My co worker decides to have me read this little tidbit bout himself
The words that come to mind are "sucks to be him"
Am I really that cynicle? Actually, it's mostly, because at this point, i refuse to have anything to do with any family of any kind. Mine, and significant others. It's usually worked out much better that way.
Interweb Friends,
I’ll begin with a wee bit of personal history.
I was born into an extremely poor family in the deep south. Raised by my Grandmother in a camper, I grew up without many of the creature comforts I’ve become accustomed to in later life. Tiny hick high school in a little Dairy Queen town on the border of North Carolina…and not many opportunities after graduation. Work in the lumber mill…work at Wal Mart…perhaps the poultry plant or a chicken farm. After a series of dead end relationships through and after high school, the final straw came in the form of my discovering that the current girlfriend’s “niece” was actually her daughter. Why was her sister raising it then? Because she was impregnated by her own brother. If ever there was a sign that the Man Jesus intended more for me, it came in the form of a banjo playing infant with a sloping forehead. The day I left, her obese mother (who managed the local CVS pharmacy) pointed a gun at me, screaming obscenities and spitting cheeseburger crumbs. As their 40 pound pot bellied pig squealed and the trailer shook…I departed the land of muddy red clay.
My own family had pretty much disintegrated by that time. It seems our dysfunctional teetering tower of cards was always destined for collapse, and by the time I left the south…it had scattered to the four winds. My salvation came in the guise of a military recruiter, and I’d have been truly happy spending the rest of my life in the service. Why did I leave? Without even needing to tell you, it was the inevitable lure of love. I got married.
Flask forward to age 29…
I haven’t done too badly for myself. I’m in Boston, making decent cash managing a call center during the late night hours. 35k is admittedly chump change for many of you, but it isn’t bad money for a guy with my background. I’ve gotten the first four years of college done, and with a non-technical degree (CJ), I know I could be making less. I’m no longer married, as my wife decided she was a lesbian. Not the DPPH kind either. Aw hell naw. Flannel shirts and bad hair, complete with a morbidly obese long haul truck driver partner. I’ve dated around a bit, but I’m usually either dealing with the well to do college girls or angsty emo chicks. I recently ended a 2 month affair with a married co worker, as she expected a full time boyfriend while remaining married. Affair and co worker..two words that never mix well, no matter the circumstance. I’m feeling the push for 30, and I’m sick of wasting time with dead end relationships. I’m pretty happy, being the only member of my family to achieve even moderate stability.
Now here comes the girl.
I usually swear off artists of any shape and size. I grew up with an artist living at home till he was 55, and got damn sick of watching him sponge off my family year after year. It isn’t that I don’t respect talent. I’ve just known too many that thought they could rely solely on their skills to get by, with no career aspirations or desire to work in the “real world”. As one of the more hilarious twists in recent years, I’ve met an amazing woman who just happens to be an artist. She paints. She works for an art company near where I work. Going against my own prejudice, I took a chance and asked her out. She accepted, and I soon realized the glory of mutual interests and an immediate connection. Weeks later, my hopes were admittedly high that this could actually pan out. She’s gorgeous. Almost full blooded Sicilian Italiano, she can cook, sing and she’s a fucking tiger in bed. I’ve been in what I consider the promised land for some time now. She’s been crashing at my apartment for four days out of seven. I had honestly forgotten the warm glow that is waking up with a woman whispering “I love you” as she rubs your back. Sigh.
Interesting…
During one of our many conversations, we’re taking about families and she asks me if I’ve ever been locked up. I reply that I’ve done a couple of overnighters for drunk n’ disorderly, but that’s the limit of my bad boy days. I’m like the George Costanza of tough guys. She tells me that she’s worried about my reaction, because she’s had a couple of relatives on tv in the not so distant past. I press a bit further, and she won’t tell me anything further than “ties to organized crime like racketeering”. She won’t name names. I leave the issue alone, because we’ve all got our own crazy family stories. Besides, I’ve seen the Sopranos, so I figure I’m safe due to my excellent command of the wise guy language. She tells me this while we’re laying in bed watching Mr. Jeffrey Lebowski have an acid trip, and all is soon forgotten
Rush
We’re so cutesy and lovey dovey that it makes even my co workers ill. Pet names…naughty text messages…middle of the night phone calls. I’m thrilled. This is unlike any relationship I’ve ever had, and it just keeps getting better. Life is good. She keeps asking me about “family” and my future plans, which isn’t terribly bad because I know she at least has goals. After a few long discussions, She starts keeping some personal items and a few changes of clothing at my apartment. Inevitably, she says she wants to live together. I’m riding a wave of euphoria at this point, and we’re virtually living together as it is. Though I generally frown on the idea after my bad marriage, I promise her I’ll think about it. She says she knows I’m the one, and doesn’t want to waste time.
