- Me: I called him on Monday and…
- Stefani: Hold on… (her kid is screaming in the backseat) Troy! Stop your crying!... (The screaming becomes a soft whimper and then stops. Silence. I can tell this is where she’s giving him the death look in the rear view mirror. The look that means business)… And I’m back. Sorry, what we’re you saying?
- Me: So I called him on Monday and left a voicemail but he hasn’t responded.
- Stefani: Yikes. (she begins to laugh) I can’t believe he hasn’t… (her kid then realizes that his Mom isn't paying attention to him and begins to scream again) Oh jeez, hold on… Trooooy! I swear I’ll pull this car over and spank that bare bottom. Now stop! (He stops. Lesson learned. Her voice softens as she continues talking to him) Now listen, I know you really wanted to go through the car wash, but we’ll just have to do it another day, O.K. dude? I promise next time. (I hear him mumble in approval)… And I’m back.
- Me: Wow, our lives are completely different.
- Note: I want Stefani’s life. She’s a house wife/mom/hero. I actually went to my high school Prom with her. It was the only dance I went to without the pressure of a goodnight kiss at the end. She had a boyfriend but he had graduated a few years earlier and my school didn’t allow pedophiles on campus. So she went with the next best thing, ME. It was great because during the slow dances she had a rule that we had to keep at least a foot in between us at all times, because if word got back to her man that we were any closer, he was going to kick my ass! We went as friends and it was the best dance of my life.
UPDATE: Oh shit, sorry VirginIa.
Listening to shinedown Just watched my wife and kids reruns Today I read jimnasuims blog. I hope I’ll never be 30 single broke and waiting on a rich man to take care of me But he seems to make it awesome…
Oh dear… What have I become? Or NOT become might be the better question… Side note: he doesn’t have to be rich, just as long as he has a job that allows me to stay at home and raise the children. It’s fine if we’re a budgeted family, I know how to pinch a penny.
“Good morning Isabel,” I said to the short and oddly proportioned, brace faced freshman passing by. She was shocked that a senior was actually talking to a freshman.
“Hi,” she said back timidly and scurried off to the locker bay.
I then turned to Barba and said, with a straight gay face, “Every vote counts.”
“Jiiiiiiiiim,” she said as she smacked me on the shoulder. Barba, which is Spanish for “beard,” was exactly that, my beard. She was the closest thing I ever had to a high school sweetheart. We were like a couple minus the intimacy. “You’re terrible,” she said as she wrapped her arm around mine.
It was Homecoming week and I was nominated for King. As much as I played it off, this was a big deal. The Marti’s were notorious for winning the crown. I remember going to the Homecoming game when I was just a little boy, standing on the sidelines watching as my Sister Twin waved to the crowd from the back of a red convertible. Atop her head sat a sparkling crown. I wanted that crown. I wanted to be in that convertible. I wanted to wave to the adoring crowd.
The crowning of King and Queen during Homecoming/Prom is a popularity contest, normally reserved for The Pretties (every once and a while a below-average-looking couple will weasel their way in simply because they’ve been together since grade school, therefore garnering them the sympathy vote). The fact that beautiful people are popular is nothing new, it’s been the case since day one; however, thanks to media and technology it’s only gotten worse. Let’s take one of the biggest popularity contests in this country, the Presidential Election, and use it as an example. After the first ever televised presidential debate between Nixon and Kennedy, people were polled and asked who they thought had won. Results showed that people who watched the debate on television said that the calm, well-dressed, and dashing Kennedy had won. On the other hand Nixon, who was constantly wiping away the sweat that dribbled off his huge schnoz and down his beagle basset hound cheeks, was voted the clear winner by people who listened to the debate on radio. Since then, candidates are carefully prepared with their appearances, knowing that pretty prevails. That pesky, yet sexy, Sarah Palin only made it as far as she has because of her looks. The shit that comes out of her mouth is absolutely absurd (which has also definitely helped her get attention and notoriety). Hmm, maybe her and I have more in common than I thought.
- Cute Writer Zombie: How honest are you in your writing? 10%? 30% 90%?
- Me: What? (I couldn’t hear him over the music)
- C.W.Z.: How honest are you? What percent?
- Me: (yelling) Too!
- C.W.Z.: Two?! That’s it!
- Me: No. T-O-O. I’m too honest!
- Note: Everyone likes an honest person, right? However, I’m not a fan of someone using “honesty is the best policy” when their opinion wasn’t asked for. I knew a girl in high school who found it appropriate to say shit like, “I don’t like your shoes… What? I’m just being honest,” even if her opinion wasn’t asked. Even though I believe in honesty, I think when someone asks if you like their new hair cut or if they look fat in something, unless the dress won’t zip up then you should always throw honesty out the window and tell them what they want to hear. That’s just being polite and we we're all taught to have manners.
On Saturday, my favorite girl and I met up with some other friends at The Roosterfish for a Zombie Prom themed party. I’m a little nervous to be around this particular group of friends ever since I went to one of their birthday parties and went home with the Birthday Boy’s ex-boyfriend. It was drama. I’m never one to hook up with friends of friends but the Devil (Makers Mark) had taken over that night. I apologized profusely to the wounded the next day and swore to never make a fool of myself in front of them again. So when one of their Zombie friends, a super cute writer, was flirting and inches away from kissing me, I had to put my foot down and say, “Sorry, not tonight.” Even though the Devil was again on my breath, I fought it and said that we should exchange numbers and go out on a date sometime. It was hard not kissing him. Especially when he put his hand on my back and my delicate parts tingled. That doesn’t happen often (except for when one of the Latinos at work grabs my ass and calls me a “puto”). We exchanged numbers and are now in the texting-phase. We’ll see.
“Just wanted to say Hi and I miss seeing ur face… Too bad u decided to stop seeing each other! Hope ur doing well!!!
So, I don’t know how to feel about this. After reading it, my first thought was, “direct translation.” My second thought was, “I’m an asshole.” But am I? As I’ve said a hundred times, I’m too old to fiddle around with relationships that I know aren’t going to be right in the end, so there’s no point in stringing them along. But I tell ya, if I saw him at a club randomly, I’d take him home and start the drama all over again. Shit, I’m just horny and lonely. Maybe I’ll read a book.