House fires, Kamikazes & John Holmes
The new man came up from LA to visit me over the long holiday weekend and as with any long distance relationship, you build expectations of how your time together is going to be. Having met him online and getting to know him over AIM, email and phone calls for three months before meeting in person, one gets a sense of what a person is all about and after the last five months, he has exceeded my expectations in every way. Of course there are a few red flags, which is good because that tells me that I am not idealizing him and putting him on some bullshit unrealistic pedestal, I am seeing him for his attributes and faults and I am accepting him in his totality…until Saturday morning. This is a very romantic person and his romance and passion has ensnared me completely, so naturally I was expecting something awesome for Valentine’s Day…the day lovers celebrate one another…the day of not even a fucking Hallmark card. I was so disappointed. But I knew he was broke so eh, fuck it. I still got some joy from giving him his gift and sweet card chock full of eloquently penned sentiments so no big deal…I guess…I GUESS? Fuck that! It was a big deal! A fucking card costs TWO DOLLARS, he could have wrote something on a napkin and wrapped it in tin foil and I would have swooned. I am not hard to please. Jesus. *phew I’m better now* But I know he felt badly and I am sure he will make it up to me but he still blew it nonetheless. I could really care less about getting a gift but some gesture of what I mean to him on Valentine’s Day would have been nice. I suppose I shouldn’t complain too much, what most women only get on V-Day, I get almost everyday so maybe that is a fair trade off…we know I am blowing smoke up my own ass here…if this happens next year, he gets a cattle prod to the nuts. And I ate the goddamn chocolate I got for him and he didn't get any. So there. Men! Can't live with em, can't live with em...heh.
Being that he was broke and I am single mother/student (i.e. BrokeAssMammaJamma), we did the laying low thing all weekend. I got groceries and played house...Betty Crocker/Valentine/Drinking Buddy/Personal Loveslave all rolled in one for the long holiday weekend, Mr. Man…ok maybe more like Betty’s danger prone cousin. I somehow managed to overfill the casserole dish so the cheese from the lasagna spilled out and onto the bottom of the oven, thereby catching on fire and filling my house with smoke. The Man and The Kid had to watch TV in the front room shivering under blankets with the heater blasted on 90 degrees to offset the 35 degree draft that was coming in from all the windows being open while I ran through the house frantically waving dishtowels around over my head in an effort to air the fucking place out before the smoke alarm went off. THEN as if I didn’t demonstrate my housewife dysfunction enough Saturday night, on Sunday, I decided to barbeque a tri tip, I mean how can I fuck up BBQ??! Oh the reality never ceases to prove my logic wrong. It was all looking good until I went to turn it after 15 minutes and when I opened the lid of the bbq, the whole fucking slab of meat was on fire. Not just burnt but up in goddamn unrelenting flames. In a panic, I start hopping up and down (no clue why because it really didn’t help put out the fire) and beating it with the big ass bbq fork thingy, stab it through it’s center, yank it off the grill, sending it off the fork, into the air, over my shoulder and onto the pavement of my patio with a sloppy thud. Well, the fire went out. Looking over my shoulder to ensure the coast was clear, giving myself clearance, I then hosed it off, slathered it with bbq sauce and stuck it back on the grill. Hey, the ten second rule always applies in times of desperation and no one was harmed in the production of this meal. Overall, the food tasted really good with my side dish of humiliation.
By Sunday night, to offset my V-day Let Down and the double showing of Cooking with House Fires, I decided the best plan of action was vodka. I love me some kamikaze shots. To me, they are no big deal; in fact, I find it very amusing when I encounter people who cringe when asked if they wanted to do one. As if it’s Jagermeister or something, I mean how can something limey and light be remotely as bad as some nasty thick black cough syrupy shot? Psssshhhhh…rookies. Being the productive fucker I am, I looked up a recipe on the internet, went to the store for the ingredients and made some of the best goddamn kamikaze shots I have ever had in my life. All I can tell you is after the 2nd shaker thingy of them, I ended up in pantyhose, stripper shoes and a gold lamay mini-dress…fun was had, my friends, oh yes, fun was had.
So the weekend closed off with a lazy Monday that was spent in bed eating mac n cheese, watching the American Chopper marathon (I fucking love those guys - was the Comanche bike not the dopest ever?) and then the Wonderland DVD. If you haven’t seen it, SEE IT. It’s about the porn star John Holmes and the Wonderland murders. I am a huge Val Kilmer fan and he portrays John Holmes so well, it’s unbelievable. The special features are intense because they use real crime scene footage and interviews with people close to John Holmes. So they were saying that he had a 13 ½ inch dick. THIRTEEN AND A HALF INCH DICK. Geeeeezus! OK so just the IDEA of something that big entering my body freaks me out. Now, I am not a size queen but I appreciate the wave to be at least slightly above average to really get the motion of the ocean rockin’, ya know? BUT I don’t need a fucking Tsunami. So I put a ruler against my abdomen to see how far 12 inches was from the holiest of holies and man, it goes past the belly button. Whoa! Call me crazy but I would prefer to keep my kidneys intact, thank you very much...yet in some sick and twisted way, I want to collect all his movies now.
So kiddos, the morals to this story are:
1.) If you have a tendency of causing house fires while cooking, just eat out.
2.) Kamikaze shots are the solution to every problem.
3.) Conquer your fears by buying porn.
4.) If you attempt to do the John Holmes ruler experiment at work, make sure the receptionist doesn’t walk by your cubicle because she will look at you real funny when you nonchalantly wave at her with your free hand while using the other to hold the ruler vertically against your lower abdomen.
posted by Rachel @ 6:15 PM
5 Comments:
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