There comes a point in everyone's life when they realize that they are going to be brutally murdered. This situation happens to me quite often because of all my gang activity, but it had never been so drawn out as it was last week.
It had been a year and a half since my last dentist appointment. Back when I lived at home with my parents, the reminder cards with a cartoon-tooth-smiley-face on it would just magically show up in the mail or the appointments would already be written on the calendar. I went to the same dentist since I was 6 and would walk away with free floss and a new tooth brush. Something they don't tell you when you receive your diploma and head out west to start your own life is that those reminder cards don't show up automatically. You have to seek them out.
When I was first employed and eligible for dental insurance, they gave me a list of dentists in my area that I can go to. And I chose my dentist how I choose all my care providers, I picked the one whose name I could pronounce. Most of the names on the list looked like they made the name from the left over scrabble pieces in the bottom of the box, so I chose the most normal sounding one. I went on Yelp and searched for reviews and they all seemed positive. Their office was 10 minutes away from my work, so all seemed to fit perfectly in place. My only reservation about the place was that it was one block south of a street called Pico.
It is widely known in Los Angeles that, excuse my racial slur, "white people" don't really go south of Pico. But I figured that one block wouldn't make a difference.
I don't know if it was out of laziness or if I really thought one of those smiley tooth cards would just appear at my home, I went a while without making an appointment. It wasn't until a coworker came back from her dentist with the news of cavities that my teeth instantly started throbbing.
I couldn't sleep or concentrate. All I felt was the nerves in my teeth writhing with pain. I called and made an appointment with the dentist.
I've never had a problem with the dentist. I actually enjoyed going since I was a little kid. Before my first visit when I was 6, my sisters tried to scare me by saying in a deep monster voice "Bridget Kyle's here, go get the drill". But as soon as I went in and sat down in the plastic taupe chair, I wasn't scared at all. They were always very nice and would ask me about school and my friends and my pets. It was like hanging out with your grandparents, if your grandparents wore surgical masks and flossed your teeth for you. So I had absolutely no fear when it came to going now that I was an adult.
My appointment was for Friday at 11:00am. I figured I could sneak out of work for an hour and be back before lunch. It was a simple plan that would obviously go horribly awry.
Maybe I should have known to turn around as soon as I saw that the sign for the dentist was a poster board tied to the chain link fence in front of the strip mall it was in that just read, "Dentist" with an arrow pointing inside. I continued on into the parking lot. And just like the poster board said, there was the dentist office, bars on the windows, and a sign that just said "Dentist". I was pretty sure I was at the dentist office.
I walked in to see what I can only describe as the setting for a scene in "SAW". Wires hanging from the ceiling, sharpie scribbles on the walls, maroon upholstered chairs with huge brown stains on the seat, and - my personal favorite- the EXIT sign above the door made out of red crayon and a piece of notebook paper. I could only assume they got the best elementary school student safety inspector in the business.
"What are you here for?" I turned around to see a Latina woman with rusty orange colored hair, a sweater, blue pants, and open toed wedge shoes. She had a huge hairy mole right on the tip of her chin that drew my attention like a moth to a flame.
"I have an appointment for 11:00," I said making full eye contact with the mole.
"We run behind for a lot because of the insurance we couldn't find it should be more minutes."
I really had no idea what she was saying but I agreed to sit in the brown stained chairs and wait. She went back into the other part of the office as I noticed her touching the doorknobs with the plastic gloves she is suppose to use for sanitation purposes. I really hoped she would change them but secretly knew she wouldn't. I was really looking forward to those going in my mouth, as I do most things.
About twenty minutes went by as I played "I Spy a Health Violation". I kept looking at the time and debating if I should just sneak out and go back to work but a sign on the door kept me at bay.
"A $20 fee is mandatory for anyone who cancels the day of their appointment."
I sure as hell was not going to be charged for running out, plus my psychological tooth ache was keeping me up at night.
I was lost in my thought of whether you can contract an STD from sitting on one when the first patient emerged from the other room. She was a small Asian woman, slightly hunched over, and she dragged her feet as she walked. I looked up at her. There was a small trail of blood dripping from her mouth.
I was so horrified and confused whether she was a zombie or just needed help but the dental hygienist called me in right away.
She was uglier the closer I got to her. Bright pink lipstick, blue eye liner, hair growing out of all parts of her face, and she reeked of B.O.
"Sorry for the waiting," she said as she walked me to the corner of the room.
"Oh, it's okay," I said. But it wasn't okay when she opened a closet door to reveal a chair, covered in duct tape.
"Okay, we going to take x-ray."
"Here?"
The room was obviously a wood paneled broom closet that they converted into a the x-ray room. I took a deep breath and sat down.
"So, you come from...," she trailed off as she was preparing the little pieces of plastic to go into my mouth.
"Ohio?" I offered. That was not the answer she was looking for or perhaps she's just never heard of it.
"Work! I came from work," I corrected myself.
"Oh! What is your job?"
"I work for a TV show. It's a cartoon," I said, distracted as she still fumbled with the pieces of plastic.
"Oh! You work with children!" she squealed. I paused. I didn't have the heart or the correct words in Spanish to let her know that the show I work on has a "For Mature Audiences Only" disclaimer at the beginning of the show, so I lied.
"Yes. Lots of them."
"Its blessing to work with the children," she sighed. "Open."
I got my x-rays done in the broom closet, then made my way to the other dentist chair. As I followed her to the next torture chair, she stepped on some dropped silver dentist tools. Instead of picking them up like any sane human or normal practicing doctor, she kicked them across the dirty tan tile to the edge of the room into a pile of collected dust. I guess it was better than her picking them up and trying to use them on my teeth. I take my blessings where I can get them.
She sat me down and put my x-rays in front of me. I couldn't help but notice most of the tray table and over head light connected to the chair was bound together with clear tape. Did they get these items at a discount dentist store? Do they have outlets for last season's dentist tools? Or was there an outraged patient that came in and smashed all of the equipment just hours before I came in? I couldn't blame him, the thought had crossed my mind.
As she started to work on my teeth, speaking in broken English, leaning over me with sweat stains inches away from my face, she stopped and pulled out a few pieces of paper stapled together.
"Okay..." she sighed, looking at the papers. I looked over to see what she was looking at. It was a study guide. A cheat sheet. Diagrams of the human mouth with a list of steps of what to do next.
"Now I floss teeth to see for plaque."
As she started flossing, she kept mumbling half sentences and minor insults.
"Oh, you have some beautiful teeth... and some are not."
So said the woman whose teeth were covered in coffee stains. She took out the electric scraping tool, which I usually wouldn't have a problem with, but I had a gut feeling something was going to go wrong. Of course she went straight for the gums and for the first time in my life I literally yelped. She kept on going down the gum line, my eyes welling up with tears, until I finally shouted, "No!" I would give her any information she asked for: government secrets, credit card numbers, names and dates. I just wanted her to stop this torture.
