When I was bartending in my early 20s, I finished my shift one evening and went out to meet some friends at a bar on the one street in our city that contains the largest string of late-night clubs. Since I had just finished work, I was dressed in attire that was only a half-step above hooker chic, meaning 6-inch platforms (so I could serve drinks over the ridiculously tall bar) and a short skirt. I'd walked from The Bar after work to that street many times, and though it was always populated with sketchy-looking people asking for money, whom I usually obliged, it was well-lit, spilling over with those seeking more nightlife fun, and filled with cops so I never feared for my safety. That night was different.
As I turned the corner to walk a block and a half toward my destination to meet Lauren after her evening shift, a man in a wheelchair with no legs began yelling at me. I have a ton of respect for our veterans (and I can only assume that's how he'd lost his legs), so I would have happily given him money had he been halfway respectful.
However, this guy was not only impolite, he was threatening. He initiated the conversation by screaming, "Hey, bitch, you look like you got some dough! Gimme some!" He was already drinking from a bottle of Gordon's gin.
I was incredulous and didn't respond at all. I kept on my path, head forward, averting my nose from the undeniable stench of urine and other unmentionables emanating from his body.
He began to wheel after me and suddenly morphed into our city's own personal Superman.... faster than a speeding bullet on crank. Within a split second, he caught up with me and kicked me in the back of the leg with the right wheel of his chair.
"F*ckin' stuck-up bitch," he growled. I didn't know whether to laugh or run. I decided on both.
I began to walk faster in my platforms that were clearly not made for land sports, then began to run, as he wheeled even faster after me. In retrospect, it was probably an absurdly funny scene featuring an irrationally screaming guy wheeling himself at warp speed after a girl simultaneously laughing and fleeing, desperately trying to keep her shoes on while onlookers gaped with both amusement and horror.
"Bitch, don't you run away from me! I know you got the cash, a**hole! What the f*ck's your problem, you c*nt? You think looking at your ass running away is good enough for me? That ass don't buy me f*ckin nothin'!"
One of the cops on the street intervened as I slowed my pace and rubbed the grease-stained bruise forming on my calf, finally making it to meet Lauren.
The moral of the story? I think I was more attracted to the guy wheeling after me that night than I was to Ex today.
More on the settlement conference later, but let's just say it was a start. I'm discouraged that I will most certainly not be divorced by the end of 2007 unless Ex has a sudden burst of logic, but I made it through in one piece and even got in a few zingers.
And before we left, Lawyer pulled Greasy Attorney aside and privately said, "It's a good thing that you didn't bring up the guy you think my client is dating. Otherwise, I would have had to disclose the thousands of the, uh, unusual pornographic movies belonging to your client. We don't want that to be public record, do we?"
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
T minus 23 hours....
As you probably already know, my settlement conference with Ex is set for tomorrow morning. Lawyer is picking me up and as usual, we'll stop for coffee and then chat about our strategy on the way. Since I'm aware that Ex will take the floor first, attempt to wipe it with my ass, and then sit back in false triumph, my retort is planned down to the last letter. I already ran my proposed response past Lawyer and he looked at me with a mix of horror, fascination, and amusement. He shook his head and said, "Oh, Almost, you are a piece of work." He did, however, give me permission to proceed with my rejoinder and if I actually pull this one off, you'll be able hear a pin drop three counties away.
I don't want to disclose the actual plan yet, but should it happen, I'll write about it in excruciating detail and gleeful fashion.
Thank God Lauren lives close to the courthouse. I've already corralled her to join me after it's over for either a tear in my beer or a celebration bigger than an Emmy party, depending upon the outcome.
As I said before, I'm a bundle of nerves, and that's tantamount to saying my cat is plump (when she's, in fact, morbidly obese). I usually try to keep my drinking to, I don't know, after noon or so, but I might make an exception today. Kidding!
But this post is brief anyway, not because I'm going to drown myself in a bottle of tequila, but because in addition to my regular schoolwork, I have to find my stash of necessary papers for tomorrow. Now, where did I put that printout of the multitude of granny porn titles........
I don't want to disclose the actual plan yet, but should it happen, I'll write about it in excruciating detail and gleeful fashion.
Thank God Lauren lives close to the courthouse. I've already corralled her to join me after it's over for either a tear in my beer or a celebration bigger than an Emmy party, depending upon the outcome.
As I said before, I'm a bundle of nerves, and that's tantamount to saying my cat is plump (when she's, in fact, morbidly obese). I usually try to keep my drinking to, I don't know, after noon or so, but I might make an exception today. Kidding!
But this post is brief anyway, not because I'm going to drown myself in a bottle of tequila, but because in addition to my regular schoolwork, I have to find my stash of necessary papers for tomorrow. Now, where did I put that printout of the multitude of granny porn titles........
Monday, September 24, 2007
It's Pronounced "Goo-chee"
My settlement conference is set for Friday, and per usual when I'm facing an interaction with Ex, I'm a bundle of nerves. I'm jumpier than an agoraphobic in the middle of the Times Square New Year's Eve celebration. At this point, I think I'd rather be tied to a tree, covered in honey while facing a pack of starving black bears, but since that's not an option I'm going to head out with Anastasia this evening for a night of laughs and wine. Lots and lots of wine.
Although I wasn't this nervous last week, I went out (for lots of wine) with an old friend of mine, Bob, from my bartending days. He and I have remained friends for the years since I hung up my wine key and see each other every so often for dinner. After dining outside at one of our city's new restaurants, we headed over to a bar where my old bartending friend Nicole now works. I tended bar with her often when Bob would hang with us for the night, and I hadn't seen her in quite awhile so the three of us reminisced about funny stories from the many evenings we spent together at The Bar.
