I’m starting to get a little more adjusted to my new life–one that involves looking at price tags, saying no to dinners at Smith and Wollensky, deleting discount offer e-mails from Banana Republic, and learning to “shop” in my own closet.
My main objective these last few weeks was not to get caught in my old habits. In addition to applying for a part-time job and only getting one manicure in two weeks, I also decided to try to apply and understand more of the suggestions friends have given me for my new bout with poverty. My first objective was to research a friend’s suggestion I received last week: “In order to save money, it would be wise if you just went ‘window shopping’.” At the time, I wasn’t really sure what that meant. After considering it for a bit, I figured that what she meant was that I shouldn’t deny myself a trip or two to certain shops, but that I should just make a game of it, and not actually buy anything. I guess I had no clue that this was an option. Why would you just not buy the things you wanted? I mean, why are you in the store if you’re not buying anything. I didn’t get it. But I was willing to try.
One Saturday, I went to a few stores to see exactly what it’s like to enter a store, look at items you want to purchase, and not be able to do so. I started at Bloomingdale’s. I guess I should admit that I actually never intended to resist buying something if I really needed it. I first stopped at the YSL counter, because if I was going to be in Bloomie’s I might as well pick up some lip gloss. I told myself, “This is not an indulgence, everyone wears lip gloss.” From there I found myself at the watch counter. Now, I used to wear watches all the time, but in the past few years I have not worn or bought any new watches. This summer I did see this fabulous white Marc Jacobs watch (super cute–in the shape of a daisy–inspired by his perfume, “Daisy,” I suppose), but I never purchased it. Since getting a watch was neither in my budget nor in my plans, this would be a good time to test my abilities as a window shopper. I tried on a few watches but none really tickled my fancy. I was doing well.
Next to shoes. I was sure the shoe department would offer some temptation, and there they were, staring at me–a black pair of Rebecca Taylor Ruffle High Heel Mary Jane Pumps. I politely asked the sales assistant to bring out the shoes for me.
“Sure, one second,” she responded.
As I waited, I noticed that my heart rate was slightly elevated and my palms were almost sweaty. I’m a sucker for a pair of Mary Janes and these had ruffles. I love ruffles! Ruffles, Ruffles, Ruffles! In fact, the word “ruffle” is on my 100 Favorite Words of All Time list. It’s nestled between “lovely” and “girth” (wink).
After the sales assistant returned with the shoes, I slid the left one on first, since my left foot is bigger than my right. It fit perfectly. I added the right shoe and it was almost as though they conformed to my feet. They made me feel really young and girly but the high heel made me feel sexy. I started walking around the store forgetting about my own shoes. As I pranced around, checking out in the mirror how the height of the heel appeared to lift my butt a little, I realized how tall and pretty I felt with the shoes. The sales associate looked over at me, smiling–probably knowing that she’d made a good choice in helping me because there was no way I wasn’t going home with these shoes.
“Will you take them?” she asked.
“Yes.”
I removed the shoes and placed them perfectly back in the box. I was already thinking of all the places I was going to wear them. They would go perfectly with my new leather elbow gloves and hot pink wool coat with ¾ inch sleeves that I didn’t own just yet (but I will once I get a part-time job).
Standing at the register while waiting for the woman in front of me to make her signature in the electronic reader that never seems to work, I heard another sales associate ask a different customer if she needed any help. She responded,
“No, I’m just window shopping.”
Shit . . . Window shopping . . . That’s what you’re supposed to be doing.
My attention cut back to the sale in front of me: “Your total is . . .”
As she gave the price I kept hearing the words of the other customer, “No, I’m just window shopping.” Yes, but now I can’t turn back; I’m here, she’s already rung them up. I have to buy them. Then, all of a sudden, thoughts of a time before when I was much younger came crashing in. I remembered how, when going to the store with my aunt, no matter where we were, she would approach the checkout counter with more items than she could afford. She would do this song-and-dance about how she could not decide what she really wanted before she reached the counter and how she needed the sales associate’s help. She always placed her favorite items first and after every third item she would ask for the total. Once she was within a certain amount she would allow the sales associate to pick the final item she would purchase. I’m sure she could see the embarrassment in my face, but she would assure me that the sales associate loved this charade–she said it broke up the monotony of his or her day. I never bought this story, though, since I knew that after we left, the sales associate would still have to put back the twenty or so items that we didn’t buy.
I took my bag from the smiling sales associate who was more than happy to walk around the counter to hand me the bag. I said “Thanks,” though I left feeling a bit defeated. As soon I got home I tried on the shoes. Wow, they are so gorgeous. But they are not in my budget. I can’t afford them. They have to go back.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m the queen of returns, but I’ve never returned something I loved. So when Sunday morning arrived, I was dreading the day; The Day of the Return. I got up and put on every outfit I owned that looked cute with my shoes. I tried on dresses, skirts, pants, even a bikini; outfits with colored tights, patterned tights, and bare legs. The shoes were perfect with all of them.
“I can’t do it. I can’t take them back,” I told a friend.
“But you have to. You need to take control of this,” she responded.
“I know... but I love them. People have a right to love things, and it’s all Lauren’s fault–I knew nothing about this damn window shopping bullshit until she brought it up! If it wasn’t for her I would only have stopped in Bloomie’s to get my lip gloss and would have been on my merry way. Let’s see, I could not buy groceries all month and use my normal monthly allowance to keep the shoes. Yes, that’s what I will do. Celebrities starve themselves all the time. Plus, I can eat on Sundays at my friend’s house, and then during the week, I could be like the vultures at work and prey on after-lunch-meeting leftovers, or better yet, I could only schedule lunch meetings this week and therefore be sure to have food! This could work. Plus, I have some cans of soup, rice, and beans. I just read a book where an entire family survived off of maggot-infested canned ham, butter, and grapes, and all the children grew up to be productive citizens. Plus, this whole poverty plan is about deprivation, right?”
My friend waited for me to finish all my ludicrous scenarios and finally said, “You’re taking them back.”
A lesson to all: there is no such thing as fucking window shopping.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Rebound girl
I want to be the rebound girl; the one he chooses; the one who benefits from everything the woman before me has done: the constant nights of arguing, her cheating, lying, reckless dealing with his heart. I want that man; the one she convinced to get braces, to let her take him shopping, to layer his sweaters with Thomas Pink shirts, to feel it was okay to wear purple shirts and pink ties; the one she introduced to the fit of designer jeans, Cole Haan shoes, sport coats, linen pants, boat shoes, sunglasses, leather flip flops, and white watches; the one she taught how to pick a girly movie, sit through the ballet without fidgeting, plan a dinner party, and give great oral. Then she left, most likely because she thought he was too boring, too shy–she wanted more out of life–someone less sullen, someone funnier. “I want someone who makes me laugh,” she probably told him.
I want a man who knows what pains feels like; one who wakes in the morning thinking of the same woman he spent all night crying over. One who has contemplated not going to work soon after the breakup because he felt weak. I want someone whose showers in the morning were filled with tears and constant thoughts of her face; who couldn’t stop thinking of what she said (probably something like, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”); the one whose friends check up on because he is taking it a bit too hard. I want someone who wanted someone that didn’t want them. I want it to have taken him a few days before he was able to eat again or for him to have eaten everything in sight just to suppress the thoughts of life without her. I want him to have seen beautiful women but to not have looked at them sexually during the first few months after the breakup. Maybe his friends tried to hook him up during that time, but he will have refused because he wouldn’t have been over her.
Six months will have passed and he will still feel a little pain when he hears her favorite song or sees her friends but he will be much better. He will use the gym and pick up games of basketball as his therapy. I want someone who, after seven months of reflection, goes on a few dates and they go well. He’ll sleep with a few women but there will be no real connection.
Almost a year would have passed and then I want to meet him. I’ll say all the right things. I won’t call too much, and I’ll seem just the right amount of uninterested. He’ll hesitate at first, but he’ll know he likes me. He’ll enjoy our conversations, he’ll find me attractive, and he’ll want to spend more time with me. I’ll oblige but only give him a little bit of me. He’ll press for more. I’ll budge just enough. I’ll make him feel validated, loved, and appreciated. I’ll laugh at his jokes, appreciate his sarcasm, hold his hand, kiss him passionately in public, and sing to him even though I don’t have the voice–all the things she would never have done. I’ll be the opposite of her and just what he wants. He’ll say that his life would not have been the same without me and that he is falling in love.
Rebound girl.
I want a man who knows what pains feels like; one who wakes in the morning thinking of the same woman he spent all night crying over. One who has contemplated not going to work soon after the breakup because he felt weak. I want someone whose showers in the morning were filled with tears and constant thoughts of her face; who couldn’t stop thinking of what she said (probably something like, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”); the one whose friends check up on because he is taking it a bit too hard. I want someone who wanted someone that didn’t want them. I want it to have taken him a few days before he was able to eat again or for him to have eaten everything in sight just to suppress the thoughts of life without her. I want him to have seen beautiful women but to not have looked at them sexually during the first few months after the breakup. Maybe his friends tried to hook him up during that time, but he will have refused because he wouldn’t have been over her.
Six months will have passed and he will still feel a little pain when he hears her favorite song or sees her friends but he will be much better. He will use the gym and pick up games of basketball as his therapy. I want someone who, after seven months of reflection, goes on a few dates and they go well. He’ll sleep with a few women but there will be no real connection.
Almost a year would have passed and then I want to meet him. I’ll say all the right things. I won’t call too much, and I’ll seem just the right amount of uninterested. He’ll hesitate at first, but he’ll know he likes me. He’ll enjoy our conversations, he’ll find me attractive, and he’ll want to spend more time with me. I’ll oblige but only give him a little bit of me. He’ll press for more. I’ll budge just enough. I’ll make him feel validated, loved, and appreciated. I’ll laugh at his jokes, appreciate his sarcasm, hold his hand, kiss him passionately in public, and sing to him even though I don’t have the voice–all the things she would never have done. I’ll be the opposite of her and just what he wants. He’ll say that his life would not have been the same without me and that he is falling in love.
Rebound girl.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Wiser but Weaker
So I’m making drastic changes to cut back on what I find to be necessities but to most are wants and luxuries in order to make it out of the recession alive. I keep reading articles and journals about how the worst is over but for me it seems like it is just beginning. Increased assessments (fucking vertical living), lurking credit card debts, interest rates accruing from hefty student loans, and a greater chance of being unemployed are all within arm’s reach. As a result, I’m taking a proactive approach to cutting cost in what I like to call “living on the heels of poverty.”
Naturally I decided to see what this world actually looks like. What does it mean to live within budgets, monitoring accounts, and saying “no”? I enlisted some help from a wide range of people, and here are the suggestions I received:
1. Bring your own lunch and don’t eat out.
Done! I do that already. I actually would prefer to bring my own lunch and cook in the evenings. I do however splurge one day on the weekends with a nice dinner. Am I really willing to change that?
2. Stop shopping.
Okay, so I am guilty of this. But I will say that earlier this year I noticed that I was spending the equivalent to what some pay on a mortgage for a small home in the burb, and I have since cut that down to under $200 a month ( how ‘bout a round of applause?)
3. Stop buying books.
As a member of a book club this was hard, but I decided to venture out to what is known as the library. I will admit I’m still working on the ins and out of this lending regime–you know, them not having the books I need or taking forever to find the book I’m looking for–but mostly it’s the smell I can’t deal with–that stale smell of the books when I open them and the knowledge that people who don’t wash their hands or bodies for that matter are fumbling through the same books I am placing in my totes. But I’m working on it.
4. Sell a bag or two.
Not an option. No way, not gonna do it. If I’m going to pay off this credit card I’ll be damned if I can’t keep the purse that got me into debt in the first place.
5. Sell clothes to consignment shops.
Though I have yet to do this, I like the concept–I like the idea of getting cash for clothes, plus it might make it easier to get new clothes. Oops, that’s against #2.
6. No more weekly hair salon visits.
Okay, okay, okay, so yes I get my hair washed and blow dried every week, but really there is a reason. See, I work out a lot and my hair is ruined–RUINED, I tell you–so going to the salon weekly is almost necessary. Maybe I’ll try to go every other week. Someone suggested once a month, but I’m not there yet. (I would also like to add that that person should not be giving hair advice.)
7. Give up manicures.
Do you know someone had the audacity to suggest that I don’t need weekly manicures? In the words of Rachael Zoe, “I die.” I mean, really, who doesn’t get weekly manicures? I’m looking down at my hands as I type and I see the lovely dark polish floating over the keys–it’s giving me so much joy. I did promise that I would try to make it last two weeks which is super hard for dark polish, but it’s not like I do any manual labor.
8. Forget about getting a cleaning lady.
Okay, so no one actually suggested this, but I have a feeling that it might be because no one knows I was considering it. I should probably get rid of those price quotes I received. . .
9. Give up your pricey gym membership.
Hell no! I love my gym. I love the flat screen TV’s on the machines, the proximity of it to my job, the trainers, the classes, the pool (I'm allergic to chlorine), the sauna (I’ve never used it), the two full basketball courts (don’t even ask), the spa, the people who couldn’t care less about what I have on and who never give me dirty looks as I’m singing my anthem, “Gives You Hell,” while climbing on the stair master. In addition, being any bigger is far worst than being poorer.
10. Disconnect your home phone.
“You know you’re the only person our age that has a home phone,” said my friend. Really? I hate talking on my cell phone. It’s so awkward; cell phones were not made for extended conversations. They were built for convenience and to put into small clutches and men’s pants pockets, not for laying in bed dishing on the latest reality show. But I can do without it.
11. Cancel your home Internet service.
A friend told me “You know, I just make a list of all the things I need to research and do it while at work or at the library.” I nodded my head as if it made sense, but I was really thinking “How do you ever watch porn?”
12. Get a part-time job.
Now this is a novel concept. I love the idea of a part-time job. I could be the ultimate working woman– the one who will do anything to prove she is a productive citizen. I could work long days at my “real” job, then put in long nights at my part time. I could bring Lean Cuisine for lunch and have soup for dinner. I wonder how much weight I would lose? Yes, this is something to consider.
13. Get rid of your cable service.
Really, I mean what is life without cable? I might as well not live.
So it’s been one week since I’ve began my poverty plan. I really thought I was someone who could struggle–who could really get dirty when times got tough; the one who would roll up her sleeves and take on three extra jobs to make ends meet. I saw myself as someone who could eat Ramen noodles every day if that meant I was saving a buck; someone capable of wearing the same pants every day if that meant paying my credit card bills; the one whose friends would say “You know, you’ve been working really hard–you look sickly.” I want to be that person, but I’m not her. I’m the person who, since beginning this plan has bought a book from the bookstore because I got annoyed with the library, and purchased a $6 magazine from the supermarket so I could have reading material for the gym. I’ve eaten a bagel at Panera twice even though I have bagels at home, ordered a $15 martini and didn’t drink it because I forgot I don’t really like the taste so much, got a manicure on Saturday and a polish change on Thursday because I wanted a new color, and bought vitamin water from the gym at $2.29 a bottle because I’m too lazy to go to the store and get it in bulk. My brown bag lunches consist of sandwiches made with Cajun turkey breast and Swiss cheese from the deli. I’m the person who craves blackened chicken salad from Whole Foods that’s $11.99 a pound and who takes a cab to go get it; the person who buys $4.99 strawberries because they are out of season but I want strawberries; the one who yearns for lobster mashed potatoes, who doesn’t drink tap water, who loves the $2.69 tea from Corner Bakery, who spends $13 on lotion because some celebrity said I would like it, who needs $60 Bobbi Brown face oil during the winter, who wears $6.99 lip balm, uses $26 L’occitane hand cream, who adores $5 berry chill and who spent her last $3.50 on life saver fruit tarts. I’ve started thinking about how some people are made to endure certain things–life gives them lemons and they make lemonade. They struggle their entire childhoods only to later become doctors or fantastic writers. That’s not me. I blame it on my mother who never let me see her struggle in any way, who never let me go without. Then there was my grandmother and all her fancy jewelry and furs, and my grandfather who obliged all her desires. It’s no wonder I’m not cut out to be poor.
Naturally I decided to see what this world actually looks like. What does it mean to live within budgets, monitoring accounts, and saying “no”? I enlisted some help from a wide range of people, and here are the suggestions I received:
1. Bring your own lunch and don’t eat out.
Done! I do that already. I actually would prefer to bring my own lunch and cook in the evenings. I do however splurge one day on the weekends with a nice dinner. Am I really willing to change that?
