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Veronica Mobley (Veronica Sawyer)

18 Oct

One of my many jobs in high school (I was quite the Jill of All Trades afterall…. okay, more like the Jack actually. Lay off, jeez!) was at the local movie theater. Now… the town I grew up in was very… difficult to describe. To this day I cannot figure out if it is more po-dunk redneck or gangster ghetto. Allz I knowz is, the classiness of its citizens leaves something to be desired (present company excluded if I know you. maybe.)

Like most jobs, the movie theater had two types of employees: high school students looking to make their $5.25/hour to pay their car insurance and buy Fossil watches for their sweeties on their one-year anniversary (note: most of these students ended up marrying said sweetie) and the people that I like to call, The Best They Could Doers. Meaning, they dressed up to come to work everyday, tried really, really hard to make the best popcorn possible, and basically kissed ass until they were given an assistant manager position (or similar) and an hourly rate of $5.75 an hour.

Veronica Sawyer bewildered me because she didn’t fit in either of these categories. At first glance she seemed to be a high school student, but after forty-five seconds of conversation, it became clear that this girl probably didn’t make it out of middle school in one piece. She was a sixteen year-old dropout, but wasn’t even attempting to strive as hard as The Best They Could Doers. Here was a girl that really needed to make something of this job and she couldn’t even figure out the slushee machine. Mostly, I felt sorry for Veronica and I tried being nice to her, even though every conversation with her was worse than watching a kitten being murdered while a hyena screams in your ear.

One day, there was a problem on one of the screens, and I went upstairs to tell Eric Mobley, the projectionist. I couldn’t find him upstairs at all. Now the theater I worked at was pretty old school, the projection booth was one long room along the entire length of the theater. I don’t know what ultimately made me look, maybe I heard a moan or some other noise, but I happened to glance out one of the windows into an “empty” theater. Well I found Eric. Veronica had her skirt hiked up and they were fucking right there in the middle of the theater. I mean, of course I watched them finish, but then I quietly, and respectfully went downstairs and didn’t say a word. Except to my best friend. And his brother. And his brother’s algebra class.

Flashforward ten years. Veronica Mobley (yes, she married that Best They Could Doer, even though he was 20 years her senior) and I are friends on Facebook, a friendship she initiated and I seriously considered denying. Her status updates bring me back to the days of the Innocent Kitten Slaughter. She thanks God for everything. “Diet Coke was on sale at Publix today. Praise Jesus!” “I just made cupcakes. God is good.” But the interesting thing is when she announced that it was “Mommy Day” on Facebook today, she listed the date that her first son was born. I did a little quick math, and realized that I may have actually witnessed his conception. Praise God!

calvin fonda

3 Aug

I mentioned before that I’m a crazy drunk bitch at holiday parties. Or parties in general. When I got an invitation for my first holiday party at my grown-up job, I could barely contain myself. Here I was, a small town girl, thinking that open bars were reserved for weddings and movie star parties. But I was told that for four glorious hours, I could pour as much alcohol down my throat as I wanted. For free!

I had only been working there for a couple months, so there were several people at the party that I’d never met before.  Calvin Fonda, a boy my age took an immediate interest in me and began to flirt aggressively. I played along despite my lack of interest. As these things seem to go, as I became more and more drunk, and less and less able to take care of myself, Calvin became more and more interested in me. He started grinding up on me in the middle of the bar, and at one point grabbed my hand and put it on his dick. I just giggled. And probably hiccuped.

After several minutes of this, I began to come to my senses. I looked around for my friend Hugh Lewicki to rescue me. Hugh and I made the ‘I have to get out of here eye contact’ and he approached us casually. At this point, I was holding my license, credit card and lip gloss in a goodie bag I had been given at the beginning of the party. My purse was in the car. Calvin was annoying by the interruption, and whispered into my ear to meet him in his car for some good old fashioned oral sex. I assumed I would be on the giving end.

I intentionally missed that rendezvous and went home, where I laughed about it and burned three bags of popcorn while I tried to tell my roommate what had happened. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized Calvin had taken my goodie bag out to his car with him. It also wasn’t until the next morning that Hugh decided to tell me that Calvin was the son of a major VIP at work. I never got any of my credentials back, nor did Calvin get back his dignity.

melinda bradley

13 Jul

When I got my first job in the industry I am now in, I interviewed on Friday and was to start working on Monday. This caused a bit of a problem with my current job as a waitress at ******. Although I hated it with a burning fiery passion unlike anything I’d felt or have felt since, I had been a loyal employee there for over five years and didn’t want to screw them over. But, oh I hated it.

I put in my two weeks and gave away as many shifts as I could, but I remember having to come in for a couple evening shifts after I finished up on ***********.  I was exhausted and miserable. When my two weeks were finally up, I experienced my first real weekend since I was a sophomore in high school.  It also happened to be Cinco De Mayo.

