Archive | December, 2011

A Nice Girl

28 Dec

Of all the bullshit lines I’ve heard from men in my lifetime, my least favorite is, “You’re too nice to date me.”

I hate this more than “I want a divorce” and “I’m homeless” or even “I only have three-way sex.”

I was too nice when I was 18 and a virgin. I’m too nice even now that I’m not 18 and not a virgin. Ten years later, and I’m still hearing it. You’re too nice because you wore white on your wedding day and don’t do drugs and don’t have any diseases. You’re too nice because you work hard and make pie.

When a man says this, what is my recourse? Should I say I’m not a nice girl? I’m not even a girl and largely, I am not nice. But I am good, and I do work hard. If I convince them that I’m not too nice, then suddenly I am not nice enough and he doesn’t want me that way, either. Maybe the jist of it is, he didn’t want me to begin with.

The next time a man says, “You’re too nice for me,” I’m just going to say, “You’re right. I am.” And spin on my heel, and walk away.

On This Day

27 Dec

I would be celebrating the birth of my ex-husband. If we were still married.

He keeps a running list of things he wants in his wallet, so I would pick something from the list and wrap it in birthday paper – never Christmas. I liked to make a clamor for his birthday. One year, I bought a keg of rootbeer and 12 fifths of vanilla vodka, and we invited the world over to have a party. We had sticky floors for months.

I am not sad that I don’t get to celebrate him today. I’m just sad.

Memory

21 Dec

I am six years old and it is summer. The Older Sister and I are in swimming lessons. We get home from the lesson and our mother makes us lunch. We argued over what kind of hamburger helper to have—I wanted lasagna, not cheeseburger, because I don’t like cheese. (Note: lasagna hamburger helper totally has cheese on it, which Older Sister pointed out more than once.)

I must have swallowed a lot of water at our lesson because halfway through lunch I feel a bit queasy. Older Sister encourages me to finish my lunch, and I try. Oh, I try. And then I puke up all of it – the chlorine and the helpful meal. 

My mother lays me down in their bedroom to let me sleep it off. I wake up in the afternoon under a white chenille bedspread. A box fan is blowing on me and my nausea is gone. I can hear my sisters playing outside and see the sun coming in through the windows, and it is the most perfect I have ever felt in my life.

 

 

Come Back To Me

19 Dec

Barack Obama e-mailed me today and told me that the last of the troops have left Iraq. For all intents and purposes, the war in Iraq is over. I am adhering to my policy that, as someone who has not been to war, I do not comment on war.

The Little Sister does get to comment. This is what she said.

I feel good about it. It was unnecessary, always. I remember the day war was declared in Iraq. I was high in April’s living room. I remember meeting Sergeant Jennings—he was my husband’s recruiter. He was there, in Iraq, the day war was declared.

I remember the day I sent my husband to Iraq, to war. All I could say to him was, “Come back to me.”

I know every cross street in Iraq, and I won’t forget. Ever

Today, I know that he won’t be there ever again.

That is all anyone needs to know, I think.

That Sounds Like A Really Boring Story

18 Dec

I work a part-time job at a Big Box Retail Store. This time of year is, in the U.S. at least, the shittiest time to work retail. It’s like the county fair—people come out of the goddamn woodwork. People who call going shopping “going to town” and maybe, let’s say, they clip their nails in front of you while you explain that there is no such thing as a 5 gallon crockpot.

What’s worse than the hilljacks are the people that take Xmas shopping Very Seriously. I had to break it to an adult grown woman the other day that we didn’t have the Tinkerbell blanket she wanted and her words, precisely, were, “Well, that’s just the story of my life.”

That sounds like a pretty fucking boring story, lady. Get a hold of yourself, would you? You are defining the entirety of your life as the moment you couldn’t charge a rayon blanket made in China on your credit card.

I try not to make heavy-handed statements like that. I had a co-worker recently say, “I’ve been through shit” to me and honestly, guys? I wanted to break her nose.

I know we’re all keeping calm and carrying on, fighting our own personal battles, etc. But that’s just it, you guys. It’s personal. I would never dream of saying that out loud, and particularly not at work.

I do believe very deeply in the Internet Overshare, though, so I’ll say this. I am lucky. I was born a white woman in the first world. No one has ever tried to carve up my vagina and I have received health care, education, and general safety my entire life. I also grew up in poverty and other unpleasant situations. Statistically, I have every reason to be an addict, an abuser, abused.

I had the choice to get up and walk out the backdoor of my childhood. I made a choice not to do that. And each day, I make a choice to be better than the things I cannot control. I to go to my two jobs. I tend to my broken heart. And I am endlessly thrilled that I have those opportunities. Because I know what the alternative is. Awful, bizarre things have happened to me and will continue to happen to me, because of me, around me, whatever. But the fact remains that I am fortunate.

And if there’s a day that I cannot, just cannot, be grateful? I’m certainly going to keep my mouth shut until that day ends and surely I will greet the next day with a joyful heart.

Things You Probably Shouldn’t Know About Me

16 Dec

My personal brand of PMS involves a lot of Taco Bell and cry-singing to this song.

Things You Should Know About Me

5 Dec

I think ordering hot chocolate is a greater dating folly than being homeless.

See also: why I am keeping myself behind locked doors. Indefinitely.