Bob recalled, "Hey, Almost, remember that time Marcus Allen came in and kept asking for your number?"
I laughed, "Yeah, and remember what happened when he almost forgot his credit card at the bar?"
The three of us dissolved into peals of laughter, because Marcus said something that made Nicole double over in laughter and Bob snort his Beam and diet out of his nose. Marcus had walked away from the bar to leave after hounding me for my phone number, too drunk to remember that I still had his credit card for his tab. I called after him, and when he turned I said, "Marcus, aren't you forgetting something?" I waved his credit card in the air.
As he staggered back to the bar, I teased, "If you don't take this with you, I just might go on a shopping spree tomorrow."
He garbled, "Baby, if you'd give me your digits, I'd take you to Guh-key and buy you anything you wanted."
I was genuinely confused. "Guh-key? What's that?"
"You mean no man has ever taken you to Guh-key and spoiled you like the princess you should be? Shoes, bags, clothes, whatever you want, baby, just give me those magic numbers," he slurred.
Suddenly, it dawned on me. "Well, no, I've never been spoiled at Guh-key, although I've bought myself some items at Gucci," I winked at him.
Clearly embarrassed, he signed his tab (with a nice tip, to his credit) and stumbled away.
As we laughed last week over Marcus' mispronunciation, Nicole mused, "Isn't it funny how men think that they can buy you stuff and you'll suddenly be fawning all over them? It's like they think we can be bought as if we're livestock or something."
Which made me think. As my marriage began its final stage of deterioration, Ex began shopping. Now keep in mind that when I first married Ex and moved in, I realized that he liked to shop to the point that it was almost an addiction. He had over 250 pairs of shoes at that time and every closet in the house was stuffed with clothes, many with tags still attached. It took me months to go through all of his possessions and when all was said and done, I donated 17 garbage bags of clothes, shoes, and accessories to Goodwill.
But he didn't shop for himself when our marriage began its final descent, he shopped for me, thinking that material possessions would impart some desire upon me to stay in the marriage. Don't get me wrong, I was quite grateful for the gifts and I like clothes, shoes, and handbags as much as the next girl, but material possessions were not the missing component in the relationship. I protested the gifts when they became overwhelming and tried to inform him of what was truly absent in our marriage. What was missing was trust, respect, and communication and unfortunately, an Yves St. Laurent handbag or a pair of Jimmy Choos can't replace those intangibles. Somehow, a Roberto Cavalli dress just couldn't make up for the GPS unit clandestinely installed on my car, drunk texts, and forgery.
I'm pretty sure that I'll hear a diatribe about all of the items Ex purchased for me during the months before I moved out of the house in the settlement conference Friday. Many of the arguments we've had over the past 18 months have ended with, "But I bought you thousands of dollars worth of designer clothes," as if that should have solved everything. According to Lawyer, I have to be mentally prepared to be yelled at for at least 45 minutes.
"This has certainly been an education," Bob announced. "Although I must say, I never believed in trying to either get a girl or save a relationship by spending ridiculous amounts of money."
Bob is on the right track. But unfortunately, what Ex and Marcus just didn't realize was that a handbag from Guh-key can't buy or save love.
Although I wasn't this nervous last week, I went out (for lots of wine) with an old friend of mine, Bob, from my bartending days. He and I have remained friends for the years since I hung up my wine key and see each other every so often for dinner. After dining outside at one of our city's new restaurants, we headed over to a bar where my old bartending friend Nicole now works. I tended bar with her often when Bob would hang with us for the night, and I hadn't seen her in quite awhile so the three of us reminisced about funny stories from the many evenings we spent together at The Bar.
Bob recalled, "Hey, Almost, remember that time Marcus Allen came in and kept asking for your number?"
I laughed, "Yeah, and remember what happened when he almost forgot his credit card at the bar?"
The three of us dissolved into peals of laughter, because Marcus said something that made Nicole double over in laughter and Bob snort his Beam and diet out of his nose. Marcus had walked away from the bar to leave after hounding me for my phone number, too drunk to remember that I still had his credit card for his tab. I called after him, and when he turned I said, "Marcus, aren't you forgetting something?" I waved his credit card in the air.
As he staggered back to the bar, I teased, "If you don't take this with you, I just might go on a shopping spree tomorrow."
He garbled, "Baby, if you'd give me your digits, I'd take you to Guh-key and buy you anything you wanted."
I was genuinely confused. "Guh-key? What's that?"
"You mean no man has ever taken you to Guh-key and spoiled you like the princess you should be? Shoes, bags, clothes, whatever you want, baby, just give me those magic numbers," he slurred.
Suddenly, it dawned on me. "Well, no, I've never been spoiled at Guh-key, although I've bought myself some items at Gucci," I winked at him.
Clearly embarrassed, he signed his tab (with a nice tip, to his credit) and stumbled away.
As we laughed last week over Marcus' mispronunciation, Nicole mused, "Isn't it funny how men think that they can buy you stuff and you'll suddenly be fawning all over them? It's like they think we can be bought as if we're livestock or something."
Which made me think. As my marriage began its final stage of deterioration, Ex began shopping. Now keep in mind that when I first married Ex and moved in, I realized that he liked to shop to the point that it was almost an addiction. He had over 250 pairs of shoes at that time and every closet in the house was stuffed with clothes, many with tags still attached. It took me months to go through all of his possessions and when all was said and done, I donated 17 garbage bags of clothes, shoes, and accessories to Goodwill.
