Everyone has some connection to someone famous. My mom, for example, went to school with one of the guys from “Happy Days.” I once sold ice cream to that red-headed guy from 90210. And Anne Hathaway went to my high school.
Even though I never knew her (She’s a bit older than I am) I still keep track of her career. Not in some over-the-top obsessed fanboy way. I just make a note of when she has a movie or something coming out. Imagine my surprise to hear she had a nude scene in the movie “Havoc.”
As an aside- I think that it says something that she was topless in “Brokeback Mountain,” too, but no one seemed to mention it at the time. Hell no one even said she was in it. Everyone was focused on the part about the dudes kissing. I’m not sure what exactly it says, but it says it nonetheless.
Anyway, I met the girl once. In a church. I almost never go to church so that was surprising. If only I’d seen the scenes in question before I met her. I could’ve said “Hey, Anne Hathaway, nice to meet you. I’ve seen your boobs.”
Is there anything better than a diner table about to collapse under the weight of a small greasy banquet? Kim and I sat facing each other across rolling plains of eggs, potatoes, French fries, a cheeseburger, cole slaw, and corned beef hash. I scooped up a wobbly bite of omelet and opened my mouth for a late-night culinary delight.
“Cause, motherfucker, I asked her!”
The bit of omelet slid off and hit the plate with a little splat. Kim and I looked at one another and then glanced, only peripherally, a few tables over.
“So? Why didn’t you ask me? No, you already know! You ain’t askin’ me, you comin’ at me like I’m guilty!”
Now I’m no relationship expert but it seemed to me like the man and woman glaring at one another were in a bit of a rough patch.
“Yeah you dumb motherfucker cause everyone I talked to said the same thing! That you was grabbin’ on her and bein’ up on her. That shit is your M.O.”
Uh oh. This greasy-spoon Columbo had unearthed his modus operandi. I added some salt and pepper to my home fries,
“You’re an asshole”
“You’re a dumb motherfucker. I don’t know why I even put up with your shit. I’m leaving.”
“Go. Bye.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
At this point the two are standing chest to chest about six inches apart and neither one is moving. I sip my milk. They glare at one another a bit longer and then sit back down and pretend to read their menus again. The ceasefire lasts all of two seconds.
“So why did you buy her a drink?”
“Cause she asked me to get her a drink!”
“Did you get anyone else a drink?”
“Did anyone ask?”
Nice move. I shovel a bit of hash into my mouth. See, she doesn’t know! Then I feel bad that I took his side for a second. It’s like cheering for the green knight at Medieval Times… you know, that asshole bad guy one? Full of remorse, I put butter and jelly on my toast.
“So why were you hangin’ on her all night?”
“All night? Shit we’re at the club and Flush is like ‘Yo the music downstairs is poppin!’ so we go down. It’s me and Trey and Flush and Flush’s man and she follows us!”
“Mm hmm”
I drop some of my toast on the floor. It’s not a reaction to their conversation but it sours my mood. That toast was God damn delicious.
“See? You takin’ everyone else’s story as true! You gotta come at it objective! You ain’t being objective!”
I consider that maybe, just maybe, he’s right on that point. She should at least hear him out. Then, as I watch Kim dip a fry in some gravy I realize he is objectively waving a butter knife in her face. So maybe his say isn’t worth all that much.
We finish up our wonderful meal and prepare to settle up at the register. It would be rude to sit and eavesdrop. That’s not why we don’t; I just have to get on the road. But as we walked outside I took one final glance at the two people screaming across their menus.
It’s Christmastime and, when you work retail in a toy-based environment, that makes you crazy busy. So I haven’t had much time for sitting and thinking of awesome things to write. However, when I logged into my WordPress dashboard I noticed a peculiar search engine term that brought up my site:
But what if it isn’t?! What if the Google corporation knows I am, in point of fact, a sexy boy? Well that accounts for a little bit. But what’s this about tying up and nurses and what have you? The infuriating part is really that only part of the search term shows up. I cannot see what comes after “treati.” (which I assume is short for “treating” and not a misspelling of a pact between two warring nations. ) Damn it! Is it “treating them badly?” “Treating them kindly?” “Treating them to dinner at Red Lobster?” Damn you limitations of my WordPress stat reporter!
And to the dude who searched for sexynurses and their rope-based activities: I just blew your spot up on my site and all you wanted was sexynurses. I’m sorry but that’s how I roll. Merry Christmas.
