Tell Me in the Morning

   The Weekend That Shall Forever After Be (Kind of) Remembered as The Birthday Bender


   I got drunk Friday at noon, and basically stayed that way until Sunday morning. It was the most exhausting weekend of my life.
     We spent Friday afternoon talking to the most country bartender ever, who told me about "an article" he read that was talking about sexting, explaining that there are vibrating devices your phone hooks up to that you put between your legs that are signaled every time you receive a text. The ride home was spent laughing with Sister #3, who turned 31 Friday, about how how grossly misinformed he was.
     "I wanted to be like- you have OBVIOUSLY never sexted" I gasped.
     "I know, seriously! Because THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENS!" she added, equally hysterical.

   Saturday we went on a Pub crawl. Bobby came along and I got so wasted that at one point I actually pointed to him and yelled to my cousin, who has read my blog via my Twitter account, "THIS IS BOBBY MCGEE! THAT'S HIM!" (Note: When you are drunk enough that you TALK ABOUT YOUR OWN BLOG, you should have stopped drinking at least an hour ago. And that wasn't even where it ended.) There was also a sing-along, which was super awesome, and at one point we talked about Pink Floyd and I insisted repeatedly that The Wall album "gets me on a level that no person EVER will. EVER. EVER." Which was true when I was fifteen. Not as much anymore.

   Then I went to Girls Night with several of my friends where I rambled nonsense and told them over and over "I broke my phone and I DON'T EVEN CARE!" 

   I dropped my phone hard enough to destroy the screen, and now I kind of do care about that. I also spilled an entire drink in my lap. I hold my liquor really, really well. Anyone want to party?

A Half-Assed Post Full of Pictures Because I Missed You Guys

   I've been a terrible blogger. I'm sorry. I'm hoping to be back more often. Here's what you've been missing:

Esther moved to Florida for school. 

I miss her a lot but I'm super happy and excited for her.

I had my Annual Christmas party. This is Bobby & me posing with Santa.

Everyone said it was the best one yet, but I thought it kinda sucked. For some reason I was super uptight and kept turning the music down and making everyone use coasters. I think the problem was that I stopped drinking after like a half hour, when I clearly should have done like sixteen shots and cried or something. Ew, am I growing up or something?

Me & a lady I like at a Christmas party where she's dressed like snow & I'm the Virgin Mary.

I drank way too much, came home and threw up on the living room floor. I got mad class, yo.
(Guess I don't have to worry about that "growing up" thing I referred to back there, eh?)

New Year's Eve I wore a gold sequin sheath dress and a bird mask. 

I'm here with Bobby's sister, who is the most beautiful and coolest chick of all time.

We started drinking at 2pm. By 3:30 there were costumes and dancing. Somehow I ended up with the clown, which is so fucked up and not okay at all.

Happy New Year!

Teenage Dream

   I have a confession, you guys. I think I'm a pedophile.

   Now, I know what you're all thinking: That's creepy and disgusting, and seriously, put this bitch in jail, that is so fucked up! but calm down: I'm not that kind of pedophile. I have, like, standards. I mentioned Mark/Matt AKA the bearded minors in my English class, and I've been sitting with Matt for a couple weeks and that beard is nothing to shake a stick at. What does that even mean? Is that even a real expression? Whatever, I'm not changing it. Learn to like it.

   So, aside from Mark/Matt, there is the kid who commented on my "two first names" (whose name is Adam), and I work with another 17-year old named Alex. They're fucking everywhere. Initially, I was finding myself being driven to the brink of madness, their young flesh serving as a constant reminder of my old age, until, feeling desperate, I decided it's time for a new perspective. I've interpreted all of this as the universe's way of telling me 20 is the new 40 and it's time for me to go all Cougar up in this bitch. Get out of my way, Courteney Cox. Your show sucks anyway. Seriously, have you guys seen it? It's terrible. Like, painfully bad. Why was it renewed for a second season?  I mean, think about it: They're young, inexperienced perhaps, struggling to find their place in the world during their first months away from home (or, in Alex's case, his senior year of high school, oh my God that's disturbingly young, hey maybe he'll take me to prom-) and I could be a real resource for them. I could give them a place to belong. 

   So I've spent English class mentally planning my various illicit escapades (English 102 is really boring you guys, forreal) and today we were assigned to do group work. Matt and I were put to work together with some other kid named Tyler (who I couldn't help noticing is also pretty easy on the eyes), and we got to talking. "Wow, did he just ask me what a thesis is?" I asked myself, feeling a mild sense of panic. "Calm down, Linnea," I ordered myself. "Now is not the time to be pretentious. Just think of the beard." 
   I laughed and played with my hair as I directed him to the page in our book that explains how to write a thesis. "It's like, right there!" I said, giggling.
   "Wow, I'm like, jealous of your writing ability," he said, reading my introduction paragraph.
   "Yeah, well it's my third year of college, so I have like, a lot of like, experience...with this kind of thing," I said shrugging. "So when do you turn 18?"
   "A little over a month," he answered excitedly. "I'm so ready. I can't wait to drive after 9."
   "Yeah, that'll be really- wait, what? Holy shit. Oh Christ, this is... I am old as fuck," I said, gathering my things in a mad dash.
   "Hey, do you live in Spaulding?" he asked.
   "What? I, oh- what? No. I-I d-don't live here. I don't live here. I'm-I have to go." I muttered, running out of the classroom.

