How Disney Killed the Magic

Like most people my age, I was an ardent admirer of Disney animated feature films as a child. Still am. It’s amazing how total strangers will burst into song if you crank up “I Just Can’t Wait to Be King” or “A Whole New World” on your iPod – it’s as if Disney created an indestructible bond between children of the late 80s and early 90s.

Which is why, in addition to comfort food, I also revel in the comfort of a good, cheesy, musical Disney film. And lucky for me, all of them have apparently been uploaded to YouTube!

Over the past few weeks, I have often curled up under the covers with a cup of tea and my laptop, and relived the awesomeness that is animated g-rated romance set to music. But the other day, when ‘Colors of the Wind” was stuck in my head, I accidentally stumbled across Pocahontas II: Journey to a New World.

Whoa. Back up. Did anyone even know there was a Pocahontas II?! ‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t get the memo!

Well, there is. And it is a brazen tribute to shitty, straight-to-DVD filmmaking!

Now, to be fair, I probably shouldn’t have watched it directly after enjoying the original Pocahontas. Because the original Pocahontas is all about the freaking power of love and shit, and suddenly, and inconveniently, Disney is faced with problematic historical facts; like, Pocahontas married some random dude named John Rolfe after being kidnapped and dragged to England – and, er, died pretty quickly there after.

Ugh. How do you make that appealing to children?

Now, after getting all emotional about Pocahontas and John Smith’s final embrace before they part for what seems like forever (oh c’mon, you know it makes you want to suffer for love!), I was really, really hoping that Disney would throw caution to the wind and dole out some serious revisionist history shit. But no. In fact, they only partially revised history, made things really awkward, and left me with a bad taste in my mouth.

First off, you’re gonna have to put your happy visions of Pocahontas’ devotion to John Smith aside, because in this movie, Pocahontas is a ho.

Yeah. I couldn’t even make this shit up.

So, anywho, in the first 50 seconds of Pocahontas II, the fat dude with the hat and purple suit is inexplicably walking free (dude, the crew totally mutinied. And chained him up. And arrested him for being an asshole, a murderer of innocents and a liar. WTF?!) and he like totally fucking murders John Smith.

And you’re all like WHOA! DEVESTATION! because if you’re me, you just watched the end of the first movie like, 10 minutes before this.

Disney did not just do that right?!!

Well, as in all Disney movies, the protagonist can’t really die. In this case, it just helps the frazzled writers get rid of John Smith for awhile. But I was really traumatized there for a minute.

Well, Pocahontas somehow hears the news that John Smith is dead (how, I dunno, he was shoved off a cliff into the ocean, no one found the body, and the only witnesses were evil fuckers. But whatever.) and she is suffering from depression. But hey! Don’t worry! This pompous ass young hot dude from England just rolled into town! His name’s John Rolfe, he thinks Indians are savages, but it’s his duty to get the Chief of the Indian tribe back to England to meet the King!

Well, duh, he ends up taking Pocahontas instead, because Chief What’s-His-Face is much too busy for these types of games. And then John Rolfe has to go all My Fair Lady on Pocahontas, because – of course – the only way to save her people from the really, really dumb and bloodthirsty king of England is to dress her up in a gown and powder her face.

Which, of course, now that Pocahontas has changed her clothes, John Rolfe is all like, she’s doable – for a savage! and I’m all like, groan!

So, they go to the ball at the castle and dance, and which point John Rolfe and Pocahontas try to totally make out with each other on the dance floor (because Pocahontas seriously has a thing for white dudes who think they are more civilized than her. Is there a name for this kind of problem?) And fat dude in the purple suit totally makes an AWESOME comment about how Pocahontas is a total ho bag right to her face (once again, I could not make this shit up).

But how can the evil fat man in the purple suit screw this all up for Pocahontas? How can he insure that the Indians get murdered? (Wait, wasn’t he just after gold? Why does he give a fuck what happens to a bunch of people on the other side of the earth?)

Well, if you guessed bear baiting, you are correct!

(Okay, I’m pretty sure no one guessed bear baiting. I have to say, this was a pretty creative, albeit retarded, move on the part of the writers of this travesty of a film.)

Yeah, so, in England back in the day, they really liked to torture bears for fun as a dinner show. Apparently. And the crazy bitch goes totally savage and tries to save the bear by throwing herself on it. (Okay, really? Homegirl would totally be dead. Nobody should hug an angry bear. That’s not a demonstration of savagery, just stupidity.)

