http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

Frankie Lou Sings the Blues

Ah, those fake milestone relationship moments. You know, the ones that are supposed to be really important but you don't actually care that much about? It's like Greg and Sarah getting married just so they could move to the Czech Republic together without too much of a hassle, or like Ingrid and Brian going through the whole ridiculous proposal scene after they had already decided they were engaged. For me, that moment has always been Meeting the Parents. I've never really given a shit what my parents think about the person I'm dating; in fact, if they don't like my current flame, it's almost a good sign. My parents loved Elliot. What does that tell you?

I've never really gotten butterflies in my stomach about meeting the parents of my main squeeze, either. If someone is going to break up with me because of a bad review from Mom 'n Pop, I figure I'm better off alone, anyway. The only time I've been nervous before a parent meeting was when I went to California and had dinner with Elliot's mother, but that was only because I was thinking quite strongly about marrying him and was worried about spending the rest of my life sitting at family dinners across from someone who despised me. "Pass the potatoes, you unbearable tongue-pierced whore who stole my little boy [I was planning to get my tongue pierced at that time, FYI]."

Can you guess where this entry is going? I met my beloved Jefe's parents this weekend, and I didn't worry for one moment. The truth is, part of my lack of worrying about parents is that parents have always been my thing. They love me. When I was a kid, my friends' parents would ask their children to have me spend the night or come with them to the movies. Why, you ask? Was I angelic? Polite? Neat? C'mon, you know me better than that. I was entertaining as all hell. Whereas most young'ns cower in front of parents and give stilted responses regarding age, hobbies, and family when questioned, I just let loose and said the first thing that came into my head. I was precocious, weird, brave, and spontaneous. I was one of those kids that made you laugh while you were trying to give me a lecture. I am the Master of the Parents.

And I'm proud to report that I defended my title this weekend. From the moment I was introduced to the kind and hospitable Mr. and Mrs. We've-Got-a-Small-Angus-Beef-Ranch-Out-in-the-Middle-of-Fuck-Nowhere-and-We-Inseminate-Cows-with-Frozen-Sperm-and-an-Arm-length-Glove, I knew it was going to be smooth sailing. They were easy to like: down-to-earth, funny, and Oklahoman as a scizzor-tailed flycatcher. Still, I was on my game hardcore. When you're fighting for the affection of your lov-ah's parents, you've got to get in some really good punches early on.

Swing One: Perfect outfit: casual yet classy, tasteful, feminine enough for Dad to think you're sweet but not so feminine that Mom thinks you're a flaky bimbo. Bam!

Swing Two: Eat lots of Mom's food and pretend to enjoy it. Bam! Luckily, with Jeff's mom I didn't have to pretend; that ham he's been talking about on his blog is no myth.

Swing Three: Fulfill Mom's requirements for what a good girl should be. With Frankie Franklin (I swear to God, that is her name, and I love it), I met all three: 1) college educated, 2) free of tattoos and/or unusual piercings, and 3) trained enough to say "Yes, Ma'am" in response to her questions. Bam! Bam! Bam!

Swing Four: Laugh at Dad's crazy stories. Again, this wasn't difficult, because they were actually funny. Bamma-lamma ding dong!

Swing Five: Love on the family pets. Awww, come here, Stubby, and let's cuddle. Go fetch, Shaq [so named because he's black, I think]!

And may I say, bam?

It all went swimmingly, and when I left, Frankie Franklin hugged me and told me it was good to know her son was in such good hands. I left beaming, and my darling rewarded me for all my hard work by treating me to a giant bowl of pesto tortellini with a chilled bottle of Conundrum. I was in such good spirits, I decided to quit smoking that night and had my last cigarette right there in the Bellini's smoking section.

However, right now I want a cigarette so badly I could kill you. Yes, YOU. Please don't tell Frankie I'm a smoker.

The Good Fight

It had to happen eventually, I suppose. My dear Jefe and I just had our first real fight. In fact, I'm not sure we've quite finished having it--I'll keep you posted. I won't get into the details, but I did want to address the subject of fighting/argument in general.

