Monday, February 27, 2006

Another Bubba-ism

You really have to love my brudder.
At least he tells it like it is.
I get home from working out and he's in my living room.

"What ARE you doing?"
"Catchin up on House and NCIS. I haven't seen em in three weeks."
"Alrighty."

I hit the showers.
But when I come out, he's watching "Grey's Anatomy."
Sandra Oh is on screen and I just . . . well, I think she's very unattractive.
And I let that be known:

Me: "I think she's so ugly."

Brudder: "She ain't goodlookin', but she ain't ugly."

Me: "She's ugly."

Brudder: "She's 7 Bud Lights and a shot of Jager."

Me: "Sounds about right."

Sunday, February 26, 2006

Validation: The Girl Moment to End All Girl Moments

My insecurities raged out of control last night.
The reasons are unimportant and perhaps even unknown to me.

I normally don’t question myself.
Not out loud, anyway.
I’m secure in my mind and body.
I know who I am and how it is represented in the physical form.
I know my beauty, internally and externally.
I am very appealing.
(If I do say so myself)

But last night, I questioned.
I worried.
By 3:00 AM, I was naked in front of a full length mirror.
I turned from side to side.
I contemplated grabbing my camera and taking pictures.
Because mirrors lie.
I listed my body's blemishes in my mind.
I weighed them against my attributes.
Would the attributes outnumber?

By 3:30 AM, I was in running clothes.
I needed not to think.
The pounding of the pavement against my feet.
The cold air brushing my face, rustling my clothes.
But my mind wouldn’t quiet.
What if I’m not as I have always seen myself to be?

By 4:30 AM, I needed reassurance.
Mandy and Chet were asleep in the guest room.
My crazed mind contemplated waking them.
Would they answer me honestly?
Or pity a friend?
I needed unvarnished truth.
From someone who could provide it.

The phone felt heavy in my hands.
Am I really doing this?
Have my insecurities reached this level in my own mind?
Do I require outside assistance to validate myself?
Apparently the answer was yes.
I called the most attractive man I had ever dated.
The one that plagued me the worst.
What had he, this man who could have had anyone, seen in me?

The groggiest voice answered, “Hello?”
“I am so sorry.”
“Brittany? Are you okay? Which hospital?”
“Calm down. I’m not calling for that. I’m fine.”
“You can’t scare me like that.”
“I know. I am sorry.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Why did you kiss me that first night?”
“What????”
“Why did you kiss me that first night?”
“This is what you call at . . . (pause to look at clock) 5 AM for?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, honey, what is on your mind?”
“Just . . . why did you kiss me? I’ve seen your exes, they look nothing like me. What attracted you to me?”
“Who isn’t attracted to you?”
“I don’t know that anyone isn’t. It’s not about that. It’s not about anyone. It’s me. I just . . I need to know.”
“What was your question again?”
“Why did you kiss me that first night?”
“Because you were you. I can’t answer it any plainer.”
“But . . . what attracted you to me? I’m not what you typically go for.”
“I guess that was it. Because you weren’t like any other girl I had ever met. You had this confidence and this humor and just, well, you had this life about you.”

My mind raced.
He didn’t say beautiful.
He didn’t say pretty.
He didn’t say attractive.
He said confident, humor, life.
Those weren’t exterior.
I needed exterior.
Damnit.

“But that’s not what made you kiss me. Is it? I mean, if I had been any . . . what made you look at me and think I want to kiss this person?”
“Brittany, where is all this coming from?”
“I don’t know, Bryan. I just don’t. I think for the first time I might really lose something I want . . . and I’m scared. I’m very very scared.”
“Baby girl, you’re beautiful. You know that, right? You’ve always known that. It’s your confidence that’s your mainstay. The way you walk in a room and light it up. The way you laugh unabashedly and speak your mind and flip your hair and look men in the eyes daring them to tell you you’re not the most gorgeous thing they’ve seen.”
Tears are rolling down my face.
“You’re crazy, you know that? And did you just say ‘unabashedly’? Have you been taking vocabulary classes in my absence?”
“There’s the Brittany I know. Peaking out.”
“She can’t stay hidden for long.”
“No, she can’t. Her mind and spirit are too strong for that.”
“You’re wonderful, you know that Bry?”
“But you still left me.”
“We couldn’t have worked, Bryan. It wasn’t right.”
“I know, baby girl, but a man can wish.”
I laughed until the tears on my cheeks dried.
“Go back to sleep, I’m sorry I’m insane.”
“I’ll take a call that gets you to laugh anytime.”
He paused for a minute or so and the silence stretched out.
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No.”
“Not like that. It wouldn’t be like that. You just sound like you need someone.”
“I think I have someone. I think I do.”
“I hope he knows how lucky he is.”
“I’m the lucky one.”

And my mind was quiet.
My validation was achieved.
The only feeling that overtook me was worry.
Worry that I had needed that validation to begin with.
And for the first time in a long time, I couldn’t provide it for myself.

Friday, February 24, 2006

Competitive, Not Smart

I always hated group work.
Mainly because I never trusted anyone else to hold up their end.
Or that their end would be as good as if I had done it alone.
So, in high school, everyone wanted to be in my group.
Because they knew they wouldn’t have to do a thing.
I would do all of it.

Unfortunately, this trait carried over into my sports life.
Particularly in college.
And my stubborn refusal to trust in others earned me at least one semester a year on crutches (or in a sling).
Yes, you read that correctly.
Crutches. Or a sling. One semester. Per year.
Without fail.

Fall ‘98.
Freshman year.
Intramural Volleyball.
Residence hall league.
I was on two separate teams.
An all girl’s team and a mixed team.

The all girl’s team was a disaster.
Mainly because three of us desperately wanted to play - because we loved volleyball.
But the girl’s in our small dorm weren’t very athletic.
Well, that’s a lie.
Some were, but they were the girly athletic type.
If the activity included hurkies and basket catches, they were all for it.
But if a ball was coming at them . . . holy buddha, it was Apocalypse Now.
Duck and cover, ladies, duck and cover.

I had no use for these types of girls, normally.
Jayzus, it’s a ball, hit it.
But . . . we needed a team.
And the good thing about really girly girls is that they tend to be joiners.
Intramural sports activity = social gathering = opportunity to meet males.
They’re in.
Which was fine with me.
I knew Clarissa, Laura and I could handle the ball.
We just had to really watch our formation.
And run like hell if the ball went anywhere near . .
Uh, to protect the somewhat innocent, we’ll call them Buffy, Muffy and Miffy.

Miracle of miracles, we make it to playoffs.
I think I lost 15 lbs running for the ball.
So it was a win-win kinda situation.
Anyway, I digress (per usual, eh?).
Where was I??
Oh yeah.

Playoffs.
2nd game of the third set.
The ball heads straight toward . . . Miffy.
Miffy might as well be called Daria.
You guys remember that MTV cartoon?
Where in the opening credits, the volleyball hits directly in front of her feet, bounces away and THEN she balls her fists together and acts like she was trying to hit it?
That’s Miffy.
Delayed Reaction Girl.
About 3 seconds after the ball had already hit the ground, she would aim.
Holy Hell.
Where do these girls come from?

So I call it as it’s coming over the net.
And run at TOP. DAMN. SPEED. for the ball.
And for whatever friggin reason, Miffy goes all Robyn Ahmow-Santos (women’s Olympic volleyball team member - 2004 to . . uhhh) and starts actually trying to go for it.
Ummm, right, like I’m gonna let that happen when I don’t think she’s ever even touched the ball except for the three times she’s magnificently screwed up her turns to serve.
So, you can imagine what happened.

(Theme music here is Powerman 5000 - When Worlds Collide)
BAM
We both go down like a load of bricks.
And I hear something in my ankle go SNAP.
Oh holy hell.

Now, a smart girl would have gingerly limped to the sidelines.
Letting the alternate - we’ll call her Biffy - come in.
But I never claimed to be smart.
Competitive, oh yeah, smart, not so much.
Plus, I had Clarissa egging me on “Jayzus, Brittany, walk that shit off, get up!”
So . . I do - brilliant, eh?

I finish this game.
I finish the third game.
We advance.
And do I think “Hmm, you should stop playing now.”
No, I think “WOW! Second bracket, 3 games here, easy peasy and then hit third bracket, another 3 games, and then fourth, 3 games and we win. Dude, 9 more games? I got this!”
And I sure did.
We won the tournament.
And I limped back to the dorm, high on accomplishment.

But I sure as crap didn’t wake up high on accomplishment.
“OH . . . UH . . . OUCH!”
I’m pretty sure those were the exact words I woke up with at around 6 AM.
Kasi, my roommate, looked up from her bed:
“What the fu** is your problem?”
I lifted my leg into her line of vision.
“OH!!! That can’t be good.”
From the bottom of my heel to about the middle of my calf, my leg was a mottling of colors:
Purple, black, red.
And my normally shapely leg . . . well, jeez, let’s just say my ankle was about three times it’s normal size.
In fact, from the middle of my calf to my heel, my leg was swollen as big as my thigh.
“What the hell did you do???”
“Umm, yeah, so we won the intramural volleyball tournament - girls division last night.”
“And the other team jumped you afterwards?”
“Uh, no, I think something snapped in my ankle in the first game.”
“And knowing you - you played every game afterwards.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Effing brilliant.”

We got the guys to carry me to student health.
Yeah, crutches for 12 weeks.
Woo hoo.

Did this teach me my lesson?
Oh no no no no no.
Competitive, not smart, remember?

I won’t go through all the stories.
Just know that each year there was some other idiot egging me on.

2000 - Softball - Co-Rec - Dylan Chambers - “I don’t give a shit if your knee’s all out broken! By god, this is the championship and we’re only in the second inning! Get your ass back behind that plate, stop your whining and be our catcher! Jesus, when did you turn into one of THOSE girls???” . . . . 12 weeks on crutches. But we won.

2001 - Flag Football - Co-Rec - Jason Pyle - “Brittany! You’re not quitting!! HOLY GOD! You’re the only girl on the team that can actually PLAY! I think you’re the only one who knows what a football really is!!! It’s not dislocated! Get in there!” . . . . shoulder dislocation - 12 weeks in a sling. But we won.

2002 - Tennis - Yes, tennis damnit - doubles tournament - Kelly Hart - “OMG! We’re going to win and you want to stop???? What do you mean your ankle hurts!??!! Is it broken??? We’ve only got 2 more sets!” - 12 weeks on crutches. But we won.

