bopped by and we all scoffed and called them babies and wondered what time their curfew was.  In other words?  We were the epitome of maturity.

Cinched waists?  So what.  We can buy alcohol!

Perky boobs?  Overrated.  More mojitos, please!  And tequila shots.  And a round of Blue Moons.  And Chardonnay...I mean Cabernet.  Oh, screw it, bring em both!

Elastic skin?  Did I mention we can buy alcohol?

Shortly after the future stars of 16 and Pregnant sat down at their table a few adorable chaps with shaggy hair, dimpled smiles and maybe, just maybe, braces, trotted upstairs.  We greeted them with a chorus of whoops and shrieks.

They were good beaus and attended to their ladies-in-waiting before coming over to our table.  Another round of whoops and shrieks and we officially became the Cougar table.


Harmless flirting commenced, after of course checking id's to make sure they were indeed legal - no one's going to jail to-night!

One of them - the one without braces - gave C a lap dance.  He reminded me of the Charmin bear.  You know, the one that shimmy's while wiping and gets toilet paper stuck to his butt.  It was the first - and probably only - time a lap dance was described as "cute."

Cute was definitely not the words to describe the "strippers" invited to the room later that night.  "Gross" and "Pathetic" were more like it.  Honestly, I had to show them what to do.  But then again, I am a professional.

After dinner we watched C open present after present of sexy lingerie, aka crotchless panties.  And who can forget the cock rings?  Then C read to us from the Book of Sexual Positions while half of us said "ooh yeah" and the other half said "I don't get it."  During the opening of the lingerie I also had a delightful conversation with V about the different types of anti-anxiety meds.

We each pounded back eight or ten more drinks, piled in cabs and headed to the clubs.

Where we danced.

And that is all I'm legally allowed to say about that portion of the evening.

We returned to the hotel where we undressed and dressed those too drunk tired to do so themselves and everyone went to sleep.

Everyone except for me that is.  I slept with A who apparently decided she didn't have enough room on the eight and a half feet that made up her side of the bed so she decided to sleep on top of me.  Initially I politely asked her to scoot over.  But when she never, as in NOT ONCE, budged an inch I was forced to punch and kick her over to her side.  Quite the slippery little sucker she was, making her way back to my side Every.  Single.  Time.

The next morning we woke, bid adieu, and questions of "what happened last night," trailed on the stale exhaust of our gas powered vehicles.

And maybe, possibly, one of us kinda, sorta slept off her hangover in her car before driving home.

Not it!

Missed part one?  I'll spare you the lecture of not following my blog regularly enough and just tell you to read it here.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011


Red Dress Club Writing Prompt
Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself.

Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you're from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self.

This is an exercise in showing, not telling. You need to show us why this particular moment defines you, or why you want someone to know this truth about you. Be descriptive without bogging us down in extraneous details.


There is a wait at the restaurant which means the chances of us being seated next to the restroom are not good.

He puts our name on the list and the hostess hands us a buzzer.  "Twenty-five minutes," she says.

Twenty-five minutes of waiting.  Wondering.  Racing heart.  Knotted stomach.  Deep breaths.

But I make sure he doesn't notice.  I talk, a little too much.  I am witty.  I am funny.  I laugh at his jokes.  I touch his arm.

Our buzzer vibrates and we go to the hostess station.

"Right this way," she says and we follow.

I want to locate the restrooms on the way, but I focus on walking.  On not tripping.

We take our seats at a table in the center of the room.  Surrounded on all sides by people.


I look at him and smile.  "This is great," I say.

I look around the room, pretend to take in the space - the funky artwork, the Gothic chandeliers - when really I am trying to spot the restroom.

There it is.  All the way over there.

My stomach flutters.

"Can I get you something to drink?" our waitress asks.

I have given up soda for Lent and I don't drink water at restaurants.  The only option left is tea.

Tea makes me have to use the restroom.  Which is on the other side of the sea of people.

I glance down at the menu.  Tea is the only option.

I smile brightly.  "Sweet tea with lemon, please."

We order appetizers, dinner.

I talk, a little too much.  I am witty.  I am funny.  I laugh at his jokes.  I touch his arm.

My foot shakes under the table.

We talk sports, and politics, and world events.

I fiddle with my earring.

We talk about his stupid boss, my annoying co-workers.

He likes me.  I can tell.  A second date is a sure thing.

