Red Headed Sluts

I’ve always said, you gotta know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.

One of my best friends decided to fold ‘em today.  He gave it his best shot though.  And lesser men would have walked away from the trouble of it all a long time ago.  Speaking of shots, ours used to be the Red Headed Slut.  Red Headed Sluts put the poor guy in the hospital one night.  It was our silent little side joke of a toast to me.  The sweet-at-first, burns-on-the-way-down, makes-you-act-insane, one ounce glass of trouble that I am.  Funny how one little glass of Jaeger, Peach Schnapps and cranberry can embody me so well.  Sweet as a peach when I want to be.  Sour as an unripe cranberry at times.  And crazy as a bottle of Jaeger.

Problem was, he was crazy too.  And if you’ve ever played with the like-charged sides of a magnet you know that the poles never come together.  They just dance around on the table in this crazy dance with no rhyme or reason. 

And so we fell to bits and pieces. 

And then all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men put us back together again.  As friends.  And despite the reigning idea that a person with a penis and a person with a vagina cannot ever, under any circumstances, be just friends, we did it.  We defied the laws of the universe.  And somehow neither of us – and no one is going to believe me on this one – ever wanted to have sex with the other.   Never.  Nada.  Nope.  Nothing.  We truly had found a cure for sexual tension between men and women, and were on our way to creating the best friendship known on Earth.  How great is it to have a member of the opposite sex to consult on relationship issues who really, truly doesn’t want to get you naked?  No ulterior motives. 

But then Life road in on her Wicked Witch of the West broomstick and got in the way again.  Life has a way of being a bitch like that.  Just when the party’s gettin’ good and the bar is hoppin’ life turns on the lights and it’s last call closing time.  Every time you think you’ve got it all figured out, she changes everything.  And that’s why you have to learn to roll with the punches.  Don’t sweat the small stuff.  Because in twenty-five seconds it could all change.  Like it said, know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. 

And for various and sundried reasons he left.  He folded on the friendship.

So tonight at the bar I’m drinking Red Headed Sluts.  And toasting to us.  Because we defied all logic and stereotype and proved that men and women (hell even ex-lovers, ex-husbands and wives, ex-boyfriends and girlfriends) can, if they get over themselves and their petty issues, actually be friends.  And can do it without wanting to do dirty things to each other.  And more than one person has told me that we gave them hope and that we gave them something to believe in. 

And you didn’t really fold on us.  Real friends are always there.  When you really need it most and when you expect it least.  If you ever need picked up at the hospital, bailed out of jail, swooped from the drunk tank, saved from a bar fight, or scarped off the floor when your whole world comes crashing down around you, a real friend will always be there.  And I’ll always be there.  And he’ll always be there. And he got me through the tough stuff.  And now I’m ok.  And that’s what friends do.  They make it ok again when you think it can’t be.

So I’ll say it again. If, at the end of this long and twisting road of sex, drugs and rock and roll, we meet again, I’ll be there waiting for you with a six-pack of Bud and a bag of stories.  And we’ll toast to the good times, and the bad times, and the tears, and the laughs.  And just remember that I’m never too far away.  And I’m always here if you need a shoulder or a shot to get rid of your tears.  Just remember; always know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.  

The Princess and the Power Mower

I’m going to tell a fairy tale.  This is not a happy tale.  This is more a fable or a parable.  It has a moral.  And like the original Grimm Brothers fables, it can be, well, grim at times.

I have one regret in life.  One time I called a man my lover.  I called this same man an uneducated, illiterate fool who would never amount to anything.  Or something to that effect.  I wish I hadn’t done that.  I’ve learned to bite my tongue.

I never thought I’d see the day that I was working hourly, under a brick-oven sun for this same man.  Or that’d I would be excited, even blood-hungry crazy, for this 13 bucks an hour.  Neither did he.

Life’s a funny bitch like that.  She’s a jokester she is.  She gets drunk and conjures up all sorts of strange ideas.  And once you learn to accept her for who she is, life gets easier.  She’s just that insane friend we all have.  You’ve known her since you were five years old.  You probably met on the playground when she showed you how to kiss boys behind the slide.  You stayed friends though high school because she drove your drunk ass around when you couldn’t hold your head up.  Now you’d never be friends if you met her at work because she’s nuts.  However, because you met her when you were only five years old, when you didn’t know any better, you’re still friends.  And she gets a kick out of the jokes she plays on you.  But I digress.

And here I am.  Almost two years after we broke it off due to irreconcilable differences I am a Carehart-wearing lawn girl with my ex-boyfriend as my boss.  I like to think I held my own pulling, and pushing, and shoving, and moving, and raking and baking, and extricating.  I walked the walk and talked the talk. I swaggered and I dropped the G’s off the end of my active verb conjugations.  I blew snot rockets and hawked loogies.  I had my first real urge to light up a Marlboro Red and spit at things that I passed in my big red landscaping truck.  I probably looked every bit the over-educated, upper middle class nerd that I am.  But I’m going to pretend that I didn’t.

To add insult to injury, as if life hadn’t proved her point already, I got fired, or rather laid off, by my boyfriend turned boss.  Apparently his girl back home disliked the idea of us working with each other.  To be more accurate I think she disliked the idea of us being with a ten state radius of each other let alone a ten-foot radius.  But again, I digress.  The point is I got fired.

The moral of this story (because all good stories should have morals) is that if you are a bitch, and say mean things, life will turn your world around.  Karma is real shit.  Not to be messed with.  And that is how I ended up working hourly for my ex-lover who I once thought was stupid and would never amount to anything.  And then we rode off into the sunset of a big, red rider mower and lived happily ever after.  The end.

PS Rob I’m sorry.  I take it back.  I’m proud of you.  You rock.