note: two dinners, one set of folks
The first time my parents came to Portland was the summer of 2005 and I had been living here for three years. I had been asking them to come visit for some time but their other vacations always got in the way of coming to see their last born in her new city. I wasn't shocked or surprised by this. They only lived an hour and a half away from me in Boston and trying to get them to drive up there was like asking them to solve world hunger. They knew that it was important but they had no idea to go about going about it. "you just drive north and then east," I would argue my mom over the phone. She was the one who never wanted to make the trek. My dad was much easier to convince. In fact, we had a standing date on a Tuesday every six months which included breakfast, CAT scans, and talking over cafeteria coffee. My mother never came to CAT scan Tuesdays, that was just a Bill and Sue activity for the four years between his surgery and the day I began my travels across country.
I was more than a little surprised when my mom called me one day announcing that they were coming to Portland to see where I lived and meet my friends and make sure that I was really happy with Brian. They had met him earlier in the year when we all went to Reno for a long weekend. I pointed out that if they could travel to Reno for fun, they could continue the flight to the next coast.
They arrived without incident and I could not wait for all of my friends to meet them. As much as I complain about them, we really do have a fantastic relationship and they are pretty fun to hang out with in a group setting. Once my dad thanked me for treating him like a buddy when we're in a group setting. "Your sister and her husband and her friends just ignore the old folks in the corner but you and your friends actually care about us and what we have to say."
I decided that we all meet at my then go-to joint: Hobo's on NW 3rd to be followed up with karaoke at the Boiler Room. My main mission was to get one of them to inebriated and sing something embarrassing, sadly the inebriation happened but not the singing. About ten of my friends plus Brian and I met them at Hobo's for dinner and cocktails. They all wanted to hear stories about my youth, what I was like, how much trouble I got in, the dirt on me. They laughed and assured them that my childhood was boring and normal and other than getting arrested in college, there wasn't much going on. "Your sister, however..." my dad started. My sister? The perfect one? The one who's never had a cavity or detention and blessed them with a grandchild? She's the difficult one?
"Yeah, I don't know if you've ever heard this story," my mom began.
I was all ears. It's so rare that I get dirt on Kathy. "She had just left college (code for dropped out) and wanted to move in with some friends of hers."
"Male friends," my dad interjected. The thing with my folks is that as liberal as they are they still hold on to some old fashioned beliefs. One of the big ones is that males and females don’t coexist until they’ve exchanged rings. Or well on their way of getting there. Brian and I exchanged a quick but guilty look. We had moved in together the summer before and, though Ma and Pa haven’t said anything outwardly, I think that they were still apprehensive of this stranger sharing a bed with their youngest every evening.
“Your father said absolutely not. Even though she was 20, we were still helping her with rent and offered to pay her tuition if she stayed in the dorm but she wanted to leave school and get her own place. Your father agreed that she could move in with these friends under one condition.”
We were all on the edges of our seats. “And that was…?” I prodded.
“Sunday dinner with me. Alone..” my dad finally answered. They had this story down. This was a comic routine that they could have taken on the road to sold-out audiences of concerned parents.
“So, your dad had these two friends over to dinner and everything was fine. They were really nice, they had nothing but respect for us. But as we were sitting down to eat your dad made a toast”
We all turned our attention to the loud Italian in the middle of the table. “I raised my wine glass, I thanked them for coming to our home, and I told them that I had no problem with my daughter moving in with them but if I found out that either of them lays a hand on her, I wouldn’t be going to the cops, I’d be fucking killing them myself,” he took a sip of his Southern Comfort on the rocks for emphasis.
All of my friends gulped at the same time and then looked at me. Brian, whose arm was around my shoulder, let it fall into his own lap. We were all catatonic for a moment. This was the first time I’d heard my dad say the F word knowing that I was listening. It hit me in the chest and it was a shock to say the least.
My dad finished the story with “it took her two years after to find a boyfriend, everyone at URI was scared of her. And her psycho dad,” he smiled.
He then lifted his glass to Brian’s and said “salute”
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
It's the heat...
this blog was from a prompt entitled I've never been so hot as that time...
I have been hot in my days. I have been to New Orleans in the dead of summer when the air doesn’t move and you walk outside and immediately go back in to take yet another shower. I recently mucked out 12 pastures in Kanab Utah where the mercury on the side of the barn hit 108 degrees. I’ve been in the hospital with obnoxiously fevers and lived to tell the tale. But, I have never been so hot that I would ever take my clothes off in a club. But apparently that was all the rage when Nelly’s Hot in Herre climbed the charts in the summer of 2002.
Around January of that year, my friend Jesse told me that he was sick of living in Boston and needed a change and if I would move out to Portland Oregon with him. No way was my initial thought, I love it here. But after I thought about it a little bit longer, I wondered. Did I really love it here? I was madly in love with a man who married his abusive girlfriend instead of me. I was working for a company where I felt perpetually stagnant. I was sharing an apartment with two guys, one of whom was probably going to get married soon and the other who was more fucked up about his romantic life than I could ever dream. It seemed like most of my friends were pairing off and here I was 25, single, with a Bachelors of Science, and enough money in my savings account to make a change.
Let’s do it! I nearly screamed into the phone to him about a week after he initially proposed the idea. Jesse and I spent the next six months making plans of our epic trip to Portland. My dad had offered to give us his Toyota Camry for the trip, I had left my job, and found a couple to sublet my apartment. The plan was in motion and every passing day I was more excited to get out to Oregon.
That is…I was excited until Jesse called me in mid-July to drop the bomb on me. He called to tell me that while he hated to tell me this but he had applied for a job that he was sure that he wasn’t going to get but was surprised when they called and made him an amazing offer and he couldn’t pass it up. I bit my tongue and didn’t lash out at him when I all I wanted to do was scream! What the hell was I going to do? I didn’t have a job, I didn’t have an apartment and I all of a sudden had a car.
I did the only thing I could do in that situation. I called Fred and said “you’re flying out here and driving back across country with me”. Fred was my best friend/partner in crime in college. He was currently living in the bay area with his folks and needed some excitement in his life as well. I knew that convincing him to move to Oregon was next to impossible but I could rally him to take a long road trip with me as long. He was in and we immediately booked a flight for one month later.
We left my parents’ house in Rhode Island without a lot of fanfare. My parents weren’t even there when we actually hit the road, they had plans with friends of theirs that couldn’t be broken. I was in the driver’s seat, Fred was in the passenger and 25 years of importance of crammed into the backseat. We had no schedule and no maps, we were just going to travel across country, see as many friends as we could and sleep on as many couches as we could find. We decided that the first stop on our trip was going to be Buffalo to see some friends of Fred’s I had never met. He convinced me that Buffalo wasn’t as bad as I thought that it was going to be.
We spent four days living on his friend’s couch drinking entirely too much beer and riding bikes to smoke filled dive bars to drink even more beer. I heard that stupid Nelly song for the first time in one of those bars. “Did that man just say ‘cause I feel like busting loose and I feel like touching you, and cant nobody stop the juice so baby tell me what’s the use”? We agreed that hip-hop had peaked with A Tribe Called Quest and we would never be happy again.
After Buffalo, Fred and I decided to drive down to Nashville to see his friend Seth who was going to med school down there. On the way there we stayed a night in Canton Mississippi (city of lights) and couldn’t believe when we walked into the lobby and heard the overnight desk clerk playing “Why you at the bar if you aint poppin the bottles. What good is all the fame if you aint fuckin the models”. Really? Was this song really going to follow us down south as we travelled? Our one rule for the soundtrack for our trip was that we couldn’t listen to the same song twice and here we were with the same awful song for at least the 5th time in as many days.
Our trip continued from Nashville to Memphis where we surrounded ourselves with Elvis songs and spoke with raised lipped snarls. We decided to head towards New Orleans and that’s when the real trouble began. New Orleans has been the home to many people’s woes since it became a drunken destination in 1979. Some people get arrested, some people overdose, some people get alcohol poisoning and some lose their virginity in a cheap hostel to a guy whose name she didn’t know after a heated discussion about Guns n Roses place in the history of American Rock and Roll.
Our troubles were much different than that. That’s where the car died for the first time. The first of many times. Standing on the side of the highway with a smoking car and no cell service (it was 2002 remember), I was just beginning to cry when I saw the bottom half of Fred that I could see sticking out of the hood start shaking. His little butt wiggling left to right. I walked up behind him to see what he was doing and heard him mindless singing in a high pitched voice “I am getting so hot, I’m gonna take my clothes off”. I knew right then that we’d be ok.
Monday, August 23, 2010
stupid voicemail
This is one of my favorite things that I have written for writing group. The prompt was "the very last time I..." and I went in a different direction. Imagine that...
You’ve had the following saved message for 100 days, the maximum time allowed, the robot voice said to me. I pressed 11 to play back whatever I forgot to erase way back when.
Hey Sue, it’s Jeff
My heart actually stopped. Has it really been one hundred says since this whole fiasco went down? I pressed 11 again.
