by Jenny Lawson
Victor stared at me, horrified. “Be aware of what?”
“You know,” I explained, “in case you decided we needed to do any really physical cheers, you’d be aware of the whole ‘careful around the old vagina’ thing.”
Victor paused at the doorway and stared at me, his mouth slightly agape. A small sheen of sweat was beginning to form over his forehead. “We are NOT going to do any cheers. I didn’t even want to wear this damn costume, for Christ sake, and WHY THE HELL ARE YOU NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR?!” Then I told him to be quiet or his boss would hear him, and that’s when Victor started shaking a little bit. It worried me, because only one of us was allowed to have a panic attack at a time, and I’d already called dibs. I wondered internally whether I should explain why I wasn’t wearing underwear or just stay quiet, because at this point he seemed so irrational I didn’t even think that I could get him to understand the science of panty lines. Then I looked through the beveled-glass door of Victor’s boss’s house and noticed four people on the couch watching TV.
And exactly none of them were in costume.
This was when I considered running away, because forcing your husband to wear a cheerleader costume for Halloween is grounds for divorce, but dressing him as a male cheerleader at his boss’s party where everyone else is in Dockers will totally get you stabbed. Then I realized that if I ran back to our car now, Victor would probably notice that no one inside the house was in costume, and then he’d quietly follow me back out to the car and stab me in private, and the last thing I wanted was to be stabbed anywhere. I quickly decided I was probably safer with witnesses, so I rang the doorbell before Victor could realize the severity of the situation. Then he pulled his (still aghast) face from mine to turn toward the door, and that’s when he noticed that no one in the house was wearing costumes.
“What. The. Fuck?” was all he managed to get out before a man in his late fifties opened the door. The man looked at us strangely, which I thought was rather rude for a host, and I thought I’d just get it out of the way, so I blurted out, “You know . . . the Spartans? From Saturday Night Live?” He just kept staring, with his brow furrowed like he was still trying to place us, and I shrugged in defeat and said, “Meh. Don’t worry about it. The babysitter didn’t get it either.”
Victor cleared his throat and gave me the “Please shut up” look, while the man at the door said, “I’m sorry. Can I help you?” Then Victor explained that we were here for the party and that apparently we’d read the invitation wrong (insert unnecessary glare at me), because we’d thought it was a costume party, and that’s when the guy stopped us and said, “There’s no party here.” I assumed he was just trying to get rid of us, but then Victor pulled out the invitation and the man helpfully pointed out that we were on North Cleveland Street and we wanted South Cleveland Street. He seemed very relieved to clear this up until I suddenly blurted out, “Oh, thank Christ!” Then he looked at me oddly again. Probably because he’s an atheist who doesn’t understand how thankful I was to God that I wasn’t going to get stabbed for forcing my husband to wear a cheerleader outfit to a business-casual affair. Atheists never understand that sort of thing.
A few minutes later, Victor and I arrived at the proper address to find a house covered in Halloween decorations and several people milling around outside in costume. I said a quiet prayer, except I guess it wasn’t quiet enough, because Victor gave me the stink-eye and asked whether I could please try to be on my best behavior tonight. He gave me a list of things to not talk about in front of mixed company. “Divorce, death, politics, heroin, sex, cancer, swallowing needles,” he droned on. “These are all things not to talk about.”
“Got it,” I assured him.
He looked at me dubiously. “Also, most of these people are conservative Republicans, so please don’t talk about how much you love Obama. I have to work with these people. And nothing about vaginas or necrophilia”—he’d actually been there for that one—“or ninjas or how your great-great-great-uncle murdered your great-great-great-aunt with a hammer.” I tried to nod an assent, but all of those things he’d just mentioned got stuck there in my head, and I struggled vainly to think of anything to talk about besides the prohibited subjects. I had nothing.