But he didn't shop for himself when our marriage began its final descent, he shopped for me, thinking that material possessions would impart some desire upon me to stay in the marriage. Don't get me wrong, I was quite grateful for the gifts and I like clothes, shoes, and handbags as much as the next girl, but material possessions were not the missing component in the relationship. I protested the gifts when they became overwhelming and tried to inform him of what was truly absent in our marriage. What was missing was trust, respect, and communication and unfortunately, an Yves St. Laurent handbag or a pair of Jimmy Choos can't replace those intangibles. Somehow, a Roberto Cavalli dress just couldn't make up for the GPS unit clandestinely installed on my car, drunk texts, and forgery.
I'm pretty sure that I'll hear a diatribe about all of the items Ex purchased for me during the months before I moved out of the house in the settlement conference Friday. Many of the arguments we've had over the past 18 months have ended with, "But I bought you thousands of dollars worth of designer clothes," as if that should have solved everything. According to Lawyer, I have to be mentally prepared to be yelled at for at least 45 minutes.
"This has certainly been an education," Bob announced. "Although I must say, I never believed in trying to either get a girl or save a relationship by spending ridiculous amounts of money."
Bob is on the right track. But unfortunately, what Ex and Marcus just didn't realize was that a handbag from Guh-key can't buy or save love.
Monday, September 17, 2007
World's Shortest Fairytale
Minding my own business this morning over a cup of coffee, my phone began to ring at the unearthly hour of 8:30. Anyone who knows me well knows not to call me, unless it's a work day, until after 10 or they find themselves speaking with the only known human Chupacabra. So I rolled my eyes thinking that it was probably a salesperson pitching penis enlargement pumps or telling me that I have a relative in Nigeria who just died and they needed money to release the estate.
I was thinking up snarky comebacks as I fumbled for my phone, but as soon as I looked at the caller ID, I experienced an irritation of a whole different kind. The kind of irritation that churns the pit of my stomach so furiously that I'm pretty sure I've swallowed an entire beehive and they're all dancing the tango down there.
It was Lawyer's office number.
I stared at the phone with total terror, since he's often the bearer of bad news, and raced through the potential disasters I could possibly be facing. My conference isn't until the end of the month and things are relatively quiet until then (at which time I fully expect Ex to spend an hour screaming at me, and that's great since it only costs an arm and a leg to do so, while picking up the phone would be a much more cost-effective route. Oh, my mistake. Picking up the phone might require balls.). I have a court date in October, and other than that, I couldn't think of anything that could be on the immediate horizon.
I finally picked up the phone to hear one of Lawyer's assistants asking me if I was going out of town in November.
"I don't have any plans at the moment, why?" I asked her.
"We're scheduling your trial date during that month and Lawyer wanted to ensure you're in town," she said.
I hesitated for a few seconds. Could it be? Is it true? Could the final nail destined for the doomed wedding coffin be almost within my reach? Is there a light at the end of the tunnel that doesn't happen to belong to a freight train?
"Uh, you mean, like, the final trial? As in the I'm-going-to-be-divorced-after-this-is-over trial? As in I might be free by the end of 2007?" I stammered, glee hovering just beneath the surface.
"Yes, that's the one," she laughed. "I'm glad you're having this reaction. Sometimes when I call clients to schedule trial dates, they cry and freak out on me."
"Oh, no, not this client! I'm going to run outside and do naked back flips down the street to celebrate!"
We said our goodbyes and hung up, and I looked at the phone as if it were a genie who had just popped out of a bottle and given me three wishes. Though it's still a couple months away, I was left with a lingering feeling of freedom already. I haven't felt this light since I dated the sociopath and weighed double digits for the first time since 6th grade. I already feel like a single person again! Premature, yes, but I don't give a rat's ass. It's the best feeling I've had since this whole mess started over a year ago.
I posted this in the comments section of Lemon Gloria the other day, so forgive me if you've already read it, but it's just so appropriate. My sister Carla sent me an email a couple of weeks ago and it's pretty much my theme story now.
"Sent: August 31, 2007 8:50 AM
Subject: World's Shortest Fairytale
Almost, couldn't help but think of you when I read this.
XOXO,
Carla
Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy, 'Will you marry me?'
The guy said, 'No,' and the girl lived happily ever after and
went shopping, drank martinis with friends, always had a clean house,
never had to cook, had a closet full of shoes and handbags,
stayed skinny, and was never farted on.
The End "
Update: Sorry about the technical difficulty if you saw the accidental post. ;)
I was thinking up snarky comebacks as I fumbled for my phone, but as soon as I looked at the caller ID, I experienced an irritation of a whole different kind. The kind of irritation that churns the pit of my stomach so furiously that I'm pretty sure I've swallowed an entire beehive and they're all dancing the tango down there.
It was Lawyer's office number.
I stared at the phone with total terror, since he's often the bearer of bad news, and raced through the potential disasters I could possibly be facing. My conference isn't until the end of the month and things are relatively quiet until then (at which time I fully expect Ex to spend an hour screaming at me, and that's great since it only costs an arm and a leg to do so, while picking up the phone would be a much more cost-effective route. Oh, my mistake. Picking up the phone might require balls.). I have a court date in October, and other than that, I couldn't think of anything that could be on the immediate horizon.
