The Catholic

From prior blog postings, I think I established just how bad my judgement was in regards to dating, particularly while living in New York. (See 'NO-EWWW' if you need a frame of reference). When single friends remark what a wonderful man my husband is , I often remind them to keep hope alive because just a few short weeks before meeting him, I was the recipient of the following quote from a guy I was dating:

"Nellie, if you're getting the feeling that you are not a priority in my life, you would be right."

Let me back up a few months...I will also be inserting the point of view of former me versus current me.

Matt was a third tier comedian and hence one I was performed with often. At these shows, I was starting to feel some semblance of a crush from his end but wasn't entirely sure. A lot of the flirtation was him acting in awe of my stand-up act, sort of a pseudo "aw-shucks" reverence of my hand job jokes and Helen Keller date rape routine. He told me he couldn't believe how dirty some of the stuff was that came out of my mouth, considering how "feminine" I was. Former me: What a compliment! Current me: How archaic did this guy's mindset have to be in order to think that only women who looked like Paula Poundstone could work blue?

One night, after a show in the basement of a coffeehouse. (apparently, the coat closet was booked), he asked me out for a drink. Now, while most women are quite taken with a good upbringing, education, and/ or job, I was seduced by neuroses. After a few vodka gimlets, I learned that Matt was in therapy not once but twice a week. Better yet...one of the weekly sessions was GROUP. Oh my god! Here was the man I had been waiting for...the mind of Woody Allen in the body of a (former me: burly, current me: tubby) Irishman. And then came the emotionally wounded cherry on the cake (and reason for aforementioned gobs of therapy)... He had a younger, disabled sister who had tragically died a few years prior. He said he didn't tell many people this but felt really comfortable with me. Former me: Oh my god! I would like to make love to this wounded soul immediately as a reward for trusting me with his deepest pain. Current me: There are most likely upwards of 75 women who were told this information on their first date with Matt. The dead sister clearly served as a verbal lubricant.

What then began was a 2 month-long emotional and physical blue balling of the highest degree. Our first date should have served a s a blueprint of things to come. We had a really pleasant dinner, drinks, and then a very good HUG at the end of the night. Date 2 was about the same with a small peck. Then came 3 where I figured it was time to step up my game. Former me: Aw, he's old fashioned. Current me: It should NEVER be this hard for a girl to get laid.

I was housesitting for a friend with a really nice apartment and I offered to cook dinner for Matt. I went to Balducci's which is the equivalent of Neiman Marcus for food and spent more than half of my checking account balance on Chilean Sea Bass and all the accouterments. I lit candles, sauteed spinach, and cleaned like a mad woman. He was appreciative, complimentary, and then finally, after the berries with whipped cream and Grand Marnier drizzle, we made our way to the bed where the lack of fireworks began. The making out was pretty good but every time I attempted to touch him, I was discouraged. A lot of distraction by way of cunnilingus. And while many may have found this selfless and awesome, all I could think was "Why is this man cockblocking himself?" I asked if everything was okay and he said of course. He just didn't always like to have sex on the first date. Former me: Oh, he's so vulnerable and sensitive. Current me: Danger, danger. Abort mission now before a lot of hurt feelings begin.

As time progressed, his ways of diverting attention away from sex were so creative, they almost became an art.

One night consisted of a wild goose chase through the bodegas of New York at 1 am, searching for Trojan Magnums because he insisted he needed them or couldn't perform. To be honest, I disagreed but what the fuck...let a man have his dreams. All of this commotion would have been fine it if there was an actual payoff but inevitably, when the big event was about to take place, big magnum got stage fright and muttered something about growing up Catholic. I was kind and compassionate but utterly confused. Former me: I guess there's a lot I don't know about Catholicism. Current me: Someone has read one too many John Patrick Shanley plays.

He booked a road gig and let me know he'd be gone a few days. Surprisingly, he called from the road (very boyfriend of him), asking if he could "borrow" one of my jokes to use in his act that night. Sometimes when I am in shock, I agree to things I would normally scoff at. I believe this was one of those times. Even though in the world of stand-up comedy, this was a fairly blasphemous request, I justified it as one often does with the actions of those they are (sort of) sleeping with. What was one joke grab in the grand scheme of things? And he asked permission so... okay.

