15 July 2011

Training Bras, Wet Dreams, & Shark Week

This is the companion piece to "Sex MISeducation".

            The fall after my tenth birthday I had officially started sixth grade.  New school, new teachers, and new kids.  As I would soon find out, brand new, awkward bodies as well.
            That first day of school, my mom came into my room and handed me this thin tank top thing and told me to put it on.  Now, I believe I would call such a garment a "cami", but at the time, it looked more like a t-shirt you'd put on a Cabbage Patch Doll.
            "What's this for?" I asked her as I pulled on my favorite No Fear t-shirt and buttoned my cutoff jean shorts.  Hey, even tomboys have some style.
            "It's an undershirt," Mom replied.
            "Undershirt...like what Dad wears when he mows the lawn? I ain't wearing that," I said like a stubborn hillbilly.
            "Yea, but it's for girls your age," she replied rolling her eyes.
            "I don't want to wear it."
            "You will wear it!"
            "But why?"
            "Because you're getting to that age KC," she said, clearly running out of patience. 
            "What age? I'm just a kid! Why do I need to wear an undershirt? THERE'S NOTHING UNDER HERE!!!" I yelled, pointing at my flat chest. 
            "Because you are a young lady and young ladies wear these under their clothes!"
            "No they don't. They wear bras."  No way was I going to wear an undershirt/cami that was beige in color and wouldn't even fit my four-year old cousin.
            "You will take off your brother's t-shirt, put this undershirt on, and find something more ladylike to wear on the first day of school," she said, her teeth clenched. 
            Wham bam thank you Mom. Three digs in one sentence!
            "BUT WHY DO I HAVE TO WEAR IT????????" What didn't she understand? She still wasn't answering my question!
            "Because. I. Said. So!" Mom exclaimed.  To this day, there is no phrase I hate more than this one.  I heard it about 1,985,338,209 times in my adolescence and I never want to hear it again.  Although when I have children, Because I Said So will be the name of my first kid.  My other children will be named You Break It, You Buy It and Knock It Off. 
            I knew there was no arguing with Mom.  If I didn't agree to wear an undershirt, then she would put me in a dress and my life would officially be over.  So I put it on, showed her I was wearing it when I left the house for school, but no sooner was I around the corner did I hide in the bushes like a hobo and strip down.  I stuffed the undershirt in my bag and headed to school. 
            I was not prepared for that first day of school though.  Sure, my bag was packed with pencils and notebooks (and now an undershirt), but I was not ready to see what the summer had done to everyone.  Everyone was different!  I honestly hadn't expected anything to change that summer, save a few haircuts and meeting new students from other schools, but what I saw that first day was more surprising than getting a dick in a box as a Christmas gift.
            The boys I had just seen a few months ago had squeaky voices and were at least a foot taller than they had been.  Several boys from other schools even had moustaches that could rival the facial hair on Tom Selleck and Bea Arthur!  The girls had all sprouted breastlings and somehow looked much older than me.
            I was the only person who hadn't changed.  Or, had the "change", so to speak.  I was the only tomboy left in my grade.  I still sported short hair, a foul mouth, and dirty fingernails.  The last thing I wanted to do was to go through puberty and turn into a mutant hormone raging pre-teen like the rest of the kids. I wasn't ready to give up being a tomboy yet!  I was the last tomboy standing who would kill a spider and not scream like a rape victim, jump out of a tree on a dare and land on her feet like a cat, and throw rocks at cars parked in the teacher's lot just for fun.
            Although I had always preferred hanging out with boys rather than the girls, I was good friends with two girls who incidentally were beautiful blondes.  Polar opposite from me.  I'll call them Jill and Amber because to this day, I have a difficult time saying their real names without baring my teeth and snarling like a rabid dog.  They always had the best clothes, shoes, and stylish hair accessories.  They made tight rolling jeans cool, black headbands a huge hit, and officially made making out with boys an Olympic sport. These girls could even make the act of taking a dump seem exotic and intriguing.
            I couldn't have been more different than these bimbos.  I also had blonde hair, just about six inches shorter than theirs.  I wore jelly shoes, hand-me-down clothes, and just could not master the art of tight rolling my jeans.  Although Jill and Amber were relatively decent kids, they had their evil moments.  Making fun of other kids for being different, being snitches and sharing secrets that they were meant to take to the grave, and just being "those girls".  Looking back, I now realize that Jill and Amber were hardcore bullies.  I'm convinced the movie Mean Girls is based on them.
             Years later, they are still petty, snobby, and bitchy.  Last I heard, Jill is some sort of coke snorting porn star with fake tits and a bedazzled vagina, and Amber is a married and pregnant guidance counselor.  And I'm not only still a tomboy, I'm a lesbian.  The irony kills me every time.
            It shouldn't have surprised me that Jill and Amber not only hit puberty in the last week since I had seen them both (and just in time for middle school), but they had made it a competition.  Who could make their tits perkier?  Who had to shave more often?  Which boys were paying them attention now?  Watching them stick their chests out, talk about Bic razors and boys was more nauseating than picturing my parents having sex. 
             “My mom took us to Wausau last weekend and we went to Victoria's Secret and got new bras and panties. I’m a size B, just in time for junior high!” Jill told me smugly during lunch.  Since it was the first day of school, we all clung to the people we knew like dingle berries on a donkey's ass.  None of us were brave enough to make new friends, although if this conversation about bras was going to continue much longer, that's exactly what I would be forced to do.  I'd rather take a bubble bath with my brother than participate in this conversation.
            "Neat," I mumbled sarcastically under my breath.
            “What size bra do you wear?” she asked, clearly annoyed that I really didn't give a rat's ass about her bra. Or the cup size.  All I cared about was the fact that I wasn't turning into a bimbo like she was right before my eyes.
            “Um…I don’t,” I said proudly.  Nor do I wear a goddamn undershirt!  I was still a tomboy and I refused to grow into a woman.  I would fight it with every ounce of testosterone in me!
            “Oh. My. God.  You still aren’t wearing a bra?” Amber said, as if she had been wearing one for years and was so experienced in the ways of the over the shoulder boulder holder.
            "Yea KC, you haven't changed at all.  You look like a boy!" Only the 9,387th time I'll hear that in my life.
            "Bras are stupid," I said, still displaying my flat chest proudly.
            “Well, our bras are from Vicki’s, so they're not stupid,” Jill reminded us.
            “Yes, you said that. So what? What's so special about Victoria's Secret?”
            The bimbos looked at me like I had just spoken fluent Mandarin. 
            “Victoria’s Secret.  It’s like, the only place to buy bras,” Jill explained. 
            I knew that was a straight up lie.  I had gone to JC Penney with my mom plenty of times to know that’s where she bought her bras.  Maybe that's where she had purchased that ugly undershirt as well?
            “So, tell me. What is Victoria's secret?” I asked honestly curious.
            "It's a bra and panty store!"  Jill reiterated.  
            "I know that.  But what is Victoria's secret?"
            Again, blank stares.  Did I start speaking Passamaquoddy all of a sudden? Why did I have to keep repeating myself?
            “It’s the brand name, duh!” Jill and Amber said simultaneously.  Of course.  These girls would need brand name under garments.  They strictly wore Eastland shoes, Guess jeans, and now Victoria's Secret bras.  Wearing expensive training bras as a pre-teen makes about as much sense as a baby wearing Gucci or an adult having braces!
            When the lunch bell rang, I walked down the hallway back to the classroom, following behind my classmates who reeked of adrenaline, body odor, and pheromones.  Everyone looked, smelled, and acted differently, so why was I still the same?
            Suddenly, it dawned on me.
            Mom wanted me to wear an undershirt because I was at the age of puberty. She wanted me to wear that undershirt so I would have something between my chest and my shirt like everyone else.  Unfortunately, I had nothing to hold up.  Just areolas and nipples that were starting to stick out like tootsie rolls under my shirt, threatening to poke some eyeballs.  If Mom was so worried about something sticking out, she have just given me a box of Bandaids to tape the suckers down!
            After that day, I was determined to prepare myself to fight puberty because like it or not, it was coming.  I just didn't know when, so I had to prepare.  I would apply packing tape across my chest like Christina Ricci did in the movie Now and Then.  I would let my leg hair grow long and kept my head hair short.  I would wear my father's Old Spice deodorant and eventually, I would start to resemble a New Kid on the Block. 
            But I never had enough time for any of that.  Just a few short weeks later, I woke up one morning and noticed I had sprouted breastlings the size of walnuts.  I took a shower before school and noticed my toddler crotch had been transformed and was now covered in curly black hairs.  I made a mental note to invest in a machete and get rid of the Black Forest ASAP. 
