Old Flame, You're Still The One That Holds Me

Close your eyes and make a wish.  I wish that Joe Manganiello was passed out on my floor.  Naked. 

Our lives are shaped by the choices we make.  I can look back over my life and pinpoint the exact moments that my life was changed forever because of a choice that I made.  A common misconception is that if we do nothing, then nothing will happen.  But doing nothing is still a choice.  And it has an effect on the rest of our lives.

Like the moment 13 years ago when I chose not to fool around in the bedroom with the guy I was previously convinced was my soulmate.  I didn’t make this decision lightly.  Every cell in my body screamed at me to just do it.  You’ve been holding this torch for him for years, Kate.  He’s standing in front of you, BEGGING for it.

But I told him no, and I slept on the couch that night.

I told him no, because I WASN’T convinced that my heart wouldn’t get broken again. I was trying to protect myself.  This was the same man that took my virginity and then apologized for doing it after not speaking to me for three weeks.  To an 18 year old girl in love, this was earth shattering.  It’s not hard to understand why I didn’t want to take that chance again some years later.

I chose instead, to try to make it work with the man that would later become my first ex-husband.

Hindsight is 20/20.  I should have fooled around that night.  My whole life would be different.  My. Whole. Fucking. Life.

Different.

There is something about the first person that you fall in love with.  I’m not talking about a schoolgirl crush, although that runs a close second.  The first person that you can’t live without, every word they speak is coated in glitter, and sunshine comes out of their ass.  This love never quite goes away.  You may go months or years without even thinking about them.  But all it takes is one chance encounter, one phone call, and all those feelings rush to the surface like molten lava in a dead volcano.

Lives change.  Tragedy befalls every one of us.  We live, we breathe, we move on to the next tragedy.  But that first love remains inside of us.  Sometimes faint, sometimes deep, always there.  We’ve both made decisions that can’t be changed or helped.  There are some things in life that, no matter how hard we wish for them, how bad we want, even feel like we deserve, just are not meant to be.

And this is the hardest part to accept.  

I can’t help but remember the best moments.  Those moments are my Happy Place, just so you know.  (ALSO, just so you know, I can only tell you these things because I have finally accepted that it is never meant to be, but it doesn’t change how I feel.) I remember the afternoon by the creek.  I remember the words he said to me.  I remember endless nights on the telephone.  I remember sitting in his lap with my arms around his neck.  I remember being completely, 100% all the way to heaven and back, in love.

I remember these things most when I’m hurting the worst.  And I realize that the men that I'm most attracted to look like him in some way or another.  For my own sanity, I need to stop remembering.    

Because it can never be.

Not like it was.

And it’s my own fault.

(You have to stop calling me.  My heart breaks every. single. time. I hear your voice.  Our timing has never matched up and we will never be.  I know I cross your mind, because you cross mine.  But my sanity is slipping, and a chick's gotta do what a chick's gotta do.  I've made my choices, and I'm paying my consequences.  This is one of those consequences.  I know you as well as I know myself.  I know the guilt that I'm putting on you, and I have to, because I can't carry it anymore.)

Likes Pina Coladas And Getting Caught In The Rain. Not Into Hookers, Has Half A Brain.

It’s a wonderful night for some hot tea and a passive aggressive blog.

Let’s talk about dating.  Do you know how FREAKING HARD it is to find a date in your 30s?  Some of you might.  Most of you don’t.  Let me tell you, it’s like nailing Jello to a tree. 

I decided to join that dating website for shits and giggles.  It’s been quite entertaining.  It has also answered the question of why it’s so difficult to find a good man once you’ve been reduced to this particular avenue.  There really are plenty of fish in the sea.  Millions of people join dating websites every day.  But the real reason that it’s so hard to find an acceptable partner is because at this point, the dating pool is full of nothing but the throwbacks. 

The ones that someone didn’t want, for one reason or another. 

