Meow. Purr. Hiss. Oh, Fuck It. I Give Up.
Ok, so let’s catch up.
Since we last met, I’ve met someone, met and loved someone, fought off the return of LaundryMatt, drank Hennessy, acted like a top-notch asshole, hurt said someone, apologized, and then rinsed and repeated.
I could give you all the juicy details of the relationship, but I’m not gonna.
True to my style, I’ll tell you what’s most important.
He was super fucking hot. I mean tell your grandma to her face you have to go do some nasty things with a very hot man, wear your sexiest heels even to 7-11 just in case you see his ass, cast aside all previous standards you ever had for yourself hot.
He was a big, tough, caramel macchiato skinned bad boy. His personality fit right in line with mine…sarcastic, hilarious, all about business and making money, wild the fuck out sometimes and work your ass off others.
And we were practically inseparable from the start.
Blah blah blah, here’s the rest. I cooked, we watched movies, got drunk, went out, ate out, did stuff, hung out with his friends, went to barbecues in the summer, laughed until 6 in the morning, texted dumb shit to each other all day.
When things got to the point where we were living each day in sync with one another…”Good morning. Want some coffee?” , text updates all day, meeting up in the afternoon out of habit, just crashing at the end of the night and doing it all again, things began to fall apart.
Now, I’m not blaming either of us. His inner dickhead met my inner bitch, and the result was “Jenga!”.
So let’s skip the dumb shit, and get to the fun stuff.
Here’s how I got him back after he acted dumb, I acted dumber, told him to fuck off, then listened to what I thought were pretty genuinely sincere apologies, and a confession about really
loving me and not being ok with letting me go. (Please don’t puke, I swear it gets fun…just setting you up to understand my reasons to go to this extreme).
So, we hadn’t spoken in four days. I lived in City A, and he was now living in City B, 26 miles away. He was in Scuba Diving school (yeah, really) and I was still bartending.
I woke up to another string of text messages void of his name. I lay emotionally defeated and buried under a big white goose down comforter, and slowly peeked my head to the surface, glancing up at the shelf with his things neatly stacked and his spare car and house keys laying on my desk. Damn, he hadn’t even snuck in and taken his shit while I slept.
Ohhhh, that’s right, yesterday he left my spare house key at the bar under my tip jar while I was in the ladies’ bathroom staring in the mirror telling myself to just fucking call already and say I missed him. I had missed seeing him by two minutes when he texted me to say he had stopped in. FML.
I had the day off, and lay thinking about what to do; get out of the house for the first time in two days…watch shitty daytime tv…eat a pack of Pop Rocks and chug a soda and pray for death so I wouldn’t miss him anymore.
As I alternated between sighs and screams into my pillow, I stared at all the shit in my room that reminded me of him. And then I saw it…my power source…The Catwoman Mask.
In an instant, I had a plan. Somewhere over the next hour, I had gone from invertebrate failure wallowing in lost affection to a crimson lipped vixen in knee-high black leather stiletto boots, second-skin-tight black pants, a black button up blouse with an unbuttoned ratio of 2:1, and a cat mask bombing north on I-5.
It’s like every plan ever plotted by Catwoman, the girls from Charlie’s Angels, all the strippers in Las Vegas, and female Navy SEALs had somehow magically come to fruition in my perfectly groomed head.
“Hello, Diving School, this is
Lisa, how may I help you?”
“Hello,” I purred. How did my voice become so incredibly sultry? “My brother is in classes today and I’m meeting him after. I don’t want to call his cell and interrupt him during class…what time is the day over for students today?”. I was fucking flawless.
“Oh,” she chuckled. She had no clue who was tapping her claws on the other end of the line, “2:45.”
I thanked her and hung up, just as I passed Boeing Field. I glanced at the sunny sky and cranked up “Return of da Baby Killa” by Brotha Lynch Hung. I had snapped and I knew it.
Cars passed, most didn’t look over, but the ones who did took a fast second glance. I blew kisses to some and nodded at others. I had nothing to lose, including my mind.