            There's nothing more horrifying for a tomboy to experience than puberty, especially when she's trying to fight it.  It's the moment that she will realize her days as a boy are officially over.  When I first realized I was in the beginning stages of puberty, I felt similar to how Hiroshima must have felt during WWII.  The word "puberty" for me was synonymous with "atomic bomb", "end of days", and "FML".
            Puberty was something I wanted to avoid but that bitch Mother Nature had other ideas for me.  I was destined to menstruate every 28 days, shave my legs, and carry two sacs of fat with milk ducts and nipples on my chest for the rest of my life.  I carried a backpack to school and that extra weight was annoying enough!  On the upside, I suddenly had the urge to masturbate and I was really looking forward to having my first wet dream!
            The first morning I put on a training bra (purchased from JC Penney, not Victoria's Secret), I realized I had just opened the door to the land of womanhood. Beyond the door I saw pantiliners, shaved legs, plucked eyebrows, and skirts and dresses (cringe...).  It was official.  I was now expected to act like a lady.  I was supposed to cross my legs while wearing a dress (something I have yet to master), wear mascara and feminine deodorant and start swooning over pimply faced boys who got boners simply by smelling CK One perfume.
            Who the hell was I becoming?  This wasn't me!  I had lost myself in all the estrogen that was taking over my body!  It took me a while to realize that just because I had finally gotten boobs didn't mean my life was over.  After all, I hadn't gotten my first period yet so I hadn't completely lost my will to live.
            Since I had gotten kicked out of sex education in fifth grade, I was seriously miseducated and was forced to piece together tidbits of information from my friends.  But I wanted to know everything so there would be no surprises! I wanted to know what to expect when I got my period. How much blood would I lose? Would I become anemic? Would I need a transfusion?  When could I start having sex?  Was dry humping considered sex?  And most importantly, was it normal to flick my bean on a daily basis?
            My seventh grade health class provided me with a plethora of information.  Technical information that is.  I knew what a penis and vagina were, and what sex was.  But vas deferens? Scrotum? Uterus? I only knew dirty slang terms for everything sexual so I was determined to become technically informed.
            I’m still proud to this day that I aced the anatomy quiz in health class.  I could tell the difference between a circumcised and uncircumcised penis, pinpoint exactly where the vas deferens were, and I no longer confused the fallopian tubes for labia.  I also learned that “nocturnal emission” is a technical term for “wet dreams”.  That explained a lot.  Who cares males primarily have wet dreams? That didn't stop me from having a few of my own. 
            As a late bloomer, I got my period months after every other girl in my class.  Even worse, I got it at the most inconvenient time—while watching The Lion King at the movie theater with my younger sister who, coincidentally had bigger tits than I did. 
            I was watching Simba running for his life during the stampede when suddenly I felt an uncomfortable ache in my belly.  I left the theater quietly thinking I had to poop out all the popcorn and candy I had just ingested but when I sat down on the toilet, I was shocked to see my underwear looked like a damn crime scene.  I thought about calling the police so they could put crime scene tape around the stall I was using.  I thought briefly about looking for a murder weapon because anyone who has lost this much blood surely must be close to death.  I’ve seen shark attacks on “Shark Week” with far less blood than this!
            Even after learning all about menstruation in my health class, nothing had prepared me for this.
            Freaking out and starting to hyperventilate, I did the most sensible thing.  I flushed my underwear down the toilet.  Then I unrolled the toilet paper and made a modest catcher's mitt out of it, stuffed it in my pants, and walked like a toddler with a soggy diaper back into the theater to finish the movie.
            After the movie, I felt like crap.  Not only did Scar kill Mufasa but I was NOW officially a woman.  I had cramps that felt like someone was tenderizing my uterus as if it were a piece of raw meat, and I was so overemotional that I had to stifle tears and sobs from seeing the death of Mufasa.  To this day, I have not come to terms with his death, circle of life or not.
            When I got home, I did what any smart girl would do.  I told absolutely no one I had just gotten my period.  I don't know why I kept it a secret.  Maybe because I was afraid of having to wear a huge pad like my mom and older sister because of course there were no tampons in the house.  I knew from my sex education class in fifth grade (the few minutes I was allowed to be in the room) I would never want to wear pads.  Or, as my friend Jes likes to call them—floating mattress pads.  Not only are they uncomfortable and are actually quite unsanitary, but when you remove the pads from the panties, the sticky side makes more noise than the new recyclable Sun Chips bags!  No fucking way I'm going to subject myself to that for years to come!
            Or maybe I hid the fact that I had my period because my mother had never sat us kids down to have the “talk”.  She must have figured we would learn about the "change" in school, so why bother?  Little did she know I got kicked out of sex education because I laughed so hard I swear my testicles descended.  So how did I know I could say “hey Ma, I got the rusty beaver for the first time. Got a tampon I can use to as a dam to stop this red river?”
            Twenty-eight days later, my mom figured out my secret because her pad supply had dwindled seriously.  Since I was forced to wear pads, any time I saw more than a speck of blood, I would rip off the gently used pad and replace it with a new one.  Three pairs of underwear had suffered pad erosion and another two had suffered rust stains.  All in one week!
            After one week of wearing a crotch diaper I was fed up.  I was glad I got caught because then I could address the serious issue of the lack of tampons in the house.
            "You're too young to wear tampons," my mom said after listening to my soliloquy about the advantages to tampons over pads.
            "Oh, I'm too young for a tampon but not too young for a bra? Or to shave my legs? Or to trim my pubes?" I retorted.  I wanted to keep going and use words like dry humping and masturbating, but I'm not sure I wanted Mom to know I was sexually active with myself just yet.
            "KC, that's enough," Mom said sternly.  Even at an early age, Mom never appreciated my crude sense of humor.  She barely tolerates it now.
            “I’m never wearing a pad again.  I either get some tampons in this house or I'm going to walk around like a dog in heat and drip everywhere!" I yelled.  I was angry! My labia were chafed, I had a minor case of diaper rash, and I just wanted a damn plug! How could my mom deny me a simple civil liberty of wearing tampons? What was this, 1958? Rosa Parks herself not only refused to go to the back of the bus, but she probably refused the menstrual pad belt and chose tampons; that's how badass she was!
            “Well, your sister wears pads,” she told me.  Instantly, I clench my fists in anger and start to sweat.  My mom is famous for saying, “I didn’t let your sister do it, so I won’t let you” and “If you were more like your sister, maybe you would (insert anything here)”. Two more phrases I will come to absolutely loathe in my adolescence.
            “Please stop comparing me to Jen! I’m not her. She wears pads because she's literally scared of tampons.  I’m not scared of cotton plugs. They're just like extra large Q-tips!  I’m not wearing pads. Ever. Again.,” I said matter-of-factly.
            She pursed her lips and glared at me, but I was stubborn.  I wasn’t going to give in.  I was ready for a bloody showdown.  If I were going to have my period once a month for the next 50 years (600 more times; I just counted), I would certainly not do it by wearing a pad.  Assuming of course I'd live that long.  Being a daredevil while riding an orange banana seat bike, having a habit of eating mysterious berries on a dare, and not looking both ways before crossing a street were surefire ways to get myself killed.  But on the off chance that I did make it that long, I would not be wearing a crotch diaper!
            Mom finally gave in.  That day, my father drove me to the newly opened Wal-Mart, parked his car, handed me a $5 bill, and told me to bring him change.  That was code for “I may buy your mother’s pads, but there’s no way in fucking hell I’m buying my daughter’s tampons”.
            I understood completely.
            As a child tomboy, puberty was scary and if I could have avoided it, I would have.  It took me years to realize puberty wasn't the worst thing that could happen to a tomboy. As an adult tomboy now, I have to admit I like my boobs (A. because they're cute and perky and B. because my nipples are pierced, so they can be quite entertaining), I like the idea that I can bear children, and I definitely revel in the fact that I know my way around the land of cocks and clams.
            Going through puberty has allowed me to have wet dreams for nights after sex, to wear a modest 36 C bra, and let me be proud to use terms such as "Rusty Beaver" or "Shark Week" to describe menstruation.  It's allowed me to experiment with both sexes, discover the joys of dry humping in jeans, and to be proud when I get a sheboner.
            But most of all, puberty has allowed me to become a woman, and nothing is more beautiful or sublime than that. 

