Bob and the sinking Titanic that is our relationship

Bonnie and Clyde

Bonnie and Clyde

Do you remember when “Titanic” first came out on VHS and it had two VHS tapes and you would put the first one in and watch the love affair unfold but never watch the second simply because it was so chaotic and we all knew everyone died except Rose, Rose’s stiff uppity bitch of a mother, and Kathy Bates? I’m going to now detail for you my relationship with my soul mate. (If such thing exists.) This is a very long tale, like the fucking movie, but a valuable relationship lesson indeed. I’m going to detail it like the VHS movie. Tape A. Tape B. This is Tape A. The love affair. And this weeks post.

Bob (let’s call him Bob. I feel a need to protect identities as much as possible as to not defame anyone. However, Bob has done enough to defame himself. You can find him on the state’s felon registry..) happens to be a very pivotal person who has been a part of my existence for 26 years. We have a very sordid love affair that has been woven and spoiled many times over with love, accusations, hatred, loyalty, animal magnetism, humor, and distrust. It should be stated that at this current place in my life, my hatred for him burns steadily and I physically can feel it in my gut and in my bones just thinking about it. But alas..if he plopped on my doorstep today, I don’t think I could turn him away so easily.  Because I can’t. Because we happen to be fools for each other. Maybe me more so than him.

I was six years old when I first met Bob. (We joked in our adulthood (when we were in love with each other ) we would get one of those license plates like old people have that say “Bud and Karen ‘62” except ours would say “Bob and Samantha ‘86“.) Bob would do all the things little boys do when they are in love with their young object of affection. He teased me mercilessly, chased me, and sought me out continuously from grade school on up.

In middle school, Bob started flourishing by being known as the class clown. Our relationship changed then from one of total hatred (on my end) to a friendship which we both treasured because we understood each other. It was quickly becoming evident to me Bob had this charisma about him that drew everyone to him. He was funny, but he was also funny at his own expense. At the end of our 8th grade year, a kid dared Bob to light a match in the library. He did. And he set fire to books. Since this wasn’t his first offense, the school board elected him a lost cause, and voted to expel him from public school. This would be where his public school career ended and his decent into a convict lifestyle began.

His parents (the crazies they were..and still are) decided any contact for Bob with the outside world was prohibited to him. They put him on lockdown. Rebelling against their oppression, Bob would call me everyday before his parents got home from work.  His mother found out about our afternoon chat sessions, and called me one evening to ask me to not contact Bob. This prompted her to start bringing the phone with her to work so he would have no way of contacting anyone while he was home. My mother was appalled by this. She bought him a phone to hide in the house so he could have some sort of normality in his existence, and our afternoon conversations commenced. Things became increasingly interesting once we received our drivers licenses. We became best friends. If he was Clyde, I was Bonnie. When he was able to sneak out of the house, he would always come get me. A few memories:

One time, we went grocery shopping, and I was fiddling with some stupid toy from the toy section, when the cashier asked if we had paid for it. I was about the put it on the conveyer belt when Bob said “No she brought it in. She takes it with her everywhere. She’s handicapped”. The cashier looked at me, then back at him, and shrugged. We left the store with it, unpaid.

There was the time he lied to his parents to get the car and told them he wanted to go to church. Pleased, they consented and he headed straight over to my house, explaining where we were going, and I had to pretend to be his cousin, Beth. So as cousin Beth I went, and we played it off quite nicely until we sat down for the sermon. All it took was 10 minutes. 10 minutes of being told the earth was going to end and I was so freaked out by what was being preached, I demanded we got out of there immediately.

Bob got his first job at the local grocery store, as did Charlotte Grant. They worked together and were mutual friends with a girl who Bob actually started dating. To appease Bob and his girlfriend, Charlotte would punch them in and out if they were taking extended lunches so they wouldn’t get in trouble. Their luck ran out when Charlotte got caught and admitted to the whole dirty scheme. They all got fired. As Charlotte likes to tell it, Bob got her fired from her first job. (Let’s just say she does not have the personal wishy-washy feelings I do. She hates him through and through.)

