Official website for humorist, Twitterist [it is so a word] and occasional fiction writer Benjamin Kissell.
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AND THAT'S WHEN IT HAPPENED ... [Despite it All (and With Profuse Apolgies to Jen Lancaster) Sometimes Pie IS the Answer]
Benjamin Kissell
My best friend Nate always says ... "Real men have curves"
If Literature is food for the mind and Art is food for the soul what should be food for the body? Well, in my case, it's been microwave pizzas, Old Bay-Crab potato chips, McDonald's and Wawa subs; which explains a lot.
I mean, it really explains a LOT.
As in, I've gained ... some weight.
I've known I'm not the svelte 154 lbs it says on my driver's license for a goodly while [the last time they updated my height/weight on there I was 5'8" and still sporting an unbridled sense of Only In Your Early 20s Entitlement and early 2000's hair]. A big "PAY ATTENTION" clue came when I had foot-surgery two years ago and the amount of local-anesthesia they gave me for my supposed 154 lbs had ALMOST NO FREAKING EFFECT ON ME.
I've grown as a person in recent years and that has gone on to include my waistline (and apparently my ass).
I could go on and on about my occasionally-sugar-heavy diet, my incredibly visceral hate for all-things-exercise and my stress-eating-inducing job ... but, let's face it: whining? Is not funny.
Instead...
DISCLAIMER / WARNING: THE FOLLOWING ARTICLE IS NOT ME CALLING MYSELF FAT OR ATTEMPTING TO MAKE YOU FEEL PITY FOR ME (OR BAD ABOUT YOURSELF) ... IT'S SIMPLY AN ARTICLE ABOUT MY STILL-RATHER-RAMPANT NARCISSISM AND NOW MILDLY RAMPANT BACKSIDE AND WAISTLINE.
"Oh gawdd - not another whining-about-being-chunkier article. How creative ..."
Picture it; Sicily, 1914 ... wait. I'm not that old. Nor - discounting family-by-marriage - am I anything even remotely close to Sicilillian [I'm about as Sicillian as Wallace Shawn in The Princess Bride ... which is to say, not at all] ...
Picture it; Fredericksburg, 2014 ... After yet another oh-so-ridiculously-long day at work sans break [Hello OSHA! *waves*] I'm homeward bound. Instead of coming home to our still-bare-from-prepping-for-vacation pantry and coercing my loving boyfriend fiance into magicking another culinary masterpiece [the man channels The Food Network and I? Shan't gainsay that], we've agreed that I should pick up dinner. Having spent the last several hours at work fighting hunger pangs and the urge to punch people coming in with delicious-smelling food I realize that dinner is a must-get-fast deed tonight.
Let's face it, there's only so much of my bitter, bitter black coffee I can drink that will curb the beast that is my stomach.
By the time I've clocked out, my stomach is practically threatening to hire scary guido-types to kneecap me if I don't get some damn dinner already. I know I could walk the half-block from our building to McDonald's [don't judge], but as 1) it's cold and raining, 2) I intend to get a decent amount of food and 3) I don't want to carry our hot dinner back to my car through the cold rain [and my aforementioned loathing of exercise] I opt to drive.
Of course my driver's side window once again doesn't work so walking into the lobby is my only option [well, cooking some random assortment of pantry-items is another ... but, no]. So, it is with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart (and possibly my stomach, too) that I pull up, park and begin to get out of my car.
And that's when it happened ...
I heard it as if it were in one of those Riddley Scott/Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Drag-Queen-style slow-mo scenes.
The sound I hadn't heard since I was a child in the late 80's when I would climb trees in sweatpants.
The sound every grown adult with any awareness of their expanding ass fears:
*SHRRIIIIPPPPPP!*
As I extend my left leg out of the car my pants decided that they've had enough: the fabric slicing cleanly apart mid-thigh in what looks like a run-in with Freddie Kreuger. I've gained enough weight that my thighs have decided to slasher-flick (literally) my pants - this is awful.
I'm embarrassed.
I'm chagrined.
I'm devastated [these are adorable American Eagle slacks from 2007 which make my legs look long and lean].
I'm ... still hungry and there is zilch chance I'm gonna be able to go through the drive-thru.
Gathering my dignity (and my pants-leg), I boldly step out of the car and into the lobby; I queue up and wait through the annoying hipster teenagers [Kids: it's 11:30 on a Thursday night - there has GOT to be somewhere more interesting than a McDonald's to hang out at] vacillate between McFrappy-crappy drinks and "I don't know - what do you think?" vapidity as I stand there and weigh [heh] whether to try pseudo-healthy or our tasty stand-by ...
All of this - from the awareness of my stomach's hold over me to my standing-in-public-with-shredded-pants - makes me pause and ask: *Am I happy and comfortable with my weight gain? *Am I ashamed or dismayed that I am no longer the twig-thin and "size-small t-shirt thank you" person I was from my mid-20's through early-30's? *Am I happy with myself?
By the time it's my turn [finally] I confidently lean forward and order - who cares if a little bit of leg shows? It's a ruddy McDonald's for crying out loud.
..............................
Also? Yes, I will have apple pie to go with our double quarter pounder meals, thank you. Because pie? Is never wrong. And I am okay with me.
[ For an awesome update on Jen Lancaster, check out the fantastic podcast interview "The Big Questions" from Oct 24th, 2014: INTERVIEW HERE]
Love: -Lifts us up where we belong. -Will keep us together. -Is a many splendoured thing ... even when it's brought into the harsh and unflattering light of everyday reality.
Marriage is, indeed, what bwings us togevver [thank you The Princess Bride for that most awesome of wedding scenes]. Whether you're getting married in the conventional sense [SQUEE!!!!! APRIL 2015!] or living in sin with a safety pin waiting for him to put a ring on it, marriage is the true-bonding of a household.
Having found the man I intend to spend the rest of my life with a whiles back, we decided to move in together last summer and began what could - charitably - be called "a f#@king insane" amount of packing and merging: You see, we're both consumate packrats [read: not quite hoarders, as we only have the one cat who is quite alive and not squished under a box somewhere, thank you ] who've yet to meet a vintage action figure, series of humor/sci-fi/fantasy novels or X-Mencomic book we didn't like.