I finish my second glass of tea. I can't hold it any longer.  I stand up and place my napkin on the table.  My heart races.

"Be right back," I say.

I walk with my eyes down.  Run my hand over the back of my skirt to make sure it isn't caught in my underwear.

It's not.

I do it again just to be sure.

I steal glances trying to determine the path with the least amount of people.  The fewest eyes, watching.  The fewest lips, whispering.

I make it to the restroom and exhale.  I pee.  I smile at the girl at the sink.  I reapply my lipstick.  I don't look at myself in the mirror for too long.

The walk back to the table is easier even though the people are still there.  Watching.  Whispering.  I  keep my eyes down, but my heart returns to a steady thump...thump...thump.

"How about dessert?" I say when I sit down.

I smile brightly. To him it is no different than before, but to me it is.  It is one of relief.  Of triumph.

I survived.

I'm okay.

Until the next time.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Escape: Red Dress Club

Red writing hood prompt: "Water gives life. Water takes it away."  Of course I'm way over 600 words, but I need to get ready for a bachelorette party and in the words of Blaise Pascal "I have made this letter longer than usual because I lack the time to make it shorter."  And also because word limits are my nemesis.  But one day I WILL abide my this rule.  I'm sure this needs a heavy dose of editing as well, but I gotta go!


I wasn’t happy to see him sitting there.

I walked toward the end of the dock, clutching the bottle of vodka, stolen from my mother’s underwear drawer, in front of me like a shield.  My hand fisted in my jacket pocket, but I was careful not to crush the pack of cigarettes.

“Hi,” he said when I got to the end.  I sat down, my legs dangling over the edge of the dock, the bottle clamped between my thighs.

“You know the Petersons?” he said looking over his shoulder toward the house.

“No.”  But that didn’t stop me from using their dock.  The Petersons lived there three weeks out of the year.  For those three weeks, the house was theirs.  For the rest of the year, it was mine.

I unscrewed the bottle.

“I’m Jo…”

“I know who you are.”  I put the bottle to my lips and tilted my head back, welcoming the burn in my throat.  He was John Campbell.  Star quarterback, homecoming king, teen heart-throb.

“You go to Franklin?”

I settled the bottle between my thighs and looked at him.  “Yeah.”  We had three classes together this year.  I took another sip and looked out over the lake.  I could feel his eyes on me.

“Wait.  I know you.  You’re…”

I toyed with the cigarettes in my pocket.



He snapped his fingers.  “Right.”

I took another sip.  A good, long sip.

“Rough night?”

I sighed.  I supposed I should offer him some.  It was the polite thing to do.  But coming to the dock wasn’t about being polite.  It was about escape.  Escape from straight A’s and a 4.25 GPA, and volunteer of the year and being the twinkle in my father’s eye.

Sighing again I extended the vodka toward him, but he jumped up knocking the bottle with his thigh.

“Want to go swimming?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and ripped off his shirt.  Suddenly I understood what girls like Kristy and Ally and Heather meant when they talked about a six pack.  It was no longer just something my mother polished off before noon.

John had a body I thought only existed in cheesy movies.  He was tan.  Ripped, chiseled, whatever the word was, he was solid muscle.

I pulled from the bottle again hoping to calm my racing heart.

His hands were at his belt and before I knew it his jeans were pooled on the dock.

He stood before me.  Naked.

I choked on the vodka, spraying it out my mouth and nose.

I caught his grin before he dove in the water, barely making a splash.  He resurfaced and shook his head, sending water flying from his hair.  The droplets caught the light of the moon, tiny diamonds falling to the water.

“Come on,” he said.

“Is it cold?” I asked, as if actually considering it.  There was no way I was getting naked in front of John Campbell.


“You’re lying.”

“Get in and find out for yourself.  I guarantee you won’t need that anymore.”

I looked down at the vodka.  I tapped the bottle.  Took a sip.  Continued tapping.

I looked at him and he smiled.  Not the cocky smile he wore at Franklin High, but a real smile.

Tap tap tap.

What would people say if they found out John and I were swimming together?  Alone.  At night.  Naked.  No doubt the rumors would fly and it’d go from skinny dipping to them having sex to her banging the entire football team.  Miss perfect, miss straight A’s miss teacher’s pet, banging the football team.

