Tag Archives: humor

“To live… to live would be an awfully big adventure.”

I’m a firm believer in creating your own fun, it is not going to fall into your lap. Whatever the event or the day, you will only have a good time if you try to have a good time. My sister and I have been doing “Sister Sunday’s” for about a month now because I am currently home for a while, and we both happen to have that day off. It would have been easy for us to just sit on the couch and watch Lifetime (she is obsessed with all of those annoying women killer shows such as Snapped) and Law & Order re-runs and do twelve push-ups and say that we “worked out,” and possibly complete the day with an outing to Barnes & Noble or something, and while that sounds like it could be a good time, we were in the mood for fun with a little more spunk.

I came up with some ideas, and she narrowed it down. One, go to the flea market because we have never been. That was almost a fail, but we were saved by an old woman doing the electric slide and a corn dog. The flea market itself was pretty lame, and it attracted the most yokels that I have ever seen in one place and I swear that I saw the Marlboro man. Raven was craving a corn dog, and thank God it ended up being delicious because she waited fifteen minutes for a piece of fried guts, but it made her morning. On our way out we stopped for a moment to watch some honky crap band butcher music, but there was a four foot tall 85 year old woman doing the electric slide to “Sweet Caroline,” and that made my afternoon. You have to look closer. We could have easily missed the dancing geriatric, but I’ve learned to seek out possibly entertaining scenarios because like I said, it’s not going to fall into my lap. I figured the slight detour toward the redneck music would be worth it. We also found a beach chair that we bought from a one-legged man that had exactly three teeth, and I bought three books for only $1.50, so it wasn’t a total bust.

Next stop, roller rink. Here’s how serious Raven is about rollerskating, she actually owns a pair of skates. I don’t think I have ever known anyone else who owns a pair of rollerskates, but she and her friends went through a major phase when they were younger teenagers and going to the roller rink was an actual thing in their teen angst world. Here’s how serious I am about rollerskating, I have not put on a pair of skates since I was eight years old and going to a cake and ice cream birthday party. I was killing it though! Well, next to Raven, who can dance and do all sorts of tricks and things on her skates I looked like an asshole, but I was stoked that I was able to turn corners and that I did not fall one time. After a few laps around and I was able to do that cross over thing with your skates one does while turning, and I even got good enough to groove to the terrible bubble-gum pop music while swerving my legs in and out. We were by far the oldest two there (aside from the parents) and we topped off the juvenile outing with a couple of games of ski ball, and did our good deed for the day when we gave the tickets that we had won to a little mopey boy that was sitting on the ground next to us.

Back home now, and we made our own pina coladas using the magic bullet, which I have only ever used to make cocktails with rather than kale smoothies which was the original plan when I went through one of my detox kicks that lasted for all of four hours, and sipped on our tropical drink while watching Channing Tatum dance and fantasized out loud about being his girlfriend. Then, we went to the Tampa Theatre, which I still believe is one of the prettiest theatres in the country. Due to touring with the ballet company I have worked for in the past, I have been to the prettiest theatres in America, including The Fox Theatre in Detroit, The Palace in Albany and Temple Theatre in Saginaw, which are among my favorites, but I still think that the theatre that I grew up with in Tampa is at the top of the list as well. We watched some indie horror movie that was average, and then explored the theatre and took pictures of ourselves lounging in the ornate corridors while I fantasized about becoming the real Phantom of the Opera.

More drinks were next, and we stopped at our Dad’s restaurant and caused some chaos. There was a band playing, and we laid low at first and played a game of Go Fish with our Dad, and then Raven ran away when Dad and I started discussing politics, which somehow seems to always get brought up when we’re together. What began as a debate on whether or not we consider each other to be patriotic, somehow ended with the conclusion that capitalism sucks. I think that most American political roads lead to that conclusion.

Once Rory,the boy who is unafraid, joined us, that’s when the real ruckus began. Myself, Raven and Rory started playing Dare. Not truth or dare, just dare. He started it. He dared me to get up on the stage where the band was playing and do this Irish jig thing that I was doing as a joke on St. Patrick’s day. Everyone in the audience must have been drunk because I got an applause afterward and a bunch of high fives for that goofy piece of shit dance. We dared Raven to bring a shot over to this guy who was clearly there with his girlfriend and say, “this is from some girl at the bar.” Raven accepted the dare, which caused the girlfriend/wife to apparently get all worked up and began harassing the host, bombarding her with interrogations as to who bought her boyfriend a shot. The three of us took diabolical delight in this scene. I dared Rory to get up onto the bar and dance, which I definitely would NOT have done, but like I said… he’s unafraid, and he did it without a second thought. He has some moves, and was up there for a solid thirty seconds before kartwheeling off the bar, an impressive dismount. The kartwheel looked like so much fun, so then Rory and I began doing kartwheels together in the middle of the road, while Raven was inside talking to Jay, this boy that she’s friends with every other week. They are a damn rollercoaster and have an utterly different relationship every single day. On Monday they’ll be laughing and flirting and Jay will tell her how beautiful she is, and then on Tuesday, he’ll delete her from every social media and they won’t even make eye contact with each other. I just think it’s hilarious (and find it interesting that deletions from social medias are the lowest of blows one of their generation can inflict) and I not-so-secretly want her to be with him if he ever gets himself under control. Right now he’s still young and trying to figure out how to get through a day without an epic emotional crisis (a feeling I can very much recall from my teenage years), but I think he’s a good kid and has potential to be a good boyfriend.

After a couple of more dares and a bunch more laughs, we called it a night and headed home. It was such a fun, uplifting day, and I challenge all of you to start having more lighthearted fun. Stay young! Look closer. Be brave. We easily could have just went out to lunch and then drank beer on the porch, and there is nothing wrong with that. I do that often and have a perfectly pleasant time, but I think it’s important to also venture out of your comfort zone every once in a while and find new ways of having fun so that you don’t get stuck in the mundane. Only boring people get bored, so next time you find yourself “bored,” start making your own fun. Go make a fool out of yourself at a roller rink, try rock climbing, spice up sitting and having drinks with dares and outlandish questions like, “how much would I have to pay you to eat a jar of mayonaise with a spoon?” I hate mayonnaise and answered, $10,000 but Raven said she would do it for $20. So gross. “How much would you have to get paid to leave the country right now and not return or visit at all for five years?” Talk to someone new, ride your bike through a park instead of going to the gym, finger paint, build something, go somewhere new… live large.

