Aaaand, Scene.

'I Ain't Tryin' to Ride...'

I contemplated taking the stairs. The elevators in the aging building are, after all, taxed by ceaseless summons from residents with busy lives.

But climbing 15 flights after several beers, in that tight skirt? I decided the task was better left undone and pushed the Up button.

With my head down in the appropriate awaiting-the-elevator/avoiding-potential-eye-contact stance, I initially only took note of the mismatched pair revealed by the opening doors because of her jerky, frantic movements.

The aging, frizzy-haired woman tugged roughly at the hem of her wrinkled button-down and fought to align her baggy, ill-fitting suit with her wasting body as she half-jogged from the elevator to the exit door. She was still pulling violently at her pants with one hand, adjusting, it appeared, her underwear beneath the fabric with the other, as she pushed through the glass door and out into the cool night air.

Were she to have stepped out of the elevator and proceed to the door in a normal fashion, I might have kept my head down. Might've missed those telltale signs of the addict. Meth, most likely, given her uneven movements, her darting, untrusting eyes, the hair damaged beyond all external chemical possibility, the skin-on-bones body, the haggard face…

Or, perhaps, I merely associate addicts with Meth because it’s been the drug of choice for the only true addicts I’ve known. Because so many of those problems I keep a thousand miles away are inextricably tied to that deadly, addictive, soul-stealing, life-crushing drug. The drug made so popular and recognized as so terrible because you (Yes, You!) can make it in your home, with things you can buy at The Wal-Mart.

Something in her movements, her expressions, the way she carried her body as if she wished it could fold in on itself as she practically ran from whatever it was she'd left behind up there… something told me Meth wasn’t her only problem. Her only secret.

My mind raced. "Was that woman a... No, it couldn't be... Could it? In my building???"

I wondered, fleetingly, about her life. She looked older than my mother, but her face doubtlessly carried more age from hard knocks, more age from hard hits, bumps, lines, and shots, than age from years.

What circumstances could have led her to the unhappy life revealed in the deep lines etched on her face? What could have driven her to this place, at this time, with me here to witness her frenzied, unkempt flight from my building?

The man who accompanied her down -- very tall and dark and thick by comparison -- stepped forward as if to leave as well, only to step back, stand aside, hold the door.

Stepping into the small compartment, I pushed the uppermost button for my uppermost floor and glanced up toward the man swaying awkwardly in front of me. He looked over at the sole lit number, leaned in slightly, and said, "I ain't tryin' to ride all the way up there just to..."

Just to what? I wondered. Does he think I could be like her? One of his ‘girls’? I focus on indignation at the presumption to prevent my mind from wandering down that familiar tract, exploring the potential what and how and why and when that led me on such a distinct path from those who were once so close to me.

As his words trailed off, I noted his wide, bloodshot eyes, the slow circular orbit his upper body followed as his feet stood planted firmly, one in the elevator, one out.

He leaned pointedly my way and half-whispered, "Wow. You're beautiful."

"Thank you," I forced a smile. "You have a nice night."

Those Deep South manners do, it turns out, serve a purpose, after all. He took the hint. Took the necessary steps to vacate that metal box.

I watched the doors slide silently closed and exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Later, on the phone with a friend, I replayed the whole interlude, laughing it off. Pushing it down. Trying to make light of the grim, unnerving scene.

----------------------------

The next morning, I find a message in my inbox. It’s traveled a thousand continental miles to reach me, to drag me back into that world of my purposefully buried knowledge as new drama unfolds.

I know the sentences and paragraphs on the screen before me don’t tell but part of the story unfolding now in The ‘Sip. They don’t even cover half, I’m sure. The grittiest facts will have been weeded out for my benefit. Those details that cast the tellers in an unflattering light, eliminated for theirs.

While the fine points might change, I already know this story. Sadly, we all do. It’s almost certainly the beginning of a long, turbulent cycle for the players down there, and I’ll only be clued in, bit by unsavory bit, as I piece together what I can from this source and that.

Who knows how long it will last this time. Whether the yield merely will be more heartache and suffering, or if the ramifications will be more finite... Prison? Death? And, of course, there are the children to consider…

Dude, He's Way More Into You Than I Am

On the day of my second outing with The Butler, I was blessed/cursed with a yay-there'll-be-no-bastard-Belle-spawn-in-the-forseeable-future/ holy-shit-can't-I-just-rip-out-my-fucking-uterus reminder of my womanhood.