I set the bottle aside, jumped up and before I could think about it, ripped off my jacket and shirt.  My hands hesitated at my bra before unhooking the clasp and letting it fall away.  I bent over and yanked off my tennis shoes.  I could feel him watching me.  My body grew warm as I unbuttoned by jeans and pulled them down along with my underwear.  I started to jump but my foot caught in my jeans and I stumbled forward, banging my shin on the dock before crashing face first into the water.

I wanted nothing more than to sink to the bottom of the lake and stay there until John grew bored and went home.  But I needed air.  I surfaced, coughing and sputtering and choking on the air.

I could hear John’s laugh above my commotion.

Composing myself, I pushed the hair away from my eyes and glared at him.  “Shut up,” I said, smacking the water and sending a wave his way, splashing him in the face.

His eyes grew wide.  “Oh, you want to play this game?”  He splashed me back.

I returned the favor.

Back and forth we went.  John ducking and dodging, gliding gracefully.  He was one with the lake, while I went to war, flailing and grabbing at the water as if I could take hold and pull myself along.  His movements were fluid.  Mine were awkward. But with each splash I felt the tension release, the pressure subside.  He was right.  I didn’t need the vodka. The lake was my escape.

I let out a laugh of sheer relief right as John sent another splash my way.  A flood of water rushed into my mouth and down my lungs.

I tried to cough.  I gasped for air.  I couldn’t breathe.  I searched for something to hold on to but there was nothing.

“Hey,” John said, coming to my side.  I grabbed his shoulder and held on.  “It’s okay.  Just relax.”

I looked at him and shook my head.  “Hold on to me and be still.”

I did as he said and slowly I was able to take small short breaths until my breathing returned to normal.

“You okay?”

I nodded.  Could I be any more of an idiot?

“Good.”  He flipped on his back and started to float.  I watched him, treading water until I grew tired and followed suit.

The night was quiet, nothing but the sound of my own breathing in my ears.

“Sometimes I think about quitting football.”

I let his words hang on the air before I responded.  “I got a B on a test once.”

“My father would disown me if I gave up my scholarship.

“Where are you gonna play?”

“UF.  Just to annoy my father.  He’s a die hard Seminole.”

I knew nothing about football, but plenty about the need to annoy your father.  “My father swaddled me in his old Princeton shirt when I was born.  He’ll be so proud to drive me there in the fall, but I’d rather go to culinary school.”

“Like in France?”

I had never let myself think that far.  “Yeah.  France.”

We floated to the center of the lake.  The sky was filled with stars.  A million flecks of light watching the Dance of the Popular Stud and the Geeky Nobody.

“I caught Lauren making out with Jake Fulmer.”

So that’s why he'd come here tonight.

“I’ve never been kissed.”  As soon as I said it, I regretted it.  The kids at Franklin will have a field day with that one.

“It’s not all the movies make it out to be,” John said and I knew my secret was safe with him.

We continued floating, sharing secrets we couldn’t tell anyone else.

Tomorrow we would go back to our separate worlds. John the athlete. Darcy the geek. He would hang with the cool kids and skip seventh period. I would go to the library and work on extra credit.  We would be the all things everyone else wanted us to be.

But tonight, floating on the water, we were free.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Bachelorette Party

Big bachelorette party coming up this weekend.  I'm tres excited for the bride to be.  She and her beau have been engaged for over a year and it seemed like the day would never come, even more so for the bride and groom I'm sure.

It's been awhile since I've stretched my bachelorette legs, -and I mean that in the least whorey way possible - and am therefore a little rusty - and I mean that in the least dried-up-old-crusty-lady way possible.

I thought I had my shit together.  Black shirt, jeans, silver shoes.  Good to go.

Or so I thought until I went shopping for a dress to wear to the wedding.

I called my friend J. "I'm going shopping for a dress for C's wedding.

J: Good luck. (she says with much sarcasm and derision)

Immediately I am alarmed.  J is the happy-things-are-great-you-will-find-an-amazing-dress kinda person. 

J: I bought a couple things.  I don't really like any of them.  Apparently J-town hates the color green.

Green?  Green?

Me: Are you talking about the bachelorette party?

J: Yeah

Me:  We have to wear green?!  WE HAVE TO WEAR GREEN?!

Bring on the anxiety.

Me: What is the plan for this party?  What are people wearing?  Are they wearing dresses?  I don't wear dresses to clubs.  Are we going to a club?  Will there be wardrobe changes?

J: Uh...

