Walls

Montego Bay, Jamaica
Wednesday February 15, 2012
3:58PM

As soon as I step off the plane, I am greeted with a welcome wall of heat. Walking through the quiet Montego Bay airport, I am mentally cataloguing all the similarities and differences between what I am accustom to and what I am experiencing. Everyone that deplaned with me meanders through the airport, seemingly shedding the break neck pace of America and getting on island time. I look around once we reach customs and we’re standing in line, watching everyone shifting nervously in line despite not being particularly guilty of anything. It is then that I first realize that I am surrounded almost entirely by white people. I would be lying if I said that I didn’t expect the exact opposite, but I suppose, in the middle of the winter and flying mid-week like most tourists do, I need to adjust my expectations. After relishing the satisfying clunk of the new stamp in my passport, I gather my bags and head to the lounge reserved for guests of the resort where I am staying.

It’s lovely. All soft lighting and comfortable chairs, gleaming wood and a full bar, everything you would hope to find greeting you after a long flight (well, not so much for me with a 2 hour flight, a 50 minute layover and then an 1 hour flight). When I walk in, the employees look up and smile at me but can’t hide the split second look of shock that cross their faces. I return their warm smiles and retreat to a corner to curl up with my Ki.ndle and read until the shuttle arrives to take me to the resort.

Instead though, I start to look around. Immediately, I’m struck by the stark racial divide at play here; the well-to-do white folks being catered to by brown people. I notice these things, though I'd like to believe I am evolved enough, post racial enough, indeed not racist enough to notice. But despite all my education and travels and knowledge, I am still a daughter of the deep south. Born of 1 of the most dirtily racist states in the confederacy. And no matter where I go, whether I like to admit it or not, I carry with me the history of every time I've been called a nigger. Every time I have been met with surprise at my aptitude because of my skin color. Every time I've been followed in a store or sneered at by a white man or called gal or overheard a child innocently asking why my skin was different. Whether I like it or not, I see things through the prism of descending from a lineage of strange fruit hanging from poplar trees. I cannot not see with these eyes.

It's important I note that this quiet discomfort wasn't prompted by any mistreatment or even a shared knowing look passed between me and my skin folk acknowledging "you know how they are." Rather, I have to admit there seems to be a kind and easy report between these fairer skin tourists and the employees here to welcome them; certainly they aren't getting together later for beers, but there is no condescension, no air of rudeness or privilege, no tangible evidence that anyone but me has noticed the clear racial delineation between those that have and those that have not. I can’t tell if everyone but me really is just blind to it, if the white folks are too privileged to notice, or if the black people are too worried about providing for themselves to care. Still, there exists a wall of sorts, between the smiling faces that greeted us, and the people patronizing the resort. It is invisible and certainly not barbed wired but it exists nonetheless.

I am not out and out uncomfortable with it all, but I notice. Just as I notice, with a painful twinge, the older black men shining the shoes of often white business men in the airport. As I notice when a porter, usually brown, is helping carry bags and is barely afforded a grateful glance.

I notice.

Once outside the airport and on the 90 minute trip to Ocho Rios, I am again unsettled by my surroundings. Without even trying, there seems to be a distinct demarcation between classes here, as well; there’s the multi-million dollar resorts on the beach front. There’s the large, looming houses on the mountain. And in between there is miles of shacks and bumpy roads and abandoned buildings. In between, it seems, is for Everyone Else.

We drive past a row of large, gated houses, not nearly as large as the homes built into the mountain side but still fairly sizeable, that seem a bit out of place next to the stretch of highway and among the random gas stations and small businesses that dot the roads. It doesn’t take me long to notice that these homes are not merely gated; rather they are confined by 8 foot cement walls and sealed with heavy, impenetrable iron gates. A quick glance at the houses nestled in the mountains reveals that these homes aren’t just built on the mountain for the panoramic views. Rather they are quite literally built into the mountainside, the jagged terrain providing a wall made from nature to augment even more imposing gates around their properties than those on the beach front.

When we finally reach our resort, the story is still much of the same, our beautiful, lush, multi-million dollar resort that just underwent a multi-million dollar renovation is walled from its surroundings by wrought iron and concrete, standing next to, quite literally, a building that appears to be gutted and is slowly decaying.

Where the hell is all this money going, if not to the people?

It seems that in Jamaica, as in America, as in so many other countries I have travelled to and read about, a profound chasm exists between the haves and the have nots and with it, a concerted effort to either keep those who have less out, or keep what you have acquired in. Or maybe every wall is just an attempt to block the blight that exists in our own backyards.

All

“I want it all. Everything. All of you. I will not accept anything less.”


