Shit. I’m almost late. I have to make the 7:47 a.m. bus–not because of the obvious reason (i.e., if I miss the bus, I’ll be late for work)–I couldn’t care less about that. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen my bus boyfriend–you know, the really hot guy you see just enough so that you keep gloss on your lips even though you’re having your morning tea; your only real reason for flat ironing your hair or wearing your 3-inch heels to the bus stop instead of carrying them in your work tote–him. It’s been two weeks since we’ve last seen each other, and I need a recharge.
This guy-let’s call him Bachelor #2–he’s one of the reasons I run daily, ward off carbs most weekdays, or say “no thanks” to that donut at the morning meeting. I actually have two others. Bachelor #1, however, is out of my league. He’s model gorgeous, has beautiful skin, beautiful teeth, designer Hugo Boss suits, Ferragamo shoes, and a black leather Prada laptop bag. Now that I think about it, he’s probably gay. But Bachelor # 2 is my favorite–probably within my numeric range. Let me take a moment to explain the numeric range, otherwise known as Rule #32 (another one of my many rules), because lots of people get confused by this or think it’s a shallow way to judge people: no one really cares about personality when they first see someone–maybe later, but in the beginning, you’re meeting the outer shell, and that shell has a number. There are always people out of your range, no matter who you are (well, except Beyonce, but let’s face it–none of us are Beyonce.) So, in order to keep the universe in balance, most people should stay within 1 standard deviation from their number. That means if you’re a 5 it’s okay to date a 4 or a 6, but not below or above that–doing so never works and it only takes away viable people from an already shallow pool.
Back to Bachelor #2: he’s tall, dark, and handsome–well dressed, Kenneth Cole inspired wardrobe and Cole Hann shoes–total cutie pie and absolute whore. He seems to have a healthy appetite for women. There have been countless times he has gotten on the bus with women carrying very obvious overnight bags (they are all average, which is the only reason I’m still hopeful.) They do slight things like adjust his tie or fall into him as the bus makes a sudden stop–small signs of their intimacy the night before. “How tacky,” I think, to let the world know you’ve spent all night slutting it up (though I secretly wish I was one of them.)
Then, there is Bachelor # 3- slightly attractive but more so because of his resume than his outer shell. I know I would be the prize in the relationship, I’m out of his range. He’s the one I smile at occasionally and whisper something to when I’m in a good mood, such as ”good morning’” as he walks past my seat. Not nearly as doable as Bachelors #1 or #2, but equally attractive, since the other two are not aware of my existence.
I make the bus. We pull to their stop and (damn it!) Bachelors #1 and #2 are missing. “Good morning,” says Bachelor #3.
“Morning.”
It’s Friday. I’m walking to CVS, and who do I see, but Bachelor #2. He’s standing in the corridor, talking on the phone. I promised myself and every friend I told about him that if I ever saw him outside of the bus, I would speak.
“Hey, what’s up?” I say
“Let me call you back,” he says into the phone. “Hey, how are you?”
“I’m good.
“You ride my bus right? Well, used to–I moved.”
I think, “Damn, I ran this morning for nothing,” but say, “Oh really? Where to?”
“The other side of town.”
“I see you like the phone.”
“Well, if I had your number, I would love to talk to you.”
(Omg, this is not happening–Bachelor #2 is asking for my number! Lord, thank you so much for answering my prayers.)
He called that Sunday.
“What are you up to?”
“Studying at Panera. You?”
“I’m tailgating, you should stop by.”
“Okay.”
This is so not me. I hate last minute plans, and I never go with the flow, but I guess I’ll do anything for Bachelor #2...
Tailgating is so much fun–it’s five of his friends, two of whom are his brothers everyone is really friendly, including him. I feel like we have been friends for years. (I’m also sure this is his MO, but I don’t care–I’m smitten!)
After that, we start hanging out–we meet for drinks, movies, basketball games, and it’s moving fast. He comes over (we all know where this is leading), and I have the perfect outfit––black lace bra and lace boy shorts fresh from the VS semi-annual sale. The candles are lit (yes, candles, but not because I’m a romantic; it’s because candles are a great way to make sure men wear condoms without seeming like an after school special.) We start kissing. I can’t believe I’m going to have sex with Bachelor #2! What if I’m not as good as I think? What if he’s not good? What if he’s a sweater? Do I want to do this? This could totally ruin my image of him–he’s so perfect in my head.
