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.
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