Books

A Day with Clay

I’ve been on a long hiatus from this blog since, well…around last Valentine’s Day. Only ONE thing, or rather one PERSON could bring me back: Clay Aiken.

Let me explain.

When I was a little girl, I loved Clay Aiken. I’d sprint from the school bus to my front door every afternoon, get inside, plop myself in front of the computer, and open an email draft. *cracks knuckles, cracks neck* let’s begin.

To: Clay Aiken

CC: Clay Aiken

BCC: Clay Aiken?

(Keep in mind I had no clue how to even use email at the time.)

No worries, this will definitely get to him.

What should I tell Clay Aiken today? I wondered, thinking through my whole day down to every conversation had.

Should I tell him about my new gel pens?

Will he care about the new Beanie Baby my grandma got for me?

I should definitely tell him about what I learned in class today.

I typed, with one finger, a listicle of random things I thought Clay Aiken should probably know about my day, every day…before listicles were even cool (or a thing).

But no matter what specifics I wrote that day, I always ended it the same way:

Can we get ice cream?

No response.

One December 1st,  2000-something (one day after CLAY’S birthday),while listening to his album “Merry Christmas with Love,” I decided to draft my final email to Clay Aiken, with Clay Aiken both CC’d and BCC’d (for good measure):

Today is my birthday. Can we get ice cream?

From there on out I spent my time on the computer not emailing Clay Aiken, but playing Sims instead, or Googling pictures of “pretty flowers” when my brother asked to use the computer. GOD, CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY JOEY?

It’s disappointing that he didn’t respond. But in fairness, it turns out you need to send emails to an email address and not just the person’s first and last name. Who knew? Not me.

The other day I decided to give it another shot. Why not? I’m a damn adult now so this time, I took to Twitter:

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Still, no response. But what if he did respond? What would we do? Oh my word, think of the possibilities!

How would I spend my day with Clay Aiken? American Idol’s Number 1 Number 2, the politician, TV personality, the activist, and voice of an angel we all know today.

Naturally, we’d get ice cream.

BUT FIRST:

Our day would start at 12pm, sharp. Just late enough to sleep in and be well-rested for the day ahead, while still giving us enough time to seize the afternoon and evening.

We lunch. We maybe go back and forth about where to eat, considering street trucks and cafes we walk by. We decide on salads, dressing on the side. #chic. Our orders come. They’re good, but I’m questioning my choice of protein. Was chicken a bad choice? Clay reassures me. We laugh.

We go window shopping, thinking about gifts for loved ones while gazing into the beautifully decorated shops. In Rockefeller Center, we stare up at the giant tree. We take a pic. I set it as my Twitter avatar.

Should we ice skate? I tell Clay I’m not very good, but he tells me “c’mon! I won’t let you fall.”

He lies. I fall. I chip a tooth on the back of his blade on my way down. I cry a little bit because it was awkward, obviously. I mean, I just chipped my tooth on Clay Aiken’s ice skate! HELLO!! EMBARRASSING!!! But we laugh. We take a new picture with big smiles, displaying my broken front tooth. You can kind of tell I was crying in the pic, but I set it as my new, NEW Twitter Avatar anyway. Again, LAUGHTER ENSUES.

We see the Rockette’s later that night. It’s Christmas time, dammit! Whenever I even HEAR the Radio City Christmas Spectacular jingle, I imagine Clay singing it! HOW CAN YOU NOT? Clay, can you please do a cover? The World needs to hear your rendition.

I’ve never even seen the Rockette’s before so I can’t even guess how that part would go. Would we love it? I bet it’s magical. Are there parts to sing along? I want to sing along with Clay Aiken.

After the show, we talk a little bit about his UNICEF ambassadorship, his run for Congress, North Carolina in general, whether or not he knows Kelly Clarkson, what size Simon Cowell’s t-shirts are, his album Measure of a Man, and our favorite animals.

Finally, we get ice cream. I get mint chocolate chip. He gets butter pecan or something like that; he seems like a butter pecan guy, doesn’t he?

After our long conversation about how I KNEW he would be a butter pecan guy, the night ends just how I always imagined: a high-five.

Now back to reality.

It’s got to be over 12 years since I sent my last email to Clay Aiken on that December 1st.

So today, I write this blog post (Merry Christmas with Love playing in the background) and I ask one FINAL time, hoping the internet is on my side:

Dear Clay,

It’s my birthday. Can we get ice cream?

Victoria, Blog On Fleek

 

 

 

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Were You Raised in A Barn(es & Noble)?

Let me set the scene for you. It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon. I’m sitting at home in a sweatshirt and fuzzy socks, cup of tea in hand. It’s one of those rare days where I actually got done everything I needed to do, so I’m just lounging. Enjoying life. Taking it all in.

Well “enjoying life” and “taking it all in” gets boring after, like, three hours, so I want to do something—I want to go somewhere! But I want to go somewhere that will keep me in my relaxed mood. Like, I’m not about to go skydiving or bungee jumping, it’s just not the day for something like that. Not sure if I’ll ever have a day for something like that, if I’m honest.