We lived to tell the tale despite having enough boxes to fill a warehouse and being the stereotypical idiots who decided to RENOVATE the apartment while we were in the process of moving in [why yes, I realize the irony of me mocking and calling the people on Property Brothers who go through the same thing "wussies"]). Thus we ended up with what is affectionately called "Comic/Bookstore Geek Chic" for our place. Warm greys and blues accenting off-white/"antique-bone" cabinetry; aqua/teal love seat and small cerulean wingback chair and comic books, 'geek' posters and action figures as our tchotchkes help the whole apartment feel cohesive and ... well ... "us".
Of course, getting there was only half the battle ...
................................................
"Chores? I'm so thrilled I could scream ... oh, wait ..."
You see, despite our being 'the same person', John (my loving boyfriend fiance) and I had a few differing opinions on things when it comes to what makes a household run. And, thus the war was born on multiple fronts and a sweeping conclusion had to come ... Win or lose, the battle was chosen.
Over Vs Under: the toilet paper siege
I don't know about you, but there is only one PROPER way for toilet papr to hang: OVER, so that a simple tug will provide you with endless bounty of soft tp instead of requiring you to do the hand-crawl-of-awkwardness as you search and grope for that elusive edge so you don't end up that miserable "Not a Square to Spare" victim [Hrmm, look at that - 2 Seinfeld jokes in just as many articles; what's up with that?]. This battle can also spread to the paper towels and will spoil any goodwill in the kitchen if you don't catch it in time.
Socks: the vicious enemy of the dryer
We both are veterans of doing our own laundry [admittedly, if I could have someone else do it for me before - namely my saintly Mum - I fully took advantage; BAD Benjamin! BAD Benjamin!] and neither is a stranger to the drudgery of hauling our baskets from bedroom to washer/dryer, thankfully, now my machines are not coin-operated and this is spoiling me rotten ... and yet, we still found a conflict: socks. I won't say which of us was the offender [both], but one of the singularly most irritating things I've discovered in the world is having to unroll wet socks so that they are not bunched-up or inside out (to dry more evenly).
Inside the sink or beside it: When dishes clash and clutter
No matter who I've lived with in the past, friend or family, no one has come to a consensus of where and how long it is socially acceptable to leave dirty dishes. In the sink? Beside the sink? For a few minutes? Hours? Days? Early on in our relationship a friend told John the secret to getting me to do dishes: make me angry/pick a fight. [Apparently I only get into the dish-washing zone when I'm pissed off; weird.] Neither one of us has been consistent in this - both occasionally light-heartedly mocking the other for leaving a pile in one such place or the other.
This battle is a draw - you could say we both win, but since this involves washing dishes let's be honest, nobody does.
I am insanely competetive when it comes to board games like Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly and Mad Gab. 'Nuff said.
My thoughts at the beginning of any board game ...
...............................................
At the end of the day and the small battles - win or lose - I am happy to lean back and muse: for love and marriage; for better and for worse my life and his are tied together forever ... and I? Am very okay with this.
THAT ONE TIME I EMBARRASSED MY BOYFRIENDFIANCE IN PUBLIC
[okay, so it's happened more than once ... I'm allowed SOME creative licensing occasionally]
Benjamin Kissell
Go ahead and raise your hand if you've never been the one causing your boyfriend fiance's friends to ask "What the f#@k is he doing with him?" ... put your hands down, I know you're lying.
Move over Laurie Notaro and Jen Lancaster - my favorite reigning queens of "Well, shit; I shouldn't have said that in front of your coworker/colleague/friend/boss/classmate/whatever" - and make room for someone new to join you in the "Fuck; did I really just say that?" Club. Hell, I think I should take a center seat ... or at least a nice plush one to recline in as I recover from the mortification that my very big, very loud, very persistent mouth got me into recently. Perhaps with some chocolate and a hot compress?
I have a big mouth - this I know - which is locked, loaded and apparently a hair trigger on an itchy trigger finger.
It's bad enough when you get yourself into trouble/awkward situations/mute staring contests when your mouth goes on autopilot and Verbal Diarrhea is produced [i.e. the inability to shut the fuck up and ERMEHGERDD STOP THE WERD FLOW ALREADY!]; but when your verbosity causes ripples in the fabric of reality impacting those around you? Well, it gets dicey. And when the one impacted the most is the one who's promising to stand up in front of God, your friends and family and probably more than a few protesters to begin a life together? Yeah. It's a whole new level of Oops I Crapped My Pants-isms.
My mouth is not unknown to cause these issues - one could say it's a condition which has plagued me since I made the unnerving mistake to open it and talk (back). My family was made aware of this situation early on and friends have experienced the occasional social setbacks when I blurt out something that might cause even the most Peter Griffin-esque person to reconsider the need for a verbal filter [for example: despite being about a decade in the past, I am NEVER living down meeting my best friend's Buddhist temple leader and lamenting losing my place to my ex as 'the most popular date in town' within a five-minute period. NEVER].
Let's rewind the scene to where the amazingly patient victim [i.e. my boyfriend fiance] was completely sideblinded despite being patently aware of who he's marrying [you know, the guy whose mouth has been off-and-running since the mid-1980's].
In short: I blame low blood sugar, lack of sleep and a natural propensity for a constantly running mouth on the following experience. I blame Red Barron for everything else.
"What an idiot!" If what follows causes you to shun me in shame ... well, you're probably not alone.
If the appropriate music for the situation could be piped through the tinny and gawdd-awful speaker-system which courses through the veins of Wal-Mart it would be the Muzak equivalent of the Jaws theme.
My innocent and loving boyfriend fiance and I were doing the shopping tango; alternating between what we affectionately call the "Wonderland of Crap" side (where all of the stuff we actually need is located and often hidden behind open pallet jacks and annoying Wal-Mart shoppers who don't understand the concept of MOVE ALREADY YOU CREEPY OLD BRAIN-FRIED METH HEAD IN NEON JEGGINGS) and the Produce/Groceries side (where we usually end the trip) when the first notes of the dreaded music should have flared.
Duh Duh.
Duh Duh.
Coming off of my third week in a row vacillating between overnight and mid-day shifts back-to-back-to-back and getting little-to-no sleep (and even less consistent food intake) my internal monologue filter was stripped to 'Well, maybe they won't hear me and even if they do, so what - I'm muttering' which is never a good sign. When an incredibly rude jackass pulled his cart out in front of us, cutting us off and almost causing the cart's handle to embed itself in my solar plexis, I stopped myself from slipping off my boot and tossing it at his head. Barely.
"mumble mutter mutter dark statement mumble mutter"
"Honey, what'd you say?"