2. Stop shopping.
Okay, so I am guilty of this. But I will say that earlier this year I noticed that I was spending the equivalent to what some pay on a mortgage for a small home in the burb, and I have since cut that down to under $200 a month ( how ‘bout a round of applause?)
3. Stop buying books.
As a member of a book club this was hard, but I decided to venture out to what is known as the library. I will admit I’m still working on the ins and out of this lending regime–you know, them not having the books I need or taking forever to find the book I’m looking for–but mostly it’s the smell I can’t deal with–that stale smell of the books when I open them and the knowledge that people who don’t wash their hands or bodies for that matter are fumbling through the same books I am placing in my totes. But I’m working on it.
4. Sell a bag or two.
Not an option. No way, not gonna do it. If I’m going to pay off this credit card I’ll be damned if I can’t keep the purse that got me into debt in the first place.
5. Sell clothes to consignment shops.
Though I have yet to do this, I like the concept–I like the idea of getting cash for clothes, plus it might make it easier to get new clothes. Oops, that’s against #2.
6. No more weekly hair salon visits.
Okay, okay, okay, so yes I get my hair washed and blow dried every week, but really there is a reason. See, I work out a lot and my hair is ruined–RUINED, I tell you–so going to the salon weekly is almost necessary. Maybe I’ll try to go every other week. Someone suggested once a month, but I’m not there yet. (I would also like to add that that person should not be giving hair advice.)
7. Give up manicures.
Do you know someone had the audacity to suggest that I don’t need weekly manicures? In the words of Rachael Zoe, “I die.” I mean, really, who doesn’t get weekly manicures? I’m looking down at my hands as I type and I see the lovely dark polish floating over the keys–it’s giving me so much joy. I did promise that I would try to make it last two weeks which is super hard for dark polish, but it’s not like I do any manual labor.
8. Forget about getting a cleaning lady.
Okay, so no one actually suggested this, but I have a feeling that it might be because no one knows I was considering it. I should probably get rid of those price quotes I received. . .
9. Give up your pricey gym membership.
Hell no! I love my gym. I love the flat screen TV’s on the machines, the proximity of it to my job, the trainers, the classes, the pool (I'm allergic to chlorine), the sauna (I’ve never used it), the two full basketball courts (don’t even ask), the spa, the people who couldn’t care less about what I have on and who never give me dirty looks as I’m singing my anthem, “Gives You Hell,” while climbing on the stair master. In addition, being any bigger is far worst than being poorer.
10. Disconnect your home phone.
“You know you’re the only person our age that has a home phone,” said my friend. Really? I hate talking on my cell phone. It’s so awkward; cell phones were not made for extended conversations. They were built for convenience and to put into small clutches and men’s pants pockets, not for laying in bed dishing on the latest reality show. But I can do without it.
11. Cancel your home Internet service.
A friend told me “You know, I just make a list of all the things I need to research and do it while at work or at the library.” I nodded my head as if it made sense, but I was really thinking “How do you ever watch porn?”
12. Get a part-time job.
Now this is a novel concept. I love the idea of a part-time job. I could be the ultimate working woman– the one who will do anything to prove she is a productive citizen. I could work long days at my “real” job, then put in long nights at my part time. I could bring Lean Cuisine for lunch and have soup for dinner. I wonder how much weight I would lose? Yes, this is something to consider.
13. Get rid of your cable service.
Really, I mean what is life without cable? I might as well not live.
So it’s been one week since I’ve began my poverty plan. I really thought I was someone who could struggle–who could really get dirty when times got tough; the one who would roll up her sleeves and take on three extra jobs to make ends meet. I saw myself as someone who could eat Ramen noodles every day if that meant I was saving a buck; someone capable of wearing the same pants every day if that meant paying my credit card bills; the one whose friends would say “You know, you’ve been working really hard–you look sickly.” I want to be that person, but I’m not her. I’m the person who, since beginning this plan has bought a book from the bookstore because I got annoyed with the library, and purchased a $6 magazine from the supermarket so I could have reading material for the gym. I’ve eaten a bagel at Panera twice even though I have bagels at home, ordered a $15 martini and didn’t drink it because I forgot I don’t really like the taste so much, got a manicure on Saturday and a polish change on Thursday because I wanted a new color, and bought vitamin water from the gym at $2.29 a bottle because I’m too lazy to go to the store and get it in bulk. My brown bag lunches consist of sandwiches made with Cajun turkey breast and Swiss cheese from the deli. I’m the person who craves blackened chicken salad from Whole Foods that’s $11.99 a pound and who takes a cab to go get it; the person who buys $4.99 strawberries because they are out of season but I want strawberries; the one who yearns for lobster mashed potatoes, who doesn’t drink tap water, who loves the $2.69 tea from Corner Bakery, who spends $13 on lotion because some celebrity said I would like it, who needs $60 Bobbi Brown face oil during the winter, who wears $6.99 lip balm, uses $26 L’occitane hand cream, who adores $5 berry chill and who spent her last $3.50 on life saver fruit tarts. I’ve started thinking about how some people are made to endure certain things–life gives them lemons and they make lemonade. They struggle their entire childhoods only to later become doctors or fantastic writers. That’s not me. I blame it on my mother who never let me see her struggle in any way, who never let me go without. Then there was my grandmother and all her fancy jewelry and furs, and my grandfather who obliged all her desires. It’s no wonder I’m not cut out to be poor.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Friday, April 9, 2004
She works the night shift at a processing center for ATM deposits–not her dream job, but she has three mouths to feed, not including her husband’s. Sometimes she thinks about how she got here–this life is so far from what she had expected. As a child she knew she wanted children and a family but somehow it looked different then. When she had imagined it then, she was a veterinarian and was married to a tall, handsome, wealthy man. But reality had different plans. She is unhappily married to her high school sweetheart, who is short, average looking, and poor. Two of her three children are from a previous lover. She tells herself that this is the life she chose, but somehow that doesn’t subside the feeling of regret.
It’s 6 a.m. She comes home at the same time every day. Nothing about this day is any different from the one before. As she enters the house it seems very quiet–not that the children would be awake at this time, but something about this silence is different–almost like death is in the air. An eerie feeling races through her body. She runs to the boys’ room. Everyone is fast asleep. She moves closer to make sure everyone is breathing. She sees her daughter in the bed with her youngest son. She is only 4 and sometimes at night when she gets scared she comes to her mother’s room. “I wonder why she is in the boys’ room?” she thinks.
Normally she would do some cleaning before it was time to get the kids ready for school. She usually has just enough time to wash the dishes from the night before, take out the trash, check homework, and maybe watch a little of the news. Who said having a husband was helpful? This day she decides to catch a quick nap before it is time to wake the kids. As she pushes open her bedroom door her eyes begin to burn. She wants to scream but nothing comes out. She closes the door in shock. She immediately opens it back up hoping the scene is different this time. She surveys the room: empty bottles of booze on the dresser, a cell phone she doesn’t recognize near the night stand, and black lace panties at her feet. Her husband is lying in the bed naked with another woman. She has thoughts of a time before: a dark place that involves her son’s father–the night he beat her and she found herself on top of him with a knife to his throat. She suppresses the thoughts–she is a different person now and therapy has taught her how to control her anger. She has to shake him to wake him up. He arises from his slumber first with a slight smirk, feeling the naked skin against his own, but as his eyes open a look of fear overcomes him. He stares at her. No words are exchanged. She should be crying, she thinks, but she is not. He taps the girl.
“Um, Emma, please stay calm,” he tells her, not sure what to say.
Emma smacks him at the thought of remaining calm. The girl awakes screaming. She grabs the sheets to cover her naked frame, leaving him bare. Emma notices how thin she is–her perky breasts, how flat her stomach is. “She hasn’t had children yet,” she thinks.
“Stop screaming before you wake my kids,” she says a lot calmer than she feels.
The girl, unable to do anything else, continues to scream.
“Stop fucking screaming, I said!” With that she takes the unidentified cell phone and throws it in her direction. It shatters against the dry wall.
“Get out of my house,” she whispers.
The girl, first paralyzed with fear, is now crouching to pick up the phone.
“Get out of my house now.” Her voice rises just a tad.
“I didn’t drive,” she finally responds.
“Take her home,” she says looking at her husband.
He leaps up, happy to have a task that doesn’t involve speaking.
20 minutes pass. The kids will be up soon. She gathers the sheets and takes them to the dumpster. She stops herself, remembering the cost. She doesn’t have money to replace anything. This almost brings her to tears. She starts the washing machine, scrubs the dresser and headboard, and starts to vacuum. Still no tears. She phones her sister.
“Can you take the kids to school today? I’m really tired.”
“Sure.”
The kids are up brushing their teeth, watching cartoons, and asking about dinner that evening. Tonight is family night–pizza is what they normally have. She tries to make small talk but talking makes her weak. She is thankful when her sister arrives.
As her sister is leaving he is walking up the driveway.
“Bye, Daddy. Love you.” His daughter hops up to give him a kiss
.
She stares at him, actually surprised he returned so soon, the woman’s scent still in the house.
“Did you use a condom?” Those were her first words.
“Um, I was drunk … I think so.”
“You think so.”
She searches though the trash looking for the condom wrapper, knowing it doesn’t matter but she needs to do something with her hands.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“Why would you cheat on me? I never gave you a reason to cheat.”
“I got drunk; I never intended to sleep with her.”
“But your dick just fell into her, right?”
“We were drunk. There was lots of alcohol . . . and ecstasy.”
“You took drugs? With my fucking kids in the house? You are so stupid. A lot dumber than I give you credit for.”
“I’m all by myself Emma. You’re never here.”
“I’m at fucking work. I’m not out fucking people.”
“It gets lonely–I only see you for a few hours. We have not been together in weeks.”
“Weeks? You fucked a bitch in my bed because you have not been with me in weeks?
Get the fuck out.”
“Emma . . .”
She races upstairs and starts throwing his stuff out the window, in the garbage, everywhere it will go.
“Get out of my house!” she shouts.
The neighbors are up now. She has run out of words again. Just then the doorbell rings.
There stands the woman from earlier, a man in his late 40’s and a lady in her late 30’s.
“Did you leave something?” She looks directly at the woman from earlier, noticing now her face more than her body.
Instead the lady begins to speak. “Yes, I’m Jada’s mother, and she informed me that you broke this cell phone,” she says, offering the pieces to Emma.
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s go,” says the man, seeing the fire in Emma’s eyes.
“No, she broke my phone and she is going to pay for it,” says the woman, looking at him, not understanding his hesitation.
“Wait, this is your phone?” says Emma.
“Yes, and according to my daughter you broke it.”
“Did your daughter also inform you that I found her in bed with my husband this morning?”
“That’s not possible,” responds the woman
“Let’s go. I think we need. . .” interrupts the man.
“That’s not possible because she is only 16,” the woman continues her thoughts.
“What? You told me you were 18!” shouts her husband.
Emma glares at her husband now with disgust.
“Miss, I’m sorry. This is my stepdaughter, and it seems we don’t have all the facts,” says the man before turning again to the woman, mouthing, “Let’s go.”
“No, I want my phone replaced,” responds the girl’s mother as though she doesn’t understand the severity of the situation.
“Let’s go now,” says the stepfather now pulling at his wife.
As they are standing there arguing: her husband with the girl, the stepfather with the mother, Emma picks up the phone and dials 911.
“Hello, yes,” she begins, next giving them her address. “I caught my husband in bed this morning with a minor. You need to come pick him up.”
“She told me she was 18, Emma, I swear,” he says, tears streaming down his face.
The police arrive.
“Sir, you are under arrest for . . .”
“Let’s go. We don’t want any trouble,” says the stepfather, finally getting the mother to understand what is happening.
“I don’t want to press charges,” Jada’s mother explains to the police.
“Miss, it doesn’t matter. He needs to go down to the precinct to be booked. If you choose not to press charges, the state can still prosecute him.”
“Emma!” he screams.
It would take a year before she shared this story with me. Last May, she celebrated her 5th anniversary, still unhappily married.
It’s 6 a.m. She comes home at the same time every day. Nothing about this day is any different from the one before. As she enters the house it seems very quiet–not that the children would be awake at this time, but something about this silence is different–almost like death is in the air. An eerie feeling races through her body. She runs to the boys’ room. Everyone is fast asleep. She moves closer to make sure everyone is breathing. She sees her daughter in the bed with her youngest son. She is only 4 and sometimes at night when she gets scared she comes to her mother’s room. “I wonder why she is in the boys’ room?” she thinks.
Normally she would do some cleaning before it was time to get the kids ready for school. She usually has just enough time to wash the dishes from the night before, take out the trash, check homework, and maybe watch a little of the news. Who said having a husband was helpful? This day she decides to catch a quick nap before it is time to wake the kids. As she pushes open her bedroom door her eyes begin to burn. She wants to scream but nothing comes out. She closes the door in shock. She immediately opens it back up hoping the scene is different this time. She surveys the room: empty bottles of booze on the dresser, a cell phone she doesn’t recognize near the night stand, and black lace panties at her feet. Her husband is lying in the bed naked with another woman. She has thoughts of a time before: a dark place that involves her son’s father–the night he beat her and she found herself on top of him with a knife to his throat. She suppresses the thoughts–she is a different person now and therapy has taught her how to control her anger. She has to shake him to wake him up. He arises from his slumber first with a slight smirk, feeling the naked skin against his own, but as his eyes open a look of fear overcomes him. He stares at her. No words are exchanged. She should be crying, she thinks, but she is not. He taps the girl.
“Um, Emma, please stay calm,” he tells her, not sure what to say.
Emma smacks him at the thought of remaining calm. The girl awakes screaming. She grabs the sheets to cover her naked frame, leaving him bare. Emma notices how thin she is–her perky breasts, how flat her stomach is. “She hasn’t had children yet,” she thinks.
“Stop screaming before you wake my kids,” she says a lot calmer than she feels.
The girl, unable to do anything else, continues to scream.
“Stop fucking screaming, I said!” With that she takes the unidentified cell phone and throws it in her direction. It shatters against the dry wall.
“Get out of my house,” she whispers.
The girl, first paralyzed with fear, is now crouching to pick up the phone.
“Get out of my house now.” Her voice rises just a tad.
“I didn’t drive,” she finally responds.
“Take her home,” she says looking at her husband.
He leaps up, happy to have a task that doesn’t involve speaking.
20 minutes pass. The kids will be up soon. She gathers the sheets and takes them to the dumpster. She stops herself, remembering the cost. She doesn’t have money to replace anything. This almost brings her to tears. She starts the washing machine, scrubs the dresser and headboard, and starts to vacuum. Still no tears. She phones her sister.
“Can you take the kids to school today? I’m really tired.”
“Sure.”
The kids are up brushing their teeth, watching cartoons, and asking about dinner that evening. Tonight is family night–pizza is what they normally have. She tries to make small talk but talking makes her weak. She is thankful when her sister arrives.
As her sister is leaving he is walking up the driveway.
“Bye, Daddy. Love you.” His daughter hops up to give him a kiss
.
She stares at him, actually surprised he returned so soon, the woman’s scent still in the house.
“Did you use a condom?” Those were her first words.
“Um, I was drunk … I think so.”
“You think so.”
She searches though the trash looking for the condom wrapper, knowing it doesn’t matter but she needs to do something with her hands.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“Why would you cheat on me? I never gave you a reason to cheat.”
“I got drunk; I never intended to sleep with her.”
“But your dick just fell into her, right?”
“We were drunk. There was lots of alcohol . . . and ecstasy.”
“You took drugs? With my fucking kids in the house? You are so stupid. A lot dumber than I give you credit for.”
“I’m all by myself Emma. You’re never here.”
“I’m at fucking work. I’m not out fucking people.”
“It gets lonely–I only see you for a few hours. We have not been together in weeks.”
“Weeks? You fucked a bitch in my bed because you have not been with me in weeks?
Get the fuck out.”
“Emma . . .”
She races upstairs and starts throwing his stuff out the window, in the garbage, everywhere it will go.
“Get out of my house!” she shouts.
The neighbors are up now. She has run out of words again. Just then the doorbell rings.
There stands the woman from earlier, a man in his late 40’s and a lady in her late 30’s.
