Good Boy

I've considered telling this story time and again, and every time my little fingers start tapping away, I inevitably wipe it all out and tell another in it's place. I even struggled to tell my closest friends for months after it's happening. You see, when I tell a story about the crazy events of my life I prefer sentences that end with 'went batshit crazy' begin with 'The day he/she', not so much 'The day I'. Sure, there may be a small, tiny, miniscule, evil little part of me that might still get a big smile and warm fuzzies whenever I think about this particular event, but I prefer to keep the wicked side of me kept locked safely away in a dark corner deep in my brain and bring it out only in situations where nothing else will do.

This was most definitely one of those situations.

To be able to fully understand this day, you need two brief histories. First, I have two dogs. They're spoiled rotten and I love them dearly. We've established guidelines for the times they allow me to pretend I'm in charge. One of those times is when they come in from doing their business. They know before they are allowed to come back inside I expect them to sit and enter one at a time. It works for us. Second, I was involved with a man who was a horrible person that made me endure embarrassment far beyond what any person deserves no matter her ability to attract the unusual. When it all came crashing down, I had a horrible time trying to get him to stay away. Sure, I could have called the police and fixed things that way, but I had only just moved into my house and didn't want to be that neighbor. So, on the days when I'd come home and find his sorry ass making himself at home again, I'd turn on the horrible bitch in me and keep her firmly in place until he left a few hours or days later. (Truth be told, there were some days I'd almost hope to see him simply so I had an outlet for a really bad day.) After so long, I was shocked that he kept coming back. Don't get me wrong, I rock, and I know I do, I've probably forever damaged someone somewhere, but he should have long before forgotten my rockingness.

As my luck would have it, I was having a perfectly lovely day until I got home and discovered him here. I hadn't expected him even a little bit. Normally there'd be some kind of warning. Relentless phone calls, a number of drive bys, or a little cartoon bluebird singing his little song as I walked by only to look at me, laugh, and spit in my face. I hadn't fully put my bitch on. I had to gear up. I was coming up blank! How could that be happening?! In order to compose myself, I growled at him to put the dogs out. A few minutes later, I growled at him to let the dogs in.

Out of habit, and because I knew he never followed the rules, I followed him to the door so I could give the dogs their 'sit, stay, enter' commands. That's when genius struck like a furious bolt of lightning. I held the door and told Max, “Sit! Stay! Enter!” and closed the door. I told Scrappy, “Sit! Stay! Enter!” and I once again closed the door. The ex came to the door. I looked at him and said, “Sit!” He responded with a look that made me wish so badly that I'd had a camera and said something like “har har, I'm not a dog” and tried to pull the door open. I laughed because I can be a determined bitch when the mood strikes. I told him to sit again. He started to throw a tantrum and told me he wasn't sitting, he's not a dog. I laughed and told him only good dogs are allowed to enter my house, and that by my definition he was indeed a dog...did he not expect me to provide a roof over his head, food for his belly, and expect to run free and hump whatever stray mutt he could find? He began to sulk because he realized I was indeed serious. Then he got angry. Then, for the love of all that is holy, he sat! HE SAT! Like a dog! To get into my house. I never actually thought he'd listen. I figured he'd get pissed, storm off, and go stay with a friend like I would expect any person in that situation to do. I was beyond amazed. I let him in. And God help me, I loved it! I was happy, even with him in the same space as me. I couldn't have that...I knew I couldn't allow him to think I could be in a good mood while he was around so I went out. A few hours later, he called me. He told me he was leaving, that he couldn't believe I'd treat him like a dog. I told him that was better than he deserved.

Given all of the fighting, all of the arguments, and all of my pleading for him to just leave me alone, it was one simple word that did it. Sit. That was the last time he showed up at my house. It took me well over a year to stumble onto that little gem, and given my ability to stumble, I'm shocked it took so long, but sometimes that old cliché, better later than never, holds true.

I hope you all don't think less of me for sharing this with you-well, maybe not sharing it with you, but that I actually did it. Depending on the day, I convince myself I should have been medicated that day because I can be pretty hard on myself, or I can tell you to smile and enjoy it because it was one of the proudest moments of my life.

I needed him to be gone so I could get back to life and he finally was...gone. It was like a new person invaded me.

Take my advice people. If you are in a bad relationship, or trying to get back into a bad relationship and the other person starts to give you commands like you're a dog...save your dignity! Throw a very public fit, throw yourself on the ground and have a tantrum to rival that of a three year old, but do not sit like a dog. Trust me, if you've reached that point, there is no turning back and chances are you will completely wipe out any shred of respect that may have been left for you as a fellow human being. Of course, if you want to provide one less happiness to that person, go ahead and sit. I assure you, there will be days that person will savor it. :)

Urine for a Surprise

A few years ago, I broke down and allowed a friend of mine to set me up on a blind date. Yes, another blind date. You'd think I'd learn, but of course I don't. Although, to give myself some credit, I did learn to take my own car at this point.

I've debated telling this story simply because I never did tell my match making friend the true events of this day because she already felt bad enough about the basics about why it went wrong (I also didn't want to humiliate him in front of his friends, and I'm still not quite sure why.) I'm telling it now because enough time has passed that she very well may have forgotten what movie we did see and because she isn't online to read my blog nearly as often as she once was.

I don't know why I've spent so much time worrying about affecting the friendships of people who've made a complete ass out of themselves in front of me, but I have. I've learned to care a little less over the years; to a point, at least...I no longer feel obligated to continue to speak to a person when I'd rather gnaw my arm off just because they are friends with a friend of mine.

This event occurred a few years ago when a friend of mine wanted to hook me up with a 'very nice' guy. That should have been my clue, but I prefer to live my dating life with my head planted squarely up my ass, so I nodded like a dumbass, secured my blinders and played along.