I finally picked up the phone to hear one of Lawyer's assistants asking me if I was going out of town in November.
"I don't have any plans at the moment, why?" I asked her.
"We're scheduling your trial date during that month and Lawyer wanted to ensure you're in town," she said.
I hesitated for a few seconds. Could it be? Is it true? Could the final nail destined for the doomed wedding coffin be almost within my reach? Is there a light at the end of the tunnel that doesn't happen to belong to a freight train?
"Uh, you mean, like, the final trial? As in the I'm-going-to-be-divorced-after-this-is-over trial? As in I might be free by the end of 2007?" I stammered, glee hovering just beneath the surface.
"Yes, that's the one," she laughed. "I'm glad you're having this reaction. Sometimes when I call clients to schedule trial dates, they cry and freak out on me."
"Oh, no, not this client! I'm going to run outside and do naked back flips down the street to celebrate!"
We said our goodbyes and hung up, and I looked at the phone as if it were a genie who had just popped out of a bottle and given me three wishes. Though it's still a couple months away, I was left with a lingering feeling of freedom already. I haven't felt this light since I dated the sociopath and weighed double digits for the first time since 6th grade. I already feel like a single person again! Premature, yes, but I don't give a rat's ass. It's the best feeling I've had since this whole mess started over a year ago.
I posted this in the comments section of Lemon Gloria the other day, so forgive me if you've already read it, but it's just so appropriate. My sister Carla sent me an email a couple of weeks ago and it's pretty much my theme story now.
"Sent: August 31, 2007 8:50 AM
Subject: World's Shortest Fairytale
Almost, couldn't help but think of you when I read this.
XOXO,
Carla
Once upon a time, a girl asked a guy, 'Will you marry me?'
The guy said, 'No,' and the girl lived happily ever after and
went shopping, drank martinis with friends, always had a clean house,
never had to cook, had a closet full of shoes and handbags,
stayed skinny, and was never farted on.
The End "
Update: Sorry about the technical difficulty if you saw the accidental post. ;)
Friday, September 14, 2007
"Where do the batteries go?"
I went to a baseball game on Tuesday night with Anastasia and Lauren. Because it's fairly difficult to catch a cab once the game is over, we joked about flirting with the cab driver on the way there so he'd pick us up on the way back.
When we were setting out for the ballpark, I said to Lauren, "I told Anastasia that we were going to pimp you out and make you take off your shirt in the cab, since you've already done that before."
Lauren laughed and said, "No problem!"
Anastasia looked confused. "What do you mean you've done that before? I need to hear this story!"
Lauren said, "If anything should have warned Almost not to get married, it was what happened on our way to the wedding. It wasn't, uh, the most auspicious of starts."
When we got in the cab, Lauren and I took turns telling Anastasia the story of our antics on the way to my wedding. I had a small destination wedding, during which there was a virtual hurricane, but more about that other harbinger later. Ex flew there the day before I was to arrive and since Lauren and I were on the same flight, we decided to go out for one last wild night together. After several cocktails and staying out way too late, we decided to head back to her house. The cab was coming at 5:30 in the morning and we needed at least a little sleep before we went to the airport.
"Almost, I don't feel too well. I think you should drive."
"That's fine. Do you need a plastic bag or something?"
"No, let's just go."
We weren't too far from her house, so I figured she could make it. I was wrong. Halfway home, she rolled down the window and began throwing up. We all know where vomiting in a moving vehicle ends up, so I pulled over in the first parking lot I could find and yanked her out so she could vomit on the ground instead of in her hair, on the car, in the car, etc. After a few minutes, she seemed OK, so we once again climbed back in, where I found a plastic bag for her, and drove home.
We went up to her bedroom to sleep when we arrived, only in a very un-Lauren-like fashion, she hadn't packed yet. She said, "Almost, I haven't even begun to pack my suitcase. I think I'll take a shower now and pack when I get up in the morning."
"OK, I'm going to sleep now. And by the way, it is morning."
"Don't remind me," she groaned.
I lay down on the bed and heard Lauren start the water. Then I heard her gagging in the shower. I admit it, I thought it was funny that she was still puking until I heard an enormous crash. I ran to the bathroom, flung open the door, and found her lying on the floor, feet still in the shower, laughing hysterically.
"Are you ok?" I asked as I rushed to help her up.
She waved her hand in the air in a Miss USA fashion. "I'm fine, I was just taking a little rest!"
This resulted in peals of laughter from both of us, after which she finally finished up in the bathroom and went to sleep. The next thing I remember is Double D yelling at us that the cab was there and, "Who puked all over the side of your car, Lauren?" Lauren woke up, looked at the clock evilly displaying 5:40 am, and freaked.
"I haven't packed!" she shrieked.
"Just throw some stuff in a bag! All you need is a bathing suit, some shorts, and a dress! Oh, and shoes, you need shoes!" I said, as I scrambled to get in my own clothes, makeup running down my face like Alice Cooper.
Ten minutes later, we were in the cab, headed to the airport.
"Wow, we are two hot messes," I laughed.
Lauren looked at me and grinned, "I know! Your mascara is all over the place, and I'm..." She looked down and rolled her eyes. "Damn, my shirt's inside out."
As I rifled in my handbag in vain to find some magical fix to my black eyes, Lauren pulled her shirt off in one fell swoop, at which time I saw that she wasn't wearing a bra. I looked up at the cab driver, who was intently peering in the rear-view mirror with eyes as big as plates. I was having a hard time stifling my laughter, despite the fact that he almost drove us off the road. These may have been the first boobs he'd ever seen because I don't think he even blinked until she once again put on her shirt.