   They're so hot until they talk.

Wish You the Worst

   Can I write a seething post about how bitter I am over the fact that I spent four fucking years in a dead end, terrible relationship with a selfish, lying asshole who came and went as he pleased with no regard to how I felt about it, then suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth to reappear blissfully ENGAGED to the least attractive girl I have ever seen in my entire life?
   I'm trying to dismiss it and concentrate on other things, but it's always in the back of my mind. I have anxiety-inducing premonitions of myself publicly drunkenly sobbing and insisting how much prettier I am than she is, and I've been hiding from alcohol to avoid them coming true.
   I need more self-control. I'm still masochistically stalking his facebook, hands shaking with anger, frustration and jealousy at their idyllic romance. (I almost said picturesque but, you guys, seriously, there is nothing picturesque about this bitch. She's a total ugg-o.)
   Sorry I'm whining. This post is a catastrophic waste of your time.

99 Problems

   Today started at 4:58am. I woke up suddenly, noticed the clock and thought to myself "Man, there are those crazy people who wake up at times like this and then somehow don't fall asleep! What stupid assholes! Ha ha ha! What's wrong with them? They need to get it together! Thank God I am the master of slumber! I make dreams my bitch! If sleeping was a super power, I'd be the hero of the land! Of ALL lands! Ha ha ha stupid assholes with insomnia!"
   Then I, of course, lay awake for about five hours.
   Now, perhaps there are those of you out there wondering why the hell I didn't get up after, say, the first half hour, and that is because I am really, really, really stubborn. I was in severe denial about being one of those people I had laughed at derisively and was determined to fall back to sleep. It didn't happen.
   I got up at 9:42, made some breakfast, then sat at the computer until 10:06. Then I plucked my eyebrows and gazed lovingly at my own reflection until- oh shit! 10:12! I'm supposed to be out of the house in 3 minutes! And I have no makeup on and I'm not dressed and my hair is disgusting!
   It turned out to be a messy ponytail, blush and mascara kind of day.
   I got to school at 10:59 for my 11:00 class and decided to go to the library first to print out a paper for my 12:30 class. My first professor doesn't even take attendance, and my second one is pretty uptight, so this seemed like the right order.
   I went to a computer and took my sweater off as it turned on. Then I looked down and realized there was an extremely inappropriate amount of cleavage happening and had to put it back on. Annoyed, I made a mental note not to wear this shirt to school anymore.
   When I opened the e-mail I had sent myself with the homework files attached, I wanted to slap myself. I had saved them in .wps and the school's computer only opens .rtf which I am 100% aware of.
   I then remembered it's the 14th which, aside from being my parents' 36th wedding anniversary (Congrats guys!), is also the first day I need my iClicker for class.
   Cue mild panic attack.
   I realized then I was not going to make my first class. I hate missing classes. A lot. A whole whole lot. 
   I eventually resigned myself to this and decided to make the best of it. I started calling people to see who could open the files on a different computer, convert the format and send them back. Finally finding a willing sister, I asked a librarian where to find the stupid iClicker. After telling me it was going to set me back 50 bucks, she gave me directions to the University Bookstore, which I didn't understand a word of.
   I left and called Johnny, hoping for some clearer directions. He didn't answer. I wandered in a sort of frenzied haze until I heard from the distance: If you're having girl problems, I feel bad for you son. I got 99 problems but a bitch aint one!
   "Whaa?" I found myself wondering.
   Then I noticed it seemed to be coming from my pocket. Curiously, I removed my cell phone which was vibrating and, yes, supplying the sweet sounds of Jay-Z. Apparently that's my ringtone? This had escaped my notice for God only knows how long because my phone is constantly on vibrate. Johnny was calling me back. He gave me directions that made sense and I found the bookstore.
   By 12:30, I was in class, with the required assignments. I should mention that this is Writing 102. For some reason my English credits didn't transfer and I'm being required to take WRITING 102. It's mortifying. Except there's this one bearded, nature-y kid who I think is named Mark (who is totally 17) and he's extremely hot. Anyway, he came in a bit late and started to walk towards me. I got excited that he was going to sit next to me, and then he broke my heart by instead sitting in the open seat in front of me.
  In the middle of silently reassuring my bruised ego that he was just making the studious decision and not avoiding the creepy older chick who always has dirty hair, I looked to the front of the room and saw another bearded, nature-y guy. Confused, I looked at Mark sitting in front of me and realized it wasn't Mark. It was some kid named Matt. Mark was sitting in his usual seat. I spent the rest of class trying to decide which one was hotter until the kid who sits next to me (who is ALSO 17- I'm surrounded in them) looked at my paper, pointed at my name at the top, smirked and said "You have two first names!" I smiled and said "Yeah," (I'm a first-name-last-name... as in, my last name is also a first name) and then I got creeped out by myself for having to remind myself I could literally get arrested.
   Walking between classes, I kept noticing men very openly staring at me as I passed by them. I kept rushing to the bathroom to make sure I didn't have anything weird happening, because I really didn't look so cute. Glasses, dirty hair in a pony tail and almost no makeup? Seriously guys, have some standards. And I was still wearing my sweater, so they really have no excuse.
   During my third class, I suddenly noticed a remarkably strong smell of urine. I wrinkled my nose and wondered where it was coming from, looking around me condescendingly and judging everyone for being so gross. Then suddenly I got nervous and was like "Oh my God, what if it's ME? DO I SMELL LIKE PEE RIGHT NOW? DOES EVERYONE AROUND ME SMELL PEE AND IT'S ME AND I STINK LIKE PEE AND EVERYONE KNOWS? OH MY GOD!"
   I spent most of the next hour having that conversation with myself until class ended and I got out of the room and realized I, in fact, did not reek of urine. My sweater smelled kind of bad though, I'm not sure what was happening with that. I guess I don't remember the last time I washed it. I'll have to do that. Hopefully before I wear it out in public next.

