Messy, page 4
It ended up being one of my best nights. Not quite as good as the time I found an entire sheet cake forgotten on a bench outside a bar, coincidently across the street from this same park, but an enjoyable night all the same. We just sat around talking, we got drunk, and then we woke up all the chickens that overran the little park. It might sound mean to wake up peacefully sleeping chickens, but I felt very justified in inconveniencing them after the thousands of dollars in damage they had caused to my car. The little feathered bastards spent their whole day pecking and scratching at my car. I had to purchase a leaf skimmer on a pole, intended for a pool, to scoop them off the roof of my car just so I could leave work at the end of the day. I thoroughly enjoyed waking up the grumpy destructive chickens. I was even more happy to have a partner in crime to laugh with at every funny noise from groggy poultry. It was a fun night but why he called me of all people, I never could figure out. I’m glad he did though.
Back to the question. So, as we were enjoying our sushi rolls, my friend explained how he prepares his rear end for play. I learned that diet could play a big part. After the realization that my diet was atrocious and the chances of this changing was slim, we had to move on to plan B. This game plan, in simple terms is, cleaning out your butt. I learned the ins and outs of fleet enemas, where you squirt water up your hiney-hole to flush the contents out. It is typically used when people are constipated but I was getting the “off label” run down. He put extra emphasis on making sure everything is running clear to ensure you are totally cleaned out. “After that you are good to go.” It seemed simple enough.
That night, while sitting at home thinking about the events of the day, I was suddenly inspired to seize the moment. I had no plans, so why not change that? It was as good a time as any to put my new knowledge to use. I walked to the drug store down the street and purchased the needed supplies. I might have also purchased a pint of ice cream as a little something to look forward to for when I was done. I am like a Labrador retriever in some respects, I am very food motivated.
Upon my return, I got straight to work. I would like to say I carefully read the in-depth instructions in the fold out that came with the enemas, but that didn’t happen. I just dove in. When everything was finally coming out clear, I thought I would go one more round just to be sure. What could it hurt, right? After, already feeling incredibly accomplished, I carefully chose a dildo from my collection. Staring at the vast array of choices I had laying in front of me, deciding I should start with something modest; I made my choice. I generously slimed it up with an ultra-slippery lubricant. Taking a deep breath and doing my best to relax, I slid it inside me. Delighted and exhilarated, I was curious to see my accomplishment, so I waddled to the full-length mirror that hung over the boiler grate, which was the only source of heat in my 1930’s apartment.
Pleased with my accomplishment, I decided that was enough for one day, and I pulled the phallus out. As it came out there was a loud pop noise along with an explosion of water. It sizzled as it hit the incredibly hot grate in the floor. It was as if a water balloon had just been thrown. I screamed, partially from the shock of the loud noise and partially from the blistering steam burning my legs as the water boiled off the heater. Reaching for my phone, I dialed my comrade. When he picked up, I blurted out “I broke my butt! I think you need to come over and take me to the emergency room.”6
After explaining everything that happened, he just laughed, and said “oh did I forget to mention you should wait a few hours so your body can absorb any remaining water?” Um, yeah. He definitely forgot to mention that very important detail.
That was the night I decided pushing oneself outside of their comfort zone into an area of “deep” self-exploration was overrated. At least I still had the ice cream, so not all was lost.
6 Some people may think of me as a bit of a hypochondriac. This particular instance might make for a hard argument against those people.
CHAPTER 6
Into the Woods
For anyone unifiliar with Catholic School, let me break it down for you. You are stuck with the same forty students in the same classroom day in and day out from kindergarten through eighth grade. Whether you like someone or not, you are stuck with them for nine years. That’s nine years, with the same children, going through the same hell that Catholic school has to offer. That kind of situation forces lifelong bonds between people that under normal circumstances would never have become friends. I think Psychologist call this trauma bonding. Some of us had a harder time than others surviving parochial school, but nobody was completely immune to the unrest. Not everybody was bullied while the teachers looked the other way, but we were all there when the drunk priest had a break down in the middle of our baccalaureate mass. He went on a screaming rampage telling us how self-centered and terrible we all were.
Honestly, we probably were all self-centered diminutive assholes, but you’re not supposed to say that out loud in front of the parents of those little shits, that pay a pretty penny in tuition. Not to mention, we were the beginning of a generation where everybody got a trophy. We were not conditioned to handle such personal attacks, no matter how accurate they may be. I, honest to God, thought the forbidden “N” word was “NO” when I was little, because I so seldom heard it. So, it shouldn’t come as any surprise that twenty some-odd years later this story still starts with, “I still can’t believe Father So-and-so said…”. I also can’t talk about the trauma of Catholic School without mentioning one of the other priests. The priest of the child diddling variety. We had quite the mix of winners in our clergy. While not everyone was a victim of this pedophile priest at our parish, the prospect of being his next victim always lingered. I don’t know anyone who didn’t immediately look for this sicko’s name when our diocese released its official list of pedophiles to make sure they were being as “transparent” as they claimed to be. His name was definitely on there. But the claim of only one victim was something we all knew was a blatant lie. So much for transparency.