I walked the man down to the register. He was a bit on the older side but that’s ok. Money is money. I’d just served a rather annoying group of kids and sometimes, the worse mood I’m in, the friendlier I get to customers. To compensate, I suppose.
“Alrighty, sir.” I said as I punched the buttons on the register. “Your total is… Ten dollars and seventy-two cents.”
He passed me a twenty dollar bill and then fumbled in his pockets. “Wait,” he said, “I have two cents… if you want them.”
“Sure!” I said cheerfully. “I’m always interested in another man’s opinion!”
When I was a sophomore in college I was introduced, via the internet, to a friend of a friend (of a friend, in all honesty). There was a group of us chattering away on AOL Instant Messenger, usually in a chatroom, having discussions about absolutely nothing. What was peculiar was that my friend lived in Arizona, where he had moved junior year of high school. He met this other guy, who introduced him to his friends from the internet. One of these friends ironically lived maybe an hour or two away from me in South Jersey. After a while we began to hang out, and one day we decided she would come visit me at my school so we could party and have fun. At this point I was a junior and had discovered the joys of drinking so we were set to have a blast. We dropped her car at my mom’s house (I went to school 20 minutes away but lived on campus) and headed back to good old Drew University.
Sheila and I were a lot alike. She was a girl and a lot shorter than I was, but personality-wise we were a good fit. We told stupid jokes, giggled, (Er, she giggled. As a man I gave a hearty guffaw) and generally enjoyed each other’s company for the usual two or three days she’d visit. We were basically good kids. Until we decided to become the Bonnie and Clyde of New Jersey. We were driving along, almost to campus, and drove by a series of road cones strewn about by the curb.
“Huh,” I said, passingly, “those aren’t really doing much, huh?” She agreed. Somehow the idea came up that we could take two. “One for me, and one for you.” I forget whose idea it was, but I quickly turned the car around and drove back to the scattered pylons. Little Sheila hopped out and quickly scooped up our booty and we sped back off into the night.
Three blocks later I was stopped at a red light and glanced in my rear-view mirror. The fuzz! “Sheila!” I spat out in a frantic whisper, “There’s a cop behind us. Hide the cones!” She twisted in the passenger seat and tried to cover them with a jacket. In retrospect this was probably a bad idea, as the cruiser’s roof almost immediately blazed into red and blue lights.
Let me take a moment to describe the town Drew is in. It is not a college town. It’s your typical little Jersey town full of big houses and rich people. This means that there is little a college kid can do to get in a lot of trouble. This also means there is very little for the police to do.
Fairly soon a second cruiser, roof alight, pulled up. The first officer approached my car and asked us to step out. We were asked a few questions, but it was for show. They had us pegged. Someone had seen us and ratted us out. They took back our hot goods and one officer looked around inside my car a bit while we waited. I turned to the other, prepared to deliver the most macho thing anyone has ever said to the police ever.
“Uh. Um. Officer?”
“Yeah?”
“I er, have this anxiety thing so if, uh, I throw up it’s not because I’ve been drinking or on drugs or, like, anything? Ok?” (Whenever I recount this story, that’s the part that drives the women crazy.)
“There’s nothing to worry about, we just have to ask you some questions. Calm down.” Ok, so, they were gonna take the cones back, give us what-for, slap on the wrist, send us on our way. Then they separated us for questioning. There was one key question. “Who took the cones?”
“Er. We did.”
“No. Which one of you actually took them?” Oh. So it came down to this. I was the wheelman. The getaway driver. I kept the motor running; my little Bonnie grabbed the goods. I like to think what I did next was honorable. Even if it was lying to a cop.
“Me. I took them.”
“Ok.” He returned to his back-up who was questioning Sheila. About this time a third police car, this one an SUV, pulled up on the opposite curb lit up like a Christmas tree. Did I mention that we were literally in front of the police station? I could see it. I was not shaping up to be a good criminal mastermind. My officer came back. “So… you say you took the cones. But she’s saying that she took them. Which is it?” I wanted to keep up my lie, but I was afraid Sheila would stick to her story too, which had the benefit of being true, and then I’d be in trouble for stealing and lying to a policeman. I came clean.
“S-she did.”