Fast forward – Pocahontas is in jail (for hugging a bear?) and THE BEST SCENE OF THE WHOLE MOVIE HAPPENS. It’s a bar scene. Some dudes are talking about Pocahontas being in jail. There’s a mysterious cloaked figure in the corner. The bartender slides a beer down the bar to a customer who says: “WHAT DO I HAVE TO PAY AROUND HERE TO GET SOME GOOD HEAD??”

Oh no. You didn’t just do that, Disney. Double entendres are not meant for children’s movies!

I have to admit, I totally went back and watched that scene 3 more times, just to make sure I wasn’t crazy. And. Wow. I’m not crazy.

Well, anyway, the cloaked figure in the corner was John-fucking-Smith (obviously), and he totally goes and teams up with John Rolfe to bust Pocahontas’ ass out of jail. Hilarity ensues, that raccoon and pug team get in on the action, and then every one is all good.

Except John Rolfe and John Smith are both eyeing Pocahontas like she’s a piece of meat, and she keeps clinging to both of them.

DISNEY, WHERE IS THIS GOING??!

So, I was totally waiting for this to turn into cartoon pornography. But that would be unacceptable. So Pocahontas consults mother earth and shit, proves to the king that the evil fat man in the purple suit is evil, and everyone’s saved.

But what man does she choose??!! ‘Cause this can’t end this way!

Well, for the first time in Disney history, the heroine totally gives her “true love” a really fucking lame break up speech about growing apart and shit, and goes and gets busy with the dude she’s only liked for about 2 days. REALLY NOW.

(What do ya think?)

I. Am. Devastated.

I’m pretty sure that Pocahontas II: Journey to a New World completely and utterly ruined the original Pocahontas film for me. Because, apparently, that bitch went just around the river bend, and found herself a new piece of tight ass!*

Tough break, John Smith. Tough break.

*I think it’s important to note that, historically, John Rolfe was really a super religious man that was completely repulsed by his carnal urges for a savage. But he couldn’t help himself; he had to have her. He probably beat himself with a whip every night of their marriage. Kinky.

Help! Cancer Dad is Missing!*

*I’m a sarcastic dirt bag. All of the below information is true, but you should not take it as an invitation to google the shit out of my family and start spamming them. I mean, I would probably find it amusing and awesome. But don’t tell me it was you. I will not be associated with prank calls, twitter slander, etc. I don’t want to be dragged to court again. Thanks friends!

Assistance needed: I cannot find my father. Had you seen him? He’s 6’3”, wears glasses, is a pompous ass and looks like he’s about to give birth to triplets. Oh, and he drives a Jaguar with douchey personalized plates. He’s probably insulted you or cut you off on the road and acted like it was your fault. No? You sure?

Oh, wait, never mind, I found him! He’s on the radio!

I am a great lover of chaos and blatant assholishness. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside – probably because it reminds me of my childhood. And nothing makes me smile harder than listening to my Dad give ridiculous advice over the internet radio waves. About raising step children. Which he doesn’t really have.

If you’re scratching your head and thinking what the fuck? don’t worry. I was there once. But see, the thing about life is that it is much stranger than fiction. And the thing about me is, I think the horrible things people do to each other are freaking hilarious. Because if I were to get upset every time Cancer Dad filmed a special on step families for basic cable, I would probably have to be institutionalized.

Okay, I’ll stop confusing you. Here’s the back story:

I went around for the majority of my childhood thinking my parents were each other’s first spouses – mostly because nobody ever mentioned any other spouses (or a rather inconvenient sociopathic child) to me. Many confusing years later, it was apparent that Cancer Dad, had, in fact, been married many, many times. And produced offspring.

Then he got married. Again.

I haven’t quite figured out yet whether the current wife is wife number four, or wife number five. It’s up in the air. When you find some old picture of a woman who your father tells you not to mention to his new wife, and whose last names mysteriously matches your own, you get suspicious. Especially when this kind of thing has happened before.

But Wife Number Four (or Five) happened to have the most absurd career. She is a step family therapist. Right? Absurd!

Well, step family therapists are people too. Even if they have step children from previous marriages with whom they are not on speaking terms. And they uninvite you to their wedding to your father. And file restraining orders against your mother to get back at you for existing. Or they put all your belongings in trash bags, throw you out of the house, and call the police on you. I mean, hey, that’s normal, right?