“Did you leave something?” She looks directly at the woman from earlier, noticing now her face more than her body.
Instead the lady begins to speak. “Yes, I’m Jada’s mother, and she informed me that you broke this cell phone,” she says, offering the pieces to Emma.
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s go,” says the man, seeing the fire in Emma’s eyes.
“No, she broke my phone and she is going to pay for it,” says the woman, looking at him, not understanding his hesitation.
“Wait, this is your phone?” says Emma.
“Yes, and according to my daughter you broke it.”
“Did your daughter also inform you that I found her in bed with my husband this morning?”
“That’s not possible,” responds the woman
“Let’s go. I think we need. . .” interrupts the man.
“That’s not possible because she is only 16,” the woman continues her thoughts.
“What? You told me you were 18!” shouts her husband.
Emma glares at her husband now with disgust.
“Miss, I’m sorry. This is my stepdaughter, and it seems we don’t have all the facts,” says the man before turning again to the woman, mouthing, “Let’s go.”
“No, I want my phone replaced,” responds the girl’s mother as though she doesn’t understand the severity of the situation.
“Let’s go now,” says the stepfather now pulling at his wife.
As they are standing there arguing: her husband with the girl, the stepfather with the mother, Emma picks up the phone and dials 911.
“Hello, yes,” she begins, next giving them her address. “I caught my husband in bed this morning with a minor. You need to come pick him up.”
“She told me she was 18, Emma, I swear,” he says, tears streaming down his face.
The police arrive.
“Sir, you are under arrest for . . .”
“Let’s go. We don’t want any trouble,” says the stepfather, finally getting the mother to understand what is happening.
“I don’t want to press charges,” Jada’s mother explains to the police.
“Miss, it doesn’t matter. He needs to go down to the precinct to be booked. If you choose not to press charges, the state can still prosecute him.”
“Emma!” he screams.
It would take a year before she shared this story with me. Last May, she celebrated her 5th anniversary, still unhappily married.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
F- Him!
I was angry that we had to move. I had spent my entire life in one city. I went to the same school from pre-school through junior high followed by high school with 40% of the same people. My social life was set. I had more friends than anyone could ever want. So, moving was not an option.
We moved to Atlanta that summer. Not only was my mother in love with a doctor who had just moved to Atlanta to head up the bone marrow department , but she had also been recruited to work for the ‘96 Olympic Games, and establishing residency was mandatory for employment. Knowing what I know now about women and love, I know it was more about the man and less about the job. At the time, I was determined to sabotage their relationship. If I had to suffer, we would all have to suffer.
Our townhouse would not be ready for another four weeks, so we moved into his space. It was a small two-bedroom condo with only two windows looking out onto the hospital he worked at. He was a nice, attractive man–over six feet in stature, graying beard, mid-50’s I would guess, and well built with broad shoulders. She loved him and I hated him–hated the way she looked at him, hated how he loved her in a way I could never love her. I used to be all she needed; we were all each other had.
My mother was a strong woman who not only taught me the ins and outs of being a lady, but also how a man should treat you. My mother met my father in college. They attended the same school but had very separate interests, however both shared a love for football and would attend the games each weekend. It took him months to ask her out. I don’t know much about their relationship after that. At age 26 while in medical school she became pregnant with me. By then they were engaged to be married and living together. I’m not sure of the date but I saw the ring–it would later be made into a necklace that she would wear nearly every day. During the sixth month of my mother’s pregnancy, my father announced that he was going to the store to get a pack of cigarettes.
“Going to the store, want anything?” he shouted.
“No, I’m okay,” she said.
He never returned. Well, at least that’s the only story I know–the one she told me. As an adult I know there had to be something more–some tension, some uncertainty, a fight. The group of friends they shared tried to help.
“You should call him, he’s just scared,” they would tell her.
“Fuck him,” she would say.
I never saw him, spoke to him, or knew anything about him other than this story. Later she taught me to never chase a man no matter how bad you think you want him or how lonely you are.
“If someone doesn’t want you, then fuck them,” she would shout.
I had to have been about thirteen when she first shared this knowledge with me. I had come home crying about some boy or another at school that didn’t like me.
In Atlanta I pulled out all the stops to make everyone as miserable as me. I learned early on from my grandfather that the quickest way to upset a man was to cause him financial heartache He was always complaining about how much my grandmother spent on jewelry, clothes, and furs. He once told me “She is the reason I’m going to have a heart attack.”
So I did just that. I made over $1000 in calls in one billing cycle on my mother’s new beau’s phone. I was punished, but what’s punishment in a city where you don’t know anyone? He stopped speaking to me the day the bill came. He could not understand why I would do something like that.
He told my mother “She is too bold–she didn’t even deny the charges. She is out of control–you give her too much freedom.” My mother would later tell him, “Well, at least she’s no liar. I hate liars.”
I saw his sudden withdrawal from me as another opportunity to cause a rift between them. My mother had always taught me that part of being an adult is about being the bigger person. “You better relish getting your way as a child,” she would say, “because when you’re an adult you will have to be the bigger person.”
“He doesn’t even speak. How childish is that?” I said one day on the way home from school. She didn’t respond. Later that night I heard them arguing.
We moved into our townhouse the next week. I loved the space–I never lived in a place with stairs. Northern city living was so different–condominiums and apartments didn’t have stairs. This was the first time I ever thought I wanted to live in a house.
“So where’s your boyfriend? I haven’t seen him in awhile, or does he just avoid me?” I asked while we were eating dinner one night.
“We broke up,” she said nonchalantly.
For a split second my heart stopped. I felt sad. It wasn’t sadness for me, it was sadness for her.
“Oh, what happened?” I asked, hoping she didn’t say “Well, you ran up his phone bill and caused us to fight constantly, so basically it’s all your fault.”
Instead she said, “I got a call from a nurse that worked at the hospital. She said she was in love with him.”
“What? How? We lived there. When? Wait…,” I said. How stupid of me . . . I knew the answers.
Let me explain. One afternoon I had forgotten my keys and went to the hospital to retrieve them. While wandering the halls looking for his office, I stopped a nurse and asked if she knew where I could find room 412. She looked shocked and asked, “Who are you, and why would the doctor have your keys?” “None of your damn business,” I responded as I walked off. As I was walking, I noticed him in the hall coming my way. He handed me the keys and as I entered the elevator, I saw her, red-faced and pointing in his direction. Shortly after he came to the house and questioned me about my interaction with the nurse. Damn, I wish I wasn’t such a smart-mouthed kid. Instead of giving him the information I said, “Oh, so you’re talking to me now?” He seemed really upset. This was actually the first time he showed any emotion to me. But instead of pressing the issue he regained his composure and just walked off. “Coward,” I thought.
I relayed the story back to my mom just as I remembered it. “How dumb of me!” I told her. “I should have known!”
Instead of asking a hundred questions she just said, “Yeah, that was probably her.”
“So what are you gonna do?” I asked
“Nothing. Fuck him. You can’t make someone want what you want.”
“But you love him.”
“So, I’ve loved plenty of men before him.”
“How do you know there will be someone else?”
“I don’t.”
“So?”
“So, it should not matter. Look, never settle for second best. Never allow someone to give you less than what you want.”
“Yeah, but what about being alone?” I asked, trying to reveal my own worries for her.
“Well, I’m not alone. I have my sanity, my self worth. and I have you,” she said.
I don’t know what made me remember this story, maybe it’s the constant thoughts I’ve had on just accepting whatever or whoever comes my way. I now know why it’s so hard for me, my mother’s words constantly haunt me.
We moved to Atlanta that summer. Not only was my mother in love with a doctor who had just moved to Atlanta to head up the bone marrow department , but she had also been recruited to work for the ‘96 Olympic Games, and establishing residency was mandatory for employment. Knowing what I know now about women and love, I know it was more about the man and less about the job. At the time, I was determined to sabotage their relationship. If I had to suffer, we would all have to suffer.
Our townhouse would not be ready for another four weeks, so we moved into his space. It was a small two-bedroom condo with only two windows looking out onto the hospital he worked at. He was a nice, attractive man–over six feet in stature, graying beard, mid-50’s I would guess, and well built with broad shoulders. She loved him and I hated him–hated the way she looked at him, hated how he loved her in a way I could never love her. I used to be all she needed; we were all each other had.
My mother was a strong woman who not only taught me the ins and outs of being a lady, but also how a man should treat you. My mother met my father in college. They attended the same school but had very separate interests, however both shared a love for football and would attend the games each weekend. It took him months to ask her out. I don’t know much about their relationship after that. At age 26 while in medical school she became pregnant with me. By then they were engaged to be married and living together. I’m not sure of the date but I saw the ring–it would later be made into a necklace that she would wear nearly every day. During the sixth month of my mother’s pregnancy, my father announced that he was going to the store to get a pack of cigarettes.
“Going to the store, want anything?” he shouted.
“No, I’m okay,” she said.
He never returned. Well, at least that’s the only story I know–the one she told me. As an adult I know there had to be something more–some tension, some uncertainty, a fight. The group of friends they shared tried to help.
“You should call him, he’s just scared,” they would tell her.
“Fuck him,” she would say.
I never saw him, spoke to him, or knew anything about him other than this story. Later she taught me to never chase a man no matter how bad you think you want him or how lonely you are.
“If someone doesn’t want you, then fuck them,” she would shout.
I had to have been about thirteen when she first shared this knowledge with me. I had come home crying about some boy or another at school that didn’t like me.
In Atlanta I pulled out all the stops to make everyone as miserable as me. I learned early on from my grandfather that the quickest way to upset a man was to cause him financial heartache He was always complaining about how much my grandmother spent on jewelry, clothes, and furs. He once told me “She is the reason I’m going to have a heart attack.”
So I did just that. I made over $1000 in calls in one billing cycle on my mother’s new beau’s phone. I was punished, but what’s punishment in a city where you don’t know anyone? He stopped speaking to me the day the bill came. He could not understand why I would do something like that.
He told my mother “She is too bold–she didn’t even deny the charges. She is out of control–you give her too much freedom.” My mother would later tell him, “Well, at least she’s no liar. I hate liars.”
I saw his sudden withdrawal from me as another opportunity to cause a rift between them. My mother had always taught me that part of being an adult is about being the bigger person. “You better relish getting your way as a child,” she would say, “because when you’re an adult you will have to be the bigger person.”
“He doesn’t even speak. How childish is that?” I said one day on the way home from school. She didn’t respond. Later that night I heard them arguing.
We moved into our townhouse the next week. I loved the space–I never lived in a place with stairs. Northern city living was so different–condominiums and apartments didn’t have stairs. This was the first time I ever thought I wanted to live in a house.
“So where’s your boyfriend? I haven’t seen him in awhile, or does he just avoid me?” I asked while we were eating dinner one night.
“We broke up,” she said nonchalantly.
For a split second my heart stopped. I felt sad. It wasn’t sadness for me, it was sadness for her.
“Oh, what happened?” I asked, hoping she didn’t say “Well, you ran up his phone bill and caused us to fight constantly, so basically it’s all your fault.”
Instead she said, “I got a call from a nurse that worked at the hospital. She said she was in love with him.”
“What? How? We lived there. When? Wait…,” I said. How stupid of me . . . I knew the answers.
Let me explain. One afternoon I had forgotten my keys and went to the hospital to retrieve them. While wandering the halls looking for his office, I stopped a nurse and asked if she knew where I could find room 412. She looked shocked and asked, “Who are you, and why would the doctor have your keys?” “None of your damn business,” I responded as I walked off. As I was walking, I noticed him in the hall coming my way. He handed me the keys and as I entered the elevator, I saw her, red-faced and pointing in his direction. Shortly after he came to the house and questioned me about my interaction with the nurse. Damn, I wish I wasn’t such a smart-mouthed kid. Instead of giving him the information I said, “Oh, so you’re talking to me now?” He seemed really upset. This was actually the first time he showed any emotion to me. But instead of pressing the issue he regained his composure and just walked off. “Coward,” I thought.
I relayed the story back to my mom just as I remembered it. “How dumb of me!” I told her. “I should have known!”
Instead of asking a hundred questions she just said, “Yeah, that was probably her.”
“So what are you gonna do?” I asked
“Nothing. Fuck him. You can’t make someone want what you want.”
“But you love him.”
“So, I’ve loved plenty of men before him.”
“How do you know there will be someone else?”
“I don’t.”
“So?”
“So, it should not matter. Look, never settle for second best. Never allow someone to give you less than what you want.”
“Yeah, but what about being alone?” I asked, trying to reveal my own worries for her.
“Well, I’m not alone. I have my sanity, my self worth. and I have you,” she said.
I don’t know what made me remember this story, maybe it’s the constant thoughts I’ve had on just accepting whatever or whoever comes my way. I now know why it’s so hard for me, my mother’s words constantly haunt me.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
His Deal Breaker
It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m running my normal errands: gym, Panera, (Thank God for Saturday–the only day I’m allowing myself to eat bagels, mostly due to the extra 6 pounds I’m blaming on my Monday–Friday indulgences for the past 5 months.) and Banana Republic. I do the same routine every Saturday, but this week is a little different because I’ve added the task of finding a proper brown tote and going on an afternoon date. As a result I skipped the gym and ran in my building’s workout room instead, and then went to the salon and got properly dressed all before 12 p.m. We had decided he would pick me up while I was out shopping. He wanted to see a movie. (Despite what people think, movies are never a good date in the beginning of any relationship–you spend 3 hours in silence) I only considered it because I really did want to get a Diet Coke, plus he talks a bit more than me, so it might not be the worst idea.
Shopping was going well. I found a cute pair of pants at Banana Republic for $20. Then the search began for my new brown work tote. I needed something large enough for my heels, work papers, wallet, and maybe my laptop, but small enough so that it wouldn’t be mistaken for luggage. But, then again, it needed to be big enough that I could turn it into a cute, well-stocked overnight satchel (for those lucky nights). It needed to be stylish enough to get a few “nice bag's” (I once bought a pair of $500 aviator sunglasses because the sales lady swore pedestrians would cross crowded streets to ask about them. After a week, not one person commented on my glasses. I shipped them back.) but not so fashionable that I would have to worry about it being stolen. I had already been to Louis Vuitton and Cole Haan. I really wanted this cute chocolate Fendi bag but it was over my purse budget for the quarter, so I needed to find something a little cheaper. I headed to Gucci. As I’m browsing, my phone rungs.
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah, can you pick me up from the Gucci Store?”
“Gucci Store–where is that?”
Houston we have a problem. I sarcastically recite the cross streets.
He arrived.
“Hey, thanks. How was your day?” I try to sound chipper even though I’m sorta dreading this date.
“Hey, I thought you were looking for a work bag or something?”
“Oh, I am. I can’t seem to find anything I want. I’m torn between what I want and staying within the requirements I have set for myself.” I ramble off a few more thoughts.
“So let me get this correct–you were in the Gucci store looking for bag to carry papers, shoes, and a computer in?”
“Yes, do you know of some other stores? I’m open to suggestions. I have already tried Louis Vuitton and Cole Haan.” I say with no sarcasm.
“No, I don’t, and I can’t believe you would spend that kind of money on something to carry your shoes and computer!”
Um, did I miss the part where I asked you to pay for it, or maybe when I asked you for money to cover my bills? “Really?” I say. I contemplate and before he answers, I add, “So what kind of items do you suggest I spend my money on? Mr. I-don’t-even-know-where-the-Gucci-store-is located-so-I-have-no-right-to-judge.”
“Well, for starters you could invest in a flat screen TV.”
Damn, must have missed that conversation as well. “But I’m not in the market for a flat screen TV–I’m looking for a work tote.” I fire back.
“Well, I just think you could do more with your money than waste it on a purse.”
Tote.”Waste? How is it waste?”
“Well, what value does it have?” he says.
“What value does a flat screen TV have? A tote is priceless and has more long-term value than any TV you could purchase.”
“Look, I’m looking for someone I can date long term.”
“Go on,” I say
“And I can’t be with someone who would spend obscene amounts of money on work totes,” he shouts.
“You know, you’re right, when you’re dating someone you have to know what you can and can’t deal with, and if that’s a deal breaker for you, then I think we need to end whatever we are doing right now.”
He’s speechless.
Oh, so you didn’t think I would call your bluff.