"Nothing, mumble mutter mutter mutter"
This scene quickly mimicked itself several more times with increasingly snarky mumbling on my part by the time we'd meandered through the all-too-minimal dvd selection - [come on guys, enough re-packaged Rob Schneider flicks; they weren't worth paying to see in theatres and they aren't worth the cost of the $5 Discount Bin sticker you just slapped on them, either]. My stream-of-consciousness commentary and our debates on what to get/put back/not even reach for were shaving down to almost monosyllabic commentary at this point. To salvage our afternoon and good moods, we would have to finish the shopping toute sweet. And that? Meant a harried and hurried run through the grocery section grabbing whichever scented room spray caught my eye [Fresh Linen EVERY TIME NO EXCUSES], whichever brand of cat food we could grab and lift [Meow Mix, 20lb bag of indoor cat formula for Bitch Pudding] and pushing whichever off-brand of House Made Oreos, honey buns, imitation crab meet, soy/almond/lactose free milk and non-red dye #5 powdered drink mix we could get our hands on into the cart.
Duh Duh. Duh Duh.
Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh.
We were wending our way through the frozen foods section ogling our potential pizza purchases [why yes, frozen pizza is a staple in any household I choose to live in] when the water went dark with chum and the sleek silouhette dove under the unsuspecting victims.
My poor doomed boyfriend fiance looked up from our heated debate on which (and how many of each) Red Barron Pizzas we should just "toss in the damn cart already" and caught the eye of a striking middle-50's housewife a good head shorter than me. A more suspicious [read: less secure] person would wonder why they both beamed at one another before launching themselves into an animated and earnest conversation.
"What are you doing on this end of town? I thought they had you chained back at the store?"
"Occassionally I gnaw my foot off at the ankle and break free."
A polite chuckle ensues from both.
Ahh - of course! The fact that my boyfriend fiance is a well-liked and rather popular guy at his work neatly explains this. I begin to tune out after my attempted rejoinder falls on not only deaf ears, but possibly muted faces (I'm sure she was only being funny when she rolled her eyes, right?). Of course being as that I was only half-listening due to my intense focus on pizza [I want this goddamn pizzaalready] my strictest attention to the verbal banter wasn't exercised and possibly missed a joke or three between them when I interjected.
I cannot quite fully explain what happens next as my memory of what happened is hazy and blurred. When I come to, I found out it was a feeding frenzy full of bloodied water, bruised ego and - from eye-witness accounts [the harangued and now quite shell-shocked boyfriend fiance] - full on Verbal Diarrhea explosion worthy of any 24/7 news channel around-the-clock special as I spontaneously segue from normal, if not mildly introverted and exhausted Benjamin into ... wait for it ... Persistant Seller Man.
It seems the phrase "speaking of which ..." is now banned from my vocabulary as I attempted to steamroll into their conversation with this ominous segue change not once, but twice. Used car salesmen don't have the fanaticism I seemed to possess as I slipped into the waters and went for conversation-blood. Between the "not enough food in my system or caffeine" and "too many work-hours" my exhausted brain went right over the edge of what is appropriately lengthy and approachable conversation and right into "dude, not to sound all judge-y, but does he need medication or what?" depths. She was a leggy blonde all alone on a midnight swim - completely doomed.
"Speaking of which ... have you tried the Red Barron's Nacho Pizza? Because the Red Barron's Nacho Pizza is beyond amazing. It's like the best spicy nacho you ever had ... but better because it's freaking pizza! Look how cheap it is - I mean, you could get two of these for the same price as a Digiorno's! Here - let me grab one for you and you can switch it out!" Between my rounds of extolling the brilliance of such a culinary experiment, her protestations of fitting into her dance girdle and the possibly manic look to my eyes the middle-50's housewife made an abrupt and surprisingly courteous departure.
What was probably running through my wonderfully loving and patient boyfriend fiance's head as I embarassed his poor ass.
To say that my future husband was a bit off-put by this encounter would be an understatement of epic proportions. He was flabbergasted and - to be honest - a little mortified. This was one of his semi-regular customers and the likelihood of his seeing her repeatedly in the near future was ... um ... certain. I'm sure a thousand excuses played in his mind on how he would write this off [foremost among them would likely be that I was indeed out of some much-needed ADHD medication]. Here he had been assuming I was his nice, normal [okay, demi-normal?] boyfriend with whom he lived and shared a cat and instead? I was apparently a stark raving nutter on the payroll of Red Barron Pizza. [Look, I'm not saying I'd never purposefully promote something or shill for a product - I'm only human ... I'm just saying that if I did, well, I'd be honest about it from the get-go and it'd be for something more impressive than pizza.] The drive home was tense as I tried to find the words to adequately explain what had happened and to sufficiently apologize for the carnage wrecked.
Low Blood Sugar? True - I'd eaten maybe one meal in the last 36 hours.
Exhaustion? Also true - I'd slept a cumulitive 8 hours over the last 48.
I'm possibly batshit crazy with a side of Running Off At the Mouth Syndrome which puts the floodgates of your standard Verbal Diarrhea victim in the shade - both of which come firmly from my mildly-insane family? Let's face it ... that's pretty accurate.
So, I said the only thing I could: "I'm so sorry" because I was and am. I love my boyfriend fiance and cannot wait to celebrate our union ... even if he has to pretend I'm Lucy, Jeannie, Samantha or any one of the bajillion sort-of-embarassing-home-situation 50's and 60's sitcom housewives the husbands always seemed nervous to bring company home to.
Thankfully, he loves me beyond the pale and seems to have accepted this new revelation of batshit crazy with a wink-of-the-eye and a wry sense of humor. Proof positive? He began more than a few jokes over the last week with "Speaking of which ...". Between his loving laughter and my own sense of self-effacing humor we were back to normal swiftly [for which I'm eternally grateful].
Lesson learned - I have GOT to get a handle on this running-off-at-the-mouth thing ... and I will. At least, I intend to at least work on it and possibly keep a candy bar and/or coffee in my man-purse at all times to best avoid this Snickers Commercial-level of insanity again.
But, never ever forget: the genius of Red Barron Nacho Pizza is not to be denied.
How does one end up living with a self-absorbed, malcontent who callously walks all over you constantly and ambles through your every day absent-mindedly destroying your things? Well, if you're anything like me ... it's because you've brought the world's biggest asshole into your life.
That's right, I adopted the surliest (sometimes sweetest), most psychotic bitter cat of them all: Bridget a.k.a. "Bitch Pudding". [Even as I type this, I can hear her batting around her favorite toy in the living room - NOT one from the expensive bag of cat goodies we bought her for Christmas this year. Oh no no that would be too normal for my cat. No, instead she plays with a balled up wad of computer typing paper worth approximately .02 cents.]
