some apologies
I've just gotten home from dropping the boyfriend off at work. I've just realized that, not only are my panties on inside out, they're also on backwards. Hm. Anyway, I'm compiling the last of the apologies to put into the mail, & they're all here, staring up at me. So I'm posting them. For the hell of it.
Dear Paul,
I apologize for the barefoot prostitute that Dylan found draped over the torn lawn chair upholstery on our porch when he left for work that August morning. And the would-be criminal who tumbled from his purring car and into my front lawn on that morning when he decided that mini-mart robberies were the promising wave of his hazy future. I apologize for jaywalking to the redneck bar across the street too many times, the one that switches ownership like a high school girl in a Victoria’s Secret dressing room changes bras, the one that has no Thin Lizzy on karaoke night, and so on. I apologize for the belly hollers that tumble sloppily through the alley behind my house, the one that separates it from the cement shack where Dollar Bill sees visitors throughout the night. I apologize for the cars that creep through that alley on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. I apologize because we steal the traffic on Sundays, from midnight on. And above all, I apologize for our dog, Mavis, who has been howling through the duration of it all. In short, I apologize for all of West Nashville, that whorish beast who will probably never cradle you in her honkey-tonk bosom.
Dear Shannon,
I apologize for boys who are too little for their britches, the ones who make the girls gag on their bologna sandwiches in the cafeteria by peeling back their eyelids, the ones who elicit giggles from teachers like you after lunch when their heel catches on the long pants legs and they turn to be sure that nobody has seen their schoolboy brush with disaster. These boys are mostly quiet in class. Perhaps the girls who sit beside them are the only ones who know about their common secret when it comes, when they spend the entire afternoon with their busy hands in their baggy pockets. I apologize for these boys--the Billy Arlottas and John Schulcos of the world--because they may convince their teacher with eye contact that they are paying attention during the post-lunch lull in the science lesson. I apologize because the girl sitting at the desk between theirs also pretends that they are paying attention to the lesson although she realizes that they are too excited about the new manhood in their pockets to listen to the hows and whys of Mt. Vesuvius and the lost city of Pompey. Not to mention the fact that she's only ten years old and she's a little grossed out.
Dear Marc,
I apologize for letting your name float away, a little nondescript island at midday, drowning in the ocean that borders my social cartography. It was adrift for weeks stacked upon generic weeks. You became Poker Buddy, Guy With Good Posture, The Conversationalist to Set the Ubiquitous Babble of the Mundane Ablaze, while I stood by, often spread thin and distracted. In short, I was the girl who kept forgetting your name. Months later, after finally piecing the four letters together like the victor of a lengthy Mastermind feat, I became the girl in that photo of yours, standing in the foreground while a spectacular blaze killed the mundane.
Dear Mike,
I apologize for ruminating over this for more than five minutes and subsequently pushing remnants aside, like the masticated bits of Oscar Meyer whatnot into my cheek with my appalled tongue as a child and hiding it there before spitting it out, ketchup and all, into my napkin. No, this is not my actual apology, but a mere vignette of my childhood which evokes another image. I am not sorry that I missed the projectile stream of whiskey and hotdog as it emerged from the mouth of a rosy-cheeked camper during the annual camping excursion a few years back. I do regret, however, that I have yet to be present for this annually anticipated, vomit-worthy holiday (and subsequently apologize for not mobilizing my outdoor army of mischief last October for said event). But most of all I apologize for hotdogs. I apologize because hotdogs are bad and whiskey is good. There you have it. Hot dogs are home wreckers!
Dear Vicky,
I apologize for crawling out from under my human quilt, leaving my peers to shiver in the throes of Michael Jackson’s Thriller while I stumbled, pure slop in slip-on shoes, up the stairs and into the red room to quiver on the carpet, shaken by the tumult of uterine woe. I apologize that I ever stopped dancing and, moreover, I apologize that I stopped dancing to roll around in sulk & vomit. No, I apologize for taking that Hydrocodone. And drinking all of those beers. And the vodka. And the Red Bull. I didn’t even get to ask you for a dance to Lionel Ritchie. I apologize that my vocal chords could not muster up the strength to summon a member of my inebriated army to carry me like a princess into some semblance of sobriety. Instead I wretched myself to sleep and dreamt myself into a façade of clarity. And when I woke up, I fell victim to my very own manipulative persuasion, believing that I was walking, rather than still stumbling, down the stairs. And there you were, in the foreground of my careless departure, begging me not to leave. In short, you tantrum-blocked me. I apologize for feigning sobriety immediately before running out the door to my car, which carried me exactly one exit up the road before I realized I’d just used colossally poor judgement. I apologize for pulling over to sleep in the parking lot of the KFC, sprawled in my driver’s seat, blanketed by my turquoise shawl. I slept until dawn, waking to glimpse the way it matched my outfit, still tipsy. I apologize because, when I got home, I found a concerned, sleeping body in the bed of my turquoise room; he had climbed through the window to wait for me. What I'm saying is, I should have buckled at your urging to stay at the party. And I probably would have if I weren't a girl...and an irrational drunk.