It wasn’t all bad though, you end up with lifelong friendships, so there’s that. I also learned some great lifelong skills growing up in an entity that believes the rules don’t apply to them. I learned how to play roulette when I was five at the annual fall festival. They decided this was an appropriate activity for the children because we didn’t win money, instead we won a bottled beverage of our choosing from a table with quite the selection. I won two bottles of whiskey which I gave to my dad and several bottles of wine that my grandma was happy to take off my hands. I can’t think of a time where my dad was prouder of me than when I won a handle of gin. It felt like it weighed a million pounds as I lugged it over to my parents. I also won a two-liter bottle of cherry 7-UP, which I proceeded to try and drink in its entirety which led to me peeing my pants on the drive home. Don’t ask me why gambling for money wasn’t appropriate for small children but giving them hard liquor as a prize was. I didn’t make the rules.
Seeing where my friends and I are now, and how different we are from one another, it’s hard to believe we have been friends for so many years, and like I said, under any other circumstances I don’t think most of us would be friends.
We have the drama geek who is always on his soapbox. This guy sees the world as his stage, and he feels he has been cast as the lead in the play that is life. I, personally get a real kick out of his constant dramatic flair, but I can see why some people might get a little fed up.
There is the ultra-liberal on the path to academia, questioning everyone’s perceptions with his philosophical queries. This guy will be the professor someday that students either adore or loathe. I doubt there will be anyone who feels neutral about his courses. He’s the kind of guy that should have been born wearing a blazer with elbow patches.
We have the stoner, always smoking from his bong. I think every group has one of these. He is often the only one who finds something to be particularly funny, while everyone else just views it as ordinary. He’s not a bad guy. Just a little annoying sometimes.
This brings us to Mr. ultra-conservative, holier than thou. He is an integral part of this strange circle of friends as well. He is always reminding us how much better he is than the rest of us. This gets pretty old, especially since we know his dirty secrets. Sir, if you put it in her butt instead of her vagina, I don’t think you can still go around claiming to be virgins. I don’t know who, in this circle, he is trying to fool with his false sense of superiority. And I especially don’t think that’s what Jesus meant. But I am the first to admit that I could be wrong.7
Every group has the good grades parent pleaser. We are no exception. While he is a genuinely nice guy, you get sick of hearing parents say, “why can’t you be more like him?” He gives you absolutely nothing to criticize him about and yet there is something innately annoying about his sheer existence because of the constant comparison to him your entire life.
We also have a trust fund baby. The guy that on so many levels will never be able to relate to any of us, but is so clueless to this fact that you can’t help but like him. Do you remember when Mitt Romney was under fire for saying to students who couldn’t afford college tuition to “borrow money from your parents?” This is the same sort of impractical and tone-deaf thing this guy would say.
And then there is me. The misfit, tolerated long enough to have no other option than to be considered part of the group. This strange menagerie of friends would pack up, and go camping at the same camp site every weekend during the summer starting in our late teens and early twenties. We made the trip so many times I think we could have made the drive in our sleep. I liked the ritual of it all. It might seem monotonous to some, but I think there is a certain amity that goes with predictability.
It was on one of these ordinary camping trips that something quite unordinary occurred. It was a typical night. We were sitting around the fire passing around a bag of potato chips, when someone jokingly mentioned streaking through the woods. This had been a long running joke on these trips. Only this time not everyone took it as a joke. Ok, I didn’t take it as a joke. I popped up, and started stripping off my layers. The next thing I knew, the drama geek was following my lead, and stripping down with the same exuberance as myself. I was shocked that someone had decided to join in on this. I would have been more than content with a single partner in crime, but I got a real shock when more people started stripping down. Soon everyone, except the free-thinking academic, was standing around stark naked. Even Mr. holier than thou was on board with the exhibitionism. The nudists marched off into the night, leaving the professor with his thoughts and the crackling fire. We traipsed through the woods laughing and joking. Everything is somehow funnier when people are naked. We followed the sound of running water. When we found the source, we slid down the moss-covered rocks into a stream. I cannot speak on the actions everybody else took in that stream but I reveled in the moment as I sat in that stream and peed more freely than I had ever peed before.
The night was our naked oyster. When we eventually returned to camp, we danced around the strobing fire. We shared stories from when we were younger. Many of us brought our sleeping bags out of our tents, and slept in our natural state under the stars. It was finally more than our pasts that bonded us together, we now had something in the present to tie us to one another. The next morning, I woke up on top of my sleeping bag to the sound of bugs buzzing around me. The hot sun was shining down, and I could feel my skin starting to burn. I looked at my friends sleeping to each side of me, they were filthy. I then glanced at my own body, I was mucky too. Along with the dirt and grime, I was covered in mosquito bites as well. It somehow seemed like such a gloomy ending to a wonderful night that like everything else, had to come to an end. The day went on like any other camping trip. Everyone seemed to slip easily back into their ordinary roles, and everything went back to normal. The following morning, we packed everything back into our vehicles, and went home with the standing plans of returning the following weekend. I didn’t make it that next weekend.