A recently ex-co-worker, Melinda Bradley, and I decided to drive up to Santa Barbara and drink some wine and walk around. We didn’t really have a game plan, so we found ourselves stopping at the side of the road a lot whenever we found something interesting.

After a full day of mini-excursions, we were heading back home when Melinda saw this long, really steep road with an interesting sounding name. We turned onto it and began the ascent. We were immediately intrigued when at least two dozen antique cars passed us coming from the other direction. The road kept going, climbing higher and higher, and yet we were unable to find the source of the antique car parade. Eventually, Melinda looks over at me, her eyes a little wild with fear and says, “I have to poop.”

At this point we have been on this road for about ten minutes. Possibly fifteen. Before that, we had been on a long winding highway in the middle of nowhere. We were at the very least thirty minutes from anywhere with a toilet. I laughed. A lot.

But Melinda was not laughing. “Pull over,” she said. I did as I was told and turned the car off as Melinda frantically searched my back seat. She asked me if I have any paper towels or fast food napkins, which I, having anticipated our road trip, had just thrown away that morning. As Melinda’s desperation became more and more apparent, I offered her the only thing I had.

“Your (insert old place of employment here) apron?” Melinda asked, laughing despite her predicament.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I was never very good at metaphors anyway…”

Melinda scurried into the woods, and I stood guard at the edge of the road.  After a while, I called to her to see if she was okay.  She answered, sounding a little out of breath, “Yeah… just… give me a minute.”

As I stood by the side of the road, rocking back and forth on my heels, a lone biker rode down the road. Now let me remind you that this was a very steep road. And he was riding down. He should have just sped by, but this dude must have been riding his brakes because he was moving at a snail’s pace.  As he approached, he called out to me, “Everything alright, miss?”

“Yep,” I said, smothering a laugh. “Just enjoying this beautiful day.”

From behind me in the woods, Melinda called out, “What?”

“Do you need help with anything?” the man asked, seeming very concerned.

“Yep, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Your car working?”

“Yes, sir.”

I was tempted to ask him if his bike is working, but I fought the urge. The man finally pedaled away, apparently unconvinced that I wasn’t in some sort of distress. Shortly after, Melinda emerged from the woods, a relieved smile on her face, and my soiled ******* apron crumpled in her hands.

She looked at me, almost embarrassed, “What should I do with this…?”

I informed her that the apron was not coming into the car with us, so she left it by the side of the road, a little gift for our cyclist on his return trip. Now Melinda and I are friends IRL, so you may think it’s odd that I’ve included her in this blog, but I am afraid that after she reads this, we no longer will be. 🙂

david kramer

2 Jul

A couple years ago, I decided that I needed a boyfriend. Not because I was lonely or anything, but because I was having trouble finding someone that would obey me on a consistent basis. I’ve never been a ‘Meet a Guy at a Bar’ type of girl, so I turned to the truly wicked world of online dating. I’m sure many people meet their soulmates online, but I just don’t get it. I always end up more disappointed when I finally meet them in person. I prefer things the old-fashioned way, ya know, shouldn’t my parents be forcing me into a betrothal to an evil lord in exchange for a herd of sheep or something? But I digress; I could write a book about the disappointments of online dating. Don’t worry, I wont.

So David Kramer. We were matched on e-Harmony, and I was surprised a little because I knew this guy. Kinda. Like I was already stalking him. Kinda. Oooh, I just realized that this is eerily similar to another story, and another friend of mine on Facebook. Maybe I’ll write about Ryan Frost next. But I’m all over the place here. David and I were pseudo co-workers. Meaning he worked for a company that worked for my company. I had seen him around a lot, and spoken to him briefly a few times in group conversations. I messaged him and we met for coffee.

Our first date was alright. There was no magic chemistry, but with me, there really never is. I did like him though, and could picture us dating casually, which also never happens with me, so there was a bit of excitement on my part.

My friend advised me to proceed casually, but casual has never been my thing. They were replaying The Godfather at the local theater, which was really like the most perfect thing possible, because 1- I love The Godfather, and 2- He’s a guy, therefore he loves The Godfather. I invited him, and he claimed he already had plans on the night it was playing, but insisted that otherwise he would’ve loved to go. He suggested we do something that weekend instead, I agreed, and never heard from him again.

I’m not an idiot. I know when I’ve been rejected, and so I did what I always do when I’m rejected: bury myself in a cave of self-loathing until someone lures me out with frozen yogurt and a movie night.

