Sick & Dying, Again (But Good Nonetheless)

In grade school, I had perfect attendance in six of eight years. I missed one day in third grade because I spent the night throwing up; when I woke up at 11 and realized my mom kept me out of school, I was furious (nerd alert!). Then in fifth grade I got a nasty case of the chicken pox and had to take a whole week off. That time around I was more forgiving of my mom for keeping me out of school, since I was just starting to figure out that yes, girls are pretty, and yes, maybe I’d like to touch some of them under their shirts, so no, it was probably not a good idea for me to go to school covered in red bumps and smelling like rice pudding.

(The red bumps were from the chicken pox, the rice pudding scent because I loved rice pudding.)

Aside from those times, I never missed a day of school. While this was in large part because I was - for the most part - a healthy child, it’s also because my illnesses had a way of timing themselves. I got sick in summer more than anyone else I knew, but the real time that sickness reared its ugly head was during what should have been my favorite time of year: Christmas.

In keeping with 2006’s theme as "The Year of Nostalgia," I was sick over Christmas. Kind of. I actually didn’t get sick until I woke up on Christmas night (technically the 26th) at 4:38am. I’ve spent the past 2.5 days alternatively shivering and sweating, consuming nothing but Theraflu and ice cream. Merry Christmas.

But today I feel better, if not tired, as my sleeping cycle is all screwed up. And now my task is to write something (semi-)entertaining about a Christmas that was, by most accounts, pretty ordinary. Yes, I drank until 5:30 in the morning on Christmas Eve, and yes, I was privy to an inordinate amount of drunk driving (which I don’t condone, by the way), but for the most part, it was a lovely little Christmas. Sorry, but that’s how it is. Maybe I’ll do something more entertaining involving a missing puzzle piece and a Navy vet, but I can’t promise that.

I Hooked Up With Dad

About a week and a half ago, I went out and met with my friend Brian, who was out with some of his co-workers. There were three of them, Marie, Steph, and Edgar. Marie and Steph were both cute girls who exuded that “I’m from Connecticut and grew up in a very sheltered environment” vibe, whereas Edgar reminded me a lot of myself: a total scumbag, who was secretly trying to bang both Marie and Steph, preferably at the same time.

We started talking about past St. Patty’s Days, and Marie said, “Oh my god, on St. Patrick’s Day two years ago, my girlfriends and I went out and got so drunk, my girlfriend Angela threw up on the subway ride home!”

I fought back the urge to say, “Wow, you girls should really be locked up...that’s so crazy! Someone got drunk and threw up? Holy fucking shit! Call CNN!”

Edgar was not to be out-done. I could see in his face that before Marie even finished his story, he was formulating his own to both top hers and impress both her and Steph. So he said, “That’s nothing. On St. Patrick’s Day last year, my buddies and I went out and we went to a bar and there were two people next to us having sex...right there in the bar!”

I rolled my eyes at this one. You could tell that he was just saying this to impress them, and they were indeed delighted. Being a little drunk and a little surly, I decided to tell my own St. Patty’s Day story: “Oh yeah? Well, check this out. St. Patty’s Day, 1994. I am so fucked up on whiskey and pills I wind up hooking up with my father! My fucking father! In front of everyone! And we haven’t spoken since!”

While I expected them to be shocked and disgusted, I didn’t think they’d be THAT shocked and disgusted. I mean, they really freaked out. Steph got up and headed for the bathroom to escape the uncomfortableness, and then Edgar turned to me and said, in a manner as if offering his condolences, “Not cool bro. Not cool.” Marie just sat there with her mouth open, looking quickly back and forth between Brian and Edgar.

And of course, Brian was cracking up, as I maintained a straight face and said things like, “Yeah...do you believe it? Unbelievable. I couldn’t believe it either.”

The lesson: please don’t try to impress girls in front of me when I am drunk, surly, and lonely. Because I’ll just tell a story about how I made out with my father, and it will totally bust your groove.

Dating Episodes

I try to use dating as a source of blog material, but it’s hard to meet women, and not only because I am plain-faced and poor. I work mainly with men, and there are only three women in my office - one is a lesbian, the other is a very religious woman who is trying to convince my coworkers that I am the devil, and the other is another lesbian who is also trying to convince the other coworkers that I am the devil.

There is also a person who works in the food court who may or may not be a woman. I’m not sure. It’s an Asian person who is either a guy with an exquisite pair of breasts or a girl with a 5 o’clock shadow à la Bruce Willis. I’m not ruling this out as a romantic possibility, however. At the moment, this individual is the best thing I have going for me. I just pray that it has a vagina.