That, or they’re married and trying to cheat on their spouses. Then, when they get caught, they are forced to continue a relationship with the married woman they cheated with, and end up in pictures all over the internet wearing matching shirts and trying to tell themselves that what they have is true love and haters gon’ hate.  No one wants to end up that miserable.  I would hope that if I am ever half of a couple that feels the need to wear matching shirts, someone that loves me dearly would shoot me in the face.  With a sawed off shotgun.

So let’s take a deeper look at the prospects.

First, there’s the guy who just moved to town from Tennessee, unemployed fast food restaurant manager, genuinely believes that cats kill babies by sucking the breath straight out of their mouths as they sleep.  And, who claimed to love me after two text conversations. 

(Dude.  I struggle to pay my own bills.  I’m not trying to pay someone else’s.  And seriously?  Cats don’t kill babies.  Google is your friend.)

Next is the ex military chef that conveniently forgot to mention the reason he is EX military is because he was dishonorably discharged for writing over $4000 in bad checks and stealing from the government.  Also, claimed to not be in it for the sex, but gets butthurt and pissy when I told him that no, he could not in fact, come over to my house in the middle of the night for some play time. 

(Again, Google is your friend.  I found the sentencing report from your appeal.  And all those jokes you tried to pass off as your own to make me laugh? They’ve been all over Facebook for years.  As you would know if you bothered to join the rest of society.  Who doesn’t have a Facebook???)

There’s the douchebag prep that thinks he’s doing you a favor by talking to you at all.

There’s the redneck reject that claims to be “strapped in southern ways” and “just looking for a little respect”.  This guy scares me.  He’s probably mean as hell when he doesn’t get his way.  You want respect mister? Groom yourself a little bit better and don’t make me wonder if you have a family of ferrets hiding in that stringy mullet you call your hair.

There's the seemingly normal guy that really just wants free sex, no strings attached.  This one is the most common.  Hook up, exchange numbers, only texts when horny. 

(If you're going to treat me like a prostitute, you better be paying me like one.)

There’s the married man that will not put a picture of himself on the profile.  This is the tricky one.  But if you pay attention, all of these men have the same story.  It goes something like this: “I’m separated.  Getting divorced.  But it’s complicated.  We have kids together and assets and there’s just a lot of money issues.  I have to be careful while the divorce proceedings are taking place because I don’t want to make things worse.  Oh, and I also have to live with her until it’s final because I can’t afford to pay for two places.  So I’m covering my ass and I don’t post pictures and you can’t call me and we can only see each other on my terms. Because I’m TECHNICALLY still married.”

(Yes, you are. And something tells me that your divorce is never going to quite be finalized.  You, sir, are not about to gain a free mistress from this chick.  Move along.)

It’s like the purple door.

You’ve all seen that house somewhere in the town that you live in.  You know, the weird one.  The one that someone got high and decided that cerulean blue or royal purple was a great color for the front door.  At first, you think ‘Hey, I bet the people that live in this house are really cool and open-minded people.  They have the guts to paint their front door bright purple.’  But you have to think outside the box on this one.  The purple door is attractive.  It suggests awesomeness inside.  In reality, what’s behind the purple door is batshit crazy.  You don’t want what’s REALLY behind the purple door.

Online dating is like the purple door.  It’s attractive and tempting on the surface, and good for a bit of entertainment.  But don’t open the door and go for what’s behind it.  It’s some scary shit out there.

Here's a few tips.  If he looks like a model, he's fake.  Guys that good looking have zero need to find a date on a dating website.  Don't talk to the ones that don't have a picture up at all.  Don't get serious.  There's a reason people join dating websites, and 9 times out of 10 it's not because they "just don't have the time to meet someone new".  It's because someone threw them away and they need to feel better about themselves. 

Don't go for the purple door.

If You Ever Need An Outfit To Match That Stick Up Your Ass, Give Me A Call

Let's bring back some good memories, shall we?