He starts to back peddle. “Look, you’re right. It is your money, but I want to be with someone that won’t put our family in jeopardy because she wants a purse.”
(Did I mention we have only been on 4 dates?)
What he was really thinking was probably something like, “Oh shit, I can’t screw this up yet. We haven’t even had sex.”
“So you think I would choose a purse over feeding my family?” I ask
“Well, I need to know that you won’t.” he says
“I feel like if I have to answer that then we really are not compatible at all. That’s just crazy.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
Too bad. You’re still not getting any booty. You’re officially on the friend list.
The lights dim and the movie begins. This was our last movie but I found my work tote the next day.
Shopping was going well. I found a cute pair of pants at Banana Republic for $20. Then the search began for my new brown work tote. I needed something large enough for my heels, work papers, wallet, and maybe my laptop, but small enough so that it wouldn’t be mistaken for luggage. But, then again, it needed to be big enough that I could turn it into a cute, well-stocked overnight satchel (for those lucky nights). It needed to be stylish enough to get a few “nice bag's” (I once bought a pair of $500 aviator sunglasses because the sales lady swore pedestrians would cross crowded streets to ask about them. After a week, not one person commented on my glasses. I shipped them back.) but not so fashionable that I would have to worry about it being stolen. I had already been to Louis Vuitton and Cole Haan. I really wanted this cute chocolate Fendi bag but it was over my purse budget for the quarter, so I needed to find something a little cheaper. I headed to Gucci. As I’m browsing, my phone rungs.
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah, can you pick me up from the Gucci Store?”
“Gucci Store–where is that?”
Houston we have a problem. I sarcastically recite the cross streets.
He arrived.
“Hey, thanks. How was your day?” I try to sound chipper even though I’m sorta dreading this date.
“Hey, I thought you were looking for a work bag or something?”
“Oh, I am. I can’t seem to find anything I want. I’m torn between what I want and staying within the requirements I have set for myself.” I ramble off a few more thoughts.
“So let me get this correct–you were in the Gucci store looking for bag to carry papers, shoes, and a computer in?”
“Yes, do you know of some other stores? I’m open to suggestions. I have already tried Louis Vuitton and Cole Haan.” I say with no sarcasm.
“No, I don’t, and I can’t believe you would spend that kind of money on something to carry your shoes and computer!”
Um, did I miss the part where I asked you to pay for it, or maybe when I asked you for money to cover my bills? “Really?” I say. I contemplate and before he answers, I add, “So what kind of items do you suggest I spend my money on? Mr. I-don’t-even-know-where-the-Gucci-store-is located-so-I-have-no-right-to-judge.”
“Well, for starters you could invest in a flat screen TV.”
Damn, must have missed that conversation as well. “But I’m not in the market for a flat screen TV–I’m looking for a work tote.” I fire back.
“Well, I just think you could do more with your money than waste it on a purse.”
Tote.”Waste? How is it waste?”
“Well, what value does it have?” he says.
“What value does a flat screen TV have? A tote is priceless and has more long-term value than any TV you could purchase.”
“Look, I’m looking for someone I can date long term.”
“Go on,” I say
“And I can’t be with someone who would spend obscene amounts of money on work totes,” he shouts.
“You know, you’re right, when you’re dating someone you have to know what you can and can’t deal with, and if that’s a deal breaker for you, then I think we need to end whatever we are doing right now.”
He’s speechless.
Oh, so you didn’t think I would call your bluff.
He starts to back peddle. “Look, you’re right. It is your money, but I want to be with someone that won’t put our family in jeopardy because she wants a purse.”
(Did I mention we have only been on 4 dates?)
What he was really thinking was probably something like, “Oh shit, I can’t screw this up yet. We haven’t even had sex.”
“So you think I would choose a purse over feeding my family?” I ask
“Well, I need to know that you won’t.” he says
“I feel like if I have to answer that then we really are not compatible at all. That’s just crazy.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
Too bad. You’re still not getting any booty. You’re officially on the friend list.
The lights dim and the movie begins. This was our last movie but I found my work tote the next day.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Truth
It’s 5:38 p.m. on Saturday, and I’m lying on the sofa–it’s cold, and leaving is out of the question. My text message indicator dings. I quickly pick up the phone hoping it’s a funny text from a friend. Instead, my eyes read “She’s pregnant.” He texted this as if his dog was having puppies. My heart stops, I stop breathing. I keep reading it. “You won’t take my calls, she’s pregnant, and I don’t know what to do.” I read it 100 times. I get in bed at 7 p.m., but I can’t sleep. I toss and turn and every time I turn I see the words, “She’s pregnant” dancing across my walls. I want to text back, but I can’t say what I want–“Have an abortion”–it’s selfish.
Although I haven’t rested all night, I run the next morning at the gym. Day one of the rest of my life. Life without the thought of him.
“Why are you acting like he is your end-all-be-all?” asks my friend.
“He isn’t––wasn’t––I just wanted us to end up together one day,” I say.
“But you were not even dating,” she reminds me.
“I know, but I always thought when we both were on the same page . . . We said when we were on the same page again we would be together and now it won’t happen because she’s pregnant,” I shout.
I’m walking to work from the train and all I see is pregnant women. I hate them, I hate him, I hate her. Bitch. You stole my life, my white dress, my motherhood. That was supposed to be me. I am crying as I walk down the street.
What happened to us? I remembered when he loved me more than I was capable of loving him. His thoughts, needs, and wants were all about me. He called obsessively. I hated it then, but longed for it now–the way he longed for me then–the trips, dinners, plays, concerts, flowers, driving in the middle of the night because he couldn’t sleep without me, undressing me and him losing his breath–all gone, and she’s pregnant. He used to say I was the only one he ever wanted; the one he dreamed about. Even after we parted he never stopped wanting me. The tables turned. I wanted him, but too much time had passed between us. He loved me but not in the same way. He was experienced now–it seemed someone had told him to call less, care less, and play it cool. I became anxious, “You don’t love me anymore,” I once told him.
“I do, but it’s complicated,” he said.
“No, it’s easy–we dated before, I know how you love,” I nearly shouted. This isn’t me. I don’t shout, I don’t try to convince people of what they want. I’m out of character.
“Just play it cool,” my friends would say. “Be an actress.”
“I can’t. He knows me too well,” I say in between tears.
But she’s pregnant now so what does it matter. I cried for 7 whole days. There were no more tears when he called. I didn’t answer. I have to let him go. Let him out of my heart but loneliness is making me hold on. She’s pregnant I remind myself. I hope their baby is ugly. My only revenge.
When we dated before, I never felt this way . . . something is wrong. “Just go with the flow,” I kept telling myself.
Is she prettier than me? Younger, thinner, or wealthier? Who am I? It doesn’t matter anymore. He loved me once, and he doesn’t anymore. It’s hard to be that person to someone–the one they don’t choose–the “great girl,” but not his choice. That hurts more than her being pregnant.
“Why do I have to be the strong woman? Why can’t I be weak? Weak women always have someone,” I tell my friend.
“Yes, but weak people have someone because they are not strong enough to be alone–they settle,” she says.
“Sometimes I wish I could just settle.” I whisper
“The grass is always greener,” she says.
Day 10: I’m sleeping now, but when I wake, he’s the first thing I think about. I imagine how happy his mother will be–she wants grandchildren. I imagine their wedding–200 guest, summer (he hates the cold), white candles, white flowers, everything white. I wonder if she’ll wear white.
Day 14: I wake without thinking of him, but when I hear songs I wonder what their song is? What will they dance to? We never had a song. We should have had a song.
Day 18: “You need to date,” says a friend.
Easier said than done. “As soon as the weather breaks, I’ll get out there,” I tell her, saying it more to myself than to her.
Day 24: He has called 13 times, texted 22 times, sent 5 e-mails, and left 0 voicemail messages. Coward! I never responded.
Day 30: I’m better–quite surprised at how I’m handling the situation. I read a book for work–it’s called Peak and Valleys. It’s by that guy who wrote Who Moved my Cheese? Peaks and Valleys is a story of a young man who lives unhappily in a valley until he meets an old man who lives on a peak and it changes his work and life forever. Through conversations and some experiences, he learns some basics principles that allow him to better manage the good and bad times in work and life.
During the reading, I kept applying the principles of the book to this situation. I kept asking myself, “What is the truth in this situation?”
The truth is this: I love someone who doesn’t love me anymore. I’ve loved before and have gotten over it, so I’ll get over this. I say this in the morning and at night. It’s the truth. It has to be.
Although I haven’t rested all night, I run the next morning at the gym. Day one of the rest of my life. Life without the thought of him.
“Why are you acting like he is your end-all-be-all?” asks my friend.
“He isn’t––wasn’t––I just wanted us to end up together one day,” I say.
“But you were not even dating,” she reminds me.
“I know, but I always thought when we both were on the same page . . . We said when we were on the same page again we would be together and now it won’t happen because she’s pregnant,” I shout.
I’m walking to work from the train and all I see is pregnant women. I hate them, I hate him, I hate her. Bitch. You stole my life, my white dress, my motherhood. That was supposed to be me. I am crying as I walk down the street.
What happened to us? I remembered when he loved me more than I was capable of loving him. His thoughts, needs, and wants were all about me. He called obsessively. I hated it then, but longed for it now–the way he longed for me then–the trips, dinners, plays, concerts, flowers, driving in the middle of the night because he couldn’t sleep without me, undressing me and him losing his breath–all gone, and she’s pregnant. He used to say I was the only one he ever wanted; the one he dreamed about. Even after we parted he never stopped wanting me. The tables turned. I wanted him, but too much time had passed between us. He loved me but not in the same way. He was experienced now–it seemed someone had told him to call less, care less, and play it cool. I became anxious, “You don’t love me anymore,” I once told him.
“I do, but it’s complicated,” he said.
“No, it’s easy–we dated before, I know how you love,” I nearly shouted. This isn’t me. I don’t shout, I don’t try to convince people of what they want. I’m out of character.
“Just play it cool,” my friends would say. “Be an actress.”
“I can’t. He knows me too well,” I say in between tears.
But she’s pregnant now so what does it matter. I cried for 7 whole days. There were no more tears when he called. I didn’t answer. I have to let him go. Let him out of my heart but loneliness is making me hold on. She’s pregnant I remind myself. I hope their baby is ugly. My only revenge.
When we dated before, I never felt this way . . . something is wrong. “Just go with the flow,” I kept telling myself.
Is she prettier than me? Younger, thinner, or wealthier? Who am I? It doesn’t matter anymore. He loved me once, and he doesn’t anymore. It’s hard to be that person to someone–the one they don’t choose–the “great girl,” but not his choice. That hurts more than her being pregnant.
“Why do I have to be the strong woman? Why can’t I be weak? Weak women always have someone,” I tell my friend.
“Yes, but weak people have someone because they are not strong enough to be alone–they settle,” she says.
“Sometimes I wish I could just settle.” I whisper
“The grass is always greener,” she says.
Day 10: I’m sleeping now, but when I wake, he’s the first thing I think about. I imagine how happy his mother will be–she wants grandchildren. I imagine their wedding–200 guest, summer (he hates the cold), white candles, white flowers, everything white. I wonder if she’ll wear white.
Day 14: I wake without thinking of him, but when I hear songs I wonder what their song is? What will they dance to? We never had a song. We should have had a song.
Day 18: “You need to date,” says a friend.
Easier said than done. “As soon as the weather breaks, I’ll get out there,” I tell her, saying it more to myself than to her.
Day 24: He has called 13 times, texted 22 times, sent 5 e-mails, and left 0 voicemail messages. Coward! I never responded.
Day 30: I’m better–quite surprised at how I’m handling the situation. I read a book for work–it’s called Peak and Valleys. It’s by that guy who wrote Who Moved my Cheese? Peaks and Valleys is a story of a young man who lives unhappily in a valley until he meets an old man who lives on a peak and it changes his work and life forever. Through conversations and some experiences, he learns some basics principles that allow him to better manage the good and bad times in work and life.
During the reading, I kept applying the principles of the book to this situation. I kept asking myself, “What is the truth in this situation?”
The truth is this: I love someone who doesn’t love me anymore. I’ve loved before and have gotten over it, so I’ll get over this. I say this in the morning and at night. It’s the truth. It has to be.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
The One Night Stand
Normally I don’t wait until the first of the year to make my resolutions; I actually think it’s more meaningful to make them on my birthday. One’s birthday, to me, is more significant in terms of personal growth than the start of a new year. Too bad I totally forgot to make my list in time this year. So it’s well into the new year when I actually sit down to start my list–I’m just like all the other people in the world trying to make a random list of resolutions that will hopefully change the course of my life forever.
I usually spend a great deal of time making this list–I review my list from the previous year, review my accomplishments, and then look for new things to add. Every year on my list I add, “have a one night stand.” I know, I know–to some, it’s like “Why is this on your list?” Well, I truly feel like every woman should experience certain things in her life, and having a one night stand is one of those things. Don’t get me wrong, I have had casual relationships in the past. I’ve also had friends-with-benefits relationships–we would go to dinner, movies, shopping, etc., but at the end of the night we both knew what was in store. What I want is to have a true one night stand, and I’m getting tired of this being on my list every year. So this year, I’ve moved it up to #1.
I call one of my friends who is an expert in the matter. “So what do I do?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” she laughs.
“Like, do I say ‘let’s go fuck’?” I hold my breath.
“No, silly. Not like that, but you make it understood.”
“How?”
“Well, let’s say you’re out and you see someone that you find interesting. You go up and flirt with him.”
“I used to be so good at flirting. Now I suck.”
“Dance with him, but be a little more seductive in your dancing. Then whisper little things to him.”
“Little things … like what? ‘Wanna go home with me daddy?’” I laugh, hoping she doesn’t say yes.
“No!!! Well, you could, but that’s slutty.”
“Um, so is a one night stand,” I think to myself.
“Say something subtle, like ‘Where did you learn to dance like this? You must be skilled in other areas...’ You don’t have to say much. A man’s dream is to pick up a girl from the club. If you just give him a little, he’ll lead you the rest of the way.”
I’m speechless.
“Then exchange numbers. Text him while you’re still there and say something like ‘can’t wait to see you later’,” she adds.
“And that’s not the same as asking if he wants to screw?” I nearly yell.
“No, it allows you to see how he will react.”
“How?” I sure have a lot of questions; maybe this is a bad idea...
“Well, if he responds and says something like ‘me and my boys are going to another place,’ or ‘I didn’t drive,’ you know he’s scared. That allows you to say, ‘oh, I just wanted to see if you wanted to grab a hot dog afterwards.’”
“Okay, so let’s say it’s a go. How do you decide the place?” I ask
“Um, you kinda just figure that out on the fly.”
“Well, it can’t really be on the fly–I would need time to make up a name and get a room at the W.”
“The W? No one is taking you to the W at 3 a.m.”
“Why not? If I’m going to dish out the goods it might as well be on 1000 thread count sheets.”
“Okay, explain to me your idea of a one night stand,” she laughs.
I begin to give her the best impression I have, probably from some combination of foreign films I’d seen: “Well, I meet this really hot guy–a 10 (no reason to sleep with just a 6 when I can have them anytime)–I make up a false name . . . Sasha. Then we pull up to the W, Four Seasons, Park Hyatt–something in that range–and we have crazy sex all night. Then, I get up before he’s even awake and cab it home. Oh, and just for dramatics I leave a note written on a napkin saying how I had a great time. No number.”
“You’re delusional,” she says, laughing hysterically.
The very next week, I meet a guy at the grocery store. Nothing about the interaction is even close to sexy, but I think to myself, “this could be it.” For some reason I feel very comfortable. I suggest a movie and he agrees.
The day we’re scheduled to meet, I decide to change the location at the last minute. I invite him over to my place instead. (Let me add a disclaimer: this was years before the Craig’s list killer. Still, not a wise idea, and I’ve never had a stranger in my home since.) Something about this night seems right. I mean, it isn’t my fantasy–I had already given up my dream one night stand. But even though I’ve compromised the location and fake name, I’m still determined to check this off my list.
As I wait, I phone my friend. “So he’s coming over . . .”
“Coming over? I thought you wanted a Park Hyatt affair?”
“Yeah, yeah. So what do I do?”
“Well, you just make it happen. Make sure you sit next to him–flirt, play with your hair, and drink lots of wine.”