I should mention that during this time, I landed a job as an assistant to the showrunner of a TV show. The show was wrapping up it's current season so I was to go and train for it's remaining weeks and then start the actual job after the hiatus. There would be a wrap party which I was encouraged to attend as it would be a chance for me to get to know some of the staff before vacation started. I asked Matt if he would come to the party as my date. He said he would love to.

I bought some lingerie as a surprise for when he got back into town. Maybe some visual stimulation would help. Lots more cunnilingus and flattery but zero magnums used. Now I was just starting to get insulted. And then, as if to say "here, let me kick you a little harder in your already bruised sexual ego", he completely vanished. Two days turned into four. Four turned into a week. Finally, at the nine day mark, I called. He answered and I heard a sea of male voices in the background. He was polite but distant in that Catholic sort of way. It turns out he had taken a road trip to his Alma mater to "sew some leftover oats". I put my best non-nag voice on and told him I understood but would have appreciated a call to let me know he was leaving. And then came the "not a priority" comment. Former me: Let me get off the phone immediately so I can lay on my floor and cry. Me now: What a perfect opportunity that would have been to ask just what the hell his penis's problem was anyway. Whatever. It was clearly over. Or so I thought...

The job training had now begun and it was there I met the man who is now my husband. The instinct that this was an amazing, attractive person was immediate. The feelings mutually began to develop and though I didn't want to jeopardize a brand new job, I had a feeling that this guy may be worth the risk. I was truly excited to get to know him better at the party.

Then Matt called. He said he had marked down the date for the party and was assuming we were still going together? There have been a few of these "Beautiful Mind"-like moments in my life where I think "Was everything that happened up until now some weird schizophrenic hallucination?" This was one of those moments. I asked if he was kidding which he clearly was not. I took a breath and explained that given what he said during our last phone call, I had made other arrangements. Silence. Then...

"What do you mean by other arrangements??"
"I mean, I am going with someone else."
"Why?"
"Because you said I was not a priority in your life."
"I didn't mean it how you thought I did."
"Matt, that's not really a statement that's open for interpretation."
"Whatever. I think it sucks you just met someone else and invited them without letting me know."
"Sorry you feel that way."

AND THEN...THE GIFT FROM GOD...

"I can't believe you are doing this to me. Do you know what kind of abandonment issues I have because of my dead sister?"

And those were the last words I heard from Matt.

Until...

7 years later.. (last year). An email. Subject line: Please vote... Body of email: ...For Matt _____ to be the next in-house dating advice columnist at (insert reputable magazine). Needless to say, regardless of my 400 NO votes, he won and still holds the position. Even better, he parlayed this gig into a TV show where he instructs men on dating techniques.

Well, you know what they say. Those who can't do, teach.

You Say Jacuzzi, I Say Blow Me...

Mel Gibson is to BP Oil what 9/11 was to Gary Condit. In case you forgot, Condit was the shady Congressman suspected of being involved with young intern Chandra Levy's disappearance after it came out they had an illicit affair.( He also liked to dress in weird leather biker outfits but that's beside the point.) Anyway, the whole case was seriously backburnered after 9/11 occurred. And the same thing has taken place with the BP oil spill being so closely followed by Mel's recorded verbal tirade on his Russian girlfriend and mother of his child (who looks a little like Jessica Alba playing a street hooker in a Lifetime movie but that's also beside the point).

So now, all of a sudden, the en vogue topic has switched from BP to MG. I happened to be at a dinner party last night and the usual Gibson chatter ensued...questions like "What was his worst quote?", "What does it matter if he gets a blow job before or after Jacuzzi-ing" and "Does it mean you're a true racist if after you have a few drinks, you refer to Black people as the n-word and tell your baby mama you hope she gets raped by a few?" The answer was a unanimous yes on the last one, by the way. Then another interesting question came up which was "How does this behavior relate to Mel's staunch identification as a traditionalist Catholic? " I mean, while I don't know much about traditional Catholicism, I think it's safe to assume that using the word "cunt" every third sentence and threatening to kill and bury your spouse in a rose garden are not usually part of the teachings. Anyway, since I already had Catholic hypocrisy on the brain, it was a funny coincidence that I came home to a Facebook request from another mean Catholic...

Story to follow shortly. I'm sure all 5 of the people who read this can not wait.

