From Panic Pants to Stripclub Swag: The Story of my Denim Cut-Offs

You’d think bleeding halfway through someone’s mattress would provide me my fill of menstrual-related excitement. Unfortunately, when it rains, it pours, and I have no shortage of mortifying moments to share. 

It started on a plane. I was coming home from New York City, and my first flight was deplaning in Chicago O’Hare. I had a short layover and I was antsy for everyone to get moving, as I was in the very back row of the plane. As everyone took an aggravatingly long time to pack their shit and get out of my way, I shot out of my seat ready to move. And as I did so, I felt that horrifying GUSH. My heart simultaneously jumped into my throat and sunk into my stomach. 

Oh. My. God. Oh my dear, dear God. No. Nonononononono. 

I glanced down. Yes. 

Fuck. 

What do I do?

My layover is 45 minutes. My baggage is checked, and I am flying internationally. I have no change of clothes. I have no tampons. I have about 30 minutes to procure both of these things in an unfamiliar airport. One of the biggest in the world. I am panicked. If I don;t achieve this mission, I am doomed to be soaking in a pool of my own blood for the next six hours. 

I tie my sweater around my waist, I thank jeebus the seats are leather, and I haul ass off that plane. 

I am managing to run, waddle, and do the most intense keels I’ve ever done all at once. I’m practically tachycardic from hypovolemic shock from the huge blood loss. Okay,  maybe I was just really upset. But whatever. I have, like, 20 minutes to find new pants in an airport. 

I’m racing up and down terminals. I’m checking newsstands, gift shops, duty-free. Nothing. Not a single, ugly pair of “CHICAGO” sweatpants in the middle of February. I’m panicking. 

And then I see it, out of the corner of my eye. The oasis. A Harley-Davidson Store. In the middle of the airport. I charge in, I scan the store, and in the very back, what do I see? A rack of jeans. I cried a single tear of joy and relief. They were $100 a pair, but I didn’t give a single fuck. I found a size 4, thrusted a handful of crumpled bills at the cashier, refused her plentiful offers to try them on prior to purchase, and RAN, locking myself in a bathroom stall. My underwear got trashed, but I didn’t care. I’ll ride commando in new jeans for a six hour flight. Fucks given? Zero! I stuffed my old jeans in my tote bag and quite literally sprinted to my gate where they were paging me for my last chance to get on the plane before they took off without me. 

I sat my smug ass down, and slept all the way home. 

Of course, I never wore the jeans again. They were ugly jeans. Until summer rolled around and I found myself in dire need of shorts. So I took scissors to that bitch and happily wore them through to September.

Autumn came. Snow fell. The shorts got tucked into the back of a drawer. 

Until I started slinging $7 Pilsner at a local stripclub. Each night had a ‘theme’ that servers were supposed to dress to, and Tuesday’s theme was “Western Wear”. I dug out the shorts. My girlfriend decided they were not nearly short enough to grant me the tips that I was hoping to make, so she got at me with a pair of shears

I didn’t end up working at the club long. But even after the job was over, I still held on to these ridiculous short shorts. Because, lets be real. They look bitchin’ on me, and I will shamelessly post this photo to prove that even period panic pants can have happy endings. 

 

Sobruary: When Everything Came To A Screeching Halt

Sobruary: I really want to take the time to publicly reflect upon this experience, and to share my motivation, my struggles, and my triumphs.

It was some time in December when I suspected I had an unhealthy relationship with alcohol. My suspicions were clearly confirmed when I asked my  bestie. Bless her and her honesty, she said “You’re not a problem drinker”. She went on to clarify “You’re a solution drinker. You have a problem, you drink.  Life shits on you, you drink”.

I mulled it over. And then I asked for a second opinion.

JerkGuy, nearly verbatim, expressed the same concern.

Surely two people who aren’t in cahoots can’t be totally off the mark. So I thought about it. I thought about how I dealt with issues that arose, about my self care practices, and about my coping mechanisms. It was a high five. To my face. With a chair, when I realized it was booze, booze, more booze. Imbibing was my escape. I was a 29 year old, full time student, mother of two young kids. Time to wake the fuck up.