Dollar Bills, Ya’ll
This week, she brings me a set of pictures from Hawaii. I assume they are from a recent vacation, and notice she is seated poolside at what appears to be a private residence. “Did you guys rent a place?”, I said. No…that’s their summer home. Giggidy giddidy. WHAT? Oh yeah, she forgot to mention. Her dad is a real estate and restaurant mogul, and she’s promised literally hundreds of thousands of dollars when she gets married, plus a house. “Get started” money, he calls it. Ashamedly, my ears do perk up at this news, and I begin thinking a bit more seriously about living together. Call me what you will. I really do care about this girl, but I’ve had a pretty stressful life financially thus far. Adding money to an already happy relationship warms me right down to the cockles of my heart. Oh, and her uncle? Waste management millionaire. “O snap”, I think. I’ve seen the Sopranos. Tony said he was working in waste management, when in reality he was grunting while drilling that secretary into the desk and shooting folks. Mob ties, millionaires, waste management. Coincidence? Has to be. On top of all this, her Dad prefers that all the husbands work for him managing one of his businesses.
The Family
As Sicilian families tend to go, hers is enormous. Every Sunday night, they get together for dinner in north Boston. 30 to 40 of them. My presence was requested today. Well, that’s wrong. The phone message said “You’ll come by before work. Here’s the address”. I’m the sort of sap that has always dreamt of having a big family. Holidays, get togethers, reunions. Right up my alley. I show up to this Xbox sized house and find Kate (my girl) in the foyer. I am instantly zerg rushed by a bevy of raven haired beauties of various ages, lavishing affection on me for “being so good to the baby of their family”. O shi. Everyone knows that papa bear always keeps his most critical eye on he who dates the youngest daughter. I was surrounded on all sides by dark suited men and big haired women, all sporting names like “Gloria, Sal, Tony, Michael, Vito, etc”. I was hugged and squeezed to death. I was also interrogated by the men. I didn’t stay long…just enough time to make introductions and head downtown to work. Still, I left with the feeling that a large group of people was sitting down to pass judgement on me while I boarded the subway.
The Slip
10pm. My phone rings, and I notice the call is local. My girl, right on time. She sounds a little distressed, so I delve into whatever the problem is. Turns out that she told her cousin she’s been crashing at my place. She also fucking told her that I’m all about expediting our marriage right into the fast lane. Whaaaaa? Our what? Oh yes…she told em we’re making plans. So what does her cousin do? She tells everyone. Not one or two people. She makes a fucking announcement. Her family erupts. Now, I assume they are furious. Aw hell naw. These people are instantly discussing locations, receptions, showers, guest lists, food, etc etc etc. With gusto. Her family instantly went into a maelstrom of activity and glee. Seems like the only person who doesn’t know I’m getting hitched is me. So what does Kate say? “You are fine with this, right baby? We ARE in love”.
O Shi.
Phone conversation #2. She calls to tell me that her entire immediate family needs to know if I am “confirmed” so we can get married in the Catholic Church. And that her dad’s response to the matter was “He’s sleeping with my daughter…and she’s staying over. Of course he’s marrying her”. Her family is in “planning mode”. Her dad wants a sit down with me so we can “talk about the future”. And what does Kate have to say? “This is the kind of ring I want, baby..”
My question is this- How many chances will I ever have to totally change my life? Guys like me might…MIGHT get their one chance at total reversal. I have my first chance at 1. financial security 2. working with the family business 3. a new home 4. married life 5. a great wife. 6. the huge family I always wanted. All the things nobody in my family ever had.
Granted, this is a pretty messed up situation. I could also be signing away the rest of my life. There is also the potential that a chance like this will never come my way again. Also, the girl. She’s amazing. How many opportunities does a blue collar guy have to get a girl like that? Am I worried that I’ve essentially been roped into this? Hell yes. But even with all the fucked up details, I’ve got to admit I’m tempted. I might also get shot.
Mob ties. Cashola. Vacation homes. Sicilians. The Family. The Family Business. A Shotgun Wedding.
