Pull Over to the Side of the Road, Ma'am

Something I never cease to marvel at is how the Universe has the most wicked sense of humour.
Irony... not just for breakfast anymore.

The old adage Ask and ye shall receive often gets transmuted in my little life as Well, fuck, I didn't ask for that, really. It was more a wanton plea in another arena, but now lookit.

In my last post I was looking for a way in which to relinquish my control.

My darling friend, Mr. Webster, is the fellow who looks not unlike a Jam era Paul Weller. He likes to kiss Comrades on the mouth, particularly when alcohol has lay claim all appendage faculties. He has a tendency to have a wake of swooning homosexuals in his every pass, though claims he is hetero. He had a birthday held at his best friend's summery home, located on one the islands that create Toronto's archipelago. My guests were my darling Fatty and Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend. Wrought from good neighbourly relations (and let's face it: no noise complaints), Mr. Webster's best friend invited the next door neighbour.

A very attractive woman in her 30's.

The Comrade: Would you like a seat?

I had gestured to a vacant spot on a makeshift outdoor bed replete with no mattress, just hard fibreboard with a saffron coverlet disguising the raw, chipped wood and glue surface. At the time of invitation, three sets of asses were perched on the side of this haremic lounger.

Attractive Woman: I don't know if my fat ass will fit.

I hate when women do this to themselves. I don't mind a little self-deprecation. My pork lusting Hebronic pals often successfully make this quite lovable. I just hate it when women make any derogatory statement about their bodies. Especially when the complaints are about their natural curves. Are they your thoughts or were they planted? We are curvy. Along with a minimum of facial hair, it is the distinguishing feature, that line that separates the boys from the girls.

Though it's hard to tell the difference these days.

The Comrade: Who are you? (she asked, thinking she was being charming)
Attractive Woman: Who am I? Who are you?!

So I tell her.
And ask her again.

Attractive Woman: I'm Sarah.

I learned somewhere that if you want to remember someone's name, you repeat it after they say it. Once repeated three times, it actually sticks.

The Comrade: Sarah! It's very nice to meet you.
Sarah: Oh, as if I believe that!
The Comrade: Sorry?
Sarah: You're dripping with sarcasm.
The Comrade: No, no. Actually, I wasn't.
Sarah: You're full of shit.

Ah! Someone smack dab in the red zone of crazy.
I haven't come across one of these in a while.
No matter. I was in a feisty mood that night.

Crazy Sarah: I want to know something.
The Comrade: Okay.
Crazy Sarah: What do you do?
The Comrade: A little uninspired, but I sit here sandwiched between yourself and a man with a brand new cast on his arm with a rather large penis drawn on it.
Crazy Sarah: Fuck you! What do you do?
The Comrade: Well! That was uncalled for. I do lots of things. Why is what I do so important to you?
Crazy Sarah: I'll tell you what I do.
The Comrade: I really don't care what you do.
Crazy Sarah: Of course not. You wouldn't be interested in me anyway.
The Comrade: It's just not my kind of question, Sarah. It's nothing personal.
Crazy Sarah: I want to know.
The Comrade: Well, I'm not telling you. Ask me about something else. Ask me about something that you've been thinking about. Something that bothers you. I'd love to talk about that.
Crazy Sarah: I'm FINE. I'm really HAPPY.
The Comrade: That's great that you've been working on your happiness. That's really important.
Crazy Sarah: I don't have to work on it. I AM IT.
The Comrade: Oh. Well, all I'm saying is there are circumstances beyond our control of happiness. Take for example a 6 year old child who is repeatedly abused...
Crazy Sarah: LOOK, I GOT PAST THAT! OKAY?

What's that? Cake's being served in the other room? Lovely.

The Nutbag got up to get herself another drink. Apparently she needed one. But like duck to water, she wormed her way back onto the makeshift bed scenario.

An immediate, yet accidental, or who knows, maybe on purpose, spilling of her drink splashed all over Fatty.

Crazy Sarah: What?!
Fatty: You were one who spilled a drink on me. I didn't say anything.

And then she turned coquettish.
This is another quality that appears in certain girls. A quality that I despise.

The Comrade: So, Sarah, since you did spill a drink on Fatty, shouldn't you apologise?
Crazy: Well, I was going to.

tick tock
tick tock

The Comrade: And any normal person would go get something to clean up the mess that she created.
Crazy Sarah: Oh, you think so?

She then reached around behind her and found someone's non-absorbent fleece jacket.

The Comrade: No, no, no. You don't do that. Go get a paper towel or something absorbent that no one has to wear later on when it gets chilly, you crazy bitch.

Yes, I did.
I always do.

We learned later that the best way to deal with a crazy person is to ignore said nutbag. It's a sad state when any attention is good attention. Alas.

Though there is a water taxi service that motors up to 8 passengers back to the mainland, a service we learned that is run by 2 brothers who were more than likely in the midst of a punch-up since they weren't answering their phone, the lot of the invited guests decided to catch the free public ferry whose last shuttle left the island at 11:30pm. Sharp.

No one likes being stuck on an island, especially when there isn't the slightest chance of winning a million dollars.

As it was 11:25, the only other recourse was to

RUN

Which we did.

I cycle, dance and drive very well.

I am no runner.
I wouldn't even place in the Special Olympics.

I was one of those kids. The ones with buckling knees and inverted skates scraping along the perimeter of any created ice floe. A Zamboni a distant memory judging by the evidence of other weak ankled scrapers. In my mind, though, I was an Ice Capader. One with giant plumes of ostrich feathers shooting from my cranium. My body housed in a yellow chicken costume. Gliding poetry.

Needless to say, I've sprained or strained my ankle twice before. Running to catch the last ferry, trying to shave a few seconds off the sprint, I took the grassy knoll. In the dark. The scaling the terrain at high speed, while high, was precarious at best.

Snap.

I hate being incapacitated. I do not convalesce well. I am a surly patient. I feel like a prisoner in my own home.
I have no control.
Thanks Universe!

One lesson I learned at the top of my class was: In the end, you only have yourself. You cannot rely on someone else.
Thus spake my mother.
But if you really, really want to help me, well then, I'll tell you what to do.
In step by step fashion.
Without leaving any room for improv or general creativity.

Fatty: You don't make it easy to help you. And you won't let me do it my way.

I can honestly say I'm really good at first person shooter games and making the men in my life feel like completely useless assholes.

Shift gears, darling (she said to herself).

Lying in bed last night, Fatty and I were talking into the wee hours like we used to. He suggested I caress his armpit just to feel how soft and fluffy his pit hair was.

The Comrade: No.

What I learned from Funny School was that the first rule of improv is never to negate. Always say "yes" to everything. As soon as you say no, the scene dies.

The Comrade: I'm saying "No" a lot lately.
Fatty: Yes you are.

What's happened to me?

The same thing that happens to me in nearly every romantic relationship I've ever had.

The Comrade: Oh my God! I'm a parent!
And then I heard myself.
The Comrade: Not apparent. A PARENT!

How did that happen?

I'd turned into an incredibly repressive, oppressive bitchy person that had become highly restrictive. But it's everything I'm against. Why am I so permissive with friends, yet harness free behaviour in my romantic relationships?

Brake.
Turn off ignition.
Pull out the map.

I'm fucking lost.

Stop by a gas station.
Ask for directions.

Girls can do that.