Pants, pants, PANTS!

I put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, shut it, locked it, and turned around to find rose petals scattered across the bed in my suite.

My head was pounding. The thump, thump, thumps were just seconds away from the spins. How could I be this be this messed up after just four drinks? After the hellish day of training I’d suffered for the new job I didn’t mind tossing back a few with a stranger in the bar. I thought there was no harm in having a couple of drinks.

When the man seated next to me insisted on resting his hand on the small of my back I politely excused myself.

He didn’t take my refusal well and spouted off something about me “owing” him something for the drinks. Rather than get into it I tossed two twenties on the bar and excused myself.

Next stop, hotel sundries store. I could feel a headache approaching. I knew making it through my last day of training in the morning would require a sufficient amount of Advil.

Back in the hotel room I wondered how the hell someone got in to spread out this romantic mess. Before I could even attempt to assess the situation, the throbbing and spinning of my head reached the nauseous high that comes just before vomiting. I barely made it to the toilet.

I. Was. A. Mess.

Normally vomiting is followed by a sense of relief. This vomit session brought no such relief. I stumbled through the bathroom double doors into my suite.

There he was, the angry man from the hotel bar, sitting on the couch. My heart rate quickened. I was confused, I thought perhaps he wasn’t really there, I rubbed my eyes and said,

“What are you doing in here?”

“I thought we could continue what we started downstairs.”

“How did you get in here?” One hand on my throbbing head and one hand on the wall, attempting to hold myself up before the next round of vomit.

“Let’s not worry about the details right now, come sit down with me . . . ”

“You need to leave RIGHT now! I don’t know how you got in here, but . . . ”

Then the second round of vomit came, everywhere. So fast and uncontrollable I couldn’t make it to the bathroom. The throbbing and aching in my head were overwhelming. The pressure was so tight I thought my head might burst. A loud humming started in my head as I fell to the floor. The edge of the night stand broke my fall. The last thing I remember were the man’s hands on the back of my neck and my forehead.

The next morning I was awakened by a police officer. By some stroke of luck (luck, HA!) the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was removed from my door. Housekeeping discovered me in a freakish mess of a crime scene amongst the rose petals.

I’ve heard of other women being raped, but I never thought something like this could happen to me. I spent four hours at the local police station feeling completely stupid. I had absolutely no recollection of anything past hitting my head on the night stand.

The sexual assault exam at the hospital was horrific. I could tell the nurses were frustrated with me as they asked all the same questions as the police officer. Traces of a date rape drug were found in my bloodstream. I’m not sure if not remembering anything is a blessing or a curse.

Grandma is doing much better. Hopefully she will do some recovering and be strong enough for a necessary surgery a few months down the road. This doesn’t change the fact that she is 85, but I’m happy that she’s at home and hoping we’ll have her around a bit longer.

I sent her a potted baby pink rose plant that reminded me of her old home. Six years ago she sold the only constant home of my childhood and moved to Utah. No matter how much we moved it was reassuring to know that Grandma Honey’s home always stayed the same. I’d like to write about it . . . but I have an ugly paper for to write for school, so I’ll to have to do it later.

I have noticed many people reach my blog by way of sex pants searches.

Perhaps I should sell them here?

If anyone has connections in the sex pants industry, please let me know. I’m not really sure where to begin.

Thanks!

I had dinner with a friend tonight. The couple seated next to us was so over the top shmoopie I almost threw a garlic roll at them.

The girl kept getting OUT of her seat WHILE they were eating to kiss him.

Yuck. I’m not opposed to PDA, but jesus christ woman! Let him swallow his bite of pizza before you stick your tongue in his mouth again.

The worst part was before each and every painful exchange she would gaze at him in the most creepy way. I couldn’t place the correct disgusting reference, then my friend said they looked like fucking Precious Moments dolls.

If your place of employment provides a copy of the newspaper, you may want to avoid it. I just saw a man leave the bathroom with the paper and return it to the table in the lunchroom.

Not only will I not be touching the paper anymore, I won’t be eating my lunch at the table where the germy bathroom reading was returned.

In an attempt to ward off a nervous breakdown I played bingo this weekend. After spending most of Saturday writing a “Life Experience” paper about leaving my childhood cult I realized my choices were:
a) get out of the house
b) turn into the real life Girl Interrupted

Hard core bingo folk don’t mess around. There were about two hundred people in the hall, complete with crazy bingo paraphernalia, massive amounts of lucky charms and beanie babies. (Apparently, that fad hasn’t died with the bingo crowd.)

