There’s a particular spot on my front lawn that randomly grows a bunch of mushrooms. It’s been happening for years, same bat time, same bat channel. Like wtf, I mow them down and they sprout back up again. Once a few years ago, some super ancient dude neighbour passing by carrying his liquor store bag of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, don’t knock it, saw me stomping on them and stopped in his tracks. My mind was about to be blown.
“There used to be a big ol’ oak tree in that there spot,” He said in a cute Mark Twain-y old man way.
I’m like, ah, smiling politely, stomp stomp.
“Even though the tree is gone, the mushrooms will still grow where the stump was,” he said.
And I’m like, huh, interesting, and thinking go away, stomp, stomp.
“That’s not going to get rid of them.”
“But they’re so gross, they’re like lawn zits!” Really, more like grass dicks. Nature’s pornography.
“Well, miss,” he smiled all twinkly blood shot eyed, “You better get used to them. They always come back.”
Stomp, what. When? Sigh.
He just kept standing there and then went on to say that lived around here all his life, from back in the day when the neighbourhood was all boarding houses for horse jockeys, prostitutes and Anglo Saxon street gangs. The neighbourhood was like Pottersville in George Bailey’s alternate reality in “It’s a Wonderful Life!” I remember when there was a horse race track down the street, which is now a 20 year old development wryly nicknamed “Pleasantville,” but given the current price of real estate, I did not know the neighbourhood was once so dodgy. I would give anything to time travel! Anyway, the old man was born in the same house he still lives in to a teenage mother and his grandpa was a longshoreman. Gramma worked at the hospital and his teenage mom facked off to join the circus when he was 2. They had jockey boarders and there was brawling #porchlife 2.0 and even the children drank beer because the water was so dank.
I love the stories of yesteryear! I asked him if he wanted some lemonade and he looked me up and down and said no, he had to go home and feed his cats. Maybe another time, he would bring his Harvey’s Bristol Cream if I could supply the ice cubes. I never did see him again though. But he was right, the mushrooms multiplied. I think the mighty majestic oak tree and recurring phallic mushrooms are metaphors to a life lesson I have yet to fucking learn because years later I am still stomping on the grass and chopping down trees on Tinder.
Anyway spring fever hit me with its pointy mushroom cap head. It’s hard to say exactly when because the weather so was so dodgy. Warm one day and snowing the next. About a month ago, there was a full moon waxing and a decent day and I finally woke from my Netflix coma and decided yes, I am ready. I poured myself a Bristol Cream! and texted some young dude from my Internet Dick Farm, or IDF. These are the fresh fellows in their prime without any important baggage from dating websites who are all about the messaging. They don’t actually want or expect to meet you in person because scary and work and messy and bodily fluids, blechhh. And this particular dude especially. He would always text at like 2 pm on Sunday asking me to drop what I was doing and come over when really he was at the laundromat bored, waiting for his Tommy Hilfiger cotton staples his mom bought him to finish twirling in the dryer. I think he appreciated my quick wit and prose. I like to pepper my sexting with actual real life descriptions of blocked nostrils and embarrassing farting sounds. I am always game to hone my writing skills but the boys on my IDF are not ones I want to actually meet IRL either. I usually message them for about 3 days or so and then we mutually move on. But this particular dude hung on for the past year or so. He’d like to tell me about his dates and stuff and all the girls he banged. I’d make him tell me about their apartments and what kind of sheets they had, did you stay for breakfast? What was her French press like? And the stuff in the background of his dick pics, I would actually zoom in on and assess. Once I thought this black blob was a cat and I got excited, what’s your kitty’s name? But it turned out it was his gym bag, lol. A couple of months ago, I wasn’t my usual self, I was kind of depressed, not sad per se, just flat and bored, and he suggested I go get my thyroid checked! So cute and sweet! He said his mom had a thyroid issue and it affected her mood also. So last month, I did book a full body hoe checkup. My tiny doctor, who shops at Gap kids does not drink or even eat, asked me about my alcohol intake. I lied like a rug and told her I averaged 15 units of spiritual beverages a week, her jaw dropped to the ground, luckily it was carpeted with mendacity, and she booked me for a liver scan. Apparently women are supposed to have 8 units maximum! Bear in mind there are 6 pours in a bottle of wine. Let’s do the math. Can you imagine? That’s like one bottle of wine and 2 beers in a week!!!!! What the hell. I’m of Scandinavian descent, my liver is basically made whale blubber and black tar. Can you give me a medical marijuana card at least? I have the perpetual condition of menopause and rapidly growing chin hairs, FFS. She’s like, no, that wouldn’t be good either. Jesus Christ, the indignity. That’s whole other blog post though. Thyroid is fine however. And liver has some good decades left, told you so, Dr. M, skál!