The cabbie finally delivered us safely to the airport and we laughed all the way onto the plane about how he almost killed us, until Lauren suddenly became serious and looked at me with the same sized eyes as the cab driver when she had performed her impromptu striptease.
"Oh no. Almost, I forgot to pack any bottoms."
"You what?" I asked.
"I forgot to pack any bottoms! I packed tops, but I didn't bring any pants, skirts, or shorts. I only have the ones I have on!"
"Don't worry about it! Just go shopping when we're on the island. They have great shopping there," I assured her.
When we arrived at our destination (still looking like we'd been out partying all night, I'm sure), Lauren set off to find some much needed bottoms. In one store, she tried on a pair of pants with a very flattering fit and asked the salesperson how much they cost. After being told that they were $650.00, Lauren didn't miss a beat.
"But I can't find where you put the batteries in these pants," she said.
The salesperson looked flummoxed. "Excuse me?" she asked.
"Where do the batteries go?"
"I don't understand the question," the salesperson replied, suspicious and clearly perplexed.
"Well, for $650.00, these pants better have a vibrating crotch, so where do the batteries go?"
A good omen for my wedding? Certainly not considering I looked like a washed-up 70s rocker and Lauren was facing a naked-from-the-waist-down weekend, but it still provides me with laughter to this day.
As for the cab driver on the way to the game? He was as unamused as the salesperson when Lauren asked about the batteries. I'm fairly certain he was offended, because he didn't even offer so much as a grunt when we asked him to pick us up. But thankfully cabs are like relationships. After the game was over there was another one that came along when we were ready to go.
When we were setting out for the ballpark, I said to Lauren, "I told Anastasia that we were going to pimp you out and make you take off your shirt in the cab, since you've already done that before."
Lauren laughed and said, "No problem!"
Anastasia looked confused. "What do you mean you've done that before? I need to hear this story!"
Lauren said, "If anything should have warned Almost not to get married, it was what happened on our way to the wedding. It wasn't, uh, the most auspicious of starts."
When we got in the cab, Lauren and I took turns telling Anastasia the story of our antics on the way to my wedding. I had a small destination wedding, during which there was a virtual hurricane, but more about that other harbinger later. Ex flew there the day before I was to arrive and since Lauren and I were on the same flight, we decided to go out for one last wild night together. After several cocktails and staying out way too late, we decided to head back to her house. The cab was coming at 5:30 in the morning and we needed at least a little sleep before we went to the airport.
"Almost, I don't feel too well. I think you should drive."
"That's fine. Do you need a plastic bag or something?"
"No, let's just go."
We weren't too far from her house, so I figured she could make it. I was wrong. Halfway home, she rolled down the window and began throwing up. We all know where vomiting in a moving vehicle ends up, so I pulled over in the first parking lot I could find and yanked her out so she could vomit on the ground instead of in her hair, on the car, in the car, etc. After a few minutes, she seemed OK, so we once again climbed back in, where I found a plastic bag for her, and drove home.
We went up to her bedroom to sleep when we arrived, only in a very un-Lauren-like fashion, she hadn't packed yet. She said, "Almost, I haven't even begun to pack my suitcase. I think I'll take a shower now and pack when I get up in the morning."
"OK, I'm going to sleep now. And by the way, it is morning."
"Don't remind me," she groaned.
I lay down on the bed and heard Lauren start the water. Then I heard her gagging in the shower. I admit it, I thought it was funny that she was still puking until I heard an enormous crash. I ran to the bathroom, flung open the door, and found her lying on the floor, feet still in the shower, laughing hysterically.
"Are you ok?" I asked as I rushed to help her up.
She waved her hand in the air in a Miss USA fashion. "I'm fine, I was just taking a little rest!"
This resulted in peals of laughter from both of us, after which she finally finished up in the bathroom and went to sleep. The next thing I remember is Double D yelling at us that the cab was there and, "Who puked all over the side of your car, Lauren?" Lauren woke up, looked at the clock evilly displaying 5:40 am, and freaked.
"I haven't packed!" she shrieked.
"Just throw some stuff in a bag! All you need is a bathing suit, some shorts, and a dress! Oh, and shoes, you need shoes!" I said, as I scrambled to get in my own clothes, makeup running down my face like Alice Cooper.
Ten minutes later, we were in the cab, headed to the airport.
"Wow, we are two hot messes," I laughed.
Lauren looked at me and grinned, "I know! Your mascara is all over the place, and I'm..." She looked down and rolled her eyes. "Damn, my shirt's inside out."
As I rifled in my handbag in vain to find some magical fix to my black eyes, Lauren pulled her shirt off in one fell swoop, at which time I saw that she wasn't wearing a bra. I looked up at the cab driver, who was intently peering in the rear-view mirror with eyes as big as plates. I was having a hard time stifling my laughter, despite the fact that he almost drove us off the road. These may have been the first boobs he'd ever seen because I don't think he even blinked until she once again put on her shirt.
The cabbie finally delivered us safely to the airport and we laughed all the way onto the plane about how he almost killed us, until Lauren suddenly became serious and looked at me with the same sized eyes as the cab driver when she had performed her impromptu striptease.
"Oh no. Almost, I forgot to pack any bottoms."
"You what?" I asked.
"I forgot to pack any bottoms! I packed tops, but I didn't bring any pants, skirts, or shorts. I only have the ones I have on!"