With the unusually rough day and my impending date, I felt I had two options:
1. Try to deal with the pain and risk doubling over and/or writhing on the floor every few minutes, or
2. Take a hefty dose of my self-prescribed herbal cramps remedy and hope I didn't laugh like a hyena at The Butler's jokes.

After an excruciating commute home, I chose the latter option. Now, I normally wouldn't partake in such activities before a date, but my monthly visitor was being exceedingly vicious this time 'round. So I proceeded with the partaking before dashing out to meet my date.

He chose the place and met me; I drove. We spent the better part of the evening throwing random movie quotes back and forth and laughing about nothing and everything. (My laughter might've come a little more freely with the whole herbal factor, but, hey, he seemed into it...)

When our waiter (let's call him Edward) came 'round to take our order, I noticed he paid a bit more attention to my date than he did to me. As the night progressed, good ol' Edward's trips to our table grew more frequent and longer, and his obvious disdain for my presence grew exponentially. (At one point, he even turned his back to me completely, effectively shutting me out of the conversation he was having with, ummmm... my date.)

Perhaps my cure-all had a bit to do with my attitude about the situation, but I actually found it amusing that Edward was joking with and chatting up my seemingly-oblivious date in obviously flirtatious ways.

As our meal drew to an end, I started hoping I could steal a moment for a little chat with Eddie-boy. The potential conversation running through my head went something like this:

Belle: Hey, it's Edward, right?
Edward: <raises scornful eyebrow> Yesssssssssssssssss...
Belle: Listen, Edward, there's no good way to ask this, so I'm just going to throw it out there... Do you think my date is gay? I mean, if you do, just tell me. My gaydar's been on the fritz, and I really don't want to go down that road...
Edward: <looks down in pity> Oh, honey.... that boy's queer as a three-dollar bill.
Belle: Thanks, Edward. That's all I needed to know. You know, even though you've been flirting with my date all night, I think you're good people.
Edward: No problem. So... Since you're not going to date him... do you think I could get his number???

Alas and alack, it wasn't meant to be. The Butler never made a trip to the little boys' room or otherwise excused himself from my presence. And when I went to powder my nose, Edwardo made a B-line for The Butler in all his momentary table-of-one glory.

When our attempted departure warranted Edward starting (and maintaining) a 15-minute conversation about essentially nothing, I concluded that he was waaaaaay more into my date than I was. (I mean, at that point, his tip was already on the table, and he was quite obviously grasping at straws just to keep The Butler in his presence.)

When I got home, I tried calling the restaurant to have that afore-mentioned freeing conversation with Edward. The guy who answered the phone informed me I'd just missed him, and I felt my chances for the heart-to-heart dashed.

Only Took Two Years to Drop This Guy

I never learn.

Despite the tough front I might put out for the purpose of venting and (I hope) entertaining in Ye Olde Bloglandville, I really must either be the dumbest bitch in existence and/or too gullible for any kind of good... or I just have this undying belief in the good within us all. (HA!)

This Guy.

First off (and I can't believe I never went here), we were supposed to meet up (many) months ago for dinner. True to This Guy fashion, he got incredibly "lost" and was incredibly late. Like, Belle-consumed-a-bottle-of-

red-wine-at-a-leisurely-pace-while-waiting late. And then, after taking the last you're-so-pathetic-you-don't-even-realize-you've-been-stood-up look from the waiter that I could handle, I paid my tab and told This Guy not to bother when he rang for the 18th time to tell me he was almost there.

So, yeah, that part about me being stupid? That comes into play when I let him revive contact a few weeks ago. (Bygones, right? And what's the harm in a little friendly chatting? Uh huh...)

But the stupidity probably doesn't become really obvious until I reveal that I accepted an invitation from him to go see a movie last week. Whatever he might have considered the proposed adventure, I viewed it merely as a friendly outing. ('Cause, well, ewwwwww.)

Anyhow, before accepting the invite, I stressed the importance of him, yanno, showing up on time and all. And he gave his word (Scouts' honor and everything) that he would be there, come hell, high water, fire, brimstone, or upended Krispy Kreme trucks.

As of the night before, we hadn't firmed up plans for meeting, so I called. Voicemail. Next day by noon, still no contact. So I sent a text, waited a few hours, and called again. Again, straight to voicemail.

At this point, I was actually looking forward to having a suddenly free evening to handle those mundane duties I keep putting off in favor of, well, anything else.

