The Only Man I've Ever Loved

For nearly all of my adult life, I’ve been single. It used to really bother me. I used to think to myself, What is so different about me than other girls? A lot, I eventually discovered.

You could be thinking, You’re probably just ugly, and you sound kinda mean. Eh, you’re only half right there. But it turns out a lot of guys like cold-hearted bitches, so that can’t be the reason.

Part of it could be because I was essentially raised by a pack of wolves, AKA my close friends. I can remember as far back as preschool associating myself primarily with boys. No, it wasn’t one of those transgender gigs where I would cut my hair short and dress like a boy. In fact, I refused to wear anything but pink in preschool. I still can’t figure that one out, since now I despise the color.

I hit puberty at a very young age. I had acne and a regular period at the age of 10. I had size DD boobs by the time I was 14. (Now THAT, Mother Nature is fucked up! Thanks a million.) Needless to say, I had a poor self-image during that time since I felt that the only attention I got from boys was due to my ta-tas. At this point, I still surrounded myself with the opposite sex. I played their games, like kick the can, hacky sack, and kick and catch (all very dynamic games, I assure you). I adopted their language. Every word had “-age” tacked onto the end of it. For example, “bikage” meant riding our bikes and “prank callage” meant making prank calls. And alas, I followed them into the malevolent jaws of delinquency.

We really weren’t bad kids. We just did things that are generally, shall we say, frowned upon by society. Some of our nightly hobbies included ghost riding bikes, egging houses and passing cars, stealing and assaulting innocent stuffed animals, trespassing, stealing lawn ornaments off of our neighbors’ yards, and setting various items on fire (trash cans, telephone poles, and an abandoned snowplow, to name a few). Autumn was a particularly fruitful time of year for us, since there were so many pumpkins to smash, scarecrows to burn, and leaf bags to cut open and throw up in the air.

We never got caught, at least not by the police. Every one of us used a code name (mine was Snookums) and we had police scanners. Not to mention the backyard shortcuts we knew like the backs of our hands if we had to run from the cops on foot (which totally happened a countless number of times). If I may say so, we were a pretty badass band of 14 year-olds. We thought we were unstoppable. Nay, invincible.

What does my dance with delinquency have to do with me being single as an adult? Quite a bit, I think. Delinquency gave me this sense of power and attitude. I learned to find humor at the misfortune of others. My emotions gradually became more and more desensitized. Furthermore, this malicious bond between my friends and I truly made me value their companionship and non-romantic affection. We were like a family. A twisted, fucked-up, pyromaniac family. We had sleepovers, we knew each other’s parents by their first names, and we trusted each other. As I grew older, I began to fear any kind of relationship with the opposite sex that differed from that which I had with “my boys,” as I would call them. These boys, by the way, are still some of my closest friends to this day. Oddly enough, most of them also seem to suffer from eternal celibacy.

So naturally, I blossomed into a horrible, tyrannous, monster of a teenage girl. I had a radical attitude and an enormous ego. I generally disrespected any authority figure. Like any teenager, I rebelled against my parents. But my teenage relationship with my parents is another thing that highly correlates with my inability to keep a boyfriend.

My parents, Jebus bless them, have always managed to provide for my siblings and I, but have rarely demonstrated what a healthy relationship should consist of. Aside from being drunks (happy drunks, but nonetheless drunks), my parents can hardly stand to be in each other’s presence, or have a discussion without it turning into an argument. I once asked my mother why she married my father. Her reply was, “Well, things were a lot different before we had kids.”

Aye, aye, aye! Where do I start with a statement like that? I didn’t know whether to laugh at my mother or slap her across the face. There is so much here that is so incredibly wrong. That is like saying you jumped out of a plane without a parachute because you didn’t think it would be dangerous. Did you honestly think there would be no consequences for having kids, Ma? Really? Did you not think your daily life would drastically change for the next 25+ years? I guess you thought we’d magically raise ourselves to be responsible, upstanding citizens and that you and Dad definitely wouldn’t need to devise a game plan, nevermind agree on how to discipline us or what to cook for dinner. No, don't worry about any of that. You guys just keep knockin' those drinks back. We got this.

Needless to say without going into too much detail, life at home was a bit volatile. And my teenage attitude only added fuel to the blazing fire that was my household. My path was a detrimental one of emotional wreckage. I eventually got help for these anger issues and, frankly, I’m a better person for the whole experience. I’m not sure if you could tell or not, but I still harbor some resentment toward my parents for half-assing my upbringing.

It is this resentment that affects my inability to have a romantic relationship. I have this intense fear of ending up like Mom and Dad. Can you blame me?

