Marriage: July 2008 Archives

Our idea of foreplay

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I became both fascinated with and terrified of the macabre back at my family's creaky old lodge in the Ozark wilderness. My villainous older cousins showed me the game Bloody Mary there once during our family's Christmas party. The lodge was an imposing character by itself. It sat a couple of miles off the highway down a narrow, nondescript gravel lane which opened up to a quaint clearing in the middle of the woods. It was Bavarian in appearance and unsettling anachronistic: a three-story tall gingerbread constructed of wood and stone with a giant stone fireplace running up both floors. There was a pond with a waterfall on the property; a half-mile up the lane was a small dam where a foot-wide, fifteen-foot tall slab of concrete held back the dark, still waters of a small lake. My cousins and I used to walk across that slab all the time, unbeknownst to our parents. Falling one way meant certain death on the rocks below. Falling another way seemed worse as we had no idea what lied in that mini Sargasso. Even further up the ridge and deep into the woods was a large, hidden lake. It was pristine and beautiful but we were too afraid to hike down to it because coyotes and pumas were common in the area.

Inside the lodge's interior décor was dated and neglected. The lamps were amber glass; the furniture was gold, olive, and 70s. The atmosphere had that same sepia hue visible in all photos from this era. My aunt and uncle were the property's caretakers; the lodge's owners were a group of rich doctor friends who would stay there a few times throughout the year. Otherwise, we had the run of it.

The lodge was a horror film setting waiting to happen. You have to understand this to understand my horror film neurosis. 

We had our holiday parties at this lodge and while our parents drank, played pool, ate, and visited downstairs, my cousins and I would climb the dark, narrow back stairs and play in the maze of bedrooms on the second floor. During one Christmas party the girls dared the boys to go into the bathroom and say "bloody Mary" three times with one of our folks' stolen cigarette lighters. We were all too chicken except for one cousin who did it, only if we all went into the bathroom together. After the third "bloody Mary" we were spooked and convinced that all hell was after us. It didn't help that the lodge was built like the Winchester house with secret storage areas and multiple staircases. It was the perfect environment for fear to fester. My entire youth is a series of odd vignettes like this, another reason I assume why I'm drawn to kookiness.

Also why I am simultaneously a fan of, and a total pansy about, horror stories and films. (One time in elementary school, after a kid told me a story about murderous teddy bears, I went home and blindfolded and tied the wrists of all the stuffed animals in my room. Then I was afraid to untie them because WHAT IF? They didn't have a motive before but THEY SURE DID NOW. I really wish I was joking.)

Fast-forward to last night. We had just finished watching a ridiculously stupid, yet still pretty freaky horror movie called "Dead Mary" and headed to bed. Chris kept teasing me: like when I was brushing my teeth he'd flick off the lights, poke his head in and whisper "BLOODY MARY." He thought it hysterical. When we climbed into bed, I rolled over, turned off the glass lamp, rolled back towards Chris, and felt a lump in the bed between us. Every synapse in my body simultaneously screamed "FREAK OUT FREAK OUT EVERYBODY FREAK OUT!!" I flipped over, turned on the light, and when I rolled over towards the lump I saw this looking at me:

And because Chris was exploiting my neurosis as a joke and holding it up, I ended up accidentally socking him in the face. Luckily my aim was off because I was half-blind; otherwise I might've broken his nose. He made a big dramatic deal out of it, saying Ohmygawd, it was only Elmo and I was all ohmygawd EXACTLY why, WHY do you do this to me?? Even after the drama died down and the lights were off he giggled into his sheets about it for a half-an-hour. He thought I was asleep ... but really I was just plotting my payback.
I need to call an exterminator. I have discovered a nest of man socks underneath the living room chair:

Guess who's favorite place to sit this is??

I think feet are one of the most disgusting things in existence. I cannot stand them. I don't like touching things that have been on them or touching them, I do not like touching other people's feet, and I don't like them touching mine. I have never gotten a pedicure for this reason and were I forced to get one I would probably throw up. Baby feet are excluded from my neurosis, only until around age three, and Ewan is almost at the age where I will find his ham hocks repulsive. It's just a matter of time.

Seriously, what makes one think Oh HEY! I'm going to take off my socks and STUFF THEM UNDER THE CHAIR instead of taking them upstairs to the hamper? Not once, but repeatedly?

Yes, there's dust under my chair. Just doing my part to keep it real.

