Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255) Page 9

  “Oh.” I attempted to hide my disappointment, but thanks to the spooky punch, my acting skills were suffering. I didn’t even ask if he was really in a wheelchair or if it was part of his costume. Either way, the dream was dead.

  “You’re interested in Bobby? I thought you were here with Max,” Daisy asked.

  “Oh, I am. We’re just friends. I think. This is actually our first date. Hangout! I mean hangout.”

  “Really!” Her eyes grew wide. “How’s it going so far?”

  “Um, it’s okay.” We both craned our necks to see Max running in a circle in the living room, high-fiving everyone. “He seems like the life of the party.”

  Her voice lowered. “Have you met Darryl yet?”

  “There’s someone here dressed like Daryl Hall? That’s so cool. Which one is he?”

  “No, Darryl. You haven’t, have you? You’ll see what I mean. Trust me.” She looked at Max, and then looked back to me. “You will definitely meet Darryl tonight.”

  “All right, whatever you say. I’m going to grab some more of this spooky punch. This shit is delicious.”

  I knocked back my third helping of spooky punch and took a seat on the couch. Bobby was wheeling himself around like a cutie pie. Max was trying to stage a stereo takeover, loudly insisting that “What this party really needs is some motherfuckin’ AC/DC! Am I right or am I right?”

  I turned to the guy next to me.

  “Hey. Happy Halloween.”

  “Oh, yeah. Happy Halloween and whatnot.” We clinked red Solo cups.

  “I like your costume.” I looked at his long beard and quipped, “What are you, ZZ Top?”

  “Ha. Yes! You guessed it.”

  We sat in silence for a minute before he said, “Wanna go upstairs and make out?”

  I thought about it: I was bored. Max was ignoring me because I didn’t come in a twelve-ounce can with a pull tab. Bobby was adorable and engaged. I drained the last of the spooky punch in my cup before I said, “Sure.”

  We found an empty bedroom upstairs and immediately started going at it. A fat, orange tabby cat sat on the bed, staring at me like it was saying, Really, Anna? This guy? I kept making eye contact with the feline by accident, which freaked me out. I halted things after a few minutes to find out a little more about this guy’s situation.

  “So, what’s your name?”

  “Blanket.”

  “Blanket? Like Michael Jackson’s kid?”

  “Nah, I’m just messing with you. It’s Arnold.”

  “Arnold? Really?”

  “Nah. I’m just fucking around. My name is Donnie.” I stared at him. “No, really, it’s Donnie.”

  “Hi, Donnie. Do you like my costume?”

  He looked me up and down. “What are you, Helena Bonham Carter?”

  “No, I’m a mallpunk. I made my own zine and everything.”

  “Cool.” For the fourth time that night, someone didn’t look at my stupid zine. I tossed the rest of them toward a trash can in the corner along with my copies of Alternative Press. I’d lasted exactly one hour at a Halloween party before abandoning a crucial element of my costume. That was probably a new record for me.

  Donnie didn’t ask what my name was, which was fine. In fact, it felt exhilarating. Even as we were kissing, I knew I’d probably never see him again. He was disposable, like a pink plastic razor. Speaking of razors, his beard was long and burly. It touched the top of his chest.

  As we started kissing some more, someone started banging on the door.

  “Donnie, you asshole! Are you in there?”

  “I think someone’s looking for you.” I said, pulling away from his embrace.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s probably my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were married!”

  “You didn’t ask!”

  Technically, he was right. I did not ask. I didn’t realize that it was my responsibility to suss out his relationship status. My random hookup fantasy dissolved and I realized instead of making out with a semi-hot stranger, I was messing around with a married man. Obviously, I was repulsed and looked at him like his face had just turned into a pile of slugs.

  I opened the door and saw a short girl dressed as Cleopatra standing there.

  “What the hell?” she yelled at me.

  “Dude, he’s all yours.”

  She didn’t waste her time with me, but bolted into the room with a trail of obscenities flying out of her mouth. It was time to leave.

  I went downstairs to find Max passed out on the sofa.

  “Hey, Max. You ready to go?” I poked his arm, bringing him back to consciousness.