M came over the other night to record Pinkish Mauve's first album; we entitled it Soul Solicitation. Before we started, though, I had to have some girl talk about the argument with Jefe. "He said I was mean!" I exclaimed, vying for sympathy. "Just because I disagree with him doesn't make me mean."

M's response? "Well...you are mean."

Beg your pardon? What the hell ever happened to the unspoken rule that your girlfriends always have to take your side when you're complaining about your boyfriend? Did that go out the window? Someone let me know when and how that particular duty of a friend got shirked in favor of complete honesty.

Obviously, I was nonplussed by this information. M and I have had two fights, and both were pretty damned unpleasant, I must admit. One resulted from a comment from her that I perceived as homophobic, and one that came from her constant judgment about my life and, ironically, my relationship with Jefe. We got pretty angry with one another both times, but I never felt that I said anything mean; I may have said some things she didn't want to hear, but that's not the same thing.

I probed the issue more and more, trying to find out what I did that made me mean, but she kept answering me in the negative whenever I would try to guess what it is. Did I insult her? No. Did I hit below the belt? No. Did I yell and scream? No. Did I fight dirty, saying anything that was meant merely to hurt her? No. Well, then, what IS it?!

It finally came out that during fights I am intimidating, very frank, and good at using my words to turn the situation in my favor. She said she always felt two steps behind me when we were fighting, like I was somehow controlling the argument like an evil mastermind.

So what was her point? I'm not actually mean, I'm just GOOD at arguing. Shit, I knew that already! I went to Regionals every year I was in debate and I even won first place at the Cascia Hall Classic in 1999. I'm a professionally trained arguer, for fuck's sake. "M, you can't tell me I'm mean during an argument if all you mean is that I'm intimidating and well-spoken." She acquiesced, and I felt better.

But only for a moment. I kept thinking the whole night, and I decided I could tailor my technique to fit the needs of those in my life who are going to be a little less thick-skinned than my debater friends from high school (remember the Akbar post?). I guess I just learned to be aggressive during fights and to monitor the other combatant's responses for even the slightest error or contradiction. This probably does not make me very pleasant to fight with, I'm sure, and unlike debate, you don't get to shake hands pleasantly with your opponent and chat afterwards like you haven't just said his case was ill-conceived, illogical, irrelevant drivel.

So I'm going to try and change the way I fight, in hopes that I'll stop alienating the people I love with my bared-teeth approach. I will say, however, that I think life should be more like a debate round. At the very least, it would be nice for a judge to tell you at the end of the fight who won it. By the time you get to a judge in real life, you'll probably just regret getting into the fight to begin with.

Did I mention that I've decided to apply to law school next year?

It's Fucking Cold!!!

I didn't move to Austin to be cold. I could do that just fine in Oklahoma. Someone turn the sun back on!

More Fun from Craig's List Personal Ads

Mind-fuck me harder

You: Be so intelligent that your own thoughts frequently become unbearable. Hate people less intelligent than you; love and resent people more intelligent than you. Waver constantly between irritating bravado and pathetic self-disgust. Read obsessively, awed and terrified at the brilliance you so hope is inside you, as well. Be an almost-amazing writer, incredibly talented but far too in love with your own words to ever say anything truly new and revolutionary. Know that in that last sentence I split an infinitive, and know that it doesn't really matter because we're not speaking Latin here.

Use your clever wit in manipulative ways: hide your flaws, point out my flaws, and protect yourself from ever having to admit you don't know something. Feel physically ill when you see the word "definately." Write people off too soon, sure that you're too old now to waste your time with anyone below your standards (which you don't ever define because seeing them spelled out would probably make you look an asshole). Make the cool fall air crackle with your sarcasm, misanthropy, and icepick-in-the-chest insight. Leave me always wondering if deep down you're really cruel or really kind, in part because you're not entirely sure yourself.

Be so fucking smart and introspective that it's almost impossible to connect with another human being. Then connect with me, anyway, and fall in gut-wrenching love with me, and fuck me bent over the arm of your ratty old couch. I know you'll sabotage us someday, because you'll either love yourself or hate yourself too much to give anything of yourself away to another human being, but let's have fun until then.

