don't cry over spilled window

Right after I moved to North Idaho, I started working at a fancy schmancy resort, in housekeeping (read now, hate later) and made a few brand spanking new friends of the pierced, tattooed, and sailor vocabularied variety. One day, they were unbeknownst to poor, oblivious, Rachel, wasted, and I was confused. Somehow, we reasoned that the only logical course of action would be to go to the skate park and watch our pierced pal Brandon break his ass on his BMX (please wait until you feel sorry for me in 5 minutes to judge my adolescent activity choices).

I arrived at the skate park in all my blonde, capri panted glory. At the skate park. Wearing my "sunshine modeling company" t-shirt. At the skate park. Sober and naive. At the skate park.
Worst Camo Ever.

I am by no means implying that the Couer d'Alene skate park even knows what the word hardcore means, but they knew it wasn't me.
I was hanging out, revelling in my sudden and surprising inability to misfit like everyone else, when all of the sudden, swoon of all swoons, the unicyclist of my dreams appared.
(remember the part where we are judging later?)
yeah. that's what i said. get a magnifying glass.

To my credit, he was all, oh I can jump my unicycle off big tall stuff, and bounce on it.
(i can smell the big stinky poo of your judgement, it's unpleasant, stop)
Ok so the unicycle thing was definitely probably not the center of my attention.
It was probably his big, rippling muscles and dark Dominican skin and his big brown eyes and his smile so wide it made the freakin mississipi look like the puddle of drool forming at my feet.
He was like Fabio, only dark, and sexier, and not ever ever creepy (at least not for a couple days)

Andhekeptlookingatmeandhewasapainterandhehadacuteaccentandhewantedtopaintmeandiwas18andstupid.
And I. HAD. NO. IDEA. what that stupid craphead would to to my poor poor Rosie.

ahem. Meet Rosie.

The unicyclist had a stupid name, so he will hanceforth be known as Fabio, because Fabio is not a ridiculous name or anything.

Fabio enchanted me, jotted down my phone number, while my drunken friends chatted up the other tragically hip in their very own special way too cool for me kids. They returned to me, because after all, they needed a ride home, and we departed. By the time I got home to my cell phone, I had three missed calls. And a text message. And a voicemail. All from Fabio. I was too shellshocked by the adoration of this swelly unicycle ridin' hunk to even listen to my BLARING CREEPER ALARM.
He wanted to go dancing, in Spokane. Alone. Me and him, an hour after we met.
nopenothankyou. I'm stupid, but honey, please, I have an IQ slightly higher than a mango, at least.

I declined.

The next day at work I show up, and my friends are finally sober, WOOOOOOO.
I was all kinds of proud of my one-wheeled wonder, so I told them alllllll about how Fabio was so excited about me he left me 8bajillionfivehundredand77 messages.

They stared in wonder.
Oh yeah, that's right. I got Fabio hooked.

The stared some more.

This was inordinate staring.
"So, wait, FABIO? From the park?" She was not excited like me. Maybe it was the unicycle.

suddenly not so awesome, "um yeah"

"You know he's married, right?"
Here's the part where the previously aforementioned epilepsy kicks in, and I don't know if you know this, but being lied to gives me Salmonella. Nausea, fevery yucktasticness that no one deserves unless they've been running around chomping on raw bacon.
Neat.

I stop returning his calls because who does confrontation anymore, really?
Days pass, 35,600 ignored phone calls and a message that says "I just need to know we are in this together" have clued me in to the complete and utter lunatic my fifteen minute conversation truly is.

So, you are wondering how Rosie fits into all of this?
Muahahahaha. Just you wait.

I left work one afternoon around 3 o'clock and walk the 3 blocks to the employee parking lot. And my gorgeous curvy little girl is standing there all shining and perfect waiting for her mommy, just like a good little girl.
I stop. I stare. I do not register for a moment that no I did not leave a circular center CHUNK of my window rolled down because that's. just. not. possible.
There is a rock in the drivers seat.
I think "Sweet dumbass little shits."
Then, I go to call the police to file a report.
very sweet dispatcher says "Have you upset anyone you know lately?"

The effects of rippling muscles and clipped exotic accent has worn off so now, suddenly,
BLARING CREEPER ALARM REGISTERS.