13 July 2011

I Love You Like...

This is the second installment of "I Love You Like".  To read the original, go here:

But this time, I played with Stacy Tesch!!! She had read my original blog post (listed above) and wanted in on the action immediately! We spent countless hours one day coming up with "I Love You Like"similes  (I was bored at work; she at home with two kids napping).

Once you start reading them, you will want to start playing this game yourself.  But be careful; it's more addicting than cigarettes, cocaine, and Facebook games.

So, by request of Tesch herself, I have posted our best ones. Surprisingly, I only omitted about 20 similes (all of which were omitted due to a very personal nature/names of people we know and for fear of retaliation. Unlike the game between Rae and me, these particular similes were too personal and I could not get away with a simple XX in place of their names).

And yes, I was more bored than Stacy (what with raising two kids) so I have a few more on here than she does, but that does not take away from the quality of these similes.

I love you like vampires love interviews.
I love you like lesbians love softball.
I love you like air traffic controllers love sleeping.
I love you like sausages love meat curtains.
I love you like a pirate loves swashbuckling.
I love you like T-Rex loves Jurassic Park.
I love you like Casey Anthony loves being acquitted.
I love you like Richard Simmons loves spandex.
I love you like Charlie Sheen loves tiger blood.
I love you like stingrays love Steve Erwin.
I love you like Andrew Zimmerman loves bizarre foods.
I love you like Takeru Kobayashi loves eating hot dogs.
I love you like honey badgers love rattlesnakes.
I love you like the Kardashians love athletes.
I love you like the Duggars love procreating.
I love you like Jon Gosselin loves Ed Hardy.
I love you like Bobby Flay loves throwing down.
I love you like BP loves spilling oil.

