I’m a 25 year old Utah woman with no husband, home, dog, child, or apron.
None of this ever feels negative until I’m thrust into the world of other women my age; women who’ve accomplished what I haven’t.; women who’ve risen to the call of Utah duty; women who have embraced their oh-so-natural and God given Domestic-ness.
I recently attended a bridal shower for one of my good friends. We hadn’t seen each other for years and she likely didn’t know I’d moved on past the one drunken summer we’d spent together but we loved each other nonetheless. She looked wonderful and it was an absolutely gorgeous shower full of gorgeous women and their gorgeous children. By gorgeous I mean perfect to the point of disgusting
I sat there in a circle of women as they talked of home décor, teething, and how to make giant decorative balls out of tissue paper. I might as well have been on mars. Occasionally they were friendly and asked me about my life and the things I did for fun and It probably would’ve been easier had they just left me to stare at the 9 different types of leafy greens in my salad because talking about the books I read wasn’t exactly thrilling conversation, sharing my latest escapade was far from appropriate, and I was fresh out of baking tips. So I took the safe route and talked of how busy I was with school and work…stimulating.
At one point we were allowed back into the kitchen for desert and I picked up the most immaculate cupcake I’d ever seen as well as a mini cupcake on a stick. The tiny little dessert on a pole was wrapped in cellophane and tied with a color coordinated bow. I suppose in some worlds it was a work of art. I sat back down, unwrapped my delicious treat, and spent 5 minutes trying to figure out how to get it off the stick and into my mouth without smearing it all over my face. Once accomplished, I leaned back and began enjoying my large human-sized cupcake. I was just finishing up the last crumb of better than sex chocolate when some girl squealed at how cute the miniature impaled baked goods were. She was literally cooing at her dessert and I looked around to see all the other women admiring this culinary handiwork. Even though everyone was holding an identical version, they still found it quite exhilarating to look at each other’s…as if one of them was bound to be different. The hosted took note of the encore request and began to describe how they were made. Mid story she looked over at me with genuine concern and asked me where mine had gone.
Confused I bluntly told her “I ate it.”
It had never occurred to me that these stupid cupcakes were meant for any fate other than being put in my mouth. Clearly I was out of place. She gave me a kind and almost pitiful look, gazing upon the chubby unmarried girl with mercy. I suppose I should’ve felt grateful but after another 15 minutes of listening to the hen’s talk of the irreplaceable value of the cookie scooper or family bloopers that involved silly husbands putting the “good” baking sheet in the dishwasher, I was ready to jam that stupid cupcake stick through my ear drum and into my dying brain.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
I am a child of God and you're a fuckface.
I wanted to punch him in the ladder day saint face. Here I sat, with a man I’d met over a year ago through an anonymous online forum after I’d posted an ad requesting that someone role play with me as my bishop. I’d always had a thing for authority figures and thought I’d try out the one that is creepily allowed to listen to all your dirty secrets. I never imagined that he was a practicing member or held any semblance legitimate faith. My bad.
By 13 years old I'd known that Jesus could not possibly love me. How could ANYONE love me when I couldn’t summon the willpower to keep my hand out of my own pants. I hadn’t even made it to high school and I was already a diehard masturbator destined to burn for all eternity. So I took my unworthy and self pleasuring soul down to my bishop’s office to unburden myself. There I sat, across from a white haired grandpa, sharing the secret of all secrets. I told him that it touched myself daily, that I had pornographic thoughts, and that the guilt was eating me alive. I had hoped that going through the motions would’ve eased the self loathing but all I thought was what I would’ve given to have his job
The only other time I saw him again was when I lost the privilege of toilet paper. At that time in my life I was not only carnal, I was also lazy. My mother on the other hand, was nuts. The final straw was the last time I’d chosen to not replace the toilet paper roll. I had used the last few sheets, leaned over to open a new roll and when finished, simply placed it on top of the old empty cardboard tube. I never fully understood what the big deal was especially since technically, the toilet paper was in the exact same spot. To mother it might as well have been the apocalypse. Because of my insidious act she proceeded to clear our entire house of all paper products. We no longer had access to toilet paper, paper towels, napkins, Kleenex or dryer sheets. Since we’d so clearly demonstrated a lack of respect for her home and her efforts to provide for us, it was her duty to remind us how much of a privilege toiletries truly were. So I did what any other paperless pre teen would do…I stole some from church.
