I am going to die one day. I don’t know how or when, but it is totally going to happen.

I know. I can be such a buzzkill sometimes.

The thing is that it’s not like I haven’t realized this before. But for some reason, on this particular Wednesday night at 12:39 a.m., I had this overwhelming feeling of utter doom. And sadness. And dread. And it was another few hours until I could fall asleep to the sound of emergency vehicle sirens on their way to life or death scenarios. This particular night, the familiar West Philly Lullaby seemed especially somber.

I often wonder if my fear of the inevitable lends itself to my procrastination. You know when most people kick the bucket, the first thing out of the mouths of the mourners is “He lived a good life. It seemed like he did everything he was supposed to do on this earth and his time most have been up.” I think somewhere deep down in my screwed up little psyche, I have convinced myself that ambition leads to action, action leads to accomplishment, accomplishment leads to completion, and somehow, completion leads to the death. And in subconsciously believing that systematic progression, I think that if I exist in this world like a puddle of stagnant water, I can ward off the big dirt nap for as long as possible. Don’t get married, don’t write that novel, don’t get that Masters in Printmaking, don’t go to Japan, don’t do anything that you ever wanted to do during your lifetime because then you’re just speeding up the process of dying — it’s become the holy grail of my kid-logic philosophy.

Of course this train of thought is completely delusional. Death doesn’t care about accomplishment, but perhaps I’ve developed these ideas as a coping mechanism. I’m sorry, but I’m just not down with the idea that I’m going to die. Furthermore, I’m not particularly cool with the people I love eventually dying too, goddammit. The one thing in my life I have absolutely no control over is the one thing I am literally scared to death about. Oh, the irony!

Why all of a sudden have I given this such serious thought? Maybe because I’m nearing 30. Maybe because I seem to live in a city where random violence is a not-so uncommon occurrence. Maybe because D* and I have talked about (gasp!) marriage and (double gasp!) the possibility of kids, and that whole she-bang which would definitely count as a major milestone in anyone’s lifetime.

But maybe it’s because of Andy, an old high school acquaintance of mine who was recently found dead of an overdose. This kid had every opportunity in the world and was sadly found with every drug imaginable in his body. He had no excuse – his parents were extremely well off. He was a Kennedy for Christ’s sake, which, in retrospect, might explain a lot. Though Andy’s parents offered to pay for any education he might want to take on, he had other plans. As my girlfriend recalled, she could remember him talking about how he wanted to find the ultimate high. I guess he found it. And the saddest thing of all is that his life never really began. His greatest accomplishment is that he turned out to be yet another sad, cliche After School Special.

I know. Super Yahtzee buzzkill.

So though I begrudgingly accept that I will die one day, it still hasn’t lit a fire under my lazy ass. I still sleep late, watch TV, and play solitaire on the computer. Sometimes I wish that something monumental would happen, something that would motivate me to use my time wisely. Then again, I’d rather just hit the snooze button.

A lot of people still ask me about my opinion on Britney Spears, and truthfully, I don’t know what to say. I’m not her BFF. I don’t really know what in God’s hell is going on with her, but of course I have my theories.

Back in 2003, Chuck Klosterman interviewed Spears for an issue of Esquire magazine, and unknowingly to him at the time, he foretold of the ultimate demise of the pop tart. To paraphrase, he wrote that when people asked him “What is Britney like?” he replied with, “I don’t know. And I don’t think she knows either.” This spot-on answer clearly lies at the root of Brit’s problems. Couple that with a severe chemical imbalance in the brain, and you’ve got enough headlines to exhaust Star Magazine, In-Touch and US Weekly combined.

And though I recognize this, it’s hard for me to feel much sympathy for Britney Spears. It’s hard for me to feel any sympathy for celebrities in general. They’ve hit the jackpot. They are, simply, some lucky mother fuckers. You wanna be a star? Well, guess what — if you become the one in a million to actually succeed at stardom, the word “privacy” will no longer exist in your vocabulary. That’s the deal and you should be crystal clear on that fact before you sign up. So fuck those whiny assholes. Seriously.