She pulled away quickly.
"Oh, there is blood," she said, handing me a napkin to wipe the blood from my gums.
She then explained that she was going to use the electric buffer to prevent tartar buildup. She grabbed the tool from the tray and pressed it's button. Nothing happened. She tried it again. Nothing. She replaced the instrument head. Still nothing happened.
"Okay, its broke. We do next time," she got up pushed the tray table back and indicated for me to get up.
"That's...that's it?"
"Yes. We'll reschedule for next time to fill your cavities."
"Wait. I have cavities?"
"You have the start of the tooth decay. Minor but we should fill"
I'm glad she waited until I was walking out the door for her to tell me this. I told her that I wasn't going to schedule an appointment now and I would call her. It felt like the end of a horrible blind date. I knew I wasn't going to call and I was just finding excuses to run out of there as fast as I could.
"Do you need any of my insurance information or do I need to sign anything?" I asked, making sure I would never have to come back.
"No...no."
I sprinted to my vehicle and almost ran over everyone in the parking lot just trying to get to a safe place. My mouth was in severe pain. My gums were still bleeding and I knew I got some sort of gum hepatitis from this experience. As I was planning on how I would have to explain to my future husband how I got gum hepatitis, my phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hello, this is dentist."
NOOOOOOOO.
"You forgot to pay the co-pay for the deep cleaning."
Right. I forgot to pay, even though I asked her when I was leaving if I needed to do anything else and she said no.
"It's sixty dollars."
"Sixty dollars?!"
It cost sixty dollars for her to floss my teeth and give me a medieval bleeding.
"You come back and pay."
"No, I can't. I have to go to work."
"Oh...okay. You can pay today."
"No. You can bill me," I said hanging up the phone.
I walked into work not knowing how I could explain what had just happened to me. If we had a shower in the office, I would have turned on the water and sat down, shivering, gargling vodka. I still think about that small Asian woman who was bleeding from the mouth... I wonder if she was trying to warn me. I wonder if she had someone to talk to about her assault. Wherever she is, I want her to know... I understand and it's not her fault. It is not her fault.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
You Look Just Like...
It's the most awkward feeling when someone tells you that you "look just like so-and-so" because, deep down, you know that "so-and-so" is probably an unattractive human or someone you really don't want to look like. Then they show you a picture of "so-and-so" and you try to hold back your tears as you notice a large nose, bad teeth, and eyes that are too close together- basically someone who resembles Sloth from "Goonies"- only further inbred. No good can come from comparison. None at all...
Back in college, my friends and I stumbled upon this website. You upload your picture, it scans your face shape and features, and then finds your celebrity doppelganger. For a group of twenty year old girls, validation from a random website that you look like a celebrity that other people find attractive became the number priority of the night. What we wanted to know was that we were right when we thought we looked like Jennifer Aniston circa 2001 and not Jennifer Hudson circa 2006.
All huddled around one computer, in a sweatpants and old gym t-shirts, we scoured to find the most attractive pictures of ourselves to upload. My friend Robyn went first. Buffering... Buffering... Buffering. "Robyn your celebrity look-a-like is.... CATHERINE ZETA JONES". We all agreed and Robyn bashfully denied it. We reassured her- "The eyes definitely!"
Then our friend Gina uploaded hers. Buffering... Buffering... "Gina your celebrity look-a-like is... KRISTEN BELL" Again, there was a collective "So true!", and pointed out everything we thought look similar.
It was my turn to upload my picture to the mercy of the world wide web. I was secretly pushing for Zooey Deschanel but I would settle for a young Gwenyth. Buffering... Buffering... People have told me Gwenyth, so that's probably what it's going to be... Buffering... Buffering... I would love it if it were Zooey though... Buffering... Buffering... please be Zooey.
"Bridget your celebrity look-a-like is DENNIS QUAID".....
...What the hell?
There was a beat of stunned silence followed by an explosion of mocking laughter.
I was the only one to get a male celebrity doppelganger. I don't know why the internet thought I was a tranny that day. And I don't know why it was Dennis Quaid. But more importantly, why did I think I wouldn't be openly mocked by the internet in front of all my friends? You think a girl would learn... some girls are pretty and some girls are Dennis Quaid look-a-likes.
Back in college, my friends and I stumbled upon this website. You upload your picture, it scans your face shape and features, and then finds your celebrity doppelganger. For a group of twenty year old girls, validation from a random website that you look like a celebrity that other people find attractive became the number priority of the night. What we wanted to know was that we were right when we thought we looked like Jennifer Aniston circa 2001 and not Jennifer Hudson circa 2006.
All huddled around one computer, in a sweatpants and old gym t-shirts, we scoured to find the most attractive pictures of ourselves to upload. My friend Robyn went first. Buffering... Buffering... Buffering. "Robyn your celebrity look-a-like is.... CATHERINE ZETA JONES". We all agreed and Robyn bashfully denied it. We reassured her- "The eyes definitely!"
Then our friend Gina uploaded hers. Buffering... Buffering... "Gina your celebrity look-a-like is... KRISTEN BELL" Again, there was a collective "So true!", and pointed out everything we thought look similar.
It was my turn to upload my picture to the mercy of the world wide web. I was secretly pushing for Zooey Deschanel but I would settle for a young Gwenyth. Buffering... Buffering... People have told me Gwenyth, so that's probably what it's going to be... Buffering... Buffering... I would love it if it were Zooey though... Buffering... Buffering... please be Zooey.
"Bridget your celebrity look-a-like is DENNIS QUAID".....
...What the hell?
There was a beat of stunned silence followed by an explosion of mocking laughter.
I was the only one to get a male celebrity doppelganger. I don't know why the internet thought I was a tranny that day. And I don't know why it was Dennis Quaid. But more importantly, why did I think I wouldn't be openly mocked by the internet in front of all my friends? You think a girl would learn... some girls are pretty and some girls are Dennis Quaid look-a-likes.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Robert
We're all afraid of something. Growing up, I was afraid of a large still-life painting my mom had made that hung above the couch in our den. To me, a young, slightly chubby, skittish child, the chairs and lamps that posed in the painting, looked like angry bear monsters whose eyes followed you from one side of the room to the other. I also feared being in the bathroom after the toilet flushed. I didn't know what I thought would happen, but I didn't want to stay in there to find out.
As I got older my fears changed to radioactive waves from the microwave slowly riddling my body with cancer, how the endangerment of the bee population might lead to all of the earth's vegetation dying, and getting gonorrhea from public toilet seats. And while I'm still afraid of what most humans are afraid of- rapists, murderers, and unplanned pregnancies- I have a few unusual ones...
One of my biggest fears is being thrown into an impromptu spelling bee (they happen, believe me) but my main fear is fish.
