Monday, January 10, 2011

i wore a diaper to speed dating.

this is NOT my biological clock.

i was sitting on the toilet texting some stupid dude when the phone rang. i only notice the phone ringing when i'm dicking around on the internet or dirty texting some slut. my butt has been relatively good since that hospital visit in october; my immune system is completely chemically suppressed (hello, pneumonia! and this constant coughing and sneezing for the past two weeks!), i've been off steroids for a while now, and my stomach isn't hurting. plus, i'm not all stressed the fuck out. so i am happy. but sometimes i can't tell when what's on my plate is going to destroy the rest of my week, and i'd had some noodles from lulu's and essentially had to move my whole desk into the bathroom for the evening. books, cell phone, notebooks, magazines, markers, pens, you name it. and helen keller sleeping on the bath mat, of course. it was cara.

"black or fat?" she asked. "black or fat?!"

i hate when people start a conversation as if you just finished one that had been interrupted. i racked my brain trying to find a point of reference. what the fuck could this bitch be talking about?!

"sam, you need to decide. BLACK or FAT?"

"um, both i guess? no one's ever asked me to choose before. there's no fat box to check on the census."

"you fucking idiot. i'm trying to sign up for this stupid speed dating you're making me go to, and we have to choose whether we want to go to 'chocolate singles mingle' or 'curvy girls rule.' which would you prefer?"

then i started laughing, because all i could think about was saying "check my fat box" to some dude.

"focus, asshole, and pick one before the page refreshes and i have to enter in all my information again."

well therein lies the dilemma. i have only ever seriously dated black dudes, and i have never even seen a pink penis in the flesh before. i'm not lying. almost thirty-one goddamned years old, and i've only ever seen nappy pubic hair. and not for lack of trying, nor because of some inherent racism. white dudes just have not hit on this big black ass, and everybody knows i don't go barking up trees i can't piss on. white dudes always want me to be their sassy black sidekick, and that would get old if they didn't always 1 drive the getaway car and 2 pay for absolutely everything.

and while the only dudes who've ever offered to put it in my butt have been on the free hot lunch program at one point or another during their childhoods, not all black dudes are into me. it's crazy, i know, but true. and sometimes dudes who are into fat chicks are fucking creepy. or they're losers hoping to take advantage of some low self-esteem. the thought of sitting in a bar with a roomful of sissified mama's boys or recent parolees makes my goddamned skin crawl, man. gross. but then the thought of moving from one table to the next of salty black dudes who thought some videos hos might show up to fucking SPEED DATE (yeah right, dickballs) and are disappointed that i've shown up in their stead was even worse. how do you choose? firing squad or guillotine?!

"fat," i finally said, and helen cracked one eye open and bared her fangs at me. "I WILL SHIT ON YOU," i said, pointing to the door. "get the fuck out of here, little buddy."

i could hear laptop keys clicking and clacking. "perfect. you owe me thirty-five dollars. see you next week." CLICK.

cara showed up at my apartment last night wearing a long black dress with a plunging neckline and high-heeled knee boots. and her hair was all done up and fancy. she smelled like creed, my favorite one, the one in the white bottle. i fucking thought this shitshow was a JOKE. i mean, i knew we were going to go for real, but i thought we were just going to look normal and make fun of the assholes who were participating in that shit in earnest. i didn't know this was a hair salon/eyebrow wax/manicure sort of event. i was still in my house clothes, but even though i had just taken a shower i felt dirty and gross just standing next to her. stupid bitch.

i am totally old now, so the very few nice things i have to wear for an evening out are from expensive-ass j.jill and eileen fisher; in other words, THE SHIT YOUR MOM WEARS. i surveyed the sensible black relaxed fit pants i'd hung on the closet door to keep them away from helen's hairy ass and decided i was going to kill myself. they are lovely pants, and i almost had my electricity shut off so that i could purchase them, but they are not SEXY. they are for parent-teacher night, or an early dinner at the stained glass, but they most certainly are NOT pants that scream "i'm going to fuck you without a condom later." i hadn't even gotten far enough to pick out a companion shirt, and cara pushed me in the bathroom to "fix my hair" (ahahaha NOT POSSIBLE) while she found me an appropriate top. meaning one that my tits hang out of.

