Month: January 2011

The Romance

He was older than any man I’d ever been with.

I was younger than any woman he had ever been with. 

I don’t know what it is about May-December romances, but this one worked beautifully, harmoniously.  He taught me things about his era, I made him more current and in-the-know.

He got me to quit smoking, saying “I want you to out-live me.” Like I wasn’t going to already…he is seventeen years older than I am.  I’m sure the day I was born, he was listening to Bruce Springsteen and talking to his friends about “The Empire Strikes Back.”

We met on accident, a coincidence.  We were at the same comedy club, a table away from each other and laughing loudly at the same terrible jokes.  I thought my laughter was just echoing in the small club, but then I realized someone else shared my obtuse sense of humor.  I was immediately smitten.

He sent me a drink–a diet soda.  Later, after the comedian died a horrible stand-up death and the crowd was mingling before the next “up-and-coming comedy sensation!” took the stage, he came over to my table to introduce himself.

“Hi. You’ve got a terrible sense of humor.”

I became even more smitten. 

He sat down across from me and we began talking.  The next comedian took the stage and he stayed sitting at my table.  I didn’t mind.  This act was worse than the first one, and we kept shooting each other glances during his set.  He would make funny faces at me, crossing his eyes or sneering at the more terrible jokes and I found myself laughing loudly again, but this time to the show going on two feet from me and not the one up at the microphone. 

At the end of the night, we stood outside the club and he watched me smoke.  I was nervous and didn’t want to make a fool out of myself by saying something off-putting, so I kept taking large drags off my cigarettes.  He stood next to me, his hands buried deep in his jeans pockets. 

“You know I’m going to try to get you to quit, right?”

Such a bold statement, and my stomach fluttered at the thought of him being around long enough to make this happen.

He was reluctant to start dating me, making our age difference a bigger deal than what was necessary.

“I was SEVENTEEN when you were born. Do you know how odd that is for me to think about?  Imagine me, looking down in your crib and wanting to fuck you.”

“Ok, first of all, age is just a number and completely irrelevant, and second, you’re vile. And apparently, a pedophile.”

He smiled, the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes cut into his face.  I stared at him, looked into his deep brown eyes. Age is just a number…

Sex with him was incredible.  He was insatiable, and he did not need any little blue pill to help him, on the contrary. If anyone needed help, it was me.  I had come out of a ten-year relationship where the sex was, well, it just was.  A few times my ex and I had memorable fuck sessions, but I could count those on one hand.  I lost my sexual desire long ago, a terrible thing for a not even thirty-year-old woman to say, but he helped me find it again and then some.  I lost track of our memorable fuck sessions within one week.

I loved when I’d come home from work, back aching from a long day on my feet, and he’d sneak up behind me and place his hands on my hips and nip at my neck with his lips, his chin and cheeks scratchy with five o’clock shadow. He’d pull me in close to him, and I could feel him become hard.  His hands would wander from my hips to other places, his touch firm and expert.  Precise. His touch invigorated me, revived me. 

I remember when he had to have hip surgery–an old basketball injury from high school finally got the best of him.  During our more…adventurous romps in the bedroom, he’d wince in pain.  After he was home from his hospital stay, I was helping him change the dressing over the wound.  He was laying in bed, pants around his knees and sans underwear due to the bulk of the bandages.  It had been a few days since we had sex, and I was starting to feel the effects of the absence. 

I was changing the bandages and about to put the new one on, when I leaned close to his hip and gently began kissing it.  He gasped, and I looked up at him with an alarmed look, thinking I had maybe unintentionally hurt him somehow.  He reached out with his hand and touched my hair, letting his fingers comb through it gently.  I looked at him with wide eyes, and he asked me to keep going.  I smiled at him and continued kissing his hip, covering him with soft kisses.  My lips wandered from his hip to his other parts.  He was moaning and part of me was still nervous I was causing him pain, but I figured out quickly this was exactly the opposite. 

I straddled his torso, taking great care not to hurt him, and began kissing his chest and neck, then his soft lips.  He was kissing back with fervent desire, soon we were going at it like teenagers.

