Houseguests - The Other White Meat
by Michele Christopher
Today's guest writer is Lovemonkey. According to her blog, she's a single, divorced, widowed woman with obvious and completely understandable identity issues. She has cats, candles and a tendency to overindulge in the use of parenthesis. And in this editor's humble opinion, she's hella funny. Enjoy.
Way Too Long Introduction
Because it's that time of year, and/or because I've been talking a lot about this lately, I will write about houseguests, even though it is a difficult subject for me considering all I've been through and my condition and the fact I think I'm coming down with the bird flu. Or Crones Disease. Or something.
Anyway. Houseguests. Thoughts of people arriving at my door with a suitcase makes me start twitching uncontrollably. You see, other people's guests arrive with an overnight bag, while my guests tend to bring steamer trunks.
I live in a small space and I've lived in small spaces for - well forever. But my cramped quarters never stop the overnight guests from arriving uninvited. They are used to small spaces, you know, like the ones on their credit card limits, places way too small to accomodate a hotel charge of $130 a night. Most of my visitors are family and well, what are you going to do - say no? No. No no's for family. Ok. But every once in a while you say a yes or you don't say a no when you know you should say no to non-family members. No, no, no, fuck no to be exact.
Like the time I didn't say no to the husband-at-the-time's- friend-I-had-only-met-once and his new-internet-girlfriend-who-owned-the-online-sex-toy-shop. Uh huh. I know. I win the Dufus of the Year award, thank you all so much I don't know what to say this is such an honor. Anyway Almost Complete Stranger and his girlfriend pulled into the driveway in the pickup truck, and I knew I had made a truly horrible mistake. Being alive I mean.
You're going to think I'm making this up, because how can anyone be so Northern Canadian but I'm not kidding, she got out of the pickup truck and she had a mullet.
They came in immediately taking up more room than I had imagined and I tried to find some extra space for them - yes them and their several trunks. She immediately started talking about her online sex shop and didn't stop talking about it until she was getting in the truck to head home. In particular she wanted to talk (with my husband at the time) about her website - get his help with it, which it turns out was the whole point of the visit. Ok. I was happy to go into the kitchen (alone) to cook something. When I came back to check on the progress not much had changed. They were still sitting in on the same sofa and chair too small for their bigger than I imagined bodies talking. Then my husband at the time said something truly terrifying like
"Internet Girlfriend writes too. Maybe you can let her read some of your poetry?"
You know, you gotta love John Hughes. I mean even if you think his movies are silly pieces of crap, which I don't because I'm twelve, you have to admit, every once in a while you wish you could put a cool wacky soundtrack to your life, you know, like he did for his characters. At this moment, as the words were leaving my huband-at-the-time's mouth, I remembered the scene in Sixteen Candles when Molly Ringwald's grandmother suggests she take Long Duck Dong to the school dance. You know, not so much the gong noise, but the way her mouth dropped open and then she realized it was opened, so she closed it quickly. yeah, that's what I did. And then I said,
Survival Tactics (or as I lovingly refer to them) - Plan B
I shared my plans with all at the breakfast table the next morning as I sat across from Internet Girlfriends tits. Yeah, the girls were making their appearance underneath a too-flimsy-for-mixed-company-before-ten am nighty. Sidenote: mullets don't look any better in the morning. I didn't get much of a response to my activity schedule since Internet Girlfriend was showering my husband with gifts - a fuzzy rabit with a penis keychain and a brass mermaid cigarette lighter with light up tits and a fiery Whohah. Yeah, you heard me, flames came shooting out of her scaley crotch. They all pissed themselves laughing. I considered suicide. Again. Something very quick, I concluded.
I dragged everyone anywhere that wasn't my place all day long, feeling good about crossing one more day of their stay off the calendar. That night they made an announcement that they just wanted to "hang out" tomorrow. Yeah, I'm not kidding they said "hang out." Hey I guess that makes sense - you travel to somewhere you've never been, travel to another country and what you naturally want to do is spend all your time "hanging out" in a small overcrowded second floor walk up. Yeah, that seems about right.
So I did what I normally do in these situations. What anyone would do, really. I cried. I went in the kitchen to wash dishes and I called my sister and I whispered into the phone something like I can't stand these people anymore and I cried.
God Took Pity Upon Me
No. I'm not pulling the God card. I did not give up on this story and decide to pick a cheap quick way to end it. It really happened. God answered my prayers. Ok, I don't know if I prayed really. I mean there was no down on your knees stuff, but when I went to bed that night I said something like dear fucking god please make this stop. Or something. And at 3:00 am, a miracle. The miracle of birth to be exact. Internet Girlfriend's daughter (yes there are offspring) gave birth. See how this mullet thing gets out of control? Anyway, the next day they were sorry they had to cut their visit short but they really had to go. And oh isn't that a shame, but congratulations on the new baby and have a safe trip back - goodbye! I said as I stood in the driveway waving, waving, waving, shooing them away until they were safely out of sight.
Moral of the Story