fixing my hair turned into diarrhea i couldn't control because, despite the fact that the idea of speed dating is comical to me, i was a little nervous. i've been shitting myself for twenty years, so having diarrhea doesn't often get in the way of whatever it is i'm trying to do. i just put a butt pad in my pants and keep it moving. but i was out of my usual pads, and the only thing i could find in my closet were diapers. adult diapers, because no one who drinks this much should have children. i wear diapers all the time. guaranteed one (or sometimes all) of the times you and i have hung out (if we have indeed hung out) i was wearing a diaper of some variety. and you had no fucking idea. isn't that hilarious?! it always tickles me a little to be hanging out with bitches while wearing a depends or rubber underwear with a cloth baby pad in them. and no one is the wiser, unless i point it out. because in regular pants you can't fucking tell. if i have jeans on, you'd never know. well the asshole might know, because all he ever does is stare at my ass and i'm sure has every contour committed to memory, but no normal person ever would.

"i have to wear a diaper," i called to cara, who was making some campari sodas for us in the kitchen. "i might even have to take one with. i have crazy diarrhea right now." that bitch isn't fazed by shit, and she came around the corner and was like "i have a bottle of perfume in my bag in case some shit leaks out, to cover up the smell." i love my fucking friends.

so i put on one of my best bras, used a cotton ball to wipe A+D on my anus, slathered diaper cream in my butt, folded some soft gauze pads between my ass cheeks, pulled on a depends, and immediately started to panic. "i can't go," i blurted, on the verge of tears. "no one wants to date this person." i waved my hand at all of my butt supplies and accoutrement piled on the bathroom sink. "no dude wants to be with a broad who goes through 19 rolls of toilet paper in a month. i'm staying the fuck home."

i talk so much shit, but i really do get very sad when i'm counting out all of my pills and dragging economy-sized bags of adult diapers home on the train, when i'm ordering rubber underpants on the internet from websites that have pictures of smiling "active seniors" waving at me with their new comfort grip ultra absorbent poo pants and crinkly sheets that just wipe clean for incontinent elderly people who have accidents in bed, when the medical waste service comes to my apartment on mondays to exchange my shit cloths for clean ones. i heard that one of my friends recently described me as "bitter," and if it ever appears that way you know i don't mean it. bitter is one of those words with a fucking horrible connotation, and i promise you that isn't what i really am. i'm funny and everything, but what i really am is a thirty-one year old adult who spends a lot of time sick and drugged and diapered. so pardon me if i'm not a ray of sunshine 100% of the goddamned time.

i put my face paint on anyway, blubbering the whole time that i should just throw in the dating towel and wait until i'm fifty and can find some sixty-year-old who can actually relate to all of my incessant LEAKING, and then i put on those silly pants and some jewelry and the worst possible shirt to wear when meeting someone for the first time, this slippery wrap business that NEVER STAYS TIED. i once had an entire conversation at green dolphin with my entire left breast exposed. DUMB. i sat on a chair a few times to see if my diaper made any audible noise when i plopped down, then dismissed the idea entirely because how could they possibly expect the women to do the rotating? it would look like a cow herd. at this point taking a party purse was out of the question, so i loaded up my day bag with all of my crohn's reinforcements: wipes, desitin, extra diaper, ziploc full of gauze pads, water bottle, imodium, pentasa, and emergency steroids, then i wrote my hot doctor's number on a post-it and stuck it in cara's wallet. she looked at me crazy and i said, "in case this turns into a flare-up. a couple times i've fainted from the pain."

"don't faint," she admonished. "seriously. NO ONE will go out with you."

the cab driver let us out in a dirty puddle of slush that i am almost positive had vomit in it, then we showed the door guy our IDs, and i'm pretty sure he gave me a pity look right before we went inside. the bar was really lovely, all dim twinkling lights and dark wood tables and shiny hardwood floors, elegant tablecloths and soft music.