Oh, wine is a good idea––in fact, I think I’ll take a shot now I think. “No, what do I do?”
“Huh?”
“Sexually. Do you do everything?”
“Oh, well it depends on how comfortable you feel with the person.”
“Wait, let me conference in a male point of view,” I say as I dial in one of my male friends. When he answers, I waste no time: “So, I’m going to have a one night stand with this guy and I want to know whether I do everything . . . ” I ramble.
“Yes, why not? Put on a show; swing from the chandeliers; have the time of your life! You only live once,” He says without hesitation.
Note to self: never ask a man his opinion about sexual boundaries with strangers.
“He’s here–gotta go,” I say as I hang up on both of them.
He rents two movies. It is already 9 p.m. I love this–it assures a late night. Halfway through the first movie, I can’t really tell how the date is going. I’m past tipsy, but he’s not. After getting up for my third glass of wine, I sit back down a little closer. We chat a little during the movie. “Gosh he’s shy,” I think. “I need someone more forceful for this to work,” I tell myself. After I put the second movie in, I say something to him, leaning in very closely, and he finally kisses me. Okay, we are now getting somewhere.
We kiss for a few more seconds, but as the second movie queues up, he stops. Shit, he is really planning on watching this damn movie. Halfway through the second movie and a bottle of wine later, I have slightly given up on my one night stand with this guy. “Maybe next time,”I think. I go into the kitchen to switch my drink of choice from wine to water. As I am pouring water into my glass, he comes up behind me and starts to lightly kiss my neck. The kisses are soft at first but soon get more aggressive. Oh my gosh–I think it’s happening. All these years, and I’m finally going to have a one night stand!
We move to the sofa then the bed and make our way through the bases very quickly. Here comes the point where I start to second guess myself. Is this right? Should I do this? What if he tells everyone? What if I can’t do everything? Will he be mad? Does this really need to be on my list? Shit–too late–we are having sex. Okay, you need to stop thinking since you’re already doing it. Relax! I do, and it is amazing. After it is over, we fall asleep.
I wake up a few hours later to him breathing heavily. Shit. This was not the plan. How do I get him out of my house? I phone my guy friend. “Um, what the fuck–how do I get him out?”
“It’s just one night–he’ll leave when he wakes up. Just go to sleep.”
I toss and turn the rest of the night. It’s very weird having a stranger in your bed. I get up and shuffle through the trash can to make sure the condom is there. I can’t believe I just had sex with a stranger. I go through his wallet to make sure his name is what he said it was. It is. Shit, what have I done? What if the condom had a hole and I’m pregnant? I’m going to have a stranger’s baby. Calm down.
When the morning finally comes, he kisses me as he wakes up. I don’t know how to respond–I am too busy trying to stay emotionless. He asks what I am doing later. I ramble off something, and he says he’ll call later, and that he had a great time.
“I bet you did,” I think. “Me too,” I say.
Later that night at a small dinner party, my cell rings. It’s him.
“Hey, how are you?”
“I’m good–having dinner, can I call you later?”
“Sure, but I was hoping we could go see a movie tonight?”
“See a movie? You don’t have to do that,” I say, a little annoyed.
“Do what?” he charges back.
“I mean, I knew the chances I took when we had sex yesterday. We don’t have to go out,” I say with confidence.
“No, I want to go out,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I like you,” he whispers.
“Really? I mean, we had sex on our first date?”
“So?”
“Okay, well I guess a movie would be good,” I say, still not fully understanding how this was happening.
That was the beginning of a two year-long relationship. See I can't even get a one night stand right!
I usually spend a great deal of time making this list–I review my list from the previous year, review my accomplishments, and then look for new things to add. Every year on my list I add, “have a one night stand.” I know, I know–to some, it’s like “Why is this on your list?” Well, I truly feel like every woman should experience certain things in her life, and having a one night stand is one of those things. Don’t get me wrong, I have had casual relationships in the past. I’ve also had friends-with-benefits relationships–we would go to dinner, movies, shopping, etc., but at the end of the night we both knew what was in store. What I want is to have a true one night stand, and I’m getting tired of this being on my list every year. So this year, I’ve moved it up to #1.
I call one of my friends who is an expert in the matter. “So what do I do?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” she laughs.
“Like, do I say ‘let’s go fuck’?” I hold my breath.
“No, silly. Not like that, but you make it understood.”
“How?”
“Well, let’s say you’re out and you see someone that you find interesting. You go up and flirt with him.”
“I used to be so good at flirting. Now I suck.”
“Dance with him, but be a little more seductive in your dancing. Then whisper little things to him.”
“Little things … like what? ‘Wanna go home with me daddy?’” I laugh, hoping she doesn’t say yes.
“No!!! Well, you could, but that’s slutty.”
“Um, so is a one night stand,” I think to myself.
“Say something subtle, like ‘Where did you learn to dance like this? You must be skilled in other areas...’ You don’t have to say much. A man’s dream is to pick up a girl from the club. If you just give him a little, he’ll lead you the rest of the way.”
I’m speechless.
“Then exchange numbers. Text him while you’re still there and say something like ‘can’t wait to see you later’,” she adds.
“And that’s not the same as asking if he wants to screw?” I nearly yell.
“No, it allows you to see how he will react.”
“How?” I sure have a lot of questions; maybe this is a bad idea...
“Well, if he responds and says something like ‘me and my boys are going to another place,’ or ‘I didn’t drive,’ you know he’s scared. That allows you to say, ‘oh, I just wanted to see if you wanted to grab a hot dog afterwards.’”
“Okay, so let’s say it’s a go. How do you decide the place?” I ask
“Um, you kinda just figure that out on the fly.”
“Well, it can’t really be on the fly–I would need time to make up a name and get a room at the W.”
“The W? No one is taking you to the W at 3 a.m.”
“Why not? If I’m going to dish out the goods it might as well be on 1000 thread count sheets.”
“Okay, explain to me your idea of a one night stand,” she laughs.
I begin to give her the best impression I have, probably from some combination of foreign films I’d seen: “Well, I meet this really hot guy–a 10 (no reason to sleep with just a 6 when I can have them anytime)–I make up a false name . . . Sasha. Then we pull up to the W, Four Seasons, Park Hyatt–something in that range–and we have crazy sex all night. Then, I get up before he’s even awake and cab it home. Oh, and just for dramatics I leave a note written on a napkin saying how I had a great time. No number.”
“You’re delusional,” she says, laughing hysterically.
The very next week, I meet a guy at the grocery store. Nothing about the interaction is even close to sexy, but I think to myself, “this could be it.” For some reason I feel very comfortable. I suggest a movie and he agrees.
The day we’re scheduled to meet, I decide to change the location at the last minute. I invite him over to my place instead. (Let me add a disclaimer: this was years before the Craig’s list killer. Still, not a wise idea, and I’ve never had a stranger in my home since.) Something about this night seems right. I mean, it isn’t my fantasy–I had already given up my dream one night stand. But even though I’ve compromised the location and fake name, I’m still determined to check this off my list.
As I wait, I phone my friend. “So he’s coming over . . .”
“Coming over? I thought you wanted a Park Hyatt affair?”
“Yeah, yeah. So what do I do?”
“Well, you just make it happen. Make sure you sit next to him–flirt, play with your hair, and drink lots of wine.”
Oh, wine is a good idea––in fact, I think I’ll take a shot now I think. “No, what do I do?”
“Huh?”
“Sexually. Do you do everything?”
“Oh, well it depends on how comfortable you feel with the person.”
“Wait, let me conference in a male point of view,” I say as I dial in one of my male friends. When he answers, I waste no time: “So, I’m going to have a one night stand with this guy and I want to know whether I do everything . . . ” I ramble.
“Yes, why not? Put on a show; swing from the chandeliers; have the time of your life! You only live once,” He says without hesitation.
Note to self: never ask a man his opinion about sexual boundaries with strangers.
“He’s here–gotta go,” I say as I hang up on both of them.
He rents two movies. It is already 9 p.m. I love this–it assures a late night. Halfway through the first movie, I can’t really tell how the date is going. I’m past tipsy, but he’s not. After getting up for my third glass of wine, I sit back down a little closer. We chat a little during the movie. “Gosh he’s shy,” I think. “I need someone more forceful for this to work,” I tell myself. After I put the second movie in, I say something to him, leaning in very closely, and he finally kisses me. Okay, we are now getting somewhere.
We kiss for a few more seconds, but as the second movie queues up, he stops. Shit, he is really planning on watching this damn movie. Halfway through the second movie and a bottle of wine later, I have slightly given up on my one night stand with this guy. “Maybe next time,”I think. I go into the kitchen to switch my drink of choice from wine to water. As I am pouring water into my glass, he comes up behind me and starts to lightly kiss my neck. The kisses are soft at first but soon get more aggressive. Oh my gosh–I think it’s happening. All these years, and I’m finally going to have a one night stand!
We move to the sofa then the bed and make our way through the bases very quickly. Here comes the point where I start to second guess myself. Is this right? Should I do this? What if he tells everyone? What if I can’t do everything? Will he be mad? Does this really need to be on my list? Shit–too late–we are having sex. Okay, you need to stop thinking since you’re already doing it. Relax! I do, and it is amazing. After it is over, we fall asleep.
I wake up a few hours later to him breathing heavily. Shit. This was not the plan. How do I get him out of my house? I phone my guy friend. “Um, what the fuck–how do I get him out?”
“It’s just one night–he’ll leave when he wakes up. Just go to sleep.”
I toss and turn the rest of the night. It’s very weird having a stranger in your bed. I get up and shuffle through the trash can to make sure the condom is there. I can’t believe I just had sex with a stranger. I go through his wallet to make sure his name is what he said it was. It is. Shit, what have I done? What if the condom had a hole and I’m pregnant? I’m going to have a stranger’s baby. Calm down.
When the morning finally comes, he kisses me as he wakes up. I don’t know how to respond–I am too busy trying to stay emotionless. He asks what I am doing later. I ramble off something, and he says he’ll call later, and that he had a great time.
“I bet you did,” I think. “Me too,” I say.
Later that night at a small dinner party, my cell rings. It’s him.
“Hey, how are you?”
“I’m good–having dinner, can I call you later?”
“Sure, but I was hoping we could go see a movie tonight?”
“See a movie? You don’t have to do that,” I say, a little annoyed.
“Do what?” he charges back.
“I mean, I knew the chances I took when we had sex yesterday. We don’t have to go out,” I say with confidence.
“No, I want to go out,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I like you,” he whispers.
“Really? I mean, we had sex on our first date?”
“So?”
“Okay, well I guess a movie would be good,” I say, still not fully understanding how this was happening.
That was the beginning of a two year-long relationship. See I can't even get a one night stand right!
Monday, June 1, 2009
Forty Something
It was hot as hell that day, but I like it that way. I was going to meet two of my oldest friends. We’ve spent most of our lives together–preschool, grade school, and high school–the most memorable years of my life; the years during which no one asked questions like “What’s your 10K time?” or “What rate did you get on your refinance?” It was a time when things were so simple–you played all day, laughed all night watching TV, and chatted on the phone with boys you liked. I miss those days . . .
Though we’ve managed to reconnect, we lost touch for awhile, and haven’t really spoken much in years. We went our separate ways after high school, both of them choosing to go to local schools while I opted to go away for my four years. Over those four years life seemed to drastically change for both of them–kids came and they traded school for steady income–we had different lives and different paths.
I was going to their family barbeque and was quite anxious and excited to see them after seven years. I arrived at their parents’ house to find it just as I remembered it–an old but well-kept three-flat building with family occupying each level. Outside, children (who I would later learn were my friends’ own) were playing. As I neared the back of the house, I saw one of my friends. “Wow, she has not changed,” I thought. We were about to embrace one another just like old times when we were interrupted by a man asking me for a hug as well. I hugged him thinking he was a family member I just didn’t remember. But, as time went by, I learned he was not a family member, but her boss. I paid him no attention. The rest of the evening we ate, shared laughs, and told old family stories.
The next day my friend called me.
“Hey girl, how are you? It was so good seeing you.”
“Aw, you as well–I missed you both.” I said with a smile.
“So, my boss, he asked about you!” she nearly shouted.
“Really? I don’t really remember him.”
“He’s a good guy; he’s wealthy, divorced, and single. He wants to take you on a date.”
“Divorced–how old is he?”
“40 something.”
“40 something? I don’t think so.”
“No, he’s a young 40.”
“40 year olds always say they are ‘a young 40,’” I think to myself. “I don’t know–I don’t remember much about him and although I’m getting older, I’m still holding out for the bachelor with no kids.”
“Look, just go on one date. I promise you will have a good time if nothing else.”
“Okay,” I responded with hesitation.
When he called I agreed to meet for ice cream.
The day we were to meet up, I saw a car coming down the street–small in stature with its top down. What??? It’s a Porsche.
I should tell you, I couldn’t care less about a man’s car. It’s just not my thing. Don’t get me wrong, I like nice stuff and having a nice car is great, but I don’t date men based on their cars. In high school and college when I judged people less on their personality and more on their worldly possessions, I dated men based on cars, clothes, or other material goods, but now a car to me just means you have a car payment; another bill. Anyway, as impressed as some may have been, I could think of nothing else but my hair. As I inched toward the car, I wondered how I could tell him the car was nice but not very practical. I guess he could see the look on my face because he said, “You want me to put the top up, huh?” We both laughed.
As we sat and chatted about family, work, and our mutual friend, I realized 40 something was not so bad. I always thought that I was the kind of person who could date an older man. When I was in high school and college, I often dated men 10 years my senior. But somehow the rules of engagement had changed–I now believed that dating older men involved holding hands, chatting on the phone, and receiving wonderful gifts. “I mean, what other reason would there be to date someone much older than me?” I thought. “Maybe love has no age limit–I mean, as long as he doesn’t really touch me, I think I’d be okay.” I agreed to a formal date.
We had dinner the next week. It was a nice dinner–we chatted, he ordered our food in Spanish (to impress the waitress, I guess–anyone who knows me knows I’m not impressed by conforming to another language in America). We decided after dinner (well, he decided) to go for a walk along the lake. Luckily, I had my flip flops in my bag for this very possibility.
“This would be a great night for a boat ride,” he said.
“Yeah, that would be nice,” I replied, thinking “I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me.”
As we walked, I noticed we were walking with a purpose. As we got closer to the harbor, I realized he was pulling out a key.
My heart started to pitter-patter (much in the same way as when I thought I was getting diamonds for my birthday). I was almost giddy. A boat, a boat! I was grinning from ear to ear as he helped me into the boat. All sorts of thoughts were jumping around in my head: How long will it take me to learn to drive? Do you need a license? I wonder if he’ll give me a key? These were the benefits of dating older men, I realized. Men my age are paying car notes on Range Rovers; men his age have paid off their Range Rovers and now are paying the notes on boats. Wow! Great, I’ve graduated from car booty to boat booty. He had a 4-seater speed boat. The sad part was I kept imagining me and my boyfriend (not him) and another couple of friends out for a ride. But, the boat ride was amazing. It was super fast, and reminded me of the Miami Vice movie, except I wasn’t with the then young Don Johnson; I was with the 40-something guy.
As the night ended I realized I was not the least bit attracted to him, but sort of had butterflies in my stomach when he asked me on another date. (Yes! Of course I’ll go on another date with the boat… I mean you! )
We decided to meet for appetizers and a few drinks. As I was sitting across from him, I noticed his wrinkles–small indents in his face as he smiled. It totally grossed me out, and then he did the unthinkable. After we had had a long conversation the day before about boundaries and my not being ready to display any affection, he kissed me. I was so shocked. As he pressed his lips against mine, I felt like small bugs were all over my body. I jerked back–so much so it turned out he felt as though he needed to apologize. “I’m sorry, I could not resist.” I felt violated, but in a different way–more like I had been molested by my uncle’s friend and I needed to find the words to tell my mother. At that moment I knew we were done, but I knew it would only be right if I properly said goodbye to the boat (my true love). So on our farewell date we took one last boat ride. I savored every moment. I didn’t care about my hair blowing or the water splashing up on my face–I wanted to live in the moment. That was the last time we saw each other.
As the summer nears once again, I realize how much I miss him–the boat.
