Twas the Night Before...

The day of the wedding, I had lunch by myself.  A few of us had gone go-karting and hung out in the arcade that morning, after plans for zip lining fell through.   I wound up at a little seafood joint two blocks from the beach — just me, my crawfish and my Yuengling.  My last meal as a free man.  And not a bad choice, I might add, though some collard greens and cherry cobbler would have consummated it nicely.

As the crawfish began to disappear, I wondered if I’d be consummating anything anytime soon.  That is, considering the near-disastrous events of the night before.

Rehearsal had gone well enough, highlighted by the scrumptious swine delicacies of Hog Wild BBQ.  I was most excited about our recessional song (the Baja Men wedding classic, “Who Let the Dogs Out”) and my reception “mixtape.”  It was obvious (to me) that the old deejay hadn’t lost his touch.

Sure, one groomsman had been an hour late, and one bridesmaid missed the whole thing after getting lost in Mississippi.  (She looked like the lone survivor at the end of a horror movie as she avowed, “People think Alabama and Mississippi are the same.  They’re not.  Mississippi is way scarier.”)  But I figured if that’s the worst thing that happened, we were in good shape.

It wasn’t.

LJ and his wife invited us out to the Flora-Bama afterwards.  I should interject here that I may have given Fiancee Bone the impression that we would not go out after rehearsal.  I did this by telling her, “We will not go out after rehearsal.”  After all, we still had our vows to write!  (Procrastination being the mother of…. No wait, procrastination being the tie that… Eh, whatever, I’ll finish that line later.)

But we (I) was feeling guilty and trying to fit in as many friends and family as we (I) could.  After all, almost everyone had driven a minimum of five hours to get here.  So we (I) agreed (volunteered us) to go.

We rode with them and left Fiancee Bone’s car in the parking lot of the Gulf State Park Pavilion.  Our only instructions were to be cleared out by midnight because that’s when the gate would be locked.

The Flora-Bama was sprawling and historic, if uneventful.  It seemed the sort of place you really had to be inebriated to enjoy.  We got back to the Pavilion by 11:30. The gate, naturally, was locked.

After a few minutes of hemming, hawing, and investigating the situation, I decided there was space enough between the gate and a nearby utility pole to fit the car.  Perhaps you already have some idea where this is going?

As I navigated the five-speed, front-wheel drive German sedan towards the seemingly ever-shrinking gap, I looked at the three of them — LJ, my best man and friend of twenty-plus years; Mrs. LJ, well-intentioned if uber-panicky; and Fiancee Bone.  The skepticism was palpable.

I pressed on, determined to skillfully maneuver Fiancee Bone’s car through the opening, across a sandy threshold and into our future together.  Hero, thy name is Bone.

(I believe it was Gordon Lightfoot who once sang, “Heroes often fail.”)  My mistake was being too careful.  Not wanting to damage Fiancee Bone’s vehicle, I took it too slow.  The front-wheel drive, rather than working to pull me out of the sand (did I mention I was driving through sand?) only served to dig me in deeper -- literally and figuratively, I was thinking about this time.

I scanned Fiancee Bone’s face, trying to gauge her, um, enthusiasm.  On a scale of “I’m leaving and driving back home tonight” to “I love you forever,” it was a solid “I may not be speaking to you for awhile.”  We’d be fine.  Let’s face it, she’d surely put up with way worse than this in our time together.  I was inexplicably optimistic.

The three of us — LJ, Fiancee Bone and myself — got out to try and push.  Mrs. LJ got back into her own vehicle, presumably to panic some more or hide from the police that we all assumed would be arriving any minute.

Though buoyed by Mrs. LJ’s constant declarations of “This is never going to work,” pushing was a no-go.  The front wheels were nearly half-buried by now, thanks to some excessive gassing it earlier by yours truly.  The thought crossed my mind that no girl should have to be pushing a car from a stuck position the night before her wedding.  But in some way, it made me love her even more.   I looked at her again, and in that moment, I felt pretty confident she was not having similar thoughts about me.

Fiancee Bone began to call family members and friends to see if there was anyone who could pull us out, while Mrs. LJ consoled her with utterances of “I’d be so upset if I were you.”  I separated from the group a bit and walked back to the car.  That’s when I saw it — wedged down in the corner of the driver’s side window — the world’s tiniest post-it note.

I held the absurdly small piece of paper in the light and read it’s once-important but now terribly untimely message:

“Gate is dummy locked.  Please lock up when you leave.”

Why?  Just… why?

First of all, notes on cars go under the windshield wiper, everyone knows that!  I'm pretty sure that's in Deuteronomy, or would have been had post-it notes been invented in 1500 B.C., right between gleanest ye not thy fields after the harvest and something something something thine brother's oxen.

Secondly, who buys the 1/2 inch by 1 3/4 inch post-it notes?  They are very hard to see!  Nothing says "I wanted to leave you a note so technically you couldn't say I hadn't, but I didn't really want you to get the message" more than this.

Now you understand, Fiancee Bone hadn’t wanted to go out in the first place.  Plus there was the little matter of the car getting stuck while it just so happened I was the one driving it.  So I was already skating on the thinnest of ice.  But this bit of news, which meant the entire misadventure could have and should have been avoided, had turned that ice to slush.

I walked back to the group — they had remained preoccupied — and did not say a word, but simply handed the note to Fiancee Bone.  My brain must have suppressed the memory of her reaction in the interest of self-preservation or something, because I cannot recall a thing that she said.

In order to put the finishing touches on my magnum opus, I strolled over to the entrance, easily removed the lock and swung open the gate.  Voila!  Well, at least I’ll know for next time?

Not more than a couple of minutes later, we noticed the headlights of a vehicle begin to slow and pull off the side of the road.  How were we going to explain our situation?  There’s no way the police would believe the truth.  More likely, they would think we’d broken in, went joy riding in the parking lot, probably smoked a few doobies, and got stuck on our way out.  I began to wonder what the Gulf Shores Jail was going to look like.

