I once had a friend who didn’t believe in love. “Love is nothing more than the state of being incredibly comfortable with someone.” Being a die-hard romantic, I didn’t believe him—or should I say, I didn’t understand him—at the time. Love is intense. Love is all-encompassing. Love is the idea of not being able to live without one another. My all-time favorite movie quote, from one of my all-time favorite movies, When Harry Met Sally, is “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” Now that is love—running through the streets of New York City at eleven fifty on New Year’s Eve to profess your feelings to the just-realized love of your life. So when I heard his theory, I simply couldn’t accept the idea that love was nothing more than being comfortable. However, as I delve ever deeper and deeper into my relationship with my husband, my concept of love is gradually shifting from the can’t-live-without-you notion to the comfortable notion.
On those days (weeks) when he’s driving me absolutely crazy, when I feel underappreciated, when it’s all I can do to not punch him in the face, I think about how much easier life would be if I were single. Oh, the things I could do! I wouldn’t have to clean up after him all the time—picking up dirty socks from every corner of the house, always doing the dishes (or redoing the dishes because he loaded the dishwasher wrong or forgot that sometimes you have to clean the outside of a pot, too), gathering chocolate milk glasses from both of the tables and the floor of the living room, constantly fluffing and rehanging the hand towel in the bathroom since apparently it’s difficult for him to dry his hands while the towel is neatly folded on the hanger. I could watch whatever I wanted, instead of flipping between episodes of North to Alaska and Gun It With Benny Spies and Deadliest Catch. I wouldn’t be updated on the fishing report every Saturday morning via Outdoor GPS on Comcast SportNet. I could go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I could go on a vacation without having to worry about being gone too long, knowing that he doesn’t sleep (even more so than usual) when I’m not there. I could make a date with my girlfriends without having to double check on his plans, only to get a text halfway into my mojito: Where are you? When are you going to be home? Your son is being a brat.
Despite his drawbacks, there are some fabulous things about my husband. It’s certainly not that he’s perfect—far from it, as am I. But, thus far, we’ve been perfect for each other. We have the same essential political, philosophical, and spiritual views. We both have an incredibly sarcastic sense of humor, spending most of our time bickering and name-calling, but always with a sense of love. We both like our me-time. He’ll plan a five-day hunting trip, and while his friends’ wives are complaining about their husbands being gone so long and asking why they can’t just do the trip in three days, I’m making plans for a girls’ night out, a girls’ night in, and a night of staying up too late writing and watching Lifetime Television For Women. I’ll eat shellfish every night, since he’s allergic to it and I never cook it at home, and wolf down the entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie in one sitting. Five days of not having to entertain and clean up after and feed my husband. He comes back and we’re both refreshed. He and I are both homebodies, preferring to stay in and rent a movie On-Demand. Although he’s quite sensitive and in touch with his feminine-side—he is usually the one to initiate a conversation about our feelings, cries at movies and during every episode of A Baby Story and lets our son paint his toenails—ultimately he is a man’s man. He knows how to fix a clogged toilet and an electric short and can open a jar of pickles. He hunts and fishes and keeps our freezer full of meat. And I like that because those are all things I can’t do and have no desire to learn about. He dresses and looks like a man. His attire consists of a jeans, a graphic tee—his favorites being Rocky, Tom and Jerry, and a brown one with some kind of fish logo on it—a baseball cap, and depending on the weather, either New Balance tennis shoes, ropers, or a pair of slippers that look close enough to real shoes he thinks it’s okay to wear them outdoors and in public. He shaves occasionally, maybe weekly, and if I ask nicely, for special events. But I like that. I don’t want a man who waxes and tans and plucks. I want a man’s man. If I wanted to be with someone girly, I’d be a lesbian (a line partially stolen from my gay friend Robert, who used to complain about drag queens and transvestites, stating that if he wanted to sleep with someone in a dress he wouldn’t be gay).
But as much as I love my husband, as much as we do fit together, as much as the things about him that drive me crazy really aren’t that bad, the real reason I don’t want to leave my husband is that I’m just too damn comfortable. I don’t want to start over. I think back about all my old boyfriends and the one significant thing that separates them from my husband is the level of comfort. We may have had things in common, had a physical attraction to one another, enjoyed each other’s company, but when it came down to it, I was never completely comfortable being myself. Of course, that thought continues on, and I think about how I wouldn’t want to be single forever. I like having someone else around, like waking up with someone, like having someone to eat dinner with. Although I certainly enjoy having some time to myself, being a part of a couple is a nice feeling. It makes me feel safe, all warm and fuzzy. But I’m fairly good looking, pretty smart, have a reasonably good personality. With a wax, a pair of Spanx, and some good concealer, I could get myself a new man. I could experience that first-date, first-kiss feeling once again, the butterflies in the stomach, the check-ins with girlfriends So this is what he said…What do you think that means? Does he like me, like, like-like me? Or is he just trying to get in my pants? Maybe he'd send me flowers to work, or actually buy me a birthday present. So I think about starting over, finding someone who appreciates me, someone who’s around more often, someone who knows how to clean a bathroom, someone who knows what he’s doing with his life, someone who can easily answer the question “So, what do you do?”
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
What Not to Date (four)
In the eighth grade, I had my shortest relationship ever. Kach Morales—thirty-nine hours. Kach and I had had an on-again-off-again-but-never-really-together relationship for about two years. He was a year older than me, and the cousin of one of my good friends, Sam Morales. In seventh grade, I had my chance with Kach, but in an instance of middle school miscommunication (as in not telling someone you like him/her “that way” when you talk on the phone every night) I went out with Aaron Butler instead, and he went out with Laurie Anderson. That year, Kach wrote me the first note I ever got from a boy. I can still vividly remember reading it while sitting in Mr. Johnson’s Life Science class after lunch, when he’d secretly handed it to me, folded in eighths, with my name and “Don’t show Noone” written on front.
Michelle,
So what’s up nothing here. Are you still going out with Aaron? Are you going to get Aaron something for Valentines? Who do you like? Do you like anyone else besides Aaron? because I still like you a lot. I was going to ask if we wanted to see each other and go somewhere + If it went good I was probably going to ask you out, but Aaron asked you out. But remember this I still like you a lot. Last night I said “I don’t care” because I did care I didn’t want you to go out with Aaron because I liked you. Better go bell’s going to ring. Write me back! (Today)
Love Always,
Kach Morales
P.S. I might still get you something for Valentine’s.
He did get me something for Valentine’s, although after much debate, I got something for Aaron instead of him (my mom, of course, tried to explain that if I was contemplating who to get something for Valentine’s Day for, perhaps I should reconsider who I was going out with. And I, like most twelve-year-old girls, didn’t heed her advice). Had I been smart, I would have broken up with Aaron directly upon reading this incredibly sweet note, saving myself both a month of Aaron, and four months of (not talking to) Tony. Instead, I stuck it out, and after Aaron, I moved on to Tony. Kach and I never moved past really good friends.
The next year, he went on to high school, but for a while we continued to talk on the phone at least a couple nights a week. Finally, finally, he asked me out. I called him the next day. He answered but said he was on the phone with Sam and that he’d call me back later. He never did. The next day I talked to Sam, who said he had hadn’t talked to Kach the night before. I called him after school, where he then told me he just didn’t think it would work out for us to go out since he was in high school and I was still in middle school. When would we even see each other? We continued to be friends throughout high school, going through phases of intense best-friendness, and not talking to each other for months. Over the years, we took a couple more stabs at it. The summer before my junior year we enjoyed a six-week “friends with benefits” session—which included both the traditional sense of the term, and him providing me with free food from the fast-food restaurant he worked at. Then during the school year, at a party at my house, we kissed. I was however, as I was in seventh grade, going out with someone else. And, again, as in seventh grade, I should have dumped that one and tried with Kach. But I didn’t. But we each knew if we ever really needed anything, the other would be there, and that sense of true, but not consistent, friendship lasted until I moved.
Michelle,
So what’s up nothing here. Are you still going out with Aaron? Are you going to get Aaron something for Valentines? Who do you like? Do you like anyone else besides Aaron? because I still like you a lot. I was going to ask if we wanted to see each other and go somewhere + If it went good I was probably going to ask you out, but Aaron asked you out. But remember this I still like you a lot. Last night I said “I don’t care” because I did care I didn’t want you to go out with Aaron because I liked you. Better go bell’s going to ring. Write me back! (Today)
Love Always,
Kach Morales
P.S. I might still get you something for Valentine’s.
He did get me something for Valentine’s, although after much debate, I got something for Aaron instead of him (my mom, of course, tried to explain that if I was contemplating who to get something for Valentine’s Day for, perhaps I should reconsider who I was going out with. And I, like most twelve-year-old girls, didn’t heed her advice). Had I been smart, I would have broken up with Aaron directly upon reading this incredibly sweet note, saving myself both a month of Aaron, and four months of (not talking to) Tony. Instead, I stuck it out, and after Aaron, I moved on to Tony. Kach and I never moved past really good friends.
The next year, he went on to high school, but for a while we continued to talk on the phone at least a couple nights a week. Finally, finally, he asked me out. I called him the next day. He answered but said he was on the phone with Sam and that he’d call me back later. He never did. The next day I talked to Sam, who said he had hadn’t talked to Kach the night before. I called him after school, where he then told me he just didn’t think it would work out for us to go out since he was in high school and I was still in middle school. When would we even see each other? We continued to be friends throughout high school, going through phases of intense best-friendness, and not talking to each other for months. Over the years, we took a couple more stabs at it. The summer before my junior year we enjoyed a six-week “friends with benefits” session—which included both the traditional sense of the term, and him providing me with free food from the fast-food restaurant he worked at. Then during the school year, at a party at my house, we kissed. I was however, as I was in seventh grade, going out with someone else. And, again, as in seventh grade, I should have dumped that one and tried with Kach. But I didn’t. But we each knew if we ever really needed anything, the other would be there, and that sense of true, but not consistent, friendship lasted until I moved.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
State of Adolesence (two)
One of the things that helps us make it through hard times is knowing that it’s only going to last a short while. The “This too shall pass” concept. Middle school is only going to last three years. High school is only going to last four years. College is only going to last five (seven, eight) years. We go in, do our time and it’s over. We graduate and move on into the “real world.” The pettiness, the gossip, the backstabbing, the cliques—they’ll all end when high school ends. But the thing is, they don’t. They say once and addict, always an addict. I say once an adolescent, always an adolescent. Once the self-conscious state of puberty kicks in, it never goes away. High school continues throughout your life. How many times since you graduated have you said, “It was just like high school”? That’s because life is a continuous cycle of high school, and our mindset takes a lot longer than expected to outgrow that awkward, insecure state of adolescence. Some people were lucky, and this insecurity never really started. They were confident through school, sure of themselves, immune to the frivolous banter and rumors, easily made friends with everyone. And nowadays, they’re still like that. But those folks are few and far between, and most of us are still just as scared and self-loathing as we were ten, fifteen, twenty, years ago. . For most of us, life is just a constant state of adolescence.
A huge part of adolescence is the cliques. Yet since then, every job I’ve worked at has been at least partially divided into cliques. Cooks, servers, busboys, and bartenders, although they may occasionally hang out together, are definitely in a class system. Nordstrom is divided into cliques, mainly through departments. There are popular groups, nerdy groups, leadership groups, alternative groups. Obviously, Savvy and TBD are the cool uperclassmen. BP are like the cool freshmen and sophomores. Shoes is the popular group that is above being popular. Customer service and human resources are your leadership group. And I don’t even have to tell you where housekeeping, maintenance, and the stockpeople fit into that equation.
But if you really want to see a replica of adolescent cliques in adults, you don’t even have to leave the high school. The teachers are involved in a class system as intricate and vital as the students. There are the jocks, the preps, the nerds, the leadership crew. Often they’re divided up by department. Just like with the students, there’s some overlapping, but overall, the lines are clear. Of course, health and PE teachers make up most of the jocks, the science teachers are nerds, and the English teachers are hippies, and the social studies teachers are leadership. For three years, I taught at a public high school. I sat in the staff lounge (not that five tables in a monotone beige room with two microwaves and a broken computer constitutes a lounge, but that’s what you get at a public school) for lunch most every day. Five teachers sat at the corner table—Mike Rogers, PE; Linda Fisher, PE; Kevin Gibson, varsity boys’ basketball coach; Mark Webb, varsity boy’s baseball coach; and Kathy Knight, math. How Mrs.Knight, having no sports affiliation whatsoever, was accepted to the table, I do not know. Just like with my group of girlfriends in middle and high school, if one was missing, everyone at their table knew where they were. “Where’s Mike,” an outsider would ask. “Oh, he’s helping out some students in the gym today.” “Oh, Kathy? She took a long weekend to go see the new grandbaby. She is just so excited about that little one.” They of course were friendly and talked with those of us at other tables if the conversation was right, but no one else ever sat at that table. You just didn’t. I’m sure if I had one day sat at their table, they wouldn’t have kicked me out. But they, along with everyone else in the room, would have looked at me funny. For the most part, I sat a table with the same two or three other people as well. Occasionally, one of us would sit elsewhere, or someone would join our table—in high school, teachers don’t always get to eat lunch, and most of them do it in their rooms while grading papers or preparing lessons. But no one else ever sat at the jock table, and not one of them ever sat anywhere else. Ever.