Life went on. I saw David a few times at work, where we would always exchange awkward hellos. Finally, to my relief, he was fired. That first date was in September. The following spring, I was hiking in the canyons with Gabby Donovan when I ran into him and his dog, Dumbledore. He was very polite. He stopped and talked to me for several minutes, at the end of it, he gets this puzzled look on his face and says, “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

At this point I am furious. I guess I didn’t have a right to be, but as the person who remembers everything about everyone all the time, it does get pretty old to be so easily forgotten. All. The. Time. I mean, I remembered his fucking dog’s name, for christsake. I don’t remember if I told him my name or not. He knew I was mad. I wished him happy unemployment and walked away. When we passed each other again on the way back up the canyon, I ignored him.

A few months later, he adds me as his friend on Facebook. I accept. I online stalk him a little, online stalk his new girlfriend a little. You know, the usual.

A few months after that, we got matched on OkCupid, another online dating site. Guess things with his new girlfriend didn’t work out. I felt so terrible about that. Not.

ramona neale

25 Jun

I had been working at ********* for several months before my co-worker, Gabby Donovan, invited me over to a pool party at her home. Her roommate, Ramona Neale, was very particular, and I was the only person Gabby had invited. I should have felt honored, but after only ten minutes, and a half bottle of white in, I realized that there were no men at this party. I had known going in that Ramona was a lesbian. I had even suspected that Gabby might occasionally lean that way. What hadn’t even dawned on me was that I was invited as potential fresh meat to this pool of incestuous, cynical, The L-Word loving hikers.

It was soon made very clear to these ladies that I was not interested in seeing anyone’s vagina. This clarity was arrived at by my drunkenly gleeful announcement in the swimming pool that, “I love cock!” followed by a fit of giggles (my own), and a ruffie paranoia so fierce that I not only poured all my own drinks, but refused to dip my head underwater in fear that I would miss someone slipping something into my drink. Yes, people, I am that irresistible.

What my caution didn’t protect me from was my own drunkeness. In (relatively) rare form, I ended up blacking out. The only thing I remember after my second bottle of wine, is locking myself in the bathroom for several hours and only letting in one particular orange bikini-clad lesbian with a bucket of fried chicken. I’m almost positive I let her in because of the chicken, not the bikini. Almost.

I survived the shameful stories that Gabby told at work on Monday, but I was never invited back to another party at her house. I was surprised when Ramona friend requested me, but I guess she was at least a little amused, because every time I head for the restroom at a work-related party, she asks me if she’s gonna have to send a lesbian with a bucket of chicken in after me.

jenn g. and alonzo almonte

24 Jun

The summer after I graduated college, when all my close friends went off to start their actual careers, I was known to get pretty wild and loose cavorting about my small town.  It was at this time, that I decided to drag Jenn G, a girl I served with at ********* in the next town over, back to the local Applebees– where nothing good ever happens.

We were sitting at the bar for less than five minutes, when we were approached by two young men.  I recognized Alonzo Almonte from high school.  We were in the same grade, but we ran in entirely different circles.  He was basically your average popular, douchey guy who dated slutty girls and asked them to take a steaming, post-coital dump on his chest.  Or at least that was the rumor going around during our sophomore year.  I did not recognize his friend.

Alonzo and His Friend were immediately taken with us, as most men usually are.  Jenn G was really into His Friend, though I, having relieved my bowels a few hours before, knew things would never work out sexually between me and Alonzo.  But I decided to take one for the team, and go home with them so that Jenn G could get laid.

*Note: This is NOT Alonzo. If it were, trust that I would have followed him upstairs.

We went back to Alonzo and His Friend’s apartment, where we got drunker and played card games.  When the sexual tension between Jenn G. and His Friend became too much to bear, the two of them went upstairs to screw.  Alone in the living room, Alonzo looked at me seriously and said, “Well.  That leaves you and me…”

I looked at him equally serious and said, “Not gonna happen.”  I assumed this was the end of the discussion, and shortly after, I passed out on the couch.

When I woke up, the sun was just coming up.  And so was Alonzo.  He was straddling me, wearing only tighty whities, which he had somehow managed to maneuver my hands into while I was sleeping.  He was also licking my face and moaning that I was his little “vale-dick-whore-ian” (a clever nickname he’d come up with because I was a: our class’ valedictorian, thus the only reason he knew who I was, and b: going to be his whore).  I immediately started struggling, trying to get him off of me, but he was very persistent.  He began begging me to come upstairs with him.  At first I declined, but after realizing I couldn’t get him off of me, I finally agreed.  He went upstairs first and called down to me repeating over and over again, “Come upstairs my little valedickwhoreian.”

While he was calling for me, I snuck out the front door and went home.  I feel really bad about leaving Jenn G. there.  But I guess there weren’t any hard feelings because a few years later, she totally accepted my friend request.

As for Alonzo, I guess he was pretty angry.  Four years later, I found out that he was telling everyone who would listen that he saw me have sex with two different guys at one party.