  “My name’s not Max. There is no Max because Darryl’s in the house, motherfuckers!”

  Ah! Darryl is Max’s drunk alter ego. For those unfamiliar with the concept, this is when a dude undergoes a personality transformation when he gets hammered and decides to assign a name to the other drunker, wilder side of him; a Mr. Hyde to his Dr. Jekyll, if you will. For some reason, guys always give their other halves manly names, like Derek, Biff, Marco, or Steve.

  “Darryl is officially here, you assholes,” he said to the room, louder. He kicked over an empty beer can on the coffee table for emphasis.

  “Come on. Let’s go, Max.” I slid my arm under him and hoisted him up, but he pushed me off him.

  “Don’t try and act all nice now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you go upstairs with that scumbag Donnie. And Daisy told me you’ve been eyebanging FDR all night.”

  “I was just trying to have some fun,” I tried to explain but Max waved me off with his hand.

  “I already told you, my name’s not Max. It’s Darryl. Get it right!”

  “Okay, Darryl. Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bum you out.”

  “You didn’t even come to see my band play,” he whimpered. “That hurt my feelings!”

  Well, now I felt terrible.

  “C’mon, Darryl. Let me drive you home.”

  “You’re a very mean lady.”

  “I’m not a mean lady. I’m impulsive and I have a thing for wheelchair-bound ex-presidents, but I’m not mean. Where are your keys?”

  He dug into his pocket and handed them over, then looked at me quizzically.

  “Where are your zines? Didn’t you have, like, an entire stack of them?”

  “They’re in zine heaven now,” I said, shuffling toward the front door.

  “Oh. Sorry ’bout what I said earlier. Darryl got out of his cage tonight.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I don’t think you’re mean.”

  “Thanks, buddy. You know how you like crazy girls? I guess I like weird guys.”

  “So if I had a long-ass beard or a wheelchair you’d be into me?”

  “And if you were shorter. Short and weird is basically my wheelhouse.”

  As we walked outside into the crisp October air, I turned around and saw Bobby smoking a cigarette on the steps. I thought about pushing Max/Darryl into some nearby bushes to flirt with Bobby some more, but decided against it because that actually would be mean, and I didn’t want to have to fish him out of some bushes. There might be thorns.

  “Good night, Bobby. It was nice to meet you,” I semi-yelled in his direction.

  “Yeah! Likewise.” With that, he stubbed the butt of his cigarette out and flicked it toward the street. Then, to my amazement, he crawled up the stairs to the top step, where he maneuvered himself back into his chair. Bobby really did use a wheelchair! Then it occurred to me: Maybe he had such a great costume because he’s FDR every year. I mean, how many options does he have being in a wheelchair, you know?

  I hope that princess Kristin knew how lucky she was, snagging the cutest guy ever. I looked at Max in all of his slurring, droopy-eyed glory and sighed. Someday he was going to make some crazy girl out there a very happy woman.

  CHAPTER 7

&
nbsp; Best Man Bingo

  There’s something about being surrounded by fancy dresses, fresh flowers, and assigned table seating that turns me into a girl gone wild. Put me in front of an open bar with a crowd of polite acquaintances and I’ll pretty much act like I’m on spring break at Daytona Beach in 1987 for the entire affair.

  I love going to weddings because that’s when I really let loose. When I say that I let loose, I don’t just pull off my eyeglasses and take out my ponytail like how secretly sexy lady nerds do it in the movies. I unleash my inner Courtney Love on the place.

  For example, anyone involved directly or peripherally with the wedding is fair game to hit on. I will smooch anything not bolted down to the floor. Distant cousins, waitstaff, limo drivers: Everyone has a shot at kissing these lips. I’m probably never going to see any of these guys again so it’s totally cool to act as if I’m at a frat party.

  Like the figurines planted on top of the wedding cake, hooking up with the best man is on the top tier of wedding traditions. But it takes a set of specific conditions to make landing a best man happen. He’s a rare bird! After all, there aren’t that many of them at the party. He’s a bald eagle, a slot machine jackpot, and the Amazing Race’s Travelocity gnome all wrapped into one. Luck, chemistry, hard work, and timing are all factors in landing him.