And the list continues.

And after college did I learn?
Hell no.

2004 - White Water Rafting - Olympic course on the Ocoee River in North Carolina/Tennessee.
Class 5 rapid tumps us, and I’m hunkered down but Reed isn’t. 250 lb, 6'4" man slams me sideways, legs still firmly held in the raft, upper body slammed against the large ass boulder that caused us to tump.
Ouch, my shoulder really hurts.
But all the other girls on the trip (and by all the other, I mean the TWO that came with us (12 guys, 3 girls) had bailed two days ago.
No way was I letting girls go down like that.
I rowed my ass off for two more days.
In fact, the last day, it got hot enough to strip the wet suit down to our tank tops when we were carrying the raft back to the Suburban.
Brian’s behind me and screams:
“JESUS H MARY MOTHER OF CHRIST!!! Brittany, have you seen your back?!????!!!” Ummm . .. Do I appear to have eyes in the back of my head?
Have you seen any full length mirrors in our tents???
Turns out that from my clavicle to the small of my back I was black, blue, purple, green and yellow.
NICE.
This explains why I’ve been sleeping on my stomach for the past two nights.

Competitive, not smart.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

I Effing ROCK!

Yeah, so the post BELOW is the real post.
But this is great. . . .

Hey Rolligun and Trueborn:

Guess who got out of another speeding ticket this morning??? (very happy, sing songy voice)

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

It's a Small, Small World (and I love my brudder)

I still can’t believe this happened!! HILARIOUS!
Yet, at the same time, exasperating.

Sum up, as quickly as possible, to what led to the funny part:

My friend Ann called at 1:00.
Informed me that it was most definitely a hot tub night.
And I needed to bring myself to her place pronto after work.
Yeah, I can live with that.
She informs me that she is set to get off at four and will call on her way to the house.

4:30 and I’ve heard NADA.
But I know her husband isn’t working today, because he’s called me at least three times.
Poor man, he gets lonely, and I’m high entertainment, so he calls me.
So I decide, eh - screw it. I’ll go hang with Zane until Ann arrives.

I’m, oh, maybe 3 miles from her house when I realize . . uh, yeah, that’s her in front of me.
I dial her cell phone - straight to voice-mail.
We hit the next light and she sticks half her body out the window:
“Phone’s dead! Got held up on some union crap. You coming to my place???”
I’m hanging half way out of my vehicle, as well, and yelling answers.
Neither of us notices a SUV full of frat boys pulling into the turning lane alongside us.
Some teenager rolls down his window, sticks himself out, gets right beside my head and yells:
“BOO!!!!”

After my heart beat stops racing in my throat, I look at him and say “What the hell??”
He’s still hanging out of his vehicle at this point and says, rather meanly, “Get back in your vehicle. Stop yelling at each other like a coupla hillbillies.”
So, I smack the little shit on the back of his head (you know, as you would a smart mouthed little momma’s boy) and tell him: “You get back in your vehicle, you little shit-wit.”
And then the light changes.

End of story, right?
No, umm . . wrong.

Around 7, Ann and I are in the hot tub, sipping on some lovely little drinks and my phone starts ringing.
Normally (sorry, friends, I do this when I’m in the hot tub), I would ignore it.
But I’m hoping for a call tonight . . and this could be it.
No such luck.
It’s my bubbahead.
But I love him much, so I answer.
And the following conversation takes place:

“I HAD to call you, this is HILARIOUS!”
“Oh lord, what?”
“So Trey and some of the brothers are driving down College earlier tonight and there are these chicks hanging out of their vehicles talking to each other at the light . . “
And I’m mentally thinking - NO WAY is this going where I think it’s going.
“and anyway, Trey scares the crap outta this girl. . .”
WHAT??? Dude, I was SO not scared. Well, maybe for a minute, but just because some lunatic kid was two inches from my ear and screaming in it.
“And she smacks him!!! She smacked him in the head! And then called him a shit-wit. Which is why I had to call you, because you call me a shit-wit all the time.”
Speaking of . .how the hell are the two of us possibly related? Anyone with a lick of sense would have put it together in his mind an hour ago! Jayzus, do I have to do everything?

“Uhh, genius boy, who else do you know that actually says shit-wit?”
Still, completely oblivious:
“No one! Which is why I had to call you! Isn’t that hilarious??”
As Laurie would say: EH. MEH. GAWDDDD. (But with my Southern spin, of course)
“Jayzus, moron! It was me!!!!!”
“Huh???”
“It was me! I called him a shit-wit!”
“WHAT?!?!?! IT WAS YOU???!!?!?! What are you doing smacking around our little pledge boys?? Wait. . . you smacked some guy you don’t even know in the head???? I thought you only did that to me and the roomies! Are you crazy??? You didn’t even know these guys!!!! . . .”
And his tirade about how I’m going to end up shot because I don’t control my actions continues for about, oh, well, until the water in the hot tub got cold.

What a shit-wit.
Anyone else would have figured it out before calling me.
I love my ignorant bubbahead.

What He Said . . . What She Heard

Someone was a bit inspirational today . . . though that person tends not to believe it when they are told. However, they inspired this (though it has nothing to do with them):

I’m damaged
Fix me

I’m lost
Find me

I’ve lost my ability to believe
Give me faith

I feel so empty
Fill me

Never again
In time

I don’t know if I can love again
I want to

Please don’t leave me
Give me one more try
This time I’ll love you
I promise

How to Lose a Best Friend in Ten Seconds

DJ and I met freshman year.
We lived in the same dorm.
I don’t remember exactly how we started talking.
Probably something to do with my big mouth.
And the sense of egoism that I had at the time.
I thought I was hot shit.
And I probably was.
In that way that all 17-year olds are.
Nothing was out of reach.
And he was no exception.

But, somehow things morphed.
Yes, I was physically attracted to him.
Oh, Lord, was I.
But somehow we ended up in the friend’s zone.
And, actually, that was better.
We were inseparable.
Thick as thieves.
By Sophomore year, I could count on one hand the number of nights I slept in my own bed.
If I wasn’t in Fayetteville with Jeff, I was in suite 106 with DJ.
We never even kissed.
Nothing sexual.
Just the comfort of having someone to curl up with at night.
Someone to hold you.
Someone to tell your everything to.

Every morning was the same.
I went to my room to shower and dress.
Then back to DJ and Stephen’s suite to have them walk me to class.
I didn’t need them to walk me to class.
But I liked the security of being sandwiched between two guys.
And the detraction it gave to unwanted suitors.

I realize now that I was never alone.
I don’t know if it was by design, or not.
Quite possibly, it was.
I had grown accustomed to having Jeff with me always.
So when he moved to Fayetteville for his job, I felt I needed someone else to fill the void.

And that is how things remained.
Even after Jeff and I ended.
DJ was my rock.
My salvation.
My best friend.
And I was his.
In everything.
Through all the women, all the classes, all the family dramas.
I was his stability.

Until the end of Senior year.
I was enthused beyond reason.
DJ had started dating one of my very good friends.
We’ll call her Mary.
Which is apropos.
Because it’s a pretty close equivalent to her real name.
And because she was a virgin.
Which was my concern.

DJ was no virgin.
He was no angel.
In fact, though I loved that boy to distraction, I warned all my friends against dating him.
He was a user and a leaver.
I had warned Mary of this several times, but she wouldn’t listen.

They had dated a month when he told her he loved her.
He told me he meant it.
But we had been too close for too long.
I knew when he was lying to me.
And to himself.
But I didn’t interfere.
Because it wasn’t my place.

He took her virginity and made a promise to her.
He would sleep with no one else while he was sleeping with her.
They were to be monogamous.
Only I knew that he was still talking to and sleeping with his ex, Sarah, on the side.
I desperately wanted to warn Mary.
She was my friend, too.
A very good friend.
But it wasn’t my place.

I talked to him about it.
Told him that I felt he was wrong.
He agreed that he was.
But wouldn’t/couldn’t change, and I didn’t really expect him to.
That was DJ.
Always had been, always will be – if I had to guess.

DJ went for a law school interview in Fayetteville.
Sarah’s family is from the area.
So they went together and he stayed with her family.
Mary thought he was going with his mother and staying in a hotel room.
She called to wish him luck.
Sarah answered, and hung up.
Mary thought she recognized the voice.
And flew into hysterics.
Then started calling me non-stop.

I was out.
Hillary, Carol and I had decided it should be a girl’s night.
We were at Cajun’s dancing until we couldn’t stay on our feet any longer.
The music was so loud, I never heard the phone.
When we got home, it was to find a tear-stained, exhausted Mary on the tile floor outside our door.

“Just tell me who he went with.”
I tried to feign ignorance, I couldn’t and wouldn’t lie to her – I never will to my friends.
But I didn’t want to betray DJ, either.
Unless I was directly asked, I would stand fast.
“What are you talking about?”
“Someone answered DJ’s phone. It was a girl.”
“Oh, well, that’s strange.”
“Britt, don’t lie to me. He’s with Sarah, isn’t he.”

I tried to semi-cover for him.
“Yes, you know her family lives up there, so she’s letting him stay with her family for free. Save him the hotel cost.”

“Is he still sleeping with her?”
Shit.
“I really think you should just talk to him.”
“Is he sleeping with her?”
“He’s my friend, Mary, I can’t tell you that. You just need to talk to him.”
“Goddamnit! You’re MY friend, too. Tell me the truth! Won’t anyone just tell me the truth??!?!? He’s still sleeping with her, isn’t he
?”
Yes.”
She cried in my arms.

Mary waited until DJ came back to confront him.
He denied everything.
And because she was in love, she believed his lies.
She never spoke to me again.
And neither did DJ.

So, how did I lose my best friend in 10 seconds?
HONESTY

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Two Words

Black Ice
or
Impending Death
or
Lucky Biatch

Whichever you prefer.
Good God almighty, if I didn’t almost perish in a car wreck - AGAIN.
Only this one came out much better than any of the others.

6:12 A.M. Central Standard Time
Brittany is cruising along at a moderate speed (no really, I was, for once) on her 40 minute commute.
I-430 river bridge.
Black ice patch.

Normally, the I-430 river bridge has a steady stream of traffic by this time.
Actually, I’ve been on it going home from the club at 3, 4 and even 5 in the morning and it has a steady stream of traffic.
But I digress.

