Monthly Archives: June 2014

Russian Charades

Last winter I was on the road for a couple of months touring with The Moscow Ballet.  The cast, who were all Russian, I didn’t have to deal with much.  They traveled on a separate bus and had their own world, apart from the crew.  Thank God.  Being the merch girl, I think I had the best job on that tour because I was the only crew member who didn’t have to deal with the dancer’s or the children.  Laura, one of the costumer’s, basically called me a cold-hearted bitch on the regular because I didn’t have a soft spot for the 95 screaming little people running around everyday with snot dripping down their faces and whining about their costumes not fitting properly while simultaneously messing up my display with their orange, cheetos encrusted hands.  While I would love to continue with more on what that job was like, I’m going to save that for another day and get to my point.  It amazes me how much we rely on language, but how much we can do without it if we are just patient, and listen with our hearts instead of our ears.

There were nine of us crew members and we lived together on one bus.  Two of the nine were Russian, the rest of us, American.  Sonya, one of the costumers, and just a beautiful human being, understood English well enough to get by on a basic, needs only basis.  Igor, the sound engineer, started the tour knowing ZERO English.  Witnessing his English improve quite literally on the daily, was astounding.  By the end of the tour he could speak it as well as Sonya.

Igor and I are TIGHT.  I can’t explain how, because obviously, if him and I can’t even have a coherent, linguistic conversation, trying to describe our relationship using language is futile.  Though trust me when I say, we’re bonded.  Due to the language barrier, Igor and the rest of us grew to MASTER the game of charades.

One charades game was me explaining what “69” is.  That was fun.  There’s no being modest when trying to school a Russian on sex position terminology.  The gestures for “blow-job” and “eating-out” were easy, but trying to explain that these acts happened simultaneously was the hard part.  It involved mock demonstrations and minor acrobats on the bus.  While I would have rather not demeaned myself, no one else seemed up for the job, so I took it upon myself to make sure that Igor is now educated in the area of 69.  You’re welcome, Russia.

Another fun charades game happened on the last day of the tour.  I had climbed up onto the counter to retrieve a granola bar or whatever road food I had accessible, making my ass almost directly at eye level, and Igor sort of felt me up.  While that sounds completely violating, it was playful and ok because it was him.  Not everyone could get away with that.  I jokingly said, “Oh Igor!  You just made me feel some kind of way!”  Even though I know he didn’t understand what the fuck that meant, (since that’s a slang phrase from a stupid rap song), he didn’t need to understand the direct translation.  He understood the context.  It’s amazing what you can pick up on just with voice inflection, personality and body language.  Igor then went on to point to his crotch, and say something about Russia.  WHAT?!  We need a game of charades.  Go!

He raises his hand from the ground to his head, and then made some sort of explosion sound while simulating something coming from his ears.  Huh?  You’re bleeding from your ears?  Nope.  Wrong answer.

So he proceeds to point to his ring finger that has his wedding ring on it, and say “home to Russia,” and make humping motions, followed again by the confusing explosion/ear bleeding motion.  Lightbulb!  I got it!  And I started cracking up.

He was telling us that he can’t wait to get back to Russia to be with his wife because he is up to his ears in testosterone and so horny that he is about to explode.  Charades has never been so fun.

On a more serious note, we all knew that Igor was part of the special forces in Russia, but what his job was exactly, or what duties he performed is still unknown.  We just know that he was a badass.  The tour went to Washington D.C. for a show, so we all made an after hours visit to the Lincoln Memorial.  It was beautiful at night.  I love that city.

All nine of us were together, it was freezing out, and Igor and I were walking arm and arm, partly because it was so cold and partly because we’re BFF’s.  Gradually, the sidewalk wall began to rise… I didn’t think much of it at first; barely noticed.  Then all became quiet.

For just a few seconds, I think we all were silenced, when we realized we were walking through the Vietnam Memorial.  I had no idea.  It just happens if you’re not expecting it.  It starts off as just a small, foot tall wall next to the sidewalk, then it gradually becomes taller and taller until its’ black granite is towering over you, like a nightmare or a tangible representation of impending doom.  It was a true experience.  I felt it.  With Igor at my side, I felt him feel it too.  It was a very distinct sense that I think you only experience a few times in life.  That feeling of your soul merging with another, for just a moment in time.