Now, I haven’t written about dating for a while, but this doesn’t mean that I’ve been too busy to go on random dates with strange women that I’ve turned up after hours of scouring the internet. That’s not true. I’ve met plenty of strange women over the past couple of weeks. Today I thought I’d describe these women (well, if you want to nit-pick, one technically wasn’t a woman, but it was still a date, so I’ve included it).

I have a 1-to-10 scale that I use to rate the quality of the dates. 10 means that the conversation is so good that I end up spontaneously combusting into orgasm, and 1 means that the date goes so horribly wrong that someone ends up dying, losing a limb, contracting the rabies virus, or a little bit of all three. I’ve never experienced a 1, but I have gone as low as a 3 (the police are called and a restraining order is later filed). I’m not going to say which one of us filed the restraining order though. I’m tricky like that.

Here we go:

Date #1:

Ranking: 7
Looked like: The saucy, outspoken white woman from "The View" (not Rosie)

A very nice girl. Nice personality, nice looks, nice laugh. She and I seemed to hit it off. Unfortunately, having only a double-digit IQ, I thought I would appeal to her more if I waited for her to send me the first post-date message, and then wait for a week before sending a response. I did this, and she still hasn’t written back. Oh well. I hope she’s found a handsome and muscular man to satisfy her sexually.

Date #2:

Ranking: 3
Looked like: Laura Ingalls from "Little House"

Looked like Laura Ingalls. Wore a cape and a blue and white cameo brooch. Said "oh dear" a lot. Seemed to have a skin-flaking problem. She got so nervous after one of these skin flakes drifted onto my Starbucks brownie that she accidentally spilled her coffee onto my lap. The burn and the tenderness remain. She won’t stop e-mailing.

On a side note, the burn is beginning to look a lot like the Toyota logo. Maybe eBay has a market for this kind of thing?

Date #3:

Rating: 6
Looked like: Chris Hansen, the famous host of television’s "To Catch a Predator."

I say this date looked like Chris Hansen because it was Chris Hansen. I happened to stumble onto the set of "To Catch a Predator." I watch the show regularly, and who would have thought that they’d go to New Jersey twice! Anyhow, I gave this date a 6 because even though I was humiliated in front of an audience of several million people, I got to meet a major celebrity who really seemed to take an interest in what I thought!

Date #4:

Ranking: 7
Looked like: A goddess

Gorgeous and extremely interested in me. This always makes me very suspicious. But before we get any further, no, she was not actually a man, and no, she was not gay. Let’s just say that she was extremely experienced. Her dating history - which she constantly talked about - sounded like the resume of a seasoned diplomat. She spoke of her experiences with Iranians, Nigerians, Italians, Canadians, and she even had a story about an Eskimo. She never actually told me that she’d slept with all of these guys, but her stories about meeting them nearly always ended with the words, "And then we went back to his place, you know what I’m saying?"

Now, I’ve fantasized about this kind of woman before. A lot. But I’ve found that when this kind of thing actually happens, it’s never quite as exciting as it seemed in your imagination. This is probably how most people feel when they ask someone to pee on them for the first time. It starts off sounding all awesome and kinky, but in reality you just end up ruining your favourite sweater and wanting to get home. At least, so I’ve been told.

So, the moral of this post is this: If you break up with someone and you’re looking to start seeing what’s out there, don’t let anyone get your hopes up by telling you that there are plenty of fish in the sea. Actually, there are fish, but they are the ones that will make you feel queasy - even if you cook them properly.

I like to think that, if I’d put a little more effort into it, I could have come up with something better than that crappy fish metaphor to end this post. But, on that melancholy note, I now think I’ll retire to my study and enjoy a glass of port.

And by "study" I’m talking about the broken milk crate in the corner of my room, and by "glass of port" I am basically referring to diluted contact lens solution.

Le Mistress

A good friend of mine from school recently slept with a married guy. This is fairly shocking in itself, but even more so because this girl is a saint - rarely hooks up, never does wild and crazy things - the perfect girl to bring home to mom - until this. Well, she could still be the perfect girl to bring home to mom, if your mom likes girls who bang married guys. My mom doesn’t really.

And we have been giving it to her over this, because she’s felt really guilty about it. Last night, we were out having a drink and breaking her stones pretty darn hard. My friends and I decided then that it would be wise for us to all go out and get wedding rings to wear to bars, because what we’re doing now just ain’t working. I mean, it can’t hurt, right? I asked her (the mistress) about this last night, and said, “Now, I don’t have a wedding ring, but I do have a class ring. If I put that on do you think I can get maybe a handjob?” She wasn’t very amused.