Christmas was coming up. As was my 30th birthday, so I knew better than to make any commitments immediately. I schemed about how I was going to tackle sobriety. I assessed my own values, my goals, and I prioritized them. I decided that February 1, 2014, would be The Day, and for 28 days, I would be sober, responsible and still totally awesome.

Christmas came, and then it went. I celebrated my 30th birthday on the downlow. Then mid-January, bestie and I, alongside 40 of our nearest and dearest, invaded one of our haunts dressed like a fucking zoo. 

And we drank. And we ate. And we danced. And dear Lord, did we ever piss everyone lee in that bar off. HOW FUCKING DARE WE celebrate in public looking like a furry convention?!

But we did. And we had a blast.

And that was the last time I had a drop to drink. January 18, 2014. I set my start date for February 1, but honesty, I was ready to slow down. My hurtling, four month skid-out on my face over my life, my heartbreak, and my complete inability to moderate my own behaviour left me exhausted. I was ready. It was time.

So, like Lent, I gave up alcohol. I gave up being intoxicated period. I gave up my tranquillizers. I gave up my benzodiazepines.

I gave up motherfucking Diet Pepsi.

And it was easy. Except for the Diet Pepsi. That shit was hard and I will still cut you for one. Six weeks later, and I still dream of Diet Pepsi. I have thrown legitimate temper tantrums over Diet Pepsi. About five days in, JerkGuy was over. I was upstairs and he had gone downstairs to grab a glass of water, and I heard the distinct sound, that crisp “PSSSHHHHT” of a bottle opening, though two storeys of plaster walls.

“ARE YOU DRINKING A DIET PEPS?!”, my voice thick with unadulterated rage.

…..silence…..

A small voice replied “…..No…..”

JerkGuy came back upstairs looking tentative. Almost fearful. I repressed the extreme desire to rip off each of his digits and cram them in various orifices. I really wanted that fucking Pepsi. I later poured it down the sink. If I can’t have it? NOBODY CAN.

So, I had committed to cutting out all the harmful things. So what did that leave me to do? Laze about, watching my stories and eating bonbons? Nah. I’m far too type-A to do absolutely nothing with myself. So I redirected my party rocking energy into the gym. And let me tell you, It’s done me good. Actually never mind telling, I’ll just show you.

On the left, you’ll see me power pounding a schooner of cheap champagne. Wow. So sexy. On the right, you’ll see that I’ve slimmed down enormously, and quite frankly- a sexy beast.

So what did I learn? I’ve learned healthier ways to deal with my emotions- the sads, the angries, the happies. I’m channeling my energy in a more productive manner, and the more progress I make, the more motivated I get. I’m like a human perpetual motion machine. I’m doing well. I accepted graciously the constructive criticisms of people who care about me, and I’m working to better myself. And that? is a fucking accomplishment I am proud of.

That Time I had A Pure, Unobstructed, 100 mph, 3-Foot Face Plant.

“Is JerkGuy abusing you?”

Probably the last question I wanted to field from my mother. I can see why she might have wanted to know

It’s widely know than I’m not particular graceful. I’m clumsy, even. But bruises around my face are a little more difficult to explain. Actually, let me say that it is simple, but I don’t exactly want to discuss the merits of erotic asphyxiation with my mother. I might also hazard a guess that she’s not interested to hear about her own daughter’s fringe sexual preferences (Mother, I know you subscribe to this blog…. PLEASE STOP).

I woke up to a panicked JerkGuy, shaking me from the shoulders and yelling my name.

“Vicki?!”

“What?” I replied, groggily and nonchalantly. Thinking ‘what time is it, and can I have a sandwich?”

“VICKI?!” His voice more urgent. I’m getting confused. What is the issue? Have I overstayed my welcome? I’ve only known this guy a couple weeks. Perhaps it wasn’t kosher to take a nap here.

“Whaaaaat?” I respond, I’m a little more confused, and my voice takes on a higher pitch to reflect this.

“VICKI ARE YOU FUCKING OKAY?”

“WHAAAAAAT?” My voice is a squeak barely escaping my larynx. Man, this dude is fucking chapped. Duly noted, man. Naps are like, second month territory. Got it.

“Are. You. Fucking. OKAY?”

