Author Archives: classygallie

Montse, the woman I thought would kill me

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I studied abroad in Spain two years ago, and it was an incredible, amazing, life-changing, super amazing, eye-opening experience. I learned things about myself I never knew before. For instance, I now know that I rock sag pants well and extra body meat poorly. I also learned what genuine hatred and fear feels like, and its name is Montse.

Saggy and meaty and fearful

Montse was my señora, or home stay mother (from now on I’ll only call her Lady, she don’t even deserve a name. Plus, hers is dumb and I bet you’re already sick of reading “Montse”).

I first met Lady at the hotel where my study abroad program had its orientation. When I walked down to the lobby I saw three ladies  — 1) a program coordinator named Ana, 2) a squat smiley lady, and 3) a greasy blonde headed lady with bad roots, a shrunken apple face, demon eyes, yellow fang fingernails, and robot legs. Ana introduced me to my to-be home stay mother: lady number 3, the demon.

I was already disappointed I didn’t get the smiley squat one, but I figured mine couldn’t be as bitchtastic as she looked. I went to shake her hand and when I did, she grabbed my hand, violently pulled me towards her, slammed her bony face into each of my cheeks, and screamed “DOS VECES” in my ear (“TWO TIMES”). Turns out she was, indeed, a mega trick.

Yet as with everyone I dislike, I still wanted her to like me. On the cab ride from the hotel to her apartment, I tried hard to chat her up. I told her how snowy Maine was, and how excited I was to be in Spain, and how nervous I was that I wouldn’t stay regular. Lady only ever responded with dirty looks, grunts, or silence. She yelled at me once, too. (I accidentally said her son was 17 instead of 7… like I was tryna mack him or some shiiat).

When we got to her house things got even worse. Her apartment stank like cigarettes. Her bastard son mocked my accent. She fed me soggy chicken tenders, chicken broth, and stale bread. When I lay in my bed, my head and feet both touched the walls. I used a sweatshirt for a pillow.

The next few days confirmed what I’d already feared was true. Lady ripped butts inside. Lady’s son was a d-bag. Lady cooked craptastic food.

I noticed something else, too. Lady brought men — young men, crippled men, all types o’ men — to the apartment and made me kiss their cheeks while they made out with mine.

It soon became clear. Trick was turning tricks, for real. She was a certified ho. I could’ve dealt with that. When I realized she was trying to murder me, though, I no longer could.

In her apartment, I kind of had my own hallway — there was really no reason anyone should pass my door unless they were going out. So, when I heard someone walking by my room around 3:00 one morning, and I called out “Hola?” to no response, I figured someone was plotting murder.

I’d already requested a new home stay mother — having said I couldn’t deal with tha shmoke — and I was sure Lady was right pissed she was going to lose my room and board. When I consulted my ma, she reassured me by saying, “Yeah you probably right. I bet one of those gentleman callers will do it. They got nothing to lose.”

Now convinced I was going to die, I did my best to take precautions. My bedroom door didn’t have a lock, so I wrapped the long strap of a purse around the doorknob and tied it to a hook on the wall. I put the electric heater in front of the door, so I’d hear it crash when someone came in. I strategically placed bottles of perfume and uncapped pens around my tiny room so, when one of Lady’s boos dragged me out for butchering, weapons would be in reach.

I did that for a couple nights and then moved out to the squat smiley lady’s apartment. No one ever tried to attack me.

Cool story, huh? I’ll tell you again later!

The only hand I ever broke was my third grade teacher’s

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In third grade, my elbow accidentally broke my 60ish-year-old teacher’s hand. Her name Mrs. Stuart, and even though it was an accident, she deserved it. Let me explain.

Mrs. Stuart wore slippers to class, had super spit-filled mouth corners, and looked exactly like Mrs. Doubtfire, except maybe with grayer skin.

I found a picture of her!

She was the first teacher who ever punished me. And the biz did it three times! She yelled at me/made me write my name on the board for the following:

1. Catching a fly in mid-air and gasping too loudly. (It was awesome and surprising, who wouldn’t gasp at that?)

2. Raising my hand during a math lesson to ask if she ever used umbrellas when it was sunny out. (I deserved punishment for that one).

3. Wrassling my homie Jake at an outside-o-school party and needing stitches as a result (I didn’t really get in trouble for this, she just called me dumb).