Overall Deal

Everywhere I turn lately, there is another revelation on the Jesse James cheating scandal. What's ironic is that I am someone who usually has a toxic addiction to pop culture (if a squirrel takes a dump on Jessica Simpson's patio, I'm rivoted). But for the most part I never really gave a shit about Jesse James. Sure, the name was a little over-the top...even if it's real and he is distantly related to the outlaw, it's still annoying. But otherwise, he just seemed like a relatively harmless, Fred Durst-y type who scored with Sandy Bullock on the whole opposites attract principle. She liked the tatts, the blue collar work ethic, and just hanging out in the LBC with the hot rods and pitbulls. It made her feel normal and grounded. And I can respect that. So how startling must it be to find out that what you thought of as your rock of normalcy is actually a Neo-Nazi sex addict with a penchant for bitchy looking strippers? And while these new details are quite salacious, it's not Jesse's love of white power poon that has been particularly interesting to me in the wake of this scandal. It's his love of overalls. Such a boyish and innocent look! And yet, vaguely insulting. Sort of a special Osh Kosh fuck you to all the haters. Maybe it's time to take off the overalls, Jesse. It's a serious time.

Drink A Pom And Call Me In The Morning...

CONVERSATION BETWEEN HYPOCHONDRICAL JEW AND CALMING AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMAN:


The following is a direct transcript from a phone conversation which took place recently:




HJ: Hi, this is Nellie Stevens. I’m a patient of Dr. Goldberg’s. Can I please make an appointment?

AAW: Sure, for what, honey?

HJ: A blood test.

CAAW: Oh, no. What’s wrong, girl?

HJ: I don’t know. I’m tired all the time, my energy is super low, and I just don’t feel like myself.

CAAW: Are you---

HJ: Nope, not pregnant. Already took a test.

CAAW: You drinkin’ your pomegranate juice?

HJ: Um, once in a while.

CAAW: Oh, no, baby. You gotta drink that every day. You need your antioxidants.

HJ: I get a lot of those. I’m a huge fan of blueberries.

CAAW: Not the same. Pomegranate juice. I’m telling you, girl. I was feeling like you. Tired day and night. Dragging. No time or energy for my man. Found out I had fibromylagia and arthritis. But the juice had all the answers. And my skin is like butter!

HJ: Oh. I was told juice had a lot of sugar. I try not to drink too much.

CAAW: What? Nah, girl! I’m no doctor, but it sounds to me like you need some time for yourself. A nice hot bath, a glass of pom juice, some jazz, and an early bedtime.

HJ: Well…

CAAW: Soul sistah, if we don’t take care of ourselves we are no good to others, you know?

HJ: Yeah, I guess.

CAAW: But like I said, I’m no doctor.

HJ: Yeah, who are you, by the way?

CAAW: Raeshawn.

HJ: Dr. Goldberg’s assistant?

AAW: Hell, no! I work for the answering service. The doctors are both on vacation until Tuesday.

HJ: What?

AAW: Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t get this kind of advice from those stressed out bitches!

HJ: Hmmm…I guess not.

AAW: Anyway, you want me to leave a message you called and need to come in for a test?

HJ: I’m gonna try the pomegranate juice and jazz.

CAAW: You go ahead, girl! And if you need any more advice or just someone to talk to, just call between the hours of 12 and 2 when they are at lunch and ask for Raeshawn, Operator 12.

J: Will do.



:

Devil Scent

There is a perfume I hate so much, I would rather have a baby's dirty diaper or a carton of year old milk shoved up my nose than be in the vicinity of a person wearing it. Unfortunately, the name of this scent must remain nameless as a few people I love dearly actually wear it. And while most of the time, I may not be the subtlest person in hiding my thoughts or emotions, somehow I have managed NOT to drop the hint on this subject. In fact, quite the opposite. I am the asshole who upon recognizing the smell, says knowingly "Oh, are you wearing -----?" The offender will inevitably flash a giant smile, tell me what an astute nose I have, and assume I'm commenting because of my love for this devil juice. I want to scream, "NOOOOOOOOOO! I am speaking because it is the only alternative to projectile vomiting! That shit smells like a melted-down candy bar mixed into a bottle of maple syrup and then atomized! Please go wash off your neck/wrists/kneecaps/genitals...wherever you put it and then maybe we can have a civil conversation without me dry-heaving every 5 seconds." But, of course, I choose the more polite route of tolerating time spent with the offender and then snarkily blogging about it now.

