Wednesday, April 13, 2011

you must be crazy.

my lawyer is getting married in a month. and here is why i'm excited: 1 it's faaaaancy, which means so many plates of delicious foods that won't be served church-picnic style with waiters and A TOP-SHELF OPEN BAR and 2 i feel like one of us should project the image of a stable, responsible person to the court, and everybody already knows that is NOT GOING TO BE ME. last time i had to go to court i was wearing a hoodie and orthopedic flip flops, and in hindsight the judge probably should have put my ass in jail, for that infraction ALONE.

contrary to all my hateratin', i loves me a nice wedding. nothing fills me more with glee than opening my mailbox to find a glossy nineteen-part wedding invitation. i love looking at them and touching the smooth heavy card stock. when lawyer's came i took it upstairs and summoned helen to sit next to me on the bed and watch as i ripped the envelope open like christmas wrapping paper and extracted all 1,863 pieces of tiny paper from inside. i swoon at all that shit: the foil, the font, that little sheer piece of paper that doesn't really do shit, their parents' names, the menu options (what the fuck does "vegetarian" mean?), the directions, the registry, the return envelope, the stamp on the return envelope, ALL OF IT. i have to admit i don't get as jazzed when my poor, bohemian friends get married; shoes-optional hippie potlucks aren't really my goddamned style, and i don't know where to find the compost unit or the 100% biodegradable bed linens you put on your fucking wishlist. don't you bitches need wine glasses?! DAMN. a few years ago jason and i went to a wedding that was so casual his friend suggested we bring A SIX-PACK OF BEER as a gift. i couldn't fucking get over it. i was all, "can't we at least buy them some expensive dishtowels? a tiffany cake server? a platinum gravy boat?!" it goes against every fiber of my being not to go to a wedding with a couple hundred dollars wrapped in a nice white box to give away to people who are mistakenly going to get two more of whatever it is i'm carrying. pffft.

anyway, lawyer called the other night to talk shit and listen to me drink an entire bottle of white wine, and he was telling me about his fiance and how he could care less about the wedding, he's just SO EXCITED to be this woman's husband. she's sweet and caring and smart and he just CANNOT WAIT to come home to her every night. dawww. all of the ice melted from around my cold, dead heart. that is such a nice fucking thing to say. and even though my knee-jerk reaction to everything romantic is to make childish retching noises and yell "MO-OIST!" i fucking DIDN'T. because i'm mature. see that is the shit you get jealous of: a rich, good-looking dude making $500 an hour to keep my punk ass legal swooning and frothing at the mouth about coming home to eat dry-ass pot roast with some regular broad. NOT KIDDING. i would seriously die to find someone who can't wait to rush home to a house i haven't cleaned to find me napping under the air conditioner with the cat before i got up to serve him plain corn tortillas and ketchup for dinner while we watch america's next top model. you're out there somewhere. COME FIND ME.

as soon as lawyer assured me that i can wear birkenstocks to the ceremony (oh shut up, MY FEET HURT), i hung up the phone and went to throw my wine bottle in the recycling and ran right into jeff who, despite the fact that there are cameras and security in my building, ALWAYS manages to get in without buzzing me first. sunday nights i like to watch celebrity apprentice and write stalker letters to basketball players i'm in love with, plus i had some of that new jimmy fallon ice cream and i wasn't trying to eat it with an audience. amazing treats are meant to be enjoyed alone and without interruption. come on now! that shit has potato chips in it! ben and jerry just don't taste as good when someone is watching you and talking to you and trying to wrestle the remote away from you. i'm sure there is a scientific study somewhere that backs up this assertion.

this dude was wearing a sharp suit and italian loafers, and i invited him to stand in the one corner of the room that isn't covered in cat hair and fetched him a glass of nothing from the kitchen. i haven't seen this stupid asshole since we went to that banging seminar and was all "why are you dressed so nicely? and where the fuck you been at?!" then his whole face lit up. "i'm seeing tracey again," he said, and i responded, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE."

tracey is crazy. not "let's do it with the lights on for a change" crazy, but "I WILL DESTROY YOUR CAR AND GET YOU FIRED FROM YOUR JOB AND DRIVE YOU TO COMMIT SUICIDE" crazy. when i first met jeff he and this bitch were on round one of their rollercoaster relationship, and he was like a beaten puppy: sad and cowering and shivering near her feet waiting for his next instructions. he didn't go anywhere or do anything without checking with her first, because if he didn't and she found out later she would burst into tears and sob and wail and accuse him of cheating and cut herself with razors and stop eating and take a handful of tylenol with a bottle of gin and leave psychotic voicemails and lengthy, detailed suicide notes: AMATEUR SHIT. but it fucking WORKED. every time they had a fight and broke up jeff would get ninety-five emails, each escalating in hysteria from the last, and with every i hate you or you're dead to me or i'm pregnant and going to abort the fetus that dude's resolve was whittled back down to nothing and he'd take her the fuck back.