We all continued walking in silence.  No words needed; we all understood.  By the end of the wall, after being immersed in the endless names of faceless men we’ll never know, Igor managed to get out, “I’m sorry for them.”

Hearing him say that, a non-American man, but a man who obviously knows what it means to be brothers in arms, it made my heart swell.  It reminded me that even though we all come from different places, dream for different reasons and fight for different causes, we all have the same heart.  I just squeezed him and shook my head, yes.  That was one of the most memorable moments on that tour, and neither language nor charades was really involved.

With the lifestyle I’ve led so far, I have known SO MANY goddamn people who I don’t anymore.  I’ve traveled a lot… moved a lot… loved and lost a lot… so I’ve learned to appreciate the people you know while you know them.  There are people I miss, that I was once bitter about not knowing and keeping in touch with anymore, but now I’m just glad I got to know them when I did.  I may never see Igor again, but we had the winter of 2013 together, and now we’re bonded for life.

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Love, Drugs and Infidelity – Chapter 3 of 3

…to be continued…

I honestly don’t remember how or why the dealing got so out of hand. Had I known the extent of what was going on, I probably would have spoken up.  I sometimes wonder if things would have turned out differently had I said something to him.  Of course I know that the tragedy to follow, was not my fault, but I just wonder… would he had stopped dealing if I had asked nicely?  If I had genuinely intervened, and request that he stop, I think there is a small chance that he would have.  I never wanted to be a nagging girlfriend though, so for the most part I just kept my mouth shut and turned a blind eye.  I also felt it wasn’t my place, because I was the one declaring that I wasn’t a “girlfriend.”  And so it goes.  I kept my head turned and he kept dealing, but he never got me involved in the least.

I’m not sure if I appreciated this at the time, but in hindsight, he must have gone through at least some lengths to keep me out of that whole mess.  A lot of people got arrested on that one awful morning.  A lot of their girlfriends got arrested too, because maybe one time she drove them to a dealer’s house, or one time she passed over a bag to someone because her boyfriend was at El Cheapo buying a case of Red Bull for exams week.  I vaguely remember there being times when I easily could have done something simple like that.

My blind eye was also due to naivety (or maybe the other way around), so I know that there were times when I had no idea that going over to Bob’s house to hang out, drink Heineken and watch bad television, also meant doing a drug deal.  Or letting a friend borrow my cell phone, actually meant them making a call to arrange buying five “paintbrushes” (they had codes).  I would have never knowingly done anything criminal, but I never did unknowingly either because Chewonki never allowed this.  Despite how convenient my involvement would have been for him, it was just a non-option in his mind, which brings true romance to our unconventional love story.  It was almost as if his gift to me was maintaining my ignorance.

If I remember correctly, just before he was arrested, things were pretty shitty between us for a while and it slightly effected our friend circle because we couldn’t be in the same room together without making everyone else feel vastly uncomfortable.  So I think this is the point where Marie really stepped in and did that she thing does.  Marie is my great friend who always acted as a mediator/counselor to my fucked up personal life in college.  She was doing her part in trying to get us to become amiable again and  I guess it worked.  Civility led to friendliness which led to talking and laughing together again, which led to falling for him, all over again.

I had decided that I wasn’t going to act on this, however.  It would not have been fair to him.  He always knew what he wanted, I was the one who changed my mind every fourteen seconds, so I wanted to at least spare him of another episode of Penny Hell.  I wanted to save him from me.

It was now February of 2008.  On some normal night, we were doing some normal thing, and he was just being so damn cute.  I couldn’t stand it anymore.  He probably called me, “his little quarter minus twenty-four cents” again.  Like I said, I went by Penny then, so Chewonki would sometimes call me that, and I was such a sucker for it.  It was so ridiculous, but it made me laugh every time.  Anyway, after keeping it platonic for a while, I had to kiss him.  And I did.  And thank fucking God I did.  It was beautiful.  We spent that evening together, and I remember talking to myself, telling myself, you’re so happy right now.  You can do this with him.  Just stay in this.  And that was the last time I’d be with him.  Hours later, just as the sun was rising, the cops would bang on the door of his house.