Many friends tried to take advantage of this by tagging me in pictures of dead fish on Facebook, surprise trips to the aquarium, and even leaving Pet-Co beta fish on my doorstep. As you can imagine, I live in a constant state of fear and gagging.
I believe this fear stems from an unfortunate event I witnessed as a young sprightly lass in the happiest place on earth to a Midwestern human- Cedar Point: America's Roller Coast. For those of you who haven't experienced this Sandusky treasure, it's a large amusement park packed with some of the biggest roller coasters in the world, right on the coast of Lake Erie.
In between the roller coasters and winding between rides are little streams from off the lake. And in these streams dwell evil mutated amusement park carp. They probably started off as just normal humble, mild mannered, mid-western fish, but with thousands of stupid Cedar Point fanatics who throw half eaten funnel cakes and soft pretzels in the streams, the fish became overgrown and greedy. Their size exceeded any normal size fish I had seen. They became aggressive, dare I say, "ill tempered". When someone would drop the tiniest piece of food into the stream, the fish would topple over each other by the masses to grab it. There was a mountain of thrashing angry carp inches in front of me. In my opinion, the most disgusting sight that any human can witness is to see a fish flop out of water, struggling and gasping for air: It makes me vomit and want to stop living.
And so, there I was, excited in line for the Iron Dragon, my favorite roller coaster ride. Ahead of me in line were a few hoodlums who were spitting into the stream. Every time they spit, the fish went insane- piling on top of each other, jumping out of the water. Then, by mistake, a little girl who was standing in front of me, dropped her stuffed Pooh Bear into the water. In a matter of seconds, the fish over took the bear, and ripped it to shreds. I must have blacked out from the horror, because I don't exactly remember what happened next, but I do remember the screams of a little girl who lost her Pooh.
Ever since then, I had a fish phobia. Not only will they tear you apart, but they won't even remember it two seconds later because they don't have a memory. Hmmm...similar to sociopaths. They are the closest thing to looking like monsters that exist on this earth and are the only ones who eat their own species. That fact is probably not true, but it feels true- I saw "Nemo", I know how it works.
Last Christmas, my roommate Johnna had a friend, a tall surly man who hated "that's what she said" jokes named "Evan". He was leaving town for the holidays and needed someone to fish-sit. Our roommate, Beast, was going to be staying in LA . So, in some sick arrangement, a fish was brought into my home.
I protested. I refused to see it. But, to my dismay, a beta named Bob was placed on my kitchen table. Luckily, I was not going to be there the whole week- it would just be The Beast and Bob.
When I was in the Cleve, enjoying the some Christ's birth celebration, I received frantic messages from Beast. "Bob's water looks really weird!" and "Bob's not really moving, what should I do?!" and "I ate all of your Triscuts!"
I told Beast to maybe change the water and to put the special fish water drops in his tank. That's what I did when I babysat those Snorks, so it seemed like sound advice. All seemed okay.
After the holiday, Beast and Johnna picked me up at the airport.
"Uhh, we have to make a stop at PetSmart on the way home," Beast said.
"Why?"
Johnna and Beast let out a guilty laugh, "Bob died and we need to replace him before Evan picks him up tomorrow."
"Gross, did you flush him?"
"No, I'm going to buy this fish and then return the dead one to get my money back." That was my Beast. Always looking to make an extra dollar and fifty cents where she could.
As I got older my fears changed to radioactive waves from the microwave slowly riddling my body with cancer, how the endangerment of the bee population might lead to all of the earth's vegetation dying, and getting gonorrhea from public toilet seats. And while I'm still afraid of what most humans are afraid of- rapists, murderers, and unplanned pregnancies- I have a few unusual ones...
One of my biggest fears is being thrown into an impromptu spelling bee (they happen, believe me) but my main fear is fish.
Many friends tried to take advantage of this by tagging me in pictures of dead fish on Facebook, surprise trips to the aquarium, and even leaving Pet-Co beta fish on my doorstep. As you can imagine, I live in a constant state of fear and gagging.
I believe this fear stems from an unfortunate event I witnessed as a young sprightly lass in the happiest place on earth to a Midwestern human- Cedar Point: America's Roller Coast. For those of you who haven't experienced this Sandusky treasure, it's a large amusement park packed with some of the biggest roller coasters in the world, right on the coast of Lake Erie.
In between the roller coasters and winding between rides are little streams from off the lake. And in these streams dwell evil mutated amusement park carp. They probably started off as just normal humble, mild mannered, mid-western fish, but with thousands of stupid Cedar Point fanatics who throw half eaten funnel cakes and soft pretzels in the streams, the fish became overgrown and greedy. Their size exceeded any normal size fish I had seen. They became aggressive, dare I say, "ill tempered". When someone would drop the tiniest piece of food into the stream, the fish would topple over each other by the masses to grab it. There was a mountain of thrashing angry carp inches in front of me. In my opinion, the most disgusting sight that any human can witness is to see a fish flop out of water, struggling and gasping for air: It makes me vomit and want to stop living.
And so, there I was, excited in line for the Iron Dragon, my favorite roller coaster ride. Ahead of me in line were a few hoodlums who were spitting into the stream. Every time they spit, the fish went insane- piling on top of each other, jumping out of the water. Then, by mistake, a little girl who was standing in front of me, dropped her stuffed Pooh Bear into the water. In a matter of seconds, the fish over took the bear, and ripped it to shreds. I must have blacked out from the horror, because I don't exactly remember what happened next, but I do remember the screams of a little girl who lost her Pooh.
Ever since then, I had a fish phobia. Not only will they tear you apart, but they won't even remember it two seconds later because they don't have a memory. Hmmm...similar to sociopaths. They are the closest thing to looking like monsters that exist on this earth and are the only ones who eat their own species. That fact is probably not true, but it feels true- I saw "Nemo", I know how it works.
Last Christmas, my roommate Johnna had a friend, a tall surly man who hated "that's what she said" jokes named "Evan". He was leaving town for the holidays and needed someone to fish-sit. Our roommate, Beast, was going to be staying in LA . So, in some sick arrangement, a fish was brought into my home.
I protested. I refused to see it. But, to my dismay, a beta named Bob was placed on my kitchen table. Luckily, I was not going to be there the whole week- it would just be The Beast and Bob.
When I was in the Cleve, enjoying the some Christ's birth celebration, I received frantic messages from Beast. "Bob's water looks really weird!" and "Bob's not really moving, what should I do?!" and "I ate all of your Triscuts!"
I told Beast to maybe change the water and to put the special fish water drops in his tank. That's what I did when I babysat those Snorks, so it seemed like sound advice. All seemed okay.
After the holiday, Beast and Johnna picked me up at the airport.
"Uhh, we have to make a stop at PetSmart on the way home," Beast said.
"Why?"