Hey Sue, it’s Jeff. I have to stay late tonight and finish up payroll but can I take you to lunch tomorrow? It’s supposed to be nice out…
This was the last message that Jeff had ever left me. He left it probably about 3 days before he ended things with me. Without thinking I hit 11 again
Hey Sue, it’s Jeff. I have to stay late tonight and finish up payroll but can I take you to lunch tomorrow? It’s supposed to be nice out… we can walk through Laurelhurst Park afterwards
I met Jeff the old fashioned way: through a Craigslist personal ad. I was home bored perusing the M4F section of the personals and I stumbled across his ad. 36, small business owner, funny, good grammar, it all checked out. I emailed him that night and continued emailing him for six straight weeks getting to know each other. Finally we agreed to meet. It was a Monday evening and he emailed that he was taking me out for a beer at the bar around the corner from my apartment, no ifs ands or buts. We hadn’t exchanged pictures and I had no idea what to expect. He told me that he would be wearing a brown shirt and had a beard. I remember emailing Liz that I was finally going to meet this dude and that he had a beard so he already had one point in the pros column. I got to the bar early and sat in the corner with a book and eyed everyone who walked in and perked up when a handsome bearded man walked right up to my table and sat down like we had known each other for years. I think it’s safe to say that we hit it off from the start. That first date lasted 5 hours and we never ran out of things to talk about. We hit three different bars and drank bad beer and made each other laugh so hard that Miller High Life came out of my nose. He owned the hipster coffee shop downtown, he ran a croquet league, and we argued who was a better rock band, Rush or Kiss. Had I finally met my match?
At the end of the night, we stood outside of Holmans awkwardly moving in for a hug, bumping each others’ heads as we both leaned in. He ended up holding the top of my head and kissing me gently on the lips before saying that he definitely wanted to see me again. I ran the 6 blocks home feeling like Rudolph in that scene when Clarice tells him that he’s cute for the first time. I woke up to an email telling me how great it was to meet me, how he wanted to see me again and how sorry he was for his awkward, less than suave head grabbing move at the end of the night.
I hit 11 again:
Hey Sue, it’s Jeff. I have to stay late tonight and finish up payroll but can I take you to lunch tomorrow? It’s supposed to be nice out; we can walk through Laurelhurst Park afterwards…I heard Rush today on the drive home and I’m gonna fight you on this one, they really are the best band in rock and roll history. Wikipedia agrees with me and you know it.
Jeff and I ended up dating for only three weeks which my practical mind knows isn’t very long but my emotional heart thinks is an eternity. Never before had I met someone that I clicked so instantly with. Everything was so easy. I could tell him anything and not be scared that I was going to come across as nerdy or stupid. He laughed at all of my jokes, he listened to me freak out about my dad, and he understood that I wasn’t into PDA but that he could ravage me when we were alone in his apartment. Days were spent eating hot dogs, watching documentaries on Evel Keneval, and betting on horses. Everything was perfect.
Until.
I pressed 11 again:
Hey Sue, it’s Jeff. I have to stay late tonight and finish up payroll but can I take you to lunch tomorrow? It’s supposed to be nice out; we can walk through Laurelhurst Park afterwards…I heard Rush today on the drive home and I’m gonna fight you on this one, they really are the best band in rock and roll history. Wikipedia agrees with me and you know it. Anyway…see you tomorrow, baby. I’ll call you when I wake up. Goodnight.
Two days after he left this voicemail, I woke up to an email telling me that this relationship was moving too fast and he wasn’t ready for it. He didn’t mean to meet me and that his heart was still with his ex-girlfriend. He told me that he was sorry for being an asshole and that he understood if I hated him but that he just couldn’t do it anymore. I called him every day for a week and never heard back from him.
Here I was 100 days later about to listen to this voicemail for the 6th time and I knew that I just couldn’t torture myself any longer. I was worried that I’d never meet anyone like him again but I knew that I couldn’t hold on to someone who was willing to dismiss me so easily. I couldn’t save this message again and torture myself knowing that it was out there waiting to be listened to. I took one deep breath, exhaled slowly and hit the number 7 to erase him from my life.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Halloween tale
I don't remember what the prompt was for this piece but it's a true story that cracks me up to this day --edit: this was from the prompt "believe it or not!"
When I was in 4th grade I joined the “just say no” club. I don’t know why. No one I knew was a drug addict and no one had offered me anything harder than Fresca. But I joined and I wore my green t-shirt with the word drugs printed in white surrounded by a circle with a slash through it proudly. I marched in a parade in Washington DC with famous anti-drug celebrities as Punky Brewester and that youngest girl from Rags to Riches. But the holy grail moment of my anti-substance abuse youth came when one Nancy Regan took to the stage and thanked us all for the pledge that we made to treat our bodies like temples and not to give into the evils of temptation and peer pressure.
Well, here I am, 23 years later and I’m still the poster child for clean living. Unless you count the copious amounts of booze I can consume. Or those five times I’ve smoked the weed. Or the thirteen years I smoked American Spirits. But I don’t. In my mind I am still living Nancy’s words loud and proud. I am drug free and my body is a temple and I don’t give into the evils of temptation and peer pressure. And not only that: I’m fucking polite about it. I’m like June Cleaver and Nancy Regan rolled into one clean veined heroine. Case in point:
Julie and I were invited to a haunted house party on Division the weekend before Halloween. The party started at 10 but we didn’t arrive until close to midnight (because we‘re cool and cool kids always know that invitations mean two hours later than stated). We got to the main gate of the house and there were cops checking IDs outside, rummaging through purses and taking our entry fee. What kind of haunted house was this I asked Julie. She shrugged with the same confused look I was sure I had. We passed the first security checkpoint and made our way up the long driveway to the house. It wasn’t a haunted house like I remember them. This one had a stage with a DJ outside and a mass of people dancing with him. We paused only for a moment and finished the walk up to the house.
We walked inside and immediately came across security checkpoint number two. This was a tall menacing looking man telling us that we needed to be patted down. I have to give him credit, I fell for it! Only after his hands cupped my breasts did I think that maybe he wasn’t really a cop and that maybe this was a ploy to feel up all the girls and that maybe we were in over our heads. Because walking into the house I asked Julie whose party this was and how we got invited. She told me that it was a yearly event put on by the girls of Sassy’s. The strip club on 7th and Belmont. I laughed at the security guard and told him that he at least had to buy me a drink for what we just did. He laughed and walked away. I thought “hey, I can handle this. I can roll with the strippers and sex workers of Portland.“ That is until I rounded the corner and let my eyes adjust to the dim lights. I was worried that I was going to stick out because I had no costume, just jeans, a T-shirt, a gray hoodie, and Chuck Taylors. But these girls weren’t just in costume, they were in SLUTTY COSTUMES! There was a slutty nurse, a slutty Alice (from Wonderland), a slutty bumble bee, and a slutty cave woman. She was with us, though. We finally found Julie’s cousin and his girlfriend and she was just barely clothed with fake fur and Uggs. I shook my head and tried to find the bar. Slutty zombies were dancing on poles against the far walls as slutty angels and slutty devils were handing out free vibrators to passer-bys.
I finally got to the bar and ordered a vodka tonic. The bartender had just the same amount of clothes on as I did and I immediately loved her. I asked her what time she had to work until and she said 6. “AM?” I asked. She laughed and said “yes AM.” She then told me to come back to her bar and she’d have a heavier pour for me than any other bartender there. I over tipped her (of course) and moved my way past all the flesh and back to my friends. I told them about the party being scheduled until 6 and we all laughed wondering who in their right minds would stay until 6 AM. This party was decent but it wasn’t epic.
Julie and I stayed together the whole night while her cousin and slutty cave woman girlfriend wandered around trying to make new friends. Julie was a chain smoker back then and we spent a lot of time on the second floor porch watching the dance floor on the front lawn from where we stood. We had hit the bar where my girl really did have a heavy pour a few times and I was getting my drunk confidence where I can talk to anyone about anything and not worry about coming across like a dork. I befriended a guy dressed as Slash and the three of us hung out on the porch for an hour or so watching the crowds and wondering how these girls weren‘t cold as we were all fully dressed and shivering. He told me that he was 22 and I laughed at him, calling him a baby and pointing out that he was 2 when Appetite for Destruction came out. He asked me how old I was and his reaction to me answering 32 was “you’re pretty cool for being so old, wanna make out”. I couldn’t help myself, I lost it. I laughed in this 22 year old wanna-be rock star’s face. “No,” I finally managed after I stopped laughing, “no thank you.”
Julie and I headed back inside and while she was hitting the bar for us again I was braving the bathroom on my own for the first time. There was a hot boy walking down the same hallway but in the opposite direction. He wasn’t in costume either and I could see all of his dark skin and full lips without obstruction. My confidence was up after Slash told me that I was old but cool and I decided to I to give him my best flirty smile and was surprised when he started coming toward me. It worked! It worked! I was in a sea of long uncovered legs, exposed tits and bare bellies but he didn’t care! He loved the overly dressed awkward girl instead. He walked right up to me, lowered his head and whispered in my ear “do you need some coke?’ Of course all he wanted was a sale. Look at me! I was no match for these stripper girls. What does Slash know? He‘s wasted. And was TWO when Appetite for Destruction came out. “No thank you” I said and finished walking to the bathroom.
