Posts Tagged ‘ Awkward Knowledge’

Gone Baby Gone

Posted on December 18, 2008

Beware the Beast Beneath...

Beware the Beast Beneath...

I almost didn’t notice her.

The room is packed with people, all wearing varying shades of red and gold and my senses have stopped taking in the individual revelers… they blend and I focus on the canape I’ve been holding for an hour.
The power hungry producer type is speaking at me and I nod and smile in the appropriate spaces. I throw in the occasional “absolutely!” for good measure.

It is then that I see her in my periphery. I swing around but she is gone. My abrupt motion has startled the insipid man who is now expecting an explanation for my lack of focus on his scintillating tale. I feel obligated. “I um, thought I saw someone. Else. Whom I knew. Though, I don’t see them… now. So…sorry. Please, go on.”
He does.

No more than three minutes pass when I feel her again. I dare not turn because I know she is near. Very near. Eye contact near.

Perhaps we will all keep up appearances and pretend that we don’t know. After all, she doesn’t know that I know who she is. But she certainly knows who I am. I would never say a word. But she would. That is just her type. I fear her erratic nature. I fear the fact that I am the only one who knows exactly what this woman is capable of.

Fuck. Why am I still holding this canape? I have to get rid of this wretched appetizer now. NOW. It’s making my hand greasy. And the fat is congealing on the edges which is making me feel uneasy.
I abruptly excuse myself and set off in search of a vessel in which I might rid myself of the offending hors d’oeuvre.
I avert my gaze and shove through the consumption-happy lot. And walk directly into her. BAM!

Realization washes over her beatific smile, and she cocks her head to the side in a most nauseatingly coquettish manner. “Aren’t you…???” she begins. Please. Like you don’t know. She continues… “I don’t believe we’ve actually met, but I’d hoped that we would one day (I’ll bet you did)… I am SHE
I do my best impression of someone who is not repulsed by this interaction. “Oh, Hi! Yes, I’ve heard about you. I mean… I know your work.” Shit, Everything I say has one too many meanings.
She is oblivious and the Stevie Nicks song lyrics flow through my brain “you’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you, don’t you…”

Her laughter interrupts my contemplation “Oh, you are so sweet” (No I’m not) “Honestly though your photos didn’t do you justice. You look like a little DOLL. You should really tell Him to represent you as you deserve…”
It is too much. I am out.
“Lovely to meet you… I really need to…” I’m searching. I am… “I need to get rid of this um, food.” I indicate the ration which is now mushed in the napkin and hiding in my clenched fist.

And I am gone. She yells something about lunch and I do not turn back. She must never see the tears that sting my eyes. A product not of sadness, but a deep rooted contempt that even my most skillfully constructed facade cannot hide.

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Even Man-ly Men Get Gay Around Chappy

Posted on August 22, 2008

My step-brother Craig is best friends with Chappy. When Craig got married, Chappy was the Best Man. When Chappy learned that he had been selected for this honor, he went out and bought a book on making the “perfect” Best Man speech. He was determined to be the very best, Best Man ever. That’s just Chappy. His speech was ok, but far less memorable than the fact that he slept with Craig’s hot cousin after the rehearsal dinner (high five). Oh, Chappy!
Chappy color codes his belts, has no sweat stains on his t-shits and drinks Light Cranberry Juice and Spicy V8. Naturally, he sells yachts for a living.
Chappy’s apartment could have been a set for an early 80’s Ralph Lauren advertisement. I have never seen more photos of blonde girls in Pink Polo Shirts smiling beatifically on sailboats than I did as I peered around Chappy’s apartment. I know that his legal name is Jonathan Robert Chapman, that his family has a “compound” in Maine and that he’s been engaged twice (one cheated on him and the second he discovered was a closet Democrat).
Though I know all of this about Chappy, I am completely confident that Chappy couldn’t pick me out of a group of 3. You see, I’ve never spoken to Chappy. I did sleep in his bed and wear his socks, though.
Perhaps, we were introduced at Craig’s wedding, but I tend to get quiet around people I know an inappropriate amount of extremely private information about, so I’m sure I just smiled shyly and looked away.
The thing about Chappy is that he SHOULD be a highly polarizing figure. After all, he’s under 35, single, Republican (and not just fiscally), sensationally wealthy, and resembles a life-size Ken doll if Ken were only 5’7”. He is simply the sort of person that others like to resent. It’s actually rather eerie though, because not only does EVERYONE love Chappy, but the rough and tumble-est guys I know get slightly gay when Chappy comes up. Kyle, my ex-Marine, Harley-riding, Molson slamming, step-brother speaks of him with what can only be described as reverance. When I made a slightly off-color comment about my step-sister Kelly getting together with Chappy, my step-father, Bill’s eyes lit up and he hastily reminded me that “a girl could do a lot worse than Chappy.”
I currently owe my sister-in-law, Karen, 20 dollars towards a 1/3 split of a “Thank You” gift that she was kind enough to pick up on behalf of Kyle, Beth, and Myself who all shared Mr. Chapman’s apartment the weekend of Jazz Fest. It was a weekend in which I wore linen pants and headscarves the entire time because I felt I should. Still, I enjoyed taking on a personality that felt appropriate in that setting. I digress.

I owe money for the gift… a handle of Mt. Gay Rum. I would have pegged him for a Johnny Walker Blue sorta guy….

Thanks for your hospitality, Chapster.
Maybe one day we’ll meet again and I’ll tell you what a bang-up job you did on re-furbishing that 28 foot sailboat or that I appreciate you being a single man with monogrammed towels. Dare to Dream.

Cheers, Chappy!

Cheers, Chappy!

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