On a day I was visiting, his parents came home earlier than expected. Freaked out, Bob decided it was best that he hide me by locking me in a room over the garage so he could try sneaking me out without them seeing. When they pulled up and got out of the car, right away they started asking who’s car that was in the driveway. And since I was curious as to what was going on, I went to look out the window.  While his dad was grilling him about my car, he looked up and saw me, completely awestruck by (a) Bob had locked me in a room and (b) his parents actually did exist in human form. His dad marched upstairs and let me out. That was awkward. Very, very, awkward.

We tried dating then, however it didn’t last very long and soon after we broke up, he impregnated a 15 year old girl who already had one and now another on the way. His parents, always the ones to fly in and fuck everything up, felt the right thing for him to do was marry this girl, and marry he did. By 18, he was married with 2 kids to take care of. And our friendship, although still there, took a turn where I wasn’t interested in hanging out with a married man with kids.

When I was 19, I started working for a local financial institution and worked my way up very quickly to personal banker in less than a year. Bob came to me to open a checking account, and quickly started kiting checks. I was contacted by risk management of the situation and was told if I didn’t get the money back, I could be terminated for opening the account. Extremely pissed off, I did the only thing I could which I knew would render the desired results. I contacted his mother and told her if Bob didn’t pay the deficiency in the account, the bank would look to press charges. Always the sucker for her delinquent son, his mom wrote me a check for the deficiency, which I applied to the account and closed. I was so pissed he would take advantage of me in that way, and I ended our friendship at that time. If only I would have held on to those pissed off feelings for what waited down the road of life for us.

End of Tape A. For next week, Tape B. And believe me, this titanic also had a shortage of lifejackets.

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Cowboy…Take my Sanity Away (you have to sing it Dixie Chicks style)

ride em cowboy

Driving home this evening, I heard Ozzy Osborne’s “Bark at the Moon”. Which made me start to wonder “Why didn’t they play this song in the twilight movies? I mean..they turned into werewolves.” Which brought my thoughts to Taylor Lautner and his being shirtless (I’m not his fan, just a fan of man shirtlessness), which made me start to think about someone I haven’t thought of in a long time. Cowboy Perpendicular Penis.

Now, Cowboy PP was a long time ago, and I don’t even think my close friends really know a whole lot about him. But he was a stetson cologne dream come true. I was 19 at the time, and the Dixie Chick’s had just come out with their “Cowboy, Take Me Away” song which you could not get away from no matter what station you were listening to. So wasn’t it providence I would find my cowboy at the same moment in time. (And what exactly was a classy city chick like me doing with a cowboy. No idea. It’s not like we had anything in common.) I had just broke up with high school sweetheart (if you don’t know about high school sweetheart, refer to my post regarding my infinity for men of the cloth), and it was high time I took a ride on someone new. So while I sit here next to my campfire (not shitting, I am sitting next to a fire) I thought I would recount for you and myself all those memories with Cowboy PP and the invaluable lesson I learned from this experience.

Cowboy PP was steer wrestler. You heard me..he was a rodeo star. He was 18 then, always wore his cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and made Wrangler jeans look like they drove to his house to sew them onto his dreamy ass every day. And see his ass everyday I did because we fucked everywhere. All the time. His house, my apartment, his truck, my car, his convertible, his camper, in fields, everywhere we could. He was romantic when he wanted to be. For my 19th birthday, he made me a tape of Chris Ledoux love songs and we spent the day sexually christening his parent’s cottage. When we were not having coitus, we were hanging out with his buddies. They all had those 1970’s GMC trucks (the ones that look like Zeus drafted and gave GMC the rights to build) they would demolish in mud pits and sand dunes. That’s what we did every weekend. We ran mud trucks and burned mattresses. We rode horses together and he taught me how to ride properly. (which didn’t do a damn amount of good because those fuckers always run with me. Haven’t been on one since Jean and I took our road trip in 2001).