Ok, Now I’m legitimately concerned- what just happened?

 

Luckily, I know someone who was there and can tell me, and this is what he has to say:

“Well, I suppose this is the part where I have to shed some light on the missing scene.

First off we have to back up a little…This was not the first time we had engaged in…..Whats a mom friendly term? (Vicki’s mom, if you haven’t turned away by now you have no one to blame but yourself) Playful air restriction. Yes. That.

Anyway, no ones first rodeo, so there we are in a reverse playful air restriction session, and I let go of Vicki’s throat.  Now, usually at this point, when I let go- she falls, and puts her hands out or pushes back or twists or something.

But this time? No.

Just a pure, unobstructed, 100 mph, 3 foot face plant.

So I lean forward so I can see her face make sure she’s alright, and instead of the usual air gasping face,  it’s an ‘eyeballs-rolling-into-the-back-of-her-fucking-head’ face.

And literally the second, the VERY second I saw her eyes do that, she started to tense up reeeal bad.

Like…. bitch is gonna have a seizure bad.

So as I roll her over to brace her head for said seizure and myself for what i’m expecting to be a very awkward 911 call:

“Hello, 911”

“Yes, I just choked a girl and I think she’s gonna have a seizure or die or something!!!”

“Sir did you say YOU choked her?”

“Yes. But she totally asked for it”

Total accident. Didn’t mean to do it”, said EVERY KILLER EVER!

But before I made that call, she started to come to, still stiff, but seizure free. So obviously I start yelling at her to see if she’s ok. I mean that makes total sense right? All the yelling?

So that pretty much brings us full circle…”

This all explains the INSANE Charlie Horses I had in my calves. Pretty sure when I came to, and was made aware of the situation, I sadly whined, saying “my legs hurt” in a defeated, mousy little voice.

I went home (and I was staying with my mother at the time), with cramped calves and a bruise forming on the bridge of my nose from the point of impact between my face and the edge of a mattress. My mother even asked about that bruise, and I’m sure I came up with some horrible lie to spare her. (Mom, if you’re still reading, can this please never be brought up over dinner… Or Ever?)

I’m sure there’s a lesson to be learned, but this happened a year ago, and I don’t think I’m any wiser, so I’m going to just file this one under “hilarious”.

Where Was I? Oh right, Picking Myself Up From Lying In Traffic In The Middle Of The Freeway.

Some of you may remember me. I’m that girl who gives graphically detailed accounts of such TMI subjects as period blood, walks of shame, nearly-missing shitting herself… And of course that train wreck of a love-life.

You might also notice some missing content- words were said, feelings were hurt. I can’t say it was a regrettable thing that happened for a number of reasons; mostly because it pushed the situation out of relationship purgatory and it forced the both of us to make decisions. Decisions were made, and now we exist in a new normal.

This new normal that a round of Cards Against Humanity described most poignantly: “Something your grandmother would find disturbing, yet slightly endearing”. Yep.

So that’s where that’s at, because I know I can’t just pick up writing again without addressing the elephant on the internet.

Speaking of the elephant, it’s been coming up a year since I met some JerkGuy (a term of ‘endearment’ my girlfriend assigned him long ago that just kinda stuck). We couldn’t even meet like normal, functional members of society. We met, of course, on the internet. How else do perverts in the 21st century connect?

I was newly separated, and chomping at the bit to get some strange, and after a couple days of discourse which was nearly 80 percent Seinfeld references, we agreed to meet. A couple days prior to our original plans, I was studying for an exam when he  prompted me to come meet him for a drink. I waffled for a bit- I had studying to do, but I’m smart and tend to fly by the seat of my pants anyways, so I figured I had nothing to lose, and so I went.

20 minutes later, we’re face to face in a pub, exchanging stories, having a beer, and giving sideways glances when we think the other one’s not looking. He’s not one to beat around the bush.

“So where are you parked?”

“Out back. Why?”

“So, later, I’m going to walk you to your car and then try and make out with you a little”

“Let’s go.”

Pay the bill, grab my purse, and not five minutes later I’m straddling this stranger in the passenger seat of my car. Have we addressed my ability to make adult life decisions? I don’t have that.