Luckily, the party was fairly loud, and, this being Texas, most of the guests were already drunk and talkative, and so I was able to just smile mindlessly and nod in agreement to whatever everyone else was saying. Victor and I settled into the periphery of a large group of his colleagues. Truthfully, it would have been difficult to get a word into the conversation dominated by a man dressed as John McCain (I shit you not), who launched into a tirade about Obama coming to steal all our guns (“Where would he even keep them?” I wondered), and I could see the panic in Victor’s eyes as he tensed and silently begged me to stay quiet. I bit my tongue and forced a smile. I could see the relief in Victor’s face as he sighed deeply, and I smiled and rolled my eyes at his doubt, but costumed McCain must’ve noticed our exchange, because he chuckled and raised an eyebrow suspiciously as he asked, “What’s this? Do we have a bleeding-heart liberal in our midst?” And that’s when everything started to get all fuzzy, because I was explicitly warned not to talk politics, and so I froze in panic and searched my mind for any appropriate response that would change the subject. Then, after a moment of painful silence that seemed to hush everyone around us, I blurted out what was likely the most improbable sentence ever uttered at a dinner party:
“One time I got stabbed in the face by a serial killer.”
And even more unsettling was the fact that I’d managed to utter the baffling non sequitur in a completely serious, nonchalant fashion. As if people got stabbed in the face all the time. Also? I have no fucking idea why I said that. Then Victor looked at me like he was having a stroke, and he started to change colors, and through a clenched jaw he forced out, “Ha, ha, honey! What the hell did that have to do with anything?” and I knew he was trying to give me an out, or possibly just trying to distance himself from me. I probably should have just blamed the booze, but instead I thought I could salvage the situation by explaining that not-McCain had mentioned guns, which reminded me of knives, and that’s when I was reminded of the time that a serial killer stabbed me in the face with a knife, but then it got even weirder when I explained all that, and people began looking uncomfortable and laughing nervously. Then Victor started glaring at me and I got kind of caught up in defending myself, because I’M TRYING TO HELP HERE. If anything, Victor should have been mad at McCain, because this was basically all his fault. The guy in costume, I mean, not former presidential nominee John McCain. He wasn’t even there. I’m not even sure why I have to clarify this.
Then Victor started clearing his throat and tried to change the subject, but there’s honestly no way to put the lid back on an open serial-killer story, and people start pressuring you, and then they notice the faint scar across your face, and that’s when you have to tell the serial-killer story. In fact, right now you’re thinking, “Did she really get stabbed in the face by a serial killer?” And don’t bother to deny it, because you just read it, so you have to be thinking about it. This is the way books work. Also? Velociraptors. Ha! I just made you think about velociraptors. Awesome. This is probably why Stephen King writes so many books. I am totally controlling your mind right now.
But the answer to your question is, “Yes. Yes, I did totally get stabbed in the face by a serial killer. Sort of.” Which is exactly what I told all the people at the party. Then Victor almost divorced me. And what’s really tragic here is that technically this is sort of Victor’s fault, because at this point I was prepared to just tell everyone I was drunk and then go hide in the bathroom, but Victor decided to tell everyone I was drunk first and then I got too irritated at him to be worried about talking in front of strangers, because clearly he wasn’t taking my being stabbed in the face seriously. Victor then pointed out that that was because it wasn’t entirely true that I’d been stabbed in the
face by a serial killer, and he did have a point, but by then everyone was a little riveted and intrigued. Also, none of them had ever seen the horror ride that my dinner party conversations take, so instead of agreeing with Victor’s suggestion that I go lie down, they demanded that I tell the story. Those people were fucked.
I realized almost immediately that this was a mistake, but I figured I could still salvage this situation, so I took a deep breath and explained that I had simply fallen asleep watching a documentary about serial killers, and that it must’ve stuck with me, because I started having this dream where I was getting chased by the Night Stalker, who was wielding a large knife, and AND HE STABBED ME IN THE FUCKING FACE. And the pain in my face got hotter and sharper, and all of a sudden I started screaming, and that’s when I woke myself up and realized that it was all just a dream.
This is where people always laugh politely. Coincidentally, it’s also where I should stop telling this story. I’ll try to remember that for next time. But, of course, I didn’t stop there, because my internal censor was still seven seconds behind and she was too busy freaking out about the fact that I’d just said the F-word out loud to tell me to shut up now.