Would it be like the Andy Griffith Show?  That wouldn’t be so bad.  Or would it be more like Law & Order?  Would I get my own cell or would I be in holding with a bunch of other criminals?  I knew that regardless I would not be able to “go” in that little sink/toilet thingy with no privacy.  I’d just have to wet myself.  Of that, I was certain.

As it turns out, my toilet nightmare would have to wait.  It was not the cops.   Instead a white jacked-up truck had pulled up.  Two boys who looked to be no older than nineteen or twenty got out.  Without saying a word, one hopped into the bed of the truck and began pulling out a chain.  The other offered nothing more than a brief “Ya’ll stuck?” greeting as he began to tie one end of the chain around the front right wheel of Fiancee Bone’s car.  It was as if they had done this a hundred times before.

Displaying a prowess normally reserved for a NASCAR pit crew, they had us unstuck within three minutes.  It would have been sooner but someone didn’t realize he had the car in reverse at first.  We insisted they take twenty bucks for their trouble.

Back on the road, we saw the white truck again on the strip.  It was turning into the Hooters.   A well-deserved reward, I thought.

Meanwhile, Fiancee Bone wasn’t saying much.  Probably thinking about how to convey her undying devotion to me in her vows.

“You know, one day we’ll look back on all this and laugh,” I offered, feebly.  

From her reaction I gathered that today was not that day.




"Tomorrow we can drive around this town, and let the cops chase us around.  The past is gone, but something might be found to take its place..."

Semi-Decent Proposal

One year late in the spring I am at the beach, and find myself in what can only be described as the world’s most heinous piano bar. The pianists, if I may use that term loosely, are spouting distasteful sodomy jokes (are there tasteful ones?) with disconcerting frequency. Perhaps they mixed in a few other jokes as well, but much like an imagined prison stay, it’s the sodomy you remember.

I am sitting between the girl I’ve been courting for quite some time and my ex-best friend’s wife, wracking my brain for a way to get the former to leave so the latter and I can have a couple of minutes alone.

You may be wondering, much like I was at the time: how did I wind up here?

It all began with a boy, a plan, and a healthy dose of absentmindedness.

First, the plan. We’d go for a walk on the beach, a place sewn into both our souls. I’d kneel down and propose in Spanish — she had lived in Spain for four months — reciting the words on the folded piece of paper I had kept in my wallet and rehearsed so carefully. Granted, it wasn’t any elaborate plan, but it was mine. I’d even gone old school and ask her Dad's permission. He, the jeweler, and I were the only people who knew anything at all about it.

We were on our way to the coast, thirty minutes into the five-and-a-half-hour trek when it hit me. (Apologies in advance for the language.)

“Crap!”

A pause.

“Crap! Crap, crap, crap!”

“What’s wrong? Did you forget something?”

“Uh…. no.” An obvious lie.

“Are you sure? We can go back.”

“No. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. My non-elaborate plan had but one tiny flaw: I must not forget the ring!

We couldn’t go back for it. Even if we did backtrack, adding an hour to our trip, when I came out of the house, she’d be expecting me to be carrying something. Try as I might, I couldn’t think of anything to pretend I had forgotten that might seem worth going back for.

And so, we continued southward, past the familiar rolling hills north of Birmingham, my mind a million — er, thirty — miles away.

I could propose without a ring. She would be confused, at best; disappointed, at worst. Else I would have to wait until we returned and come up with some other probably even less elaborate plan. My heart sank into the pit of my stomach.

I texted my ex-best friend’s wife: “You will not believe what I did!”

And now four people knew.

(It seems worth noting here the reason he is my ex-best friend is simply because we drifted apart once he got married and then went off on some radical religious tangent. Nothing too sinister.)

They happened to be coming to the beach that same weekend. She was full of questions: Was there anyone who had a key to the house? Yes. The girl who would be coming by to feed Tony DiNozzo, my third-born Betta.

OK, so I guess it was just the one question. They would conspire. She would retrieve the ring from my underwear drawer — the place all men keep their valuables. I assume — and bring it South.

They would arrive Saturday afternoon. We would be departing for home Sunday morning. It would be tight, but it could be done. I was almost confident.

I had one last directive:

“Make sure you don’t get the wrong ring.”

“There’s more than one ring???”

“I was engaged before.”

Obviously, bringing the wrong ring could turn what I was naively optimistic was going to be a decent engagement story into one that would be… well, probably not even an engagement story at all.

Saturday evening, the prospective Fiancee Bone and I grabbed some seafood at Kenny D’s, then drove across the bridge to Okaloosa Island and the aforementioned Sodomy Saloon, the rendezvous point suggested by my now ring-bearing friend. It had taken some convincing on my part. It being our last night on the beach, the Prospective One wasn’t overly keen on spending part of it with my ex-best friend’s wife. But I persuaded her. Or more accurately, annoyed her about it until she relented. This is how I operate.

We got to the door. I nearly turned back. Cold feet? No. Ten dollar cover charge. Which, if you’ve never dated anyone, meant twenty dollar cover charge. I figured it up, it came to about a dollar forty-three cents per sodomy joke. I don’t know what the going rate is, but that seemed a tad high.

We must have sat there at least forty-five minutes. She who bore my ring and I casting glances at one another, trying to figure out how to make the exchange. (Which, as it turns out, you cannot do through glances alone.) She who may hopefully someday bear my child growing more agitated with each excruciating moment. Finally, an idea. My first.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Prospective fiancee always had to go.

“No.” Of course.

At that point, I swear I began to see smoke. I’m not sure if it was from the bar or literal steam rising from her increasingly infuriated (and oh so adorable) head, but considering it was a non-smoking bar…

Then Ring Bearer excused herself to go to the restroom. I sat there for a good thirty seconds, clueless.

