Boy Story- El Cheapo con Saliva

Here are the lessons I learned from El Cheapo con Saliva:

1-      Never date a man without his own car. 

2-      If you do, do not under any circumstances allow him to talk you into to driving to some remote (but “beautiful”) location in the middle of fucking nowhere.

3-      Do not trust him when he assures you positively that you can “just park wherever”.

4-      Do not leave your purse, phone, keys, and wallet inside the car.

5-      When you get cold because the walk on this romantic little path outside the range of Screaming For Help distance is taking place in December and you throw a fit and demand to go back, do not be surprised when your car is missing.

6-      When you call the police to report a stolen car, do not start yelling at the officer after he informs you that your Jeep was not stolen, but towed to the other side of town and that you will now have to walk there.  He will not be amused or sympathetic.  He will also not give you a ride.

7-      When you arrive at the abandoned towing station in the bad part of town, in the dark, and in subzero degree temperatures with your wimpy date who informs you that he is planning to abandon you the second a mugger approaches, remember to wear gloves so you have the feeling and dexterity in your hands to smack him.  Hard. 

8-      When you are presented with a bill for $150 to bail your Jeep out of jail, do not reasonably assume you will only have to pay half.  Not from a man who could not even bother to buy you dinner on the previous FOUR dates.  You imbecile.

9-      After you ignore him for a few days out of anger, thus prompting him to ask what is wrong and you tell him that he should’ve helped pay for the car’s bail, be sure to emphasize a clear desired dollar amount; do not leave this up to chance.

10-  When he apologetically asks you to come over, do not go with the expectation that money and sympathy will be forthcoming.

11-  Instead you should expect that, after a rather sloppy and disappointing groping session on the couch, you will prepare to leave by putting on your coat and jangling your keys and he will get a blank look on his face and then abruptly throw a $20 bill at you and say something classy like, “thanks for the snog”.

12-  Expect to feel like a very cheap hooker.

Stomach Cancer or Hysterical Pregnancy? Cast your vote now!

           I have had this problem since pretty much the beginning of October where I am unable to consume real food.  My diet has consisted of mostly cold cereal for two months.  Any deviation from this plan makes me horribly nauseated and I spend most of the rest of the day praying that death will take me.  Bright side:  I have lost 10 lbs thanks to my new Carbs Only diet.  Down side: I am downright sick of this shit. 

At first I thought I hoped it was a bug, because my only other choice… was not worth thinking about.  Unfortunately television says that any stomach upset, headache, weird food craving or backache means an unwanted pregnancy, and I could not help leaping to the worse possible conclusions.  I have hysterical pregnancies all the time but mostly when I am in relationships that I know are not going anywhere and I dread the idea of being tied to a moron forever by my being in the .01% of women who are failed by The Pill.  My current Boy does not fall under such a category, but we are nowhere near the kid stage, so I went ahead and panicked anyway.  As in all other times of deepest crisis, I called my BFF Meredith hoping she would talk me out of my paranoia.  Instead, she told me to take a pregnancy test.  Damnit. 

If that is not the longest three minutes in the universe, I don’t know what else could be.  Both tests I took were negatory (thankyouGodthankyouthankyou) but that left me with endless queasiness and again, the inability to eat more than Rice Checks three meals a day.  And also the nagging doubt that a pregnancy test from the Dollar Tree may not be as accurate as the box claimed…  In an effort to comfort me with my anxiety, Meredith sent me this hilarious link that gives you helpful tips to know if you are pregnant or not.  Give it a looksee:

http://thestir.cafemom.com/pregnancy/127960/lesson_25_are_you_pregnant

Since I don’t match the criteria exactly (although it is not unheard of me to spontaneously want to make 18 deviled eggs at 3AM), I must look for a new explanation for why my internal organs are forming a coup against me. 

            Yesterday’s appallingly stupid attempt to eat a full Thanksgiving dinner and my resultant 13 hour bout of misery and self loathing (Note: writhing in pain is great for the abs!) has led me to lean toward a more dramatic conclusion- stomach cancer.  Extreme, I know, but let me tell you why.  I have been to the hospital 10 times over my short 24 years of existence for various ailments and tragedies, including asthma, broken bones, tonsillectomies, wisdom teeth extraction, surgery, etc.  The odd thing is not so much the frequency at which I find myself sitting on a gurney with a hose in my arm, but the fact that I have only ever had to go to the hospital in the month of November.  Period!  I dread the entire month and spend most of my days trying not to step on slippery surfaces or be in a moving vehicle until the month has passed.  My most vivid Thanksgiving memories are of my family callously cooking a lavish traditional dinner while I lie on the couch staring disconsolately at my Campbells Chicken and Star soup, which is all that the lingering effects of the anesthesia will let me sip on without throwing up.  

            So knowing my medical history as I do, I refuse to go to a doctor until November is over.  With my luck, if I see someone before December 1, my diagnosis will be stomach cancer requiring the immediate removal of all my lovely insides.  After that date, my diagnosis is much more likely to be something harmless, like persistent indigestion.  In the meantime, I plan to watch marathons of House or Grey’s Anatomy to see if they spark even more exciting ideas for self-diagnosis.  Hey, at least it’s not Web MD!