[Now, to insert some cliché like “those who can’t do teach,” or “the blind leading the blind.” Because, really, they all apply.]

As if this all weren’t enough, Wife Number Four (or Five) decided to take her message to the street, and the internet. She started a step mom Twitter. A weekly online radio show. A local cable show. She started writing a freaking book. Supposedly she’s getting a show on A&E. All so she could share her expertise on step families with the world! Even better, she made my dad Managing Director of her practice. His bio on their website hilariously begins: “I had no idea of the complexities of stepfamily life until I lived them firsthand.”

Hello, what?!

I mean, technically, my dad is a step father. To a 32 year old. Who never lived with us. Hmm, that must have been really hard on you, Dad. I feel for you.

Because of the dynamic duo that is Cancer Dad and Wife Number Four (or Five), I get hilarious phone calls from parents of friends, saying things like “Umm, I saw your dad last night on television…yeah, that…what was he talking about?!”

I also get hilarious phone calls from my Dad telling me to read his wife’s new articles and listen to their radio show, because I could “learn a lot.”

Well, I finally gave in and listened. And, ohmagawd, it was more magical than I could have ever imagined. Totally epic. Like, someone else has got to picking up on the major holes in the story here. Or the super awkward moments when my dad says dumb things, like (and this is an actual quote): “Honey, was it the hardest thing you ever did, moving in with me and my kids?” Wife Number Four (or Five): “Babe, umm…you’re really putting me on the spot here.” Hell yes he is. His cancer is causing brain farts. He forgot that he’s not allowed to mention us on live radio! He’s gonna blow your cover!

Now, really, everything is a two-way street. I’m not going to pretend that my brother didn’t send Wife Number Four (or Five) emails to her work address saying he was a child chained up in a basement who was being beaten mercilessly by his step dad (it would have been funnier if he hadn’t sent it from my mom’s email account on accident, making her look like a psychopath. But oh well).

And I’m not going to pretend that her fake-ass therapist voice didn’t piss me the fuck off.

But hey – it’s all good. Now’s it’s funny! Now I laugh ‘til I cry when I hear her moaning softly into the microphone about how hard it is to be a step parent. And how she was able to successfully preserve her relationship with “her man” despite his children (i.e., she got rid of the fuckers, so they’re not really a problem anymore)!

Unfortunately, my father doesn’t think this is funny. He’s mad I don’t want to reconcile with Wife Number Four (or Five), and therefore doesn’t call me anymore. Oh dad. People have given me so many explanations of why you might think this kind of thing was necessary. Is it a career move? Are people catching on to your wife’s lack of stepchildren? Are you still convinced you’re going to drop dead at any minute, and therefore you want to be forgiven – but you’re too pompous to apologize?

I’m not sure, really. But you have such nice ways of asking me to do you favors. Like, reconcile with my wife, or you’re not part of my family anymore! Or, you are a horrible child, I convinced her to reconcile with you, you should be able to do the same!

Either way, the antics you two have pulled make me smile.

I really do appreciate the both of you. I mean, hell, she took care of you during 3 rounds of cancer treatments. And Dad, you provide me endless entertainment and stress stomach aches with your mad crazy drama, yo. Because of you, I have so much more to bitch about! I can top just about anyone’s weird step family story. It gives me the street cred I need!

But Dad, if you really want those release forms signed so Wife Number Four (or Five) can butcher my persona in her new book, you’re going to have to think of a new tactic. Like not taking me to lunch in a public place and telling me I suck at life in the middle of my work day.

Just sayin’.

Love ya bitch.

I Suck at Jury Duty

I didn’t know it was possible to fail jury duty. But I totally did, yo! Like, an automated voice came on the line and said: “You. FAIL.”

Whoops.

This might have something to do with the fact that I had absolutely no clue that the stupid automated system kept track of who calls in. I thought I was totally dodging a bullet – I kept calling in the day of, and the little robot voice continuously told me that I did not have to report for service.

That all changed, last night. I actually called in on time (during the hours of 7 to midnight) and the automated voice thing told me that I had failed to call in everyday, and therefore my jury service would be rescheduled.

What the fuck?! But I didn’t even have to report yet! Couldn’t they just get mad at me if I didn’t show up? Now the fact that I got distracted by booze on a weeknight (as is my right; I sit in a cubicle-like thing all day) means that I am going to have to do this stupid shit all over again?!

How many times can you fail in this way before they get really mad and start fining you and shit?