Really though, can you blame me? It had been days that I’d been blotting myself with hand towels and waiting to shit until I got to school. I had gone to the church house for some weekly activity, seen that glorious, industrial sized roll of cleanliness…and ran. I actually took three of them and STILL thank the lord for making it home without anyone having seen me. I tip toed inside and hid them under my bed. Eventually I gave a roll to my sister and we carefully made pit stops in our rooms before heading to the bathroom.
Unfortunately another common punishment at the time would come about when we’d forget to do our dishes. Ma would proceed to hide those dishes under our beds in hopes that our rooms would start to stink. And so it happened after dinner one night that my sister and I worked to build a hut in our yard, BEFORE we’d done our dishes. I was collecting weeds for the roof and suddenly my mother came bolting out of the house with three almost full rolls of commercial toilet paper.
“FUCK!” I thought.
I could see the veins pulsating in her neck from 20 feet away. She seethed over to me but didn’t say a word. Silence was definitely much worse than watching those veins vibrate on her forehead while she screamed. I was terrified. I could picture being forced to wear the toilet paper to school or her deciding to accompany me to the bathroom from here on out. It never dawned on me that she might know where it had come from and to this day I don’t know how she figure it out in an instant but within moments we were walking up the stairs to church. I will never forget sitting in front of that white haired old man once more, he who knew where my hands had been, and being forced to confess my thievery. Luckily I saw his face twist in humor as my mother talked having worked to teach us a lesson. Part of me hope he now knew why I touched myself. As if crazy parents might warrant the need for a hedonistic escape.
Needless to say my experiences with this new bishop were much different. My first interview commenced under the fluorescent glow of dock lights as I parked my car behind a deserted loading ramp. He had been very upfront about his ability to discern whether or not I was lying and it took roughly 7 minutes of small talk before I’d lifted my skirt in repentance. I suppose his knowledge of Bishop-esque terminology should’ve tipped me off, but almost 14 months later I still sat speechless when he began to talk of his faith. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve always stood as a defender of everyone’s right to believe whatever they choose, but having been Mormon myself I KNOW that casual sex in a vacant parking lot is not part of the word of wisdom. Sexually utilizing the idea of repentance or the confessing of sins probably doesn't look any better but I still can't fathom someone legitimately finding truth in “the church” and still seeing nothing wrong with bending me over the hood of my SUV.
By 13 years old I'd known that Jesus could not possibly love me. How could ANYONE love me when I couldn’t summon the willpower to keep my hand out of my own pants. I hadn’t even made it to high school and I was already a diehard masturbator destined to burn for all eternity. So I took my unworthy and self pleasuring soul down to my bishop’s office to unburden myself. There I sat, across from a white haired grandpa, sharing the secret of all secrets. I told him that it touched myself daily, that I had pornographic thoughts, and that the guilt was eating me alive. I had hoped that going through the motions would’ve eased the self loathing but all I thought was what I would’ve given to have his job
The only other time I saw him again was when I lost the privilege of toilet paper. At that time in my life I was not only carnal, I was also lazy. My mother on the other hand, was nuts. The final straw was the last time I’d chosen to not replace the toilet paper roll. I had used the last few sheets, leaned over to open a new roll and when finished, simply placed it on top of the old empty cardboard tube. I never fully understood what the big deal was especially since technically, the toilet paper was in the exact same spot. To mother it might as well have been the apocalypse. Because of my insidious act she proceeded to clear our entire house of all paper products. We no longer had access to toilet paper, paper towels, napkins, Kleenex or dryer sheets. Since we’d so clearly demonstrated a lack of respect for her home and her efforts to provide for us, it was her duty to remind us how much of a privilege toiletries truly were. So I did what any other paperless pre teen would do…I stole some from church.