There was an eight month investigation that had apparently been going on, and Chewonki (and others) got narced on.  There was a total of 25 SCAD students that got arrested.  Granted, a couple of the people arrested were relatively high up in the chain, but most of them were like Chewonki.  Not that I’m condoning his behavior, but he was just some pion.  And the worst drug dealer ever I might add, because they never had any money!

The saddest part may be that after their arrest, I found out that they were planning on quitting; getting out of the dealing.  From what I understand, they were in the process of doing this, which is why during the search of Chewonki’s bedroom, as he sat on his mattress handcuffed and hopeless, the cops found nothing.  No drugs.  Just mirrors and razors I believe.  They thought that they had just busted a huge drug ring.  They were expecting to find friggen bricks of cocaine in closets.  Really they just got some rich college kids who were selling $11 worth of shit blow out of their living rooms that had Grateful Dead posters on the walls and always smelled like Ramen Noodles, so that they could keep putting cocaine down their face without their parents inquiring about spending habits.  There was serious crime going on in all of the government projects in the area, and the Savannah PD just didn’t want to deal with it because shit, I wouldn’t either!  With their embarrassing salary, why go risk your lives in the projects, when you can hassle some artsy college kids?  Excuse the rant.  With that being said however, I don’t pardon what they did and maybe it was a blessing in disguise.  Who knows how out of hand his drug use could have become had he not been arrested.

When it all went down  I was obviously heartbroken.  That was a pretty traumatic time for all of us.  Marie had it the worst, but that’s a whole other tragic tale.  College would never be the same again.  Memories of college post-arrests, have a completely different tone and spirit than all of the ones pre-arrests because our whole group of friends was split up.  A lot were arrested… people had to drop out of school… do jail time, rehab, probation blah blah blah and Chewonki was in the thick of it.  That was the last time I saw him.

A few days after his arrest, while he was still in jail, unable to get bailed out yet, his mom called me to update me, and she said, “He wants me to tell you that he’s sorry and that he loves you.”  I cried my eyes out for weeks.

He was obviously expelled from school, and once he finally got bailed out, he had to move back up to New Jersey, and soon after, was forced to go to rehab in California.  We kept in touch over the phone fairly well during all of this, but then came the day when he had to do real jail time.  I forget how long he was in for.  Six months I think?  After that, it just became harder and harder to keep in touch.  I lived in either Georgia, Florida or California, and he lived in New Jersey and time just moves all things.  I’m sure both of us didn’t try as hard as we could have, but we had to move on.  I had moved on.  Until two weeks ago, I didn’t see Chewonki for six years.

Due to recent work, I have been traveling a lot, so I was able to see him.  We only had a short amount of time together, but it was like choreography.  There we were, Matt and Penny, talking and laughing, just like always.

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Love, Drugs and Infidelity – Chapter 2 of 3

…to be continued…

At our college we went by quarters, not semesters.  Each quarter was only ten weeks long.  Between quarters, there was a long break.  Winter break was a month and a half, summer was three months and spring, I believe, was three weeks.  As I have stated before, during this time of my life, I was very anti-relationships, and my behavior absolutely supported this declaration.  At least I was consistent!  We would all go home during breaks, and during my time at home, I might as well have lived in a burgundy robe, started a magazine and changed my last name to Hefner.  Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but there were definitely boys, and the plural in that statement is certainly appropriate.  I blame it on my self-diagnosis (see chapter 1).  One of the symptoms of my asshole syndrome, was the “out of sight, out of mind” rule.

