Lowering My Standards
We hear all the time that you should watch what you say to somebody. That we never know what they may be going through and it’s nearly impossible to know how the slightest compliment, either negative or positive, could change someone’s entire day. A few years ago, what I’m sure wasn’t intended as an evoking comment, did in fact evoke me and ended up leading to this installment of Baby Dick Tales.
My entire life I’ve been an over thinker and an intent listener, at times to a fault. I’m also over observant – in nearly every aspect of life. I won’t get into boring examples, but I naturally notice the slightest of change in people (whether it’s hair, shoes, clothes, food order, etc), almost in an infatuated, creepy, stalker type of way. I blame it in on my OCD/ADHD, but it’s just how my brain rolls.
I store away the most subtle of comments and keep them safely guarded for up to months or even years, until I have the opportunity for my ‘fuck you moment’.
If you care to read an example of this, that is entirely separate from this Tale, you can do so below or just move onto the Main Story. In short, I made a teacher cry in high school because she fucked with me one too many times. Perhaps not all that riveting, but gives me a chuckle when I look back on it.
[This occurred during my junior year of high school. I was wrongfully accused of cheating on an exam, and I was given a detention and a zero on the test. If I had actually been trying to get away with some shady business, I wouldn’t have cared, but I knew that this teacher had it out for me personally.
My school would have an annual Christmas Volleyball tournament just days before we’d all be let out for our holiday vacation. Teams would get together and design shirts for the fun shindig. On mine, huddled near the bottom corner, I put the phrase ‘F.M.S.’. It was short for ‘Fuck Ms. (Last name of hated teacher)’.
Eventually, and I’m still not sure how, word got back to, I’m just gonna call her, Doubtfire. Shortly after returning from Christmas break, we’d get in another argument and she attempted to roast me in front of the class by telling me to “go make another shirt” in a bitchy, snobby tone.
If you can’t take the heat, don’t tickle the dragon.
That same night, I went home and made another shirt. Just as she asked.
Little did she know that I had insider information from very credible sources.
You see, although Doubtfire was engaged I knew that she was still secretly in love with somebody else.
Simplicity is bliss.
I grabbed one of my white t’s that I’d slang in, a grey can of spray paint, and created a sloppy beauty of art.
On the front, it engagingly read – “Hey Ms. Doubtfire I Made Another Shirt…”
Planted on the back inside of the toilet was the loaded pistol for Michael Corleone – “I ❤️ (name of her secret lover)”.
Of course it sounds way too generic and lame, but knowing her bad relationship status this was essentially a bunt that turned into an inside the park home run.
Moments before walking into her room, I stop at my locker to make my attire change. We had work that was due at the beginning of class, and so I made sure to turn mine in at a time where she was guaranteed to notice my shirt. She caught a glimpse and stopped me – “Dan, what does the back of your shirt say???”.
I halt in my tracks long enough for her to read my scribbly graffiti. In an awkward, shocked silence in front of the entire class, she sheepishly scampers outside with her head down. A few friends ask me what I did.
“Bitch said to make her another shirt, and so I did.”
A minute or two goes by before she heroically re-enters the room with a sniffling nose and teary red eyes.
Not a single time for the rest of the year did she try and climb back up my hill.
Now that I got that worthless story out of the way, I said all of that to begin diving into the crux of this installment.]
Main Story
Amber, one of my best friends since our high school days, and her husband Robbie got married on October 9th, 2016.
(They were each fine with me using their real names for the sake of this story. As Amber sarcastically put it – she’s just glad that her wedding could contribute to my Tales.)
Once I received my invitation in the mail, I began pondering who should accompany me to her life changing celebration.
For starters, I asked her who else she had invited from high school. Surprisingly, I was the only classmate.
A handful of months or so prior to the wedding, Amber, Robbie, and myself were heading to a friends house for some drinks. I ask Amber if there’s anyone that she doesn’t want me bringing to her wedding.
I didn’t want my ‘plus 1’ to be a girl from school who Amber had been friends with, but then have it be weird since she just didn’t invite that person herself.
Sounds like I’m over dramatically thinking? Perhaps, but women have doused houses with gasoline over less.
Continuing to get confirmation from Amber that she’s fine with whoever I decide on, Robbie butts in with the final voice of reason:
“Dude Dan, you bring whoever you want man. Bring a fucking midget for all I care.”
That comment clung to the back of my mind like a helpless cat dangling from a tree branch over top of raging river water.
I began asking around looking for anyone who knew a midget. It’s harder than you think, and after a few weeks of failure, I was about ready to start posting fun size fliers all over town and creating ‘in search of’ ads on the internet. I’m joking about that first part, but not the latter.
I get the break I was looking for when I ask my dealer one night while playing poker, if he had any midget friends. He immediately started grinning.
Yesssss. Talk to me daddy.
One of his friends was an ex stripper, pink haired midget, whom he knew from one of the clubs that he used to frequently visit. I explain to him why I’m inquiring and he gives me the word that he’ll talk to her.
A few days later, we connect on Facebook, exchange messages, and set up a time to meet in the near future.
Not long goes by and I pick her up for a night out as a test run before the wedding day. Gotta get to know her ya know. We head to a few local bars before ending up at our final destination (wish I could remember the name of it and I’m sure I could figure it out somehow, but it was just some decent watering hole in good old West Virginia)/
As you might expect, getting a midget drunk is just as easy as tossing them. Personally by this point, I’ve already had enough shots to intoxicate her entire family tree.
Finishing an intense make out session at the bar, we head out into the parking lot. Once outside, I pick her up and carry her to my backseat like Samwise taking Frodo up Mount Doom.
Normally having sex in the back seat of a car is like trying to finesse your way through a crowded line of scrimmage. I’ll be damned though if this wasn’t more like a wide open hole leading to an untouched, walk in touchdown. As the saying goes – “so much room for activities.”
I’m sorry, but I’m really not sure what additional details I’m supposed to get into. Writer’s block? Maybe, but basically we just fucked for a while and then I took her home like a gentleman.
Hovering around somewhere is a picture of us two that someone captured at the reception. I’ll post it as soon as I get it.