This is something small, taken from something very big I’ve been working on. Gah. I almost hate to put this out there because? It’s very possible that I’ll never finish it. And then there’s the whole fear of learning that this is a bunch of crap that I’ve wasted my time on.
I’m not posting this to fish for compliments, but because I need to DO something with all of these (or just some of these) words that are living in a Word doc on my laptop. Plus, I don’t really have the time to write an actual post today… so why the hell not?
Mom, Dad, other relatives, and whoever else who may be squeamish about me talking about s-e-x, you’ve been warned. I mean, it’s not a freaking Harlequin Romance, but it could be squeamish-making, okay?
The Infectious Beginning
“Jeremiah was a BULLFROG! Was a good friiiend of mine! Errrrr….nevah nunderstood uh single word he said…but we helped. him. DRINK. HIS. WINE!”
We sang together, out of tune, wine glasses sloshing from left to right as we stumbled through the wine festival. Turns out, sweet, pink wine is totally cool, and not at all the drink of middle-aged “Ladies who Lunch,” when it’s named Jeremiah’s and has a picture of a quirky bullfrog on the label.
It was a day after I left my first “real” job. Like, not one that involved asking patrons if they want to start with an appetizer or upselling drinks by suggesting top shelf liquor; one that paid more than minimum wage. I left a public relations and fundraising job in the non-profit sector for the next big thing: a cross-country promotional gig for a major company that I was convinced would launch me onto the path of career greatness.
See, I went to college in hopes of becoming the next Katie Couric, but never quite found my way into a television station beyond the work I did in school. That path never seemed to fit me, or me it, but this, this was going to be my big break! Nothing was set in stone, though. I made a leap of faith, leaving my steady paycheck to pursue something I was more passionate about, convinced that the only bad opportunity is the one you pass up.
I had plans, big plans. I would come home from this project armed with experience, new material for my resume tape, and influential contacts. We would move to New York. We would live in a tiny apartment with our two dogs and psychotic cat (who recently began attacking his own tail in an apparent effort to scare it away and/or eat it). I would land a fabulous gig, making loads of cash. I would buy all the long, sparkly earrings and pointy toe, high heel shoes a girl could ever want. I would live a fast paced life full of long work hours and late night parties.
And my husband? Well, Scott would come along for the ride, but only if it meant that he could walk around with a gallon of hand sanitizer strapped to his waist every day. That’s how much he loves me. He would endure all the germy ickiness of NYC to follow me and my dreams. He would even ride the subway. It really doesn’t get more romantic than that. We would live the fabulous life two newlyweds should in NYC. There would be time for a family and settling down later IF we ever even wanted to do that. Really, we just weren’t even sure that was for us.
Truth is, we were quite content taking care of our children of the furry kind. They were already enough work. Plus, we didn’t have to worry about getting arrested for throwing them in a crate when we left to go party it up, or for sharing a six pack in front of them and throwing Cheetos at their face. And, while they never smelled like roses, at least they didn’t smell like gummed up graham crackers and sticky sweet, warm, old apple juice, like all our nieces, nephews, and every other child does. Blech. For years, I haven’t been able to look at a box of graham crackers without my senses recalling the assault of that smell.
Visions of picnics in Central Park, complete with handsome husband, two happy dogs, and a pack of antibacterial wipes, slurred around in my head as we made our way through all the booths offering free wine tastings. It’s funny that the free wine is what initially attracted us to this event since we got so buzzed off of the free sips that we decided it was sucking a little too much to have to walk from booth to booth, waiting in what seemed like lines for Disney rides, only to get another unsatisfying sip.
So, we looked at the bottle of Jeremiah’s with it’s funny bullfrog on the label. We purchased it, half jokingly, earlier with every intention of “saving it for later”, but then we decided we tasted enough free wine. We were ready to get our drink on.
And drink, we did. What followed can only be described as a drunken haze that, to this day, I have yet to replicate. It was, indeed, the last time in my life that I could say, without a doubt, that I was “wasted”. I vaguely remember ending up at a bar where I managed to spill more beer than I consumed (probably good, considering all the wine I had successfully managed to pour into my mouth up to that point), then proceeded to fall off a bar stool, which, at the time, I was convinced was kicked out from underneath me by some bitter waiter.
Ahhh…to be so “wasted” that you shouldn’t be allowed to sit on anything without a back, and really, you’d be better off in a highchair. Good times.
Somehow we got home, and though I don’t remember the journey, I do know we had to have walked it. I discovered the blisters on my feet mid-hangover the next morning. I sat there, mascara crusting at the corner of my eyes, a sloppy tshirt on, inspecting my chipped pedicure and raw toes, and I began to have flashbacks. You know… those flashbacks, the kind you got in college about two blocks into your Walk of Shame home.
“Niiiiice”, I laughed at myself just about the time Scott walked into the living room. Apparently, he was recalling the drunken action from the night before, too. I could tell because he gave me that, “That was hot, let’s do it again!” look.
“Don’t get any ideas, buddy. This is going to be a hangover from hell, and it’s all thanks to that stupid, nasty wine,” I said.
“What? Jeremiah’s bullfrog wine? That stuff was great! You weren’t complaining about it when you were drinking it, and you certainly weren’t complaining about it last night when…”
I cut him off, “Well, anything tastes good when you’re already drunk. I can’t believe we drank a whole bottle of white zin. Gah, and at a wine festival, no less. Could we not manage to find something a little more respectable?”
As the day progressed, the flashbacks kept revealing themselves like sometimes funny and sometimes cringe-worthy movie trailers. Maybe it’s because we were newlyweds (married for only 6 months), maybe it’s because I was about to set off for a month long roadtrip for my new gig, or maybe it was the bullfrog. Whatever the reason, lets just say the sex was epic.
I don’t remember exactly when I realized that in our wasted stupor we neglected to use any form of birth control during this escapade, but when I did, the air got caught in my lungs for a moment. When it finally escaped, the sound it made sounded a lot like, “FUCK!”
…. to be continued… some day… whenever I finish writing this book.