A Good Man is Hard to Find

      Friday during the day I was facebook chatted by a man almost a decade older than I, whom I have met a handful of times, who has always been overtly interested in me. If you've read carefully (which I'm certain you all have, right?) you will know that I am instantly put off by that. I hate it when people awkwardly stare and smile at me for extended periods of time. It actually makes me mildly disgusted. I'm sure there's something Freudian in there, but I'm not particularly interested in the psychological underpinnings of my sexual interests. I digress.
   So, he's facebook chatted me before, and asked for my number a month or so, which I begrudgingly gave him. I don't really know how to refuse my phone number to someone who isn't a stranger. I just feel like it's rude. Anyway.
   Our facebook convo went something like this:

Man Pushing 30: So, any plans for the weekend?

Self: Drinking. To excess.

Inappropriately Older Man: Want a partner?

Self does not reply.

Elderly Guy Who Lacks Subtlety: So, can I tell you something? It will sound weird in this context, but life's about taking risks, right?

Self: Uhh... maybe. I guess.

Senior Citizen: I think ur really cute :)

Self: Oh, thank you. That's nice of you to say. 

Social Security Recipient: So uh, can I ask you the same question?

Self: I'm not sure what you mean.

Retiree: What do you think of me?

Self: Oh, I think you seem very nice. But I'm... off the market, so to speak.

   He texted me that night asking where I was, and I told him I hadn't left yet but intended to go to a bar in our town. He replied that he was at a different bar, but would meet me there. I groaned in misery.

   Esther unsympathetically insisted that I agree to meet up with him, pointing out that he would pay my tab at the end of the night. I rolled my eyes and muttered something about not needing or wanting a man to do that.

  When he arrived, he proceeded to awkwardly smile nonstop at me and never break his gaze. He basically cornered me and rambled his life away for a couple of hours, told me he was going to marry me, repeatedly asked me "how crazy was it, what I said to you today?" and otherwise just generally creeped me out. I made excuses to leave every 10 minutes or so. 

   During these breaks from torture, I would take Esther into the bathroom and explain how much I hated what was happening. She drunkenly (and rather condescendingly, I might add) informed me that I needed to "deal with it" because "he was buying me drinks" and did I know how many guys stare at her and she deals with it? She insisted that I "learn to go with it." She then proceeded to bring up a few unfortunate looking fellows in the past month she has spent the night talking to at the bar in exchange for drinks. Frustrated, I insisted that I wasn't interested in leading men on in exchange for access to their wallets, and that I wanted to get the hell out of the situation immediately.

   "He's not that bad," she insisted. "He's not ugly."

   "I don't hook up with people because they're not ugly," I interjected, hotly.

   I realized pretty quickly that these trips to the bathroom were doing little, aside from enraging me further, and miserably stepped back into the bar where he would descend on me like a piranha.

   He gradually moved in closer and closer and awkwardly began rubbing my back and legs. I moved as far away as I could, but it was pretty crowded in there.

   I eventually found Esther outside and incomprehensible. Seizing the excuse, I told him we had to leave immediately and made an unceremonious departure.

   After we left, the night improved substantially. We went back to the apartment of two guy friends where she got something to eat and we all hung around laughing for a few hours, until Bobby picked me up and took me home.

   It was the first time we'd seen each other in weeks and, thrilled, I spent the car ride home basically just grabbing and squeezing him and shrieking about how happy I was to see him. He just laughed the whole time.

   When we pulled into my driveway, I took my seatbelt on, leaned over and grabbed him in an embrace.

   "I MISSED YOU I MISSED YOU I MISSSS YOUUUU!" I squealed.

   "You're squeezing my head," he replied.

   "I KNOW! I AM! I love you! Ahhhhhhh I love you so much I can't stand it! Oh, shit, I'm squeezing your head!" I released him, and he leaned back in, grinning.

   "No, no, I like it."

Almost Lover

   Well readers, here I am, tail between my legs, to confess my drunken foolishness.