i, of course, was incredulous. i'd watch this whole song and dance play out over and over from my front-row seat in the friend zone, scratching my head as to why a talented and successful dude was wasting his time with a bitch who lived in her parents' basement and was obviously OUT OF HER FUCKING MIND. she's got a nice ass and she wears super high heels, but in my estimation that doesn't make up for untreated bipolar disorder. this broad is a fucking basket case, and jeff couldn't keep his dick out of her. UNTIL. they'd already transitioned the relationship from serious dating to casually hooking up, which had surprised the shit out of me considering he couldn't have lunch with his goddamned grandmother without tracey freaking the fuck out, when jeff decided that maybe she should take a seat next to me in the platonic section of his life's arena. she wasn't performing as well as he'd hoped in her new role as "occasional booty call." she was calling every night and expecting him to have dinner with her parents once a week then pouting when he didn't show up and screaming when she called to ask why and looking for apartments near his and facebook stalking his friends; you know, girlfriend stuff.

he called her at the salon where she spent her days waxing vaginas and underarms (OF COURSE) the day after a major temper tantrum and told her their relationship was over. cold turkey. no more movie dates, no more phone calls, no more blow jobs in his car on his lunch break. THEY WERE DUNZO. he texted me to tell me the good news and my response was, "i hope you moved first." i knew that crazy bitch wasn't going to just pack up her cotton strips and alcohol swabs and go quietly. mister confident assured me that he'd been firm and put his foot down and that he was going to move on with his life. mm hmm. we'll see about that. tracey broke into his apartment two weeks later. her insane ass didn't take anything, i don't think, she just slept in his bed and left a photo album filled with cut-up pictures of the two of them and left a ten-page handwritten love letter on the kitchen counter next to a half-eaten cheeseburger. frightening. i would never know if someone did that to me, because my bed is rarely made and i REFUSE to take pictures with anyone i might be having sex with. also, i set booby traps around my apartment and helen is trained with a rifle. don't even try it.

goddamn it, i'm afraid to breathe too loud around a dude lest i get dumped and kicked out on my ass, LET ALONE cut up pictures and prank call his mother and show up unexpectedly at his workplace and expect him to keep hanging around. i've been broken up with for being pro-choice and for having these complicated intestines, for not owning enough "real hip hop" and for drooling in the middle of the night. so how is it that some of us are expected to tiptoe around trying not to audibly fart while others of us can burn a dude's house to the ground and be rewarded with a marriage proposal? are the rumors true? ARE CRAZY BITCHES REALLY BETTER IN BED?!

maybe it's because i'm lazy in the sack, but no naked good time would be worth even the tiniest bit of emotional exasperation heaped on me by some hot lady or stupid dude. the first time i got a phone call with a screaming, hysterical person on the other end i would cease communication with him entirely. not "call me after you've regrouped," but "if you ever call me again i will arrange for your execution." i guess i kinda sorta understand the appeal of chasing someone mysterious and elusive, but the idea that you'd want to keep running in circles around someone who rifles through your trash and sits outside your house with her engine running BAFFLES me. i know SO MANY DUDES who delight in regaling you with stories about the hoops some hot girl is forcing them to jump through for her enjoyment, and although i think an angel gets its wings every time a man has to subjugate himself to a woman, i can't help but think about how i can hardly get some asshole to help carry the groceries upstairs. IN THE ELEVATOR.

i might not be so irritated if men weren't such dirty liars. a couple months ago jeff ran to starbucks and left his laptop open in my apartment, and i took the liberty of helping myself to his okcupid profile. after snickering at his embellishments (helen was like, "6'2" MY BALLZ, pffft!"), i skimmed his about me section, which went something like this: "fun-loving athletic banker, love playing with my dogs and watching golf, want a girl who is super cute and drama free." then later, in looking for: "i hate drama and games, i need a sweet lady who is down to earth and loves quiet evenings at home." never before in the history of our friendship has this dude ever gone down on a girl who likes QUIET EVENINGS AT HOME. foaming at the mouth cokeheads filled with rage? YES. vapid models who've stolen his credit cards? ABSOLUTELY. suicide girls who crash his car? TOTALLY. sweet, grounded chicks who enjoy sitting on his couch watching sandra bullock movies and throwing around a kong? HELL FUCKING NO. what a little fibber.

i read through the craigslist personal ads everyday 1 because i have no life 2 because i have the vain hopes that i might find someone to pay me for telling jokes fully clothed (i can dream, can't i?) and 3 that's where you go on the internet to find true love, isn't it?!, and every day i read two dozen posts that include the phrase "i hate drama." all from dudes like jeff who want nothing more than a bitch who will pour gasoline on his breakfast cereal and make him compete with nineteen other dudes for her psychotic affection. why you gotta lie like that?! you don't want to eat dinner on the floor while watching arrested development dvds every night, you fools want action and excitement and cutlery flying through the air at your heads! so just ADMIT IT. regular bitches who call you once every few days are BORING. and women who aren't threatening to slash their wrists in your bathtub are a major YAWN. what's the point of trying to be lovely and normal when you're going to be passed up for the chick holding a printout of his text messages? so i'm throwing in the sane towel. time to let my cray cray out.

jeff tried to explain to me that he really thought things were going to work out this time and that tracey had totally changed in the two years they've been broken up, and whatever the fuck ever maybe he's right. maybe this time she won't shave his head while he sleeps or ship a box of fermented dog shit to his office with a valentine stuck to it. who the fuck even cares? i was too busy writing love letters in my own blood to send to people i have crushes on. CHECK YOUR INBOX.