So I leaned forward conspiratorially, saying to the relieved crowd, “But then I kept hearing screaming and it turns out it was me screaming, because I ACTUALLY HAD BEEN STABBED IN THE FACE.”
This was when everyone stopped laughing and Victor began looking physically ill. It was also when I started to panic and I began speaking way too quickly so that I could finish and run away.
“So then Victor wakes up and sees my face covered in blood and is all, ‘WHAT THE FUCK?!’” I related to the group of awestruck bystanders. “And I’m like, ‘I KNOW, RIGHT? THE NIGHT STALKER STABBED ME!’ and right then Victor jumps up and unsheathes his sword and runs down the hall brandishing his sword after the Night Stalker, which was weird, because the documentary had said he was still in jail, but I guess when you wake up and your wife’s been stabbed you probably aren’t thinking terribly straight, and personally I was just impressed at how quickly he’d unsheathed his sword to run down the hall after a dangerous serial kill—”
Victor interrupted me: “Please, for the love of God, stop talking.”
I looked at him curiously and wondered what part of the story he was most appalled by, and then quickly clarified, “Oh! When I said he ‘unsheathed his sword,’ I didn’t mean his penis, y’all. I was referring to the samurai sword we keep next to the bed. Victor wasn’t running down the hall waving his penis at a serial killer. I mean, that would be ridiculous.” I laughed. No one else laughed.
“Aaaanyway,” I continued, “Victor searched through the house, but no one was there but us, and all the doors were still locked. Victor tried to convince me that I must have accidentally scratched myself, but I was doubtful. Then the next day at work my coworkers assumed that Victor must be battering me, and so I explained the serial-killer dreams, and of course none of them believed me, which is pretty insulting actually, because I can assure you, if my husband had actually stabbed me in the face I’d have enough sense to come up with a better story than one about a serial killer attacking me in my dreams.”
This is the point where I really, really want to stop talking, but I couldn’t because I was so freaked out at how badly this whole thing had gone that I was desperate to find an end and was too panicked to do it correctly. I vaguely wished that Victor would set fire to the house to distract everyone, but he didn’t, because Victor is very unhelpful.
I continued. “Of course, then I was terrified that perhaps now everything that happened to me in a dream would actually happen to me in real life, so I could potentially wake up wearing a dress made out of pickles at my high school. Or with arms made out of marshmallows, or with a leg missing. Then, about a week later, Victor and I were lying in bed when suddenly there was a scratching noise coming from the window above the headboard, which sounded like a knife scraping deliberately down the wall. I was paralyzed with fear, but I slowly turned my face up toward the window, and that’s when I saw THE GIGANTIC ASS OF MY CAT. Turns out that our fat-ass cat, Posey, was trying to perch on the tiny window ledge, but he didn’t fit, so he had one of his back legs clawing desperately at the wall as he slowly lost his footing, and that’s when I figured out what had happened. My enormous, fat cat had fallen on my face and scratched me with his huge, catty talons while I was dreaming about serial killers. And that’s why ten years later I still have this scar.”
Then everyone looked at me in bafflement, and Victor made me leave, swearing to never take me to another dinner party again. It was hard to argue with him, but I did point out that the party was kind of a win, because no one saw my vagina. Victor says we have different definitions of what a “win” is. Then he told me that stories about serial killers who are really just cats are now at the top of the list of “shit-I’m-not-allowed-to-talk-about,” and that’s when I really got a little indignant, because technically he kind of owes me, because he came out looking like a damn American hero in that serial-killer story for charging through the house to kill a serial killer who was actually a cat. Then he pointed out that cats aren’t serial killers, and I retorted that technically cats are more dangerous than serial killers because they are too fluffy to be suspects, and that if Posey had landed a few inches lower he could have sliced my jugular. Basically, Posey is the silent killer. Much like cholesterol.