  What’s the appeal of bagging a best man? Here’s the thing: It’s pretty exciting to make out with a moderately hot dude in a tux. It’s like being in a James Bond movie or getting felt up by a waiter at a four-star restaurant. What girl could turn that down?

  To an outsider watching me swing on a chandelier in a jersey dress from T.J.Maxx’s clearance rack, it may not look like I have a lot of rules I observe at weddings. And while there aren’t many rules I obey in my day-to-day life, when it comes to weddings, I follow a strict code of behavior. Here are some dos and don’ts I’ve cobbled together:

  I DO make it a point to kick up my heels to all the corny songs that the deejay spins. I’ll twirl around the dance floor like a little girl who just got her favorite Barbie doll for her sixth birthday. I’ll boogie to “Mambo #5,” “The Macarena,” and Kool and the Gang’s “Celebrate” in a heartbeat. I’ll bop around to the “Electric Slide.” I’ll shimmy to “Livin’ la Vida Loca.” Fuck it, after a few glasses of chardonnay, I’ll even do the “Y.M.C.A.” This is no time for snobbery because snobbery won’t get me any action.

  I DO attend friends’ weddings solo. At first, it seems like a daunting prospect to walk in by myself, but I realize that if anything, I’ll meet more people because I won’t be tethered to a boring date. I’ll chat up everyone I meet so by the time the whole affair is over, I’ll have, like, five new random Facebook friends, guaranteed.

  I DO go back to the buffet table for thirds. I’ve already fit into the dress I’m wearing. Mission accomplished! I’ve cleared that hurdle so, yes, I’ll have another piece of cake, thanks for asking. Besides, fitting into my clothes tomorrow is Future Anna’s problem, not Present Anna’s. (I really run with the wolves on this one.)

  Okay, so I’m dancing to Kool and the Gang by myself, winking at the waitstaff and eyebanging the best man by the chocolate fountain. Sweet. But, I won’t get too carried away because there are still some potential pitfalls that I need to avoid.

  I DON’T flash my boobs to the camera. Yes, it’ll seem funny four dirty martinis in, but once the wedding couple has their proofs developed, I’ll just make the bride and groom cringe for even inviting me. I speak from experience on this one, guys. My sister Sarah is still pissed at me for my unfortunate nip slip at her wedding. Whoops!

  While I’m all for dancing, I DON’T dirty dance with a member of either the bride or groom’s family because I’ll never live it down. I’m still being razzed about grinding on my friend’s cousin during her sister’s wedding in 2003. Like the 9/11 eagle with a tear running down its eye, her family will never let me forget it.

  I DON’T hit on the groom before the wedding. And I don’t tell him that he would be a better match with me and that his bride always seemed kinda bitchy. Really, I should write this one down on my hand.

  Lastly, I DON’T pass out on the lawn outside the reception hall. Sure, the cool grass will feel refreshing against my flushed cheeks, but grass stains are never a good look at a formal affair. That’s some Long Duk Dong shit right there. Take it from me, you will never know true humiliation until you’ve been dragged out of a bush totally wasted and subsequently hoisted into the backseat of your parents’ Audi at your other sister’s wedding.

  And, to add insult to drunken injury, thanks to those pesky branches, my hot pink strapless dress was several inches lower than where it should’ve been according to the picture on the manufacturer’s website. Being sharked by shrubbery was a low point in my life. Even Paris Hilton has more class than that.

  Follow my lead and you’ll be doing so much schmoozin’ and boozin’ that you won’t even remember how you can barely nail down a second date while your peers are lockin’ in their soul mates. Oh, that sounds depressing. Well, at least I don’t have to write a pile of thank-you cards like they do.

  I almost forgot! One more thing:

  I DO cheer on any people who attempt to execute the worm in the middle of the dance floor. I’ll stand in a loose semicircle with the rest of the party guests, clapping and cheering on this breakdancing one-man entertainment center. He’s bringing a little bit of street to the ballroom, which rules. I’ll make sure to show him how truly delighted I am at his impromptu performance. I’ll hoot and holler like I’m in the audience at The Arsenio Hall Show because that is how I appreciate most works of fine art.