Me: Absolutely no one. I can hardly wait to disappoint you.

That about sums up my religious upbringing. How about you?

Pinko + Snake Eyes = Pink Eye?

You've been waiting for it, folks, and it's finally here. The love story of two dear friends of mine; to protect them we'll call the young woman "Pinko" and the young man "Snake Eyes." It doesn't offer much protection, since that's what I call both of them in real life, but it's better than writing out their full names and phone numbers. (That information, however, is available upon request.)

I had long been waiting for Pinko to come from Oklahoma to Austin to visit me, and she finally made it down late on the first Friday of November with her friend (let's call her "Paula"), whom I had never met but liked immediately. Paula, Pinko, and I chatted for a bit before I whisked them away to the Spiderhouse, telling them that it was an essential part of the Austin experience, but really just needing an excuse to chain-smoke. They liked the atmosphere and the yummy vegan carrot cake (Pinko is a veggie girl), and we planned the next day's activities. They made it clear that they were planning on visiting the famed Sixth Street, and then they wanted to head over to Red River to see Li'l Cap'n Travis play at Room 710.

Now, before Pinko had even arrived, she had made inquiries about any hot male friends I might have available to get her laid while she was here. My first thought was Snake Eyes, of course, because he's an absolute cutie and had gone so long without getting laid that I was worried even the Suicide Girls wouldn't satisfy him much longer. When I was calling around to invite Austin friends out to join us downtown, I made sure to include Snake Eyes. I didn't actually expect anything to come of it, because in the past I haven't been much of a matchmaker, but it was worth a shot.

Little did I know what was in store, folks.

Snake Eyes arrived at the bar looking like the Austin semi-grungy hipster that he is, and as soon as he went to the bathroom, I whispered in Pinko's ear, "Well?"

"Oh, yeah! He's fucking hot!" she replied enthusiastically. Whoa! Could this actually work? I didn't have to worry much about his response to her, because if there is one thing Snake Eyes loves, it's boobs, and if there's one thing Pinko has in her love arsenal, it's a fabulous set of Dueling Banjos. Sure enough, he returned and confirmed in whispered conversation that she, too, was the Hotness. Let the games begin!

They flirted, he bought her a drink, Paula and I shared secret smiles. We walked down to Room 710 and chilled out for a while. Or rather, Paula and I kept drinking a shitload of beer while Snake Eyes and Pinko flirted. At this point, my world was quickly going out of focus, so it was hard to keep an eye on the two lovebirds, but I assumed they were doing well. I vaguely recall passing Snake Eyes on the way to the bathroom and asking how it was going, and he replied something like, "It's going okay, but I'm definitely ready to make out with Pinko." After another friend, Salty, showed up, we had three people to hang out and chat while Pinko and Snake Eyes got to know each other better.

The concert began. Maybe 20 minutes into it, Salty turns to me and says, "Don't look, but they're making out." I look immediately to my right, and indeed, two of my very dear friends who have known each other for an hour are making out in the middle of a crowded bar. We couldn't look away. Paula, Salty, and I kept trying to enjoy the show and some occasional conversation, but we just couldn't stop looking over to see if the two of them were still going at it. They were. A lot.

Finally, I suggested a cigarette, and both Paula and Salty jumped at the chance to avoid the awkward moment inside. When we returned, however, Pinko and Snake Eyes were GONE.

"Oh, my God," I said to Salty, "Do you think they're having sex in the bathroom?" (This was not the case, but I learned later that Snake Eyes had, in fact, suggested that very thing.)

We finally found them upstairs, going full force sitting up in a chair way in the back. This was not innocent kissing, dear friends; this was, much like the rhumba, a vertical expression of a horizontal wish. The three of us stood on the landing of the stairs so that we could still see the show while we took turns running up to watch them. I only paid for one show, but I got two.