"well this isn't what i was expecting. i thought there would be chocolate chip cookie centerpieces and a snack table with sticks of butter and cured meats," cara said, handing her cape to the coat check girl. sidenote: fat bitches in capes is really a depressing look. i literally COULD NOT stop telling her how much i hated that stupid thing. no quicker way to unintentionally turn yourself into some sort of cartoon villain. stop it. BLA-ARF.

"it smells like bacon in here," i snipped, glancing around at my competition. "and i bet every spanx in the greater chicagoland area is in this room right now." as a rule, i refuse to wear spanx. or any item of clothing that requires i externally bind all of my internal organs to fit into it. and with this chrons?! yeah fucking right. i'd be in traction, with shit shooting out of my eyeballs and nose and mouth and ears. gross.

the cheerful woman at a table across from the door motioned for us to come over to her. she very excitedly showed us the blank name tags and black magic markers and explained how the evening was going to work. the men were going to move from table to table at three-minute intervals to ensure that no fires broke out from all of that thigh meat rubbing against itself at the same time while we remained seated and tried not to sweat while sitting still. well, she didn't really say it like that. but what she said is boring, so i wrote what my brain said. her name was amy and she had a voice like a chipmunk and spoke in exclamation points: "is this your first speed date event?! are you nervous?! you get two complimentary drinks! i really like your cape! the turnout is fantastic! there are some good looking guys in there!" she squeaked, clapping her doughy little hands and nodding at the crowd clustered around the bar. "who are you gals looking forward to meeting?!"

i wrote "thunder thighs" on my name tag and affixed it above my boob. "closeted homosexuals?"

cara had written "delores" on hers. "ex-convicts?"

"dudes who are forty-three and still live at home with their mothers?"

i could fucking hear amy's little heart breaking. "we're going to start soon," she sighed wearily, no exclamation point. "go get your drinks."

we're fucking assholes.

"what if i have to go to the bathroom?" i hissed in cara's ear as we walked to the bar. i couldn't just excuse myself; i'd fuck up the rhythm of the whole thing, and everyone would have to sit there twiddling their thumbs while they waited for me to come out of the john. WHAT A FUCKING NIGHTMARE. a bar full of people waiting for me to handle my business?! i would rather be dead. cara shrugged her "cross that bridge when you get to it" shrug and ordered our drinks.

we split up and sat at opposite ends of the room, because i don't want anyone i know to hear what i might say to a dude i want to holler at. or worse, engage in awkward small talk with one that i DON'T. my well vodka soda (i hate complimentary drinks!) and i settled at a corner table and skimmed the crowd of dudes for one i might find sexually provocative. i saw a lot of homemade sweaters and outdated shoes, and when i spotted a dude in A MOTHERFUCKING BOLO TIE i immediately decided that a diaper was most definitely NOT the worst thing a person could wear to have 900 mini dates with a bunch of judgmental strangers.

our host was this fat broad with long black hair who said she'd met her husband at one of these things and could "feel the magic in the room." i rolled my eyes and started thinking about my killer opening line. i needed something really genius, you know? something to knock a dude on his fucking ass the minute i opened my mouth. or should i just wait and see what he'd dreamed up and riff on that? so many tough decisions. then i got distracted by the sticky gross lip print on the side of my glass and forgot all about thinking of something cool to say to these assholes. such a child.

the first dude was tall and dark-skinned and introduced himself as "jordan," while POINTING TO HIS NAME TAG. i pointed to my own name tag and said, "thunder." he did not laugh. dating black people is difficult, because in addition to all of the newport smoke and hypertension and sassy attitudes and lottery tickets, it is often impossible to nail down how old we are at a glance. seriously. this dude could have been twenty-two or sixty-eight. i had no fucking idea. "tell me the last five records you bought," he said, and my IMMEDIATE RESPONSE was this:

"halcyon digest by deerhunter, merriweather post pavilion by animal collective, black skin no value by cody chestnutt, alegranza by el guincho, andeyelid movies by phantogram." i was starting to get excited. i REALLY LOVE dudes who are into music. "what about you?!"