So let’s fast forward a little to college. Freeeeeeeee-dommmmmm!!! I’m 18, on my own, and I’ve discovered sex. Not only sex, but I’ve realized something that has probably changed me forever: I can manipulate men. Easily, at that! I used to play a “game” that would amaze the females in my dorm hall. I would have my eye on a particular guy. A guy in our dorm building, a hottie in Chemistry class, or the guy who always worked at the computer lab on Friday afternoons. And I’d see how long it took me to get him in bed. It never took very long. I soon became the envy of every girl in my dorm hallway.

OK, I know what you’re thinking. So what? College guys are damn easy. Agreed. The important thing is that I began to think of myself differently than I ever had before. I felt like a Siren, a woman so beautiful and powerful that men were instantly weak under her spell. To set the record straight, I was not the slutty college girl who slept with pretty much anyone. I was the slutty college girl who was no give and all take; who enticed specific individuals, chewed them up, spit them out, then laughed about it before choosing my next victim. I didn’t feel like the victim anymore like I did at home. I was the predator. And I fell in love with myself. I carried this newfound self-image with me into adulthood.

In my early 20s, I avoided relationships at all costs. Men didn’t seem worth anything to me, other than the obvious anatomical advantage. The only men I valued and respected were my close friends. But after so long, I began to feel a bit empty inside. I thought that I should give relationships an honest try. I found myself surrounded by a bunch of meatheads in south Florida, so I tried online dating.

Oh. My. God. What a waste of time and money. Seriously, I got matched up with the nerdiest guys on dating sites!! I was immediately unimpressed with my matches, but I was trying with all my might to keep an open mind. One guy actually looked attractive, so we started talking via e-mail and decided to meet. We made plans to eat at a local Japanese place, since we both loved sushi.

So I pulled up to the restaurant and got out of the car, looking around for my date. At first I didn’t see anyone who looked like him. So I kind of nervously stood around by the door, shifting my weight from left to right, waiting for him to show up. Great, I got stood up. This is what I get for thinking this would actually work out, I thought.

Then he appeared. There he was: the kid who was unmistakably the last one picked in PE class every time. He was several inches shorter than he portrayed himself to be, a little on the shrimpy side, wore thick-rimmed glasses, and had a very large forehead. More or less a shorter Screech Powers. He looked only vaguely like his pictures online. I wanted to run away. But I didn’t. We ate dinner and engaged in small talk, and he was actually a really nice guy who I think, intellectually and emotionally, had a lot to offer a woman.

After dinner, we went bowling. As soon as we got our lane, I B-lined to the bar and asked him what kind of beer he likes. “Oh, I’m not much of a drinker. But I’ll have what you’re having,” he said. What a sport. God, I felt like a drunk. I downed three beers in the time it took him to drink one. I then continued to talk about how much I enjoy drinking, describing beer as one of my passions and referring to Samuel Adams as “the only man I’ve ever loved.” Maybe I was subconsciously trying to appear unattractive to him, in case he wasn’t picking up on my vibes. If I was, it worked. After the date he e-mailed me saying he didn’t think we were a good match. Gee, was it that obvious?

So online dating was a bust. I realized that I just might not be relationship material and I might be single for the rest of my life. This does not upset me. I still think like this today, and I’ve not only accepted the idea but embraced it. I like having boy toys rather than boyfriends. I'm OK with the fact that I've never loved a man like I love Sam. Romance may find me someday, but I’m not willing to put forth the energy to chase after it. Instead, I’m focused on putting myself first and living my life to the fullest: traveling the world, making friends, working hard, and partying harder. As long as I have a plethora of idiotic yet attractive meatheads to take advantage of, I’ll be just fine. ;)

Dropping the Balls: A Family Story

Ah, family. So important. So loving. So supportive. And in my case, sooooooooo whackadoodle. I thought I’d start by telling you about my family because they are, debatably, the most influential people in my life. Each member has shaped me into the woman I am today in his or her own unique way.

I am the oldest of three children. My sister, Carly, is in the middle and my brother, Andy, is the baby. We were born unwillingly unto our parental units, Karen and Mitch.

Carly is your typical middle child. Nothing is fair, the world is against her, and she’s always right. Period. Her special talent is twisting any given situation during an argument so that it’s your fault. (She initially inherited that talent from my dad, and then perfected it.) A sub-talent of this would be her ability to unnecessarily turn any situation into an argument. Therefore, any moment you are in her presence can suddenly turn into an argument that is all your fault. Here’s an example:

She called me one night while I was at work and asked if I wanted to get Pinkberry with her. I told her I was about to leave work (which was 30 minutes away) and that I would beep the horn when I’m in the driveway and we would go together. On my way home, I stopped to pick up a single item at the pharmacy. Exactly 30 minutes after she called, my cell phone rang in the pharmacy. I knew it was her before I fished my phone out of my purse. I picked up and said “Yeeeesssssss?”

“Where are you?” she asked curtly. I couldn’t believe she had the nerve. As if she honestly did not know where I was precisely 30 minutes after we first spoke on the phone!