I tried to calm Victor by explaining that when we got home I could patch this all up with a witty e-mail to his coworkers that had nothing to do with getting stabbed in the face by anyone.
“And then what?” Victor asked.
“And then,” I explained, “it will be fine, because I’ll be so charming that they’ll forgive me. Besides, most of the people who were there seemed drunk anyway, and there’s no way they’ll believe I actually told that horrible of a story when they wake up tomorrow.” But then Victor pointed out that even if I did manage to convince them of my normalness through e-mail, I would just end up doing this again, and he was right, which is why next time I’m at a dinner party I’m just going to pretend I have laryngitis and insist that everyone bring their cell phones so I can simply text them. Except, I grudgingly admitted to Victor, I’ll probably panic and tell the first person I see that I can’t talk because a leopard ate my larynx, and then I’ll use my phone to show people how much the magnified human larynx looks like a vagina. Victor looked at me in defeat and I pulled out my phone to find larynx videos to prove my point. And that was when Victor sighed deeply and made me stop talking to him. Which is to be expected, I guess.
Me, hiding in the bathroom.
I’ll apologize to him tomorrow.
By e-mail.
Thanks for the Zombies, Jesus
Car conversation with Victor:
ME: Oh my God, did you see the name of that cemetery we just passed? “Resurrection Cemetery.” What a horrible name for a cemetery.
VICTOR: It’s because they believe in the resurrection of believers, dumb-ass.
ME: Still. Some things just shouldn’t be resurrected. Just what we need is a bunch of damn zombies wandering the earth.
VICTOR: That’s not “resurrection.” That’s “reanimation.”
ME: Same difference. Although I guess “Reanimation Cemetery” would sound way more creepy.
VICTOR: It’s not the same difference. Zombies are reanimated, but they don’t have their previous mental capacity, so it’s not a resurrection. Technically that’s a “zombification.”
ME: Well, if you want to get all technical, then how about vampires?
VICTOR: Um . . . they’re fine?
ME: What I mean is, vampires have their “previous mental capacity,” thus by your logic they are “resurrected.” Might as well name it “Jesus-Is- Bringing-You-Vampires Cemetery.”
VICTOR: No. That’s not the same thing, because when you resurrect someone from the grave they aren’t undead.
ME: No, they are TOTA
LLY undead. That’s like the very definition of the undead.
VICTOR: No. A vampire is undead. The resurrected aren’t undead.
ME: I think you don’t know what “undead” means.
VICTOR: I THINK YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT “UNDEAD” MEANS!
ME: Oh my God, calm down, Darwin. Don’t get all crazy just ’cause I threw a vampire monkey wrench in your faulty Jesus-zombie logic.
VICTOR: [sigh] Look, there are all sorts of exceptions you aren’t considering. You can reanimate someone without making them a real “zombie.” For instance, you could bring them back simply to perform a task.
ME: Yeah. And that’s called a zombie.
VICTOR: No, because it wouldn’t crave brains. It’d just have a job to do. Look it up.
ME: Oh, I will look it up. I’ll look it up in The Dictionary of Shit That Doesn’t Exist.
VICTOR: [glower]
Five minutes of angry silence
ME: So, I was talking to the organ donation lady at work the other day and she told me a secret way that you can’t not give away my organs.
VICTOR: You know what? I fucking dare you to make less sense.
ME: Well, I know you’re anti–organ donation, and so I told her I was afraid that you wouldn’t let the doctor take my organs if I died first, but she said if I list my mom as my next of kin on my donor card then they won’t even ask you for your permission.
VICTOR: If you want to throw away all your organs I won’t stop you. Just don’t come complaining to me when I see you in the afterlife and you’re all, “Oh my God, I just peed all over myself because someone else has my bladder.”
ME: Fine. And if you die first I’m totally donating your organs too.
VICTOR: Like hell you are. I may need them.
ME: Why would you need them? YOU’RE DEAD.
VICTOR: What if I become a zombie? Huh, smart-ass? I’d be a pretty shitty zombie if they took my eyes out. I’d be biting poles and cats and shit.
