Now this is a story
all about how
my life got flipped turned upside down…
Just kidding …well not exactly. It quite literally flipped me upside down 3 to 4 times in a car. Off a cliff. In Hawaii. This will be covered in the Crash follow on to this post later. This incident prompted my writing a book. A novel. An autobiographical memoir, if you will. (Ah puh puh puh as I sip my tea with my pinky high, and a gorgeous hat) All about moi and the crazy shit I do. In the grand name of people pleasing, not rocking the boat, and the inability to harness the power of saying no. I never thought that I could write a book, A FUCKING BOOK? Shut your beautiful fucking face. The thought of me sitting and writing is sssooo daunting…may as well stab me slowly and repeatedly. Let me share with you how horrid the thought is. I’ve avoided writing this for you now. Even though I want,..NO its so much stronger than that, I love to. This is exhilarating. Alas, my house is fairly clean. For I am a master at avoidance and procrastination.
One day recently an epiphany hit me. I realized that I have been collecting the Denabear Diaries via an arsenal of marked up Post-it’s my entire life. If I soon come to an untimely death, everyone one would think I was a raving lunatic! Especially since I’m a crazy to-do list maker as well. Gadzooks! How are the to distinguish the memoir notes from the lists?!? Hopefully the lists are “listed” in bullet form. No one would know as to what anything was referencing. TOTAL AND UDDER MADNESS. (Bwahaha like anyone would give a fuck to go through your things. Let them go up in flames like everyone’s memories of you have all these years. You’ve never mattered and you never will) I guess additionally to letting all of my anger out this is a prototype to getting all of my thoughts together for a book. So an entertaining chapter to say the least. And this is what happened to the trumpet…
In one of my many decluttering sessions over the years, I finally decided to stop hoarding the trumpet and put it for sale. It had been sitting in a closet, collecting dust, waiting for the day for me to pick it up and start playing again. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t even find the time to read a book. Reading is amazing, but to sit down and read a book feels like I’m being the worst, most selfish person in the world. I’m so guilt ridden and full of shame that I can’t enjoy a simple book. I shame myself for not being productive enough. Holy fuck that’s rich! (Back on track bitch) Like I was going to find time for a hobby. So I put it on Craigslist. I’ve never had much luck selling items on craigslist… To my surprise, I got a hit the next morning. The gentleman had an old fashion name, very simple. He said that he was in a jazz reggae band and would love the trumpet. I automatically assumed he was older. You know what assumptions do…but for this story we will call him Henry. He wanted to drive a few hours that day to come get it! He lived nearly two hours away. If memory serves me correct I was asking about $1000 for it so I was hyyypppee! I was really surprised when he walked through the door to see that he was my age, and with his dad. Magic happened when he picked up my trumpet. Music to my ears! The melody was absolutely gorgeous. I fell in love with the idea that this man would be able to take my unappreciated trumpet and make beautiful music again. As they left I was pretty happy with myself. Shortly after, berating myself for not asking for more.
As with most Craigslist transactions, I never expected to hear from this gentleman again. I was flabbergasted! With a ding of inbox one week later, Henry had thanked me for my trumpet and asked me out to dinner! Wait? Was I supposed to go out on a date with a guy that I met on Craigslist? Wasn’t that how people got murdered? He was nothing near my type either. Intervene momster…She typically hated the guys I brought around and therefore, she highly encouraged me to go for it. A date was set! I was totally a ball of anxiousness. I can count on two hands the amount of dates I’ve been on. One if we only count strangers. I’m a relationship kind of gal. One that floats from one long relationship to another. Sticking around unhappily way too long for anyone. The worst part about it? My partners never knew. I did such a damn good job of people pleasing. That is until I didn’t. Being in a relationship was much better off than being alone. Dealing with the uncomfortable break up was not an option for me. I couldn’t fathom the idea of hurting someone else feelings. I would often avoid it long past the death of the relationship. To the detriment of both of us. I’m sure a lot of my exes absolutely hate me for this. I’m very sorry. It’s taken a lot of introspection to be able to see what I’ve done to myself and how it has effected others in the wake. I’m was insecure in my own self image. That age old cliché it’s not your fault it’s mine was nothing but truth here. I’m in infant when it comes to talking about my feelings, so I did’t.