We were together for five incredible years, until he succumbed to a massive heart attack out of the blue.  He was out walking the dog and never came back. 

When he died, part of me died, as well.  A huge part.  I had never met another human being who understood me so well, who got all my stupid jokes, who made me feel like we were the only two people in this world.  Meeting him in that club was the best thing that had ever happened to me. 

I’m not a religious person, but I’m willing to believe there was some higher power looking over me that night, and sent my own personal savior.

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Rarely Serious, Always Silly

Until now.

There comes a time in a woman’s life when she must take inventory of all around her: her career, her relationships, her goals, dreams, and aspirations.

Then, she must decide if what she just inventoried is what she envisioned for herself. She must ask the inner child if it is pleased, as after all, we live to satisfy our inner child. If the inside kid ain’t happy, the outside kid ain’t gonna be happy, neither.

What I mean by this is, you know when you were a child, you had all these huge dreams for yourselves? Astronaut, fireman, ballerina, President, Snooki from Jersey Shore…

Anyway, what I’m trying to say, it’s like that movie with Bruce Willis and he somehow meets his precocious ten-year-old self and Little Willis isn’t at all impressed with Big Willis’s life.

You wake up one morning and realize you let yourself down. You’re not doing what you promised yourself you would do. You settled. You work at a job you dislike greatly, if not loathe. You feel you got married too soon, or if unmarried, you can’t believe you still haven’t found “The One.” You worry constantly about bills, money, how you don’t have enough money, how you have too many bills, how the Buffalo Bills suck this year…
(Have I mentioned I’m always silly? I can’t turn it off. I’ve tried.)

Anyway, you have your, what Oprah calls the “Aha! Moment.” (For all intensive purposes, I believe with a strong conviction Oprah may be Satan.)

Getting back to the “Oh, SHIT!!” moment, as I like to call them, you wake up one day, either lying next to the man/woman you’ve grown to resent, or, if still single (loser),  lying next to the dog that hogs half the bed and snores too loudly at night. Either way, you’re in bed, you wake up and you’re PISSED OFF.

“What the hell happened to my life?! Who’s in charge here?!  OH SHIT!! ME!! I’M the asshole!! ME!! I did this to myself!!”
(silence, as you reflect in quite anger and self-loathing)

You bolt upright in bed, eyes wild with crazy fury, nostrils flaring, breathing heavily, spit forming at the corners of your mouth. You are THAT p.o.’ed. Your job SUCKS!! You HATE your wife/husband/dog/cat/mountain goat!! You’re supposed to be the fucking King of All Things Awesome according to your inner child, but instead, you’re here. Mediocrity grabbed your by the short and curlies years ago, friend, and has never let go.

Now what?  What are you going to do about it, punk?  Sit here and whine like Paris Hilton being sentenced to her ninetieth trip to jail, or get up and DO SOMETHING?

No, jackass, you are going to get up and do something! Anything!  Ok, maybe not anything, at least you have the motivation to know you must make changes to make your inner child at peace with you, or that little brat is going to keep throwing temper tantrums.

This, dear readers, is where I am at today.  At the risk of sounding horribly cliché, life, as they say, has given me some lemons lately.  A huge, motherfucking lemon grove, complete with immigrant workers and the IRS sniffing down my neck with claims of using day laborers.  I admit to you all, that I have allowed myself to wallow in my own filthy self-pity and “why did this have to happen” malarky for long enough. 

If I didn’t hate Bob Dylan so much, I’d quote him by saying, “the times, they are a-changin’.” But I guess I just did, so never mind.  I still don’t like his drunken cat horking up a hairball voice, though. 

Do whatever/whomever you want, friends. Pure and simple. 

Married to a shrew/dick or just lost the lustre of your once sterling relationship?  Either fix it–but know this: fixing requires both parties be interested, otherwise, it’s a giant waste of time, energy, and saves you a heap big heartache. My advice?  End it.  Have kids?  Worried getting divorced will ruin the little tykes outlook of love and life?  Don’t be.  Kids are geniuses by adult standards and know much more than they let on.  In fact, have yourself a sit down with Little Billy and be straightforward with him.  Lay it all out on his Spiderman bed sheets for him.  Don’t candy-coat anything.  But do offer candy to him–he is a kid, for christ’s sake.  Chances are, I bet after you tell him, he’ll look you in your eyes and say, “Jesus christ, it’s about fucking time!” See?  Kids.  Always awesome.