When I came back to Julie, she had scored a huge oversized armchair between the bar and the inside dance floor. She was sitting on the cushion and I grabbed a seat on the arm. I was laughing and telling her about the hot coke dealer right as he walked by. I pointed my finger at him and he looked at me quizzically, shook his head and joined friends (clients?) outside. The slutty costumed girls were slowly becoming the slutty half naked girls as they were getting drunker and danced with their new found loves in front of us. Drugs were becoming more apparent as bowls were being smoked and vials of white substances were being passed around. As I was watching the crowd with utter fascination, Julie tugged my arm and said “your coke dealer is watching you again”. I looked up and he was headed towards me. “What? Are you narc?” he asked when he finally got close. “No!” I exclaimed, “I was just telling my friend about the hot guy who asked if I wanted to buy coke. I swear, that was it.” I felt defensive and had no idea why I had just said that. But it must have worked because he said “you think I’m hot?”. I nodded, suddenly shy, and he said “let’s go get a drink.” I was nervous about being alone with this coke dealer but Julie practically shoved me off the chair and I went with him to get another vodka tonic from my girl.
We got our drinks and he asked if I wanted to go outside where it was quieter. We wound up on the front lawn stage where the DJ and dance party were earlier. His name was Chris and he was DJ who played a lot of gigs downtown. He wanted to go back to school for music engineering but didn’t have the money. “I have to be honest,” he leaned in, “I saw you hours ago talking to the rocker guy. I wanted to approach you but I thought you were with him.” “Slash?” I laughed. “Nope. He just told me I was cool and old.” Chris waited until I was done laughing before his lips were on mine. This was so not me. Making out with someone I had just met drunk on a stage on the front lawn of a stripper haunted house Halloween party! But I was and I liked it. Until after a solid amount of time of making out he pulled away and said in his low voice “let me do a bump off your tit”. I didn’t think that he was serious or that I hadn’t heard him correctly. He repeated himself, “let me do a bump off your tit”. I shook my head and said “No. Thank you but no”. I stood up, hugged my hoodie tightly around me and went back to Julie who was still sitting on the chair watching more and more couples grind together on the floor.
My temple was tired and I wanted nothing more to sleep off the drunk. A non-stripper, non-sex worker, non-coke fiend like me should have been in bed hours ago. We decided to cab it back home. We high-fived the fact that we made it out to 6 AM and pinkie swore that we wouldn’t do it again. Until next Halloween.
When I was in 4th grade I joined the “just say no” club. I don’t know why. No one I knew was a drug addict and no one had offered me anything harder than Fresca. But I joined and I wore my green t-shirt with the word drugs printed in white surrounded by a circle with a slash through it proudly. I marched in a parade in Washington DC with famous anti-drug celebrities as Punky Brewester and that youngest girl from Rags to Riches. But the holy grail moment of my anti-substance abuse youth came when one Nancy Regan took to the stage and thanked us all for the pledge that we made to treat our bodies like temples and not to give into the evils of temptation and peer pressure.
Well, here I am, 23 years later and I’m still the poster child for clean living. Unless you count the copious amounts of booze I can consume. Or those five times I’ve smoked the weed. Or the thirteen years I smoked American Spirits. But I don’t. In my mind I am still living Nancy’s words loud and proud. I am drug free and my body is a temple and I don’t give into the evils of temptation and peer pressure. And not only that: I’m fucking polite about it. I’m like June Cleaver and Nancy Regan rolled into one clean veined heroine. Case in point:
Julie and I were invited to a haunted house party on Division the weekend before Halloween. The party started at 10 but we didn’t arrive until close to midnight (because we‘re cool and cool kids always know that invitations mean two hours later than stated). We got to the main gate of the house and there were cops checking IDs outside, rummaging through purses and taking our entry fee. What kind of haunted house was this I asked Julie. She shrugged with the same confused look I was sure I had. We passed the first security checkpoint and made our way up the long driveway to the house. It wasn’t a haunted house like I remember them. This one had a stage with a DJ outside and a mass of people dancing with him. We paused only for a moment and finished the walk up to the house.
We walked inside and immediately came across security checkpoint number two. This was a tall menacing looking man telling us that we needed to be patted down. I have to give him credit, I fell for it! Only after his hands cupped my breasts did I think that maybe he wasn’t really a cop and that maybe this was a ploy to feel up all the girls and that maybe we were in over our heads. Because walking into the house I asked Julie whose party this was and how we got invited. She told me that it was a yearly event put on by the girls of Sassy’s. The strip club on 7th and Belmont. I laughed at the security guard and told him that he at least had to buy me a drink for what we just did. He laughed and walked away. I thought “hey, I can handle this. I can roll with the strippers and sex workers of Portland.“ That is until I rounded the corner and let my eyes adjust to the dim lights. I was worried that I was going to stick out because I had no costume, just jeans, a T-shirt, a gray hoodie, and Chuck Taylors. But these girls weren’t just in costume, they were in SLUTTY COSTUMES! There was a slutty nurse, a slutty Alice (from Wonderland), a slutty bumble bee, and a slutty cave woman. She was with us, though. We finally found Julie’s cousin and his girlfriend and she was just barely clothed with fake fur and Uggs. I shook my head and tried to find the bar. Slutty zombies were dancing on poles against the far walls as slutty angels and slutty devils were handing out free vibrators to passer-bys.
I finally got to the bar and ordered a vodka tonic. The bartender had just the same amount of clothes on as I did and I immediately loved her. I asked her what time she had to work until and she said 6. “AM?” I asked. She laughed and said “yes AM.” She then told me to come back to her bar and she’d have a heavier pour for me than any other bartender there. I over tipped her (of course) and moved my way past all the flesh and back to my friends. I told them about the party being scheduled until 6 and we all laughed wondering who in their right minds would stay until 6 AM. This party was decent but it wasn’t epic.
Julie and I stayed together the whole night while her cousin and slutty cave woman girlfriend wandered around trying to make new friends. Julie was a chain smoker back then and we spent a lot of time on the second floor porch watching the dance floor on the front lawn from where we stood. We had hit the bar where my girl really did have a heavy pour a few times and I was getting my drunk confidence where I can talk to anyone about anything and not worry about coming across like a dork. I befriended a guy dressed as Slash and the three of us hung out on the porch for an hour or so watching the crowds and wondering how these girls weren‘t cold as we were all fully dressed and shivering. He told me that he was 22 and I laughed at him, calling him a baby and pointing out that he was 2 when Appetite for Destruction came out. He asked me how old I was and his reaction to me answering 32 was “you’re pretty cool for being so old, wanna make out”. I couldn’t help myself, I lost it. I laughed in this 22 year old wanna-be rock star’s face. “No,” I finally managed after I stopped laughing, “no thank you.”
Julie and I headed back inside and while she was hitting the bar for us again I was braving the bathroom on my own for the first time. There was a hot boy walking down the same hallway but in the opposite direction. He wasn’t in costume either and I could see all of his dark skin and full lips without obstruction. My confidence was up after Slash told me that I was old but cool and I decided to I to give him my best flirty smile and was surprised when he started coming toward me. It worked! It worked! I was in a sea of long uncovered legs, exposed tits and bare bellies but he didn’t care! He loved the overly dressed awkward girl instead. He walked right up to me, lowered his head and whispered in my ear “do you need some coke?’ Of course all he wanted was a sale. Look at me! I was no match for these stripper girls. What does Slash know? He‘s wasted. And was TWO when Appetite for Destruction came out. “No thank you” I said and finished walking to the bathroom.
When I came back to Julie, she had scored a huge oversized armchair between the bar and the inside dance floor. She was sitting on the cushion and I grabbed a seat on the arm. I was laughing and telling her about the hot coke dealer right as he walked by. I pointed my finger at him and he looked at me quizzically, shook his head and joined friends (clients?) outside. The slutty costumed girls were slowly becoming the slutty half naked girls as they were getting drunker and danced with their new found loves in front of us. Drugs were becoming more apparent as bowls were being smoked and vials of white substances were being passed around. As I was watching the crowd with utter fascination, Julie tugged my arm and said “your coke dealer is watching you again”. I looked up and he was headed towards me. “What? Are you narc?” he asked when he finally got close. “No!” I exclaimed, “I was just telling my friend about the hot guy who asked if I wanted to buy coke. I swear, that was it.” I felt defensive and had no idea why I had just said that. But it must have worked because he said “you think I’m hot?”. I nodded, suddenly shy, and he said “let’s go get a drink.” I was nervous about being alone with this coke dealer but Julie practically shoved me off the chair and I went with him to get another vodka tonic from my girl.
We got our drinks and he asked if I wanted to go outside where it was quieter. We wound up on the front lawn stage where the DJ and dance party were earlier. His name was Chris and he was DJ who played a lot of gigs downtown. He wanted to go back to school for music engineering but didn’t have the money. “I have to be honest,” he leaned in, “I saw you hours ago talking to the rocker guy. I wanted to approach you but I thought you were with him.” “Slash?” I laughed. “Nope. He just told me I was cool and old.” Chris waited until I was done laughing before his lips were on mine. This was so not me. Making out with someone I had just met drunk on a stage on the front lawn of a stripper haunted house Halloween party! But I was and I liked it. Until after a solid amount of time of making out he pulled away and said in his low voice “let me do a bump off your tit”. I didn’t think that he was serious or that I hadn’t heard him correctly. He repeated himself, “let me do a bump off your tit”. I shook my head and said “No. Thank you but no”. I stood up, hugged my hoodie tightly around me and went back to Julie who was still sitting on the chair watching more and more couples grind together on the floor.
