So two years after the end of a really bad relationship, really bad, I mean really really bad. Two years of not dating in my mid twenties. Two wonderful years of solitude and learning and growing and being thin, traveling alone, getting a huge tattoo (in 1997 it was huge and different to have a lower back tat, the term Tramp Stamp didn’t even exist.)

I finally decided that it was time to start dating again. (*Sigh* so happy to be happily married now and not having ,to go through that crap any more)

People are seldom what they seem.  This guy, seemed good looking, fairly successful and

well balanced. 

Hmmm, not so much.  We go to a Four Brothers Pizza Inn  (totally classy joint which you can tell because it’s an Inn not just a restaurant) for our first *date*.  When the bill came he asked to split the tab.  I was raised very traditionally and if I ask you out I pay, not ‘hey lets split this’. I was appalled but apparently lacking that certain *FUCK YOU* kind of self esteem…I went for my wallet and graciously obliged. The second date was at a hunting preserve where he was a guide, that one went okay, so we’re at 50%. No hunting took place but I should have Cheneyed him right then and there, if I had known what that was way back then.

And then there was the THIRD date.  Oh. My. Fucking. God. What a disaster.  It was take out and movie rentals at his house his parents house.

‘Mom, where’s my sweatshirt? what?  YOU MEAN YOU DIDN’T DO MY LAUNDRY?’

Take out was no big deal (I don’t think I had to pay this time, at least)  and it was no big deal that he lived with his parents after all I was at the time happily living in my parents house, but to act like a *spoiled little bitch about to get your period for the fist time* because MOMMY hadn’t washed your god fucking awful sweatshirt, please I am a chick and I never and I MEAN NEVER get angry that my fucking SWEATSHIRT isn’t *READY*  especially if someone else is doing my laundry. (which by the way hasn’t happened since I was 13) But then I don’t really wear sweatshirts either, just a personal choice.  So maybe I am missing something like when a guy puts one on how totally hot they become or something. I really hate men is Sweat’s especially sweat pants.

This night was quickly going down the shitter.

So I kind of tried to play kissy face for a while and then it happened the thing all women can’t stand.

If my hand is not on your dick I am sure I am quite aware of it and probably mean it to be that way. I don’t think there has ever been a moment for any woman, when they think to themselves, ‘Oh Thank god you remembered because I totally forgot to put my hand on your willy!’ Yes he put my hand on it.  I should have just punched him in the balls for that cute little maneuver, but nooooooo, I was being  stupid nice.  By this time my skin is crawling and all I want to do is run screaming at first possible break in this stomach turning episode. 

Then, something really disturbing happened.  Apparently my denim clad thigh

has the sexual magnetism of a cat in heat.  He proceded to dry hump my thigh until he let loose with all of his manly sex goo all over my thigh,

the jeans not longer dry, fiending for a cigarette, I bolted and never ever intended to see him again.   

I then had the pleasure of shamefully skulking into my parent’s house with my now stiffening stained jeans covered by my jacket.

I was at the time bartending at my brothers bar and also dating the next loser in my life (and last! Whoo hoo!)  The problem with working in a place like that is anyone can come in, even Thigh Rapists.  There he was the next night, sauntering in like the disgusting prick he is king of the jungle just having marked his territory, that territory being my thigh I guess. So he walks right up to me interrupts the conversation and then proudly presents my earrings to me in front of all of my co-workers and says ‘You left THESE at my house last night’, all proud and pathetic. 

And then the crazy came out.  He started calling me 3-4 times during my shift, where I was always too busy to talk, and usually that wasn’t a lie. Saying how he wanted an explanation, that he deserved that at least.  My feeling was that after you defile some ones favorite pair of (not just jeans) LEVIS, you deserve absolutely nothing short of a bitch slap.

The last time we spoke he called me at 8 am Sunday morning, I think I probably got to bed at about 6 am after working all night.  ‘Hey I’m just down the road and thought I would stop by with some bagels’ ghhhhgeeefhgjgh

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, HOW DID HE FIND OUT WHERE I LIVE.

Me: ‘Don’t come by I am in bed and just went to sleep at 6 am’

He: ‘I deserve an explanation as to why you won’t see me any more’

Me: ‘After three dates, I don’t feel you really deserve any thing, its not like we’ve been seeing each other for months now.  I am tired and want to sleep and just not ready for another thigh raping a relationship.’

CLICK

Why, why why WHY, Did I not tell him what a huge turn off it is to be dry humped into humiliation by some one you hardly know, not to mention its just plain RUDE.

And as my second to last act of revenge, I can’t even remember his name.

My last act of revenge, telling people about it.