“Stay hungry, stay free and do the best that you can.”

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The Rules of Touring

1. Use common sense.

2. Be considerate.

3. Don’t complain.

That’s it. Those are the only true rules of touring. I started writing a book, and though I have never thought about listing tour rules, it began to organically happen while drafting one of the chapters. I had fun with it, and made a whole list of specific rules such as, keep the damn doors shut to bunk alley until everyone is awake, you inconsiderate bastard! But after going over my list, and after something Monterey said, I realized that it was redundant and everything came down to use common sense, be considerate and don’t complain. Simple as that.

A person who sucks at being a busmate will always suck at being a busmate no matter how many tours they go on because these “rules” aren’t learned, they’re just called, not being an asshole. I’m sorry, I know there are a lot of sweet people out there who are lacking in common sense, but you’re still an asshole, even if you have the best intentions. I absolutely have my daft moments, the English hooligan can attest to that after sitting with me in a freezing room for two hours trying to fix a string of paperwork the time when I forgot that 175 is not the same as 150. But! I have enough common sense to know that if I’m living on a bus with ten other people and one mini fridge, than I shouldn’t buy a gallon of milk.

Complaining is toxic. Just don’t do it. Next time you want to bitch about the venue’s catering or how there are no cups on the bus, remind yourself that you get to travel around the world for a living, so shut the fuck up and do your job.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Valentine Edition 2 of 2

…continued from Edition 1

After having really good friend chem and vibing well again with Hunter at this festival he says to me, “Let’s go into the middle and get weird.”  How would you take that?  I assumed that he meant let’s go deep into the crowd and cause a ruckus. We’ll be obnoxious and dance and laugh and all of that goofy shit.  Cool, I’m down.  So he grabs my hand and leads me into the very center of the crowd. He then places me in front of him and pushes against me and I can feel his penis on my back. Ew.

I’m WAY to passive, and instead of leaving right then, I just kind of stepped forward so that I was no longer in contact with him, and was silently trying to figure out a way to dip out without making it awkward. Approximately two seconds later, before I could properly asses my predicament, he took my hand and pulled it behind my back, and put it around his dick. I swear to fucking God that this guy took his whole dick out in the middle of a crowd of people while this show was taking place. I could not believe that this was happening. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just quickly reclaimed my hand and ran away.  I say “ran,” I couldn’t make a very quick exit because there were so many damn people in the way, so I did hear him shout to me, “did I offend you?” To which I didn’t even waste my time with, and kept walking then exited the festival wishing that The Trojan was with me.

Did you offend me? I think on the grand spectrum of the offensive scale, you offended me on every level, yes. Not going to waste anymore time discussing that. It makes me sick.

Like I said, I was sober, but having a cocktail alone at a bar to take a moment to wrap my mind around what just happened seemed appealing. I took a seat at a bar stool and called Fat Face. He knew that something had transpired, he knows me well and knows my vocal tones, so I think he knew that he needed to come to my rescue. I downed two whiskeys by the time he got there, and he took a seat next to me, told me that I, “look really pretty tonight,” (which I thought was super sweet because we don’t often talk like that too each other. Usually he’d say something more like, ‘oooo girl, you are lookin’ damn fine tonight!’ and laugh) and ordered a Yuengling. I told him what happened, and he was appalled. He said that I am absolutely too passive and should have squeezed Hunter’s dick off. We went on to have a relatively deep conversation that made me feel a little bit better. Well, kind of. Fat Face’s presence always makes me feel better, but the conversation concluded that there is something wrong with me.  There is something I must unintentionally do to attract that type of male degradation.  According to Fat Face, shit like this doesn’t happen to other people as much as it does me.  He then invited me to go to some other bar with him where he was meeting up with some of his work friends that I don’t know.

My initial response was something like, no I should leave you alone… I might cock block you tonight if I’m with you, considering it’s Valentine’s Day and all. He put his arm around me and said, “Cait, shut the fuck up.” So I shut the fuck up and followed him to a nearby bar. I was a good girl and made small talk with his friends who I liked and Fat Face and I did our typical thing… I spit in his drink, he did some bell hops, we argued over music, made fun of other bar patrons and harassed each other until closing time. Typical.

When we were leaving, I spotted a man who could not walk heading toward his truck. I don’t know that I have ever seen anyone as drunk as this guy was. He somehow got in his truck, which made me nervous, turned on the ignition, but then just passed out cold. Cool. He’s not driving. Normally I don’t get involved with shit like that, but it was definitely my moral duty to my fellow citizens to not let this guy on the road. I was being chill, and figured that I’d knock on his window and tell him that I’m calling him a cab. Problem solved.

Of course Fat Face gets all involved though and thinks that it’s a good idea to go inform the bartenders inside. Fat Face doesn’t give a shit about anything, I could call him telling him that my house is burning down and he’d be like, “I’m taking a nap.”  For some reason though, of all the things that he could get invested in, he decides to get all up in arms about this and try to man the fuck out of this situation. I just rolled my eyes and let him think that he was doing the right thing after he failed to agree when I made the point that the bartenders will do zero things to help this. However, Fat Face tells them anyway, and next thing you know, there are two schmucks that look like the type who failed out of Police Academy had overheard Fat Face talking to the bartenders, and who are now over there also trying to man the situation and get involved in the action. For some dumbass reason they wake the dude up and tell him that he should go. What the fuck? I was pissed. Fat Face and I watched in horror as the guy started driving.
“Watch him run into the building,” Fat Face says jokingly. Two seconds later, “Oh my God he’s really going to run into the building.”  The guy doesn’t even pretend to turn out of the parking space, and instead slowly rolls forward, smashing into the glass window facade of a brand new gym that is one door down from the bar. Tight.

