Gravy

 

“I have to take my date back to his car,” my early morning text to Jemma read.  “Want for me to pick  you up?”

 

It was Thanksgiving morning, and there was much to be done.  Potatoes needed to be peeled and sliced, covered with cream, gruyere and breadcrumbs.  The turkey breast needed to be smeared with butter and herbs, the cavity stuffed with citrus and onion.  There was pie to be made, cornbread to bake. 

 

I longed to scrap the whole meal altogether, to pop open a bottle of champagne and lure last night’s companion back to the comforts of a plump mattress and a quick warmth beneath the covers, but knew that if I succumbed to the urge to drink and nuzzle away my exhaustion, I would regret having thrown away the opportunity to share turkey with those nearest and dearest to me.  I yawned and reached for the empty kettle.  The cell phone on the counter began to vibrate.  Jemma.

 

“No, I’ll drive,” she typed.  “Still need to shower and have coffee.  Be there soon.   Slut.”

 

I smiled, passing the phone to the tall, bearded man beside me, who nodded his head in agreement as he reached for me.

 

It was going to be a good, good day, and I was already thankful for it.

Sympathy For The Doofus

Thirty-six hours after having delivered what I like to call my “Really?!?” email, the following four sentences hit my inbox:

You’re right.  You didn’t deserve that sort of treatment and I apologize.  I really do like you.  I won’t go into it but I’ve been battling something for awhile now and I’m sorry that I dragged you into it.

Show of hands, please:  who’s rolling their eyes right about now?   It’s okay.  I would, too, if the email had hit one of your inboxes.   But, in that this epic apology was now displayed proudly in the inbox of a  woman who is admittedly a sucker for a person in crisis – I began to type:

You don’t need to go into it with me but know that if you do want to talk about it, I’ll listen. 

I know, right?  I’m like the Mother Teresa of dating, which essentially means that I give sponge baths to Lepers.  Oh, and I don’t get laid.  Who needs sex?  I get to be the better person!  Yay, me!

A week went by.  It was actually more like three days, which is considered a week in girl-waiting-on-guy-time.   I spent my time away from the computer on my cell phone, logging into my email account religiously, hoping there would be a little something waiting for me.  And there was!  Something!

A.  Very.  Little.  Something.

Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you.   I want you to know I didn’t go into this with any intention of playing you.  I’m just really fucked up right now and can’t be in any sort of relationship.  I can barely take care of myself, let alone be in any sort of relationship.  I really do like you but you deserve better.

Oh, my heart – my silly, dimwitted, bleeding heart.   In the last year the poor guy has been left by his wife and sacked from his job.   He is obviously screwed up, fucked up, down and out.

He needs me.

I waited a respectable seven minutes, which is like an hour in girl-waiting-to-email-guy-time, then got out my sponge, my pom-poms and rosary beads.  I began to type, soothingly:

Thanks for the response. 

 Look, I don’t think you did anything out of malice, and you are already forgiven for that.  You are just coming out of a marriage, and I couldn’t imagine being ready so soon.  After ending several of my own long-term relationships, I took an excessive amount of time off from dating, and I think it’s the best thing that you can do to heal yourself.  So, we’re fine on that, too.  Really.  I’m not taking it personally.  You are going through an interesting time right now and you are floundering a bit, but you’ll rally.  The person I met was smart and funny and easy to be around.  He wasn’t appropriate for me, for dating, but he’s still a great person to know.  So, I’m hoping that you and I can salvage some sort of friendship out of this and, being that we only had a few innocent dates, I don’t see why we can’t.  

If you weren’t rolling your eyes before, you most certainly are now.  I can’t defend myself here; I know I’m a dumbass.  

What I can say is that sending that email made me feel like I was an awesome human being – strong emphasis on the human part. 