Oh! It hit me. "Um, I guess I’ll go, too.”

There was a lobby outside the restrooms. Ring Bearer wasn’t there when I went in. Thankfully, she was waiting when I had finished making my deposit. We made the swap. I pondered how many transactions just like this must have taken place in this very spot. Probably not many.

By now, it had gotten to be the sleepy side of 10 p.m. With a bit of a drive still ahead, I thought it would be too late to suggest a walk on the beach once we got back to the room. She would be suspicious. So instead, I suggested we go for a walk on the pier not far from the bar. Just the two of us. (I'm pretty sure that part was integral.) She agreed.

Partway down the pier, between people fishing and... other people fishing, I stopped and leaned against the rail. We chatted for a bit, looking out over the ocean and back towards the hotels and lights along the shoreline. It truly was gorgeous, out here, away from all the sodomy.

When I caught her looking away, I pulled the ring box out of my pocket. When she turned back I smiled and, gazing into those eyes so full of love — although maybe not quite as full as they had been a couple of hours ago — said, “Has anyone told you lately they want to spend the rest of their life with you?”

I then proceeded to kneel, and right there next to a sign that read “No fishing or diving,” I jumped right in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


She said yes. Eventually. Turns out at first it was so dark she couldn't see the ring. But I did get the Spanish right. Later she asked what I would've done if I'd dropped the ring into the ocean, you know, since it was right there and all. I had honestly never considered that, not surprisingly. We would be married about 80 miles down the coast a little over a year later. I volunteered her to be in charge of the rings.

"Someday somebody's gonna ask you / A question that you should say yes to / Once in your life / Maybe tonight I've got a question for you..."

Winter Cranberry

My hands smell of "winter cranberry"
These halls, an "ocean walk"
Sixteen candles?
If only there were that few

There are photos in frames
And not the ones that came in them from the store
These throw pillows are nice
But why must there be so many
And so pastel

The refrigerator
Once a bastion of pizza boxes, flat 2-liters, and... ketchup
Now boasts of celery, beef broth, cream cheese
And unexpired milk!
(Which I've learned most of the world refers to simply as "milk")

Once prized possessions--
My favorite shirt from college
My Stars of Baywatch poster
Seem to be missing

So long, CJ
Farewell, Stephanie
Vaya con Dios, Mitch
I sob (inside)

The work of petty thieves?

No.

There is a woman in the house!

In and out of the doghouse

The Free Dictionary defines the phrase "in the doghouse" as an idiom meaning "in great disfavor or trouble."

Ah, yes. We've all been there.  Some of us more than others.  A lot of times we're not even sure how we got there. But this much is for certain:  Every man since the dawn of time who has ever purported to be in a relationship with a woman has found himself in the proverbial doghouse.

To wit, I don't think the following scenario is very far-fetched:

Adam: "Um, honey.  Uhh, I'm not sure how to tell you this."
Eve: "Spit it out, Adam."
Adam: "Cain shot Abel today."
Eve: "WHAT???  YOU were supposed to be watching them!"
Adam: "Yeah, um, I, uh, dozed off under the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and, uh.... I'll just get my staff and go sleep with the animals tonight."
Eve: "Yeah you will!"
Adam (mumbling): "I want my rib back."
Eve: "What was that?!"
Adam: "Nothing, dear."

Today as I was googling "how to get out of the doghouse" (What?  Today is National Get Out Of The Doghouse Day.) I came across this article.  It's the Top 7 Ways To Get Out Of The Doghouse, from AskMen.com.  So I thought I would go down the list, one by one, and share my thoughts on each.  You know, because I can't imagine that not being intellectually valuable.

7. Encourage A Conversation - I like that "courage" is the root word of encourage, because it takes a lot of courage for a man to do this.  Is courage the right word?  Bone's advice: Skip on to number six.

6. Make Her Laugh - Ah, yes, a Bone specialty.  If this one fails for me, I pretty much know I'm up Radiation Creek without a hazmat suit.  Bone's advice: This is probably OK for the small stuff, like running over her cat.  Accidentally, of course.  Not sure it works so well on the bigger stuff, like making out with her best friend.  (And FYI, that cat always hated me!) 

5. Buy Her Flowers - Clearly, AskMen.com, as well as most major holidays, is sponsored by Big Floral. Bone's advice: Flowers alone aren't going to cut it.  There will have to be a "talk" involved at some point.  You know it.  I know it.  Just try and have a ballgame going in the background on the TV when said talk occurs, and power through. 

4. Cook For Her - This, I can do.  You may even find you enjoy cooking.  In fact, many of the great chefs of our time are men:  Emeril.  Guy what's-his-name from the TGIFridays commercials.  Chef, from South Park.  Mel, from Mel's Diner on Alice.  I think my point is made.  Bone's advice:  Don't tell her what you're cooking.  That way when she asks, "What is this? Mutton?" you can just nod yes, even if it's not.

3. Listen To Her - I'm seriously beginning to wonder if AskMen actually asked any men at all for this article.  Because this sounds an awful lot like they only asked women.  Bone's advice:  See if you can just cook twice and skip this one. 

2. Leave - Oh no.  This doesn't work.  The idea, according to them, is to give her space.  It has been my experience that giving her too much space is often what got me into this situation in the first place.  Bone's advice:  Replace this one with "Pretend Nothing Is Wrong."  That's pretty much how I live my entire life anyway.  After a few days, you can even turn things around on her with a carefully placed, "Why have you been so grouchy lately?"  Women love that.