For whatever reason, thank the powers that be, there was next-to-no traffic this morning.
The nearest vehicles were about two miles in front of me and about a mile behind me.
And, for whatever reason, I’m driving in the far left hand land.
Thank God, again.
Because I hit this patch of black ice and do about four 360 degree circles across the three lanes of traffic to the edge of the bridge.

And THIS will tell you how many wrecks I’ve been in.
Instead of panicking, you know, like NORMAL people. . . what do I do?
I, as though on auto-pilot, slam my left-hand fingers into my automatic window controls.
Thinking, subconsciously, I guess, “If I’m going into the damn river, I want the windows down so the pressure can equalize and so I can get the fuck out. None of this hit the water and the electrical system fails and I’m stuck in this behemoth going down, thank you.”
I use my right hand to steer the vehicle into the spin so I don’t tip the SUV over and I can try and gain some control.
I, also, pump my brakes, ever so slightly.
What normal person reacts like this??!?!?!
Oh, and did I mention I’m internally screaming “fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuccccckkkkk!

And miraculously . . . I stop.
I didn’t even hit the bridge’s edge.
I was about a millimeter from it.
But NO damage to my vehicle what-so-ever.
No damage to me - other than psychologically.
Nothing to prove it even happened.
Other than my very rattled nerves.
And the fact that almost 30 minutes later my hands are still shaking a bit uncontrollably as I type this.

So, I guess this completely solved my “What in the world am I going to blog about today? I’ve got nothin.” conundrum that I was contemplating for the first 20 minutes of my drive.
Be careful what you wish for.
You might get it.

Side Note: I tried to post this at 6:40 this morning, so as to have something new for you readers and you lurkers . . . only MY blog seems to be going crazy and I couldn’t get it to open. . nor would it open at 1 A.M. last night (this morning), so who knows.

Monday, February 20, 2006

Illness

I misled you
I’m sorry

You needed someone
I needed someone to need me
I found you

It’s my fault
I admit it
You are a sycophant
But I made you that way

I’m letting you go
Or cutting you off
However you need to see it
Suck someone else dry
Leave me alone

Come back
I’m alone again
I didn’t realize I would be alone
There’s a gaping hole where you were
A vacuum I can’t fill
Come back

Jesus, you’re always here
Needing me
Wanting me
Stifling me
Draining me
Leave me
Please

And don’t come back
No matter what I say
Or what I think I want
Because you’re not it
No matter how I beg
You’re the symptom
Not the cure
And I’m so sick

Sunday, February 19, 2006

Just a Pocket

The Romantic Bi-Polarist
Definition - One who divides their thoughts between two ideas: The first - “the one” is out there and one day soon, I will find them and live in love. The second - I am destined to be alone.

I think we all have a touch of romantic bi-polarism.
Some take it a bit further than others.
Such as myself.
I probably spend most of my time on the latter idea.
Most being defined as 2/3rds of my time.
The other 1/3rd of the time I am certain I will find him.
Tomorrow, next week, next month, next year.
Just bide my time, stay available for him and he will come.

But that latter idea is what sticks.
The one where I look around and see my family and friends so happily in love.
I count my single friends on one hand.
And I begin to think:
I am destined to be alone. I found him, I lost him and now here I am.
And here is not so bad.
It’s just lonely.

It’s the hope versus honesty.
Optimism versus realism.

If he comes, he comes and I will be overjoyed.
I will leave my life for him, if I must.
I will sacrifice everything I have, if it’s necessary.

If he doesn’t, he doesn’t.
And I will be happy regardless.
Find joy in those things I do have.
And not despair over those I don’t.
Remain complete in myself.
Despite my pocket of emptiness.

Because it’s just a pocket.
And I am so much more.

Friday, February 17, 2006

21 Questions

Yes, I grew out my hair
Yes, I dyed it brunette

No, it wasn’t because you always asked me to

Yes, I’m happy
Yes, I’m doing well

No, I won’t kiss you for old times sake

Yes, I still dance
Yes, I still have to have music on to get ready

No, I don’t listen to that song - not ever

Yes, I started the business
Yes, I finished my degrees

No, I’m not taking the job near you

Yes, I’ve changed
Yes, I still laugh at Dogma

No, I don’t watch it with anyone else

Yes, I still think about you
Yes, I will answer your calls

No, I won’t have dinner with you

Yes, I miss you
Yes, I still love you

No, we can’t start over

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Mortified

I got up at 5 AM.
Got showered.
Got dressed.
Went to work.
Was finished by 9.
Because I’ve learned I’m a much happier person if I work only 35-40 hours a week.
And I had clocked 32 hours before today.

So, I came home.
And decided to get ready for my lunch appointment.
I had to be pretty because it was a business thing.
Trying to get another therapy contract.
So . . . another shower is in order.

I put on a terrific (if I do say so myself) burned CD.
Turn it up and jump in the shower.
Get clean.
Get dried off.
Put on undergarments.
Decide to dance around the house to the music for a little bit.
To let my hair semi-dry on it’s own before subjecting it to the heat of a hair dryer.

So, there I am.
Black lace, boy-short panties.
That you can see straight through.
Matching push-up bra.
To accentuate the area.
Thus making the male client focus more on my chest than my price negotiations.
It’s a strategy.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a horrid person.
But if it saves me some cash, I’ll subject myself to it.

I’m shaking it for all it’s worth.
Dancing around at 90 miles per hour.
Head whipping around like I’m having a seizure.
Singing, at top volume, with the music.
Local H - Bound for the Floor.

I’m in the middle of screaming:
"And you just don't get it, you keep it copasetic.
And you learn to accept it, you know you're so pathetic.”

And I pause the dancing because I think I just shook a hip out of place.
No, really.
Anyway, so I look up and

BAM

There’s my brother and some hottie guy standing in my kitchen.
Laughing their asses off.
And I scream: “Bloody fucking hell!”
And tear to my bedroom to grab a robe.

Apparently they had come over to borrow the Super Nintendo.
They let themselves in the back door with the maid’s key.
Because “Ringin the bell wasn’t working. You had the music too loud.”

Just great.
Mortified.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

And the Award Goes To . . . . . ???

And the top five conversations of the week (thus far) go to:

1 - My brother’s roommates
:

Background music - Sweet Child of Mine - Guns and Roses

Cody: Hey dude, if you could play guitar like that, I bet you could get someone to sleep with you.

Matt: I get girls to sleep with me all the time.

Cody: I can’t believe that. There aren’t THAT many stupid women out there.

Me: Cody, I think you underestimate the amount of women who will give a decent looking guy with no brains a pity fuck.

2 - An e-mail conversation regarding tact with a very wise friend:

His Side:

Tact is the way to tell a woman that she is fat...

Think this:

Woman: "Honey, do these jeans make me look fat?"

Answer A: Yes.
Answer B: Babes you make them look amazing.
Answer C: ~ignoring~ do you think this shirt is tight, damn I need to get back into the gym, wish I had a workout partner as hot as you to motivate me ~lustful look~
Answer D: No, they don't make you look fat, you are fat.

My Reply:

Think this:

If you're dating women insipid enough to ask you that question to begin with, they deserve the tactless answers.

I, however, never ask those questions.
I'm well aware that I'm fluffy.
Gotta love diseases and medications.
But if I ever get all out, jesus christ, save me from myself, fat . . .
Robin has agreed to smack me in the mouth with a sledgehammer.

Surely to God, I can't continue to gain weight if my jaw is wired together.
She has also agreed to do so if I ever stop getting asked out by men.
Because if that occurs, it's quite obvious that I'm too fat or too damn mouthy for my own good.
So . . . again . . . the sledgehammer solves both problems.

3 - Child center Preschool teacher Deedra:

Deedra: “Happy Valentine’s Day, Ms. Brittany.”

Smiling cheerfully, yet ruefully; “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Deedra: “Gonna give him some tonight?”

Brutal honesty: “If by him, you mean that lovely battery powered male appendage located in the top drawer of my night stand. Most certainly.”

Deedra: “What happened to that guy?”

Confused, and looking it: “Huh? What guy??!!?”

Deedra: “That guy you were with out in the parking lot the other day.”

Wan smile: “Oh, you mean Stalker #3.”

Her turn to look confused: “Stalker??”

Me: “Ohhhhh yeaaaaahhhh. That would be Mr. I Just Happened to Drive By Your House In Your Isolated Neighborhood 25 Miles From My Own at 2:00 A.M. on a Wednesday and Saw Your Lights On and Thought I Would Call Four Times in a Row and Text Mail In Case the Ringing Didn’t Get Your Full Attention.”

The Eternal Optimist: “He’s too fine to be a stalker.”

Alarmed, yet not surprised: “D, you judge stalkers on their fine-ness??”

Her own brand of honesty: “Yeah. And their bank accounts.”

Laughing: “D, isn’t that a bit shallow?”

Laughing, as well: “Not if you’re swimming in money with a fine man.”

Bemused: “D, aren’t you always complaining that your man is broke and quote, unquote not that cute?”

Patting me on the back: “Yeah. So you should really listen to me. This is the voice of experience talking. Go for the fine guys or the rich guys. If you can get both, marry it.”

I’m so not taking her advice.

4 - With a three-year old child in therapy:

Small back story - this particular child has very strict parents. With very odd rules.

We’re naming body parts.

Touching her elbow: “What’s this?”

K: “My elbow.”

Touching her stomach: “What’s this?”

K: “My tummy.”

Touching her foot/shoe: “What’s this?”

K: “My shoe.”

Confused as how to get the answer I want, because I don’t want to take her shoe off: “But what would it be if we took your shoe off?”

K: “A spanking.”


5 - My friend Amanda, with my voice-mail:

“Hey Britt, you skank, you never answer your phone. You suck. Boo! Anyways, I had some things to tell you but I know better than to leave them on your voice-mail because you never check your voice-mail either. Why do you have a cell phone? Or voice-mail? And why am I talking about all this on a voice-mail you’re never going to listen to? And yet here I am still jabbering away on this message. I wonder how long I can talk before it just cuts me off. Do you have a limit or can I recite the Gettysburg address on here. Not that I know the Gettysburg address. But I do know all the words to Ice, Ice Baby. Maybe I could recite that. But not sing it because you know I can’t sing. Alright. So. Yeah. I should stop leaving this message, but I’m bored so instead, here goes. Stop, collaborate and listen, Ice is back with my brand new . . . shit, there’s a beep, I bet I’m about to get cut off before . . . “ BEEP.