Dear Lady in room 215,

It has come to my attention that you are not happy with the room that I assigned to you last night.  This is very unfortunate because, as I am sure you noticed, it was a very nice room.  All of the rooms at Kate’s Motel are nice.  They all feature hardwood floors, pillowtop mattresses, granite countertops, glass showers with rainfall showerheads, a 32” flatscreen LCD television, and they all come with microwave, refrigerator, free Wi-Fi, and a free Deluxe Continental Breakfast.

Incidentally, I do understand that the room you were assigned, one of the last 5 rooms I had in all of Kate’s Motel to offer you and being a handicapped room to boot (although at this point I do believe you have some handicap in you somewhere), it was not the ideal room for you.

You must understand why I question your claim of discovering a pubic hair on one of your sheets shortly after you checked in.

a) Are you 100% positive that it was a pubic hair that you found?  Did you smell it?  Did you examine it under a high-powered microscope?  I have to say honestly, if it were me in your shoes and I suspected that what I was looking at was a stranger’s pubic hair, I certainly would not have been able to convince my face to get close enough to it to examine it and determine exactly where on said stranger’s body this particular hair came from.

b) Most adults have pubic hair.  As is common with hairs from the pubic region, they tend to latch on to whatever cloth is nearest.  I’m sure you’ve probably had one in your mouth at some point or another.

c)  This is a hotel.  There are worse things than pubic hairs hiding in your room.  I’m surprised you were able to sleep at all.

In closing, I’d like to inform you that no, I won’t be refunding the entire price of your room.  I’m not authorized to make that decision; I just work here.  You should be grateful that you received the generous 50% discount that I graciously provided to you and remember to tip the Housekeeping on your next hotel stay.  They are less inclined to leave pubic hairs on your sheets when you do that.

Thank you for your patronage,
Kate

Every Time I Hear That Dirty Word, "Exercise", I Wash My Mouth Out With Chocolate.

I have a long memory.  Like most of you however, I frequently walk into a room and forget why I went in there.  I once drove to the mainland from the island and then completely forgot why I was there, so I turned around and went back home.  Shortly after that, I weaned myself from the antidepressants.

But my long term memory reaches to great distances.  Mostly, it’s the times in my life that either made a great impact, or that looking back, were some of the best times.  I just didn’t know it then.

This particular memory doesn’t seem to fit into either of those categories, but I’ll tell it anyway because it’s slightly humorous.  And because it’s a Kate’s Motel story that only a couple of you have heard.

Kate’s Motel in Atlanta didn’t have NEAR the amount of chaos that Kate’s Motel on the island had.  But when the chaos hit, it hit good.

First things first, you need some background information on my manager.  We’ll call her “Slim”.  We’ll call her this because she was once very overweight, like yours truly.  Once she had her first child, she realized that she wanted to live to see that child grow into an adult, so she applied the appropriate discipline and dropped 100 lbs.  Went from a size 20 to a size 6, I believe. 

Because of this massive weight loss, a phenomenon occurred.  You’ve seen it before, I’m sure.  Chunky person loses weight, chunky person looks great, chunky person suddenly becomes expert on how to diet and exercise and proclaims themselves spokesperson for the fatties of the world and vows to preach this new weight loss religion to the masses.  No pun intended.

She set her sights on me, naturally.  LEH2 WAS causing me to slowly turn into the broad side of a barn.

Between making me lap the parking lot with her in the dead of summer, to not allowing me to use to use the elevator, this woman contributed to the production of an eating disorder more than anyone else I’ve ever known.  She would literally take food out of my hand as it was on its way to my mouth.  I could understand this action if I ate all day every day.  But my normal lunch?  There’s a limit.  Especially from an employer.  It became her personal mission in life to make my poundage go away

It was a Wednesday morning.  I remember this fact because Wednesday’s were the days that this particular guest checked out of Kate’s Motel.  He was a regular.  He drove a delivery truck on a route to movie theaters to deliver the candy that everyone loves so much.  Greatest guy one could have the pleasure of knowing.  Truthfully, he was one of my favorite guests and I looked forward to being able to chat with him on Wednesday mornings.  This day, he brought me a gift.  A Godiva chocolate gift.  A WHOLE BOX of Godiva caramel chocolate bars, that were just a few days past the expiration date.