   Tuesday night, Esther & I went out to the bar. We invited that guy I mentioned who liked me and then didn't like me so much and told him to text her if he wanted to meet us. Eventually he called her and asked to meet her at a store about a block away. Just her.
   I immediately began freaking the ef out, convinced he was going to tell her how annoying I am and why would she ever hang out with me, et cetera. She drunkly reassured me that this was a good sign.
   I stayed at the bar with a few girlfriends who were also there while she left. About fifteen minutes later, she texted me saying his ex girlfriend had showed up.
   Long story short: He went somewhere in her car with her while she waited in the parking lot and I waited at the bar. Already more intoxicated than I should have been, I nervously started pouring drunks down my throat with a speed that, in a contest, would have been impressive and garnered applause. Unfortunately, I was not participating in such a contest, and was actually just sitting at a table singing D'yer Mak'er really, really passionately. For over an hour. 
   Finally, Esther returned. Alone. She said he had forgotten something at home and was getting it and then coming to meet us. I mumbled something about exhaustion and she suggested leaving to meet him.
   When we did, I was wasted, exhausted and bitter about having been kept waiting for such a ridiculous period of time, so my contribution to the conversation mainly went like this: "I need to go to bed. I'm so tired. I need to go to bed." with the occasional aside about having been at the bar alone for over an hour. (I wasn't actually alone, but he didn't know that, and at the time, I didn't feel he needed to.)
   We did return to the bar, and he kept a noticeable distance from me. Esther whispered to me that they hadn't had the chance to talk before his ex showed up, and that all he had said was that he "doesn't want to date anyone right now."
   In my mental state, I took this as a personal affront and was devastated by it. We sat in the back room, the three of us, and eventually were joined by this old ass pervy guy I worked with in high school. He sat next to me and blatantly stared at my boobs until finally asking "Did you ever work at Water Street?" 
   "The Clarkson House," I slurred, dropping my head between my hands.

   Suddenly, Esther and I were alone at the table together and I felt my eyes get teary. My exhaustion and misery had collided, with this awful result. She consoled me and I managed to pull it together by the time the object of my drunken unrequited love returned. He immediately began asking me what was wrong, and I insisted nothing.

   When we finally left, he walked us home. All I really remember about this trip was making some weird comment that didn't make sense that may or may not have included this little gem: "Sometimes I think that's the reason boobs exist, it's so fucking cold."  I don't remember what my reason for the existence of boobs was, but I do recall that my comment on the weather was completely unrelated to the beginning of the thought, and I got confused looks from both Esther and our male companion.
   When we got back home, he & I ended up outside alone together, and I started drunkenly rambling about how embarrassed I was and how unlike me this was, which is true. I know you're all remembering this ridiculous night and not believing me, but really guys, I'm not usually that girl.
   This conversation I remember little of, although I do recall saying something to the extent of "I'm kind of into you." and him offering some lengthy reply about having trust issues. The thought of someone explaining trust issues to me as I was unfamiliar with them was funny to me, and I may have laughed, which I'm sure was offensive and made him think I was even more of a crazy bitch than he already thought I was.

   I eventually went inside and totally fell apart, fortunately without witnesses. I realized suddenly that I was finally upset about the engagement I had been ignoring, as well as the fact that Bobby up & left for school without so much as a goodbye. Then, when I asked him if he was coming home for my birthday (which is on a Friday night, and it's barely an hour drive), he just said "No, I don't think I'm going to do that. This was especially offensive because I was 500 miles away for his past two birthdays, and I spent whole days and hundreds of dollars on public transportation to surprise him BOTH years. (And I bought him a good luck present for the coming year! It's this really awesome hat he would have totally loved. He isn't going to get it anymore though, because seriously, dick move. Times two.)

   I woke up the next morning and went to a job interview (I've been to 3 this past week!) and then went home and wrote an apology message via facebook for my drunken antics. I tried to sound as rational as possible, and explained my lack of emotional intelligence and how feelings confuse me and I need time to process them. I went on to say that, because I was drunk, rather than contain my emotions and determine where they were coming from, I simply started guessing out loud what the problem was, and projected my unhappiness onto him because he happened to be present.

   That was over 24 hours ago. No response yet. He thinks I'm a grade-A nutjob. There goes that, I guess.

   Next?

Don't Phunk With My Heart

   Can I be honest with you guys?

   I'm taking your silence as a yes.

   I'm totally fucked, you guys. Like... completely, unbelievably, insanely F-U-C-K-E-D.

   So this guy I mentioned staying up until seven in the morning with? How he seemed interested, then not-so-interested? I haven't heard from him since the night he seemed uninterested, unless you count me writing on his facebook and him answering, but that's a little desperate, isn't it? And I am freaking. obsessing. my. life. away. Like... looking through pictures he was tagged in on facebook and deepening my infatuation ON PURPOSE. WHY AM I DOING THIS?

   He's kind of fascinating, guys. I don't know what my life is right now, but I'm pretty sure that I'm failing at it.

   When we were at the bar with Esther, some guy was hitting on her and we were standing in a group of 4 while he talked. I found myself examining at him as he stared at his drink. He glanced up at me and caught me staring at him and rather than smile (which would have been flirtatious and a bit saucy, in my opinion) or even moving my eyes to the conversation at hand, I, with a suaveness the likes of which I'm sure you've never seen, awkwardly jerked my head to the opposite side of the room to look at the wall as if there was something fascinating happening on it. There wasn't. It was an empty ass wall.

   Also, as we stood in the doorway before he left, I casually DID THE WWE DX CROTCH CHOP AND SAID SUCK IT. Yes, I do that on a daily basis, but REALLY did I have to do that the second time we spoke? Really? I did? He looked really confused and then went "Did you just..." and I hung my head in shame and mumbled "...yes."

  Seriously... If anyone is available to smack me upside the head and tell me to get my shit together, it would be much appreciated. It's badly needed.