Anniversaries

Because I've been told my posts are depressing lately, but because I can't let this slide because I'm just so unbelievably happy to be alive and well and somewhat healthy and a million other things.

And because I'm taking Robin's advice and losing a TOUCH of my anonymity, this is a very small post:

I am Brittany.
Meghan is my middle name.
And the following occurred a year ago:

My life is one big crisis after another.

And I love Robin like a sister.
For everything.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

The Rantings of a Crazy Woman

Indiana revealed something on his post yesterday.
Not just about him, but about humanity in general.
And it made me question.
When did the truth become the one thing we could never say??

I go off on my rants and raves constantly.
I know I do, I deal with them.
But it makes me so angry that we live our lives veiled from one another.

Alana tonight said of Birdie and I:
“You guys are so mean to each other.”
And maybe we are.
But we don’t even realize it.
It doesn’t hurt between us.
Because we know who we are.
And we’re honest with each other.
I sure did call her out tonight about her pants.
From a distance they looked Linen.
You can’t wear Linen in February.
Not in Arkansas.
It’s not permitted.
And she calls me out on things, too.
And you know what, I prefer it.
This is a SMALL thing. This is a materialistic, worthless, inane thing. (the pants)
But we do it with everything.
EVERYTHING.
This is just a meager, poor example.

Be honest with me.
Tell me the damn truth.
I may not agree.
I may get angry.
I may be hurt.
But at least I KNOW.

Feelings, thoughts, ideas, beliefs.
I want them all.
From whomever is in my life.
Because knowing, FOR ME, is always better than wondering or guessing.
No matter how painful.
No matter how damaging.
No matter how destructive.
I would rather know.

Because there are worse things than truth:

Hope

Don’t let me hope I’m well, if you know I’m sick again.
Don’t let me hope that your interested, if you’re only humoring me.
Don’t let me hope I look good in red, when I look like the broad side of a barn.
Don’t let me hope I can help, when you’re really not listening.
Don’t let me hope I can change, when I will always be who I am.

I would rather have truth.

Monday, February 13, 2006

The Explanation

I wonder how my life would be different if they had listened 12 years ago.
It’s just cramps.
You’ve strained a muscle.
It’s nothing to worry about.

I started to think I was a hypochondriac.
Who has pain constantly?
They were right, of course.
Surely it was just cramps.
I’m 13. No one has problems when they’re 13.
Not there.

I’m 16.
The pain is worse.
It’s not a dull consistency, anymore.
It’s a sharp pain.
It stabs at me during classes.
Pulls my attention from my strokes in the pool.
I’m eating aspirin like candy.
My mother starts to get more concerned.
“You’re going to a gynecologist. I love Lanigan, but I don’t think he’s listening to us.”

Dr. Hall.
He doesn’t listen either.
“You’re too young to be experiencing the problems you’re describing. Have you run into anything lately?”
“With my abdomen?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“No.”
“Then it’s probably just a pulled muscle. Or cramps.”
He does the pelvic, but doesn’t use his fingers.
I didn’t know they were supposed to.
He puts the speculum down and looks at me.
“Everything’s fine. I’m going to put you on birth control. It should help the cramps.”

It’s not cramps.
Cramps don’t occur everyday, all day.
They don’t wake you up at night.

I’m 18.
The pain has become unbearable.
But I ignore it.
Mom hears that a friend has become a nurse practitioner in obstetrics and gynecology.
“You’re going to see Debbie. Maybe the problem is that we keep sending you to men.”
Maybe.


The exam isn’t like the others.
She sits me down and talks to me fully clothed first.
She presses on my abdomen and winces when she sees me jump in pain.
“That’s not normal. Get undressed, I’ll be right back.”
She doesn’t use a speculum.
Her fingers are inside me and her hand is pressing below my stomach.
Tears are in my eyes and I’m fighting to keep the whimper from turning into a scream.
“There it is.”
She slides her fingers out of me and throws away the gloves.
“You have a tumor. I’m pretty sure. I can feel it. I’m sending you over to the hospital right now. I want an Ultrasound done immediately.”

And there it is.
The radiology technician shows me the black spot on the screen.
I have a tumor.
It’s on one of my ovaries.
It’s the size of a tangerine.
There’s something more.
Both ovaries are covered in cysts.
“That’s why you’ve been in so much pain! Why didn’t you see a doctor?”
“I did.”
It’s all I can think to say.

The surgery is scheduled for the summer.
Exploratory.
Removal.
Dr. Crosby will do it.
He’s the best doctor I’ve ever met.
He’s not personable at all.
Cold, calculated, precise.
But thorough.
And honest.
He doesn’t hide the truth from me.
“We may get in there and discover we need to remove everything. It just depends on what we find. You understand that, right? It’s been untreated too long.”
I start to cry.
“I want to have kids.”
“We’ll do what we can, but there may not be a choice.”

We check into the hospital the night before.
My mom and I.
She won’t leave my side.
Even if it means sleeping in a hard, orange hospital chair.

They wake me up seconds before shoving a needle the size of a pen into my hand.
I look at my mom and see her tear up.
Three more seconds and I’m blubbering.
“Momma, don’t let them do this. Please. Tell them. Don’t let them take everything. No matter what they find. Please. I want children. Please.”
She just shakes her head at me.
She kisses my forehead.
My grandmother can’t handle it.
She starts crying and walks out.
They’re wheeling me down the hall.
I’m yelling at my mom.
“PLEASE!”

I wake up in more pain than I’ve ever been in my life.
Normally, they would do a laparoscopy procedure.
Tiny cut.
But this is different.
The cysts make them worry.
They cut me 9 inches across my abdomen.
Sawing at the muscles and tissue.
I have internal, self-absorbing stitches.
I have 21 staples on the outside.
I can’t even ask questions.
Because I’m not sure I want the answers.
Is there anything left?
Am I still a woman?

They took all of one ovary.
Half of another.
Radiation is working to keep the remaining half an ovary undiseased.
If that’s a word.
But, the cysts are still troublesome.
“We need you to see an endocrinologist, too.”
Gynecologist, oncologist, pathologist, how many more do I get?
“We think you have Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome.”
But . . . more? I can’t have just one disease?
“He’ll need to confirm the diagnosis. We’ll be in constant contact with him. We’re working together on this. You’re going to be okay. We’re a team.”
I have a team.
I’m 18 and I have a team.
I stay in the hospital two weeks.
I’m in bed at home for another three.

“You have Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome. But . . . we think there’s something more.”
What?
“Your urine analysis showed extremely high levels of cortisol. It also showed very high creatinine levels. We think your kidneys are failing. And you might have a disorder known as Cushing’s syndrome. You have a lot of the symptoms.”
What symptoms? - I’m tempted to ask.
But I don’t want to know.
“What . . . what does this mean?”
“We need to run more tests.”
Of course they do.
“You’re scheduled for an MRI on Monday. You’re also going to have a lot of blood work done today. And we need you to save all your urine for the next two weeks. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

Becca and I wheel coolers of urine jugs into the lab.
Four large blue coolers, on wheels, with handles.
16 brown jugs filled with urine.
Iced down.
It has to be cold.
To maintain the integrity of the urine.
Whatever that means.
My refrigerator has been their home.
I never want to eat again.

“You have Cushings Syndrome.”
“So I don’t have PCOS?”
“No, you have PCOS, too.”
“Did the cancer cause all of this?”
“We don’t know.”
“But I thought . . . .”
“We don’t know. But we do know the Cushings is new. You don’t have all the symptoms yet. But they’ll start to show. You’re going to gain some weight. Your face will become more round . . . ”
They trail off.
I’m not listening.
I’ve heard too much already.

I’m 70 years old.
My grandfather and I stand at the sink.
Racing to see who can get the most pills down the fastest.
I win.
I’ve taught myself to swallow 8 at once.
8 horse pills in one fail swoop.
I do it three times.
“You’ve got more pills than I do!”
“Yeah, grandpa, I know.”
My mom watches us.
“It’s my fault. I should have breast fed you. I breast fed your brother and he’s fine.”
“It’s not your fault, momma.”
She shakes her head and tears fill her eyes again.


I’m 20.
I’ve gained 18 lbs.
I don’t recognize myself anymore.
I cry myself to sleep.
I work out twice a day, two hours at a time.
I gain 10 more.
I stop eating.
I live off water.
I pass out on the stairs in the dorm.
15 days.
I gain 7 lbs.

“It’s what it does. It’s normal. We need to find the source. The MRI isn’t showing a brain tumor, but there may be one there hidden, its hard to see in that area of the brain. We’re going to run a CAT scan on your kidneys. Sometimes it’s on the adrenal gland. But wherever it is, whatever it is, it’s causing this overproduction of cortisol and testosterone. We’re putting you on diabetic medications. It will help your body try and break down the carbohydrates and complex proteins, but it won’t fix things. We’re putting you on hormones, too. And an anti-depressant, for the fluctuations.”
“What can I do?”
“We’ll see where the medicines get us. We’ll go from there.”

But we don’t get that far.
There’s another tumor.
On my remaining ovary.
And a baby.
And you know the rest.
I wonder how my life would be different if they had listened 12 years ago.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

The Things I Need To Tell You . . .

1 - I’m not depressed, kids.

Thank you guys, more than you know, for your concern. It means a lot to me that you care!!! Only, I'm not depressed. On this I can swear. Regardless of the posts, I’m not depressed. I’m happier and healthier than I have been in a long time. I’m living it up. The writings of last week were just that: Writings. Memories. Played out on paper. Getting them out is what keeps me as happy as I am. It’s a cleansing. Now, proof that I’ve been happy:

A - I spent Thursday morning working, Thursday afternoon watching an old VHS of MTV’s Greatest Videos Ever from 1987 . . . courtesy of my momma. Valerie and I spent the afternoon shimmying around the house to Beat It, Devil Inside, 1999, Take On Me, Shout, Addicted to Love and the like. Thursday evening playing with my “niece” who was one-year old as of Feb 8th and Thursday night sitting in a hot tub being delivered drinks by handsome older men.