Though we’ve managed to reconnect, we lost touch for awhile, and haven’t really spoken much in years. We went our separate ways after high school, both of them choosing to go to local schools while I opted to go away for my four years. Over those four years life seemed to drastically change for both of them–kids came and they traded school for steady income–we had different lives and different paths.
I was going to their family barbeque and was quite anxious and excited to see them after seven years. I arrived at their parents’ house to find it just as I remembered it–an old but well-kept three-flat building with family occupying each level. Outside, children (who I would later learn were my friends’ own) were playing. As I neared the back of the house, I saw one of my friends. “Wow, she has not changed,” I thought. We were about to embrace one another just like old times when we were interrupted by a man asking me for a hug as well. I hugged him thinking he was a family member I just didn’t remember. But, as time went by, I learned he was not a family member, but her boss. I paid him no attention. The rest of the evening we ate, shared laughs, and told old family stories.
The next day my friend called me.
“Hey girl, how are you? It was so good seeing you.”
“Aw, you as well–I missed you both.” I said with a smile.
“So, my boss, he asked about you!” she nearly shouted.
“Really? I don’t really remember him.”
“He’s a good guy; he’s wealthy, divorced, and single. He wants to take you on a date.”
“Divorced–how old is he?”
“40 something.”
“40 something? I don’t think so.”
“No, he’s a young 40.”
“40 year olds always say they are ‘a young 40,’” I think to myself. “I don’t know–I don’t remember much about him and although I’m getting older, I’m still holding out for the bachelor with no kids.”
“Look, just go on one date. I promise you will have a good time if nothing else.”
“Okay,” I responded with hesitation.
When he called I agreed to meet for ice cream.
The day we were to meet up, I saw a car coming down the street–small in stature with its top down. What??? It’s a Porsche.
I should tell you, I couldn’t care less about a man’s car. It’s just not my thing. Don’t get me wrong, I like nice stuff and having a nice car is great, but I don’t date men based on their cars. In high school and college when I judged people less on their personality and more on their worldly possessions, I dated men based on cars, clothes, or other material goods, but now a car to me just means you have a car payment; another bill. Anyway, as impressed as some may have been, I could think of nothing else but my hair. As I inched toward the car, I wondered how I could tell him the car was nice but not very practical. I guess he could see the look on my face because he said, “You want me to put the top up, huh?” We both laughed.
As we sat and chatted about family, work, and our mutual friend, I realized 40 something was not so bad. I always thought that I was the kind of person who could date an older man. When I was in high school and college, I often dated men 10 years my senior. But somehow the rules of engagement had changed–I now believed that dating older men involved holding hands, chatting on the phone, and receiving wonderful gifts. “I mean, what other reason would there be to date someone much older than me?” I thought. “Maybe love has no age limit–I mean, as long as he doesn’t really touch me, I think I’d be okay.” I agreed to a formal date.
We had dinner the next week. It was a nice dinner–we chatted, he ordered our food in Spanish (to impress the waitress, I guess–anyone who knows me knows I’m not impressed by conforming to another language in America). We decided after dinner (well, he decided) to go for a walk along the lake. Luckily, I had my flip flops in my bag for this very possibility.
“This would be a great night for a boat ride,” he said.
“Yeah, that would be nice,” I replied, thinking “I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me.”
As we walked, I noticed we were walking with a purpose. As we got closer to the harbor, I realized he was pulling out a key.
My heart started to pitter-patter (much in the same way as when I thought I was getting diamonds for my birthday). I was almost giddy. A boat, a boat! I was grinning from ear to ear as he helped me into the boat. All sorts of thoughts were jumping around in my head: How long will it take me to learn to drive? Do you need a license? I wonder if he’ll give me a key? These were the benefits of dating older men, I realized. Men my age are paying car notes on Range Rovers; men his age have paid off their Range Rovers and now are paying the notes on boats. Wow! Great, I’ve graduated from car booty to boat booty. He had a 4-seater speed boat. The sad part was I kept imagining me and my boyfriend (not him) and another couple of friends out for a ride. But, the boat ride was amazing. It was super fast, and reminded me of the Miami Vice movie, except I wasn’t with the then young Don Johnson; I was with the 40-something guy.
As the night ended I realized I was not the least bit attracted to him, but sort of had butterflies in my stomach when he asked me on another date. (Yes! Of course I’ll go on another date with the boat… I mean you! )
We decided to meet for appetizers and a few drinks. As I was sitting across from him, I noticed his wrinkles–small indents in his face as he smiled. It totally grossed me out, and then he did the unthinkable. After we had had a long conversation the day before about boundaries and my not being ready to display any affection, he kissed me. I was so shocked. As he pressed his lips against mine, I felt like small bugs were all over my body. I jerked back–so much so it turned out he felt as though he needed to apologize. “I’m sorry, I could not resist.” I felt violated, but in a different way–more like I had been molested by my uncle’s friend and I needed to find the words to tell my mother. At that moment I knew we were done, but I knew it would only be right if I properly said goodbye to the boat (my true love). So on our farewell date we took one last boat ride. I savored every moment. I didn’t care about my hair blowing or the water splashing up on my face–I wanted to live in the moment. That was the last time we saw each other.
As the summer nears once again, I realize how much I miss him–the boat.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Anti- Foodies
I’m envious of people who have the ability to not eat–you know, those girls who break up with their mates and emerge anew 15 pounds lighter; or the ones who simply vow to cut out drinking, gluten, or some other random food group and look fabulous in 30 days or less. When you see them, you're like “Omg, you look great!” They put on a sad face with an underlying smirk and say things like “You know, after the break up with so-and-so I was in such a horrible place. I couldn’t eat for weeks. Then I decided to take up yoga to clear my mind, and here I am!”I hate those people. Yes, envy has just turned to hate. Why? Because how come when I break up with people, it involves french fries and orange flavored craisins (my new favorite food)? Or, when I stop eating carbs for a month, how come it's only to find out that my increased protein has raised my cholesterol and now I’m a candidate for some heart disease? This "new-found body phenomenon" never ever happens to me because these people are aliens. I secretly think they are sitting around starving themselves to prove how lonely they are. They want us, the Normals, to believe that coming out of a break up leads to Jessica Biel arms and Beyonce abs. Well it doesn’t, so stop already with your lies. Yoga and a breakup alone can’t give you a fabulous body.
I tether on this line of envy and hate because there is much to be admired from someone who doesn’t eat. Shit, it’s hard. Have you ever purposely gone without eating? Do it. Your thoughts will be entirely consumed by food, and in 4 hours you’ll be so hungry that White Castle will even look appealing. People with the willpower not to eat are super human. They have focus, drive, and determination. Now, I wonder if they could get us out of this recession?
I tether on this line of envy and hate because there is much to be admired from someone who doesn’t eat. Shit, it’s hard. Have you ever purposely gone without eating? Do it. Your thoughts will be entirely consumed by food, and in 4 hours you’ll be so hungry that White Castle will even look appealing. People with the willpower not to eat are super human. They have focus, drive, and determination. Now, I wonder if they could get us out of this recession?
Monday, May 11, 2009
Shoots and Ladders
Where do I begin? So I’ve been sick for the last week–like deathly ill–hence, no blog last week. (I’m recovering slowly–thanks for asking.) Although the doctors have decided what’s wrong with me and I'm now on my way to a remedy, a few funny things happened over the course of the discovery that are worth telling. It all started last Friday...
I woke up to horrible pains in my stomach. My remedy to any stomach pain was, and will always be, exercise. I went out for a quick run to loosen the muscles. 30 minutes into the run I began to walk, and then I couldn't go on any longer. I limped back home in disgust. I proceeded to get ready for my class–my first day–and I was moving as slow as molasses. I finally got dressed, ordered a plain bagel and hot tea from Panera and headed to the conference room. I noticed my posture was more slumped forward to help to control the pain. (This did not, however, control the pain in my back from my big-ass breasts.) I spent most of the class period with my head down like a child. I did manage to tell my classmates about my stomach not feeling well and apologized profusely for my demeanor. A woman who I had never met before leaned over and whispered, “Are you pregnant?”
"No," I quickly responded.
As I was walking to the rest room I passed a nice older woman and asked if she had a peppermint (the universal old lady candy). She asked what was wrong as she reached into her purse. I told her the same details I had shared with my classmates, to which she responded, “Are you pregnant?” What is it with people and this whole pregnant thing? I mean, I’m an adult–if I was pregnant or thought I was pregnant I would not go around complaining about stomach pains when really it’s just my fetus moving around.
“No,” I replied.
“Well, how do you know?” she fired back.
"Well, because I’m involuntarily abstaining from sex," I said. She nearly turned red. Oh, NOW you're embarrassed because I said the word "sex." Well how else do you think people get pregnant?
The rest of my week seemed to go by really fast with sporadic doctor appointments, logging on to work from home, and counting my lucky stars I didn’t have the Swine flu (another major concern at the doctor’s office which was ruled out along with pregnancy). One afternoon, I was lying down for my afternoon nap when I heard a knock at my door.
“Madame? Madame? No English–please help me," I heard from the other end.
(WTF?) I looked out the peep hole. There was a woman standing there with black, bushy hair, wearing a coral blouse and black pants, and scratching herself.
“Please help–help. The baby–please help! Telephone my daughter!”
It sounded as though she was crying, but no tears were streaming down her face.
I responded from the other side of my locked door, “What would you like me to do?”
“No English, no English,” she replied frantically.
“Would you like me to call your daughter or the police?” I asked, still behind my door.
“Help, phone- my daughter, the baby. No English...” She mumbled again.
You sure know a lot of words not to speak English.
“What would you like me to do?” I said with a little annoyance in my voice.
“Help, please open, Madame.”
“I’m not opening my door,” I shouted. If I get killed, it's going to be because you had to come in here and get me, Craig’s list killer! “I can call the police," I added.
She left. 3 minutes later, she came back.
“Madame, Madame, please– the baby,” she said, this time twisting my knob.
Oh no, I’ve seen this on Law and Order.
I dialed 911.
She returned one more time before the police arrived. I answered the door as soon as the police knocked. I should add how I looked at the time–a total mess (I’m sick, remember?)–red sleep shirt, braless, ex-boyfriend's sleep pants, and hair all over my head. I cracked the door and said, “Yes?”
“Do you know the number to the management company? She locked the baby in the house,” said the officer.
“The number is listed on the building, but this is a condo building, so they would not have a key to her unit,” I replied.
He paused. "Um, so you don’t have the number?”
“No, sorry.”
5 minutes later, he started banging on my door again. This time, through the door, I replied, “Yes?”
“Can you please open the door? It’s the police.”
Why? I’m so done with this–I just want to get some rest.
As I cracked the door, he barged in. “I need to look out your window–the fire department needs to make sure they go to the right unit and she’s one floor below you.”
“Fire department–what? why? I mean, can’t they just call her daughter or break the door down?” I say confused, "The fire ladder, really..."
“Madam, I agree, but the fire department does things their way. I’m just following instructions.”
“I mean really, this just seems extreme,” I said as he raised my screen window. He then began to yell from the 9th floor to the street: “Up here, one unit down. More to the left. No. not that unit.”
The only difference between the projects and a high rise condo building is someone yelling out the window.
I was really pissed at that point. “I did not agree to this. I would like you to leave.”
“Aww, don’t be like that–you called the police,” he said, smiling.
“I called because the Craig's list killer was twisting my knob; not because I knew anything about this baby being locked in the apartment.” (Which I still have the following questions about:
1. Why were you outside of the unit without the baby? There is no laundry or trash shoot.
2. You don’t speak English, so again, where could you have been going?
3. How can you babysit for someone if you are not capable of reciting the only number you should know?
4. Isn’t "police" a universal term? Like it sorta sounds the same in most languages.)
He ambushed my thoughts: “Where did you get your mirror from?”
I woke up to horrible pains in my stomach. My remedy to any stomach pain was, and will always be, exercise. I went out for a quick run to loosen the muscles. 30 minutes into the run I began to walk, and then I couldn't go on any longer. I limped back home in disgust. I proceeded to get ready for my class–my first day–and I was moving as slow as molasses. I finally got dressed, ordered a plain bagel and hot tea from Panera and headed to the conference room. I noticed my posture was more slumped forward to help to control the pain. (This did not, however, control the pain in my back from my big-ass breasts.) I spent most of the class period with my head down like a child. I did manage to tell my classmates about my stomach not feeling well and apologized profusely for my demeanor. A woman who I had never met before leaned over and whispered, “Are you pregnant?”
"No," I quickly responded.
As I was walking to the rest room I passed a nice older woman and asked if she had a peppermint (the universal old lady candy). She asked what was wrong as she reached into her purse. I told her the same details I had shared with my classmates, to which she responded, “Are you pregnant?” What is it with people and this whole pregnant thing? I mean, I’m an adult–if I was pregnant or thought I was pregnant I would not go around complaining about stomach pains when really it’s just my fetus moving around.
“No,” I replied.
“Well, how do you know?” she fired back.
"Well, because I’m involuntarily abstaining from sex," I said. She nearly turned red. Oh, NOW you're embarrassed because I said the word "sex." Well how else do you think people get pregnant?
The rest of my week seemed to go by really fast with sporadic doctor appointments, logging on to work from home, and counting my lucky stars I didn’t have the Swine flu (another major concern at the doctor’s office which was ruled out along with pregnancy). One afternoon, I was lying down for my afternoon nap when I heard a knock at my door.
“Madame? Madame? No English–please help me," I heard from the other end.
(WTF?) I looked out the peep hole. There was a woman standing there with black, bushy hair, wearing a coral blouse and black pants, and scratching herself.
“Please help–help. The baby–please help! Telephone my daughter!”
It sounded as though she was crying, but no tears were streaming down her face.
I responded from the other side of my locked door, “What would you like me to do?”
“No English, no English,” she replied frantically.
“Would you like me to call your daughter or the police?” I asked, still behind my door.
“Help, phone- my daughter, the baby. No English...” She mumbled again.
You sure know a lot of words not to speak English.
“What would you like me to do?” I said with a little annoyance in my voice.
“Help, please open, Madame.”
“I’m not opening my door,” I shouted. If I get killed, it's going to be because you had to come in here and get me, Craig’s list killer! “I can call the police," I added.
She left. 3 minutes later, she came back.
“Madame, Madame, please– the baby,” she said, this time twisting my knob.
Oh no, I’ve seen this on Law and Order.
I dialed 911.
She returned one more time before the police arrived. I answered the door as soon as the police knocked. I should add how I looked at the time–a total mess (I’m sick, remember?)–red sleep shirt, braless, ex-boyfriend's sleep pants, and hair all over my head. I cracked the door and said, “Yes?”
“Do you know the number to the management company? She locked the baby in the house,” said the officer.
“The number is listed on the building, but this is a condo building, so they would not have a key to her unit,” I replied.
He paused. "Um, so you don’t have the number?”
“No, sorry.”
5 minutes later, he started banging on my door again. This time, through the door, I replied, “Yes?”
“Can you please open the door? It’s the police.”
Why? I’m so done with this–I just want to get some rest.
As I cracked the door, he barged in. “I need to look out your window–the fire department needs to make sure they go to the right unit and she’s one floor below you.”
“Fire department–what? why? I mean, can’t they just call her daughter or break the door down?” I say confused, "The fire ladder, really..."
“Madam, I agree, but the fire department does things their way. I’m just following instructions.”
“I mean really, this just seems extreme,” I said as he raised my screen window. He then began to yell from the 9th floor to the street: “Up here, one unit down. More to the left. No. not that unit.”
The only difference between the projects and a high rise condo building is someone yelling out the window.
I was really pissed at that point. “I did not agree to this. I would like you to leave.”
“Aww, don’t be like that–you called the police,” he said, smiling.
“I called because the Craig's list killer was twisting my knob; not because I knew anything about this baby being locked in the apartment.” (Which I still have the following questions about:
1. Why were you outside of the unit without the baby? There is no laundry or trash shoot.
2. You don’t speak English, so again, where could you have been going?
3. How can you babysit for someone if you are not capable of reciting the only number you should know?
4. Isn’t "police" a universal term? Like it sorta sounds the same in most languages.)
He ambushed my thoughts: “Where did you get your mirror from?”
“Mirror, what?” I asked, frowning.
“Your mirror–where did you get it from? It’s nice.”
Sorry, this is not HGTV’s Divine Design–you are here (and unwelcome) to do what you call your job, not to chit chat with me. I just ignore his question.