The concert ended, but the happy couple didn't notice, so a bartender had to help them: "Break it up! The bar's closed." They came down the stairs looking sheepish, and we all left the bar as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Now things got tricky. I pulled Pinko aside and asked her if she wanted to go home with Snake Eyes when Salty drove him home, and she said no. I didn't know if that meant, "No, I don't want to have sex with Snake Eyes," or if it meant, "I want to have sex with Snake Eyes, but not at his place." The five of us were standing around in front of the bar, uncomfortable and tense about what the next move would be. Finally, we decided to go to Starseed's, which is a greasy spoon near campus where people go to replenish their B-vitamins after a night of drinking. I rode with Salty and sent Snake Eyes and Pinko in Paula's car, which gave Salty and me a chance to bitch about how we were both tired, but we had to stay awake while the two lovebirds figured out how and if they were going to get into each other's pants.

Starseed's was a blast, partly because Salty and I decided we were going to be the life of the party to soothe over any tension, sexual or otherwise, that might occur because of the illicit liaison between Mr. and Mrs. Kissy-face. Salty fixed one problem for us by leaving without taking Snake Eyes home, which gave me a chance to ask him if he wanted to sleep at my place or go home. He chose my place, and Paula drove us home, where she immediately fell asleep on my papasan chair. I sat on the loveseat, and Pinko and Snake Eyes cuddled on the couch. The Big Lebowski was playing, but no one was really watching it. I gave up and told the cuddle-bugs that they could have the bed, and they didn't object. Like a good hostess, I went into the room, straightened out the blankets, and left two condoms on the night table.

They disappeared into my room, and I fell down on the blankets I had made for myself on the floor, trying to fall asleep as quickly as possible. I did this for two reasons: a) I didn't want to hear them having sex, and b) even if I didn't hear them, I didn't really want to think about two people having sex on my bed when one of them wasn't me. Fortunately, I fell asleep very quickly, and I never had to experience those moments we've all experienced at one time or another in which you wonder every few seconds: "Was that a sex noise?"

The next morning, Pinko woke up rosy, and the three girls hung out until I had to wake up Snake Eyes to go out to lunch with us. Seeing him naked under MY sheet in MY bed was a little bit disturbing, and I definitely noticed the condoms were gone from the night table. Snake Eyes smiled at me with half-shut eyes and mumbled, "I owe you one, Muskrat." It sounded good at the time, but now I have to wonder what exactly it is he owes me, and how he might go about paying off the debt. Does he have to provide me with one of his friends to sleep with? Because I've met his friends, and...no.

Now for the weird part: the entire evening was a series of incredible coincidences all revolving around the number 5. We were sure this proved that fate had brought Pinko and Snake Eyes together.

It was November 5th when they met.

Year: 2005.

By the time they got around to the sex early in the morning, it was 5:00 am.

They had both only slept with four people in their lives, and this brought them up to 5 each.

There were 5 of us in the group that night.

We (the girls) had gone to 5 restaurants over the weekend.

Whoa! Pretty crazy, huh?

The next morning, I put on my baseball jersey with the number "5" on the front and asked Pinko if she would like to borrow it. She let me know at that point that she hated me. Some gratitude for all my hospitality, huh?

Follow up: I found one of the empty condom packages on the floor underneath my bed. At a fancy dinner the other night with several people I didn't even know, I walked right up to the table, threw the package in front of Snake Eyes, and said, "Here, you left this in my room." That's what happenes when you litter, folks.

The moral of the story? Come visit me in Austin, and I'll get you laid. Who needs more motivation than that?

Question for the day

Why do child labor laws not prohibit children from acting in movies?

Anyone know the answer the this one?

The worst pun EVER

Muskrat: You have the hair of a mad genius.

Lorne: Yes. Now wait while I make a nuclear death ray out of this toaster.

Muskrat: Well, it didn't kill me, but this toast is delicious! So warm and crispy!

Lorne: I shall call it, "Plu-toast-ium."

Muskrat: [commences beating Lorne vigorously for a good ten minutes]


By the way, the post about the best personal ad has been deleted. I discovered it was unoriginal!! That bastard. Fucking personal ad plagiarizers. I feel sorry for any intellectual woman that was wooed by the ad, only to find out on the first date that the guy is a monosyllabic dolt.

For Giles. I hope this makes you feel better.

It's coming. Watch out, world.