Hello all … three of you. I MEAN MILLION OF YOU. I come bearing stories of the week and a half since we last spoke. And there’s a lot of exciting stuff, trust me. You may want to sit down — although, why would you be standing up. Unless you like to stand up and read things in which case whatever. Live and let live.
Anyways, we’ll start in the majestic land often referred to as the Bay Area, a land of ever changing gay rights, pot, and lots of fog. Even though those three descriptors have absolutely nothing to do with why I went there, they seem to sum it up in a way I accept as truth — so shut up about it. Off topic.
Anyhow, my mom, my sister, and I travelled to this geographical region to visit some friends of the family and live it up. Mission accomplished I’d say — our days consisted of getting up whenever we damn well pleased, leaving the house at some point, and coming back to play badminton until the sun crept over the beautiful landscape that is Redwood City, CA. And yes, that is where Scott Peterson was convicted. Remember that whole thing? This story just got a whole lot more interesting right? Wrong. This has nothing to do with that. But please, read on.
On the three-hour drive home I somehow started talking about World War I and didn’t shut my trap until we were pulling into our driveway. Three hours of me talking — about WWI. That has to be a record. Hence, it probably shouldn’t have surprised me that my sister was slumped over and enjoying a nice REM cycle while my mom was nodding her head to show her interest in the effect the Treaty of Guaranty had on British-German relations while it was completely obvious that she had been tuning me out since minute two. But moving on …
The next day, it was off to Walnut Creek to go to my cousin’s wedding and see a side of the family I hadn’t seen in years — my mom’s. She has six brothers and sisters so there are a freaking lot of people. As per usual, we were late and walked in the side door as soon as people began to walk down the isle. Nothing like sitting down too hard on the wooden bench and having your mom whisper but more like yell at you from the other end of the isle to scoot down more to make the entire church despise your respective branch on the family tree.
I’m blaming my mom for that one. At least I tried to be quiet. She really couldn’t have given a crap that intertwined with the “Here Comes the Bride” melody flowing from the organ, was her harmonious voice making up a whole new set of lyrics that went a little something like: “Hey Ash, you have like three more feet down there right? Do you think you could move over a little bit because I have my big purse today and I’m not putting it on the floor because it’s new and I don’t want people to step on it or anything. Oh and did you bring your camera because if you did can you take some pictures of the family while we’re here because I don’t really have any new ones of all 3784658 of us …”
What every little girl dreams of on her wedding day. I know that’s what I dream of — a guest you want to kick in the pants.
The rest of the wedding went off pretty great. I got to sit next to my favorite gay uncle at the reception. Well, he’s my only gay uncle but he’s my favorite — so he’s my favorite uncle who happens to be gay. Let me know if that’s not comin’ together for anybody. I hadn’t seen him since I was 18 so we had a lot to catch up on — life, graduation, boys, and why there was a giant vase in the middle of our table that had both candles floating in it AND fish. We weren’t sure if PETA would be tickled about that one. Indeed, by the end of the night all but one were stone cold dead. Well, I wouldn’t say “stone cold” because I think the reason they passed to the great beyond was because the candles made the water reach near boiling temperatures. But alas, they are in a better place now … and by that I mean they were most likely flushed down the toilet at the end of the night. Better? Maybe …
After the wedding we made the long drive back home and in the days following I continued applying for every job you can imagine unless what you are imagining is selling my body for recreational use. In which case you would be mistaken. Except I might have to look into that pretty soon. Student loans are on the horizon — which means stripping is not far behind it. I kid … kind of.
Yesterday however, my mother and I made the executive decision to get In-n-Out (where I used to work … a lot) after I got fingerprinted for the Peace Corps. Yeah, I signed up for the Peace Corps. It doesn’t pay as much as stripping but I’ll be like helping people and stuff … AND/OR SINGLE HANDEDLY CHANGING THE LIVES OF THOUSANDS OF THE LESS FORTUNATE … but, probably just helping out here and there.
Anyways, as we pulled up to the pay window, I noticed something familiar about the person reading back our order. Five seconds later after he asked me if my cheeseburger was animal style or regular, I realized that it was Matt. A guy I had worked with at the Placerville In-n-Out six years ago when I was still so young AKA retarded. He really put the sugar in my cookie in those days, the miracle in my whip, the wind beneath my wings. And now here he was. Here I was. And here my mom was. Smack dab in between the two of us handing him money. As he handed her back the change I leaned over and said, “Hey, we used to work together up in Placerville remember? It’s Ashley … ?”
As the words left my mouth I studied his face for any hint of recognition and then I realized … he had absolutely no flipping idea who I was. He apologized for subconsciously not deeming me important enough to remember and my mom drove forward and graciously did not laugh in my face. I did though. I mean, it’s funny. And don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I look different than I did when I was sixteen but c’mon! How could you not remember THIS! … that was a joke. I’m trying to get my body image up for when I start prostituting in a week.
Maybe I should just work at In-n-Out again. That way Matt can put the cherry on my sundae and completely block it out 6 years later … the possibilities are endless.