Spoooooky Halloween Game

If there was ever a game designed to let the skeletons out of your closet, it's Game Of Things.  Or maybe that's just been my experience playing it, because the company I keep are a group of twisted and depraved sadists that jump at the opportunity to throw their loved ones (me) under a bus in front of new players (my boyfriend).

And, yes, all you wanton, unchaste twenty year-olds, I am the dork who is talking about board games.  This is what my "wild nights" have been reduced to.

For those of you unfamiliar with Game Of Things, it's like Cards Against Humanity meets Balderdash - the Reader chooses a card, players supply a response, and the group tries to choose who's answer belongs to who.  As with Balderdash, in Game Of Things players are given the opportunity to write their own answer to the question card.

Example
CARD: Things that would probably keep you out of heaven:
ANSWER: "Taking Helen Keller skydiving."
OR...

CARD: Things that don't exist but you wish they did:
ANSWER: "Female orgasms from intercourse."
ANSWER: "Heterosexual Catholic priests."
ANSWER: "Condoms in Tijuana."
OR…

CARD: Things you shouldn't tie to the roof of your car:
ANSWER: "Dead hookers."
ANSWER: "Garbage bags filled with aborted fetuses."
ANSWER: "Your mother-in-law."

You get the idea.

But when you're playing with a group of assholes and it's your turn to read the card, you might find yourself reading a bunch of answers written in the first person to make it look like you're talking about yourself - as commonly (always) happens to me.

Example
CARD: Things you never remember:
ANSWER: "All the guys I blew when I was in a blackout."
ANSWER: "The child locked up in my basement."
ANSWER: "Which guy I pooped on during sex."
Etcetera

Most of these answers are tongue-in-cheek.  When I play, it's usually with a particular friend - we'll call her Satan -  who knows me very, very well.  In other words, Satan's got the dirt on me.  And that dirt is sooooooooo fun to mold an answer from, especially if the other players don't know if it's really true or not.  (Go ahead.  Guess which answer above is true about me.)

In the spirit of insulting your friends for the sake of competition, I've been able to sling a few back her way.  For instance, a group of us consisting of Satan, my brother, Satan's BF and my BF (who has fortunately read my posts and still loves me), were playing not too long ago, and I ever so casually referenced a particular dalliance of her dude's from his past…

SATAN'S CARD: Things that warrant an apology:
MY ANSWER: "The hickey that Tijuana stripper gave your boyfriend before he fucked her on his bachelor party weekend." 

Naturally we all had a good laugh.  If that marriage didn't end in flames, he never would have met my friend.  See?  Everyone wins.

Then there are instances where Satan will flat out attack flaws of mine - like my inability to cultivate and nurture an interpersonal relationship in the advent of technology…

CARD: Things you would wish for if you found a genie in a bottle:
SATAN'S ANSWER: "Kristin puts down her phone."

And that's all fine and good.  Because when a card like this shows up…

CARD: Things you can't believe that someone actually did...

Watch out!  Cuz I'm coming back with this…

ANSWER: "Fucked a family."

Because that's what Satan did, she fucked a family.  (Really, would you have expected anything less from Satan?)

Back when Satan was practicing better living through chemistry, vanilla sex turned into a threesome, which turned into group sex, which turned into the kind of hangover you can only nurse your way through from atop a barstool.  Now imagine the hot twenty-one year old son of the couple you ran through the night before shows up, with eyes like Paul Newman and swagger like George Clooney, and he takes the seat next to you.  And, Holy Shit!,  what a sense of humor on this kid - the ultimate panty dropper, am I right, ladies?

Before you know it, Satan's heading home with jailbait.  And because we were roommates at the time and the walls are thin, I could hear the rest.  Also, he snuck out at 4am wearing nothing but the cat blanket and a pair of my flip-flops he found by the front door.

And that's the real beauty of Game Of Things: it's a fast way to get to know people, and an even better way to end friendships.  Or at least weed out the sensitive squares who can't take a joke, or a little razzing.

Girls Night Out

I had just been dumped by a dude that wears a thumb ring.  I felt like I was at the end of my pitiful rope: I was recently sober and unprepared to deal with raw feelings without a substance to bevel the edges.  Fortunately I have a great best friend, and she understands misery.  Without taking too much creative liberty, this is what happened the evening she attempted to get me out of my head by forcing me to join her for a Girls Night Out dinner:
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Why You Don't Make Jokes About Rape

The two criteria my mother was adamant about me finding while I was shopping for apartments were:

• secure parking, and… 
• a gated entry  

I landed on a property with a gated carport (but sports a wall in the back I could easily step over), and an entrance every delivery guy and plumber in town has the code for - including my pervy boyfriend.