I check my phone. It’s around 3 o’clock. I have a deadline for 4. My brain is incapable of braining because all the bloodflow has been redirected straight to my vagina. I have to come up for air

“I have, like, 45 minutes. Where is your house?”

In 3 seconds flat, I’m u-turning and we’re on our way. As I recall, the second the elevator doors shut there was inappropriate touching. We get up to his floor, in the door, and clothes are flying. I keep checking the time, and I know I have to go, but it’s like….

So I’m LATE. I keep getting up to leave, but I ‘m pinned between his face in my crotch and the edge of the mattress. Every time I try to get up, he pushed me back down and simply said, “more”, and carried on. Eventually, he says I pushed him away, saying “get the fuck off me, I gotta go!”. Which sounds exactly like something I would say. And I sped off. To get stuck in traffic and be horrendously late. And how many fucks I gave at that point? Zero. Because God damn, that was a fun afternoon.

And such is the story of how I met some JerkGuy. Interestingly enough it was he who’s been encouraging me, nay, NAGGING me to start blogging again. I suspect mostly because we have too many hilarious stories to go unshared.

So, yeah. Welcome back.

What Did The Five Fingers Say To The Face? SLAP! Norwalk’s A Hell of a Bug!

I was starting to feel better. About everything. I really was. All of my pain and anguish was starting to transform into those beautiful feelings of lividity and rage. Emotions that, for me, can fuel a lot of productivity. I was zippidy-do-dah-ing along, thinking I had life licked. For once. But then life? Was like

I spent the entirety of my daughter’s birthday party last night alternating between projectile vomiting and being fetal in a chair next to the fire, quaking and dry heaving. 100mg of Dimenhydrinate produced only an effect of being really fucking tired, and did nothing to quell the tsunamis of nausea. Then life was like “you’re handling this a little too well”.

So life put me here:

It’s been about 18 hours since the onset of this horrendous bug, and I’ve lost nine pounds. Half a pound an hour! I’ll feel a little less guilty about neglecting the stairmill for the past few weeks.  Sure, my esophagus is raw, my teeth will be falling out, and my ass burns, but hey, I’m skinny!

After sleeping through my 8 am class, with much trepidation, I dragged myself to my 1:30 class where I spent the entire two hours in extreme discomfort and trying to pry my eyes open. I’ve never felt so exhausted. My guts hurt from retching and every muscle in my body aches from the nonstop shivers.

I tried to have a bit of tomyum for lunch…

Alrighty then. Clear fluids. Gotcha.

Stripper Sundays: What Happens When You Pay Your Only Employee Minimum Wage For Four Years

So anyone who knows me well and has for any significant amount of time knows that I had a side job at quite possibly the greatest retail store in history. It was a “Sexy Fashions Boutique”- a store full of magical synthetic-fibered costumes, sequinned and oddly cut dresses, and lame and fun fur get-ups. I worked for this store for four and a half years and made the same wage on my last day as I did the day I started. Not that I was expected to work HARD. Quite the contrary actually. I often passed entire shifts on the couch in the back room watching reruns of Glee or dicking around in dark corners of the internet. 

Another well known Vicki fact is that I gestate for an unreasonable amount of time. My second pregnancy crawled by, as did the hours while I sat alone in a sea of nylon and polyester. So, born out of boredom, as most of my harebrained ideas are, I decided one Sunday to play dress-up.

28 weeks pregnant. How delightful!

I

I shared this photo with a group of girlfriends (Who will be hereby known as “Your Mom”), and, of course it illicited an overwhelmingly positive response.  So, the following Sunday, I did it again.

And the Sunday after that…

Once you’ve done something three weeks running, it becomes a habit. On Sundays, some people go to church. Others read Post Secret. Some people might even take their grandma out for brunch. Not me. On Sundays I put on horrifically tacky outfits and took photos for my friends. 

Here I am as Fat C-3PO

 

And in this terrible dress with the most appropriate shape for a 8-month pregnant woman

 

I could hardly contain my laughter wearing that one. That dress cost, like, $130!

So let this be a lesson to you. If you own a small business, your pregnant employees will try on all your clothes. Or something. 

 

 

 

 

 

Did I Do That? I Did Do That: Earning My Scarlet Letter.