"that new black eyed peas album is pretty good."

"ahahahahaha. ahahaha. ahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. ahahaha. AHAHAHAHAHAHA. THAT'S HILARIOUS." loudly.

blank stare. "that's funny?"

holy fucking shit. LISTEN TO ME. you can't ask someone a question like "what are the last five records you bought" when you listen, in earnest, to THE BLACK EYED FUCKING PEAS. how am i supposed to know that isn't a joke?! no real person who would really be interested in the music you listen to would ever say whatever it is fergie and that black dude are doing is quality fucking music. if that's what you like, do you even CARE what other people like? i mean, for real? you should never talk about music with other, SERIOUS, people. i'm a huge audiophile and music slut, and i could have named the last fifty albums i bought (health, new mastersounds, arcade fire, menomena, kanye, warpaint, the spinto band, panda bear, best coast, i could continue but you all would get mad). but it is impossible that what is on my ipod matters to you if you have the now that's what i call music! compilations on your own. god, dickballs, give me a BREAK.

we sat uncomfortably for a few seconds until the referee tinkled her little bell, and i mentally took back everything i'd said about three minutes not being enough time to become properly acquainted with a person. i'd cycled through ten or so nameless, faceless, uninteresting dudes when we were informed we could take a bathroom break and stretch our legs. i made a beeline for cara. "this sucks, right?" i pulled out the wad of cocktail napkins i'd been jotting notes on. "i would have dinner with four of these dudes and have sex with one. maybe. i couldn't tell whether or not he smelled funny."

"i am actually having a really good time," that traitorous bitch of a whore replied. "i've hit it off with quite a few of these guys."

i scowled at the men wandering around the room. "who?" i barked, folding my arms angrily over my naked bosom.

"jerome, in the khakis."

"not very smart."

"stephen, the latino? or maybe asian?"

"blarf."

"and i had a really nice time talking to harrison. the white guy with the salt and pepper hair."

"MO-OIST."

i pouted my jealous ass to the bathroom, where i commandeered the biggest stall and changed the padding in my butt after using a couple wipes. what a PRODUCTION, this whole fucking thing. give me two or three years before i stop leaving the house entirely and start collecting cats and social security. a normal person can only live like this for so long. there were bitches waiting by the sinks and i could hear the dull roar of their whispers floating over the stall walls until i finally shouted, "i fucking have crohn's disease! wait a goddamned minute!" and they dispersed. fucking vultures. can't you hear the delicate surgical procedures going on in here? stop acting like i'm doing coke off the toilet seat or fucking the bar back or whatever. MY FUCKING ASSHOLE IS BROKEN.

cara was swooning at salt and pepper when i got back to my seat, but by that point i was too overwhelmed and exhausted to give enough of a shit to throw hate darts with my eyes. that stupid fucking bell tinkled yet again (i swear that noise is now the soundtrack to my nightmares), and the men got in their places to resume their musical chairs.

bolo tie was actually pretty amusing in an unironic way, and this chubby white dude with the best glasses i have ever seen and some super cool tattoos made me laugh so hard club soda came out of my nose. salt and pepper was nice, but cara texted me "WHAT IS HE SAYING" twelve times the second he sat down in the fucking chair across from mine so it was nearly impossible to enjoy his company, and then this hot piece of brisket slid into the chair.

i had seen him before, but had written him off because even from across the room i could tell he was 5'7" on his best day, and the short dude ego is goddamned intolerable. i don't mind picking up a dude and putting him in his booster seat at dinner, but not if he's going to be chapping my fucking ass the whole time. but he was funny and engaging, enough that i could forgive him for wearing a tight ass top to show off his musculature. i did say "it was nice of your little sister to lend you her sweater for the night," because i cannot stop my mouth from making such mistakes, i mean really he was just BEGGING for that, but he laughed and said, "i like funny girls."

i could see the hostess reaching for the timer that was about to go off, so i made nice and shook hands and told him my real name. and he made a joke about my bringing the thunder (the insinuation was that he can't wait to fuck, right?! did i misread that?!), then it was my turn to laugh. and i did, pretty hard. and then i shit my diaper.