Fat Face is now getting all frantic saying, “Cait. Call 911. Cait! Cait! Call 911!” Jesus Christ Fatty, shut the fuck up, I’m on it. So I call 911 and have a nice chat with them as a fight starts breaking out. What a douchebag bar scene. That’s when I told the dispatcher that I was peacing out of there. Once someone got knocked out cold, and was laying in the middle of the street unconscious for a scary amount of time, I informed dispatch that I couldn’t wait for the cops because things were getting sketchy, and she told me the fire department was on their way. As we were pulling out, the fire trucks were pulling in and Fat Face giggled with delight and said, “I kind of feel like I caused this.” Yes you absolutely did, you twat.

And that was my Valentine’s Day of 2015. A perfect exchange with a cute boy, a terrible onslaught by a gross man and a Cait and Fat Face adventure.

To be perfectly honest, after that rollercoaster of a night, I was glad, and felt it was oddly appropriate that I ended up with Fat Face on Valentine’s night because after all of my adventures and confessions… and no matter who I am fucking or loving or currently dating, Fat Face is always my favorite person to end up with at the end of the day.  True friendship is the most romantic thing of all.

I stayed the night over his place because it seemed like the responsible thing to do. He lives close to the bar and at this point, I had been drinking and knew it was not a good idea to drive all the way home. I would like to take this moment to let all of you know that Fat Face not only has one zebra printed bed comforter, but two. He also has a Chik-fil-a calendar hanging on his wall and for some absurd reason, about 15 boxes of Milano cookies sitting next to his bed. Again, Fat Face is hot and single and I will provide his contact information to any eligible women.

Update!  The following fucking day, I saw Michael.  Jesus Christ, talk about 36 hours of testosterone overload.  Someone pour me a drink.

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My Sister Says that I’m Mean to Strangers: A Merch Girl Rant

My sister informed me that she thinks I’m mean to strangers. She’s probably right. I wasn’t always this way. I think the change occurred when I was managing a bar in Hollywood. Everyone in Hollywood is an asshole and it’s contagious. On top of that, this bar was located in the sketchiest part of Hollywood. So it was assholes mixed with the seediest crowd I’ve ever consistently seen in one place. By far. Every patron that was in their during the day, you couldn’t tell if they were homeless, or a successful millionaire director who has gone off his rocker and now wears ARMY surplus clothes, spends his time doodling pornographic storyboards on cocktail napkins while drinking pints of Smithwicks. Everyone in there at night was either looking to get laid or using the establishment as a mafia meeting point. And everyone, no matter what time of day, got wasted. You did not go to this bar without the intentions of getting hammered. Half of the staff was drunk most of the time. Needless to say, it was a goddamn mess everyday.

Everyday I had stories ranging from needing to call 911 because a strange man looked at me blankly and threatened to come back with a gun and kill all of us basically because the bartender didn’t suck his dick, to little mob men making me go into the safe to give them cash that I was instructed to write off as “credit card reimbursement.” The point is, I dealt with a lot of bullshit at this job and it turned me mean because everyone just pissed me off. The only person who had any sense at all was Nick. He was one of the other manager’s and him and I were our own little two man team because everyone else seemed to be fucking stupid. Nick is a delight and a whole other story that I will tell one day.

Now, I’m a merch girl. My 2014 New Year’s resolution, almost a year ago now, was to learn how to build a fire with my bare hands, and to be nicer to strangers. I really do think that I’m making progress on the latter, but this is why it’s so damn hard…

A woman asks to see a medium shirt.
I hold it up for her as she examines.
Woman: “Is the large going to be bigger than the medium?”

It’s times like these that make my resolution very difficult. What I really want to tell her is that that is the most embarrassing question I have ever heard. However, I refrain. Not so much because I’m trying to be nice, or because of my resolution, but because I am working, and I try to be a professional, so I hold my tongue. I know that if I open my mouth bitter sarcasm will involuntarily come vomitting out, so I usually don’t say anything at all when I hear a question that is so profoundly stupid. I just look at the person in silence for a moment, and generally they will catch their mistake. In this woman’s case, after suffering through my blank stare for a few excrutiating moments, she said, “Yeah, I guess it would be.”

Here’s a very common one…
Person: “How much is that shirt?”
Me: “All of the shirts are $25.”
Person: “What about that one?”
Me: “All of the shirts are $25.”
Person: “And that one at the end?”
Me: “All of the shirts are $25.”

I hate to be sexist against my own gender, but women at the merch table are a catastrophe. First of all, they toss their purse onto the table, and due to most female bags being the size of a small panther, it covers half of my display. They then proceed to study every single size t-shirt, holding them up to one another for comparison, checking the tag then asking me what it’s made out of even though they just looked at the tag. Then they ask their boyfriend what he thinks. Then they tell me that they like my hair. Then they tell me about their hair. Then they tell me about their friend’s hair. Once we’ve finally come to the part where a currency exchange is about to take place, they start shoveling through their obnoxiously large purse and pull out everything from glittery lip gloss that has gross strands of shed hair wound up in the goop, to fucking thongs before finally finding their cash. Here’s what happens when most men appraoch the merch table.
Man: “Do you have that shirt in a medium?”
Me: “Yes.”
Man: “I’ll take it.
He hands me the cash. Done.

I have worked on tour for a ballet company two years in a row. We sell a DVD of the performance, and we also record the performance every night because there are different local children in it at every city, so the parents like to have a copy of that specific performance. With that in mind, I cannot believe how often I get this…
It will be BEFORE a performance. Doors have just opened and someone will point to my DVD that is on the table and ask, “Is this of tonight’s performance?” Holy fuck. Again, I just don’t say a word, and let them come to the realization that they just sounded like a friggen idiot. Almost always, after a moment they say, “Oh duh, I guess that’s not possible,” to which I’m thinking, Jesus Christ, thank everything that I never have to deal with you in my life ever again. But I smile instead. My sister would be proud. Actually, my sister would probably not be able to hold her tongue, and she would just unapologetically laugh in their face.

This one always makes me chuckle and I swear that short pale boys are the biggest culprits.
Boy: “Can I get that Chevelle shirt?”
Me: “Dude, they’re all Chevelle shirts.”
Boy: (Obviously semi-embarrassed) “Oh yeah, the black one.”
Me: “Dude, they’re all black.”