Over the Hills and Far Away

   It's funny how long things can seem to stay exactly the same for so long, and then how suddenly everything seems to change all at once.
   Mr. Fantasy asked his very-recently-new girlfriend to marry him. I'm not that upset about it. I'm not sure if I'm still in shock or just over it.
   I stayed up until 7am talking to a stranger this week- I guess we're not strangers anymore. :) We met through Esther, who has been friends with him for years.  We talked about a lot of things- past relationships, religion (his unwavering faith in God, my lack thereof), and politics (again, siding with opposite beliefs).  Somehow we barely noticed the hours passing and suddenly the sun was up.
   I'm trying so hard to evolve, emotionally. I read somewhere that introverts delude themselves into thinking they don't need anyone, and therefore they internalize everything, and end up emotionally underdeveloped because of it. I'm certain I'm in this situation, and thus am struggling to develop more personal relationships where I feel comfortable divulging things. So, when he asked me questions, I answered them. For the most part.
   When he tried to share my bed in the morning, I shrugged apologetically and got up. He left, after a few embraces, and went home.

   Last night I saw him again and he seemed a lot less interested. Naturally, this caused me to be maddeningly attracted to him. The more standoffish he became, the more fervently interested I became, and at the end of the night when he went home, I went to bed in a frenzy of restlessness and laughter, peppered with self-loathing.
   I was hoping the infatuation would have worn off by the time I woke up this morning, but no such luck. All day I've been wandering around dizzy, barely able to stop smiling for longer than a minute at a time. I'm stumbling around like a damn fool.

   He'll get a name if he comes to deserve one.  So... new beginnings, anyone? :)

Worthwhile

   And finally...

The Mailman Part IV: Dinner Part II

   We take our seats at the table as Arlene pours us each a glass of water and a glass of wine. The Mailman sets our salads at our places and we begin to eat. They're... delicious. Like really, really delicious. There's this crazy-good dressing and mounds of creamy goat cheese and all sorts of fabulosity happening. (I may or may not have been watching Kimora: Life In The Fab Lane the entire time I've not been blogging.) I eat delightedly, both at the unexpected deliciousness and the excuse for silence. Until...

   A cat approaches. The Mailman immediately begins a full-fledged conversation between himself, me and the cat. It's requiring a level of conscientiousness I usually lack to keep from dropping my fork. 

   "Pet me!" he purred/squeaked. 

   "I, uhh... Uh, I... eating. I'm... I'm eating. So... right. Yeah. Later," I stutter out.

   "Daddy pets me while he's eating!" the Mailman's cat insisted.

   I smiled awkwardly and shoved a giant forkful of lettuce into my mouth to avoid answering.

   May I add here that my expertise on which fork to use for what originally came from the movie Titanic? Because it totally did. Thanks, Kathy Bates. Anyway. The main course arrived on the table and consisted of chicken in a wine/mushroom sauce, pasta in a basil pesto, rolls and a corn casserole. The Mailman loaded up everyone's plates, ignoring our insisting that we had plenty; "You need more than that!" he hollered, piling on the food. The dinner was equally delicious.

   A few bites into the pasta, the Mailman's face went sour.
   "It's too dry!" he hollered, and sprinted out to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. He then poured it all over his own serving, then moved on to our individual plates.
   "Oh, no thank you-" my mother began, as he coated her plate in oil. I sat silently, accepting my greasy fate.
   When he got to Arlene, she covered her plate with her hands and asserted "No thank you. I don't want it."
   "You need it," the Mailman insisted, drizzling it over her hands a bit.
   "Well, I'm not going to have it," she stated, calmly.
   Very obviously disgruntled, but aware that he'd been bested, he shrugged and set the bottle down.

   We sat at the table making small talk and things started to seem more... normal. After dinner, we cleared the plates and everything was ordinary. Until...

   Arlene and I were put in charge of scraping plates. Background: Our local newspaper comes folded in a small, orange plastic bag. The bags generally aren't suitable for any other purpose, as they are designed specifically for protecting newspapers from rain and snow.  The mailman handed us one of these orange bags and requested that we put the discarded food inside it. We looked at each other confusedly and fumbled through the task, awkwardly stretching the bag to dangerous angles and trying to avoid making a mess. 

   "Don't you have another bag, sweetheart?" Arlene asked.

   "No," he answered. "Well... I do. But that's the one I want you to use."

   Looking at me with a slight smirk, she remarked, just loudly enough, "It looks like we got the hardest job."

   In a bold step outside my comfort zone, I... forced a smile and laughed awkwardly. 

   The Mailman then escorted us to the front door to teach us to use his security system. After giving us an unnecessarily thorough explanation of the process, he proceeded to punch in four numbers and open the door. I nodded, affirming my understanding. Arlene completely froze.

   "I... don't think I'm going to get that. I... I don't know, it's a lot of technology. I don't understand it, I just don't! I won't be using it," she insisted.

   "Well, you have to," he answered bluntly.

   "Why don't you try it?" I offered, sympathetically. I then walked her through it a few more times, until at last she proclaimed

   "Why that's easy!"

   I smiled and turned to walk back to the room my mother was in, when he stopped me to show off his picture of Obama's inauguration. I expressed my genuine appreciation for it and it seemed to satisfy. I again started to leave the room when he stopped me again to ask who I had voted for. I told him proudly that I had traveled 23 hours to cast my vote for Obama and he smiled broadly and launched into a speech about the election.  Arlene eventually interrupted him to tell a story of her own. I don't remember it verbatim, but it consisted of her car breaking down on the side of the road, her husband being unable to fix it and a crazy-seeming man pulling over abruptly and fixing it for them. She explained that he had terrified her, as he had essentially stormed their car with a giant toolbox and fixed it with no explanation. They weren't sure what he was doing, and considered his murdering them a real possibility until he finished and explained to them that Jesus had ordered him personally to drive up and down highways helping people with car troubles.

