December 15, 2012

Week of Epic Proportions

The second to last week of October 2010 managed to cram a whole lot of stories into 7 short days.  On the 23rd, my short but intense relationship with Flyboy came to an end when he packed up the stuff I had left at his apartment, delivered them to my house, and told me that he didn’t see me in his life a year from now, much less next month.  I spent that evening in an “is that your bellybutton?” shirt, enjoying a drink or two with some ladies that are dear to me.  By Monday, I was more or less ok.  I’d come to the conclusion that since he was the first thing I could call a relationship I’d had since I’d opted for divorce, that I had been nearly ready to say I love you to the feeling I had around him, not the boy himself.

Which was good, because nobody likes a mopey birthday girl.  I ushered in the big three three two days after being dumped, and without the “bag of shit with penises on it” I had been threatened with if I didn’t tell Flyboy what I wanted.  (He was under the impression that I was only telling him what he wanted to hear when I said I didn’t have anything I wanted or needed, that if he got me something, it would be a pleasant surprise and not a necessity.  Really, I had a 3 bedroom house stuffed to the gills at the time.  I didn’t need anything else and didn’t give a damn about his paycheck.)  I can’t remember what I did to celebrate.  I’m not sure if that means I didn’t do anything, or I just had so much to drink that I blacked out.  Either way, it was the perfect setup for Tuesday when the legal system gave me the best birthday present ever.

The day after my birthday, on October 26th of 2010, I stood before a judge as he said, “Sorry it didn’t work out for you two.  Next!”.  The legal paperwork was done, and we were actually single again, not just living our lives as if we were.  I think I walked about 3 feet taller than I actually stood that day.  All that struggle to get to that point, and I could say that I stepped into the light, and didn’t have to worry about how it would sound to say “I’m getting a divorce, it’s just not finished yet.  Oh, and he and his girlfriend still live in my house.”.  I could just be a weirdo to any potential suitor based on my merits, not my legal situation.

Friday was the Halloween party with the Scurvy crew.  I had been scouring stores for an idea for a costume, and came up with the perfect idea by accident at one of the snootier Goodwills in town.  On their costume rack, I found this wedding dress abomination made out of white satin, Disney Princess orgasms, and 600 yards of tulle.  Normally priced at a very reasonable $70, it was half price for the occasion.  There’s no way in hell I’m going to pass up the chance to thumb my nose at love after the week I’d had.  That puppy went home with me faster than the fat friend at last call.  

The dress was only part of the equation.  I was going for a Very Bundy Wedding, and by god if I didn’t make it happen.  I backcombed my cornsilk hair for a week and a half, blasted it with an entire can of cement in a can, threw on my walmart veil, painted my eyes with black eyeliner like I was Mondrian’s deranged, inbred cousin, and actually had to work at getting the lipstick to smudge on my teeth.  One pack of cigarettes stuck in the cleavage of my gown, and I was ready to neck it up!  The challenge was going to get actually getting to the party.  You see, it was a question of getting the dress into my car.

Donovan is the closest thing I’ve got to a sidekick.  The joke is that he’s the longest, most stable relationship I’ve had with a man, and he’s my car!  As a 2008, Mellow Yellow Mini Coopers go, he’s the absolute best.  We’ve been through an awful lot together, the pothole season of 2009, daily commutes involving kamikaze school bus drivers, and steamy trysts in small town Iowa.  He handles my propensity to shift from the shoulder and taking cloverleaves at 50.  What I wasn’t so sure of was whether I’d be able to cram this dress of mine into the cabin and still have enough space to see out the windshield.  

It took three tries, lots of cussing, and a long overcoat before I could get it all in the car.  Even then, I had to hold on to the gearshift the entire drive.  Had I let go, there was a chance I’d never find it again in all that poof.  It simply wasn’t fitting under the steering column and still allow me to use the clutch and brake.  I had to use the passenger seat as the tuile overflow area.  I’m sure I looked like quite the site on the drive; tiny car, mounds of fluff, and Courtney Love makeup and hair.  

Unbenounced to me, a fellow party goer showed up as Col Sanders complete with white tux, and grey hair and beard.  Our hostess served fried chicken.  There were some hilarious staged “wedding reception” photos that night.  Mostly pretending that TMZ found the colonel kanoodling with his trashy new bride, or of me eating chicken while he’s got this look of “aaaw yeah.  See that boys?  This one eats the meat right off the bone!”.

When the tall boy of natty light made it into the cleavage of the gown next to the cigarettes, you knew it was a party, and really the perfect way to end a truly whirlwind week.

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