And here’s my all time favorite and I swear to God that I have got this more than once…
“Is this stuff for sale?”
I have never felt superior to others, except for the three times someone has asked me that question. I will say with little regret, that I felt superior to them as a functioning human in that moment.

I think because my annoyance cannot be present while I’m working, it infiltrates my non-working life. So my sister may be right… I’m kind of a bitch to strangers, but only because they made me this way! Not that it’s relevant, but it’s always fun to blame the accuser… my sister, who is 19, is mean to people she actually knows. Friends. I think it’s badass and it cracks me up.

For example, a male friend of hers was over the house and I guess he was kind of drunk and Raven was not at all. The next day he texted her asking, “On a scale from 1-10, how annoying was I being last night?” Raven’s response was, “Definitely 10.”
I would have sugar coated it and been like, oh you weren’t too bad…. blah blah blah. Not Raven. She also told her very good friend that he should be gay because he never gets girls.

She is the opposite of how I was at her age. Back then, I was so concerned with making everyone happy that I would spout out lies. Raven doesn’t give a fuck. It’s beautiful. She has said to me on more than one occasion, “Cait, you are not lookin’ good today.” So funny.

We all have our flaws, and I for sure have a lot of them. One thing that gives me slight solace in my sea of shortcomings, is that I can own up to mine. So I’m sorry to the Target cashier whom I was short with, and the mechanic who tried to make small talk with me but I sort of rolled my eyes, but the stupid people at the merch table made me this way!

Raven at work, not giving a fuck.

Raven at work, not giving a fuck.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 13

The curse of the ex.  Why are we drawn to them?  There are reasons why it didn’t work, yet for some deep-seated cause, we all find ourselves in the arms of an ex at 3:00 in the morning with Portishead playing off of an iPod and a fat fan clicking in the background.  Is it just me?  Or do all boys have a portable fan in their room that they keep on high which clicks like a clock… a symbol of the relationship’s impending doom.  My first love called his fan “fat fan” and the name stuck.  Anyway, even when every fiber of our being knows that agreeing to “catch up” with an ex is a bad idea, we do it anyway.  Are we all plagued with masochistic tendencies or is it the need for acceptance?  I think it’s both.  We want to feel wanted, even if it means hurting ourselves.  Or it means that multiple cocktails were involved.

When people ask me if I’m seeing anyone, I am generally vague, because I’m just generally vague about everything.  I relate to writer’s (I feel cheated by the universe that I was not living at a time and place when I could have been best friends with Graham Greene) and with that being said, I think that writer’s like writing because they don’t like talking.  I enjoy blogging about my insignificant life because I don’t exactly like talking about it, nor do I expect anyone to care about any story that I have to tell.  If I write it down, the reader can opt out without feeling rude.  A listener, cannot do that quite as easily.  Audible conversation is riddled with obligations and forced politeness.  If my reader’s don’t care about what I am saying, they can close this tab and google “how to survive a bear attack” instead, (a search I recently did because I was in Canada for a tour and felt that I should be prepared) and not feel like they’re being rude.  I digress.  So, when people ask me if I am seeing anyone, my go-to response is, “there are usually boys but it’s not usually serious.”  I appreciate conciseness and brevity in conversation, and that is the most concise and brief way to describe my typical love life.

However, not too too long ago, I did find myself in what I suppose would be called a relationship.  I hadn’t tried that out in a while and so I guess it just seemed like a fun experiment.  I should have known it would end in disaster because I am not stable enough for one of those, nor mature enough to be performing social experiments.

One of the things that first excited me about this boy, who we will call the boy with the white hair, was that I found myself physically attracted to him.  I wanted him.  This was a feeling I am unfamiliar with since losing my battle to uncomfortable numbness a couple of years back.  Before that, I used to love everyone.  Every boy I ever met I would find something attractive about him.  This was a blessing and a curse.  A blessing because I was so loving.  I truly did care for all of these people and I would have done anything for them.  I have known some beautiful human beings and I am so fortunate and appreciative of the souls that have crossed my fucked up path.  It was a curse for the same reasons.  I loved everyone.  I was incapable of having a healthy relationship because I was having a love affair with the world.  I spread myself out too thin.  My tragic flaw was the romance in all that I saw.

Around the age of 25 I did a complete 180 and I don’t know why or when this exactly happened.  I know that part of it at least was because I let Los Angeles get the best of me.  When you move so far away from home, to a city like that, where you know NO ONE, it is easy to lose yourself.  Somewhere out there, probably buried under the construction on the 405, is my soul.  One of my first jobs in LA was as an  assistant to this Persian fucker who needed help with tutoring his kids and keeping his desk organized.  A nanny basically.  During my first week, he hit on me.  I don’t want to go into details, but I remember feeling like such a little girl. A victim.  Like a child who had been violated, but I was 25 years old.  Yes, that is young, but it is not “little girl” young.  I remember I called my 911, which is my best friend Lance, and I said out loud to him, “I don’t understand why men think it’s okay to touch you when you don’t want them to.”

I felt like Jem from To Kill a Mockingbird, when he discovers the evils of the world and realizes why Boo Radley stays shut up in that old house.  That is the last time I can remember feeling that way.  Since then, I feel almost nothing for anyone.  I feel like an adult now, not a little girl.  I meet boys.  I meet a lot of wonderful, beautiful boys… but they don’t usually cause me feel.  I will be into someone, and enjoy their company, but then when it comes to the point where I feel like a kiss would be appropriate, I’m indifferent about it.  Indifferent about them. I missed that feeling of dying to kiss someone.

The boy with the white hair was the first boy in a very long time that I really wanted to kiss.  We were seeing each other for a couple of months (which in Caitlin world, is a long time), and it was getting to the point where I thought I might fall in love with him… or him me.  That’s the direction we were going.  Literally over night however, I realized that I wasn’t going to.  I wasn’t going to fall in love with him.  Which, I don’t know why the fuck not.  He is intriguing, he is nice in all of the right ways, he has his shit together, he is hot and he has good taste in music.