Do I want Britney to get better? Well, yes and no. “No”, because I love watching crazy people. It’s why I go to the park and watch hobos yell at squirrels. That shit is funny as hell. Don’t get me wrong — I certainly don’t want her to die. That would not only be incredibly cruel and sadistic on my part, but it would also put an end to my voyeuristic pleasure of watching her rattle off baby-talk in a British accent while twirling her waffle weave between her fingers and blowing through red lights on Melrose Ave.

And “yes”, because it would be interesting to see her gain some sort of clarity and be able to articulate what exactly was going on in her mind around this time on a very special 2 parter of “Oprah”.

I feel bad for her kids, but I don’t feel bad for her. The only reason I would feel bad for her is that her parents seem like a couple of grade A dicks, but she’s a grown-ass woman and should’ve dealt with them accordingly. She’s had every opportunity in the world to get her shit straight. I know, according to such psychology experts as Harvey Levin and the staff at “TMZ” she’s bi-polar, manic-depressive, blah, blah, blah, I got it. But even in the beginning stages, she must’ve had some clear moments where she realized something wasn’t right. So instead of using her vast fortune to seek help, she decides to buy a white Mercedes with sparkly rims to fill that empty, lost feeling. Maybe it’s the existentialist in me, but nobody is helpless, even the mentally plagued. If you’re not retarded, you have no excuse. And acting retarded doesn’t count. It’s just easier to choose to be a victim rather than take any responsibility. So in that sense, it’s safe to say that a lot of us are just like Britney, and maybe, when you consider the underlying self-loathing we all experience from time to time, it explains why we get such a kick out of watching her heavy fall from grace.

Man, I really gotta stop so much reading Sartre.

As for myself, I’m still on the fence on whether to deem the year a success or a failure. A lot of bad happened this year, but that bad just opened the door for the good. On the surface, most people will think I had a horrible year – I left my beloved, yet increasingly stale adopted hometown of Charleston for a job opportunity in Kansas City, only for said job to blow up in my face a few months later. After that, I decided to leave the soon-to-be-dead terrestrial radio game for good (a move I had thought about doing for the last five years, yet never found the nerve to achieve) and made my way to the City of Brother Love, or the City of shooting your Brother in his stupid face, depending on what you read or see on CNN. Here I began pursuing a degree in Digital Media at well-respect Art School (only 2 semesters left!) and landed a great paid internship as a Design Intern. Sure, between tuition and the sky-rocketing gas prices I’m just barely scraping by, but at least there’s a certain dignity to it.

Yeah, and I fell in love, blibbity, blah, blah, blah…guh. D* and I have been together for over 6 months now, and it’s a very comfortable place to be. We’ve discussed our long-term plans with each other, and I think it’s safe to say that we’ll be in this partnership for a long time, but also be sure to let things progress as slowly as they come. Which makes me wonder how patient D intends on being.

Anyone who knows me or has loyally read my old columns knows I don’t really care for children. When a girlfriend visited recently, she told me that if and when she has kids, I have to be nice to them. No, really. Those were her exact words. When I asked for a specific instance of when I wasn’t nice to a kid, she couldn’t pinpoint any, so I declared that her argument had little merit, but deep down, I know she’s sort of right. I’m nice to kids, but they can and usually do annoy me. I think they’re interesting because of their inability to be rational, but that’s also the basis of my anti-stance against them. Kids are selfish attention-whores, much like myself, and I don’t like the competition. It might sound harsh, but trust me. I think a lot of people feel this way, but don’t have the balls to say it, out of fear that they’ll seem uncompassionate and with little virtue. Luckily for them, my lady balls require a wheelbarrow and I’m not afraid to whip them out on occasion.

Of course, maybe it’s just the 29 year old Jessica talking, and the 33 year old Jessica will feel differently, maybe even a bit maternal. I kind of hope she does, at least for D’s sake. I think that by choosing not to breed, I’m doing the world a huge favor. But by settling down with D, I can’t help but think I might be depriving the world of an awesome dad. He’s patient, affection, kind, playful, but disciplined and rational. God knows we need more fathers like him in the world. Though he seems okay with my unyielding apathy towards kids, he could start resenting me if I do indeed choose to remain childless, and that would be horrible for both of us.

Maybe I’m worrying too much about our future as a couple, but these are things one has to consider when another person is enthusiastically planning to be a part of the other’s life. Kids can be a make it or break it deal for most couples, and I pray it never comes to that.