Cowboy PP was also crazier than horse shit. I remember going to his parents house and his mother told me he was very depressed that day and I walked into his room to find him staring at this ceiling. He didn’t even acknowledge I was even there..he just laid and stared like he had just had a lobotomy. He also hid a gun under his pillow at night. One night while his parents were away, I had discreetly spent the night with him in his bed. (Big NO-NO). As I laid down and put my arm under the pillow, I pulled out a revolver. Asking him What the Hell, he told me to calm down and the safety was on. He kept it there for protection he had said. Being a dumbass, that’s all I had to hear. I slept that night with a revolver under my head, no qualms. Could have blown my fucking head off that night. In another fit of Cowboy PP sadness, he drove my first car, an 88 Cutlass Ciera, through the sand dunes and drove it till it was derelict. My dad was happy to sell it to some guy who wanted to fix it up for $25.00. `Jesus.

We saw each other for about 3 months I would say. Around the time he graduated High School, he started acting differently towards me. He wasn’t calling, he wasn’t coming around, the sex wasn’t as much fun. Then he went a way to some rodeo thing for a few weeks. I remember being so excited around the time he came home. But he didn’t call. I started to panic. I tried calling his house desperately trying to get a hold of him. All I got was a family member telling me they would give him the message.

My friend lived close to where one of his buddies lived and I would drive out there obsessively for the next few days looking for him. I remember seeing him pass by her house and, to her utter astonishment, I took off after him like a rocket, racing to catch up to him. I remember my friend pleading with me to slow down but I couldn’t. I had to catch up to him. I followed him to his friends house where I promptly got out and gave him hell for not calling or trying to see me. I got some excuse about how he had just come back and he was going to call he just hadn’t had a moment yet. I don’t remember why I had gone to his house that night but I did. And guess who was there with Cowboy PP? Some Cowgirl Slut who he had conveniently forgotten to tell me about. His Ex-Cowgirl Slut to be exact. I remember bolting outside to which he followed and he told me he didn’t know what he was doing and he needed some space so he could think about if he wanted to continue seeing me or her.

Lesson # 97-NOOOOOOOOOOOOO-NOOOOOOOOOOOOO-NOOOOOOOOOOOO BITCHES! Do not EVER give that man the time of day as soon as he A) cheats on you then B) says he needs space. Even if he hasn’t cheated but says he needs space, dump that piece of male garbage pronto….right on the spot!! Why? Because he’s a fucking idiot, that’s why! Dreamy Cowboy or no, do you want to devote your time and energy to a fucking idiot? He doesn’t know what the hell he wants and obviously doesn’t see he has this fantasic woman (or man) right in front of his face who would give anything to stay by their side. To finish my story, I gave this cra-cra asshole his space. For two weeks, I was on pins and needles hoping he had picked me. Guess what boys and girls? He didn’t. I basically waited 2 weeks to get dumped.

So, in conclusion, if you find yourself faced with this scenario, this is what I would do. Calmly walk into the kitchen, make yourself a martini (with the cheap vodka, don’t waste the good stuff) walk back to where he is standing, all looking sad, depressed, and shit, throw the martini in his face, smack him, tell him to get out, run at him so he’s fumbling for the doorknob, and give his ass a final kick to send him flying across your front porch into the front yard (where hopefully he broke and arm or rib), shut the door, lock it, and drink what is left in the martini glass (If any). Then go make a real one with the good stuff. Dump his phone number from you phone immediately. That way, once you’re sufficiently shitfaced, you will not be tempted to drunk dial. (I’ve done it…that’s bad too).

Societies tendency to force others to endure the indignity of an unwarranted nickname

fights4This post doesn’t necessarily follow in my traditional footsteps of airing my dirty laundry but does relate to relationships either personal or interpersonal.

Nicknames.