“Wait!”
“What‘s wrong, are you okay?”
“Nothing––sorry”
He takes the candle from the night stand. “Stand up; I want to see your outfit.”
(WTF? Okay, I don’t care who you are or what kind of shape you’re in, but having a man ask you to stand up in the bed while he holds a candle to examine your body is a blow to your ego.) So I do what any girl in my situation would have done: I suck in my stomach, stick out my butt, and pout my lips. He loves it. Everything after that moment is effortless. We quickly fall into a routine–24 hours of non-stop contact–breakfast, work, lunch, dinner, movies, sex–then 48 hours of no contact. I love it. It’s the first time in years I’ve truly been okay with “no strings attached.” I don’t ask about other women, and I don’t care. I don’t glance at the screen when his phone rings or assume when my text message indictor comes on that it’s him. I enjoy him when we are together. When we’re not together, I go about my life, which sometimes includes entertaining other people, but I only share myself with him. This continues for another three weeks.
Then, one night–it’s late, 3 a.m..,I just got home–he calls. Since we rarely do the late night thing, I’m alarmed.
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come over?”
“Sure.”
“Just so you know, I’m really drunk.”
(Great. Really drunk like throwing up or just can’t get aroused? Either would annoy me...)
I buzz him up. Turns out, he’s both. After he showers, he talks for hours about his family, and I’m half asleep trying to listen. (This is usually the time when most women say things like “oh, he’s sharing something personal with me–we are growing.” I, on the other hand, don’t want to know. I just want my 24 hours of lust. I’m addicted.)
We sleep most of the morning away. I get breakfast in from the local diner. We spend the rest of the day eating, watching football, and “playing.”
Then it’s getting late. He needs to leave.
“Let’s have sex before I shower.”
We kiss. He seems alarmed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I...I…I… don’t have an erection.”
“Really? (I stutter––I feel a slight blow to my ego--it’s me).
“What’s wrong with me?”
(What’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with me?) “Nothing. We’ve been “playing” all day. It’s fine.”
As I’m reassuring him, he’s staring off into space. I already know I’ve lost him.
He showers and kisses me goodbye. I lay there knowing we will never speak again. He is embarrassed or feeling something I’ll never be able to justify for him. I’m sad, but then a slight grin comes to my face–it’s the same grin I had after my first ½ marathon–painfully exhausted but pleased with the memory of everything it took to get there–all the long days, the endless miles, expectations, and the fear of failure.
My grin turns to a smile; I can’t believe I actually banged Bachelor #2. Victory!
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Reflexes- In the past
It’s raining. I hate the rain. My friends always tell me, “Stop saying you hate everything. Hate is such a strong word.” “But it’s the only word to describe my level of distaste for things,” I usually respond.
While we are on the subject, I’ll name a few other others I hate, in order of irritation.
1. As stated, rain. I hate being wet unless I’m bathing or in a swim suit (even in a swim suit I would rather lay on the beach then get in the water).
2. The 1st snow. This is quite confusing since I live in a city that receives ample snow. Here is the issue: I hate the sound of the snow under my boots after the first snow–that "crunch, crunch, crunch" noise as you walk on the snow–it sounds like you're stepping on water bugs, and it makes my stomach hurt.
3. Animals (sorry). I hate anything that you must take care of for the rest of its life (I’m still on the fence about children). This mostly applies to dogs and cats, but also includes pigeons, squirrels, and fish.
4. Sweating. Anytime I’m hot and I don’t have on workout clothes, I’m annoyed. I keep my air at 60 degrees in the summer whether I’m home or not (What’s the point of working if you have to monitor the thermostat?)
5. Self check out lanes. If I wanted to scan items, punch in coupons, and bag I would work at the supermarket.
6. Waiting. I shop a lot, but I also save a lot because I refuse to stand in line for full price clothing. If it's on sale I feel like the long line is part of the deal, but when I’m paying $75 for a t-shirt I should be granted immediate access to a register.