Another terrible thing Mrs. Stuart did to not just me, but the entire class, was harass us with her sicko obsession with the 1800s. She made us watch Little House on the Prairie every Friday and gave us lessons on contra dancing. For the biggest project of the year — the Academic Fair — she forced us to choose an 1800s-related topic (I chose Rhode Island and girly Roger Williams). Worst of all, she brought us on a field trip to Norlands.

Norlands is a living history center in Maine and if it weren’t for Mrs. Stuart and her evil teacher friend, Mrs. Hicks, it’d probably be really fun. They made me dress like this, though, so it wasn’t fun at all:

Feeling womanly

Don’t let that charming picture fool you; Mrs. Stuart, Mrs. Hicks, and the Norlands peeps made me do a lot more than fluff pillows. I emptied chamber pots, went into angry chicken coops, collected eggs, broke some eggs, and got yelled at for breaking some eggs. I swept the kitchen, got yelled at for sweeping poorly, baked cornbread, got yelled at for thinking the cornmeal was chicken scratch, and served lunch to my daughter for the day, the field trip bus driver.

Did you know plumbing didn’t exist in the 1800s? The creators of Norlands did, which is why they had a weird room with several holes instead of a bathroom with a working toilet. Not wanting to waste a room with more than one poopin hole, Mrs. Stuart had us go to the bathroom two at a time. Ain’t that effed?

And ain’t it effed that they had corn cobs for wiping? (To be fair, they also had toilet paper, but my bathroommate Kayla and I wanted to be authentic — we were the only ones to go the corn cob route).

This 1800s bidnass was pretty bad, but the most effed thing Mrs. Stuart did to us students was physically abuse us. She didn’t actually hurt us, she just thought it was real cute to slap us around a bit. I ain’t agree with that.

One day after lunch, when we were all walking into the classroom in a single file line, Mrs. Stuart bopped each one of us on the head. Like everyone else, I ignored it and sat down at my desk. Then, I saw her dumb Mrs. Doubtfire face at the front of the class, so smugly, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood and went right up to that lady.

In front of the entire class, I asked why she always hit us. She giggled, spat some spit in my face, told me it was a reflex, and lifted her hand to smack my head again. Before I knew what I was doing, I yelled “SO IS THIS!” and brought my elbow down on her hand. I didn’t mean to actually hurt her, but I elbowed the shiz out of that hand. I could tell because she started crying old lady tears down that old lady face of hers.

I swear I didn’t mean to do any harm — I just didn’t know my own strength. I had gone from being little and adorable and gentle in second grade:

Ladies is pimps too gone brush your shoulders off - Christmas '97

To straight Rick Ross in third:

Beast mode - Christmas '98

Mrs. Stuart knew I didn’t mean anything by it, though. She cried but she laughed too, and she never sent me to the guidance counselor or called home or nuffin. Her hand turned purple and blew up huge, and all was fine. And that asshole learned her lesson, I’ll tell ya.

RED LIGHT CHATTING!

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Pitbull says he’s too Latin for hip hop and too hip hop for Latins, and I feel dat. I’m too Maine for RI and too RI for Maine.

THAT'S WHY I GOT HIS NAMESAKE TATTOOED ON MAH BOOB (please excuse the dumb face and semi-see-through sweater)

I’ve lived in Rhode Island for the past four years and I still feel like some trick ass tourist. I’ve been trying to change that; I’ve been trying to become part of the community. And, thanks to red light chitterchat, I’m doing a damn fine jarb.

Whenever I’m driving on a two-lane road (or is it a four-lane road if there are two lanes on either side?), and I’m stopped at a red light, and my window is down and so is the driver’s next to me, I try to make conversation.

My first attempt was with a USPS mail lady about a week ago. I’d found a set of official looking keys earlier in the day, and I wanted to ask if they were hers. I didn’t pick them up or anything, but I figured my description — “silver and very fancy” — would be all she needed.

Sadly, I never got to tell her. We had two red lights together, and she never even looked my way.

The next day I was driving home from work at 9:00 p.m. or so. There weren’t many people on the road, so when I saw a sweet old school buggy, I sped up right next to it to get the conversation started. Since the steering wheel was on the weirdo side (the right) I planned out something real clever to say to the driver. Like, “Hey! Your steering wheel’s effed up, buddy,” or whateva.

Again, my chat attempt failed; green lights all the way home.

Then, last Sunday, it finally happened. A driver man chatted with me on the road! Actually, he kind of sassed me on the road, BUT STILL!