Throughout the weeks leading up to the date Henry and I started playing a text game back-and-forth to get to know each other. Looking back now, I question whether he was getting to know me? Or was he getting to know another side of me that I was portraying. Desperately seeking approval of anyone listening. Again, I’m truly sorry to you for the shit that I put you through. Damn it started with a bang baby so let’s get on with the story…
He did some homework on the local scene and decided on a street festival followed by dinner. Cute! He ran a little late getting to my place. Something I’d find out later was affectionately called “Henry Time” by his friends. He was known to be perpetually late just as he was chronically stoned! With chocolate and wine in tow (my hero) he showed up to the front door looking like a Florida frat boy. He complemented my outfit like a perfect gentleman. I hadn’t been wooed like this,… well there is this one time in college that a guy showed up at my door with flowers for a date. That was it. I think I shit on that dude too…#trendsjussayin Once we got downtown the art festival was packing up, so we ended up in an Irish pub instead. This girl and whiskey too early in the day are not a good match when you want me to behave. A lesson that I have learned the hard way through out the years.
Naturally we both being of Irish decent and whiskey drinkers, ended up in an Irish pub. #DoubleJamesonNeat please? That’s been my drink since I took my mom and bro to Ireland in 2014. (A trip meant to be for my mom, dad and I…but that’s a story for another day) I downed a few over appetizers and great conversation. We were really hitting it off for a first date. This guy was a new breed for me. The artistic type. A history major with music running through his blood, on the eccentric side. A musical prodigy, he played the trumpet, piano, guitar, vocals, and various other brass instruments. A far cry from the military types I had been with over the last ten years. This all doesn’t account for why he wasn’t my type. He had all the notions of actually caring about me, listening, and talking about feelings…psshhttt that’s not my type. I like guys that had a certain look but were emotionally unavailable for some reason or another. (I had now identified my problem and looked for my intellectual soulmate. I got him now and can’t no body have him.) I digress….again…
We decided to continue to A1A Beachside Avenue
girls were hot wearing less than bikinis, ok sorrrrryy….
We went down A1A with our shared affinity for whiskey. I proposed this place that I had heard of nearby, Whiskey Beach Pub. Off we went! More bar, more whiskey for this girl on a first date with a guy she barely knew, that she met on craigslist. So there we sat, drinking more, talking more, having a great time. I even took a selfie in the bathroom letting my friends know that I was safe, and having an AMAZE time. While we were sitting at the bar, a UFC fight advertisement came on for that evening’s event. I had completely forgotten that Jon Jones was making his comeback, and I wasn’t missing it. We needed to relocate! My date could totally pull of the Connor McGregor if he’d cut his hair down some and have someone trim his beard. I was digging his look super hard all of a sudden. Watching boxing as a kid used to make me cringe! Seeing two men beat the shit out of each other until they’re bloody is not my idea of entertainment. UFC is different for me. I’m a Korean Tang So Doo first degree black belt. I watch it more like an art. I’m not going to lie, when the blood starts I get squeamish still. Whiskey Beach Pub didn’t show the fights. To keep the theme of the evening alive, I was able to pull another location out of the old dome that would suffice. Whiskey Row here we Go! But not before a mini makeup sesh in the truck first. What a fucking slut…lady in the street. Until you give her alcohol…
My eyes were floating in whiskey at that point. So this is when my memories start to falter. What I can tell you is that there was some banter between UFC fans at the bar and a shot of tequila was bought. Lots of whiskey and one tequila is enough to knock this girl into blackout. That’s exactly what happened. The better portion of this story will be told from the point of view that was shared with me by my date, Henry. I can’t tell you how long we were there or if I even saw the fight happen. When we got out to his truck, I fell into the floorboard. Let me take a second and paint you a picture. This truck was a F-150 stick shift, work truck with rubber mats and a bench seat. Naturally, I fell between the shifter and the bench. Making it impossible for Henry to drive. Impossible for Henry to move me. I was wedged! I had bruises to prove the next days. (I bruise like a damn peach) Impossible for him to do anything but sit and wait. And that’s what my chivalrous date did. After nearly 30 minutes blacked out and I suppose embarrassed Denabear made a reappearance, and she wanted to make up for the inconvenience by giving her date head. Being that AGAIN IT’S OUR FIRST DATE, and I’m sure this guy isn’t used to girls whipping his dick out in a drunken stupor. I can only assume at this point he’s happy he hasn’t spend his down time cleaning up drunk girl puke. Instead he was able to constructively lower his BAH a little via. While his other brain is in control, Henry decides it’s imperative to move the vehicle. We’d been sitting there far too long with the debacle before. It was going to start being suspicious. Another reminder. He drove nearly 2 hours to come for this date. Not familiar with the area. We drove 30 mins from my house to the street festival. So, now, he has NO FUCKING CLUE where we are! He mindlessly drives in the opposite direction of my house.
