An Arragement of Derrangement

Chapter 1

The year was 2009. I was sick of receiving wedding announcements, shower invitations, and other signs from Jesus that tell me I am only getting older. You reach a point in life where even the friends you thought would be single forever get married. In the past two years alone, I can name about fourteen people that have plunged into the leap of matrimony. Not only that, but once you get a wedding announcement, you are sure to receive a “Baby on the Way” notification just months after. It’s all too much for me. The friends that used to drink endless shots of vodka, hook up with strangers, and pass out on curbsides are now decorating cribs and bike riding with their dorky CPA husbands. Sure I still have a few single w***e friends on the prowl, but how long until they too are sucked into a life of cuddling, dry cleaning, and baby teat suckling. 

Not me. Sure I am twenty-nine, and back in the day most women were parading around with a divorce, three kids, and a dog at this point, but times have changed. Now that college is over and has been for five years, it just doesn’t seem acceptable waking up in the morning wondering, “Why the hell am I in this canoe?” or to be drinking the last Natural Light on a roof with my neighbor, while the sun comes up then driving home half dressed escaping the “after-sex cuddle.” I am in sexual purgatory�"hell being marriage, and heaven being a s**t forever.

About a year and a half ago (eighteen months in new-mommy speak) I moved to a small town in South Carolina, I thought there might be a chance to find a gentleman caller or two, especially since it is a highly tourist-driven area. Little did I know that was more of a breeding ground for inbreeding and toothless bartenders. I knew then that dating there was going to be as easy as driving a car with your teeth. I had guys asking me out, but it was different than I had remembered from back when I was on the planet Earth. Hanging out at my date’s bar while he worked all night and watching burnout surfers discuss waves and hashish just weren’t for me. The only mild success I had with guys in this town was with tourists. First, they were much better looking and educated than any of the swamp-assed boys I had met previously. Another bonus was the convenience of never having to see them again if things didn’t work out. I had even thought about marketing myself as a tourist attraction for the incoming male visitors, but then my friend told me that it was a fancy creative way of prostitution, so I never proceeded. I then made a pledge to leave Beach town and find myself a man with a briefcase, good looks, and a huge penis.

I suppose I should start from the beginning. My dog Riley and I left my Florida home in 2007 after agreeing to accept a music marketing position in a strange town along the east coast. I am still not sure what brought this decision on, but I think money and booze were involved in the negotiation. Upon moving to this city of outcasts, I was fortunate enough to find several other misfits like me at my new job. The first was AM. AM approached me with a look of fascination and intrigue. She was a cute gal with blonde hair, blue eyes, with a little button nose. She giggled at almost every word I said, while shrugging her shoulders and squinting. I was afraid at first that she may invite me to a Tupperware party or something, but she turned out to be just the opposite.

Jacki: What is this place?

AM: Hell.

Jacki: We are going to be great pals!

I later met Nicky, a vegetarian lunatic; Gump, a huge-tattooed Caucasian thug; and Timmy and the Bazhole brothers. On my first night in town, we went to Bully’s, the local bar, and to see Gwar at our concert venue. Yes, Gwar . . . the demons with dongs the size of tree trunks who slaughter celebrities on stage. I met about forty people that night and didn’t remember any of them the next day, which wasn’t uncommon for me. So AM and the gang became my reject family. We did everything together, from pool parties and bar crawls to dance parties at my house. I was elated that I had found people as odd as myself. I knew I would be able to use them to help me corrupt the town.

Time went by, and our antics grew. We did anything we could to raise an eyebrow. Many of the people at work were lame, old, or inbred. It reminded me of high school a little. I have always been a hybrid of sorts. Not hybrid like the automobile. Unlike the cars, I make a lot of noise. In high school, I made fun of the jocks and nerds, but everyone always liked me because they were usually too stupid to realize I was insulting them. I loved attention and seeing what I could get away with, that’s exactly what the gang and I did at work.

Nicky and I would show up to meetings in themed attire according to what show would be playing that night. Dance parties occurred every day in my office at 4:00 p.m., and at lunch, we would mock the waitstaff at our venue restaurant. We also formed a bathroom committee to make the women’s bathroom a more enjoyable place, which is a tradition I continue to implement to this day.

A year passed, and nothing much had changed. When I wasn’t working, I was drinking. When I wasn’t drinking, I was hungover. When I wasn’t hungover . . . well, I was always hungover. That’s just what you did in that town. It wasn’t like Orlando where you had other activities to occupy you, or men to flirt with. It was just me, the gang, and Riley, toasting to insanity and dodging the social pollution of tourists and vagabonds.

One day at work, I was researching some bands on MySpace. Times have certainly changed . . . we have the first Black president in office, Paris still can’t find a new BFF, and humans no longer need to express emotion, because we can either have MySpace, or Facebook, or Twitter to do it for us, the Internet’s very own portal to personal prostitution. Sadly, I am required to be on them for promotional work reasons. Honestly, I don’t care what people are doing. “Mary is . . . in a relationship with the love of her life.” “Jacki is . . . about to vomit on her keyboard.” Oh and I am so sick of these idiot mothers-to-be posting fetus pictures as their goddamn profile photo. How gross! If I wanted to explore your womb and look at fetuses, I would ask you, or god forbid, see it at your baby shower, although I am pretty sure I won’t be invited to anymore after this book.