  My favorite wedding of all time was my college buddy Oliver’s wedding a few years ago as it was a chance to reconnect with my old classmates. We’d been out of college for six years at the time of his wedding, which was enough time to get jobs and lose them. We’d all had serious relationships and fucked them up, too. That’s the cool thing about being twenty-eight: After you’ve weathered a few of life’s storms, you pretty much know who you are by this age.

  At twenty-eight, you’re not fully aware of everything about yourself just yet. I’d reckon that I knew myself about eighty-five percent of the way by twenty-eight. For the most part, I knew my habits, tastes, and values. I knew that I will probably never willingly purchase a Limp Bizkit album or attend a church service where people dance around with poisonous snakes. I knew that I would probably never develop a cigar habit or wear a cape in public. I also knew that I probably would never learn how to play the harp or join a street gang in South Central L.A. In fact, I’d put money on it.

  However, there was still a bit about myself that I hadn’t discovered yet. For instance, I had no idea what kind of parent I’ll be. Even though the idea seems far-fetched, I had no idea if I’d ever buy a minivan or purchase massage oils in a concerted effort to “spice up” my love life. I also had no idea what kind of guy I’d even want to settle down with and maybe use those massage oils on. What would he look like? What would he sound like? Who knows? As Tom Petty sang in the song with Johnny Depp in the video, “The future was wide open.”

  Oliver was my friend Ricky’s roommate in my sophomore year of college. He was tall, blond, and skinny, and all the girls got weak knees around him because he was so effortlessly handsome. The fact that he was in a rotating roster of indie rock bands just added to his appeal. I, however, was immune to his charms because tall, lanky blonds did nothing for me. This allowed our friendship to flourish.

  My favorite memory of Oliver was when he was getting ready to go out one night and I popped into his room while he assembled his outfit. In total emo style, he was wearing periwinkle shorts, a green striped T-shirt, and black-rimmed glasses that complemented his black Chuck Taylors. He asked me what I thought of his ensemble. I narrowed my eyes and said, “Well, Oliver, you look like a developmentally challenged second grader.” He nearly popped a button laughing so hard. We still crack up about that.


  Oliver was marrying Katya, an absolute darling. She had long, straight brown hair and glowy skin, like she washed her face with fairies’ eyelashes and ground unicorn horns. Katya was the kind of girl that you immediately knew would make a great mom. She had a touch of hippie in her blood. Like, she’d bake cookies with wheat germ and carob chips for a potluck dinner party. Or she’d stew barley soup and bake her own whole-grain bread on a snowy Tuesday and get a kick out of sharing the meal with her next-door neighbors.

  I was there the night they met. Oliver and I were at a show at Brownie’s, a music venue in the East Village that has since shuttered its doors, and Katya asked if she could interview him for her zine. She was a fan of his band, Tuesday Trail. I watched the sparks fly between them and was pleased when he told me that they were dating. Shortly thereafter, they moved to a house in Greenpoint, a total Brooklyn fairy tale.

  And now, they were getting married. The plan was for me to grab the Chinatown bus from Philly and roll into Brooklyn on Friday afternoon, meet up with Ricky, and well, that was all I knew. The wedding was the next day, a sunny Saturday in September, in McGolrick Park, a majestic park plopped in the middle of Greenpoint. I’d just started my master’s degree in journalism at Temple University, so I was preoccupied with diving back into the rigors of school. However, I was excited to return to my old stomping grounds. It’d been a few years since I moved away from Brooklyn where I lived for two years after college, and I missed the way the sidewalks felt under my feet. More than that, I really missed having access to decent bagels.

  Ricky had already flown in a day before from Portland, Oregon, where he’d settled after college. I was genuinely looking forward to seeing the old gang come together as semi-adults. Oliver organized a softball game for all the out-of-towners in McCarren Park, right off the L train in Williamsburg. Unfortunately, I missed the whole thing because of a fire on the subway line. (Ah, New York, you haven’t changed one bit. I see you still inconvenience me with the kinds of problems that I’d imagine the society of Mad Max to have! How grand.) I showed up just as everyone was high-fiving and congratulating each other on playing a good game.