1. Say I'm Sorry - As I understand it, to put it in golf terms, this is like yelling "Fore!" after you hit a bad shot.  You raise your arm, say the magic word, and all is forgiven.  Now the article says to specify what exactly it is you're sorry about.  Well I don't know about you, but half the time, I don't have the slightest clue what I'm apologizing for anyway.  Bone's advice: Stick to two words: I'm Sorry.  Popular addendums like "I'm sorry your entire family is crazy" or "I'm sorry you can't stand for me to be happy even for one day" may seem like good ideas at first, but I have found they don't always translate so well.

There you have it.  Some of the very secrets that I have employed which have helped to keep me unmarried, lo, these many years.  May they produce even better results for you.

I can pretty much guarantee each will get you out of the doghouse, one way or the other -- either back into good graces, or perhaps more likely, out of the relationship altogether.

In closing, I would just say that I feel the doghouse has gotten a bad rap.   Therefore, I like to refer to it as the Canine Castle, or even better, hanging with Snoopy Dog. Whatever basement/garage/shed serves as your doghouse, spruce it up a bit, try and have a big screen TV out there.  Enjoy a day or two of space.

And for crying out loud, spring for some flowers, say I'm sorry, whatever you gotta do.  Because, let's be honest, no one else is gonna put up with you.

"This doghouse here is mighty small / But it's better than no house at all / So ease it on over / Drag it on over / Move over old dog 'cause a new dog's movin' in..."

Matches

Most days the days all run together. I preoccupy myself with the unimportant things in life. Things are mostly fine, except when they're not. Work is work, and the weather's always the weather. Tuesday's not much different from Friday. And January feels a lot like July.

But one day every once in a while, I'll gaze out over the water, to the other side of the river, and wonder about you. I know you're over there in a sea of people, alternately surrounding yourself with, then withdrawing from them into your precious solitude. Like I'm one to talk.

I want to know you're OK, but that some nights you still miss me so bad you whisper my name when you're in the dark. And other times, you cry my name out loud because you're angry still. Or maybe that's just me.

I could call, but I haven't any business trying to cross that bridge again. The last time that I tried, I almost drowned. You were on the other side with a can of gasoline and a freshly struck match.

But that was us, wasn't it? Always ready with a match, we both set fire to that bridge at least half a dozen times. Sometimes it seemed just for the sake of seeing how much damage we could do. Yet somehow it still stands. Or maybe it's no longer there. It's possible it's only in my mind.

I can't help that sometimes when I close my eyes, I still see yours, so deep and rich and dark -- caring, passionate and so completely vulnerable all at the same time. I'd get lost so easily in there and never want to find my way out. I remember how I'd know they were about to cry before a tear would fall. And most of the time, the tears were caused by me.

You were there for solace when I needed you, and you were trying hard. Then when I was ready to try, you were impossible to reach, at least for me. And so we went, back and forth. Maybe it was just a game we played -- one where even if you win, you lose. Or maybe I only threw away my matches when I knew you'd never cross that bridge again.

I remember mostly the good times now. That's just how I am, and it's a curse.

And so I remain on this side, where most days the days all run together. And I don't think about forevers.

But one day every once in a while, yesterday comes around. I think about how close we were, how far you are. I whisper your name. And I wonder if you ever think about us, the way we were when things were good.

You know, before we learned to play with matches.

"When you reach the part where the heartaches come, the hero would be me. But heroes often fail. And you won't read that book again, because the ending's just too hard to take..."

A part of me

I do hereby proclaim this National Blog Something From Draft Week. This marks the second big year for this great but scarcely observed occasion which was begun way back in 2008. It is a day, er week, for posts that otherwise would have never seen the light of day, and maybe never should have. Remember our slogan: "Someday we'll look back at this and cringe!" Feel free to join in, if you dare. It's the next best thing to not blogging at all. And so without further ado, here is my entry for NaBloSoFroDraWe 2009.

A part of me will always be seven years old. I remember being woken up in the middle of the night when Momma told Daddy it was time to go. It seemed so inconvenient then. That was the only time I ever saw him run a red light. And I remember sitting in the waiting room by myself, feeling lonely but not scared. Then they told me you've got a baby sister. It's funny, but now I can't remember much at all about those first seven years.

A part of me will always be nineteen at the foot of those stairs. Coming home that night, I remember thinking it was odd that Momma's car wasn't there. Daddy met me at the door, and there was that kicked-in-the-stomach feeling as I shook my head at the words I wished he wasn't saying. I think that's the first time I ever truly felt death--the shock and the sense of loss. I remember trying to cry when they laid Mamaw to rest. And thinking to myself, "I'll miss you." But I just didn't know. I'll always hate that cursed day and harbor that emptiness.

A part of me will always be barefoot on that beach. I was twenty-three but I felt like a kid the first time I ever saw the edge of dry land. I remember breathing in that sweet air and rolling up my jeans to let the cold water run over my feet. And thinking this was the place that I was always supposed to be. Everytime still feels a lot like that first time, and I still feel like a kid. However far away I go, I'll always long to be there, knees pulled to my chest, listening to the song of the sea and feeling like I'm home.

A part of me will always be on the phone with you at 6 AM. I remember the daylight through the blinds and realizing we had talked all night long. Yet and still I didn't want to let you go. Love was new and it felt so good to let your warmth wash over my soul. And I remember two years later trying to hold on and feeling helpless as you moved further from my grasp. We haven't spoken since and we probably never will. But now and then I will always wonder where you've gotten to.

I don't know if the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. And I've heard it said that you lose parts of yourself along the way. But I might disagree. I think I carry all those parts with me as I go, these and a thousand more, somewhere inside. I think I always will.

"You're on every highway just beyond the high beams, right beside me in all of my sweet dreams. No matter where you choose to be, in my heart I'll always see you everywhere..."

In and out of tune

I had a flat today.

Let me rephrase that.

Any mere mortal in my situation would have had a flat today.

