Monthly Archives: December 2009

*Why yes, I am happy to see you

I went to OCB yesterday with a couple of buddies of mine for our annual chow down, when from across the parking lot I spotted my ex-wife walking up to Borders, with who I thought was the Fat Lady from the circus. She was even too fat for one of those “before” photos.  I’m telling you those flip-flops she was sporting must have had at least ten lbs of flab drooping over each side.

Anyway, I’ve never talk about that marriage or subsequent divorce, and my friends who knew me back than know better than to bring it. Even when we’re drunk and busting chops. However, these guys I was with didn’t know me back then. So, against my best judgment, I decided to be the nice guy, go over, and wish Raluca “Happy Holidays”.

Now, when we were involved, which is now sixteen years ago, Raluca was on the thinner side of body-types. She never exercised a day in her life, not one. She thought she was above that. She would eat like a bird and her reasoning was that one could maintain a healthy shape by cutting way back on calories. Plus, we would also save a lot of money on groceries, membership/entry fees, etc.

But this also came from the same person who would have to eat at those chic restaurants and sip drinks at the same clubs where you’d see celebrities at each weekend to keep up her appearances. Her dream was to be in one of those socialite photos. Yeah, you’re married to Mr. Dart League, a guy who wears Bears, ‘Hawks and DePaul boxers and used to have a subscription to Cherry, and you’re suddenly going to be a Socialite. Gimme a fucking break. This is the same woman who gave it up on our first date in the mens room, and that was after only knowing each other for about thirty-six hours.

So, as I’m walking up, I notice that she’s about fifteen lbs lighter, which would put her at 105lbs on a 5’8” frame. Plus she had obviously caught the euro-trash bug as she was decked out in spandex pants and 6” pumps. It’s like fifteen degrees outside (and icy) and this stupid bitch is wearing fuck-me pumps. Plus her hair looked like she got jumped by five angry squirrels. Typical. Ok, ok, it would be fine if it was nighttime and she was going out clubbin’, but it’s the middle of a Saturday, in Lincolnwood, and she’s dressed to trick. In fact, if I didn’t know her, I would have assumed she was one. Hey, the corner of Pulaski and Roosevelt is calling and they want their skank back.

A nanosecond before Hi came out of my mouth, I made eye contact with the circus lady. It was her sister Elana! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Elana was the driving force behind our divorce. She would help Raluca find herself in compromising situations back in the day and I swear she was a witch. I’m not just saying that. This woman would give Marilyn Manson the heebee-geebee’s.

You have to keep in mind how spooked one feels when they go to the in-laws for dinner in a house full of candles, people speaking only Romanian, and teenagers dressed like Emo’s, before it was remotely chic. Plus, you have Mama laid out on a bed (in the front room), incapacitated for the last eleven years, whispering to an unseen force all the time, in Romanian. Sometimes she would shout to whoever/whatever she had been whispering to. No TV, no music, no pets. Old family photos filled the walls and silence filled the gaps in between Mama’s whispers and shout outs. Very fucking creepy. Elana would always be at Mama’s side, looking at me while Mama whispered in her ear. WTF? The situation grew creepier every week. A fair-skinned boy marries into the Adams Family. OK, I wasn’t using my best judgment and now I can appreciate all helpful advice everyone tried to give me.

But, dating Raluca was fun, the sex was great and she pretty much stayed out of my business. She had her thing and I had mine, plus we had ours. I thought that seemed like an ideal arrangement for a starter marriage, so we got married. I tried not to put too much thought or energy into how creepy her family was, I have a few nuts in my family tree too. But, little things started to happen, such as her fucking other people (men and women), quitting her job to help Elana with Mama, getting really pissed when I had friends over for MNF and the coup-de-grace was my suddenly dead cat.  All this within ten months. Then, in March, she tells me that we need to move in with her family because Elana is going to Romania for a few months. Oh, hell no.

This meant war with Elana, and the Dark Side had her back. Man, I was not looking forward to this. But, I got a hold of an attorney and an alderman (ex-cop and brother of a judge) and they agreed that they could squeak through a quick divorce if I dropped my lawsuit against my landlord (brother-in-law of another judge). Oh, hell yes. So, to make this long story a little shorter, I got the divorce as gypsies don’t have much pull with the Irish and Elana would have to postpone her trip back to the motherland. I moved into an efficiency down in Hyde Park (then I could see them coming) for a few months and didn’t see any of them until one of the brothers appeared on the news. I won’t even go into that mess.