I now turn this over to the accumulated wisdom of our community. Halp.
Am I really that cynicle? Actually, it's mostly, because at this point, i refuse to have anything to do with any family of any kind. Mine, and significant others. It's usually worked out much better that way.
Interweb Friends,
I’ll begin with a wee bit of personal history.
I was born into an extremely poor family in the deep south. Raised by my Grandmother in a camper, I grew up without many of the creature comforts I’ve become accustomed to in later life. Tiny hick high school in a little Dairy Queen town on the border of North Carolina…and not many opportunities after graduation. Work in the lumber mill…work at Wal Mart…perhaps the poultry plant or a chicken farm. After a series of dead end relationships through and after high school, the final straw came in the form of my discovering that the current girlfriend’s “niece” was actually her daughter. Why was her sister raising it then? Because she was impregnated by her own brother. If ever there was a sign that the Man Jesus intended more for me, it came in the form of a banjo playing infant with a sloping forehead. The day I left, her obese mother (who managed the local CVS pharmacy) pointed a gun at me, screaming obscenities and spitting cheeseburger crumbs. As their 40 pound pot bellied pig squealed and the trailer shook…I departed the land of muddy red clay.
My own family had pretty much disintegrated by that time. It seems our dysfunctional teetering tower of cards was always destined for collapse, and by the time I left the south…it had scattered to the four winds. My salvation came in the guise of a military recruiter, and I’d have been truly happy spending the rest of my life in the service. Why did I leave? Without even needing to tell you, it was the inevitable lure of love. I got married.
Flask forward to age 29…
I haven’t done too badly for myself. I’m in Boston, making decent cash managing a call center during the late night hours. 35k is admittedly chump change for many of you, but it isn’t bad money for a guy with my background. I’ve gotten the first four years of college done, and with a non-technical degree (CJ), I know I could be making less. I’m no longer married, as my wife decided she was a lesbian. Not the DPPH kind either. Aw hell naw. Flannel shirts and bad hair, complete with a morbidly obese long haul truck driver partner. I’ve dated around a bit, but I’m usually either dealing with the well to do college girls or angsty emo chicks. I recently ended a 2 month affair with a married co worker, as she expected a full time boyfriend while remaining married. Affair and co worker..two words that never mix well, no matter the circumstance. I’m feeling the push for 30, and I’m sick of wasting time with dead end relationships. I’m pretty happy, being the only member of my family to achieve even moderate stability.
Now here comes the girl.
I usually swear off artists of any shape and size. I grew up with an artist living at home till he was 55, and got damn sick of watching him sponge off my family year after year. It isn’t that I don’t respect talent. I’ve just known too many that thought they could rely solely on their skills to get by, with no career aspirations or desire to work in the “real world”. As one of the more hilarious twists in recent years, I’ve met an amazing woman who just happens to be an artist. She paints. She works for an art company near where I work. Going against my own prejudice, I took a chance and asked her out. She accepted, and I soon realized the glory of mutual interests and an immediate connection. Weeks later, my hopes were admittedly high that this could actually pan out. She’s gorgeous. Almost full blooded Sicilian Italiano, she can cook, sing and she’s a fucking tiger in bed. I’ve been in what I consider the promised land for some time now. She’s been crashing at my apartment for four days out of seven. I had honestly forgotten the warm glow that is waking up with a woman whispering “I love you” as she rubs your back. Sigh.
Interesting…
During one of our many conversations, we’re taking about families and she asks me if I’ve ever been locked up. I reply that I’ve done a couple of overnighters for drunk n’ disorderly, but that’s the limit of my bad boy days. I’m like the George Costanza of tough guys. She tells me that she’s worried about my reaction, because she’s had a couple of relatives on tv in the not so distant past. I press a bit further, and she won’t tell me anything further than “ties to organized crime like racketeering”. She won’t name names. I leave the issue alone, because we’ve all got our own crazy family stories. Besides, I’ve seen the Sopranos, so I figure I’m safe due to my excellent command of the wise guy language. She tells me this while we’re laying in bed watching Mr. Jeffrey Lebowski have an acid trip, and all is soon forgotten
Rush
We’re so cutesy and lovey dovey that it makes even my co workers ill. Pet names…naughty text messages…middle of the night phone calls. I’m thrilled. This is unlike any relationship I’ve ever had, and it just keeps getting better. Life is good. She keeps asking me about “family” and my future plans, which isn’t terribly bad because I know she at least has goals. After a few long discussions, She starts keeping some personal items and a few changes of clothing at my apartment. Inevitably, she says she wants to live together. I’m riding a wave of euphoria at this point, and we’re virtually living together as it is. Though I generally frown on the idea after my bad marriage, I promise her I’ll think about it. She says she knows I’m the one, and doesn’t want to waste time.
