Never Trust A Big Butt And A Smile July 1, 2009

I got nuthin’.  Really. Nothing.  Unless you feel like cracking open my skull and wading through the slush of random thoughts that float around in my brain, I’ll leave it to you to pick my post for Thursday.

       

In the meantime, I think I will revisit an old post.  My Post: The Remix.  Hey, recycling other people’s shit made P.Diddy rich so this is my chance.  Here is post that’s been buffed, polished, blinged, skimpified, and put under soft lights–

 

The Hubster says that men lie more frequently in relationships but women tell BIG lies. It’s “I’m working late” vs. “I just gave you herpes”. I had to assure him that there is not a tight-bunned frosty old school marm that dresses us in pigtails and pinafores before  instructing us on how to be deceptive women. Lying when you are in a pickle is a simple fight or flight reflex. It just is. I am someone who is inherently un-schooled in feminine wiles, mystique, and general chick-ness. I didn’t have a date until my junior year of college. I mean, I had boyfriends (that can be counted on 3 fingers) but not dates.  No uncontrolled eye locks in a crowd, exchanging numbers on dirty pocket receipts, scheduling phone-tag, repeat/delete messages,  opening doors,  judgements made based on clothing selections. Nope, all my boyfriends were guys I was friends with first.  So I missed the point of dating.  I missed out on all those stupid unwritten rules of dating. That a call at 2am is not, in fact, a call to say hello.  The seeing-dating-exclusive continuum.  I was 4 steps below a remedial dater, so I was no where near prepared for Patrick.

 

Patrick was a townie.  We locked eyes a few times in clubs, mainly because he danced like his life depended on it.  Seth Green meets Wade Robson.  The Townie Lord of the Dance sweating through 3 layers of shirts.  Our first date itself was unremarkable- the standard dinner and a movie, but he had this strange confidence that intrigued me. As though it never occurred to him that a short little Irish townie going on a date with a tall, black sorority girl was weird at all. And he was strangely proud of his lowered pick up truck that was painted this obnoxious shade of blue, which earned him ‘The Smurf’ moniker by my roommates.  He drove that piece of shit around town like he was big pimpin’ on B.L.A.Ds. It was this insane, unjustified confidence that had me hooked.

 

Plus, he was gentleman. I slept at his house 3 -4 nights a week and he never tried to jump my bones. He was trying to really get to know me, not rush anything, and he wasn’t going to jeopardize just having me around. The sex, he said, would come later. (That was a sign, wasn’t it?). Patrick also called me every day just to say hi, make sure I was having a good day, and making plans for us to spend time together (Was THAT a sign, too? God, I suck at this!). One night my roommates and I decided we didn’t feel like squeezing into bar clothes and simply drank in our room and caused havoc in the dorm. I invited Patrick over and managed to shoo my roommates so we had the room to ourselves. Patrick gingerly kissed me on the forehead, held my hair as I vomited, and tucked me in with Saltines and a trash can. I was no where near being in love, but I was definitely falling for this kind of attention.

 

Sucker!

 

Patrick had to go out of town for some big french fry convention, the perfect time for a girl’s night out. Of course we ran into Patrick’s roommates, who had essentially become my roommates since I spend so many nights at their place. I was gushing about what a great guy Patrick was when his roommate, Ian, says,

Ian:  You know Pat’s dating, like, 3 other girls, right?
ME:  (Eyes bug out, Roger Rabbit-style)                                                                                                                                                            

Ian:  Well, he you’re the one he talks about most.
ME:  (Mouth drops open)                                                                

Ian:  …and you’re the one that spends the most nights.
ME:  (Fist clenches. Must. Punch. Ian)

Ian:  If it makes you feel better, I don’t think he’s having sex with any of you. He is still real messed up about his ex. I mean, we ran into her the night we came to visit you in your dorm and he’s been…out…of…hey, are you OK?

ME: What part of that am I supposed to be OK with, Ian?

Ian:  I’m sorry, I thought you knew.

 

That is when that bitchy, vengeful, lying chick emerged. It had laid dormant and now it was ready to burst out of me like that creature in Aliens.  I continued to see Patrick, more for observational purposes than because I was stupid enough to still have feelings for the mug. I was about to leave for Mexico on Spring Break and decided to spend the night before.  We danced. I drank. We sat and talked. I drank. We danced some more. I drank. Then I started getting pissy so we decided to call it a night and head back to his place. Ian home and he was hammered, so the 3 of us hung out in Ian’s bed, talking. When Patrick got up to go the bathroom, Ian rolled over on me and kissed me.  I stumble up to Patrick’s room to tell him all about it and I hear him on the phone.

At 2am.

With his ex.

So I make a quick bee-line back to Ian’s room and we start making out. To this day, I have no idea how long I was down there, if Patrick ever came to find me, or how I got home; but I woke up in my bed the next morning. My roommates were happily packing our Spring Break, so I rolled out of bed, threw up, and commenced to packing when my phone rang.

Patrick:  How are you feeling?

ME:   Like shit and I need to pack. We’re leaving for Mexico, in like, an hour.

Patrick: Can you swing by my job before you go? You left your watch at my place and I have something to ask you.

(Uh, oh)

Patrick:  I didn’t want to do this on the phone, but I need to know what happened with you and Ian last night.