About 30 minutes before I was to leave work for the day (and subsequently, hypothetically, meet up with This Guy), he called me from work.

This Guy: Hey, Belle, this is This Guy. What's up?
Belle: Hey, This Guy. I called to...
This Guy: Actually, I called you.
Belle: Well, actually, I've called you twice and texted you, so, as I was saying, I called to firm up plans for tonight. Where do you want to meet?

After he informed me that his phone was dead, we established a meeting time and place, and he promised, again, to be there with bells and whatnot.

So why, then, did I find myself baking in the sun for the better part of an hour (See? Told you I'm a dummy.) before deciding it was better that I leave before he showed, as I was fairly certain my gut reaction to his visage would be a swift, hard kick to his knee?

I managed to pull myself together enough to leave a non-threatening voicemail on his non-functional phone, and I headed for home.

The good news is I really didn't care. I mean, certainly, the wasted time did not go unnoticed, but my night was suddenly (happily) mine, and I couldn't wait to get home and do those undone things and just relax.

And that's exactly what I did. Knowing that I'd finally reached the end with this one.

The following morning, I received this email:

I know you are disgusted with me right now and rightfully so. I got onto NY Ave. and hit tons of traffic. By the time I got to {Redacted} it was 6:30 and I didn't see you anywhere, so I assume you gave up on me.

I just wanted to apologize. I know that after a point, explanations become excuses, but I still wanted to apologize for ruining your evening.

-- This Guy

Ruining my evening?? Ha! After I made it home, the evening couldn't have been better if I'd planned it myself. Obviously This Guy gives himself far more credit for having a real effect on me than he warrants.

(FYI: His message garnered no response from yours truly. Stick a fork in me, yo; I'm done.)

Things I've done since that pathetic post about my cat

So I went and posted about my pet for the first time, then I abandoned all things blog and left pictures of my cat as the main damn thing on this here site for a solid month.

I'm not apologizing for my absence, 'cause, really, who cares? What I am going to do is pay penance for getting all cheesy and leaving a scandal-less post up for an inordinate amount of time to greet the masses (okay, trickles) on their visits here.

I now present to you...

Things I've Done Since that Pathetic Post about my Cat:

• Made 743,209 empty threats using the words kick and cut.
• Found the Random Pierced and Tattooed Bar Mate featured here.
  
• Went home with RPTBM. (See complete whiskey menu at Neighborhood Dive for reasoning.)
  
• Got hickey from RPTBM.
  
• Deleted RPTBM's number. (See item above for reasoning.)
  
• Got pissed that RPTBM never called me back. (See gender for reasoning.)
• Baked 756 cookies in 18 hours. (With the help of Roommate, of course.)
  
• Started hating the mere thought of cookies.
  
• Visited a 'Gentleman's Club' for the first time.
• Cried during sex. (Oh yeah, I'm now officially that girl.)
  
• Broke the fall of a drunken musician after a show.
  
• Went bat-shit crazy after sex. (Oh yeah, I'm now officially that girl, too. Wait... is it the same girl?)
  

It's a Matter of Equality

I've said it before, and I'll say it again...

If marriage is to continue to be recognized by the U.S. government, the right to enter into those unions should be available to every adult U.S. citizen. Sexual orientation should not be a factor in the equation. This is a basic civil rights issue.

I'm not going to keep going on about it.

Sign The Human Rights Campaign Petition.

I believe that all Americans, including gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people, deserve the rights, responsibilities, and privileges that come with marriage. And right now, we have an unprecedented opportunity to make that dream a reality. Please, join me in adding your voice to a million voices raised in support of marriage for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender couples.

Open Letter to a Short, Jerky Twatwaddle*

Here's the thing, man...

If your behavior is directly and negatively affecting someone I care about and I manage to make you feel like crap for making that person feel like crap, I'm glad. Yeah, that's right. I'm glad I put you in a worse mood than you were already in. You deserved that, at the very least.

I didn't like you the first time I met you. Despite my efforts at civility during our ensuing encounters, you chose to come into my home and push my buttons on repeated occasions. You did everything in your power to piss me off. You succeeded in doing just that.

Despite all this, I understood that you were dating my friend, not me. I didn't discourage her from seeing you. Even when you said I had an "unhealthy obsession" with her, signaling that you could be the controlling type who wants to distance your woman from anyone she's close to, I refrained from persuading her to ditch you.

