...at Reboyfriend's house...he was telling me this story.
About this time he met the neighbor lady who lives kiddie corner from him. Let's call her Diane, or Donna, or Kim, or Elaine. Something you got named if you were born in the late sixties (except my mom, her cute parents named her Cassie, which even beat out Zoey - yeah, my gpa liked Salinger, so my mom is officially lucky and doesn't count). But you get the age bracket I'm going for, right?
And Reboyfriend has this little herd of adorable single male dude-bro twenty-something friends, who visit/live with/work for/entertain him, and are somehow not assholes or premium grade douchebags, and when I'm the only girl at dinner they split the bill between The Men, and don't even let me leave the tip. And sometimes I feel like their Wendy and just want to bring them cookies (and bitchslap the whorish Tinks buzzing around). They try their hardest to cooperate when I needle for info on what kind of girl they like, so I could browse my single friend rolodex and submit a hottie to them, as an offering for their adorableness and board-bum chivalry, although all they can ever come up with is "I don't know, she'd have to be someone who shreds."
I wished that "shreds" meant "has an affinity for fine literature, such as blogs" or "enjoys 30 Rock marathons, Junior Mints and DDP following lengthy rumor-swapping about who knew the person with the grossest colon cleanse story." Because I could seriously find some hot and compatible girls for them from my own circle. But I think they really do mean snowboarding.
On a side note, it also made me acutely aware of how much I don't shred anymore, and how Liz Lemon I have become, and NOT in the cool endearing way (people want to be Liz Lemon like they want to be Carrie Bradshaw: in the most obvious way possible while trying as hard as possible not to look like they are trying, so I want to put it out there that I'm not trying to be faux-modest and cheeky or annoyingly self-deprecating. I swear to God I slopped tomato soup down my left boob in front of Reboyfriend today after it had been INSIDE my CLOSED mouth for an entire second, so no, it was not charming, and no, after eight years of this shit he DOESN'T pretent not to notice). I mean Liz Lemon in an emotional-eating, foot-in-mouth, bought a wedding dress for no reason, would-date-a-pager-salesman geekiness. That Liz Lemon. I lived and breathed for spelling bees (ever see Spellbound? Those kids? Allll me. Seriously wish I were lying.) and wore prairie dresses and socks with Birkenstocks. To my spelling bees.
I am still that girl inside, they just don't happen to see it yet. And I'm terrified they're going to, and then they're going to tell Reboyfriend, who I've apparently snowed. Sucker.
But my point is, this is a group of young, hunky, verile, fratster type guys with tight little ends. And with wakeboards and testosterone and facial hair and bikini posters bulging out from under the garage door, shacked up together on one big house in suburbia. Suburbia, where all the Kims and Donnas live.
So back to the day they met NancyKimDeborah, and ruined me forever.
I have no idea what led her here, so I'm just going to start the story with her, across the street from her own house, somehow fraternizing with Reboyfriend and his dudebros. And making abundantly clear that, just because she's got the tract stucco split-level and minivan and a BISHOP for a husband...that she's still just ~*~* A CaLiForNiA GiRl aT HeArT!!! ~*~* and that she used to toke doobies with the best of 'em cuz she's not like OTHER Mormon moms and Bishops' wives!!! In fact, one of these days, she might just have to come on over with a big old blunt for her neighbor boyzz, and just have a grand old time of it! Because Stacey's Mom Has Got It Going On.
(OK. So Reboyfriend didn't tell it EXACTLY like that.)
Well, a couple weeks later, NancyKims shows up on the Dudebro's doorstep. With a gal-pal and a joint. Reboyfriend thinks this is all awesomely hilarious, dripping with awesomeness and wonderment and is all just so awesomely awesome. In his tiny little boy brain, this woman is a legend.
It is my life's mission to demonstrate that he could not be more wrong, and that if he loves me at all, he will start seeing it as pathetic and weird and desperate. And obnoxious. (However, given his current choice in regirlfriend material, I'm thinking weird and obnoxious don't seem to bother him).
It is my life's mission to demonstrate that he could not be more wrong, and that if he loves me at all, he will start seeing it as pathetic and weird and desperate. And obnoxious. (However, given his current choice in regirlfriend material, I'm thinking weird and obnoxious don't seem to bother him).