Really though, can you blame me? It had been days that I’d been blotting myself with hand towels and waiting to shit until I got to school. I had gone to the church house for some weekly activity, seen that glorious, industrial sized roll of cleanliness…and ran. I actually took three of them and STILL thank the lord for making it home without anyone having seen me. I tip toed inside and hid them under my bed. Eventually I gave a roll to my sister and we carefully made pit stops in our rooms before heading to the bathroom.
Unfortunately another common punishment at the time would come about when we’d forget to do our dishes. Ma would proceed to hide those dishes under our beds in hopes that our rooms would start to stink. And so it happened after dinner one night that my sister and I worked to build a hut in our yard, BEFORE we’d done our dishes. I was collecting weeds for the roof and suddenly my mother came bolting out of the house with three almost full rolls of commercial toilet paper.
“FUCK!” I thought.
I could see the veins pulsating in her neck from 20 feet away. She seethed over to me but didn’t say a word. Silence was definitely much worse than watching those veins vibrate on her forehead while she screamed. I was terrified. I could picture being forced to wear the toilet paper to school or her deciding to accompany me to the bathroom from here on out. It never dawned on me that she might know where it had come from and to this day I don’t know how she figure it out in an instant but within moments we were walking up the stairs to church. I will never forget sitting in front of that white haired old man once more, he who knew where my hands had been, and being forced to confess my thievery. Luckily I saw his face twist in humor as my mother talked having worked to teach us a lesson. Part of me hope he now knew why I touched myself. As if crazy parents might warrant the need for a hedonistic escape.
Needless to say my experiences with this new bishop were much different. My first interview commenced under the fluorescent glow of dock lights as I parked my car behind a deserted loading ramp. He had been very upfront about his ability to discern whether or not I was lying and it took roughly 7 minutes of small talk before I’d lifted my skirt in repentance. I suppose his knowledge of Bishop-esque terminology should’ve tipped me off, but almost 14 months later I still sat speechless when he began to talk of his faith. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve always stood as a defender of everyone’s right to believe whatever they choose, but having been Mormon myself I KNOW that casual sex in a vacant parking lot is not part of the word of wisdom. Sexually utilizing the idea of repentance or the confessing of sins probably doesn't look any better but I still can't fathom someone legitimately finding truth in “the church” and still seeing nothing wrong with bending me over the hood of my SUV.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Beinvenidos
When I was 9 years old I wrote a poem about the Pony Express. I'd seen a brick tower with a small brass plaque that talked about the dust and turmoil and the adventure of running mail across the country via horseback. It wasn't a great poem and it was slightly over dramatic, but it was mine. I enjoy the fact that it was one of the few times I've ever been able to rhyme unabashedly because at 9 years old even creating a line like "Away in a far desert land" made me feel invincible. I was taking my experience, however mundane, and turning it into an adventure. Translating the emotion and the intrigue that I felt into something tangible and transferable.
As an adult I deal with a wider of array of things "tangible and transferable", things like debt, blame, and sexually transmitted diseases. Through it all I've still held onto a copy of my "Pony Express" and my oddly intrinsic desire to air my dirty laundry to the world. I have a closet full of journals and legal pads that will take me just as many years to sort through. I have boxes full of words, quotes, and waiters numbers written on napkins, dollar bills, and even a gonorrhea pamphlet. I have roughly 16 email accounts full of written longings and dreams as well as solicitations for raunchy photos and dangerously casual sex. I've developed business plans and community programs. I've spent 25 awkward years trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing and I've written about it all.
Initially I dreamed of writing my own personal opus and sharing with the world all the deep and insightful Epiphanies I've had in my short life. I wanted to spread joy and inspiration to the everyone who picked up my book. I figured I'd censor my experiences and language and find a way to turn having crazy monkey sex on the hood of my car with a total stranger into a touching and lesson filled experience. I would fill the pages of a book with grandiose and unconventional accomplishments. I'd shout to the world of my power, my hopes, my altruistic endeavors and know that I was inspiring millions around the world to rise from their lazy boys and dive head first into life. I knew I would accomplish great things. I knew that I would touch the lives of millions around me in a way that would change them and the way they viewed the world themselves. I knew I was different.