"Don't worry about it! Just go shopping when we're on the island. They have great shopping there," I assured her.
When we arrived at our destination (still looking like we'd been out partying all night, I'm sure), Lauren set off to find some much needed bottoms. In one store, she tried on a pair of pants with a very flattering fit and asked the salesperson how much they cost. After being told that they were $650.00, Lauren didn't miss a beat.
"But I can't find where you put the batteries in these pants," she said.
The salesperson looked flummoxed. "Excuse me?" she asked.
"Where do the batteries go?"
"I don't understand the question," the salesperson replied, suspicious and clearly perplexed.
"Well, for $650.00, these pants better have a vibrating crotch, so where do the batteries go?"
A good omen for my wedding? Certainly not considering I looked like a washed-up 70s rocker and Lauren was facing a naked-from-the-waist-down weekend, but it still provides me with laughter to this day.
As for the cab driver on the way to the game? He was as unamused as the salesperson when Lauren asked about the batteries. I'm fairly certain he was offended, because he didn't even offer so much as a grunt when we asked him to pick us up. But thankfully cabs are like relationships. After the game was over there was another one that came along when we were ready to go.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
"I've been dating the same guy my entire life, he just keeps changing his name."
It never ceases to amaze me how we can make such bad decisions in choosing partners and fail to a. learn from our mistakes, and b. listen to our friends' advice. You can always see the mistakes your friends are making, but when it comes to evaluating your own, many of us have horse blinders firmly attached to the sides of our heads and the sage advice from people who care about us falls on deaf ears. When fall hits, I always have a sense of needing to take stock of my life and since it's fall now, that inevitably means talking to my friends about our dating and marriage disasters, and this year, hopefully learning from their mistakes as well as my own. As Lauren says, "I've been dating the same guy my entire life, he just keeps changing his name," but I think we all want to break the pattern.
I called Ava on Saturday and we had a chat about her latest dating disaster. It wasn't actually dating, since the guy tried to pick her up in a very sneaky fashion, although she certainly has had her share of traumatic moments with men. She went out with Stavros (who turned out to be bisexual, if not truly gay) for two years, and the only fight we've ever had in our long friendship was about him. She also dated one guy who, when we were all out to dinner together, began clapping out of the blue. I asked him why he was clapping and he said, "Handclap to God! I gotta give props to God. He was having a really good day when he made me." He was serious, too.
Back to the story at hand, though, Ava had gone out to dinner last week with a friend of hers to a new spot in their city. The waiter asked them if they wanted to be on the VIP list for future events, and both replied in the affirmative. Ava didn't have a business card on her, so she wrote down her phone number. The next morning, she received a voicemail from the waiter, asking her to have drinks with him over the weekend. Realizing that the VIP list didn't exist, she called her friend with whom she'd gone to dinner and they jointly decided that this guy was sketchy. They set about Googling and checking offender databases and discovered that the waiter had several convictions for assault and battery, as well as a lengthy prison term for road rage in which he attacked a driver with brass knuckles, leaving the victim with metal plates and screws in his face. (Really, who drives around with brass knuckles in their car?) Adding to the absurdity is the fact that you can easily rhyme his last name with "retarded."
"Poor MODI," I told her. "You really do know how to pick them, don't you?"
She laughed. "First I turn guys gay, and now I'm attracting felons. Who do you think wins the Worst Boyfriend Lifetime Achievement Award, me or Lauren?"
That made me hoot, because Lauren has a couple of felons in her past, as well as the gay porn loving ex-husband. For a time, she dated a guy with a very long rap sheet who had schizophrenia to boot. When he wasn't taking his meds, he'd go for weeks without showers or brushing his teeth, but Lauren loved the person that he had been in the beginning and she stuck it out for a time. (Again, the only fight I've ever gotten in with Lauren was over this dude. I think there's a pattern here.) He continued his nefarious activities and, though Lauren wasn't involved, she was aware of it. Once they were driving in the car together and she was putting on lipstick in the mirror. He asked, "What are you doing, getting ready for your mugshot?" When she was finally ready to date again, she put up a profile on a dating website and ended it with, "I'd prefer if you didn't have a rap sheet long enough to wallpaper the Great Wall of China."
Of course, I'm in the running for the Worst Boyfriend Lifetime Achievement Award myself. On top of my painfully apparent poor decision making skills in choosing a marriage partner and a stubborn refusal to listen to my friends' concerns, I dated a sociopath before Ex who was my first real heartbreak. I was so anxiety-ridden over him that I couldn't eat for months. I lost a tremendous amount of weight, becoming so skeletal that when I got on the scale it would just flash, "Eat a sandwich!!" I also briefly dated a much older dethroned mayor and talk show host with a history of bouncing checks at massage parlors. His first line to me when he picked me up for our first date was, "Am I older than your father?" He is. Oh, and did I mention the Senate hopeful whose dreams were dashed when his divorce records were unsealed, revealing that he'd forced his beautiful and famous ex-wife to attend sex clubs with him? I see that award looming on my personal horizon.
All of this to say that despite the collective mistakes that Ava, Lauren and I have committed and continue to commit, I still believe in learning experiences. The arduous divorce process, which is stalled for me until the end of the month when I have a conference with Ex, is teaching me that even serious lapses in judgment that result in litigation transpire for a reason. I just hope I can detach my blinders on the next go-around. This time, I'll listen when my friends give me advice.