My friend, “Judy”, called me one day to tell me about her friend “Fred”. She told me she'd love to hook me up with Fred because he was such a nice guy, and a hard worker, and has a great sense of family. I finally gave her the okay to give him my number and we started talking. He did seem to be a nice guy even if he was a little on the shy side. Even though I have a ridiculously shy side when it comes to meeting people, and even though I am very aware of it, AND even though I am quite confident about most of my actions (as long as those actions don't include walking, running, building, cutting, fixing, or moving in general), I now wonder what is wrong with them that makes them so shy. He made me this way.

As the conversations progressed, Fred finally asked me to dinner and the movies. Dinner ended up being pizza before the movie, but he let me choose the movie. I chose Live Free or Die Hard. (What can I say? I still love Bruce.) Everything seemed to go well during the pizza, and even the movie started well. He bought popcorn and drinks...we even had nice conversation until the movie started.

The movie started and that's when it went downhill. Quickly. I might have been able to understand the following events had I chosen a girly movie...you know, a sappy love story that would make everyone in the theater cry like little girls or even a romantic man-hating comedy, but I chose Die Hard for the love of god: action, explosions, gun fire, murder, and even a little computer geek thrown in for good measure! There is no explanation for what happened, for the scars that still remain on my eyes.

As the movie started, I became engrossed, and I thought he had too. Some time had passed and I started hearing animal noises coming from my side. A small part of me cringed and prepared for an attack as I wondered if it was something in the water around Wilkes Barre that makes men think this is appealing. I steeled myself and looked to the side and discovered he wasn't trying to make a move on me, oh no, nothing like like...he was fast asleep. In a movie theater. On our first date. Watching Die Hard.

After a brief internal struggle about what to do, I finally decided that, given my history, a man falling asleep and snoring during a movie ranks rather low on the bad date scale. Plus, I really wanted to see the movie. Screw it, I was sticking it out. Yay me! I won't let some stupid man ruin my good time! I was enjoying the movie. I even got to see a good portion of it before I reached for my drink and couldn't find it. And that's when it all went bad. I looked down to see just what had become of the water and discovered that, OH MY GOD, he dumped it on himself. Oh wait, there it is...silly me. OH MY GOD! He didn't dump it on himself! This grown 30something man just peed himself. While sleeping. In a theater. On our first date. Watching Die Hard. It was almost too much to wrap my head around. I might have been less shocked had he looked at me and asked 'Mommy, can you take me to pee, I'm afraid!'

I was mortified. Mortified! I also didn't know what to do. Should I wake him and point out that he peed himself? Should I call Judy? Would she know what to do? Should I go get an attendant? Should I go get him paper towels? How do I tell him I do like to date men who pee themselves? With all of these thoughts acting the part of a ping pong machine in my head, I finally decided my only option was to make myself gone. I moved a few rows back and ducked down. I sat at the end of the aisle on the other side...dammit...I really wanted to see the movie. I ran out of the theater before the credits while I could see that he was still sleeping soundly.

I came home and told my friend it was nice except that he fell asleep. I didn't expect to hear from him because I'd assumed that he would be too embarrassed to call. Yeah. This is me. Of course I was wrong.

Luckily, I never got the chance the chance to feel like I had to go out with him again.

Lesson here? Don't assume someone will react with the same level of embarrassment as any sane human when you most expect them to.  

People being People

 Generally, if I write about one of the more insane incidents in my life, I wait a few weeks, months or years so that time can get to work on healing my humiliation. I might also do it to protect the identity of the humiliator. I've decided to throw that out the window this time for a few reasons. First, it's so far beyond anything I could have imagined happening that the longer I keep it in my head the more crazy I begin to feel. Second, this about a person I've never met so I don't care so much if said person reads it and feels like a dumbass. Third, (maybe fourth or fifth even...I'm undecided about my level of angry belittling at this point) a small, cruel part of me hopes this person reads this and feels small and stupid.

 Recently, an old friend of mine found me on facebook. He sent an email to say hello, how ya been, let's catch up. I responded with my own short email basically saying, 'hey, long time, good to hear from you, give me a call sometime' and gave him my number. A few days later I received a text message saying, 'Hey, it's (person you email) maybe we can catch up on old times. I responded and conversations continued via text over a period of three weeks. There were a couple of live conversations during that same time and even though at a few points I'd wondered if he'd been drinking during some of the texted conversations because some of what we talked about was being repeated, I chopped it up to bad memory.

 I seriously need to stop giving people the benefit of the doubt.

 As time went on, I nearly decided that even though we were having nice conversations on the phone catching up on the goings-ons of the last decade, I was going to stop talking to him because the texts messages were getting more and more offensive...which was very unlike the person I remembered him to be. Because of that, and because of the fact that I far too often give people the benefit of the doubt long after they deserve it, I kept talking. I was a smart ass, but I kept talking. For example, at one point, while we were texting about work, out of the blue he asked me if a certain part of my (often referred to in the form of an animal) anatomy was wet. I responded “sorry, no, I only have dogs.” I was shocked that the person I remembered had blatantly come out and asked such a thing in such vulgar terms. Make no mistake, I've had plenty of vulgar dirty people say even more vulgar dirty things, so the statement didn't shock me so much as the person it was coming from. I'd hoped that maybe there was some kind of sarcasm or humor or even an old inside joke I had forgotten and that it just didn't read well in text. But, no. When I had responded about my dogs, he actually took the time to reply to explain not only that that was not what he meant, he had also taken the time to detail what he did mean. I couldn't do much beyond laugh. It was shocked laughter, but I don't think I could have formed a logical thought that would have allowed anything but laughter. I ignored him, but a few hours later there was an itch at the back of my brain that I couldn't identify.