I sensed something was amiss with my car last night. Thought a tire was going down. But when I got home, they all looked fine. Then this morning, I sensed it again. So after lunch, I went out and looked and found a screw firmly embedded in one of my tires.

I took it to get it fixed. The lady at the place (how's that for descriptive writing) was asking, "Which tire is flat? Is it completely flat or just low?"
"Oh no. It's not flat yet. But it's gonna be."
"Oh, do you have a sensor that lets you know the pressure is getting low?"
"Nope." Don't need one. Welcome to Preemptively Having A Flat Fixed 101. I'm your instructor, Bone.

I have always been in tune with my car. It's one of my talents. (The other is an uncanny ability to estimate crowds at concerts and sporting events.) I can feel the slightest abnormality and sense when something is wrong.

Maybe all guys have this ability. Maybe that's why we spend so much time in the garage. We feel comfortable there. We understand the car. If it's making a noise or something is wrong, we are usually able to diagnose the problem and either fix it or take it to someone who can. But if a girl is making a noise or something is wrong, well... that can be nebulous. Feeble attempts to fix the problem frequently only serve to make it worse. And you can't really take her to anyone.

I remember several years ago when I was dating M, we had just left my apartment and before we got out of the parking lot, I stopped the car. She asked what was wrong. I said, "I think I have a low tire."

I did. It was almost imperceptible, but I felt it!

If only I were this in tune with women.

"Girls were a mystery that we couldn't explain, and I guess there are some things that are never gonna change..."

I know how this dream ends

I dreamt of you last night. It's funny. I hardly, if ever, dreamt of you when we were together. But now that you're out of my life, there you were. Maybe my subconscious was just trying to fill the void.

In the dream, I drove six hours to see you. As I approached your house, I could see you were having a big party. The doors were open and cars were parked up and down the street. I decided I would just pass by, that it would be better that way. It was enough just to have been there, to see that you were doing OK.

But then I found myself sitting in the floor against your bedroom wall. I was alone. The party was going on in another part of the house. There was a letter lying on your bed. I thought, hoped, that you were writing it to me. That maybe it would clear up some of my questions. Questions I'd had since you told me you were going away for the weekend and that we'd talk when you got back, but we had never talked.

I picked it up and started to read, then felt guilty for doing so. There must be a reason you never sent it. Maybe you weren't ready for me to see it, or maybe it wasn't meant for me at all. Still, I read. It appeared to be unfinished and the name of the intended recipient was missing or rubbed out.

Then you were there. You seemed sympathetic towards me, but unwavering. We spoke, though I don't remember what was said. It was over. Your feelings had changed and nothing I could do would ever change them back.

As I started to leave, others were there. I looked at the faces of the people I passed, wondering if these were the "friends" you so often spoke of, and wondering which of them had taken my place in your heart.

One of the guys, a short fellow, said something about how pathetic it was that I had driven all that way for nothing. I grabbed him and slammed him against the wall a couple of times. He didn't say anything else.

The last thing I remember, I was driving, ever conscious of the fact that I was getting farther and farther from you...

So often, dreams provide a welcome escape from reality. An alternate world where love is requited and fantasies come true. How cruel it seemed then that even in my dreams, I couldn't make us work. To dream something I never wanted. To dream a dream that had already come true.

"She's out of my life. She's out of my life. And I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I don't know whether to live or die. And it cuts like a knife..."

Ssss-aaaa-ffff-eeee-tttt-yyyy Blog

I went to Facebook to change my relationship status--you remember, my self-fulfilling prophecy thing.

Well... I couldn't do it.

Oh, it all started out well enough. I was sitting there trying to decide between their six available relationship options. You know the ones--single, in a relationship, she's complicated, etc. Then I got scared that all my Facebook friends would get a notification that I was now in a relationship. I seemed to remember seeing someone else's relationship status change pop up on my page one time.

From there, I started thinking of all the questions people would have about my new love. And then about how I would have to explain that I wasn't really in a relationship, that this was just a sociological experiment. Before long, I had over-analyzed myself out of the whole thing.

So apparently, I can't even commit to a fake Facebook relationship.

Never fear, however, for today turned out to be a harbinger of good news that perhaps this relationship recession is beginning to turn around. I am proud to announce that as of this morning--9:30ish--I officially have my very own safety.

Here's how it happened:

Bone: do you wanna be my backup or safety

Katie: uh
i thought you had a backup

Bone: maybe
but i can't remember

Katie: i already have one

Bone: ok you can be my safety
that's below backup
which means you'll likely never be needed

Katie: or so you hope

Bone: lol
do you accept

Katie: uh, sure

Bone: YES!

Katie: i reserve the right to redact this at a later date

I was so convincing! Reading it now, it doesn't even seem like it was me doing the typing. It feels like somebody else saying those things, or like I was channeling Dwight Schrute.

So now I have a safety. Next, I need to find a backup. And after that, well I haven't thought that far ahead yet.

"We can dance if we want to. We can leave your friends behind. 'Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance, well they're no friends of mine..."

Changing my relationship status

Roughly fourteen months ago, I was the victim of some sort of a failed setup. Failed in the sense that we never went out and five months later the girl had been impregnated by someone who most likely doesn't kiss in multiples of five.

This past Friday, the female portion of Kywana IM'd me to let me know that the baby had arrived. So Saturday night, I rode to the hospital with Kywana to visit. After all, that was almost my kid! Almost, that is, except for the complete lack of any physical contact with the mother. So... really not very close at all.

Shortly after we arrived, some other friends showed up and before long the conversation--as it is wont to do in 2009--turned to Facebook. Normally, this is the time when I look for the first opportunity to change the subject before I gouge my own eyes out. However, I was distracted by setup girl's mother and the uncanny resemblance she bore to small screen legend Judith Light.

So the conversation continued, and at some point turned to our respective familiarity with Facebook or lack thereof. That is when I confessed, "I don't even know how to change my relationship status on Facebook... or in real life."