Eventually you find your clique. You establish a group of friends—comprised of those you’ve gathered along the way from middle school, high school, college, and jobs—and you build up a level of comfort, stability, and self-confidence. But in the meantime, those same odd feelings from middle school, high school, college, all come flooding back, and you're insecure, and scared, and jealous. Your friends are finding real jobs, are moving up in the world, are finding $1800 a month apartments in Washington DC and sipping red wine on their balconies after spending the day at the farmer’s and artist’s market. But you tell yourself, things will be different, things will change, when I get married and have a family. And they do. But not the way you'd thought. Those feelings are still there. While you're at home, coaxing a two-year-old to sleep, cuddling up in his toddler bed, singing “You Are My Sunshine,” your friends are gallivanting around Europe, or going to 11 o’clock shows at Slabtown, because you're only young once you know. So again, there it is. That indecision. That jealously. That fleeting though, did I choose the right path? Am I doing what I really want to do? I'm jealous of the friend with a steady job, a handsome husband, three beautiful kids and an amazing Pottery Barn House. Yet I'm jealous of the single bar-hopping-Europe-traveling friend. And here I am stuck in the middle. Thirty-something, and still unsure. In high school, I thought by now I'd have it together. I'd know what I was doing. I'd know what I wanted and I'd have it.
In high school, I had my ten-year plan mapped out: I was going to go to college—community college for two years (not four), and then transfer to a university to finish the last two years (not three). The summer after graduation (not two springs before), I’d get married and get a job teaching middle or high school Language Arts (accomplished one goal!). I’d work for two years (not one month) then get pregnant and have the baby the summer after my third year teaching (not the spring of my first year). Two years later (not four), I’d do it again, then in another two and another two—for a total of four kids. I’d continue teaching (not get laid off)—maybe full-time, maybe part-time—and in the summers, my family and I would operate an Ice Cream Truck company (not work retail, only to inadvertently spend the entire pay check on “sensible flats” and mom jeans that fit my increasingly large ass). I knew then that I wanted to be a teacher, to have a big family. Even now, with some of that accomplished, I still second-guess myself, thinking, This isn’t quite what I’d imagined…
The truth is, life is all high school—the insecurities, the cliques, the jealousy, the “What do I want to do when I grow up.” Adolescence isn't a period from age eleven to seventeen. It's your whole fucking life. And like they told us back then, Suck It Up, Learn From It, One Day You’ll Look Back At This And Laugh, and Get Ready for the Real World—whenever it may arrive.
A huge part of adolescence is the cliques. Yet since then, every job I’ve worked at has been at least partially divided into cliques. Cooks, servers, busboys, and bartenders, although they may occasionally hang out together, are definitely in a class system. Nordstrom is divided into cliques, mainly through departments. There are popular groups, nerdy groups, leadership groups, alternative groups. Obviously, Savvy and TBD are the cool uperclassmen. BP are like the cool freshmen and sophomores. Shoes is the popular group that is above being popular. Customer service and human resources are your leadership group. And I don’t even have to tell you where housekeeping, maintenance, and the stockpeople fit into that equation.
But if you really want to see a replica of adolescent cliques in adults, you don’t even have to leave the high school. The teachers are involved in a class system as intricate and vital as the students. There are the jocks, the preps, the nerds, the leadership crew. Often they’re divided up by department. Just like with the students, there’s some overlapping, but overall, the lines are clear. Of course, health and PE teachers make up most of the jocks, the science teachers are nerds, and the English teachers are hippies, and the social studies teachers are leadership. For three years, I taught at a public high school. I sat in the staff lounge (not that five tables in a monotone beige room with two microwaves and a broken computer constitutes a lounge, but that’s what you get at a public school) for lunch most every day. Five teachers sat at the corner table—Mike Rogers, PE; Linda Fisher, PE; Kevin Gibson, varsity boys’ basketball coach; Mark Webb, varsity boy’s baseball coach; and Kathy Knight, math. How Mrs.Knight, having no sports affiliation whatsoever, was accepted to the table, I do not know. Just like with my group of girlfriends in middle and high school, if one was missing, everyone at their table knew where they were. “Where’s Mike,” an outsider would ask. “Oh, he’s helping out some students in the gym today.” “Oh, Kathy? She took a long weekend to go see the new grandbaby. She is just so excited about that little one.” They of course were friendly and talked with those of us at other tables if the conversation was right, but no one else ever sat at that table. You just didn’t. I’m sure if I had one day sat at their table, they wouldn’t have kicked me out. But they, along with everyone else in the room, would have looked at me funny. For the most part, I sat a table with the same two or three other people as well. Occasionally, one of us would sit elsewhere, or someone would join our table—in high school, teachers don’t always get to eat lunch, and most of them do it in their rooms while grading papers or preparing lessons. But no one else ever sat at the jock table, and not one of them ever sat anywhere else. Ever.
Eventually you find your clique. You establish a group of friends—comprised of those you’ve gathered along the way from middle school, high school, college, and jobs—and you build up a level of comfort, stability, and self-confidence. But in the meantime, those same odd feelings from middle school, high school, college, all come flooding back, and you're insecure, and scared, and jealous. Your friends are finding real jobs, are moving up in the world, are finding $1800 a month apartments in Washington DC and sipping red wine on their balconies after spending the day at the farmer’s and artist’s market. But you tell yourself, things will be different, things will change, when I get married and have a family. And they do. But not the way you'd thought. Those feelings are still there. While you're at home, coaxing a two-year-old to sleep, cuddling up in his toddler bed, singing “You Are My Sunshine,” your friends are gallivanting around Europe, or going to 11 o’clock shows at Slabtown, because you're only young once you know. So again, there it is. That indecision. That jealously. That fleeting though, did I choose the right path? Am I doing what I really want to do? I'm jealous of the friend with a steady job, a handsome husband, three beautiful kids and an amazing Pottery Barn House. Yet I'm jealous of the single bar-hopping-Europe-traveling friend. And here I am stuck in the middle. Thirty-something, and still unsure. In high school, I thought by now I'd have it together. I'd know what I was doing. I'd know what I wanted and I'd have it.
In high school, I had my ten-year plan mapped out: I was going to go to college—community college for two years (not four), and then transfer to a university to finish the last two years (not three). The summer after graduation (not two springs before), I’d get married and get a job teaching middle or high school Language Arts (accomplished one goal!). I’d work for two years (not one month) then get pregnant and have the baby the summer after my third year teaching (not the spring of my first year). Two years later (not four), I’d do it again, then in another two and another two—for a total of four kids. I’d continue teaching (not get laid off)—maybe full-time, maybe part-time—and in the summers, my family and I would operate an Ice Cream Truck company (not work retail, only to inadvertently spend the entire pay check on “sensible flats” and mom jeans that fit my increasingly large ass). I knew then that I wanted to be a teacher, to have a big family. Even now, with some of that accomplished, I still second-guess myself, thinking, This isn’t quite what I’d imagined…
The truth is, life is all high school—the insecurities, the cliques, the jealousy, the “What do I want to do when I grow up.” Adolescence isn't a period from age eleven to seventeen. It's your whole fucking life. And like they told us back then, Suck It Up, Learn From It, One Day You’ll Look Back At This And Laugh, and Get Ready for the Real World—whenever it may arrive.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
State of Adolsence (one)
Tomorrow is my first day back. I’ve got to decide what to wear. The first day, of course, is the most important. You don’t have a second chance at a first impression, you know. Your appearance on the first day back dictates how people will treat you for the remainder. It shows what you’ve been doing, how you’ve grown, how you’ve changed. You don’t want to look like you’re trying, so you can’t be too formal, or too trendy. But at the same time, you do have to try—you can’t look sloppy. I’ve spent over an hour and tried on at least a dozen outfits, and I still haven’t chosen the right one. It’s been a while since I’ve been there, so I’m not sure exactly what the day will entail. What the day entails dictates a lot of how I dress. If I know I’m going to be busy, I want to make sure I’m more comfortable, with flats and pants that actually fit. If I won’t be there as long, or if I know I won’t be too busy, I can be more daring. Finally I decide on wide-leg trousers, a fitted sweater, and black kitten heals. No, it’s not the first day of high school after summer break. After three years of having a real job, it’s my first day back to work at Nordstrom.
We start out young, with no knowledge of anything, no sense that you are not in tune with the masses, and no regrets about the way things are or might have been. In elementary school, I dressed however I wanted, which was usually based on whatever I could find on my floor. My older sisters’ advice on matching and clashing didn’t register, and I considered it good if I just had on pants and a shirt. I sometimes wore mismatched shoes—out of necessity, due to my mother’s training method of picking up everything off the floor at the end of a day, locking it in a box in the closet, and making us pay a quarter to get anything back—and didn’t care a bit. But then middle school comes around, and your body starts to change, and your thoughts start to change, and suddenly you don't know who you are anymore. Everything is different. Everything is off. You're confused, scared, unsure, and there's this funny tingly sensation when you look at the boy across from you in math class and suddenly those romance novels your sister had don't seem so icky anymore. You take those sex ed classes—from the lesbian health teacher no less—and think that it will all get better one day. That eventually you'll get back to normal. So you drudge through, accept Aunt Flo when she comes, find a way to hide that boner when the teacher calls you to the front of the room to do the math problem on the board. You accept that fact that your friends are changing as rapidly as the hairs are growing in completely strange places. You shudder at the feel of your father touching you, the hugs seem just a little too long, the pats on the back just a little too smooth—not because of him, but because anything from a boy is just weird. But you look forward to the time when it will all be different, back to normal. To high school.
But then high school comes around and it's the same uncomfortableness, just different. It's the same awkward feelings, just different. The friends who were your friends in middle school, who are not the same ones as they were in elementary school, are no longer the same. You've diverged onto different paths—the jocks, the nerds, the preps, the hicks, the Mormons (if you live in Ontario), the Mountain kids (if you live in Sandy), the Mexicans, the theater, band, and choir geeks (who may or may not be a part of the same group). And even if you're at one of those progressive high schools, one of those ones where “everyone's friends with everyone” there's still a level of cool and not cool; the cliques are still there, they're just larger cliques. So you drudge through high school, thinking, things will get better when I get to college, when I'm surrounded by people who have the same interests as me, people who want to do the same things, who have the same goals, who feel the same things. But you leave the comfort of your small pond, dive into the big pool, and SPLASH, you find out it's still the same shit. And you think, things will be different when I'm out of college, when I have a career, when I'm doing what I really want to do, not just working at bar after restaurant after retail store, trying to make enough to support my drinking habit and pay for birth control and still make it to class on time. Things will change. But then you graduate, and you have to take the first job you get (student loans, you know). So you drudge through that, because, you know, it's just until something better comes along.
The thing is, it's always the same shit. For the rest of your life, it's going to be the same shit.
We start out young, with no knowledge of anything, no sense that you are not in tune with the masses, and no regrets about the way things are or might have been. In elementary school, I dressed however I wanted, which was usually based on whatever I could find on my floor. My older sisters’ advice on matching and clashing didn’t register, and I considered it good if I just had on pants and a shirt. I sometimes wore mismatched shoes—out of necessity, due to my mother’s training method of picking up everything off the floor at the end of a day, locking it in a box in the closet, and making us pay a quarter to get anything back—and didn’t care a bit. But then middle school comes around, and your body starts to change, and your thoughts start to change, and suddenly you don't know who you are anymore. Everything is different. Everything is off. You're confused, scared, unsure, and there's this funny tingly sensation when you look at the boy across from you in math class and suddenly those romance novels your sister had don't seem so icky anymore. You take those sex ed classes—from the lesbian health teacher no less—and think that it will all get better one day. That eventually you'll get back to normal. So you drudge through, accept Aunt Flo when she comes, find a way to hide that boner when the teacher calls you to the front of the room to do the math problem on the board. You accept that fact that your friends are changing as rapidly as the hairs are growing in completely strange places. You shudder at the feel of your father touching you, the hugs seem just a little too long, the pats on the back just a little too smooth—not because of him, but because anything from a boy is just weird. But you look forward to the time when it will all be different, back to normal. To high school.