I love you like Paula Deen loves butter.
I love you like Napoleon Dynamite loves chapstick.
I love you like olives love martinis.
I love you like chimps love flinging poop.
I love you like mosquitoes love blood.
I love you like damsels love distress.
I love you like Dr. Dre loves the chronic.
I love you like Snoop Dogg loves doggy style.
I love you like Tom Hanks loved Wilson.
I love you like leg warmers love calves.
I love you like hobos love canned beans.
I love you like Dennis the Menace loves Mr. Wilson.

I love you like a banana loves a hammock.
I love you like muffins love their tops.
I love you like Ellen loves dancing.
I love you like Glenn Close loves fatal attraction.
I love you like Chris Farley loves living in a van down by the river.
I love you like Scott Rothstein loves Ponzi schemes.
I love you like Kate Gosselin loves dancing with the stars.
I love you like California loves wildfires.
I love you like Florida loves hurricanes.
I love you like senior citizens love AARP.
I love you like dentures love gums.
I love you like Hugh Hefner loves bunnies.
I love you like Kayne loves Beyonce.
I love you like limes love Corona.
I love you like farmers love the almanac.
I love you like hookers love the night.
I love you like the Boxcar children love trains.
I love you like Jude Law loves nannies.
I love you like Mel Gibson loves the thunderdome.
I love you like Chris Brown loves his fists.
I love you like Mitch Albom loves Tuesdays with Morrie.
I love you like drag queens love manginas.
I love you like Night Ranger loves Sister Christian.
I love you like Rick Springfield loves Jessie's Girl.
I love you like Nia Vardalos loves her big fat Greek wedding.

I love you like Pam Anderson loves fake tits.
I love you like porn stars love the "money shot".
I love you like Billy Ray Cyrus loves mullets and his achy breaky heart.
I love you like priests love little boys.
I love you like Bon Jovi loves a bed of roses.
I love you like Fleetwood Mac loves sweet little lies.
I love you like the KKK loves a good lynching (tasteless, yet true).
I love you like Biggie Smalls loved being called Big Poppa.
I love you like Sir Mix A Lot loves big butts (and he can't lie).
I love you like addicts love denial.
I love you like sorority girls love Uggs.
I love you like a midlife crisis loves a Porsche.
I love you like batman loves the batcave.
I love you like cats love a fresh litter box.
I love you like superheros love showing off their packages.

I love you like Tyra banks loves "smizing".
I love you like waffles love syrup.
I love you like the Amish love churning butter.
I love you like Coolio loves living in a Gangsta's Paradise.
I love you like the Bates Motel loves psychos.
I love you like Jamie Lee Curtis loves Halloween.
I love you like Keanu Reeves loves speed.
I love you like Texas loves going big or going home.
I love you like Sarah Palin loves Alaska.
I love you like Sarah Palin loves going rogue.
I love you like Discovery loves Shark Week.
I love you like Pee Wee loves his playhouse.
I love you like Mr. Bean loves silence.
I love you like the deaf love sign language.
I love you like hoarders love collecting.
I love you like Howie Mandel loves making deals.

I love you like Howie Mandel loves OCD.
I love you like the carpet loves to match the drapes.
I love you like Bravo loves housewives.
I love you like Lifetime loves making movies about incest, rape, and murder.
I love you like Tim Gunn loves to "make it work".
I love you like Carrie loves pig blood.
I love you like Voldemort loves snakes.
I love you like Snape loves the Dark Arts.
I love you like Picasso loved having one ear.

I love you like leprechauns love pots of gold.
I love you like the British love dentistry.
I love you like Americans love obesity.
I love you like Canadians love maple.
I love you like Mexicans love tamales.
I love you like the Spanish love their armadas.
I love you like Queen Elizabeth I loves lead makeup.
I love you like the Japanese love kamikaze pilots.
I love you like Captain Sully loves the Hudson River.
I love you like Zach Morris loves being saved by the bell.
I love you like Chelsea Handler loves her horizontal life.

I love you like the Lord loves the ring.
I love you like balls love being sweaty.
I love you like undies love sharts.
I love you like Lindsay Lohan loves driving drunk.
I love you like the hood loves hood rats.
I love you like root beer loves the barrel.
I love you like the Packers love the Lambeau Leap.
I love you like republicans love gay marriage (NOT).
I love you like you love to say NOT like it's 1992.

I love you like the Germans love the Jews (NOT).
I love you like the Jews love Jesus (NOT).
I love you like Molly Ringwald loves pink.
I love you like Justin Bieber loves calling you baby.
I love you like Nicole Richie loves eating.
I love you like Jessica Simpson loves Chicken of the Sea.
I love you like Rihanna loves weaves.
I love you like MTV loves music videos (NOT).
I love you like VH1 loves the 90's (and 80's).
I love you like my boss loves washing his hands (NOT).
I love you like Brett Favre loves the Packers (NOT).

I love you like Tonya Harding loves metal rods.
I love you like Ke$ha loves autotune.
I love you like olives love martinis.
I love you like librarians love to whisper.
I love you like Osama loves being a terrorist (NOT ANYMORE A$$HOLE).
I love you like the Terminator loves being back.
I love you like Jay Leno loves stealing shows (using his chin as a weapon).
I love you like Cajuns love gumbo.
I love you like George W. Bush loves finding WMDs.
I love you like Skee-lo loves wishing he were a little bit taller.
I love you like Dawson loves the creek.
I love you like R. Kelly loves believing he can fly.

I love you like Nancy Kerrigan loves her kneecaps.
I love you like Saddam Hussein loves crimes against humanity.
I love you like Tom Cruise loves Scientology.
I love you like babies love breast milk.
I love you like Donald Trump loves combovers.
I love you like Randy Jackson loves dawgs.
I love you like Santa loves ho ho hos.
I love you like snow loves WI.
I love you like Hulk Hogan loves bandanas.
I love you like Forrest Gump loves to run.
I love you like Sarah McLachlan loves building a mystery.
I love you like Madonna loves her papa not preaching.
I love you like whales love breaching.
I love you like Jamie Foxx loves blaming it on the alcohol.