“Earning” was probably a bad choice of words. I’m not proud to be involved in a divorce that isn’t mine. I know that it’s not actually my fault, and aware that there must be other factors unrelated to me, but I still go through times where I am so embarrassed and ashamed to even be involved. 

And how do I deal with those feels? The same way I deal with all of them- by eating them and using wildly inappropriate humour. When I’m unsure of how to tactfully express my feelings, I let pictures do it for me. Didn’t some shitty proverb say something about pictures and words?

 

It’s horrible. I’ll be the first to admit that. But sometimes when the situation is just SO FUCKED UP that you end up coping with it in equally fucked up ways. I didn’t set out to be a homewrecker. Nor did I force or coerce anyone to make decisions. In fact, on numerous occasions, I asked for reassurance that everything was kosher. 

NOPE. Nope, nope, nope. 

 

I’m only human. Too err, and all of that. At least I’ll be the first to cop up to being a shitty person when I’ve been one. So, about that big red A…

More Princess Di than Lindsay Lohan: Thanks for the Peptalks.

You’ve all been watching me unravel for while now. And in my head Im having a public breakdown, but I think in reality? It’s ballsy. Why is this surprising to me? I AM BALLSY. I also have no concept of self-moderation, no filter, and have a palliative case of verbal diarrhea.

I also use the Oxford comma like a boss.

Actually though. The last few days have been so strange. Cathartic, really. After my post about my divorce, I was literally inundated with an outpouring of supportive comments, texts, messages and even a couple phone calls. And in the wake of that huge confession (and anti-cat tirade), I came to the realization that I am somebody.

Let’s let Mr. T take it away for a minute.

I won’t be somebody’s foo’. I am a young, attractive woman. I’m smart, and I’m funny as fuck. I don’t need to be validated by another person. For so long, I’ve let my self worth be calculated by my surroundings and not on my own personal merit. I went to school for two years for my woo-degree, and if I took ANYTHING from that (aside from how much acupressure actually hurts), it’s that my locus of control was always so external. And over the past few days, I’ve been doing a lot of introspect, and trying to stuff that locus of control back down my craw and internalize it. I am in control of my own life. I make decisions. I own those decisions.

If you aren’t familiar with the concept of locus of control, this is a pretty good resource explaining it

And since I’ve done that,  I’ve become so much less Woe-Is-Me, and so much more Go-Fuck-Your-Hat. And that’s a better look for me, because my ugly cry? Is ugly. Less cry, more fuck. I think that’s a pretty good motto to live by, yeah?

Hipsters on the Brooklyn Metro: The Story of my $550 Phone Bill and the Epic Walk of Shame

Boohoo! My husband didn’t love me! Daddy issues! Woe is me!

Back to our regular scheduled programming.

So, in February, I decided that I was going to New York City for reading week. I was planning to have my earlobes reconstructed and make a little vacation out of it. So with very little forethought, I bought flights, and arranged with a super awesome friend to crash at his place in Brooklyn.

During my stay in NYC, I did a lot of aimless wandering, and riding around on the Metro. One night, I was in Williamsburg, Official Home of the Hipster, and was making an absolute spectacle of myself trying to get out of the subway station through the in door, and a perfect hip specimen came to my rescue, like Prince Charming of Brooklyn, and I was the hopeless herione in some really fucked up fairy tale. He assisted me in getting through the gates, and successfully scored my phone number in the process.

Over the next few hours, we had texted back and forth and decided to meet for drinks. Let me preface the rest of the story with an important fact: ROAMING IS A THING!

So, I meet this guy at this weird bar in the Brooklyn ghetto. I drank way too much PBR. I’m sending picture texts to my BFF. Remember roaming? Not me. So, playing wingman from 3000 kilometers away, my bestie tells me that it is, in fact, acceptable to go home with this hip stranger. These are amongst some of my first really irresponsible life decisions.

I’m going to leave the next 8 or so hours out of the story, and fast forward to morning.