B - I spent Friday in bed. Reading. Reading, reading, reading. When I finally stopped reading, it was only to pull out another oldie but goodie. Instead of going to the gym in the cold, I pulled out 1997's MTV “The Grind” danceaerobic video and did the Gator, Box Step, Pump It Out, etc until I couldn’t breathe. I haven’t had that much fun in a LONG time. HILARIOUS! I then showered, got all dolled up and headed out on the town with friends. Got hit on a few times, got a tad tipsy, kissed a very cute boy and got the smell of cigarette smoke permenantly lodged (I fear) in one of my favorite tops.

C - I spent Saturday watching MetalHead music videos, the Winter Olympics and other random things with my brother, his cutie roommates and my baby puppy. I rarely have as much fun doing ANYTHING as I do just being with my brother . . . but being with him and his roommates takes a close second. Those boys are insane. High comedy, people, high comedy. Saturday afternoon, our lovely Birdie met me at their place and we went shopping. Then we met my parents (they flew back in from Costa Maya, Belize, Cancun and Cozymel Saturday - cruise - punks) at my house with my brother and we all went out to eat. Again, nothing like being with family . . . and your best friend. The best night I’ve had in months. When Birdie left, the family watched a movie together then my brother went to his house, my father went to bed and then the nerds that mom and I truly are broke out. We watched 5 hours of Jeopardy and tried to beat each other answering questions. We’ve done this since Jeopardy first started. When I moved out, we started taping them so we could watch them together and compete. We watch them whenever we can be alone together. Secret mother-daughter type stuff, you understand.

D - I woke up Sunday and got some one-on-one daddy time. We sat around, talked sports, brewed coffee, made a grocery list and just talked. About everything. Then we went to Wal-Mart and bought the makings of a fantabulous brunch. Ham, sausage, bacon, makings for French Toast, makings for omelettes, orange juice for the Champagne my parents had brought from the cruise, etc. etc. etc. My brother came back over and the four of us spent the morning/early afternoon cooking, dancing around the kitchen to Steely Dan’s AJA album, getting drunk of Champagne Mimosas and just being a family. When my parents had to leave, my brother and I stayed at my place, watched a movie and then went for a run with Kady (my most fantabulously cute puppy). After he left, I caught up on some e-mail and IM responsibilities, did some laundry and reflected on how lucky I am. I have a family that most people can’t even imagine, friends that are amazing beyond reason and everything I could ever want . . . save someone to share my life with. But you know, I feel complete without it. I have more than most people ever will.

2 - You’re not going to like my next post.

Some of you, particularly newcomers, will think I’m being depressive and self-pitying. The truth of it is, a lot of you have been asking about my illnesses and my absences . . and this will explain most of it. I’ve had some opinions from friends telling me not to post it. That I don’t have to explain or go into detail. But, I know how I am when I want answers to others questions. . . so here are my answers to yours. It will probably be up later today.

3 - I’m lazy.

There are SO many comments I want to comment on, but I would end up in the comment sections of the posts I’ve neglected for hours. Just know I read all your comments and you guys are wonderful! DON’T worry so much about me! I’m happy and healthy and having a blast! I will, however, go to NashVegas (BG, you crack my stuff up with that) soon . . . because I miss BG desperately and it’s my turn to see her environment. Ang - chica, you are so right - we could tear it up. I would even give you one of my blowpops when we go out! :) That way you can REALLY catch you a man. Ha ha ha! Steph, melancholiness is alright. We’re all there one time or another . . . you’re so right. It helps us heal, but we can’t live our lives there. I promise you I’m not. And on and on and on. . . . But I’m too lazy to answer them all now. I need to stay on top of them - - 5 at a time - - so I don’t get too overwhelmed. I promise to do that! :)

4 - I’ve missed you guys.

I’m so behind on blogs. I admit to being a lurker, when time permitted, and reading some of your blogs - but not commenting YET. I’m not promising to catch up, but I’m promising to be back for your new ones. :) You guys now how it is!!! I need to see if Rolligun has ceased being so attractive to stare at in public airports, if Auburn enjoyed her bartending experience, if Jen has found some cutie maternity clothes, if Laurie let Barbie back in her group, if Trueborn is still swamped with schoolwork and ladies, if Indiana is back from hiatus, if Bone has realized the extent of his own genius, if Mike is moving or staying put, if Kate is still keeping us aware of the latest political happenings, and all you other guys . . . I could be listing for DAYS.

HUGS all around, kids!

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Snowman

It started to snow this morning.
I stood at the window.
Watching the whiteness try to cover the ground.
I couldn’t move.
I didn’t even blink.
The air was tightening around my naked body.
Walking in through the windows.
Cold fingers holding me in place.
Making me watch the snow drift to the ground.
Where it melted instantaneously.

I wondered if you were watching, too.
Is it cold where you are?
No, it can’t be, can it.
You’re too close to the equator.
What time is it there?
Are you in bed, a pillow by your side, your arm under your head?
Or are you on a bar stool, nursing a beer and thinking about me?
Do you think about me anymore?
Or did I hurt you too badly the first time?

We were together when it snowed.
Do you remember?
You called the base and claimed you couldn’t get out of your apartment.
They knew you were lying.
But what were they going to do about it.
We stood there.
Staring out through the windows.
Your hands holding me in place.
We watched the snow drift to the ground.
Where it built into piles.
That we turned into a snowman.
We used charcoal for the eyes.
You didn’t have carrots, so I got Mr. Potato Head out of my therapy kit.
We used the big orange nose.
Because orange is like a carrot, right?

You were just like a kid.
You begged me to make snow angels.
But when I laid down, you jumped on top of me.
You kissed me to distract me.
Then pulled your lips from mine and put a glove full of snow on my nose.
I wanted to be mad.
But you were laughing so hard.

You told me you loved me.
You shouldn’t have said that.
It was too soon.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I stood at the window.
Where the cold air chilled my body.
You woke up and brought me back to bed.
You pressed your warm body against mine.
You called me your eskimo.

I’m sorry I hurt you.
I would change it now if I could.
Have you standing here with me.
Watching the snow touch the ground.
Maybe if you were here it wouldn’t melt.
It would gather on the grass.
And we could build something again.

The "Blow" Pop

To Janestarr:

I admit this was wrong on SO many levels.
But even I can’t be completely man-free and be good.

Sunday morning.
I have two tons of errands to run before the Superbowl gathering at my abode.
Therefore, I decide to just get all dolled up in the morning and hope the look maintains itself for the get-together.
It’s a party, people, even if it’s just football: This is the South. You better by-God be gorgeous for a party.

So I deck myself out in my black and gold, well kinda.
STEELERS!
I can’t bear to wear gold.
So I wear black slacks, black high heeled boots, black sweater cut to my navel and a white camisole under it. With silver accessories.
I’m sorry, but you know my aversion to Gold.
I’ve explained it.
Even when supporting my team, I can’t wear it.
Sad.

Style the hair.
Painstakingly apply make-up.
Cloud of perfume.
Set to go on with the rest of my morning routine and my tons of errands.

I’m a weird kid.
I can’t eat in the morning.
I can’t really eat in the afternoon.
It makes me sick.
But I have to have something solid with my medications.
So . . . medications, a saltine and then a Blow-Pop to get the medicine taste out of my mouth.
Blow-pops.
Yummy.

I jump in my rig, sucker still in mouth, and head off to do my errands.

I’m at a red-light.
Very cute guy in an extremely handsome truck (again, it’s the South, women in the South adore big, beautiful trucks - we can’t help it - mud grips, winches, towing capacity - SWOON) is in oncoming traffic at the light.
He’s staring.
I’m assuming it’s the sucker.
I was taught at an early age to work your mouth when you have a sucker or a popsicle.
It attracts men.
Subconsciously, of course.
Yeah, right.

So he’s staring.
Big time.
And I’ve been in this man-free zone thing . . . but that doesn’t mean I can’t play a little.
So I wait til he catches my eye, and I wink.
Yep, big ole flirty eyes strike again.

Light changes.
I go about my business.
Until the third light on that particular stretch of road.
Ford F-150 Extended Cab (which will henceforth be his name) has pulled a giddy-up U-turn somewhere and caught up with me.
It was the sucker, I just know it.
He’s frantically flashing lights at me and his buddy is hanging out the side window motioning for me to pull over.
This may sound odd, but it’s an Arkansas standard.
Small towns - nothing else to do but “cruise” . . . and if you see something you like, flash your lights - everyone knows the routine. It’s just how it is.
I pre-dial 911 on my phone (just in case, kids, just in case - I’m a safety girl) and place my finger on the Send button, but pull over and roll down my window.

“Hey!”
“Hey, yourself.”
“You single?”
“Umm, no sorry, fraid not.”
Man-Free Zone, remember?
Yes, it’s wrong to lie.
But hey . . . come on, give a girl some slack.
“Oh. Uh, well, um, I thought you . . . did you wink at me?”
“Wink?”
Again, lying, can’t help it. Have to play with their minds just a little, right?
“Yeah, like wink your eye at me?”
“Ummm . . .when?”
“At the light on Hogan, I swear you winked at me.”
“Guess it was a trick of the light. Heading East in the morning and all. I was probably just blinking at the sun.”
“Oh. . . “
Poor baby, he looks crestfallen.
I can’t do this to him.
“But, if I had seen you, I would have winked.”
“Oh!”
I laugh out loud. He’s so cute! Like a big puppy dog.

“Well, umm, hey, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I was totally digging the way you were working that sucker . . .”
Digging? He must be older than I thought.
And did he just make reference to my oral abilities?
Not the way to get a girl’s number, boys, not the way.
Cuteness factor dropping.
“And well, if you’re not single, can I ask, I mean, is it serious? Or is it the kinda thing where you can see other people and give other guys your number.”
“Sorry, it’s pretty serious. But thanks for asking. You’re a cutie.”
“Oh, okay, so, yeah, alright, well, I guess . . . bye.”
“Bye.”

I’m sure I will be punished for that.
I’m counting on it.
But it was worth it.
Cute boy, big truck, flirting.
Superbowl Sunday, Steelers win.
Good day all around.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

The Heart Wants What It Wants Vol. II : Evidentiary Proof

**** Note to you all: I lurv you guys TOO much, which is why it pains me when I post CRAP like this . . . however, this story had to be told, no matter how badly I'm doing it, just to prove the point of the semi-decent post below. So, forgive this. Please. *****

We weren’t supposed to be there.
We had made plans to go to a bar downtown.
Yuppie joint.
Hang out, meet investment bankers, get free drinks, dance.
Watch our guy friends hit on women out of their league.
Fun, right?