I love you like Lady GaGa loves wearing meat.
I love you like Susanne Sommers loves the Thighmaster.
I love you like gunslingers love a noon showdown.
I love you like the Irish love potatoes.
I love you like Madonna loves Malawian orphans.
I love you like turkeys love to gobble.
I love you like bbq sauce loves chicken.
I love you like Bert loves Ernie.
I love you like Chaucer loved pilgrimages.
I love you like Shakespeare loved unrequited love.
I love you like the Quakers loved burning witches at the stake.
I love you like Columbus loved discovering.
I love you like Warren G and Nate Dogg love to regulate.
I love you like Jarrod loves Subway.
I love you like Michael Jordan loves nothing but net.
I love you like Garth Brooks loves friends in low places.
I love you like Jimmy Buffett loves cheeseburgers in paradise.
I love you like Jimmy Buffett loves Margaritaville.
I love you like Jimmy Buffett loves stepping on pop tops and blowing out flip flops.

I love you like you clearly love Jimmy Buffett.
I love you like TLC loves being crazy sexy cool.
I love you like Dennis Rodman loves piercings.
I love you like Chastity Bono loves being a man.
I love you like Lady GaGa loves hatching from an egg.
I love you like Mark Zuckerberg loves Facebook.
I love you like Justin Timberlake loves bringing sexy back.
I love you like Ryan Seacrest loves E!
I love you like Snow Patrol loves chasing cars.
I love you like Eminem loves Recovery.
I love you like Tom Petty loves American Girls.
I love you like Tom Petty loves having a last dance with Mary Jane.
I love you like Tom Petty loves running down a dream.
I love you like George Foreman loves grills.
I love you like the TMNT love being heroes in a half shell.
I love you like Jimmy loves cracking corn and not caring.
I love you like a ninja loves nunchuks.

I love you like monks love meditating.
I love you like Mario loves defeating Bowser.
I love you like Jesus loves resurrecting.
I love you like 867-5309 loves being the coolest number ever.
I love you like Nirvana loves smelling like teen spirit.
I love you like Marilyn Manson loves the beautiful people.
I love you like Fred Durst loves doing it all for the nookie.
I love you like Haikus love 17 syllabyles.
I love you like Abe Lincoln loved the hole in his head.
I love you like Paul Bunyan loved Babe the big blue ox.
I love you like Patrick Swayze loves dirty dancing.
I love you like Baby loves carrying the watermelon.
I love you like Johnny loves a rusty hanger taking care of his little problem.
I love you like Danny Zuko loves greased lightning.
I love you like Sandy loves being hopelessly devoted.
I love you like ChaCha loves being the best dancer at St. Bernadette's.

I love you like Fred Durst loves his Limp Bizkit.
I love you like Korn loves being a freak on a leash.
I love you like the Red Jumpsuit Apparatus loves being face down.
I love you like Ray LaMontagne loves trouble.
I love you like Baby loves not being in a corner.
I love you like Baby loves having the time of her life.
I love you like Kevin Bacon loves being loose with his foot.
I love you like Tom Cruise loves days of thunder.
I love you like a southerner loves NASCAR.
I love you like Tom Cruise loves being top gun.
I love you like Jay-Z loves the concrete jungle.
I love you like fire hydrants love dog pee.
I love you like sidewalks love smeared chewed gum.

I love you like Maverick loves feeling the need for speed.
I love you like Iceman loves playing beach volleyball shirtless.
I love you like Goose loves great balls of fire.
I love you like Ron Burgandy loves smelling of rich mahagony.
I love you like the Vikings love to rape and pillage.
I love you like Justin Timberlake loves his dick in a box.
I love you like Beyonce loves having a ring put on it.

I love you like Timbaland loves the way I are.
I love you like Miley Cyrus loves the climb.
I love you like fleas love dogs.
I love you like Spiderman loves webs.
I love you like tampons love blood.
I love you like vampires love sucking blood.
I love you like teenage boys love popping zits.
I love you like birds love airplane engines.
I love you like Metallica loves the unforgiven.
I love you like Lnyrd Skynrd loves sweet home Alabama.
I love you like Ursa Major loves Ursa Minor.
I love you like Miss Cleo loves her crystal ball.
I love you like Bella Swan loves twilight.
I love you like oysters love their shells.
I love you like clams love chowder.
I love you like termites love wood.
I love you like the Golden Gate Bridge loves suicide jumpers.
I love you like Brooklyn loves pizza.
I love you like Seattle loves rain.
I love you like Vegas loves Celine Dion.
I love you like Tony Romo loves being a homo.
I love you like Jamie Oliver loves food revolutions.
I love you like nerds love dungeons and dragons.
I love you like gays love rainbows.

08 July 2011

What Happens to Vegas...

Ernie's is a barbecue restaurant in Ft. Lauderdale, actually just a block from my office, which makes happy hour easy for me. There is a quiet family friendly restaurant downstairs and an upstairs, loud and raunchy patio bar.

This place is our watering hole. Or, hole in the wall if you will. 

The first few times we went to Ernie's we basically kept to ourselves and just watched the people around us.  That may seem boring to some of you, but for us, there is nothing in this world we enjoy more than people watching.  Our favorite place for this activity is an airport.  We fly a few times a year and each time I bring my iPod and several books, each time hoping I can get some reading done.  Wrong.  I don't read.  I barely hear the music coming from my ear buds. It's not for lack of trying; I just can't stop staring at people. 

After visiting the place a few times, we met an awesome bartender named Rachel with long curly black hair (JewFro as I like to call it) and fake tits.  I know what you're thinking and it's okay; we thought she was a bitch at first too but it turns out that although she's one of the most athletic, body-conscious people out there (and with breast implants too!) she's also extremely hilarious and down to earth.  She's our kind of people.  Outspoken, brash, rude, and funny.