Check my phone. My very very last text message from Fabio says "You said I wasn't alone in this"
UM NO I DID NOTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
:(
Jerk.

Fabio stopped texting. Fabio fell off the Earth.
This was the first, but not the last time a boy decided he didn't like my drivers side window.
If my car windows were stray eyebrow hairs, the men of this world would be like aestheticians on the JET FUEL of all amphetamines juiced up and on an anti-unibrow rampage.

But we'll save that for another day.

you're welcome.

P.S. This story is funny because it's over. If you or someone you know is being Fabio'ed, CALL THE POLICE. Then laugh and tell me alllll about it when he scrubby ass is in handcuffs. K?

the root of all evil

This blog came into being because I'm a damn epileptic.

Which is offensive (probably) to anyone who is actually epileptic because I'm not, in fact, a real epileptic.

And now you are going ---howisthatevenremotelycooltosay----

It is relevant. I am a fake epileptic because sometimes, a lot of times, I freak slap out. I shake, in a crack addict who ran out of money and tried to smoke Smartees (don't pretend you don't remember smartees, if i knew how to hyperlink i'd help you. if you don't know, please google, until i can become a slightly less inadequate blogger) kind of way. And I feel epileptic. Colors sort of explode. It's not a hallucination, trust me I checked. It's more an, I'm dramatic and tweaking in an absolutey non-traditional drug-withdrawal and/or drug overdose sort of way. I don't even do drugs.

I have this other blog (this is the part where if i were even remotely adequate i'd be able to hyperlink my blog to that pretty little blog, but since I can't I'll be awesomely archaic and do this: thatprodigalchild.blogspot.com ) and it's awesome, in an mildly, angsty, twenty-something deep, almost existential, figuring myself out kind of way. But this other blog gives me a complex. I love it, it helps me be all self-searching and inrospective in ways you would never even BEGINNNNNNNN to imagine upon actually meeting me. It's nice. It's the 20 year old secret-romantic version of a dragshow only minus the sparkles, (which I don't mind, I hate sparkles), the Aretha ( but you can sock it to me anyway) and i don't have to take off my boobs when i get home, which is so nice, because they are on pretty solidly.

The problem with the prodigal child is that the figurey-outy, growing up right before your very eyes version of me is making the me that likes jokes about pirate's balls* feel pretty much like the drag queen who still stuffs with Kleenex and tries to offer Mynerva my wet 'n' wild eyeshadow, only to be most. brutally. shot. down.

Not my favorite.

So, this in conjunction with the Devil - InCarnate (ex-bf who shall heretofor be referred to as the DIC imsoclever) had me feeling all epileptic-y. I needed a time and place to celebrate my petty annoyances, childishness, estrogen/chocolate/coffee fueled rants, my poop/pirate's balls jokes, and my other psychotic behaviors in general. I mean, I can't be evolving and GROWING as a person all the time, it's exhausting.

So then I was watching Buffy the Vampires Slayer and this very short awkward guy did a spell to augment himself. Which sounds INCREDIBLY pleasant for the love prospects of said short awkward guy, and delightfully dirty, but it's not. He make himself just generally AMAZEBALLS and altered reality entirely for everyone and even made Buffy look like a stick of string cheese, which, pfff, is HARD. Anyways, in order to balance this power of good, the spell automatically created a gross long armed demon who had the skin tone of a baby gerbil, and bad the-hills-have-eyes teeth, and a gandalf beard, which made him look alarmingly like he would bring fireworks to a hobbit birthday party (don't judge me because I make Lord of the Rings references).

Basically to make the world even steven he had to make the antithesis of everything good, and let it wander around Sunnydale. Because if Buffy killed the demon, shorty mcawkward shrank back to his regular old self (metaphorically, if the regular augmenty sort of parts were augmented, no one ever discussed it)

The moral of the story is, in life, as in the Buffyverse, the balance must be maintained.
If I'm going to be all neat and poetic over there ( thatprodigalchild.blogspot.com incaseyoumisseditbefore) then I get to be long armed and beardy over here. Or something like that.

I know, I'm weird.

Welcome to Creeperville.

* -- A pirate walks into a bar. The bartender says, "Do You know there's a steering wheel in your pants?"

The pirate says, "Arrgggh, and it's drivin me nuts" :) you're welcome.