I called Ava on Saturday and we had a chat about her latest dating disaster. It wasn't actually dating, since the guy tried to pick her up in a very sneaky fashion, although she certainly has had her share of traumatic moments with men. She went out with Stavros (who turned out to be bisexual, if not truly gay) for two years, and the only fight we've ever had in our long friendship was about him. She also dated one guy who, when we were all out to dinner together, began clapping out of the blue. I asked him why he was clapping and he said, "Handclap to God! I gotta give props to God. He was having a really good day when he made me." He was serious, too.
Back to the story at hand, though, Ava had gone out to dinner last week with a friend of hers to a new spot in their city. The waiter asked them if they wanted to be on the VIP list for future events, and both replied in the affirmative. Ava didn't have a business card on her, so she wrote down her phone number. The next morning, she received a voicemail from the waiter, asking her to have drinks with him over the weekend. Realizing that the VIP list didn't exist, she called her friend with whom she'd gone to dinner and they jointly decided that this guy was sketchy. They set about Googling and checking offender databases and discovered that the waiter had several convictions for assault and battery, as well as a lengthy prison term for road rage in which he attacked a driver with brass knuckles, leaving the victim with metal plates and screws in his face. (Really, who drives around with brass knuckles in their car?) Adding to the absurdity is the fact that you can easily rhyme his last name with "retarded."
"Poor MODI," I told her. "You really do know how to pick them, don't you?"
She laughed. "First I turn guys gay, and now I'm attracting felons. Who do you think wins the Worst Boyfriend Lifetime Achievement Award, me or Lauren?"
That made me hoot, because Lauren has a couple of felons in her past, as well as the gay porn loving ex-husband. For a time, she dated a guy with a very long rap sheet who had schizophrenia to boot. When he wasn't taking his meds, he'd go for weeks without showers or brushing his teeth, but Lauren loved the person that he had been in the beginning and she stuck it out for a time. (Again, the only fight I've ever gotten in with Lauren was over this dude. I think there's a pattern here.) He continued his nefarious activities and, though Lauren wasn't involved, she was aware of it. Once they were driving in the car together and she was putting on lipstick in the mirror. He asked, "What are you doing, getting ready for your mugshot?" When she was finally ready to date again, she put up a profile on a dating website and ended it with, "I'd prefer if you didn't have a rap sheet long enough to wallpaper the Great Wall of China."
Of course, I'm in the running for the Worst Boyfriend Lifetime Achievement Award myself. On top of my painfully apparent poor decision making skills in choosing a marriage partner and a stubborn refusal to listen to my friends' concerns, I dated a sociopath before Ex who was my first real heartbreak. I was so anxiety-ridden over him that I couldn't eat for months. I lost a tremendous amount of weight, becoming so skeletal that when I got on the scale it would just flash, "Eat a sandwich!!" I also briefly dated a much older dethroned mayor and talk show host with a history of bouncing checks at massage parlors. His first line to me when he picked me up for our first date was, "Am I older than your father?" He is. Oh, and did I mention the Senate hopeful whose dreams were dashed when his divorce records were unsealed, revealing that he'd forced his beautiful and famous ex-wife to attend sex clubs with him? I see that award looming on my personal horizon.
All of this to say that despite the collective mistakes that Ava, Lauren and I have committed and continue to commit, I still believe in learning experiences. The arduous divorce process, which is stalled for me until the end of the month when I have a conference with Ex, is teaching me that even serious lapses in judgment that result in litigation transpire for a reason. I just hope I can detach my blinders on the next go-around. This time, I'll listen when my friends give me advice.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
I wasn't going to talk about this but....
A couple of weeks ago I spent the evening at Lauren's house. It was Girls' Night, but the other girls were busy and Lauren's mom, Double D, was in town visiting and staying with her daughter. I love Double D so it was the perfect opportunity to catch up with her on a low-key evening and hang with Lauren's son TC, whom I adore.
After TC went to bed, the conversation eventually turned to (put on your big surprise face) sex. It all started because Lauren and I were rehashing a recent conversation we'd had with Anastasia for Double D.
"D, Anastasia still hasn't had the sex talk with her kids and she's freaking out," I said.
"How old are her kids?" Double D asked.
"Fourteen and twelve," Lauren answered.
"And Anastasia asked us to have the birds and the bees talk for her," I added, gesturing between Lauren and myself, "because she's afraid that she's going to be too, 'It's all about YOU, not the other person, so make sure YOUR needs are taken care of,' and she doesn't want to give them the wrong idea."
"Uh, Mom," Lauren announced. Loudly. I knew something was coming. "Speaking of which, you never gave me the birds and the bees talk. Almost, did you get that talk from your parents?"
I almost spit out a mouthful of wine as I looked at Double D's eyes widen with each passing moment. "Oh, geez, my Dad would never have talked about that, but my mom gave me that talk when I was 5 because I asked where babies came from. It was pretty clinical. She even went and got a book from the library. I remember the first page had a dot on it and said, 'You started out smaller than this pencil dot.' Then it detailed the procreation process with clothed stick figures lying in bed together. I swear, I thought I'd get pregnant lying fully clothed next to a guy until I was in college."
"Well," Lauren said dryly, taking a sip of wine and arranging her face into the I'm-about-to-drop-a-Lauren-line-on-you-bitches face. "Thanks to neither of my parents giving me The Talk, I didn't have my first orgasm until I was 35, MOM!!! Thanks a lot."
Double D hooted with laughter while she delivered a line right back, "Well, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW??"