“Alright.” Our story clear, it was time for our slap on the wrist. Or so I thought. Sheila was cuffed and stuffed into the back of the cruiser. We could have walked to the station, but I guess it had to be done by the books. Then one of the cops came towards me. I halfheartedly held out my arms, wrists close together. Would they tow my car? Just leave it here? Why oh why did I turn to this life of crime?!
“Alright. Go on. Get out of here.”
I stared at him, lowering my wrists a fraction. “What?”
“We’ve gotta process her. You can go.”
“I- what? But she…” I looked over his shoulder at my sullen friend locked in the back of the car. “Shouldn’t I come too? Can’t I stay with her?”
“No. It’s gonna take a while. Hour or two. It’s best if you just go home and we’ll call you when we’re done.”
And so I was forced to get back into my car and leave Sheila to her fate. I drove the remaining few blocks to campus like any criminal would after narrowly escaping the coppers- sobbing uncontrollably with fear and guilt.
Halloween! My favorite holiday seems to change based on whichever one is coming up next, but damn do I like Halloween. When you’re small, Halloween is all about free candy. Free candy! This is probably one of the greatest things in the universe, aside from presents. Since presents don’t come ‘til December free candy is amazingly awesome. Not to mention costumes. I remember being small and going to Party City to pick out a costume. There’s always that stage where you want to have a costume with some huge prop like a machete or a scythe. Never mind that you need your hands to hold your little plastic pumpkin (or, in later years, a pillowcase) for candy collection.
However, as one gets older, the appeal of trick or treating fades away. Or, in some cases, sticks around but you’re just too damn big to get free candy. Not to mention a sudden wave of hormones that carries you bumpily through high school. The high school years are a little shaky and awkward, Halloween wise. There are parties, sure, but there’s usually parents around or it’s a school night and things just aren’t as awesome as they once were. Until you get to college. Then you learn that in reality Halloween is not, as suspected, about candy. It’s about the costumes. Specifically, other people’s.
More specifically, girls’.
Who in the hell needs candy? As it turns out, there is a very simple convention to 96% of women’s Halloween costumes. Pick an occupation, put “sexy” in front of it, congratulations, you have a costume. Sexy policewoman, sexy librarian, sexy referee, sexy janitor. The list goes on and on and on. Unfortunately, there are still traces of the fear that creeps in around the edges of the holiday. No longer the something-jumped-out-and-said-boo flavor of terror, this new fear is something far more insidious, crawling in underneath the revelry.
Recently I went to a Halloween party (Recently means about a month ago, obviously.) . A fundraiser for the local YMCA. My expectations were low. I assumed a party thrown by the Y would be a bunch of middle aged folks with half-attempts at costumes sitting around and talking. I was pleasantly mistaken. There was a buffet, but there was also an open bar and a dance floor. And on the dance floor? A mixed demographic of ages, sure, but there were some attractive ladies who did subscribe to the “sexy something” school of thought. My eye was drawn to a girl in the classic “sexy nurse” outfit. She was tall, very tall. For a guy with two of the longest legs in the tri-state area, tall is good. And I did mention the “sexy nurse” part, right? She and her companion (a sexy firefighter, if you were curious) were tearing up the dance floor and somehow managing to keep their skirts from slipping from PG-13 to an R rating.
I stood by the buffet and sipped my drink as my friend got some food. I puzzled over who these girls might be and if they were there with dates. I assure you, getting punched by a guy dressed like Frankenstein and bleeding all over my dog costume was not high on my Halloween to-do list. As I sipped and pondered, the flashing lights of the dance floor swept across the RN and hit her in just the wrong way. I was struck by a horrible thought.
She was tall.
She was dancing with a smaller girl.
There was a good chance this was a guy dressed as a girl dressed as a nurse.
Crap.
Opting to err on the side of caution I got another drink and grabbed a few seats so my friend could eat her food. I frowned out across the table at the dance floor trying to figure this thing out for sure. Before I could do any real up close investigation, the pair vanished. It saved me a bit of trouble, but I was a bit miffed. After another drink and some dancing we returned to our seats for more food (for her) and drink (for me.) As the night drew to a close, the two returned. Perhaps there had been a sexy fire with some sexy burn victims that required their attention. As they passed, revelations were made. My friend informed me that I had missed the show- the firefighter had to readjust her bright yellow underwear and flipped the back of her skirt up. This is acceptable, since nothing sets the Halloween atmosphere like a full moon. I told her that I didn’t mind, though, since I had been distracted by the nurse retying her shoe. That’s right, her shoe. Party City may sell some nice costumes but the only place you can get décolletage that convincing is good genetics. Or a good plastic surgeon. It being Halloween, probably a sexy plastic surgeon. Unfortunately there must have been another sexy emergency because the two dashed out of the party (presumably into some sort of sexy fire truck or sexy ambulance) and never returned. A minor let-down, but probably for the best. I don’t know if she’d be covered by my sexy HMO.