Me: I'm calling T to find out.  I need to know just how much anxiety I should have going into this weekend.

Called T.  Green is indeed the color du jour.

Great.  I don't know if you all know this, but I live in a town where fashion has gone to die.  Combine that with the fact that my shopping excursions usually go like this:

Fitting Room Attendant:  How'd that work out for you?

Me: If it's a scarf, then great.  If it's a pair of pants, well then, not so much.

In other words.  I Don't Get Fashion.

Basically the chances of me finding something fashionable and, oh yeah, green are like...uh...a crack head giving bear not shitting in the wo...uh...f*ck it, you fill in your own metaphor.  (I do realize simile is the right word here, but I'm more of a metaphor kinda girl.)

But I am nothing if not determined (and if we're being honest, not all that determined), so shopping I went.

And guess what?  I found a dress!  It is green!  And tight!  And shiny!  And also?   Tight!  I look like a hooker.  A high class hooker.

I made sure I had a very clear understanding of the return policy before I left the store.

I tried it on for the husband after dinner.  After I shoveled 40 pounds of food in my face.  The dress was much tighter due to the food baby waging war with the tight shiny fabric.

Also?  I'm pmsing and bloated.

I don't think you guys need a calculator to figure this one out.

Food baby + pms bloating + tight dress = F*cking awesome.

I looked like a pregnant hooker.  A less classy pregnant hooker.

By this morning I was all doom and woe, I am not going to go.  (Hey hey hey Dr. Suess)

And then J facebooks me and asks what the plan is.

J: So what's the plan? And did you find something to wear?

Me: I found a tight shiny green dress. TIGHT. I look like a hooker. A high class hooker. I'm pretty sure I'm returning it. I'm questioning even going.  Did I tell you my doctor prescribed anti-anxiety meds? I haven't taken any yet because, well, the thought gives me anxiety.

J: Ok, we can handle this.....(lots of nice supportive things) When are you leaving your house? I need somewhere to get dressed and someone to go with me to find cock rings. I choose you.

Me:  I was thinking of leaving my house at 4:30. Where should we get dressed? My house? Where are we going to find cock rings? There's a XXX store right on the main road in F.P. where we'll probably get kidnapped or raped or both if we go there. Or I'll get arrested since I will be dressed like a hooker.

Moral of the story?  J always makes me feel better. Like in high school when I couldn't find my cheering bag after practice and I was all MY LIFE IS OVER THE WORLD IS ENDING I WILL NEVER GET INTO A GOOD COLLEGE I WILL DIE ALONE WITH A MILLION CATS.  And J was all, "let's check lost & found."  And guess what?  The bag was in lost & found. 

Amazing, I know.  J is like The Rainman.  I'm not entirely sure if that metaph...grr...simile works here.  I've never seen Rainman, but people think he's pretty awesome right?  If right, then J is The Rainman.  If wrong and people think The Rainman is a giant douche loser serial killer, then J is nothing like him.

Basically, J's it's-going-to-be-okay is the perfect complement to my I-CAN'T-HANDLE-LIFE- RIGHT-NOW.  Complement for me anyway.  For her?  Probably more like, I'll-have-another-glass-of-wine-please.

After our facebook exchange I was feeling better and ready to wear green and dance on a bar or do whatever else necessary for free drinks for my friend C.

Why?  Because:
1.) She did the same for me at my bachelorette party.  I think.  That night is like one giant blank screen.

2.) When your friend tells you she chooses you to go on a cock ring scavenger hunt, you cannot let her down.

After work I hit the mall again.  My town's mall is like driving through that long stretch of Texas.  Nothing but dust.  And roadkill and vultures.  And probably a few cacti.  And maybe a billboard of the Marlboro Man.  I don't know. I've never been to Texas.

I found a green dress and a green shirt.

So now my choices are, high class hooker, frumpy beach bum, and 40-something mom trying to be 15.

You can imagine how excited I am over my choices.

The good news is the Anxiety Weekend, I mean Bachelorette Party isn't about me.

The bad news?  During my shopping excursion I realized I am color blind.  Is this blue or green?  I think it's blue.  But it might be green...if I hold it like this and tilt it away from the light.  Oh, but this is green.  Nope it's blue.  Is it?  No, it's totally green.