Johnna and Beast let out a guilty laugh, "Bob died and we need to replace him before Evan picks him up tomorrow."
"Gross, did you flush him?"
"No, I'm going to buy this fish and then return the dead one to get my money back." That was my Beast. Always looking to make an extra dollar and fifty cents where she could.
"When did Bob die?"
"A few days ago," Beast replied.
"So, you're telling me that a dead fish is rotting in our kitchen?"
"Yes he is."
"Great, just wanted to check."
They dropped me off at home before they picked up Fish #2, knowing that PetCo fish section is my personal 'Nam. And there, on the kitchen table, in a bowl of cloudy dead fish water, was Bob. His little fish body was now bloated and bright red, floating at the top of the bowl. I almost felt bad for him since his body was going to be traded into PetCo for money in a few hours and not be laid to rest in toilet.
Johnna and Beast returned to the house with a small plastic Tupperware containing a tiny blue Beta fish that would be Bob's body double. Beast set the container down next to the dirty fish bowl.
I stepped back and looked at the two monsters on the table. One was red and the other was blue.
"Uhh, guys? Isn't Bob red?"
"No, he was blue. I think his body just turned red after he died," Johnna said.
"Are you sure?" I asked, studying them from a distance.
There was a long pause. No. None of us were sure. We were playing a risky game. Should we just give Evan the blue fish and hope that he either- A.) Didn't remember what color Bob was anyway... B.) That Bob was in fact blue, but since Beast had just let his body stay in a dirty bowl and start decaying, his color changed... or C.) Tell Evan what really happened and as a peace offering, give him the little blue fish... We went with C.
I would say I have faith in humans. I believe that everyone has some decency, understanding, and sympathy. But I also believe that I'm wrong about everything 98% of the time.
Johnna told Evan the whole story about Bob's sudden turn in health, his death, and the little blue fish that we had waiting for him at our home as an apology/replacement for Bob. Instead of acting like a normal homosapien with adult emotions, Evan flipped out. He claimed Beast killed his fish and refused to come and pick up his bowl and fish food, let alone take a new fish.
So there we were, one dead fish, one blue fish- like a messed up Dr. Seuss rhyme.
Beast told us that she was still intended to get her money back for the fish. The only problem was the pet store would only refund her if the fish died with in the week. She could either take Bob's body to PetCo, but we would be stuck with the little blue fish. So, Beast decided that the best idea was to leave the little blue fish in the small container until it died and take that back to PetCo.
Two days later, Bob's body is still rotting in the fish bowl and the little blue fish is still swimming around in its little plastic resort. We told Beast that she had to come up with a new plan because Bob's body was now starting to smell like raw sewage... or a decaying fish body. She said she would flush both of them down the toilet that day and just be rid of the whole situation. I didn't feel right about killing the little blue one, but I had also been hyperventilating every time the fish came into my eye line- so I was Natalie Imbruglia torn.
"Beast time" is not like human time. You tell her rent is due March first, she pays you June 2nd three years later in Canadian coins. It was another three days of decaying bodies and me having seizures every time I went into the kitchen.
So like Squints from "Sandlot" with the lifeguard, Wendy Peffercorn, I couldn't take anymore. As Beast downed her eleventh beer and opened a can of beans for a snack, I did something desperate.
I took Bob's bowl, which was now a dark brown color, and took it to our back bathroom. The smell felt like it was stabbing every part of my body and my stomach made a B-line for my throat. Not to mention, floating at the top, looking right at me with cold dead eyes, was a dead fish. I carefully poured the dead fish water into the toilet, trying not to spill any of the pebbles and fake plastic plants into the toilet so I wouldn't have to touch it with my hands.
I can't even describe to you what my screams sounded like but I can only think neighbors thought I was being skinned alive. I don't remember really what happened next because I paid a therapist to help me black out those moments. The next thing I knew, I had a clean fish bowl with the little blue fish swimming around in it.
No matter how many times I vomited looking at him, I could not let him die. And so, upon that day, I named him Robert. And I fed Robert everyday, screamed as I had to change his water, cried as he followed me as I walked by his bowl. I feared him.
"He was going to die soon," I thought. After all, he was a pet store fish. The months went by and Robert was still alive. Swimming, staring, and hiding in his plastic plant. Then fear turned to respect and soon respect turned to love.
Now Robert and I have been together for about a year and half. Everyday and every night, he sits on my desk and watches me. I care for him and feed him and he follows my finger up and down the glass. And now, reflecting back on everything, I realized... Robert is one of the longest loving relationships I have... and that makes me want to die.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Killer Lemonade
I killed a man once. True story. Well, helped at least…
A few summers ago, I was sitting in my sweltering apartment with my friends Beast and Dani. It was one of those days that it felt like the walls were sweating and every time you tried to move, it was if you were walking in slow motion. And seeing how my apartment had nothing in it but dorm furniture and cockroaches, we were bored and little scared of disease.
“Well let’s do something summer-y” I said, wide-eyed and innocent.
“Let’s get one of those kiddie pools and put them in the lobby,” Beast suggested.
“No, someone next door did that last week,” I said, wanting to be original. “How about a Lemonade Stand?”
We all agreed that this was the most logical thing we could do on a beautiful summer day in the city as juniors in College…
We ran across the street to 7-11 where we bought a carton of Newman’s Lemonade, sugar, and small Dixie cups. All together it cost me $9 to invest in a project that would only give me $3 in return, a painful memory, and a slight criminal record. I went home and poured the lemonade into a large plastic pitcher, added water and sugar to give it a homemade taste.
We put on our best dresses, set up chairs outside our apartment building, made a sign that said “Lemonade 73 cents- exact change only.” And in order to attract customers, Beast brought out her ukulele. We sat there singing, “Lemonade- come get your lemonade- your fresh squeezed lemonade- Well, its hot outside- why don’t you come and buy- our fresh squeezed lemonade.” It was the best song since the invention of happiness. It was melodic, catchy, and sung as loudly as possible.
We mostly got strange looks from pedestrians or ignored all together. Once in a while we would get some takers. Since our price was 73 cents and we didn’t have any change, people would just give up and give us the whole dollar. One lady just gave us a dollar to be quiet. But our song continued on and we spiced it up a bit. We would incorporate the people we saw on the street into our song. Like a man on a Segway that passed us back and forth multiple times, waving and who was ecstatic about the fact he was on Segway.
Our friend Ann was walking home from work and was unbelievably excited about our stand. “Well Ann, lemonade doesn’t grow on trees…” …it kind of does, “it’s going to be 73 cents.” Ann, disappointedly, turned out her empty pockets. “ I’ll be right back! Don’t move,” she said as she ran into our apartment building.
Then a young Indian family passed us by. Beast started singing to them, “Hey there family, don’t you want some lemonade?”