The only reason we still go to Ernie's is because Rachel works there.  Of course we spend time with her outside of work, but it's easy to catch up with her while she's working.  If she didn't work there, not sure we could endure the perverted drunks and stupid yacht crew people who hang out there.  I do like the townie bar feel to the place, but sometimes the customers are just too much.             
Like I said, it is a great place for people-watching though.  For my birthday this year, I think I'm going to ask Emily for a people-watching book and binoculars so I can identify all the weird species of people I'm not familiar with.

We've been going to Ernie's for almost two years now, and each time we are there, something hilarious happens.  If it's not playing beer pong with two cute college boys from Indiana or threatening to slay the pervert Vince who asked me if I keep dildos in the microwave oven to keep them warm, it's watching Rachel get irritated with her customers.

Her least favorite customer is a black dude from South Africa. We'll call him KG to protect his privacy.  Of course I first thought she hated him because he was black, but then I realized she's a Jew and since she herself is from a racial group that has suffered a history of mass murders and lynching, that probably wasn't the case. 

But race doesn't even play a role in her hatred for this idiot.  He is there every day, gets drunk every day, and racks up a huge bill and only tips her in pennies and dimes.  She reminds him every single time that "Tipping" is NOT a city in China.  The first time I heard that joke, I laughed.  The 893rd time I've heard her say it, not so much.  It's time she learns a new joke.

Last I heard KG's wife was sick of his public drunkenness and idiocy that she said quit it or go back to South Africa.  Pretty sure he went back to South Africa.

We've encountered all sorts of people while at Ernies.  Yachties (people who work on boats), who all have foreign accents and are cheaper than KG, if that's even possible.  Travelers who are just stopping in to get a bite to eat before heading to the airport, which is less than a quarter mile down the road.  College aged kids, single lonely men, and Canadians.

But there are only a few people worth mentioning just to get a laugh (they're not worth much more). 

There is Chuck the Choad (he calls himself Charles), a young, naïve college boy from Illinois who hit on me relentlessly one night and bought me drinks all night. He even let me write "CHOAD" on his arm in red permanent marker. It gave me great pleasure to inform that I am a lesbian and sitting beside me was Emily (she kept herself busy while talking to our other friends there that night) and that I was sorry I couldn't take him home to babysit while he threw up Jaeger Bombs and suffered from Whiskey Dick. We still see him occasionally at the bar and when we do Emily and I burst into a fit of giggles and yell "Chuck the Choad!", but he won't even make eye contact with me. Not even when I give him the stink eye and point in his direction and laugh!
There's Robert, a Vietman vet who claims he carries a gun in his shoe, who wears a Crown Royal hat, plays 134 country songs and 89 classic rock songs from the jukebox in one night, and whose laugh can be heard from miles away.  It doesn't matter if the bar is slow and quiet, or packed and loud, Robert's laugh hits a certain octave every time. 

I'm not even certain Mariah, Whitney, or Celine could even hit that octave.  Every time I hear it, I feel like I'm eating chalk while someone scrapes a fork against a plate.  It makes me quiver, and not in a good way either.  It's pure torture.  Even worse when he acknowledges us, which is my fault because I made the mistake one night of asking him a question, and now the lines of communication are forever open (even though I do my best to ignore him and not break my beer bottle on the counter and stab him in the neck with the broken remains).

There's also Terri, a toothless, wrinkly old man who smokes non-filtered cigarettes and whom I would estimate to be at least 134 years old.  He smells like a homeless person who just pissed himself yet always has enough money to drink. 

There's Allister (one of the only regulars I actually like), an extremely handsome man in his 40's.  He is a great conversationalist, he always smells nice, and he is desperate to take me to a gun range and learn how to shoot.  I told him I would only go if I Vince and Robert would be my targets.

But none of these regulars at Ernie's can even compare to a guy we met a few weeks ago.  Emily and I were extremely thirsty one Thursday night, also a night Rachel tends bar, so we headed to Ernie's for drinks and dinner.
Not two minutes after we sat down and gulped our Miller Lite, two guys came in and sat down right next to us. They work at EagleRider (a motorcycle shop) across the street, so they come in for drinks after work. We had seen these guys before, but had never sat near them to talk to them.

Until that night.  The night we met Vegas.
Vegas (real name Michael) is an attractive guy—tattoos, piercings, good haircut, nice eyes, great smile.  Although recently he's been growing this crazy mustache for some "Guy's Weekend", so he looks a little ridiculous.  But still cute. He's also Italian and talks as if he's a castoff from Jersey Shore.  Luckily, he is NOT a dumb Guido and has an amazing sense of humor (and doesn't even know it!) Nor does he know I'm writing a story about him (well, if he checks his Facebook, he'll know now!)
At first we ignored each other, but after a few drinks, Vegas and his friend Doug started talking to us.  It's funny how alcohol can do that; when you are sober, people can be complete strangers, but once you have a nice dose of alcohol in your system, strangers become your best friends!  Idle chitchat led to question-asking, name introducing, which led to Vegas sharing the craziest stories.
Doug and I were chatting about something not worth remembering when suddenly Vegas, after a few drinks, starts complaining about his ex-girlfriend.
Doug rolled his eyes and I found out later that Doug had been trying for a week to stop Vegas from telling the same story over and over again.
The story of how his girlfriend dumped him.
Which began like this.
"Man, what a bitch!" Vegas exclaimed, slamming his Blackberry down on the counter.
"Seriously dude? This again?" Doug asked.  Vegas looked at Doug, then glanced at Emily and me and said "my girlfriend dumped me on Facebook!"           

