Entries Tagged 'Once Upon a Time...' ↓

Let me tell you about this one time at the Outback Christmas party. The Christmas party that happened about three days before I quit.

My first year working at Outback, when I was a wee 20 years old, the Christmas party was this extravagent dress-up affair. It was held at the Vanderbilt Stadium Club and there was free liquor and beer until it ran out. Everyone got fancy cocktail dresses and smoke and drank and ate and danced and were generally extraordinarily shitfaced. Real fun.

Fast forward to six, long years later, to a party in a single room, crammed with about 100 people. At a local bar. The All-American Sports Bar. Drinks were $5 each and built for you by a seriously pissed off bartender. Who was plainly an idiot. This chick was selling drinks hand over fist to a room full of SERVERS AND BARTENDERS and was being a first class cunt rag. Servers also know full well how not to tip.

Anyway, my manager gave out raffle tickets to employees who brought in Toys for Tots donations. The more toys you brought the more tickets you accumulated. Six big winners were selected after DVDs and ghetto blasters were given away to the people who brought in the most toys in efforts to score mad goods. (It worked.) The big-ass grand prize, for which six lucky people would compete, was hyped by my manager as the most awesome, mindblowing prize one could ever receive. I actually got a little excited when my name was called. I waited in a huddle with the other lucky winners, $5 vodka gimlet in my hand, when he led us all to another room. After a brief countdown he opened the doors and the lucky winners began running in and screaming. I was sort of last in line and not so much screaming.

Once inside, I saw that there was cash. Not much left of it, mind you, but a couple of fives and twenty or so one dollar bills littered the pool table and the chairs and the floor. I scooped up a few bills while holding firmly onto my drink. I got $4 or so when I looked up to see my manager laughing and jumping up and down. For him, this was what Chirstmas parties were all about. Watching his employcrawl on the ground shrieking and groping wildly for a few measley bucks.

I went back to my chair feeling ashamed. What had just happened? Had my manager really just broken down a $100 into small bills and strewn them about for his $2.13/hr. underlings to snatch maniacally? My $4 grand prize was certainly appreciated but the way in which I haev to acquire it embarrassed me.

My manager bragged the following days how fun the grand prize game was. He’d loved it. He couldn’t wait to do it bigger and better next year. Luckily, I didn’t stick around to see if maybe I could scrounge for $5 next Christmas.

This Are You Still to be a Virgin ad from Tampax that dates back to 1990 has got me thinking. Well, mostly it has me laughing. “Absorb like crazy”? “Plug you up”? I doubt anyone’s truly ever been “totally psyched” to try a tampon. In fact, the first time I ever tried one was a terrible and traumatic experience.

I was a member of this all-girl Southern Baptist church group as a kid called Girls in Action. Our leader was this totally creepy woman with false teeth who always smelled like Dentyne and cigarettes. Her name was Rochelle. Mrs. Rochelle. She still repulses me to this day for some reason. Anyway, we went to the lake to go swimming, and I guess I was 11 or so, and had just a few months before got my period for the first time.* I desperately wanted to go swimming with my friends, but my mom told me I’d have to use a tampon in order to get in the water.

We went to Wal-Mart and stood poring over the options before us. Words like Super and Toxic Shock Syndrome had me totally freaked. I opted for the most slender, softest tampon I could find, something that was Junior and Petal Soft and very pink and in a tiny, tiny box. For whatever reason, I didn’t practice putting in a tampon before we got to the outdoor, doorless bathroom in the motherfucking woods. Eleven year olds are not smart most times. So my mom goes in with me to act as my coach and a pitiful excuse for a door. On our march to the public park bathroom she’s insisting I be relaxed. “YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO RELAX OR THIS WON’T WORK. Got it? Now relax!”

Even though I hadn’t practiced, I’d committed that little booklet of instructions they include with tampons to memory. I’d already selected what position I’d be using.** With my mother standing watch in front of the stall, my heart a racehorse in my budding chest, I made my first ever attempt at inserting a tampon. And nearly hyperventilated. I was as far from relaxed as one can imagine, more like totally frightened of great piercing pain or stabbing a stray ovary with the applicator. I began to cry. I was so fucking scared. And beaten. Despite how much I wanted to join the others on paddle boats, to talk to the cute lifeguard who I’d seen getting a hot dog, I gave up my first try at putting in a tampon.