While navigating around, I noticed more and more status updates from my friends.

Jacki: Hmm, Jessica is getting married, huh. Well, Jessica, what a coincidence! So am I!

I had it with these ridiculous postings, anyone can write them! Anyone can get married on MySpace! So that’s just what I did. I wrote, “I’m engaged!” next to my name and photo and let the wild world of online social networks carry my amazing announcement into cyberspace. It didn’t take long, maybe a day or so, and my inbox was full. I smirked devilishly as I read the many congratulations given to me by my online pals. Word spread like herpes does on Flavor of Love. Even my local partnerships were bringing it up in meetings.

Now many of my friends often ask me, how I get involved in these bizarre schemes, and why I always have a story to tell after I embark on even the slightest journey to the grocery store. The reason is simple�"I like to get reactions. I can’t help but go with it. So when I was congratulated on my engagement, I simply blushed and said, “I know it’s going to be the happiest day of my life.” My friends at work knew of my lie, of course, and called me out after our meeting.

AM: Are you seriously going along with this? Are you just going to leave it up there on MySpace like that? You aren’t even dating anyone!

Jacki: Of course, I am leaving it up there. Why can’t you just be happy for me?

Nicky: I love it! I am so excited to plan the bachelorette party!

It was the night of the Disturbed concert, and I decided to get loaded. I had to do some meet and greets for the show, and then it was off to the bar. Our rep from one of the local publications came up to me in a crowd. She was really annoying and spoke like a robot, and I was always trying to hide from her.

Robowhore: Hey, I heard you were engaged . . . that is so great . . . number five is alive . . . beep.

Jacki: I know it’s official. I can’t wait to start scrap-booking as soon as I get home tonight.

Robowhore: Who is the lucky man? Do you have the ring yet? . . . Beep.

Now I was on the spot, and before I could hesitate, I grabbed my friend, the alien, who was standing next to me.

Jacki: This handsome devil right here.

Alien: We are so happy. The ring is being adjusted as we speak.

It was almost as if someone had handed him a script, and we both ogled over each other until she left.

Alien: That was awesome. We need to keep it up.

Ideas started blowing up in my head. What if we did get fake married? We could enjoy all the fun parts of planning a wedding and skip the crap like relatives and well, being married. This was genius. I grabbed another Ketel One and soda and pulled the alien aside for debriefing. He looked nervous and excited all at the same time. The alien was a cute guy that worked in the kitchen of our establishment. He was pretty normal, except he believed in aliens. In fact, he had flying saucers and extraterrestrial creatures tattooed all over his body. His torso was like a piece of artwork you would find at a trekkie convention. I always found it intriguing, usually when we were out drunk at a bar. I would tell random people he was an alien and make him lift his shirt and then leave.

So we took a picture of the alien kissing my cheek, and the next day, it was posted on MySpace with the caption, “Me and my boo.” I knew the moment that I uploaded the picture of the two of us that things were about to change. I woke up that morning surprisingly without a hangover. I looked in the mirror, and I was glowing.

Jacki: I’m engaged!

I opened up my jewelry box and brushed by all the stainless steel rings I had been forced to wear for all eternity due to my abnormal metal allergy. I was allergic to nickel, so I had to be careful not to wear any rings or necklaces that a normal person would wear. I also could not touch things like coins, buttons, keys, bathroom door locks, staples, or fences, which ruled out my career as a cat burglar early on. I carried gloves around with me and had to swab test all my jewelry with a creepy solution. The salesgirls at Express just love me and my nickel kit. So it didn’t take long for me to find what I was looking for in my tiny jewelry box. Way at the bottom was a beautiful gold ring with several diamonds that my mother, Manoon, had given to me years ago. I had only worn the ring at fancy occasions, and since I was living in Beach town, the fanciest occasion I had been to was half-price rib night. The ring fit perfectly on my left ring finger. I strolled into work and did what most newly engaged gals do. In conversation, I would wave my left hand around aimlessly until someone congratulated me.

AM: Where the hell did you get that?

Jacki: My boo.

AM: Ahh will you stop saying that? It’s so gross, gross!!! I hate that word and this is nuts. You know the two troll sisters in the restaurant have a huge crush on him. They are going to be pissed!

She giggles.

Jacki: Let them eat cake! 

Sista Amy: You are marrying an alien!

This is just what I wanted, but my intention really wasn’t to lie to people. I mean, I love lying. Don’t get me wrong, but in this situation I found the reactions were better when I described it as a fake engagement.

Stupid old lady I work with #1: Heard ’bout the engagement. When y’all fixin’ ta get hitched?

I pulled out my Southern People translation book and then responded.

Jacki: April first . . . at Bully’s Bar and Grill . . . do come and join us. It’s a fake wedding, so please don’t go crazy on the gift.

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