June 06, 2004

Is This Thing On?

You know what I HATE? Cracking a joke that turns out to be NOT a joke. A joke that embarrasses you. A joke that embarrasses the person you're with. A joke that seriously increases the risk of being beaten to a pulp in the near future. One that makes you out to be a TOTAL ASSHOLE.

Much like the joke I cracked, in public, last night.

Here's the deal. Morn, who I've referred to in past journal entries, is my ex-wife. We split up about 6 years ago in a scene that can only been described as ugly. For almost six years, we had absolutely NO contact with each other.

A couple of months ago, we wound up in contact with each other once again. It was a little dicey at first, but there was a LOT of water under the bridge. We talked, resolved a lot of things we never had the chance to before, and strangely enough, we're getting along better now than we EVER did before.

Nobody's more surprised than me.

So, this brings us to last night. I'm at an engagement party for Camera Pete from work. A bunch of my work-mates are there as well. And I brought Morn with me. We're sitting around a table, downing cup after cup of organic beer, and the subject of alternate employment comes up.

One guy at the table mentions the fact that he's considered chucking his day job and driving a truck for a couple of years. He explains this by saying that he'd make a ton of money in a short period of time, be able to buy a house, and then look for work that's more in line with what he wants to do.

Someone brings up the fact that he'd only be seeing his wife a couple of days a month. Mr. Driver points out that absence makes the heart grow fonder. "Think about it," he says. "If we only see each other a couple of times a month, we'll get along even BETTER! We haven't had a chance to get on each other's nerves, we've missed each other…when we DO see each other it would be awesome."

And he says all this as I'm sitting at this table NEXT TO MY EX-WIFE.

"Don't say it," the logical part of my brain screams. "Don't do it!!!!"

"Ah, fuck it," says the illogical part of my brain. "It's funny. SAY IT!"

The battle of wills in my head is quickly resolved, and I blurt out, "It's true! If you think that a couple of times a month is good, you should see how well you'd get along after SIX YEARS!" I then lean back and chuckle…pleased with myself for what I was sure was the joke of the night.

Silence.

Absolute silence, mixed with a couple of looks of absolute horror.

Damn, I think…the joke didn't go over quite as well as I'd expected. The illogical part of my brain, at this point, has locked itself in the shitter, refusing to come out and justify its actions. I was alone.

Had there been a jukebox playing, it would have screeched to a halt.

Across the table, a half dozen people are all staring at me, their expressions saying "Dude, you are SUCH an asshole."

I then risked looking to my right, where Morn was sitting. Two razor-sharp daggers that were once her pupils were fixed in my direction, promising swift, tasty death.

Now here, I should explain something: I've been in trouble a few times in my life. I got stealing a couple of times as a child. I've been on the wrong end of a policeman's wrath more than once, usually in an incident that involved underage drinking and not being able to control my smart mouth. I've been fired from jobs a couple of times. Recently, I mouthed off to Bossman to the point where he came POUNDING through the studio to my office, ready to draw blood. And every time I know I'm in THAT much trouble, the oddest thing happens…I feel the blood drain from my extremities. My hands and feet get suddenly cold, but more importantly, all the blood drains from my genital area. My nuts are NUMB, and, with the lack of blood and the certain temperature drop, I'm certain that my nads retreat into my body.

When Morn shot me that look, I got numb. My hands got cold, my feet got cold, and I actually FELT my testicles taking refuge somewhere behind my pancreas.

I looked back to my work-mates, hoping, PRAYING one of them would come to my defense. They refused to look me in the eye. One of our editors, Mr. Hold 'Em, coughed uncomfortably and mentioned that the hockey game was going into overtime.

I risked a look back at Morn, and she wasn't budging. So, I did the only thing I could do in that situation. I reached my arms out and hugged her (which made me realize what Titanic survivors must have felt like clinging to icebergs in the North Atlantic) and whispered in her ear:

"You know, six years from now, we're going to LAUGH about this…"

Nothing.

Although, in her defense, she didn't hit me.

Yet.

Long story short, I'm an asshole.

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