Dollar Bills, Ya’ll
This week, she brings me a set of pictures from Hawaii. I assume they are from a recent vacation, and notice she is seated poolside at what appears to be a private residence. “Did you guys rent a place?”, I said. No…that’s their summer home. Giggidy giddidy. WHAT? Oh yeah, she forgot to mention. Her dad is a real estate and restaurant mogul, and she’s promised literally hundreds of thousands of dollars when she gets married, plus a house. “Get started” money, he calls it. Ashamedly, my ears do perk up at this news, and I begin thinking a bit more seriously about living together. Call me what you will. I really do care about this girl, but I’ve had a pretty stressful life financially thus far. Adding money to an already happy relationship warms me right down to the cockles of my heart. Oh, and her uncle? Waste management millionaire. “O snap”, I think. I’ve seen the Sopranos. Tony said he was working in waste management, when in reality he was grunting while drilling that secretary into the desk and shooting folks. Mob ties, millionaires, waste management. Coincidence? Has to be. On top of all this, her Dad prefers that all the husbands work for him managing one of his businesses.
The Family
As Sicilian families tend to go, hers is enormous. Every Sunday night, they get together for dinner in north Boston. 30 to 40 of them. My presence was requested today. Well, that’s wrong. The phone message said “You’ll come by before work. Here’s the address”. I’m the sort of sap that has always dreamt of having a big family. Holidays, get togethers, reunions. Right up my alley. I show up to this Xbox sized house and find Kate (my girl) in the foyer. I am instantly zerg rushed by a bevy of raven haired beauties of various ages, lavishing affection on me for “being so good to the baby of their family”. O shi. Everyone knows that papa bear always keeps his most critical eye on he who dates the youngest daughter. I was surrounded on all sides by dark suited men and big haired women, all sporting names like “Gloria, Sal, Tony, Michael, Vito, etc”. I was hugged and squeezed to death. I was also interrogated by the men. I didn’t stay long…just enough time to make introductions and head downtown to work. Still, I left with the feeling that a large group of people was sitting down to pass judgement on me while I boarded the subway.
The Slip
10pm. My phone rings, and I notice the call is local. My girl, right on time. She sounds a little distressed, so I delve into whatever the problem is. Turns out that she told her cousin she’s been crashing at my place. She also fucking told her that I’m all about expediting our marriage right into the fast lane. Whaaaaa? Our what? Oh yes…she told em we’re making plans. So what does her cousin do? She tells everyone. Not one or two people. She makes a fucking announcement. Her family erupts. Now, I assume they are furious. Aw hell naw. These people are instantly discussing locations, receptions, showers, guest lists, food, etc etc etc. With gusto. Her family instantly went into a maelstrom of activity and glee. Seems like the only person who doesn’t know I’m getting hitched is me. So what does Kate say? “You are fine with this, right baby? We ARE in love”.
O Shi.
Phone conversation #2. She calls to tell me that her entire immediate family needs to know if I am “confirmed” so we can get married in the Catholic Church. And that her dad’s response to the matter was “He’s sleeping with my daughter…and she’s staying over. Of course he’s marrying her”. Her family is in “planning mode”. Her dad wants a sit down with me so we can “talk about the future”. And what does Kate have to say? “This is the kind of ring I want, baby..”
My question is this- How many chances will I ever have to totally change my life? Guys like me might…MIGHT get their one chance at total reversal. I have my first chance at 1. financial security 2. working with the family business 3. a new home 4. married life 5. a great wife. 6. the huge family I always wanted. All the things nobody in my family ever had.
Granted, this is a pretty messed up situation. I could also be signing away the rest of my life. There is also the potential that a chance like this will never come my way again. Also, the girl. She’s amazing. How many opportunities does a blue collar guy have to get a girl like that? Am I worried that I’ve essentially been roped into this? Hell yes. But even with all the fucked up details, I’ve got to admit I’m tempted. I might also get shot.
Mob ties. Cashola. Vacation homes. Sicilians. The Family. The Family Business. A Shotgun Wedding.
I now turn this over to the accumulated wisdom of our community. Halp.