While a part of me – the logical part of me – thinks that I likely was played, that I was blown off in a spectacular fashion, I’d like to believe that isn’t the case.  I choose to believe that this wasn’t about me, that it had nothing to do with whether or not he thought that I was pretty, that I was smart, or funny, or girlfriend material.  I choose to believe that he really did like me, that he really was too fucked up to be in a relationship, that he truly did believe that I deserved better than him.

Because, truly?  I am pretty.  I am smart.  I am funny.  I am girlfriend material. 

I do deserve better.

And I choose to believe that I’m not the only one who can see that.

(Red) Flag Unfurled

The next day, there was no call. There were no texts, no emails, no smoke signals, no telegrams. I had been officially blown off, and I was humiliated.

I knew that I had no reason to be, that I had done nothing wrong, that he was simply a massive dickhead and that I was better off seeing that now, as opposed to realizing it months down the road, after I had become emotionally invested, after I had come to know him intimately.  I dodged a bullet but, still, I was mortified that I hadn’t seen it coming.  But, really, how could I have?

When you are dating a girl, when you are initiating contact on the regular, when you are expressing enthusiasm toward her and are claiming to count the days until your next date, why would that girl have any reason to assume that you are going to become the most spectacular fuckover of her dating career?  Why would she assume that, when you pestered her into coming over to your home, you had absolutely no desire to see her, no real intention of seeing her, and that you were prepared to turn off the lights and crouch down behind the sofa when she arrived at your door?

How could she see that coming?

Suffice it to say, I was pissed.  With each minute that creeped by, I was becoming more and more outraged.

Who does that?!?  What sort of person behaves in such a way?!?  Does he think that I’m not going to say anything?!? Does he think he’s going to get away with that utter bullshit?!?  Does he?!?

Clearly, he has no idea who he is dealing with.

Luckily for him, and probably for me as well, the valium began to kick in.  As my muscles aquiesced to the little yellow pill and my tension dissipated, so did my rage.  I went to my keyboard and typed:

Dear [Redacted],

I’m a little baffled as to what happened last night.  I was ready to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you had taken some cold medicine and passed out, but that would have merited a phone call upon your waking up, which didn’t happen.

Normally, I wouldn’t say anything – just chalk it up as a dating mismatch and move along – but I’m really bothered by this. It just seems a really crappy thing to do to a person, particularly someone who has been nothing but gracious toward you, and I think that you and I both know I didn’t deserve that sort of treatment. Not cool at all.

– Frecks

Should I have called him a jackass?  Perhaps.  But, if you read between the lines of what I like to call my “Tsk Tsk — Shame on You!” email, I think the whole jackass thing was fairly well-implied.  More importantly, I felt better, relieved.  Valium and unloading – it will beat out cowbell as the prescription to your fever on any given day.

When sending the email, I wasn’t hoping for a response; I truly didn’t expect one.  He didn’t have the balls, the coward.

I was in for a surprise.

Notes Left Behind

 

Oh, my heart.

 

Purge

“You are one of the true good people left in this world,” the drunken, Irish Tinker slurred into my ear before making his way to the Pisser.  “You’re a good girl, Frecks.  Lower your standards, or you’ll never catch a man.”

The original plan had not been to sit until 3am in a blistering pub booth, receiving romantic advice from an intoxicated Leprechaun with a boy-band haircut, but we sometimes take what we can get.  

What I had planned on was a little black dress and a new shade of red lipstick.  I had exfoliated, buttered, plucked and trimmed, fluffed the pillows, changed the sheets.  The puppy was sent to the neighbor’s, the morning brunch shift covered by a colleague.    

I had been really excited about this one; he was delicious.

Immediately following our first date, he locked me in for a second.  After our second, he pushed for a third, balking when I suggested something several long days away. 

“Sooner,” he persisted, “I can’t wait until then to see you.”  

I wanted to be sensible with the pacing; I’ve seen those who rush in too quickly just as quickly take flight.  I understand the feast or famine approach with respect to dating, having starved and gorged myself sick on more than a few occasions.   With this, with him, I wanted to enjoy those pangs of hunger.  I wanted to crave, yet deny myself, such easy sustenance.