Have you met that person who extends their hand, smiles, and says “Hi, My name is Robert, but you can call me Bubba.”? (Just work with me people.) Now, I want you to compare this meeting to when you called someone by a nickname they haven‘t authorized. They look at you like they are about to rip your face off with a barbed wire and your thought process sounds like “Jesus, someone is having a case of the Mondays.” Well Motherf’er, you just gave me a case by disrespecting me by shortening my moniker because Samantha is a waste of precious 2 out of 3 syllables, and since there are at least 5 other Sam’s in the office, calling me Sam should be no big deal.  Guess what Bitch, It’s a huge deal.

My parents gave me a beautiful name. However, I became Sam as early as I can remember. It never bothered me on a conscious level, but something sinister was brewing subconsciously which drove me to my first mental break down at being referred to as Sam when I was 6 years old. As my mother relays the story, my first grade teacher referred to me as Sam from the get go. It was about the middle of the year, and I had asked Mrs. Fat Ass to refer to me as Samantha. This shocked the fat bitch who had nothing better to do but grade papers of the most intellectually inferior and eat ho-ho’s all fucking day long, and she called my mother to report my insubordination to her in class. To my mother’s credit, she basically gave Mrs. FA a screw you for calling her for something so trivial, and if I wanted to be referred to as Samantha, than that’s what she would call me. (Unfortunately, my mother missed her own memo that day. And it’s been almost 30 years. She still hasn’t found that post-it in her cranium which must have gotten filed away with all my crayon pictures.)

Fast forward 15-20 years, here I am, a professional working in a world of Jim’s, Bob’s, Kathy’s, Dave’s, Tim’s, and Liz’s. And since being referred to as Liz (hurl) was no big deal for her, Sam became my initiation into the asshole club. And I didn’t put up too much of a fuss until I hit 26. That’s when I realized I was an adult. I was an adult who was putting up with other people’s disrespect of me and letting them refer to me as however they wanted to, not how I wanted them to. So I put a professional stop to the Sam train. I notified my superiors a change of name was in order. And they responded. Professionally, from then on, Sam was never referred to as me in my presence.

My family is another story entirely. When I was 30, I sat my parents down to inform then Sam was no longer appropriate when they were referring to me. I might as well have put firecracker’s up their asses and lit them by blow torch by the way they looked at me. My father’s response was “I have always called you Sam and I will continue to call you Sam because you are MY daughter”, to which I replied “Well, thanks for cementing for me the notion I will never be anything more than a child in your eyes. And hey, regarding your level of respect for me today, you better hope your other daughter has more than the level I’m gonna show when you’re shitting your pants.” And even though I could tell this hit home a little, it wasn’t enough to kill Sam from my existence.

Come this past Labor Day.  I decided to spend the day with my parents and extended family. It was this day that inspired this post. Sam was every-fucking-where. To the point where I realized there were too many of them for me to take down in one room and set them straight. So I just dealt with it. Which made me start to wonder why do we feel compelled to shorten each other’s names? Is it a term of endearment? Is it because we’re lazy? Is it habit?  No one in my family has respected my wishes by referring to me as Samantha. But then again, I’m just as guilty.

My sister’s name is Victoria. I have called her Victoria my entire life except for the occasional Vicky when we were children. But even as kids, I referred to her by her full name. When we were in our early 20’s, I was still referring to my sister as Victoria until the day came and she said “You know, every one calls me Vicky. Why can’t you call me Vicky? I like Vicky and that’s how I prefer to be referred to.” I was shocked. Because I can’t wrap my head around referring to people by their nicknames. But I respected her wishes. I have called her Vicky ever since and can’t remember the last time Victoria has ever escaped my lips in her presence. Here’s another one:

Around the time I was fighting the corporate battle of having my name changed to Samantha professionally, I was in fact working side by side with another woman who preferred the name Sam. But I hated the name so much I couldn’t bring myself to refer to her as Sam so I pissed her off many times by calling her Samantha.  To Sam’s credit, she’s a sly one. After being so fed up with my referring to her by our full name, she started referring to me as Sam, which pissed me off. We truced that afternoon because I finally got it. I was treating her the way other’s treated me by shortening my name. She was Sam. And just because to me it sounds like a lazy man’s excuse to disrespect someone, to her Samantha was the name her parents only used when she was in irreversible deep shit.