Does this mean they’ll put a red check next to my name and I’ll have to report next time?

Ugh.

Actually, this is a good thing. As I am tremendously bored at work these days, it might be nice to have jury duty. What would be really cool is if I end up on the jury of a murder trial. I’d go all Twelve Angry Men on someone’s ass.

But, seriously now. I’ve had 3 or 4 jury summons over the course of my life, and I’m only 22. What the hell? Is someone picking on me?? Last time, all I did was sit in a room for a million hours and read Water for Elephants like it was my job. Totally finished that shit in, like, one day!

Well, anyway, since I don’t have jury duty, I’ll have to think of something else to do today (besides writing about how I fail at jury duty). Suggestions?

J’adore

The Boyfriend and I had a bit of discussion the other day when we were out goat shopping (yes, the boy wants a pygmy goat – for his backyard). He had basically decided on a goat, a few chickens, and a mini potbellied pig when I suggested he throw in a tortoise for good measure.

Well, that was promptly vetoed.

Seems homeboy has a few requirements. His pets have to be cuddly, and they have to make noise. I tried to argue my case. I mean, jeez, is he really planning on cuddling with chickens? Because that might not end so well…

It’s all good though. There’s a reason he lives in a house with a stable and I live in a high rise apartment building with a 60 gallon turtle tank. Our styles are not even vaguely similar – and we’re both pretty stubborn (I nearly got dumped after revealing that I didn’t really care for the décor in his bedroom). He hilariously believes that if we move in together, I will have one room to myself (an office, perhaps?), and he will get to decorate the rest of the living space. (Is it just me, or is it starting to sound like I’m the under-appreciated husband on a bad 90s sitcom who only barely gets to keep his recliner chair while his wife redoes the entire house?)

The Boyfriend better watch out, because our future hypothetical house is going to look like the art toy movement and a Chinese opium den in Mexico threw up on the Victorian era. (Yeah, you just try to picture that one.)

Annnnnd, I told that whole story just so I list some shit that I like:


1. Terrarium. A tiny ecosystem in a vase.
2. Claw foot tub. Romantic and classy.
3. Dunny. Awesome figurine decorated by artists all world, as part of the art toy movement that started in Hong Kong.
4. “Allusion” by Yellena. This print can be found here.
5. Vintage taxidermy. I like to be friends with my wall art.
6. Teak furniture from India. Very detailed.
7. Thai Buddha. I dragged a 50 lb Buddha home from Thailand - and customs at LAX thought I was smuggling drugs in it.
8. Nautilus wall hanging by Leviathan Arts. These freaky crustaceans make me happy. This one can be found here.
9. Costa Rican mask. I picked one up in Costa Rica - the designs on mine are made of crushed alligator eggshells.
10. Metallic damask wallpaper. Super funky and classic.
11. Oaxacan wood carving. This beautiful nautilus by Eleazar Morales will soon be mine!
12. Suzani. These beautiful tribal textiles are from Uzbekistan.


1. Spicy seaweed. This was my brain food while I was a college student.
2. Mochi. Words cannot describe the happiness that is ice cream wrapped in rice.
3. Bok choy. Surprisingly tasty raw drunk food. Plus the name of my turtle.
4. Bao. Cantonese pork bun. I could eat these all day.
5. Udon. Delicious Japanese noodles, with fish cake.
6. Snap peas. Delicious raw.
7. Japanese rice crackers. Salty and spicy.
8. Banana peppers. I literally eat these right out of the jar as a snack.
9. A1 Sauce. Fantastic on anything.
10. Stuffed martini olives. Also great right out of the jar.
11. Mangosteen. Best fruit ever; part of my daily diet in Thailand.
12. Lamb with mint jelly. If it’s on the menu, I order it.
13. Anchovies. Little salty fish of joy. Don’t knock ‘em ‘til you’ve tried ‘em.
14. Pickled herring. Another salty fish; a favorite during my weird childhood.
15. Salt and vinegar chips. Oh so tangy.
16. Tacos. Good anytime, anywhere. Plus really easy to make.
17. Khao soi. Favorite northern Thai dish - curry, chicken, lime, pickled cabbage, chile.
18. Moroccan mint tea. Nothing beats this refreshing tea.