By the time our fourth date had arrived, after dozens of candied texts, emails and phone calls, I was famished.   The dress, the lipstick, the fluffy pillows, the polished skin – this hunger strike had reached its end.  I was anxious to take my place at the table, to devour, to be devoured.

“I’m sick, really sick.  But disappointed – I had wanted to see you tonight.”

“No worries,” I eyed the freshly-laundered pajamas, mentally throwing them on as the voice on the other end of the line described his symptoms.  “Get some rest and let me know if you need anything.  I’ll see you soon.”

Within the hour came the question, “Did you want to come over here instead?”

Black dress hanging in the closet, red lipstick relegated to its drawer in the vanity, head resting on the now flattened pillow, I imagined myself saying no.

“Okay,” I agreed.  “When do you want me?”

“6?” 

I laughed.  It was 5:55pm.

After throwing on jeans, a sweater and tennis shoes, I picked up the phone.  Voicemail.

“Hey.  Give me a call back.  I’m ready to go, but need your address.”

I lit a cigarette and scrolled through Facebook status updates.  I turned on the television and absently flipped through the channels.

An hour passed.  I lit another cigarette, settled on a Real Housewives rerun.

At the two hour mark, I threw on a jacket, grabbed my keys and hit the bar.

“Maybe the cold medicine knocked him out?”  I hoped out loud.

“That stuff will put you on your ass.”  Jemma agreed. 

We ordered another round.  I checked my phone.  No messages.

“You’re a good girl, Frecks.  Lower your standards, or you’ll never catch a man.” His hand hovered over my backside as he inhaled deeply into the crook of my neck.  “Mmmmm.  You smell good enough to eat.” 

I thought of his wife at home, and wondered how low her standards had been when she agreed to become his bride.  I checked my phone.  No messages.

Ten hours later, I pulled the covers back and climbed out of bed, tiptoeing over to the computer, cell phone in hand. 

My stomach gurgled, but I was no longer hungry.

Purple Dawn

Love this.  From here:

Pug and Boots

 

I know that this cool spell we’re having is likely to be short-lived, but I’m feeling all autumnally inspired this week, and have swapped my online browsing of summer dresses and margarita recipes for sites offering knee-high boots and warm woolen coats.  It won’t be long before my freckles begin to fade and my natural blonde highlights are replaced with ones based in peroxide.  And yeah, it’s a bit sad to say adieu to patio weather, to barbeques and swimming pools, but that first whiff of a freshly-lit chimney will act as adequate consolation.  And boots!  So excited about the boots!

George is also excited about cooler weather, as he now doesn’t sound like a masturbating-in-the-bushes-sexual-offender every time he returns from a walk; the lower temperatures and reduced humidity help to regulate his normally-labored breathing, and George is a big fan of the increase of oxygen to his lungs, quite rightly. 

I had my first slow-cooker epic FAIL the other night; I arrived home to the pungent aroma of sweet Italian sausages that had long-ago lost their sweetness, whose excessive char had now acted as the glue in adhering the extra-crispy meat to the sides of the crockpot.  The pot has been soaking for two days now, and the pork shows no signs of budging from its new digs.  You know, I had thought it impossible to so irrevocably burn something that is being cooked at approximately two hundred degrees and yet, hello pork jerky!  It was rather embarrassing to someone who is a little bragadocious regarding her crockpot talents.  I’m no master chef, but I can certainly put stuff in a pot and flip a switch — or I thought I could, anyway.   

I’m going to give it another go this weekend, provided I am able to Brillo away that aforementioned sausage.  There’s a pot roast that has been waiting patiently all summer to be back in favor.   Add to that a good bottle of red something-0r-other, a Mad Men rerun, and I’ve got a nice little date with myself set up for sometime this weekend.  That may not sound like too exciting a weekend plan but, to someone who has been working seven days per week, every week, for weeks and weeks and weeks, the idea of curling up on the sofa with something warm and savory, with a full glass of wine and the magic that is Don Draper — it sounds like absolute bliss. 