When I pulled out of the grocery store parking lot on Sunday afternoon (after buying a 24-inch sub for $7.99 — did you know that existed?), a flashing cop car ripped by me right away. Behind him were a couple of motorcyclists. At first I thought “Whoa doggy! Them fools should back up off that cop.” Then I saw about a million motorcycles behind the first few, realized it was a convoy, and thought “Whoa doggy! I do not know what to do.”

I had already pulled into the breakdown lane for the cop, but once he passed I didn’t know if I could go back into the right lane. The convoy was totally in the left lane, and it wasn’t like they was in a rush or nothing. Still, I decided to stay in the breakdown lane and continue moseying along.

I drove for five minutes before the car behind me took a turn down another road. I kept on driving and the motorcycles kept on coming. I felt very unsure of what I was doing, but I had my window down and Pitbull pumping so I was doing alright. Then a man on a motorcycle yelled at me through the window and I no longer felt so alright.

Man: MOVE BITCH, GET OUT DA WAY!

Me: Whaddat?

Man: Stop your vehicle! YOU MUST STOP!

Me: Yes, of course, of course! By the way, how are you? What’s this convoy for? Do you like motorcycles? What make is that? Harley, is it? Cool. I call it “H-Dizzle.” Nice helmet, does it hurt to wear? Do you have a strong core? Do you have a strong heart? Do you like roast beef sandwiches? I got a couple of feet of sub I could share with you!

I don’t think he heard my questions, cause he kept on driving and all, but I still felt real good about having engaged in red light chat. So good that it almost overshadowed how bad I felt about being an idiot driver! So good that, after the convoy had passed, I tried to talk to the car that pulled up beside me at the next red light.

Didn’t work.

I like poop stories. If you don’t, maybe don’t read this

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Whenever I travel outside of New England, my body forgets how to poop. It sucks, of course, but it wouldn’t suck nearly as much if — when I finally do remember  — my body didn’t then forget to do this other thing, too. This way more important other thing.

Two summers ago my cousin Petey and I visited our friend Will and his family at their condo in a resort in Puerto Rico. There are a few things you should know.

1. I’d never met Will’s parents before.

2. Will’s parents were adults.

3. I’d only met Will’s girlfriend once.

4. Will’s girlfriend was a real hip art student.

5. Other than meeting strangers, the things that make me most nervous/weird/mute are adults and hip art students and my obvious inferiority t0 them.

The resort this group of superior humans and I stayed at was redinky donky. It had the amenities you’d expect, like beaches and restaurants and pools, and the amenities you might not expect, like a casino and a golf course and a water park. The only thing missing was a pooping conducive crapper.

Actually, dat ain’t true. The condo had three perfectly functioning toilets; one for Will’s parents, one for Will and Petey, and one for Will’s boo and me. I, on the other hand, didn’t even have one perfectly functioning shiz system. In fact, my shiz system wouldn’t function at all.

That charming belly is 50% chub and 50% constipation (that's me in the gray wife beater sitting on the left, by the way)

I went three days with no number twos. On the fourth day, I knew I had to take action. Although I’d never really had issues with pooping before, I was familiar with the latest crap-coaxing technologies. I needed to drink water, eat fruits and vegetables, exercise, and stay away from binding foods like cheese. I got to it (secretly — I didn’t want all those cool strangers to know I had a backed-up booty).

After five days of babying my bowels, I finally managed a turd or two. I don’t know if I got distracted by my success or I was too physically exhausted to be bothered or I was subconsciously showing off. I just know I forgot to flush.

My turd or two sat in that toilet for a couple of hours.

Now, I already mentioned that Will’s lady and I shared our own bathroom. What I didn’t mention, though, was that ours was the only one that wasn’t totally private; it was connected to the rest of the house, too. I like to believe no one else saw it — mostly because when I went back later for a run-of-the-mill pee, it was still bobbing around like dook do. I also like to believe no one smelled it, but since the bathroom was right next to the kitchen, someone probably did.

At least they didn’t think I had a backed-up booty.

I’ve gone dumb

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I’ve spent most of the summer hanging out with dogs and babies. In particular, my pup dawg Chico and my niece Heidi.

They both super bomb. Chico is cute and funny and sweet; Heidi is crazy adorable and crazy happy and crazy fun and my favorite new human. You know what neither of them are, though? Smart.