Readers may recall her debut whilst upchucking all over the carpet as I was attemting my first-pass at hosting a family get-together [for the full introduction check out "Gobble Tov"] last year. Suffice it to say, that was not the first (nor the last) time that she has awoken either my loving boyfriend [shit, there I go again ... I mean fiance] or my ass to sounds of horror. She is also just as happy to wake us up to her heavy, awkward gait as she hops onto the bed and walks ACROSS OUR FACES to sit her happy butt on the pillow right above our heads so she can sit and stare out of the large windows which serve as our headboard.
Bridget "Bitch Pudding" Lee-Kissell (sometimes affectionately called 'Milk Jug') came into my life a little more than a year ago; in the last week of March, 2013. I had been dating John for a little over 3 months and we had only just recently dropped the "L" bomb, begun staying at each other's apartments overnight and all of that wonderful stuff. Our relationship was new and still baby-soft.
So, of course, it was the perfect time to add a new, unknown, variable into the mix.
I worked mornings in a hotel which allowed for great freedom and flexibility to my evenings [YAY! Dates!!!] and, to be honest, didn't hurt my purse-strings, either. Being that we were pet-friendly we attracted a lot of the more interesting folk [read: batshit crazy but in a usually harmless way] - who had some cool [adorable puppies] and some freaky [what's up with birds as pets, people? They stink and sqwawk] pets. That day, a kindly gentleman with the most twee adorable Dachshund checked in a few hours earlier than our normal time and went straight to his room.
A few minutes later my phone rang at the front desk.
Me: Thank you for calling the Front Desk, this is Benjamin, how may I assist you?
Guest With Problem: Hello, I just checked into my room.
Me: Yes, sir; what may I do for you?
GWP: I know that this is a pet-friendly hotel, but, I didn't know that the room came with a pet.
Me: >stunned silence< Huh?
GWP: I just walked into the bedroom side and there's a small cat curled up on the pillow.
Me: >still in shock< Um, I'll send one of my girls right by to pick it up - my apologies! I haven't the foggiest of how that could have happened! I'm so very, very sorry!
And, honestly, I didn't how - the only logical explanations that sprang to mind were 1) that our Housekeepers often will leave the doors open as they're finishing a room up and the cat could have gotten in that way for a quick nap as cats are wont to do ... or 2) that a guest from the night before had accidentally left behind their pet.
Visions of Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey in my head I waited for Conseuala [yes, my hotel had a completely Hispanic Housekeeping Staff ... just like every stereotype; and just like the stereotypes they spoke little-to-no English] to come to the desk with the errant feline.
The emaciated and woe-begotten cat whose gaze met mine when she came in bespoke a not-terribly-happy recent time. Her face had a scratch, her look was haunted, her stomach sounded empty and she was nervous and skittish. Despite her having a bright pink collar (with stains and dirt smudges) on, there was no name or identification on her tag. I called the phone number of the guests who had stayed in the room the night before - and subsequently the rooms around it - to no avail: no one remembered the cat.
Having no other better recourse - and thankfully my GM was a cat-person [despite his being a complete and total asshat in every other regard] - we decided to set up a small home for this wayward soul in our back office. She would be our mascot. Our little spirit animal. Our patronus.
Unfortunately after a few days, despite her losing her rheumy-eye-gaze and getting a healthier stance, her front legs were still wobbly [and still are to this day; the top two theories are in-breeding creating weak legs or that in her life-bef0re-me/us Bridget had had them damaged in a situation] and her attitude towards people-in-general was still ... um ... not pleasant shall we say. Despite her affection towards my GM and myself (aforementioned cat people) she was skittish and downright aggressive towards the rest of the staff.
The dozens of phone calls and web-searches I made for the local animal shelters, hospices and foster/half-way homes met resistance and no luck. I'm not going to name names, but ONE PARTICULAR PERSON BOUNCED ME AROUND FOR A MONTH AND A HALF PROMISING TO FIND HER A HOME AND TAKE CARE OF HER. [I'm genuinely not bitter for the way it turned out, I love my cat, but do. not. lie. to me.] True, there was room at the local city shelter but they were NOT a No-Kill Shelter and - to be honest - I had already begun to fall in love with the little ginger-colored cat and the idea of her being in a shelter only to be gassed when no one chose her clawed at my insides.
So, I made the fateful decision - after I spoke it over with John, of course; we agreed that I would bring the cat home with me after work one night and we would set up space in my bedroom [at the time I lived in an apartment with two roommates and two other cats] as an ad-hoc home for her until we figured out a better solution.
I can haz all your carpets, yes.
April through September saw our relationship strengthen and our bond over our furry adopted demonspawn grow. We both fell in love with her - although it took her a few days after the transition to stop hiding under my bed and her comfort enough so that so we could play with her, showing said affection with the newly-minted Bridget (named for her brilliant green eyes and beautiful ginger coloring).
[NOTE: regarding her eyes ... Bridget has very unsettling eyes. Sometimes they are the gorgeous classic cat eyes and sometimes? Well, do you remember the creep-tastic freaky Orc eyes from the Lord of the Rings movies? Yeah. Those. When she gets her 'Orc Eyes' going it's best to just back off and let her be. Of course, sometimes I forget this and then get a sharp reminder of why.]
When we moved in together in October one of the first orders of business was in-choosing how and where in the apartment we'd set up Bridget's things. Of course, where we chose and where she wanted them were in two different spots.
World's sulkiest cat upon the world's gayest bed [so nicknamed by my boyfriend fiance]
Bridget earned her subriquet "Bitch Pudding" one early summer evening when she began to socialize and roam around my old room; she has the unerring ability to not-give-a-fuck wherever she walks [personally, I think moreso than your average cat] and due to her wobble is a tad uncoordinated when she does so and ... well ... is at times a bit clumsy. So when she hopped up from my bed and onto the small shelf underneath the windowsill summarily knocking down the ceramic cup on the edge, she caused John to giggle and say "Dah Dah Dah Daaaah!".
And a nickname was born.
We began calling her "Milk Jug" after we moved into our apartment as, one evening, we came home and saw her sitting on the stairs. From behind, her silhouette was a perfect one-gallon milk jug; and when she slowly tromped her way down the stairs [I have a tendency to coddle pets and perhaps come-close-to-overfeeding them in shows of affection] it was one of the most adorably comic sights either John or I had seen. Imagine a furry milk jug slowly sliding down a flight of stairs. Her look of affrontery when she paused on the landing to look up at us laughing was pure spite. It was precious.