I hope that you all have lovely and amazing long weekends, and that you come back from them with anecdotes, with notches, with light bruising – whatever your bag.  Besos!

That Guy.

 

Deep down, I knew that he wasn’t the one for me. 

In order to achieve an alternate outcome from prior relationships, I’d decided to make different decisions than I had previously.  I vowed to go against type and choose company that I would normally reject, run toward men whom I would typically flee. 

I chose him.  I embraced him.  I committed to him.

But I could barely tolerate him.

 I was repulsed by him.

 I hated him.

 

This wasn’t an instant realization, of course.  There were flags from the get, but I considered them to be false alarms.  My fight or flight instinct had become highly developed in the past few years, and it was now working against me, threatening to self-sabotage one of my most “healthy” relationships to date.  I forced myself to ignore my obviously-flawed instincts, and forged ahead.

Yes, he drank too much.  Yes, he was needy.  And okay, maybe he was kind of a weirdo.

But he was sweet.  He was devoted. 

 He really liked me.

But, oh! 

 How he repulsed me!

 Oh!  How I hated him!

 

I served dinner.  I washed up while he remained comfortable on the sofa.   I tried to ignore the mounds of empty beer cans and the wardrobe consisting of nothing but concert T-shirts and skinny jeans.  I sat silently as we watched the banal animated films on his must-see list.   I turned my nose away from the stale smell of his unlaundered locks.

I resisted the urge to punch him in the mouth.

To kick him in the teeth.

 To knee him in the groin.

 God!  How I hate that guy!

 

I could not believe how mean I had become; in my previous couplings, I had always been The Saint.  I had always been sweet and attentive.  Devoted and nurturing.

I had always been The Gallant.

 Now, here I am:  The Goofus!

 And, oh!

 How I hate what I’ve become!

 

I did not enjoy this new me.  I tried to change.  I tried to be less judgmental, more accommodating.

I purchased two tickets for an animated film festival.  I allowed craptacular recordings to be downloaded onto my iTunes account.  I went willingly to Medieval Times, and kept my eye-rolling to a minimum, although I could not bring myself to join the entire Red Section in wearing the paper crown provided.

I ignored his crude, meaningless tattoos and the small hole left on his skin, as evidence of a past belly-button piercing. 

I overlooked the fact that neither straight men nor gay men would ever (EVER!) choose to outfit their tummies with such historically-feminine hardware.

I thanked my lucky stars that he wasn’t also sporting a tramp stamp, subsequently wondering whether that choice of skin art would be in the form of unicorns and rainbows or in a frosty keg of beer.

I thought of other people – of other men – in order to become sufficiently aroused.

I failed to become aroused.

I faked it.  Again and again.  And again.

 This isn’t working.

 I can’t.

 I just hate that guy.

 

I broke up with him and cut off contact.  I did not reply to his attempts at contacting me.  I avoided places where I would run into him.

I tried to forget I had ever met him.

I tried to forget I had ever known him.

I tried to forget that he had ever loved me.

But I will always remember that I did not deserve it.

 I don’t hate that guy.  Not really.

  I just hate that guy for me.

Just as much as I hate myself for him.  And hate myself on his behalf.

Tolerating the Intolerable

 

Jake, my most favorite co-server, and I had just wrapped up the Sunday brunch shift.  It had been a warm, muggy day and we were glad for the opportunity to sit in the shade and decompress.  Steven, the manager on duty, suggested a round of champagne to go with our post-shift Marlboros.   I popped inside and retrieved a semi-cold bottle and three finger-smudged flutes.  We clinked glasses conspiratorially, toasting the end of a long, hard workday, the abrupt resignation of a much-loathed colleague, and the promotion of Steven to a position that was more to his liking.  By the time the bottle had been drained of its contents, we were feeling warm with the combination of tiny bubbles and a palpable camaraderie.