I just hope that when I’m married, girls will still want to sleep with me.

Wait - take out the word “still” from that sentence. Sorry.

FYI

For women who want to know what guys talk about when they’re hanging out, my friend Joe and I had this exchange last night while watching tv.

Ben: “Can you imagine sleeping with an 18-year-old?”
Me: “God, that would be awesome.”
[wishful silence]

Just FYI.

An Open Letter To The Waitress At Kirby's

Hi,

I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself on Saturday night. My name is Johnny Trashbag and I’d like to make you my wife.

I am not one to rush head-strong into relationships, but I have never been so certain as I am of the fact that I am so deeply in love with you that if you were to ask me to, I would murder for you.

When you first came to the table to take our drink order, I was flushed with excitement. Initially, I thought you were so beautiful that I became sad, sad that women of such beauty and grace could exist beyond my grasp, both physically and metaphorically. But, each time you returned to the table, either to serve us our food or get us more drinks, I realized that deep down, under that incredibly sexy black shirt and little mini-skirt and high boots, you felt something too. A flicker of emotion when our eyes met? A pitter-patter of excitement when we spoke? A sense of queasiness when I stared at you just a little too long? It is not important. What is important is that you felt it too, and I realized at that very moment that you and I were made to be together, whether you want to be or not.

I am not a great man. I am not even a good man, but I promise that I will spend the rest of my life spending all the money I have on you. No longer will you need to serve drunkards Shepard’s Pie (which, by the way, was delicious) at a bar. Instead, you can move to NJ and live with me. I will continue to work and perhaps get a second job if necessary, while you stay at home and look beautiful. I promise that I will do all I can to help in this, buying you only the finest clothes and fragrances, in exchange for some cuddling and letting me smell your lovely hair.

I can not make any promises of being able to satisfy your womanly needs, because I am an unschooled in the ways of the woman’s body, having only experienced physical love while intoxicated or via VHS tape or after exchanging a nominal to significant sum. However, I am a good learner, and I am willing to give at least 40% of my energy to ensure your sexual well-being is cared for and attended to. And, if this fails, as a consolation, I will give you $10,000 for your birthday.

I realize that you may need time to think this over, and I encourage you to take this time to weigh what I’ve said and what I’m prepared to offer. I am confident that I can be a good provider for you, and, like I said, if you want me to murder someone, I will. Seriously.

I hope this message finds you well, and I look forward to hearing from you soon. If I don’t hear from you by Friday, I will see you at the bar, where I will wait, day and night, until I meet you again. But please, we don’t want it to come to that. Trust me.

Prepared to love you from this day forward until the end of time or until the Court orders otherwise,

Johnny T.

Fun With Photo Developers

I’ve always thought that a really cool job would be to be the person who gets your photos developed. You know, the guy who sits there and takes the photos out of the machine and puts them into the package. Sure, it’s mindless, but I think I could get really into it: just sit there with my headphones on, rocking out, and checking out people’s private moments.

Because of this, whenever I want to get a roll of film developed but still have a few pics remaining, I try to take weird pictures for the photo person. For example, a few rolls ago, my last two pictures were shots of my nose. That wasn’t too fun though, because I got those pics developed at CVS, and the person I picked them up from wasn’t the person who I dropped them off to (and presumably the person who developed them). I’ve also been known to take in-your-face shots of me angrily giving the camera the finger.

I had four pictures to burn this morning, so I took some very up-close shots of my feet and toes. Naturally, I think this is hysterical, because I am a simpleton, and something like taking pictures of my feet to play a prank on the photo shop people will keep me laughing for about two weeks.

To this end, I took the film this morning to the little mom-and-pop photo shop which is manned by two Mexican girls to be developed. I went to pick the pictures up about thirty minutes ago, and I could barely contain myself on the walk over to the store. As soon as I walked in the store, I could feel the tension in the 8′ x 8′ shop. They were trying so hard to conceal their disgust and curiosity but weren’t doing a good job. Of course, I’m on the other side of the counter, giving myself an embolism because I’m trying so fucking hard to not explode in laughter.

So now I’m back at my office with eight pictures of my feet, shaking with delight as I write this. Though they are part of my own body, I have to admit that they are very, very disturbing. And no - please don’t email me asking for copies. That’s just gross.

What a great Friday.