My temple was tired and I wanted nothing more to sleep off the drunk. A non-stripper, non-sex worker, non-coke fiend like me should have been in bed hours ago. We decided to cab it back home. We high-fived the fact that we made it out to 6 AM and pinkie swore that we wouldn’t do it again. Until next Halloween.
Dave Eggers was my inspiration (sorry CCRNK)
The rules to this assignment was to take a book close to you, open to a random page, read the first sentence on the page and write. The sentence I got was: Max stared to intensely at his cereal that he felt sure he could see the microscopic chemical compounds that formed each flake.--Dave Eggers
I was sitting at the kitchen table wolfing down a bowl of cheap sugary cereal that was on sale at the grocery store about a month ago. I was staring at each flake sure that I could see the microscopic chemical compounds that formed each one. “Why do I buy this shit?” I asked myself. What I really wanted were two eggs over easy, toast, and a Bloody Mary. And a cigarette. Unfortunately, I had quit smoking over a year ago and it was taking everything in my power to not run out to the corner store and buy a pack. Instead, I opted for breakfast. But the only easily accessible things in the fridge were a half empty carton of soy milk and a moldy block of cheese. “When did I turn into a frat boy? A frat boy who drinks soy milk.”
The hangover hadn’t quite begun to take effect just yet; maybe I was still a little drunk. I knew that things would be bad when I started craving greasy Chinese food and a cherry Coke. I debated going back to bed but I wasn’t ready to face the reality of what happened last night yet. I threw Greg (was that his name?) out at about 7 this morning. While stirring awake I had slowly opened my eyes afraid that my head would blast off if I let in too much light at once. I was confused when I felt something heavy lying across my stomach. I was half expecting to see a cat but was appalled when I saw an arm instead. I quietly shifted my weight to roll over to see who belonged to that one arm. I tried to piece the night together without making too much noise. Though I wasn’t exactly sure who was there, I was positive that I didn’t want him to be there. Waking up was proving to be a lot of work so I stared at his profile with only one eye. I saw spiky hair and the side of a face that hadn’t been shaved in a few days. Good God, what had I done?!
About two months ago I professed my love to my closest guy friend Keegan one afternoon holding his cat close to my heart in his apartment. We had been friends for about six months at that point and we were practically inseparable. I, apparently, have a hard time separating plutonic feelings for romantic feelings and after I had finished my overly rehearsed (yet heartfelt) speech, the only thing he could say was “ok”. “OK? OK! What kind of reaction was that? I had just told him how amazing he was and how he deserved perfection. That he shouldn’t date girls just to fuck them but to let someone in and allow himself to fall in love. I told him that he has the world to offer and should accept nothing less in return. And then I told him that I couldn’t be friends with him until these feelings inside subsided. He said “ok”. I hugged his cat even tighter afraid of losing the one contact I had with him at that moment. I asked “is there anything else you want to say?” and he shook his head no. He held his arms out and I put the cat down and fell into them. Keegan’s about six inches taller than I am and it felt good to feel small against someone else’s body. He laid his chin on top of my head and quietly said “you’re going to meet someone amazing. Someone better than me. Someone who deserves you.”
Not hanging out with Keegan proved to be more difficult than I expected. Not only did we have mutual friends, we also shared a wall. Keegan had been my next door neighbor in my apartment complex for close to a year but we didn’t start to become friends until the first snow day when we had a snowball fight in our parking lot. We ended the day with Hot Toddies and pinball at the bar around the corner. I was surprised by how well we got along and how long it took us to realize that. That snow day began a six month marathon of a friendship. We would sit on the steps outside of his apartment after I got home from work and drink beers bitching about our days. We would play Nintendo and listen to records in his apartment and watch black and white movies in mine. He would knock on my window when he was coming home from work or a bar at night and we’d catch up until neither of us could keep our eyes open. There wasn’t a day that would go by without an email, a text message, or a visit from the neighbor boy. When we hung out in groups, I would always catch him staring at me knowing what every look on his face meant. As we got closer, the awkward pauses between us became more obvious. There was ambiguous touching that I would analyze late at night trying to fall asleep. I was sure that our relationship was leaving the friend zone but clearly I was wrong. OK.
Last night was Keegan’s 30th birthday and we had a party in the driveway with all of our neighbors and friends. This turned out to be a pretty big party and lots of people I had never met before showed up. It was the first time Keegan and I had spent more than a few minutes together since “the incident”. It had been two months and we still hadn’t gotten over the awkward phase of the aftermath. I was trying to show him how much I didn’t need him around to have fun. “Who was your charming neighbor?” I wanted his friends to ask the next day. I wanted him to realize how witty, charming, and flirty I could be and I wanted him to hear it out of the mouths of his guy friends. Unfortunately, I drank a little too much cheap keg beer and went from witty and charming to slurry and surly. And apparently, a little bit slutty. I remember having the thought of “I’ll show him that I’m over him” by flirting hopelessly with one of his work buddies. Nothing was supposed to happen, we dubbed him the white rapper for fuck’s sake. He tried to argue me that Bob Marley was a better musician than Lou Reed. No one disses The Velvet Underground on my turf! He was loud and obnoxious and an attention whore. He was everything that I’m not attracted to but there he was when I woke up this morning.
Two tons of sugary breakfast shit wasn’t going to make me feel better. Nor was a carton of cigarettes. I knew that I messed this up and if Keegan ever had his doubts that he was wrong and should have wound up together, I clearly set his mind back at ease. I shook myself out of these thoughts, patted myself on the back for at least scoring at the party and fell asleep on the couch.
I was sitting at the kitchen table wolfing down a bowl of cheap sugary cereal that was on sale at the grocery store about a month ago. I was staring at each flake sure that I could see the microscopic chemical compounds that formed each one. “Why do I buy this shit?” I asked myself. What I really wanted were two eggs over easy, toast, and a Bloody Mary. And a cigarette. Unfortunately, I had quit smoking over a year ago and it was taking everything in my power to not run out to the corner store and buy a pack. Instead, I opted for breakfast. But the only easily accessible things in the fridge were a half empty carton of soy milk and a moldy block of cheese. “When did I turn into a frat boy? A frat boy who drinks soy milk.”
The hangover hadn’t quite begun to take effect just yet; maybe I was still a little drunk. I knew that things would be bad when I started craving greasy Chinese food and a cherry Coke. I debated going back to bed but I wasn’t ready to face the reality of what happened last night yet. I threw Greg (was that his name?) out at about 7 this morning. While stirring awake I had slowly opened my eyes afraid that my head would blast off if I let in too much light at once. I was confused when I felt something heavy lying across my stomach. I was half expecting to see a cat but was appalled when I saw an arm instead. I quietly shifted my weight to roll over to see who belonged to that one arm. I tried to piece the night together without making too much noise. Though I wasn’t exactly sure who was there, I was positive that I didn’t want him to be there. Waking up was proving to be a lot of work so I stared at his profile with only one eye. I saw spiky hair and the side of a face that hadn’t been shaved in a few days. Good God, what had I done?!
About two months ago I professed my love to my closest guy friend Keegan one afternoon holding his cat close to my heart in his apartment. We had been friends for about six months at that point and we were practically inseparable. I, apparently, have a hard time separating plutonic feelings for romantic feelings and after I had finished my overly rehearsed (yet heartfelt) speech, the only thing he could say was “ok”. “OK? OK! What kind of reaction was that? I had just told him how amazing he was and how he deserved perfection. That he shouldn’t date girls just to fuck them but to let someone in and allow himself to fall in love. I told him that he has the world to offer and should accept nothing less in return. And then I told him that I couldn’t be friends with him until these feelings inside subsided. He said “ok”. I hugged his cat even tighter afraid of losing the one contact I had with him at that moment. I asked “is there anything else you want to say?” and he shook his head no. He held his arms out and I put the cat down and fell into them. Keegan’s about six inches taller than I am and it felt good to feel small against someone else’s body. He laid his chin on top of my head and quietly said “you’re going to meet someone amazing. Someone better than me. Someone who deserves you.”
Not hanging out with Keegan proved to be more difficult than I expected. Not only did we have mutual friends, we also shared a wall. Keegan had been my next door neighbor in my apartment complex for close to a year but we didn’t start to become friends until the first snow day when we had a snowball fight in our parking lot. We ended the day with Hot Toddies and pinball at the bar around the corner. I was surprised by how well we got along and how long it took us to realize that. That snow day began a six month marathon of a friendship. We would sit on the steps outside of his apartment after I got home from work and drink beers bitching about our days. We would play Nintendo and listen to records in his apartment and watch black and white movies in mine. He would knock on my window when he was coming home from work or a bar at night and we’d catch up until neither of us could keep our eyes open. There wasn’t a day that would go by without an email, a text message, or a visit from the neighbor boy. When we hung out in groups, I would always catch him staring at me knowing what every look on his face meant. As we got closer, the awkward pauses between us became more obvious. There was ambiguous touching that I would analyze late at night trying to fall asleep. I was sure that our relationship was leaving the friend zone but clearly I was wrong. OK.