 I let a few days slip by without talking. Then he started popping up with normal conversation again. But he started calling me bizarre pet names. That itch came back. As with most things Michele, I gracelessly dodged all of them because I was so confused by it all. Without getting into even more gory details, I finally pieced together that it wasn't him I was texting. I called him at the number we had talked on a couple of times and started grilling him about the texts. It was then that he informed me he had never texted me. After initial disbelief, I realized that was what the itching at the back of my head was...somehow, some way, I knew it wasn't him I was chatting with. Label me stupid. Or gullible. Or whatever. But, finally I had understanding about why I'd wondered so frequently if he had recently fallen out of a 12 step program; and it made me want to kick myself for only referencing text messages indirectly thinking he understood what I was talking about. It also taught me that in the future if I am talking to a person on one number and texting on another that I should not assume it is because one is a land line and the other a cell phone.

 After a discussion with him and another discussion with a friend of mine, I called the number that had been texting me. As luck would have it, I got voice mail that had not yet been set up. I asked the friend to call. She got the same message. A few minutes later, I received a text from yet another number. It turned out he likes dipping himself into batshit crazy women impersonating adults while they break into his facebook account and pretend to be him for extended periods. Given the disturbing turns in the conversations, I assume this freak also has yet unleashed lesbian fetishes that she's barely able to control. Why wouldn't she find me?!? This crazy woman informed me she loves him, blah, blah, blah and she's sorry she's been texting me from her moms phone, and she'd like to talk to me because boohoo, her life sucks. I responded to tell her she was knocking on the wrong door to be looking for sympathy, that if she had issues with him, that she should have taken them up with him and not involved me. I believe I also called her a psycho bitch, that she should check her bizarre fetishes, and that it's a little scary she's allowed to be free in the real world. I told her that if these were the type of games she likes to play she deserves what she gets and that she should just accept her place in the world. I also asked her exactly what defect was in her brain that she thought this type of shit was okay. (Really there were a lot more words, and I was a lot more insulting, but the way I see it, I wasn't nearly insulting enough.) Sadly, had she handled this differently, say, called me up and said, 'who are you, am I wasting my time trying to get with him?', I could almost understand. Somehow, absolute lack of self worth is more tolerable than combining it with all out insanity.

 The crazy thing is that I'm not a very jealous person. I have never felt the need to snoop through someone else's belongings or accounts to see if they might be hiding something. I've never felt the need to pretend to be someone else to get information, and as piss poor as I feel about myself some days, I've never lacked a level of self esteem that allows me pine away for someone who I obviously can't stand who probably feels the same way about me. We are operating on two so completely different levels that I honestly struggle to wrap my head around this sort of insanity.

 It scares me. People like this running loose.

I mean, she's allowed to influence the mind of a child. Take a lesson from me kids. Don't play catch up by text with an old friend without first hearing that friends voice.

 And, out of curiosity, because she never answered me, what mental defect do you suppose a woman must have that would drive her to do something like this?

 And, is it wrong that there's a vengeful part of me that wants the world to know she isn't operating on all cylinders? Don't answer that. It just feels right. :)

Facebook Flirting

Occasionally, I'm relatively certain the universe has put me here as a lesson to others; how NOT to date, how NOT to walk, and how NOT to think clearly are perfect examples of what I mean. This week has been no exception to my 'do not do' list. It even added a new category for me -- how not to accept friend requests on Facebook.

 I understand that dating online is quite common, and even searching for a mate on a site like facebook is getting to be pretty common. In some cases, I can even understand why it would work. What I can't understand is how, even when I'm away from my computer and miles and miles away from a person sending a friend request, the crazy still seems to find me.

 Take, for example, the request I got from some guy in Hazleton a few months ago. (I'm going to try to reconstruct his message from memory, but my 3 year old niece constructs better sentences than he did, so it will be rough) His accompanying email read something to the effect 'am looking for girl of dreams. I live Hazelton and you are close. You look pretty. Do not drive but willing to learn for girl who likes parents.' I've since thought about him and wondered if I had accepted his friend request would I have had to like all parents??, my parents??, his??, and how does driving tie in to liking a planet full of parents? Dammit!! I do not like ALL parents! It would have never worked. That was plenty crazy for me I thought.

 I should always accept that if it can't get any crazier, in my world it can. And it did.

 This weekend I received a friend request from a nutjob who called me Miss Passion. I was so put off by those two words that the rest of the email didn't really sink in until I went back and re-read it today.

 It reads: "I do have that passion you so desire, you dream about, you wish you could find. I am a romantic, who believe in the art of touch, warm oil, cuddling and soft kisses. Am here un Pittston for the next 22 hours, staying at the beautiful Walmart? V Come cuddle the time away with a true romantic, who you aren't going to let go of, once he touches you. So are you spontaneous, are you going to find the love if your life???? Not it you stay home are you Come spend the night, you and I.... This is not a booty call my dear. I have no expectation of sex, Miss Passion. So this is not a sexual letter. Waiting for you to sneak under my covers" 

 Oh yes, it can always get crazier. I did not accept his request, which did not deter him from sending a couple of follow up emails asking if I was coming, then another saying giggle giggle, you'll never find what you don't know you need if you never leave your house.

 I finally responded to that to say "funny, but whether I know it or not, I feel safe assuming what I need isn't in a parking lot for 22 hours at a time calling walmart beautiful and perfect strangers miss passion, but good luck finding a mate by calling her 'chicken'".