Far be it from me to criticize gourmet chocolate.  Screw the expiration date, they look like gold to me.  Thanks, love!

Excited about my prize, I waved goodbye to him and took the case of 20 chocolate bars back into the office where Slim was working on something unimportant.

Me: “LOOK! Look what the movie theater candy guy gave me!” (shows chocolates)

Slim: “Oh, that’s great!  I can take those with me on my sales calls.”

Me: “Umm, no.  This was given as a gift…to me.  They aren’t going on any sales calls.”

Slim: “Kate.  Do you really think you need those?”

Me: “…”

Slim: “Be honest. Right this minute, would you rather lose weight, or eat a chocolate bar?”

Me: “Right this minute you say? Hmm.  Right this minute. HMMM.  Well…right this minute I’d really like to sit here in front of you and eat this chocolate bar.  I don’t even really like chocolate.”

So I did.  And rather than allow her even ONE wonderfully creamy, melt in your mouth, chocolatey caramel Godiva bar, I took a few home to LEH2 and Ryan, and gave the rest to guests that were nice to me.

Because being nice to a person takes you much further than belittling a person.  

You're Pretty Much My Most Favorite Of All Time In The History Of Ever.

When LEH2 and I married, we decided getting matching tattoos would be a good idea.  It was, at the time.  Thank heavens I didn’t decide to do something REALLY stupid and get his name.  Although, there is a fairly large part of me that wishes HE had gotten MY name, so that he would have to look at it every day of his life and be reminded of what a douche he is.  Or be reminded of what a bitch I was.  Either is fine with me.  Either makes his life a little less comfortable.

Moving on.

So I’d like to get the tattoo that I have “redone”.  I’ve been toying with the idea of a new tattoo lately, even though I’m nowhere near having the finances to do it.  Initially, I wanted a very large tattoo that would cover at least half of my back and some of my shoulder.  Employers are lots more lenient these days on the appearance of ink in the workplace.  Now, I’m thinking that I’d like to just cover up the tattoo that I currently have on my shoulder and make it unrecognizable from what it is right now.  Expand on the work that’s already there sort of thing. 

It’s an idea.

What I really wanted to tell you is a story from my past.  All the way back to the sixth grade.

You remember your sixth grade year.  It’s quite possibly one of the worst years of life for any human being alive for various reasons.  If you’re a girl and you haven’t started your period, you are convinced that something is wrong with you.  If you HAVE started your period, well then, you’ve started your period and you’re realizing pretty quickly that life is going straight to the shitter once a month for the rest of your life.  Boys are cute, boys are smelly, and they have this weird thing going on with their voices. You want a boyfriend, but you’re still too afraid of being made fun of, so you stick to writing about them in your diary and wondering how big your breasts are going to get.

If you’re a boy, you’re in the beginning stages of growing a tropical rainforest in your crotch and you’re lucky if you get a couple of whiskers on your chin. Noticing girls is becoming a trend, but you don’t want anyone to know that you still like watching Power Rangers when no one else is home and that you sleep with a teddy bear at night because the werewolf scene in Harry Potter kinda made you nervous.

(sidenote: NEVER google the words "sissy boy" with the filter turned off)

Sixth grade sucks.

When I was in the sixth grade, I had a friend that we’ll call…Amy.  (Just to be clear, my hetero life mate and I didn’t hook up till high school. She is not Amy. Thank God.)  Amy and I were tight.  We spent the night at each others house.  I learned to shave my legs at her house, she learned to put on her makeup at mine.  We were girls.  In the sixth grade.  It’s what we did.