Wall "protecting" carport.

But my favorite amenity of the property is "the rapist gate."

The rapist gate is my pet name for the insurmountable obstacle that stands between safety and a torn perineum.  It's like Ft. Knox, and it's the only way to access my building from the carport.  The problem with this Sentinel is that it possess a persnickety lock that mocks me every time I attempt to use it, and flat out rebuffs me whenever I'm in a hurry.

If you're still having trouble picturing this, imagine my gate is Gandalf:

I stick my key in the hole: frozen.  I jiggle it around: nothing, no movement at all.  It's getting dark, I glance over my shoulder - right to left - I'm feeling exposed and vulnerable.  I jiggle some more: my key won't budge.  Sweat beads form at my brow.  I can feel a presence, I know it's coming.  Through the gate I spy the front door to my apartment - it's so close!  The hair on the back of my neck raises - do I hear footsteps?  I jiggle the key in the lock more furiously: it's fucking jammed!  And then, without warning, he's on me, slamming my face against the wrought iron, mussing up my good hair day (a gentleman he is not), and it's game over.  As predicted, this gate was the death of me, and my vagina.

At least this is how I imagine it would go down.  It's never actually happened to me.

The question I like to ask is: Is it still considered rape if I get wet?  Because I'm the fucking sicko that likes to joke about rape being a high form of flattery.

Fast forward - I'm at a housewarming party, talking to a group of acquaintances (aka: people I barely know) when I bring up my "rape is flattering" philosophy.  I can tell my audience doesn't take me seriously to begin with, so why not spice up the conversation a bit?  Fuck it.

Luckily for me, everyone laughs and plays along.  We're not squares here!  One guy even jumps in and starts talking about the time he took a shower in the fetal position after a bad date.  Okay… We all kinda quiet down, our faces still holding half-cocked smiles, as this guy proceeds to explain that everything was going great!  They were hot and heavy, really going at it… he was definitely aroused and this girl obviously knew how to work it.  She had a bit of a reputation for being a whorebag, so she better know what she doing!  So there he is, hard as a rock, going at it with this chick on the couch, when she slides her panties off from under her skirt, pulls him over to her, and rams him inside her.  Before he could stop or back away, she wraps her legs around his waste - locking him into place - and goes to town.

At this point, he's the only one laughing as he tells his "joke," while the rest of us stand there, mouths agape, staring at him in silence, until--

Me: "Um… that's called rape…"

Party-goer: "Yeah dude, you got raped."

You see, it's all fun and games until someone actually gets raped.

Now everyone's just getting fidgety and downright uncomfortable, so he tries to explain that the real reason he was rocking back and forth in a fetal position in the shower afterwards was because he was afraid she gave him an STD.  Yeah, I'd be afraid of that too, if I got RAPED.

Suffice it to say, don't I feel like a goddamn asshole.  And I no longer joke about rape, I keep it where it belongs: in the bedroom, during role-play.

I Was A(lmost) Snow White

I am not one of those people who loathe Disney.  I don't partake in conspiracy theories around Walt's anti-Semitic ties (which I'm not excusing), nor do I  think that he was the Devil incarnate, disguising pure evil in a Mouse suit.  I think Walt Disney was human, and I think he was flawed, but above all else, I think he was a big fucking nerd who had a dream and made it come true.

Conversely, I'm not a season ticket holder, a QVC collector of Disney memorabilia, nor do I dream of getting hitched at Disney World and being whisked away from Cinderella's castle in a cheesy pumpkin carriage down Main St., on parade for all to see.  (I was loved as a child.)  I have zero desire to traipse around the park in a veiled Mini Mouse hat with "Mrs." embroidered on it.  Gross.

Be better than Heidi and Spencer.

Do I think Disney was a "gender bigot," as Meryl Streep claims?  Duh.  My generation also grew up engrossed in Disney-perpetuated themes of misogyny, even after the Women's Lib movement, but I think the takeaway largely depends on the individual and her immediate environment.  For example, my brother has a friend who, before letting his daughter watch any of the Disney classics, makes her repeat, "I am a strong, independent woman and I don't need a man to save me."  My brother's ex-girlfriend, on the other hand, did not have that paternal reinforcement.  The result: she = nightmare.  Can't argue with science.

My upbringing had nothing and everything to do with me auditioning to be a Disney "Princess" when I was nineteen.  I'm sure I showed up that morning reeking of booze and cigarettes, but I was just All-American-looking enough to pass the first round of inspection - which simply consisted of standing in a line next to, literally, over a thousand other hopefuls as judges discerned whether or not we could pass as cartoons.