Each time I would leave Savannah, I would be so in love with Chewonki, but each time I would return, for some inexplicable reason, I would sketch out (I’m bringing back that phrase) and not be into him anymore.  God I sucked.  It was like that movie 50 First Dates, where the girl has amnesia every day, and so every day, the guy has to remind her that she loves him.  I imagine that that’s kind of what it was like for Chewonki dating me.  The first two weeks of our return, he’d spend putting up with my coldness and essentially trying to remind me that I liked him.  It always worked though.  I always came around and for the following eight weeks of the quarter I’d be infatuated with him again, but then the cycle would continue.  While we were together, I never once called him my boyfriend.  For two and a half years Chewonki put up with this.  I have no idea why.  It’s like I had his whole heart but he didn’t have mine.

I know I joke about my “asshole syndrome,” but during this whole phase of my life, I was immensely crippled with remorse.  All of the guys that I was involved with, I really did respect and care about so deeply, so I hated myself.  For years, I could barely look at myself in the mirror.  With that being said, during one of the breaks in between quarters, I was home and Chewonki called me, and this was the first time he said, “I love you.”

I think it’s strange that I cannot remember the first time anyone else said I love you to me.  Actually, that’s not true.  I remember the very first time.  But that’s because it was the first time and my first “serious” boyfriend, and it was while I was in the process of losing my virginity.  Aw, how perfectly suburban of me.  Anyway, I think I remember with Chewonki because it was equally as traumatic as it was romantic.  Ironically, it was over the phone and I generally hate that… but not this time because it was so real.

At this point I’d say we’d been seeing each other for the better part of a year, and I assumed that he was doing the same thing as me; going home and seeing other people.  Duh!  Because that seems so perfectly reasonable and healthy.  Well, this was the conversation when I found out I was completely wrong in my assumption.  This whole time, he was being exclusive to me and I was off being a make-out whore.  It was an emotional conversation… I was crying… he was crying… and I said to him, “do you still like me?”  and without hesitation he said, “Of course I still like you.  I love you, with all of my heart.”

Just take that in for a moment.

I mean, Jesus Christ.  I just informed this guy that I’ve been seeing other dudes this entire time, and he responds with that!  I didn’t deserve him.  And talk about a rush of emotions.  We must have hit every emotion on the human spectrum during that single conversation.  I was like physically exhausted by the time we hung up.

I have never been into drugs.  Like I stated in Adventures of a Touring with a Rock Band, I just suck at them.  I didn’t even smoke weed for the first time until college.  Chewonki, and our whole circle of friends were total stoners though.  My freshman/sophomore year of college was by far the most often I have ever smoked.  I probably smoked with them once every four days or so, which to me was a lot, but to them, I might as well have been Sober Sally.  Like most people who smoke as much as they did, they got into mild dealing.  Just a bit of weed here and there to support their own obsession with being high.  After his sophomore year, and once we had all moved out of the dorms, Chewonki and our other good friend got into coke.  They developed a habit.

I’m not sure how this happened.  This is where my memory really starts to fade.  I remember him sometimes doing coke on the weekends or something, but not because I saw him do it, but because I could taste that he had done it.  It’s weird, if someone is on coke, when you kiss them, their mouth has this very distinct smell and taste.  Even hours after someone doing a line, you can still taste it on them.  So I do remember, sophomore year, tasting it on him sometimes.  Anyway, I think coke is fucking sketchy, and he knew this, so he never did it in front of me.  Thinking back, that must have been hard for him.  I mean, over the years, he went on to develop a full on coke addiction, but I don’t ever remember seeing him actually snort a line.  I must have at least a few times, but it was scarce enough that I have no clear image of him doing it at all.  All my other friends at the time, yes, I have vivid memories of them snorting away their soul while sitting on a dilapidated couch, stealing rolls of my toilet paper [to blow their nose] and talking all over one another.  Time went on, and to support their habit, Chewonki and our other friend began dealing cocaine together.

Our rocky path continued, and right around the time of their arrest, it had been the longest Chewonki and I had ever gone without being together.  Until the night before he was arrested.

Stay tuned for the conclusion of this story.

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Love, Drugs and Infidelity – Chapter 1 of 3

This is a story about a time, a place and a boy.  It’s not a special story, but it’s special to me, and it’s time to tell the tale.