1. Ornate box turtle. I have two semi aquatic turtles - but I’d like to try a cute land dwelling one!
2. Chameleon. What other tiny creature has rotating eyes and changes colors?
3. Polydactyl cat. They are cool because they have extra toes - and Hemingway was a huge fan.
4. Leucistic axolotl. A Mexican salamander that never reaches an adult form. Hands down, the Coolest. Animal. Ever.
5. Egyptian dwarf tortoise. If you want a cute tortoise that doesn’t get to be 500 lbs, this is the tortoise for you.

1. Morocco. Bustling and beatiful, full of spices and textiles.
2. Bhutan. Land of the Thunder Dragon, the most expensive country to travel in the entire world.
3. Egypt. I’ve been obsessed since I was 8 years old.
4. Maldives. Lowest country in the world, and one of the most beautiful. The native language is only spoken by 300,000 people on earth.
5. Croatia. My hometown is filled with Croatians, who speak very highly of their homeland.
6. Yemen. One third of the wildlife on the Socotra islands is found nowhere else on the planet.

So, it took me pretty much all day to create this post - but it was certainly entertaining. I know you want to do it too…what’s on your list?

When Your Dermatologist is a Perfectionist

There is nothing scarier than a dermatologist who thinks the skin on your face should look like a baby’s ass – and to my dermatologist, it’s not a goal; it’s a requirement. As in, I’m thinking I look pretty damn good, and then she walks in the room and tells me I look like hell. Ouch.

I don’t take it personally. I mean, I’m pretty sure the woman lacks basic social skills – but what she doesn’t lack is skin that looks like freaking silk! Not fair! But beauty is pain, and topical medications are a pain in the ass. I’d almost forgotten. But now that I am back on the crack so to speak, I will illustrate the stages of my love-hate relationship with dermatology.

Stage 1: You Ugly

If you go to my dermatologist, this is the stage where you make an appointment for something else entirely (aka, my eyelids have the space plague), and she walks in and tells you that it looks like your face hates you. I’m not even talking about acne here; I’m talking about things “not being as smooth as they should.” Like, Brittany, why aren’t you slathering Retin-A all over your face? You would look so much better! And you’re thinking, wait, this isn’t why I made this appointment – shit, did she just write me up $200 worth of prescriptions?

Well, in a moment of weakness, I decided that I, too, wanted the epidermis of a movie star. So I filled all those crazy prescriptions and got started.

Stage 2: The Honeymoon

The first day or two of your new skin regiment fools you into thinking that you will be instantly transformed into awesome. Everything feels smoother, healthier, tighter – mostly because the Retin-A hasn’t begun to eat your face yet; it’s just getting started. Those feelings of health are just the result of your brain’s trickery (i.e., “third degree burns prevent acne; doesn’t mean you should light your head on fire” will soon be your new motto, eagerly repeated to potential dermatology patients).

Stage 3: You Snake!

After the honeymoon ends, you find that your new topical medication is turning you into a reptile. Your face is literally peeling; not in huge layers, either. No – that would be too easy. Instead, your face is peeling in tiny little increments, and if you rub or peel them, they spread! It’s a never ending cycle of snake-face! You comfort yourself with the thought that once all this dead skin is gone, you will have new, fresh, happy skin. But how long will that take?!

Stage 4: A Burning Sensation

This is my favorite stage. The stage where you discover what true sensitivity is. Yes, the unique feeling of spreading Cetaphil moisturizer on your face – and discovering that it is, actually, napalm. Your face is on fire and nothing can put it out – even water hurts! You don’t even want to know what foundation feels like. You want to cry. And wear a bag over your red head. You no longer care if you look like perfection when this suffering is over; you liked your old face! It was fine! Damn this culture – why do we worship unattainable perfection?!!

Stage 5: Oh Snap

You look in the mirror one day and realize that you look amazing. Your skin is glowing; not a spot in sight. Suddenly the suffering and temporary hideousness was all worth it! You’re a fucking movie star! Now all you need is thousands of dollars worth of dental work and you’ll have the teeth to match!

Stage 6: The Laziness

You’ve been looking awesome for awhile, and now you’re convinced that it has always been this way. Why do you have to buy more of this medication? It’s freaking expensive, and you’re all glorious – you don’t need it!

Stage 7: The Decline into Normalcy

Whoops. A spot. Where did that come from? I guess it’s time for a trip to the dermatologist…

Fin.

I’m somewhere between stages 3 and 4 right now. For no particular reason, really. Despite the unnecessary suffering, my dermatology appointment did lead to one good thing: my eyelids are cured! Apparently, I had dermatitis (code for, we don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you; your eyelids are just whack).