I nearly spit beer out my nostrils.  Who gets dumped on Facebook besides nerdy tweeners and pedophiles posing as teenagers? 
All I could do was smile and laugh.
"Dude, it's not funny!" Vegas said, but he was even trying not to smile.
"Pretty sure I've never met anyone who has ever been dumped online so this is a huge honor.  I've always wanted to write a story about this," I said. 
"I was really into her.  She was cool with tattoos and she rode ponies and partied in South Beach.  She also let me lick her asshole," Vegas described this seemingly interesting person.
"I hope she bleached it before she let you in there," I said, completely grossed out.  Assholes are exit only ramps, not an appetizer for sex (personal opinion; I don't care if anyone else munches butts).
"Nah man...wait, who bleaches what now?" he asked, confused.
"Nevermind.  I bet she dumped you because of your asshole licking fetish."
"No, she liked that."
"Well, then what happened?"  I asked him.
Reminder: I had just met this guy and he was treating me like I was one of his oldest friends.
Vegas shrugs his shoulders. 
"I told her I wanted to move to Broward from Miami.  Then she deletes me and blocks me on Facebook and now she won't even answer my calls or texts!" he explains.
"When did this happen?"
"Last week! And since she kicked him out, he's been living with me and this is all I've heard about for 6 days! Thank GOD he picked up his keys to his new place today!" Doug says, clearly irritated.
"She even threw away a lot of my stuff! I am a sunglasses freak and she threw out all my sunglasses and a lot of my clothes!" Vegas shrieked.
For a moment, I got the scene from Waiting to Exhale in my head. The scene where Angela Bassett finds out that her husband is cheating on her and she piles all his belongings into his Mercedes and sets it on fire, standing by while smoking a cigarette.  Classic.
Vegas goes on to tell me that he doesn't know what he did wrong (what man does), that he loves her (probably just loves having sex with her), and she didn't have a car or a license (sounds like a mooching bitch to me).
I told him he needed to go out and get laid.  Apparently, that is not an option for Vegas.  If Vegas just meets a girl one time, he cannot "perform" his manly duties on her; however, if he's met the girl more than once, he will "pound that pussy" until the sun comes up.
"So, you're saying one night stands make you flaccid?" I joked with him.
He nods and lifts his hand and makes his index finger flop, as if showing me what flaccid actually means.
"I've seen my fair share of whiskey dick in the past my friend; no need to illustrate", I joke with him. 
"I've never had a one-night stand either.  Sex has to mean something to me," Rachel interjects.  I look at her as if she had just told me she was a Martian.
"Ha! You'd be surprised at the number of random hookups I've had!" I said, and Emily nodded her head.  It may surprise you, but we have slept with many men once upon a time. We had gone to the same college and before we started dating, there were men, a fact that surprises almost everyone we meet here in FL.  Goddamn lesbian stereotypes. They're not all true people!
"Well, you still need to get laid," I repeated.  We all nodded in agreement, which led to another story.
Doug, being the good friend I'm sure he is, took Vegas out to a strip club one night after he was dumped.  Vegas had his face full of tits and his lap full of ass, and he admitted that he could not get a boner. 
"How does that happen? How do you not get a boner at a strip joint?" Doug and I ask simultaneously.  That's almost like not getting a hard on when a Wisconsinite eats cheese (read: what happens to me every time I get my mouth on a nice slice of aged Wisconsin cheddar or a couple cheese curds).
"Strip clubs just make my uncomfortable.  I need to know someone before I can get turned on," he explained.  Oddly, I believe him; why tell me this when he clearly has no chance with me?  I think Vegas is a hopeless romantic and he gets his heart broken more times than he gets hard.
Which is the exact reason why he says this.
"Even though she dumped me and won't talk to me, I know she has to get to the airport and I offered to drive to Miami and bring her!"
"Why would you even offer that? Dude, you got dumped on Facebook," I say, bursting into laughter.
"Fucking idiot," Doug says, and I laugh harder.  Thankfully, Vegas laughs too, otherwise I might be slightly worried that I would hurt his delicate feelings, akin to the feelings of a Disney princess.
"Either you're hopeless, or you're a hopeless romantic; I'm not sure which is worse," I tell him and he nods in agreement.
After ordering another drink, Vegas goes on to tell me he has a giant cockroach living with him and when I suggested he get a cat to chase that thing out or eat it, he said he was allergic.  But that didn't matter.  He said he wants to get a hairless cat, tattoo a skull and crossbones on it's head, and punch it in the leg until it gets a limp so it can walk all "gangsta like". 
Emily grimaced at my suggestion of him getting a cat (she hates cats; especially mine) so when he was getting freaked out by the cockroach (imagine Jessica Simpson falling into a spider web type of reaction), Emily took over and said as long as it was a big one and not small ones (offspring), he'd be fine.  We've had two cockroaches in our apartment, and at first I thought it meant we were dirty, poor, and disgusting.  Then I realized they were just cold and came in to warm up. 
The mere thought of more than one cockroach made me feel physically ill (I may be a tomboy, but I'm worse than a little girl about dirt and bugs). 
He still wasn't convinced that his apartment wasn't poverty type of filth (especially since he had just moved in that day!)
"Emily is a cockroach expert.  Her clients have cockroaches, so you should listen up," I told Vegas. 
"Really?" Vegas asked, surprised.  He must think she's an exterminator or a hooker.
"She's a social worker," I interject quickly before Vegas has a chance to use his imagination as to what type of work Emily does.
"Sometimes I'll be sitting on the couch at a client's house and I'll have to flick one off my leg or my arm and when I leave, I usually shake out my clothes to make sure they're not getting in my car for a ride!"
It was true; as a social worker, Emily worked with clients who not only had but were so used to having cockroaches in the house, they were practically a part of the family.  Emily suggested to Vegas that he get a roach aerosol bomb because that's what her clients have used before, but even the thought of bombing a cockroach seemed to make Vegas sad.
I sincerely believe he would never hurt a living creature (not even a cockroach? What...an idiot) especially since he is adamant about being a pescatarian (fish eater) and yelled at me for eating grilled chicken on my Greek salad right in front of him. 
Even so, this guy is a gentleman, despite his rough exterior.  He's Italian; he's taught by his Mama how to treat a lady, meat, and cockroaches.  Just not how to treat cats apparently.
As we're eating, Vegas and Doug are telling us a story about how everyone in their lives thinks Vegas is actually an asshole.  A lot of Doug's friends' girlfriends and wives hate the guy, which might explain why he has so many EX-girlfriend stories.  I tried hard (that's what she said), but I just could not get the asshole vibe from him. Maybe it was because we were so much alike.  Humorous without even trying, imaginative, exaggerative, and loved to spew out our inner monologue to innocent bystanders.
