REPORT A PROBLEM
A Typo Artist
I was an hour late for our first date. First I couldn’t find my make-up and then parking. I ended up driving back home and taking a cab. You didn’t seem to mind at all. You looked confident, not at all ruffled, chatting at a packed bar with an interested looking bartender.
You were taller than I had imagined. You told me you loved my outfit, which I loved, because no guys love that outfit.
I had forgotten my ID too, so we drank at the bar where I worked. You hated the goat cheese. I was definitely intrigued.
So Michael Phelps, one of the most talented, disciplined and hardest working 23-year-olds I’ve certainly ever known of, hits a bong and everyone’s all worked up.
“He is a role model. He has a responsibility to the youth who admire him.”
Really? Because last I heard he was 23 and didn’t ask for your snot-nosed kid to look up to him. He just wants to swim. And be 23. Since when does representing Powerbar demand a higher ethic code?
You talk shit and behind closed doors you cheat on your spouse, steal from your job and gossip about the neighbors.
Fiance’s phone-survey answers to GM:
"Why don't you partner with Google? Ford grabbed Microsoft - what are you doing? Put a browser in each vehicle - then whenever I start my car you’ll know how old I am, where I’m going, and how often I drive. Talk about advertising power...
"GM needs to stop drowning in oil fields and wake up - you’re as bureaucratic as the government, but unfortunately you can’t levy taxes.
"So you should call Google now - IF it’s not too late. I'm sure their already talking to Katsuaki Watanabe. He is the CEO of Toyota. I just Googled that."
Stupid things I’ve done while drinking/while being drunk/in order to drink:
Threw up on neighbor
Tripped on my jeans and fell down a flight of concrete stairs
Hit on my philosophy professor
Attempted to escape my campsite (and father’s watchful eye) by recreating the shape of my body with pillows in my sleeping bag
Threw up on self
Fell backwards off a bar and onto a girl twice my size
Flashed a state trooper
Threw a textbook out my three-story window onto my ex’s car on Main St
Made-out with girlfriend’s brother
Removed and presented a bartender with my panties
I want a home all angles, glass and clean lines with a big bamboo door that opens onto bamboo floors on which I’ll kick off my shoes when I come home from work to a light filled living room that’s one in the same with a light filled kitchen and a sun drenched balcony. I want to trade my skirt for tennis shoes in a closet as big as a bedroom to run on the beach or do yoga on the rooftop garden until I’m sticky with sweat and retreat to an open stone-tiled shower with you and a loofah.
Through the small slits of my barely opened eyes I see dusty sun rays forcing themselves between our tightly drawn blinds like small children tugging our bed sheets and begging us to come play. I ignore them, rolling to my side, and your breathing changes as you wrap your arm around my waist and pull me into your warm naked lap.
I know my hair is tickling your face.
I know you don’t mind.
I know when I wake up I’ll spend another day with you that is better than the one before it but not as great as tomorrow.
Awesome things I’ve done while drinking/while being drunk/in order to drink:
Belly-flop from trampoline to above ground pool
Karaoke and semi-strip show to the Divinyls “I Touch Myself”
Hit on my philosophy professor
Ran from large girl I fell off bar onto
Played football with toilet paper roll in Wegman’s
Swam naked outside a family resort in Myrtle Beach
Got naked in an Episcopalian church with the priest’s son
Told a Jehovah Witness I brought the Devil home from the bar by accident
Got away with flashing a state trooper
Made-out with girlfriend’s brother
Paid for bar tab with panties
My friend is engaged to a man who lives a couple hundred miles away whom she sees not nearly enough. She is overflowing with sexual frustration and struggling to resist pouncing on every semi-attractive man who walks within a 20ft. of her.
As temptation builds, she confides in me, desperate for an outlet. I state the obvious first,
Tried that. She needs some MAN attention.
“Then go to work in a skirt suit that’s not inappropriately tight, but tight enough to turn heads. Pair it with stilettos and cleavage and enjoy all the eye fucking. It’s a decent second.”
Dear Evolution –
Okay, you’re smart and imaginative. You’ve created plants that can make food with just water and sunlight, a teeny jellyfish that can kill a grown man in minutes, and lizards that can change color depending on their surroundings.
But you gave me an internal baby bed that needs be replaced every month? Why couldn’t you have thought of something with a longer shelf life? You made a fucking bird that can see a stupid rabbit from a mile away but I have to bleed once every month for 40 years of my life?
You’re a bitch.
Why I love Google:
Did chocolate sales decline with the demise of peanut butter?