It was the day after Valentine’s day.  We had just spent the prior evening together with his friends at a music festival and something was just not right.  I have no doubt in my mind that this “feeling of not being right” was 100% my fault, but regardless, the feeling was there.  Him and I stayed in a hotel room that night because we were a little bit of a drive away from home and had been drinking, so a hotel seemed like a good idea.  The festival that we had attended I was actually working for.  Not anything serious, I was just acting as a runner for them.  So in the morning, I left while the boy with the white hair was still in bed, to go run a quick errand for the festival, (it was a two-day festival) knowing that I would be back before he got out of bed.

I don’t know what the fuck came over me, but as I was driving over the Bayshore Bridge with the morning sun blinding me and Band of Horses playing over the radio, I just knew that him and I weren’t going to last.  Or that I couldn’t last. If you had asked me two days prior to that, I would have told you that we were going in the direction of a serious relationship and would have been happy about that.

I fucking blow chunks at break-ups.  I accept this and in the past have suffered through months of lying and denial to avoid breaking up with a boyfriend.  I don’t want to be like that anymore.  I have learned from my mistakes and am now on more of a tell the truth even if it hurts, kick.  I am trying to be unapologetically honest.  So I got back to the hotel and had a moment of courage that I felt I should take advantage of.  It was the worst idea I’ve ever had.  I proceeded to wake up the boy with the white hair to break up with him.  Who the fuck does that?  I woke him up so that I could break up with him in a hotel room with our garments sprawled all over the goddamn place like a bad Lifetime movie.

I didn’t want to waste any more of his time.  He was so good and he deserved someone who was going to do it with him, be there with him, wholly.  I was just not capable of being that person, so I quickly decided that each passing second that I remained with him, was unfair to him.

I first hugged him, then sobbed, telling him that I, “couldn’t do this,” like a typical girl that you want to punch.  He is very much a “man’s man” and tries camouflaging all feelings,  so he pretty much just said, “okay.”  I appreciated the brevity.

Here is where the part comes in that I seriously did not think it through.  We weren’t packed!  So we had to pack up all of our stuff in awkward silence and then take that uncomfortable elevator ride to the lobby in more silence together with the smooth jazz version of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” playing over the elevator speakers.  Thank God we did not drive together or else I probably would have tried to order a shotgun from room service so that I could blow my brains out.

That was one awful morning.

And here I am.  Another morning.  I’m waking up after a night of, “let’s catch up,” to him still asleep while I scavenge the area in the grey, dawn light, searching for my bra that I seriously don’t want to leave behind because I rarely wear bras so it’s my only one.  I was planning on a quick escape but I am too much of a hot mess to pull that off.  I was missing a shoe.  What am I?  A fucking teen soap opera?!  He woke up, laughed at me and walked me to his bar (he owns a bar which is in walking distance to his apartment) at 7:00am while I was giggling at the entire situation and embracing this very unique walk of shame.  We found my shoe literally underneath the bar.  Jesus Christ.

I know this morning all too well of ex boyfriend’s, blood-shot eyes, disheveled hair and Diane Rehms of NPR telling me over my car radio as I drive home that, “Iraqi Kurdish fighters begin crossing from Turkey into Syria to fight against ISIS in Kobani,” to help remind myself that the Kurd’s have way more problems than I do.

Why are we drawn to ex’s?  All I have to show for it is a lost bra, a 7-11 coffee and a screenplay that I should be working on because my old professor is nagging me to finish it, but instead I am sitting here thinking about the boy with the white hair and how I might want to see him tomorrow night too.

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Next Time, I’ll Just Sleep with Him

I don’t know if the city of Los Angeles is a disaster, or if I am the disaster and that town just brings out the worst in me.  There I was though, back in the city of demons, having yet another head on collision with Hollywood after only being back there for twelve hours. Let me begin this tale by letting you all know that the whole reason that I was going back to the city that murdered my soul, was to spend two days with a guy that I had only known for two days because clearly, that sounded like an excellent decision.

It was at the end of the last tour that I was on and it was just me and the Tour Manager left on the bus, as the rest of the crew and band had already left.  We started the trek westward from Indianapolis, which for some stupid reason is on Eastern time and for some stupid reason it bothers me when states that are not in fact located on the East coast, are on Eastern Standard Time.  Also, in my educated opinion, I think that we should just get rid of Mountain time because there is only like nineteen people in that time zone anyway, and that’s where all of the irrelevant states are except for New Mexico which I exclude from the list of my “irrelevant” states because it has exceptional beef jerky.

We drove non-stop for 36 hours, from Indiana to Los Angeles and it was excruciating because we were heading West, so the days were getting longer.  We had two drivers, Gary and Lady Gary.  Lady Gary was our driver’s girlfriend who came onto the tour later, as an “assistant driver” (which is very unusual but I won’t bore you with the reasons why that happened), so we never learned her name and instead, took to calling her “Lady Gary” to her face because we’re assholes.  Because we had two driver’s who alternated, we literally only stopped for gas and so that I could buy $35 worth of beef jerky.  At one point during this agonizing ride, which I am surprised that we all survived considering that we had no drugs and no alcohol, (I don’t even do drugs, but if someone would have handed me a mystery pill that had a smiley face on it, or even a skull and cross-bones on it, I would have gladly accepted it and chased it with an overdose of Robitussin  just to cure the boredom), I began running up and down the length of the bus, attempting to sing rap music (which is always a bad idea in my case because the only rap that I’ve ever been exposed to is one Eminem song that came out in 1997), and stopping every few laps to breakdown into something that resembled jazzercise.  Rhett just stared at me with his mouth open because he was now used to my ridiculous behavior that he had been dealing with for the past couple of weeks, which I chronicle in Adventures of Touring Part 13. The moral of this part of the story is NEVER take highway 40 across the country because none of the truck stops sell alcohol.  They seem to think that Native American snow-globes are an adequate substitution.

Once we finally got to LA, it was 1:30am and we then moved all of the gear from the bus trailer to another trailer.  Don’t ask.  This ended up being a fairly painless, fast and efficient process because Mexicans were involved.  We then drove all of this gear through the Hollywood Hills as one of the Mexican’s was speeding us down Mulholland Drive like he had a death wish, but at this point, I didn’t care.  We arrive at M’s house which is the size of my hometown, unload all of the gear again, and into his garage.  It’s now like 4:00am, but Rhett and I decide to do about 15 shots with M’s roommate, anyway because we felt so deprived from our road trip and because it was the irresponsible choice to make.