I wake up with my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my head stuck to this poor guy’s pillowcase because the previous day, I had my earlobes cut and stitched back together and was sporting total frankenlobes. That was the first of embarrassing events. I’m ready to leave. Being that I was married for a number of years, I haven’t really mastered a graceful walk of shame. So I poke this dude in the shoulder and I’m like “Uh, so I’m gonna take off. it was nice meeting you”. I let myself out, and take the stairs and get outside.

This is when I realize, I am not on the sidewalk. I’m in a parking area. It’s enclosed by a 12 foot security fence that’s topped with barbed wire. So I turn around, and go to let myself back into the building and find that the door is locked. No problem, I’ll just text the guy and get him to let me back in. I swipe my screen and am horrified to discover my phone is dead. DEAD DEAD DEAD.

Think, Vicki. You’re stuck in a parking lot and you have to MacGuyver a way out. You’re a smart chick, you can figure it out. My solution? I climbed the fucking fence. A 12 foot, barbed wire fence. Right next to an above-ground subway station. in the middle of Brooklyn. In broad daylight.

Pure class. Whatever. What I lack in class, I make up in sass.

Now, as much as I wanted to leave that experience behind, imagine my chagrin when three weeks later, my mobile bill comes in the mail and my husband (whom I was already separated from but still cohabitating with) calls me to flip out over my… $550 phone bill.

Remember roaming? Yeah, now you will. Forever and ever.

NB: Without a roaming package, roaming texts on my plan were $1 a piece, with more for data roaming and allllll those picture texts. SMRT.

ERRATA: Rebound would like to make the fact be known that the Very Angry Phonecall occurred while I was getting busy. I’m unsure of the relevancy of this information, but he seemed insistent that it was the funniest part of the story, so I’m editing that in.

Also, I really have to think of a more clever pseudonym for him.

Ketchup, Cats and Other Reasons for My Divorce

I don’t talk much about my divorce. Probably because it’s not much to talk about. It’s completely undramatic, anticlimactic, boring. No one walked in on the other ‘bangin’ on the counter’ or anything. Our marriage just wasn’t working. We are different people pursuing different lives.

For example; I loathe cats with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns. My husband has three. Or had, rather. One of them was wretched enough that he got rid of it of his own accord, but I still was forced to share my home with two putrid, emetic, shedding, box-shitting, litter-tracking assholes. So that was a thing.

Also, he’d ruin perfectly good meals by obliterating them with half a bottle of ketchup. It was totally insulting.

Never mind the fact that he’s vegan and straightedge, and I’m a partyrockin’ fun-haver and regularly unhinge my jaws around a Quarter Pounder before I even get out of the drive-thru.

Yes, that’s all tongue in cheek. Prior to actually living apart, and experiencing a new relationship after the dissolution of my marriage, I honestly thought this was what my divorce was about. Minor differences in values. It was months after my separation before I came to terms with everything I’d been sweeping under the rug.

I was completely unloved. Ignored. Emotionally neglected. I don’t want to paint an ugly portrait of my husband, because he really is a very nice man and a wonderful father. He was just a terrible partner for me. In retrospect, I can’t remember a time in which we were ever in love. There were times when he pursued me and I ignored it (too little, too late), but when I reflect upon the ten years we spent together, I was so much more into him than he was into me. It got old. I can pinpoint the exact moment when my eyes glazed over and lost interest. Unfortunately, your feelings of self worth can only weather so much storm. I never thought I could do better for myself. I never imagined that I’d ever feel passion and excitement with anyone. I had committed and invested so much into this that it was just too much of a burden to walk away. So I stayed. And we got married. And we had children. And we lived in uncomfortable silence for years until a stranger gave me the strength to say “THAT IS ENOUGH”.

And that couldn’t have happened at a worse time. I’m struggling- financially, emotionally, physically. I’m fighting with long-dealt with orthorexia and binge eating, issues that I thought I’d laid to rest as a teenager. I’m probably an alcoholic. I often rely on tranquilizing medications to slow my heart and my brain down enough to let me fall into a psychotropic medication induced coma.

Lets be real here, I’m totally fucked. I’m not even stuck between a rock and a hard place. I’m jammed between two techtonic plates. And I have absolutely NO plan. I am running solely on adrenalin and drugs to get me through each hour, each day, each week, until I can finally get a grasp on something sturdy enough to let me take foot. So that’s where I’m at.