Last night was Keegan’s 30th birthday and we had a party in the driveway with all of our neighbors and friends. This turned out to be a pretty big party and lots of people I had never met before showed up. It was the first time Keegan and I had spent more than a few minutes together since “the incident”. It had been two months and we still hadn’t gotten over the awkward phase of the aftermath. I was trying to show him how much I didn’t need him around to have fun. “Who was your charming neighbor?” I wanted his friends to ask the next day. I wanted him to realize how witty, charming, and flirty I could be and I wanted him to hear it out of the mouths of his guy friends. Unfortunately, I drank a little too much cheap keg beer and went from witty and charming to slurry and surly. And apparently, a little bit slutty. I remember having the thought of “I’ll show him that I’m over him” by flirting hopelessly with one of his work buddies. Nothing was supposed to happen, we dubbed him the white rapper for fuck’s sake. He tried to argue me that Bob Marley was a better musician than Lou Reed. No one disses The Velvet Underground on my turf! He was loud and obnoxious and an attention whore. He was everything that I’m not attracted to but there he was when I woke up this morning.
Two tons of sugary breakfast shit wasn’t going to make me feel better. Nor was a carton of cigarettes. I knew that I messed this up and if Keegan ever had his doubts that he was wrong and should have wound up together, I clearly set his mind back at ease. I shook myself out of these thoughts, patted myself on the back for at least scoring at the party and fell asleep on the couch.
GBU
This piece was for the prompt 'The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly'. This is probably one of the most personal things I've written for the Fancy Laideez and therefore one of the hardest to share. I apologize for the language involved, Mom, but it's a true story.
A friend’s roommate’s boyfriend died suddenly and she (friend, not roommate) needed to get out of the house after two straight days of consoling. We decided to do something that would get her mind of off life for a little while. We rounded up some girlfriends and went to see Storm and the Balls for their regular Wednesday night show at Dante’s. One of my friends told me that she met the greatest guy over the weekend and that she was going to call him to meet up with us. “You’re going to get along great,” she told me, “he reads a lot”. I was worried that I was coming off as the geek in our group. Sure, I was an avid reader and I wrote a lot and I had been doing some editing work for a non-profit magazine but is that what my friends thought of me? Did they really think that I only dated guys based on what book was on their bedside table? I couldn’t complain because, let’s face it, a guy who reads a lot is really important to me.
Her friend showed up and came to our table with a friend of his. I looked past the one I was supposed to be set up with and focused on his friend who was hanging back a bit. Not only do I like an extensive library, I also like glasses and facial hair and this boy had both! He caught me staring at him and flashed me a smile and a wave. I pulled the seat out next to me as an invitation to get to know me and his RSVP came back “yes”. I have some social anxiety and can get a little bit subdued around new people but not an ounce of shyness came through when talking to him. There was never a lull in our conversation. I learned that he had just moved back to Portland after a year in upstate New York, he was trying to form a band now that he was back home, he was moving into his new place that weekend and that he was a big X-Men fan. We made flirty plans to see the new movie the next weekend and that’s when we exchanged phone numbers. We got that out of the way early on, there was no need to play that game of “should I or shouldn’t I give him my number”, “do I think that he’ll call”, “is he going to remember me in the morning”. Everything was so natural and easy. I don’t think that it was love at first sight but there was definitely something between us I had never felt before. With all the emotions that went along with the death a few days before, it felt great to be out and enjoying life.
I had just moved to Portland from Boston about six months prior and I was still trying to find my niche in this new city. I was excited that I was meeting people on my own and didn’t need all of my friends to be related in the same social circles. I had gone on a few dates over those months but nothing had transpired more than some making out or some awkward one night stands. This, however, felt different. I could tell immediately that he wasn’t trying to get in my pants right away; his actions told me that he wasn’t looking for just some quick and easy sex.
We paid little attention to the band on stage. We were having one of those nights where we were the only ones who existed in the bar. I didn’t converse with any of my friends and he didn’t spend any time with his. I’m sure had we stopped talking and looked around the table, we would have realized that we were the topic of conversation but we didn’t care. Nothing mattered at that moment other than the words coming out of his mouth. This guy was funny, intelligent, engaging, smoked the same cigarettes as me and most importantly, all of a sudden, he was holding my hand. He looked down at the situation and asked if it was okay that his hand had mine. Mind? How could I mind?
Unfortunately, not long after that the lights came on, the bar staff was yelling at us that it was time to go home, and everyone was starting to part ways. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this guy so we decided to take a walk around the block so that we could have ten minutes of alone and quiet time before saying goodnight to each other.
We crossed Burnside and stood on 3rd Ave about halfway to Couch Street. We talked about how great it was to meet each other and that we would definitely go see the X-Men movie together after the weekend. He promised that he would call me before then since he’d be moving the whole time and wouldn’t be able to get to a phone. While we were talking we were moving in closer and closer for that imminent first kiss that we could both tell was about to happen. He put his hands on my hips and pulled me close to him and placed his lips on mine. Unfortunately, kissing on SW 3rd Ave at 2:15 in the morning isn’t the most romantic setting for the first kiss of someone you really like. Not only were the people walking by distracting, a carload of my friends saw us and circled the block intentionally so that they could yell “get some” out of the car window. We laughed about it but it didn’t stop us from trying again. Finally, we decided that it was time to go our separate ways for the night as his friend was standing awkwardly on the corner trying not to pay any attention to us and I had an eighteen block skip home!
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There comes that moment in every relationship when you ask yourself what you’re doing here. Mine came at about the three month point. We were walking home from the bar after his roommate, Matt’s, birthday party. He had gotten super drunk and had been moody for the past few hours. We were walking hand in hand crossing through the park at the beginning of his neighborhood. He had been quiet the entire walk but I thought that maybe he was just tired. “Matt‘s great,” I said finally. “I love all of your friends, really, but Matt reminds me of a lot of friends back in Boston.” I was not expecting what came out of his mouth next: What? Do you want to fuck him?. I was completely blown away that that was the response I received to such a mundane statement. My mind was reeling. He then went on to tell me that it was ok if I wanted to fuck Matt because we’d only been together for a few months and that we didn’t have anything invested just yet. I was so shocked and so confused. Who was this guy? I had never seen him like this and I was not impressed. Some girls like when their boyfriends are jealous and protective. I am not one of those girls. Hot tears stung my eyes as we stood in the middle of the park shivering. I was livid. No one had ever accused me of cheating even when I cheated on them! I told him that I wanted to go back to his place to get my things and call a cab. “No,” he cried. “Don’t leave me, I’m sorry.” Sorry? How could he easily apologize so quickly after telling me that he had nothing invested in me? We walked into his house and his two roommates were sitting in the living room asking us if got lost walking home. I ignored them and made my way to the kitchen to grab the phone. He followed me and took the phone out of my hand. “Let’s go upstairs, let’s talk about this”. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of the roommates so I quietly walked upstairs and stood in the middle of his bedroom with my arms folded. He stood next to me and just started bawling. He apologized for being a jerk. He said that his last girlfriend had cheated on him and he was worried that it was going to happen to him again. He cried that he didn’t deserve me and that I was too good to be true. He told me how much he loved me and that, although we hadn’t been together too long, he already knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. I admit it, I melted. He seemed to insecure and sincere that maybe, just maybe, I could forget his accusation and move forward. Maybe this is what people in love did, how did I know.
I finally decided to stay the night. I woke up to a big kiss on the lips. When I asked what that was for he said “for making sure I got home last night. I don’t remember anything after about 11:30”. My tired mind put together the pieces of the puzzle, almost crying aloud when I realized that he didn’t remember the first time he told me that he loved me.
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I went back to the house a few days after I moved out. I had left a few things behind, nothing too important but a few things that I wanted to grab and a few things that he didn't want left behind to remind him of me. As I was walked through the duplex I noticed so many changes in those three days: the stereo was in the place where the TV was, the bedroom was empty as he moved into the spare room, the bag of potatoes on top of the fridge that never would have been there had I still lived there, and how quiet it was without the two cats running around causing trouble.
I emptied out the cupboards of the last remaining proof that I ever lived there. It was weird to not see my picture on the mantel or my other coat hanging in the closet. He sat at the kitchen table (which he somehow got in the breakup which I still can't explain even to this day) and talked to me as if I was a stranger coming to take a census poll. He asked me about the new apartment, how the cats were adjusting to SE life, how work was and if I had talked to any of my friends. I was so conflicted, trying to be polite and answer him back but also so filled with emotions and trying not to cry as a huge part of my life was ending right before my eyes that I just stayed silent. Once I had everything packed up, I walked out the door.
It was the first time in those three and a half years that we parted ways with not so much as a hug. I stood out at the top of the steps listening to the light rain bounce off the roof and hit the cars in the driveway. I couldn’t believe that it was over. As much as I hated him at that point in my life, I wanted more. Maybe I had watched too many romantic comedies but wasn’t the boy supposed to chase the girl out the door and beg her forgiveness? Wasn’t he supposed to cry and tell me that he was an asshole and that I was perfect and beautiful and everything that he ever wanted in a mate? As I stood there listening to the rain this new emotion started taking over. I didn’t feel like I wanted to cry for the first time in three days. I felt my face grow hot, my heart beating faster and faster, and my arms start to shake under the weight of the box. I realized that had I been Bruce Banner, I would be “hulking” out of my clothes at that moment. This was new and I was scared and I didn’t know what to do. So without thinking I kicked the door a few times with my foot as my hands were still full with mementos of mine he didn’t want anymore.