“NO! No!” the father yelled at us. We didn’t understand why this man hated lemonade so much but looking back, maybe he could predict the horror that lemonade stands could cause.
After being scolded by the father of the pedestrians, from the corner of my eye, I spotted an old maroon Buick creeping by. The driver, a middle age man with a scruffy graying beard hung out his window, cigarette hanging on his lip, just stared at us. He wouldn’t break eye contact with us while his car cruised by at a snail’s pace. It was one of the top three most uncomfortable staring contests I had ever been involved in.
Beast finally reached her limit of awkwardness and stopped playing her ukulele, and yelled, “HI?” in a tone that shook that man’s attention.
The man snapped out of his trance and said “OH! Hi-“ SMACK! CRASH! BOOM!
Head on collision with a taxi. The car behind the taxi smashed into the taxi causing the taxi to further smash into our creeper’s car. Glass everywhere, tires screeching, smoke coming out of the hoods. It looked like a war scene. Our jaws dropped.
We all gasped at the nightmare that had just unfolded in front of our lemonade stand. Then we did the only thing we knew what to do.
Without a word, we all ran. We ran like 8 year olds in fear of being scolded by our mom. We ran into our apartment and hid. We changed our clothes when we heard the police sirens. We dumped the lemonade and ran to our friend’s apartment on the second floor to get a better look of the scene. We were all shaking.
Three police cars, two fire trucks, and an ambulance surrounded the scene.
“Shit! Shit! Shit! Look!” Dani yelled and pointed. The angry Indian father was talking to a policeman, pointing to where are lemonade stand was. “What do you think he’s saying?”
“Its not our fault! We didn’t do anything wrong!” I protested, although it might be illegal to have a lemonade stand when you’re 20 years old, but they couldn’t arrest us for that.
“Why didn’t you guys call for help?” our friend asked. That would have been the right thing to do, of course. But when you might have been the distraction that just caused three cars to collide into each other and cause thousands of dollars worth of damage, the only thing we could think to do was run.
“Oh God…” I gasped, “Ann!” Wandering through the wreckage, looking around the police, was our friend Ann with 73 cents in hand.
“Get out of there!” we tried to loud-whisper through the window. We shook with fear that Ann was going to give our cover away. “What if she talks? We got to get her out of there!” Luckily, Ann gave up on her own. As Ann was walking back into our building, we saw our creeper get taken out of his vehicle. He was immediately put onto a stretcher and put into a neck brace.
“Damnit!!! Do you think he’s going to be ok?”
As we all agreed that he probably was dying, they put him into the ambulance and rushed away.
“Beast, what did you do?” we looked at her.
“I killed a man.”
Over the next few hours the taxi driver gave a statement to the police, the cars were towed, and the corner in front of our apartment building went quiet.
Throughout the rest of that day we all received texts asking if Beast really killed a man in cold blood…we responded, “She did.”
That night we had a “Beast killed a man, let’s party” party/memorial service in which every one wore black and we took moments of silence for the fallen.
We kept a headlight that was left on the road as a souvenir of the day Beast killed a man. For the rest of the summer and into the fall, glass covered the street. We ducked into doorways whenever we saw a police car go by. Some say they can still hear the screeching tires and a ukulele playing when the wind blows or that in the middle of the night a maroon Buick cruises down the street and disappears at the corner. This of course is all myth and hearsay, but one thing is for certain, none of us ever drank lemonade again.
A few summers ago, I was sitting in my sweltering apartment with my friends Beast and Dani. It was one of those days that it felt like the walls were sweating and every time you tried to move, it was if you were walking in slow motion. And seeing how my apartment had nothing in it but dorm furniture and cockroaches, we were bored and little scared of disease.
“Well let’s do something summer-y” I said, wide-eyed and innocent.
“Let’s get one of those kiddie pools and put them in the lobby,” Beast suggested.
“No, someone next door did that last week,” I said, wanting to be original. “How about a Lemonade Stand?”
We all agreed that this was the most logical thing we could do on a beautiful summer day in the city as juniors in College…
We ran across the street to 7-11 where we bought a carton of Newman’s Lemonade, sugar, and small Dixie cups. All together it cost me $9 to invest in a project that would only give me $3 in return, a painful memory, and a slight criminal record. I went home and poured the lemonade into a large plastic pitcher, added water and sugar to give it a homemade taste.
We put on our best dresses, set up chairs outside our apartment building, made a sign that said “Lemonade 73 cents- exact change only.” And in order to attract customers, Beast brought out her ukulele. We sat there singing, “Lemonade- come get your lemonade- your fresh squeezed lemonade- Well, its hot outside- why don’t you come and buy- our fresh squeezed lemonade.” It was the best song since the invention of happiness. It was melodic, catchy, and sung as loudly as possible.
We mostly got strange looks from pedestrians or ignored all together. Once in a while we would get some takers. Since our price was 73 cents and we didn’t have any change, people would just give up and give us the whole dollar. One lady just gave us a dollar to be quiet. But our song continued on and we spiced it up a bit. We would incorporate the people we saw on the street into our song. Like a man on a Segway that passed us back and forth multiple times, waving and who was ecstatic about the fact he was on Segway.
Our friend Ann was walking home from work and was unbelievably excited about our stand. “Well Ann, lemonade doesn’t grow on trees…” …it kind of does, “it’s going to be 73 cents.” Ann, disappointedly, turned out her empty pockets. “ I’ll be right back! Don’t move,” she said as she ran into our apartment building.
Then a young Indian family passed us by. Beast started singing to them, “Hey there family, don’t you want some lemonade?”
“NO! No!” the father yelled at us. We didn’t understand why this man hated lemonade so much but looking back, maybe he could predict the horror that lemonade stands could cause.
After being scolded by the father of the pedestrians, from the corner of my eye, I spotted an old maroon Buick creeping by. The driver, a middle age man with a scruffy graying beard hung out his window, cigarette hanging on his lip, just stared at us. He wouldn’t break eye contact with us while his car cruised by at a snail’s pace. It was one of the top three most uncomfortable staring contests I had ever been involved in.
Beast finally reached her limit of awkwardness and stopped playing her ukulele, and yelled, “HI?” in a tone that shook that man’s attention.
The man snapped out of his trance and said “OH! Hi-“ SMACK! CRASH! BOOM!
Head on collision with a taxi. The car behind the taxi smashed into the taxi causing the taxi to further smash into our creeper’s car. Glass everywhere, tires screeching, smoke coming out of the hoods. It looked like a war scene. Our jaws dropped.
We all gasped at the nightmare that had just unfolded in front of our lemonade stand. Then we did the only thing we knew what to do.
Without a word, we all ran. We ran like 8 year olds in fear of being scolded by our mom. We ran into our apartment and hid. We changed our clothes when we heard the police sirens. We dumped the lemonade and ran to our friend’s apartment on the second floor to get a better look of the scene. We were all shaking.