The Great Houdini had a way of saying things that made me understand that, despite his jovial nature, he was not kidding. And right then, in that hotel room in New Orleans, he was very serious. His voice was quiet, as we were sharing our space with my family but there was no mistaking his solemnity of this desire. It wasn’t a demand, but a command, the latter of which I respond much better to. But despite not dangling the invisible ultimatum of a demand over my head, I had no doubt in my mind that he meant exactly what he said.

“I know you. You’re used to being one foot in and one foot out. I get that. I do. But I want everything. All. All of you.”

All is one of those words I had not then, and have not yet made peace with. All is totality, entirety, whole. And despite every romantic comedy touting the wondrous feeling of falling for someone, belonging to someone, I have never been particularly comfortable with it. I am honest enough to say my own issues play a significant role in this disquiet. But mostly, I don’t understand how you can exist if you have given yourself completely over to this person, this relationship, this love.

“You have all of me.”
“No. I have more of you than any man ever has. And still, only as much as you’re comfortable with.”

That was the truth. Had been my truth through every major relationship I’d ever been in. First Love? I knew we were doomed once I grew up and stopped looking for a savior. Gay Husband? Epically doomed from the start. Almost Fiancé? God, I loved him. Adored him. Respected him as a man and a human being. But we were young. And our circumstances were so extreme. And a part of me always knew this would not be the beginning of a lifetime.

And I am ashamed to admit, I found some comfort in that.

“I don’t really know how to do that.”
“I know. But we are going to figure it out. Because that’s what I want. Not part. Not half. Whole. All.”

He put his hands on either side of my face and kissed me, as was his way, pulling away and looking at me intently long enough for the racket around us to go silent for a moment. Then he kissed me again, and started talking to my godfather about chess.



That conversation stays with me. Every once in a while, something, someone, brings it back to the forefront of my memory. Someone wanting all. Me not feeling comfortable giving it, certain every step will take me deeper into a mudslide of heartbreak.

As I’ve gotten older, I find myself inching towards this metaphorical all, leery of it but tiptoeing closer, eyeing it watchfully. I haven’t again been there, but every once in a while I find someone who makes me feel like I could take a trip. Temporarily. Just to see what it’s like, how it’s changed in the years since I’ve last visited.

But then I remember the problem with all is that, ostensibly, there is none of you left for yourself. That giving all, being all to someone else, means there is a good chance you are sacrificing something of yourself. Hopefully it is something you can afford to lose and the tradeoff is worth it. But often, it is something you give to pay the price of admission. And there are no refunds.

I know I am supposed to be caught up in the whimsy of the all. But I just can’t bring myself to trust that all won’t fall down all around me.

That is All.

I laugh too loud. I curse more than a sailor. I can drink you under the table. And I will. I won’t always be comfortable talking about how I feel, but I will always cook for you and remember that random thing you said you wanted 9 months ago and get it for your birthday. I am not great at needing people, and it will likely be years before you meet my family. If my friends hate you, you will most likely have to go. I will unwittingly steamroll over you if you give me no pushback, and likely not feel bad for it. I am hard to get to know, and terribly uninterested in changing that. My life is full and I will not let you into it unless you make it impossible for me to not want you in it. You’ll need to carve out your own space. I cry at beautiful harmonies and shut down when I am angry because I have a Chernobyl temper. I say things wrong, and I will be frustrated when you don’t understand me. I will fight you if you ever put your hands on me and I will leave you if you lie. I yell at the TV and sing along with the radio. I will not listen to a word you say until I am ready to take your advice. I drive faster than the speed limit and will quickly get irritated with you if you tell me to slow down. I am incredibly smart, which you will sometimes forget because I am silly. I giggle at everything when I’m sleepy and babble when I’m nervous. Periodically I will experience a bad streak of insomnia, and I won’t expect you to stay up with me, but I will adore you if sometimes you do. There is a significant chance I will dance with you like I don’t have a daddy at home in the club, and I might proposition you in public. I am not interested in your judgments of my sexual proclivities, only your enjoyment of them. I will need gratuitous amounts of silence and a place I can be alone. I will make you look good in front of your boss. I will charm the hell out of your parents. I will take care of your family like my own. Your friends will adore me. There is a significant chance that should we not make it, they will still periodically ask you about me, no matter who you are currently dating, and a daring few might reach out to me every now and then to see if we might reconcile under the guise of “checking on me.” I will remember the beer your best friend drinks and I will cook and then leave the house when your boys come over to watch the game. I will sometimes watch you sleep and feel incredibly lucky. I will make a home in the crook of your arm I expect to occupy at most times I am by your side. I will unapologetically steal your clothes, and when you leave the room I will lay on your pillow because it will smell like you. I will stumble over saying “I love you” but I will say it, over and over, when I feel it, until it is a second language. We will have animals. And sometimes you will need to reach things on high shelves. Under this circumstance, a well-timed short joke is permissible, but not under many others. I will write thousands of pages of prose about you that you might never read. I will see the world with you.