Okay, honestly and truly, for one moment, I will allow Rarely Serious to take the stage and go get Always Silly something to keep her preoccupied.

As a person who has found themselves going down a road less traveled, a road I thought didn’t exist until shoved into the middle of said road right as a truck was driving down it, it’s headlights blaring white into my eyes, blinding me….it’s scary as shit to be on this road, but the view from here is far better than the one I was just on.  I can see myself going somewhere on this road, where the other one appeared to have some detours and road work with no signs of getting completed. 

My biggest obstacle is worry.  I worry about making this decision, I worry that it will affect those closest to me adversely, I worry that it is in face the WRONG decision, but then I stop and realize, this is my life.  Mine.  The only thing that is really, truly, honestly MINE.  Sure, there’s a lot of people and things in my life, but it’s still mine.  Sometimes you have to consider yourself selfish and do what makes you want to get up in the morning without lying in bed, thinking of ways to avoid doing what you think you’re supposed to do. 

Do what you want.

End of life lesson.

The Night I Died Behind The Wheel

“Oh, shit…”

These were the last words I uttered while still alive on this earth. Probably not the most eloquent thing to say, but what else was I supposed to scream while getting hit head-on by an eighteen wheeler carrying cattle? Even more ironic is the fact that when I hit the semi, cow shit went splattering all over my car and the highway.

So there I was, dead behind the wheel–or what was left of it–of my shit-covered car. Perfect. The driver of the semi only suffered whiplash and a small laceration above his right eyebrow due to hitting his head on his hardcover copy of John Grisham’s “The Pelican Brief” that was tucked in the console above the dashboard. Not only am I dead due to this guy hitting me with a fucking semi, he also reads John Grisham…..

He would later tell the police that he saw my car cross the center line into on-coming traffic, and there was no way to avoid hitting me. As I recall, HE crossed the line and hit ME, but that’s a moot point. I’m dead. As it stands, I can’t exactly defend myself at the moment due to the fact my torso is pinned between the dashboard and the drivers seat. Being dead really puts a damper on things.

Emergency crews swarmed the area; firefighters had the Jaws of Life on hand and began cutting the roof off of my car to pry out my remains. I got a small chuckle of satisfaction when an obvious rookie saw my squashed, mangled body contorted around what was once the nice leather interior of my car, turned a fascinating shade of greenish-yellow and immediately turned his head to vomit. It’s really a shame I had to die, because that would have been funny as shit to see in person. I bet that video would have gotten millions of hits on YouTube. Oh, well. From the vantage point I currently have, I still got to see a fairly entertaining show.

It took a few hours to gather all my pieces up and place them in body bags for the coroner to take to the county hospital and do an autopsy. Cause of death? Gee….that’s a tough one. I guess they want to take samples of me to check for drugs or alcohol as a possible factor of the crash. How about the dick behind the big rig’s wheel was too tired to be driving and he drifted into my lane because he fell asleep behind the wheel? Is there a way to test for that on an autopsy? That’s the thing about being dead–you suddenly have the clarity to see things for what they really are. Again, too bad this couldn’t have been something I was blessed with while still alive.

Right now, I’m fascinated by the fact that I don’t seem to be going anywhere. Sure, my puzzle-pieces body is going to the mourge, but I’m referring to ME. My soul, if you will. Shouldn’t I be traveling down some tunnel to the great white lights of Heaven, or being dragged down into Hell by Lucifer himself? No; instead, I’m sitting on the hood of my car and watching all the commotion around me and getting to hear some great tidbits of conversations between people on the scene and the drivers stopped by the road blocks put up to isolate the crash scene.

“Poor fucker…I bet he never even saw that coming.”