   "You'd think Jesus would have mentioned that he ought have some decorum," I added, smirking snobbishly, and basking in my own wit. The Mailman and Arlene stared blankly at me in silence until I turned and led the way back to our mothers. 

   We then spent about 45 minutes sitting in the living room having a lively conversation, much of it centered around Jon Stewart and how wonderful he is. I finally spoke up, mentioning I had a paper due in the morning.

   "What's it on?" the Mailman inquired.

   "Eng-Psy-The History of Economics in the United States," I stuttered out, desperately. The room nodded and my mother and I returned to the car and drove away.  About a minute and a half into the drive, we burst into hysterical laughter and didn't stop until we reached home.

Keep the Car Running

   Now,  for the third installment of the mailman saga!

The Mailman Part III: Dinner, Part I

   The drive to the mailman's house is mostly silent. My mother fills gaps in the twenty minutes with alleviating anecdotes about the scenery we pass. I sit paralyzed by dread. Anxiety I have managed to ignore for days begins slowly overwhelming me. My only consolation is that I know how fucking hilarious this is. I try to focus on that, but the immediacy of the situation makes it harder to swallow.

   We pull in the driveway and approach the door, a bouquet of flowers in hand. Noting the sign that says the doorbell is broken, we knock. After a minute or so, the mailman appears. He is out of breath. And sweating. A lot. Like... a whole lot. I'm not sure if I'm communicating this to you adequately. This man is panting, beet red and accompanied by a fuck-ton of sweat. Sweat is literally pouring from him; his face does not glisten with a few mere beads. Sweat instead floods from his hairline like rain. He is really, really, really fucking sweaty.

   Our first step into the house is shocking. The smell of cat hits like a freight train. Literally. We stumble in, gripping each other for support, struggling for oxygen. This house smells like you tied a cat around your face and wore it as a surgical mask. And I've told you that I don't fucking like cats, right? I mean, I know I said awhile back I wanted to adopt one but I was obviously out of my damn mind that day. 

   "Where's Jerome?" he bellows. (Jerome is my father's name.) 

   "He was caught up at work, unfortunately," my mother explains. 

   "OHHHHH NO!"  The Mailman bellows. "My mother was really looking forward to meeting him."

   We follow him to the kitchen, where his mother is sitting. We head into the living room together while he remains in the kitchen. My mother and I sit alone and look around.

   "I've never seen so many cat figurines in my life," my mother whispers. 

   I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Seriously guys, there are hundreds. Every surface in the house is literally covered in cat figurines. They line windowsills, fill tables and cabinets and stand single file against walls. Porcelain, china, bronze, painted, wire sculptured, stuffed animals, figurines and everything in between. Everywhere you look is another multitude of cat figurines to digest. 

   Even Christmas Cat thinks The Mailman is craycray.

      After a few moments of silence, The Mailman's mother joins us, accompanied by the other guest: Arlene. Arlene is a seventy year old resident of our town who will be caring for the cats the first week The Mailman + his mother are gone; I'll be taking the second. We sit together and make surprisingly pleasant conversation. Arlene and The Mailman's Mother are as socially graceful as my mother and they maintain an impressive fluidity, despite my random, ill-timed and awkward interjections.

   The Mailman's Mother informs us that she knew my paternal grandfather's family; all four of his siblings, in fact, though she had never met my grandfather himself. 

   "I knew I'd be able to tell as soon as I saw him," she says, of my absent father, on whether or not he was descended of the family she had known. "They all had very characteristic features... those prominent blue eyes," she explains, slowly.

   "It's funny, all five of my sisters have my dad's blue eyes, but I have my mom's eyes," I blurt out, weirdly, forcing a laugh. The room smiles and nods before moving on to a new topic, and I sit stewing in shame for having spoken at all.

   At this point, The Mailman rushes out of the kitchen to join us. He stands in the middle of us, wiping sweat on his apron, huffing and puffing. He introduces me to two of his four cats, telling me their names. I smile uncomfortably and say hello to them. What happens next nearly knocks me to the floor.

   "I'm a Princess," The Mailman rasps in a high-pitched feminine voice. "I think I can do whaaaaateeevvvverrr I want!" 

   "Yes, of course you are. You're so beautiful and spoiled!" he coos back to the cat in motherese. "Daddy loooves you soooo much!"

   "Hey, what about me?!" he cackles in a similar but decidedly more masculine voice. "I'm a Prince! Feed me already! I love to be pet! I'm so spoiled and wonderful!"

   "Of course you are," he answers back, nuzzling the cat.

   I observe in horrified silence. I lack the ability to react whatsoever. It takes every ounce of strength not to dissolve into a full-scale emotional breakdown. Fortunately, the need for a response is eliminated by The Mailman yelling.

   "OH NO!" he hollers, sprinting full speed back into the kitchen.

   His mother then resumes the conversation and goes on to tell us about her recent hip surgery, but it's hard to concentrate with the sounds I'm hearing from the kitchen.