BP standard spite-face
Occasionally, her affection comes out in weird acts; for example, one evening she seemed to be trying to smother John ...
Of course, one should never forget that this milk jug? Has claws. An oversight on my part when one night after a particularly trying day at work I played with Bridget on the carpet and John sat making art on the sofa [have I mentioned what a brilliant artist he is? Because he is]. BP and I sat facing each other and playing with her favorite toy - the balled up wad of typing paper; batting it back and forth to each other. Now, normally I am not one who is wholly susceptible to peer pressure [shut up folks in the peanut gallery, let us pretend 1986-2000 didn't happen in that regard, okay?] but, I am amenable to ideas and suggestions from my dear and wonderful boyfriend fiance.
John began giggling as I kept calling her "Milk Jug" and soon he began wondering if she would make the weird hollow sound you get when you blow into a jug. I didn't think twice before leaning over to my fuzzy little chub-chub to test this theory. My cat who I snuggle constantly with. My cat whose drool I wipe off when she falls asleep on my chest/legs/wherever. My cat whom I love and loves me. My cat that I just leaned forward and blew in her face.
My cat who until 2 seconds ago was adorably purring as we batted her toy together.
My cat who has suddenly morphed into a Cold War-era Soviet Secret Agent swifter than if I said the code word over the phone.
My cat who has suddenly sat back onto her haunches and sprung her front paws out neatly boxing both of my ears. Which are suddenly ringing from the shock of it. Unbeknownst to me I have myself a Kung Fu Kitty.
Sometimes, despite how much affection she enjoys, I tend to overdo it (in the words of my loving boyfriend fiance I "Elmyra" her [and if you need an explanation, look it up. Think 1980's-1990's kiddos]. And others? Bridget is a stubborn little bitch for no discernable reason - those times we use the most obvious answer: Cat.
Dear BP, your daddies love you [we really do, even your daddy who got saddled with you because he's marrying me] - your soft fur, that contented purring you do when we nuzzle you under the chin even the way you bread-dough-knead us in the chest when you're happy and all that jazz - but when you express your tender affection for us by tenderizing the flank steak known as my hand/thigh/whichever-is-nearest to your maw with your sharp-blood-honed fangs, well, don't be surprised when I soak you with my handy-dandy water bottle.
Which is filled with love ... and water.
Also? You're one smug and self-centered little fuck ... okay, I know you're a cat and all, but you're pretty damn self-centered even for your average cat.
CARRIE BRADSHAW AIN'T THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN [a.k.a. that article I trot out every few years to show I'm not a knock-off Sex And the City writer; proving it when I toss you a purposefully SATC article to show you the difference in my voice, tone and ... man, this is a long title, isn't it?]
Benjamin Kissell
"I don't know about you girls, but I can't fathom what I was thinking looking back at those outfits from seasons 1-4." "Yeah you do - we were being paid to be walking mannequins, Kim."
In my early 20's, there wasn't a cheap fad, fashionably chic course or retro neuveau tack I didn't try to stay ahead of and yet, it somehow wasn't UNTIL my very early 20's that I finally landed on the bandwagon that the ENTIRE FREAKING WORLD had been latched onto [like a hipster in skinny jeans latches onto his organically-grown coffee] - I found my love for Sex and the City and became one of the herd. And it was fun.
Don't get me wrong, I'd heard about it before then - its popularity had been as ubiquitous as the heretofore mentioned hipsters in skinny jeans are now [seriously, walk down a sidewalk or through your local mall and count them up ... you'll thank me - or be so depressed you down half a box of wine (white, not red you heathen)], however, despite its popularity I hadn't discovered how SATC related to me. True, I was a mildly-fashion-conscious gay man living in a large small-town (or a small large-town, whichever you prefer), but whenever Sarah Jessica Parker and her emaciated frame showed up on my television screen shilling for HBO's newest season of bobbleheads I took a 'Not me' stance.
That is, until I made the fateful mistake that haunted my mother for weeks afterward ... I caught the first mini-marathon when TBS began airing it [I may have subjected her to a viewing of the entire first season when I ran out and bought it on dvd the next day ... 8+ years later and I'm not sure if she's forgiven me yet].
By 2008 and the release of the first SATC movie, I already owned 5 out of 6 seasons, had a myriad of pink and high heel-themed accoutrements and had discovered a love of all things chick lit [of course, for the last part I really can lay that at the feet of Jen Lancaster, but that's another article]. I was a gay man hooked. I had a sickness and I had also discovered my love of writing in the similar dating vein as the fictional Bradshaw and her real-life counterpart (and creator) Candace Bushnell.
My humor posts about my dating life (the ups and downs) on various pages [okay, mostly my rotating Myspace pages ... don't judge me, 'twas 2005-8 when it was still slightly popular] had garnered me a slew of fans and, of course, more than the occasional comparison to Bradshaw and Bushnell. In an effort to show how different my voice was from the SATC vibe, and in celebration of the release of the film, I penned an article where I took on the role of Carrie Bradshaw in my own little community.
That article is what follows, please enjoy ... and if you don't? Well, who forced you to read it?! Oh, I did? Well, still. Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride anyways.
..........................
"If I pose awkwardly in designer couture, no one will be able to tell I've been starving the entire production and would happily gnaw off the knee of the nearest Grip. Right?"
Cue the “dah, dah dah, dah dahdahdah dah …"
Fredericksburg
is a moderate city, in the picturesque riverside of the Rappahannock,
and in that city, there are thousands and thousands of single people,
all colliding in an attempt to find themselves and that “special one” they can call their own.
On
any given day, there are several hundred thousand stories going on in The City which sometimes dozes in the sun, but here we'll focus on 4 friends; 4 single ‘girls’ who just want to
make it through the day and have some fun – because girls do just wanna
have fun.
Today is a Tuesday evening and a light rain is falling
upon The City, but this doesn’t deter any of the twig-like
overly-made-up and designer-dressed girls and their friends from speeding around the area,
walking in knock-off labels and shopping the high-end stores while they totter on stalactite heels which promise future crippling.
It's on this kind of evening that these 4 friends – me and mine – decide to
meet up at our favorite restaurant and around the table our day’s
events are re-capped and gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Where we have
no qualms about our ‘kiss and tell’ stories.
.........................