I took a minute to judge Vegas.  Upon first glance, he would be easy to judge as an insensitive jerk, but once he opens up, he really is a nice guy.  So what he eats assholes and has a small transparent skull and crossbones face tattoo?  So what he dresses and talks like a Guido?  Who cares that his hands are always dirty from working in a motorcycle shop every day?
That night he told us multiple stories about girls he used to date.  The only one that stood out to me though, was the one I nicknamed "The Nazi Jew", after hearing his story.  Apparently, this girl is Jewish, embraces her heritage, yet loves Hitler and even has a tattoo of a swastika on the palm of her hand.  Vegas swears that she's not a Nazi, but I believe the evidence proves otherwise.  And if the Casey Anthony trial can teach us anything, it's not what you did; it's what you can prove!
Vegas then proceeds to tell me that he was once interviewed for VH1's Tool Academy.  Not because they thought he was a tool, but because his girlfriend at the time was a tool.  Yep. You guessed it. Even VH1 knew his Nazi Jew girlfriend was a tool, a fact Vegas still will not admit (nor will he admit she's a Nazi).
Perhaps the most interesting part of the night—besides the fact that he was dumped on Facebook, dated a Nazi, has a horny grandfather who whittles canes in his retirement community, lives with an uninvited giant cockroach (no, not Doug; a real roach), and could be considered a tool—was when he shared a story about something he saw in South Beach.  Or should I say, someone he saw in South Beach.
At first I was thinking this would be another chick story, but I was wrong.  This guy was unpredictable and unbelievable.  Somehow we had gotten on the topic of Hasidic Jews and how weird they were.  Rachel is Jewish, like I said, but she's really a non-practicing, totally liberal type Jew.  She even celebrates Chrismukkah because she can't pick between either holiday—Christmas or Hanukkah.
Don't ask how we started on this topic; I have no clue.  I generally am clueless as to how I end up talking up creationism, dinosaurs, Hasidic Jews, and quoting lines from Napoleon Dynamite in one night.  But it happens because I'm me.
First Vegas asked how tall I am, just so we could get an appropriate mental image of this person he saw.  I said I was barely 5'2" but I do a sweet ninja kick to the nuts if needed.   He nodded and said I was only a few inches taller than the person he saw.
"So, I was cruising down Collins Avenue in Miami and I saw a Hasidic Jew with those crazy curls!" he told us.
"And? There's tons of Jews in Florida. What makes this guy special?" I asked.  We used to live in a Jewish neighborhood when we first moved here, and there was nothing special about seeing a Jew with curls or a Jewfro.
"It wasn't a man! It was a midget child!"
No sooner were the words out of his mouth that I collapsed into a fit of laughter.  Bear in mind Vegas had not stopped talking and we had gotten to the bar about three hours earlier.  He was on a roll and I had been laughing (read: drinking) all night, but as soon as he said "midget child", I lost it.  Pretty sure Emily refers to me as her midget child, but at least not to my face.
"How can you have a midget child?  A child isn't even fully grown yet, so of course it's short!" I said, completely baffled by this concept.
"Well, when midgets are born that means they're children; hence, midget child," Vegas explained seriously.
"I believe the term is 'little person' now," Rachel piped up while serving us a new round of drinks.
"All children are midgets! Until they hit puberty dude! So how do you know this was a 'little person/midget' child and just not a midget adult?"
"I'm telling you, the kid was a midget," Vegas said.  I knew I wouldn't win, so I gave up trying to comprehend.
"Wait guys, it gets better," Vegas added. 
"Not only was this a midget child, it was a Hasidic Jew midget child."
"Now you're just making shit up," Doug said, punching Vegas in the arm.  I rolled my eyes and laughed.  Emily was cackling right next to me, her laugh as contagious as the Swine Flu, so she got everyone else in an uproar.
"I'm dead serious!" Vegas said, once he caught his breath.
We laughed at the image of a midget child (still not understanding that) with curly sideburns.  The only image I could muster was Weird Al as a midget singing his parody "Amish Paradise". 
"Wait, it gets better," he said again.
"What could possibly get better than a Hasidic Jew Midget Child?" I asked him.  Certainly this was a new species and I wanted to be the first one to call National Geographic and break the news.
"There was something wrong with the kid.  Like he was retarded or something.  I hate that word, but I don't know how else to describe it.  I'm pretty sure he had Down syndrome," Vegas said. 
Unbelievable.  There is no way in hell such a person existed.  I used to work in a group home and I had dealt with my share of people with Down's.  Sure, a lot of them were short and fat, so I could see how he could have been confused.  But for the most part, they grew like normal people.
"Can you tell me the situation in which you found a Hasidic Jew Downs Midget Child in South Beach?" I asked him, almost scared of the answer.
"He was walking down the street with his parents, and one of them was Asian!"
"Hasidic Jew Downs Midget Asian Child cross breed? HAHAHAHAHA!" I slammed my fist down on the table multiple times, laughing so hard my abs were burning (read: my abs are somewhere below my fat). I wondered if he even knew the difference between someone with Down's and an Asian, or the difference between an adult midget and a child, or the difference between fact and fiction.  My guess would be no.
"Did you get a picture of this thing?" I asked him.  He said he did not because he was driving, which if you've ever driven on A1A in South Beach, you'd know driving and doing anything with your phone is damn near impossible.

With no proof of this creature, Vegas could not prove its existence.  He didn't need to because, although I wouldn't admit this out loud, I kind of believed him.  I mean, I am the girl who got mistaken for a boy, almost got sliced and diced into chow mein while bowling with Asians one night, got kicked out of sex education for laughing too much, and slept with Spiderman.  So who was I to doubt the authenticity of these stories?
We have now come to know Vegas pretty well and see him occasionally on Thursday or Friday nights. He is a super nice guy, very polite, and every time, he makes me laugh.  And every time, I grab the nearest pen and pad of paper to take notes. 
Even though we had to wade through the muck and slime known as Robert, Vince, KG, and Chuck the Choad, we finally found a rare and precious gem in Vegas, a cute Italian boy with tattoos, piercings, and a good heart. 
Vegas, a guy who gives me amazing writing material.  A guy who is not afraid to tell us girls sometimes queef in his mouth (and admits he likes it).  A guy who is a psycho chick magnet. A guy who pisses on cop cars.  
A guy who will tongue punch a fart box any day.           
Made by Lena