One day, Amy brought an outsider into our circle of two, making it a circle of three.  The outsider, we will call Brenda.  Brenda was nice enough.  She came from somewhat of a broken home, where Amy and I did not.  There was a little bit of fascination there because of this.  Slowly, I noticed that Amy and Brenda were spending more time with each other and less with me included.  Like all little girls, I tried to ignore it.  Surely, I wasn’t being pushed out of the circle…

Then the prank calls started.  The two of them would prank call me at home after school.

They’d sit in class at their desks side by side and write nasty notes about me and giggle and whisper and point.  One particular afternoon, my mental stability crumbled and I burst into tears in the middle of science class.  My teacher pulled me into the hallway and I explained what was going on.

I thought she was going to blow a gasket.  She gave both girls the third degree and sent me to the office to call my mom to pick me up.  I felt slightly better, knowing that there were some repercussions for Amy and Brenda, but it was too late.  I’d never have a friendship with either of them again.  I knew this.  I was depressed.

That afternoon, dad came home from work and asked me to do something.  I don’t remember what it was, only because it never got done. 

Dad: “Kate, I need you to do this.”

Me: “Okay…” (mope mope sad face sad face sad face mope mope mope)

Dad: “And Kate, seriously.  Stop walking around here like you just lost your best friend.”

Me: “…” (overly dramatic burst into tears run screaming into the bedroom)

Mom: “Um…she DID lose her best friend today.  Good job.”

Eh, I’m over it.  Interestingly enough, it has come to my attention that “Brenda” is on facebook.  I’m debating on whether or not to send her a friend request.  Do I want to be her friend, or do I secretly want to stalk her and hope that I find evidence that her life has been shit for the last 20 years? Granted, my life hasn’t been perfect, but one does feel some justification when a bully from the past gets something that they deserve.

Would you accept a friend request from someone that you had been mean to in school?  Would you send a friend request to someone that was mean to you?

I love my hetero life mate.  I love that no matter how many other people come and go from each of our lives, she will always be my hetero life mate.  We will always have each other.  She's my person.

Go Be Fat Somewhere Else.

I am a little, round, chubby ball of fun.

And I'm not just saying that.  I really am.  

I can entertain myself for hours with anything that I have available, and even in the worst and most boring of situations, I can have a good time.  It's just the way I am.



This is one of the reasons that mom got so exasperated with me when I was a child, because I didn't really respond to punishments such as being sent to my room or having something taken away from me.  I just adapted.

I'm also really easy to be friends with.  

I don't necessarily prefer to be in a huge crowd of people that I don't know, but if I find myself there, I am comfortable enough to meet everyone and I'll probably come out of it with a new best friend to add to the roster.

When I was in high school, I was friends with everyone.  Everyone knew who I was, and no one had a grudge.  (Well, there were a COUPLE of girls that didn't like me, but they were sluts anyway and they were just jealous that I was nicer than they were.  So they don't count.  I never did anything to them.)  I might have been made fun of ONCE for being fat.

Oops, I said it.

FAT.

I'm fat.  Chubby.  Heavy.  Chunky.  Rotund.  Morbidly obese.  

Or, if this makes you more comfortable, I'm just overweight.  

Does this make me any less witty, any less proud of my life and the things I HAVE accomplished?  Does it make it any harder to find a date on Saturday night?  

Okay, well, yeah it does kinda make it harder.  But you know what?  I don't want to date them anyway.  If a guy can be so shallow as to only bother to try to get to know me because of my pants size, he doesn't belong in my world.  At least you can SEE my disability...

Here is the problem with men, and women who know what good food tastes like.  These men are under the impression that a fat woman can never do better than mediocre at best, so they treat us as if we should worship the ground that they walk on.  They honestly believe that they are doing us a favor by being nice to us.  

"Yes, Kate.  I'll be your friend.  You can tell me all your secrets and I'll tell you all mine, and we can go out to movies and have a good time and I'll give you advice when you need it, but umm…we can never date.  Ever.  Because you're too fat.  I don't like that in my women."

Mister, I got a giant FUCK YOU right here in my pocket that I made special just for you. 

I knew someone once that said that fat people should just stick with fat people.