I said it to get a laugh, which it did. But at the same time, the words stuck with me. It was one of those things you never realize until you say it out loud and actually hear the words coming out of your mouth for the first time.

Earlier in the evening at dinner, I brought up the fact that this May will mark the ten year anniversary of the infamous Atlanta trip. I've been thinking about that a lot since. There were nine people on the trip. All single. All in our twenties. Today, eight of the nine are married. And now there's just me.

By all indicators, I've been going through a bit of a relationship recession the past few months. No doubt due in part to my failed policies over the previous eight years. This is where a back-up plan would really come in handy. I think I had a couple of back-ups at one point. But for the life of me I can't remember who they were with, nor the terms of those agreements.

So where to now? Well, I have made it my goal to get a kiss this coming New Year's Eve. But that's long-term. What about a short-term fix--something to help those who are struggling now?

Here's what I'm thinking: Maybe if I first figure out how to change my relationship status on Facebook, then my real life relationship status will follow. Sort of like a self-fulfilling prophecy.

With logic like that, how can I not fail to succeed?

"I'm getting bored of Facebook. So don't invite me, throw a sheep or bite me. I hate applications. There are far too many and I don't use any..."

And I still don't know who Scuba Steve is

While chatting with an ex-girlfriend last week, a blog entry materialized...

Her: Damn you, Scuba Steve.

Me: Scuba Steve?
I think you've got your guys confused again, dear.

Her: No no no.
Nevermind.
You've obviously never seen Big Daddy.

Me: Nope.
Well I saw part of it, I think.
Is that where they pee side by side?

Her: Mmm . . no?
You would like Big Daddy.
You should rent it.

Me: Are you sure?

Her: Yes, they don't pee together. I know that movie backwards, frontwards, sideways and upside down.
No peeing.

Me: Mmhmm.
Wanna bet?
(This is where I quote a Roger Ebert review I found after googling Big Daddy...)
"The predictable story arc has Sonny and Julian bonding. This is not as easy as it sounds, since any Adam Sandler character is self-obsessed to such a degree that his conversations sound like interior monologues. It is supposed to be funny that Sonny has a pathological hostility against society; when McDonald's won't serve them breakfast, he throws another customer's fries on the floor, and when a restaurant won't let the kid use the restroom, he and the kid pee on the restaurant's side door."
Ahem.

Her: He didn't pee.
The kid peed.
Because he has to pee every three seconds.

Me: OK, so Roger Ebert is wrong and you are right. Sure.

Her: Adam Sandler's on the lookout for him and says something like "Gee, you and my grandmother pee this much!"

Me: You're so self-assured when you're wrong. That's the amazing thing.
:-)

Her: I'M NOT WRONG!
Rent the movie.

Me: You still wouldn't believe me.
I remember it. It's the only scene of the movie that even stands out to me. Roger Ebert wrote about it in his movie review. You're wrong.

Her: You stink, Justin Matisse.

Me: This is why we're not together.

Her: Because you stink?

Me: Because you can never ever ever admit you're wrong.
About anything.
Ever.

Her: Oh for the love. . he doesn't pee on the wall.

Me: Even with written proof from one of the 3 most popular movie critics in the history of the world.
So what chance do I have in a regular argument?
None.

Her: Oh oh oh.
Wait.
Okay.
I'm wrong.
When Julian can't pee on the wall because they're in public, Adam Sandler does it to show him that it's no big deal.
You're right.

Me: Wow.
12/04/08
Let us commemorate this day.

Her: Goodnight, Bone.

Me: Or we can not commemorate it and say we did.
Hello?

"I hope them cigarettes are gonna make you cough. I hope you heard this song, and it pissed you off. I take that back, I hope you're doing fine. And if I had a dollar, I might give you ninety-nine..."

The Ex-Files: Kara

I will be trekking over to the ATL this evening for my last remaining single cousin's wedding Saturday. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this third installment of the Ex-Files, a glimpse into Bone's vast yet mostly unsuccessful dating past...

At some point during the years of 1992 or 1993, I met Kara. It has been said that all great couples have an interesting, amusing, or uncommon story about how they met. Well, Kara and I were no different. Or, we were very different.

It was the custom of the day after the mall closed at 9 PM to ride around the parking lot and socialize. Looking for someone you knew or someone you wanted to know. And that's where the paths of our lives intersected.

She, and her friends, in her green Honda Accord. I, and my friends--my posse, entourage, if you will--in my friend's black 1990 Hyundai Excel hatchback. We pulled up beside each other, right in front of the Castner Knott. I could tell immediately this was someone who was going to be a big part of my life for a long time. Or at least four or five months.

OK, truth is, I couldn't really tell much about her at all. It was dark and we weren't directly under a street light. So we all agreed to meet up across the street inside the McDonald's. That's where I first saw her jet black hair, cute slightly-oversized nose, and... some-colored eyes (green, I think). I got her number, which seemed a whole lot easier to do then. And the rest, as they say, is a blog entry.

Three memories stand out more than others from my time with Kara. The first concerns the making out, the cornerstone of any strong relationship. She had an active tongue. She was an aggressive kisser, to the point that I had to be aggressive back, almost in self-defense, or fear being choked to death.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad. I mean, it was making out, after all. But sometimes it seemed like she was checking around for a loose crown in there or something.

To prove it wasn't bad, one night as we were driving around in my burgundy 1989 Mustang she directed me to a place she referred to as Skyline. A place she described as a lookout point where people went to make out. Well, I couldn't imagine a better idea. Unless maybe we would be playing Sega after making out.

We drove down a road I'd never been before, crossed an intersection, and continued along the road, up a hill and thru some trees. We wound up in an empty parking lot next to a large building. Sure enough, down below the lights of the city could be seen. As could the buildings of the local mental facility. Nevertheless, we began.