Lesson #124: This is fantastic advise to take with you, especially in the world of business. When meeting someone for the first time, listen to how they introduce themselves. If someone prefers their nickname, they will tell you so enthusiastically the first time you meet them, it feels like you’re faced with an exhaust unit on a jet, just about to take off that it blows the skin right off your body. “HI!!!!!! MY NAME IS ROBERT JONES BUT YOU CAN CALL ME BOB!!! YEAH…I PREFER BOB EVERYONE CALLS ME BOB DON’T REFER TO ME AS ROBERT BECAUSE EVERYONE CALLS ME BOB. ROB’S OK TOO, BUT CALL ME BOB.” (You think I’m over exaggerating, yeah, maybe a little, however, people with nicknames tend to come somewhat close to this exchange.) People who do not use nicknames WILL NOT tell you it’s ok to shorten their names. So don’t do it. Still not sure how to refer to them? Read their name plates, their name tags, their business cards, how their name comes up in the company directory.

Regarding family, even children I refer to by their full names unless they give me the go ahead to call them by a nickname. I do this because it is disrespectful to anyone to refer to them  however you want. And if, once these children grow up, they ask you to stop referring to them as honey bunny boo bear, do it. They’re grown ass adults. And people have been killed for a lot less. I’m telling you, the steam that builds after years of enduring the indignity of an unwarranted nickname is enough to garner a psychological defense. And if I was on that jury, I would totally buy it.

(I apologize for all the f words. But nothing comes closer to portraying my feelings regarding this touchy subject then fuck. And anyway, if you’re offended by the f word, why the hell are you reading this blog? Believe me..I am most definately not your cup of tea.)

M and my dependency on her predictions which in essence fucked up my 2013

psychic

I have a love of the supernatural. When I was in high school, first thing I would do when I got home every Wednesday (or Thursday, I don’t remember accurately)  was rush the remote control and turn on The Montel Williams Show because he had Sylvia Browne on. (That world renowned soothsayer with nails that could climb the empire state building and a voice only a pack a day smoker can provide.) I would sit in awe from 4 o’clock to 5 of her predictions and her ethereal explanations to people regarding if they were going to have children, what happened to loved ones who disappeared, what happened to Grandma Jane’s money, where is Uncle Jack’s garden hoe, so on and so forth.

Since my downward spiral into mystisim started at a younger age, my obsession with it should come as no surprise. About 7 years ago, I mentioned to a family member I wanted to see a psychic, which to my astonishment, they recommended theirs.

Enter and Welcome M to my life.

M is everything you could ask for in a psychic. She’s short, means business, and you feel really uncomfortable around her. I don’t remember the first time I saw her and what she said, but it was enough to bring me back a second time. The second time I saw her I was life altering. I was, at the time, languishing in my current career choice, felt stuck in a relationship with a nice guy I was progressively loathing, and had this incredibly antsy feeling that was driving me insane all the time. She told me:

The reason I felt antsy was my life was going to change drastically.

My relationship would end, but not in the way I was expecting.

I would leave my current job and attain my dream job. I would leave my current job end of April and start my new one early May.

And Holy Shit. Everything happened exactly the way she predicted. My life did change. My relationship broke up (He left me first which I did not see coming since my plan was to dump his ass as soon as I got to where I was going), I attained that dream job early April and left the languishing one around the same time, started my new in early May. I was astonished. Astonished by how accurate she had been. And like a heroin addict, all it takes is one time. I was hooked. She became a 6 month check-up. When her predictions ran out, I was back for more insight to my destiny. And soon I wasn’t the only one. I had friends all hooked on her as well. Here we were, all strung out on these life predictions, feigning for a fix as soon as the spiritual nile ran dry. That is..until last November.