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Dead Money: Part 2

I made sure that Big Paul understood that her phone number was the prize and not anything remotely close to what was running through his hormone-fueled thoughts.  There would be no gettin’ lucky tonight. Well, only if she initiated it with him. But I knew the odds were better of me getting the clap from the toilet seat, than of him hooking up tonight with a twenty two year old, out-of-the-blue, nymphomaniac.

I could tell that being able to relax and focus on only seven numbers was taking an enormous amount of pressure off of him. However, to avoid any confusion, I told him not to touch anyone and not to order anyone a Sex On The Beach, Piece Of Ass or Blow Job. In fact, I will order the booze when the time is right. You just stand there and not lose the game. Ok, Kyle Orton?

The buxom brunette/girl next door was hanging back from the herd once the jackals circled around them, so she seemed a plausible target. Mentally she was already separated from the herd, now we had to spiritually and physically get her away from them.  I knew that as long as she was close to them, as long as she was within “Hey” distance, she could draw strength from the herd and they could sap strength from us. Therefore, we had to get her over to our side of the bar by the pool table.

Basically, everything was already in our favor. They were standing near the front door on the coldest night of this early winter. So every time somebody would come in, the ladies were hit with an arctic blast. Yes, they had a TV over there, but it was tuned to ESPN. Ours had sitcoms. Cute little drinking games can be played while those. They had the vultures circling around them. We were the only guys on this side of the bar, well, except for the fella with neatly trimmed beard. But, he was as queer as a football bat and not perceived as a threat to her or our mission. In addition, we had the pool table, dartboards, empty bar stools, the large front windows and my big tipper status to expedite our drink orders.

Between us and the herd were the jukebox and the restrooms. The jukebox could only be turned on by the bartender, Gigi. She would do it, but you had to make sure to play a few of her favorites first. We’re talking about the likes of Free Bird, Stairway To Heaven, White Wedding, and Pour Some Sugar On Me, your jukebox classics. The rest of the songs chosen had to be Christmas songs.

Now we waited for Girl Next Door to go to the restroom, then we could catch her (figuratively speaking) on her way out. In the meantime, I explained a few more things to Big Paul. She needs a safe zone, away from the jackals and that’s what we’re going to give her. Once you get her talking at the jukebox, look at the herd and jackals and say something like “Wow, looks like you guys are in for a rough evening, heh.” Then point over to me and the Beard. I’ll make sure to be talking to him when you’re over there.  Also, let her know that we’re sampling drinks with weird names like a Bartman, Scooby Snack, Buzz Lightyear, etc. Again, do not mention Sex On The Beach, Piece Of Ass, Wet Dream or Blow Job or anything of the sort. Then tell her we’re sampling some Flintstones next. Don’t ask her to join us, tell her she’s “more than welcome to join us” as you’re walking back to our spot. Moreover, don’t look desperate or horny.

Oh, we also needed to keep her facing us and away from the herd, so she can’t get a disapproving look or a glance from the herd. Also, one more time, do not put those giant mitts anywhere on her. Oh yeah, you have maybe a foot of height on her, so make sure to stay seated, so as not to always be the giant in the room. Getting her number will be easiest part of the PSYOP. After our second sample, right at the beginning of us reacting to something funny being said by me or the beard, you say… “Oh, a bunch of us are going Christmas Caroling on the 16th, why don’t you join us?” I’ll make sure the Beard backs you up.

Whew! I think I covered everything with him, but you can’t take anything for granted. So then I went over and talked to The Beard. I explained everything that was happening and he thought it was funny. He glanced over at Big Paul and said anything to help the guy out. Besides, his friend hadn’t showed up yet, so he was bored and would like something to do anyway.