What I didn't know at 9 years old was that "different" would translate into my charmingly neurotic, foul mouthed, occasionally tactless self. It's led to quite the dichotomy. Here I am, still as altruistic and idealistic as ever but with a new touch of sarcasm and a fairly sordid sexual past. I haven't accomplished anything earth shattering or world renowned. I've spent years working as a waitress, driving a shuttle bus, opening and then running away from legitimate entrepreneurship opportunities. I've done little more than master the art of observation and the ability to suck the lesson out every man, mistake, and accomplishment I come in contact with.
Yet I still have the burning desire to write and share my life with those around me, I still dream of inspiring people to rise up and live with passion. I know that even if I haven't managed to becoming a sickeningly optimistic life coach that many of you will still find a glimmer of hope in the horrific and embarrassing mistakes I've made. I'm a person, just like you. I get angry, I get sad, I throw shit when I'm frustrated, and I still look at small brick towers in the middle of no where and think of my stupid poem.
In all honesty, it makes sense that a tall, solid, phallus shaped structure would have initiated a fire within me; I'm simply grateful it was a literary fire.
A sarcastic, insightful, and potentially offensive literary fire.
As an adult I deal with a wider of array of things "tangible and transferable", things like debt, blame, and sexually transmitted diseases. Through it all I've still held onto a copy of my "Pony Express" and my oddly intrinsic desire to air my dirty laundry to the world. I have a closet full of journals and legal pads that will take me just as many years to sort through. I have boxes full of words, quotes, and waiters numbers written on napkins, dollar bills, and even a gonorrhea pamphlet. I have roughly 16 email accounts full of written longings and dreams as well as solicitations for raunchy photos and dangerously casual sex. I've developed business plans and community programs. I've spent 25 awkward years trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing and I've written about it all.
Initially I dreamed of writing my own personal opus and sharing with the world all the deep and insightful Epiphanies I've had in my short life. I wanted to spread joy and inspiration to the everyone who picked up my book. I figured I'd censor my experiences and language and find a way to turn having crazy monkey sex on the hood of my car with a total stranger into a touching and lesson filled experience. I would fill the pages of a book with grandiose and unconventional accomplishments. I'd shout to the world of my power, my hopes, my altruistic endeavors and know that I was inspiring millions around the world to rise from their lazy boys and dive head first into life. I knew I would accomplish great things. I knew that I would touch the lives of millions around me in a way that would change them and the way they viewed the world themselves. I knew I was different.
What I didn't know at 9 years old was that "different" would translate into my charmingly neurotic, foul mouthed, occasionally tactless self. It's led to quite the dichotomy. Here I am, still as altruistic and idealistic as ever but with a new touch of sarcasm and a fairly sordid sexual past. I haven't accomplished anything earth shattering or world renowned. I've spent years working as a waitress, driving a shuttle bus, opening and then running away from legitimate entrepreneurship opportunities. I've done little more than master the art of observation and the ability to suck the lesson out every man, mistake, and accomplishment I come in contact with.
Yet I still have the burning desire to write and share my life with those around me, I still dream of inspiring people to rise up and live with passion. I know that even if I haven't managed to becoming a sickeningly optimistic life coach that many of you will still find a glimmer of hope in the horrific and embarrassing mistakes I've made. I'm a person, just like you. I get angry, I get sad, I throw shit when I'm frustrated, and I still look at small brick towers in the middle of no where and think of my stupid poem.
In all honesty, it makes sense that a tall, solid, phallus shaped structure would have initiated a fire within me; I'm simply grateful it was a literary fire.
A sarcastic, insightful, and potentially offensive literary fire.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Gluten Free Please
GLUTEN:
A wheat protein left when starch is removed from cereal grains such as wheat, rye, barley, and oats.