“Uh… I’m at CVS. I just had to pick up one thing.”

“Well, when will you be home?” she asked, this time sounding annoyed and offended that I would interfere with her quest to get Pinkberry with a 2 minute trip to the pharmacy.

“Like, one minute,” I said. CVS is about a ten second drive from our house.

At this point, I already knew that the situation had turned into an argument. I paid for my item and left the pharmacy, bracing myself for the rage that I had yet to have rain down upon me. I pulled into the driveway and beeped. She didn’t come to the door. So I beeped again. She appeared in the window as if she didn’t know who could possibly be beeping in the driveway. She disappeared, then came out the front door about 3 minutes later.

That shit really drives me crazy. I know she was standing in front of the door needlessly making me wait since I had done the same to her with my evil detour to CVS. She seriously pulls shit like this! Despite my mild frustration, I can sense the anger brewing inside of her, so I decide not to say anything about it. But my effort to stay calm doesn’t pay off. She opens the passenger door, gets inside the car, and slams the door shut. I say “hey.” She doesn’t say anything. We drive to Pinkberry in silence.

Once we arrive, there is a line out the door, as seems to be usual at Pinkberry. We wait in silence, until finally after 20 minutes she says, “Ugh, I’m missing Modern Family. I thought you would have picked me up sooner so I wouldn’t have to miss it.”

Since when am I a fucking mind reader? I guess I was supposed to use my telepathetic powers to know that she has a TV show to catch and that my 2 minute trip to CVS (and NOT the 30 minute wait for goddamn frozen yogurt) is the reason she will have missed the first 15 minutes. Seriously… I deal with this shit ALL the time.

Moving on. Andy, my brother, is way more laid back with a very mild temper. He’s very much like me, so we get along well. Although I have to say, the kid is kind of a dud. He sleeps until 1:00 PM every day, has no steady job, studies part-time at a community college, and devotes all of his energy to sports and video games. Though overall, he really is a good and smart kid who is moderately responsible. The problem is, when he fucks up, he REALLY fucks up.

A perfect example of such a monstrous fuck-up was on his 20th birthday. He left the house sober at 10:00 PM. He was celebrating at his friend’s house with a small group of his homies, and we all assumed he would be drinking even though is he underage. Well drinking is certainly what he did. He returned home 3 hours later with no pants on and went upstairs to his room. A little unusual, but whatever.

Almost immediately, he came back down the stairs, through the living room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. Vomiting and shitting. The whole time. My poor mother, who sleeps on the living room couch, was awakened by this and had to scrub the carpets clean for the next hour and a half. That was a good one.

My parents are colorful people, and I don’t mean biracial. My mother is, to put it succinctly, a hot mess. She is a recovering alcoholic and will never admit it, not even to herself or her family. She used to be pretty funny when she was drunk all the time, but sometimes she really crossed the line, like the time she drunk dialed my best friend when we were away at college and talked for 45 minutes about my brother’s balls and their inability to drop. Yeah. That happened.

For nearly a year, good ol’ Ma has been alcohol-free. She claims it was her choice, but I know it’s because she went to her doctor and found out her liver is fucked. At first, we were all happy about her “decision,” but sobriety came with a price. Make that several prices. For one, she is incredibly irritable. You can say any little thing that rubs her the wrong way and she blows up. Even if it’s something like, “I’m going to take a shower,” or, “Look how funny the cat is with her new toy.”

Since beginning a life of sobriety, she has been consuming an alarming amount of coffee. Even late at night, she makes herself a café con leche or three. Then she is up until 4:00 AM and sleeps until 2:00 PM once she finally dozes off. When she wakes up from her deep slumber, she says, “Oh my god! I can’t believe I slept so late!”

One afternoon when she said this, I said, “Gee, Ma. It’s not THAT hard to believe. You sleep late every day.” Just like having an alcohol dependency, my mother is in complete denial that she oversleeps on a daily basis. Needless to say, she becomes furious at my comment and insists that she sleeps in only once a week, twice tops.

My mother is essentially just like her mother (my grandmother), who passed away a few years ago. The old goat drank, smoked, and had survived cancer a whopping 18 times before she finally croaked. I remember one time my mom called to remind me to call my grandmother on her birthday. “Just so you know,” she told me, “Nanny was caught smoking with her oxygen tank in her room the other day so she is on probation at the nursing home. She’s a little sensitive about it so don’t mention it to her.”

So I called my grandma up and heard her nasally voice answer, “Hellooooo?”

I couldn’t help myself.

“I heard you almost blew up the joint, you badass,” I said slyly.

She scoffed and said matter-of-factly, “Oh, please. You’re exaggerating.”

I only sort of extensively studied biology and chemistry in college, so what do I know, right? Not to mention all that common sense I have.