He answered the door with a puzzled look on his face (I had just left about 45 seconds ago) and let me inside. He looked at me with his hands on his hips, a stance that only said one phrase: what do you want now? I put down the box, looked him straight in the eye, and asked the only thing that made sense at that moment. I asked him why he didn’t feel any emotion anymore. I asked him why he never cried about our break-up. Why he never seemed angry at the fact that I was moving out. And more importantly, how could he sit at that kitchen table my dad bought us and act like my moving out was an everyday occurrence. He told me that he did cry. He cried to his friends after I moved out over the weekend, he cried to his mom at one AM the previous night because he was dreading seeing me again, and that he could cry to everyone in his life except for the one person who needed to hear it the most. He told me that he just had no more emotion left to spend on me and that he mourned the loss of our relationship while we were still in it. He checked out months ago, he told me without batting an eye. Apparently, I was trying to salvage something that died about 120 days prior. I thought that at that point in our relationship he was done hurting me. Turns out I was wrong. I’d heard the expression “those words cut me like a knife” but I had never experienced it before. I always chalked a phrase like that up to dead poets or Harlequin Romance novelists, something that’s cliché but not used or felt. Wow! That phrase caused tears to escape from my eyes without even my knowing it. He got one last stab in before we would say goodbye forever. I was so disappointed in myself for not foreseeing this while I was standing on the steps and I was so disappointed in myself for being the better person and never saying anything to him that would intentionally hurt him. That’s not how I play the game, with him or anyone else in my life. But I wanted to get one more comment out there, something that would sting him. And my chance came a minute or two later when he said “this feels like a divorce” and I responded dryly with “yup, you would know that feeling, wouldn’t you?” as his divorce was the touchiest subject between us. He never told me details about their relationship or under what circumstances they decided to call it quits. It was only after we had been together for two years that I even learned her name. He closed his eyes and let my words wash over him. When he opened them he told me that he deserved that and that he had nothing left to say about us. I couldn’t believe that finally I reached his level and I didn’t like it one bit. It seems like a harmless eight words to an outsider but as soon as I saw his reaction I wished that I didn’t say it. I wanted to be the mature one in all of this but I failed and I was so angry with myself.
He reached out his arms to hug me goodbye and I folded into them one last time crying against his chest. Even though I knew it was for the best I wasn’t quite ready to leave the house for the last time. I was remembering all those nights drinking wine on the couch talking about growing old together, sitting on the roof during rainstorms trying to take pictures of the lightning, creating music in the studio together, listening to NPR while making pancakes on lazy Sunday mornings, meeting our little kitten Gibson for the first time after our neighbor brought him over…for some reason the only thing that my mind would fixate on were the good times, it was blocking out the last few months of hell I had just endured and wouldn’t let me let go. That’s when he broke our embrace, cupped my face in his hands and gave me the kiss every girl dreams about since she learns what kissing is. Our lips were together and our tears were mixing with each others. We parted and had no words left to say to each other. I knew that the only thing to say was goodbye for the last time.
A friend’s roommate’s boyfriend died suddenly and she (friend, not roommate) needed to get out of the house after two straight days of consoling. We decided to do something that would get her mind of off life for a little while. We rounded up some girlfriends and went to see Storm and the Balls for their regular Wednesday night show at Dante’s. One of my friends told me that she met the greatest guy over the weekend and that she was going to call him to meet up with us. “You’re going to get along great,” she told me, “he reads a lot”. I was worried that I was coming off as the geek in our group. Sure, I was an avid reader and I wrote a lot and I had been doing some editing work for a non-profit magazine but is that what my friends thought of me? Did they really think that I only dated guys based on what book was on their bedside table? I couldn’t complain because, let’s face it, a guy who reads a lot is really important to me.
Her friend showed up and came to our table with a friend of his. I looked past the one I was supposed to be set up with and focused on his friend who was hanging back a bit. Not only do I like an extensive library, I also like glasses and facial hair and this boy had both! He caught me staring at him and flashed me a smile and a wave. I pulled the seat out next to me as an invitation to get to know me and his RSVP came back “yes”. I have some social anxiety and can get a little bit subdued around new people but not an ounce of shyness came through when talking to him. There was never a lull in our conversation. I learned that he had just moved back to Portland after a year in upstate New York, he was trying to form a band now that he was back home, he was moving into his new place that weekend and that he was a big X-Men fan. We made flirty plans to see the new movie the next weekend and that’s when we exchanged phone numbers. We got that out of the way early on, there was no need to play that game of “should I or shouldn’t I give him my number”, “do I think that he’ll call”, “is he going to remember me in the morning”. Everything was so natural and easy. I don’t think that it was love at first sight but there was definitely something between us I had never felt before. With all the emotions that went along with the death a few days before, it felt great to be out and enjoying life.
I had just moved to Portland from Boston about six months prior and I was still trying to find my niche in this new city. I was excited that I was meeting people on my own and didn’t need all of my friends to be related in the same social circles. I had gone on a few dates over those months but nothing had transpired more than some making out or some awkward one night stands. This, however, felt different. I could tell immediately that he wasn’t trying to get in my pants right away; his actions told me that he wasn’t looking for just some quick and easy sex.
We paid little attention to the band on stage. We were having one of those nights where we were the only ones who existed in the bar. I didn’t converse with any of my friends and he didn’t spend any time with his. I’m sure had we stopped talking and looked around the table, we would have realized that we were the topic of conversation but we didn’t care. Nothing mattered at that moment other than the words coming out of his mouth. This guy was funny, intelligent, engaging, smoked the same cigarettes as me and most importantly, all of a sudden, he was holding my hand. He looked down at the situation and asked if it was okay that his hand had mine. Mind? How could I mind?
Unfortunately, not long after that the lights came on, the bar staff was yelling at us that it was time to go home, and everyone was starting to part ways. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this guy so we decided to take a walk around the block so that we could have ten minutes of alone and quiet time before saying goodnight to each other.
We crossed Burnside and stood on 3rd Ave about halfway to Couch Street. We talked about how great it was to meet each other and that we would definitely go see the X-Men movie together after the weekend. He promised that he would call me before then since he’d be moving the whole time and wouldn’t be able to get to a phone. While we were talking we were moving in closer and closer for that imminent first kiss that we could both tell was about to happen. He put his hands on my hips and pulled me close to him and placed his lips on mine. Unfortunately, kissing on SW 3rd Ave at 2:15 in the morning isn’t the most romantic setting for the first kiss of someone you really like. Not only were the people walking by distracting, a carload of my friends saw us and circled the block intentionally so that they could yell “get some” out of the car window. We laughed about it but it didn’t stop us from trying again. Finally, we decided that it was time to go our separate ways for the night as his friend was standing awkwardly on the corner trying not to pay any attention to us and I had an eighteen block skip home!
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There comes that moment in every relationship when you ask yourself what you’re doing here. Mine came at about the three month point. We were walking home from the bar after his roommate, Matt’s, birthday party. He had gotten super drunk and had been moody for the past few hours. We were walking hand in hand crossing through the park at the beginning of his neighborhood. He had been quiet the entire walk but I thought that maybe he was just tired. “Matt‘s great,” I said finally. “I love all of your friends, really, but Matt reminds me of a lot of friends back in Boston.” I was not expecting what came out of his mouth next: What? Do you want to fuck him?. I was completely blown away that that was the response I received to such a mundane statement. My mind was reeling. He then went on to tell me that it was ok if I wanted to fuck Matt because we’d only been together for a few months and that we didn’t have anything invested just yet. I was so shocked and so confused. Who was this guy? I had never seen him like this and I was not impressed. Some girls like when their boyfriends are jealous and protective. I am not one of those girls. Hot tears stung my eyes as we stood in the middle of the park shivering. I was livid. No one had ever accused me of cheating even when I cheated on them! I told him that I wanted to go back to his place to get my things and call a cab. “No,” he cried. “Don’t leave me, I’m sorry.” Sorry? How could he easily apologize so quickly after telling me that he had nothing invested in me? We walked into his house and his two roommates were sitting in the living room asking us if got lost walking home. I ignored them and made my way to the kitchen to grab the phone. He followed me and took the phone out of my hand. “Let’s go upstairs, let’s talk about this”. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of the roommates so I quietly walked upstairs and stood in the middle of his bedroom with my arms folded. He stood next to me and just started bawling. He apologized for being a jerk. He said that his last girlfriend had cheated on him and he was worried that it was going to happen to him again. He cried that he didn’t deserve me and that I was too good to be true. He told me how much he loved me and that, although we hadn’t been together too long, he already knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. I admit it, I melted. He seemed to insecure and sincere that maybe, just maybe, I could forget his accusation and move forward. Maybe this is what people in love did, how did I know.
I finally decided to stay the night. I woke up to a big kiss on the lips. When I asked what that was for he said “for making sure I got home last night. I don’t remember anything after about 11:30”. My tired mind put together the pieces of the puzzle, almost crying aloud when I realized that he didn’t remember the first time he told me that he loved me.
