How Objects Get Nicknames
We have a running joke in our family that my camera is the true love of my life. OK, so maybe it isn’t entirely a joke. Perhaps there’s a smidgen of eye rolling, a few shakes of the head, and a shade of two of embarrassment. Whatever.
Anyhow, so the camera became “Mom’s hot Latin lover”, better known as Alejandro. When Alejandro, my sexy Nikon DSLR, turned up with some dead pixels, I couldn’t bear to just cast him aside like a jilted paramour. So I kept him on as a friend, an old love who still makes you smile with good memories. My new Nikon is Javier, and while he is hot and sexy, he respects Alejandro’s place in my life.
We’ve named all the cameras in the house now, except of course, The Bear, whose eyes roll more than anyone would think possible at how weird his family is.
But other objects in our lives somehow wind up with names, too. People name their cars, chefs name their KitchenAid mixers, bikers name their motorcycles.
One such object belonging to me is called the Crazy Drunk Lesbian Hoodie, and this is the story of how I acquired it.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…oh no, wait. No, it wasn’t. It just sucked a monkey back then. I was separate from The Bear. I had been seeing someone else, but she and I broke up. I hated my job, hated my marriage, my father was dying, and I decided to go see a friend for the weekend. The Trainer and I had a great time hanging out, talking, relaxing, messing around in her garden. We went over to a nursery for some plants when she got a text from a woman with whom she was sort of friends. I say “sort of” with reservations, as The Carpenter’s bats had built their own damn belfry. I haven’t met anyone like her since, which is probably a good thing.
Anyhow, The Carpenter wanted us to stop by and see her new landscaping. It was a but of a trek from The Trainer’s house, but we were halfway there, having been at the nursery. Sure, why not? We get there, and The Carpenter is clearly attracted to The Trainer, who is having none of it. I give The Trainer credit; she is always sweet, gentle, polite. But for as many times as The Carpenter struck out, she refused to put down the bat. I’m sure the 3-4 beers she’d enjoyed prior to our arrival enhanced her persistence, but man, it was almost entertaining to watch.
The afternoon wore on, and despite it being a nice spring day, the Northeast gets cool in a hurry when the sun goes down. I had a long sleeve t-shirt on, so I was fine. The Trainer got a bit cool, so she fetched a hoodie from her car. The Carpenter looked at me and decided that I too, was cold.
“Do you want a sweatshirt?” A polite offer, to be sure, but I declined it, as I really wasn’t feeling the chill.
“No, really, I used to work for K Hovnanian builders. I have a whole box of ’em. You have to be cold. I’ll go get you one.”
I thanked her and refused again, but my words fell on
drunk deaf ears. She vanished into the house to procure the magic garment, and I just looked at The Trainer with my eyebrows raised. She snickered, and said nothing. Bitch.
A few minutes later, The Carpenter reappeared with a hunter green sweatshirt emblazoned with the K Hovnanian logo in gold. Conceding defeat, I thanked her again and reached for it.
“Here, I’ll help you put it on.”
My stunned response of, “Uh…” coincided beautifully with another snicker from the peanut gallery. Bitch.
I maneuvered quickly and slipped it on before she could set down her beer. The Carpenter looked me up and down, smiled, and asked, “So. You and your husband are separated, huh? And you were dating [REDACTED]?”
“Um. Uh. Well, yes. Um. Those are both true. But, ya know how it goes, sometimes you uh, just need some time alone to kind of regroup…” The background snickering had escalated almost to a giggle. Bitch.
We wound up inside shortly thereafter, having dinner with The Carpenter’s housemate, and then having after dinner drinks in the living room. I made absolutely sure to choose a comfy chair that only held room for my own butt in it. The Trainer and The Carpenter took the couch. At this point, I’d had about half a glass of wine. The Trainer had had a glass of wine. The Carpenter had had 5 beers and 3 glasses of wine.
The evening was getting late, so I caught The Trainer’s eye and raised an eyebrow. She nodded and smoothly dropped the “Wow, it’s getting late. We should go…” into the next available conversational lapse. I quickly agreed, thanking The Carpenter for her generous hospitality. She looked at both of us and smiled.
“Why don’t you guys just stay here tonight? My guest room is trashed, but hey, I have room. Slumber party!”
While I tried not to choke on the rest of the wine I had just chugged, The Trainer chuckled and politely declined for both of us. A valiant effort was made to change our minds, but we were thankfully able to extricate ourselves from the house and head for the car. As we left, I tried to return the hoodie, but was told “Absolutely not. You keep it! That way you won’t forget me!”
Yeah. Like that would ever happen.