But I digressed, where was I… oh the rain. What a foolish day to wear khakis. Although they are only khakis, they are still full price Banana Republic khakis that I would hate getting that muddy rainwater that splashes on the back of your lower pants leg on. "I should go back home," I think. I look at my phone. It’s already 8:15a.m. I start work in 15 minutes, and I’m nowhere near the office. I can tell this is going to be a shitty day. I’m at the bus stop and there are only a few characters–no cuties or even remotely stylish people, so I pull out my book. An older woman with a cane is slowly crossing the street. Actually, as she gets closer I see that she is not so old and that the cane is more to support her huge frame. “Move; I want to sit down,” she barks at a punk rocker teen. "Feisty," I think at first, though in general I do think that kids have gotten a little lackadaisical with respecting adults. As she waddles to the bench I find myself slightly staring at her. "I bet she’s married," I think. This is always my first thought when I see someone unattractive, rude, underweight, overweight, or freakishly weird. They always have someone. (Life is so unfair like that!) The bus is approaching and I’m positioning myself in front to get a seat, with teenage punk rocker next, followed by an unattractive woman to the left and a bald guy to the right–semi old, huge, rude lady still sitting on the bench behind us. As the bus nears I’m hoping it’s a man driving (they are more likely to stop in front of women). Jackpot. The doors open, and as I step up with my right leg I feel a sharp pain. “I’m first on the bus,” I hear the semi old, huge, rude lady shout. My leg caves and I feel myself bracing as I’m falling forward toward the bus steps from the impact of her wooden cane against the back of my leg. I black out–well, that’s how I'd explain it. Regardless, 15 seconds are unaccounted for. When I come to, I have the cane in my hand, hovering it in the air above her head, ready to strike. “No, don’t hit her!” screams the unattractive woman. I snap out of my trance– How did I get this cane? I’m furious. If this were a cartoon, steam would be coming out of my ears and mouth. I can’t believe this old cow hit me with a fucking cane! I weigh the pros and cons of killing this lady; pros: revenge is so sweet, cons: I’ve been working so hard on getting into heaven–mass every Sunday, saying my prayers every night, and volunteering on weekends (okay, I’m not currently doing all of that yet, but its on my to-do list, and killing a stranger would definitely be a huge setback). Everyone is waiting on my decision–the bus driver, the unattractive woman, the punk rocker teen, and the bald guy. I decide against it–today is not one of my better days, and I would hate to be on the 6 o'clock news with muddy khakis and puffy rain-hair. Maybe if I'd had on my black pencil skirt, pink and black pinstriped blouse, three inch heels, and a fresh blow-out I would have reconsidered. But as it is, I yell, “Are you crazy? Don’t you ever hit me or anyone else with this damn cane!” and with that I throw the cane in the opposite direction of the bus, across the street. “My cane!” she yells to the bus driver, “She threw my cane! I demand you call the police!” I'm thinking, "You attacked me first, you crazy bitch." “I have to get these people to work,” replies the bus driver with a smirk. “All aboard!” he says. "Wait, don’t leave me," she yells. "Sorry, there will be another bus in 5 minutes," the driver said. I knew this was going to be a shitty day!
While we are on the subject, I’ll name a few other others I hate, in order of irritation.
1. As stated, rain. I hate being wet unless I’m bathing or in a swim suit (even in a swim suit I would rather lay on the beach then get in the water).
2. The 1st snow. This is quite confusing since I live in a city that receives ample snow. Here is the issue: I hate the sound of the snow under my boots after the first snow–that "crunch, crunch, crunch" noise as you walk on the snow–it sounds like you're stepping on water bugs, and it makes my stomach hurt.
3. Animals (sorry). I hate anything that you must take care of for the rest of its life (I’m still on the fence about children). This mostly applies to dogs and cats, but also includes pigeons, squirrels, and fish.
4. Sweating. Anytime I’m hot and I don’t have on workout clothes, I’m annoyed. I keep my air at 60 degrees in the summer whether I’m home or not (What’s the point of working if you have to monitor the thermostat?)
5. Self check out lanes. If I wanted to scan items, punch in coupons, and bag I would work at the supermarket.
6. Waiting. I shop a lot, but I also save a lot because I refuse to stand in line for full price clothing. If it's on sale I feel like the long line is part of the deal, but when I’m paying $75 for a t-shirt I should be granted immediate access to a register.