I stood by the entrance of the store waiting for something to happen. For anything to happen. Thursday afternoon isn’t the greatest time to sell toys, I suppose. Finally an old man in a Knights of Columbus windbreaker approached me.
“One of the cheetahs in your window is missing,” he said. It was true, of course, someone wanted to buy one and we didn’t have any more in the back. “I think,” he continued, “that the lions ate him.”
“Oh?” I asked, laughing.
“Yeah. I saw a show on the Discovery Channel about it.” We went back and forth for a minute or two about the dining habits of plush lions.
“Well,” I said finally, “A cheetah is a pretty big meal. I’m pretty sure those lions are stuffed.”
I totally got to second base once. I was a late bloomer. I didn’t date in high school. Then it was off to college! Time to reinvent yourself, so I hear. I stayed more or less the same. Whoops. But I did kiss a girl a few times. We were never dating. Had Facebook been around then we’d probably be on there as “It’s Complicated.” Or maybe I just liked her a lot more than she liked me. Lord, I hope she doesn’t read this post. I hope no one I went to college with reads this, really. Or anyone in my family.
This isn’t about that girl, though, this is about a different girl. To keep her identity a secret (which will fail if any of my college friends read this, you can count how many girls I dated without taking your socks off. And if you’re missing fingers.) I won’t tell you if she was a girlfriend or a one night thing. Or her name. Or what she looked like… much. She was good looking though, so that was pretty good.
We were kissing, like college boys and girls do, and a suave young me decided it was time to make the move. I’d been on the internet. I’d seen the Holy Land. But I had yet to make my pilgrimage. Onward, fingers, to the most glorious creation in all of nature! My hand slid up her side. I brushed her ribs through her shirt with the palm of my hand. I was almost there! She had yet to stop me… what are you waiting for, hand? Make the jump!
We have landing! Early sensor reports show softness and high levels of enjoyment! She kept kissing me so after a brief walkabout I decided to explore below the surface. Have you ever noticed that in every teen comedy the luckless hero struggles with the bra? No one told me there were struggles before that. My hand returned to base at the belt-buckle area and began his northward trek across bare terrain. Ribs again and… success again! My hand’s first impression was that this girl had on some sort of sports bra. I knew what bras looked like. They weren’t solid cloth like this. Undaunted, I continued north and to the treasures there. Suddenly, the shirt I was moving beneath came down and met what I had assumed to be a sports bra forming a solid wall of cloth. What manner of trickery was this?! Find a way around, men! Wall to the left, wall to the right! She laughed. “It’s my shirt. It’s layered… here…” My hand made a hasty retreat and she pulled off the offending garment. I was flabbergasted! After a moment to collect myself I was back in the action and my fingers remanned their post. It was glorious. But there was more to come! Eventually, that last fine bit of cloth between me and greatness needed to be removed. Ironically, I had no problem with it. Speak not to me of hooks and of clasps, they fall before my nimble fingers!
It was as if I had opened the Ark of the Covenant, only my face didn’t melt off in stop-animation. And there were no swooshing lights. Still, it was pretty awesome. In the old school definition- to inspire awe. (And in the new school “bitchin’” sense.)
Unfortunately, this was such a rare occurrence that the “hang something on the doorknob” rule was unknown to me or my roommate. I was able to enjoy the fruits of my labor for only a short while until my roommate decided to show up. Thank you roomie! It’s not as if I had any trouble getting here! Do you need help with that laundry?
When I go out to a bar, what with the music and the dancing and all, I’m well aware of the fact I have no idea what I’m doing. Not in a black-out what-did-I-do-last-night drunk kind of a way, just in a total social ineptitude sense. Sometimes I entertain the possibility that maybe I do not know a lot about these things.