 During a couple of conversations with friends today I decided two things. First, I'd really like to see this weirdo write a dating advice column. I'd like to see it gain popularity. I'd really like to wake up knowing there is going to be some kind of ludicrous advice for me to laugh at each day. Second, I wondered if there's a chance I could make money from my propensity for attracting the extreme oddities in life? I could offer a service! Do YOU need to know if you're date is a raving lunatic? Allow me a few moments, I will mete out any possible insanity to be found! This extraordinary service can be yours for the low, low price of (really, how do you put a price on knowing that your date isn't going to tie you up, cover you in corn syrup, and make you watch a Benny Hill festival all while dancing the tango with a teddy bear in his mother's old heels?!) This may just be my calling! So, who's looking for a sure fire way to be sure their potential mate shouldn't be in a straight jacket? :)

September 11

10 years ago, I pulled up to work in a NJ parking lot to see people acting weird. I'd been listening to an audio book, so when I finally headed into my store and some stranger came up to me crying and hugging I thought, "these NJ people get crazier each week". It didn't really occur to me that something was wrong until I walked into Walmart and CNN was on the tv's. (Walmart NEVER didn't play walmart tv) THAT'S what made me realize something horrible had happened. I tried to work and watch and ended up transfixed on those tv's with everyone else when the news came rolling out to us that a plane went down in PA. Then the map came up. Then it registered that that was the area in which my dad was working. Then panic. The the absolute need to call home. So I got a bunch of change (yeah, at that point I was still convinced cell phones wouldn't last...) and tried and tried and tried to call and couldn't get through to anyone- if it gave me anything, it was a busy signal for hours, but as often as not, I got silence. I had no way of knowing anything and was 8 hours from home. It was then that my personal angel for the day came walking outside and found me crying. She hugged me, reassured me, and calmed me when I was in a place with no friends or family and desperately needed just that. So today while I grieve for those lost and their loved ones left behind, I celebrate the heroes that came forward, including those like Anne Marie who came along with the best they could, which may have been a hug and a few nice words, but was and always will be something so much more. Not a year has gone by that I haven't given thanks for her and people like her while I mourn.

Does this silverware make my bag look big?

Earlier this week I was lucky enough to have lunch with “Ethan and Jamie”, a couple of friends whom I rarely get to see. While I already knew Ethan and Jamie were great go to people for a smile or a laugh, I finally discovered they are all out comedians throwing out special clues for the clueless that they had bestowed upon me sugar packets and a pepper shaker from the restaurant at which we dined.

Not only do I feel special because they felt a need to give me a present so strongly that they were willing to attack random passersby like crazed drunken monkeys to rob them of their worldly possessions to ensure I wouldn't have to go without (or at least lift condiments that may come in very handy), I am also struck with a need to write down memory lane.

I'm not a normal person. Those of you who know me have already figured that out. I've got a sense of humor all over the map and love a great prank. However, me being who I am, I am usually terrible...TERRIBLE...at pulling them off myself; I'm even worse if it involves me talking - either because I get so excited for the prank that I start tripping over my tongue or I start laughing uncontrollably and blow it. There are a few stand out exceptions to that rule though. In fact, there is one that I pulled off so well, I still feel mildly guilty for it.

As I was driving to work one day one of my part time employees called me. The conversation went something like this:

“Dan”, “Michele, I need to to call Janet and completely destroy her mental state for at least the next year” (Ok, ok...it may have been something more along the lines of “Michele, will you help me pull a stunt on a friend of mine?” But, as you will soon learn this became something to destroy her mind and reached far beyond anything I could have imagined)

Me, “What do you want?”

Dan, “Call this girl and pretend to be from Unnamed restaurant, tell her you know she stole silverware and that you want to press changes.”

Me, “Um...did she steal silverware?”

Dan, “Of course not, I put it in her purse and she yelled at me when she found it after we got home. She shouldn't have yelled at me.”

Me, “ I'm really bad at things like this, but what's her number?”

You would have thought he'd just won the lottery rather than roping me into a silly prank. He went on to tell me that it wasn't only silverware, but a glass and a couple of dishes too. (Her purse must be a suitcase) He also told me she paid by credit card and that could be my explanation as to how I got her phone number.

You'll probably realize too that even the people that work for me have figured out that something is just a wee bit off center in matters concerning Michele.

I took a couple of deep breaths and dialed her number. That was when I received my first shock.

Ring ring!

Unknown person, “Hello, thanks for calling Unnamed business, how may I help you?”

(THAT FUCKER GAVE ME A BUSINESS NUMBER?!? WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM?!?)

Me, calmly, possibly squeaky, “Hello, may I speak to 'Janet please”

Holding...boring music...

Janet, “Hello, this is Janet”

Me, “Janet, this is Michele from Unnamed Restaurant, I'm calling about a small problem we discovered after your dinner last night.”

Silence.

“Janet, we discovered a number of items missing from your table as it was cleaned. We pulled your credit card information and video cameras clearly show particular items disappearing from your table throughout the course of the meal. The manager on duty last night wanted to call the police to press charges but called me first per company policy. I told him I'd contact you and give you the opportunity to return or pay for the missing items before we move to press charges.”

I actually said ALL OF IT without once cracking up in ridiculous laughter!! I was so proud for about three seconds--

Janet, SOBBING (I'm talking gasping for breath, snot rolling down her face crying...I nearly stopped right there and hung up) “but I didn't take anything”

Me, “Video shows otherwise Janet.”

Janet, crying still, but with venom, “Well, then you better call my friend Dan, he must have taken it and I didn't know what he was doing his number is 000-0000”

(OH MY GOD, SHE JUST RATTED HIM OUT!!!)

Me, “Well, I will try to give him a call, but I will tell you now that if someone isn't here to return the stolen items or make payment for the items by the end of my shift at 6:00 I will be forced to involve the police.”

Janet, near hysteria, “Ok, I'm gonna kill that asshole!”

I called Dan back and told him how the conversation went and then begged him to call her right then and tell her it was a joke. I felt B.A.D. Bad bad.

He agreed. Prank over. So I thought.

I called him a few hours later to see how she took the news. His response? “Are you fucking kidding me? She sold me up the river!!” He then went on to tell me that she had called him and was a total basket case and was screaming at him that he better get there now, the stuff had to be returned.

His solution? He went to pick her up, she had a bag full of the stuff he'd put in her purse, and demanded he be the one to take it in and return it to...well, me. He got her into the car, they drove to the restaurant, which is on a main highway in town, asked her for the bag as they got close, and threw it out the window and into the lawn as they drove past. He told me at that moment he was sure she was going to kill him.

I felt even worse. I begged him to tell her it was a sick joke. He finally caved a couple of days later and told her that it was all a joke, he got his boss to make that call. Told her the name I used, told her the story I used. And the real kicker is that she REFUSED to believe him. To this day, that woman still does not believe that she was the victim of an insane crank call.