   "GODDAMNIT DON'T BE BURNED, OH SHIT, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO, WHAT THE HELL OH NO OH GODDAMNIT PLEASE NO, DAMN IT, GODDAMN, DON'T BURN, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!" 

   The shouting and swearing is accompanied by the deafening sounds of pans crashing and clanging. "I can't laugh, I can't laugh, this isn't funny, I'm not allowed to laugh, my Mom will be mortified if I laugh right now, it would be so inappropriate and unacceptable and rude!" I mentally scold myself.  After a few minutes of this, he returns to the living room.

   "Was something burning?" his mother asks, calmly.

   "Yes. but it was just a little bit of garlic. I started it over," he explains.

   "Can I help you with something?" Arlene offers.

   "Well, I would certainly like some company," he answers, heading back into the kitchen.

   She totally ignores this.

   That exchange is repeated a dozen times before dinner is served, and she ignores his request every. single. time.

  

   He makes multiple trips between the kitchen and living room, each time complaining that his pants are falling off. Arlene suggests a belt or suspenders every time, and he brushes off the solutions, choosing instead to continue with complaints.

   Finally, he announces we should move to the dining room table, as salads are about to be served.

Nobody's Fault But Mine... and my Mom's

...Mostly My Mom's

   I'm sure you've all been quivering with anticipation (My college roommate was right, I should REALLY write erotica!), just waiting for me to continue with the mailman saga. The day has come, readers! We return to My Life is A Joke, to bring you the next installment of The Mailman.

The Mailman, Part II: Bad Moon Rising 

    Very shortly after I moved back home, which I'm certain you all recall, as we here at Endless Contradictions are nothing if not attentive to detail, was last December. What? You guys don't remember that at all? You forgot I ever lived anywhere other than my parents house? So did my parents! They're all "When are you getting a job? Are you planning on moving out any time in the foreseeable future? Could you at least watch Youtube clips in your room with the door closed? Fine, stay on the couch, but could you turn the volume down?" And I'm like "WHY DON'T I JUST MOVE BACK ACROSS THE STATE AND GO BACK TO JUST TALKING TO YOU GUYS ON THE PHONE?"and they're like "No, please God no, those phone calls were unendurably long and boring! Did you really think we cared about what you learned in your Women's Studies classes?" and I'm like "THAT SHIT WAS FASCINATING!" and then I turn the volume on my laptop up really, really, really loud to drown out the sound of my own failures. Anyway, the point is, back in December the Mailman mentioned to my mother that he and his mother were going on a cruise in the spring and asked if I would take care of his cats while they were out of town. Pause: I. Hate. Animals. I know they're fuzzy and soft and loving blah blah blah but they stink and are annoying and frankly, they can suck it as far as I'm concerned. I like looking at animals from a distance, not sharing a bed with them. I do like specific animals, like Bobby's dog and our duckies, although I'll admit I can only play with them for about a minute and a half before I get bored and creeped out. I'm not an animal person in the least bit. My mother responds that "maybe" I would be interested. When she asks me about it, I reply with a firm, absolute no. "There is zero chance I will ever do that in my life. Helllllllllll no," I answer, and promptly forget the conversation has ever occurred.

   If only me forgetting about something meant I wouldn't have to deal with it! Speaking of, there's tons of shit I should be doing right now instead of blogging, but ehhh... So, suddenly it's spring and the cruise is fast approaching, and The Mailman simply informs my Mother that he will be having myself and both of my parents over for dinner on Thursday to "introduce me" to the cats.

   Upon receiving this news, I unleash the moody bitch. My mother is all apologies (10 points for Nirvana fans!) and I start sighing repeatedly and refuse to make eye contact with anyone. I'm still a teenager for four months guys, let me get it out of my system while it's still socially acceptable! I leave for the afternoon and upon returning, apologize to my mother for my ludicrous behavior. "I mean it's... honestly, it's totally hilarious," I confess, and suddenly she and I are in laughter-induced tears, totally unable to breathe for a solid five.

   As the days pass, my dread for Thursday grows from a slight nag to the smoke monster from LOST. (Speaking of which... I don't even have words. I'm in deep, deep grief, guys. I don't know if I'll ever be okay again. Why why why did it have to end?!)  I complain ad nauseam about the cruelty of my fates to anyone who will listen, and anyone who will blatantly not listen and repeatedly beg me to shut up. My father keeps insisting that it "at least will be a story we can tell for years!" He then adds, optimistically, that he "could turn out to be a wonderful cook!" and it might "be a great time!" I shake my head lethargically, emphasizing the single tear sliding down the left side of my face. Okay, okay, so there wasn't a single tear. But it made the story better, didn't it?

   I spend Wednesday night awake in bed, sighing loudly to myself, lamenting miserably my unbearable misfortunes. LOST is ending and I still can't find a job and I have to have dinner with the mailman?! And I don't even know where I'm going to college next semester! Why me? What's going to happen to Sawyer? Why can't they just have one more season? What am I going to do on Tuesdays? I eventually fall asleep, but The Mailman keeps interrupting my Josh Holloway dreams right before they get good (Yeah, that is what I mean, you gutter-minds!) to make sure I have his vet on speed dial!

Don't tell Desmond, but I'll miss you the most, you beloved incarnation of sex appeal, you.