I will love you. That is all.

The One Where my Mama Throws me Under the Bus my Ex is Driving

My mom adores me. I am her only child, and I am pretty awesome. None of this is up for debate.


But she never misses an opportunity to bowl me directly under a bus if she can help it.

Such an opportunity arose on Christmas Eve, when we travelled home for the holidays.

I touched down in Atlanta and headed straight to the hair salon to get my hair done, after which we headed to dinner with my godfather. He picked a great little Italian spot in Virginia Highlands that we’d not been to. The food was amazing. The service was impeccable and attentive. The company and conversation was excellent. By the time the chef came out to talk to our table, with promises to send out a special dish he’d just concocted for us to try because we hadn’t “eaten enough” (despite us all having an entire loaf of bread, a salad, huge plates of food and a ridiculous amount of wine and liquor), I figured this had to be the best first night home I’d ever had.

And then my mama saw fit to ruin it.


“Oh my God! This is so crazy!” she said looking down at her phone. “First Love is next door!”

The thing you need to know to fully comprehend how ridiculous this situation is is that First Love and I have not spoken to each other in well over two years since this happened. There is no ill will (anymore) but I think we have both come to feel like there is no real need to have our high school sweethearts in our lives anymore.

My mama is having none of this.

See, she is in full on grandma mode. She wants grandkids yesterday. And having first given up on me getting married, then on me even liking the guy I’ll have these future supposed babies with, she has now apparently given up on me ever meeting another man EVER AGAIN IN LIFE, and has taken to asking me about old exes and male friends, all the while espousing how she had “high hopes” for them all while gazing wistfully in the direction of the nearest Baby Gap.

She could say that her grandmother longing has nothing to do with the fact that she keeps in touch with my ex even after I no longer do, that it has more to do with the fact that I dated him for six years, that our families were incredibly close, and that she once loved him like a son. So their occasional texting back and forth, sending of family pictures and things is just keeping them mildly aquatinted.

But, she would need more people.

I am completely stunned at this turn of events. And even more stunned that, despite knowing our history and that we no longer speak, she is genuinely all aflutter at the fact that he is about to walk from next door to join us. It is my godfather who thinks to ask the question that my mother SHOULD have asked;

“La are you cool with this?”

At this point, what could I say? No, tell him to stay where he is? With my damn near giddy at the idea of seeing him? I would prefer that he didn’t because while my hair is done, I am not wearing any makeup, I’m a bit tipsy and travel logged and my clothes are too big because I am losing weight faster than I can shop?

“It’s fine,” I say. And it really is. I down the rest of my martini just in case it isn’t.

When he shows up at our table, he as at once familiar and a stranger. He looks the same as he always has, since the first time he harassed me in my ex-stepdad’s math class, but older. He’s still just as handsome and hilarious as he’s always been. I just realize that it doesn’t really affect me anymore, as it once did, strongly and without fail. No matter how long we had been apart. Or who we were dating at the time.

But that is another story for another day.

Instead it is just good to see an old, very significant-to-me friend, who I am glad to know is doing well. We all talk, having spent many years around a dinner table together, as easily as we ever have. As my mama and godfather veer off into some tangent only they are interested, he leans a bit closer to me, dropping the volume of his voice and asks, “Are you still in your… situation?”

Because I know him as intimately as I do, I know he is asking me if I am still with my ex-girlfriend, whom I told him about not too long before we stopped speaking. He was… shocked to say the least.

Though, I think any time you tell an former boyfriend that you don’t speak to regularly that you are in a relationship with and planning to move to a new city for a woman, it’s always a bit of a surprise.

Like when a fat stripper pops out of a birthday cake.


“No, I’m not. It ended a while ago.”

“Oh.” He says. I can read all over his face all the questions he wants to ask me, but won’t because my mom is there. Though a tiny part of me would be DELIGHTED at discussing my ex-girlfriend (whom my mom likes to think was “just a phase”) in front of a guy my mom “once had high hopes for”.

After that, the conversation moves on easily enough, my mom doing most of the talking and me doing most of the drinking. As I am deciding if I should order my 3rd martini or not, my mama gives me just the swift kick off the curb and in front of the bus I need to know that a martini is a requirement, not a possibility.

“Yeah, do you know what I loved about her being with you, First Love? I knew I didn’t have to worry about her. I knew she would be safe and taken care of. I can’t say the same about all the other riffraff she has dated since you.”

The first and most important thing to understand about this statement is that it is an out and out lie. Number one because, well, I rarely bring the people I date to meet my mama anymore. And number two because the only person she is more obsessed with than First Love is The Great Houdini, whom TO THIS DAY, she still asks about, pontificating aloud about how “disappointed” she was in him, but despite all that, do we still talk?

She also gave a speech quite similar to this one to him many moons ago, but that’s also another story for another day.