 

To keep those warm fuzzies going, we decided to visit the gay bar down the road.  “Just for one,” it was agreed.

 

 *****

 

There was, in the not-so-distant past, a time when I could not only hold my liquor but could easily drink under the table your favorite alcoholic, seafaring uncle.  No longer.  As I move deeper and deeper into my thirties, gaining wrinkles and the promise of grey hairs, my tolerance for alcohol has deteriorated considerably and I’ve been introduced to a whole new world – a world of hangovers and bouts of short-term memory loss.  In short, I’ve become an easy drunk.  A blackout, can’t-go-to-work-the-next-day, cheap, cheap drunk.  It’s quite tragic, really, like a superpower that has been revoked and then regifted to a new generation of lucky alcohol aficionados.

 

*****

 

Standing in the full-to-capacity room, surrounded by throngs of men in various stages of undress and intoxication, I feebly refused the first shot offered.  But my protests were futile, and I was quickly goaded into joining Steven and Jake in sucking down the harsh vodka and lemon concoction.  The second shot that followed was somehow easier to rationalize and digest and, by the time the third batch of small glasses were placed before us, I had completely lost the will for self-preservation and gobbled down its contents with relish and abandon. 

 

Whoo-hoo!  Shots!  Yeah!

 

*****

 

Fifteen minutes later, I was shattered.  Not buzzed, not tipsy, not even a wee bit drunk. 

 

I was eyes rolling into the back of my head, elocution skills of a stroke victim, balance of a just-born calf, D-runk.

 

I.   Was.  F-ucked.    

 

Steven had wisely disappeared sometime during this unfortunate metamorphosis, slinking away without notice or fanfare, leaving Jake to deal solely with the teetering mess that was barely standing at his side.  Taking my hand, he led his unexpected ward out of the bar and back to the safety of our restaurant.  I can only imagine the looks we received, his graceful strides such a mismatch for my helpless, weaving missteps.  After removing the car keys from my handbag, Jake tried in vain to feed me diet-unfriendly food items, ignored my slurring protests to stay and forced upon me a double espresso and a non-negotiable cab ride home.

 

“Glover Park,” I huffily commanded the killjoy driver.

 

“Where in Glover Park?”  inquired the condemned.

 

“I’ll tell you when we get there.  Ugh.”

 

The cab pulled away from the curb and I managed to uncross my eyes long enough to see my dear Jake shaking his head.  And he was laughing.  Laughing at and, hopefully, laughing with me.  

 

When I opened my eyes, I was home.

 

***** 

 

The next morning, while the ensuing hangover was indeed a bear and while I was more than a little mortified to have been in such an obnoxious condition the previous evening, the blurry memory of his laughter eased my embarrassment, if only a little.  While I may have been utterly useless, I was at least somewhat entertaining. 

 

(Shot) Glass half-full, you know? 

Dry Season (or Come On, Drought!)

I’ve never been terribly boy crazy.

Sure, I’ve been crazy about certain boys, and have been driven crazy by others, but I’ve never been the sort of gal who has a revolving door of boyfriends, or who wants one, for that matter. For someone with absolutely horrible taste in men, I’m particularly choosy.

When I do mention a new guy? In passing, in writing, via text? It’s rare. It means something. It means there is interest. That interest may wane with the distraction of another or shrivel from lack of reciprocity, but it doesn’t ever completely vanish. Not entirely.

After dating Kent, I decided that I didn’t feel like bothering with the frattier sex for awhile. But I did have someone whom I’d kept on reserve in the very back corner of my mind. We were never going to happen, of course. I wanted different things and he wanted too many things. But I did enjoy having him there – hanging out among the cobwebs and the suppressed childhood memories that don’t often see the light.

