About me: My husband Chuck, our five-year-old Junior, our two-year-old Everette and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I blog at funnynotslutty.com and soggypuffs.com.
Monday, November 3, 2008
As far as I know, Mrs. Robinson didn't climb any mountains
So it’s November. Big month, yesiree. For instance, tomorrow. And November 5th, which is Art Garfunkel’s 66th birthday. Then there’s November 15th, which is America Recycles Day, and the obvious ones, Veteran’s Day and Thanksgiving. November is also Aviation History Month, Epilepsy Awareness Month, and Peanut Butter Lovers Month (come on—we need a month for that?)
What you don’t know is that November is the month of my first-ever high school reunion—a mere 15 years after the fact. Our class president actually hated our class. She was chunky alterna chick meets fleet of JCrew v-necks (I’m not sure how she got elected, my class was way too homogenous to vote for someone who didn’t wear cable knits). Anyway, give someone 15 years to grow hazy on past grievances and of course she’s going to get nostalgic and plan a reunion…at a shanty lobster shack.
I’m going. Screw it. I got the damn invitation the very same day I found my first gray hair. That’s obviously a sign: You’re aging jerk off, so go see who turned out to be really hot. (That’s the truth, you can’t deny it, we all want to know if Eric Rothbaum kept his sexy blonde curls).
Out of 252 people, 50 have RSVPed yes. Counting me and my two carpooling friends, that’s 47 unique visitors (oh, you insidious blog lingo, you). That’s pathetic!
Moving on…November is also the wedding month of the boy—Pete—who formerly had a crush on me. Now, lots of boys have had crushes on me (it’s true, like 589 have), but as we all know, crushes are often one way streets. I could never love Pete. His fingers resembled mini Jimmy Dean sausage links and he ate steak in a way that…let’s just say I could envision him at a steak house in 25 years with a gut that rivaled Mount Everest.
Nonetheless, Pete is the boy I was with the night I met Chuck. And he knew Chuck liked me so he kept his stumpy hand across my chair all night so Chuck couldn’t move any closer to talk to me. Even more, when Chuck asked him for my number, he said no. So Chuck found out where he lived, went to his apartment under the guise of renting the spare bedroom and while Pete was in the bathroom, Chuck stole my number from his Rolodex (this was 1997, when the Rolodex was en vogue).
Chuck liked me that much. And he loves me so much he doesn’t mind that I go to my high school reunion solo.
Sucka! (Just kidding, honey.)
That’s all I’ve got for tonight. Now get off the computer and go send Art Garfunkel a birthday card!
(And yes, I chose the prime rib plate for Pete’s wedding, just for old time’s sake.)