All’s well that ends well, I guess.

Hand Sanitizer

Hand Sanitizer from Brittany Swanson on Vimeo.

I made all the excess hand sanitizer on my desk do a little dance. And Kim threw in a frog pen from Korea for good measure. Happy Tuesday.

A Valentine’s Day Horror Story

Yes, I’m aware that our modern Valentine’s Day is some horrible Hallmark creation, concocted for the sole purpose of making people spend money on heart shaped junk. Despite this deplorable truth, I am determined to have a damn good V Day this year – pretty much because my V Day weekend of 2009 was such a crapshoot!

No my friends, I’m not talking crapshoot as in sitting on my couch whining and stuffing my fat face with bon bons that I had to purchase for myself. If I had been single, I would have thrown a bad ass drunken “Fuck Valentine’s Day” party. My story is sad because, even though I was in a relationship, I didn’t even try to make romantic plans – and yet my Valentine’s Day still fucking sucked!

The logic is this: if you have too much riding on the romance of Valentine’s, it’s bound to go wrong. But I didn’t even plan anything like that! I just wanted to get drunk and chill! Take a mini road trip! Instead, the stupid fucking cupid gnomes came after me and turned a chill weekend into a stress fest. I didn’t freaking love anybody by the end of that weekend!

What did I learn from this? Well, that I should buy overpriced Cirque de Soleil tickets and make reservations at some ritzy restaurant that serves steaks the size of buttons. Because that’s what the creepy cupid gnomes want you to do.

So, for your amusement, my Valentine’s Day 2009* (complete with a scoring system):

*For those people included in this story, yes, I know you look like jerks. But I adore you regardless.

CHARACTERS

CANCER DAD, lord of dramatic and often grim overstatements.

THE BOYFRIEND, a stubborn bugger whom I adore; and who is possibly from another planet

THE DRUNK FRIEND, a generally responsible young woman, who is unfortunately overwhelmed by booze one night and takes refuge behind a toilet

THE DRUNK FRIEND’S DRUNK ASS FRIENDS, minor characters who cannot think or drive straight when under the influence of alcohol

THE BOYFRIEND’S BEST FRIEND, savior of my sanity, and master of yoga breathing techniques over the telephone

Part One

It all began on Valentine’s Eve, when Cancer Dad, got – well – cancer again. Only, it was in an entirely different area than previous cancer, therefore confirming Cancer Dad’s fears that said cancer was traveling through his blood, meaning, of course, he would drop dead immediately [minus 30]. Since I am such a dutiful daughter, I was, without delay, overtaken by ridiculous panic-induced dad-less visions of the future. Bad start to the weekend. (Spoiler: Cancer Dad has since lived through cancer scare number 3 and bone burning radiation, but is not yet dead, despite about 7 public proclamations of imminent death. However, at the time, I was certain he was going to die. Now I’m certain he will live forever.)

I decided to put off a complete panic attack about father-less-ness by concentrated on my upcoming road trip weekend with The Boyfriend. The distraction seemed promising enough when The Boyfriend, in a completely inebriated state, confessed his love to me for the first time (despite having dated me for nearly a year) at 3 am on Valentine’s morning [plus 10]. All was cute and lovely until he woke up hung over later that day, and, when confronted with a description of his drunken declaration, replied by saying that he could not have possibly said such a thing [minus 18]. Major burn though this was – especially since my reply was “finally!” instead of “I love you too!” – I continued to be optimistic about my weekend plans.

I arrived at The Boyfriend’s residence that evening, to pick him up and embark on our trip to visit The (not yet) Drunk Friend, who lived nearly 7 hours away. Sadly, The Boyfriend had not broken his habits by developing a sense of time. Instead, he tells me that he had no clean clothes to take with him on a trip. Nonplussed, I throw him and his dirty drawers into my vehicle, and head north. He promptly falls asleep, leaving me to drive, sleepily, in the dark and silence – with only thoughts of impending fatherlessness to keep me company [minus 5]. Shit.

We arrive at our destination at approximately 3 in the morning, only to discover that The Drunk Friend – now very drunk – is wrapped around a toilet bowl at some undisclosed location, and cannot bear to be parted with it. Hence, The Boyfriend and I are stuck outside in 30 degree weather [minus 15].