   Thursday morning, my father "realizes suddenly" he has "a lot of work backed up" and "won't be able to make it." Which leaves just me & Momma to face dinner. 

There would be the creepy LOST animation & music playing right now, If I knew how to do that.

So Far Around the Bend

   I'm thinking of sort of reworking the general concept of this blog, which is essentially a collection of verbose lamentations on my failed/failing relationships, because that's not really entertaining or something people want to read about it. My life is actually pretty outrageous and should be documented as such, rather than being all whine, whine and more whine. So, my pledge to you dear readers, is that I will do my best to be less annoying and emo. I've decided to start including a segment I'm going to call "My Life is A Joke." Here is the first installment.
   A temporary break from your regularly scheduled programming of whining about dysfunctional relationships, to bring you a saga called The Mailman.

The Mailman, Part I: An Introduction

   My mailman is insane. Seriously, guys. He's nuts.

    Many people have two doors; a heavy door and a thinner door, often with a screen, so you can leave the bigger door open in the summer months to allow air into your house. Unless you're into air conditioning, but I'm not. If you choose to leave your door open, the mailman takes this as a personal invitation to enter your house and announce his presence. Very, very, very loudly. It usually goes something like this: "GOOOOOOOD MOORNINGGG! HELLLLLLOOOO! IIIII'VE GOT YOOOOOUR MAAAAAAIL!" 
   I can't tell you how many mornings I have woken up to the sound of his hollering. Yet somehow you never get used to it or expect it; every single time you hear it is as terrifying as the very first

   He's 62 years old and stands about 5'5''. This is two years and four inches beyond my mother. Whenever he sees her, he holds his arms wide open and yells "WHO'S THE CUTEST MAILMAN IN TOWN?" My mother, God bless her and her social graces which I wish I had inherited, smiles politely and assures him "It's gotta be you."

   My town has about 2,000 people in it, and probably 1,900 vote Republican. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but you get what I'm saying. I'm surrounded in old white people who spend their winters in Florida and their summers on sailboats in the river my town is on. Have I ever mentioned I live by the river? (10 points if you now have "London Calling" in your head!) 
  So, I mention this because the mailman is a rabid Democrat.Which I understand, respect and appreciate. I spent 23 hours on public transportation to vote for Obama, okay? I'm as hardcore Left as they come. But the mailman is something else entirely.

   The day after the 2004 election, I wore all black to school. I was 14 and "deep" and "taking a Political stand," as if Bush himself was going to hear that a freshman in high school dressed kinda goth for a day and would resign or something. Whatever, I was weird. Anyway, the mailman went a little further than I did.

   He ran into my mother at the bank that day, and essentially lost it. He knows we're Dems because he delivers our mail and sees the type of things we subscribe to. Feeling a disillusioned (and seriously misplaced) camaraderie, he began to express his disgust with the election results, which very rapidly escalated to a point where he was, as she puts it, "screaming, spitting and foaming at the mouth." At the bank. In front of everyone. In our 90% Republican town.

   Now my mother is a classy lady. She is nothing if not demure. She stood, absorbing his dementia, mortified and desperately seeking an escape. Granted, she was pretty disgusted with the election results herself. But she was far too dignified to spit all over people's faces about it.

 

This is the river I mentioned.

  

   One time, while on his route, the mailman made Bobby come to his truck and carry a package to an address down the block, claiming it was "too heavy"  for him. Bobby was about 17, and while he's over 6', he was skinny as a rail- as he said yesterday, about an old picture of us, "I look like a lanky cricket man here... That was my look back in the day."  He did this with such nonchalance, I can only assume that it isn't out of the ordinary for him to recruit teenagers to perform his mailman duties for him.  And the funny thing is, Bobby says the package wasn't heavy at all.

 

This is the "lanky cricket man" picture he was talking about. And yeah... a little. 

By the way, we were 15 in this picture if anyone's keeping track.

   My sister's boyfriend, his brother and his father run a landscaping company. They're called Triple H Landscaping. If you're in the area, hit 'em up! Hooray family businesses! 

   I mention this, because they are employed by the mailman. He routinely invites them in for meals while they are mowing his lawn, and they routinely politely decline. One time, he ran out into the front lawn in tighty whiteys and yelled "WHO WANTS SOME SAUSAGE?" Understandably taken aback, they all stood in awed, miserable, confused, awkward silence for about 30 seconds until he continued with "I'M THROWING SOME SAUSAGE ON THE GRILL, WHO WANTS SOME?!?!?!"

   Once the mailman simply set an extra place at the table and informed my sister's boyfriend's brother he would be having dinner with them. He sat at the table, dumbfounded, listening to the mailman bash and clang things around in the kitchen, swearing loudly the entire time.

   Now, I know it's 100% anecdotal, but is that enough evidence to convince you of his madness?

   Oh no, I'm noticing something alarming, and I feel compelled to make a list about it:

Things The Mailman & I Have In Common:

           1. We are 5'5''
           2. We live with our mothers

           3. We are passionate Democrats

           4. We have flipped a shit on my mother about some crazy shit that is in no way her fault

           5. We make Bobby carry shit for us, claiming it's "too heavy," when really, we just don't feel like doing it ourselves. 

           6. We don't think twice about going in the front yard in our underwear

           7. We have shared meals with the owners of Triple H Landscaping

   This saga has taken a turn I'm not sure I like..... But I'll still finish it.