Anyway, I decide to go to the book store, my local Barnes & Noble. Honestly, it’s a great option! I can get a coffee or a tea, there’s plenty of lounge chairs, and I can finally pick out a new book! As if I don’t already have a stack I’ve been meaning to read…

To Barnes & Noble I go. I pull into the parking lot and there is not a single space in sight. What the heck is going on? Did everyone have the same idea? Is everyone having a lazy Sunday?

I see someone with their reverse lights on so I put on my blinker on in the parking lot while I wait for them to leave. Now, I don’t know if this guy decided to read his whole fucking novel he just bought right then and there, but the fuckin’ guy is taking his sweet ass time to leave. Two minutes go by, three, four—buddy, get a move on! But I’m staying cool, I have nowhere to go, so I just sit and wait. Finally, he leaves. Nice. Done. Parked.

I head inside and the place is POPPIN’. No surprise after taking a look at that parking lot, but it’s still a bit weird for a book store to be so busy on a random Sunday afternoon.

First thing’s first, I head to the café to get a nice, hot beverage. I’ve already had tea today, so maybe I’ll get coffee? Eh, but what if it keeps me up at night? Maybe hot chocolate? Haven’t had a hot chocolate since I was little, sounds pretty great actually. I order a hot chocolate.

I wait awkwardly for the barista to call my order. My name is called so I fiddle with the lid on my drink. Out of nowhere, a lady with a rather large caboose bumps me from behind and makes me spill my piping hot chocolate down my crotch. Have you ever had a first-degree burn on your vagina? Because I DON’T RECOMMEND.

I turn around and the woman whose caboose just knocked me into a Vagisil commercial is giving me a dirty look. Out of habit I apologize (FOR SOMETHING I DIDN’T DO, mind you) and she scoffs and walks off. Why did I apologize? What the hell did I just apologize for? Sorry for existing. Sorry for being in your way. Sorry for making you spill hot chocolate down my labia, really, really sorry about that…MY BAD!

Right, so here I am patting my crotch with napkins when I look up and make eye contact with cutie. Brown hair, blue eyes, glasses, probably way smarter than I could ever dream. Perfect. Don’t mind me, just feeling myself up in Starbucks! Just touching all up in my nether region, my naughty bits.

I collect myself and go look for some books to read. I head over to the fiction section. I pick out a few classics and some newer ones that I’ve heard are pretty good. I’m cradling six books like a baby with one arm, my hot chocolate is in my other hand, I’m walking in a noticeably funny way due to my raw crotch.

I head over to the couches where I usually sit back and enjoy thumbing through some books. There’s a tiny spot on the couch next to a big hairy man who appears to be sweating, so I decide to look elsewhere for a seat instead of cozying up next to him. I spot an empty chair at the tables. When I walk closer, I see there are tons of books piled up on the table around the empty chair. I push the books out of my way and make a little spot for myself. I notice one book out of the corner of my eye because it has a green flower on it. I take a closer look and it’s called, “Read My Lips: A Complete Guide to Vaginal and Vulvar Health, Culture, and Pleasure.” HAH, ironic. Anything on burns in there?

I don’t want anyone to see that book sitting around me and think it’s mine, so I cover it with the first book I’m done looking at, and there starts my pile. Eventually I thumb through all 6 books, bouncing around from chapter to chapter, reading the forewords, the bits in the back about the author. None of them really grabbed my interest, so I decide against getting one after thinking about the pile of books I have at home I still have to read.

I never know if I should put my books away at Barnes & Noble. Clearly the person who sat at this spot before me didn’t, but I think that’s kind of rude. Especially on a busy day like today, the workers must be particularly frazzled.

I decide to put the books back myself. So I slide the whole pile off the table and take it with me to return to their respective shelves. The bundle of books feels slightly heavier than before. Here I am walking with these books in hand, looking down at the title to see if I can remember which shelf I grabbed it from, when suddenly I’m once again bumped by a familiar LARGE CABOOSE.

This same fucking woman’s ass bumps me just enough for me to drop all of my books. You’re absolutely kidding me, right?

So I get on my knees and start picking them up. Someone bends down to help me. Maybe not everyone in this store right now is a rude piece of shit.

I look up to see that the person helping me is the same fucking CUTIE in the café who saw me patting my lady parts dry with a paper napkin. He smiles and extends his hand. And there it is. The fucking book. He’s handing me the vagina book. The book that was on the bottom of my pile, the pile I just dropped. The book that was NOT MINE.

Read My Lips: A Complete Guide to Vaginal and Vulvar Health, Culture, and FUCKING Pleasure. The title will haunt me.

“heh, thanks but that’s not mine.”

“I just saw you drop it…”

Well fuck me, right?

I don’t get embarrassed easily but for some reason this is gets me good. “Right, sorry. Thanks for that.” And I walk away with my tail between my legs. I leave Barnes & Noble with a sore crotch, a bruised ego, and no book.

That’s it. That’s my story. I’m sure there’s something you can take away from all this, sooooo…Do that.

 

Blog On Fleek