I took comfort in the idea of him, the reminder that I could still find someone appealing if I allowed myself the second thought, that I could like someone if I would allow myself the luxury of doing so. He became my man for a rainy day – an impossible possibility – sort of like that guy you say you are going to marry if/when you are 30, 40, 50, 60 or 70 and still single. You aren’t really going to marry him. You probably won’t even know him by this time next Christmas but, for now, you like the idea of having an emergency fiancé. A security cock.

My own very brief engagement has now ended. Quite abruptly and irrevocably. The security cock has been banished from the premises and has relocated elsewhere. And, once I have swept out the dustbunnies and have given the space a good airing, I will have some prime corner real estate on the market for a new security cock, a new rainy day man.

I know that I will have to fill the space eventually but, until then, I’m just praying on a long stretch of impossibly sunny skies.

You’ve got the touch. You’ve got the power.

 

He is the sort of man you play doctor with, not house.  He is a cad – a charming cad – but a cad nonetheless.

We’ve been out several times.  He kisses me hello and manages to proposition me before the drinks are poured and served.

I demur; we are only friends, although I will admit to a warm tingle when he puts his hand upon my knee, allowing it to linger too long to be considered a casual gesture.

He tells me stories of women he has dated, what they did to him, what he did to them.

He is explicit in his details – not crude. Honest. 

He tells me bluntly why it didn’t work out, what the next girl in line offered and why she eventually met the same end as her predecessor.

He is looking to settle down, he says. His hand is on my knee – its warmth permeates the denim and I suddenly feel as if the cloth barrier is non-existent.

I could be the next girl. I know this.

The idea of it is appealing, I’ll admit.

Did I mention how charming he can be? How warm his hand?

He tells me that he wants someone to make a life with. I believe that he is sincere.

But I know that, even on my most awesome day, I’d not measure up. His expectations are lofty, and I can only jump so high.

There will always be a next girl. There will be many to follow.  This is obvious.

This is not so cliché as taking a chance, jumping in with both feet, following one’s heart. This is not romance in its truest form.

This is ego annihilation, emotional suicide, a certain failure.

What sort of masochist would I be? All for the want of a warm hand? A bout of charming banter?

He would break my heart so easily.

But, oh.  How I want him.

That hand may be the sweet death of me.

Smack Attack

 

 

Friday night, one of my most favorite women in the world accompanied me to a friend’s backyard happy hour.  It was a glorious night – perfect temperature, free-flowing tequila, Pirate’s Booty out the wazoo.  When he wasn’t maniacally humping the tail off of the pretty little black pug that had been brought along by another invited guest, George was running about the fenced-in yard in a state of gleeful frenzy.  The other pug owner was a woman of a certain age, one who had recently ended a long-term relationship and who made numerous references to her ‘divorce’ throughout the evening.  She was also drinking heavily, knocking back shot after shot of top-shelf tequila (which I can certainly respect) at an alarming rate.

 

I returned from the ladies room to find that the pug owner had taken my chair, and was now sitting beside my invited guest.  I retrieved my margarita from its original spot and moved it to the other side of the picnic table, imagining that the chair-swapper was relaying to my guest her current state of unhappiness, the despair she was feeling over her relationship’s demise. 

 

I thought to myself, “Well, she’s chosen the perfect person to speak with.  My friend is one of the most empathetic, lovely people – always available with an ear, a shoulder, a gentle word.   But, wait.  Uh, what’s going on here?  Oh!  Oh my.  What the f—-?”

 

As my friend tensed her shoulders and maneuvered her face as far back as her seated position would allow, the boozed-up pug owner advanced, planting on the resistant, tightly-shut lips before her a very non-platonic smooch. 

 

The table fell silent.  I looked at my friend, and she at me.

 

“So, [redacted], are you about ready to go?”

 

I didn’t have to ask her twice.  We were gone before the pug owner could say the alphabet backwards and touch her finger to her nose.