But then high school comes around and it's the same uncomfortableness, just different. It's the same awkward feelings, just different. The friends who were your friends in middle school, who are not the same ones as they were in elementary school, are no longer the same. You've diverged onto different paths—the jocks, the nerds, the preps, the hicks, the Mormons (if you live in Ontario), the Mountain kids (if you live in Sandy), the Mexicans, the theater, band, and choir geeks (who may or may not be a part of the same group). And even if you're at one of those progressive high schools, one of those ones where “everyone's friends with everyone” there's still a level of cool and not cool; the cliques are still there, they're just larger cliques. So you drudge through high school, thinking, things will get better when I get to college, when I'm surrounded by people who have the same interests as me, people who want to do the same things, who have the same goals, who feel the same things. But you leave the comfort of your small pond, dive into the big pool, and SPLASH, you find out it's still the same shit. And you think, things will be different when I'm out of college, when I have a career, when I'm doing what I really want to do, not just working at bar after restaurant after retail store, trying to make enough to support my drinking habit and pay for birth control and still make it to class on time. Things will change. But then you graduate, and you have to take the first job you get (student loans, you know). So you drudge through that, because, you know, it's just until something better comes along.
The thing is, it's always the same shit. For the rest of your life, it's going to be the same shit.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
What Not to Date (three)
I broke up with Aaron on March 9th, the Monday after my infamous co-ed party, where it was decided that I would go out with Tony Hernandaz. This was my first real party. My dad was out of town and my brother and sister went to friends’ houses, so it was just my mom supervising, who, for a mom, was pretty damn cool. For the most part, she just stayed in her room. We played spin the bottle in the living room. My mom walked out once and as she walked by, seeing my best friend Ginger Ito in a battle of tonsil hockey with her boyfriend Tom, said, “just make sure you use protection.” My friends and I gasped, then giggled ourselves silly. Of course, she didn’t mean it, but as mother of four children, by the time I was around, she had figured it out and knew where to draw the line and when to give me freedom. As the youngest of four, with my oldest sister nine years older than me, I had been afforded luxuries other kids my age only dreamed of. I watched MTV and soap operas and stayed up late enough to watch “Saturday Night Live.” I have vivid memories of dancing around my room as a seven year old singing George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex.” Sex is natural, sex is fun. Sex is best when it’s one-on-one. I had no idea what he meant by most of those lyrics, but the tune was catchy, and anything that mentioned sex must be good, or it wouldn’t be so forbidden by everyone else. My older sisters relished in making me watch Pet Cemetery and laughing when I was so scared I cried. By this time, my mom had figured out that these weren’t the things that would ruin me. Plus, she knew my friends, and most of their parents, and that they were a good group of kids.
It was at this party that Sam Morales made out with Emily, despite the fact that he was, and had been since the middle of sixth grade, going out with Ashley Whitley. Everyone was talking about it, and the two of them decided it would be best to tell Ashley the truth on Monday when he broke up with her to go out with Emily. He did end up telling Ashley about it, not in order to break up with her, but rather in an attempt to beg her forgiveness. They went out for what seemed like eternity—throughout the rest of middle school and into freshmen year—but like most middle school couples, broke up for a couple days about every other month.
Another “game” we played at this party was “list the five people you like the most.” Who came up with this idea or why we all agreed that it was a good idea, I still do not know. But I played along and I listed, in no particular order: Tony Hernandaz, Kach Morales, Kory Bauer, Rob Kent, and Sean McKay. These were all people everyone knew I kind of liked. Two of them, Rob and Sean, were boys every girl had a crush on, but who were just too cool to have girlfriends. The year before, my friends had taken it upon themselves to try to find me a boyfriend, and at different times asked out both Sean and Rob on my behalf. They, however, forgot to mention this to me until after they had asked and the boys, who each said no. As I knew they would, which is why I never asked in the first place. The other three were boys who everyone knew kind of liked me. Of course, I didn’t reveal my true crush, Tom Lancaster, who happened to be my best guy friend, and who also happened to be going out with my very best friend Ginger. My friends all discussed it and decided that Tony was the best choice and that he and I should go out. So we agreed—I mean, why not? It was also decided that we should kiss, but Tony, wanting to be a gentleman (his words) wouldn’t kiss me or officially go out with me while I was still going out with Aaron. On Monday I went to school and my friends graciously told Aaron that I wanted to break up. He didn’t seem to care much. If he cared about me that much, he would have come to my party in the first place. I mean, not going to a middle school party with your boy/girlfriend is the kiss of death for your relationship. It is inevitable that s/he will make out with someone else. If you’re single, there’s no guarantee that you will get anywhere; but if you have a boy/girlfriend, you are guaranteed to get some action whether or not s/he is there. That same day, Tony was instructed to formally ask me out, and by lunch, we were an official couple. This is great, Ginger and I said. Two best friends going out with two best friends! What could be better?
Well, for starters, it could be better if I had a boyfriend who actually talked to me. In the three months that Tony and I went out, we spoke a total of ten times—which for me was a step up from the previous boys that year. Twice we kissed behind “the big green thing,” a large electrical box between two of the school’s buildings. Sometimes we’d all hang out at lunch together; after eating we’d all congregate in front of the Discovery Building, waiting for the bell to ring. Mostly Ginger and the gals and I talked while Tony and Tom and the boys talked, but at least we were in the same vicinity as each other. It wasn’t that Tony wasn’t a cool. Tony was probably the coolest boyfriend I’d had thus far, with no criminal tendencies or sexual deviances. He was cute—short, but cute—smart, considerate. He just paid me no attention—a quality which would repeat itself in numerous boyfriends to come. I waited until after school was out in June to finally call and break up with him. Looking back, I shouldn’t have bothered and just taken the hint from what he wrote in my yearbook: HI MICHELLE! do what you want over the summer see you next year.
Somehow I didn’t recognize writing in my yearbook as a valid break-up—today’s equivalent of breaking up via text message . Luckily I had Ginger to support me, writing next to his comment, “Yeah, she will! She didn’t want to do anything with you anyway!” I called him in early June to formally break up with him, and he showed the same enthusiasm as he had in my yearbook. "Okay" he said. And that was that.
It was at this party that Sam Morales made out with Emily, despite the fact that he was, and had been since the middle of sixth grade, going out with Ashley Whitley. Everyone was talking about it, and the two of them decided it would be best to tell Ashley the truth on Monday when he broke up with her to go out with Emily. He did end up telling Ashley about it, not in order to break up with her, but rather in an attempt to beg her forgiveness. They went out for what seemed like eternity—throughout the rest of middle school and into freshmen year—but like most middle school couples, broke up for a couple days about every other month.
Another “game” we played at this party was “list the five people you like the most.” Who came up with this idea or why we all agreed that it was a good idea, I still do not know. But I played along and I listed, in no particular order: Tony Hernandaz, Kach Morales, Kory Bauer, Rob Kent, and Sean McKay. These were all people everyone knew I kind of liked. Two of them, Rob and Sean, were boys every girl had a crush on, but who were just too cool to have girlfriends. The year before, my friends had taken it upon themselves to try to find me a boyfriend, and at different times asked out both Sean and Rob on my behalf. They, however, forgot to mention this to me until after they had asked and the boys, who each said no. As I knew they would, which is why I never asked in the first place. The other three were boys who everyone knew kind of liked me. Of course, I didn’t reveal my true crush, Tom Lancaster, who happened to be my best guy friend, and who also happened to be going out with my very best friend Ginger. My friends all discussed it and decided that Tony was the best choice and that he and I should go out. So we agreed—I mean, why not? It was also decided that we should kiss, but Tony, wanting to be a gentleman (his words) wouldn’t kiss me or officially go out with me while I was still going out with Aaron. On Monday I went to school and my friends graciously told Aaron that I wanted to break up. He didn’t seem to care much. If he cared about me that much, he would have come to my party in the first place. I mean, not going to a middle school party with your boy/girlfriend is the kiss of death for your relationship. It is inevitable that s/he will make out with someone else. If you’re single, there’s no guarantee that you will get anywhere; but if you have a boy/girlfriend, you are guaranteed to get some action whether or not s/he is there. That same day, Tony was instructed to formally ask me out, and by lunch, we were an official couple. This is great, Ginger and I said. Two best friends going out with two best friends! What could be better?
Well, for starters, it could be better if I had a boyfriend who actually talked to me. In the three months that Tony and I went out, we spoke a total of ten times—which for me was a step up from the previous boys that year. Twice we kissed behind “the big green thing,” a large electrical box between two of the school’s buildings. Sometimes we’d all hang out at lunch together; after eating we’d all congregate in front of the Discovery Building, waiting for the bell to ring. Mostly Ginger and the gals and I talked while Tony and Tom and the boys talked, but at least we were in the same vicinity as each other. It wasn’t that Tony wasn’t a cool. Tony was probably the coolest boyfriend I’d had thus far, with no criminal tendencies or sexual deviances. He was cute—short, but cute—smart, considerate. He just paid me no attention—a quality which would repeat itself in numerous boyfriends to come. I waited until after school was out in June to finally call and break up with him. Looking back, I shouldn’t have bothered and just taken the hint from what he wrote in my yearbook: HI MICHELLE! do what you want over the summer see you next year.
Somehow I didn’t recognize writing in my yearbook as a valid break-up—today’s equivalent of breaking up via text message . Luckily I had Ginger to support me, writing next to his comment, “Yeah, she will! She didn’t want to do anything with you anyway!” I called him in early June to formally break up with him, and he showed the same enthusiasm as he had in my yearbook. "Okay" he said. And that was that.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
What Not to Date (two)
Sixth grade was the start of middle school for me. Now here’s where the action starts. As the year started, I continued hanging out with my same friends from Aiken Elementary, and my small group began adding friends from other elementaries as well. The beginning of middle school is a new experience, with everyone trying to figure out all the rules and guidelines and dos and don’ts. In sixth grade, racial segregation hadn’t set in, and the whites and Hispanics still all hung out together without reservation. So, because of who I was friends with at Aiken, I acquired a large base of Hispanic friends. This lead to my first boyfriend of middle school—Luis Vega. Who is now a convicted sex offender and was at some point in time on the Malheur County’s Most Wanted list. So thus far, my boyfriends consist of a devil worshiper and a sex offender. But at the time, Luis Vega was cool. He was boyishly cute, even for a twelve-year-old, but was a rebel—a perfect combination. It’s not that any of my friends did anything actually bad—they weren’t doing drugs or in a gang—but they were definitely headed in that direction (as noted above). Luis and I went out for a long time—months, I’m sure. We held hands at school and walked home together (okay, partway home, since my house was not in the same neighborhood as his) and sometimes hung out together at Leann Johnson’s house, whose parents never seemed to be around. Then it happened. My mom dropped Maria and me off at the movies to see Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. Luis met us there. After the movie we were the last ones to leave. Standing at the top of the stairs at the Pix Theater, we kissed. A real French kiss. My first. The next evening, at Religious Education, Maria and I made a big deal of telling Ramiro about it. We giggled and laughed and waited for just the right moment to break the big news. “So,” he replied. Like French kissing was no big deal. Like people just do it all the time. Like Luis just did it all the time.
Sometime after Luis, I went out with Samuel Feeney, who was my most frequent boyfriend of all time, us going out and breaking up a total of six times. The fifth time we broke up was because I talked to Carlie, who said that she had just found out that her boyfriend was going out with some girl from Payette. Who’s your boyfriend, I asked. Sam Feeney. Well, let’s both go break up with him together, because I’m going out with Sam Feeney, too. She and I waited for the next break between classes and both walked up to Sam. You could see the realization in his eyes as he registered the two of us together, walking toward him. “Um, we’re breaking up with you,” we said together, and walked off. For some reason, I went out with him again after that. But the sixth time was it, and after that we were just friends. A recent online article from my hometown news station informed me that Samuel Feeney was arrested on charges of video voyeurism—he had a hidden camera placed in his bathroom, despite being married. Apparently one woman still isn’t enough for him.
In seventh grade, I went out with Joe Snyder, who was in the eighth grade, for a week or two. I’m sure he was a great guy, but we quite literally never talked. I’d see him at lunch, or before or after school, but we never ever spoke. I wanted to, but I was embarrassed—what if he didn’t like me? Of course, the notion that he wouldn’t have asked me out if he didn’t like me never crossed my mind. I was afraid and self-conscious, nervous to approach my own boyfriend. He asked someone to ask me out, then a while later, I asked someone to tell him I wanted to break up. After Joe, I went out with Aaron Jensen, who sometime after this supposedly told his friends that he wanted to lose his virginity soon so he would be able to have sex with one of us girls who didn’t yet have any pubic hair. Classy.
Let’s tally here—devil worshiper, sex offender, cheater, mute, and pervert—I’m on a roll, baby!
Sometime after Luis, I went out with Samuel Feeney, who was my most frequent boyfriend of all time, us going out and breaking up a total of six times. The fifth time we broke up was because I talked to Carlie, who said that she had just found out that her boyfriend was going out with some girl from Payette. Who’s your boyfriend, I asked. Sam Feeney. Well, let’s both go break up with him together, because I’m going out with Sam Feeney, too. She and I waited for the next break between classes and both walked up to Sam. You could see the realization in his eyes as he registered the two of us together, walking toward him. “Um, we’re breaking up with you,” we said together, and walked off. For some reason, I went out with him again after that. But the sixth time was it, and after that we were just friends. A recent online article from my hometown news station informed me that Samuel Feeney was arrested on charges of video voyeurism—he had a hidden camera placed in his bathroom, despite being married. Apparently one woman still isn’t enough for him.