No what astonishes me more than anything is the fact that she would throw my entire dating history in the ten years since he and I were childhood sweethearts under the bus IN FRONT OF HIM.

See, my mom adores me but she has NO LOYALTY. In this war on my uterus, it is perfectly acceptable that my pride be collateral damage.

My ex, while a good guy, is not gracious. He LOVES to hear things like this. His ego eats it up with fava beans and a nice bottle of Chianti. I watch his lips slowly unfurl into a sly smile as he looks at me. He looks so content with himself, so happy with the knowledge that it appears that I have not dated anyone more worthy of me than he since senior year in high school, that I almost don’t have the heart to crush the dream for him.

Almost.

“That’s kinda sad,” he says to me smirking.
“It’s also a lie,” I coo in his ear, smiling sweetly. “But if it makes you both feel better…” I trail off and turn my attention back my drink. I’d be lying if I said that my smile didn’t become genuine when I caught his slip just a bit.

The conversation stutter steps on, my godfather looking just as flabbergasted by what just happened as I am, and my mother none the wiser. At one point, First Love whips out a pic of his longtime girlfriend and shows it to me. She’s pretty. I tell him so.

I wait for that old pang of jealousy I used to feel when he and I would discuss who he was dating and it never comes. I love him, and cherish our time together, but I’m over it.

Now if I could just get my mama to get over it too.

Come.

“Come.”


I am tired, exhausted really, feeling soundly beaten by my day. All day I’ve tried in vain to search for some sort of goodness to be salvaged from the wreckage of everything that has happened since the sun came up. There is none.

“The day will be over soon.”

For that I am grateful. I want nothing more than to peel all the clothes from my body and crawl into bed, huddling under the big fluffy duvet until morning when I can try this shit again and maybe get it right.
“I miss you.”

For me, there are no words more potent than these three. None. The implied longing. The simmering intensity. The latent vulnerability in feeling it, let alone saying it aloud. It disarms me.

In my mind, logical, reasonable, coherent, I am laying out all the counter arguments. All the reasons I shouldn’t. I am incredibly aware of how rubbed raw my emotions are right now. That I have some leftover feelings to sort through and put away. That being exhausted the way I am makes me careless. That this craving I have, deep down low in my belly just to feel something sometimes consumes me. I know.

But I just can’t bring myself to care.

“It’s just tonight. Tomorrow nothing changes. But give me tonight.”

Because I have my headphones in, his voice is in surround sound. Like he's speaking inside my head, fighting for relevance with the other thoughts fighting for precedence as well. I am standing in the middle of the room, trying to convince myself to sit, but wanting to head straight back out the door.

And it’s seductive isn’t it? The promise that if you just give yourself over to something, maybe it can soothe you, tame you.

Or at least make you forget for awhile.

I haven’t put down my keys yet.


I am somewhere in between his voice and my own internal one, trying to convince myself to be reasonable and rational, but I’m so incredibly, abundantly tired of always doing the right thing. Doing the safe thing.

Always doing. Never feeling.

“Come.”

I am wide eyed. I am aware. I am not blinded or out of control or unable to stop myself. I am choosing.



I leave my caution at home.

New Year, No Lube

If 2012 were a guy, it would be guy who tries to fuck on the first date.


Not even like, guy-who-is-insanely-charming-and-hilarious-so-you-have-absolutely-no-recourse-BUT-to-end-the-date-with-your-panties-on-top-of-the-flat-screen. No, this is like barely-put-forth-an-effort-but-expect-you-to-give-it-up-because-he-brought-popcorn-AND-candy-at-the-movies guy.

That is to say, 2012 is fucking me without preamble or pomp and circumstance. And I am not happy about it.


As it stands, we are exactly 25 days into 2012. In case you are keeping score at home, in that time I have:

- Gotten into a car accident that has rendered my car undriveable, and the party that caused the accident may or may not be insured.

- Found out Peter Parker is getting married.

- Had an opportunity for advancement at work fall through.

- Quietly put away some feelings I discovered, shared, and now need to completely die.

- Had to rush my mama to the emergency room, resulting in an extended hospital stay.



All of this, while annoying, isn’t exactly largely life ending. But the combination of all of them, in the span of TWENTY FIVE DAYS during which I have not been drinking regularly is entirely too much to bear. TOO MUCH.

*sigh* 2012 is already kicking my ass. I am EXHAUSTED.

The good news is, I will be fine. I know that. I may have been quietly getting my ass kicked (hence messing up the Tuesday/Thursday post schedule here at Liquor, Loans and Love) but I have also been fighting mightly to right my universe. And making good on my promise to be more impulsive in my pursuit of happiness.

But seriously, 2012, could you take it easy on me? You could at least buy me a nice dinner and call me pretty first.

Geez.

Stolen Moments

3 weeks ago...