 

I’m proud of the way in which my friend handled the situation, remaining composed and gracious, even as she was being orally violated by a drunken lonely heart.  I only hope that she’ll look back on the evening’s events not as something traumatic and ugly, but as a true testament to her ridiculous good looks and irresistible badassedry.

 

And next time?  If she’ll ever agree to revisit to the site of her molestation?  Well, I’ve got her back – and her front. 

 

That pug lady had better watch her mouth or, next time, she’ll get a smack.

Right in the kisser.

Good Morning!

 

 

Hello, Lovelies!  Happy Tuesday!  I’m nearing the end of my hibernation period, and expect to be back very, very soon. 

I wanted to pop in and pester those of you who may be able to spare a bit of cash for a good cause.  The lovely Betty Joan, who is doing her part to kick Cancer in the cajones, needs your help in achieving her fundraising goal.  $5, $10, $20 - whatever you can part with would be very much appreciated.  I know that times are tight (they certainly are for me), but every little bit helps, really!

If you are unable to contribute financially, please be so kind as to send our sweet BJ your most positive thoughts and very best wishes.  

Thank you!

Garden

 

Velvet was the very first blogger I had met. After exchanging texts and emails for several weeks, she invited me to meet her at a local bar. I declined, making up some sort of lame excuse as to why I couldn’t go out at 8:30pm on a Thursday night. In truth, I was terrified to accept her invitation; as much as I’d wanted to clink glasses with the ballsy broad of the blog world, I wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of her meeting me.

My initial attraction to blogging was that it was a medium in which I could unload whatever it was that I was feeling at the time, and that I could do so without fear of bruising the egos of or inciting anger in my subjects. There was security attached to anonymity, and I was reluctant to let that security go in favor of downing beers with a DC Blog Badass.

I eventually did meet Velvet, and she and I became great friends.  She quickly introduced me to Betty Joan and KassyK, and to The PhD Three.

We successfully wooed the reclusive Blond out of hiding, forming a short-lived but wicked fun crew of Whorebuckets.

I attended Blogger happy hours, where I met Arjewtino, Lemon Gloria, Dagny Taggart, Carrie M, Jo, Mandy, 66, and Hammer.

Arjewtino, Betty Joan and I bonded with Lexa and Secular Friend at Shamrockfest, over plastic cups of Miller Lite and multiple rounds of Spin the Bottle.  Secular Friend was invited to be the lone male at a pirate-themed happy hour with the PhD Three and The Blond.

Lexa came along to a dinner I had planned with KassyK. She introduced me to LiLu, Refugee and Shannon, who later introduced me to Katherine, Maxie, Hey Pretty, and Deutlich.

I had met Ryane in passing at one of those early happy hours but, several months later, Paige Jennifer re-introduced us over brunch. Ryane joined mysterygirl! and I for drinks, and we’ve been saving her a seat at the bar ever since.

mysterygirl! brought The Wino to one of the happy hours, and I was immediately smitten. The Wino, Ryane and I will be hosting Paige Jennifer on her next visit to town.

There’s more, but you get the idea. Velvet introduced me to a few of her friends, I introduced my new friends to others, they responded in kind. Some of my very best friendships were spawned from these initial introductions, and I believe that my own introductions have netted a similar result.

I began blogging as someone who, at the time, felt somewhat alone in the world. Because of one person who reached out to me, I today have more friends than I can count on each of my fingers and toes, friends who have enriched my life immeasurably. I’m grateful for this – for all of you – those whom I’ve met and those I’ve yet to meet.

This is my 200th blog post. I don’t know how many more entries I have left in me – could be a handful, could be a hundred. What I am certain of is this: long after this blog has been retired, long after its posts have been deleted and their content forgotten, the resulting friendships will continue to grow, to flourish, to blossom.

Thank you, Velvet, for planting the first seed in what has now become a most incredible garden, one with very few thorns and oh-so-many roses.

Sibling Revelry

 

“I just don’t understand what the problem is.  You’re sisters!”  My mother took a large swig of her beer. 