CELIACS DISEASE:
A digestive disorder involving the inability to tolerate wheat protein. I.E Gluten.
BERNICE:
The royal pain in my ass that insists on gracing me with her presence at least three times a week.
And if you were to ask Bernice about me? She likely tell you my name is Bambi and recommend I be elected captain of the gum chewing squad. That is if the restaurant I work at HAD a gum chewing squad. What they DO have... is me. What Bernice has, if you haven't guessed it, is Celiacs Disease.
Now don't get me wrong, Bernie and I haven't always been on bad terms. In fact, there was a time when I actually considered her a pleasant acquaintance of mine. She'd always been very congenial and polite towards me and in return I often went of my way to meet her...requests.
I can even tell you from memory that she likes a large ice tea, no lemon, with extra ice in a to-go cup. She also uses real sugar, one napkin, and never needs a plastic bag. So when she requests her Gluten-free salad with extra beets-I jump.
Because, though it appears simple, this requires that no hand, glove, or surface that has come into contact with any form of wheat, gran, or corn, can come into contact with Bernice's salad.
Countless times I've personally overseen the surgical preparation of her food. Taking pride in insuring her satisfaction, and my chance to see her shining face the next day. Because had I lapsed, and say the renegade particle of protein slipped silently into her iceberg creation....
She would've been out for a week.
Suffering from (as I so diligently researched)
"THE PASSING OF LARGE, FATTY, AND MALODOROUS STOOLS"
Needless to say I watched out for good old Bernie, and she watched out for me, with 3 shiny
quarters a day.
quarters a day.
Then it happened, in a matter of seconds our alliance crumbled. As I prepared to hand Bernie her salad, which was free today because of the time it took for her to receive her food, I overheard make a comment to another server.
It appeared that since my having replaced the previous lunch server (four months ago) that Bernie had noticed some changes.
Two to be exact.
Without ever having known it, I had single-chestedly begun what was to Bernice, one of the biggest abominations in restaurant history. I had started...."cleavage-fest"
That's right kids, I HADN'T gone out of my way to help her, I HADN'T insured her gastro-intestinal safety, I HADN'T stood guard, day after day, against all starchy particles that may have lead to incapacitating excretion.
I my friends, Had boobs.
Initially after hearing this I gave Bernice the benefit of the doubt. Thinking since my chest was in fact, totally covered, she may have been referring to some other "fest". But then she continued to clarify her point with coworker number two and explain that our workplace had once been a nice family restaurant, but now resembled a certain restaurant with a name similar to "ooters"
Seeing as I was, along with my all condemning flesh-bags, the only new addition. It was a fair assumption on my part that my friendship with Bernie may have been a little crowded. So the three of us brushed off our pride and attempted to sort through the issue at hand.
We were angry.
And it wasn't because a festival celebrating the tactless coming together of two breasts had been
hailed in our honor. It was because all of out other attributes I.E. Hard work, respect, and courtesy, had been thrown out the window because of a bra size.
hailed in our honor. It was because all of out other attributes I.E. Hard work, respect, and courtesy, had been thrown out the window because of a bra size.
And though some may find this to merely be an amusing story about a waitress and a wench, we find it more troubling .What has happened to respect? Waitress are people too, tits or not. If It wouldn't have cost me my job I would have informed Miss Bernice on my stance.
I would've stood up for my counterparts and their right to be here as much as mine. I would've reminded her that my big intrusive boobies and I were the other things standing in front of her salad and a big pile of saltines.
And like it or not...
Mammary-free is not an option.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Hmmmm
I am the Jesus for the crazies. They flock to me.
(excuse my blasphemy, but it's true)
I had myself a date tonight. He seemed like a nice guy but of course, whenever meeting e-men, I always have a back up plan in place to avoid being the next newscasters dream story. We met in a public place, took my car (so I could ram it into a cement wall and kill us both if he tried anything fishy) and headed off to Thai food.
I'll just brush over some topics of conversation...