Just put us all on a little island somewhere so that you don't have to look at us and you don't have to worry about any of us hitting on you.  Cause that's just gross, right?  I mean, we might as well have been born with a conjoined twin hanging from our necks, we are so awful to have to be in the same room with.

But let me ask you this…

Were any of your skinny, gorgeous friends there to hold your hair back when your head was in the toilet that night?  I didn't see any…

So if you're here because you saw my default picture and you thought, Wow, she's got a pretty face and she's really funny, I'll subscribe to her blogs, but you didn't have any idea that I was fat and you have a problem with that, you can click here and everything will be just peachy for me.

I don't act like I'm skinny.  I don't wear clothes that I shouldn't be wearing, but I don't wear clothes the size of a small TENT, either.  I know how to cook, and I know what tastes good.  I know what I like in bed and I know how to make a man happy. .

And you know what else?  I'm happy without you.

Your looks might get you in the door, but it's your character that will keep you there.  --Kate
(That's an original.  Write that down.)

If It Looks Like A Dick, And Acts Like A Dick, It's Probably My Ex.

I don’t have a whole lot of LEH2 stories.  Simply because he is a useless, zero ambition douche, and really not that interesting.  There is, however, one instance that stands out.  I shall tell you of this event now.

It was a Sunday afternoon in the summer.  I only remember this particular fact because my Tiny Human was staying with mom on the island and was not at home with me.  LEH2’s children, which we shall refer to henceforth as Thing1 and Thing2 aged respectively, were with us that weekend, and it was time to take them home.  LEH2 was waiting for me to get home from work so that he could accomplish this task.

Picture this scene.

LEH2 is shaving his head in our bathroom while Thing1 and Thing2 make a disaster area of my tiny apartment by running back and forth from our bathroom to the children’s bedroom.  They peek through the door in the bathroom and when LEH2 glances at them in the mirror, they squeal and run back to the bedroom.  They do this in turns.

Enough time passes that LEH2 has shaved his entire head and is now ready for a shower to wash himself and the rest of the shaving cream from his head neck and shoulders.  He turns on the water, makes sure he has a fresh towel, removes his clothes, and steps ONE FOOT into the bathtub.

Then the proverbial shit hits the fan.

Thing2 runs into the bathroom screaming his fool head off gushing blood from his face.  Specifically, the nasal region.  LEH2 panics and starts screaming his own fool head off.  Thing1 joins in on the fun.  LEH2 steps out of the shower.  No time for clothes, must stop the bleeding.

Bleeding contained, let’s find out what happened.

Somewhere between the bathroom and the bedroom, Thing1 and Thing2 collided.  Thing2 gets a nosebleed if you look at him crooked, and consequently sprayed 4 pints of blood onto my carpet.  More running, then the screaming, and we are back to a naked LEH2 covered in shaving cream, doctoring a bloody nose.

He apparently decided once the bleeding was contained, that the blood all over the floor must be cleaned immediately, lest someone walk in and think he has murdered one of his children, so rather than turn off the shower and get dressed, LEH2 turns off the shower and grabs the carpet cleaner foamy stuff from under the kitchen counter and proceeds to get on his hands and knees to scrubs the carpet.

Still naked.

Still covered in shaving cream.

Slightly wet.

That’s when I came home.

Let me just tell you one thing.  If you have never seen a large man on his hands and knees, naked, doing some sort of odd job, you really cannot say that you have lived your life.  It’s one of those sights that burns itself into your retinas for eternity.

K: “What the fuck…”

LEH2: “Well what had happened was…”

I'm Somewhat Of A Bullshitter Myself, But Occasionally I Enjoy Listening To An Expert. Please, Carry On.

Ishould start a dating profile for shits and giggles.  And any messages that I get will get this automatic reply.  Should be interesting to see if it actuallygets filled out and sent back.