I stuck a thin maxi pad into my bathing suit and made my way to the blanket to watch the others swim.

For about five minutes.

There was no way I could sit there and watch Janet and Carrie and Sally playing Marco Polo without me. I looked down between my legs. The slim pad was nearly undectable in my dry suit. In fact, if you didn’t know it was there, there’d be no way you could tell. And you could tell even less than that if my bottom half was submerged in water.

Again, 11 year olds are pretty much dumb asses. So I made my way into the water, and after fending off questions from my friends, began to relax and have a good time finally. I made sure to swim up near the lifeguard stand to get a better look at the blonde freckled cutie I’d seen at the concession stand earlier. I was floating on my back, eyes closed, sticking my bug-bite, 6th grade boobs up in the air when my blood-covered maxi pad floated up near my head.

I paniced. People one by one began to notice. Laughter. “Oh my God, is that a dirty pad!!” Freaking out. Thinking I may drown from embarassment. Instead I swam away–not too fast, as to draw too much attention. I swam determinedly away from the red, bobbing maxi pad. I denied all suspicions. I told myself it didn’t happen. It was the most traumatized my pre-pubescent self had ever been.

Hard to believe I’d forgotten that story until just now. Even harder to believe I just told it to you.

Thank God for no longer being eleven.

*The first time I got my period I told all my best girlfriends about it. I was the first of us to get “the curse.” Every single one of them called me a liar.

**The foot on the toilet stance. Which, for me–I don’t know about the rest of you girls–has never facilitated an easy entrance. They might as well ask you to cross your ankles first.

Upon listening to an acquaintance’s dating trials and pre-relationship tribulations (”A goal or a bathroom, I figure he should at least have one or the other.”) I remembered that much of the wisdom I’ve gleaned in the Boy Dept. isn’t incredibly applicable to most women. You see, I’ve had the distinct pleasure of dating not one, but two homosexual men.

I take that back. They were swishy, International Male-wearin’, lisp-havin’ queers who found yours truly to be the perfect hairy beard. How I didn’t know is really only a shock until one learns, like you have now learned, that all of my relationships until I was twenty were solely about me. I hadn’t the wherewithal to notice that my boyfriends were totally content to watch cheerleading competitions with me on ESPN.

So I’ve compiled a list of WAYS TO KNOW YOUR BOYFRIEND WOULD RATHER BE FUCKING A DUDE:

-He wants you to wear his class ring right away and everywhere. It took a handjob to get that from your quarterback boyfriend.

-He is reading Out magazine because he “mistook it for a clothing catalogue.”

-He borrows all your cap-sleeved, stretchy shirts.

-You met at the casting for Anything Goes!

-He has paperbacks about Paula Abdul, whom he just loves!

-You’ve kissed five times in five months.

-All anal, all the time.*

-Your mom wants you to marry him. (She always will.)

-He only likes to go dancing at The Chute. The music everywhere else is a bore.

-He likes to go dancing.

-He taught you a fresh, new tap dancing move.

-When you place his hand on your breast he insists he’s shy and this is all just a little to fast. (It’s all just a little too NOT A PENIS.)

-He sends you the most elaborate bouquet of daisies and purple sweetheart roses. For no reason.

-He buys you lipstick. He thinks that shade would look nice on you.

-He says he fell in love with you when he heard your favorite movie is The Wizard of Oz. Then he does the whole Tin Man song and dance scene. Flawlessly.

*The VCB’s contribution.

This might be the best line I’ve ever written in an email (today):

Oh, and I should apologize for being such a total cunt in high school.

Dear Smokey,

You, doggie dear, are the first pet I have any memory of. My sister got you as a gift for her 4th or 5th birthday, and she was maybe the cutest thing ever that day when she picked you up from your red-ribboned box. She also got a play tunnel that day, and I remember laughing and crawling down the tunnel after your furry grey bottom. Amy, ever the clever one, named you after the color of your coat.