I would tell you about the not-even two year old girl dancing to the raunchy music playing in the high class hooker store (imagine the skankiest dancing you've ever scene.  no skankier.  with more gyrating.  and come-do-me eyes.  got it?  now imagine a not-even two year old child doing it. I know.  feel free to judge her parents.), but I need to shave my legs, give myself a pedicure, pluck my eyebrows, and in general, whorify myself for the weekend.  In the high classiest, beach bummiest, old-mom-living-through-her-daughter kind of way.

For those of you offended by "cock rings" let's remember they are being used within the confines of marriage, okay?

For those of you offended/concerned by anything in this post, let's remember this blog is one of sarcasm and most everything posted here should be taken with one giant bloat-inducing, ankle- swelling, breast-engorging grain of salt, okay?  

Did I mention I have pms?

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Bieber Update...and a Lecture...and some other...stuff

As I was getting ready to post my, the other day, the husband peered over my shoulder and read the first couple lines.

The husband:  You wrote about Justin Bieber?


The husband:  I'm going to feel bad?

Me: Yes.

A few minutes later (had not yet read my post)...

The husband: I know why you wrote about Justin Bieber.

Me: Why?

The husband: Because a lot of people search for Justin Bieber and it will direct traffic to your blog.

Me: That's exactly right.  You keep telling yourself that.

Confused?  Shame on you for not keeping up!  I know I may skip posting for a day or two, but you should be checking my blog Every.  Single.  Day.  Nay, every hour.  Honestly, I expect more from you.


I know my expectations are high, but I would never ask you to do something I wouldn't do.  I check my blog every hour.  Stalk is more like it.  Did someone leave a comment?  How about now?  Do I have a new follower?  New comment?  What about now?

I re-read my latest post over and over. (I couldn't help it.  I love things that are awesome.)

And you know what a I realized, besides how utterly brilliant I am?  I compared the Bieb to a douche-bag and an STD.  So if this writing thing never works out, at least I can fall back on being Justin Bieber's publicist.

Back up plans are always a good thing.  (Except for that movie with Jennifer Ho-pez.  Having a giant ass does not a movie star make!)

But more often than not, you should stick to the original plan.  Like you and the bar guy.  Going home with him was a terrible idea.  Did you really want to be pregnant at 19?  And what were you doing drinking anyway?  You're not even legal.  You need better friends.  Ones that will hug you when you're all "I haven't had a date in a year!" and join hands to form a barricade in front of douchey guy's car preventing you from getting in.  Honestly.  What were you thinking?  Getting in the car with a drunk driver.  You make the worse decisions.  You're going to be a terrible mother.

And don't even think about asking your parents to raise your child.  You made your bed, now lie in it.  Metaphorically speaking.  Stop lying (laying?) in people's beds!  That's what got you in this situation in the first place.

Honestly, why I am the one having to explain these things to you?  Although, I suppose I should thank you.  Things were starting to make way too much sense around here. 

It's time for this blog to return to its original schizophrenic programming.

Now that I've put that out there you won't judge me for what I'm about to say.

Brown chicken, brown cow.

That has been running through my head for days!

Brown chicken, brown cow.  Brown chicken, brown cow.  Brown chicken, brown cow.

All day!  Every day! 

Wake up in the morning.  Brown chicken, brown cow.

Brush my teeth. Brown chicken, brown cow.

Send an email at work.  Brown chicken, brown cow.

Take an order for 1,000 novelty piles of dog crap.  Brown chicken, brown cow.  Ha!  Jokes on you asshole.  We don't even sell novelty piles of dog crap.  But I took your order anyway because BROWN CHICKEN, BROWN COW!

You know what that's from right?  Some joke comparing the music in porn to brown chicken, brown cow.  Hilarious, I'm sure.  I heard it years ago, but for some reason it decided to lodge itself in my brain a few weeks ago.  Playing over and over again.  I would say, like a broken record, but I'm not in the mood for cliches.

Now's about the time you ask me if I'm drunk.  People have been asking me that a lot lately.  The truth?  I'm not.  Seriously I'm not.  I saw what happened to you when you got drunk.  I may not be 19, but still, I cannot deal with a kid in my life.

I blame the apparent drunkeness on the anti-anxiety meds.  I didn't tell you about those?  Oh, well that post is coming.  Stay tuned.  And in the meantime...


I love you.

Maybe the doctor should have prescribed anti-pyschotic meds.

I'm so going to regret this post.

Congratulations.  You made it to the end.  WTF? is the question you should be asking yourself.  WTF, indeed.