Boy Story- Father Stephen

       I have dated a lot of people, few of them long term, but all of them distinctly memorable for their own unique reasons.  I think of myself as a fairly nice and understanding person, ready to forgive minor faux pas, but most of my dates have gone so hideously and disastrously awry, it’s almost impossible to believe it was real.  I began to write them down when I would email my dear friend Meredith the blow-by-blow at the end of the date. She would send her own nightmare boy stories back to me and before long, we had enough dating disasters between us for a book.  At first I found the whole thing very frustrating and disappointing, but now I confess, I almost can’t wait to see how the guys screw things up. 

       
       I wish to share my stories with you, my dear reading public, in what I shall simply call ‘Boy Stories’.  NOTE:  All the names have been changed to, well, keep me from having to remember the real names.  I tend to go for titles or elaborate nicknames that usually have something to do with the crime so committed.  For my first Boy Story, I thought I would describe my first boyfriend… Father Stephen. 

       I met Father Stephen at a birthday party during that phase in my life where I was attracted to men who I knew would make my father apoplectic.  The first time I saw him, he looked like a Hot Topic ad.  He was a white, thin, toothpick of a guy in threatening punk gear and spiked hair, dripping chains from his pockets and sneering in that sexy Billy Idol way I have always admired so much.  I flirted, he flirted back and before long, I had my own punk in shining armor.  He freaked my father out completely along with all my other strict Mormon neighbors in the tiny town of Springville, Utah.  I was utterly delighted, and even more so by the fact that he turned out to be articulate and funny beneath the swaggering and eyeliner.

       As our relationship blossomed that summer and thoughts instantly turned to marriage (as they do in Utah), Stephen had an unfortunate “Come to Jesus Moment”.  Before I was really aware of what was happening, all the bad-ass clothes were replaced with polos and khakis.  The chains were gone, the wrist bands thrown away, the hair combed smooth.  I was horrified by the transformation, and even more by his expectation that I clean up to, so I could be the squeaky Mormon Barbie to his Ken. 

       “I would appreciate it if you didn’t wear shirts so low,” he told me one day on the way to a party.

       “Why?” I asked looking down at my peeking cleavage, “collar bones not your thing?”

       “Just do it, please,” he said angrily, “I want to keep my thoughts pure”. 

       I hadn’t had any problem with him thinking “unpure” thoughts about me until he put it like that.  Why don’t you just come over here and put a scarlet letter ‘A’ for ‘A Boob Flashing Whore Meant to Bring Down the Thoughts of Good Men’?   

       We drove the rest of the way in tense silence, me fuming, he feeling all self-righteous or whatever.  The party was for a friend of his in his church, a church that I did not realize he was attending. 

       After being introduced as the girlfriend, the birthday girl asked, “Why haven’t I ever seen you on Sundays?”  I was about to reply that I lived two cities away and hoped that would smooth over the uncomfortable moment of me having to reveal my status as “godless heathen” when Father Stephen got in ahead of me.

“I have been trying to get her to come with me for ages, but I haven’t given up yet.”  I have no idea what my face said, but the Birthday Girl was pretty quick to change the conversation and make her escape.  

       Later, in the car, I asked him why he had been all secretive about his re-conversion.  His expression became aloof and condescending, when with great dignity he said, “I am not sure I want to tell you about it.”

       Miffed but too annoyed  to fight about it then, I said, “okay, you don’t have to.’

He turned to me almost in agitation, “It’s not that I don’t want to tell anyone about it, you understand.” 

       “So tell me,” I said.

       “I can’t.”  With a sigh he said very solemnly, “I guess the best way to explain why I can’t tell you is Matthew chapter 7, verse 6.”  Seeing my blank stare, he restated, “’don’t cast your pearls before swine.’”

Two days later he asked if I would marry him. 

He asked to marry the godless swine. 

Oh, no thank you.

The Wretch Concentered All in Self

I have always shrunk away from the notion of blogging, no matter how much gasoline it would add to my narcissistic flame.  I think it was because every housewife has one.  Most of the time, they are painful- full of family photos, inspirational quotes, and cookie recipes.  Such blogs are incredibly boring and of absolutely no interest to anyone, and I do mean anyone.  “Buy a journal”, I want to tell them, “and stop subjecting me to the pathetic monotony of your existence!” only, you know, nicer.  Despite urgings from friends and family, I did not want to become that which I made fun of. 

By stating all this of course, I have painted myself as a spineless sellout.  However I hope to take back the blog from the housewives and the angsty teens, making it what it should be- an online shrine to my ego.  Bow down and worship at the online alter of my brilliance, read in amazement at the ridiculous things that happen to me, marvel at my ingenious thoughts, gasp in reverent wonder at my writing skill.  And be sure to, like, say hi, because I hate to think I am just writing to myself here.   

Hippo out.