The next morning is when I am supposed to meet up with Dan, the boy who I was staying with for the next two days, and the whole reason I suffered through the last 40 hours.  Being in Beverly Hills, staying at M’s house with a zip code that is literally 90210, you would think that some of these motherfuckers would petition for cell phone towers… or at least buy their own.  I’m sure that the owner of Verizon actually lives in that neighborhood.  Regardless, I couldn’t get any service, and all I knew was that my destination is somewhere in Silverlake, which is on the clear other end of town.  Remember that line from Clueless, “I expect you home in twenty minutes!  Everywhere in LA takes twenty minutes!”  This could not be further from the truth.  It takes twenty minutes just to back out of your driveway in Los Angeles.  I estimated that it would take 50 minutes to get to Dan’s house.  If he was someone who I had known for longer than two days, I probably would have made him pick me up, but since I was determined to come across as self-sufficient, and because I hadn’t yet decided if I was going to sleep with him, I thought it best to rely on my independence that boys so much loathe.

A straight cab ride would have been too expensive, and I don’t like Uber because I am like a drug dealer and only deal with cash.  My plan was to take a cab ride to the nearest metro station, then take the metro to the stop closest to Dan, which was then, just another quick cab ride to his house.  Of course, this is not what transpired. M’s roommate had even offered to drive me part of the way, but because I am a masochist, I thought it would be a better alternative to purposely inflict a painful day upon myself. More importantly, I just didn’t want to put anybody out.

Like I said, I had zero cell service where I was, but I welcome these first world complications, I see them as a challenge and a way to practice my anti-technology problem solving skills so that I’ll be the one everyone is following when the Apocalypse occurs.  Rhett was going to the airport, so he used his Uber app to get picked up.  I figured that I’d hitch a ride out of the neighborhood, into downtown West Hollywood where I would at least get cell service and a coffee, and be able to asses my current situation with more mental clarity.  I asked the Uber driver who came to get us, to please just drop me off at a coffee shop or something that was on the way to the airport so as to not inconvenience Rhett.

Apparently the Uber guy’s sweat that was dribbling down his bald head had drowned his brain because he was fucking retarded.  He immediately gave me anxiety when he pulled the car over after we had only gone a half of a mile down the road, and started screeching, “Do you see me?!  Do you see me?!” over and over again while Rhett frantically fingered his Uber app.  This guy was on more cocaine than Andy Dick at a drag queen show.  I choose to ignore the world of technology, mostly because of situations like this. I barely understand what apps are, so I was able to just play dumb in the backseat.  The driver was having a meltdown because something in the app wasn’t working (due to the lack of reception) so he thought it would be best to stay parked in one spot and repeat the same obnoxious outcry 508 times while I stared out of the window wondering if this guy was going to a.) have an aneurysm, or b.) kidnap us and sell our organs in exchange for the $1.50 he MIGHT miss out on due to Uber malfunctions in the 90210 area.  I told him that Rhett would give him a hand-job on the way to the airport if he would just continue driving the damn car.  I suppose it was cruel of me to volunteer Rhett, but I was in the backseat, so it just didn’t make sense for me to be the one to perform the sexual favors for the driver.

Ten minutes and a few miles later, and it’s not fucking funny anymore, this dude is seriously freaking me out.  I have no idea where we are, but I ask him to pull the car over and let me out.  Both guys looked at me perplexed, but I didn’t have the mental power to explain myself, I just needed to get out of that car.  So they dump me off on the sidewalk with my two suitcases and a giant backpack.  I put my over-sized sunglasses on (because in LA, even if you look like a sweaty homeless girl who is carrying everything she owns down Sunset Boulevard, if you add over-sized sunglasses, it makes it chic) and began walking through the glamorous part of West Hollywood where you would find the type of celebrities whom have purse dogs and are getting brunch and sporting their over-sized sunglasses.  Basically, I looked like a fucking idiot.  At least now I had cell phone reception.

I called Dan and decided not to tell him about my current predicament, and instead, tell him that all was just swell and that I’d be there in an hour.  I then heave my 200 pounds of luggage up the steps of “Urth Cafe,” a place that I already hated because misspelling words for the sake of marketing annoys me.  Thank you Dunkin’ Donuts, now the entire world thinks that you spell doughnuts, d-o-n-u-t-s.  This bougie cafe had at least 150 people in it, all wearing over-sized sunglasses, but all lacking 200 pounds of luggage.  At this point I am literally laughing out loud at myself as I am trying to find a place to park my suitcase so that I can order a damn green tea before these people think that I am a bum looking for air conditioning.  Actually, that is exactly what I was at the moment, but I was frantically trying to solve that problem.  So I grab a business card with the address to fucking “Urth” cafe, and call a cab.

The cab driver shows up in a timely manner, and he is a chubby, friendly, little Armenian man with a lot of arm hair who I was so grateful for because anyone was better than the coke-head, organ stealing Uber driver I just experienced.  The chubby Armenian informs me that I can smoke in the cab, but I explain to him that I don’t smoke.  For some reason this blew his mind.  Really dude?  Of all of the things that I am sure you have seen as a cab driver in Hollywood, me not smoking is really the most surprising?!  No one in LA smokes by the way.  They all even do that pretentious thing where if you’re smoking outside, even during a goddamn wind storm, they’ll still fake cough and wave their hand in front of their nose and give you and your cigarette a dirty look as they walk by.  That type of behavior actually makes me want to take up smoking.

Chubby then asked me if I’ve ever smoked an Armenian cigarette.  When I said no, he seemed even more shocked at this notion, because clearly, it’s alarming that someone who doesn’t smoke in the first fucking place, has never smoked an Armenian cigarette.  After turning down multiple offers to try one, I finally accepted the cigarette just to shut him the fuck up.

I drink coffee like it’s my job, so I consider myself immune to coffee caffeine, but for some reason, a single caffeinated tea feels like I just injected cocaine straight into my bloodstream.  So, I was already shaking from the tea I just had at the cafe that doesn’t know how to spell Earth, and jittery from the series of events which had just transpired, and now I’m adding this damn cigarette to the mix which is only heightening my anxiety.  The way Chubby was selling this thing, I was expecting it to have magical powers, or at least be laced with some hardcore narcotics that made me see Unicorns.  Nope.