Three police cars, two fire trucks, and an ambulance surrounded the scene.
“Shit! Shit! Shit! Look!” Dani yelled and pointed. The angry Indian father was talking to a policeman, pointing to where are lemonade stand was. “What do you think he’s saying?”
“Its not our fault! We didn’t do anything wrong!” I protested, although it might be illegal to have a lemonade stand when you’re 20 years old, but they couldn’t arrest us for that.
“Why didn’t you guys call for help?” our friend asked. That would have been the right thing to do, of course. But when you might have been the distraction that just caused three cars to collide into each other and cause thousands of dollars worth of damage, the only thing we could think to do was run.
“Oh God…” I gasped, “Ann!” Wandering through the wreckage, looking around the police, was our friend Ann with 73 cents in hand.
“Get out of there!” we tried to loud-whisper through the window. We shook with fear that Ann was going to give our cover away. “What if she talks? We got to get her out of there!” Luckily, Ann gave up on her own. As Ann was walking back into our building, we saw our creeper get taken out of his vehicle. He was immediately put onto a stretcher and put into a neck brace.
“Damnit!!! Do you think he’s going to be ok?”
As we all agreed that he probably was dying, they put him into the ambulance and rushed away.
“Beast, what did you do?” we looked at her.
“I killed a man.”
Over the next few hours the taxi driver gave a statement to the police, the cars were towed, and the corner in front of our apartment building went quiet.
Throughout the rest of that day we all received texts asking if Beast really killed a man in cold blood…we responded, “She did.”
That night we had a “Beast killed a man, let’s party” party/memorial service in which every one wore black and we took moments of silence for the fallen.
We kept a headlight that was left on the road as a souvenir of the day Beast killed a man. For the rest of the summer and into the fall, glass covered the street. We ducked into doorways whenever we saw a police car go by. Some say they can still hear the screeching tires and a ukulele playing when the wind blows or that in the middle of the night a maroon Buick cruises down the street and disappears at the corner. This of course is all myth and hearsay, but one thing is for certain, none of us ever drank lemonade again.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A Serial Sexter
When it comes to dealing with anything remotely sexual, I have the maturity of a 90 year-old asexual that has been living in a convent since 1953. I cringe with shame and embarrassment when someone uses the proper names for male and female genitalia and not the abbreviated “P and the V”. When someone says the word “panties” I instantly want to throw up and run into a small-enclosed space. I still can’t say the word “condoms” out loud.
I blame most of this on learning Sex Ed. from a book that was titled “Jesus loves all his Children” in 4th grade at my Catholic grade school. I mostly learned that Jesus loves both boys and girls equally and that hugging is ok if it only lasts a couple seconds. And on the last page it told me that I have a uterus and I’m going to start bleeding until I’m 50. Traumatic for a 9 year old.
Then in 6th grade we started learning terms for the reproductive system in health class. Our entire black board was covered with the correct medical terms for the different parts of the body, written in perfect cursive with yellow chalk which we had to copy into our notebooks.
At the end of the day, I was leaning against the board talking to my friend while I waited for the bus. When my bus was called I started to leave the room until I heard my friends burst out in laughter behind me. Someone grabbed me by the arm and told me to take off my black winter coat. On the back was a perfectly rubbed off chalk copy of the term “Fallopian Tubes”. Traumatic for any preteen.
My mom was also a contributing factor in my awkwardness. My dear Midwestern mom would tell the teenage workers at Victoria Secret that the store is for “Big Boobed Hussies” when they asked us if we needed help finding anything. Or how she would still call flip-flops “thongs” as they did in the 1960’s. And then when a spider crawled into our kitchen she would yell, “Hit it with your thong! HIT IT WITH YOUR THONG!”…Thank god I had some friends over that day. Traumatic for all humans.
From these experiences, I grew extremely uncomfortable with subjects such as underwear, Fallopian Tubes, and chalk. But never in my life had I been a victim of serial sexting.
It was a Wednesday night and I had claimed my space on my couch watching Grey’s Anatomy on Lifetime while eating left over take out…hot. I was falling deeper in love with Patrick Dempsey when my phone vibrated. I got a text message from “Marc”. Excitedly, I opened the text : “What are you wearing?”
I laughed to myself. “He’s so funny”. So I replied back “An ill-fitting pant-suit I got on sale from Sear’s. You?”
He replied back, “Just an apron”.
One, what 33- year-old single man owns an apron? Two, if this was true and he was cooking, he could seriously burn himself in a weird way. And three, I wasn’t so sure this was a joke anymore.
So I replied, “Be careful if you are sautéing anything”.
He didn’t respond.
“Wow that was weird, “ I thought. But he was probably just joking, so I didn’t think anything of it.
Then the next night, I was back to my same routine of Grey’s and leftovers, when I got another text from "Marc".
“What are you wearing?”
Is this guy F’ing joking? Not only was I getting a little creeped out, but also disappointed in his unoriginality of a new way to sexually harass me via text.
“An over sized sweatshirt and gym shorts” I replied.
“I’m naked,” he said.
There is nothing attractive about a man naked alone in his home. Nothing. I didn’t know what to say, so I replied with the only thing I could think of:
“Well, it is Thursday…” I still have no idea what that was supposed to mean and I don’t think he knew either because he didn’t respond.
The weekend came and went without any word from him. Maybe he was disappointed in my inability to “sext” or maybe he was too busy hanging out around middle schools or making friends on Chatroulette.
Monday night, I was getting into bed exhausted when my phone went off again. “ 1 New Message” my phone blinked. I opened it.
“What are you wearing?”
Holy S’ing Eff. Are you kidding me? Does he think that every time I get this message I think, “Wow, this guy speaks right to my soul.” Or that I’m surprised or excited about this?
I replied, “Lots of layers,” thinking he would get the hint that this is ridiculous and weird. But he didn’t.
“I’m naked,” he said again.
“Why are you always naked?”
“I don’t know.”
“Invest in some pants.”
And thus ended that relationship.
So I would like to thank you "Marc", no matter how much I clear out my inbox on my phone, it will never be clean.
I blame most of this on learning Sex Ed. from a book that was titled “Jesus loves all his Children” in 4th grade at my Catholic grade school. I mostly learned that Jesus loves both boys and girls equally and that hugging is ok if it only lasts a couple seconds. And on the last page it told me that I have a uterus and I’m going to start bleeding until I’m 50. Traumatic for a 9 year old.
Then in 6th grade we started learning terms for the reproductive system in health class. Our entire black board was covered with the correct medical terms for the different parts of the body, written in perfect cursive with yellow chalk which we had to copy into our notebooks.