Outside of
downtown lives and works Sarah, who speeds past obstacles and itinerant drivers in her stylized green sedan:
confident, stylish, a sexy brunette, she works by day in the financial
district doing banking work. Recently 21, she is the kind of confident and curvy woman that men throw themselves at and many female
co-workers eye with envy. She lives with her best friend and close
confidant, Johnny, but still finds time for her work, close
“girlfriends” and yet, more time to work her way through college while shopping like there's no tomorrow.
Past downtown, in the western suburbs we find Christany winding her way in her black pick-up truck: vivacious, energetic, larger than life, Christany is the sort of
petite blonde bombshell not seen since the days of Marilyn and Mansfield. She
may be the youngest of our group, at 19, but, don't let that fool you,
she is full of spitfire energy and wisdom, her firm convictions lend
themselves to her stalwart character and a bright future. She works in
the private sector, in her family-held company. Many have mistakenly
assumed that the earnestness and baby-blue sweetness of Christany means
she is lacking in worldly knowledge – a big mistake. Just because she
lives by the credo “a ring and a priest” doesn’t mean, she is naïve.
While
across and from uptown, Nate drives by in his smart and sensible blue compact car:
smart, kind, caring, long-minded and stalwart, at 22 he is the most
successful of our group, working deep in the corporate sector. Tall, at
6’2, his dirty blond locks, short-cut of course, are accented by his
deep blue eye, he gains and garners appreciative looks from men like a
Park Avenue Socialite collects shoes. Much like Christany, he has enough
confidence in him to light up the city, allowing others to bask in his
brilliance. Quick witted, Nate has often been the comic center of
whatever group he is in, and if there isn’t one, he draws it to him.
And
then, there’s me, Benjamin, driving from the outlying northern 'burbs to the chic bistro in my classic clunker – a powdery blue
sub-compact: at 24, almost 25, I am the oldest of our group, having seen
a sometimes-too-much of the world and yet remaining so sheltered that I almost naively
hold onto optimism (an oft-dangerous quality, or at least a
get-me-into-a-bad-situation trait). In the 7+ years I’ve been dating, I've seen so much; yet, it’s but a drop in the bucket to the drama and man-troubles available to us. At almost 5’11
(a solid 6 foot with gelled hair and couture shoes) I attract a
moderate amount of attention from men … some good, some bad, and many just plain funny.
We meet up, I arrive last, at
our usual dining spot. Having just missed Sarah (I wave at her as she
drives past me in the parking lot, called back to work without a cocktail to sooth her), I sit next to Nate in the booth.
Sidling in, I reach for the drink menu as a new and different waitress
leans in and joins our conversation in a welcome manner, enjoying the
banter. Giving her my ID, I decide to order a Cosmo, in honor of the
day, and I lean in for the commentary from my girls.
Christany,
it seems, is in-between assignations with the company, having finished a
job earlier in the evening, she is waiting for the call to head to the
next. Like is often the case, she and Nate engage each other in fierce
(but non-combative) conversation, debating everything from the case of
“nature vs. nurture” to religion. Tonight isn’t any different.
The
waitress arrives with my heavily vodka-laced pink drink, which burns pleasantly on the way down giving me a warm glow on this rain-drippy evening.
Realizing I don’t want to drive drunk – well, mildly intoxicated – I
decided to pick up an entree of “loaded potato skins” to help stave off
the effects.
While we talk and gab, Nate and Christany
trading quips and smart barbs, I fill them in on my day at work,
mentioning that after leaving retail-hell, I met up with my other friend
(the gorgeous brunette, Christine) at the movies, where we shared
popcorn, soda, and a love for the girls of “Sex and the City” (me,
appropriately decked out in pink and chic). As we chat, we also keep an
eye on the inhabitants of the bar, and even note a well-muscled young
man who brushed past us as he made his way back to the bathroom and
returned to the bar. Christany, as the least subtle of us (a feat Nate
closely follows her in and I am fast gaining on), has made mention of
his “gawgeous ass”, to which I reply in a not-too-hushed “mmm”, while I
bend my head in his direction.
Men-watching, intense
conversation, drinks and fun are our norm, and with the weather turning
mildly on us, we are not surprised when Christany receives the call to
head to her next job. Getting the checks, we pay and turn to leave.
And that is when Fredericksburg’s innate sense of humor comes to pass.
I
hug Christany, and as I turn to walk past – in my pink and grey finery, my hair not-quite-as-coiffed as I'd like –
I notice a familiar face dipped forward in conversation, one eye on
me, the other on his dinner partner. Like his hand.
My own most recent mistake. My Mr. Big.
It’s
been months - almost a year - since I cut him out of my life. Over nine
months since last I saw him. Apparently, The City decided I had a ticket for unclaimed emotional baggage that it wanted me to pick up.
Especially if I'm not having a good hair-day, asshole!
In shock, I said the first thing which came to mind: “Mother-fucking cocksucker”.
Hoping to slip away before I'm noticed, I turned to breeze past, tossing a goodbye wave to Christany and Nate. All hopes to gracefully exit the
restaurant before I caused a scene fled when I had to shove the doors open which caused the wind to catch my jacket and flip it open and into my face as my currently no-longer-gel-held hair whipped into something reminiscent of Something About Mary. Flushed with embarrassment, I realize that I'd shoved my feelings about
what had happened out of the way - zipping them closed in a Louis Vuitton suitcase which I'd been doing my best to forget where it'd been left - instead of dealing with and then getting past them.
Nate
calls these moments, 'Toldja So's' – because he usually has.
When I get home, I slough my finery in lieu of comfort-clothes and a knitted cap over the fly-away hair in my bedroom and soon find myself at my desk, staring blankly at the laptop
screen when I begin to wonder …
When we end something with someone, is
it really over? Or do they have to end it with you, too?
Can you present your ticket and release your emotional baggage with someone? Or do you both have to pick up your luggage to let it go? Does the unclaimed
emotional baggage just trail behind you; eventually
going unnoticed until it’s just a regular part of you
Deciding
not to let these questions go unanswered, I unblock Big’s screenname from
my Instant Messanger long enough to see that he was online. Hemming and hawing, I take a swig of my coffee and begin to type a direct and simple message.
Of course, he immediately responds.
Politely
engaging him in conversation for a few minutes from there I realize he
hasn’t changed at all: he's still a selfish and petty, self-centered
little boy in a grown man's body. He tells me all about the cute new guy he's been
seeing (the slim, effeminate boy with cashmere and express jeans he had
his hand on at dinner) - whether he thinks this will bond us or brag, I don't care to know.
