Archive | February, 2012

Pretty Sure

25 Feb

The nervous laugh from my mother when she sees I’m buying water glasses with bunnies on them translates to, “You’re never giving me grandchildren, are you?”

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Girls Like Me

23 Feb

It’s been suggested to me that my choosing skills are a little lacking, particularly when it comes to dating. I understand the concern, friends, family, and licensed therapists. I do. I mean, in the past two years I have kept company with:

Hobo Mark, who is now hiding from the DEA living in Florida and left Michigan with nothing but a phone call.

Hobo Nick, who ended up being a level of homeless that I couldn’t accept, plus he owned a guitar and looked exactly like my ex-husband.

A carpenter from Kalamazoo who grows his own marijuana and looks so good without a shirt on I can barely stand it but tends to disappear for about a month or so between dates.

And a whole other cast of characters that includes a redhead with a lisp but killer sleeves.

Between them these men claim more abortions, children out of wedlock, “crazy” ex-girlfriends/wives, drug problems, and arrest records than a small mining town.

And I fucking adored every one of them, to varying degrees. I’m drawn to men like this, not because I think “bad boys” are sexy (who am I, Blossom?) but because these men will never think I’m strange. These men will never look at me as an experience to have before getting married to someone less colorful. And look, I’m not glamorizing myself as a Girl, Interrupted or whatever, but I’ve got my flaws. I’ve got my foibles.

At the behest of my therapist I just went out on 7 (she encouraged 10, but fuck, guys) dates with a very normal guy. No tattoos, no drug problems, no arrest record, has an education, car,  job. The whole nine.  He picked me up for most of my dates, paid for my pinot noir. Oh, and made fun of my tattoos, weed stash, and sexual appetite. I don’t know what it is about wearing a polo shirt that makes men think they can talk down to me, but it is magical. I mean, we didn’t even get to all the weird but ultimately lovable things about me like my night terrors and pathological fear of bats. And so tonight I broke things off and neither one of us seemed very disappointed. I wish I could lock down some kind of moral to the story. I just know that those other guys, the ones with spotty histories and empty wallets, never made me feel cheap.

I Am So Sorry

15 Feb

I did not know you were in me, even though I craved orange juice and salmon for weeks. I only met you, in pieces, when it became clear that something was very, very wrong. In the weeks leading up to it, I had my suspicions. The tests kept coming back negative and with each single line, I drank so much. I did and did not want you to be.

When you left my body, we were driving to Grand Rapids from my parent’s house. I remember the deep twinges inside me as we drove. I tried to sleep. And when rest was not an option in the hospital, I curled up in a ball all by my lonesome. Your father left me there by myself.

They weren’t sure what to call you at the hospital, but I knew.

I dreamed of you last night, of my big belly and the burning of you coming into the world. I woke up alone and I missed you and I sobbed in an ugly way.

I am so sorry that  I didn’t take good care of you. I am so sorry we didn’t love you enough to make you live. And sweet, sweet baby, please know that I am so glad you were never born. I am so glad I never got to disappoint you.

Just Once

11 Feb

I am not a badass. I have been known to do some badass things in my life (see: lighting ex-husband on fire) but ultimately I am a kind person. I want the people around me to be happy and, depending on their level of cuteness and number of tattoos, I want them to like me and pet my hair. It’s awful. It’s awful because people are careless and also because my mother is a bad ass. She is the baddest of asses and that’s how she raised me to be.

She has a philosophy that I have tried to adopt as my own. It’s called “just once.”

 If anyone was ever a bit too sassy with my mother, she would look at him and say, “Just once.” As in, you get to hurt me once and then you will never have the chance to do it again.

Certainly there are people who have hurt her more than once – she has been married for 40 years, so – but she has drastically cut down on the bullshit and heartache in her life through this policy.

In my own marriage, I said “Just once, motherfucker” until it was…just over. I am slowly getting better at putting my foot down, limiting the number of times a careless person has access to me. It is not easy. I so desperately want to believe that people are good. They are not.

The More Things Change

6 Feb

When I was a little girl, my father smelled of gasoline, starlight mints, Basic Lights, and cold air. These smells were pleasantly trapped in his hooded sweatshirts and t-shirts and when I hugged him, I was cloaked in that mixture. Because I love him so goddamn much (and because I was a child), I thought that all men smelled this way.

When I began keeping the company of other men, I discovered that they did not smell like my father. One in particular smelled like clove cigarettes and old books.

My ex-husband smelled like peach pie and Old Spice deodarant. I adored the way he smelled so much that I sniffed at his armpits when we were in bed. Because I loved him so goddamn much (and because I was a child), I thought I would never smell another man.

Reader, I was wrong. And lo these years later, after I have smelled new men and more, part of me is still shocked (!) that I am not with him. That it isn’t his body wrapped around mine, his taste on my tongue.

I don’t love him anymore. I feel no electricity between him and me in those rare and uncomfortable occasions that we see each other. I don’t want to be his wife (or his dog) anymore. But I still expect him and that, Daisy, is fucked up.