In seventh grade, I went out with Joe Snyder, who was in the eighth grade, for a week or two. I’m sure he was a great guy, but we quite literally never talked. I’d see him at lunch, or before or after school, but we never ever spoke. I wanted to, but I was embarrassed—what if he didn’t like me? Of course, the notion that he wouldn’t have asked me out if he didn’t like me never crossed my mind. I was afraid and self-conscious, nervous to approach my own boyfriend. He asked someone to ask me out, then a while later, I asked someone to tell him I wanted to break up. After Joe, I went out with Aaron Jensen, who sometime after this supposedly told his friends that he wanted to lose his virginity soon so he would be able to have sex with one of us girls who didn’t yet have any pubic hair. Classy.
Let’s tally here—devil worshiper, sex offender, cheater, mute, and pervert—I’m on a roll, baby!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
What Not to Date (one)
With the exception of my husband and my senior year sweetheart, every boyfriend I’ve ever had has been a loser. Even the ones who were kind of cool as people were losers as boyfriends. In nights of reminiscing about old times, I’ve often asked my best friend why the hell she let me date those guys. Seriously, Ginger. Lance Naito. Really? How could you?
In 1990, the summer before my fifth grade year, my family moved from one small eastern Oregon town to another. In many respects, Ontario was no different than La Grande. They were both close to the same size, about 11,000. They both had only one middle school and one high school. They both had a large sprawling of out-of-town rural homes, and consisted of a lot of farm land and ranches. Although small—painfully small for those of us living there—they were each the epicenter of the surrounding towns. People from Elgin would drive the ten miles to “go into town”—La Grande. People from Payette would drive across the river to spend their time cruising up and down SW 4th Avenue in Ontario—the place to be on a Friday night. But the people, the people were different. The girls in my fifth grade class curled their hair. I’d never used a curling iron in my life. I quickly began to play along, like any young girl, longing to fit in. The first couple weeks of school, while my family was getting set up in our new house, with our new schedules and our new arrangements, my dad dropped me off at the house of his colleague, whose daughter, Danielle, attended the same school and was in the same grade as me. On the second day of school, during lunch, after asking if I had watched last night’s episode of 90210 and my responding “What’s 90210?, Nancy Drake said to me “You should curl your hair. It’d look a lot better.” This was the era of bangs, and boy oh boy, did these gals have some bangs.
My late elementary-early middle school career was a giant competition as to who could get their bangs the biggest. Big bangs existed in two styles—The Claw and The Wave. The claw consisted of two to three impeccably rounded layers. My best friend Ginger Ito had a perfect claw, rivaled only by Heather Hyde, who was blessed by the middle school gods and somehow managed to get in four layers. The Wave consisted not of layers, but height. One perfectly rounded layer covered the forehead. The second layer went not on top of the first, but instead extended out from the part over in a much more vertical spread and was usually curled back, not under. On the third day of school, I asked Danielle to curl my hair. She was a pro—she flattened or curled her hair every day, and often did her little sister’s hair as well. But the universe tried to give me a hint, subtly letting me know that high-maintenance hair would never be my thing, and, with a big clump of hair packed in the tongs, Danielle dropped the burning-hot curling iron, leaving it dangling from my bangs. After standing there in shock for a minute, Danielle grabbed the curling iron and released me and my bangs. Luckily, I escaped unharmed. And although I tried for many years, my bangs never looked half as good as Ginger or Heather’s.
Their heightened sense of style was only the beginning. These girls had boyfriends. They talked about sex. I'd never had a boyfriend, and I didn’t really know what sex was. Like most ten-year-old girls, I had little understanding of sex education. But these girls knew something I didn’t know. They talked about sex like it was something any of them might just do one of these days. They joked about how the boys probably thought it just slipped right in. What slipped right in? I thought. Where is it slipping into? I understood that for sex, people rubbed their privates together, but was unaware of the specific physics of the act. I thought you just laid in bed, man on top of woman, bouncing and rubbing against one another. I also knew that this somehow caused pregnancy. But I also knew it took more than one time to get pregnant, and I imagined people just doing this over and over and over in a day’s time--bouncing around in the bed for a few minutes, stopping, then bouncing around again for a few more minutes, hoping to get it right.
The first stone in my path of loser boyfriends began early, with this new move and my newfound friends. Roger Thomas. I don’t remember how it came about, but by the middle of the year, Roger and I were boyfriend and girlfriend. One day at recess we held hands. My mom was confused at the idea of me “going out with” someone in the fifth grade. What does that even mean? she asked. Where are you going to go out to? You can’t drive. You can’t go anywhere without me. Roger and I went out for all of a week (surprisingly, not my shortest relationship) before he told Ramiro Rodriguez to tell Nancy Drake to tell me he wanted to break up. Rumor had it Roger worshiped the devil. Yes, that’s right; my first boyfriend ever was a devil worshiper. And it just got better after that.
In 1990, the summer before my fifth grade year, my family moved from one small eastern Oregon town to another. In many respects, Ontario was no different than La Grande. They were both close to the same size, about 11,000. They both had only one middle school and one high school. They both had a large sprawling of out-of-town rural homes, and consisted of a lot of farm land and ranches. Although small—painfully small for those of us living there—they were each the epicenter of the surrounding towns. People from Elgin would drive the ten miles to “go into town”—La Grande. People from Payette would drive across the river to spend their time cruising up and down SW 4th Avenue in Ontario—the place to be on a Friday night. But the people, the people were different. The girls in my fifth grade class curled their hair. I’d never used a curling iron in my life. I quickly began to play along, like any young girl, longing to fit in. The first couple weeks of school, while my family was getting set up in our new house, with our new schedules and our new arrangements, my dad dropped me off at the house of his colleague, whose daughter, Danielle, attended the same school and was in the same grade as me. On the second day of school, during lunch, after asking if I had watched last night’s episode of 90210 and my responding “What’s 90210?, Nancy Drake said to me “You should curl your hair. It’d look a lot better.” This was the era of bangs, and boy oh boy, did these gals have some bangs.
My late elementary-early middle school career was a giant competition as to who could get their bangs the biggest. Big bangs existed in two styles—The Claw and The Wave. The claw consisted of two to three impeccably rounded layers. My best friend Ginger Ito had a perfect claw, rivaled only by Heather Hyde, who was blessed by the middle school gods and somehow managed to get in four layers. The Wave consisted not of layers, but height. One perfectly rounded layer covered the forehead. The second layer went not on top of the first, but instead extended out from the part over in a much more vertical spread and was usually curled back, not under. On the third day of school, I asked Danielle to curl my hair. She was a pro—she flattened or curled her hair every day, and often did her little sister’s hair as well. But the universe tried to give me a hint, subtly letting me know that high-maintenance hair would never be my thing, and, with a big clump of hair packed in the tongs, Danielle dropped the burning-hot curling iron, leaving it dangling from my bangs. After standing there in shock for a minute, Danielle grabbed the curling iron and released me and my bangs. Luckily, I escaped unharmed. And although I tried for many years, my bangs never looked half as good as Ginger or Heather’s.
Their heightened sense of style was only the beginning. These girls had boyfriends. They talked about sex. I'd never had a boyfriend, and I didn’t really know what sex was. Like most ten-year-old girls, I had little understanding of sex education. But these girls knew something I didn’t know. They talked about sex like it was something any of them might just do one of these days. They joked about how the boys probably thought it just slipped right in. What slipped right in? I thought. Where is it slipping into? I understood that for sex, people rubbed their privates together, but was unaware of the specific physics of the act. I thought you just laid in bed, man on top of woman, bouncing and rubbing against one another. I also knew that this somehow caused pregnancy. But I also knew it took more than one time to get pregnant, and I imagined people just doing this over and over and over in a day’s time--bouncing around in the bed for a few minutes, stopping, then bouncing around again for a few more minutes, hoping to get it right.
The first stone in my path of loser boyfriends began early, with this new move and my newfound friends. Roger Thomas. I don’t remember how it came about, but by the middle of the year, Roger and I were boyfriend and girlfriend. One day at recess we held hands. My mom was confused at the idea of me “going out with” someone in the fifth grade. What does that even mean? she asked. Where are you going to go out to? You can’t drive. You can’t go anywhere without me. Roger and I went out for all of a week (surprisingly, not my shortest relationship) before he told Ramiro Rodriguez to tell Nancy Drake to tell me he wanted to break up. Rumor had it Roger worshiped the devil. Yes, that’s right; my first boyfriend ever was a devil worshiper. And it just got better after that.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Snuggle Bunny (2001)
Some people like to cuddle, to fall asleep in the arms of a lover, limbs intertwined like the branches of an old walnut tree. Some don’t want to touch the other, don’t want to feel their breath like the odorous summer wind of Ontario, don’t want to feel them twitch and shake, hear them snort and groan. Some like a happy medium, a head rested on a chest, one arm gently placed around, close enough to feel desired but with enough room to not feel smothered.
It’s 3:30 am on a Saturday night (Sunday morning) and I am still a little drunk. The party’s ended and everyone has headed their separate ways, in small groups of two and fours, with the occasional third wheel, to various rooms. I’ve had my fun, I’ve had my sex, and now I just want to sleep. I’d like to wrap myself up in a cuddly warm blanket, rest my head on a fluffy smooth pillow, and fall asleep to the motion of a spinning room. Available is a bed—I think it’s really a hardwood floor, cleverly disguised to the average drunk as a bed. It’s a soiled blanket atop a once thick, now flattened and dingy, sleeping bag. But at 3:30 when you’re half drunk, anything will do. So my date and I lie down, assumedly to get some sleep. But as the night goes on, my goal becomes harder and harder to achieve.
I lay down on my half of the bed. He too lies down on my half of the bed. If there were two more people who needed a place to sleep, I wouldn’t mind sharing my quarters. But there is no one else. Everyone else has already fallen asleep. They’ve all snuggled up or sprawled out on their makeshift beds, and are now comfortably snoring, moving freely in their sleep, dreaming that the room is standing still, praying that the soon coming hangover will be a mild one. I scoot over, an inch at a time, but like a magnet, he scoots along with me. Eventually I’m wedged between a wall and a guy. I can taste the dirty film of the wall, smell the layers of dust and mold, maintained by a house of college boys refusing, unable, to clean. My other choice of smell isn’t much more appealing. The smell of mold outweighs the smell of beer-breath and my mouth remains suctioned to the wall. The feel of his warm breath on my cold bare arm is pleasant, but not pleasant enough to ignore the stench it reveals. Like a rubber band, his arms wrap around me, tighter and tighter, each squeeze cutting off circulation. I’m not sure how comfortable this is for him. I wouldn’t think at all. Isn’t his arm falling asleep under the weight of my alcohol-filled stomach? Apparently not because it isn’t moving. At least something is getting some sleep. Wait…it’s not just his arm that’s asleep—I can tell by the snot-infested wheezing he too is asleep. Perhaps now the death grip will loosen and I can resume breathing.
No such luck. So I bear the pain.
I move around slightly, shifting my leg here or there, an arm up or down, attempt to roll onto my back, then to my stomach. He doesn’t seem to notice my restlessness and continues to cling to me like a child to his teddy bear. As time progresses, I begin to fall asleep in twenty minute intervals. I sleep, wake up, shift, and sleep again. My sleeping time begins to get longer, but the restlessness, agitation between sleep increases too. My sleep isn’t real sleep. It’s that half-sleep, the first stage of sleep, where I still hear sounds around me, rustling of blankets, breathing of friends, feel any movement of the being next to me. I’m easily awakened by his muffled snore, a frantic twitch of his leg. My body is in pain—a constant, mild pain. If I could just ignore it, it might go away. But all I can do is think of it, complaining, agonizing over my uncomfortablness. Eventually I fall asleep, into the deepest sleep currently possible, what for now will pass as real sleep.
When I awake, it's morning. The sun is blazing through the window, and like a raccoon I blink rapidly at its rays, cover my eyes with the corner of blanket. I hear birds chirping, more annoyingly than usual. Their morning songs beckon me to wake, to skip outside and bask in the glow of the sun. But I’m still as tired as I was four hours ago. I’d like to draw the shades, if there were any, and shoot each individual bird with a BB gun, if I had one. But there aren’t any and I don’t have one. Even if there were and I did, I’d be unable to release myself from my chains to get to the window. So I attempt to bury my face in what little bit of pillow I have retained and whimper myself back to sleep.
Again I wake up, and, seemingly for the first time, he wakes up too. I’ve made the mistake of shifting into the dreaded morning position: my back to his front. I don’t notice he’s awake until I feel his hands gently working their way up my shirt. Our shirts are slightly ruffed up, and I can feel the tangled hair of his stomach scratching my back, making me itch, irritating my skin and my sanity. I wonder how long I can lay here pretending to still be asleep. Pretty damn long. Too damn long.