After a few more awkward moments the fire ladder approached the 8th floor. This is so crazy. All the streets below are blocked. I stopped watching–I just wanted him to leave. He finally did.
After about 45 minutes the fire department came to my door. “Miss, we have a few questions for you,” said the fireman.
After a few more awkward moments the fire ladder approached the 8th floor. This is so crazy. All the streets below are blocked. I stopped watching–I just wanted him to leave. He finally did.
After about 45 minutes the fire department came to my door. “Miss, we have a few questions for you,” said the fireman.
“Questions? I have no answers. I called the police because she twisted my knob. Look, I’m sick–I could get more rest at my office, geesh! Just leave me alone already,” I said from behind my closed door. (I learned my lesson by opening the door for the police.)
“We are sorry to bother you. I hope you have a nice day," he said.
“We are sorry to bother you. I hope you have a nice day," he said.
Finally after what seemed to be hours of trying to get my nap in I could not sleep one wink. Why does drama always find me!! "
Monday, April 27, 2009
It’s My Birthday, and I’ll Cry if I Want to
Birthdays are like Christmas to me–I love them. There is no better time to make things all about you, and I milk this like an expert. Every year I send out a birthday wish list–sounds demanding to some, but really it’s the only way to ensure you get exactly what you want. Surprises are for children–no reason to pretend I want perfume when I really want a David Yurman bracelet. Anyway it’s that time again and this year is particularly amazing because I have 3 things going for me:
1. A boyfriend–how wonderful it is to have a boyfriend on your birthday (this also applies to Christmas, New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s day). This may seem insignificant to some (e.g., those people who are never alone...bitches), but it’s a big deal to me because I never seem to have a boyfriend on my birthday.
2. I’m 10 lbs lighter than I was on my last birthday.
3. I’m getting diamond earrings.
This almost seems too good to be true (maybe it’s the Rapture). Oh, so I guess I should give a little history about these earrings. Years ago, I inherited my grandmother’s precious diamond earrings (diamond princess cut studs–1.5 total karat weight). I often admired them as a teenager when I understood the importance of diamonds, but before then when I was a child playing dress up, my grandmother would finish my look by adding red lipstick and these beautiful earrings. (It wasn’t until 2 years ago that I would wear red lipstick again.) My aunt often mocked my grandmother for her “gaudy taste” as she called it. My grandmother would always reply, “only people who can’t afford large jewels find them gaudy.” a statement she got from the great Elizabeth Taylor and one that I carry with me to this day. The earrings were flawless. I adored them for nearly 2 decades and one horrible day or drunken night (I blocked the memory) I lost one. I would like to believe the weeks of crying were due to the connection the earrings had with my childhood, but I knew it had more to do with the loss of a diamond. Because I had come to let these earrings define me (sad, I know) I would tell anyone who listened the story of their loss, including my then boyfriend (I told him the real story–about what the earrings meant to my childhood and their connection to my grandmother).
He told me that one day he would buy a replacement pair, and he’s keeping his word. I know you're wondering how I know. Well, we share a laptop–okay, we don't really share, but he uses mine and vice versa. I was going through the internet history (not stalking, just cleaning the cookies–wink) and I noticed a few searches to some jewelers. I synced his blackberry calendar to the information of one store in the area and noticed it was on his to-do list the day before. So what if I happened to be in the area and accidentally bump into the most unattractive sales girl in the store and tell her how I adore her outfit and ask where could I find the fabulous pair of shoes she was wearing (She should have known I was lying). And so what if she gets to chatting and the next thing I know I’m asking if a man with my boyfriend's description came to the store and she states “yes” and tells me that he put the most exquisite pair of diamond earrings on hold and should be returning tomorrow to pick them up. All a coincidence. The point is, this is going to be the best birthday ever!
“So, honey, I was thinking of something romantic for your birthday–something local but nice. A 5-star hotel in the city and a nice dinner,” he says.
“Sounds perfect!” I say, gleaming with joy.
“This is going to be the most memorable birthday ever!” he says enthusiastically.
It’s the day of my birthday and I’m going through the day at various grooming appointments (hair, manicure, pedicure, and wax). I already have the perfect outfits for dinner and night time activities. We arrive at the hotel around 5 p.m. Dinner is not scheduled until 7. We sip champagne (I hate champagne but it goes with the picture-book romantic scene) and we do a little lightweight making out, and then it's time to get dressed. I pull my hair back to show off my soon-to-be new gift. Everything is in place except the earrings. (I purposely don’t bring a pair since I’m getting earrings for my birthday!)
“Baby, do you want your gift now or at dinner?” he asks.
I contemplate. I would love to open my gift at the dinner table just as the waitress is approaching. I imagine her, blinded by the reflection, saying “Oh, can I see?” And then I hold them up and her mouth drops open. But I would hate going outside without earrings, so I opt for the gift now.
“Gimmie, Gimmie!” I dance around.
“Okay, calm down, baby–I just want to say happy birthday, and I love you dearly,” he says, choking up a little.
“Aww, thanks bab, I love you too.” I reply.
He pulls out a Tiffany’s box from behind his back. “Tiffany’s? No way!” I think. I’m not one to question gifts, but diamond earrings from Tiffany’s had to have set him back. I mean, this is even a bit much for me. Wait, what if it’s not earrings but an engagement ring? We haven’t been dating that long, but I would never ever turn down an engagement ring from Tiffany’s – that is, depending on the size, clarity, and cut (in that order). I’m nervous now. Am I ready to be a wife? Have we dated long enough? Do I know his favorite color (yellow)? I do.
As I untie the bow, my heart is racing. I keep looking up to see if he has gotten on one knee. I open the box–he’s still standing. (Okay, you are not going to ask me to marry you unless you’re on one knee and you say my full name somewhere in the proposal.) Box open (standing), I pull the foam filler back (still standing) and there it was, staring at me. My eyes began to well up with tears. (Oh, stop it, you'd better not cry!) 3 tears fall, then 10 more. I’m officially crying. I leap up to hug him, “Oh, baby, thank you so much for the necklace–I love it!” (A necklace, not earrings, but a fucking necklace) "Oh, baby, I didn’t realize you would be so emotional. I’m so happy you like it,” he says. (Note to self: if I decide to have children, I must teach them to be more grateful than their mother) He intercepts my thoughts:
“I really wanted to get you the earrings, but my mother thought it was too much too soon.”
“Your mother?” I whisper. I’m balling now.
“Yeah, I told her the story of the earrings and she thought it was a great gesture but it would be a better gift for later in the relationship.”
(Don’t say anything bad about his mother, don’t say anything bad about his mother, don’t say anything bad about his mother. Ok ready … deep breath, speak)
Well, honey, we are in this relationship together, and I think it’s important that you make decisions based on how you feel and not how other people feel. (Because frankly, your mother doesn’t have to fuck, suck, or smell your shit daily.)
“I know, but she’s my best friend and I value her opinion,” he replies sheepishly.
(These people can suck it already with their my-mother-is-my-best-friend crap. Your mother birthed you––she is not your best friend. If she was your best friend, she would know about the threesome you had junior year in college, the week you and your friends bet $100 dollars for every chick you could screw, and the time you almost got arrested for fighting.)
I understand. I love you, and in the future I just want to make sure we are doing things that make us happy (and by "us," I mean "me"), agreed? I say this while wiping my nose from all the crying.
“Agreed" he smiles.
“Thanks for the necklace–do you mind helping me put it on before we go to dinner?” I reluctantly ask.
“I’m happy you love your gift; I knew this would be a memorable birthday," he says while clasping the necklace.
Indeed it was!
1. A boyfriend–how wonderful it is to have a boyfriend on your birthday (this also applies to Christmas, New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s day). This may seem insignificant to some (e.g., those people who are never alone...bitches), but it’s a big deal to me because I never seem to have a boyfriend on my birthday.
2. I’m 10 lbs lighter than I was on my last birthday.
3. I’m getting diamond earrings.
This almost seems too good to be true (maybe it’s the Rapture). Oh, so I guess I should give a little history about these earrings. Years ago, I inherited my grandmother’s precious diamond earrings (diamond princess cut studs–1.5 total karat weight). I often admired them as a teenager when I understood the importance of diamonds, but before then when I was a child playing dress up, my grandmother would finish my look by adding red lipstick and these beautiful earrings. (It wasn’t until 2 years ago that I would wear red lipstick again.) My aunt often mocked my grandmother for her “gaudy taste” as she called it. My grandmother would always reply, “only people who can’t afford large jewels find them gaudy.” a statement she got from the great Elizabeth Taylor and one that I carry with me to this day. The earrings were flawless. I adored them for nearly 2 decades and one horrible day or drunken night (I blocked the memory) I lost one. I would like to believe the weeks of crying were due to the connection the earrings had with my childhood, but I knew it had more to do with the loss of a diamond. Because I had come to let these earrings define me (sad, I know) I would tell anyone who listened the story of their loss, including my then boyfriend (I told him the real story–about what the earrings meant to my childhood and their connection to my grandmother).
He told me that one day he would buy a replacement pair, and he’s keeping his word. I know you're wondering how I know. Well, we share a laptop–okay, we don't really share, but he uses mine and vice versa. I was going through the internet history (not stalking, just cleaning the cookies–wink) and I noticed a few searches to some jewelers. I synced his blackberry calendar to the information of one store in the area and noticed it was on his to-do list the day before. So what if I happened to be in the area and accidentally bump into the most unattractive sales girl in the store and tell her how I adore her outfit and ask where could I find the fabulous pair of shoes she was wearing (She should have known I was lying). And so what if she gets to chatting and the next thing I know I’m asking if a man with my boyfriend's description came to the store and she states “yes” and tells me that he put the most exquisite pair of diamond earrings on hold and should be returning tomorrow to pick them up. All a coincidence. The point is, this is going to be the best birthday ever!
“So, honey, I was thinking of something romantic for your birthday–something local but nice. A 5-star hotel in the city and a nice dinner,” he says.
“Sounds perfect!” I say, gleaming with joy.
“This is going to be the most memorable birthday ever!” he says enthusiastically.
It’s the day of my birthday and I’m going through the day at various grooming appointments (hair, manicure, pedicure, and wax). I already have the perfect outfits for dinner and night time activities. We arrive at the hotel around 5 p.m. Dinner is not scheduled until 7. We sip champagne (I hate champagne but it goes with the picture-book romantic scene) and we do a little lightweight making out, and then it's time to get dressed. I pull my hair back to show off my soon-to-be new gift. Everything is in place except the earrings. (I purposely don’t bring a pair since I’m getting earrings for my birthday!)
“Baby, do you want your gift now or at dinner?” he asks.
I contemplate. I would love to open my gift at the dinner table just as the waitress is approaching. I imagine her, blinded by the reflection, saying “Oh, can I see?” And then I hold them up and her mouth drops open. But I would hate going outside without earrings, so I opt for the gift now.
“Gimmie, Gimmie!” I dance around.
“Okay, calm down, baby–I just want to say happy birthday, and I love you dearly,” he says, choking up a little.
“Aww, thanks bab, I love you too.” I reply.
He pulls out a Tiffany’s box from behind his back. “Tiffany’s? No way!” I think. I’m not one to question gifts, but diamond earrings from Tiffany’s had to have set him back. I mean, this is even a bit much for me. Wait, what if it’s not earrings but an engagement ring? We haven’t been dating that long, but I would never ever turn down an engagement ring from Tiffany’s – that is, depending on the size, clarity, and cut (in that order). I’m nervous now. Am I ready to be a wife? Have we dated long enough? Do I know his favorite color (yellow)? I do.
As I untie the bow, my heart is racing. I keep looking up to see if he has gotten on one knee. I open the box–he’s still standing. (Okay, you are not going to ask me to marry you unless you’re on one knee and you say my full name somewhere in the proposal.) Box open (standing), I pull the foam filler back (still standing) and there it was, staring at me. My eyes began to well up with tears. (Oh, stop it, you'd better not cry!) 3 tears fall, then 10 more. I’m officially crying. I leap up to hug him, “Oh, baby, thank you so much for the necklace–I love it!” (A necklace, not earrings, but a fucking necklace) "Oh, baby, I didn’t realize you would be so emotional. I’m so happy you like it,” he says. (Note to self: if I decide to have children, I must teach them to be more grateful than their mother) He intercepts my thoughts:
“I really wanted to get you the earrings, but my mother thought it was too much too soon.”
“Your mother?” I whisper. I’m balling now.
“Yeah, I told her the story of the earrings and she thought it was a great gesture but it would be a better gift for later in the relationship.”
(Don’t say anything bad about his mother, don’t say anything bad about his mother, don’t say anything bad about his mother. Ok ready … deep breath, speak)
Well, honey, we are in this relationship together, and I think it’s important that you make decisions based on how you feel and not how other people feel. (Because frankly, your mother doesn’t have to fuck, suck, or smell your shit daily.)
“I know, but she’s my best friend and I value her opinion,” he replies sheepishly.
(These people can suck it already with their my-mother-is-my-best-friend crap. Your mother birthed you––she is not your best friend. If she was your best friend, she would know about the threesome you had junior year in college, the week you and your friends bet $100 dollars for every chick you could screw, and the time you almost got arrested for fighting.)
I understand. I love you, and in the future I just want to make sure we are doing things that make us happy (and by "us," I mean "me"), agreed? I say this while wiping my nose from all the crying.
“Agreed" he smiles.
“Thanks for the necklace–do you mind helping me put it on before we go to dinner?” I reluctantly ask.
“I’m happy you love your gift; I knew this would be a memorable birthday," he says while clasping the necklace.
Indeed it was!
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Year of Yes- In the Past
I’m sitting at home channel surfing and I come across this woman on The Today Show who wrote this book called The Year of Yes. For an entire year, she said yes to every man who asked her on a date. As she relayed the good and bad parts of her experience, I started to think, “I could I do this.” I listened more intently. She went on to explain that, in order for this experience to work, you must be open. “Open,” I say to the tv, “what does that mean?” She went on–women in urban areas have the greatest access to meeting men daily, but we shut ourselves off from them. “Go on,” I say, intrigued. She says we walk down the street talking on the phone (Yep, I do that), listening to our iPods (I never leave home without mine), reading books (me too), or we display looks that suggest we are not approachable (Damn, that too...) “Ok, so open, huh?” She tells me, "No distractions, and smile, ladies–be friendly and open to small talk." I hate small talk, but I think, “Why not?” At the end of the year she found a husband, so I really I have nothing to lose.
The next day I step on the commuter train, feeling naked–no phone strapped to my ear, no iPod drowning out the dumb conversations of others, and no book to help me slip out of reality.
“Hello, how are you this morning?” says a train patron. I ignore him and walk to the next available seat. (Oh, shoot, I’m supposed to speak to people–this is hard; it’s too early to speak to strangers.)
“Hey, you left your music today?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry–hi, I’m Dan; you usually have your iPod.”
(Stalker alert) “Oh yeah. Hi.”
He continues on with some small talk, but I’m not interested. He stands to exit the train and says, “Well, it was nice to have met you.”
“Yeah, you to.” (We didn’t really meet, but okay...)
“Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Great. Now I need to get on a different train car.
As I’m walking to the office, the Heineken truck vendor yells “Hello, beautiful!”
“Hello," I say enthusiastically. His eyes light up–I’m thinking no one has ever responded to this remark before.
"How are you?”
“I’m good, and you?”
“Much better if I could take you to dinner sometime.”
“Sure, but maybe we just start with coffee one day.”
We exchange numbers and I’m on my way. This sort of exchange happens again with a postal worker before I enter my office building. I plunk down in my seat. “Damn, this is exhausting,” I think.
On the way home, I speak to Mr. Heineken on the phone and we agree to meet in the morning at the Starbucks on the way to my office. (I should add another one of my many rules here: Rule #17–always schedule a first date that allows for an easy exit strategy (e.g., before work, or on a lunch break).
When we meet the next morning, we chat for a bit, and I learn the basics: age, occupation, likes, dislikes. Then we are interrupted by a phone call from his daughter. “Hi, honey. I’m busy, do you need something?....Okay, I love you...Yes, and mommy too.”
I think, "Um, excuse me? You're on a pseudo-date, and you just told your daughter to tell her mother you love her?" Instead, I just say, “Well, it was nice meeting you. I’m going to get going.”