Plus childbirth is totally icky. Totally.

*The BF 4-EVA, doncha know.

So like I mentioned in my last post (which was far too long ago and I apologize), I’m working in the design department of a large health insurance provider for the next few months. Since I’m also attending school while working fulltime, I haven’t had much time to write…or meet people…or go out. But I really can’t complain. I’m learning a lot and actually don’t mind living the 9 to 5 lifestyle (Except for the traffic. As a former traffic reporter, I can safely say that the north wins the prize for most aggressive, road-ragin’ drivers. A couple weeks ago, I saw two dudes pull over to the side of the road, get out of their cars and just start throwing punches, without even one of them taking the time to declare, “It’s go time, bitch!”)

But anyway, about the job, I’ve gotta tell you, it’s a bit clique-y here. Since I’ve never worked for a large company before, I can’t help but notice the similarities of this environment in relation to the same one I was trying to rebel against during my teenage years. As I speak, there’s a gift-wrapping party in the conference room. And guess who has two thumbs and wasn’t invited? This girl right here. So in that sense, it’s EXACTLY like high school for me. And just like in high school, I keep thinking to myself, “You are all blind sheep. Keep following your flock, sheep! Race to the slaughter!” That’s right, even then my angsty thoughts flowed in haiku form. And then I would slide on my headphones, pull my hoodie low over my brow, and slump in my chair. Almost 12 years later, I put in my iPod ear buds and make it look like I’m busy manipulating something in Photoshop and can’t be bothered with such awesome, fun workplace activities such as wrapping presents from Kohl’s, listening to a Christmas mix CD, and sharing a tin of chocolate-covered potato chips. Gaaaaay.

I apologize to any homosexual readers out there. Comparing you to the lamest office party ever was a low, unnecessary blow.

I can almost find every often-overlooked high school stereotype in my workplace. There’s the jock-like loud-talker, who is always trying to one-up you in whatever conservation he interrupts at the time. You were stuck in traffic for 2 hours? Yeah? Well, guess what? He was stuck in traffic for 2 and a half hours! Your parents are coming over for the holidays? Oh yeah? Well, not only is his entire immediate family coming over, but so is his non-English speaking former host family from Uruguay! You had a really good steak dinner the other day? Really? Fuck that! His steak kicks your steak’s ass! Boo-yah! Face!

You have the charming, good-looking, golden boy that causes the woman to giggle coyly with every word he utters. This especially goes for the pregnant chick and older women. Not that he isn’t a nice guy, but the ladies’ reaction to him is so obvious. He’s the kid that you’re social studies teacher wishes she could’ve banged — or maybe she did if you went to school in Florida. Boy, do they love them some hot female teacher-on-student action down there.

There’s the quiet gay guy – you know that kid from High School. The one that figured if he kept his mouth shut, nobody would pick up on his lisp and accuse him off checking out his bird-chested classmates in the locker room. We’ve got the D.T.H. chick – as in “desperate to hang”. She’s not very attractive or interesting, but she’s constantly doting on the more popular kids, hoping that one day she’ll get mono, shed 30 pounds and become one of them.You have the not-so-popular kid, who is only affiliated with the popular crowd because he’s in charge. The whiny over-achiever is here, too. So is the perpetually hung-over hipster and believe it or not, it’s not me. I’m the lowly, bottom-of-the-wrung, anti-social weirdo. Some things never change.

Whatever. I’m the coolest one here and they don’t even know it.

But don’t fret – since I’ll be forced to spend an obscene amount of time in front of the computer, I’m sure I’ll blog as a healthy distraction to feed my sick procrastinations. Ah, who am I kidding. I’ll probably just spend my time googling for celebrity nudie pics.

As much as I’d like to continue slacking off, I realized that the season definitely calls for a new post. Halloween, once the holiday for costumed children and minor amateur vandalism, is now widely received as the sluttiest day of the year. So it’s time for my annual Crazy Happy Costume Round-up!