The older I get the more I worry. Gone are the days of youthful abandon when the worst thought was what to wear that day.  To clarify, I worry about things over which I have no control.  That is probably because I am a perfectionist control freak.  When I get into these moments, I constantly picture white light surrounding everything, me, my husband, my parents, brother, doggies, garbage pale, dishwasher, driveway, etc.! All the while reciting silently in my head the “SECRET” mantra…’my good thoughts are stronger than my bad thoughts.’ 

’my good thoughts are stronger than my bad thoughts.’  ’my good thoughts are stronger than my bad thoughts.’ Really what I should do is have a drink that seems to take the cares away much better than Calgon or any so called fucking mantra. (hmmm, fucking mantra, what would that sound like?)

Two weeks before Christmas, we knew my husband was having knee surgery on Monday.

What we did not know was that on the previous Friday our older puppy was going to ingest everything un-digestible she could find out side and some things in side (sticks, stones, plastic, thorny bushes, Frisbee parts, and what not) which would cause her to vomit about 15 times from 8 until panic-thirty, which was about 12:45 when I forced her and my self on my husbands Godfather, Dr. Gary Cane, who was in surgery with a cat with no shirt on(?) when I arrived. I then left her there to have numerous enemas, no food and a few tools stuck up her ass to pull out a few stony, stick stuffed stools for the next five days. (say that 10 times fast)

I would imagine it  looked like this, except that guy should be topless.

Another thing we were unaware of was that my husband was not supposed to be left alone for the first 24 hours and that he was not supposed to do anything, like drive, plow the driveway (duh!), move, pee alone, pooping is out of the question. He had it in mind that he was going to be up and around in 2-3 days, which almost seemed a possibility up until pain-thirty on the first day home after surgery. Pain-thirty happened about noon on Tuesday, when  all of the numbing agents wore off (that was supposed to happen at midnight the night before, ahh the bliss of numbing agents for him)  We couldn’t understand why the doctor said TWO pain pills every 4-6 hours and not ONE, until it was pain-thirty. Then two it was as directed. At this point he is rocked off his ass and somehow I am jealous that he had knee surgery…yeah that is how much I love good pain pills, but not so bad that I am going to cop any when he is not looking.

We also did not know that snow was coming on the second day home from surgery.  A fact that in this house could seriously impede any and all activities that involve anything other than couch surfing.

So after getting hubs settled on the couch, feeding and walking both puppies, drinking an entire pot of espresso. (I am that nice that I drank his cup too so he didn’t have to) I set out to plow the drive way, which by the way is nearly vertical and full of switchbacks (okay 2 switchbacks, and extremely steep, 22% grade). 

My instructions:

1. turn on choke and start the four wheeler
2. lift plow
3. give it gas and turn off choke.
4. back up but don’t go over the edge (our house is on a cliff)… and watch out you don’t hit the deck posts. (umm, okay)
5. Keep it in low as the brakes don’t really work (What the fuck)
6. Make sure to keep on the gas going down as the transmission doesn’t really work either.
7. Go slow. (I think I should let it wide open and fly down, don’t you?) 

So with little to no confidence that I wouldn’t end up ass over four wheeler floating down the Housatonic, I set out to plow the driveway at the crack of 9:45.  You see I had every intention of getting up at 6:00 to have coffee, and blah blah blah, I got out of bed at 8 am.  Having had to take older puppy out 3-4 times in the night to squirt butterscotch out her ass doesn’t really leave you bright eyed and bushy tailed at 6:00 am. 

So there I went.  And it went really well.  I actually plowed our nearly vertical driveway with zero panic moments. (except those that entered my head about my parents who had yet to return my fifth phone call of the day.  Most likely they were out having their blood work done, which will give a bit of insight as to the why a lack of communication from them might inspire panic, riddled with thoughts of doom and despair.)

Here are some pictures of the now clear driveway.  

(The first picture…see where the driveway disappears, that is where it gets steep and scary!)

Thankfully I salted the driveway with the hand spreader yesterday afternoon, spending 125 pounds of salt and three trips up and down, just to be sure.  And I think I enjoyed doing it. A fact that my husband never needs to know but may suspect when I came in all smiling and proud. (Its kind of raining now so I probably didn’t even need to but you never know what things are going to transpire from moment to moment and I am glad I tested my skills in a smaller storm.)

So having done all that and starting laundry I was still worried about my parents and the white light crap wasn’t working so I started writing this and then that wasn’t working so I called…again. And my mom answered and all is fine.  They were actually Christmas shopping, yay for me!

And now the sun is shining and I am wondering if it is Drink-thirty yet, because it sure feels like it to me.

Cheers!

Here are some slutty clementines for your cocktail.