But I digressed, where was I… oh the rain. What a foolish day to wear khakis. Although they are only khakis, they are still full price Banana Republic khakis that I would hate getting that muddy rainwater that splashes on the back of your lower pants leg on. "I should go back home," I think. I look at my phone. It’s already 8:15a.m. I start work in 15 minutes, and I’m nowhere near the office. I can tell this is going to be a shitty day. I’m at the bus stop and there are only a few characters–no cuties or even remotely stylish people, so I pull out my book. An older woman with a cane is slowly crossing the street. Actually, as she gets closer I see that she is not so old and that the cane is more to support her huge frame. “Move; I want to sit down,” she barks at a punk rocker teen. "Feisty," I think at first, though in general I do think that kids have gotten a little lackadaisical with respecting adults. As she waddles to the bench I find myself slightly staring at her. "I bet she’s married," I think. This is always my first thought when I see someone unattractive, rude, underweight, overweight, or freakishly weird. They always have someone. (Life is so unfair like that!) The bus is approaching and I’m positioning myself in front to get a seat, with teenage punk rocker next, followed by an unattractive woman to the left and a bald guy to the right–semi old, huge, rude lady still sitting on the bench behind us. As the bus nears I’m hoping it’s a man driving (they are more likely to stop in front of women). Jackpot. The doors open, and as I step up with my right leg I feel a sharp pain. “I’m first on the bus,” I hear the semi old, huge, rude lady shout. My leg caves and I feel myself bracing as I’m falling forward toward the bus steps from the impact of her wooden cane against the back of my leg. I black out–well, that’s how I'd explain it. Regardless, 15 seconds are unaccounted for. When I come to, I have the cane in my hand, hovering it in the air above her head, ready to strike. “No, don’t hit her!” screams the unattractive woman. I snap out of my trance– How did I get this cane? I’m furious. If this were a cartoon, steam would be coming out of my ears and mouth. I can’t believe this old cow hit me with a fucking cane! I weigh the pros and cons of killing this lady; pros: revenge is so sweet, cons: I’ve been working so hard on getting into heaven–mass every Sunday, saying my prayers every night, and volunteering on weekends (okay, I’m not currently doing all of that yet, but its on my to-do list, and killing a stranger would definitely be a huge setback). Everyone is waiting on my decision–the bus driver, the unattractive woman, the punk rocker teen, and the bald guy. I decide against it–today is not one of my better days, and I would hate to be on the 6 o'clock news with muddy khakis and puffy rain-hair. Maybe if I'd had on my black pencil skirt, pink and black pinstriped blouse, three inch heels, and a fresh blow-out I would have reconsidered. But as it is, I yell, “Are you crazy? Don’t you ever hit me or anyone else with this damn cane!” and with that I throw the cane in the opposite direction of the bus, across the street. “My cane!” she yells to the bus driver, “She threw my cane! I demand you call the police!” I'm thinking, "You attacked me first, you crazy bitch." “I have to get these people to work,” replies the bus driver with a smirk. “All aboard!” he says. "Wait, don’t leave me," she yells. "Sorry, there will be another bus in 5 minutes," the driver said. I knew this was going to be a shitty day!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Allergies- in the past
I really liked this guy. Okay, so he really liked me. Whatever, it’s all the same. I met him on the way home from work. He looked at me and I sorta looked at him. He asked for my number and I obliged. A perfect meet-cute nonetheless. He was small in stature, but I had given up on only dating men who towered at least 6’1. He was much shorter than that–he said 5’8 which means he was 5’7 because men often lie about their height. I never could understand why–if we meet, I’m positive I’ll recognize that you’re not a staggering 6’3–it’s an unnecessary lie. We chatted and I later came to find that he had been watching me for months–same bus route, small lunch spots, same trains. I was flattered! We dated for 4 weeks, and he was very much into me–he wanted to pick me up from the gym, go to museums on the weekends, and have dinner after work; just what I’m looking for. I could tell he was "lusting" more than I was, but I decided I was on the fence so I told him there would be no sex until I was ready. Plus, we’d only been on 5 dates, so he was only ½ way to my 10-date rule. He agreed. One night, he decided he just needed to see me. I had gone out with my friends and wasn’t able to hang with him.
“I won’t be home until late,” I told him.
“I can spend the night.”
“We are not sleeping together, remember?”
“I know, but I want to see you."