Quite honestly, knowing this guy like I do, I would expect anything as insane as this kind of phone call after spending a few hours with him to be a sick joke. I would probably be sitting in jail waiting for a bail hearing wondering just when Dan would appear to point and laugh. In the end, I feel much better about it. If she's that determined to believe, who am I to feel bad for letting her?

So tell me. Can you top this? I thought the phone call was a winner. I would have stopped there. But throwing the dishes out the window? I am in awe.

The Storm is Coming! The Storm is Coming!

I've made fun of the typical storm panic preparedness--milk, bread, eggs. I've questioned whether there's some unknown secret that I've not been clued into proving that in the event of an apocalyptic catastrophe will French Toast sustain the survivors? Do I have to bring the sausage and syrup to this party if I'm to be invited? I've also avoided stores just before a storm because of this. I find it mind boggling that people are ready to kill someone for a loaf of bread because they might be stuck in the house for a day or two.

Today, I decided I wanted to bake; and with Irene getting ready to throw all of her fury a couple of hundred miles east of me, I wasn't disappointed when I pulled into the grocery store and found 17 billion people in there. This being the first time in years that I've gone to the grocery store the day of or the day prior to a storm, I discovered that we have a different thought process to storm preparation here in northeastern PA. Our essentials include eggs, cream cheese, butter, whole milk, tasty cakes, cheese, hot dogs, and buns. After I said a quick thanks for the fact that I drink 1% milk, I cursed the world because I needed butter and cream cheese for my icing. Then I had a horrifying thought-what if it turns out that hot dogs are the key to survival?!?! I am so screwed!! I've hated those things since I was a kid.

While I was carrying on like a child about having to stand in line because people feel the need to clog their arteries prior to a storm, I realized I'm probably at least as crazy as the sausage suckers. My big plans the day before Irene shows us we're small and she can kick our asses if she so chooses have been as follows: chinese buffet with friend-√, buy flea drops for the dogs-√, Sheetz MTO for tomorrow-√, pull rug scrubber out and clean sofa and area rug-sofa-√ (area rug not so much), finally craft the perfect oil free carrot cake-(and I add this with a giggle and a spring in my step because I've been trying to do this for a year and always manage to come up with a very flavorful but ridiculously borderline wet cake)√√√√. Basically, my end of times survival kit includes a personal chef, bug free dogs, furniture that smells good, and the ability to play with cake recipes. I might be as crazy as they are, but damn it, while I've got wine, a cake I've cut 1,980 calories out of that kicks ass, and a sofa worthy of face plants (if you know me you KNOW this is important), I just bet I'm a happier shade of crazy.

Now, if I can talk this bitch into not flooding my basement tomorrow...

The Inside of Why

Recently, I took some serious criticism for this blog. Beyond thinking, well, thank all that is holy that this person missed out on some of the stories blogger wiped out last year, I was stunned. For a number of reasons, but primarily because the criticism came from a perfect stranger who was bold enough to send me an email saying, I thought you'd be nice to know but then I read your blog and was entertained but figure it's not good to know you. I told a friend about it and she suggested that maybe he was afraid to know me in case he gave me reason to add him to my blog so he thought it best to not know me. Yeah, it took me a second to wrap my mind around it too. Ironically, here I am starting a blog with him. So, to the jackass who made me write this...your plan backfired.

But this also made me consider-does this blog make me a horrible person unworthy of being known by judgmental idiots who don't know who I am from Eve? After struggling to find that answer for approximately seven and a half seconds I came to the conclusion that I don't want to be known by judgmental idiots who will base their opinion of my on a couple of dozen snippets from horrible moments in my life. So in the end it all works out.

I've been blessed with some decent friends who hold very little against me. I'm insightful enough to know who those people are and what events triggered their...umm...stamp of disapproval. Some of those people I realized were there only recently. I've been even more blessed by unbelievable friends and family who hold nothing against me and in fact love me knowing all of my quirks and shortcomings and even my horribly unusual string of bad luck, bad happenings, and general clumsiness. These people, even knowing that sometimes by sheer asinine willingness to turn a blind eye to something that should be ridiculously obvious to normal people, I throw my arms open, smile in greeting, and all but scream, 'unfortunate event, person, or words, take me now!', love me anyway. They smile with me, cry with me, get mad with me, plot insane retribution on...errr...judgmental idiots...or you know, jackasses who hurt my feelings. They laugh with me, they laugh at me (and for good reason too, if I had to stand witness to some of my shenanigans, I'd laugh at me too). They accept me...even in times when I appear to be begging for my downfall—'he peed himself in the theater on your first date you say? And you felt the need to talk to him again, why?', 'you thought standing on a rolling chair on tip toe and reaching for something even an imbecile could see was still 700 feet out of your reach was a good idea why??'. They accept me even when I catch myself midway but can't stop the freight train from collision--'Wanna rub my ra(oh shit I'm doing it again)ck?' or laying across a pile of bookshelves to measure, with my body, whether one will fit in my car realizing (seconds too late) that I'm going to have to explain why I know that I fit there. Those are the people I'm grateful for everyday. Those are the people that would leave my life a vast, empty, miserable darkness if I hadn't been touched by them. Those are the people who matter everyday. Those are the people who I could give the world to and still feel I hadn't given enough.

The reason I share this? I don't know entirely. In part, because of some idiot, I feel that I need to explain that while I may write about the ridiculousness of a day or a date (or repeated ridiculous days or dates), that these writings are only a glimpse of who I am. And it's my own personal therapy. There's so much turmoil in normal everyday life that if I were to not laugh about the insanity that follows me as often as not, if I were to not get it out of me, I think it would eat me alive and make me an angry miserable black spot that was drawn by some angry kid on the sunshine another kid drew just to see her cry. One way or the other, when all is said and done, I write about what doesn't matter beyond the initial shock or whatever is not quite sadness but definitely not happiness. I write about what have been first or second (and last) dates or some crazy incidents that just doesn't happen to normal people. I get it out of me so I can laugh at it.