At the end of the day, I was leaning against the board talking to my friend while I waited for the bus. When my bus was called I started to leave the room until I heard my friends burst out in laughter behind me. Someone grabbed me by the arm and told me to take off my black winter coat. On the back was a perfectly rubbed off chalk copy of the term “Fallopian Tubes”. Traumatic for any preteen.
My mom was also a contributing factor in my awkwardness. My dear Midwestern mom would tell the teenage workers at Victoria Secret that the store is for “Big Boobed Hussies” when they asked us if we needed help finding anything. Or how she would still call flip-flops “thongs” as they did in the 1960’s. And then when a spider crawled into our kitchen she would yell, “Hit it with your thong! HIT IT WITH YOUR THONG!”…Thank god I had some friends over that day. Traumatic for all humans.
From these experiences, I grew extremely uncomfortable with subjects such as underwear, Fallopian Tubes, and chalk. But never in my life had I been a victim of serial sexting.
It was a Wednesday night and I had claimed my space on my couch watching Grey’s Anatomy on Lifetime while eating left over take out…hot. I was falling deeper in love with Patrick Dempsey when my phone vibrated. I got a text message from “Marc”. Excitedly, I opened the text : “What are you wearing?”
I laughed to myself. “He’s so funny”. So I replied back “An ill-fitting pant-suit I got on sale from Sear’s. You?”
He replied back, “Just an apron”.
One, what 33- year-old single man owns an apron? Two, if this was true and he was cooking, he could seriously burn himself in a weird way. And three, I wasn’t so sure this was a joke anymore.
So I replied, “Be careful if you are sautéing anything”.
He didn’t respond.
“Wow that was weird, “ I thought. But he was probably just joking, so I didn’t think anything of it.
Then the next night, I was back to my same routine of Grey’s and leftovers, when I got another text from "Marc".
“What are you wearing?”
Is this guy F’ing joking? Not only was I getting a little creeped out, but also disappointed in his unoriginality of a new way to sexually harass me via text.
“An over sized sweatshirt and gym shorts” I replied.
“I’m naked,” he said.
There is nothing attractive about a man naked alone in his home. Nothing. I didn’t know what to say, so I replied with the only thing I could think of:
“Well, it is Thursday…” I still have no idea what that was supposed to mean and I don’t think he knew either because he didn’t respond.
The weekend came and went without any word from him. Maybe he was disappointed in my inability to “sext” or maybe he was too busy hanging out around middle schools or making friends on Chatroulette.
Monday night, I was getting into bed exhausted when my phone went off again. “ 1 New Message” my phone blinked. I opened it.
“What are you wearing?”
Holy S’ing Eff. Are you kidding me? Does he think that every time I get this message I think, “Wow, this guy speaks right to my soul.” Or that I’m surprised or excited about this?
I replied, “Lots of layers,” thinking he would get the hint that this is ridiculous and weird. But he didn’t.
“I’m naked,” he said again.
“Why are you always naked?”
“I don’t know.”
“Invest in some pants.”
And thus ended that relationship.
So I would like to thank you "Marc", no matter how much I clear out my inbox on my phone, it will never be clean.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Call Me Ike Turner
I'm going to start off with a warning- Mom, if you are reading this, stop. Things are going to get weird and I want to be able to look you in the eye at Christmas.
If you are anyone outside of my immediate family or cannot, in any way, bring this information up around my parents, please continue.
I wouldn't categorize myself as a hot chick. I don't use a lot of makeup, go tanning, or own underwear from anywhere other than the JCPenny semi- annual sale. I don't take pictures of myself in the mirror or call my friends "my sexy bitches". I never owned a Britney Spears CD. I'm in no way saying that doing any of these activities are wrong or stupid - I severely envy those girls who can pull it off. I am just physically incapable of making these activities seem desirable or as if a real functioning human is performing them. I know what I am, and I am not a hot chick.
As I had mentioned before, I started to see this 33 year old man named "Marc". He was witty, goofy, and successful all wrapped into a 5'10 blond-haired-blue-eyed man. And I mean "man". He had his own apartment with furniture that he bought from a store opposed to picking it off the curb. He drove an earth friendly Prius, wore button downs with suit jackets with designer jeans, and had a work Blackberry. He had his own office and his own personal assistant who is three years older than I am. This was a little intimidating when I compared it to my life.
I share a house with two of my friends from college on a street that has a 24 Hour Pawn Shop. I drive a Kia hatchback that constantly smells like Chinese food. And I share a desk with two other people in an office which used to be a storage closet. I felt like I was 5. We were in two opposite places in our lives and really had nothing in common except for the fact that we could make each other laugh.
Anywhoozle, like all situations I happen to be in, something goes array. After a date with Marc, we go back to his big kid apartment to hangout. As the night progressed, things started to happen. Nothing graphic, totally PG-13 makeout on his couch types of happening. I was laying down on my back with my legs across his lap and him leaning towards me. It was a little uncomfortable in that position so we tried to move. As he was moving out from under me, I swung my legs around to set them on the ground. Unfortunately, he did not see me doing this.
SMACK!
I kicked him in the face. "Holy S***!" he screamed. I gasped. He move his hand from over his mouth. There was blood all over his mouth. I had split his lip. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry!" I said half laughing, half mortified. "Am I bleeding?" he said as his tongue swiped across his bottom lip. "Ummm...a little bit" He got up and went to the bathroom. I just waited for his reaction.... "Oh my god!" I heard him yell in the bathroom. I was tempted to just grab my shoes, light something on fire, and run out the door before I got taken away for domestic abuse. My face was burning up with embarrassment and the after effects of Bridget Kyle on tequila. He came out of the bathroom with a wet paper towel on his swollen mouth. I didn't know if he was going to tell me to leave or hit me back. "Well thats going to make an awesome story for Monday" he said as he started laughing.
Thank God.
If you are anyone outside of my immediate family or cannot, in any way, bring this information up around my parents, please continue.
I wouldn't categorize myself as a hot chick. I don't use a lot of makeup, go tanning, or own underwear from anywhere other than the JCPenny semi- annual sale. I don't take pictures of myself in the mirror or call my friends "my sexy bitches". I never owned a Britney Spears CD. I'm in no way saying that doing any of these activities are wrong or stupid - I severely envy those girls who can pull it off. I am just physically incapable of making these activities seem desirable or as if a real functioning human is performing them. I know what I am, and I am not a hot chick.
As I had mentioned before, I started to see this 33 year old man named "Marc". He was witty, goofy, and successful all wrapped into a 5'10 blond-haired-blue-eyed man. And I mean "man". He had his own apartment with furniture that he bought from a store opposed to picking it off the curb. He drove an earth friendly Prius, wore button downs with suit jackets with designer jeans, and had a work Blackberry. He had his own office and his own personal assistant who is three years older than I am. This was a little intimidating when I compared it to my life.