In the past two weeks, you've been a complete dick to her. Whether you're stressed or not, she's an awesome person and deserves better from you. Actually, she deserves better than you, but ultimately that's not my decision.

Oh how I wish she would do a little more standing up for herself. She's not one to let you totally trample her, but she is, sometimes, much too considerate of another person's feelings. Which is why she hadn't said anything to you about what you were doing. Well, that, and she was testing you. And, I hope, working you out of her system.

But me? I make it a point to stand up for myself and, if necessary, for my friends. Being drunk made my textual assault easy. Disliking you from the start made the experience somewhat gratifying.

See, once you stop caring how your behavior affects others, I stop caring about how mine affects you. You lost the right to anything resembling civility from me when you started stepping all over her.

Calling you spineless might have been childish on my part, but I hope I got my point across: It's not okay for you to treat her like a toy that you can adore one day and toss aside the next. You cannot do that and expect her to hang around waiting for the next time you want to play. That is not how it works.

One more thing: She is her own person. We are two separate entities. You using what I said to punish her was a shitty move on your part.

You're a selfish twatwaddle, and you're short. Fuck you.

Sincerely,

Belle


* I wrote this post many moons ago. I only feel safe publishing it now, since the friend mentioned in the letter has long since moved on, and I don't have to worry about the short, jerky twatwaddle coming back into her life or mine.

What a Happy Ending

Last week, I realized I had poison ivy.

My first reaction was something along the lines of "shitfuckshitgoddamnmotherfuckshit." You see, I have a long, terrible history with the dreaded rash. Every summer for as long as I can remember, I have been plagued by that demon plant's poison oil. Apparently, one of the genetic endowments from Father was an incredibly high sensitivity to urushiol.

The first time I developed this rash, The Moms had no idea what it was. Since my legs were covered with oozing, puss-filled, bloody* wounds, The Moms covered them with opaque tights before taking me to the doctor. In August. In The 'Sip. The misery that ensued is one of my most vivid early memories.

Every summer following that, I managed to find my way to the nearest batch of the bastard plant and roll around in it. Well, that is, what I must have done if you listen to the medical gurus' dictation on the subject. They claim the rash doesn't spread. They claim you can't be infected by someone else's oozy, puss-filled rashes. They claim you only get the rash if you come in contact with the plant.

Now, I'm not contradicting the prevailing medical theory, but all I know is that I learned to spot mine enemy early on and avoid it like the plague. It didn't help. If one of my brothers got poison ivy, I did too. Even if we hadn't been to any of the same places in weeks and I only spent 10 minutes in the same room together after he had the rash. And, no matter what, the rash always spread. Just sayin'...

When I was checking groceries the summer after high school, I noticed the tell-tale fiery itch one night mid-shift. At the point of discovery, I had one little red rash about an inch long on my lower abdomen. By the next day, the fiendish plague had overtaken the better part of one-half of my body. I went to the doctor and called out sick. Believe me, with a rash like that covering your arms and face, no one wants to buy their groceries from you.

So last Tuesday, when I instinctively reached to scratch my arm, I recognized the fiery itch and stopped myself. Shitfuckshitgoddamnmotherfuckshit. Poison Ivy. FUCK.

Two fairly small dots butted against one another on my right forearm. To an untrained eye, they would likely appear to be innocuous little pimples. But if the years of recurring summer battles have taught me anything, it's to know what this rash looks like.

Immediately, my mind started racing. I thought back to the day before and realized I'd been scratching this same place for at least 24 hours. Where the hell could I have gotten poison ivy?

No clue.

I braced myself for the worst, imagining waking the next morning to find the rash covering me from head to toe.

I can't skip out on training this week, the company has spent too much to send me. I guess I'll just have to deal with being hideously disfigured for the rest of the classes. It's not like I'm actually going to see this people again anyway... Right?

Fortunately, the worst never came. It's a week later, and the rash only spread to four more little annoying dots on my forearm. They're nearly gone now.


I don't want to speak too soon, but I think perhaps my super-sensitivity to this menacing little vine has abated as I've gotten older.


* Yeah, bloody. You try to keep a 4-year-old from scratching poison ivy, dammit.

A Little Addition Goes a Long Way

Courtesy of VVK

For future reference:

1 Diver Down
+5 Irish Car Bombs
+3 Guinness
+2 Glasses of UBFRDP*
+3 Random vodka drinks

---

Vague recollections of exposing nipplage to a pierced and tattooed bar mate


* Unidentified Beer From Random Dude's Pitcher

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