Actually, as far as dogs and babies go, they’re geniuses. Chico can manipulate my mom to do anything — he fakes anorexia to get spoon fed and he fakes a limp to get carried on long walks. He’s a sicko bastard, but he’s clever. Still, since he’s a dog, I can’t do anything with him except make weird noises and throw squeaky toys and beg him to poop.

I can also get crunked with him

Likewise, Heidi is wicked smart for a baby. She babbles with the best of them and knows the facial expression for every word in the English dictionary. I’m sure she’ll be a bookworming math wizard in a few years, but for now, all I do when we chill is make gooftastic faces and blow raspberries and beg her to poop (I also smile a lot).

"This blanket is tasty and my face is the effing best"

The lack of normal social interaction is starting to have an effect on me. I’m going dumb real quickly like.

For example:

1. I went surfing the other day and chatted with a middle-aged, Australian, sleeveless-wetsuit-wearing man. After talking for a minute or two about weather n whatnot, he paddled out far, I posted up on da inside, and the chittychat ended.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Australian Man caught a wave. As he rode the wave in, he passed right by me. He was kind of crouching down and had his left hand sticking straight up and his right hand sticking out to the side. It looked to me like he wanted a high five.

When I stuck my hand out and he ignored it, however, it no longer looked like he wanted a high five.

(P.S. He later told me about his 12-month-old son. Thinking he said 12-year-old, I asked if his son surfed much. You should have seen the look he gave me!)

2. While taking Chico for a walk, I made homies with an old man. He asked me a few questions about myself, and then asked me what da mutt’s name was.

Old man: What da mutt’s name is?

Me: Chico. It means “boy” in Spanish. Funny, huh?

Old man: Oh helllooo there Chico!

Chico responded by lifting his leg on a telephone pole and dripping a pizz. The old man laughed and said to him, “And helllooooo to you too!”

For some reason, even though we’d already said hello and chatted for a few minutes, I looked old man right in his old face and said back, “Hello.”

I really don’t know how I mixed that one up.

3. The back tire on my bike blew this morning when I was about 4 miles away from home. On the walk back I found some grapes on the side of the road, noted they looked delicious, and ate a few. Then my lips got tingly and I thought I was having an allergic reaction. Then I remembered my chapstick had tingle-inducing ingredients in it.

Then I decided I should probably stick to dogs and babies.

Victoria’s Secret makes me look dumb (so does drooling)

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Victoria’s Secret is the devil, and I ain’t never going back.

For one, they write “PINK” on most of their clothes. Even clothes that aren’t pink have “PINK” written all over them. If I wore green sweatpants with “PINK” written on the butt, every color blind person that peeped my donk would get all confused and sad, probably. And if I know anything, it’s that anyone who cares to peep my weirdly-wide-grossly-flat donk doesn’t need anymore confusion and sadness in their lives.

Practicing breakdancing in my liar pants

Secondly, Victoria’s Secret markets boyshorts as sexy and hip. Not boxers — which would at least be comfortable — boyshorts, the most terrible undergarment ever invented. I’d rather wear a pair of one-size-too-small, machine-dried, denim thongs than boyshorts. Not only do they leave underpant lines, but they give mega wedgies, too. Unless shoving my hands down my pants to dislodge my boyshorts from my booty is sexy and hip, Victoria should stop lying to her customers.

Finally their employees don’t wear uniforms. That can sometimes cause problems.

Last week, my sister Meg and I went to the Victoria’s Secret at the Warwick Mall. As we walked around the store, I got progressively angrier about their silly clothes and dishonest boyshorts. So angry, in fact, that I choked on my drink and spit a mouthful of drool and water all over the floor.

Even though no one saw it, I felt I should tell an employee. The floors in those stores are awful slick, and the edges of the displays are awful sharp — what if someone lost an eye? I didn’t want that shiz on my conscience!

When I didn’t see an employee right away, however, I figured my conscience could handle some shiz. So, my sister and I left.

Then, my conscience playa hated on shiz and asked me to go back to tell someone. I told Meg BRB and went back into the store. I spotted one of the workers taking underpants inventory and ran over to her. Doing my best to cover the wet spots on my T-shirt, I told her what happened.

“Hi, I just want to let you know that I spit some water on the floor over by the bras.”

The girl, dressed in black like every other Victoria’s Secret employee in the world, stared at me with a look equal parts confusion and disgust. I could tell I’d made a mistake.

“You don’t work here, huh?”

She shook her head no. I looked at the girl next to her, who I also thought was an employee, and asked the same question. She shook her head, too.