The road head game musta been gettin gud so he pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot. There he could pay more attention to what was going on. I’m going to pause here again for an ode to my outfit…a romper. For any one out there that just doesn’t know what the fuck a romper is…
Romper /'rämpər, 'röm-/ noun a young child's one-piece outer garment
If you read that and thought to yourself “oh that’s what that’s called.” Go get some style help IMMEDIATELY! Point being, a fucking romper is not particularly the “go to” outfit for drinking binges which require a fuckton of bathroom breaks, much less having sex in a damn truck. It’s like my subconscious thought if I wear this outfit it will be an extra barrier against me doing anything stupid. (BWHAHAHA my inner dark thought cry out) I can’t out stoop myself, I’ll go the extra mile to destroy any thread of self dignity I have. Ssssooo…needless to say, does that stop blackout Denabear? HELL NO, SHE WON’T SAY NO! HELL NO, SHE WON’T SAY NO!…ugh 😕
Okay so here we go…he tells me what happens next is that we must have passed out together, because it’s a toss up who went first…The kicker? I was still straddled on top and facing him. Passed out on his shoulder. He was still inside of me fuckssake. Well that’s not much of a story other than I’m a whore. You already knew that! Henry was awakened by a tap tap tap on the window and a flashlight in his face. This is when Henry realizes, rompers are terrible sex-in-vehicle attire. H peeks mine around my ankle as the cop is staring at my bare breasts through the window. Here comes conscious Denabear. Henry slowly picks me up off of his member and places me in the passenger seat of the truck all the while telling me, “Dena babe get dressed.” He realizes by the look on my face I’m so out of it and panic covers his. I’m completely and utterly confused and the tears are starting to well up. He rolls down the window and I know the cops smell weed. Henry smokes oil from a pen. *Ding Side bar
In hind sight I can thank Henry for his re-weeducation. He’s the reason I’m such a 420 advocate for veterans. The capabilities of cannabis are endless! Pain and inflammation, anxiety, digestive issues, headaches…I mean holy fucking wow. Our relationship was SO tumultuous especially after the car accident (later blog). I want to sincerely say sorry for the shit I put you through and thank you!
While Henry was being questioned: Why I was on top of him naked? Why was he in possession of illegal Cannabis product? Why we both wreaked of alcohol? And more importantly, why were we passed out in a McDonalds parking lot? The employees thought we had overdosed and DIED WHILE HAVING SEX! 😳 The other cop…since all pigs travel in two’s…was to right. I look over and there she was, a very judgy female cop. Her judgy eyes starred me down told me to put my clothes on. I could read her like a fucking book, she sounded like my inner thoughts. (You give women a bad name. Whore!) I immediately went on the defense. “Ma’am, this is our first date and we got carried away. I’m so embarrassed, I’m so sorry. I’m about to be medically retired from the Air Force PPPLLLLEEEAAASSSEEEE don’t report this to the base. PPLEASEEE!!!! It’s our fffiirrssstttt ddaaaatttteeeee.” Ever the whiny teenager because no one fucking listened to me when I was one. I didn’t think she was listening then. Oh she perked up then! “Why are you smoking marijuana?” “I’m not ma’am. I’m drunk. I drank WAAYY too much. I was nervous. I was our first date. I don’t smoke. I can’t mess up my retirement. Please you HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!” Henry overheard this happening and immediately piped in that all the weed stuff was his and that he would take full responsibility for everything. Please don’t hurt me or my career. He was very chivalrous. It touched me pretty deeply seeing us in the middle of the shit and him taking responsibility. No one in my life has EVER taken responsibility for their own shit! Man! It sounds so little but it’s so fucking big. The guy cop confiscated Henry’s paraphernalia. Said if we could call anyone to come get us, that we could come get the truck in the morning.
WHAT THE FUCK?!?! ARE YOU SERIOUS?!?! THANK YOU BREVARD COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT!!!
That night seriously could have cost me my entire military career, disability and retirement. I immediately called my girlfriend T. Luckily T is an insomniac like me and she was on her way! She couldn’t believe the story! We stayed in bed all the next day to Netflix and chill laughing over and over about our experience the previous evening. Get this! When we got to the truck, the cops had left all of Henry stuff. #winning