Wilson was supposed to be at home.
Studying.
First year of medical school.
“Honey, I can’t come. I really have to study. You have no idea how hard this is.”
“But it’s FRIDAY! You have all weekend to study.”
“I just can’t. Really. I’m going to be stuck in a book all night.”


We call Kade.
Wilson’s best friend, my soon-to-be roommate.
“We’re going to Pour House, wanna join?”
“Nah, I’m meeting some brothers and going to Grumpys. You sure you’re going to Pour House?”

No one thought the question was weird at the time.
“Yeah, pretty sure. Why?”
“In case Grumpys is lame, we’ll come meet you guys.”


We can blame it on/thank DJ.
“Screw Pour House, let’s go to Electric Cowboy.”
“That club where the mechanical bull is in the corner??? Are you crazy?? We’re not going there. It’s all low-lifes and white trash.”
“Whatever. 75 cent well-drinks and bottle beers til midnight.”
“We’re in.”


Trouble starts at the door.
I’m kissing Barry on the cheek.
Part time college student, part time bouncer, full time great guy.
“Hey! I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Four nights a week, gorgeous. I can’t believe you guys are here! I just saw Wilson and Kade, too! You meeting them?”

I thank God that the music and crowd are loud enough that you can’t hear anyone talking unless you’re right on top of them.
“Wait. What? Wilson’s here? Are you sure?”
“He’s over by the third bar, you can’t miss him.”
“He’s not supposed to be here.”
“Everything cool?”
“I’ll let you know in a little bit.”


Wilson’s fiancee is my best friend.
College roommate.
Wing-woman for the night.
If she sees him here she will go ape-shit.
Especially if he’s with another girl.
Which is likely.

CeCe wouldn’t believe me, but I’d told her for months that I thought he was cheating.
“Show me proof.”
“How am I supposed to get you proof?? I can just tell you what I’ve heard and how I think he’s acting.”
“Show me something and I’ll believe you. Otherwise, no dice.”

I started carrying a camera with me everywhere.
But I never caught him.

It wasn’t hard to find Wilson.
6'5" is easy to spot in a sea of heads.
But he didn’t see us coming.
I warned DJ that something was up.
He went ahead of us.
Kade saw me first and sidled up to me.

“Oh shit.”
“Thought you were with the brothers going to Grumpys.”
“Cover story for Wilson.”
“He’s cheating.”

It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“I couldn’t. We’ve been tight since high school. I had to keep his secrets.”
“Who’s he with?”
“No one you know.”
“Does he know we’re here?”
“Not yet. Uh oh. He just spotted Deej.”

Kade took off.

“Cece, let’s go get a drink.”
“The line at the bar is awful long. Let’s just con some cute guys into getting them for us.”

She’s showing off her flirt smile, Ms. Diamond Lakes 2002, and wiggling her butt in her tight black skirt and fuck-me-boots. She looks like Snow White gone bad. She’s still my physical ideal. Screw Angelina, this girl’s the IT girl.
“Nah, let’s do it ourselves. That bartender over there is hottie. Work your stuff and we’ll get them for free.”
“I’m an engaged woman!”

Not for long, I think to myself.
“Flirting’s not cheating, particularly in the name of free drinks. Come on!”

Wilson’s stupid.
He comes up behind her and covers her eyes.
“Guess who?”
“Oh my God! What are you doing here?? I thought you had to study!”
“Decided to surprise you.”

Liar, liar, pants-on-fire.

Kade walks up with a tall drink of water in tow.
She’s obviously confused.
She reaches for Wilson’s hand.
Kade pushes me between the girl and Wilson.
“Hi, I’m Meghan. What’s up?”
CeCe’s starting to wise up.

“Who’s the girl?”
Wilson lies.
“Kade’s date.”
Kade looks confused.
“I’m Melody. Who are you?”
The girl looks defiant.
“Wilson’s fiancee: Cece.”
Melody’s eyes flash red.
Kade grabs her hand.
“Let’s go dance.”
For whatever reason, she lets him pull her to the dance floor.
Glaring back at us all the while.

Cece’s not completely stupid.
“What was that??”
Wilson’s still playing the game.
“What was what?”
“You’re lying to me, she’s not with Kade, she’s with you.”
“No, she’s not.”
“How did you know we were going to be here?”
“What?”
“To surprise us, how did you know we were going to be here?”
“Deej told Kade where you guys were going.”
“Bullshit, I heard him talk to Kade. He told him Pour House. You were here before we even came here, weren’t you?”
“Deej text-mailed Kade when you guys changed plans.”


Smooth operator, but not smooth enough.
Before any of us can react, Cece has taken off the 1.5 carat flawless diamond and raised her hand above her head.
“Tell me the damn truth! You’re cheating!”
“I love you.”

Wrong answer.
Cece’s had it.
She tosses the ten grand platinum solitaire into the middle of the dance floor.
“Fuck you!”

“You crazy bitch!”
Wilson dives for the sea of moving people.
I’m in shock.
Cece’s in tears.
Kade wanders back to us, as confused as I am.
“Where’s Melody?”
“Helping Wilson look for the ring.”
“Why??”
“She thinks if she finds it, he’ll give it to her - since his engagement with Cece is obviously off.”
“Dumb skank.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”


Cece looks a bit shell shocked.
Bradshaw shoves a drink in her hand.
Before you can say boo, the drink is gone.
Stephen hands her another.
Drinks are coming at us from no where.
Within ten minutes, she’s plastered.

“Come on C, let’s go home.”
“No.”
“Why do you want to stay here?”
“I’m going to dance. Fuck him. I was way out of his league anyway. Who does he think he is? There are tons of guys here who would die to be with me. I’m going to find two or three of them and let them show me a good time.”

Kade’s not well-schooled in the ways of women.
“Hell yeah, C, that’s a plan!”
She bursts out crying.
She’s running for the bathroom before I can react.
DJ grabs my arm.
“Let her go. She needs some time.”

When she comes back, she’s with Wilson.
He’s holding her up.
It’s evident she’s drunk to the point of passing out.
I grab her.
“Come on C, let’s get you home.”
She raises her head a bit and smiles wanly.
Wilson jerks my arm away.
“She’s going with me. You guys go back to Conway.”
“Bullshit. She’s not going anywhere with you. She’s coming with us.”
“This isn’t your business, Meghan.”
“Bite my ass, Wilson.”

DJ and Bradshaw each grab one of my shoulders.
“Meg, let him take her. They’ve got some stuff they need to work out.”
It’s then that I notice the ring.
It’s back on her finger.

“What the hell, C?? Why’s that on your hand??? How the hell’d he even find it???”
Wilson lunges at me.
Kade, DJ, Bradshaw and Stephen are in front of me before I can blink.
“You touch her and you won’t walk out of here.”
“Tell her to mind her own damn business.”


The bouncers show up.
Barry has an arm at my waist, his mouth to my ear.
“What’s going on?”
“Cece caught Wilson cheating.”
“Oh shit. Who am I throwing out?”
“By the end, I’m sure it will be all of us.”
“Where should I start so that doesn’t happen.”
“Wilson.”


The bouncers escort Wilson to the door.
Cece’s trailing behind him.
I can’t talk her into staying with us.
“He’s my husband.”
“Not yet, not EVER if I have anything to say about it.”
“Let me handle it.”

She’s slurring so badly, I have to guess at the words.

I get blind, stupid drunk.
By 4 AM, my liver is crying.
I drank the whole bar trying to forget what my best friend was going through.
Birdie has to stop the car 4 times for the guys and I to take turns vomiting on the side of the road.
None of us can process what’s happened.
I stumble into bed thinking: “She’s seen me do this, why would she put herself through it?”

There’s a loud knock on the bedroom door.
I roll to look at the clock.
1 PM.
Jayzus.
“WHAT!?!?!”
“It’s me.”
Cece opens the door without prompting.
She crawls into bed with me and starts talking.

“I know what you think. I know where you’re coming from. But this is different. He just got scared.”
“How long has he been scared?”
“He says he just met her.”
“Kade says he’s been with her for months. The nights you’re not at the condo, she is.”
“I believe Wilson.”
“Of course you do.”
“You’re just being this way because of Jeff. Why can’t you believe any guy is different?”
“They are different. But not this one. Not Wilson.”
“He’s one of your best friends.”
“Which is how I know that he’s not different. He’s JUST LIKE Jeff. I thought he could change for you, but he can’t. He’s proven that. Walk away.”
“There’s too much already done. We’ve spent too much on the wedding. Most of it is non-refundable. What would my parents say? What about the rest of my family? The sorority? My friends? I can’t back out. He just got scared. I can’t throw away my life. It’s all planned out. And goddamnit Meg, I love him. I love the son of a bitch.”


I can’t think of anything else to say.
She’s not listening.
She can hear me, but she’s not listening.
I just hug her and we both cry.
We cry until we can’t cry anymore.
Then we cry some more.

The heart wants what it wants.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

The Heart Wants What It Wants

The first week without him was the hardest.
I skipped every class.
Which was ill advised, considering it was so close to finals.
I was a masochist.
I called his phone and hung up.
I just wanted to hear his voice.
I took his clothes from my closet and wore them.
When I should have been burning them.
I didn’t wash my sheets.
I could still smell him on them.
I slept on his pillow.

I became this mixed up ball of emotions.
Crying at the drop of a hat.
Laughing for no reason.
Screaming in my sleep.
I was a raw, exposed nerve.
My roommate threatened to commit me.
My friends threatened to kill him.
But I still wanted him.

I told someone today, “The heart wants what it wants.”
And that’s true.
Even when it’s been beaten and cut until it’s hemorrhaging.
After it’s been ripped from your body and stomped into the ground.
Covered in particles of brown dirt, black-dried blood and sticks and stones which were thrust into it by feet tamping it into the earth.
It still wants what it had.

Your mind plays tricks on you.
It doesn’t let you think about the horrors that have occurred.
The pain you have suffered.
The bad.
It tries to heal you by remembering the good that was.

When all that does is make you want to hold on.

The feelings that overwhelmed you in the beginning.
The caress of a lover’s hand.
The sound of his voice moaning your name during love-making.
The scent of his cologne lingering in your shirt after he’s held you too long.
The taste of the gum he was never without.
The sight of his smile when he laughed at your jokes.

