On Broken Penises…and Broken Promises: A Treatise

Look closely at the tips of my tiara...but not too closely, or you might go blind (your mother warned you, after all!)

 

I spent much of my New Year’s Eve fixing broken penises. By hand. With Super Glue.

I shit you not…

Of course, there’s a story behind this story — would you expect anything less from me, the girl whose marriage ended with the brick? The girl with the Google-ranked #1 Shit Divorce? The girl whose first relationship post-divorce catapulted her into the seedy underworld of Scrabble Whoring? The girl whose ex-husband’s new wife started a blog after she started a blog mocking her own blog?

There is a tried-and-true axiom in my life prescribing “You can’t make this shit up.” And New Year’s Eve 2010-2011 was no exception, as I spent too much time applying Super Glue to tiny dwarf-like peckers. On a tiara. For a party I never made it to. Because I had a panic attack. Over glue.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning?

I was invited to a New Year’s Eve party by a super-cool friend who is really amazing at coming up with super-awesome themes for her super-fun shin digs. This particular party’s theme: Mad Hatter, meaning we had to come wearing our best hat.

I’m not necessarily a hat girl, though I do have a few. But none are as super-fun as this super-cool friend deserved. So off to the mall I went with Boyfriend Brett in tow.

We found baseball hats. And Santa hats. And beer bong hats. And Cat-in-the-Hat hats. But none were as wicked-cool as the two we settled on: His covered in pot leaves, mine covered in penises.

Cuz that’s how we roll.

Now, please keep in mind that Boyfriend Brett is definitely not a pot head. Well, except while wearing this hat.

Immediately following the taking of this picture, Puffy Pink Penguin demanded a bag of jalapeno kettle chips and all the leftover Christmas fudge in the house.

And considering others have characterized my humor as somewhat akin to that of Chelsea Handler, don’t think the symbol of seven small, erect dicks atop my crown didn’t resonate.

Anyhow, back to the set-up: We had three parties to attend that night, the first of which involved a bottle of wine, pizza and parents. And let me tell ya, once my father’s face transformed from deep purple to baby-bottom pink and then finally back to normal, I could tell they both totally DUG the tiny penis tiara.

But just before the x-rated show-and-tell ended, my penis tiara snapped in half, sending a few small schlongs scampering across the table, landing precariously near the pizza.

One thing you need to know about me: I’m SO not a fan of meat on my pizza — particularly sausage.

In a rush not unlike John Bobbitt surely experienced as he and Lorena “parted ways,” Boyfriend Brett and I urgently departed for a quick pit stop between party #1 and party #2: a visit to our friendly neighborhood Walgreens for some Super Glue.

And you can only imagine the fun I had as I asked the pharmacist for his professional advice about the best adhesive to reattach not one broken pecker — but many.

With glue and penises in hand (there’s a subordinate clause that most likely has never, ever been typed before — or at least I hope), we brought the penis tiara to party #2 so that I could apply the necessary Super Glue in anticipation of Party #3.

But under the influence of half a bottle of wine, I may have applied just a wee bit too much Super Glue to the teeny-weenie-tiara.

Which resulted in said Super Glue seeping everywhere. There was abundant glue jizz, flecks of silver glitter and pink feathers from the tiara stuck to the table. And to my pants. And to my hands. If you’ve seen Natalie Portman in Black Swan, that was me — only with cheery pink feathers and fewer lesbian tendencies. And slightly less crazed.

Well, somewhat slightly. Because then came the sudden realization that the Super Glue on my fingers was, simply and irreversibly put: There. To. Stay.

Now remember: I’m a wee bit claustrophobic, so a layer of gummy gunk on my hands that is close-to-physically impossible to remove may have sent me into a wee bit of a panic attack.

As I tried desperately to de-glue, I donned the now-dry tiara and became fixated on a singular goal. I worked the room quickly and feverishly, visiting every party-goer, persistently demanding that someone — anyone — lend me a loofah, solvent or acetone that I imagined they’d readily pull from their sequined cocktail bags or their back pockets. But alas and damn the luck, not a single soul had the necessary ingredients to free me from the confines of my sticky captivity.

So there I was, pale as Snow White, wearing a tiara of seven dwarf-like penises while desperate to come unglued.

In a noble attempt to calm me, Boyfriend Brett did what any decent boyfriend would do: He swooped in, continually placing half-full glasses of wine in my hand (which, ironically, I kept losing all night — wouldn’t ya think those would stick, too?)

The night devolved from there. Needless to say, we never made it to Party #3, as I continued to pick and drink, drink and pick, lament the loss of finger freedom while cursing the stupid guests who didn’t come to a stupid New Year’s Eve party with a stupid pumice stone. I mean, who comes to a rockin’ party so woefully unprepared?

But in my fixated, poignantly unglued (but entirely too glued) state, I found myself channeling a deeper message straight from the once-broken, now fully erect penises on my head that were like tiny antenna to my soul.

(What can I say: I get introspective when I drink…)

Why can’t there be something like Super Glue that can fix everything that is broken — even promises and hearts?

I’ve never really brought up the concept of trust on this blog, because I’m the light-hearted chick who isn’t all heavy handed about the negative … whose focus is on positive healing, on moving forward, on recovery. But the symbol from that night (in my wee-bit intoxicated state) was loud and clear: Super Glue is like magic. If it can fix a multitude of broken penises, I’d say it can fix just about anything. I mean, that shit doesn’t come off — just ask me, the woman now missing the top layer of skin on both of her hands.

So I continued to reflect: How do you fix the broken trust inspired by a broken promise? How can you recover from that kind of pain?

No loofah, no acetone, no solvent can remove what remains from that special variety of devastation.

I would love to hear your perspective on this. It has been 2.5 years for me, yet I’m still struggling with this baggage. So much so that I’m considering investing in monogrammed luggage tags to adorn the matched set I’ve earned from the few relationships I’ve had, post-divorce (one of which I’m still in. Hi, Boyfriend Brett! Love ya! Kisses!).

I’m not saying the trust issues are fair to these men: I’m just saying they’re there, and I don’t know how to shake ’em. So any advice you can provide by leaving a comment below would be much appreciated. Who knows, maybe we can all benefit from a few trusty trusting tips.

OK. There you go: Almost every euphemism known for “penis” used in one post, followed by a lovely moral to the story (and if you can think of other synonyms I’ve missed in the process, please feel free to share those as well…just for good measure…)

And since I’m the symbol girl, and the universe clearly likes to fuck with me, you can imagine my reaction when I passed by this display the day after my seven-penis-party-hat-fiasco:

Yes, my friends…you just can’t make this shit up…

😉