So now everything is laid out, after twenty minutes she goes to the restroom, Big Paul talks to her at the jukebox, and about fifteen minutes later after watching Gigi make us a Flaming Gay Morgan (in honor of The Beard, which he really did think was funny, plus I asked Gigi to make it over by the herd so the Girl Next Door could see it), she joins us. We had a couple of more drinks (I can’t remember what), she bit on the caroling and everything was going smooth. Everybody’s a winner tonight! Big Paul got his number and in his mind a pseudo date, the Girl Next Door got away from the heard on her own terms, The Beard made a few friends and I got to bask in all my glory of King of PSYOP’s and a pimp of sorts.

Satisfied with the outcome, I decided to hit the men’s room. On the way over there, I bumped into a girl I know and we talked for about ten minutes about this and that, then I took care of business, washed my hands and face, made a call in the hallway that lasted maybe three minutes and headed out towards our spot.

As I walked out, I see Big Paul pointing and yelling at some pretty boys and the blonde Ice Queen, “You’re an asshole, you’re an asshole, you’re an asshole and you’re a whore!” I was going to just slip out of there quietly, but The Beard motioned me to get back over there. Evidently, some of the herd and the jackals joined our crowd while I was taking care of business. Pretty Boys being how they are must have said something that messed with our plan, Big Paul tried to re-establish our dominance, Pretty Boys tried to assert theirs, yada, yada.  So now, everything I planned and executed was for nothing. The Herd left with the Jackals and Big Paul stormed out alone, again.

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*Dead Money: Part 1

Dead Money – Player in the tournament but has no chance of winning

Maybe I was still pissed about the Bears looking like crap this season or maybe it was the Anti-Cruelty Association turning me down to adopt another cat, again. I dunno. Nevertheless, I still went over to the Oasis for a few drinks tonight (solo). And since it’s about 8 degrees outside (without factoring in the lake wind), I wasn’t in the mood for cold beer, so I settled into my barstool and ordered Tequila.

Big Paul lives above the bar, in what is known around here as “Wife Beater Inn”. The cops are there so often for domestic disputes that they might as well have a booking station in the lobby. It’s not that it’s an eyesore or a slum, they just always seem to have trouble brewing 24/7. Maybe there’s a poltergeist or something.

So maybe twenty-five people were in the bar when I got there, with Big Paul was sitting by himself, and me, being the cool guy that I am, I pulled up the stool next to him, ordered a shot and gave him the “Sup, dude”. We talked a few minutes about the Bears, Notre Dame’s coach search, etc, then the evenings main attraction shows up. In walks these a cackle of girls from Loyola University. A good mix if I can say so myself: Tall, short, blonde, brunette, redhead (real or a great dye job), emo, GND, flirty, demure, drunk, truly drunk, ice queen, and one girl definitely the whore of the group. They were representing at least one preference or fantasy, maybe two, for each guy tonight.

Now I can’t say I know the Big Paul very well, but I do know that he moved here from Downstate a few years ago and enjoys a good Absolut Mixer. Unfortunately, you can take one look and know the guy is not a ladies man. He’s maybe 6’ 4”, 300lbs, with a head that looks like a loaf of Irish Soda Bread. On the plus side, he is smart and a good conversationalist. However, being current on 90201 or Gossip Girl will only get you so far if you don’t sport a Lexus, six figures or a nightstick, if you know what I mean. Evidently, Big Paul has none of those qualities.  I say this because I always see him leave by himself or see him just staring at the talent as I’m leaving. But hey, the Giants weren’t supposed to win the Super Bowl last January either, right?

No matter the odds, you have to play to win the game, and the game tonight was wide open. Of the twenty-five people in the bar when I got there, twenty-one were guys, without counting Ruby, the man-hating-dyke. So, I was doing the math in my head as Big Paul was mumbling something to himself and I kinda figured it was something along the lines of not having a shot with these ladies. I hate to see anyone down on themselves, so I asked Big Paul which of the ladies he preferred and he said the Blonde or the whore. Hmmmm, they had all taken off their hats now and I couldn’t tell if his blonde was the ice queen blonde or the demure blonde that had just walked in. The whore was going to look like a whore no matter what color her hair was.

My plan was simple. I was going to be Big Paul’s Wing Man tonight and we were at least get him a number. It might be fake, but it wouldn’t matter. Tonight Big Paul was going to walk out of the Oasis with his chest out and seven digits in his hand.

(I have to hit the sack now, as I have to get up early to meet the bosses at work. I will have part 2 posted by lunch)

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