Hilarious! Look! It’s a white guy dressed as a Mexican! Now, since Halloween is a time to dress as either something you aspire to be or something you wish to mock, something tells me that the wearer of such a costume is probably going with the later. Seriously, why is it okay to dress like this, but Ted Danson gets booed at Friars Club Roast for wearing blackface? At least Ted Danson had some decent jokes prepared. I can already picture the wearer seriously getting into character, and making obvious wacky Carlos-Mencia-esque quips such as, “If you really want to build a wall, amigo, who do you think is going to build it, eh? Ay-yi-yi-yi!” Then he’ll down a bottle of cheap tequila and choke on his own vomit. As Pedro would say, “You never saw such a wiener.”

Did someone say “wieners”?! Here comes a sexy Border Patrol Agent. And she’s hungry! Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you – that’s a PLUS SIZE sexy costume. And she’s dressed as every Minuteman’s wet dream. They would most likely crank one out to this picture while Lee Greenwood’s “Proud to be an American” plays in the background. And I don’t mean to make fun of my plus-sized sisters, but if you wear this costume, you’re kind of asking for it.

And this dude is asking to be punched in the cock. The one below the waist. I’m actually afraid to ask how many College of Charleston students saw this at the Costume shop on Savannah Highway and were like “Duuuuuudes, check it! Aw man, this is perfect! Y’know, because I’m like a Gamecock fan and I like big cock. What? No, man. I didn’t just say that. Why would I say I like cock? No, you’re gay. Whatever dude. Look, lemme go pay for this so we can get back to the frat and get ready for the big circle jerk on a Chips Ahoy. Go Cocks!!!”

Listen, I KNOW crazy chicks are hot. But you see, truly crazy chicks don’t know they’re crazy. Therefore, if a chick choses this costume, she’s not crazy. She’s just a dumb whore whose arms are strapped down so she can’t push away the dudes who are trying to force feed her a spunk-glazed Chips Ahoy.

This costume reminds me of a hoity-toity play I heard about on NPR in which a woman finds a letter from her husband’s mistress thanking him for the pearl necklace. This infuriates the wife, not because he cheated, but because he never gave her anything nice like a pearl necklace. The husband keeps warning her that she wouldn’t like this particular necklace, but the wife continues to nag him until he sits her down, unbuttons his pants with his back to the audience and proceeds to wank out a strand on her neck. And that was the end of the play. Anti-climatic, much like this costume. Because you know if someone actually took this douche up on his offer, he wouldn’t be able perform, let alone finish.

The costume looks normal at first glance, but you know what it’s name is? “She’s da Bomb.” Yep, a bomb costume. She’s holding a detonator for Chrissakes! Because suicide bombings are not only hilarious, but clearly very, very sexy. We can only hope that detonator actually works, and when she blows up, the only things remaining will be a pile of dust, a scorched blond weave, those f-me boots, and some dead coochie-crabs.

Um, really? You’re just a giant vag? Who told you this was a good idea? Take a second and look at the guy’s face. He doesn’t exactly fit the mold of a choad who would be like, “Dude, I’m gonna be a big old Red Snapper! Nyuck, nyuck!” I bet his friends told him that if he wore this costume, he would definitely loose his virginity tonight, and he just didn’t know any better. That sad, pathetic, limp, little 38 year-old man.

So this costume is actual pretty funny. A sexy pilgrim. SEXY. PILGRIM. If you wore this outfit back in the 1600s, you’d be tried as a witch and have your tits lopped off before they drowned you in a sack filled with rocks and kittens. Hopefully next year they’ll come out with a sexy Amish costume. I’d totally rock that.

Okay, I just had to include a couple dog costumes. I don’t know why I find the Jew dog costumes so funny. Probably because somewhere out there, there’s doggie KKK costumes to balance it all out.

Awww, she not only dresses like Paris Hilton, she poses like her too!

And finally, I’ll end this round-up with the one costume that no teenager should ever wear unless he seriously needs to get his ass whooped. Or peed on. Happy Halloween, bitches!

While lounging in a sparsely furnished living room in West Philly, my roommate Brooke and I found ourselves mesmerized by – wait for it – a “Girls Next Door” Marathon on the E! Channel. For those of you unfamiliar with this particular program, it follows Hugh Hefner’s 3 big fake booby, peroxided girlfriends as they go about their unproductive day in the Playboy Mansion. Clearly, not only is this show way overdue to win a Peabody award, but if these girls would just take the time out of their busy schedule of seeing who can fit their fist in their mouth and fill out an application, I’m sure the MacArthur foundation would gladly hand over a grant. In case you couldn’t tell, I’m being sarcastic. It’s so hard to tell on the paper.