But seriously...this scent needs to be stopped. I recently read in a magazine that it's longstanding popularity has made it a "classic". What the hell? How can something that makes people walk around smelling like a case of baked goods be thrown in the same category as Chanel No. 5? And by the way, I have since found out I am not the only one who feels this way. My friend Tom and I recently bonded over this mutual hatred as if we were both abused kids who had finally found our fellow 'Luka'in eachother. Tom, while straight, is as much of a scent snob as I am, demanding I smell his wrist every time I see him. Inevitably, I inhale a delicious, unique potion that he tells me has been concocted by Monks in some remote monastery and only 5 bottles a year are sold or something in that ridiculous vein. Tom is not messing around. So, when I brought up my distaste for this simple syrup which masquerades as a perfume, Tom screamed with delight and recognition. He said he has actually broken up with women who wear it and had meals ruined because of it's simple presence in the air.

So, I have no real way to wrap up this post. Except to say that Tom and I are clearly not the only ones who feel this passionately about anonymous scent. I just found a great post on a site called "Basenotes.net" (I know) and I will leave you with the words of this sublime genius who calls him/herself 'Marmica'... And to protect the unknowing perpetrators, I have continued to blank out the name of the scent:

The bottle, idea, and concept amaze me. I simply had so much hope in this fragrance.
However, once I sampled, at first, I was revolted. I was so shocked, I nearly hurled.
With tears in my eyes and a scrub brush, I tried to get the vile substance off.
But no, it would not budge. And so, I sat indoors, disgusted by the puke cloud of cotton candy and fluffy rainbows.
It enveloped me, tore at how terribly naive I was to fall for another ' classic '.
And then, the storms faded as I experimentally sniffed my wrist a while later.
The vomit sugar bomb had gone, and was replaced with warming comfort.
Honey rang through my senses, and just the right play of a battle between vanilla and chocolate.
I smelt edible, delicious, tolerable, and mysterious yet playful as the caramel then sang.
Once the relief of the mid tones had faded, it settled into a charming musky drift to sleep.
I had never experienced such emotion in the time frame of two hours, hunched over in a daze of wonder.
I love -----. I hate -----. I will, for those reasons, never wear it again.
Instead, I will gift the bottle to a dear friend, whose smile at times will annoy and comfort me to no end.
A match suitable, I find, because -----'s love is far too fickle for my senses.
And if by some fluke I do wear her grace again, I will note not to visit anywhere public for at least an hour.
Like a dancer tumbling through the curtains and making an awkward arrival, the top notes are putrid but the aftershow of base and middle are enchanting and pleasant.
But you'd never do it more than once. Or twice.
So ends my experimentation with sickly sweet and dangerous gourmands such as -----.
How I will miss those days and cherish the never occurring return of them.
As a drug addict looks back on ' those days ', I cannot judge -----.
Only ----- can judge one such as myself.

Slipping It Down A Notch

So, I have been attempting to write about my wedding experience. It has been unsuccessful thus far because it ends up sounding either cliche, schmaltzy, or just plain boring. The wedding feelings may be too nuanced for a blog and I think I will just retire them to the shrink's office and/or my plain old diary. With that said, I can sum it up like this--phonomenal, surreal, one large dream sequence. And people say that even if you have been with your mate a long time already (which I have), being married feels different. Closer. More of a team. I have definitely noticed that to be true. And I was thankful to have my teammate at my side last night because... my diaphragm got stuck. Um, yeah.

First of all, I would like to acknowledge how much crap I have taken for having a diaphragm in the first place. A couple of choice lines from my wise-ass girlfriends include "What are you, 50?" and "Jesus, that is so 'Ice Storm' of you'". And by the way, I completely agree with them. Diaphragms have a completely 70's connotation for me. The house in which I learned what a diaphragm was had rust colored CARPETED WALLS and giant brown pillows on the floor instead of a couch. The rug was shag and some sort of off-yellow color. I am really not sure what color motif my parents were going for but I think of it as the "depressing bodily fluid" collection. Anyway...one day, when I was about 5, I was exploring my mom's bathroom. I loved playing with her Merle Norman products. Merle Norman was a makeup line which perfectly encapsulated the late 70's and early 80's--thick consistencies, weird colors, and a sort of oily film over everything. My favorite part about Merle was the packaging--all pink. I loved lining the different sized pots and jars up on the sink counter, pulling up a chair, and pretending I was giving an interview from my makeup chair while getting ready for my next performance. This whole ritual became especially fun after the movie "Mommie Dearest" came out because in the famous "No more wire hangers" scene, Joan Crawford is wearing an insane amount of 'cold cream'. I am sure most of us remember our mothers slathering on a layer of this before bed to take their makeup off. My mom had Merle's version which was of course pink and smelled like castor oil. I loved slapping a layer on and channeling Joan. No wonder I have always had such a kinship with gay men.