Two days' worth right there. Gawd, grody! I can't touch them. In order to grab them and put them in the hamper I have to get the Dyson, affix the hose attachment, and suck them up at the end of the hose before dropping them in the hamper. Superfluous action, I know, but necessary to avoid any flesh-dissolving bacteria associate with cloth footwear.

This positively aggravates me beyond belief. What's even scarier is that Ewan now thinks that stuffing one's spent clothing under furniture is totally acceptable. Do you realize how unnerving it is when guests arrive and you spy a nest of evil beneath the club chair? There is no graceful way to to hide it; I once tried to kick them further under the chair except I kicked too hard and they shot across the hardwood floor much like a giant rat. My guests jumped. After that I'm sure they were so excited to eat the food I cooked for them.

Chris always says that he'll pick them up later. I've decided that later is the time that I'll write about it and post it on the internet.


Chris and I recently attended a party where we were stalked by a swinging couple. I associate "swinging" with stuff that some bored people do in the Ozarks, so obviously I am negatively biased.

How does one say "YOU ARE RAPING MY PERSONAL SPACE" politely? It wasn't my party and I've a bit Bree Hodge in me wherein, in this instance, I literally ran all over the property trying to get away from my female stalker instead of just stating what needed to be said.

It all began when I went to get a drink and an intoxicated girl commented on my figure and then upon hearing that I'd had two children, gushed further about my figure. It got to the point where I was more uncomfortable in her presence than if I were around a herd of cat-calling construction workers. I said thanks and tried to move on. But BETCH WOULD NOT LET ME. She stood in my way and moved her face literally inches from mine and told me how cute she thought I was; I was getting second-hand drunk from her alcohol breath. I thought Joe Francis would hop out of the corner with a camera. At that point I shoved past her and made a beeline for Chris who was engaged in conversation with another guest. I sat down across from him and made dramatic Fivel eyes at him in the hopes that he would walk over and dry hump me, something, anything to really drive home the point that chicks are not my bag unless that bag is shoe shopping. He did not receive my mental message and I made a note to kick him in the balls when we got home.

Then she walked over to me, tried the whole face-right-by-my-face thing again and ohmygawd I held my hands so as not to hit her. I told her to back up but she was too busy breathing heavy to hear me. She was not getting the clue. HOW COULD SHE NOT GET A CLUE?

We recently made friends with the people hosting the soirée and I like them and didn't want to betray my pedigree by beating the holy hell out of one of their guests in their dining room. So I sat there, still as a cigar store Indian until she touched my cheek with her nose at which point I fell out of my seat, jumped up, and followed Chris and another guy out of the room. I literally ran, with my legs, away from her, over to a group of our friends and other guests and didn't move for the rest of the night, not even to refill my wine glass. The girl was hovering like a mosquito around the bar area.

The group was right in the middle of a conversation about how the girl and her boyfriend were apparently trolling the party for meat, looking for a couple with whom to swing. A female couple at the party said that they were infuriated by the guy and girl's behavior. I looked over my shoulder saw the boyfriend standing by another woman, his arm wrapped around her and his hand fully on her backside. I felt so totally Baptist at that moment.

Had a guy behaved this way towards me I would've have drove my heel into his beans and frank; Chris also would've beaten the guy to a pulp because Chris wants nothing more than an excuse to start an impromptu fight club. As we left I menacingly whispered to Chris: "I am equal opportunity beat-down here, Slasher! What's up with that? Did you not see the look on my face?!"

"Wait - I thought YOU were saving ME!!" he protested.


"She followed me all around that party and tried to touch me and stuff. I kept running away from her." This happened before she came after me. Apparently another guest, when she saw the girl trying to hit on him, shouted and cussed at her ("B*tch! His wife is right outside. KNOCK IT OFF" were her exact words) in front of everyone and the girl slunk off.

"I was waiting, I knew that any minute you were going to slap the hell out of her. You didn't. It would've been funny."

Yes, it would have, because the girl was thirtyten feet tall and while I hit hard, at best I would've just scuffed up her knees.

As a result of this incident, we've developed a safe word that either one of us will shout when we need the other to fall in as backup, an unmistakable term chosen for its inability to fit into regular conversation. The added bonus of indiscriminately screaming "PLATYPUS!!" during an unwanted come-on is how it will disorientate the antagonist and temporarily suspend the advance.  

(So cool, this was featured on Five Star Friday. An awesome Fourth of July present, thank you!)

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