What you should notice though is that even though I've dated long term, you won't see those people mentioned here. There may come a time that I can pick certain times that I when I laugh about them I feel like I can get them out of me. There may not. The people that have been around for more than a couple of days...they matter or have in the past. There was or wasn't brutal pain left in their wake. In some way or another, I've managed to deal with a wide variety of people with various addictions. I've dealt with cheaters and abusers. I've dealt with my own personal and medical problems. But that's the stuff that I don't throw in here. The stuff that matters, the people that matter or have mattered, that's the stuff I don't share with total strangers. The stuff I write about here is a bump in the road. Something to remind me that as horrified as I've been by some of the people I've encountered and as much as I'd like to hide in a hole because of some of the situations I've found myself in, I've still managed to come out unbroken, and can look at it with humor rather than misery. When it comes down to it, that is what matters to me.

So, for anyone out there who might need to be appalled or offended by the fact that I'm writing about something you know nothing about and choose to not want to know me based on this, I'm sad for you. First of all, you take life far too seriously. We're all in this world to move beyond it, we may as well laugh while we're here. Secondly, for all that is wrong with me, I pretty much rock. You're missing out. :)

First Date Heat

Once upon a time I met a guy who made all appearances of being relatively normal. I should know better than to fall for this type of act. We are talking about me after all.

Once upon a time, I also thought being in close proximity to a man breathing hard, sweating, and occasionally gasping or moaning meant I was going to be hotter than the surface of the sun. Turns out I can be wrong about that too.

After talking a couple of times, we made plans for dinner. In trying to decide what to eat we discovered that we both like spicy food and I made a suggestion for Indian food. To my surprise, he was game, even though he'd never eaten it before. I did warn him though that even though he liked spicy food when they asked if he'd like his food mild, medium, or spicy to ask for medium at best. Quite honestly, the local Indian place should be required to label their 'spicy' dishes as 'the fifth pit of hell' because I'm convinced that you have to have more than a mere human tongue and stomach to be able to handle that kind of heat.

In a display of what I can only call pure 'pppfffftttt, I'll show you silly girl' showmanship, he defied my warnings and ordered his food spicy. I shook my head and wished him good luck.

Conversation was slow, but not horrible while we waited for our food and I wasn't looking to chew my leg off to escape. In matters of my dating life, this was chalking up to a win, even with his risk on the food. Hey, maybe he's already had his insides titanium lined giving him a higher tolerance than normal lowly humans.

Food arrived. As his dish was placed on the table, the smell wafted my way and in seconds I was left without eyebrows and my top two layers of flesh because the aroma carried white hot heat searing everything in it's path. I do believe my cheeks were roasted to a fine medium rare. I was thankful they sat mine a distance from his.

We served ourselves and I have to admit, he seemed to be handling the heat quite well. I was shocked. So shocked in fact that a few minutes later when he turned bright red and started gasping for breath, I thought the man was having a heart attack. Then he started sweating. Profusely. I'm talking dripping from the top of his bald head onto his shoulders and the table. I was ready to start screaming for a 911 call until it hit me that he was still eating. His cheeks started turning purple and I realized it was the effect of the food. I'm nearly certain that he thought he was playing like he wasn't in extreme agony because he kept trying to talk to me as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. He even went as far as to offer me a spoonful. I thanked him and told him I prefer to keep my internal parts free of flames. The fact that he was in obvious agony and continued to shovel the cause into his face was very off-putting; so off-putting that I reached a point I found myself far too focused on him shoveling his food in his face that I, first, could no longer pay attention to the conversation and had to keep asking him to repeat every tortured statement or question, and second, found myself nitpicking the way he ate his food until I was so thoroughly disgusted that the thought of being anywhere near him made making out with a gorilla seem more appealing.

Once dinner was over, and he was trying to compose himself, he made quick excuses to get gone and I was relatively relieved because it saved me the trouble of making up my own excuses.

Date over.
HA! It's never that easy when I'm involved.

I thought date over. I thought wrong.

Keep in mind, we'd had only a couple of conversations prior to this and what turned out to be one very painful dinner for both of us. He was on his way home...he lived about 40 miles south of me...and apparently discovered he didn't have the stomach for spicy Indian food. Why do I know this one might wonder? Oddly enough, my phone rang about 20 minutes after we parted ways and to my surprise, it was him. To keep with the ever more bizarre twists that seem to love me so, I could hear echos in the background that made me wonder where the hell he was. He wasn't shy about telling me, which saved me the three seconds it would have taken to ask where he was. Having said little more than hello, he announced, “MY ASSHOLE IS ON FIRE (brpfffttttttttt)! Holy shit this hurts!” I've heard about romance and all, but mercy, this one took it to a whole new level. Or something. Yeah, something. To give him credit though, he did wait until he was between toilet droppings to tell me he had a very nice time and would like to see me again. Unfortunately, I am a cold bitch and dodged the question to say, “you shouldn't have ordered spicy” and told him to drive safely the rest of the way home.

Just a tip. Nobody wants to hear about a flaming asshole or hear another dropping a number two on the first date. Well, there may be someone into both, however, that is a specialized crowd to whom you'd probably be better off finding on Craig's List.