Anyway, let me assure you that I was not the one who chose to watch the program. It was all Brooke. Brooke is currently pursuing her PhD in Visual Anthropology, but still has a soft spot in her heart for bad television, and occasionally exploits that love when she needs a distraction from studying. Which is great for me – we have easily bonded over “America’s Next Top Model” and “Kid Nation”. But today, she is studying “Girls Next Door” with a slight tilt of the head and an analytical eye. She finally asks me, “So, why do they do it?”

“Well, because they’re set for life”, I reply, “They have a contract with Hef, free room and board, a monthly stipend, and when he kicks it, they each get a couple mil.”

Brooke thought for a moment, and then, with a completely straight face, said, “Y’know, to be set for life, I’d suck old dick every day for a year.”

Amen, sister, amen.

Needless to say, this brought up a lively debate in the household. Would you be willing to *be* with a rich senior citizen for security? And how long would you be willing to do it for? What’s your line and what’s your rates?

Since I don’t start working for a couple of weeks, I’d have to say that my standards have probably lowered a little. Look, I’ve been with older men before, but we’re going even further than that. We’re not debating a measly twenty year difference. We’re talking late seventies and beyond, to the point when gravity has seriously taken it’s toll, and there could be some diaper changing involved. Plus keep in mind that at that age, things might take a wee-bit longer to, how shall I put this, finish up? Think about all the work you’d have to put into it. And what if he’s on Viagra like Hef? Ay, yi, yi. Man, there’s so many things to consider!

I refuse to believe that no one doesn’t have a price. Unless one is so well off that they never need to consider such things, but even those privileged people must at least hypothetically work it out in their heads out of boredom while lounging by the pool. I also am not presenting this as a life or death situation, like you have no choice but to make money by prostitution. I just want to know for my own wild fantasies, what’s the price?

I finally decided on one million dollars to make mouth sex with a senior citizen once a day for a year. But if he missed out on the day’s sexual gratification, he wouldn’t be able to roll it over to the next day – these ain’t no Cingular minutes, Grandpa. And he had to inform me before he finished so I could get the hell out of the way.

Brooke was a lot more laissez-faire about the whole thing – she didn’t have as many rules, but believe it or not, she’s also seems a lot more comfortable with sex than I am, so maybe that has something to do with it.

Perhaps we should give the “Girls Next Door” some credit. Maybe they’re just savvy business women who know how to play the game.

Nah. They’re still dumb whores.

As far as the same old, same old, I’m still desperately looking for a job that doesn’t make me suicidal, still taking classes in digital design, and yes, still dating D*. Can you believe that shit? I really can’t. In fact, I think I deserve a parade in observance of that little miracle, complete with Uncle Sam clowns on stilts and a line of elephants farting in sync to the tune of “Up Where We Belong”.

Last week, I was engaged in a conversation with my first female Philly friend and now roommate Brooke as we lounged in our new living room. She was telling me about a girl that I had met at a queer punk show, the same night I met D. She relayed how that very night, the girl in question broke up with her tranny girl/boyfriend and jumped into bed with another gal pal right away. I commented, “Well, I guess she’s one of those girls who always need to be in a relationship.”

Brooke quizzically looked over at me, opened her mouth, paused, closed it, grinned sheepishly, and quietly replied, “You mean like you?”

Her innocent accusation totally threw me off guard – I had never been one of those girls, ever. In fact, I made fun of those pathetic chicks, frustrated by their inability to rely on their own identity and security, and their fear of being alone for longer than 5 minutes. For the last few years, I wore my bachelorette label with pride, coming and going as I pleased, sleeping with whom I desired, and going out stag almost every night.

But as soon as I arrived in Philadelphia, everything changed. I wanted that relationship. As horrible as it sounds, I wanted to have someone keep tabs on me. So I dated. A lot. In fact, I must’ve gone out with almost 10 guys, and ended up in relationships with 3 of them – not at the same time of course, but almost one right after the other. When I met Brooke, I was dating N* and a few weeks later, when she returned home after a bust of a trip to Guatemala, I was getting over my bust of a relationship with N. The night Brooke and I went to that punk show, I was completely intending to lament over my recent lost love and drown my sorrows in lager. However, D was right across the bar and I jumped back into my newly found pattern.

