Off the Record

Morning started with a flat tire.
After that, cleaned up pee left by a dog I'm dogsitting (not very well, apparently).
Followed by a slew of late buses.
And banana goo staining my shirt.
Arrived late to school, with the Head monitoring my class (bad start to the morning).
Then I dropped a pen
and said,
"This is the worst day ever."
"Aww, Truckey!" a student consoled me.
She cared,
so I guess it wasn't actually the worst day ever.

I had best not say anything bad about the bachelorette party, for fear that my soon-to-be-married friend would take offense. I also best not saying anything terribly wonderful about it either, for fear of being a hypocrite and someone who assumes too much from the start only to be proven wrong somewhere along the way.
So.
It was full of allusions to sex.
Champagne.
Grapes (lots of them).
Strawberries.
Games.
Driving.
Losing vehicles.
Escapes.
Tilapia.
Pasta specials.
Honks.
Martinis.
Bailey's.
Sauvignon Blanc.
Demures.
Coconut Haze.
Dancing.
More Dancing.
Goofy photos.
Dancing with random men.
Lost wallets.
Sober driving.
Text messages.
Regrets.
Laughing.
Lewd Photos.
Dancing.

Twas the earliest Friday night I've had in a long while--1.30am crash time for me. Good time, good people, beautiful bride.

Last night we excursioned to NOrth COunty's North Oaks Bowl where my pal, ROB, was celebrating his birthday. It's located in the middle of an enormous strip mall on Natty Bridge with businesses like #1 Nails, Imo's Pizza, McDonald's, Quickie Loans and BBQ House surrounding. The facade is made of bright orange paneling and the parking lot was half-full. We arrived early to the 62-lane alley and took a seat at the bar, whose lean rail was blue padded and was spotted with people, each nursing a drink of beer in a pin-shaped bottle or the lady's night 2-for-1 deal on hard liquor. One woman held and incredible Long Island Iced Tea, the color a dark brown, with cherries and an orange peel hanging off the side. 12 plastic, electronic dart consoles lined the back wall, only one of them occupied, despite the long cafeteria table reserved only for the North Oaks Dart League. We sipped our pin Buds and read the RFT, noticing the only sports game on any of the TV's, save for a small one in the corner, were all showing NBA games--not the highly-anticipated Cardinals game being played live just 10 miles down the road.

As we bowled (each game $1.50, each shoe rental $1.50, each draft beer $1.50) we looked at the people around us--all black, all occupied in either bowling, pool, or (get this) CHESS. Nora talked up the cashier, who told her he once served Tina Turner when he worked at a restaurant downtown, we drank our beers and bowled our games whose scores ranged from 45-160, and the bartender, a woman of 62 by the name of Francis, came over to see if we needed anything else.

I stepped into the bar to buy my DD (ha!) another beer and a man, 6 gold teeth proudly displayed right up in front, asked me a question, the words not quite clear.
"What's what?" I asked, straining.
"Damn, girl, why you talkin' so loud?"
"I can't hear you, sir."
"I said, 'You lose your man tonight?'"
"No," I said, looking away to the tip bucket hanging almost unreachably from the top of the bar.
"Hmm. Well, can I leave you a number or somethin?"
"Nope," I said, looking at him in the eye (but ever so distracted by those teeth...).

He eventually walked away and the man next to me said, "He's gone--you can smile again, honey."
I rolled my eyes and laughed in agreement with him, paid for my beers and returned to my lane, only to falter in my bowling skills.

ROB, my friend, thank you for the wonderful night. Let's go again. But next time, let's stay til 3am.

When the news of the economic stimulus check first arrived, I deemed it preposterous. Why would the government (esp Bush) give away hundreds of dollars to its citizens, many of whom don't know how to properly spend their monies? It relied on your social security number, my friend told me, and if you were on direct deposit with the government. According to my SS, I should have received it by now, by way of DD or USPS, I'm not sure, but I'm absolutely convinced that it's a sham and that I will never ever receive any such payment from anyone.

I owed the USA approximately $1000 this year after my taxes were done. $1000. That makes my yearly income even lower than I thought it was. I could be on food stamps. Or unemployment. I could be swiping my EBT card at the grocery instead of digging into my savings, which are, by now, miniscule.

"The second I get a check in the mail, I'll let you know," my dad told me via voicemail yesterday afternoon. I believe him, but I also believe that I will never ever get such a call.

It's an odd thing that happens, once one is placed (forcefully or not) outside his comfort zone. Your eyes open. Your guard goes down. You speak a bit more freely. You drink really cheap liquor. You accept what you usually find unacceptable. You watch people rather than talk about people. And, best of all, your mind starts churning with all the possibilities of interviews, stories, photographs and essays. For once, you are the little fish. The fly on the wall. You have put yourself in an atypical position where you'll allow almost anything to happen.

In these situations, I've considered spying. Vandalism. Aimless wandering. Breaking and entering. Speeding. Pranking. Public drunkenness. Streaking. Stealing. Trespassing. Arson.

I equate the feeling to finding out that someone you like really likes you in return. It's a high. It's an energy. It's something that can easily keep you up on a Friday night, feigning sleep, your mind reeling, unable to close your eyes without smiling and plotting for the next adventure.

But maybe, with time, this feeling will fade. I will, by the age of, say, 28, have experienced everything there is that incites such an intoxicating reaction. I will get bored. And perhaps I will discover that what I was doing was childish and immature and kneejerk and indicative of unhealthy, addictive behavior. I will want to stop.

Or maybe I won't.

I thought it'd be years before anyone I knew got married. I considered my "group" of "friends" too young and erratic and spontaneous and noncommittal to, within the next 5 years, ever do something so drastic and life-binding as get hitched. But, alas, that day has come, and my days as someone with only single friends will soon come to an end. It's nothing tragic, really, it's just, well, traumatic.
And I'm not referring to the marriage as one that could potentially be traumatic, I'm only referring to the tumble my stomach made when I got an email from my best friend's best woman (I didn't get shunned; I got hired as the photographer instead...thankfully) announcing the arrival of the Bachelorette Party.
BACHELORETTE PARTY? Seriously?!
I'm not even sure I have the energy for one of those things.
But I guess it's one of those things, along with getting grey hairs, arthritis, varicose veins and memory loss, you have to take with a grain of salt as you get older. The reality is that I AM at that age where my friends start to marry themselves off to other people my age. By no means am I calling myself old, it's just one of those aspects of maturation that creeps up on you...sometimes in the form of an email.