I wrote this post about 400 years ago. Seriously. It’s been too long. Anyway it’s part of a story. If you like it, I’ll post the rest of it. The reason I’m doing this is for one of my dear friends. She’ll know it when she sees it. Kind of like pornography.
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Before I become undone, I need to explain John Donne and the act or the art of John Donne – ing.
I do it often. Many times it’s simply to make life easier and most of the time it’s for mental health reasons.
The following event illustrates my John Donne-ing prowess.
It was the last liquid lunch I would share with Mr. Fantasy. Of course we were seated in a dark booth at the back of the bar commiserating over drinks. At least Mr. Shanley won’t be the only shit faced person at the meeting this afternoon.
Stop it. Stop it now. Focus on something. Anything. Just stop looking at his finger for a wedding band tan line.
Drink your drink. Get a grip. Breathe.
Jesus, I can’t listen to him talk about whether or not he should buy the Vitamix anymore.
ME: So, do have any plans in June?
MR. FANTASY: June? It’s February.
ME: Right. Cool… Well, I realize this is very, very far in advance. So my cousin is getting married in June annnnd I am in the wedding. And I was wondering, well, if you you are available, would you like to go with me. As a date of sorts, but not really like a date, more like a partner in crime.
(I really do have to be in a wedding in June and I promise we will talk about my dysfunctional family in greater detail another time. Here’s a teaser… how many people do you know who have 2 Uncles name Jack and both Jacks each have a glass eye.)
Uncertain what possessed him, maybe it was divine intervention, the seas parted, the stars aligned and the sky began to fall, but just at that precise nanosecond the bartender in his infinite wisdom cranked up the volume and Neil Young’s Cinnamon Girl began blasting.
Great song. Bad timing.
Is the bartender head banging? Can you head bang to Neil Young? The bartender thinks so.
Anyway Mr. Fantasy didn’t answer. He started rocking out to the song, drumming his hands on the table. He wasn’t head banging.
Chris Evans wouldn’t do that. He helped Regina King up the stairs and adopts dogs from animal shelters. For the record, I don’t give a shit about the Captain America thing.
MR FANTASY: I saw the most disgusting thing today.
ME: Pray tell?
Pay attention, here it comes….
MR. FANTASY: Get this. There is this pizza place over on Grove and they make a pizza with mashed potatoes. They call it Mashed potato pizza. Have YOU ever had it?
I didn’t say anything. I fucking love mashed potato pizza. Sometimes actions or faces speak louder than words. I conjured the most convincing look of disbelief I could conjure coupled with a Cheshire Cat grin. Even if I had something to say, it didn’t matter because as per usual, Mr. Fantasy didn’t shut the fuck up.
MR. FANTASY: I can’t decide which is more repulsive, that they make it with garlic or the nasty beastly red headed heffer who would even eat that shit. It’s like, step up to the trough, sweetie and pump your fat ass with some more lard.
I have red hair. I am a fat red head. I am not a Cinnamon Girl.
ME: (Shouting to the bartender): I need another drink.
Once. Twice. Three times a lady.
After that drink, we had 2 shots of Tequila. I don’t need training wheels. Mr. Fantasy does.
Fat or thin, I can hold my liquor. Even if he was a big as Jobba the Hut, Mr. Fantasy couldn’t and can’t. He threw up in a garbage can outside of the Jamaican deli next door to the bar.
Jerk Barf. Yummy.
Ok so John Donne the man and John Donne –ing the verb. This is a vital life skill, I assure you.
Some of you might call this lying. But it’s not lying, it’s omitting. Some call it practicing law.
Just get off your moral high horse and hear me out….
John Donne was a brilliant guy who had an insatiable appetite for women, travel and booze. He’s like me except I am of average intelligence, prefer men, am a travelling alcoholic and not a metaphysical poet in 17th century England.
People make careers and spend lifetimes trying to comprehend his complex verse. I don’t understand most of it let alone metaphysics since I am lucky if I can balance my checking account.
17th century England was a culture of religious intolerance. Kind of like now for anyone who isn’t Christian or Evangelical. But if you were Catholic in 17th century, you had a few options:
- drawn and quartered
- flayed
- disemboweled
- set on fire.
- All of the above.
Donne was a Catholic. For him not to have his stomach and small intestine removed by a toothless man in an S&M mask, meant pretending to “become” Anglican, then so be it.
Nobody was getting hurt and nobody was set on fire.
It’s all about self preservation and it’s applicable here because:
Mr. Fantasy did not need to know that I have a torrid love affair with Mashed Potato Pizza. And I was spared any further humiliation.
Notice I didn’t say anything so therefore I did not lie. Mr. Fantasy made an assumption all on his own. That’s on him.
Keeping another party in a dark corner of the bar is not necessarily a bad thing. Let them bask in their ignorance. Nobody is getting set on fire and everyone gets to maintain some dignity.
As Coco Chanel once so wisely said, “Less is more”.
Too much information can be deadly. Just ask Donne’s brother Henry. He died in a malarial prison cell from a fever.
And how did he get there? He confessed to harboring a Catholic priest.
Since this is not 17th century England, I’ll place my right hand on stack of Bibles from the Vatican and solemnly swear to never ever John Donne you.
Although I wouldn’t mind losing part of my stomach.
Seeking Peace Strength and Sanity 