So Chubby drops me off at the Metro Station, and I get onto the train with relative ease.  There is a nice looking black man a few seats from me who smiles sweetly and I consider for a moment asking him if he’d like to stop whatever productive task that he is in the middle of, and get a drink with me because I definitely need one.  I refrain however when I realize that a.) it is only 11:30am and b.) I am currently on my way to seeing another boy whom I have already forgotten about because of this disaster of a day.  I closed my eyes and pictured Dan’s cute smile and told myself that everything would be okay once I got to his house.  I then opened my eyes, only to witness a schizophrenic playing with fire.  One of the crazy’s on the train took out a crack lighter and was just keeping it continuously lit for absolutely no apparent reason.  At first, I thought he would just flick it on and off the way that people do when they’re fidgeting.  When that didn’t happen, I decided that he was going to light a bomb, so I came up with a ninja-like exit strategy in my mind, which included me and the hot black guy next to me busting out some tae-kwon-do and escaping just in the nick of time.  When the bomb had still not detonated after the schizophrenic kept the hand lighter lit for a straight five minutes, I thought it best to not test my luck, and got off at the next stop even though my stop wasn’t for another few miles.

I was about to call a cab to take me to Dan’s once and for all, but decided that it was not a good idea to let him see me in my current state.  After this fucking catastrophe I was definitely suffering from PTSD and determined that I needed to get a margarita, or six, to calm down and get my life together before seeing the boy whom I currently had a crush on.  I knew of a nearby Mexican joint, and impressed with my memory of the LA streets, found myself walking with 200 pounds of luggage down the sidewalks of Los Angeles yet again, but this time content because I had margaritas in my near future.

I sat down and ordered a 20 ounce margarita which I drank in 17 seconds, then called a cab.  The new cab picked me up and safely brought me to Dan’s house, and that is the last time that I will ever think it’s a good idea to act like an independent woman.  Next time, I’ll just sleep with him so that I don’t feel bad when I need to ask for a ride.

 

 

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Part 2 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

…to be continued…

So I drive the child home and I was not planning on exiting my vehicle, but somehow this gem must have convinced me. I don’t remember the details. He tried to get me to go up to his apartment, but that was not happening. So we were walking around his apartment complex, which seemed like a good idea because it was giving me time to sober up before driving home. Of course this led to the kiss because why not?  I’m willing to exploit myself in the name of a good story. We were kissing for a couple of seconds when he stopped and said, “by the way, my name is….”

My first thought as he’s saying this sentence was, I don’t give a fuck what your name is! But then we get to the end of the sentence and he says, Fat Face. Obviously, that’s not a direct quote, but he has the same goddamn name as my Fat Face. The whole reason I was in this mess was because I was pissed at Fat Face, and now the child had the same name as him. I couldn’t do it anymore and I literally starting laughing in this poor kid’s face. He didn’t get it, so I just said, “Of course your name is______.” He still didn’t get it, so when in doubt, smile and nod. Which he did. Good boy.

Then he attempted for the third time to get me up to his apartment, which I will admit, I now considered because this whole situation was just becoming more and more entertaining, but I do have some level of self-respect. I ended it there, I think I gave him a friend pat on the shoulder and said goodbye.

Little did I know, Fat Face was on the other side of town, basically doing the same exact thing as I was.

The next day Fat Face called me, and I thought it was going to be to apologize. Of course not!  He was calling to ask if I knew any remedies to get rid of hickeys.  Fist of all, no.  I have never had a hickey in my life because I think they’re incredibly tacky and disrespectful and I don’t put up with that kind of behavior.  Second of all, I’m still mad at you!  Thirdly, who the fuck are you letting give you a hickey you schmuck?  She better be flippin’ hot! Fat Face doesn’t take things too seriously, so normally he wouldn’t give a shit about a couple of hickeys on his neck, but it was the day of his high school reunion. I took pleasure in this.

He begins to tell me of the events leading up to getting his neck mauled, and I find out that he too went out after our war of words, he too somehow got to talking to someone who he was not into and she too was a child. Just like my child, Fat Face’s child tried to seduce him, but was turned-down. To Fat Face’s honor, for a guy, he is capable of showing amazing restraint even when he’s intoxicated. I wasn’t planning on telling him about my previous night’s escapade, but when he told me about his, it was all too much of a coincidence and I had to let him in on it.

To top it all off, while my two boys have the same name, my name also came up in his night out too! In his half-assed attempt at stopping their make-out session, he tried the excuse, “I have a girlfriend.” She wasn’t buying it.

“No you don’t.”

“Yeah I do…”

“What’s her name?”

“Caitlin.”

Of course, my name was the first one that he thought of.  Not thirty seconds after claiming to have a girlfriend named Caitlin, he receives a text message from me which she sees. Brilliant. I couldn’t have planned the parallels of this night if I tried. My text came immediately after I left the child, and it was my drunk way of trying to be mysterious and take a stab at Fat Face. It just read, “I hope you’re entertained.” God I was being dramatic.  Fat Face probably just rolled his eyes at my text and then continued his make-out session.

He never thinks that the situations him and I consistently get ourselves into are as hilarious as I do, and this time was no different. He laughs, but then he’s just like, “Yeah, cool Cait.”

Later that night, to get even with him, I would crash his reunion. They were at the “after party” at some dive bar on the beach. Before I got pissed at him, I was encouraging and hoping that he’d “re-meet” someone. After his asshole statement from the night prior though, I was now prepared to sabotage. I love Fat Face no matter what, so had he sounded like he was actually having a good time and asked me not to come, I would have respected that regardless of my current disdain for him. When he called me however, I could tell that he needed his partner in crime to spice things up.

When I arrived, I immediately began Mission Embarrass Fat Face. I was yelling through the bar lies like Fat Face had herpes… he was recently incarcerated for having sex with a minor… that he had three nipples, anything that came to mind. I was also pointing out his hickeys to everyone. I was being so obnoxious.