It's clear that the baggage has been picked up and discarded on his end.
Deciding that the healthiest thing I can do is to end all contact between us on a clean and honest note, I decide to be blunt and tell him that I
know all about his cheating and the lying that he thought he'd hidden from me and that he needs to be more selective in his
trysts. And then I hit the 'Block' button and lean back in my desk chair.
As I sit there, my knees at my chin and my
computer screen glowing in front of me, I begin to glow in turn. Smiling
to myself, I feel the cold weight of the anger I’d been carrying around
since the end of me and Big lift off. My smile is genuine, for the
first time since his caustic words at the end of us I don’t
hate him.
I don’t want to avoid him, forget him or hate him. I just want to move past him.
Of course, this means Nate was right. Again.
In the end, though, we have to claim the emotional baggage - whether to keep it with us, or to hopefully let it go on its merry way and our part in packing it so heavily. Sometimes all we need is a little self-confidence and the temerity to go through with finding the answers.
That ... and some really good friends with cocktails.
"Welcome to the home of the babyback ribs, I'll be your waitress this evening and please do remember, 'tipping is not a city in China'."
I should have known better than to say 'yes' when he asked me out - my best friend had called dibs on the tall, auburn-haired 'boy-next-door' several weeks prior. I should have known it was 'too good to be true' when a guy relatively close to my age, with a job [sad that I have to state this ] asked me out.
I should have put two and two together when I was told he spent a lot of time on Grindr [I'm one of the five gays who isn't on there].
And I really should have taken the fact that he was besties with every. single. one. of the bar-hopping, drink-toting, skanky guys in-town I avoid like the plague. [Hi out there if you're one of the local gays reading this, I didn't mean you, I mean every other guy in your circle of friends.]
In short ... bitch should have just said "no".
His name was Dan, and being the fool that I am I accepted his friend-request on facebook and ... mortal sin that it was, said yes when he asked on a date.
True, part of the acceptance lay in the fact that the boy was cute as pie [and probably easier than kindergarten math] on top of my being date-less for nigh unto 5 months ...
Trust me, I am NOT nice when I've been attention starved.
I hemmed and hawed for three days, mulling over the implications of a first date - would he think I was too much? too forward? too loud? too gay? too old? too sexual? not sexual enough? etc etc etc - and the best-possible locations for it (throwing the what to wear dilemma to the back of my mind).
We both worked in shopping centers about a mile from one another and, through texts, agreed to meet at the Chili's up the hill for a first date; and we would go "Dutch". [For those of you born after 1990, that means you both pay your way. Thank you Women's Lib! Who pays is one of the most annoying questions in gay dating ... at least in my experience; it ranks right up there with how to tip the cute waiter and slip him your phone number without your date noticing.]
"Oh gawdd, what the flaming fuckball hell should I wear, Nate?! I don't have anything I look good in!" I practically wailed into the phone a mere 45 minutes before I was due to step out of my car at the restaurant.
Ignoring the shameless ploy for empty appeasing plattitudes, he sighed. "Just wear something flattering and simple." Pausing for emphasis, "but not something which draws attention to your crotch."
Tossing sweaters, aging Hollister/Hot Topic/Abercrombie & Fitch/Banana Republic/American Eagle tees [why yes, I deftly ignore the 'dress your age' decree] and shredded jeans into heaps on my bedroom floor, I plop down in my computer chair.
"Everything I own is either too young for me or too sexual ... or shit I wear to work."
"Well, yes, it probably is." [ouch] "But, there has to be something you can wear in there. What about your new brown cardigan?"
Ooh, I hadn't thought about that. I loves me some pseudo-preppy clothing. There's something about the frat boy meets geek chic look that has always felt right ... unfortunately, hipsters [and I does NOT loves me some hipsters] have ruined the joy in so much of what I wear. Assclaps.
Maybe if I layer the cardigan over a simple brown button-up collar and pair them with my flattering [and despite Nate's advice rather ... uhm, 'flattering' below the waistline] pinstripe jeans and oh-so-loved Calvin Klein dress shoes. Not too too, not too hipster-douchey, not too much.
Between Nate texting me off the ledge and my doing the too-tight-jeans-shimmy I soon found myself wedged into my decidedly perfect first date outfit and ready for the fireworks to start.
Okay, aside from the physical chemistry there are no fireworks.
A lackluster dinner [who the fuck's idea was it to come to Chili's? Can you name a restaurant that screams SEXY less? Aside from Waffle House, I can't] melded with lukewarm conversation.
Between his slow-to-build (so fucking slow-I-could-go-out-and-build-an-actual-mansion) stories and my Jerry Lewis-like nervous attempts to fill in the blanks [bullets are fired with less force than my quips] and not be super-obvious about undressing him with my eyes [and avoiding the actual act of undressing him with my hands at the dinnertable] conversation was stilted. Yet, sadly, I counted this as a success. He reached across the table and held my hand momentarily - and yes, I squealed on the inside.
Beside a chaste cheek kiss at our cars as the wind blew, we both played it cool as we made tentative plans for a second date.
Tossing my jacket and cardigan in the passenger seat, I drove over to give a blow-by-blow to Nate at work and figure out how best to proceed - eventually deciding [Nate's guiding hand] not to be overly eager and to leave the ball in his court.
Another four days after that he texted me - explaining he'd been "camping" with his family [yeah, mmhmm. My friends on Grindr swore that day in/day out he was a mere 3 miles away the whole time - friends, they'll look this shit up for you] and soon asked if I wanted to skip ahead of our next date and, instead, just hook-up.
On the one hand, do I seem so cheap that I'll toss out an adequate date for some quick sex? On the other, he is pretty damn cute [and easy, don't forget easy]. On one hand I'm pushing 30 and I really should be aiming for looking for depth and a relationship. On the other, he is pretty damn cute [and let's not forget, easier than twist-off lid.]
And on one hand, I'm better than that. *sigh*
Instead, I listened to that quiet, nagging voice [*cough* Nate's *cough*], said 'No' and deleted him from facebook and my cell.
YOU LOOK FAMILIAR (I guess I just didn't recognize you with your clothes on)
-Benjamin Kissell
"Say, have we met before? Your pleats look awfully familiar." "I don't think so; I'd remember a pipe like that."
“Hey, don’t I know you?”
This is the usual greeting I receive whenever I take a break from work, deadlines or boxed-wine-and-chocolate-cake-night-at-home-alone and find the time to show my face at the local bar – which is about once a month … or five. I’m familiar enough to elicit looks of recognition [and all-too-seldom appreciation] but, my irregularly-timed visits allow for some anonymity.