It never lets him go completely.
Your mind keeps him in the back.
Waiting until you least expect it.
Until you’re sure that you’re over it.
Then a memory jumps to the front of the line and you fall into the ocean of pain you had just swum out of.
Falling back into the cold, dark abyss.
Water filling your lungs.
Flooding your ears.
So you can’t hear yourself screaming “Don’t do this to yourself again!”
You can only hear your heartbeat.
A tad off rhythm.
Skipping beats.
Reliving the passion that was, not the pain that is.

I would be walking up the stairs and collapse on the railing.
Tears streaming.
Breath stolen.
When minutes earlier I had been fine.
Happy.
Whole.
Suddenly, I was empty again.
Nothing without him.

How do we start to identify ourselves as a part of a whole?
When do we stop being enough on our own and depend on another to fulfill us?
Once we’ve done it and been betrayed, why do we do it again?
When we know what the outcome may be?

The first week without him was the hardest.
I didn’t eat.
I didn’t keep doctor’s appointments.
I wondered how it would feel to suddenly jerk the wheel to the right and careen into the large pine trees that lined the highway.
I imagined the impact.
Throwing me forward.
Thrusting myself through the windshield.
Shards of glass slashing through my skin.
It wouldn’t hurt.
It would feel good.
Because it would be the first time I had something to feel, something other than this.
Pain is relative.
Physical pain is welcomed when emotional pain won’t subside.

Do you ever really get over the end?
Years later, lying in bed with my husband, will I wake up screaming?
Will there still be days when I watch the hand of the clock tick backwards?
Will July ever start being my birth month again, and not the month that I lost a husband and a child?

He’s still in my life.
A different person than he was.
More open, more honest.
He sought help.
Therapists, support groups, church.

He still apologizes to me.
Every time we speak.
Admitting his selfishness.
Allowing that he was scared.
Understanding that I can’t forget.
But I have forgiven.
At least on a shallow level.
Deep down, we never really forgive anything.

He says he still loves me.
His voice grows soft with the truth of his feelings.
I believe him.
But it’s different than it was.

If I’m honest with myself, I know I’ve not moved on.
Every relationship after him was a fraud.
Going through the motions, saying empty words, turning moments into milestones.
Each one a growth from where I was.
But still leagues from where I should be.

The heart wants what it wants.
And all mine wants is to move on.

The first week without him was the hardest.
But today, today was bad too.

Monday, February 06, 2006

The Laziest Day of Summer

Bone - that loveable cad - used Groundhog’s Day as an excuse to plunder the memories of his adoring fans.

I loved his post and the responses it garnered. I hurridly placed a brief synopsis of my own answer. What day would I wish to relive over and over? I landed on this day with almost no thought. Below is a more indepth expression of that day. Hopefully, it is not too tainted with the bitterness that accompanied the end of our relationship:

You are lying next to me.
The sun streaming in the windows.
Your back pressed deep into the mattress.
Your chest rising with each quiet breath.
I am tracing patterns there.
Small circles, at first.
Then, intoxicated by the ring on my finger, placing my signature on your chest.
Mrs. Meghan Gentry.
Big, girly, curly cursive.
My fingertip a fountain pen.
Your chest, my parchment.

You slide on your side, facing me.
Eyelids fluttering ever so softly.
Still asleep, but more conscious.
Your lips softly parted.
Moist, warm air touching my cheek.
I know you are sleeping.
But I need to talk to you.
It is nothing you need hear, nor respond to.
Just feelings that I fear will drown me if I continue to hold them in.
The fluidness of them threatens to spill over my eyes.

“I don’t know what I would do without you. Finding you was finding myself. Spending the rest of my life with you could never be enough time.”

I’m whispering the words into the corner of your pillow.
I don’t want you to wake and hear me whispering to you.
It seems insipid.
But the need to tell you my feelings, even in your sleep, is too strong to ignore.

Your eyes open.
“Baby.”

Why does that word from your lips make me feel safe.
As though you could hold me and cradle me.
Protecting me from anything outside of us.

You pull me into your chest.
I have the oddest imagery of the name I had written there, smearing as we touch.
You kiss me so gently, so deeply, that I can not breathe.
I feel as though I don’t need air.
Only you.

We make love.
Slowly, carefully.
Each touch a caress.
Each stroke building a rhythm.
I can’t feel where you end and I begin.
How could you fill me, so?
When I never felt empty before?

We don’t leave my bedroom that day.
We are content just to be.
In this place.
Together.
Quiet.
Touching.

Me beneath you.
You beneath me.
Joined.

We are on our sides.
You are cradling me.
Your lips touch the curve of my ear.
You speak lowly to me.
Not whispering. Your voice is deeper, lower, it sends chills down my spine.

“I have an idea.”
I nod slightly.
I don’t want to break the spell your voice is casting.
“What do you say to getting Noah and John and spending the evening in the pool?”
You know I would never say no.
Water is my weakness.
As are the children.
Noah, who at three, already looks so much like you.
John, who you hold so tenderly to you.
I see you with them and imagine our children in your arms.

We make love one last time.

I smell the chlorine as we struggle with the gate.
Noah jumping up and down, his excitement palpable.
John making the cooing sounds of babyhood, his head nestled softly against my chest.
You’re smiling at Noah, juggling the towels, diaper bag, floaties, cell phones and keys.
I’m flooded again.

“I love you.”
“I love you, too, beautiful. Where did that come from?”
“I just wanted to say it.”

I lean in to kiss you, but have forgotten John is in my arms.
He reaches up and plasters his hand across your face.
“I guess he didn’t want me kissing his girl.”
You laugh as you kiss his hand instead.
Blowing a raspberry on it.
Making him squirm in my arms.

“Cannonball!”
Noah is running to the edge before you’ve had time to lay anything down.
“Noah Kyle! You wait on your Aunt Meghan to get in first!”
I startle when I hear you.
I will be an aunt.
A wife and an aunt.
Noah stares petulantly at me.
“Get in, Meghan! I want to jump!”
I slide out of my sandals and pull the towel from my waist.
John squeals in anticipation of the water.
As my toe touches the first step, Noah sails in.
The water is cool.
The splash alarms John and he starts to cry.
I kiss his cheek and jostle him about.
The water is to my waist now and I dip his legs into the water.
He laughs.
You slid in behind us, unnoticed.
“You’re so good with him. You'll make a wonderful mother.”

I feel one arm circle my waist.
You gather my hair together and fold it on my head.
Your lips touch the nape of my neck as you squeeze my hip.
“Ugh, gross, Uncle Jeff!”
“Noah, you will kiss girls one day, too. Trust me on this.”
“Nu uh.”
“Uh huh.”

The look on his face clearly argues with you.
You laugh and kiss my shoulder.
“Let’s swim.”

Our time in the pool seems endless.
We stay long after the sun has gone.
Noah is pruney and losing steam.
John is making it clear it is time for his bottle.
We trudge from the deck to my apartment.
Weary but happy.

We lie in bed.
Facing one another.
Noah at your back.
John between us.
You look pensive.
“Something on your mind?”
“I want this. With you. Our children, our days together, our nights. This is why I asked you to marry me. This. Our future. Together.”

Careful not to disturb the baby sleeping between us, I lean to you.
We kiss as the minutes tick by.
“You are all I want. Nothing else matters.”
As the last of the sentence dies on my lips, my eyes close.
Having all I could desire, I sleep soundly.

Saturday, February 04, 2006

He's Gonna Die, From the Hiv or By My Hand - He Will Perish

It’s so cliche to keep posting about my brother.
But . . . .
I had to share this.

My brother’s a little TOO close to me.
Which is normally not a bad thing.
I cherish the fact that we are so close.
I think it’s what brothers and sisters should be.
And NO, don’t EVEN think it.
Yes, it’s the South, but the thought of my brother touching me in ANY manner at all makes me . . . . oh god, I have to go vomit. Back in a bit.

Back.
Anyway, it’s normally NOT a bad thing that we’re so close.
But sometimes, I want to revoke his license to share.
And I play along, to a certain point, but then I turn all sisterly.

Casanova, Jr: Hey, you sound like shit, whatcha doin?
Me: I just woke up. What’s up?
Casanova, Jr: Lazy bitch.
Me: Whatever! I didn’t get in bed til 5.
Casanova, Jr: Hell, neither did I, but I’m up cooking lunch.
Me: Well, I’ll bring you a cookie, my little over achiever. What the hell do you want?
Casanova, Jr: Listen to this shit, Meg, the bitches were crawling all over me last night. I ain’t never had that many titties rubbing up against me. They were all about some Todd last night. I was looking all suave and GQ. I had on those Abercrombie khakis we just bought and that blue shirt with the stiff collar that you always make me wear and a white T under it and was sporting my hat. Had my cologne on. Them biatches loved it. They were all over it.
Me: Yeah, all except that hair.
Casanova, Jr: Get up off the hair! I’m tellin ya, the hos is all about the hair. One bitch at the piano bar last night stole my hat. She took it off to admire my hair, then she stole it. She stole my hat and walked around with it and I was screwed. Cause you know my hat’s where I get my power from. You know, I don’t think I got that shit back. Damn. Will you take me and buy me a new hat?
Me: Jayzus. Forget the hat, Sampson, tell me more about the “bitches.”

Note: My brother is normally VERY clean cut. Hair no longer than an inch. But some stupid girl convinced him to try and grow some of it out. It is by NO MEANS long, but ohmygodinheaven it is at that stage where you look at a guy and think “Uh, Grizzly Adams, it’s no longer hunting season so you have no excuse not to visit a barber. Trim that shit.”
Oh.
And he does derive his “power” from his hat.
To win at poker, to bet at the horse track, to get “fine bitches” to hit on him.
He needs that hat.
It’s a Southern male thing. They all have THAT hat.
Bone, back me up . . .


Casanova, Jr: Oh yeah! So anyway there was this 26-yr old chick from Arkadelphia and she was HOT, I mean like bang and bang. And she was all about some Todd.
Me: Todd, love, when did you change your major from Nursing to Ebonics 101?
Casanova, Jr: I’m hung over, bitch, just listen to the story.
Me: Yes, sir.
Casanova, Jr: What was I talking about?
Me, sighing: You were telling me how you were about to contract a venereal disease.
Casanova, Jr: Whatever. Anyway, this 26 yr old chick. Man she was digging it. So we leave the Piano Bar and go down to the other piano bar, whatsitsname - oh yeah, Ernie Biggs - and I tell her we’re going down there and she’s all ‘that bar sucks we’re staying here’ and then ten minutes after we get down there she walks in the door with her girls. Yeah, she was wantin it.
Me: How lovely for you. Todd, you’re a skank.