“How is it that we both thought things would turn out the same way, and yet they didn’t?”
“It’s all the way it's supposed to be. You know that, right?”
“Yes. But still...”
“Still.”

He looks at me, his eyelids heavy with sleep and sorrow, wiggling his mouth the way he does when he is considering something. He lifts my hair from where it has fallen into my eye, brushing the long strand up and over my shoulder. He has taken great pains to not touch my skin. And I want him to. God, I want him to so badly.

But I am not sure what will happen if he does.

Instead we lay there, having all the space we need in his king sized bed, but laying close like it’s a twin, not touching, the chemistry between us snapping and popping like lit kindling and that is why he won’t touch me. Because if he does this, all of this we have not yet resolved, will ignite this bed and consume us both.

And we’re being careful.

I am fully clothed, as is he, but I feel naked and bare under his gaze. He won’t break his stare. I blink rapidly, uncomfortable and uneasy, but unable to stop watching him watch me. How he sees me, who I am in his eyes, is intoxicating and I want to stare at this reflection of myself I so seldom pay attention to. This me I am with him, this energy that exists between us, I want to wear like skin when I leave here.

But I can’t, of course. This too, I will have to leave behind when I exit.

We talk as easily as we always did, laughter giving way to serious conversation and confession. We talk so long my voice is low and ragged around the edges, sounding whiskey soaked and melancholy. I can see the outline of his face in the dark, thin wisps of his smile illuminated by shards of moonlight as his own voice descends down the scale of tenor notes with every minute that passes by.

So many minutes have escaped us.

We talk until there is nothing left to say, the silence stretching between us not a wall but a binding, a tie we cannot bear to sever yet, though we know we must, soon. We lie that way for what seems like forever, in silence, pretending there is no world outside this room that we will soon have to report to. The irony of course being that I am not the one he will soon ask to pledge forever to.

“Give me this,” he says, reaching for my hand, and I gasp a little when he touches my skin. It is at once so familiar, so comforting, and then all so bittersweet. I smile at it all, getting better at this every time it happens.

He snakes my hand under his shirt, resting it on his bare chest, and I can feel his heartbeat drumming an even rhythm, complimenting the tempo of my pulse in my palm. We lie that way, saying nothing, feeling everything, with both his hands pressing mine firmly into the skin above his heart, a place he, we, once hoped I would come to inhabit.

"Listen to my instincts and say fuck the rest..."

Today's post title brought to you by the letter U for "undun" by The Roots which, if you have not bought it yet, means you are failing rapidly at life.


I’ve spent the last couple of years trying valiantly to squash my natural proclivity for being impulsive and spontaneous, believing, however misguidedly, that such tempestuousness was indicative of extended youth rather than, you know, just me being me. I am not sure when I came to link my inclination for impulsive action to immaturity, especially seeing as how I have never been much for adolescence, even in the prime of my own, but at some point I decided that allowing things to happen as they are to unfold, that not having A Plan, was childish and somehow the root of all my issues. Therefore, I concluded, I needed to not be impulsive. And not be spontaneous. I needed to be a Planner. Vision boards, five year goals and the like.


This has not worked out so great for me.

I don’t discount that there are people for whom this sort of living through planning works amazingly for. I just don’t appear to be one of them. Instead, I appear to be the type to make a plan, a good plan at that, and then somehow end up exactly opposite of where I planned and beating myself into oblivion that I am not adult enough to follow a plan like the rest of you people.

In short, it’s a clusterfuck of fail.

To be clear, I am a thinker. I am not irrational. I think things through. I am levelheaded and pragmatic. I am incredibly introspective. But somehow, through all the thinking, I lost the thing that balanced me; my instincts. At one point, mine were pretty good. I knew instinctively what was good for me. And more importantly, I knew, with a conviction I can’t even begin to describe, that when things went to shit, as they invariably do, that I, me alone, and my instincts were enough to get me through to the other side.

These days, however, I find myself second and third guessing myself. I check and double check things fanatically. And I mean everything. Mundane details at work. Directions on my GPS. Whether or not I have my damn keys even though I CAN FEEL THEM IN MY HAND. I am not sure. Of anything.

Not anymore.

That is not to say that this is a side effect of being a Planner for everyone. But maybe, it is for me. Maybe I am not a vision board kinda girl. Maybe I am the kinda girl that charges into things head first because I am fully capable of coming out on the other side of whatever it is.

And maybe that should be ok.

To be honest, I am not entirely sure. Maybe this is me being subconsciously immature, craving this harkening back to my impulsiveness, and I am just too willful to admit it. What I do know is, I am no better off for denying myself my impetuous ways. I have gotten no farther, accomplished no more, felt guilty no less, or felt any more evolved and mature than I did when I did crazy things like confess to loving someone after knowing them a few months and meeting them in person exactly twice. If nothing else, I am far less happy, even less fulfilled. Sure, some might have considered the way I behaved way back then to be reckless, but I was content in a way that I have not been able to replicate with my endeavored adultness.