I am not a morning person, and do not want to have to do anything in the morning. When I wake up, regardless of how late in the morning it might be or how early in the night I went to bed, I’m still sleepy. I’m grumpy. I don’t want to cuddle—or anything else for that matter—and the stench of moldy cheese breath does not positively influence me to join in. I understand that when we wake up, breath is not great; I’m not expecting it to be. But it needs to be fresh enough to not induce vomiting upon inhalation. Especially this morning, at 8:30, with the slightest bit of a hangover and only five hours of “sleep,” all I want to do is doze off. I’ve become immune to the surrounding filth. I can no longer notice the growls from my neighbors, I can’t smell the mildew penetrating from the walls. But I still can’t ignore this beast next to me and really fall asleep. He continues to attempt to cuddle, and not wanting to be bluntly rude, I continue to shift, attempting to make it difficult for him to be enjoying himself. Like a typical male, he doesn’t seem to notice my subtle rejections. Finally I move enough that he’s uncomfortable. Now maybe I can get some sleep.
I speak too soon. He’s shifting, trying to shift me, and finally I’ve had enough. Finally, I’m going to take a chance to express my true view on sleeping next to someone else. But like myself, I do it in the most vague and non-threatening way possible.
“I’m not a morning person. All I want to do in the morning is sleep. And I’m really uncomfortable like this.”
“Oh, okay,” he replies.
Well, that was simple. Why don’t I ever just speak my mind from the get-go? He turns over, our backs and feet gently touch, and for the first time in five hours, I fall into a deep sleep.
It’s 3:30 am on a Saturday night (Sunday morning) and I am still a little drunk. The party’s ended and everyone has headed their separate ways, in small groups of two and fours, with the occasional third wheel, to various rooms. I’ve had my fun, I’ve had my sex, and now I just want to sleep. I’d like to wrap myself up in a cuddly warm blanket, rest my head on a fluffy smooth pillow, and fall asleep to the motion of a spinning room. Available is a bed—I think it’s really a hardwood floor, cleverly disguised to the average drunk as a bed. It’s a soiled blanket atop a once thick, now flattened and dingy, sleeping bag. But at 3:30 when you’re half drunk, anything will do. So my date and I lie down, assumedly to get some sleep. But as the night goes on, my goal becomes harder and harder to achieve.
I lay down on my half of the bed. He too lies down on my half of the bed. If there were two more people who needed a place to sleep, I wouldn’t mind sharing my quarters. But there is no one else. Everyone else has already fallen asleep. They’ve all snuggled up or sprawled out on their makeshift beds, and are now comfortably snoring, moving freely in their sleep, dreaming that the room is standing still, praying that the soon coming hangover will be a mild one. I scoot over, an inch at a time, but like a magnet, he scoots along with me. Eventually I’m wedged between a wall and a guy. I can taste the dirty film of the wall, smell the layers of dust and mold, maintained by a house of college boys refusing, unable, to clean. My other choice of smell isn’t much more appealing. The smell of mold outweighs the smell of beer-breath and my mouth remains suctioned to the wall. The feel of his warm breath on my cold bare arm is pleasant, but not pleasant enough to ignore the stench it reveals. Like a rubber band, his arms wrap around me, tighter and tighter, each squeeze cutting off circulation. I’m not sure how comfortable this is for him. I wouldn’t think at all. Isn’t his arm falling asleep under the weight of my alcohol-filled stomach? Apparently not because it isn’t moving. At least something is getting some sleep. Wait…it’s not just his arm that’s asleep—I can tell by the snot-infested wheezing he too is asleep. Perhaps now the death grip will loosen and I can resume breathing.
No such luck. So I bear the pain.
I move around slightly, shifting my leg here or there, an arm up or down, attempt to roll onto my back, then to my stomach. He doesn’t seem to notice my restlessness and continues to cling to me like a child to his teddy bear. As time progresses, I begin to fall asleep in twenty minute intervals. I sleep, wake up, shift, and sleep again. My sleeping time begins to get longer, but the restlessness, agitation between sleep increases too. My sleep isn’t real sleep. It’s that half-sleep, the first stage of sleep, where I still hear sounds around me, rustling of blankets, breathing of friends, feel any movement of the being next to me. I’m easily awakened by his muffled snore, a frantic twitch of his leg. My body is in pain—a constant, mild pain. If I could just ignore it, it might go away. But all I can do is think of it, complaining, agonizing over my uncomfortablness. Eventually I fall asleep, into the deepest sleep currently possible, what for now will pass as real sleep.
When I awake, it's morning. The sun is blazing through the window, and like a raccoon I blink rapidly at its rays, cover my eyes with the corner of blanket. I hear birds chirping, more annoyingly than usual. Their morning songs beckon me to wake, to skip outside and bask in the glow of the sun. But I’m still as tired as I was four hours ago. I’d like to draw the shades, if there were any, and shoot each individual bird with a BB gun, if I had one. But there aren’t any and I don’t have one. Even if there were and I did, I’d be unable to release myself from my chains to get to the window. So I attempt to bury my face in what little bit of pillow I have retained and whimper myself back to sleep.
Again I wake up, and, seemingly for the first time, he wakes up too. I’ve made the mistake of shifting into the dreaded morning position: my back to his front. I don’t notice he’s awake until I feel his hands gently working their way up my shirt. Our shirts are slightly ruffed up, and I can feel the tangled hair of his stomach scratching my back, making me itch, irritating my skin and my sanity. I wonder how long I can lay here pretending to still be asleep. Pretty damn long. Too damn long.
I am not a morning person, and do not want to have to do anything in the morning. When I wake up, regardless of how late in the morning it might be or how early in the night I went to bed, I’m still sleepy. I’m grumpy. I don’t want to cuddle—or anything else for that matter—and the stench of moldy cheese breath does not positively influence me to join in. I understand that when we wake up, breath is not great; I’m not expecting it to be. But it needs to be fresh enough to not induce vomiting upon inhalation. Especially this morning, at 8:30, with the slightest bit of a hangover and only five hours of “sleep,” all I want to do is doze off. I’ve become immune to the surrounding filth. I can no longer notice the growls from my neighbors, I can’t smell the mildew penetrating from the walls. But I still can’t ignore this beast next to me and really fall asleep. He continues to attempt to cuddle, and not wanting to be bluntly rude, I continue to shift, attempting to make it difficult for him to be enjoying himself. Like a typical male, he doesn’t seem to notice my subtle rejections. Finally I move enough that he’s uncomfortable. Now maybe I can get some sleep.
I speak too soon. He’s shifting, trying to shift me, and finally I’ve had enough. Finally, I’m going to take a chance to express my true view on sleeping next to someone else. But like myself, I do it in the most vague and non-threatening way possible.
“I’m not a morning person. All I want to do in the morning is sleep. And I’m really uncomfortable like this.”
“Oh, okay,” he replies.
Well, that was simple. Why don’t I ever just speak my mind from the get-go? He turns over, our backs and feet gently touch, and for the first time in five hours, I fall into a deep sleep.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Like Father, Like Daughter
My mom bore six children—a girl, a boy, a girl, a boy, a girl, and me. I was supposed to be a boy. James. But instead I was Michelle. I was never masculine or a tomboy, and instead am fairly girly with my snobbish vanity. But in some sense, I sometimes feel like the son my father never had. Of course he had a son, but their relationship isn’t what one might consider the typical father-only-son relationship. It’s more of an association than a relationship, with occasional encounters and discussions, but nothing comparing to the week-long fishing trips my husband, the only son, takes with his father. Instead, my father has a unique relationship with each of his children, no one more important than the other, but each one a special connection the others just don’t get.
Our family dynamic often reminds me of that of a fifties family, with the father at the head of the table, the mother dutifully cooking and serving. It’s not that my dad doesn’t help out—he does, a lot. It’s that there is a level of service expected by him, from us. Most of my family—parents, two sisters, and our kids—eats dinner together quite often. My dad comes in, goes into his room to change clothes, and sits down in his chair at the table (where no one is sitting, and if they are, they get up as soon as he comes in the door, before he even approaches the table). My mom dishes his plate and brings it to him. Then he asks, usually whoever is up, for a drink or the salt or some butter or whatever else he may need to make his dinner more palatable. On the occasion that none of us are up at the time, he simply states, “Is there water/salt/butter/whatever on the table?” to which one of us replies, not with a verbal answer, but by getting up and getting it for him. Whether this is intentional, whether would we not jump up to serve and please him he would gladly get up on his own, is unknown. But I doubt it. Our service is expected.
Although the others may have, this apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Through simply looking at my family, I am definitely my mother’s daughter, with her short frame, blue eyes, light hair, and wide hips. The only look I inherited from my father is his unibrow, which I meticulously tweeze daily. My personality, however, is so much like his as to drive my mother crazy. I can hold two conversations at once, whether with a person or myself. I will be paying equal attention to each, yet make each feel as though, because I answered the question of the first, I didn’t hear the question of the second. I’m moody, and my desire not to talk to people when I’m in these moods has hurt many of their feelings—but that’s how we deal with it, to keep it out ourselves and work it out on our own. During periods of great stress or tension, my father has been known to go weeks at a time without saying more to any of us than an occasional “humh.” Like my father, I’m sarcastic to the point of being annoying, tossing out my, I think quite hilarious, wit like stale candy at a parade. My father may not speak much, but when he does, there’s sure to be a smart-ass remark in there somewhere. When I’m finished with a conversation—that is, when I’m finished saying what I want to say, and hearing all that I want to hear—I attempt to end the conversation rather abruptly. My father will simply say, “Huh, okay,” and walk away, never mind if the speaker is in mid-sentence. I still hold out for a goodbye, but my abruptness is escalating, and soon those I was talking to will whisper as I walk away “Um, I guess I was done talking,” like they do to him. My outings with my father consist of—unlike traditional father-son outings of fishing and ball games—literary readings, NPR events, lectures from the World Affairs Council, and workshops on educational pedagogy, each followed by brief conversations about the philosophical nature of such things. Like my father, I have gone into the field of education. My father taught high school Social Studies and Business for a number of years before systematically climbing the ladder to counselor, vice principal, principal, superintendent, and now the inevitable retired-teacher occupation, college professor. I am a certified Middle/High Language Arts teacher, which I taught for three years, and am now working my way into the field of alternative education.
Generally speaking, I am a very insecure person. I’m consistently second-guessing myself, and usually assume that people don’t like me. In many fields of my life, I feel as though whatever I do is not good enough. But certainly, more so than anywhere else, I feel that nothing I ever do will be good enough for my father. In my mind, I will never meet his expectations. I will never be a good enough cook, cleaner, writer, wife, mother, daughter, teacher to meet the expectations of my father. A while back, we had dinner at my house—spaghetti. Part way through dinner, my father asked, bluntly as he always does, “There’s no garlic bread?” Despite the fact that the rest of the dinner was suburb (homemade spaghetti sauce, made with venison shot by my husband and tomatoes grown in my garden), I thought it a failure because of the simple lack of a loaf of bread. Although I thought about this frequently, and made a specific point of serving garlic bread the next time I made spaghetti, the criticism elsewhere isn’t as hurtful as it is in regards to my profession.
It is in domain of our profession, which I know to some extent I entered into because of him, that the real dynamic of this father-daughter relationship exposes itself. I’ve accepted criticism from my colleagues since I began working in education six years ago. I’m a reflective person, and I listen carefully to what they have to say, evaluate its validity, and try to take their advice or criticism and use it to my advantage. When it comes to my father, however, in the area of my profession, any analysis is taken quite seriously. It’s taken to heart, not as a piece of constructive criticism, meant to advance my teaching abilities, but rather as a jab to those abilities, a statement of my lack of talent. Recently, I’ve started working at the same school my father is the director of. In doing so, he’s been able to see my teaching first-hand. In this, I’ve heard him give me praise, both to me personally, and in talking with other staff, and the staff at the various schools we work with. But this praise is outweighed by the criticism—not in the amount but in its effect. There’s a best-practice theory in education, 1 to 5, that with every one negative statement you give a student, you should give five sincere compliments. Even if that was the ratio my father used with me, it wouldn’t matter. That one negative would drown out the memory of the five praises and would fester in my mind for weeks. With my father, even the slightest joke is taken to heart, and my hands start to tremble, and my voice begins to quake, and tears slowly begin to emerge and slip down my cheek more quickly than I can wipe them away. My mother and my husband will attempt to comfort me, telling me he’s really just kidding, don’t take it so seriously, you’re a fantastic teacher (cook, cleaner, writer, wife, mother, daughter). And as much as I want to believe this, and as much as I sometimes convince myself that I actually do believe it, that his antics are just constructive criticism meant to help me improve my skills, just done so with his signature smart-ass twist, I can’t. When it comes right down to it, I really do think that he thinks I suck, if only just a little.