1. Do you have any ex-wives?  Are any of them candidates for a mentalinstitution?

2. At Thanksgiving, do you eat dressing orstuffing?  Along these same lines, do you drink soda orpop?

3. Are you going to try to fill me full ofbullshit, only to drain me dry before it's over?

4. Are you lactose intolerant?

5. Are any of your ex-girlfriends strippers?

6. Do you know when to shut your trap?

7. Do you squeeze the toothpaste from thebottom of the tube or from the middle?  If you squeeze the toothpastedirectly into your mouth, foregoing the toothbrush altogether, then pleasedisregard this questionnaire completely.  You fail.

8. Are you addicted to porn? Like, need-to-be-in-a-support-group addicted?

9. How many other people can you be in lovewith at the same time?

10. Do you understand that my love of shoes isnot only a fetish, it's a lifestyle?

11. Do you frequently feel an urge to takethings apart, knowing that you can't put them back together correctly?

12. When you get drunk, should I believeanything you say?

13. Do you take prescriptionpainkillers?  Are they prescribed to you by a real doctor?

14. How many car accidents have you beeninvolved in?  How many were your fault?

15. If you ever hit me, are you prepared to bemade my bitch?

16. If I were sick in the middle of the night,would you get up and go get me medicine, even though you had to be at work at6am?

17. Would you consider yourself average, orare we talking extra belly-buttons here?  (Cause you jokers know thatsize really does matter)

18. Can you really do everything you say youcan on the phone, or are you just full of shit?

19. What do you drive?

20. Do you really love kids, or are you stillfull of shit?

21. Are you a homophobe or even slightlyracist?

22. Do you believe that it's all about theamount of money that you make?

23. Can you sing?

24. Do you close the bathroom door when youtake a shit?

25. Are you OCD about dishes being left in thesink overnight?

26. Have you ever in your LIFE had even theslightest urge to do needlepoint?

27. Ex’s. Did you get your closure, or shouldI give you a few minutes?

28. What is the very first thing you purchaseon pay day?

29. Do you know who Ayn Rand is?

30. Do you understand that it’s not justpolite to get me a gift on my birthday and at Christmas, it’s required?

The sad thing is, 90% of these aredealbreakers.  The other 10% are close tobeing dealbreakers.  I seem to havebecome slightly jaded in my time.

I Know Your Secret. Let's Discuss My Price.

I should probably feel at least slightly guilty sitting here eating birthday cake for breakfast.  But I don’t.  Everyone should be able to, at least once in their lives, eat something that makes them feel good without the slightest inkling of guilt.  You wish you had cake.

It was a good birthday.  Nothing spectacular, out-of-this-world, I’ll-never-forget-this-in-a-million-years…but I can say that nothing bad happened.  No bill collectors called me.  LEH2 didn’t send a passive aggressive email to twist the knife deeper into my back.  No one died.  The universe did not choose to point its finger at me.  I don’t get many of those days anymore.

I DID however, get a yummy steak from Longhorn and some gourmet cupcakes from mom, and a surprise from my hetero lifemate, who snuck into my apartment and decorated it with streamers and tinsel.  Because one can never underestimate the power of some good tinsel.  Everyone should also have a hetero lifemate as wonderful as mine.

(snicker)

So, in the spirit of having a wonderfully uneventful, with the exception of surprise tinsel and cake, I have a story for you.  Happened last week.

Do you know how hard it can be to fall asleep when you’re the only adult in the house?  Some of you do.  Maybe most of you do.  Maybe it has nothing to do with being the only adult, and every single one of you know how hard it is to fall asleep at night.  Seriously, I feel like I’m 5 years old again.  I’m afraid if I go to sleep, I might miss something.  It could just be that I’m trying to revert back to my old blogging days when I WAS awake all night, writing, and there was so much food for blogs and inspiration that I couldn’t get it all down in one night.

So I was awake last Friday (Saturday) at 3am.  Just in case you weren’t aware, nothing good ever happens at 3am.  Ever. 

It must be true.  It's on the internet.

I was minding my own business.  Because that’s what I do.  I figured that, being the wee hours of morning, and most folks having worked a full 8 hour day, it would be fairly quiet in the apartment complex that I call home.  I figured wrong.