ME:  What do you mean? Why, what are you trying ACCUSE me of, Patrick?”

(Atta, girl)

Patrick:  I don’t want to accuse you of anything. Ian told me that he told you about the other girls and I wanted to talk to you about it. I would understand if something went down with you guys, I just want to know.

(OK, so he’s opening the Honesty Door to me, but like a greedy gameshow contestant, I elect to see what’s behind the other door. Door #2. Uncertainty Door.)

ME:  What THE FUCK are you trying to accuse me of, Patrick? What kind of asshole bitch do you think I am? Even though I have every right to cheat on you or whatever, I wouldn’t be low enough to do it with your ROOMmate for god’s sake! I have some class! If you are going to keep accusing me of shit I didn’t do-”

Patrick:  Ian told me you guys were making out.

ME:  Oh… I’ll be by in a sec to get my watch.

The Followers Get Killed First June 28, 2009

You ever notice the followers get hurt first?

Take 300. Leonidis gets all these half-naked men to follow him into battle and who gets killed first? Captain Six-Pack? Nope, it’s the poor schlub who thought ‘Hmmm. Going on a trek to fight mythical creatures, sleep on the ground, and get a sword impaled in my chest cavity? Well, I guess it’s better than sitting at home watching Tori & Dean marathon!’

Yeah, I’m that guy. The constant follower. I’m not sure if I’m creativity intolerant or if I was born with some kind of innovation deficiency, but I’ve never been that gal. The life of the party. The center of the social circle. The Beth Cooper. The Caroline Mulford. The What Will Jenn Do? who shows up at your house with a full tank of gas and a desire to see what happens if you drive west. The one that has you waking up in strange hotel rooms with no way to explain how cheeseburgers ended up in the toilet. Luckily, I’ve surrounded myself with people who are. I’ve followed my way onto my high school swim team, into a granola-crunching college, inside an unfortunate nether region conditioning scheme, and at a roller derby audition.

Yes, I said Roller derby.

I met Cat Woman via My Singles and was drawn to her in a weird Desperately Seeking Susan way. She’s a transplant from Cold Ass Place USA and made her way to Austin to find the life her home wasn’t equipped to provide. She was funk, flair, and rhinestones in the land of meat, potatoes, and wranglin’. She’s one of those people who makes you feel like boarding school roommates from the minute you meet her. She’s got a calming presence that screens her daring soul and she delivers praise that’s genuine and comfy. And when she said she was auditioning for roller derby, I thought I’d get a piece of it for myself. How hard could it be? Cute outfits and roller skating. Sure we’d tap each other here and there, but it’d be the kind of choreographed bouncing off each other that caused a stir in men’s pants but left all your teeth in tact. Cat Woman and I even picked out my name–Jenny Jammerson– and my sweet but devious housewife persona. We hadn’t quite worked out the outfit but something pink with an obnoxiously oversized logo on my chest, a huge pair of (fake) diamond studs, and rimless glasses. Picture Charlotte York on skates.

If only I knew then what I know now…

I interned for an amateur sports team and was familiar with how auditions run. Auditions were hotel conference rooms, downloaded PDF applications with glossy photos, adhesive taped contestant numbers, bottled water covered with sponsor stickers, pinched faced judges in knockoff pinstripe suit, and spray tan auditioners with alot of makeup and a little spandex. The audition locale should have been my first clue that the derby is a little less Nordies and bit more Goodwill. We were in a blank part of town on the backside of a warehouse with no air conditioning. Sure there were a couple of industrial size fans, but a 104 degree heat wave rendered those fans were as useless as Plaxico Burress in a shooting range. It’s the kind of instant burst into sweat that reminds you of body parts you didn’t know you had (and also made me walk out of the audition). The warehouse was huge with a bank track in the center, recycled couches on the side, and lockers vandalized with stuff that would make Sam Kennison blush.

We walk in and they tell us to borrow gear from current team members. That have just practiced. And sweated in their helmets; and wrist, elbow and knee pads. If I were a germophobe, I would have passed out. Lice and ringworm be damned, I was already gross and had nothing to lose. We padded up and filled out forms that promised we wouldn’t sue if we lost a finger or a spleen on the track while our hand-written contestant numbers were masking taped to our backs. They set up cones and had us run drills to test our skating prowess. That’s when Cat Woman turned to me and said “I’ve never skated before.”

WHAT?!??

I applaud her, though. It’s brave to go out and try something that you don’t have the fundamental skills for. She wasn’t technically prepared to audition but it take a big hairy pair to put yourself out there and try. Not only did she try, she drew #1 so she was first for every part of the audition. First to do drills, first to demonstrate skills, first to interview. She was also first to smile, to talk to the other contestants, and to cheer complete strangers on. So I followed her lead and did the best that I could to smile for her, cheer her on, and to clap during her audition. And I think she loved it. I, on the other hand, managed to pull a ligament in my knee during the “fall like a porn star” drill and have been hobbling around the house since then.

Roller derby is a culture. A tattooed culture full of brassy, badass women with pony tails and Miller tall boys. The girl with her arm in a sling yelled at us to get up quickly after the falling and the one with the busted tailbone asked us what we could bring to the team. My knee is telling me this is a path I should avoid following, but the desire to don a pink tutu and skate around in circles sounds fun, too.