So, during one of my bathroom playtimes, I stumbled upon a pink container I had never seen before. There was no Merle Norman lettering on the little square box and it was a flimsier material than most MN vessels--sort of a semi-translucent plastic. But it was pink and therefore symbolized some sort of fun product in my young eyes. I opened it and was puzzled. There sat a flesh colored tiny cap sprinkled with baby powder. What the hell? My first thought was that this was in fact a hat for a baby. If I had known what a yarmulke was at that time, it would have been the next logical guess. Was it some sort of new applicator for Merle's loose powder? I needed to know. I grabbed it and took it to my mom in the kitchen. My mom, being a total bohemian, laughed when she saw me holding her diaphragm with a quizzical and semi-pissed look on my face. I felt betrayed that a new product had been purchased and I had no idea about it. And the baby powder? Confusing. She then told me straight up what it was, how it was used, and what it was for. I think a few concepts obviously went way over my head at that time, mainly a) how the hell could a piece of rubber with the circumference of an orange prevent a baby being born and b) why was powder used to keep it dry? Vaginas weren't even wet, right?

OK, so fast forward to me now. I use a diaphragm because I hated the pill. It made me feel what I imagine morning sickness to feel like. I was constantly nauseaus and if anyone so much as even said the word 'chicken', I would dry-heave. This is a real problem when you are someone who is constantly trying to eat well and lose 10 pounds. Chicken is your old stand by even though it is fairly gross. So, I tried a diaphragm and frankly, it is completely fine. Not too spontaneous but no more of a problem than quickly sticking a condom on. Until last night. We were not doing anything unusual. Straight up missionary style. And then all of a sudden, this intense pain, like someone was clenching my entire reproductive system in a tight fist. I tried to be a trooper, I really did. Being that sex really has never hurt me before, I should have known immediately that something was off but I rationalized, figuring maybe it had just been awhile or all those crunches at the gym had made me smaller. WHAT?! But the pain got worse. I "took care" of my husband another way because I had a feeling this was going to be a long night and he might be more equipped to handle whatever was coming in a post-ejaculated state. I ran to the bathroom and did what I always do if there is some sort of pain I do not recognize--whine and cry. It was very archaeic and earthy. I was squatting on the floor like I imagine a Native American woman would do. I reached up for the diaphragm and realized I was not feeling the little ridge where it normally sits. In fact, I could hardly feel the thing at all. More hysterics. "Where is it?" I screamed to my husband. "It disappeared inside of me! Oh, no!" My sweet husband did everything he could at that moment not to completely crack up. There was his nude wife, crouched on the floor, declaring that a piece of rubber had somehow floated from her vagina into her chest. It was time to call the doctor.

Even though I have what seems to be a photographic memory of every phone number I've ever known, my state of panic made me draw a blank on my gyno's number. I told my husband to call information. Here is where I should mention something crucial. My gynocolegist just happens to have the same name as a comedian who had his career peak proabably around the time that diapragms were huge but has recently made a major comeback as the host of a popular prime time gameshow. I could hear my husband say the city and then the name. I then heard him laugh. "Yeah, I know", he said "It's not the same guy." I dialed the number from my crouched position and got the doctor on the phone...thank god. I could hear his kids in the background. The echoey quality of the background noise made me picture a nice big house with a den. In fact, he was probably watching a movie with the wife and kids when he got the call from his service--"It's that crazy Stevens girl. Her diaphragm is stuck." He was incredibly kind. He told me it happens all the time and I would get it out. If by chance I couldn't, he would "meet me somewhere." Being that I live in the Valley and he on the westside, I imagined us meeting at some halfway point and me jumping in the back seat of my car as my husband played lookout. The doctor told me to put one leg on the bathtub and to bend the other knee as I squatted down. This was the sure position. I tried a few times on the phone with him but no success. I cried harder. He told me to stay in that position for a few more minutes and the diaphragm should "slip down a notch." If not, I could call him back. Before we hung up, I said I needed to ask him one more important thing--what if people only have a stall shower? He cracked up and told me he could tell I was feeling better already. I got the fucking diaphragm out a minute later. Maybe I will try a different pill.