Random shift in conversation, it’s a G***** family trait. We do this with some skill. Occassionally there’s a transition sentence, but more often NOT. As evidenced here:

Casanova, Jr: Did I see you on Rodney Parham with Baker and some chick?
Me: Yeah, we went to Happy Hour and got drunk as shit. The chick was Birdie.

And . . we're done:

Casanova, Jr: Back to this Arkadelphia chick.
Me: What was her name, slick?
Casanova, Jr: Hell, I don’t know.
Me: God, Todd, you’re not even getting their names now??
Casanova, Jr: Her name was . . . nah, hell, I can’t even make one up. She was hot. That’s all I needed to know.
Me: You give me such hope in the male species.
Casanova, Jr: Yeah, I know. What would you do without me?
Me: Probably be rich, happy and the apple in my daddy’s eye.
Casanova, Jr: That wasn’t meant to be a question. Besides, like mom says, “Your DADDY will do it for you.” You got that man wrapped.
Me: Yeah, I got skills.
Casanova, Jr: Can I finish my story now?
Me: If you must.
Casanova, Jr: Anyway, so I’m drunk as shit and they’re leaving, they were some bachelorette party or something and the bride chick wanted to dance so they were going to Disco and told me that I needed to get the boys and come with.
Me: But you can’t dance.
Casanova, Jr: Harsh. But . . .Yeah, I know, right. But I was gonna go anyway because I ain’t gotta dance. I just stand there and let the bitches admire.
Me: Oh, God, are we even FROM the same mother?
Casanova, Jr: Just listen. So I get out to my truck and I’m all sweatin and shit and man, I’m drunk and there’s no way I can go to Disco so I tell Cody just to drive home.
Me: Thank God! Cody went? He doesn’t drink, right, so you were like being escorted safely home.
Casanova, Jr: Yeah. But I don’t know about safely. Man, I thought we were gonna have to stop on the side of I-430 and let me puke.
Me, completely sarcastically: Well, I sure am sorry you didn’t get laid. I mean, an opportunity like that and you just waste it? Todd, babe, when are you ever gonna be all GQ’d up like that again and have six hos dyin to do ya.
Casanova, Jr: Oh, I got laid!
Me: Huh? By whom?
Casanova, Jr: There were some bitches at the frat house where we went to drop of Gabe. And they were lovin up on me, too.
Me: I repeat, by whom?
Casanova, Jr: Man, I don’t know her name.
Me: WHAT?????? You just slept with some random??? Todd!!!! Damnit!! I thought you were smarter than this! You’re not some white trash skank! Don’t go stickin your bits in every pretty package that walks by! You’re gonna catch the Hiv and DIE. And then what, leave me alone to deal with mom and dad. I’ll kill myself and haunt you first!
Casanova, Jr: Man, I suited up, I’m not stupid.
Me: Holy buddha. Why do you call me and tell me these things? Are you trying to send me to an early grave?
Casanova, Jr: You’re gonna act like you didn’t do this stuff when you were my age??? Meg, I saw you do some of it! Hell, I lived with you.
Me: Babe, regardless of what you THINK went on, I never slept with a random. Hell, the number of men I DID sleep with EVER can be demonstrated with only one hand.
Casanova, Jr: But you were a make-out whore. Hell, you made out with Kade.

Note: Kade was a VERY good friend who turned into a roommate - third bedroom, NOT mine - but when you’re drunk or craving some lip action, you go to what’s near and dear. He was cutie to the max and a hell of a kisser. Yes, I did make out with my renter. Whatever, like you guys haven’t done it.

Me: Uh YEAH, who’s denying that? But touchy-touchy kissy-kissy don’t give you herpes-herpes.
Casanova, Jr: Lay off. I’m not catchin anything.
Me: Let’s hope so.
Casanova, Jr: Hey, can we do poker over here next week?
Me: Huh, why?
Casanova, Jr: Because we’re gettin tired of cleanin up the mess and Jon pointed out you got a maid so we could totally do it here and she’d clean it up and nobody else would have to.
Me: No, Todd, you can not use my maid to clean up your parties.
Casanova, Jr: Dude, you’re paying her! Come on.
Me: Nope, ain’t happenin. I can’t have all those guys over here. I’ve entered a man free zone.
Casanova, Jr: What’s that mean?
Me: It means I’m staying away from guys like you that only talk about hunting, bitches and football.
Casanova, Jr: Guess that means we’d have to have an all chicks poker game. Yeah, I could handle that. Strip poker. Can we have strip poker at your house?
Me: I’m gonna kill you. I would have done it already, but you provide a high level of entertainment and I was at a loss on how to fill the void. But now I have Tivo so you’re dispensable.
Casanova, Jr: You love me.
Me: Only because law demands you love your siblings. And God rewards charity.
Casanova, Jr: You love me.

The rest of the conversation was mindless brother-sister stuff.
He’s coming over here later to tell me about the OTHER bitches that were hittin on him.
Ummm, does anyone else have this brother that brags to his SISTER about his conquests??
What about you boys? Do you tell your sister about the action you receive?

Yes, I still love him more than anything else in the world.
But I will totally brain him with a decorative metal urn when he walks in the door.
Sleeping with girls whose names he doesn’t even know.
Where does he get this stuff?
You would think we were brought up by heathens.
Oh wait . . . he’s just like my dad.
We were brought up by heathens.
Thank God mom tamed him.

Friday, February 03, 2006

My Brother, God Love Him

Beginning of Thursday night.

My cell phone rings.
Caller ID is checked.

Note: I never answer my phone. Okay, not never, but rarely. I check the ID - if I don’t know the number, I don’t answer. If I do know the number, I decide whether or not I’m going to answer. That’s how this works. Eventually, most likely, if it's important or I like you - I'll call you back.

Oh Lord, here we go.

Me: “What?” exasperated, loving tone.
The cutest boy in the world: “Hey, if you order a supreme pizza from the Hut, I’ll come eat dinner with you.”
Me: “Well, be still my beating heart. You mean to say that if I buy you dinner, you’ll deign to visit your sister who does everything for you? Why, Todd, you are a thoughtful little thing.”
The cutest boy in the world: “Cut the sarcasm.”
Me: “Alright.”
The cutest boy in the world: “Alright you’ll buy pizza??”
Me: “Alright.”

In the background, a lonesome voice whines “What about me?”

Me: “Is that Jon?”
The cutest boy in the world: “Yeah, he’s a mooch.”
Me: “What kind of pizza does he want?”
The cutest boy in the world: “It’s free, he’ll pick it off. Give us 20 minutes before you call and order it, we’re on our way to the liquor store.”
Me: “So I get alcohol and you get pizza?”
The cutest boy in the world, but not the brightest: “You want something???? But I only have enough money for . . .”
Me: “Jayzus, nevermind.”

45 minutes later.
Hot pizzas on the counter. Drinks mixed in the glasses.
Cute, too-young fraternity boys in my Man Free Zone living room.
We eat, we watch ESPN, we argue - my brother is cheering for Seattle Sunday for NO OTHER REASON than he ALWAYS cheers against MY teams, we find stupid things to laugh about, they get up to leave.

Exit the boys.

Enter the boys.

Jon: “Todd locked his keys in his truck.”

Side note - this occurs OFTEN.
He normally blames it on ANYONE but him.
Last time, he blamed it on my daddy.
Who lives 150 miles away.

Well . . . he called me as I was getting out of the truck and you know I can’t do two things at once and I wasn’t paying attention and he was talking about hunting this weekend and I just forgot to get my keys out of the ignition and so it’s all his fault that I locked them in there and you’re sitting in the bed of my truck in front of a Subway in the ninety degree heat while your boyfriend, the ex-repo man, jimmies my locks because I’m too anal and controlling to give you a key because then you might get in it and go through my secret truck stuff or drive it around and pull things out of ditches with the winch because you do those kinds of things when no one’s looking and I know it and I don’t want you doing it with my truck when I’m out of town.

Anyway.

Me, looking pointedly at the idiotic but cute boy: “Tell me again why I don’t have a key to your truck?”
Cutest boy in the world: “It wouldn’t matter anyway. You never answer your phone. Even if you had a key, I would still be locked out.”
Me, exasperated: “Umm, genius-boy, YOU ARE AT MY HOUSE! If I had a key, you would be IN your truck right now. Hellllooooooo????”
Jon: Laughing so hard he has to sit on the couch.
Cutest boy in the world: “Whatever. *pause* We’re gonna be late for the poker game.”

Yes, he finally got in his truck.
He had to call one of his other roommates to bring him his spare set of keys from his dresser drawer.
Yes, I could have driven him the 1.3 miles to his house to get his keys.
But bump that.
If it was up to me, he would have had to hoof it to his house to get them, considering he’s the ignorant wretch who won’t give me a key.
Besides, he parks like a boy.
Which means he somehow manages to take up the WHOLE driveway and was therefore blocking BOTH my vehicles in the garage.
And the other spare vehicle was at his house.

Now, having said that, God will smite me.
Todd does not have a key to my vehicle.
Mainly because it costs a boatload of money to have the key ordered from the manufacturer. Damn these new fangled vehicle thing-a-majigs.
Otherwise, he would have a key.
Maybe.

As they’re about to leave, Todd throws something at my head.
Thank the heavens, ha ha, for my cat-like reflexes.
Or not.
But whatever . . . I caught “it”.

Me: “What’s this?”
Cutest boy in the world: “It’s the spare set to the truck. Go get copies made and keep one on the rack at your house and keep one on your key ring.”
Me, astounded: “I get a key?”
Still astounded: “I get a key?”
Me, exiting astonishment, entering sarcasm-ville again: “And I get to pay for YOUR safety of mind? And your dinner?”
Cutest boy in the world: “Uh, Yeah.”

And, because he is my sweet, cute, adorable, perfect-in-all-his-imperfections, Brudder, I will go in the morning and have keys made - on my dime - so I can rescue him.

I hope you all have a brother.
I love him so much it hurts sometimes.
Even when I want to strangle him, I love him so much it makes me teary eyed.