1: Defending his being molested by his babysitter when he was 4 as one of the most compassionate and rewarding experiences of his life.
2: His fear of becoming a teacher due to his doubt on whether or not he could refrain from being inappropriate with students.
3: His attack on ME because people who are so vehemently against the topics in 1 and 2 likely have the desire to partake in such activities
and last, his questioning on how "I" might feel about having sex with him, and animals, simultaneously.
I was saved by the arrival of the Thai restaurant. During dinner the conversation unfortunately continued and I almost punched him in the face when he mocked my dad's suicide. Finally, we finished dinner, I regained my composure, and initiated my escape plan. Tonight it was my wonderful gay husband, J. He was scheduled to show up at my house at 9:30 pm. I knew that my date wasn't familiar with the area and since I lived in a twisty-turny neighborhood and knew that he wouldn't remember where I lived. We drove back to my place and arrived at 9:01. I had 29 minutes to stall because there was no way I was actually going to spend any reasonable amount of time with this man inside my house and away from ears that might hear my screams.
Somehow, after all we'd been through, my date thought he still had a chance. The minute I stopped, he proceeded to lean over and yank my foot from the floor board of the car to observe my tattoo...I sat there, awkwardly as he stroked my foot and admired the art work, slowly running his fingers between my toes and simultaneously bringing my dinner back up.
I held my cool, retrieved my foot, and jumped out of the car and risked my chances in the house. In an attempt to send a very strong hint, I vacuumed (for the full 25 minutes) while he sat awkwardly on the couch. Seeing as I only have vacuum in one room of my apartment I figured the message was going through loud and clear. Then, right on time, Jason rang the door bell and I was free!
Everything went according to plan, I apologized to my date, and informed him it was time to go. Somehow, even after all this, I had to peel him off me when he attempted to stick his slimy tongue into my mouth before exiting my vehicle.
I'm starting to think I may be the common denominator in my dating and that I'm lucky to not have been chopped into bits and put in tupperware.
(excuse my blasphemy, but it's true)
I had myself a date tonight. He seemed like a nice guy but of course, whenever meeting e-men, I always have a back up plan in place to avoid being the next newscasters dream story. We met in a public place, took my car (so I could ram it into a cement wall and kill us both if he tried anything fishy) and headed off to Thai food.
I'll just brush over some topics of conversation...
1: Defending his being molested by his babysitter when he was 4 as one of the most compassionate and rewarding experiences of his life.
2: His fear of becoming a teacher due to his doubt on whether or not he could refrain from being inappropriate with students.
3: His attack on ME because people who are so vehemently against the topics in 1 and 2 likely have the desire to partake in such activities
and last, his questioning on how "I" might feel about having sex with him, and animals, simultaneously.
I was saved by the arrival of the Thai restaurant. During dinner the conversation unfortunately continued and I almost punched him in the face when he mocked my dad's suicide. Finally, we finished dinner, I regained my composure, and initiated my escape plan. Tonight it was my wonderful gay husband, J. He was scheduled to show up at my house at 9:30 pm. I knew that my date wasn't familiar with the area and since I lived in a twisty-turny neighborhood and knew that he wouldn't remember where I lived. We drove back to my place and arrived at 9:01. I had 29 minutes to stall because there was no way I was actually going to spend any reasonable amount of time with this man inside my house and away from ears that might hear my screams.
Somehow, after all we'd been through, my date thought he still had a chance. The minute I stopped, he proceeded to lean over and yank my foot from the floor board of the car to observe my tattoo...I sat there, awkwardly as he stroked my foot and admired the art work, slowly running his fingers between my toes and simultaneously bringing my dinner back up.
I held my cool, retrieved my foot, and jumped out of the car and risked my chances in the house. In an attempt to send a very strong hint, I vacuumed (for the full 25 minutes) while he sat awkwardly on the couch. Seeing as I only have vacuum in one room of my apartment I figured the message was going through loud and clear. Then, right on time, Jason rang the door bell and I was free!