A few days after returning home, I became quite ill. It wasn’t flu season, but this sure felt like one horrific bug. The vomiting wouldn’t stop, my fever continued to rise, and I soon became disoriented. At that time, I knew something was horribly wrong. It was in the emergency room that they gave me the news. I had contracted the West Nile Virus. I thought about all of those mosquito bites covering my body, and wondered which one was responsible for my current situation. My mother immediately started asking, “how could this happen?” If my sister had been a nicer person, she would have said something like “it came from a simple mosquito bite, mom.” But sometimes my sister isn’t a very nice person, and finds joy in the “I’m disappointed in you” looks I often get from my parents. Because of this tasteless enjoyment she gets, she took the information I had given her in confidence and blurted out, “that’s what happens when you run around naked in the woods with boys!” She had succeeded in what she had set out to do. The look of shame and displeasure on my mother’s face was unmistakable.
I still don’t know if my mom was more appalled that I had run around the woods in my birthday suit, which, to be honest, sounds exactly like something I would do, or if she was horrified that the doctor and nurse were in the room and were now aware of the fact that she has a child that would do such a thing. I learned a very valuable lesson from all of this. No, it’s not that I will never run around naked again. Given the opportunity, I would do it again tomorrow. I learned never to confide in my sister ever again. Dirty rat!
7 If there is one thing you should know about Catholics, it’s that we don’t actually read the Bible. There is a man in a dress that tells us every Sunday the parts he thinks are important and that we should know about.
CHAPTER 7
Family Vacation
Growing up, I found family vacations to be stressful. It seemed that no matter the length of the trip, three weeks or three days, we always ended up arguing. One time, my dad had the brilliant idea of getting the whole family packed into an RV he insisted on buying, for what he envisioned as a fun filled long weekend to break in his new toy. It was such an absolute disaster that we ended up returning the same day we left. Someone started off the trip by peeling hard boiled eggs, which led to the entire vessel smelling like dreadful flatulence. Then, despite the fact that most of the people in my family suffer from severe motions sickness, my dad took the forty-five-foot-long atrocity on wheels up the winding costal highway.
I don’t even think vehicles that long are allowed on the coastal highway, and if they are, they shouldn’t be. On top of the place smelling like farts and vomit, throw in an angry wife who is convinced her husband is going to drive the family off a cliff and a husband who is trying to deflect attention away from himself by airing his grievances while telling his family how they have failed him like it was Festivus. That was our trip. Such fun! By the time we got home that night, nobody was speaking to one another. As for the RV, none of us ever set foot inside it again. Money well spent, dad. Despite the ugliness of family vacations though, I don’t know if I am a glutton for punishment or if I am simply not one to turn down a free trip. The jury is still out. So, when my mom offered to let me tag along when she went to Italy for a month, I gladly jumped at the opportunity.
A few weeks into the trip, I was feeling the pressure. I hadn’t had a cigarette since we had left the states.8 I hadn’t talked to anyone I knew, other than my mom, for weeks. I could no longer button up my jeans after indulging in all the great food Italy had to offer. The extreme humidity made my hair frizz up like a cartoon that had been electrocuted while my extensions stayed silky and smooth, leaving me with what looked like some kind of terrible mullet. The upside to the trip, we had not had one single disagreement. That was definitely a first for a family vacation.
I was reminiscing on the trip thus far, while my mom slept soundly in her seat next to me. We had been to Florence where we saw the statue of David with his big hands and The Duomo with its big dome. Florence was a place that did wonders for my self-esteem. The men in that city have a habit of calling blonde women “Barbie”. I think some women find this to be detestable and sexist, but I liked it. I soaked it up. I couldn’t get enough. Then I thought about the time we spent in the Tuscany region where we went olive oil and wine tasting. While I enjoyed olive oil tasting, it was a wonderful learning experience. I would recommend the activity with a certain level of caution. Remember, what goes in, must come out.
That evening, I suddenly understood why most people barely touched it to their lips. I am sure those people were not pooping out olive oil all night like I, regrettably, spent my evening doing. After recovering, I was right back to enjoying everything the region had to indulge in including an abundance of cheeses and cured meats. We spent one afternoon wining and dining in the plaza at Sienna. It was a wonderful day trip except for when I accidentally farted in St. Catherine’s Cathedral. The loud horn sound that my backend emitted, echoed through the massive church while people were trying to quietly pray in the pews. Our most recent stop on the trip was the sinking city of Venice. We took gondola rides and saw the famous bronze horses like every good tourist is required to do. Venice made me realize I would much prefer water taxis as a form of transportation to the traffic jammed freeways we deal with day after day. When we were there, we retreated to our hotel every afternoon as pigeons disappeared, and the plaza flooded with the rising tide. It was nice to have some down time every day. We saw where they make Murano glass, and I did most of my Christmas shopping that year on that one stop. It was while I was on the train from Venice to Rome, deep in thought, that I felt someone looking at me.