Fat Face is always a good sport though, and he didn’t give a fuck, so he was just laughing and joining in. It basically turned into a Cait and Fat Face performance, and people just started staring awkwardly the way you do when you’re watching two apes fondle each other at the zoo. We were shouting obscenities and literally gleeking whiskey onto each other’s faces.

I went to the same high school and was the class just under him, so I knew a lot of the people there.  A few of them I of course have mild history with, so that made things even more interesting. When a couple of people asked if Fat Face and I were now dating, I told them that we did for a little while, but then shit got weird when we found out that my mom’s great uncle’s nephew is Fat Face’s dad, so it just didn’t work out. I couldn’t tell if these people actually believed me or not, I was just impressed with my improv skills.

Once it became clear that we had officially scared everyone away from us, we went down onto the dance floor that had ZERO people on it, a fucking ugly cheap disco light thing, god awful music playing and a random hoola hoop on the ground. Of course we went on to make utter fools of ourselves by white people dancing together and attempting to hoola hoop, then integrating the hoola hoop with our god awful dancing.

After sufficiently embarrassing ourselves enough to call it a night, we left and decided to walk on the beach for a while to sober up before driving home. In true Fat Face and Caitlin style, we stripped down to our underwear and jumped into the Gulf. I can’t believe we did this because it was dark, so we obviously couldn’t see into the water and that’s always terrifying, but he always brings out the adventurous side of me.

Once we both made it home, it must have been around 3:00am, and I texted him saying that he is now obligated to come to my reunion next year. He said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” I told him no, there’s no option, to which he responds with,

“Don’t care. Passing out.”

God I love him.

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Part 1 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

I hate anonymity, but I’ve been participating in it recently, occasionally giving the boys that I write about pseudonyms so that their ex’s or girl that they flirted with one night over a pitcher of beer and a soccer game, don’t get offended.  I guess me giving them bullshit names, is my way of not cock-blocking my friends.  But come on girls, stop getting pissed at guys just because they have a story that doesn’t include you.  It’s embarrassing.  So because I’m annoyed right now that I have to practice restraint, I am going to give my friend the pseudonym “fat face” for this entry.  Generally, I would call him “My Love,” a name we’ve been calling each other since 2003, but he pissed me off, so he’s not getting the nice nickname today.

I’d like to note that Fat Face is not at all fat.  He’s actually quite good-looking and I like picking out ties for him because he has a good fashion sense and when he’s feeling especially sweet, he’ll even let me pick out his outfit.

Him and I always have a lot of fun together.  Whether I’m making him play Monopoly with me, or we’re hoping fences and jumping into high school pools at 3:00 in the morning, we always have a great time.  We have been hanging out a lot because at the moment we’re both single(ish), we live in the same city, have a self-destructive personal life and put up with each other’s obnoxious tendencies, so I’d say he’s my partner in crime.  He’s also one of my best friends.

When we were teenagers, we had a whole group of friends who would rally together and participate in these slightly illegal, yet harmless activities such as spray painting city light bulbs, climbing on roofs and planning underground Beta fish fight clubs.  The rest of the “crew” have gone on to have fully functioning adult lives, and Fat Face and I are the two who still blow bubbles and giggle at the word vagina.  I’m sure our inability to settle down is due to our deep inner discontent, but this is something we choose to ignore for the most part when we’re together.  We just have too much damn fun to bother with gross discussions of the true reasons of why we push everyone away.

This screenshot perfectly sums up our friendship:

IMG_0130That is a very brief explanation of our most recent history, maybe I’ll get into our more advanced history some other time, but for now, we’re talking about what he did to piss me off, and the sinful events that took place after.  While on the phone with him the other night, he said something that was probably true, but I was not trying to hear it right then.  It was something along the lines of me always getting myself into ridiculous situations because I “welcome” them.  He went on to just dig himself into a hole, including statements such as, “I’m entertained by them though!”  I basically took it to mean that he doesn’t take me, or my life seriously.

“Fat Face.  Fat Face.  Stop talking.  I’m hanging up on you.”

“No!  No!  Don’t hang up.  Please!”

“Yes, I’m going.  You’re making me mad.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Whatever.  Bye.”

Of course, we were kind of laughing, even as we were yelling at each other.  He knows me well enough to know that I just needed a night to settle down and that by tomorrow I’d only be 60% mad at him, so he let me go.  I was planning on a low-key night, it was 10:00pm and I was sitting at a Starbucks instead of a bar.  After Fat Face ambushed me with that however, I felt I deserved a cocktail to unwind from the mental uneasiness he so graciously offered.  I brought my book to a nearby bar, sat in my spot and ordered a Beefeater martini with two olives.

20 pages and 20 ounces of gin later, and I was humoring this guy next to me, pretending to listen as he discussed something relating to baseball I think, and something relating to his dog, which I definitely didn’t give a shit about.  This went on for about a half hour, but once he busted out the iPhone to show me pictures of his damn dog that I didn’t ask about, I gave myself a Caitlin pep talk.  It went something like this:

Why the fuck are you talking to this guy?  You know you’re just humoring him because you’re bored and pissed at Fat Face.

After my pep talk, I decided to actually look at the guy whose time I was currently wasting.  He was a child.  This kid must have been freshly 21.  Okay, now things were getting interesting, I thought.  Fat Face is always getting himself involved with little girls who still take bathroom mirror selfies, and the kid I was talking to was their male counterpart.

Once I discovered the irony, I was eating it up.  I began to actually make eye-contact, asked him what his dumb dog’s name is and even went as far as to inquire about what it feels like to have been born in the ’90s.  In hindsight, it was obviously my way of lashing out at Fat Face’s statement.  You think I “welcome” my ridiculous situations?  Well watch this!

Just call me Ms. Maturity.

The child and I got up to go outside, and he was carrying a fucking duffel bag.  Immediately after that hilarious discovery, which I of course called him out on, I found out that he doesn’t have a car.  Even better.  Here I am, a 27-year-old professional, (sort of) about to make a bad decision with a kid who carries around a duffel bag, has no car and wears pink button up shirts.  “So does that mean I’m taking you home?” I asked.

“Yes.”  Oh God.

To be continued…

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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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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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