The time was college, eight years ago.  The place was Savannah, Georgia and the boy is Chewonki.  His name is not actually Chewonki, but within the first week of knowing him, he made the mistake of singing his camp song in front of me so the nickname stuck.  The fact that I was attending a college where 99% of the students came from those families that sent their kids away to camp every summer was my first clue that I was displaced.  The fact that his family sent him to a place called fucking Camp Chewonki where they literally sang songs around a campfire (I thought that was just in the movies), it’s no wonder he had emotional problems.  At least his problems could be professionally diagnosed and medicated.  My self diagnosis is simply that I suffer from asshole syndrome, to which the only medication is alcohol; a self-medication used to forget that you’re an asshole.

The first time I met Chewonki I did not like him.  I can’t remember why exactly, and I just called him this second to ask him if he remembers, and this was the conversation:

“Hello?”

“Hey, are you busy?”  I asked.

“No.  I just got out of some stupid meeting.”

“Sorry that I’m chewing really loud.”

“It’s okay.  Whatever it is, it sounds delicious.”

“It is.  It’s beef jerky, so you know… it requires work to eat it.”

He laughed, “I did notice that your jaw looked strong the last time I saw you.”

“Thanks!  Anyway, do you remember why I didn’t like you when we first met?”

“You judged the cover, asshole.”

“No, I feel like it was because you acted like a Republican,”

“Penny, (this is my nickname, and what most of my college friends call me) I am the most liberal person you know.”  EVERYONE at art school is liberal so he got me there…

“Then maybe it was because you had terrible taste in music.”  Silence.  “So yeah… I guess you’re right.  I did judge the cover.”

“You looked at me and saw a Jersey douche.  But then we went to that party and bonded and you liked me after that.”

“Yeah, I do remember that I liked you at least a little bit at some point in my life.”

Laughing, “I don’t remember that part, but hopefully you still do at least a little.”

“All right, that’s all.  Bye!”

“Bye.  Love you.”

Back to 2006, rewinding over the arrests, drug deals and first time I love you’s that will come later in the story.  At this party (which he referred to in the above), I somehow found myself deep in conversation with Chewonki, the only guy there who I was not attracted to.  Three arguments and maybe two hours later and we were kissing.  Three hang out sessions and maybe two days after that, and we were infatuated with one another.  Him and I in deep conversation at a social gathering was something that I remember to be a pretty consistent occurrence.  It was college, so there were a lot of parties.  It was art school, so there were a lot of interesting people.  Chewonki and I would frequent these events, and though I have the memory of a fucking gold fish, I vaguely remember us more often than not,  ignoring all the new exciting people, and just ending up on the couch together, talking.

The beginning of us took place at a time when I thought I was hardcore because I drank Jack Daniels.  I was nineteen, so I was probably drinking a half of an ounce of Jack for every twelve ounces of coke, but regardless, I became abhorrently drunk one night after Chewonki and I had just started seeing one another.  I was sick in the bathroom, and Marie, my good college friend and roommate called Chewonki.  Now that we’re older of course, if a friend becomes sick due to intoxication, we stay seated and just point to the direction of the bathroom and maybe check in a half hour later to make sure she didn’t drown in the toilet.  But at nineteen, when a friend was puking, there was a whole goddamn rescue squad and procedures that took place.  I was not thrilled on the idea of Chewonki seeing me this way, but I was too drunk to object.  I was on the floor of a friend’s dorm bathroom, that had a random chair in it that read in chalk, “To whom that may concern, I would like to inform you that I just took the biggest dump of my life, and there is no toilet paper.”  After a minute of Chewonki sitting on the floor of this bathroom that should have been condemned, I think I did manage to ask him to give me a minute so that I could vomit in privacy.

To kill the time, he must have picked up a magazine or something, because when he came back in, the first thing he said was not, “are you ok?” or “you doin’ all right?” or any of those conventional phrases.  He said, “So I just learned that Clearwater is the Scientology headquarter of the world.”  Clearwater is where I’m from.  In some small way, I think that might have been the moment that I fell in love with him, though I didn’t recognize it for that at the time.  But what more could I ask for?  A guy who holds your hair back while you’re puking, and manages to have a good sense of humor while doing it.