Everything went according to plan, I apologized to my date, and informed him it was time to go. Somehow, even after all this, I had to peel him off me when he attempted to stick his slimy tongue into my mouth before exiting my vehicle.
I'm starting to think I may be the common denominator in my dating and that I'm lucky to not have been chopped into bits and put in tupperware.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
McCreepy
Lately I've been working to pay off some bills, leaving me with very little surplus. Since this month has been a bit slow, very little surplus means dinner is a cold can of ravioli.
Roommate broke the microwave. :(
Anyway, as I was spooning cold imitation tomato sauce into my mouth my phone rang. It was the fox driving old guy from last month inviting me to dinner.
Ummm...what happened to giving a girl some notice?
Then I realized...Ummm...Bitch, You ARE eating COLD, GENERIC BRAND, MEAT POCKETS for dinner.
I agreed to dinner, scrambled for my "date dress" and met him at one of the finest restaurants in town.
From what I remembered he was handsome enough to justify at least one dinner. But then again I had never seen him in his Hawaiian shirt, khaki short, sock-less loafer wearing glory.
WTF was I thinking!!!!!!!!!!
The worst part being he looked like my grandpa. Meaning he looked like the kind of grandpa who's hand gravitates to the fine line between a young girls back and ass. Nothing kills a date like fearing you may seem to be part of a strange Incestuous love triangle.
It got worse when I was I.D'd at the door, and the hostess gave me a look of doom. Especially since I didn't HAVE my I.D and was left standing there while he went back to the car.
Once we DID make it inside, let me share with you what I received in exchange for partaking in a delicious $200.00 meal:
ONE: Glimpses of text messages coming from the hostess to my...date...asking him if he'd told me "the truth"
TWO: His Italian lessons, teaching me how to say "whore" and "slut" because that's what all these other girls were
THREE: Stories about what MADE these other girls "whores"
At one point, when he took a breath and learned that my hobby included writing, he then taught me a few things about books.
ONE: He was contemplating writing a book on relationships, because there just aren't any relationship books out there
TWO: Now that he's thought about it, he WAS going to write a book about relationships because there aren't any relationship books out there
THREE: He was going to call it "All men want is good pussy and all women need is a good dick"
I have never yearned for cold meat product more in my life.
Roommate broke the microwave. :(
Anyway, as I was spooning cold imitation tomato sauce into my mouth my phone rang. It was the fox driving old guy from last month inviting me to dinner.
Ummm...what happened to giving a girl some notice?
Then I realized...Ummm...Bitch, You ARE eating COLD, GENERIC BRAND, MEAT POCKETS for dinner.
I agreed to dinner, scrambled for my "date dress" and met him at one of the finest restaurants in town.
From what I remembered he was handsome enough to justify at least one dinner. But then again I had never seen him in his Hawaiian shirt, khaki short, sock-less loafer wearing glory.
WTF was I thinking!!!!!!!!!!
The worst part being he looked like my grandpa. Meaning he looked like the kind of grandpa who's hand gravitates to the fine line between a young girls back and ass. Nothing kills a date like fearing you may seem to be part of a strange Incestuous love triangle.
It got worse when I was I.D'd at the door, and the hostess gave me a look of doom. Especially since I didn't HAVE my I.D and was left standing there while he went back to the car.
Once we DID make it inside, let me share with you what I received in exchange for partaking in a delicious $200.00 meal:
ONE: Glimpses of text messages coming from the hostess to my...date...asking him if he'd told me "the truth"
TWO: His Italian lessons, teaching me how to say "whore" and "slut" because that's what all these other girls were
THREE: Stories about what MADE these other girls "whores"
At one point, when he took a breath and learned that my hobby included writing, he then taught me a few things about books.
ONE: He was contemplating writing a book on relationships, because there just aren't any relationship books out there
TWO: Now that he's thought about it, he WAS going to write a book about relationships because there aren't any relationship books out there
THREE: He was going to call it "All men want is good pussy and all women need is a good dick"
I have never yearned for cold meat product more in my life.
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