Fuck you, pal! I saw it all, remember? I screamed “oh, shit!” Dumbass.

“There aren’t any empty beer cans or bottles in his car, Chief. Maybe it was drugs.”

Good christ. I’ve got Gomer Pyle investigating my death. Let me know when you find the second gunman’s rifle in my trunk, you two-bit hack. Why don’t you get a job working at the Home Depot? At least you could handle mixing paint there. This seems a touch out of your area of expertise, friend.

“Oh, shit, let me tell you man, she gives the best blow job I’ve ever and probably will ever have again. And her tits….fuck me, her tits were incredible. I could barely put my hands around ’em, but my dick fit nicely in between them, if you know what I mean!”

Ooh….what’s this? No, keep talking. Even a dead guy appreciates incredible tits. Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I can’t get hard, which apparently, I can because I got a wicked dead guy boner going on. I can’t tell who is telling this story, or where it’s coming from; all these are just coming at me like bugs bouncing off a windshield when you’re driving. I scan around the people to who I think this “Dear Penthouse” story is coming from, and I spot two fat cops, leaning against the side of their cruiser. Fucking pigs. Your tax dollars are REAL hard at work here, folks. I hop off the hood of my car and sort of…float over to them and I end up leaned against their car, just like they’re doing and both are completely oblivious to me, the recently departed.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum keep on their locker room talk, which really wasn’t as interesting as I hoped it would be. The tits were the best part of the story. Then they started talking about work and blah blah blah.

Hey, I wonder if I have any other sorts of dead super powers? Can I fly? Or dissolve through walls? I’ve seen the movie “Ghost,” maybe I can enter someone’s body and fuck around in there.

After another hour, the scene was pretty well cleaned up of debris and cow crap, and everyone seemed to lose interest, so soon, it was just me standing in the spot where my car once was. A tow truck came by a few minutes ago to take my once intact car to the dump. I’m standing alone.

“Now what?” I ask myself. Really, what can a dead guy do now? I mean, is there protocol I have to follow now? A meeting I have to attend?

“Hi, I’m Mike, and I’m dead among the living.”
“Hi, Mike.”

Truth be told, I think I’d freak out if I saw another one of “me” walking around right now. Is this really what happens to the dead? We just roam around the living, doing the same shit we used to do when we were alive and no one notices us? That’s a crazy thought, but it appears to be a reality now.

I left the scene and began walking down the road.  At first, I was walking on the shoulder, facing on-coming traffic as always instructed to do, but then I realized, “fuck it, I’m dead,” so I started walked down the center dotted line instead. It was an oddly liberating feeling walking in the middle of the road and have cars whizzing past me.  The excitement of the moment overcame me and I stopped walking, dropped my arms to my sides and tilted my head back and let loose a primal scream.  Goddamn it, this is thrilling!  I stood still for a moment longer and I was panting heavily, my shoulders heaving up and down.  I felt indestructible, which is a bizarre feeling to have, given the whole not alive thing. 

I walked along the road for what seemed like an eternity, until I came upon a truck stop.  I could see the glow of the fluorescent lights before I actually reached the gas station.  Dozens of semis were parked in the parking lots, engines idling and parking lights on.  I felt my stomach clench–I wonder if HE was here, the guy that killed me.  I began to feel anxious at the thought of seeing him, of seeing the man that is responsible for me not being alive right now.  I made the decision to haunt him.  I was going to haunt the guy that hit me head on.  And no cheese dick kind of haunting, either.  We’re talking scared shitless kind of haunting.  This is going to be good.

I walked between the rows of trucks, my arm outstretched to the side so it grazed the grill of each truck I passed.  I came to the truck that was second from the last in the row and suddenly, it felt like my arm had caught fire.  I pulled it away quickly, stunned by the sensation.  I looked down at my hand, half expecting to see it actually aflame or something, but nothing.  The sensation went away the instant I took my hand away, so I reached out and touched the truck again and was jolted by the white hot pain shooting up my arm.  Now, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but my powers of deduction led me to believe this was the semi that caused my demise.  I examined the front end of the vehicle closer and sure enough, it was slightly damaged and there were traces of dried cow shit stuck to the bumper.  Yes, this is definitely the truck.