Our family dynamic often reminds me of that of a fifties family, with the father at the head of the table, the mother dutifully cooking and serving. It’s not that my dad doesn’t help out—he does, a lot. It’s that there is a level of service expected by him, from us. Most of my family—parents, two sisters, and our kids—eats dinner together quite often. My dad comes in, goes into his room to change clothes, and sits down in his chair at the table (where no one is sitting, and if they are, they get up as soon as he comes in the door, before he even approaches the table). My mom dishes his plate and brings it to him. Then he asks, usually whoever is up, for a drink or the salt or some butter or whatever else he may need to make his dinner more palatable. On the occasion that none of us are up at the time, he simply states, “Is there water/salt/butter/whatever on the table?” to which one of us replies, not with a verbal answer, but by getting up and getting it for him. Whether this is intentional, whether would we not jump up to serve and please him he would gladly get up on his own, is unknown. But I doubt it. Our service is expected.
Although the others may have, this apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Through simply looking at my family, I am definitely my mother’s daughter, with her short frame, blue eyes, light hair, and wide hips. The only look I inherited from my father is his unibrow, which I meticulously tweeze daily. My personality, however, is so much like his as to drive my mother crazy. I can hold two conversations at once, whether with a person or myself. I will be paying equal attention to each, yet make each feel as though, because I answered the question of the first, I didn’t hear the question of the second. I’m moody, and my desire not to talk to people when I’m in these moods has hurt many of their feelings—but that’s how we deal with it, to keep it out ourselves and work it out on our own. During periods of great stress or tension, my father has been known to go weeks at a time without saying more to any of us than an occasional “humh.” Like my father, I’m sarcastic to the point of being annoying, tossing out my, I think quite hilarious, wit like stale candy at a parade. My father may not speak much, but when he does, there’s sure to be a smart-ass remark in there somewhere. When I’m finished with a conversation—that is, when I’m finished saying what I want to say, and hearing all that I want to hear—I attempt to end the conversation rather abruptly. My father will simply say, “Huh, okay,” and walk away, never mind if the speaker is in mid-sentence. I still hold out for a goodbye, but my abruptness is escalating, and soon those I was talking to will whisper as I walk away “Um, I guess I was done talking,” like they do to him. My outings with my father consist of—unlike traditional father-son outings of fishing and ball games—literary readings, NPR events, lectures from the World Affairs Council, and workshops on educational pedagogy, each followed by brief conversations about the philosophical nature of such things. Like my father, I have gone into the field of education. My father taught high school Social Studies and Business for a number of years before systematically climbing the ladder to counselor, vice principal, principal, superintendent, and now the inevitable retired-teacher occupation, college professor. I am a certified Middle/High Language Arts teacher, which I taught for three years, and am now working my way into the field of alternative education.
Generally speaking, I am a very insecure person. I’m consistently second-guessing myself, and usually assume that people don’t like me. In many fields of my life, I feel as though whatever I do is not good enough. But certainly, more so than anywhere else, I feel that nothing I ever do will be good enough for my father. In my mind, I will never meet his expectations. I will never be a good enough cook, cleaner, writer, wife, mother, daughter, teacher to meet the expectations of my father. A while back, we had dinner at my house—spaghetti. Part way through dinner, my father asked, bluntly as he always does, “There’s no garlic bread?” Despite the fact that the rest of the dinner was suburb (homemade spaghetti sauce, made with venison shot by my husband and tomatoes grown in my garden), I thought it a failure because of the simple lack of a loaf of bread. Although I thought about this frequently, and made a specific point of serving garlic bread the next time I made spaghetti, the criticism elsewhere isn’t as hurtful as it is in regards to my profession.
It is in domain of our profession, which I know to some extent I entered into because of him, that the real dynamic of this father-daughter relationship exposes itself. I’ve accepted criticism from my colleagues since I began working in education six years ago. I’m a reflective person, and I listen carefully to what they have to say, evaluate its validity, and try to take their advice or criticism and use it to my advantage. When it comes to my father, however, in the area of my profession, any analysis is taken quite seriously. It’s taken to heart, not as a piece of constructive criticism, meant to advance my teaching abilities, but rather as a jab to those abilities, a statement of my lack of talent. Recently, I’ve started working at the same school my father is the director of. In doing so, he’s been able to see my teaching first-hand. In this, I’ve heard him give me praise, both to me personally, and in talking with other staff, and the staff at the various schools we work with. But this praise is outweighed by the criticism—not in the amount but in its effect. There’s a best-practice theory in education, 1 to 5, that with every one negative statement you give a student, you should give five sincere compliments. Even if that was the ratio my father used with me, it wouldn’t matter. That one negative would drown out the memory of the five praises and would fester in my mind for weeks. With my father, even the slightest joke is taken to heart, and my hands start to tremble, and my voice begins to quake, and tears slowly begin to emerge and slip down my cheek more quickly than I can wipe them away. My mother and my husband will attempt to comfort me, telling me he’s really just kidding, don’t take it so seriously, you’re a fantastic teacher (cook, cleaner, writer, wife, mother, daughter). And as much as I want to believe this, and as much as I sometimes convince myself that I actually do believe it, that his antics are just constructive criticism meant to help me improve my skills, just done so with his signature smart-ass twist, I can’t. When it comes right down to it, I really do think that he thinks I suck, if only just a little.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Bubble Butt
By the beginning of my eighth grade year I had developed a strong group of friends—Ginger, Abbey, Emily, and Nicole. Of course I’d had close friends before, but this was my first clique. The five of us were inseparable. Like most cliques, we did everything together. If one of us was absent from school, teachers automatically asked the others were she was, and we always knew. We went on family trips with each other and every night of the week at least one of us was at another’s house.
Like most small groups, while all five of us were friends, some of us were closer than others. Abbey and Emily, and Ginger and I, had been friends before the five of us came together, so naturally each pair was closer to one another. That left Nicole on the outs.
However, unlike some cliques, we had friends outside the five of us, friends we all knew and talked to and hung out with, and friends we each had individually. Robert Carter and I had been friends for over a year and hung out regularly. On days I had swim practice, since his house was in the same direction, he and I walked together, and he sometimes hung out at the pool while I practiced. Earlier in the year there had been talk of Robert and me going out, but he said he would never go out with me because I dressed too weird. I was ahead of the times in fashion, into alternative and punk before it became mainstream, featured in Seventeen magazine, and thus acceptable in rural America. At this time, however, Robert Carter wasn’t boyfriend material for other reasons—he was Nicole’s boyfriend.
It was sometime in November when Robert asked me to come over to his house to help him with his new computer. This was the early nineties, and for many households personal computers were a new thing. My dad had always been pretty tech savvy, so I’d grown up more experienced with these things. We were one of the only families in La Grande, where we lived until I was in the fifth grade, to own a computer. My older brother and sisters’ friends loved to come over to play Frogger and Pong. I spent many summers playing Oregon Trail and Where in the World is Carmen San Diego. My freshmen year I was introduced to the internet, and specifically remember asking my dad “What’s the World Wide Web?” which someone in an intranet (notice the intranet, not internet) chat room had asked me if I had. Thus, Robert asking me to help him set up his new computer seemed logical, since I was one of only a few students at Ontario Middle School who actually could help him, and probably the only one who was cool enough to be hanging out with Robert. As there usually is with thirteen-year-old male-female friendships, there was an underlying sexual tension between Robert and me, one which he and I openly denied and secretly encouraged. Seeing as how Nicole was not the most understanding girl in our group— really she was just plain mean, a bit of a bully—Robert and I decided it was best not to tell her we’d be spending time together without her. Robert and I made our plans for Friday, each coming up with intricate lies as to why we weren’t available that night. Robert was staying home with his brother (not entirely untrue…) and I was going with my mom to visit her friend in Adrian, another nearby small town. The problem, however, is that I forgot to let my mom in on this little scheme. That night, at about eight o’clock, my friends called my house to see if we were back yet and if I wanted to go to a movie with them. My mom told them I was over at Robert Carter’s house and why don’t they just give me a call over there. They did, and Nicole proceeded to tell me what a lying little slut I was.
Immediately realizing my mistake, both of lying and of not covering my ass, I began to apologize profusely. I started to backtrack, beginning about how our plans had changed and this just came up, but stopped, understanding that a lie was what got me into this, and it surely wouldn’t get me out. My apologies did me no good. Her insults continued until I finally just hung up and, crying, called my mom to come get me.
After giving them a day to cool off, I spent Sunday night calling all four of my friends, explaining why I did what I did and apologizing for my actions. Oh, yeah, Michelle, they each said, I understand. I would have done the same thing. Nicole can be such a bitch sometimes. Don’t worry about it. She’ll get over it. See you tomorrow. And that was it. Nicole refused to answer my call, and I intended to talk to her on Monday at school, to beg for forgiveness, to plead to her to not disregard our friendship. Everything would be fine between the five of us.
So I thought.
Monday morning I arrived at school and made my way to find my friends. They saw me coming, looked at me, and turned away. I was shunned. The girls who only hours before said we’d be friends for life ignored me. I sat alone at lunch that day.
Figuring they’d get over it again soon, I hung out with my backup friends—the group of girls I talked with in class and was friendly with at lunch, but never much more than that. Surely Ginger, Abbey, Emily, and maybe even Nicole, would come to their senses soon and we’d go back to being inseparable. But two weeks later—the equivalent of two years for a thirteen-year-old—and they still hadn’t.
About that time, things between the group and me got terribly worse. Secrets I’d confided to the girls began surfacing around the school. Most of them didn’t bother me, and I was able to blow them off, ignoring whispers or confronting them head on with a “yeah, so?” comeback. Until Nicole spread through the lunchroom the story I’d relayed to her about an afternoon I’d spent with my then boyfriend Ian Poverrelli. I told her he’d fingered me. But the truth was, it never happened. I was spending the night at Nicole’s and she and I were up late, talking. She was telling me things that she had done with her boyfriends and I felt like a prude. I exaggerated what had happened in Ian’s and my make-out session, knowing that since he had moved it would never come out that I was lying. And I trusted Nicole, as my best friend, to keep this confidential. But soon the whole school was whispering about this fake incident, and my reputation as a slut—already present because of my C-cup breasts, since in middle school a girl’s reputation is in direct relation to the size of her breasts, despite what sexual activities she may or may not have participated in—soared. But I couldn’t deny it, as people either wouldn’t believe me, or I’d be ridiculed not for being a slut, but for being such a loser that I had to lie about being one.
A week later, I was sitting in pre-algebra, waiting for class to start, watching my ex-best friends outside the door talking to Robert. The bell rang and they scattered. Garrett , Abbey’s boyfriend, came in to class and sat next to me. Garrett had a mind of his own, and continued to talk to me despite warnings and derogatory comments from his girlfriend. What was that all about, I asked. Apparently Nicole, although still unwilling to forgive me and still declaring what a slut I was every time she saw me in the halls, had forgiven Robert for his indiscretion—despite him never apologizing or asking for forgiveness, as I had—and asked if he would go back out with her. He said no, that he’d wanted to break up with her before any of this ever even happened to but didn’t know how.
You have got to be fucking kidding me. You’ll forgive him, but not me.
It was then that I had my first epiphany. Why would I want to be friends with someone who would drop one of her best friends for a guy? Why would I want to be friends with people who would betray your trust and friendship because they were scared of another one of their so-called friends? These are not the kind of people I want to associate with. The girls I had been hanging out with for the past couple weeks had been better friends than the others had ever been. They didn’t judge me because of one mistake I made. They supported me, even knowing that if the other girls ever did forgive me, I’d drop them just as fast as I’d been dropped.
That day, I got over my old friends—but they didn’t get over me. They continued to spread rumors about me. They continued to harass me in the halls. As much as they claimed to not like me, it seemed that I consumed a lot of their thoughts and time. After Nicole asked Robert back out, I discarded them completely. They, however it seemed, continued to care about me. They topped it all off my making me a note and putting it in my locker, which of course they knew the combination to.
The note was written on yellow legal paper. One side consisted of a collection of magazine cut-outs of big boobs. The other side consisted of a collection of magazine cut-outs of big butts. In large letters, it read “Michelle has a BIG BUBBLE BUTT.”
Yes, it’s true: I have a bubble butt. I always have. I still do. It was no surprise to me to be told that I had a large ass and huge tits. And just as I still do now, I liked it. But these girls thought that I was either unaware or ashamed of my curves. I showed the note to my new friends, who laughed with me at both the creativity of the note, its truth, and the fact that these girls had nothing better to do with their time than make fun of me.
By March they began talking to me again. There was no formal apology or forgiveness, just a gradual decrease in harassing, followed by a gradual acknowledgement of my existence as a person. I feigned interest, but had not real desire to rekindle a true friendship. Eventually the four split up. Nicole was pregnant by our junior year. Abbey and Emily both graduated early so as to be able to move in with their much older boyfriends, and rumor has it, divorce a few years later. Ginger got out while the getting was good, eventually joining me and my new group of friends. And this new group, Ginger included, has been friends ever since—even seventeen years later.
LESSON LEARNED: 1) Do not lie. It will eventually come back to haunt you. 2) Your true friends will always be your friends—no matter how bad you mess up, and no matter who else may or may not be your friend.