NOOOEEEEEEWWWW

My fiance is at his bachelor party tonight in Las Vegas. So basically, while he is most likely fisting a trannie, I am having quiet, contemplative blog time. I got on Facebook which I am starting to realize may be live purgatory. Never have so many people who have mutually mistreated eachother in the past been able to share a virtual space so easily. It's so weird--we all seem to be gluttons for curiousity...followed by punishment. You wonder where your 9th grade boyfriend is, you find him, become his "friend", and then every time you log in, you have to see some queer play-by-play of his life. Example: "BLANK is hitting himself that he did not bet on that Red Sox/Yankees game!" ...Well, I guess there is a little comfort in knowing once a degenerate, always a degenerate. So this segues nicely into a strange phenomenon that seems to occur as you get close to your wedding. You go on a little mental journey of the relationship experiences that got you to where you are now. Lately, I have been doing the equivalent of an "Inside the Actor's Studio" episode in my head. I sit down with myself and do a retrospective of my earlier work. It's fun and painful at the same time. It's like when famous actors or musicians talk about when they first moved to the big city and were living on a can of tuna fish or a cup of ramen noodles a day. Many of my past relationships were ramen noodles and tuna. Survival food but not delicious or satisfying by any means. And I will not do my fiance the injustice of comparing him to a deeply satisfying food (but if I were, I would say he is fillet Mignon:)

My five years in New York were an especially wacky time, dating wise. I moved there in at age 22 to finish college and lived alone in Brooklyn. Unfortunately, no one had forewarned me of the greatest AND worst thing about New York: 24 hour Greek diners...that deliver. I was packing in the gyros and slices of blueberry pie like nobody's business. I had no idea that I had gained 20 pounds until I saw a picture. I was shocked. But still hungry. So, I went to "CP Shades", asked if they had any pants with elastic, and forged on. I had some very odd experiences in the process. No one ever came to Brooklyn. Just an ex who I occasionally still slept with when I would come back to LA but even he (the most non-judgemental person ever) seemed a bit startled by my new and puffier appearance. Then I moved to the Upper West Side. And finally joined a gym. But my confidence was still all messed up. I began this strange pattern of making very very close guy friends who I would spend all of my time with. Then I would decide that friendship meant love. I would pine over them, eventually admit my feelings, and they would freak out in one way or another. Then I would get offended and sad, say I needed some time apart, and then they would realize they actually did have feelings for me. However, by that time, I had usually moved on...

There were a few blind dates. And by blind, I mean I had to be fucking blind to agree to go out with these guys upon meeting them. One was great on paper. He was a South African Jew who was in a post graduate program at Colombia to become a psycho-pharmacologist. He was polite enough at dinner but in retrospect, did throw a few clues about sexual deviance. It's so sad to look back at a lonelier version of yourself and see the things you chose to ignore for the sake of flattery and company. The night I went out with the South African Jew happened to be the same night that John Kennedy Jr's plane was being looked for off the coast of Martha's Vineyard. It was on everyone's mind. So, he had a great excuse to come up to my apartment. He wanted to see the status of John John. As we watched the news, I sat on the other side of the room to indicate my lack of attraction. But unfortunately, this being a New York studio, the other side of the room was only about 4 1/2 feet away. The next thing I knew, SAJ had made some sort of intricate lunge and was dry humping me. I told him he had skipped about 5 steps. He got embarrassed and pulled himself off of me, apologizing profusely. My mind had now kicked into scared mode and I was trying to figure out an exit strategy. As I was thinking, he began creepily massaging my shoulders, saying we could just "ease into it". Um...Before I knew it, I was being dryhumped again. I reached for my cell phone (which was gargantuan being that it was 1999) and threatened to hit him in the head with it if he did not get off. Thankfully, he did. But he really did save the best for last. As he made motions to leave (the first normal move all night), he asked if he could first "finish up" in my bathroom. I had gotten him way too excited. I think someone should have invented a name for the sound which then came out of my mouth. It was a combination of "NOOOOOOOO" and "EWWWWWWW".

Well, needless to say, he is one character I have not researched on Facebook. But if I ever decide to, at least I'll know what network to look in: FUCKIN' CREEPY.