Embarrassed they thought I was bragging about my drool puddle, I played it off by pretending I was doing them a favor.

“Yeah… so don’t slip in it, okay guys?”

And, like I said, I’m never going back.

Kindergarten criminal

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I remember two things about my first day of kindergarten.

1) I saw two girls, one brown headed and one yellow headed, talking to each other in the snack line. I remember thinking, “Those are the two weirdest looking things I’ve ever seen in my life.” (Both later became good friends of mine, but not until they stopped looking so creepy).

2) I experienced love at first sight with a boy with a killer cowlick and flapping fish lips.

Other than that, my first day consisted of meeting Ms. Pinkham, rocking fresh white kicks, and wearing a tag all day. It was a traditional first day of school.

I don't have a scanner, but I do have a multi-colored briefcase

To me, the second day of school is more important than the first; it’s more telling of the way things will be. Everyone knows the first day of anything doesn’t count, especially school. Teachers let you out of class early and your only assignment is to go to Staples and have the best time of your life buying page projectors and white out with your parents’ money. It’s not until the second day when ish gets real.

On my second day of kindergarten, for example, my mom asked me what I wanted for lunch (kindergarten is still half a day I hope?).

Mom: You hungry, Al? Want some lunch you little chubster you?

Me: Mmm yes! Me hungwy, me so hungwy.

Mom: I don’t understand anything that comes out of that idiot mouth of yours, but what would you like?

Me: Wa wa and bwead, pwease mommy.

Mom: Sounds like a prison meal. What’s wrong with you?

I don’t know what was wrong with me, but when my mom told me my lunch of bread and water sounded like a convict’s lunch, it made me like it even more. It made me want to be a criminal.

And maybe that’s why, before running out of the house to catch the bus, I threw on the jacket that I did. The  hardcore, black, leather motorcycle jacket from my dad’s shop (North Atlantic Leather & Repair — peep dat).

I ride dirty

That jacket was an authentic mini motorcycle jacket. It had more tassels and zippers and snaps than a Hells Angel. It was bomb diggity. And, paired with a stank face and a belly full of prison fare, it made me feel as bad as the baddest mammer jammer around.

At least until I got to school. I’ve never been that into speaking up, and that was especially true in kindergarten. I was really shy and hadn’t started speech therapy yet, so when Ms. Pinkham asked if I wanted to hang my coat on the rack, I shook my head and thought hell nah I don’t want your damn coat rack (politely, though).

The beginning of September is a pretty warm time of year, especially when you’re swagged out in a thick leather jacket. So, as you can imagine, I was sweating mah ballz off. But, not wanting to inconvenience Ms. Pinkham, and especially not wanting to talk, I kept it on all day. As I walked around like a robot in my motorcycle coat, I was sweaty, constricted, uncomfortable, and moodier than a biz.

And that’s why the second day of school showed me how things would be: trying to look cool, while actually looking like a jackass penguin/pit stain farmer.

“Sometimes I wish I could act like a (12-year-old) boy”

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I almost always sleep with my hands down my pants. I have poor circulation, and my clammy hands happen to appreciate the coziness of my pants. I don’t think there’s anything weird or wrong about it. In fact, I think it’s one of my more endearing qualities. (My parents agree! When I was little, they even nicknamed me for it!)

"Al"

My brother-in-law Matt, however, doesn’t find it quite as charming. According to him, it makes me seem manly. I know this because, after catching me napping with my hands down my pants twice last weekend, he said, “You know, you’re basically a man.”

How mean is that?! I’m not a man! I’m a lady! A classy lady! I’m not even the tiniest bit manly! Maybe a little prepubescent boy-ly, but come on! Manly?!

Just joshin’ ya. Matt did say that to me, and I maintain that I’m not manly, but — okay — I’m more than a little prepubescent boyish. I’m at least 75% 12-year-old dude.

Growing up, I always knew I was a tomboy. I was interested in sports…

Basketball can be dangerous

…in video games and male companionship…

I stay scowling with the best of them

…even bowl cuts!

Thanks for the haircut, ma!

I never had a problem with my boyish behavior, although I did think I had grown out of it in my late teens. But, as I found out the other day, dat ain’t true.

