Come On Jolene

I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done in my life, most of which actually occurred just this Saturday. Alex, being Orthodox, celebrates Easter much later than all the other Christians, and this year it was like an entire month later, meaning all the chocolate bunnies we bought for the kids were 112% off but they were also covered in that white chocolatey dust rot and the little yellow sugary eyes had long since evaporated, leaving little black holes in the bunny’s disfigured head, making the candy look disturbingly like a failed action figure from Donnie Darko, Darko Chocolate Rabbit.

Nevertheless, my brother-in-law and I drove our wives to a middle school in Seattle that the Romanians had rented to celebrate Easter. Normally, we stick by their sides, lured by the promise of wine-soaked bread and spiritual redemption, but on this occasion we decided to go to Fado’s Irish Pub in Pioneer Square, instead. Of course, I’m not proud of this.

And as soon as we sat down a woman ambled over to inform us that the nine beautiful women at her table were desperately seeking men who would pay attention to them because it was her sister’s birthday and why is it that all the men in Seattle are so lame and you have pretty eyes and what do you do for a living and you’d better hurry cause we’re gonna leave soon and I have to work tomorrow.

“But tomorrow’s Sunday,” I said. “Are you a priest?”

And the next thing I know she and one of her friends are sitting in the chairs next to us and we start drinking all nature of alcoholic beverages (fat tire, double tequila, red bull and vodka…I don’t remember what they drank) while my wife and sister-in-law celebrated the Lord. I’m not particularly proud of this.

And when the woman said that her friend’s name was Eileen, I’m not especially proud of the fact that I burst out into full Dexy’s mode with a slam poetry version of the classic 80s tune.

Okay, I’m kind of proud of that.

But when she asked if I liked country music, and mentioned that she always liked the song Jolene by Dolly Parton, I’m not really all that proud of the fact that I KNOW all the words to Jolene, and even less really not that proud of PROVING this by singing,

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
I’m begging of you please don’t take my man
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
Please don’t take him just because you can

And then trying to explain to everyone at the table that Jolene is like the country version of Eileen, but their blank stares and open mouths reinforced my long held suspicion that this is a theory I alone in the world subscribe to.

And of course I regret smoking all those cigarettes the nice lady offered me.

And when she told me she was 40 and asked how old I was I regret, oh, how I regret what I said, even though I don’t remember what I said, but the look in her eyes and the big smile across her face tells me that I should indeed regret those words should I ever recall them, more than likely in the middle of a dream that causes me to bolt upright in my bed in a cold sweat and whisper to my sleeping wife, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!’

But most of all I regret singing Jolene.