After weighing all the pros and cons of a sleepover (Pros: someone to wake up next to and kiss goodnight; Cons: the dreaded sex fight–you know, the one where all night he’s tugging at your panties trying to convince you that you want it as much as he does, and after hours of tussling he finally goes to bed pissed even though you told him it wasn’t going to happen), I told him
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why? I promise I will behave, I have to see you. I want to see you waking in the morning.”
I thought, "Really, because 4 weeks ago when you didn’t know me you were sleeping without me just fine."
But I caved. Like a man I made up a slumber stipulation––you know how men do; they say things like “I’m playing golf in the morning so I have to get up at 6am” or “Sunday’s I drop my grandmother at mass so we have to be up early." My excuse: running, of course. Everyone knows runners have to get out there before the sun is beating on your back.
“I have to meet my running group at 7am.”
“That’s fine.”
It was midnight before he arrived. I answered the door and he was standing there, smiling, with the largest duffel bag I had ever seen––bigger than any gym bag; big enough to take on a weekend trip skiing in Aspen–it was bursting at the seams with things. He couldn't even zip it up.
“Umm what’s in the bag?”
“Oh, just my sleeping stuff.”
I thought, "Sleeping stuff. Are you gay? I’ve gone home with men with a clutch filled with panties and a toothbrush." Instead, I said “Oh, are you going somewhere when you leave here in the morning?”
“Naw, just home.”
“Ok, so the bag.. What’s in it? “
“Well, my stuff for bed and my stuff for the morning.”
“Stuff like what? You know what, forget it. Let’s go to bed.”
I was so irritated. He went into the bathroom for awhile (washing up I guess) then emerged with matching PJ’s, a clean face, and fresh breath. I was thinking, "Who is this person?" By that point, I was drifting off, breath stinking, face caked with the day’s air, wearing some lounge stuff I just pulled off the shelf–I don't even know if it matched. He pulled the covers back and hopped in the bed, and not a second passed before he started sneezing.
“Hachoo.. Hachoo..HACHOO.."
“Are you ok? "
“Yeah I’m fine. "
“Hachoo.. Ummm, are your pillows down filled?”
“Yes.”
“I’m allergic to down.”
WTF!!! Allergic to down…
“Do you think we can put the pillows on the floor?”
“I don’t care what you do with the pillows on your side of the bed, but I sleep with 3 pillows.”
I should tell you: I hate men who aren’t manly. First, the matching PJ’s, then the 15 minute bitch bath, and now allergies. He continued to sneeze and with each sneeze I became more infuriated. I would rather do the no sex tussle then have someone sneezing all fucking night.
“Maybe you should just go home.”
“No, no. I’m ok. Hachoo!”
I barely slept-he's a cuddlier. Cuddling is fun for the first 10 minutes before you go to bed. I take that back–cuddling is only warranted after you’ve had sex, and only for the first 10 minutes before you drift off. After that, it’s uncomfortable. Sleeping on someone’s arm or having their leg intertwined with yours is not my idea of a good night's sleep.
We awoke. Well, I awoke to him looking at me. It was 6:30 a.m.
“How did you sleep?”
“Ok I guess. “
“So what are your plans today?”
Didn’t we discuss this last night? “I’m getting up in 15 minutes to go run, remember? You?"
“I’m going home.”
“Do you need to use the restroom?”
“YES.”
I fell back asleep. Twenty minutes later, I went to the door.
“Are you okay? “
I cracked the door and saw beauty products sprawled everywhere–Clearasil, toner, moisturizer, lip balm, mouthwash, toothpaste, floss.
“What is all this shit? Where are you going?”
“Home. I told you.”
I’m pissed now. “Can’t you do this at home?”
“I’m not like you; I don’t just roll out.”
“But you’re going home."
He was in the bathroom 4 more minutes–I counted. He came out fully groomed and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. I turned my head. He reached in his bag, looking for something.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I told you I had to run this morning and you’ve been in the bathroom for 30 minutes.”
“Oh, my bad. Let me just apply this cream to my hand. It’s inflamed from the pillows last night."
“Cream?”
“Yeah, my allergy cream––I never leave home without it.”
As he stood in front of me applying hand cream to his rash, I said, “GET OUT! I can’t do this."
“Do what? “
“Do you, this? This is not working.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Can you please just leave?”
“You're overreacting."
As I shut the door, he sneezed again.
"Hachoo!" Allergies...
“I won’t be home until late,” I told him.