We went on to have some great times and some hard times too, of course.  I take responsibility for most of the hard, but with that being said, he is a little bit out of his mind.  To be serious, it was sometimes difficult because he had emotional problems that I didn’t understand.  Unstable would be an appropriate word.  Chewonki was unstable.  So we had our fights, and our fair share of “down” times during our rollercoaster of a relationship, but he was always so kind to me despite his insanity and my bitchiness.

Our up times were great.  They were nothing elaborate or lavish, just two college kids laughing and talking.  For example, Chewonki is 6’5″ and I’m 5’3″.  This didn’t really bother me, (though kissing occasionally presented itself to be problematic) but it bothered him.  While walking together, he’d push me away and say, “don’t walk next to me, it’s embarrassing.”  Of course I took full advantage of him being uncomfortable with the height difference, and would get super close to him and purposely call attention us.  He called me a midget, and Flinestone feet.   He was such a character.  He used to wear friggen sweat-bands around his head with his hair sticking a good four inches straight up in all directions, and walk around like that all day.  And he’d also take his shirt off and spray himself with tanning oil if we were going to be outside for more than three and a half minutes.  Granted, he did these things to make me laugh, but he was also at least 55% serious about them.  That’s what I liked about Chewonki; he was goofy, but he knew when to be serious and we could laugh, as well as have meaningful conversations.  And the way he looked at me… I remember that it sometimes quite literally took my breath away.  I could feel that he cared about me.  With others, I could hear it, I could hear them say it, but with Chewonki, I could feel it.

I get antsy if I’m cooped up inside for more than a couple of hours.  I am perfectly comfortable with admitting that I can absolutely be annoying when I’m antsy.  Chewonki would never act annoyed though, so this is another fond memory I have of him.  He would always humor me, stop whatever important task he was in the middle of, and go with me outside (though I’m sure he didn’t want to) and shoot hoops for fifteen minutes or however long it took for me to get the antsiness out of my system, before returning to his homework or whatever it is that he was doing pre Penny neediness.  So nice.  And he defended me.  In my opinion, that’s the most powerful way to express love.  You know you love someone when you can wholeheartedly defend them to anyone.  I was not there, but some night that he was at a party, this girl, who he was good friends with, called me some stupid name, and Chewonki slapped her drink out of her hand and yelled at her, which apparently led to this girl crying.  I got wind of it the next day and asked him about it.  I remember I said thank you to him as I was leaving and then he pulled me back, grabbed my face, looked me dead in the eye and said, “No, you don’t ever have to thank me.  I will always defend you, okay?  Always,” then he kissed me.  That is probably at the top of the most romantic moments of my life.

Here is where my syndrome starts to become relevant, so stay tuned for the next chapter of this story…

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 11

I have discussed what I like to call “uh-oh moments” in past entries.  I was chatting with a friend recently, and he made me realize that these moments have dictated my life way more than I have been giving them credit for.  If you’re not up to speed on my definition of an uh-oh moment, I will fill you in.  The “uh-oh moment” is that single second, after your boyfriend/girlfriend/fuck-buddy/romantic interest does or says something that you can pinpoint exactly, which causes an unexplainable switch in your brain, and from that moment on, you just know that you will never be attracted to that person again.  There is no going back. I will start with the very first uh-oh moment that I can remember.

Sixth grade.  I think back then we called it “going out.”  So I was “going out” with this boy, which basically meant that he met me in the halls in between classes and we sometimes held hands.  We had probably been together for what I’m guessing to be a week, and in my twelve-year-old mind, the thought of kissing was still light-years away.  At my locker, he kissed me on the cheek before leaving to go to his class.  EW!  This was a seriously big milestone in a sixth grade relationship, and I was so grossed out because I could feel his saliva on my cheek.  I wiped it off, but for the rest of the day, I could just sense where he had left his slobbery mark.  Uh-oh.  No more milestones for us!  At the end of the day, I made Allee-Jo break up with him for me because she would see him while walking back home from school.  Now that’s a good friend.