Anger and Spray Paint

In a time long ago, and a land far away, there was a sweet young maiden with a wonderful friend “Yuleleea”. Ok, I wasn't all that long ago, and it was only in the Chicken Coop, Wilkes Barre, and sweet, young, and maiden may not be an accurate description of yours truly, but the wonderful friend part holds true even after she kicked me violently out of her car and might have made me tinkle in my pants a little.
Edit:
A few years ago, Yuleleea and I were at the Chicken Coop getting our Friday night fun on. At this point, we had made a number of friends because it got to a point they may as well have labeled our bar stools Cinderella and Anastasia: Reserved: Friday's 6:00pm till close. For some reason my friend was determined to hook me up with this sweet boy who I thought of as the sweet boy because he LOOKED LIKE A BOY! A young boy. So young in fact that even though I knew he was in a bar drinking, I carded him myself at one point so that I could reassure myself I wasn't heading to the slammer for corrupting a minor by participating in the consumption of anything stronger than a Shirley Temple with him. Said boy was of age, and in fact only a couple of years younger than I was. But, that thought was there and I couldn't get it out of my head and it creeped me out any time he tried to hit on me. But he was nice. We got along. And he had a crazy woman head over heels in love with him who worked at the horse track and used to come into the bar smelling like she spent the day rolling around in horse shit, and washing her hair in urine. When I look back, I can't blame him for being so desperate to stay even closer to me when she was around.
Stinky horse lady took an immediate, intense hatred to me, I assume either because my sparkling personality was absolutely blinding, or her crazy adoration for Sweet Young Boy turned to bright red hatred for me because he was giving me the attention she so craved. Personally, I always thought she looked as if one of the horses just rejected her, so maybe she needed a Friday night don't reject me fix and never got it. Whatever it was, she made sure that e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e in the bar, myself included, knew exactly what she thought of me. She didn't think many good things. I usually ignored her because it really wasn't worth having a stroke over some guy who I considered a friend. There was one night in particular though that I started to feel incredibly nasty about it. I'm not sure if it was because I was sick of my throat closing up and throwing fits like an addict with his fix just out of reach when I would force it to open so I wouldn't pass out from oxygen deprivation every time she walked in the place, or if I just have limited tolerance for smelly woman with silly anger issues. I'd bet on the combination of the two. So, I decided to be an ass: every time she'd look my way, I'd smile big, or blow her a kiss, or wink...but her breaking point was when I gave him a hug and licked my lips while I looked her way. She had a minor temper tantrum and left the bar.
Our night out continued much like it usually did, we had a great time, but for a reason that I can't remember I had to leave early. I said my goodnights, Yuleleea decided to stay out for a bit longer, and I left.
As I approached my car though, the night took a horrible turn for the worse. Before I was even to my car, I saw black on my car—a big round spot with a trail falling down from it on my drivers side door. I lost my ever joyful composure and started screaming like a lunatic in the parking lot! The bitch spray painted my car! I stormed back into the bar and yelled across at everyone, “THAT BITCH SPRAYPAINTED MY CAR!” Yuleleea, Sweet Young Boy, the bar owner and approximately 8 or 9 of our friends came out, first to cool me down, second to see my car. Yuleleea went crazy again—not about theater lighting this time, but she wanted to know where the bitch lived, she had a plan to beat her into cleaning my car until no trace of spray paint remained. (She might have a temper, but she's damned loyal to her friends ;).)
While Sweet Young Boy was trying to keep us both calm, some of the others were walking around making sure their car, or other cars, hadn't been painted. For some reason, Yuleleea walked away and the path she chose was between my drivers side and the passengers side of the car next to me. I noticed that when she went by the spray paint, it disappeared. I cocked my head much like a confused puppy and walked over and rubbed my fingers over the spray paint. Suddenly the spray paint took on a form much like my fingers poking at a balloon on a string. I looked back at the car parked next to me and realized that on their antenna was one of those ridiculous decorative balls some people seem to like. I became completely unhinged and started laughing hysterically...slid down the side of the car until I was sitting in the parking lot, crying from laughing so hard, trying to tell the other ten people all wound up about the spray paint that it was only a shadow. Only, it was coming out something something like, “it gasp, gasp, gasp doooooooooowwwwwwww hahahahhaa.” It took a few attempts, but dear Yuleleea finally figured out I was saying shadow. She in turn lost it. Not quite as bad as did I, because she was at least understandable as she translated what I had been trying to say.
Honestly, you would have thought everyone had just found out that Santa wasn't real. The owner almost seemed giddy that he was going to have a reason to kick her out, the mechanic in love with Yuleleea had been ready to provide her a tire iron to get even with Stinky Horse Woman, and Sweet Young Boy was sure this was his 'in' with me. I finally pulled myself together and apologized to everyone for getting so excited and in turn thanked them all for not realizing it was spray paint as well. Deflated, they all headed back into the bar, I got into my un-spraypainted car, and drove home.
The morals of this story? Don't freak out and drop a person just because she kicks you out of her car the first time you go out together because she may well prove to be one of your greatest defenders. And don't blow kisses to Smelly Horse Women. It fucks with your head.

Meeting new friends. Michele style.

I'm about to share a disturbing insight into the ways I choose my friends. Some of you may be scared, some of you may understand, and some of you may think, “well, damn! That explains everything!” Once upon a time I was a young woman moving to a strange new city. I had moved for work, so I came to the Wilkes Barre area not knowing a soul. One of the first people I became friends with smacked my ass (at work) within the first few weeks of meeting (at work) then convinced me to go out drinking with her. (Okay, maybe “convinced” isn't the right word, it was probably something more like--'hey Michele, do you want to grab a drink this weekend?' followed by my jumping at her like a rabid dog screaming YESYESYESYES!) I could probably stop right there for some of you and that might be enough. But nope, I always take it one step further. Besides, she smacked my ass just right.

I learned two things that night: first, my friend is nuts; second, this area has a weird obsession with drunken animals.

In the interest of protecting the guilty, I will refer to this friend from here on as Yule-lee-a. That has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Yuleleea told me to meet her at the Tipsy Turtle and gave me directions. Of course, I got lost and when I stopped twice to ask for directions I asked for the Thirsty Turtle. You'd think a bar with turtle in the name would stand out to anyone, no matter what you call the first part, but noooo! People looked at me like I was out of my mind and told me they had no idea what I was talking about. By pure chance and just as I was ready to give up and go home, I found the bar. There it sat on a crazy side road like a beacon of light on a dark dreary night, with angels sounding off the promise of cold alcohol ahead. Honestly, I think I nearly had an out of body experience.