Poor Double D.... although her line cracked me up, I do know her plight. You see, sex with Ex was not that great. Frankly, most of the time it was downright lame. It wasn't that bad before the wedding (it might have actually been good then, but I shudder to think about it as I choke back some bile), but starting Day 2 of the honeymoon, the tracks shifted, directing the bedroom compartment of the marital train through Dullsville with a layover in Rarely City, final destination: Nevertown.
There are specific reasons for this, which I'll discuss soon, but at the time I was simply shocked that a man would reject his new wife for such (to me) insignificant reasons. To be brutally honest (and totally TMI, so Mom, if you're reading this, you can skip over the rest of the paragraph), in our first year of marriage I once went into his office in the house specifically to give him *ahem* uh, non-reciprocated pleasure, and he actually pushed me off of his lap. With force. I landed unceremoniously on my ass and I can only imagine the look of shock on my face. Reliving the memory now makes me giggle, but frankly, at the time it was a tad humiliating.
I had a health scare one year to the day after we were married and that picked things up a bit since he was grateful that I wasn't ill, but the sex dropped off again shortly thereafter and I was once again left to ponder what was wrong with me. (As I said in my first post, did I grow a third nipple? No!)
The evening with Lauren and Double D ended up with D proclaiming that she'd just had a very informative education. This was after the detailed description of what my friend Sarah calls "the battery operated boyfriend." D's face was priceless as we detailed the different models, functions, prices, and places in which you could obtain such "boyfriends."
But the conversation left me wondering about the importance of sex in a relationship. Perhaps in our parents' time it didn't assume the role it does now, for whatever reason. But at this point it's certainly of primary importance. I can say with clarity that deprivation on either party's part is the beginning of the slippery slope. After that transpired, at least in my case (and I'm not assigning directionality, i.e., did the deprivation lead to the dissolve or did the dissolve lead to the deprivation?), the end was nigh.
Well, at least I know what I'm getting Double D for Christmas this year. It's easy to pick out, since I know personally all too well.
After TC went to bed, the conversation eventually turned to (put on your big surprise face) sex. It all started because Lauren and I were rehashing a recent conversation we'd had with Anastasia for Double D.
"D, Anastasia still hasn't had the sex talk with her kids and she's freaking out," I said.
"How old are her kids?" Double D asked.
"Fourteen and twelve," Lauren answered.
"And Anastasia asked us to have the birds and the bees talk for her," I added, gesturing between Lauren and myself, "because she's afraid that she's going to be too, 'It's all about YOU, not the other person, so make sure YOUR needs are taken care of,' and she doesn't want to give them the wrong idea."
"Uh, Mom," Lauren announced. Loudly. I knew something was coming. "Speaking of which, you never gave me the birds and the bees talk. Almost, did you get that talk from your parents?"
I almost spit out a mouthful of wine as I looked at Double D's eyes widen with each passing moment. "Oh, geez, my Dad would never have talked about that, but my mom gave me that talk when I was 5 because I asked where babies came from. It was pretty clinical. She even went and got a book from the library. I remember the first page had a dot on it and said, 'You started out smaller than this pencil dot.' Then it detailed the procreation process with clothed stick figures lying in bed together. I swear, I thought I'd get pregnant lying fully clothed next to a guy until I was in college."
"Well," Lauren said dryly, taking a sip of wine and arranging her face into the I'm-about-to-drop-a-Lauren-line-on-you-bitches face. "Thanks to neither of my parents giving me The Talk, I didn't have my first orgasm until I was 35, MOM!!! Thanks a lot."
Double D hooted with laughter while she delivered a line right back, "Well, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW??"
Poor Double D.... although her line cracked me up, I do know her plight. You see, sex with Ex was not that great. Frankly, most of the time it was downright lame. It wasn't that bad before the wedding (it might have actually been good then, but I shudder to think about it as I choke back some bile), but starting Day 2 of the honeymoon, the tracks shifted, directing the bedroom compartment of the marital train through Dullsville with a layover in Rarely City, final destination: Nevertown.
There are specific reasons for this, which I'll discuss soon, but at the time I was simply shocked that a man would reject his new wife for such (to me) insignificant reasons. To be brutally honest (and totally TMI, so Mom, if you're reading this, you can skip over the rest of the paragraph), in our first year of marriage I once went into his office in the house specifically to give him *ahem* uh, non-reciprocated pleasure, and he actually pushed me off of his lap. With force. I landed unceremoniously on my ass and I can only imagine the look of shock on my face. Reliving the memory now makes me giggle, but frankly, at the time it was a tad humiliating.
I had a health scare one year to the day after we were married and that picked things up a bit since he was grateful that I wasn't ill, but the sex dropped off again shortly thereafter and I was once again left to ponder what was wrong with me. (As I said in my first post, did I grow a third nipple? No!)
The evening with Lauren and Double D ended up with D proclaiming that she'd just had a very informative education. This was after the detailed description of what my friend Sarah calls "the battery operated boyfriend." D's face was priceless as we detailed the different models, functions, prices, and places in which you could obtain such "boyfriends."
But the conversation left me wondering about the importance of sex in a relationship. Perhaps in our parents' time it didn't assume the role it does now, for whatever reason. But at this point it's certainly of primary importance. I can say with clarity that deprivation on either party's part is the beginning of the slippery slope. After that transpired, at least in my case (and I'm not assigning directionality, i.e., did the deprivation lead to the dissolve or did the dissolve lead to the deprivation?), the end was nigh.
Well, at least I know what I'm getting Double D for Christmas this year. It's easy to pick out, since I know personally all too well.
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