*************************************************************************************************************************
I went back to the house a few days after I moved out. I had left a few things behind, nothing too important but a few things that I wanted to grab and a few things that he didn't want left behind to remind him of me. As I was walked through the duplex I noticed so many changes in those three days: the stereo was in the place where the TV was, the bedroom was empty as he moved into the spare room, the bag of potatoes on top of the fridge that never would have been there had I still lived there, and how quiet it was without the two cats running around causing trouble.
I emptied out the cupboards of the last remaining proof that I ever lived there. It was weird to not see my picture on the mantel or my other coat hanging in the closet. He sat at the kitchen table (which he somehow got in the breakup which I still can't explain even to this day) and talked to me as if I was a stranger coming to take a census poll. He asked me about the new apartment, how the cats were adjusting to SE life, how work was and if I had talked to any of my friends. I was so conflicted, trying to be polite and answer him back but also so filled with emotions and trying not to cry as a huge part of my life was ending right before my eyes that I just stayed silent. Once I had everything packed up, I walked out the door.
It was the first time in those three and a half years that we parted ways with not so much as a hug. I stood out at the top of the steps listening to the light rain bounce off the roof and hit the cars in the driveway. I couldn’t believe that it was over. As much as I hated him at that point in my life, I wanted more. Maybe I had watched too many romantic comedies but wasn’t the boy supposed to chase the girl out the door and beg her forgiveness? Wasn’t he supposed to cry and tell me that he was an asshole and that I was perfect and beautiful and everything that he ever wanted in a mate? As I stood there listening to the rain this new emotion started taking over. I didn’t feel like I wanted to cry for the first time in three days. I felt my face grow hot, my heart beating faster and faster, and my arms start to shake under the weight of the box. I realized that had I been Bruce Banner, I would be “hulking” out of my clothes at that moment. This was new and I was scared and I didn’t know what to do. So without thinking I kicked the door a few times with my foot as my hands were still full with mementos of mine he didn’t want anymore.
He answered the door with a puzzled look on his face (I had just left about 45 seconds ago) and let me inside. He looked at me with his hands on his hips, a stance that only said one phrase: what do you want now? I put down the box, looked him straight in the eye, and asked the only thing that made sense at that moment. I asked him why he didn’t feel any emotion anymore. I asked him why he never cried about our break-up. Why he never seemed angry at the fact that I was moving out. And more importantly, how could he sit at that kitchen table my dad bought us and act like my moving out was an everyday occurrence. He told me that he did cry. He cried to his friends after I moved out over the weekend, he cried to his mom at one AM the previous night because he was dreading seeing me again, and that he could cry to everyone in his life except for the one person who needed to hear it the most. He told me that he just had no more emotion left to spend on me and that he mourned the loss of our relationship while we were still in it. He checked out months ago, he told me without batting an eye. Apparently, I was trying to salvage something that died about 120 days prior. I thought that at that point in our relationship he was done hurting me. Turns out I was wrong. I’d heard the expression “those words cut me like a knife” but I had never experienced it before. I always chalked a phrase like that up to dead poets or Harlequin Romance novelists, something that’s cliché but not used or felt. Wow! That phrase caused tears to escape from my eyes without even my knowing it. He got one last stab in before we would say goodbye forever. I was so disappointed in myself for not foreseeing this while I was standing on the steps and I was so disappointed in myself for being the better person and never saying anything to him that would intentionally hurt him. That’s not how I play the game, with him or anyone else in my life. But I wanted to get one more comment out there, something that would sting him. And my chance came a minute or two later when he said “this feels like a divorce” and I responded dryly with “yup, you would know that feeling, wouldn’t you?” as his divorce was the touchiest subject between us. He never told me details about their relationship or under what circumstances they decided to call it quits. It was only after we had been together for two years that I even learned her name. He closed his eyes and let my words wash over him. When he opened them he told me that he deserved that and that he had nothing left to say about us. I couldn’t believe that finally I reached his level and I didn’t like it one bit. It seems like a harmless eight words to an outsider but as soon as I saw his reaction I wished that I didn’t say it. I wanted to be the mature one in all of this but I failed and I was so angry with myself.
He reached out his arms to hug me goodbye and I folded into them one last time crying against his chest. Even though I knew it was for the best I wasn’t quite ready to leave the house for the last time. I was remembering all those nights drinking wine on the couch talking about growing old together, sitting on the roof during rainstorms trying to take pictures of the lightning, creating music in the studio together, listening to NPR while making pancakes on lazy Sunday mornings, meeting our little kitten Gibson for the first time after our neighbor brought him over…for some reason the only thing that my mind would fixate on were the good times, it was blocking out the last few months of hell I had just endured and wouldn’t let me let go. That’s when he broke our embrace, cupped my face in his hands and gave me the kiss every girl dreams about since she learns what kissing is. Our lips were together and our tears were mixing with each others. We parted and had no words left to say to each other. I knew that the only thing to say was goodbye for the last time.
The Bone Collector
This is a true story that I wrote about for the prompt "He had an extra refrigerator for". Remember, this is a true story!
A few years ago Josh, his painfully boring roommate, Jessica, and I went out for a night on the seedy town to shake her up and get out of her comfort zone. After hitting a few bars on that strip of 28th between Burnside and Sandy, we made our drunken way to Luckys.
We walked into the dimly lit bar and noticed that there were only a handful of people hanging out but what they lacked in quantity they made up for in personality. We took a seat at the bar and the bartender came up to us asking what we wanted to drink. She was wearing a T-shirt that offered 25 cent mustache rides and her left arm was in a cast. She couldn't have been more than 21 herself but carded us and didn't make note of the fact that Josh's ID had expired. She just went through the motions and brought us 3 PBRs and 2 whiskeys on the rocks.
From the other side of the bar, a woman who could have been 35 or 72 started shouting incoherently waiving her fists for effect. The bartender calmly explained "that's Sharon over there, don't mind her, she's been here since last night."
"She's exaggerating, right," Jessica asked. Josh and I shrugged, we had no idea what universe we had walked into.
We sat at the bar getting drunker and enjoying the people watching when Jessica began her woe-is-me routine and why can't I get laid when two guys sitting next to us suddenly joined the conversation. One of them used Jessica's gripe as an in while the other made a beeline for Josh. "You're gay, right" he opened.
"Um..yea?" Josh replied.
"Are you into human bones?" he asked.
"WHAT?" we shouted in unison.
"Bones. Are you into bones?"
"What kind of bones?" Josh asked, as if there was a right answer to this absurd question.
"Arm, leg, skulls. I have a collection of them at home."
"You have a collection of human bones? In your house?" I asked in amazement.
"Yes," he answered as if this was the most natural conversation we had ever taken part in.
"Where do you keep them?" I asked.
"In my refrigerator".
"You have human bones in your fridge? Next to the mustard?" Josh asked.
"No. I have a separate refrigerator for the food."
Josh and I were stunned. How do you respond to something like that. Josh looked at me with a look of mortification on his face and said to me "he has a refrigerator for human bones in his house." I assume my look was one that said "this can't be happening, he can't be serious."
Through all of this, there was one thing that I needed to know. "What happens when you bring a guy home for the first time and you show him your bone collection?"
"He either runs away screaming or he sucks my cock," he who would eventually become known as the bone collector responded. "Why? Do you want to come see it?" he asked me while staring at Josh.
"Um..no. Thanks. I think we were just going to be leaving anyway"
I noticed that the bartender had been eavesdropping at this point. I looked at her to confirm that this was actually happening. Clearly she had heard this all before as she just shook her head and walked away to pour Sharon another cocktail.
"Where do you live? I can give you a ride," he asked.
"It's walkable," Josh said kindly.
"It's safer," I blurted.
"Well, if you ever want to hang out and see the collection..." he trailed off as he pulled out his wallet and handed Josh his card.
A few years ago Josh, his painfully boring roommate, Jessica, and I went out for a night on the seedy town to shake her up and get out of her comfort zone. After hitting a few bars on that strip of 28th between Burnside and Sandy, we made our drunken way to Luckys.
We walked into the dimly lit bar and noticed that there were only a handful of people hanging out but what they lacked in quantity they made up for in personality. We took a seat at the bar and the bartender came up to us asking what we wanted to drink. She was wearing a T-shirt that offered 25 cent mustache rides and her left arm was in a cast. She couldn't have been more than 21 herself but carded us and didn't make note of the fact that Josh's ID had expired. She just went through the motions and brought us 3 PBRs and 2 whiskeys on the rocks.
From the other side of the bar, a woman who could have been 35 or 72 started shouting incoherently waiving her fists for effect. The bartender calmly explained "that's Sharon over there, don't mind her, she's been here since last night."
"She's exaggerating, right," Jessica asked. Josh and I shrugged, we had no idea what universe we had walked into.
We sat at the bar getting drunker and enjoying the people watching when Jessica began her woe-is-me routine and why can't I get laid when two guys sitting next to us suddenly joined the conversation. One of them used Jessica's gripe as an in while the other made a beeline for Josh. "You're gay, right" he opened.
"Um..yea?" Josh replied.
"Are you into human bones?" he asked.
"WHAT?" we shouted in unison.
"Bones. Are you into bones?"
