Here are some dead spots I'm feeling a little guilty about:
DOES NOT RSVP
My friend D-Rock is getting married in a week and a half and I didn't RSVP until I received three personal emails from him, one in which he bestowed the honor of me being the last person to RSVP. Then I ordered steak, which felt even more dick-headed because I'm not even a steak person. It just sounded like an interesting gastrointestinal experiment for a hot August night. Then he emailed me again to find out whether Chuck is going to be there.
I've followed enough brides on Twitter to know that this is grounds for stabbing. To make it worse, I didn't even have to mail the RSVP. I just had to go onto the internet -- like I am right now -- and make a few clicks -- like I am now. In the time it took me to write that paragraph, I could have RSVP'ed 19 times over.
In my defense, Chas and I have some vacation time coming up and I didn't know if we would be in town on that day until like two weeks ago. Beyond that, it is 100 percent factory defect. There is a gummy spot in my brain where I slouch down in my seat past "laid back" and "casual" and use "comatose" for a foot rest.
I can't think of a single wedding I've RSVP'ed to in a timely fashion. I'm not bragging. I get it. I'm a nightmare.
MAKE MESS, WALK AWAY
For as much as I complain about my Former Landlord, I am not without my own bad behavior in this decade-long friendship cum most-hated sibling-style relationship. When I moved out of the upstairs of that duplex what-say four, five years ago I left half of a storage area filled with cast off odds and ends: Books, clothes, old photos, notebooks, a desktop computer, a futon cushion, etc.
I had grown tired of moving, knew Chuck's place didn't have a ton of space for things I was luke warm about, so I left them. My Former Landlord always has a vehicle capable of carrying or towing, whereas my own car is the size of something that came free with the Barbie Doll Dream House. I figured when he wanted it gone, he would slip into his rankest tank top and heave the stuff into a hole somewhere.
Then the basement flooded when Former Landlord's sewer backed up because I flushed tampons down the toilet in 2004. Flaunted flushing them, actually, to hear him tell the story. "Hey you guys, look!" (A Tampax helicopter move, round the back and over my head, holy shit let's dip these in kerosene, affix them to my nipples and start 'em on fire! Twirl harder, fiery nipple tampons! My god! Is this the mother loving circus?! Flush).
Everything in my storage unit was part of a flood of shit water. No big. I'd already divorced myself from the whole shebang. But guess which loud mouth ended up cleaning it up? My Former Landlord.
I caught up with him last Friday at the Pioneer Bar. His Jeep Cherokee was parked out front with a UHaul trailer filled with junk. Some of it recognizable, like someone you used to know who suddenly has bangs. There were also the saturated personal effects of other tenants of yesteryear. The smell of this trailer ... oye. Like when you forget clothes in the washing machine for too long. Except your washing machine had a Fiber One fest for lunch.
So disgusting was the project that he and his brother wore masks and gloves. They, too, were saturated in the stink and a bit giddy from the labor. I bought them a pitcher and slipped them some hush money to now drop the topic.
"Never say the word 'Tampon' to me ever again," I said.
"I threw away pictures of (an ex-boyfriend)," he said.
"I don't care," I said.
"And books. One looked like it was about D.B. Cooper," he said.
"I have lots of books," I said.
"Some gold cowboy boots ..." he added.
"They were like $4," I said.
"What kind of fashion is gold cowboy boots?" he asked.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I saved you a plate that I got for you in the Dominican Republic," he said.
"Throw it," I said.
"But --" he said.
So there is that. Does not tend to stuff. I've done this in a load of incarnations. It always reminds me of the time Chuck and I left this shitty bar on First Street, reeking of Appletini and whatever middle-aged men squirt on themselves that makes them think people can't see the slug trail of drool they emit when 21-year-old girls dance to pop music.
"If this place exploded behind us, I wouldn't even turn around," he said.
And with that: iAbsolved.