At least, that's the goal.
“It’s possible; I was here a couple weeks ago.”
“No, that’s not it. I know you from somewhere else, don’t I?”
The guy asking this is slurring his words through a haze of fetid cigar smoke [yuck] and really cheap beer [if one drinks please drink dark, expensive beer, okay? Or wine. Or nice, chilled vodka] and his already lazy eye is wandering towards the wall.
Lucky me.
Maybe he recognizes me from my tenure on the Board of Directors of the local Pride organization – I’d walked in the Christmas Parade and was omnipresent at several Pride In The Burg events. He could have seen my face anywhere downtown at any time. I’d love to say it’s from the photo attached to the byline on my occasional humor column.
But no.
“Didn’t you sleep with my best friend?”
And then there’s that.
The question I like the least when I plop my ass onto a seat.*sigh* Sadly, it happens more than I’d care to think on. ‘Didn’t you sleep with/date/hook-up with my best friend/roommate/brother?’
The results of a misspent youth [but oh-so narcissism building] being the sort who made Snooki or a Kardashian look positively chaste are that people have a set of assumptions when they recognize me from that period.
And, unfortunately [for them], I usually don't live up to the hype - happily choosing to be a homebody and no-longer-at-all-promiscuous-boy. [C'mon, my nickname was The Brian Kinney of Fredericksburg not exactly an endearment.]
Thanking Lazy Eye for the conversation [eyeroll], I pick up my drink and return to the table where my beautiful roommate Melanie and her friend are sittin in wait for the start of the Drag Show.
Turning around, I survey the crowd of about 48 men and women [gay men, fag-hags and lesbians] in the small bar's dim lighting and am greeted with four looks of recognition from various men seated throughout. Four sets of eyes roam from my probably-too-tight-jeans [I say flattering, you say camel foot] to my geek-chic glasses. Four men attempt to lock eyes with me. Four men who have seen me either fully naked or in various states thereabouts. Four men, in a crowd of less-than fifty who can answer that awkward question directly: 'didn't you sleep with/hook-up/date me?'
Not, what one could call a proud moment. And sadly, not the first time I've run into an ex ... but four at once? What is this a bad porn segue?
[Hi mom, I'm still a virgin and don't know what porn actually looks like ... ignore what this article says. Better yet, just stop reading it. 'Kay?]
So, it's a bad idea to be in a situation where a former date and your current/most recent will meet each other? Well, shitballs - there goes dating in a small town ... or community. -me talking with The Gay Dating Bureau
First is Oswald (Oz); we met on myspace and had several friends in common [anyone else miss the feature where you searched local gays? Anyone? Anyone? Just me?] including an ex-bf. We slept together on our second and third dates. Afterwards, we both pulled the 'whoops I lost your number' schtick on the other and didn't get around to talking again [tweeting each-other twice counts, right?] for the better part of the last 6 years.
Then there's Michel; an adorable twink with a bubble-butt you'd want to squeeze like your Bubbe squeezes those more appropriate cheeks. An emo [I thought they'd all morphed into Hipster douches], he spent the entire time we hung out at my work tossing his hair in that signature move that seems to come with the skinny jeans, eye-liner and knock-off-vintage tees that make up the uniform. Of course, when he followed me home [like the adorable puppy he is] I wasn't above rounding third base ['cos I'm classy like that].
With the exception of running into each other a few months back on facebook we've not spoken in the nearly two years since.
Of course there's That Guy Whose Name I Never Got. After a particularly traumatic dumping in 2009, I rebounded with "Oh yeah, I'm still hot - if you don't want me there are plenty of guys who do! Like this guy right here" and proceeded to make out with an attractive, slim-built guy in the middle of the bar's dance floor. After some well-placed bumping and grinding I slipped him my number [he tried to slip me tongue - I'm easy, but I'm not that easy] and never heard from him again - barely seeing him the occasional times I sauntered into the bar.
Bonus: he's here with Oz - they make an adorably sickeningly-sweet couple ... you could just gag! [I know I am]
And then there's my ex-bf, Saul. Somewhere between the stereotypical ginger and a ghost-pale brunette, his awkward uber-geekiness appealed to me - or maybe it was his inappropriate grabbing of my ass within 10 minutes of meeting [for which I returned the favor]. Either way, we started dating and had a lot of laughs. Of course, I was 23 to his barely-19 - an age difference which lent itself to financial arguments, family-centered fights and hot-headed debates like who was the better Darrin in Bewitched [I'm a Dick York kinda guy ... he was a Will Ferrell - can you see why we fought?].
We broke up that October - and by 'we broke up' I mean he sent me an e-mail declaring he 'wasn't in a place where [he] should be dating' before he began a relationship two weeks later. Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't admit we've had more sex since we broke up than the entire time we dated.
...........................................
As the four stare at me our little tableaux vivants paint themselves across their eyes .
Shit. Shitty. Shitballs.
I guess they do recognize me with my clothes on.
Nodding my head in their general direction - bonus of a small bar, everyone's in the same basic area - I set my glass down and join Melanie at the table, suddenly jealous of her being-a-hot-straight-woman-surrounded-by-uninterested-gay-men thing ... and enjoy the show.
[Insert witty description of a drag show: here. If you've seen one, good. If not, use your imagination.]
At intermision [Tuck'n'Smoke Break - a drag queen thing] I join the hostesses and performers outside and it isn't but a moment before Oz and That Guy Whose Name I Never Got [are they surgically attached?] sidle up to the group. Why yes, it was several minutes of awkward attempts at forced conversation and pointed un-aknowledgement.
I've heard of elephants in the room, but this was one of those bubble-tutu elephants from Fantasia.
After ducking several daggers thrown by That Guy's glare. (Did he and Oz compare notes?) I decided discretion is the better part of valor and in hopes to avoid a scene/maiming/bad threesome joke; I turn to return to the bar and that's when I felt it.
A distinct feeling.
A deep, soothing vibe throughout my right butt-cheek: My cell's vibrating. Being that I haven't changed my cell number since 2007 [lazy? You bet'cha] it shouldn't have been surprising that they had it still. Yet, I still cringed at the two texts:
Hey - cute ass. ;-) and You look 2 sexy :-D -Michel -Saul
Oi. You know what? This is just a bit too much for me - a little too intense if you know what I mean. To borrow a line from my former roommate, "I could deal with this, or I could get drunk".
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