You should know first that I actually live in a townhome.  This does not mean “a home in a town”, contrary to the definition of a compound word.  It means that my apartment has two stories, and the front door opens up to a walkway that leads to the parking lot where I can park my car right in front.  I like it. 

So I opened my front door to enjoy a smoke outside, alone, missing my Thinking Throne.  Only, I wasn’t alone.  My cutie pie next door neighbor that waves to me every morning and every evening was standing with his buddy right next to my car.  I immediately did a quick assessment of my appearance, it WAS 3am after all.  It’s quite possible that I had yesterday’s makeup smeared like war paint down the left half of my face and didn’t know it.  Anything can happen at 3am.

But then he turned around and spoke.

Next Door Neighbor: “OH! You’re my neighbor.  I know you.  You’re my neighbor.”

Me: “Yes, I am…”

And then I noticed the steady, constant stream of urine hitting the sidewalk. 

I couldn’t light my cigarette.  I could only stand there and stare.

Stare at this man who, as charming and good-looking as he is in the daylight, is apparently a lush when the sun goes down.  This man who, decided that MY CAR resembled a Port-A-Potty.  This man who was currently waving and grinning like an idiot, pissing all over the sidewalk as he faced me.  The only reason I don’t know the exact measurement of his junk is because it was dark.  I admit, I was slightly disappointed by this fact.

Meanwhile, Lush Neighbor’s buddy decided that he didn’t want to be a party to the spectacle, and bolted like a whore on raid night.  Great friend, that one.  Left Lush Neighbor standing there alone in all his glory.  Good thing Lush Neighbor was too drunk to remember any of this in the future.  I, on the other hand, will remember it FOR. EVER.  Just to be clear.

There was some unintelligible slurred muttering and a bit of shuffling towards his own front door, so I deduced it was safe enough to light my smoke.  He’d disappeared into the apartment but left the front door open, and I was roughly half finished smoking when all hell broke loose.  In the span of 10 seconds, a dog inside his apartment went batshit, everyone else inside his apartment started screaming, a mushroom cloud of baking soda exploded into the front yard, and someone screamed, “OH MY GOD, IT’S LIKE 9/11 IN HERE.” 

And then there’s me, minding my own business.

Here’s what really happened.

Lush neighbor got back inside and got himself a craving for Chef Boyardee’s Canned Ravioli.  So he opens up a can and sticks it on the stove.  Only, he’s borderline blackout drunk, so you can imagine how that went.  The ravioli caught fire, and Lush Neighbor grabbed the fire extinguisher.  The dog caught it full in the face, first.  Then the kitchen was coated.  That’s when everyone else inside started screaming.  The cloud of baking soda was SO THICK, it was impossible to see through it.  That’s when the 9/11 comment came into play.  Bad form, but still quite hilarious.

As with all drunkards, once the air settled for about 30 seconds and everyone realized they were in no immediate danger, it turned into a game.  A game called, Let’s See Just How Much Shit Is Inside This Fire Extinguisher, And How Many Surfaces Can We Get It On.  Before long, everything outside was covered in a thin layer of white powder and some drunk chick was laughing at herself because it was “the first time I’ve ever been extinguished!”  A milestone, surely.

So it’s been a week.  All the baking soda has been washed away by the rain, and with it the heady aroma of alcohol infused urine all over my sidewalk, but apparently it takes longer than that for The Scarlet Letter of Shame to wash away.  I haven’t seen Lush Neighbor again since that night. 

But I do wish that he’d show himself so that I can explain to him that he really has nothing to worry about  from  me.  I’ve seen much worse.  You guys know this.  But now I don’t have to blush every time he smiles and waves because the power has shifted.  It’s no longer the hot sexy utility worker that controls the flirtations.  The power has shifted to the chubby divorcee next door that is slowly remembering who she is. 

Power has a tendency to do that once the sidewalk has been pissed on.