Anyway, it’s only a matter of time before my mother is chain-smoking in a nursing home with her own oxygen tank and café con leches instead of sherry.

All right, so I’ve saved the best for last. My father really is a case. He is a lot like my sister in terms of his temper, but the main difference is that he has quite a realistic view of the world, despite his “everyone is against me” kind of outlook. A chain-smoking, Manhattan-drinking, wise-cracking man in his mid-60s who doesn’t know how to just relax. Even on the rare occasion that he doesn’t have any work to do, he can’t sit still. Especially if it means being in my mother’s presence. He will cut the lawn twice, work in the garden for hours, reorganize his office (again), and go grocery shopping for the third time that week instead of kicking back.

The man drinks a lot, but usually consumes more or less the same volume from day to day. Sometimes he drinks a bit too much in the evening and can be heard cursing to himself in the kitchen. The only person who really has to deal with that is my sister because she is usually the only other person home in the evening, so I don’t mind much.

Growing up, I didn’t really get along with my dad because of his temper and heavy drinking. But since I’ve become an adult, I quite enjoy my father’s company. We’ve spent many nights awake well past midnight drinking Captain and diet, reminiscing and laughing our asses off about our dysfunctional family. By spending more time with my father, I’ve come to realize that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. In fact, I remember the moment I acknowledged that we are so much alike.

My neighbor is a total dick. He’s like our very own Neitermeyer from Family Matters. Not the kind of guy you could borrow a cup of sugar from. Allow me to take a moment to give you an idea of his douchebaggery. He nitpicks constantly about anything and has called the police on us regarding various preposterous claims, such as the cheap plastic fence he put up last summer. It started leaning within a month and apparently it’s our fault for trying to push it over.

Not only is Neitermeyer mean, he’s pretty thick. One day, he left his lawnmower outside after cutting his lawn. It was stolen. The next day, he put up a huge (and by huge I mean utterly enormous) sign on his big plastic fence that said “PLEASE RETURN MY LAWNMOWER.” My father really thought this was too much. For two days he constantly burst into laughter, saying “What an asshole!”

Just when we thought he had gotten the sillies out, my father takes things to the next level. It wasn’t enough for him to silently snicker to himself and think about how Neitermeyer deserved it. No, no, that is hardly enough satisfaction. Karma for this big of a dick requires a little salt rubbed into the wound. So Dad decides to put up a sign of his own. It read “LAWNMOWER RENTALS.”

So who am I? There is no easy answer to this question. I try to be real, honest, and forgiving. But it doesn’t always work out. And when it doesn’t, I shrug it off. I am confident, perhaps too confident, but I think I have reason to be since I grew up in such an insane household and got out alive. I am the kid who constantly disrupted class by cracking jokes but got an A on all the pop quizzes. I'm the hooligan who ran around the neighborhood at night stealing the neighbor's property and setting it on fire, then running from the cops on foot and getting away because I knew the sweet backyard shortcuts. I'm the teenage girl who figured out way too early how to manipulate men and fucked with them just for fun. I'm the college student who gave a major presentation in molecular biology by doing an interpretive dance. I'm the determined young woman who decided on a whim to move to another country and learn a new language just because I could. I’m an incredibly perceptive, adventurous, mild-tempered, risk-taking, wise-cracking, in-your-face, too smart for her own good, sardonic, emotionally insensitive, line-stepping, inappropriate prankster, and I will hit you where it hurts. Mostly just for fun.

Welcome, suckers.

OK... maybe I shouldn't start out with such a harsh intro. After all, I do appreciate you reading my blog. Then again, 99% of you probably are suckers. So it stands.

I know what you're thinking. Who the hell do you think you are? Frankly, I'm just a regular 25 year-old American woman with her own opinions. What are you writing about? Oh, you know, just life in general. I think my life is pretty damn funny, and I'm hoping you will too. Actually, I don't really care what you think. Why are you writing? I was inspired by Sloane Crosley. After reading her book of essays, I Was Told There'd Be Cake, I thought to myself "Hey, this sounds a lot like my life... and I can totally write stuff like this!" So here it is.

No, I don't think I'm as good as Sloane. She is a much better and more experienced writer. She is also a lot prettier than I am. (Then again, my mother always said beauty is in the eye of the beer holder.) I'm just writing this blog for my own shits and giggles. If anyone reads it and actually thinks it's funny, even better.

I'm going to spare you the blah blah background information about myself. I know that if you take the time to read and keep up with my posts, you will get to know me better than most people in my life. You will know me so well, in fact, that you may feel as if we've known each other for ages. Or that we knew each other in a former life. Or that we are soul-mates and by writing this blog I am actually reaching out to you, confessing my love.... in which case you should pick up the phone and call a psychologist. Immediately. I will press charges if you get weird on me. (It's happened before.)

Thank you and welcome to my world of laughter and lunacy.