continued . . .

SAFE SEX, PEOPLE . . .

Life since becoming friends with C has been nothing short of one big illegal adventure. I often feel like I'm living on the brink of (1) being arrested and subsequently convicted of some horrific crime that will see me festering in federal prison for the next eighty-eight years, thanks to the bizarre Sentencing Guidelines; or (2) other wretched danger.

Tonight, he decides -- since we are hostages in his cozy little convertible, after all -- that we're going to hit a late happy hour at the Boat Basin, on the River. Great idea . . . if we could FIND it. Instead, we spent a good ten minutes DRIVING his CAR on the SIDEWALK in RIVERSIDE PARK, entering all manner of VEHICLES PROHIBITED areas. Thankfully, the pedestrians C heckled ("Be safe, folks!") either graciously smiled, stared at us (probably thinking we were drunk and/or high), or waved back. And we met with no law enforcement sorts of any kind. Thank the Lord. How would I have explained to my parents: "The Riverside Park Commission police arrested me for being in a car being driven on the sidewalk in Riverside Park at 10:30 on a Wednesday night." ???

Sigh. I don't even remember what it's like to have 'normal' friends anymore . . .

***

34C, 34C, 33C, 35C . . .

I'm ashamed of myself. Tonight, I joined in a bet, along with C, JW and Cheech, guessing the bra size of one of C's good friends. It wasn't until after C actually asked the friend the question point-blank, then explained to her "oh, we bet on your bra size" that it occurred to me and Cheech: this is highly insulting and she is totally offended and we are wrong for having done this.

There were only two excellent things that came of this awful moment in my life.

1. Cheech told me that he was glad that he grew up with a sister because it has made him more sensitive to what women may go through on a daily basis -- catcalls, leery looks, presumptuously wandering hands -- and the ridiculousness of the need for women to always be thinking "Where should I look when I walk by that group of construction workers?" or "What can I wear to not elicit these comments and looks?" or "Am I going to be raped walking down this street?" Right on . . .

2. The Bra Size Friend threw down a challenge to the guys: go and measure your penises and tell us your sizes. I could not have toasted her any more enthusiastically than I did at that moment. Still wallowing in my shame, I recognized her gathering back her pride and saying the one thing that would show that she had a sense of humor AND a set of steel balls. Of course, none of the guys rose to the challenge . . . so to speak.

***

MY CHEECH . . .

I am just so loving my brother right now. He walked into Firebird looking all grown-up, even though his hair was standing straight up in a weird little mohawk. He made nicey-nice with my comparatively old friends -- a firm handshake here, a bigger smile for my closer friends there, a kiss on the cheek for mutual friends at the end of the table. He ordered a grown-up drink and managed not to guzzle it in one fat gulp. He even managed to keep all his food on his plate this time, so as not to recreate the Crazy Wedding Fiasco.

But the best thing about Cheech, and the thing that makes me most proud of him, is his ability to be NICE. He's the first guy to admit that his first impressions of new acquaintances might be wrong and they might be deserving of a second, third, fourth chance. He's the best at making small talk but keeping his eyes on you and smiling just enough to show that he's sincere and polite but not smarmy. He's the most easy-going guy's guy, bonding instantly -- to my dismay -- with C. I bet he has the Darth Vader theme song running through his noggin right now . . . And he'll talk about anything with anyone, exchanging ideas and suggestions and jokes in a simple goal to put someone at ease or to befriend them because he knows the person is important to me. Yup. My Cheech is the best.

***

PISSY-PANTS . .

I am so pissy lately. I have become the epitome of the hyper-sensitive mega-bee-yatch. I have been reading everything negative into every little comment made to me; I have been wanting to cry over every perceived slight; I have been unable to take a joke; I have become unnecessarily over-protective of my heart and my self.

Who will I turn to for a comforting hug? Who will throw me the exact one-liner that will permanently turn my frown upside-down? Who will let me cry on their shoulder, though their shirt would turn into a salt lick? Who will be a true friend who won't mind my pissiness, but gently turn me back towards my non-pissy self?

Why do I even look for someone to do these things for me? Eh, just get over it . . .

***

CLOSINGS . . .

The best part of the day, by far -- especially compared to the pathetically pissy start it had -- was the drive home. A steady pace with the top down, slightly cool breeze making a mess of my hair, JW in the back seat singing along to old-school Erasure streaming from C's iPod, C telling us -- with tears gathering in the corners of his eyes -- how much he loves M and how strong she is and what they went through to create their beloved Noodles, rolling into sleepy White Plains blasting AC/DC, and one last big-head joke to end the night. Yeah, those two chuckleheads are true hissy-fit inducers, but I love them anyway.

***

IMPORTANT POST-SCRIPT . . .

Me: 7 1/8"
C: between 7 1/4" and 7 3/8"
JW: 7 5/8"

I do not have a big head.
Thank you.