Maybe ten minutes later those all-too-familiar blue lights began flashing behind us. The officer knocked on the window and asked me to step out of the car. Suffice it to say I never went back there again. Those are memories you can't replace.

The other thing I remember about Kara was that her mother really liked me. So much that after Kara and I weren't dating anymore, but still in touch from time-to-time, her mother would call me at work to chat. I didn't mind it. It was just different. The only time in my dating life anything like that happened.

I think her mother always wanted us to get back together. But we never did. I still remember where her parents lived. They still live there, to this day. I just googled it. I recommend googling at least one person per day, just to stay in practice.

It seems I went thru a phase where either the girls liked me and the mothers didn't, or vice versa. Then, of course, there was the time where neither the girl nor her mother liked me. That was fun.

But that's another story for another nostalgic edition of the Ex-Files. So until next time, uh, word to ya mother.

"Tomorrow we can drive around this town, and let the cops chase us around..."

The Ex-Files: Summer of '91

This post is the second in a series. For now, I'm keeping it to girls I dated for at least two months. Also known as, until the new wears off.

It was the Spring of 1991. My favorite sports teams were in the midst of an incredible hot streak. The Reds had just won the '90 World Series. The Bulls were on their way to winning the first of their six NBA titles. And my Crimson Tide and Dallas Cowboys would soon follow suit in football. Life was good. And about to get much better.

I was at the mall with a couple of friends. In the arcade. Or as I liked to call it back then, my office. That's where I met Shelly. She was with friends as well. And one of her friends, Christy, had evidently come into the arcade with the sole intention of finding and introducing herself to my friend Mark.

While Christy went looking for Mark, Shelly and I started talking. We invited the girls to play putt-putt that night after leaving the mall. And as we sat on the bench by the 18th hole, I asked for Shelly's number.

The next few months we talked. Dated. Made out. A lot. Hung out at the ball fields, which was the cool thing to do then. And when Christy broke up with Mark for one of his best friends, we kept dating.

Shelly was pretty. I always thought so. My friends approved. Which shouldn't matter, but does when you're 18. She was plain and simple. And I mean that in the best possible way. I liked that about her. She had big, dark eyes. And brownish-blonde hair. More blonde than brown.

I fell in love. For the first time in my life. Heels over head. It sounds trite. And you may not think it possible. But I was in love with that girl. As much as an 18-year-old boy can be anyway. She introduced me to Beverly Hills 90210. How could I not love that?

She lived way out in the country. I'm talking two miles out a one-lane dirt road. Many nights that summer were spent on her parents' couch. Or on the front porch swing, looking out at the stars, listening to the crickets. And occasionally seeing the one neighbor who lived past them on that dirt road driving by like the mailman on Funny Farm.

It's amazing how much I've forgotten. And a little sad. There was a trip to Opryland with her church group sometime late that summer. And one night I got overly excited while making out and bit her lip, causing it to swell up and turn purple for three days. Why couldn't that be one of the memories I forget.

We dated the whole summer. Then came the fall. I'm not sure why we broke up, unless it was the lip-biting incident. I remember her acting like something was wrong. And then handing me a letter when I came over one night. What is it with these girls and letters? It said something about getting too serious and being too young.

She had told me a few weeks earlier that her mother had been talking to her and was worried about us getting so serious. So I always figured it had something to do with that. Either way, I was crushed. Shelly was my first broken heart.

Songs that remind me of her include "Everything I Do" by Bryan Adams, "Good Vibrations" by Marky Mark (don't ask, cause I don't know), and "Then Again" by Alabama. It came on the radio as I drove home from her house that night. That was the first time I remember crying over a girl. Wouldn't be the last.

Nevertheless, when I think back to those days, I remember them with only fondness. And a smile. There was a sense of innocence in that summer, one that seems to get lost too often as we get older. It was young love. Pure, sweet, and simple. Just like her.

Thus went the summer of '91. Kinda like the summer of '42 without the sex. Or the older woman.

I ran into Shelly a few times after that summer. At ball games. At a concert. And most recently, at Wal-Mart two or three years ago, or more.

Not long after she got married, they tore Opryland down.

I loved that place.

"Oh how quick they slip away. Here today and gone tomorrow. Love and seasons never stay. Bitter winds are sure to follow..."

The Ex-Files: Rachel

Today we begin a new feature here on IYROOBTY, called The Ex-Files. In each of these posts, I will discuss a past relationship. This will, in turn, hopefully have a two-pronged effect on you, the reader. First, you will be entertained. And two, you will learn more about me, the man cowering behind the blog. But the best part of all is, none of these girls will be here to defend themselves. Giddy-up!

Close your eyes and journey back with me if you will... On second thought, you'll probably need to keep your eyes open--unless you have one of those cool computers which read aloud to you.

It is the spring of 1990 and I am in the eleventh grade. I come into class one day, and Ms. Dandridge, the voluptuous American History teacher was there. And... uh.... oh yes. And Lucy, one of my classmates, approaches me with a proposition. And a photo.

It seems that one of her fair-skinned, dark-haired friends had noticed yours truly around town and had been inquiring as to my situation and taste in women. Or, just my situation. A date was arranged and for the next six months or so, I would be in the throes of a relationship with one Rachel.

Rachel was a year older than me. She went to a neighboring high school and invited me to her senior prom. I had no idea about proms or pictures or anything. Actually, I've been to three proms and in several weddings, and to this day I'm still not sure what the purpose of a cummerbun is. Or how to spell it. But I went. And I think I will always remember how she looked that night.

She had an odd face, I remember. I honestly didn't recognize her on prom night. If she hadn't walked out of her parents house, I would never have known that was her. She had her hair done a way I never saw it again. And she never looked more beautiful than she did that night.

