the neverending stories

This is not the story of a terrifying flying white dog with a hyperactive thyroid that caused it to multiply in size until it was the horrifying size of a small house.

I promise. That dog still haunts my nightmares.

No, this is actually a story within a story within a story.

Or really, three never ending disagreements that seem to have no end. (That really, if you want to skip to the end, I'M RIGHT IN ALL THREE CASES.)

However, I'll let you be the judge.  (Really, though, just know that I have the memory of an elephant and I can recall seemingly inane moments with the clarity of a high powered telescope. Like the Hubble. I'm like the Hubble. How can you doubt?)

Act I. A nose ring only a prostitute could love.

When I was just a wee lass, say, around eighteen and four months, I woke up one morning in my dorm room, with a slight headache (it was a Saturday, after all), looked around and said, "Today, I shall give my body a new hole with which I can adorn myself."

So I, along with five other lasses that were wee, journeyed to Georgetown. And what a journey it was! No Metro stop (the snobs), three buses and a couple of interesting characters who were not well versed in the fact that Secret is strong enough for a man, but made for a woman (which was the erroneously created slogan at that time, prior to their realization that sexism doesn't smell good on anyone.)

After the treacherous trek, we accomplished what we set out to achieve and I was quickly versed in the sharp pain that is an oversized needle being thrust through one's cartilage.  It was quick, though, and met a sparkly end, which made it worth it.

The drama lies, as you can guess, in my mother. (Not that my mother is drama- but how many mothers do you know that go begging their daughters to pierce themselves in places beyond their ears?)

You see, here is where the neverending argument comes in.  Prior to said journey, I telephoned dearest mother to inform her that I was promptly to engage in an activity she had not allowed under her roof.  She said that she was very upset, disappointed, told me that I would never get a job, and that I would look like a common prostitute.

Here, dear friends, is where we diverge.  To this day, seven years later (today, the 7th, is the 7th anniversary of said nose piercing), she maintains that she did not say that I would look like a streetwalker.  I was there, you see, and I do recall this little tidbit.  My mother has forgotten such little things over the years- oddly enough, usually those little things that somehow cast her in the wrong light.  How can I blame her though, as I can NOT recall ever slamming the door in her direction, screaming that I hate her and that I would never be a mother like her. I'd never do such things, I'm just too sweet natured.  I'm like high fructose corn syrup, here.

To wrap this little tid bit up, the first thing my mother did when I got off the plane for spring break that year was tilt my head toward the light, to which she responded that it wasn't as bad as she expected.

I was hired for my first internship by a woman with her nose pierced.

And I have yet to be mistaken for a woman of the night. That I know of.


Act II. The outfit that could end it all.

The night that Topher and I met (for the third time, which happens to be the night that I actually remember), I was wandering my way back to campus after a failed house party with a good friend.  We both needed McNuggets, Oreo McFlurries and we needed them NOW.  We stumbled across dear Topher and two other mutual friends, who were on their way to the fail of a house party.  We warned them (WARNED THEM!) that it was just for losers, but alas, they did not trust. (Husband's last time not trusting my words. I never lie.)

When they came to their good senses, they gave us a ring and invited us to a different place for some better fun.  We decided to forgive their follies, as woman are apt to do (otherwise when would we ever get to grace the other sex with our presence?) and joined them.

Thus ends the part of this story with which Topher and I can consent upon.  For Topher, in his hilarity, seems to believe that this evening, on the occasion of our third and really only true meeting, I was clothed in the impossibility of a striped black and cream shirt.  Oh, how silly he is because I was really wearing my Urban Outfitters IDAHO NO UDAHO purple tee that my roommate had gifted me just two months prior.  I also happened to be wearing these amazing jeans that had no pockets and made my ass look better than a hot fudge sundae on the first day of your red week.

How could I, could I ever, lest I forget what I wore on the first occasion (of thousands!) of me being RIGHT in our relationship and him be WRONG?!? Tis impossible, and shall remain so until such time that factual evidence can be produced that would do so.

And again, yours truly = always right. And looked slammin' in pocketless AE jeans.


Act III. He really did fart my in face.

I'll spare you major details, but for many years, darling brother and I engaged in meaningless harmful fun- a small punch there, a hand squeeze here, name calling whenever possible.  In larger instances, there were pillow smotherings, wet willies and cupped fartage delivered straight to my senses.

How kind.

Of course, I exacted my revenge in perfect style with screams and tears that could get Mother Teresa grounded.

Oh and that one time I sprayed Pledge in his mouth. He deserved it. Years of pain.

And yet, and how! Brother denies that such torture did exist in our childhood.  Kind as a kitten, he was, says he.  Mean as a feral cat, he was, says I.  And I ask you, when have I ever been mistaken?

I thought not.


So tell me, do you have any pre-existing conditions of neverending disagreements?