“I can spend the night.”
“We are not sleeping together, remember?”
“I know, but I want to see you."
After weighing all the pros and cons of a sleepover (Pros: someone to wake up next to and kiss goodnight; Cons: the dreaded sex fight–you know, the one where all night he’s tugging at your panties trying to convince you that you want it as much as he does, and after hours of tussling he finally goes to bed pissed even though you told him it wasn’t going to happen), I told him
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why? I promise I will behave, I have to see you. I want to see you waking in the morning.”
I thought, "Really, because 4 weeks ago when you didn’t know me you were sleeping without me just fine."
But I caved. Like a man I made up a slumber stipulation––you know how men do; they say things like “I’m playing golf in the morning so I have to get up at 6am” or “Sunday’s I drop my grandmother at mass so we have to be up early." My excuse: running, of course. Everyone knows runners have to get out there before the sun is beating on your back.
“I have to meet my running group at 7am.”
“That’s fine.”
It was midnight before he arrived. I answered the door and he was standing there, smiling, with the largest duffel bag I had ever seen––bigger than any gym bag; big enough to take on a weekend trip skiing in Aspen–it was bursting at the seams with things. He couldn't even zip it up.
“Umm what’s in the bag?”
“Oh, just my sleeping stuff.”
I thought, "Sleeping stuff. Are you gay? I’ve gone home with men with a clutch filled with panties and a toothbrush." Instead, I said “Oh, are you going somewhere when you leave here in the morning?”
“Naw, just home.”
“Ok, so the bag.. What’s in it? “
“Well, my stuff for bed and my stuff for the morning.”
“Stuff like what? You know what, forget it. Let’s go to bed.”
I was so irritated. He went into the bathroom for awhile (washing up I guess) then emerged with matching PJ’s, a clean face, and fresh breath. I was thinking, "Who is this person?" By that point, I was drifting off, breath stinking, face caked with the day’s air, wearing some lounge stuff I just pulled off the shelf–I don't even know if it matched. He pulled the covers back and hopped in the bed, and not a second passed before he started sneezing.
“Hachoo.. Hachoo..HACHOO.."
“Are you ok? "
“Yeah I’m fine. "
“Hachoo.. Ummm, are your pillows down filled?”
“Yes.”
“I’m allergic to down.”
WTF!!! Allergic to down…
“Do you think we can put the pillows on the floor?”
“I don’t care what you do with the pillows on your side of the bed, but I sleep with 3 pillows.”
I should tell you: I hate men who aren’t manly. First, the matching PJ’s, then the 15 minute bitch bath, and now allergies. He continued to sneeze and with each sneeze I became more infuriated. I would rather do the no sex tussle then have someone sneezing all fucking night.
“Maybe you should just go home.”
“No, no. I’m ok. Hachoo!”
I barely slept-he's a cuddlier. Cuddling is fun for the first 10 minutes before you go to bed. I take that back–cuddling is only warranted after you’ve had sex, and only for the first 10 minutes before you drift off. After that, it’s uncomfortable. Sleeping on someone’s arm or having their leg intertwined with yours is not my idea of a good night's sleep.
We awoke. Well, I awoke to him looking at me. It was 6:30 a.m.
“How did you sleep?”
“Ok I guess. “
“So what are your plans today?”
Didn’t we discuss this last night? “I’m getting up in 15 minutes to go run, remember? You?"
“I’m going home.”
“Do you need to use the restroom?”
“YES.”
I fell back asleep. Twenty minutes later, I went to the door.
“Are you okay? “
I cracked the door and saw beauty products sprawled everywhere–Clearasil, toner, moisturizer, lip balm, mouthwash, toothpaste, floss.
“What is all this shit? Where are you going?”
“Home. I told you.”
I’m pissed now. “Can’t you do this at home?”
“I’m not like you; I don’t just roll out.”
“But you’re going home."
He was in the bathroom 4 more minutes–I counted. He came out fully groomed and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. I turned my head. He reached in his bag, looking for something.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I told you I had to run this morning and you’ve been in the bathroom for 30 minutes.”
“Oh, my bad. Let me just apply this cream to my hand. It’s inflamed from the pillows last night."
“Cream?”
“Yeah, my allergy cream––I never leave home without it.”
As he stood in front of me applying hand cream to his rash, I said, “GET OUT! I can’t do this."