Last night I went out to just such a bar where my total lack of social grace and confidence could run free. We’d been there for maybe an hour or so when I notice a girl from across the bar (cliché!) looking at me. When we made eye contact she pointed at her eyes with her index and middle fingers and then pointed at me. I had to mentally and consciously prevent myself from looking around before I did the traditional “point at your own chest and mouth ‘me?’” maneuver. She responded to my crazy smooth only-mouthed-me bit by doing the eye pointing bit again. So I did it back. So… she did it back. This continued for a longer time than might be acceptable. Finally I squeeze my way around the bachelorette party she was a part of (if the woman in the veil wasn’t telling sign, the straws shaped like penises were) and started a conversation. I told her I had no idea what the hand gesture meant. (A lie, we all saw Meet the Parents) She said it meant she had her eye on me. Indeed? She could not tell me if this was good (romantic, in my mind) or bad (an impending street fight perhaps) even when pressed. We talked about important and deep things. Like the penis straws. Then after a while we wandered apart. Later when my wanderings brought us back together we began to talk again.
I can’t remember why, exactly, but another member of the party was brought in to the conversation. This new girl begins to tell me what a catch my new friend is. Why is that, I asked. I was treated to a list of fairly generic sounding traits like “awesome” and “smart” and some other adjectives I couldn’t hear over the band’s cover of “Take Me Out.” Then she said something about “two years too late.” Late for what?
For the last two years my new friend has been in a relationship with a doctor. Pardon me? True story! I understand that I am a majestic figure of a man and it’s only natural that one might watch me as I wander the bar, but do not telegraph this point to me unless you have a good reason! So we continued to talk and then the bride to be descended upon me. She was a nice enough person, for all her boisterous drunken enthusiasm. She pointed out all the accoutrements of the bachelorette- the veil, the penis straw, the white tank top with “bride to be” picked out across the chest in rhinestones. Then she asked me if I was single. Now, idiot though I may be, I suspected that this woman might have had a boyfriend. I don’t know why, something I just couldn’t put my finger on. I told her I didn’t and she began listing off reasons I should and she couldn’t believe I didn’t. Another list of somewhat generic terms came forth. “Tall,” “funny,” “nice,” “cute.” Erm, thank you? I shall remember this information? Good luck on your wedding?
And so, after that, the bride to be and her bridesmaids drifted out of the bar. But I like to think that I will forever be a part of that wonderful quilted tapestry of memory. Specifically the little square of fabric that says “remember that guy who hit on Jackie at the bachelorette party? Haha hilarious!”
Everyone knows the old warning. Don’t judge a book by its cover. It’s not about books, it’s about not judging people based on their appearance. That’s fine, that’s good advice. But it also gets people down on book covers, and that’s not really right.
Sometimes, just sometimes, you can judge a book by its cover. I learned this just yesterday as I stalked the aisles at my local book store. I was on the lookout for a book that hadn’t actually come out yet and was forced to find something else to read. I’m very faithful to my usual authors and don’t stray from their books, all of which I have read. That meant I would have to leave the store empty handed or pick something totally new. I wandered, aimlessly, and began that proverbial crime of book cover judgment.
I drifted past books covered with elaborate drawings depicting wizards fighting dragons amidst bursts of flame and swirling powers. I’m not a huge fan of straight up fantasy and nothing screams straight up fantasy like a scene one usually expects to be airbrushed onto the side of a van.
I did not even pause at the rack of covers sporting women, bosoms heaving, standing next to men with their shirts undone. I’m not a pre-menopausal mother of three so romance novels are not my fare. Though, to be honest, I may have paused a little. Come on! Heaving bosoms!
I circled the little display tables set up. Each had a theme- for dad, for grads, summer reading, etc. I don’t know which table I stopped at but I glanced down and a couple books looked back up at me. Each one was a slightly hazy photo of a girl, or a boy and a girl, or maybe two girls, faces cut off by the top of the book. They looked like little Abercrombie photos. Do I strike you as someone who would read “OMG Boyz R soooo cute,” the latest Gossip Girl book? Don’t say yes, you jerks, I’m not.
Then I ambled over to the “New Fiction” table. I was drawn almost immediately to a hardcover book in the middle of the table. A book, by authors I had never heard of, called “Time Spike” had just come in. Don’t judge a book by its cover? “Time Spike” features a conquistador being eaten by a tyrannosaurus rex outside the walls of a maximum security prison while a volcano smolders away in the background. I bought it.
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