Last November, a friend had an M party. (This psychic throws parties, which is fantastic because you can all get together, eat a bunch of shitty, fatty sustenance we call food, and help each other decode M’s predicitions into our fate.) At this point in my life, I was riding a wave of life high. My life was going fabulously well. My job was, well, what it was, I was dating a guy (refer to Mr. Mountain Dew, 3rd post) who I was convinced was Mr. Right, everything was clicking like a clock work. That is, until my turn to see M came up.

She confirmed my suspicions. She said “I see an airplane taking off. You have finally hit your stride. You have your circle of peeps, which is good because they are your forever friends. I see a man, a very handsome man, you are with right now. Things are going to keep going really well and I’m seeing you two married by July of next year (this was 2012 she meant 2013, which I’m getting there) and I see a promotion in the future, very soon. You have waited a very long time for work to notice your talents and now the right people are in place to help you along. You’re in a really good place! Enjoy it!

People..let me tell you what really happened.

Two weeks later, after having sex for the first time, Mr. Right got all weird and stopped calling, to which I had a nervous break down (to be fair, it was a long time coming) and ended my ass up in a psychiatric hospital (partially admitted they call it) for a week to deal with the tail spin of depression this catapulted me into. This was first week of December.  (New Year, My friends and I decided a great resolution for me was to keep my ass out of the loony bin.)  January, I had to trade in my Sebring Convertible (which I adored) for a sedan Chrysler 200 because Charlotte Grace’s (the St.Bernard’s) big ass couldn’t crawl into it anymore. February, March, well, a promotion was in the works for me. However, it kept getting pushed back, and pushed back, and pushed back until the time of my undoing (read 1st post) and I got my ass fired. I lost a best friend in this debacle as well (refer to Friendager’s post), June I didn’t know what I was going to do, enter in Meredith Montgomery McKay who saved my ass…again. Started this blog in July, had to cancel my bomb ass cruise I had planned with MMM and Nick Hackett because of money issues, thought I was going to be famous by now but am not, which brings me to August yes, newly employed, but still not famous. (Oh, so far in September I bought a lawnmower, which didn’t work, brought it back, bought a new one didn’t work till the pops figured out I was putting bad gasoline in them.)        JE——SUS!!!!! On a God Damn Crotchrocket!!! (That was for you MMM and Nick Hackett)

Lesson #384-Be highly cautious if you decide to see a psychic because, the truth is,  you’re playing with your future. Never, ever go see a psychic when life is going great. Why? Because you need confirmation it’s going well?? That’s Stupid. I did, and everything got fucked by confirming it. Once confirmed, I diverted the direction of my future. All my walls came down and left me exposed emotionally. Mr. Mountain Dew got freaked out because I started moving at the speed of lightning regarding our relationship. When he left, my future for the first time had no obvious pattern, which I was used to having. Now it was my turn to freak the fuck out, and freak out I did.  Instead, go when things are really bad and can’t get much worse. I’m finding, that in my case, M is more accurate when my soul is in dire straits.

(It should be noted that after this November experience, none of us have gone back. We all felt the decisions we have made in the last 6 months were mostly motivated by her predictions, and our lives could have taken more plausible courses if we had not seen her that fateful night in November. It’s like what Kid Rock said about Pam. “Sometimes fire is just that, too hot to touch.”

Roc Bettencourt

Yeah that's how I see you you queen! LOL!!

Yeah that’s how I see you you queen! LOL!!

If my failure in relationships with straight men has a ying, then it’s yang would be my success in highly functioning and essential to my life relationships with gay men. For some reason gay men are attracted to me like a moth to a flamer. And I know why.

A.) I am a bad ass bitch who tends to say and tell anyone whatever I’m thinking and have no thought or feeling as to if I hurt someone with my forthcomingness (no such word).