We finally reach The Drunk Friend’s Drunk Ass Friends, who, in their infinite drunken wisdom tell me to either A) knock on The Drunk Friend’s apartment door and wake up her inexplicably and eternally antisocial/pissy roommates who will be much more pissed after I do such or, B) wait for The Drunk Ass Friends to drunk drive to the apartment and give me the key. Because I am freezing to death and don’t want to be murdered (and do not care about the safety of The Drunk Ass Friends), I vote for the latter.

The Drunk Ass Friends arrive in good cheer, and give me The Drunk Friend’s purse, keys and phone – so that, of course, it is impossible to reach her and she has no identification or money on her, which proves, rather dramatically, that The Drunk Ass Friends are unequivocal retards [minus 16].

I am proved correct the next day when I do not see The Drunk Friend I drove 7 hours to see until 3 in the afternoon because she had no phone on which I could contact her, and somehow forgot I had a car – meaning she got a ride from someone who had to make 30 unnecessary stops (including one to the airport) before dropping her off at her apartment [minus 2].

After reuniting with The (no longer) Drunk Friend, the weekend went swimmingly. We ate sushi and went to Trampoline World [plus 8]. But then, it was time to depart.

Part Two

Previously, The Boyfriend had come to have a suspended license due to unpaid citations. He had already served time in county jail for driving illegally.

For some reason unbeknownst to me, The Boyfriend decided that it was a fabulous plan to purchase a BMW on the way back home – though he would be unable to legally drive it. I used all the powers of logic to convince him otherwise, but The Boyfriend is a stubborn bugger; and, in the end, I drove an hour out of my way in a rainstorm so he could put himself in the law’s way [minus 15].

Several hours later, as predicted by me, the law caught up with The Boyfriend. While on the phone with me, he was pulled over [minus 25] and subsequently had to convince the officers not to arrest him, as he had a girlfriend that could pick him up.

Most unfortunately, we had been traveling through the Tejon Pass – and there were no exits for miles. My phone was dying, I could not get off the freeway, and The Boyfriend kept calling more and more frequently to beg me to hurry up in an increasingly panicked tone. At this juncture in the narrative, I completely dissolve into textbook female hysteria [minus 10]. I began, literally, screaming – My dad is going to die! My boyfriend is going to jail for a year! And worst of all, it’s Valentine’s Day Weekend! You fuckers! (I don’t know who “you fuckers” refers to. I can only assume it was the evil cupid gnomes.)

Luckily, The Boyfriend’s Best Friend is surprisingly good at mediation instruction over the telephone [plus 5]. If it weren’t for the 5 minute breathing exercise, it’s possible my cranium might have spontaneously popped off, and I would have dropped my brain on the car mat – which, of course, would have made the situation even more difficult to navigate.

Eventually, after zen-ing that shit out, I turned around and managed to locate the McDonald’s where The Boyfriend was waiting in a police car. The police turned him over to me, but kept the BMW as a consolation prize [minus 10].

As boys in trouble are wont to do, The Boyfriend tried to laugh the incident off. Unfortunately for him, because he was not in jail, he was now doomed to die by my hand for the crimes of 1) abandoning his girlfriend in a car, alone, for 7 hours, to contemplate her father’s demise; 2) making his girlfriend drive an hour out her way so he do something illegal; 3) doing something illegal; 4) getting his ass caught; and 5) sufficiently wasting thousands of dollars and several hours of his girlfriend’s life on Valentine’s Day weekend [minus 28].

He was promptly murdered and buried a mile from the interstate.

The End

Yes, sadly, the above story is entirely true – except for the murdering and burying. Actually, The Boyfriend and I are still (inexplicably) together, and almost at our two years of stupidly cute (emphasis on the “stupidly”) romance mark. The only good thing that came out of that weekend was my ability to drunkenly tell The Boyfriend I love him at every opportunity – and not feel in the least bit guilty about making him uncomfortable. (Oh, and he paid off all his fines and got his license back.) (Oh! And I’ve been inspired to write the next big V Day anthem, “You Never Say ‘I Love You’ When You’re Sober”)

So, stop feeling freaking sorry for yourself if you’re single this Valentine’s Day. Dude, it could be so much worse. (Or so much better, if your Cancer Dad actually died, or your Boyfriend actually went to jail for a year. Sorry to those peeps.)

But anyway, I scored a negative 141 last V Day. Here’s to 2010 being in the positive. Cheers!

(And fuck you, cupid gnomes.)