Fast forward to four years later, still very much a virgin and seeing this guy I met in drama.  I was new to the whole foreplay thing, so when he started fingering me and it was the most distressing thing I had yet to experience in my so far innocent life, I thought that might be a normal reaction.  But the uh-oh moment came when not ten seconds after he started this uncomfortable activity, he said, “are you going to come?”  EW!  That word grossed me out so much.  I had never heard someone use it seriously before.  My friends and I, whose activities at this time in our lives included melting action figures on Glenn’s stove, and coming up with inventive things to put into macaroni and cheese, would use that word only to be funny and purposely disgusting.  Hearing my “boyfriend” say it to me was a HUGE turn-off.  The next day I broke up with him in the hallway before French class.  I entered class a bit shaken, and received some good advice that I’ve lived by ever since.  “Next time Caitlin, you might want to wait until after school to break up with your boyfriend.”  Thanks Mrs. King!

Fast forward now to my twenties, and these moments are no longer in chronological order.  My twenties have just been one big jumbly mess of social conundrums.  This guy never closed his mouth, and he always reminded me of someone.  It would drive me crazy that I couldn’t pinpoint who it was that he resembled.  When I realized that it was Brainy, the mouth-breather from the cartoon, Hey Arnold… uh-oh!

Brainy.

Brainy.

 

This next one is bad because I was actually pretty into this guy.  He was the first relationship I even mildly took seriously in years, and I fucked it all up because I’m such a snob.  He put his hand in the back-pocket of my jeans while we were out.  Uh-oh.  I thought that move had been abandoned in the 90’s, gone forever, as it should be.  It’s just such a gaudy behavior, and I’m the opposite of gaudy when it comes to relationships.  Due to that moment, what I had been stewing on for a few days became blindingly clear, we were just not going to work out.

This move.  No thanks!

This move. No thanks!

 

Another guy bit my nipple.  Hard!  While attempting to be hot.  Done.

I was lightly seeing this kid in college, who was much more fashionable than me, which was already a problem.  I suppose he was just a hipster, but that term hadn’t become popular yet.  My roommate could never remember his name, which is mostly my fault because at the time, I was seeing a few boys, so he had trouble keeping them straight, and would just come up with clever nicknames for all of them.  Corey’s nickname was “the train conductor,” because there were a couple of occasions when Corey would wear this hat and vest situation… and he really did look like a train conductor.  The next time I saw Corey, after hearing my roommate call him the train conductor for the first time, I thought, uh-oh.  All day, all I saw was a goddamn train conductor.  He was no longer Corey.  It didn’t matter anymore what he was actually wearing, I just always saw a fucking train conductor from that moment on.  Michael and I still laugh about Corey on occasion.  At least I got a good inside joke out of it.

Another guy killed me when he used the phrase, “dummy dumb dumb dumb.”  He was telling some story and said, “I felt like such a dummy dumb dumb dumb.”  WHAT?!  Everyone else I associate with would just say, I felt like an asshole, or I was being an idiot.  This kid busts out with dummy dumb dumb dumb.  Each syllable of that ridiculous phrase felt like a gunshot to our relationship.  So I maybe could have survived “dummy dumb,” but he had to take it all the way, and just murder me with the five syllable onslaught.  I’m a jerk, I know.

Some irrelevant guy I was seeing for a second, started touching himself while kissing me.  We had never done anything but kiss, and one night we were doing exactly that, FULLY clothed I’d like to add, and barely “into it,” when I realized he had his hand down his own pants and was jerking off.  That’s fucking foul.  Done.

At a bar and I let this guy use up my last credit on the jukebox.  He chose a Creed song and was 100% serious about it.  Uh-oh.  I don’t know which is worse, Creed fans or Nickelback fans.

One of the funniest uh-oh moments I’ve ever heard of, didn’t happen to me, but to my friend Cody.  Back when we were teenagers, if I remember correctly, he went out only a couple of times with this girl because she was really hot.  She told him that she doesn’t like guys who like corn.  WHAT?!  So that was Cody’s uh-oh moment.  It’s not that he loves corn, he just couldn’t like a girl who doesn’t like guys for such an absurd reason.  It makes me laugh every time I think about it.

 

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