B.) I’m highly stubborn, passionate, ambitious, and love me some classy shit.

C.) I’m a Hot Fucking Mess. And gay men love hot fucking messes for fag hags.

I have 6 Men who love Men who I would find life to be unlivable without them in my life. Meredith Montgomery McKay, Nick Hackett, Roc Bettencourt, Libby St. Clair, Liam Fitzpatrick, and TW.

In honor of Roc Bettencourt’s Birthday this past Labor Day weekend, I have decided it fitting to write a post dedicated to my lovely and recount this amazing relationship and how paramount this relationship has been in my life.

I met Roc 10 years ago when I was working as a Teller at a bank his employer used to make their business deposits. Roc and I have discussed how exactly this friendship started and neither one of us can exactly pin it, but for the last decade Roc has been there unfailingly to help me pick up the pieces of my life when it comes crashing down and shatters like glass in a million pieces. So here are some fun memories I have of Roc and some of our dysfunctional exchanges.

The time Roc took me out to lunch at a restaurant downtown and I started balling at the table because I was unhappy in a position he had hired me for to get me back on my feet, and although he was concerned and startled by my sudden panic attack, gently reminded me I had promised him a year in my current position, and if I didn‘t fill my obligation, he would be pissed.

The time Roc pushed me through a haunted house before I was ready to encounter the demons which lied within. I mean full on, football pushed me through to the exit so essentially I have no recollection at all of what lied in that horrific section of  phony hell.

There was that time at friends dinner where we played apples to apples with a huge group, and our friend’s partner (who I actually like very much) declared they thought communism was better than democracy, and the table got really quiet until I broke the silence by laughing really hard to everyones dismay because this person was serious, and Roc was looking at me like “No seriously..this person is serious..please stop before you make it worse” and gradually my laugh retreated from belly to short ‘AH HA’S” from my throat till I was composed enough stop.

That spa day complete with a visit to my psychic which Roc was really excited about until my psychic refused to do a reading for him because she believed “He was too skeptical and would not let her psychic energy in.” And Roc was like “What the Fuck?? I’m not open?…Crazy Bitch”

Oh yeah, and there was the time coming back from a hockey game about 6-7 of us piled in Roc’s Honda Accord (it should be noted Roc changes cars every 15 mins) and I had to pee soooooo bad and our friend V was sitting pretty much on top of me and I kept trying to get her to move because she was pretty much sitting on my bladder, but every time I tried to push her, she laughed so hard which made me laugh and I kept screaming “I swear to God, I’m going to pee everywhere” and Roc‘s response was “I‘ll kill you if you pee on my back seat.” And everyone was laughing at me and of course as soon as we got back to his place, other people were faster than me because I was piled on the bottom of the human car huddle, so I had to wait even longer until a bathroom was vacated. (This particular incident might be why he hasn’t owned anything less than a sports utility vehicle since this almost accident).

Roc’s partner, Libby St. Clair, is one of the most gracious of southern hosts I’ve ever know. (Well, given I’ve really only met one). This man cooks the most amazing food and together, Roc and Libby throw one hell of a dinner party. It should also be mentioned I am of the belief if Libby wasn’t gay, he would be married to me. And I would be going on cruises, traveling to Europe, and have a nice house and cars galore. He thinks I’m gorgeous. But also repulsive. Which is why Roc has my life.

So in conclusion, Roc, Happy Birthday Darling. I am constantly in awe of your ability to love others and the loving response you get from those who love you. You have always been there for me to pick me up and I thank you and hope you know I will be here for anything you need. Now I gave you a worldly shout out for your birthday instead of those bags of seeds which I was excited about but after Libby got you that Kayak, paled in comparison. But they were harvested with love. That has to count for something. (And to my other lovelies, don’t all be getting jealous..you’ll all get your posts in time. This hot bitch of a mess (me) has lots of love to go around.)