So, I am pretty sure I am done with all of that. I have no idea if this is a good idea or not. It might be terrible. I might deeply regret this. I might soon go running straight back to the safety of a vision board, some sort of established system and a plan. But at the very least, I would like to get back to the person who can trust herself enough to know that, impulsive or intended, extemporaneous or strategic; I will come out the other side, if not unscathed, at least fulfilled.

The One Where I Become a Mechanic

When I was younger I used to fix cars with my daddy. My daddy is no mechanic, but he knows how to do more than a few things to a car. And there were plenty of days that he came up with a reason for me to be in the sweltering garage with him, holding this tool or pointing a flashlight at that. He would explain carefully, in his daddy way, what he was doing, how, what larger impact it had on the car. And I, both in love with cars and just being happy to hang out with my daddy, would listen intently. I probably couldn’t do a single bit of it today, but at one point in my childhood, I knew how to do an oil change, flush every major fluid system, change the breaks, and change a flat tire. As a kid, I thought he was just coming up with reasons to spend time with me. As an adult, I realized, after watching him shoot evil glances at and ignore the only two men I have bothered to bring to meet him, that what he really wanted is to make sure I didn’t ever "need" a man, and would judge harshly any man that can’t do those stereotypically masculine things that even I could do.


Well, he succeeded.

Not too long after The Great Houdini and I imploded, I was… not in a good place, to say the least. But I was dating. A LOT. Like, a lot a lot. I didn’t have any business dating at all, but, well, I was stubborn and heartbroken and determined to not feel anything remotely akin to sorrow after being unceremoniously abandoned. So I was dating. I was dating Kappa Boy, and the crazy, older Dominican chick, and a couple of other people whose names and faces I cannot recall because we only went on a date or two. This is one such date.

My first clue that he and I might not be equally matched, should have been the fact that when I met him at Jamba Juice he was getting a gluten free, vegan acai berry something or other, and VERY EMPHATIC that he needed to watch the girl make it to make sure she did it “right.”

Sir.

But I, being a perv and distracted by the bulge in his sweatpants, chose to overlook that when he flashed an adorable, slightly crooked smile at me, paid for my totally normal person smoothie and introduced himself. He was charming, if a bit stiff and formal. But, I figured, hadn’t I just gotten out of a relationship with someone who was the complete opposite? And how well had that shit turned out? So I thought that maybe I should try dating outside my normal type. So when he asked me to go out with him later in the week, I agreed.

Saturday rolled around and we (read: I, as he was indecisive as fuck) had decided on a place we would go have drinks, and later dinner if we wanted. The bar was fairly upscale, so I decided to put on my standard date uniform: little black dress. Sky high heels. Red lipstick. When he came to pick me up, he seemed fairly appreciative of my outfit choice.

Our date was fun, if vanilla. But he was sweet, polite to the bartender, and such a gentleman. We decided over our second round that we would grab dinner at a restaurant not too far from where we were. He closed out our tab, leaving the attentive and heavy handed girl behind the bar a big tip (this always gets huge points from me), and escorted me out to the car. We were halfway to the restaurant when I realized his wheel was shaking and the car was pulling to the right.

“Is everything ok?” I asked him. He shot me a faux calm look.
“Sure. Everything is fine. Why do you ask?”
“Because your wheel is shaking like a vibrator, and your car is pulling hard to the right.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. It’s totally fine.”
“But it wasn’t doing that on the way here.”
“It was you just didn’t notice.”
“I am pretty sure that I would have noticed that.”
“Well, what do you think is wrong with it?”
“Well, either you’re having trouble with your driveshaft or, more likely, you have a flat somewhere on the passenger side.”

He looked at me with a mixture of confusion and awe, as he pulled over to the left shoulder. He got out and walked around to the passenger side, careful to not step in the way of oncoming traffic, while I checked my cell to see if KB had called. After a few minutes, he rapped on my window, motioning for me to get out.

Sir… what?!

Not wanting to seem like a diva, I got out and followed him to the rear passenger side tire which, sure enough, was flatter than pre-puberty boobs. He motioned to it helplessly.

“What should we do?”

It was my turn to look at him with a mixture of confusion and awe. He doesn’t know what to do for a flat tire? Jesus wept.

“Well,” I replied, choosing my words very carefully, “do you have AAA?”
“No.”
“Well, you should check with your car insurance. Often times if you have full coverage, they will send someone to fix your car or tow you to a safe place.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” Um… I read? I said in my head.
“I’ve just had to use the service before with my car insurance.”

We got back in the car while he called his insurance company. He did have full coverage and they could send someone to fix the tire… in two hours.

“Well,” he said, “I guess we will just have to wait.”