what a betrayal this fucking body is. i sat there trying not to let it show on my face, mentally calculating the amount of liquid that had come out, whether i could comfortably stand up in a room full of people, trying to recall if it had made an audible sound, and hoping that it didn't smell. the lucky thing about all this, um if you can call it that?, is that when you shit water all the time it doesn't really have an odor. it just smells a little acidic, but not like poo. you know how baby dumps smell sort of sweet? it's kind of like that. and i was past the point of passing any solid fecal matter, so i knew that there weren't any chunks in my pants. life's little victories, i guess.

"are you okay?" booster seat asked, snapping me out of my reverie.

"YES," i said too loudly, nodding. "EVERYTHING IS FINE."

"i had a great time talking to you. i would love to see you again sometime." he stood up to walk around the table. why is he doing that? no! why?!?!! oh, that's right, TO HUG ME.

"WE SHOULD DEFINITELY HANG OUT. EMAIL ME OR SOMETHING. THEY HAVE MY INFO AT THE FRONT DESK." i didn't move, just sat there woodenly, willing my diarrhea to absorb. or at least not run down my leg. i am a frustrated crier, and i was blinking 700x a minute to keep them at bay. i hadn't heard anything the host bitch said because my ears were too full of I AM SHITTING MYSELF RIGHT NOW, but apparently the event was over, because people were milling around putting on coats and exchanging phone numbers and facebooks.

at this point he was standing over me and i was just paralyzed in my chair, terrified to move. i wasn't really upset, i just wanted to get up and fucking GO HOME. and i wanted to do that without hugging a dude while in a poopy diaper. not that he should, but what if he grabbed my ass or something?! he was only knee high to a june bug, and what if this short motherfucker's ONLY OPTION once i stood towering over him was to wrap those teeny arms around my waist?! i could get diarrhea on him! these goddamned things get soggy if you sit in them too long, and i didn't want to hear a loud, wet SQUISH as we embraced. also, I DIDN'T WANT TO GET MOTHERFUCKING DIAPER RASH. FUCK. i hate my life.

now it was awkward and i was looking like a huge asshole. so i stood up and grabbed the hand he was trying to snake around my back and shook it, firmly, like a real man would. but that wouldn't do, as he laughed heartily and pulled me in for a long hug. once i'd stood up i could feel that there was liquid human waste seeping out from the bottom and climbing up my back, and i almost shouted as he did the back-rub-while-i-am-hugging-you thing, WIPING SHIT UP AND DOWN MY BACK THROUGH MY SHIRT. i was seriously about to cry. MORTIFYING.

finally i broke away and scribbled my email on a napkin and threw it in his direction before snatching my bag up from the floor and high-tailing it over to where cara and s+p were huddled in a booth. "I HAVE TO LEAVE," i shout-talked. "I AM GOING TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW." she gave me the death stare because she obviously wanted to stay and motioned toward the bar. "just get another drink, sam. calm down."

"i am covered in my own waste, cara. i need to get out of this diaper and go to the emergency room. i don't think a couple beers is going to fix that. call me later." salt and pepper's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "yeah, dude, we had a date while i was wearing a diaper." i rolled my eyes and walked away then stealthily tucked two handfuls of bar napkins in the back of my pants to soak up the excess. or so i thought, because i looked up to find booster seat standing in front of me in the corner of the room in which i thought i'd been hidden, his mouth agape, holding the napkin with my email scrawled on it.

"i was just wondering if this was an E or a C," he said, finally.

at this point who the fuck cared. i sighed in defeat and shoved another handful in. "it's an E," i muttered. "but i'm sure you want to just throw that out now. it's cool. nice to meet you."

i cried in the cab and called my gastroenterologist's office, trying to get a hold of the on-call physician for the evening. the answering service left me on hold for the entire cab ride home, twenty-two minutes. i took the elevator upstairs, fed helen, turned my phone off and put it in the sock drawer, then fell asleep in the bathtub. lame.