Did Alex from Real Housewives NY pose naked? (Ew, by the way)
Lilly Allen new album reviews (<3)
Where is Casper Mountain?
Barnes & Noble’s Sunday Music series
Support groups for addicts’ families
Who qualifies for the foreclosure prevention program?
Goldfrapp Happiness lyrics (not at all what I thought it was…)
Bristol Palin – advocate for teen pregnancy prevention (wtf??)
Good hiking near DC?
Flat, slouchy, brown, leather ankle boots
New gadget lets girls pee standing?
What is CaMKII? (holy. shit.)
Where is the stimulus money going?
Bryan is a breathing contradiction. He is a sweet player, responsible drunk, respectful womanizer, and romantic freak. At 5’6” he commands the attention in a room just by being in it. He is not exceptionally good-looking, but wins the admiration of most women he meets.
Bryan drives wasted all the time, but has not one ticket or dent on his Audi.
Bryan cheated once, and felt terribly, but has never been cheated on. His boss gives him bonuses just to keep him around, even though he never works after 5:00. Bryan never makes a deal without negotiating first – and winning.
As you enter the bar I can see that my beloved Dr. Jekyll has declined my invitation, and has sent in his place a rather loud Mr. Hyde who seems to be under the impression that he’s that skinny kid from High School Musical and we’re all 14 year-old girls.
We exchange looks from across the long table – or at least I send looks, you send blank, glassy, half-drooling stares. Tension begins to build like a tide rolling in and sloshes around my ankles, as cold as Bar Harbor in March.
I search for a lifebuoy, but there is none.
As we come over the ramp the city lights rush towards us like a million possibilities, flickering with anticipation, waiting to be grabbed up. I am humming along with the Kings and Feist and you are pointing out hotels, bars and stomping grounds.
All your old haunts have been adjusted, like the set of a play, rearranged and repainted for a new cast. You are so eager to show me, to share with me what I was not there to share. So let’s build new memories.
I sing along, “What is there to know? All this is what it is…”
You drew little pictures all over the brown paper mailing envelope. I tore it open and gray dust from the padding fell all over my pants and in my salad. The bartender cringed. I could smell leather. Dark brown, faded, with a covered binding and finely ruled pages.
Inside - my words, cut out messily, hastily, but lovingly, by your hands. Stick figures, words and scribbles I could barely make out.
On that page, you took my words and showed them to me, just as a man turns his lover towards a mirror and says, “Look how beautiful you are.”
Last night we met some crazy gay who tried to out diva me. Upon being introduced, he shoved his hand in my face (complete with gaudy, poorly-made cocktail ring from Claire’s), insinuating I should kiss it. I resisted the urge to spit on it, and instead flicked it away with my own flippant diva gesture.
He was not amused.
He was also a self-proclaimed multi-millionaire who wanted to show us the elevator in his house. He shushed us on the way in as not to wake “the help.” I complied – I really had no desire to meet his parents anyway.
The room is a luxury prison cell, but not at all cold or desolate with you here. I sit on the bed (hardly a bed) as you put away the boxes of Mac&Cheese, Wheat Thins and Fruit Water I brought you. You don’t seem the slightest sad or afraid – but still I can’t bear to leave you.
Outside the narrow window it is dark. I need to go home and tend to our neglected kitty and mountains of laundry. As I leave and the tears pool I realize I have never admired you more than I do in this moment.
It’s midnight and you haven’t called. Our huge, comfy bed with clean sheets and fluffy pillows looks as inviting as a crocodile’s open mouth. I am wearing your undershirt from the laundry basket so I can smell you. I briefly roll around on the floor with Kitty who is a bit too playful for my lonely mood at the moment.
It’s a strange feeling being so removed from you as you change so thoroughly. I think of you in that strange, dim room with those odd, lonely people and my chest aches. I am so sorry I couldn’t fix it.
She steps out of a hot shower and shakes her wet, black hair, spraying little drops on the mirror. Water runs from her neck to the small of her back, between her breasts and down her thigh. The scent of vanilla and honey are exaggerated in the humid air.
She pulls on silk stockings and a billowy skirt over soft curves. Thin leather straps embrace tiny ankles. Black pearls rest on tanned, freckled skin. She covers pouty lips in a sheer pink that you know must taste like strawberries or cherries.
How could you not want to be a woman.
I showed up to the family recovery meeting with the fiance’s best friend, to join an opiate addicts’s pretty, blond wife, and two bored pre-teens and their annoyed looking mother. Of course, those in recovery were there as well, many without family.