I was completely, totally, and utterly confused. We have to wait for two hours for someone to come put your spare on? Why on EARTH would we do that?

“Do you have a spare, a jack, and a tire iron?”
“Yes.”
“So, then just change it. That way we can still go to dinner and don’t have to wait two hours on the side of the highway for someone to come do it.”

He stared at me in silence in the darkness, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Well, the thing is, I, um, it’s just that…”
“It’s just that what?”
“I don’t know how to change a tire.”
“Who doesn’t know how to change a tire?! My daddy taught me how to do that when I was like 9,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

It just wasn’t adding up for me. He grew up with his dad and two older brothers. And while the entire bunch was as white collar as they come, I figured that at SOME point, if my own daddy had taught his DAUGHTER how to change a tire, then shouldn’t this certainly be some sort of rite of passage for men?

“I… just… don’t know how.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Well, excuse me Rosie the riveter. My father did stuff with me like helping me with homework and teaching me golf. Not letting me play with dirty, dangerous car parts.”

I turned my head very slowly, pinning him to the driver side door with the coldest, nigga did you just insult my daddy?! glare I have ever given anybody in my entire life.

“You father also obviously spent a significant amount of time removing your balls little by little, but if you’re happy with your father-son activities so I am.”
“Hey, wait a-“
“Shut the fuck up you elitist, helpless piece of shit and get me the jack and your spare.”
“It’s in the trunk.”
“SO GET IT.”
“But…”
“But what?!”
“All the cars coming…”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Just pop the trunk. I’ll get the jack and you can get yourself a tampon out of my purse.”

I got out without another word, angrily striding to the truck and banging hard on it when I reached it and realized he hadn’t popped it yet. When he finally did, I noticed he had a nice little toolbox for roadside repairs that probably had never been opened. I was removing that and the spare when he finally got out of the car and walked back to where I was.

“Is there anything you need me to do?”
“What is the point of having an entire toolbox back here if you don’t use it?”
“I mean it’s just in case-“
“No, I get it. You probably also have a box of condoms in your glove compartment you aren’t going to use tonight either.”
“Look. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yes. Hold this flashlight so I can see and shut the fuck up.”

I walked around to the flat tire, pulled my dress up high on my thighs, and squatted down to see what I was doing, thankful that at least if I flashed my ass to the oncoming traffic, I had on pretty panties. Once I figured out how to balance myself evenly on my high ass heels and the balls of my feet while crouching, I was in business. It took me far longer than it should have, what with me hoping my anger was enough to make me strong enough to loosen the lug nuts, jack the car up, take off the flat and then secure the spare. But I finally got it done. I stood up, my hands dirty, my fresh manicure chipped, my thighs streaked with black dirt and grease. This date was over.

“Take me home, please,” I said through gritted teeth.

We rode the entire way in silence, with him shooting me dirty looks, and me discretely wiping my dirty hands all over his tan interior. He stopped abruptly at the curb at my house, not even bothering to look at me or put the car in park. I made a point of laying one hand flat against the tan cloth lining the door, and the other on the seat to push myself out of the low coupe, leaving handprints in my wake, and slammed the car door as soon as I was out. I stalked into my house, furious that not only did I have to change a fucking flat on the side of the road, but that he had the nerve to be so nasty about it, like I was the one who had skipped the flat tire lesson in his Things Guys Know How to Do manual. I went inside and did the only thing I really could do…

I called Kappa Boy so he could come get me, take me to his place and toss me around a little bit, make me feel like a woman again.



This is why I take my own car on dates now.

The One Where I End up in the Emergency Room

Today, a change of pace; a date where I am an absolute mess.


In case you’ve missed it, I have a penchant for wearing heels. High heels. Five inches or better. Three inch heels are flats to me. I am also quite tiny, so in situations where I desire to be the height of a normal sized person, say, on a date with someone taller than me, I don’t hesitate to wear the highest, most vertiginous heels I own. The added benefit of making my legs look amazing is just a bonus. But that also brings me to my next point; I love wearing dresses. Preferably as short as decency will allow.

This is important.

This particular early spring night, I had on a dress that started miles above my knees and heels that had me towering miles above the cobblestone streets of Georgetown, where I’d met Mr. Wonderful.

We’d started out the evening shopping for a shirt and tie for a wedding he was attending the following weekend once he returned to Chicago. If you know me, you know how much I love shopping for men. I have no idea why. But I love it. In many ways I find it to be an amazing aphrodisiac, picking out the clothes you will take off later. We flirted across the displays in store after store, playfully bumping into each other, whispering inappropriate things in each other’s ears, and cramming into dressing rooms so that I could watch him undress like the perv I am. After we finally settled on a combo that we both could agree on, we meandered down to a dark, cozy Italian restaurant and sat as close as possible to each other. I remember looking at him at one point in the evening, after he’d ordered us a bottle of wine, taking in his pale, golden skin and gorgeous smile in the candlelight, my eyes sliding over his lips and back up to his dark eyes, lined with densely packed, ebony lashes, and thinking to myself, I can’t wait for him to take this dress off me when we get back to the hotel. I threw my thigh over one of his, watching his thick fingers trace lazy lines up the inside of my thigh, and then looked up to catch him looking at me like he couldn’t wait to take my dress off either.