Twelve minutes, six “Daaammmmmn baby!” shoutouts, and fourteen right turns (not necessarily fourteen, I just thought it sounded cool) later, I was in the school’s parking lot. Twelve stalls, no Cadillac.
I hadn’t come this far to lose, so I pulled into the adjacent grocery store parking lot to reassess the situation. As I rounded the corner, there it was…the car I had helped him pick out just three weeks ago. I dug in the BCBG shopping bag in the passenger seat past his shirt (that still smelled like him….mmmm….ok, ok, distraction), his cds, toothbrush, the shirt he had given me to sleep in (which I had cut the shit out of and sewn to custom fit me…open backed and bad as hell), and the bottle of Hennessy VSOP we had bought over the weekend to his car keys.
One click and the lights flashed. I was in. I parked one row over because I’m no dumb bitch. I pulled out the cd with the perfect song that was silly and funny and poured out my apology for being so obnoxious and pleaded for him to not leave me. Without being too pathetic. (Thanks, Pink).
I walked across the lot with my sexiest strut, and with a proprietary flair opened the door and dropped his bag in the passenger seat. I glanced at my watch. 2:00. I had forty-five minutes to wait. Sigh.
I popped the cd in the cd player, skipped to the appropriate number, and turned the car back off.
Where should I sit. Passenger seat? Back seat? Trunk?
He wasn’t answering my calls two days ago. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t today, but I don’t call motherfuckers like that. I usually don’t care. I wasn’t about to be fired, and “time out” just never was my thing.
I settled on the back seat, and, seated sideways, kicked my feet up in the back window. But as I sat, it didn’t take long to get bored. I glanced at my watch. 2:12. Well, this sucks.
As I sighed with frustration and dropped my head back on the back seat side window, I remembered I was in a grocery store parking lot. I decided to go get survival rations of some kind. Anything to pass some time.
I took the mask off this time, assuming I would be mistaken for an armed robber. As hot as SWAT team men can be, I’m here for someone else and intended on going home with him today.
I strolled through aisles, still strutting along, free from even the slightest concern about the judgment of others.
I settled on a shitty gossip magazine–the kind I don’t read for a reason. As I approached the cashier, my glance was stolen away by the one missing link to my day of emotional lows, followed by insanity and inhibition…booze.
I snatched up the bottle of cheap white wine and snagged a bottle opener.
I swear the cashier heard the harps, too, because she smiled. I explained that I didn’t need a bag and winked. She smiled bigger, as if she got the memo that I was balls-to-the-walls fucking awesome right now, in a mildly frightening way.
As I pranced to the car, magazine and purse under one arm, I cranked the wine key into the bottle’s cork. Who needs a glass? I’m on a fucking mission here, and don’t do “middle men”.
I made myself comfortable in the back seat, sipping straight out of the bottle and flicking through the pages of smutty gossip I didn’t care to engage too deeply in.
I checked my twitter, sent a few tweets, including one to a fellow badass, saying “In a Cadillac in a Catwoman mask drinking straight out the bottle”.
And again with the magazine.
Halfway through the bottle, I noticed a small trickle of mid twenties hotboys coming from the other side of the lot. I glanced at my phone…2:47. Fuck yeah, it was GO TIME.
I continued flipping through the magazine, sipping away. I wasn’t even nervous. Maybe it was the booze, maybe just my mental state, but I had to do it big or he may never have spoken to me again. I’d rather have him tell me to die in a fire than just disappear. At least then I’d know where he stood.
In the swirl of thoughts and wine chugs and pages of “Stars with Cellulite” and “Lindsay’s Binging” headlines, it happened…
The trunk opened.
Now I had butterflies. They were quickly chased away by an uncontrollable chuckle and fast inhale…..I think I had actually become Catwoman.
As the driver’s side door opened, I flicked another page of my magazine and without thinking, the silky sultry voice I’d suddenly developed spilled out, “Meow.”
Read more in “The Girl Can’t Help It: Love, Loss, & What I Drank” by Jenburger. Available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/hpByKF