I walked passed the gas pumps and to the doors.  I reached to grab the handle to open up the door, but couldn’t grasp it, and remembered I was a little on the undead side, so I just walked right through.  I stopped short of entering and scanned the area.  Gas station portion to my left, diner to my right.  There were five truckers lined up a the counter, each one hunched over whatever was in front of him, each one a little more pathetic looking than the next.  A life on the road is a hard one, and judging from their thoughts–apparently, I can hear peoples thoughts, too–I wasn’t too far off that assumption.  I walked behind the men at the counter and was headed toward a guy sitting in the corner booth.  I know this is my guy.  He’s thinking about the accident. 

I reach his booth and slide in across from him.  He looks up at me.  This reaction is completely unforeseen and catches me off guard.  My breath catches in my throat.  Did he really see me, or was his looking up exactly as I sat down a coincidence? 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

What?

“I’m sorry you died.  I’m sorry…so fucking sorry…”

Jesus Christ….he WAS talking to me.  I stared at the man across from me, dumbfounded.  My jaw was slack, and if breathing mattered at this point, I would have had to remind myself to inhale.  He could fucking see me and he was talking to me.

I try to stammer a reply, but words would not escape my dead lips.  I think I managed a few “uh’s” and “um’s,” but my vernacular failed me. 

“I shouldn’t have been driving, man.  I know I shouldn’t, but I wanted to push through to my next stop, you know?  It wasn’t worth it, it wasn’t worth you losing your life.”

I sat in stunned silence a few moments longer.  I was just looking at him, studying his face, his rough features.  His dirty blonde hair with strands of grey hair scattered throughout, sunken eyes, the black bags surrounding them, shallow cheeks peppered with longer than five-o’-clock shadow, thin chapped lips, the bit of dried egg yolk stuck to the corner of his mouth…I was taking him in, trying to dissect him. 

He was looking down at his half-empty plate of food, pushing what was left around with a fork that had bent tines.  The sound of metal scraping the melamine dinner plate was deafening. If I were alive, I’m sure I’d have a splitting migraine right now. 

“It’s ok, pal.  I wouldn’t know what to say to the guy that killed me, either.  I just wanted you to know how how shitty I feel about this whole thing.”

I opened my mouth to speak and the only words that came out were, “you can SEE me?”

He was still studying his plate, but a small chuckle escaped him.

“Yeah, I can see you.  You look good for a dead guy.”

Holy shit. This is….this is incredible.  Emotions hit me all at once, from excitement to sheer terror.  He can see me!! And he can see me?! What the fuck is going on?

“But….how?  How can you see me?  Can anyone else here see me, or just you?”

He chuckled again, but this time he looked up at me, staring me in the face.  He shrugged his bony shoulders.  He reached into this lap and pulled up the napkin to wipe his mouth, missing the egg.  He lay the used napkin on his plate and pushed it in front of him.  He continued staring at me with those eyes of his.  I saw the cut above his eyebrow.  It had been stitched and was covered with a butterfly bandage.  Dried blood had soaked through, giving it a dark brown color.  Sensing I was looking at his wound, he reached up and touched it, wincing a bit in pain as he did so. 

“This ain’t nothin’ compared to you, friend,” he said.

Yeah.  I’m dead and you’ve got a boo boo.  Your’s will heal in a few days, mine won’t. 

We sat in silence, each unsure of what to say next.  Curiosity overcame me and I spoke next.

“Seriously, how are you able to see me?  And talk to me?  What the fuck is going on here?  Are you some sort of clarvoyant or something?” 

“Nah, the way I figure it, I can see you because you’re supposed to haunt me or somethin’.  You know, fuck with the guy that took your life before you was ready to go or some shit like that.  I dunno, man. Sure a hell surprised me, too. I almost shit myself when you came and sat down here.”

I laughed in spite of the situation.  I bet I scared him.  Imagine, enjoying your hashbrowns and eggs and then the guy you just creamed with your semi comes sauntering in.  I’d lose my appetite, too.