They play for money and it’s not just about finding five spots in a row. Some of the patterns are complicated; double kites, outside picture frame, union jack, etc. When bingo is called the announcer says, “We have a possible bingo.” After a Bingo Nazi comes to check your card the announcer says, “That’s one good bingo!”

The idea is to keep track of about fifteen bingo playing cards at once, while looking for the crazy changing patterns. When we played the “any line” set I was stoked to see I had bingo!

After consulting my friend I tentatively called out “bingo.” Only to discover I did not have bingo . . . I actually needed three sets of bingo in three different boxes, not the ONE I had. Mortified, I nervously yelled “just kidding!”

I didn’t need a mirror to know my face was bright red. My head was on fire. I started to worry it might explode when my friends and I couldn’t stop laughing. Then our neighbors chimed in. We laughed so much I couldn’t control the alligator tears streaming down my cheeks. I felt like such a rookie. Thank god I realized my mistake before the Bingo Nazi reached our table.

Growing up my family embarrassed me to no end. Dad is loud. Mom is wacky. Although I love and laugh it off now, it wasn’t so easy when dad would wrangle control of the P.A. system in the grocery store screaming my name. I’m quite sure the sole reason for reproduction is to embarrass your offspring more than your parents did you.

Remember how the leg lamp in “A Christmas Story” embarrassed the mother? As a child, I prayed for that kind of embarrassment to replace my own.

As if adolescence wasn’t hard enough, my mother kept a headless mannequin in our front window. Where a head would be on a normal mannequin, there was none. (Oh dear lord, what am I saying . . . there’s nothing “normal” about a mannequin in the front window of a residence.) Just a smooth white-angled neck. Mom would change the clothes depending on the season.

Yes, we were that crazy family in your neighborhood.

The only relief I found when it was dressed in a vintage santa suit at Christmas was that terrible neck was covered with a hat. It’s no wonder I’m in therapy.

My mother was more than happy to accept the headless mannequin, as a gift, from a family friend with a failing retail store. The only catch was she had to bring it home on an airplane. This was back in the 80′s, before the days of prohibited matches and inevitable shoe removal at the airport security checkpoint. Rather than risk damaging the mannequin by checking it, good ol’ mom carried it on the plane; packed it into smaller bags and tossed it on the conveyer belt. I hear the x-ray security screener nearly had a heart attack when he saw the leg coming through. Having survived most of my childhood with it in our front window, I can’t say I have much sympathy for him.

My grandma is really sick. She’s been in and out of the hospital this week. First they thought it was her heart, then her gall bladder, now they’re not sure what it is.

My mom called me on her way home from the hospital last night. She’s not sure if Grandma Honey will make it. I know she is trying to be strong but I could hear the sadness and grief in her voice. The fact that grandma is 85 doesn’t help. Death is rarely welcome. I don’t believe there is an easy age to lose your mother. I would be devastated.

My Grandpa.v2 isn’t taking it much better. I’m worried for him. This is the second marriage for both. They each lost spouses before finding each other. In an attempt to nutshell the intricacies of their religion; they believe marriage bonds extend beyond earth to heaven, that they are sealed to their original spouses in the after life. Their original spouses were both kind people . . . but Grandpa.v2 and Grandma Honey have been together for nearly 16 years now. They are devoted companions and love each other deeply. They are fearful of dying and do not want to lose each other. It just about breaks my fucking heart to hear of them delaying trips to the ER because of their fears. I wish they could enjoy the time they have left instead of fretting what will not be coming.

If you have any spare kind thoughts, please send them to my Grandma Honey.

I thought I wanted to be reincarnated as a penguin, but after reading about this Dirty Bird I might be changing my mind.

Build your own short fiction story using the opening line provided by my favorite Three Letter Acronym Man, please check out Purgatorian for details.

Of course, hindsight is 20/20, but in reflection not having any time to waste I skipped washing my hands after using the urinal. I was having drinks in the hotel bar with my new associates on my first business trip. We were talking to two of the hottest, big breasted women I’d ever laid eyes on. I didn’t want to miss out on anything so I quickly took a piss and rushed back out to the bar.

I should have known something was wrong by the way everyone was laughing. My jokes weren’t that funny. After a couple of margarita’s I thought I was on fire. I thought they were laughing with me, not at me.

The hot blonde needed another drink so I offered to get it for her. On my way to the bar a female patron tapped me on the shoulder and said,

“You’ve got something going on in your pants.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, you have something going on in your pants.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Why don’t you look at your pants, that’s where it’s going on.”

I looked down to see my freshly pressed dress shirt hanging out the zipper of my khakis like a pale blue cotton wiener. If only I’d listened to my mother when she said to always wash my hands after taking a piss, I probably would have noticed what was going on in my pants before the rest of the bar had.