Then you went and ate some poisonous berries and died. That was fucking weak. We should have taught you better.

Rest in Peace,
B

Dear Socks,

You were the neighbor’s dog, but I loved you like my own. You would sit in Mom’s flower bed and that would really piss her right off. Good going, there. Also, thanks for letting me ride you. I know my 3-year-old ass was really boney and I may have kicked your flank a time or two. What a shitty neighbor kid I was. I am also sorry about calling you Socks and Shoes instead of just Socks. I was a miserable brat who did not fully appreciate your humble good nature.

I’m sure you are also dead, so please rest in peace as well,
B

Dear That One Turtle,

My redneck family had no right buying you for my sister and I since all we had to keep you in was that fish tank with a rock in it. And a garden hose.

It’s sad you died so soon. But, to be honest, I got over it pretty quickly because you were boring beyond belief. You’d never let me touch your neck or anything.

You were my only turtle ever though. (Besides that one turtle from Dad’s pond that my uncle shot to bits with a rifle when he was drunk. Not my pet, but you can clearly see you were slightly better off than other turtles in my past.)

B

Dear That One Litter of Kittens,

You may have heard my sister and I tell our father we understood and were okay with his giving you guys away. But please know that when you left Amy and I cried for you like we’d lost six little, wriggly, tan-spotted pieces of our hearts.

Sorry we didn’t show it when it mattered,
B

Dear Spirit,

You were our family cat during a very fucked up period of my childhood. You saw some of the truly wack shit go down. Then, after a while you became my stepsister’s cat. I’m not sure how that happened. I think the apartment we moved to wouldn’t allow you. I’m sure you got fat and happy on second hand bong rip’s at the stepsister’s, so that isn’t so terribly bad. I’m sorry my Mom named you after Number 3 in the Holy Trinity. That’s some namesake to live up to.

You are also probably dead. Which sucks.
B

Beauregard,

My cousin Amanda showed up with you in her jacket, just a tiny puppy Bassett Hound whose ears were like elephants’. You were the most adorable puppy on the planet until you grew big and slobbery and stinky. Goddamn, you were stinky. You are one of the stinkiest breeds around, ya know.

Which is not a good enough excuse for neglecting you. Sure you were fed and watered. And had other puppies to play with. But no one walked you and you were never, ever allowed inside and well, you were just so stinky. And sad looking.

And then you died. Cancer. And I cried and cried because I was just a kid or I wouldn’t have let you stay out back so alone. I cried because I never got to know you.

With deepest regret,
B

Dear Mittens,

Mom declawed you which is totally fucked. You used to be such a hunter. Dead mice every day! You were the spritely cat of the house.

Now you just sit on the end of Mom’s big bed and sit. With your clawless feet pushed under your white patch. Makes me sad that you have aged so.

And what the fuck is up with the allegy assault? It never used to be this way. Now I go to Mom’s and within an hour my eyes are red and wet and itchy. Do you know it is impossible to scratch the roof of one’s mouth? They say people develop new allergies over time. Guess we’ve both changed a lot.

At least you have that awesome view of the bird feeder,
B

Dear Abby,

First things first. Sorry for closing you up in that drawer all day while we were at school. I’m not sure if it was Amy’s fault or mine, but that fact remains that you spent 8 hours in a dresser drawer. That had to have blown hard.

Also, that was the best thing ever when you came back to life. You disappeared for two whole days and my sister was wrecked. (Technically you are her cat, but we lived together for like, 7 years, and you watched me bathe a bunch. So you are partially mine, too.) Then our aunt called and said she’d seen you flattened on the highway. She could tell it was you from your distinctive, squirrel-like tail. My sister had to call in to work she was so destroyed. Mom and the stepdad went and scraped you up off the road and had a little serivce and burial for you in the yard. They say it’s important to see the body one last time in order to grieve properly. Everyone was a mess for the rest of the evenin until you showed up the next morning, pretty as you please, at the back door. Whining.

