Marriage. Marriage can be a tricky thing. You think you know someone, and not just anyone but the person you chose to be your ever-and-always, the one who knows your most scandalous unreported felonies and whether you prefer sativa, indica or a blend. And then one day, you find out that something you’d been thinking all along, some inherent part of your understanding of who this person is, well it just couldn’t be further from the truth. And sometimes the misunderstanding is your own fault.

So this one time, it was my man’s birthday (this would be Mr. K back when he was just a mister), and he was on the road with these four other dudes down in Louisiana. We’d been dating for about a year and I headed down to see him for a few days and celebrate his birthday.

The guys wanted to take him out to some titty bar in New Orleans and who was I to say no? It didn’t bother me if he went because 1) I like titty bars myself and if I can go then he should be able to go and 2) he’s not the type of guy (read: hound dog) that would lose his mind in a titty bar and feel it’s a necessity to try and get laid. So off they went and I don’t remember what I did, maybe I was on my way there still, driving from TX.

Anyway, it was later in the evening and the guys had returned from the Lapdance Palace or wherever they went and we were all headed up to the bar a few blocks away from their place. To say we were ‘half in the bag’ means it was a damn big bag. So we’d been in the bar for a few minutes, had taken over some tables in the back and started on drinks and peeps are moving about and having a good time. Since it was my man’s birthday and all I was feeling kinda frisky and ready to get some action going. So as we’re drankin’ and doin’ shots I’m all leanin’ in to him and sidling up next to him or draping my arms around his shoulders, pressing my titt-ay’s into his chest, just pouring myself on like a can of paint.

A little while later I take him off to the side for some impromptu up-against-the-wall making out – he does not refuse. I shift my hips just a bit, then a bit more, then a well placed thigh with juuuuust the right amount of groin pressure. Mmm-hmm. The make out speed increases, breaths coming now in small gasps. Some light hair pulling, ass squeezing, package rubbing, you get the picture. So there I am, all boozy/sexy/chic/bitmoredrunkythough and we’re talking to each other all sultry-like in low tones. A thought enters my vodka soaked brain that I should ask him to tell me all about the titty bar visit. And so I do. He begins to tell me, I think he said, “The stripper touched my shoulder and put her ass on my leg..”

And I lost. my. fucking. mind. In less than one second my right hand comes swinging into view as my open palm makes a scorching connection with his very handsome and utterly bewildered face. Some bizarre fit of jealously overcame me like the Hulk and I just went batshit. The next thing you know, I am running from the bar out into the parking lot, jumping in the car and flying down the street to the apartment, where I realize that I can’t get past the gate. Oh, but this will not stop me – no.

I am a resourceful apeshit drunk! Back in the hoopty I go for there is a grocery store just around the corner. Make it to the store and head in with determination (drunkies are always so focused during these moments) right over to the aisle with overpriced small hand tools where I grab, what else? Yes. A pair of pliers.

After shoving some slow moving nuns from my path in the U-Check-Ur-Own-Shit-Out lane, I run back outside with my new pliers – where I proceed to wrench the license plate off the front of the rental car. (Stay with me now, there is a purpose to all this madness). Now that I have removed incriminating evidence of my identity you see (ahem, just go with it), I head back over to my original target – the apartment.

I speed back over there with all the crazy of Britney in the ocean powering me,…….and drive right through the gate. And when I say ‘gate’ – I mean it was one of those fucking cardboard arms that’s 6ft long. So I bust in there like SWAT and screech around to the side of the building where the apt. is, intent on getting my shit and leaving. By now of course the guys have made it the whole 3 blocks back to the apt. and the boy is there trying to calm me down but NO! Now I have an audience!

So now I am just running around inside, outside, on the porch, in the parking lot, up the stairs and wailing and ranting all over the damn place – soooo dramatical. Honestly in my drunken brilliance I don’t think I could think of anything better to do than to keep causing a bigger and bigger scene, and all over a story that I asked him to tell me in the first place. During all of this, it took me a while to notice that my brand new tennis bracelet that the boy had just given me had fallen off due to my banshee shenanigans, but thankfully he noticed and even found it outside. Under a car tire. We had to ask one of his friends to literally lift the back end of the car so we could slide it out, of course this was after they all stopped pissing themselves – from fear or laughter I’m still not quite sure.

Now, how does this story equate to terrorizing a man for years you ask? Well, as it turns out this incident left a much more lasting impression on Mr. K than it did on me. Over the course of the following 5 years we would move in together, elope, get married again, whathaveyou and generally enjoy a very open and honest relationship. Yet every time I would ask him, even in passing, about any celebrities/actresses/models/singers/athletes that he thought might be attractive his answer would always be, “No.”

You know that silly game that couples play where you make a list of the celebs you think are hot and your partner does the same, then you share your lists and you come up with a list of celebs that, should you ever find yourself in that situation you would be allowed to sleep with them – that game? Okay, well every single time I asked Mr. K who would be on his list he would say, “No one.” I thought he was just being a spoilsport and didn’t want to play so I would keep asking and finally he would say, “Neve Campbell.”

Neve Campbell? Neve Campbell?!? On the one hand he got points for picking a non-skanky celeb but……NEVE CAMPBELL??? Come the fuck on. For years this was the only answer he would give, until one day (very recently), he finally told me what was up. Basically he was so shit scared of my atomic freakout from that night, after I asked him to tell me about the stripper that he was convinced if he ever even admitted to liking Jessica Alba’s ass I would stab him in his sleep. (For the record, liking J.Alba’s ass is okay, the rest of her – not).

And so chilluns, the moral of the story is – frighten the hell outta your man early on and he’ll be fearful of you (and pliers) for years to come. Kidding!


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