*A brief back story: when I was four, I thought I was Alice in Wonderland.  I mean, I knew I wasn't, but if I dressed in pinafores long enough and insisted everyone call me Alice, maybe I could fool myself.  At least, I'm sure that was my thinking.  Fake it till you make it, right?  (It worked for OJ Simpson - I'm sure he still thinks he's innocent.)  So when I answered the open call for Disney face characters, I half expected it to be the fulfillment of my childhood dream.  Being Alice felt like my birthright.  One could certainly ascertain with a level of accuracy that my audition had less to do with any desire to be a princess, and more to do with my inherent desire to live in an acid trip.

The Disney gestapo had other plans for me, however.  Turns out I'm not believable as an Alice because I have brown eyes (color contacts, anyone?) and I'm 5'9" (got me there).  In fact, the only characters I qualified for were Belle (no one's buying that) and Snow White.  In hindsight, I probably should have been offended - with one cursory examination, these Disney "experts" determined I looked like I fit the role of the hooker who "took care of" seven tiny men and skied the slopes of many a bar bathroom.  Don't think that name, Snow White, is lost on me, Disney.  Assholes.

Anyway, there I was - I had made the first round of cuts for no apparent reason whatsoever, but realized quickly just what a big deal that was based on the level of excitement emitted from a fellow cut-maker to the right of me.  Apparently this was her third time auditioning, but it was the first time she'd made it this far.  Woof.

I had the benefit of ignorance on my side - I had no idea how competitive the Disney Character screening process is, how many people were practically dying to be one, or how goddamn long those auditions are (seriously, there goes my Saturday).  I was green and I had zero attachment to the outcome, so every time I advanced to another round, I was shocked.  I was positive my fate was sealed the second we were informed we'd have to learn a fucking dance and perform it in front of the judges in twenty minutes.

I don't dance.  Graceful and I don't run in the same circle.  My childhood friend's mother once told me that her favorite part of coming to Sarah's soccer games was so she could watch me flail my arms about as I ran around the field like a chicken with my head cut off, nearly pissing herself each time I'd trip over myself and eat shit because of how fast I'd bounce right up and keep running - like the ground was a trampoline or something.  I looked like Corky out there.

I actually didn't get excited about being a Snow White until I danced my way into the final round, where a handful of my competitors and I were instructed to suit up in full wardrobe (!!!).  Here's what I learned:

• I look hideous with black hair.
• I am a total hooker in red lipstick.

Disney noticed it, too.  Aside from perusing the park shaking hands and kissing babies, Snow's main gig was reading stories to kids in Fairy Book Land (or some shit like that), and goodness knows you can't have a trampy Snow White in front of impressionable young girls.  That might give off the wrong impression!  We certainly don't want anything to interfere with the psychologically sound message that all women need rescuing, and happiness is only realized in a kiss and a  Fairy Tale wedding (not to mention, that's a lot of pressure on a guy).

I wish I got the opportunity to read to those goofy little idiots, because I would have elaborated on what Happily Ever After is code for: A lot of fucking work.  There were days, sometimes years, when Snow White and Prince Charming don't even like each other because of a thing called compromise, which she realized she was better at doing than he was.  Then came the day when they decided to shit out a few heirs to the throne, and Snow's dreams and aspirations got put on the back-burner so she'd have time for carpool and laundry.  In fact, Snow was ultimately returned to the exact same situation - cleaning house surrounded by ungrateful little people - that she thought her Prince had saved her from.  The End.  

But I was given the boot after the dress rehearsal, and ended up shitting on a perfectly good Saturday.  So I drove to the bar, with my face still painted up, and got drunk.

And I lived blissfully ever after.  Until I turned thirty-one.

Then I started living my own life, and creating my own Happily Ever After.

The End.

Hunting a Human Jackalope

Looks like my brother got into the mushrooms.  Again.

*DO NOT ATTEMPT DURING REAL HUNTING SEASON*

Snacks In My Pants

Photo Credit

This story is more a lesson in parenting skills than a recollection of past experiences.

By today's standards, my mom started young.  She was twenty-six when I was born, and twenty-eight when she had my brother.  Or maybe it just sounds young to me because I can't imagine having a nine and seven year-old right now.  That just seems unfathomable.  I barely have the means to keep myself afloat, let alone two kids - and my collection of ex-boyfriends has done just as much damage to my credit score as it has they have to my… psyche, so they wouldn't have been much help in the child care payment department.  But I digress.

I think my mother's youth contributed largely to her parenting style - particularly when it came to pet names.  "Big Girl Parts" and "Big Boy Parts" were the appropriate identifiers for our genitals, "Bottom Burp" was our label for farting, and I assume because LA is close to the border and my parents were big on instilling culture in my brother and me at a young age, we used the Spanish word "moco" for boogers.  Not so terrible, until it came to dirty diapers, whereupon my mom or dad would look at us and ask if we had "snacks" in our pants.