Remember my neighbors, Jay and Dee, that I mentioned last week? And the week before? Well, they think I’m friendless, so a few nights ago they took pity on me and invited me over for dinner. Dee’s sister was visiting, they were ordering pizza, and they thought it’d be fun for me to join. I wanted to say no (it was really nice of them, but I’m not real sociable around peeps I dunno), but I got distracted by some dropped strawberries in the road and accidentally accepted the invitation (the strawberries tasted delicious, at least). Before I could try to take it back, Dee told me to come over at 6:30 and ran off.

When I got there at 6:30, though, it was a lot more than Jay and Dee and her sister. There were two of her sisters, her 79-year-old dad, her stepmother, her five teenage nieces and her 12-year-old nephew. I was overwhelmed, but Dee insisted I introduce myself to everybody. Then, of course, she forced me to tell them everything about myself.

“I was born in 1989. 80s were so crazy, man. Um… I just graduated from college. Elbows been hurting lately. They can be real bitches sometime. Like to see?”

Other than when prompted by Dee, I didn’t say a single word. I didn’t even correct her family when they called me the dog’s name. Twice.

Yet I did take a special interest in Dee’s 12-year-old nephew, Alex. Not a creepy interest, weirdo, an oh-boy-I-think-we-could-be-real-good-friends interest.

I thought everything Alex did was either super clever or super hilarious. When he latched the dog leash to a chair, I congratulated him on his ingenuity. As he made jokes about vodka and rolled around on the ground in fresh dog pee, I got straight giggle silly. The adults made me uncomfortable, the teenage girls were unbearably lame (as always), and Alex was… Alex was something special. Alex made dinner worth eating.

Sadly, that’s where my relationship with Alex ends. For some reason, his mom didn’t want him hanging out with a full grown lady who’s always got her hands down her pants.

😦

I’ve got crabs :(

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Not lady part lice, you sickos — real crabs. Ocean crabs. The kind you mix with cream cheese and make rangoons out of.

This kind!

Though, to be fair, the ocean crabs I’ve got are probably more like the other kind of crab, considering I keep finding them cozied up in my secret regions and whateva.

My crab friend hanging in his new home, my bathing suit. Actually, my friend’s bathing suit that I forgot to return. Say hello to ya new friend, Katie!

The past couple of times I’ve gotten out of the ocean, I’ve felt a prickling on mah boobs, peeked under my bathing suit top, and found four to five newborn crabs posted up on my lady lumps.

I’ve found bugs, dead fish, and live fish in my bathing suit, but before a week ago, I’d never found crabs. Still, I didn’t think they were that bad. Unwelcome, yes, but innocent enough. They were tiny newborn baby crabs, after all! What harm could they do!?

Turns out, when you’re swimming with your married man neighbor, kind of a lot.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned my super nice neighbor, Jay, and his super nice wife, Dee. Jay and I have recently begun triathlon training together. Most evenings after he gets home from work, I’ll run over to ask Dee if he can come out and play. Then, after she says “Hellz yes,” Jay and I will go off on a bike ride or a swim. I know it might sound weird, but I swear it’s as innocent as the little baby crabs I keep finding in my bathing suit. Innocent, anyway, until I inadvertently flashed him my goodies.

Last night, after we finished our bike ride, Jay and I decided to go down to the beach and get some swimming in. We planned to swim out to one sailboat, over to another, and then back in.

About halfway out to the first sailboat, I felt the familiar prickle around my boobal region and knew I was playing host to some crabby guests. A few strokes later and I felt them around my bootal region. A few strokes after that, and I felt them all over my body. Scared if I kept swimming they’d crawl into my earholies, I stopped. And started flailing and shouting and pulling down my bathing suit all over da damn place.

You’d do the same if a million of these buggers were all up in ya business

Jay, who hadn’t felt any crabs, thought I’d stopped because something really bad had happened. He looked so horrified I was afraid I’d given him a heart attack. Then I looked down, saw my glow-in-the-dark booble, and realized the only thing I was giving him was a show.

I had about 200 tiny crabs crawling in my bathing suit, stuck in my hair, pinching my arms, and creeping into my mouth; I didn’t really care if Jay saw scary parts of my body. In fact, I flailed all the way into shore, half-naked, screaming, and completely shameless.

At least until later that night when Jay’s wife directed an oddly accusatory statement at me. It was about peeling the plastic wrappers off hot dogs.

“You sure you don’t want a hot dog, Allie? Jay’s got a really delicious hot dog for ya. You’ve just got to peel the plastic off it, though. It’s exactly like peeling off a… well, you know what I mean, don’t you? Don’t you, you little asshole?”