I was going to make this update private, readable by only my wife, Gina, Maggie, Adrian, Marni, Todd B, Mike G (cause he’s cool), Carmen, Craig, Greg, Brian, Leila, Lynn, Bob, Jesse, Jill of course, my cousin Cory, some dude I met last Wednesday and my Dad.
Then I remembered I’m an attention whore and if it can’t be read by everyone why write it?
Boiled down, any story that ends with Dagmar whipping my ass with an actual whip, while I’m wearing boxers and a cowboyish leather jacket (yeah the one from facebook) should be used as a cautionary tale to others.
For those of you that hate me, there’s also head trauma so stick around.
Really though the night ended with me getting whipped, by Dagmar wearing a leather bra and leather chaps, while I was wearing that abortion of a jacket and pink striped boxers.
Some back story is likely called for.
And don’t you hate that? Someone is writing something crazy and they cut in with, “but before I tell you the cool shit, here’s stuff I want you too read cause, context is fun”. Yeah I’d skip too the end too. Look for the bolded part.
About a month ago Dagmar left me. So call me ladies! Okay, okay she didn’t ‘leave me’ so much as she took a new job up the road in a place where I will also be working soon. We were both moving, she just moved first.
Through luck, chance and charm a good friend of ours just moved there. She offered, and we graciously accepted, Dagmar a place to sleep at night so she would be spared the hour or so one way drive.
This offer, coupled with the fact that I was going on a three-week long business trip that consisted of retarded crazy hours meant that Dagmar and the cat were moving into our friend’s house until we were resettled.
We were effectively ‘separated’ only I couldn’t have meaningless sex with random bar chicks because Dagmar likes to split hairs. She’s a total kill joy.
Seriously after three weeks of not being able to get away from anyone … of only having a 10-minute break at the end of the night alone I arrive home to an empty house.
No wife, no cat, no anyone.
I had a hand-held radio for the three weeks I was there, it would call out at four a.m. “Wolverine 17 this is Beached whale 79, I’m at check point “I fucked your mom” and I think the training unit just committed a level one poop in the bed!”
I would yell out, ‘shut up!’ at the radio and cry in my pillow. But mostly I would just turn it off and go back to bed.
I bring that up because even when I was alone, I wasn’t. The radio brought me, even at 3 in the morning, constant updates.
So when I arrived home on Wednesday at about 5 in the afternoon I was thrilled that I wouldn’t see another human being until Friday night.
Yeah, so I was crazy for human companionship by Friday. I was also crazy for a shave, a shower, a change of clothes and my ass desperately needed to get off the damned couch.
I can do a day alone, I’m cool with that. Forty-eight hours though and I’m getting a bit ‘freaked out’. At 56 hours I’m talking to myself in the mirror and I’m disagreeing with myself.
Luckily though I get to go see Dagmar, I just have to drive an hour and a half to do it.
Dagmar is full of instructions though before I can come see her. Pick up sausage links, eggs, white wine that kind of tastes like summer and her new domestic-partner is no better, pick up two packs of cream cheese, make sure they’re blessed by midget angels — cause that’s the kind I like.
I mean I’m just screwed all around. It’s typical German November weather, meaning it sucks. I’m wet at every turn but I have coffee.
Did I mention coffee?
Every place I stopped had coffee. I cannot, on a night like this, ignore coffee.
I think the amount of coffee I drank almost equaled meth before the drive. Had someone gave me a no shit line of meth I don’t think I could have been more white knuckled during that drive.
Pouring rain, hopped up on java, I think I peed in a Gatorade bottle at one point but I made it.
People! Interaction! Friends!
But there’s my wife and there’s that slight bit of awkward haven’t seen you for three weeks, fuck you kiss me, you’re beautiful, time and here we are at the end of the party. The dinner plates are being cleared, guests are being said good bye too and I’m wearing a leather jacket …
Yeah again ‘that’ leather jacket.
Bolded part starts now for those of you that suck ….
Everyone else but the three of us has left and for a moment I think Dagmar and our host has left too.
I find myself all alone in the living room.
The girls, and my memory here is hazy, disappeared.
I assume there was much giggling.
When they reappeared, Dagmar was dressed in a no-shit leather bra, leather chaps and holding a whip. She spoke in an over the top German accent about my, ‘misbehaving’ and then I, for reasons I cannot explain (it was beer) stripped to my boxers.
Anyone who knows me knows that it takes about 3.5 beers for me too get naked because … well it’s me.
Well after getting whipped by my wife while another person watched and laughed with great joy, the great, penthouse-crazy sex didn’t happen because none of us are in college, retarded and it was late, like 10:30 or so. We’re also old; do I need to mention we’re old?
When I awoke the next morning I had a headache, which isn’t at all unusual but this one was different it was only on the right side of my brain. Had the left side of my brain just fucking quit, had I finally killed it? Why wasn’t the pain equal?
I had no time for such trivialities as ‘head-pain level 5’. I was wearing pink stripped boxer, black dress socks and nothing else. The headache would have to wait. I could have asked Dagmar but that would have led to ugly consequences like the truth. Better to investigate this mystery myself. I suspected old-man Winter’s did it but the mystery van and Scoobie Doo were no were to be found so I followed my other hunch, they were downstairs.
I mean there’s a pounding on the right side of my head that would have left
Jenna Jameson impressed, I’m in boxers and black socks.
Solve the immediate problem first my reptile brain screamed, ‘find the clothes.’
I darted downstairs hoping our host was still fast asleep only to discover she was awake, well composed, drinking tea and completely un-shocked by a nearly naked man in her living room making wild claims about shirts, pants and shoes.
“They’re upstairs,” she replied, barely looking up from her computer.
I ran back up and there they were, sorta folded on a nightstand. Dagmar is to blame, I obviously would have left them in a pile besides the bed … had I been wearing them when I went to bed.
“Does your head hurt,” came the question from the bed as I desperately tried to unfuck inside-out clothes.
Does my head hurt? That wasn’t code from Dagmar for ‘do you have a hangover’, that question would just be asked straight forward. What was she …
Oh shit now I remember and, ‘oh shit’ was exactly what I said when it happened.
I’d fallen out of bed that night and, as it’s a typical German house, there is no carpet. My retarded brain collided, violently on the right side it would seem, with cold-unforgiving tile.
In my, admittedly flimsy, defense that bed is a head trauma nightmarish contraption of concussion inducing fuck all, it’ll be labeled by OSHA as a class one felony any minute now. The top mattress is bigger than the bottom box spring and for a retard like me, pushed into the ‘danger zone’ by Dagmar, well gravity was going to win the fight.
My head still hurts.