 

“Yes,” I put down my glass of Malbec.  ”And she was a horrible sister.  I’m sorry –  I just don’t like her.   I have love for her as a fellow human being, but she’s not family to me.  She’s nothing.  That’s it.  That’s how I feel.”

 

“But why?!  What happened?”

 

I considered how best to answer her question.  I thought of all the insults and humiliations that my sister Imelda had subjected me to over the course of my childhood.  I don’t need to name them for you all here, but you can trust that I did name them all at the dinner table that very night, and received no additional argument from the parent sitting across from me, who was rightfully horrified at the extent of her offspring’s cruelty. 

 

But, you know, rather than waxing nostalgic over some sad tale of torture and abuse, I thought I’d instead share with you a fun story about my sister, my favorite story about her, in fact – one that I think you’ll enjoy.

 

My friend Tina and I had invited big sister Imelda to go in on a beach house with us one week in June (this was back in the day when I was making an effort to be closer to my family).  Our first night there, Tina and I decided to hit a local brewpub in town to have a few belts and check out the talent.  Imelda accepted the invitation to join us.  The three of us sat at the bar, next to a large group of men who were in town for a weekend-long bachelor party.  I (platonically!) chatted up The Bachelor, Tina took on a groomsman, and Imelda sat sulking on her barstool, waiting in vain for someone to buy her a drink or comment on her extensive cleavage.

 

When it became time to move on to the next location; Bachelor Mark invited us girls to come along.   Tina and I were most definitely in.  Imelda looked at her shoes and grumbled incoherently about wanting to go home. 

 

Oh well, I thought.  I’m the one who is driving.  She can either come with us or we can put her in a cab back to the house.  I vocalized her options.  She glumly announced that she would come along and climbed into the backseat of my Saab.   I started the car and put the convertible top down so that we could all enjoy the warm, salty air.  We followed the bachelor party caravan, a few minutes later pulling into the parking lot of one of my favorite seaside bars.

 

“I’m not going.”  Imelda huffed as we pulled into a parking space.

 

“Why?”  I was getting a little tired of all this pouting.

 

“Because I don’t want to.”  Imelda crossed her arms and sneered at me like a bratty teenager; she may as well have stuck her tongue out at me for full effect.  

 

“Fine.  Why don’t you get a cab, then?”  I closed the driver’s side door.

 

“No.  I’ll wait here.”  As someone used to getting her way, Imelda looked at me, expectantly. 

 

“Suit yourself.”  Tina and I turned on our heels and walked to the short line near the entrance, where the bachelor party attendees were waiting for us.  We’d been standing in line for fifteen minutes or so when the screaming began.

 

“Aieeeeeeeee!  Help!  Help!  Call 911!!!!” 

 

I looked over to where my car had been parked, just in time to see a bare-assed man scurrying away, attempting to flee despite the jean shorts at his ankles.   My sister, who had been identified as the source of the cries for help, continued her shrieking.  Our party ran over to the car to find out what had happened.

 

“I was trying to sleep in the backseat,” Imelda sobbed, “And that asshole came over, he put his penis over my head, and he —  he —-”

 

“He what!?”  We all asked in unison.

 

“He —  he— he peed on me!”

 

We all stood stunned, trying to process in full what it was that she’d just reported.  He what?  He peed on her?  A drunk man approached my convertible, pulled down his jhorts and peed on my sister?

 

How horrifying!  How disgusting!

 

How.  Freakin.  Hysterical! 

 

I did what most long-suffering folks do when their childhood tormentors are treated to a healthy dose of Karma.

 

I laughed my ass off — and then grabbed some newspaper and tended to the puddle of urine that had collected on my new leather seats, which was a small price to pay for such an appropriate retribution.

 

Thank you, Mr. Jean Shorts, wherever you are.   Imelda and I both really needed for that to happen, her even more than she’ll ever realize.