The subject was interesting, but the speaker almost put me to sleep, so I watched the “wife” with the two pre-teens who wasn’t wearing a ring. Every time her alcoholic husband spoke in that sad, desperate tone, she furrowed her eyebrows and curled her lips as if she smelled something foul.
I assume that was her last meeting.
He looked the same but spoke differently - quickly, thoughts trampling over thoughts, barely a breath between sentences. It was a few minutes before he emerged from the classroom. I’d assumed he’d be waiting anxiously by the door.
During the drive home his speech only got quicker. He was high on accomplishments achieved during the past week and had seemed to put the other nine months behind him. I suppose I was to put them behind me too? He didn’t ask me how my week was, but he did ask if the laundry was done.
I wondered, where am I going?
I’m not like you. I’ll never be like you. No matter how many times you suggest I bend over backwards or lie over a puddle, I just can’t bring myself to do it. And if I did I wouldn’t be worth talking to. Both my wit and my charm are the children of my arrogant stubbornness.
I often wonder how you would fashion me if I were clay on your wheel. Rounder, softer edges? A more perfect symmetry? Large handles for convenience? I am all uneven edges, but like a puzzle piece will no longer fit my match if altered.
At 15 I went to soccer camp with Alison, where we met two boys en route to the Tuesday Night Movie. They convinced us to ditch the movie and join them in a pick-up game, which of course ended up being a make-out game behind the equipment shed.
That night they crawled through our window with six beers they pilfered from God knows where. After all that work I didn’t even allow the kid past second base, but he still saved me a seat and toasted me a raisin bagel in the cafeteria the next morning. That, ladies, is chivalry.
Dear Octamom -
I am glad you’re here. Someday I plan to run for office and begin campaigning for mandatory sterilization of severely unfit mothers, and you, my dear, will be my Joe the Plumber. Meet Jane the Criminally Selfish Mother.
You live in a three-bedroom home (that’s in foreclosure) with your mother and SIX other children already and you thought it would be a good idea to have eight more? As far as I am concerned, that qualifies as child abuse.
I’d keep an eye on those ovaries if I were you, bitch. I’ll be looking for you.
When I was 10, my father made a tuna fish and banana sandwich, and requested that I eat half. I was appalled. At first I laughed, “No Dad, that’s silly!” but as he continued to insist I realized that he was dead serious.
“Tara, it’s good. How will you know until you try it? Do you want to live your whole life afraid of the unknown?”
Having too much pride, even at 10, I was not about to let anyone accuse me of being scared. As I bit into the sandwich my father burst out laughing,
“Gross, who eeeaaats that?”
I just discovered that members of Congress Twitter. I don’t even Twitter! Is there anyone out there but me who thinks the idea of 24/7 updates on one’s mostly average life is a) creepy and b) insanely self-important?
Last night, as members sat in the Capitol as audience to President Obama’s address, they all Tweeted away. Some examples:
"Capt Sully is here -- awesome!"
"I did big wooohoo for Justice Ginsberg[sic],"
"Aggie basketball game is about to start on espn2 for those of you that aren't going to bother watching pelosi smirk for the next hour."
I want my votes back.
You drove ALL night to see me. You picked me up with a bouquet of supermarket flowers that looked perfect in their cheap vase and were clearly chosen with love. You were tan and freckled and smelled like shampoo. You kissed me in a way that deserves to be referred to mockingly, compared to a scene in some teen chick flick, but it felt too good for me to belittle.
En route to the hotel, you saved a turtle sitting in the highway. I would have fucked you right there if it hadn’t been rush hour on the interstate.
You call on your way to the airport (you’re late) to sing “I Think We’re Alone Now” with your own custom lyrics. When I climb in, awkwardly, you’re grinning from ear to ear. You’re tan and disheveled and smell like pot and chlorine. You look different and I feel like I haven’t seen you in months, but then you grab my face for a kiss and it feels like home.
We get lost en route to Rob’s because you’re too busy telling me stories about gay clubs and Miami hotels. I don’t mind, I’d rather be alone with you.
Each day this house feels less like a battleground and more like a home. Not that we were battling each other, but you were always battling something. Sometimes I felt like you fought things just because if you didn’t fight,
you’d have to accept,
and in acceptance there is quiet and peace,
and then suddenly you’re alone with your thoughts.
I know that used to scare you.
I don’t know that I’ve ever met the man you’re becoming, even in the beginning, but my eyes fill with hopeful tears each time I think of him.
Thank you for saving us.
The Tip Jar