“Do what? “
“Do you, this? This is not working.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Can you please just leave?”
“You're overreacting."
As I shut the door, he sneezed again.
"Hachoo!" Allergies...
Sunday, March 15, 2009
The Feather- in the present
When I was a child there was a woman on my grandmother’s block that always kept male company. I recall her being an attractive woman even for her age. She had a decent figure–broad hips, small waist–definitely curvy by anyone’s standards. My grandmother would tell my aunt's boyfriends to stay away from the “loose woman,” as she called her. One day I saw my aunt’s boyfriend laughing and chatting with the woman in question at the end of the block. There was this empty lot there that you could cut through by hopping a small fence to get to the corner store. It saved you a block’s walk at least. (Now I’m starting to see where my laziness came from) My aunt's boyfriend was a police officer–a nice guy then, but knowing what I know now, he was a pervert and probably looked at me and my other cousin in ways that was not appropriate. I told my grandmother that I saw him talking with the woman and that they seemed very friendly. My grandmother immediately told my aunt to watch the relationship. A few months later he stopped coming over, but I always saw him whenever I went to the store, laughing and talking to the lady. I remember telling my grandmother,
“I saw him again with her”
“I’m sure it’s too late now. He already knows about the feather. “
I had to be maybe 12 or so when this happened. I never knew what "the feather" was. Over the years I would hear my mother or aunts make reference to "feathers" belonging to them or other ladies, and they would all erupt into laughter. It wasn’t until much later in my adult life that I found out what all this meant.
Fast forward: My friend and I were going to Target the other day. She has a lot of dating tales, so any outings with her are filled with some story or another. She’s actually a private person but if she lets you in she will share and tell you the world. I love people like that––not shy or inhibited once they know you. She’s one of those friends you can not talk to for months and get back together like you never lost touch. So of course I asked her if there was a man in her life.
“Oh, did I tell you about Mr. Man?”
“No, who is he?”
“You know the one that has the kids.”
"Oh yeah. You're still doing that––I thought you didn’t do men with kids?”
"I know––that's part of where this huge fight came from.”
She went on to tell me how she had called him after having had a horrible day at work when she just needed someone to talk to; someone to vent to. He half listened for a bit and said “Let me call you right back––I’m taking the kids to practice.” She responded, “No, I really need to talk.” “Ok," he said, "but I’ll call you back.” As it turned out, he did call her back, but it was hours later and by then she was pissed. (Let me stop here and tell you that when my friend is pissed, all bets are off. She’s one of those people that doesn't know how to argue with the opposite sex––I have a guy friend like this too. They say things that are often below the belt and, to most people, unforgivable.) She told him that the relationship was not going to work. She was tired of playing second fiddle to his children. The conversation went like this:
“I need to be #1 in your life sometimes," she told him.
“My kids come first––you should applaud me and every man who is a good father.”
“I don’t have children, and I’m not impressed––you don't get brownie points for doing what you’re supposed to do. Maybe if I were a mother, I would find your parenting redeeming, but I’m not, so I don’t care what you do for them. I need someone that does for me. “
“Well luckily God has not blessed you with a child because you would not be a fit mother.”
He continues after some thought,” God has also punished you by making you dependent on medication to control your breathing” (she suffers from asthma).
And that was what it took to ignite her. She responded: “If your cripple mother" (she has multiple sclerosis) can be a mother, surely I can.”
And then the line was silent.
I interjected, shocked: “You did not––you did not say that!”
“Yes, I did. I was pissed. “
“You can’t talk about people’s mothers!”
“He stabbed first.”
“He talked about you––your health, not your mother's. I can’t believe you.”
“Well, he took off the gloves first.” She continued to relay the conversation to me.
“You spend your days trafficking around your talentless ass kids and that so-called basketball star of yours can barely control the dribble out of his mouth, let alone the dribble of a basketball.” And at that, the conversation ended.
“You said WHAT," I said, shocked. “You know you will have to justify those comments to a higher being one day...”
She laughed and we split up, shopping for different things. Before I knew it, 30 minutes or so had passed, and I couldn't stop thinking about her words. They hurt my feelings, so I knew Mr. Man had to be hurt. I found her again in the toiletries aisle. She was searching her flawless Chanel bag.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, looking for my phone, I need to see if Mr. Man uses Magnums or Trojans.”