Like most small groups, while all five of us were friends, some of us were closer than others. Abbey and Emily, and Ginger and I, had been friends before the five of us came together, so naturally each pair was closer to one another. That left Nicole on the outs.
However, unlike some cliques, we had friends outside the five of us, friends we all knew and talked to and hung out with, and friends we each had individually. Robert Carter and I had been friends for over a year and hung out regularly. On days I had swim practice, since his house was in the same direction, he and I walked together, and he sometimes hung out at the pool while I practiced. Earlier in the year there had been talk of Robert and me going out, but he said he would never go out with me because I dressed too weird. I was ahead of the times in fashion, into alternative and punk before it became mainstream, featured in Seventeen magazine, and thus acceptable in rural America. At this time, however, Robert Carter wasn’t boyfriend material for other reasons—he was Nicole’s boyfriend.
It was sometime in November when Robert asked me to come over to his house to help him with his new computer. This was the early nineties, and for many households personal computers were a new thing. My dad had always been pretty tech savvy, so I’d grown up more experienced with these things. We were one of the only families in La Grande, where we lived until I was in the fifth grade, to own a computer. My older brother and sisters’ friends loved to come over to play Frogger and Pong. I spent many summers playing Oregon Trail and Where in the World is Carmen San Diego. My freshmen year I was introduced to the internet, and specifically remember asking my dad “What’s the World Wide Web?” which someone in an intranet (notice the intranet, not internet) chat room had asked me if I had. Thus, Robert asking me to help him set up his new computer seemed logical, since I was one of only a few students at Ontario Middle School who actually could help him, and probably the only one who was cool enough to be hanging out with Robert. As there usually is with thirteen-year-old male-female friendships, there was an underlying sexual tension between Robert and me, one which he and I openly denied and secretly encouraged. Seeing as how Nicole was not the most understanding girl in our group— really she was just plain mean, a bit of a bully—Robert and I decided it was best not to tell her we’d be spending time together without her. Robert and I made our plans for Friday, each coming up with intricate lies as to why we weren’t available that night. Robert was staying home with his brother (not entirely untrue…) and I was going with my mom to visit her friend in Adrian, another nearby small town. The problem, however, is that I forgot to let my mom in on this little scheme. That night, at about eight o’clock, my friends called my house to see if we were back yet and if I wanted to go to a movie with them. My mom told them I was over at Robert Carter’s house and why don’t they just give me a call over there. They did, and Nicole proceeded to tell me what a lying little slut I was.
Immediately realizing my mistake, both of lying and of not covering my ass, I began to apologize profusely. I started to backtrack, beginning about how our plans had changed and this just came up, but stopped, understanding that a lie was what got me into this, and it surely wouldn’t get me out. My apologies did me no good. Her insults continued until I finally just hung up and, crying, called my mom to come get me.
After giving them a day to cool off, I spent Sunday night calling all four of my friends, explaining why I did what I did and apologizing for my actions. Oh, yeah, Michelle, they each said, I understand. I would have done the same thing. Nicole can be such a bitch sometimes. Don’t worry about it. She’ll get over it. See you tomorrow. And that was it. Nicole refused to answer my call, and I intended to talk to her on Monday at school, to beg for forgiveness, to plead to her to not disregard our friendship. Everything would be fine between the five of us.
So I thought.
Monday morning I arrived at school and made my way to find my friends. They saw me coming, looked at me, and turned away. I was shunned. The girls who only hours before said we’d be friends for life ignored me. I sat alone at lunch that day.
Figuring they’d get over it again soon, I hung out with my backup friends—the group of girls I talked with in class and was friendly with at lunch, but never much more than that. Surely Ginger, Abbey, Emily, and maybe even Nicole, would come to their senses soon and we’d go back to being inseparable. But two weeks later—the equivalent of two years for a thirteen-year-old—and they still hadn’t.
About that time, things between the group and me got terribly worse. Secrets I’d confided to the girls began surfacing around the school. Most of them didn’t bother me, and I was able to blow them off, ignoring whispers or confronting them head on with a “yeah, so?” comeback. Until Nicole spread through the lunchroom the story I’d relayed to her about an afternoon I’d spent with my then boyfriend Ian Poverrelli. I told her he’d fingered me. But the truth was, it never happened. I was spending the night at Nicole’s and she and I were up late, talking. She was telling me things that she had done with her boyfriends and I felt like a prude. I exaggerated what had happened in Ian’s and my make-out session, knowing that since he had moved it would never come out that I was lying. And I trusted Nicole, as my best friend, to keep this confidential. But soon the whole school was whispering about this fake incident, and my reputation as a slut—already present because of my C-cup breasts, since in middle school a girl’s reputation is in direct relation to the size of her breasts, despite what sexual activities she may or may not have participated in—soared. But I couldn’t deny it, as people either wouldn’t believe me, or I’d be ridiculed not for being a slut, but for being such a loser that I had to lie about being one.
A week later, I was sitting in pre-algebra, waiting for class to start, watching my ex-best friends outside the door talking to Robert. The bell rang and they scattered. Garrett , Abbey’s boyfriend, came in to class and sat next to me. Garrett had a mind of his own, and continued to talk to me despite warnings and derogatory comments from his girlfriend. What was that all about, I asked. Apparently Nicole, although still unwilling to forgive me and still declaring what a slut I was every time she saw me in the halls, had forgiven Robert for his indiscretion—despite him never apologizing or asking for forgiveness, as I had—and asked if he would go back out with her. He said no, that he’d wanted to break up with her before any of this ever even happened to but didn’t know how.
You have got to be fucking kidding me. You’ll forgive him, but not me.
It was then that I had my first epiphany. Why would I want to be friends with someone who would drop one of her best friends for a guy? Why would I want to be friends with people who would betray your trust and friendship because they were scared of another one of their so-called friends? These are not the kind of people I want to associate with. The girls I had been hanging out with for the past couple weeks had been better friends than the others had ever been. They didn’t judge me because of one mistake I made. They supported me, even knowing that if the other girls ever did forgive me, I’d drop them just as fast as I’d been dropped.
That day, I got over my old friends—but they didn’t get over me. They continued to spread rumors about me. They continued to harass me in the halls. As much as they claimed to not like me, it seemed that I consumed a lot of their thoughts and time. After Nicole asked Robert back out, I discarded them completely. They, however it seemed, continued to care about me. They topped it all off my making me a note and putting it in my locker, which of course they knew the combination to.
The note was written on yellow legal paper. One side consisted of a collection of magazine cut-outs of big boobs. The other side consisted of a collection of magazine cut-outs of big butts. In large letters, it read “Michelle has a BIG BUBBLE BUTT.”
Yes, it’s true: I have a bubble butt. I always have. I still do. It was no surprise to me to be told that I had a large ass and huge tits. And just as I still do now, I liked it. But these girls thought that I was either unaware or ashamed of my curves. I showed the note to my new friends, who laughed with me at both the creativity of the note, its truth, and the fact that these girls had nothing better to do with their time than make fun of me.
By March they began talking to me again. There was no formal apology or forgiveness, just a gradual decrease in harassing, followed by a gradual acknowledgement of my existence as a person. I feigned interest, but had not real desire to rekindle a true friendship. Eventually the four split up. Nicole was pregnant by our junior year. Abbey and Emily both graduated early so as to be able to move in with their much older boyfriends, and rumor has it, divorce a few years later. Ginger got out while the getting was good, eventually joining me and my new group of friends. And this new group, Ginger included, has been friends ever since—even seventeen years later.
LESSON LEARNED: 1) Do not lie. It will eventually come back to haunt you. 2) Your true friends will always be your friends—no matter how bad you mess up, and no matter who else may or may not be your friend.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Status Update
Facebook is addicting. I am addicted to Facebook. My sister is addicted to Facebook and she doesn’t even have a Facebook page. Since I’ve gotten a laptop, and thus can feel a little less guilty being on the computer since I’m still in the same room as my family, I’ve become overly obsessed with Facebook. Immediately upon turning on the computer, I open up Flock, open a new tab (so I can leave it open while doing whatever else I have to do) and click on my Facebook favorite. I have friends on FB who post a status update multiple times a day, others who write “I can’t think of anything to write for a status update! LOL!” However, I consciously monitor my status updates, thinking critically about what I’ll write, making sure it’s something I wouldn’t mind my mother or cousin—who are my friends—seeing, something interesting and funny, something profound or motivational. I don’t update more than once a day, even if I have something interesting to say. I don’t want to be that person.
I don’t actively pursue new friends on FB, although if I get a friend request, chances are I’ll say yes. And of course I’ve done searches for people—general searches for people I may have known from a certain school or organization, searches for specific people. But unless it’s someone I have an active real-life friendship with, or someone with whom I’ve lost touch with and actually want to have an active real-life friendship with, I don’t request. I just scan their pages for whatever information they’ve made available to everyone, or very often to friends-of-friends, check out their pictures and marital status and employment status and living arrangements and then make a general assessment as to whether or not they’ve become successful, or at least successful in terms of what I’ve become. I’m not one of those people who have 257 friends on Facebook. Like anyone actually has 257 friends. Certainly they may have met 257 people over the course of their lives, but they’re not friends. A recent post stated that Aiden Stowe and Antonio Hernandez are now friends. Aiden Stowe and Antonio Hernandez, at no point in their lives, have been friends. Sure, Aiden and Antonio went to the same high school. Sure Aiden’s dad was Antonio’s eighth grade social studies teacher. Sure, some of Aiden’s friends really are Antonio’s friends. But that doesn’t make Aiden and Antonio friends. They were never on any sports teams together, they were never in any clubs together, they didn’t attend the same college, or work at the same fast-food restaurant or anything that might warrant them being friends. The closest thing Aiden Stowe and Antonio Hernandez have in common is that in some point in their lives, they both kissed me.
About two weeks ago, I got a friend request from my senior-year boyfriend, Aiden Stowe (yes, the same Aiden Stowe). I waited a day—not because I was contemplating accepting, but because, despite the fact that I’ve been happily married for over five years, I didn’t want to look desperate,—and accepted his request. I waited another couple of days before I posted something on his wall, a simple “hey what’s up?” then obsessed for a couple days waiting for his response. I complained to my girlfriend: “Why do people friend request you, then not even talk to you or respond to your wall posts? I didn’t join Facebook to see how many virtual friends I could pretend to have. I joined to actually talk with people I care about. WTF?” The next day, I got a full message responding to my wall post telling me about what he had been up to and generally how things were going. I waited two days, then responded with what turned out to be an absurdly long message detailing my every success and positive experience since the last time we really talked, over ten years ago. In a nervous frenzy, I quickly added, via a new message, “Wow, didn’t realize that message was so long. Didn’t mean to go on and on!” Could I possibly be any dorkier? A couple days later, he responded with a short “glad to hear things are going well” type message and that was that.
These kinds of brief encounters only amplify my insecurities. It’s like a perpetual 10-year-reunion. My best friend got giddy over her high school crush commenting “Great pics, Ginger” on her wedding photos. Like maybe Antonio Hernandez (yes, same Antonio Hernandez) now thought she was cool. And like it even mattered.