Dudebros sit and blaze with these gals for a few hours, OH, but not without mommy dearest crouching to peer out through the garage toward her damn YARD every 15 seconds (ahh, the paranoia).
She must watch the news. Because sometimes, the news reports children getting hit by cars while their moms disappear to wax youthful while their husbands, busy giving blessings and paying church members' mortgages, can not be around to keep their kids out of oncoming traffic. NancyKims is no dummy. She's watching them, god, CHILL, stop harshing her mellow, and stuff.
ReBF says they never saw her again after that day. I don't know what transpired. He never specified whether any of his friends actually did more than just drugs with this gal and her friend. But ReBF figures the Bish got wind (no pun intended) of his wife's pastimes and put the kabosh on all the stonage, and shamelessness, and precarious extramarital possibilities.
ReBF says it wasn't such a big deal. From what they told him afterward, it was just a case of a former party girl turned homemaker, itching for a taste of the good old days and getting it out of her system once and for all. Like some sort of Desperate Housewives rendition of that scene in Shawshank Redemption where they all smoke on the rooftop. And this dumb lady and "her boyz" shot the breeze in sepia Academy Award positioned cinematographic grit and candor, and it was all G-rated (Well. Except for the narcotics) and classic American. It probably bodes well for me that he has such automatic faith in people.
But you can hear the disdain oozing from every letter of this post, that I am going to be a catty little snot about all of it. While I want to say I feel really bad for this woman, I just found the whole thing irritating. Her being a spacey, irresponsible mom. Humiliating her husband (chances are she just sat there like Cheech and laughed and left...but it doesn't matter). And of course, in my imagination, throwing herself at everyone with big fake 90's boobs (you know, the round circular bubble kind) and that attractive stench of loose desperation guys can't help but dig. Yeah, I actually caught myself having this very thought, and
a.) squelched it immediately as I have promised myself the minute another girl starts to make me feel threatened, I'm liking him more than I want to, and I need to step away from the really tight end, and
b.) squelched it immediately as it hit me that I was acting JEALOUS, of a bored, creepy and desperate 40-something who apparently isn't happy, and is actually probably jealous of ME, after probably having watched out her front window some nights, as these guys carried my drunk, blonde, giggling, twentysomething ass up the stairs to their front door, after a long, insane, gluttonous night of sake bombs and spring break-ish behavior. (Let's have fun with this...As ReBF carried me through the front door and on to our long, insane, girls-gone-wild night of strobe-lit, heavily pierced fornicating in Reboyfriend's Heffner sized sex palace. Whatever. Whatever this woman's warped view of MY reality would be).
You know you're screwed up when you're the giggling blonde getting catty about the sad middle aged lady across the street, just because she got fifteen minutes of shock value disguised as fame. I really have no reason to be catty.
But what I truly resent most about this woman is the fear she instills in me. I never, ever, EVER want to feel like the trapped animal this woman is. OK - maybe she's more selfish than trapped. The things she's looking to feel are not odd desires. They're not a function of her being more free-spirited than the rest of us, despite what she'd like it to sound like. Everyone wants to feel young and desirable and, well, high.
Having witnessed my husband get this same attack of claustrophobia, drove this lady's behavior somewhere else for me, and I suddenly understood them both. The sick feeling I got when I looked at this lady's life, combined with the newfound peace and liberation of having a life that is my own, showed me that I would not have been ready for that brand of adulthood, if it presented itself. And that I'd hate the bachelor pad across the street. And the skanks they carried into the house, Disney prince style, on Friday nights.
*My profuse apologies to all people named Kim, Donna, Nancy, and Deborah. We already knew I'm a bitch, so make fun of my name now. If it makes you feel better, little kids call me Kiki. It's also my drunk alter-ego. And if you ask me, Kiki is the girl that didn't make it as a homewrecker so she just took up commission-based retail jobs and acted like she's the reason shit is overpriced. Gag us all with a big fat spoon.
**Yes, cute Reboyfriend, carried me into the house Disney prince style one time with all his friends. I have no idea why, other than he's funny and random like that.
****I also have no reason to believe this hag ever once looked out her window to watch her neighbors come home on late nights. Although, the big entrance I'm referring to did involve brodies in the Old Civic.