(WTF!!!) “He’s speaking to you? “
“Oh yeah––he called later and said that he thought about what had transpired and that he realized I must have really felt alone during my time of need. We admitted we'd both said things we didn't mean..."
(Ummm you called his mother a "cripple"...)
"...and that he was sorry and wanted to talk in person. “
My mouth was open, but then it came to me: some women have special powers that allow men to experience something that they will never experience again sexually. It’s like a drug addiction––once known, they spend their days on earth searching for the lady at the end of the block. So now I know my friend is one of them; she has a fucking feather down there!
“I saw him again with her”
“I’m sure it’s too late now. He already knows about the feather. “
I had to be maybe 12 or so when this happened. I never knew what "the feather" was. Over the years I would hear my mother or aunts make reference to "feathers" belonging to them or other ladies, and they would all erupt into laughter. It wasn’t until much later in my adult life that I found out what all this meant.
Fast forward: My friend and I were going to Target the other day. She has a lot of dating tales, so any outings with her are filled with some story or another. She’s actually a private person but if she lets you in she will share and tell you the world. I love people like that––not shy or inhibited once they know you. She’s one of those friends you can not talk to for months and get back together like you never lost touch. So of course I asked her if there was a man in her life.
“Oh, did I tell you about Mr. Man?”
“No, who is he?”
“You know the one that has the kids.”
"Oh yeah. You're still doing that––I thought you didn’t do men with kids?”
"I know––that's part of where this huge fight came from.”
She went on to tell me how she had called him after having had a horrible day at work when she just needed someone to talk to; someone to vent to. He half listened for a bit and said “Let me call you right back––I’m taking the kids to practice.” She responded, “No, I really need to talk.” “Ok," he said, "but I’ll call you back.” As it turned out, he did call her back, but it was hours later and by then she was pissed. (Let me stop here and tell you that when my friend is pissed, all bets are off. She’s one of those people that doesn't know how to argue with the opposite sex––I have a guy friend like this too. They say things that are often below the belt and, to most people, unforgivable.) She told him that the relationship was not going to work. She was tired of playing second fiddle to his children. The conversation went like this:
“I need to be #1 in your life sometimes," she told him.
“My kids come first––you should applaud me and every man who is a good father.”
“I don’t have children, and I’m not impressed––you don't get brownie points for doing what you’re supposed to do. Maybe if I were a mother, I would find your parenting redeeming, but I’m not, so I don’t care what you do for them. I need someone that does for me. “
“Well luckily God has not blessed you with a child because you would not be a fit mother.”
He continues after some thought,” God has also punished you by making you dependent on medication to control your breathing” (she suffers from asthma).
And that was what it took to ignite her. She responded: “If your cripple mother" (she has multiple sclerosis) can be a mother, surely I can.”
And then the line was silent.
I interjected, shocked: “You did not––you did not say that!”
“Yes, I did. I was pissed. “
“You can’t talk about people’s mothers!”
“He stabbed first.”
“He talked about you––your health, not your mother's. I can’t believe you.”
“Well, he took off the gloves first.” She continued to relay the conversation to me.
“You spend your days trafficking around your talentless ass kids and that so-called basketball star of yours can barely control the dribble out of his mouth, let alone the dribble of a basketball.” And at that, the conversation ended.
“You said WHAT," I said, shocked. “You know you will have to justify those comments to a higher being one day...”
She laughed and we split up, shopping for different things. Before I knew it, 30 minutes or so had passed, and I couldn't stop thinking about her words. They hurt my feelings, so I knew Mr. Man had to be hurt. I found her again in the toiletries aisle. She was searching her flawless Chanel bag.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, looking for my phone, I need to see if Mr. Man uses Magnums or Trojans.”
(WTF!!!) “He’s speaking to you? “
“Oh yeah––he called later and said that he thought about what had transpired and that he realized I must have really felt alone during my time of need. We admitted we'd both said things we didn't mean..."
(Ummm you called his mother a "cripple"...)
"...and that he was sorry and wanted to talk in person. “
My mouth was open, but then it came to me: some women have special powers that allow men to experience something that they will never experience again sexually. It’s like a drug addiction––once known, they spend their days on earth searching for the lady at the end of the block. So now I know my friend is one of them; she has a fucking feather down there!
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