That's right - Snacks.

What the fuck does that even mean!?  A snack is a tasty morsel of food to tie you over until dinner, or enjoy at the movies, or to help pass the time at work while you're chained to your desk wondering what to blog about - NOT something you shit out in your pants.  Who wants to eat that?  Sure, maybe some cultures do.  Hell, in some cultures it may even be considered a delicacy, but certainly not in developed countries.

I needed to teach my parents a lesson.  They needed to realize the error of their ways.  I may have only been a toddler, but I knew when something was gauche.

We were at the bank.  It was another sunny day in Los Angeles - a scorcher.  The air was ripe with sweat and musk.  Security Pacific's air conditioner couldn't keep up with the steadily rising mercury of the thermometer, and the natives were getting restless.  Mom stood patiently in line waiting for the next teller, but I was pretty squirmy.  Looking back, my fidgeting probably had less to do with the heat and more to do with the dump I needed to take.  So mom set me down and allowed me to wander around.

Finally!  A moment to myself, free of the constriction of my mother's arms, to take care of business.  I got really quiet - too quiet.  By the time mom registered what was happening, it was too late; my hands were already down the back of my pants, and when I pulled them out, I proudly held them up to my mother and proclaimed, "Snacks!"

She promptly ditched her place in line to grab me and - mortified - ran out of the bank.

Serves her right, I say.  Let this be a lesson to all you parents out there:  think twice about the cutesy names you assign to anatomical and biological matters, lest they backfire.  Kids have an uncanny knack for throwing grown-ups under the bus.

Mistakes Are Like Birds - Set Them Free

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When I was little, I adopted a parakeet named Blinky.  I learned very quickly I am not a bird person.  This little asshole was pissed and eager to take his aggressions out on every one's fingers.  Blinky had to go, and what better person to give him to than my ninety year-old grandfather with paper thin skin, who was so old his blood lacked the coagulants necessary to clot, and every little paper cut ended up hemorrhaging?  Yeah, sounds like the perfect candidate for parakeet ownership.

It only took one small peck that nearly resulted in a trip to the hospital for Pop to learn that Blinky was best handled with gardening gloves.  I guess I probably should have drawn the same conclusion before getting rid of him, but I was eleven.  Pop had years of life experience on me.  Plus, he was an electrical engineer, so there's that.

Blinky was one of my earliest mistakes, and I'm inherently predisposed to abort my mistakes, but Pop took a different approach.  In his innate wisdom, he surmised that my bird's surly behavior was rooted in unhappiness and an aversion to captivity.  This understanding allowed Pop to look his villain in the eye with sympathy instead of contempt, and he decided to have an aviary built for his disgruntled friend.

Delighted by his new freedom, Blinky dropped the attitude and began to lighten up.  Some even say they saw him smile, though I think that's a dirty lie.  He did, however, seem less inclined to bite your hand off when you tried to hold him, almost as if he was - dare I say - happy.

Similarly, I find when I'm able to see the mistakes I've made in the same light my Pop saw Blinky, I'm able to loosen my grip on them and, like Blinky, I begin to feel happier and lighter.  Being unforgiving of myself for the mistakes I've made in my life is akin to constructing my own cage - and it's an uncomfortable, restrictive place to live.  But when I understand that I'm just a silly human and I'm going to make a mess, mistakes seem less villainous.

Also, purging myself of them and hanging on a public cross seems to help.  For example:  Del Taco and Jack in the Box.  The combination of the two, always together, effectively helped me reach my goal weight of 174 pounds my Freshman year of college.  I've always been a big overachiever, and the Freshman 15 is fucking child's play.  Anyone can eat a Del Classic Chicken burrito, but it takes a whole other skill set to pair it with an Oreo Cookie Shake - namely courage, intestinal fortitude, and commitment - and repeat this behavior no less than three times a week.

One prescription for Prozac and membership at Weight Watchers later, I was back to my pre-college weight, but it's cool… I totally love myself.  I wouldn't trade a single stretch mark for that experience. Not.  A.  Single.  One.

The catharsis I feel having shared this story has lightened it's load, so-to-speak.  I just gave my little mistake wings and set it free.  In fact, I'm so happy right now, I'm actually crying - tears of joy.  I'm definitely not having feelings of anxiety and shame over publicly confessing a weight I've hit in my lifetime.  If I were a boxer, I'd have qualified as a Light Heavyweight, and I'd be so proud.  So, so proud…

Nope.  Fuck everything I said.  This feels horrible.