I keep thinking, “This isn’t me! I don’t date. I don’t get into exclusive relationships. And I don’t let my happiness rely on being in one.” But here I am.

Trying to rationalize my current mindset isn’t an easy task, but when you’re unemployed, you don’t exactly have anything better to do. I think the reason I long for and have found myself in an intense relationship is because I need stability in some facet of my new life. I’m in an unfamiliar town, and looking for a job in a new industry. Everything is foreign and unpredictable. Having that one person in your life that is consistent helps make the transition a little easier. But it does make me wonder if things between D and I will change once I pick up my busy bee lifestyle again. Honestly, I think I’ve dug a hole so far into this relationship already that I don’t see myself wanting to get out, even if forced – and I’m shocked that it doesn’t seem to bother me. My inevitable new working life will eventually merge with the crazy quilt-like patchwork of the one I’ve already stitched together, along with the all people in it.

I explained this to Brooke, who nodded assuringly and said that I was making sense. I’m glad at least someone thinks so, because I still think I’m nuttier than a squirrel turd.

*Just because I’m not private doesn’t mean everyone else isn’t too.

A few months ago, a buddy e-mailed me about a convention in Atlanta. Not just any convention, but one of the largest sci-fi, gaming and comic conventions on the east coast. It’s known as the con for a costumed cast of thousands, including about 250 Stormtroopers – if there was ever a mecca for people-watchers, DragonCon was it. And when my friend told me all I had to worry about covering was my flight down, I was completely on board.

The night before departure while I was charging a borrowed digital camera, I downloaded the PDF file containing the program for the weekend’s festivities. Sure, there were a lot of panels regarding shit I had never heard of, but there was also lots of opportunities to rub elbows with “celebrities”, and my use of quotation marks will make sense after I list a small taste of the prestigious talents attending the con and charging twenty-five smackers for a measly autograph – Lou Ferrigno, Erik Estrada, David Faustino, Micheal Winslow, Vanessa Angel, Kevin Sorbo, like, half of the goddamned cast from Star Trek the Next Generation, and Grammy and Golden Globe Winner Frank Stallone…seriously. But even more exciting, the con hosted a parade, wrestling, robot battles, costume contests, and a Klingon Beauty Pageant. I felt like a kid with ADHD on Christmas Eve just after eating stale candy canes.

After a relatively painless flight, I arrived at the hotel and realized how blazingly normal I was in comparison to the rest of the Con-goers. I had come with the full intention of gawking and making fun of the freaks and geeks, but it quickly became overwhelmingly obvious that I was in the minority. This was their happening. I’m sure in the rest of their day-to-day lives, they have the reputation as being weird, but here it’s different. Everyone else is weird and if you’re a norm in comparison, you’re the black sheep.

The con was full of people who are living out their lost dreams of celebrity. If you ever wanted to know what it’s like to be famous, throw together a kick-ass costume and go to the con. People will clamour to take your picture. And those who do put together a costume know exactly how to pose. Just like lazy-eye Paris Hilton who knows to always turn toward her good side and place a hand on her hip, these larpers had poses that would rival Derrek Zoolander’s “Blue Steel”.

Then you had these people….

WTF?!?!?!

That’s right, he’s looking for a geek girl who is non-smoking and down with Jesus. Actually there were a lot of people wearing badges and carrying signs declaring their single (or swinger) status. Of course, these folks weren’t exactly the most beautiful people in the world, but again, in their town, they’re most likely the creepy weirdos. Here they actually have a chance to find love…and someone to debate the finer point of Battlestar Galactica with.

Eventually I just stopped taking pictures because I felt bad. I know, me, the queen of cynicism had a change of heart. Mainly because I was taking these pictures with the full intention of showing them to my friends and making fun of them. But after awhile, I found myself genuinely fascinated and impressed by their costumes. I was really excited about the Klingon Beauty Pageant and not in an ironic sense. I actually got a little excited when I got on the elevator one morning and found myself sharing it with John DeLancie…Um, “Q” from Star Trek:TNG…hellooo?! See, I was becoming one of THESE people, and I couldn’t make fun of my own. Well, except for these folks.