There were several oddities about our relationship. For one, prom night was the only night we ever hung out at her house. I normally wouldn't care, but at this time in my life, I wasn't knee deep in cash.

This was the same girl I would only ask out every other weekend, because I'd skip lunch at school and save up my lunch money for two weeks to be able to pay for our dates. So hanging out at home would have been nice. Especially since they had a pool table.

Most of our dates would consist of a movie and/or going out to eat. Then parking in front of an abandoned country store and making out until the last possible minute. And racing time to beat her curfew home. I remember one night she unbuttoned her shirt while we were making out.

Another oddity, I suppose, is that she would drive the majority of the time on our dates. This probably had a lot to do with the fact that she had a 1989 Camaro, and I had a 1984 Ford Escort with louvers on the back window.

She seemed to have control of the relationship for the most part. Maybe because she was older. Maybe because she was the first girl I ever really dated. I mean, I'd been on dates before, had girlfriends, made out in the 8th grade hall with the assistant principal's aide, but this... this was new.

We dated for six months, or seven, or eight. I don't remember exactly. Roughly from early spring until sometime in the fall of 1990. Rachel was also the first girl I brought over to have dinner with my parents.

As we didn't go out but once every two weeks, we spent lots of time on the phone. I remember her complaining several times that I never had anything to talk about. Although I'm sure I did, I suppose Nintendo and sports were not her favorite topics of conversation.

She complained so much, and I think maybe even threatened me, that I began making a list of things to talk about before I would call her each night. Pathetic, I know. But again, I was new at this relationship stuff.

So I would call her and just go down the list, one by one. I changed my oil this afternoon. Do you like that new song by Wilson Phillips? You won't believe what happened in Physics today. Do you want to go out again a week from this coming Friday?

Songs that remind me of her include "It Must Have Been Love" by Roxette, "She Ain't Worth It" by Glenn Medeiros and Bobby Brown, "So Alive" by Love and Rockets (I think), and "Here and Now" by Luther. Cheesy, yes. But at least I never made her a mix tape.

I don't remember the how and why we stopped dating. Maybe I ran out of things to talk about. I think I heard she liked someone else. Maybe she thought I didn't like her because I only asked her out every other week. I recall her mentioning it at least once, and I didn't want to tell her it was because I couldn't afford to.

I did tell her eventually, maybe after we stopped dating. I would describe her reaction upon hearing that as surprise with a tinge of guilt.

I asked a girl I worked with to the Homecoming game my senior year. We played Rachel's school. She called me and told me she had seen me at the game. Then I remember her coming by my house at some point and giving me a ten page letter she had written, and wanting to get back together. But I was over it.

As with most of my relationships, I mainly remember the good about Rachel and me. I grew and learned a lot from dating her. I gained confidence. And I'll always remember those nights parked under the stars. Steaming up the window. How good her lips tasted. And wishing time would stand still. Or at least slow down. But it never does.

When you're seventeen, you think of time in minutes and hours. Not months and years. When you're seventeen, parking is very good indeed.

"Sometimes I long for just one night of the way I felt back then. Ain't that just like a dream, it always ends..."

The "Ex" Files

Ah, our exes. What would we do without them? Some still love us. Some hate us. Some express their anger with colorful profanities and hand gestures hurled in our direction at every opportunity. Some disappear never to be heard from again. (I don't know anything about that.) And some pop up every few months or so like Bob Dole. Well, maybe not exactly like Bob Dole.

Anyway, it started last weekend. I was over at a friend's house on Saturday night when out of nowhere I got a text message from an ex-girlfriend. I hadn't spoken with her in about nine months. (The fact that this time period is roughly the same as the normal human gestation period is purely coincidental. I hope.)

I don't remember what the first couple of messages said. Just general small talk, I guess. Said she was having a bad week or something. Then it started. I kept the next four messages on my phone just for the purpose of blogging them. (Spelling has been corrected because, well, that's just what I do):

"Just know I love you with every fiber of my being, but I have faults."

Um, OK.

"You are who I love and want to spend forever with."

Um, have you been drinking? (I actually sent that to her.)

"In my heart there has never been anybody else that compares to you. Just know you are who I love."

Where is all this coming from? (That, too.)

"You are it for me. I have things to tell you. Just know it's always been you."

What the crap? I mean, seriously. Who says this? This isn't like, "You wanna go out to eat sometime?" And where is this coming from anyway? Is it some sort of pre-Valentine's Day loneliness thing? Why didn't she say all this when we dated?

And the thing is, I know that in all likelihood, this is a bad idea and would never work. But by this time, it's like a game of Space Invaders. I have my defenses up, but every text message she drops eats away a little bit more of my shield.

Fortunately, I am able to ward off the attack. I get like a text message a day for the next three or four days. Not responding to half of them. Then this past Saturday night, I get this message:

"I have cool whip..."

Again, what the crap? How completely random!
I respond with: "OK?"
Then I recieve: "Sorry. I thought you liked cool whip."
That was followed last night with "Is there anything I can do to get you back into my life?"

No... I don't think so.

I get yet another message this afternoon. To me, if you need to text more than two or three times, you might as well call. So I finally text her back and tell her I'm tired of texting, and that if she needs to talk she can call. After all, I do consider her a friend. And actually, I could totally hang out with her, but I know that she would want more. And I wouldn't.

But then I start to think. Someone baring their soul can sometimes do that to you. I start to re-evaluate everything. Maybe there's something I missed. Who feels this way about me. I'll be 33 years old in twelve days. Never been married. No kids. Maybe it could work...

No... No... It couldn't...

Anyway, that's the last I heard from her. She hasn't called. Which is probably good. My shield is almost completely gone. And I could be running out of quarters.

"And the tears come streaming down your face. When you lose something you can't replace. And you love someone but it goes to waste. Could it be worse?"