"What kind of bones?" Josh asked, as if there was a right answer to this absurd question.
"Arm, leg, skulls. I have a collection of them at home."
"You have a collection of human bones? In your house?" I asked in amazement.
"Yes," he answered as if this was the most natural conversation we had ever taken part in.
"Where do you keep them?" I asked.
"In my refrigerator".
"You have human bones in your fridge? Next to the mustard?" Josh asked.
"No. I have a separate refrigerator for the food."
Josh and I were stunned. How do you respond to something like that. Josh looked at me with a look of mortification on his face and said to me "he has a refrigerator for human bones in his house." I assume my look was one that said "this can't be happening, he can't be serious."
Through all of this, there was one thing that I needed to know. "What happens when you bring a guy home for the first time and you show him your bone collection?"
"He either runs away screaming or he sucks my cock," he who would eventually become known as the bone collector responded. "Why? Do you want to come see it?" he asked me while staring at Josh.
"Um..no. Thanks. I think we were just going to be leaving anyway"
I noticed that the bartender had been eavesdropping at this point. I looked at her to confirm that this was actually happening. Clearly she had heard this all before as she just shook her head and walked away to pour Sharon another cocktail.
"Where do you live? I can give you a ride," he asked.
"It's walkable," Josh said kindly.
"It's safer," I blurted.
"Well, if you ever want to hang out and see the collection..." he trailed off as he pulled out his wallet and handed Josh his card.
ache
In April, our prompt was the word 'ache' and I went in a slightly different direction. Enjoy
Do you have a lot of neck pain?” she asked holding on to my left hand.
“No.”
“What about headaches?” She had gray frizzy hair like a mad scientist and I immediately started to regret my decision of seeing her.
“No, not really.”
She raised an eyebrow at me in disbelief. It felt like she was trying to tell if I was lying, she knew that I didn’t totally buy all of this. I avoided her eye and concentrated on the music overhead:
I knew a girl named Nikki I guess you could say she was a sex fiend
She was peering at my hand intently
I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine
“Do you read a lot of historical books?” she asked hopefully.
“No”
She said how’d you like to waste some time and I could not resist when I saw little Nikki grind
“Well, it looks like you were beheaded in the French Revolution...”
That suddenly got my attention. No, not because I’m convinced that I was beheaded in the French Revolution but because it was so specific. Now my interest was piqued and I wanted to know more of what the voodoo palm reader had to say.
Julie and I went to a fundraiser for the non-profit bookstore she volunteers with. There were free tarot card readings, astrological charting and palm readings. The tarot and astrological readings each had a line a few people long but the palm reader was wide open so I told Julie that I was going to try it out and took a seat. I immediately told her about the last time I had my palm read, how the lady talked about my cats like it was some great revolution when I was clearly covered in white fur. She promised that this would be more insightful.
She explained that she was going to look at my left hand first because that tells the story of where I had been and what I had experienced and my right dominate hand told me what I was going to do with that information. I am a ball of doubt when it comes to these things. Really? My hand is going to tell me when I’ll meet Mr. Perfect and when I’ll pop out a few chit’lens (I just wrote poop there which I am sure was intentional)? I am skeptical of all of these ways to predict your future and figure out who you are. I’m sure it’s a Libra, youngest child thing but I went along for the ride.
First she just held on to my hand not saying a word, just looking at my left hand. I tried to see what she was seeing but gave up and noticed that Prince was playing instead. My mind started wandering to The Kid, Apolonia, Morris Day, and Doctor Fink. Computer Blue was just ending when the palm reader finally opened her mouth.
“You’re an old soul,” she started.
“I’m not surprised, I’ve always been told that”
“This is definitely not you first life and definitely not your last. You’ve been wandering the world for a long time.”
“Huh,” I mumbled. I didn’t really know how to take this information. I’ve been the law-abiding serious one of my friends and always chalked it up to being old for my age.
She went silent again and the first few beats of Darling Nikki started. I tried not to look like I was more interested in the music and tried to give her my first interested face. This is when she started asking about my neck pain.
“Are you of Dutch decent?” she asked next.
I shook my head no.
“I’m seeing you in Amsterdam amongst the windmills…there’s a man…you’re in love…you…you…feed the community…you bake bread together.”
This actually made me chuckle aloud.
“Yes, you’ve been with him in every life, you seem to find him later in life and then you spend the rest of your time together. I see him at the beheading, I see him in the windmills,” she grabbed my right hand, “and I see him in this life but you’re looking for each other…it’s going to take some time to find him again…be patient…you will be together.” She was really excited at this point and it was hard not to share her enthusiasm. “You two will provide for the community together again. You’re going to find each other doing volunteer work. You are meant to be together.”
She traced a line in my hand with her nail, “you’re going to be here for a long, long time. Your life line is strong and goes up your entire hand. Don’t give up on love. You will find him.”
This was more than I could handle. She told me other things in my reading: that I would be wealthy, that I would make my money due to a something that I created, I would travel…none of it penetrated. She was so passionate when talking about my bread maker that she almost convinced me that he exists and that we would find each other. Almost. And then she pushed the tip jar towards me.
Do you have a lot of neck pain?” she asked holding on to my left hand.
“No.”
“What about headaches?” She had gray frizzy hair like a mad scientist and I immediately started to regret my decision of seeing her.
“No, not really.”
She raised an eyebrow at me in disbelief. It felt like she was trying to tell if I was lying, she knew that I didn’t totally buy all of this. I avoided her eye and concentrated on the music overhead:
I knew a girl named Nikki I guess you could say she was a sex fiend
She was peering at my hand intently
I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine
“Do you read a lot of historical books?” she asked hopefully.
“No”
She said how’d you like to waste some time and I could not resist when I saw little Nikki grind
“Well, it looks like you were beheaded in the French Revolution...”
That suddenly got my attention. No, not because I’m convinced that I was beheaded in the French Revolution but because it was so specific. Now my interest was piqued and I wanted to know more of what the voodoo palm reader had to say.
Julie and I went to a fundraiser for the non-profit bookstore she volunteers with. There were free tarot card readings, astrological charting and palm readings. The tarot and astrological readings each had a line a few people long but the palm reader was wide open so I told Julie that I was going to try it out and took a seat. I immediately told her about the last time I had my palm read, how the lady talked about my cats like it was some great revolution when I was clearly covered in white fur. She promised that this would be more insightful.
She explained that she was going to look at my left hand first because that tells the story of where I had been and what I had experienced and my right dominate hand told me what I was going to do with that information. I am a ball of doubt when it comes to these things. Really? My hand is going to tell me when I’ll meet Mr. Perfect and when I’ll pop out a few chit’lens (I just wrote poop there which I am sure was intentional)? I am skeptical of all of these ways to predict your future and figure out who you are. I’m sure it’s a Libra, youngest child thing but I went along for the ride.
First she just held on to my hand not saying a word, just looking at my left hand. I tried to see what she was seeing but gave up and noticed that Prince was playing instead. My mind started wandering to The Kid, Apolonia, Morris Day, and Doctor Fink. Computer Blue was just ending when the palm reader finally opened her mouth.
“You’re an old soul,” she started.
“I’m not surprised, I’ve always been told that”
“This is definitely not you first life and definitely not your last. You’ve been wandering the world for a long time.”
“Huh,” I mumbled. I didn’t really know how to take this information. I’ve been the law-abiding serious one of my friends and always chalked it up to being old for my age.
She went silent again and the first few beats of Darling Nikki started. I tried not to look like I was more interested in the music and tried to give her my first interested face. This is when she started asking about my neck pain.
“Are you of Dutch decent?” she asked next.
I shook my head no.
“I’m seeing you in Amsterdam amongst the windmills…there’s a man…you’re in love…you…you…feed the community…you bake bread together.”
This actually made me chuckle aloud.
“Yes, you’ve been with him in every life, you seem to find him later in life and then you spend the rest of your time together. I see him at the beheading, I see him in the windmills,” she grabbed my right hand, “and I see him in this life but you’re looking for each other…it’s going to take some time to find him again…be patient…you will be together.” She was really excited at this point and it was hard not to share her enthusiasm. “You two will provide for the community together again. You’re going to find each other doing volunteer work. You are meant to be together.”
She traced a line in my hand with her nail, “you’re going to be here for a long, long time. Your life line is strong and goes up your entire hand. Don’t give up on love. You will find him.”
This was more than I could handle. She told me other things in my reading: that I would be wealthy, that I would make my money due to a something that I created, I would travel…none of it penetrated. She was so passionate when talking about my bread maker that she almost convinced me that he exists and that we would find each other. Almost. And then she pushed the tip jar towards me.
BLOG FAIL (as opposed to fail blog)
So, in case you haven't noticed, I totally lost at keeping a blog. I have no reason for it, I just did.
But, the good news is that I've recently joined a writing group and each week we pick prompts out of a box (so it's almost like a jar). I'm going to post those as I work on them and encourage you all to read them and comment on. Blah blah blah, without further ado, here is my new and improved blog.
But, the good news is that I've recently joined a writing group and each week we pick prompts out of a box (so it's almost like a jar). I'm going to post those as I work on them and encourage you all to read them and comment on. Blah blah blah, without further ado, here is my new and improved blog.
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