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Friday, June 16, 2006 

Return of the Living Dead

I get a call from the Irishman, which is weird because isn’t he dead, and he’s asking me to go to Florida. He says something about how he needs a date for this wedding, I’d be doing him a favor, all expenses paid, blah blah blah. He also throws in some stuff about loving me even though I am the meanest girl he’s ever dated and he’s come to the conclusion that it’s quite possible I am completely evil.

The last sentence does not endear me to him, in fact, it makes me specify that there will be TWO beds in that room.

After I say yes I sit down and think about what a huge fucking mistake this is. Then I also add up how much I will be costing him, I call him back and get a new expensive free dress thrown into the deal.

With shoes.

How dare he call me fucking evil?

After he buys the dress I shake my head and make him return it. Exhibit A: hoop. Exhibit B: Fire.

We go to St. Augustine Florida, which is near Georgia, the oldest city something blah blah blah (insert boring history shit), but more importantly it is a short ride from the beach. We have the hugest bathroom known to man and for some god-forsaken reason I fall in absolute love with the toilet.

That’s right, I said the toilet.

It was the best fucking toilet ever, wide, comfy, I sat on it extra minutes without a magazine just to savor the experience. I am NOT evil, but toilets like that? The devil incarnate. I wrote down the brand on a scrap of paper and shoved it in my purse, this is how much I loved the toilet.

For four days we hang out with his friends, we go to rehearsal dinners, pick up tuxes, attend bbq’s, and we eat at the Waffle House.

I have no idea who invented the waffle house or why it has such an insane following. Men fall to the ground at the name of the waffle house, their eyes glaze over with joy, their arteries harden at the memory of oil saturated potatoes covered with processed American cheese, me? Me, I want to vomit.

The Irishman popped my Waffle House cherry. And while I have to say, it wasn’t bad, I also have to point out, I’ve had better.

Now, before I decided to go to Florida I called up my mother. Basically to ask, am I being a whore? Here’s a guy that I’ve said I’m completely through with, yet at the mention of an all expense paid trip I’m like, OKAY!

Cue retard music.

Which is when I realized, I’m genetically engineered to be a whore. My mother’s response, ‘hey, if he wants to pay and you have your own bed, than that’s his own fault. I say GO!’ Although, she did make me return the dress. We both knew it was too expensive but I was the only one tempted to keep it. I almost pointed out the fact that whores aren’t supposed to have morals when I remembered that my mother adheres to the, ‘Children are never too old for a good slap’ rule.

I’ve never been to Florida, I’ve never been to the east coast. I am born and raised in California, the farthest east I’ve ever been is Carson City, the farthest north Oregon. We had a layover in Texas and the way I could tell the Native Texans was by the size of their hair. Okay, so that’s common knowledge, what I didn’t know was the bigger the hair the BIGGER the ring!

I’m talking fucking HUGE! Now, I never notice jewelry, so for me to actually notice it? Well, it was fucking gaudy. One girl with a particularly large ring had a huge wig on. Is that what happens in Texas if your hair isn’t big enough? Dear god I wanted to explore that town. I stared outside the airport window looking for mullets and steers but apparently they hang out on ranches, or in trailer parks or something.

Northern Florida looks like something out of a movie set in the south. Yes, I know, this just showed how completely unworldly I am, but I don’t care. There were shanties and, um, I don’t know. Houses that are from the south? Yeah, those were there. And some marshes too. That was cool.

But mostly what surprised me were the people. Everyone remembered my name. It was really quite disconcerting, I was like, HOW IN THE FUCK DO THEY DO THAT?!

I don’t know some of my best friend’s names.

Around the second day I started to notice that all of these nice young pretty couples, were married! Not only were they married, they had children. Little itsy bitsy babies that they carried pictures of around in their wallets.

I stared and stared at them trying to find out what it was about them that set off every weird alarm in my book. Then it hit me. They weren’t miserable, they weren’t offering excuses for why they had married so young, they weren’t saying, this is our baby, oh it’s hard and we should have waited but I can’t imagine life without him/her.

There were no excuses and no air of misery surrounding them.

They were happy! HAPPY! And everyone seemed not surprised by this fact. In California this rarely happens. Oh I’m sure it does, somewhere, and I’m sure that some of these people are actually sober, occasionally, but I’ve never met them.

On one of the last days I sent the Irishman off to play golf with his college buddies, he protested saying that being separated from my beauty for so long would surely kill him, but then I mentioned that constant contact might be deadly as well. That seemed to trigger some sort of survival instinct and before I knew it he was out getting sunburned and driving golf carts recklessly.
I went to the beach with all the wives.

I’d like to say that I hated them, that these were not the type of people that I would like to associate with, but then they started drinking bourbon on the rocks and I realized OH MY FUCKING GOD I LOVE THEM!

As soon as the guys left they started telling war stories, called the men a bunch of space cadets, and proceeded to have a, “who has the most retarded story” contest. We all won on many different levels. It’s the first time I’ve ever liked ANY of the girls in the ‘wives club’. The fact that I liked all of them is fucking amazing.

I blame this on their east coast rearing.

Sensing some sort of victory he talked the wives into a group vacation where we’d rent a house and all stay. The entire conversation he held my arm in a casual relaxed way, as if I weren’t in a hostage scenario. Then before I could get him away for a quiet “BUT WE’RE NOT TOGETHER!!” yell fest, he made plans for us to visit another couple in New York.

We’d drive up to Canada. We’d get a suite looking out on Niagra Falls.

And Fancy was my name.

Sorry for the obscure country song reference. To all of those that got it, true huh?

So while I was sitting at the table, sipping on wine (fuck I can’t keep up with bourbon people!), watching the Irishman get spanked by his dance partner in front of her husband and pondering the situation, I decided not to ponder anymore. Let’s face it, thinking is NOT my strong suit.

I can’t even figure out why rigamortis hasn’t set in.