Oh, it was going down.

We polished off our bottle, fortified by plates and plates of pasta and cheese and bread, but were both still buzzed nonetheless. We figured it was probably best to take a cab back, rather than walk. Making our way back up the hill and to the main street, we decided, would improve our chances of getting a taxi.

This would wind up being the worst decision of the evening.

We were, tipsy, laughing too loud, holding on to each other too hard, and having to concentrate to ridiculous levels just to get a task accomplished. We managed to make it up the hill without incident, and to the corner of M and Wisconsin. We shuffled through the throngs of people also enjoying their Saturday night, not nearly as skillfully as we might have sober. After walking a few steps on the cobblestone sidewalk, I noticed a cab with the light on coming right towards us. I knew I needed to hurry before we lost the cab to someone else, so I grabbed Mr. Wonderful and yanked him hard towards the curb, lifting my arm and trying to flag the cabbie down.

At some point during my awkward, hurried shuffle to the curb, my heel slipped off a cobblestone and into a crack. Had I been a bit more sober, I likely would have been able to recover easily. But alas, I was drunk on Italian wine and sexual tension, and could not find my balance. In slow motion it seemed, I felt my leg crumple underneath me and all my weight lurch forward. I let go of Mr. Wonderful, hoping to keep him from going down with me, but instead letting go of the only thing holding me back from the car parked in front of me. Which I hit. With my head.

I slid off the car and fell sideways onto the ground. If you have never lain on the ground while dozens of feet shuffled past you, looking at the night sky and wondering how your evening could have gone so horribly wrong, then let me tell you, it is positively terrifying. I was well aware of the fact that at any moment, some passerby who didn’t see me Cameron Diaz myself into this car might step on my face and seriously hurt me. And also make me unattractive. Which, if not worse, is definitely the same. Yet, despite being aware of this, I could not make any moves to get up. That MIGHT have been ok, if not for the fact that the itty bitty dress that was so cute a little while ago was now around my waist, exposing my adult amusement park to the neighborhood. The good news is, I had on an adorable pair of orange and red panties while splayed out like a starfish. The bad news is THEY WERE LACE AND THEREFORE SEE THROUGH.

Mr. Wonderful lifted me gingerly from the concrete and scooped me up in his arms. He carried me towards the cab that I did in fact flag down before my face plant and placed me inside after the cabbie opened the door. Then they both hurriedly ran around to the other side.

“Take us to the hospital please!” he shouted at the cabbie.

In my mind, I was saying, no, I’m ok; I don’t need to go to the hospital. Because I was cool. I was conscious.
My face hurt.
But that’s totally cool.

Instead,  my protests came out sounding like alphabet soup, so I figured it was best that I let them take me on to the dreaded hospital.

The entire way there, Mr. Wonderful was trying to talk to me, asking, how do you feel? Can you see straight? Are you ok? I was fine. I was mortified beyond any comprehension. But fine, I reassured him.
MY FACE HURT.
But I was ok.

At the hospital, I stood on the curb as he paid and thanked the cab driver, and caught a glimpse of myself in the windows. My dress was ripped and dirty. My entire right calf was skinned. Somehow, my left boob, the unruly one, had fallen halfway out of my bra, giving the illusion that I had three breasts. I lifted my hair off my forehead, and saw blood forming a sizeable deep purple bruise on my already sizeable forehead. There was also what appeared to a red welt on my cheek in the shape of a cobblestone. I looked like an episode of SVU.

Now, my life hurt.

After I assured the concerned nurse at the desk that no, my boyfriend did not hit me, no, I was not sexually assaulted, I was just a drunk, accident prone ass woman who picked the wrong night to wear five inch heels and a dress, she told me they were going to need to run a battery of tests to make sure that I had not severely injured my brain in anyway. I recognized immediately that I was fine; if my brain was injured, then I could AT LEAST forget every mortifying detail of the last half an hour. But alas, I could not. We sat in the waiting room, me awkwardly laying my head in Mr. Wonderful’s lap while he put an ice pack on the knot forming on my forehead.

“This is not the way I intended to end the evening. Well, I did intend to end the evening with my face in your lap, but not like this,” I told him.
“Not exactly what I had in mind either. But it’s kinda romantic really.”
“What?! How so?”
“I've never had a girl fall for me so hard before,” he replied with a smirk.



Asshole. lol