Push out the jive and bring in the love, People

February 15, 2005 - 12:31 p.m.

<%@LANGUAGE="JAVASCRIPT" CODEPAGE="1252"%> Alright I know what I said in the last entry, about the whole 50% happy talk etc. but today there needs to be an exception because, shit ya’ll, it’s Valentine’s Day. What the fuck else am I supposed to talk about? Now everybody put your books away and let’s all put on our Listening Caps because you’re about to hear the story of the best goddamn Valentine’s Day in the history of motherfucking mankind.

First off, me and Captain Handsome celebrated our shit on Saturday because his ass was out flying for the real v-day, so yeah. I spent the whole morning as a headless chicken, running around the city doing the spray-on tan, the Victoria’s Secret for maximum titties and ass enhancement via black lace and push up bra, the fancy florist, the fancy grocery store, and the fancy paper store. Word. I am so hardcore.

First thing, he is cooking us dinner so he picks me up at 5:30pm and I present him with his bouquet of exotic, manly flowers and he’s all: “No one has ever given me flowers before.” And I’m all: “Well, that shit is about to change, riiiight. NOW.” Begin smooches and accolades.

We walk outside and I’m looking up and down the street and I say, “Where’s your car?” and he says, “Oh, I brought the Porsche, it’s right there.” And there she was, in all her shiny black glory and I started stuttering, “I-I-I hadn’t expected to see it so soon. I-I thought I would meet Her when I meet your boat, in May.” I was totally unprepared for this. I could have used a week’s notice to prepare myself for riding in a motherfucking Porsche Boxster. “Boxster” means convertible, as does “Roadster” in case you didn’t know. Make a note of it.

He gave me a brief lesson in Porsche engineering and I learned that the engine sits in the very center of the car, giving it a low center of gravity for superior handling. It is weird to ride in a car where there is no sound at all coming from the front of the vehicle, under the hood. That’s trunk space. Also, he warmed my ass with heated leather seats. Toasty! The Porsche engine makes a very distinct sound, which I now have memorized and will remember for the rest of my life. He offered to let me drive but I was like: “Really, now, in the city? And have to stop every block at a light? That’s just cruel.”

So we get to his house and he fixes dinner: steamed crab legs, with wine and candlelight on a cloth tablecloth. I had never had crab legs before so I spent the first 30 minutes just figuring out how to break that bitch open. I felt a little bad for Mr. Crab, inspecting the legs and seeing some kind of crazy crustacean hair growing out of his pinchers. Poor guy never had a chance. If given the chance, he could have taken me down.

Then comes the gift exchange. I gave him the flowers and then a dope card, customized, of course, with cardboard cut-out hearts and “Pilot + Shawna Mooney” that read all kinds of fantastic things, like: “You’re amazing” and “I thank my lucky stars for having met you” and so on. Fab.

He gives me my present, I open it, and see a customized t-shirt with an ape’s head that says: NATIONAL MONKEY KNIFE FIGHTING ASSOCIATION.

I start shrieking, “WHAT! THE! FUCK! IS! THIS!”

Ho-Lee-Shit. I know he DIDN’T! Because you see…I have this thing. Whenever I meet someone new, especially through online dating, I always tell them that my occupation is Monkey Knife Fighter. I guess because I don’t really feel like explaining what I really do for a living. Most guys find this mega charming. And of course it always attracts the Simpson’s fans, since it is a reference to the episode where Homer takes all of his friends out onto international waters on Mr. Burns’ yacht, in order to participate in illegal activities. That’s where the Sea Captain takes a Holstein as his lawful wedded wife, and then of course, there’s monkey knife fighting.

Alright then. But you’d better sit down for this next one. Along with the t-shirt came an honest-to-god, ferreal, 1950s hoodlum, West Side Story, mutherfukkin Italian stiletto SWITCHBLADE! Illegal as shit, razor sharp, and hell yeah! I got a switchblade for Valentine’s Day! Can you think of anything COOLER than that?? I cannot. I was googly eyeing that thing and imaging my lifelong dream of shanking someone on the street. And the icing on the cake, shit! He says, “Look, there’s an engraving on the blade.”

And you know what it says?

In true-gangsta Old English letters:

PILOT + SHAWNA MOONEY FOREVER.

Ah ha ha ha ha ha!

WHAT COULD BE BETTER THAN THAT??

I die!

GOD AND THERE’S MORE.

Back in the Porsche and head down to Millennium Park’s new theater to see the River North Dance Company.

I thought I would like to see a professional dance performance, but I had no idea how much I would love it, and that I would sit there riveted, my hand covering my mouth, to hide the fact that my jaw was sitting on the floor. I was frozen, and mesmerized, third row center, at those beautiful fucking people who move like the wind and are super human. I can’t remember the last time I was left speechless at a performance.

How did he know? How did he know how perfect that would be for me? I have never mentioned dance before, or even thought of it, really.

WILL THE AWESOMENESS EVER CEASE?

So the dance ends, and he goes and gets the car and picks me up out front, and there’s more dying on my part.

Back to his crib, I pop open a bottle of Riesling, he grabs his gin and we settle on the couch to eat organic strawberries and yak. After a few minutes I was all, “Let us commence with the snuggling already.” So we went upstairs to go to bed and you know Mama was stripping down to her fancy panties with butt cheeks hanging out.

I had every intention of blabbing my business to the internet, in the most vulgar detail, but now I’m kind of thinking…that would be disrespectful…to him. Don’t you think? I mean, is nothing sacred? Cuz that shit seemed pretty sacred to me. Anyway, I thought of a good way of explaining it without going into specific detail so I will tell you this. Have you ever kissed someone so much that your lips got chapped? Well, not only did my lips get chapped - chafed, really, but my chin and both of my cheeks were raw from the enormous amount of smooching that occurred. My whole face hurt, actually, as did my first pee the next morning.

And my advice to you is: HOLD OUT. DON’T PUT OUT.

I mean, clearly I put out, but only after holding out first, do you see what I’m saying? You can get drunk off of the anticipation alone - that shit will make your head spin. And clearly this man deserves some ass, he’s earned it as well as if he’d spent the last two months mining coal in Kentucky. This man deserves my ass every day for the rest of his life.

Dear Furious George,

You wanna antagonize me? Antagonize me, motherfucker. Get in the ring motherfucker, I’ll kick your bitchy little ass.

Love,
Shawna

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The Fast, Days 1-6
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