Anyway, back to dude and the full moon. I decided let’s do this or this texting will have to die soon, the next girlfriend this dude gets, he’s going to have to marry, I’m sure his mother would agree. So I made a booty call. I actually never do that. Yes, I beg and plead for a certain faraway peeps to hop on a plane and make my dreams come true but I NEVER casually text someone in the deep 6 to come over for good times. Not because I am a rules lady but only because I fear disappointment. So I texted him some nonsense I forget and since deleted and he texted back that he had to go to some birthday party (right?) because you know how millennials love to celebrate their birthdays like they are all second comings of a twisted entitled version of Jesus Bieber. So I said ok, no problem and went to bed and fell asleep and in my Bristol Cream dream haze, my phone actually rang. Like real phone, not just dopey text alert. Somebody has died! But no, it was dude and he wanted to come over! In the middle of the goddamn night! It’s like 3 in morning but I’m so stupid I say yes and he takes the address and slurs it to the cab driver. And I say, why don’t you Uber? But he has moral principals about the taxi industry, he tries to explain but goes off on another tangent, something about a fight he had with one of his Ninja Turtle buddies, prolly about a Pokemon battle. I am fully awake now but wearing a men’s XXL 3 wolf moon tshirt, appropriate but ugly as fuck, and pyjama bottoms, the bad ones I have! They sag at the ass and I have been working on it so diligently! I have slept on wet hair and I have too much to deal with including a bunch of dogs that I am dogsitting because it is a full fucking moon. And ladies without proper menstrual cycles attract small needy house pets when everyone else is out howling, prowling, and working it all out, sexy times, U.S.A.
It took him forever to get to my house because when the cab driver let him off, he couldn’t figure out which way the numbers went and he kept walking in the wrong direction as the numbers got smaller. Oh my God, in all my Bristol Cream hazes, I have never had this problem. Odd numbers are on the south side and even numbers are on the north. The spine of the city is Yonge Street and if you are east of it, the numbers become greater as you head toward the rising sign, more east. They don’t go randomly like 17, 15, 13, and oh 35 is next! It’s not hard, dude (that’s what she said). I had to go out in the street BAREFOOT IN MY STUPID PYJAMAS to find him, he was heading west, the house numbers were getting smaller but he just didn’t get it. I waved at him from the distance and went inside and waited. Somehow he crossed the street and was heading more east, omg. Then when he finally staggered in, all the dogs ran out of the house and onto the neighbour’s front lawn. Okay, there were only 3 dogs in total but that’s still a wrangling situation that was probably as hot to watch as that episode of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” where the whole fat family chases their pet pig in mud.
And this is where all time stood still. we were standing in the front hall, dogs barking and jumping. I told him to take off his shoes. It stared at the ridiculous dogs, it took him forever to move, do something, say anything and when he finally did, he looked over at me and said WITH AN UMISTAKEABLE SNEER: “You have some white stuff on your face.”
And I’m wiping my cheek, “Oh! it’s toothpaste…whatever…” And the worst sinking feeling of disappointment started to flood in. He was probably expecting me to be dressed like a slutty version of his mom in a Talbots sweater set and spike heels.
“I think I’m going to go,” he said with that creaky vocal fry tone, emphasis on the word “go.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Am I that bad? It’s just toothpaste,” I swear I was about to cry. Somehow I channeled an episode of “Sex and the City” where Stanford get rejected by meeting an on-line date on a street corner and the guy just looks at him and sniffs dismissively, “this isn’t going to work.”
“I think I’m going to go,” uttered by a drunk dude instantly translated into me thinking I had my last fuckable day like that skit on “Inside Amy Schumer” when they sent Julia Louis Dreyfus down the river. Mine could have been sometime in October of 2015 and I didn’t even know it! If I did I would have celebrated when I had the chance. FML.
‘I don’t want your dogs to kill me,” he said, trying to mask his disappointment.
“Oh my god, I warned you about the dogs, they’re just precious little woofers…okay go, then. Just go.” Like go home and microwave yourself a pizza pocket, son. Ugh, I’m too old for this.
Some more stupid conversation/negotiation ensued and yes, normally I would have been down for what he suggested but I could tell since he could barely cross the street that his aim would be off so I said forget it. Empowered by my own righteous ugliness, I shuffled him out the door. I was just pissed off by that point. Fuck that guy and his lofty expectations. I watched him walk the opposite direction of where I told him to go, I mean I even pointed with my gnarly finger GO THAT WAY to the main road and he literally skewed 45 degrees toward the graveyard. Part of me felt bad for him because clearly his pathetic sense of direction will lead to many needlessly expensive cab rides but then again, that’s what you get for being a dick. STOMP.