Our messages back and forth between friends of past whom we rarely see portray us only at our best. They highlight all the wonderful things we’ve been doing, all the successes we’ve had, all the benefits our lives have granted us. “Oh, things are great!” we say. Statistically speaking, things cannot be that great for that many people. For some of us, our lives still suck as much as they did in high school—for many of us, even more so. Sure, if you’re friends with someone on Facebook, you may see a status update or two that points out the small deficiencies in their life—a note about how work sucked this week, or the baby wouldn’t stop crying, or her boyfriend and she just broke up. But there’s never anything of any real substance. I would never have sent a truthful message to Aiden Stowe:
Hey, Aiden! So glad to see you’re doing well with your new wife and adventurous job in Korea. Things are going okay here. We live in Portland, in outer Northeast—you know, Suburbia. We rent a cute little—and boy do I mean little, our old apartment was only 100 square feet smaller!—house. From my dad. It’s what we like to call a fixer-upper. Some people call it character, but I just call it shitty. There’s a tarp on the roof right now, which works better than the buckets we had in the office. If it would ever stop raining we’d fix our roof. But really, it’s fine that it hasn’t since we can’t really afford to fix it anyway. So anyhow, we lived with my sister and her two kids for a while after I finished grad school. It wasn’t as bad as I had thought it would be, but when I unexpectedly (FYI, no you do not need to be off the pill for a few months before you get pregnant, a couple weeks will do fine!) got pregnant, we figured it was time to get a place of our own. We couldn’t get financing, thanks to years of credit card debt on my part (I looked really cute and fashionable for about three years, though!), so my dad bought our house and we rent from him. And to top that all off, he still pays a chunk of our rent since we can’t afford the whole mortgage! I drive a Pontiac G6, which really has some get-up-and-go, but honestly is quite a dorky car. And it’s red, so it just screams out “I’m trying to be cool, but this is as cool as I can afford.” My husband drives his dad’s beat up old ‘97 Ford F150. Thank goodness for our parents, right?! I’m not working full time this year. I had been teaching high school Language Arts for three years, and really loved it, but it was just too much freaking work. I couldn’t maintain a full-time job and my household. The kitchen was always a mess, sink full of dishes, and the laundry was never done—we just scoured the laundry baskets for clean underwear and wore the same pants over and over again. And despite being considered a pretty damn good teacher, and a part of numerous school affiliations, I usually only actually read and graded half of the papers I assigned. I’d bring them home to work on, but they got lost under the pile of laundry that needed to be folded. Luckily most of my students were so apathetic and never asked to see their grades, it didn’t matter. So this year, after being laid off due to budget cuts, I’m just tutoring. I've applied for dozens of jobs, but can barely even get an interview. I only work about two to four hours a day, but since they’re at three different places, I’m usually gone most of the day anyway. Which means that even though I don’t make crap for money, I still can’t keep up with my housework, so if you come over, there’ll probably be a pile of laundry and a pile of dishes and the floor will be covered in dust bunnies. Oh, and if you come in the spring, there’ll probably be ants crawling around everything because despite utilizing every chemical and all-natural old wives’ tale known to man, I can’t get rid of them. My family has pretty much gotten used to them. My husband can’t figure out what the hell he’s doing with his life, so don’t even ask about him! He’s still in school, so we live off his student loans, GI Bill, and his disability (did I mention that 11 months in Iraq gave him Quadriceps Tendonitis and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder –the symptoms being anxiety, depression, and insomnia? He’s certifiably crazy and on the list for a knee replacement!) My son is three, and yes, he is adorable, and very smart. I’m pretty sure he’s hitting for the other team though, or at least leaning toward transvestite, since he loves to paint his toenails and wear princess dresses and recently told me he wanted to be a mermaid. Plus, he’s starting to whine all the time, complaining about how I hurt his feelings because I wouldn’t let him watch The Princess and the Frog again. So that’s pretty much it. We get out every once in a while, maybe once a month, and hit the Red Robin or Olive Garden or some other chain restaurant, then maybe if we’re feeling crazy, go to a movie. Anyhoo, hope you’re doing as well—or better! Talk with you some other time.
No one shares in those Facebook messages how their lives are really going. And although, on a very conscious level, we all know this, I can’t help but feel even more insecure about myself when perusing through people’s pages. My friend Carlie’s photos consist solely of pictures of her various world travels and nights out to the bar—always clad in Banana Republic tops, Seven Jeans, and a Coach purse. Her status updates read, “Had a great time in Thailand, where to now?” Friends write on her wall things like “When are we going back to Dutch Goose for $ beer night?” and “OMG, girl, so much fun last night!” I’m sure being single with no kids and a steady income you get to keep all to yourself has its downfalls, but judging by her Facebook page, there are none.
My real friends and I have often talked about the difference between perception and reality in “the grass is always greener on the other side” phenomenon. She’ll run into an old friend and feel bad about herself because this person is married with kids and a house, while she is living at her parents’ house working retail and still single. And even though I remind her that I’m married with a kid and a house (kind of), it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Of course this friend didn’t tell her all about her troubles—she gave her Facebook stats and they moved on.
There’s always a special week in Facebook. It’s doppelganger week—post a picture of the famous person you look like. It’s mother appreciation week—post how much your kids weighed at birth. It’s Book lover’s week—post what book you’re reading now and in the comments, write your favorite quote. I’m going to start some more truthful weeks in Facebook.
It’s real friends week—count the amount of real friends in your Facebook. You know, the people you’ve actually talked to or seen in the past six months. Copy and paste this into your status, then in the comments, write the number of friends you really have! (32/102, 17 of whom are family).
It’s reality week—in your status, tell us the truth about how your life sucks. Then in the comments, list two or three more reasons, because man, if you’re like me, you won’t be able to choose just one. (I live pay check to pay check; my dad subsidizes my rent; I’m un/underemployed; my husband is certifiably crazy; my house is smaller than some of my friends’ garages).
LESSON LEARNED: The grass is not always greener on the other side. Everyone has some dandelions sprouting in their lawn. Maybe seeing just a glance into other people’s troubles would put our own into perspective and remind us that although we may post about how great things are, at some point, everybody’s status sucks.
I don’t actively pursue new friends on FB, although if I get a friend request, chances are I’ll say yes. And of course I’ve done searches for people—general searches for people I may have known from a certain school or organization, searches for specific people. But unless it’s someone I have an active real-life friendship with, or someone with whom I’ve lost touch with and actually want to have an active real-life friendship with, I don’t request. I just scan their pages for whatever information they’ve made available to everyone, or very often to friends-of-friends, check out their pictures and marital status and employment status and living arrangements and then make a general assessment as to whether or not they’ve become successful, or at least successful in terms of what I’ve become. I’m not one of those people who have 257 friends on Facebook. Like anyone actually has 257 friends. Certainly they may have met 257 people over the course of their lives, but they’re not friends. A recent post stated that Aiden Stowe and Antonio Hernandez are now friends. Aiden Stowe and Antonio Hernandez, at no point in their lives, have been friends. Sure, Aiden and Antonio went to the same high school. Sure Aiden’s dad was Antonio’s eighth grade social studies teacher. Sure, some of Aiden’s friends really are Antonio’s friends. But that doesn’t make Aiden and Antonio friends. They were never on any sports teams together, they were never in any clubs together, they didn’t attend the same college, or work at the same fast-food restaurant or anything that might warrant them being friends. The closest thing Aiden Stowe and Antonio Hernandez have in common is that in some point in their lives, they both kissed me.
About two weeks ago, I got a friend request from my senior-year boyfriend, Aiden Stowe (yes, the same Aiden Stowe). I waited a day—not because I was contemplating accepting, but because, despite the fact that I’ve been happily married for over five years, I didn’t want to look desperate,—and accepted his request. I waited another couple of days before I posted something on his wall, a simple “hey what’s up?” then obsessed for a couple days waiting for his response. I complained to my girlfriend: “Why do people friend request you, then not even talk to you or respond to your wall posts? I didn’t join Facebook to see how many virtual friends I could pretend to have. I joined to actually talk with people I care about. WTF?” The next day, I got a full message responding to my wall post telling me about what he had been up to and generally how things were going. I waited two days, then responded with what turned out to be an absurdly long message detailing my every success and positive experience since the last time we really talked, over ten years ago. In a nervous frenzy, I quickly added, via a new message, “Wow, didn’t realize that message was so long. Didn’t mean to go on and on!” Could I possibly be any dorkier? A couple days later, he responded with a short “glad to hear things are going well” type message and that was that.
These kinds of brief encounters only amplify my insecurities. It’s like a perpetual 10-year-reunion. My best friend got giddy over her high school crush commenting “Great pics, Ginger” on her wedding photos. Like maybe Antonio Hernandez (yes, same Antonio Hernandez) now thought she was cool. And like it even mattered.
Our messages back and forth between friends of past whom we rarely see portray us only at our best. They highlight all the wonderful things we’ve been doing, all the successes we’ve had, all the benefits our lives have granted us. “Oh, things are great!” we say. Statistically speaking, things cannot be that great for that many people. For some of us, our lives still suck as much as they did in high school—for many of us, even more so. Sure, if you’re friends with someone on Facebook, you may see a status update or two that points out the small deficiencies in their life—a note about how work sucked this week, or the baby wouldn’t stop crying, or her boyfriend and she just broke up. But there’s never anything of any real substance. I would never have sent a truthful message to Aiden Stowe:
Hey, Aiden! So glad to see you’re doing well with your new wife and adventurous job in Korea. Things are going okay here. We live in Portland, in outer Northeast—you know, Suburbia. We rent a cute little—and boy do I mean little, our old apartment was only 100 square feet smaller!—house. From my dad. It’s what we like to call a fixer-upper. Some people call it character, but I just call it shitty. There’s a tarp on the roof right now, which works better than the buckets we had in the office. If it would ever stop raining we’d fix our roof. But really, it’s fine that it hasn’t since we can’t really afford to fix it anyway. So anyhow, we lived with my sister and her two kids for a while after I finished grad school. It wasn’t as bad as I had thought it would be, but when I unexpectedly (FYI, no you do not need to be off the pill for a few months before you get pregnant, a couple weeks will do fine!) got pregnant, we figured it was time to get a place of our own. We couldn’t get financing, thanks to years of credit card debt on my part (I looked really cute and fashionable for about three years, though!), so my dad bought our house and we rent from him. And to top that all off, he still pays a chunk of our rent since we can’t afford the whole mortgage! I drive a Pontiac G6, which really has some get-up-and-go, but honestly is quite a dorky car. And it’s red, so it just screams out “I’m trying to be cool, but this is as cool as I can afford.” My husband drives his dad’s beat up old ‘97 Ford F150. Thank goodness for our parents, right?! I’m not working full time this year. I had been teaching high school Language Arts for three years, and really loved it, but it was just too much freaking work. I couldn’t maintain a full-time job and my household. The kitchen was always a mess, sink full of dishes, and the laundry was never done—we just scoured the laundry baskets for clean underwear and wore the same pants over and over again. And despite being considered a pretty damn good teacher, and a part of numerous school affiliations, I usually only actually read and graded half of the papers I assigned. I’d bring them home to work on, but they got lost under the pile of laundry that needed to be folded. Luckily most of my students were so apathetic and never asked to see their grades, it didn’t matter. So this year, after being laid off due to budget cuts, I’m just tutoring. I've applied for dozens of jobs, but can barely even get an interview. I only work about two to four hours a day, but since they’re at three different places, I’m usually gone most of the day anyway. Which means that even though I don’t make crap for money, I still can’t keep up with my housework, so if you come over, there’ll probably be a pile of laundry and a pile of dishes and the floor will be covered in dust bunnies. Oh, and if you come in the spring, there’ll probably be ants crawling around everything because despite utilizing every chemical and all-natural old wives’ tale known to man, I can’t get rid of them. My family has pretty much gotten used to them. My husband can’t figure out what the hell he’s doing with his life, so don’t even ask about him! He’s still in school, so we live off his student loans, GI Bill, and his disability (did I mention that 11 months in Iraq gave him Quadriceps Tendonitis and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder –the symptoms being anxiety, depression, and insomnia? He’s certifiably crazy and on the list for a knee replacement!) My son is three, and yes, he is adorable, and very smart. I’m pretty sure he’s hitting for the other team though, or at least leaning toward transvestite, since he loves to paint his toenails and wear princess dresses and recently told me he wanted to be a mermaid. Plus, he’s starting to whine all the time, complaining about how I hurt his feelings because I wouldn’t let him watch The Princess and the Frog again. So that’s pretty much it. We get out every once in a while, maybe once a month, and hit the Red Robin or Olive Garden or some other chain restaurant, then maybe if we’re feeling crazy, go to a movie. Anyhoo, hope you’re doing as well—or better! Talk with you some other time.
No one shares in those Facebook messages how their lives are really going. And although, on a very conscious level, we all know this, I can’t help but feel even more insecure about myself when perusing through people’s pages. My friend Carlie’s photos consist solely of pictures of her various world travels and nights out to the bar—always clad in Banana Republic tops, Seven Jeans, and a Coach purse. Her status updates read, “Had a great time in Thailand, where to now?” Friends write on her wall things like “When are we going back to Dutch Goose for $ beer night?” and “OMG, girl, so much fun last night!” I’m sure being single with no kids and a steady income you get to keep all to yourself has its downfalls, but judging by her Facebook page, there are none.
My real friends and I have often talked about the difference between perception and reality in “the grass is always greener on the other side” phenomenon. She’ll run into an old friend and feel bad about herself because this person is married with kids and a house, while she is living at her parents’ house working retail and still single. And even though I remind her that I’m married with a kid and a house (kind of), it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Of course this friend didn’t tell her all about her troubles—she gave her Facebook stats and they moved on.
There’s always a special week in Facebook. It’s doppelganger week—post a picture of the famous person you look like. It’s mother appreciation week—post how much your kids weighed at birth. It’s Book lover’s week—post what book you’re reading now and in the comments, write your favorite quote. I’m going to start some more truthful weeks in Facebook.
It’s real friends week—count the amount of real friends in your Facebook. You know, the people you’ve actually talked to or seen in the past six months. Copy and paste this into your status, then in the comments, write the number of friends you really have! (32/102, 17 of whom are family).
It’s reality week—in your status, tell us the truth about how your life sucks. Then in the comments, list two or three more reasons, because man, if you’re like me, you won’t be able to choose just one. (I live pay check to pay check; my dad subsidizes my rent; I’m un/underemployed; my husband is certifiably crazy; my house is smaller than some of my friends’ garages).
LESSON LEARNED: The grass is not always greener on the other side. Everyone has some dandelions sprouting in their lawn. Maybe seeing just a glance into other people’s troubles would put our own into perspective and remind us that although we may post about how great things are, at some point, everybody’s status sucks.
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