I share a house with two of my friends from college on a street that has a 24 Hour Pawn Shop. I drive a Kia hatchback that constantly smells like Chinese food. And I share a desk with two other people in an office which used to be a storage closet. I felt like I was 5. We were in two opposite places in our lives and really had nothing in common except for the fact that we could make each other laugh.
Anywhoozle, like all situations I happen to be in, something goes array. After a date with Marc, we go back to his big kid apartment to hangout. As the night progressed, things started to happen. Nothing graphic, totally PG-13 makeout on his couch types of happening. I was laying down on my back with my legs across his lap and him leaning towards me. It was a little uncomfortable in that position so we tried to move. As he was moving out from under me, I swung my legs around to set them on the ground. Unfortunately, he did not see me doing this.
SMACK!
I kicked him in the face. "Holy S***!" he screamed. I gasped. He move his hand from over his mouth. There was blood all over his mouth. I had split his lip. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry!" I said half laughing, half mortified. "Am I bleeding?" he said as his tongue swiped across his bottom lip. "Ummm...a little bit" He got up and went to the bathroom. I just waited for his reaction.... "Oh my god!" I heard him yell in the bathroom. I was tempted to just grab my shoes, light something on fire, and run out the door before I got taken away for domestic abuse. My face was burning up with embarrassment and the after effects of Bridget Kyle on tequila. He came out of the bathroom with a wet paper towel on his swollen mouth. I didn't know if he was going to tell me to leave or hit me back. "Well thats going to make an awesome story for Monday" he said as he started laughing.
Thank God.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Serial Sexter
I'm going to start off with a warning- Mom, if you are reading this, stop. Things are going to get weird and I want to be able to look you in the eye at Christmas.
If you are anyone outside of my immediate family or cannot, in any way, bring this information up around my parents, please continue.
I wouldn't categorize myself as a hot chick. I don't use a lot of makeup, go tanning, or own underwear from anywhere other than the JCPenny semi- annual sale. I don't take pictures of myself in the mirror or call my friends "my sexy bitches". I never owned a Britney Spears CD. I'm in no way saying that doing any of these activities are wrong or stupid - I severely envy those girls who can pull it off. I can't do these things because I would be mocked by the world and myself if I walked into a tanning salon. I can't take these things seriously. I know what I am, and I am not a hot chick.
As I had mentioned before, I started to see this 33 year old man named "Mark". He was witty, goofy, and successful all wrapped into a 5'10 blond-haired-blue-eyed man. And I mean "man". He had his own apartment with furniture that he bought from a store opposed to picking it off the curb. He drove an earth friendly Prius, wore button downs with suit jackets with designer jeans, and had a work Blackberry. He had his own office and his own personal assistant who is three years older than I am.
This was a little intimidating when I compared it to my life. I share a house with two of my friends from college on a street that has a 24 Hour Pawn Shop. I drive a Kia hatchback that constantly smells like chinese food. And I share a desk with two other people in an office with no windows. I felt like I was 5.
We were in two opposite places in our lives and really had nothing in common except for the fact that we could make each other laugh.
Anywhoozle, like all situations I happen to be in, something goes array.
After a date with Mark, we go back to his big kid apartment to hangout. As the night progressed, things started to happen. Nothing graphic, totally PG-13 makeout on his couch types of happening. I was laying down on my back with my legs across his lap and him leaning towards me. It was a little uncomfortable to stay in that position so we tried to move. As he was moving out from under me, I swung my legs around to set them on the ground. Unfortunately, he did not see me doing this. SMACK. I kicked him in the face.
"Holy S***!" he screamed. I gasped. He move his hand from over his mouth. There was blood all over his mouth. I had split his lip.
"Oh my god! I'm so sorry!" I said half laughing, half mortified.
"Am I bleeding?" he said as his tongue swiped across his bottom lip.
"Ummm...a little bit"
He got up and went to the bathroom. I just waited for his reaction....
"Oh my god!" I heard him yell in the bathroom. I was tempted to just grab my shoes and run out the door before I got taken away for domestic abuse. My face was burning up with embarrassment and the after effects of Bridget Kyle on tequila. He came out of the bathroom with a wet paper towel on his swollen mouth.
I didn't know if he was going to tell me to leave or hit me back.
"Well thats going to make an awesome story for Monday" he said as he started laughing. Thank God.
If you are anyone outside of my immediate family or cannot, in any way, bring this information up around my parents, please continue.
I wouldn't categorize myself as a hot chick. I don't use a lot of makeup, go tanning, or own underwear from anywhere other than the JCPenny semi- annual sale. I don't take pictures of myself in the mirror or call my friends "my sexy bitches". I never owned a Britney Spears CD. I'm in no way saying that doing any of these activities are wrong or stupid - I severely envy those girls who can pull it off. I can't do these things because I would be mocked by the world and myself if I walked into a tanning salon. I can't take these things seriously. I know what I am, and I am not a hot chick.
As I had mentioned before, I started to see this 33 year old man named "Mark". He was witty, goofy, and successful all wrapped into a 5'10 blond-haired-blue-eyed man. And I mean "man". He had his own apartment with furniture that he bought from a store opposed to picking it off the curb. He drove an earth friendly Prius, wore button downs with suit jackets with designer jeans, and had a work Blackberry. He had his own office and his own personal assistant who is three years older than I am.
This was a little intimidating when I compared it to my life. I share a house with two of my friends from college on a street that has a 24 Hour Pawn Shop. I drive a Kia hatchback that constantly smells like chinese food. And I share a desk with two other people in an office with no windows. I felt like I was 5.
We were in two opposite places in our lives and really had nothing in common except for the fact that we could make each other laugh.
Anywhoozle, like all situations I happen to be in, something goes array.
After a date with Mark, we go back to his big kid apartment to hangout. As the night progressed, things started to happen. Nothing graphic, totally PG-13 makeout on his couch types of happening. I was laying down on my back with my legs across his lap and him leaning towards me. It was a little uncomfortable to stay in that position so we tried to move. As he was moving out from under me, I swung my legs around to set them on the ground. Unfortunately, he did not see me doing this. SMACK. I kicked him in the face.
"Holy S***!" he screamed. I gasped. He move his hand from over his mouth. There was blood all over his mouth. I had split his lip.
"Oh my god! I'm so sorry!" I said half laughing, half mortified.
"Am I bleeding?" he said as his tongue swiped across his bottom lip.
"Ummm...a little bit"
He got up and went to the bathroom. I just waited for his reaction....
"Oh my god!" I heard him yell in the bathroom. I was tempted to just grab my shoes and run out the door before I got taken away for domestic abuse. My face was burning up with embarrassment and the after effects of Bridget Kyle on tequila. He came out of the bathroom with a wet paper towel on his swollen mouth.
I didn't know if he was going to tell me to leave or hit me back.
"Well thats going to make an awesome story for Monday" he said as he started laughing. Thank God.
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