“Oh, so soon? Did I pass?” he asks with a smirk.
“Pass what?” I reply, still affected by the love comment.
“Your mini-date test? Do I get to go on a real date with you?”
“Naw, maybe your daughter’s mother would have a better time,” I reply as I’m pushing my chair in.
Three days go by with only a few more awkward encounters. Finally, it’s Friday. I agree to go to this birthday party with a friend. I decide to leave work early and hit a few stores to look for a cute top. The unexpected warm weather has more people out including the dreadful street performers. I hate them–beating on buckets, doing magic tricks, and dancing is not appropriate for the crowded downtown streets. I’m walking past this café and the infamous street performer–the silver man– is in full getup, sitting and eating a burger on the outdoor patio. (The silver man is this guy that spray paints himself in all silver metallic, including his face, clothes, and shoes. He stands on a box doing different poses and dances to Michael Jackson songs–by far the most talentless and annoying street performer of this decade.) As I walk past the patio he says “Hey cutie. How are you?”
I stop. “Excuse me, are you talking to me?”
“Yes, I am. Do you want to have lunch with me?”
“You can’t be serious?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you spray paint yourself for a living––you’re like a modern day clown and you’re asking me to have lunch with you?”
“Clown?” He laughs.
I laugh.
His grin instantly fades. “What’s funny?”
“I’m sorry, I just find it remarkable that you would try to ask me out looking the way you look. It’s comical. I’m not sure if I should be offended or intrigued at your level of confidence.” I give one last hearty laugh and walk away. (I’m only saying ‘Yes’ to sane people! )
Shortly after I arrive at the party that night, I spot the perfect guy at the bar. (I mean, if I’m going to play this little game, I could at least position myself next to men I am physically attracted to.) I pretend to order a drink.
He speaks: “Hey, I’m Jay, that’s a strong drink you ordered.”
“I can handle it,” I reply shyly. (I can’t, but I knew a double whiskey would get his attention.)
I sit at the bar most of the night as we volley questions to each other. He’s from Las Vegas, graduated from a state school, Mercedes dealer, and found his way to my city because his ex-wife had a great opportunity here.
“Oh, you’re divorced,” I say.
“Yeah, divorced with a son. It’s new, but I think I’m adjusting.”
After hours of chatting, dancing, and drinking, we decide to go to breakfast the next morning.
On my way to breakfast, I think, "Maybe this idea of 'Yes' is not so bad–I mean, I only slightly care that he has a child." I arrive at the restaurant, and he’s already there, which is a good sign. After ordering, I enquire a little more about this divorce.
“So, divorced at such a young age–what did you do?” I ask with a smile.
He laughs and says, “What did I do? Nothing.”
“Oh come on, something had to happen. You just don’t wake up and leave."
“Well, some people do.”
“Really?”
“Yes, that’s what happened–I woke up and she was gone.”
“Huh?”
“My ex was gone. I went to work and when I came home, she and my son were gone–furniture gone, car gone–there was nothing left.”
I could hear his voice cracking. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that–let’s change the subject.”
“No, you asked so we are going to talk about it.”
I think to myself, "Don’t curse him out––he’s being emotional!"
He continues. "How can women just do that? Just wake up and leave someone? Why are women so selfish?”
My mouth is open. He continues to rant as tears start streaming down his face. I’m speechless.
“My wife is gone," he says. (Um, ex-wife.) "She just left me and now I have no one.”
I wait for him to finish. I stand and say, “I’m sorry–– it seems like you have a lot of things to work out, and I hope you find the answers you need.”
“You walked out on him?" asks my friend, laughing.
“Yes––what was I supposed to say? I don’t know how to deal with someone crying about his ex-wife. He clearly needed time to himself.”
“Oh, come on––that was mean, even for you.”
“Whatever. My line is clicking––hold on."
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Jay.”
“Oh, hi––I’m on the other line; let me...”
“I don’t care if you’re on the other line––what you did yesterday was rude and insensitive.”
“Rude? It was rude of you to ask me on a date knowing you still needed time to grieve the loss of your family.”
“You’re a selfish bitch and I see why you’re alone."
“Back at you, cry baby.”
I hang up.
So much for the year of Yes!
The next day I step on the commuter train, feeling naked–no phone strapped to my ear, no iPod drowning out the dumb conversations of others, and no book to help me slip out of reality.
“Hello, how are you this morning?” says a train patron. I ignore him and walk to the next available seat. (Oh, shoot, I’m supposed to speak to people–this is hard; it’s too early to speak to strangers.)
“Hey, you left your music today?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry–hi, I’m Dan; you usually have your iPod.”
(Stalker alert) “Oh yeah. Hi.”
He continues on with some small talk, but I’m not interested. He stands to exit the train and says, “Well, it was nice to have met you.”
“Yeah, you to.” (We didn’t really meet, but okay...)
“Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Great. Now I need to get on a different train car.
As I’m walking to the office, the Heineken truck vendor yells “Hello, beautiful!”
“Hello," I say enthusiastically. His eyes light up–I’m thinking no one has ever responded to this remark before.
"How are you?”
“I’m good, and you?”
“Much better if I could take you to dinner sometime.”
“Sure, but maybe we just start with coffee one day.”
We exchange numbers and I’m on my way. This sort of exchange happens again with a postal worker before I enter my office building. I plunk down in my seat. “Damn, this is exhausting,” I think.
On the way home, I speak to Mr. Heineken on the phone and we agree to meet in the morning at the Starbucks on the way to my office. (I should add another one of my many rules here: Rule #17–always schedule a first date that allows for an easy exit strategy (e.g., before work, or on a lunch break).
When we meet the next morning, we chat for a bit, and I learn the basics: age, occupation, likes, dislikes. Then we are interrupted by a phone call from his daughter. “Hi, honey. I’m busy, do you need something?....Okay, I love you...Yes, and mommy too.”
I think, "Um, excuse me? You're on a pseudo-date, and you just told your daughter to tell her mother you love her?" Instead, I just say, “Well, it was nice meeting you. I’m going to get going.”
“Oh, so soon? Did I pass?” he asks with a smirk.
“Pass what?” I reply, still affected by the love comment.
“Your mini-date test? Do I get to go on a real date with you?”
“Naw, maybe your daughter’s mother would have a better time,” I reply as I’m pushing my chair in.
Three days go by with only a few more awkward encounters. Finally, it’s Friday. I agree to go to this birthday party with a friend. I decide to leave work early and hit a few stores to look for a cute top. The unexpected warm weather has more people out including the dreadful street performers. I hate them–beating on buckets, doing magic tricks, and dancing is not appropriate for the crowded downtown streets. I’m walking past this café and the infamous street performer–the silver man– is in full getup, sitting and eating a burger on the outdoor patio. (The silver man is this guy that spray paints himself in all silver metallic, including his face, clothes, and shoes. He stands on a box doing different poses and dances to Michael Jackson songs–by far the most talentless and annoying street performer of this decade.) As I walk past the patio he says “Hey cutie. How are you?”
I stop. “Excuse me, are you talking to me?”
“Yes, I am. Do you want to have lunch with me?”
“You can’t be serious?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you spray paint yourself for a living––you’re like a modern day clown and you’re asking me to have lunch with you?”
“Clown?” He laughs.
I laugh.
His grin instantly fades. “What’s funny?”
“I’m sorry, I just find it remarkable that you would try to ask me out looking the way you look. It’s comical. I’m not sure if I should be offended or intrigued at your level of confidence.” I give one last hearty laugh and walk away. (I’m only saying ‘Yes’ to sane people! )
Shortly after I arrive at the party that night, I spot the perfect guy at the bar. (I mean, if I’m going to play this little game, I could at least position myself next to men I am physically attracted to.) I pretend to order a drink.
He speaks: “Hey, I’m Jay, that’s a strong drink you ordered.”
“I can handle it,” I reply shyly. (I can’t, but I knew a double whiskey would get his attention.)
I sit at the bar most of the night as we volley questions to each other. He’s from Las Vegas, graduated from a state school, Mercedes dealer, and found his way to my city because his ex-wife had a great opportunity here.
“Oh, you’re divorced,” I say.
“Yeah, divorced with a son. It’s new, but I think I’m adjusting.”
After hours of chatting, dancing, and drinking, we decide to go to breakfast the next morning.
On my way to breakfast, I think, "Maybe this idea of 'Yes' is not so bad–I mean, I only slightly care that he has a child." I arrive at the restaurant, and he’s already there, which is a good sign. After ordering, I enquire a little more about this divorce.
“So, divorced at such a young age–what did you do?” I ask with a smile.
He laughs and says, “What did I do? Nothing.”
“Oh come on, something had to happen. You just don’t wake up and leave."
“Well, some people do.”
“Really?”
“Yes, that’s what happened–I woke up and she was gone.”
“Huh?”
“My ex was gone. I went to work and when I came home, she and my son were gone–furniture gone, car gone–there was nothing left.”
I could hear his voice cracking. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that–let’s change the subject.”
“No, you asked so we are going to talk about it.”
I think to myself, "Don’t curse him out––he’s being emotional!"
He continues. "How can women just do that? Just wake up and leave someone? Why are women so selfish?”
My mouth is open. He continues to rant as tears start streaming down his face. I’m speechless.
“My wife is gone," he says. (Um, ex-wife.) "She just left me and now I have no one.”
I wait for him to finish. I stand and say, “I’m sorry–– it seems like you have a lot of things to work out, and I hope you find the answers you need.”
“You walked out on him?" asks my friend, laughing.
“Yes––what was I supposed to say? I don’t know how to deal with someone crying about his ex-wife. He clearly needed time to himself.”
“Oh, come on––that was mean, even for you.”
“Whatever. My line is clicking––hold on."
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Jay.”
“Oh, hi––I’m on the other line; let me...”
“I don’t care if you’re on the other line––what you did yesterday was rude and insensitive.”
“Rude? It was rude of you to ask me on a date knowing you still needed time to grieve the loss of your family.”
“You’re a selfish bitch and I see why you’re alone."
“Back at you, cry baby.”
I hang up.
So much for the year of Yes!
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Got Milk- In the past
I bring my breakfast and lunch to work everyday–well, at least 90% of the time. I pride myself on the fact that I've avoided the temptation of spending money on eating out during the work week. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not because I’m not wasteful in many other ways, it's just that this is one habit I’ve never indulged in.
Like any communal office refrigerator, all things are marked by their owners–names, initials or phrases–some identifier to ward off the public. I eat Kashi Go Crunch, strawberries, and skim milk in the morning. I usually place my milk toward the back with my first initial and last name and the phrase “this does not belong to you” with cross bones that my coworker added, just for dramatics. One Thursday afternoon, I’m in the kitchen chatting with a cube neighbor while he makes his afternoon coffee. An editor from the other side of the floor walks into the kitchen. She’s older–60 or so, white hair, cane, the whole nine. I ignore her like I do most of the older editors. They hate the non-creative team–they believe we infringe on their creativity.
“Sorry, Mr. Science editor you can’t produce a 300-page book about grass just because your grandson has a fascination with eating grass. This is a company and we are here to maximize profits and lower cost,” my cube neighbor says to me.
After the older editor glances up at us, (disapproving of our candid conversation) she proceeds to pour what is probably her 4th cup of joe that day, she opens the fridge and pulls out a blue carton of Dean’s skim milk. The only reason I even notice this is because I vaguely see a cross bones figure. I wait for her to pour. (I’m actually intrigued by her arrogance–a level-headed person would never steal in front of others.)
“Is that yours?” I say.
“Is what mine?” she replies.
“The milk (bitch)–does that belong to you?”
“There was no half and half left!”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
She sips her coffee (are you serious) and says, “Well actually I suppose it’s not mine.”
(Suppose?!?) “Well who does it belong to?”
“Well,” she says, staring at the container, “I.. I.. don’t know.”
(Ladies and Gentleman, an editor who can’t fucking read. Great!) “It’s mine, and for the record, it has medicine in it and I hope you drop dead.” I storm off.
I’m standing around telling my cube mates the nerve of the old frog and my work phone is ringing. I don’t recognize the number, so I ignore it. (I never answer the phone, not even at work, if I don’t know the number. Thank God for caller ID!) 15 minutes later the new HR intern comes to me. "Mr. Law wants to see you in HR ASAP," she mumbles.
I slide the door open and say, “Yes, you asked for me?”
“Um, you told Mrs. Cane there was medicine in a product she was consuming.”
“A product she was consuming? Yes, it was milk and it belonged to me. It had my name on it." (And cross bones to ward off villains but apparently that meant nothing to her!)
“Mrs. Cane is very concerned about her health. Can you please reveal the names of the medications?” he says, frowning.
(Concerned about her health!) “People who drink other people’s milk are not concerned about their health."
“She has phoned her doctor and he is afraid the medications consumed could have adverse reactions to the medicine she is taking. We would not want something life threatening to occur as a result of the alleged incident.”
("We" don’t give a shit.) "Alleged? There is nothing alleged about it–I saw her with my own eyes drinking my (fucking) milk."
“Can you please just write down the medications that were in the milk?”
He passes me a sticky note. I ignore it.
“My medications are my personal business and I’m not comfortable disclosing them to my employer for fear it may be used against me in my employment advancement.”
“And for Mrs. Cane–what should I tell her?”
“Tell her that her days on this earth are numbered. Have a pleasant day.”
Like any communal office refrigerator, all things are marked by their owners–names, initials or phrases–some identifier to ward off the public. I eat Kashi Go Crunch, strawberries, and skim milk in the morning. I usually place my milk toward the back with my first initial and last name and the phrase “this does not belong to you” with cross bones that my coworker added, just for dramatics. One Thursday afternoon, I’m in the kitchen chatting with a cube neighbor while he makes his afternoon coffee. An editor from the other side of the floor walks into the kitchen. She’s older–60 or so, white hair, cane, the whole nine. I ignore her like I do most of the older editors. They hate the non-creative team–they believe we infringe on their creativity.
“Sorry, Mr. Science editor you can’t produce a 300-page book about grass just because your grandson has a fascination with eating grass. This is a company and we are here to maximize profits and lower cost,” my cube neighbor says to me.
After the older editor glances up at us, (disapproving of our candid conversation) she proceeds to pour what is probably her 4th cup of joe that day, she opens the fridge and pulls out a blue carton of Dean’s skim milk. The only reason I even notice this is because I vaguely see a cross bones figure. I wait for her to pour. (I’m actually intrigued by her arrogance–a level-headed person would never steal in front of others.)
“Is that yours?” I say.
“Is what mine?” she replies.
“The milk (bitch)–does that belong to you?”
“There was no half and half left!”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
She sips her coffee (are you serious) and says, “Well actually I suppose it’s not mine.”
(Suppose?!?) “Well who does it belong to?”
“Well,” she says, staring at the container, “I.. I.. don’t know.”
(Ladies and Gentleman, an editor who can’t fucking read. Great!) “It’s mine, and for the record, it has medicine in it and I hope you drop dead.” I storm off.
I’m standing around telling my cube mates the nerve of the old frog and my work phone is ringing. I don’t recognize the number, so I ignore it. (I never answer the phone, not even at work, if I don’t know the number. Thank God for caller ID!) 15 minutes later the new HR intern comes to me. "Mr. Law wants to see you in HR ASAP," she mumbles.
I slide the door open and say, “Yes, you asked for me?”
“Um, you told Mrs. Cane there was medicine in a product she was consuming.”
“A product she was consuming? Yes, it was milk and it belonged to me. It had my name on it." (And cross bones to ward off villains but apparently that meant nothing to her!)
“Mrs. Cane is very concerned about her health. Can you please reveal the names of the medications?” he says, frowning.
(Concerned about her health!) “People who drink other people’s milk are not concerned about their health."
“She has phoned her doctor and he is afraid the medications consumed could have adverse reactions to the medicine she is taking. We would not want something life threatening to occur as a result of the alleged incident.”
("We" don’t give a shit.) "Alleged? There is nothing alleged about it–I saw her with my own eyes drinking my (fucking) milk."
“Can you please just write down the medications that were in the milk?”
He passes me a sticky note. I ignore it.
“My medications are my personal business and I’m not comfortable disclosing them to my employer for fear it may be used against me in my employment advancement.”
“And for Mrs. Cane–what should I tell her?”
“Tell her that her days on this earth are numbered. Have a pleasant day.”
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