Effin’ furries. Of course, one con-goer I befriended convinced me that when in Rome…

When I showed this pic to my buddy later, we came to the conclusion that the furry hand on my shoulder was most likely touching some furry dick about an hour ago. Niiiiiice.

The Furry Flash approves.

As I have shared before, my boyfriend D* took a job shortly, actually the exact day of, our first date. It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if we didn’t hit it off so goddamned perfectly and became practically inseperable for the next two weeks before he left for his new temp position in Washington DC. Him being in Washington was and is really no big deal — he comes home almost every weekend and spends every conscious and unconscious moment with me, much to
the dismay of his friends, I’m sure. So it would only be fair that I would come visit him at least one weekend. Besides, the company had put him up in a nice hotel (I’m sucker for hotels, most likely because of my parents’ former gypsy like ways when I was very young), and I hadn’t visited DC since Clinton’s first inauguration back in ‘92. Oh, how I miss those days of ignorant bliss. *Sigh*….

Anyway, there was a bigger reason to save him a trip to Philly — his folks conveniently lived less than 10 miles outside Washington. Yep, I was about to meet the parents.

It was only only fair. Not only had D spent time with my father and stepmother, not the most warmest and entertaining people, on more than one occasion, he had also accompanied me to my devoutly Catholic grandmother’s house in Jersey (and keep in mind, he’s a Jew), where he met her, my mother who was in for a visit, and my talkative, still-living-home uncle who digs t-shirts with depictions of wolves on mountain tops. So the time had finally come to return the favor. It wasn’t that I was annoyed, or even nervous about the prospect of meeting them. I just wanted them to like me. I knew they had met D’s other girlfriends before, but screw those bitches. I wanted to be their favorite.

D and I pulled up to their house in rural Maryland on a Saturday, and his mother came out of the house, as if she had been watching out the window for the moment we hit the driveway. Now D had warned me about her — not that she was mean or anything, but that she was crazy in a good way. Overly warm, extremely talkative, and a bit whacked — nothing I couldn’t handle. Actually, it was kind of nice not being able to not get a word in edge wise rather than struggling to keep the conversation going with a dead fish. His father was the polar opposite. Of course he was friendly, but extremely quiet and even-keeled. And, this is horrible to say, but when I met him, I couldn’t get over how incredibly young he looked. I actually thought, “Holy shit, I’ve fucked guys that look older than him.”

They couldn’t have been more hospitable. D’s mother offered us drinks and snacks, like, every 5 minutes, in between the extensive tour of her home and collectible modern furniture — it was hard to keep her focused. D’s father relaxed on the couch, every now and then slipping in some dry, witty one liners. They took us to dinner and taught me how to eat crabs, got us ice cream, and fed me wine. And when the time came to go, they hugged me warmly, with Mama D adding, “If you ever want to get away from the city, even if it’s without D, feel free to come out here and visit anytime. I usual find myself getting close with D’s girlfriends.”

I thought, “Damn, how many girlfriends has he brought home?! “

Alright, I’m not going to unleash the crazy this go ’round. I’ll let that comment slide.

The next day on our way to the Smithsonian museums, D’s mother called. “Where are you guys? DC? Great, I’m on my way there. I’ll meet up with you!”

D very gently put the kibosh on that idea, and when she pressured him for a dinner date with us that night, he sidestepped the request like a slick politician.

A guy friend once told me, “Y’know, Jess, you’re the kind of girl you date, not the kind of girl you take home to meet your mother.” I know, what an asshole. Needless to say, I’m not friends with him anymore, but that comment left an undeniable scar in my psyche. For a while, I actually believed that about myself, and it was partly the reason why I never let myself get involved in a serious relationship. I truly believed I would never be good enough. Then when I met D*, I decided I didn’t want to think that way anymore, and just by making that declarative statement, it actually worked. But I’d be lying if I don’t have the more than occasional relapse. Jesus, if I didn’t have the relapses, this stupid blog wouldn’t even exist.

Luckily, the parents helped reassure me that I’m in the right place with D. He likes me enough to introduce me to his parents, and they liked me so much, they wanted a second helping. So maybe I am the kind you DO take home to mother. Suck it, Rick James.

* - One of these days I’ll reveal D’s real name. Just not today.