Thanks to your little prank–hiding in the neighbor’s garage for the weekend–everyone was incredibly torn up. How could you let us bury some random cat in the backyard?

At least that cat had a proper burial In fact, minus the tears, that was a pretty awesome stunt.

I guess you will always be my motherfucker, Abigail. Even if you’ve never loved anyone as much as that sister of mine.

You should try and deal with your attatchment issues, as well. Never has a cat been so needy. At least you rock that big, all-over cat afro.

Your Mom’s sister,
B

One day when I was 14 or so, I came home from somewhere to find my sister and her best friend Emily on the couch talking on the phone. The scene as usual. Emily lived three houses up the hill from us with her older sister Rhoda, who was my age. We became friends when my Mom sort of forced my sister and I to introduce ourselves when they moved in, which we secretly wished to do anyway. So we did.

Emily and Amy grew closer than Rhoda and I did, and in fact, are roommates this very day. Which is all beside the point. The point is it was no big deal that Emily was there; nothing at all seemed amiss. Until I sat down on the couch with them. The television was off and their phone call had ended, and in the quiet I heard noises from downstairs in the basement. My parents weren’t home, yet. There was no one there but us. The look on my sister’s face indicated I was correct–there should be absolutely no one in the basement. There was a clanking noise and then, minutes later, a bang. Amy and Emily’s faces froze solid with terror and my own heart began thumping wildly. Another loud and sudden boom from below sent the three of us into hysterics, the girls screaming wildly, me darting into my bedroom.

Once there I found letters from my boyfriend and photographs of us torn and scattered on my bed. A stuffed animal he’d given me sat gutted amidst the scraps beside a letter scrawled by a shaky hand. It read: Robin doesn’t love you bitch, so stay away.

Confused and paralyzed with fear I tried to make sense of what was going on. About that time whoever was downstairs began making more noise and my sister and Emily had taken cover in the hall closet. I found comfort in my own, as well, and went in there to freak the fuck out. I was terrified.

More noise from downstairs frightened me enough to make a bit of pee escape and it was at that point that I took off running. I found the courage to bolt out of the closet and through the living room and out the front door and right over to my neighbor’s place where I began banging relentlessly on their front door. At like, 10 p.m.

The couple that lived there was sleeping when they heard my screaming to get in. Once inside I told them how there was someone in my house and about the note and the torn pictures and nearly hyperventilated to death. The wife phoned the police while her husband headed outside with a shotgun. I was worried about Amy and Emily. I feared for their lives.

Before the police arrived Amy and Emily discovered what I had done and came running over to tell me what was happening. The girls and Rhoda and one of Rhoda’s friends were playing a prank. It was Rhoda downstairs making all that noise, while Amy and Emily played scared victims. Amy and Emily were in on the whole thing, they told me, and my nark-ass had just called the fucking police!

Then Emily and Rhoda had to inform their mom that the police were on their way because I’d just called them. Because their cruel little trick had backfired. By this time my parents had arrived home, which was fortunate since my stepdad was a deputy sherriff. He explained the misunderstanding and assured the officers the culprits would be reprimanded.

For their punishment, Amy, Emily, Rhoda and her friend each had their mouths washed out with soap. They were punished on a technicality, since a joke gone wrong can hardly be punished. They’d used the word ‘bitch’ in their letter. And for that they burped up bubbles for days.

My punishment, for being an over-reactionary, cry-baby, scaredy cat was weeks of ostracizing from the girls. That, and I kept the label given to me years earlier by my older stepsister, who still to this day holds a grudge because the beer-soaked towel she snapped at me during a game of Quarters with her friends (while she was supposedly babysitting me) left a huge red welt on my thigh, alerting my parents to the evening’s drunken goings-on.* That nickname was NarkFace, and it sure as shit didn’t go away after I inadvertantly called the police the night my friends practical joked me.

*There was also the time I broke my arm at the park while my stepsister was smoking cigarettes in the woods, thereby getting her totally busted when we sorta had to go to the emergency room, what with my bones all sticking out my arm and shit. I got blamed for getting her groundeing then, too.