As I finally walked into the bar, Yuleleea was inside waiting for me and started introducing me to her other friends. The night was finally looking up! We were having a good time and everything was happening much like you'd expect it to happen...to a normal person. Then somebody suggested we head to another bar...The Leaping Lizard. I was fine with that and jumped into Yuleleea's car to ride with her. She being the kind soul she is was nice enough to drive so I could continue my intoxication. At the time, I didn't realize Yuleleea has a serious anger issue with reptiles that she carries with her as she leaves the bar.

We had a great time! I even met two guys from home that were here visiting for some reason. I was three sheets to the wind at that point, so I can't remember who they were or why they were visiting, but my drunken ass thought it was wonderful.

This is where it gets weird. I'm nearly positive that when we headed to the Leaping Lizard that it was only Yuleleea and myself in her car. On the way out, we had eight. The guys from home, and most of the people that had come with us from the turtle bar. Three of us, including me, were in the front and one of her friends was driving. Four people smooshed into the backseat and Yuleleea laid across them.
It was strange, but off we went. By off I mean we drove about five blocks when one of us in the front needed a light. So we turned on her interior lights and couldn't make them turn off. So, like any bunch of idiots, we kept hitting the lights sure this time would really turn them off. That changed of course when Yuleleea went absolutely batshit and started screaming (and I mean to tell you s-c-r-e-a-m-i-n-g!!) “IT'S FUCKING THEATHER LIGHTING! JUST STOP FUCKING TOUCHING IT! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKITYFUCKFUCK!” I don't clearly remember the rest of it, but she said...errr...screamed fuck A LOT! Right up to the point when she finally screamed “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAR YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! GET! OUT! NOW!” So, the guy driving pulled over in front of a Turkey Hill and we all got out. She was still cursing a blue streak when she got in the drivers seat. She must have driven around the block, because it wasn't more than two minutes later she pulled back around and opened her window and screamed, “MICHELE, GET THE FUCK BACK IN THIS CAR! YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE THE FUCK YOU ARE!” I remember feeling like a deer in the headlights. She seemed well, umm, insane. I remember looking at the guy who'd been driving and asking him if he'd be able to tell me how to get back home. He told me he'd get me taken care of and I told her no and hid behind him.

She pulled away and that guy finally tracked someone down to give us a ride. Next thing I know, I'm in a truck bed...yes, seven of us in a truck bed at 3:30 in the morning...with near perfect strangers dropping off the guys from home at the lizard bar and the rest of us are headed back to the turtle bar to get my car. At this point, it's well past 4am, I've long since sobered up. Shock will do that to you. But, I let the guy who had been driving her car drive mine to take everyone home. Then we got to his house and he insisted I come inside for a soda or something. I finally relented and went in for a drink and he wrote directions down and off I went. I'm still not sure why he didn't just tell me the directions from the car because they consisted of approximately four steps. I finally got home at about 6am, and wasn't sure I ever wanted to either go to work or go out ever again.

The next morning my phone rang and it was Yuleleea sounding very hungover and very apologetic. I accepted and she's still one of my best friends. As our friendship grew, we continued to go out nearly every Friday (though I've never stepped near another place with even a hint of reptile with her again) to the Chicken Coop (they love drunk animals here people!). It was at the Chicken Coop that we were dubbed Cinderella and Anastasia which led to many more stories worthy of sharing, which someday I will do. Hopefully, you won't be bitterly disappointed by the lack of f-bombs in future memories :)

The Pickle Sucker

I don't normally nickname perfect strangers. I don't normally nickname many people with the glaring exception of bad dates and relationships. We've previously discussed The Snorter, Austin, possibly The Pooper, and many of you have heard my whine about the cheatin bastard lying piece of shit, the stupid drunk, and the psycho. This is one stranger though that is definitely worthy of a nickname. I should have picked something less obvious, you know, a tale of disturbia with a surprise ending, but we'll pretend this is a bad version of Memento and it's all in reverse.
My job takes me all over the north east. I get to meet a variety of interesting people. Interesting in this case covers bad, good, crazy, disturbing, bizarre, and quite creepy.
Being who I am of course, makes most people the wrong kind of interesting. That's how I ended up with this story.

I had just finished a call in New Jersey and was driving north on 287 as I do every week. Nothing out of the ordinary this week until I caught a work truck keeping pace with my car. If you've ever driven in NJ, especially northern Nj, you know that NO ONE keeps pace; they either ride your ass so hard it hurts, or fly by you like you're sitting still when you're moving 80 mph. Having this knowledge, I was relatively nervous about looking over to see why. After what happened in reality, I would have been happy with my initial fear that my car was on fire or falling apart around me because what to my wondering eyes did appear, but a creepy man with fewer than 8 rotting teeth grinning at me like he just had sex with a sheep after watching a Deliverance marathon. I nearly wrecked my car as the shock set in.

I sped up as I recovered to try to get away from him, but he did. Then I slowed and he slowed with me. He stayed with me long enough that I considered calling the police....but I was stuck on what I should say. “Hey Mister Officer, some creepy guy with rotting teeth is speeding down the highway beside me smiling” just didn't seem like a good reason to call 911.

I tried desperately to not look again, but much like a train wreck, I couldn't stop myself after so long. When I did, not only was I greeted with that thing he thought was a smile again, but he held in his hand something I didn't immediately recognize. For a brief moment I wondered if he was going to toss a grenade out the window. But no. It was nothing like that. It was just a giant pickle in a bag which he proceeded to suck for me. Yes. A creepy toothless man sucked on a giant pickle at me at 75 mph. Don't let anyone tell you that is not a life changing experience.

It is.

It was a week or so later that I decided I was hungry for a pickle. With such an incident so fresh in the mind, I felt repulsed and quite dirty for even considering eating one. Sadly, I still feel like that sometimes :(