Dear Paul,
I apologize for the barefoot prostitute that Dylan found draped over the torn lawn chair upholstery on our porch when he left for work that August morning. And the would-be criminal who tumbled from his purring car and into my front lawn on that morning when he decided that mini-mart robberies were the promising wave of his hazy future. I apologize for jaywalking to the redneck bar across the street too many times, the one that switches ownership like a high school girl in a Victoria’s Secret dressing room changes bras, the one that has no Thin Lizzy on karaoke night, and so on. I apologize for the belly hollers that tumble sloppily through the alley behind my house, the one that separates it from the cement shack where Dollar Bill sees visitors throughout the night. I apologize for the cars that creep through that alley on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. I apologize because we steal the traffic on Sundays, from midnight on. And above all, I apologize for our dog, Mavis, who has been howling through the duration of it all. In short, I apologize for all of West Nashville, that whorish beast who will probably never cradle you in her honkey-tonk bosom.
Dear Shannon,
I apologize for boys who are too little for their britches, the ones who make the girls gag on their bologna sandwiches in the cafeteria by peeling back their eyelids, the ones who elicit giggles from teachers like you after lunch when their heel catches on the long pants legs and they turn to be sure that nobody has seen their schoolboy brush with disaster. These boys are mostly quiet in class. Perhaps the girls who sit beside them are the only ones who know about their common secret when it comes, when they spend the entire afternoon with their busy hands in their baggy pockets. I apologize for these boys--the Billy Arlottas and John Schulcos of the world--because they may convince their teacher with eye contact that they are paying attention during the post-lunch lull in the science lesson. I apologize because the girl sitting at the desk between theirs also pretends that they are paying attention to the lesson although she realizes that they are too excited about the new manhood in their pockets to listen to the hows and whys of Mt. Vesuvius and the lost city of Pompey. Not to mention the fact that she's only ten years old and she's a little grossed out.
Dear Marc,
I apologize for letting your name float away, a little nondescript island at midday, drowning in the ocean that borders my social cartography. It was adrift for weeks stacked upon generic weeks. You became Poker Buddy, Guy With Good Posture, The Conversationalist to Set the Ubiquitous Babble of the Mundane Ablaze, while I stood by, often spread thin and distracted. In short, I was the girl who kept forgetting your name. Months later, after finally piecing the four letters together like the victor of a lengthy Mastermind feat, I became the girl in that photo of yours, standing in the foreground while a spectacular blaze killed the mundane.
Dear Mike,
I apologize for ruminating over this for more than five minutes and subsequently pushing remnants aside, like the masticated bits of Oscar Meyer whatnot into my cheek with my appalled tongue as a child and hiding it there before spitting it out, ketchup and all, into my napkin. No, this is not my actual apology, but a mere vignette of my childhood which evokes another image. I am not sorry that I missed the projectile stream of whiskey and hotdog as it emerged from the mouth of a rosy-cheeked camper during the annual camping excursion a few years back. I do regret, however, that I have yet to be present for this annually anticipated, vomit-worthy holiday (and subsequently apologize for not mobilizing my outdoor army of mischief last October for said event). But most of all I apologize for hotdogs. I apologize because hotdogs are bad and whiskey is good. There you have it. Hot dogs are home wreckers!
Dear Vicky,
I apologize for crawling out from under my human quilt, leaving my peers to shiver in the throes of Michael Jackson’s Thriller while I stumbled, pure slop in slip-on shoes, up the stairs and into the red room to quiver on the carpet, shaken by the tumult of uterine woe. I apologize that I ever stopped dancing and, moreover, I apologize that I stopped dancing to roll around in sulk & vomit. No, I apologize for taking that Hydrocodone. And drinking all of those beers. And the vodka. And the Red Bull. I didn’t even get to ask you for a dance to Lionel Ritchie. I apologize that my vocal chords could not muster up the strength to summon a member of my inebriated army to carry me like a princess into some semblance of sobriety. Instead I wretched myself to sleep and dreamt myself into a façade of clarity. And when I woke up, I fell victim to my very own manipulative persuasion, believing that I was walking, rather than still stumbling, down the stairs. And there you were, in the foreground of my careless departure, begging me not to leave. In short, you tantrum-blocked me. I apologize for feigning sobriety immediately before running out the door to my car, which carried me exactly one exit up the road before I realized I’d just used colossally poor judgement. I apologize for pulling over to sleep in the parking lot of the KFC, sprawled in my driver’s seat, blanketed by my turquoise shawl. I slept until dawn, waking to glimpse the way it matched my outfit, still tipsy. I apologize because, when I got home, I found a concerned, sleeping body in the bed of my turquoise room; he had climbed through the window to wait for me. What I'm saying is, I should have buckled at your urging to stay at the party. And I probably would have if I weren't a girl...and an irrational drunk.