sarahntastic

“Customer assistance on the family planning aisle!!!” screeched the girl into the intercom when I told her I needed something from the locked-up, adult stuff case.  Only a select few, special, prone to thievery of condoms, preggo tests, and yeast medication CVS locations lock this shit down tight.  So those of us who are already wanting to die of embarrassment AND itching have to ask a 19 year old girl to open the case for us.

Now, let me just say that I am far more judgmental of yeast infections that you might be.  I know who and what has been down there, and I know it’s been nothing, or anyone, dirty.  Well, it’s been dirty, but you know, not dirty.  But the fact that no matter what I do, latex, and a man’s parts make my hoohah go ballistic.  Baking bread.  Making muffins.  You know.  A motherfucking yeast infection.  But this rational explanation doesn’t help when I have to buy medicine for a dirty cooter, you know?

I really wanted to ask for jumbo box of jumbo condoms when she opened the case.  At least this way 19 year old simply thinks I’m getting the sexing.  Now she just thinks I’m getting the sexing from random dirty dude.  Right?  Because that’s what I think when I see you buy monistat.

High school mostly sucked for me.  I was smart and sarcastic and too mature to relate to most of my peers.  I had a mom everyone knew as The One to Ask What Such-and-Such Means (dirty words, mostly), and a penchant for loving books more than anything else.  I had a really cool car thanks to having a really cool dad.  Everyone thought that 1966 Mustang  was amazing, but really I cared mostly about getting to school and work and One Step Beyond (see underage club, circa 1988, 1989 for definition) in it.  I liked having money; I liked reading in my room; and I liked a few close friends.  Mostly I wanted to grow up and get the fuck out of high school.

So then there was facebook.  I had no idea so many people were nosy, adding me just to see my pics, because really? Why else are you friending me, peeps I haven’t seen or heard from in nearly 20 years?  I mean, we didn’t jive back in 1987, we ain’t gonna jive now, knowhatI’msayin?  But it was sort of neat to see a few people grown up.  Via facebook, of course.  Even the locals.  There would be no actual meeting.  Why would we meet now when we couldn’t bear each other during high school?

Then the 20th reunion came along.  I didn’t want to go.  An old friend persuaded me to go.  I got drunk really early in the night.  Because I couldn’t bear the whole thing.  I don’t know why.  Most people were fascinated that I wasn’t married, didn’t have children.  I was some anomaly to be interviewed.  Unfortunately I was so far gone on vodka I had to tell myself to stay quiet to avoid embarrassing myself.  One dude grabbed my ass many times.  Women wanted to know what life was like without kids.  I wanted to get the fuck outta there.  Just like 20 years ago.

It was nice to see  a few people.  But after all is said and done, I could have done without.  20 years is really no time at all.  Everyone still looked like their 15 year old selves.

Adults with a weird history of weird awkwardness to the weirdth degree really need to meet again after 20 years?

I’m thinking no.

Don’t tell me that something cheap, low-class-by-your-standards, a neighborhood you might be unfamiliar with, a person who might speak in a way you don’t approve of or are culturally naive to, or anything else for that matter, EXCEPT FOR A REAL-LIVE GHETTO, is ghetto.

In my presence, someone pointed to Prada shoes, albeit very unattractive shoes, and said “oh, those are so ghetto.”  My response was something like “you’re a stupid cunt that will never, in even your most dire circumstances, know what a ghetto is. Step away from me.”  I didn’t care that we were shopping together.

Most of us?  Don’t know from a ghetto.

Wipe this word from your vocabulary unless you have a paper on the ghettoization of ethnic groups in America due.

I lost a lot of weight.  I stopped losing weight.  I gained 20 pounds.  NO ONE is more disappointed, sad, depressed, horrified, terrifed than I am.  I don’t need you to look at me, comment toward me, or otherwise spend any energy on me and my fat.  Because, rest assured, I think of little else.  One doesn’t get fat without obsession and addiction.  And the obsession and addiction doesn’t just stop with food.  Anger, shame, disgust, self-hate, worthlessness are all things I am plenty skilled at feeling-obsessing on-being addicted to feeling all on my own.  If I could replay the tape that is on loop in my head 24/7 you couldn’t handle it.  Because it’s horrifying.  How much I hate myself.  So, thanks, but no, I don’t need you.  I’m already plenty fucked in the head about this.  You? I just want to beat the shit out of with all my fat.

I read this today and all my insecurites are running wild.  Not that they are normally under control.  Certainly not.  However, on days like today when I’m already planning to take a risk, I read about nasty men and just want to stay home.  I’m not perfect.  I have work to do on myself, on my body, on my health.  I’ve backtracked steadily the last few months, creating a brain space that is not conducive to realigning, restarting, re-Getting The Fuck Back Together.  But I’m almost there.  I’ve mostly stopped the self-hate talk.  I’ve gone back to the gym.  I’m not pushing it, but I’m keeping my routine.

But guess what, motherfuckers?  I don’t need YOU to contribute to my mind-fucking.

I commented on ST’s post that men’s idea of body and beauty perfection is pervasive and transcends ethnic groups.  Read any white dude’s personal ad and you’d think they live a life of X Games and humping skinny chicks – no matter if their own appearance is none too pleasing.

Boys, I SEE you out with chunky girls and you are HAPPY.

It’s not that we should be attracted to things we aren’t, but the idea that men, simply because they own a dick, can cut a woman to her knees by ticking off all of the things he finds physically unattractive has got to stop.  Because you know what?  That penis you have between your legs?  The thing that society tells you gives you the power to behave this way?  It’s not even cute.  Sometimes it’s tinier than Pepper’s. One beer and it doesn’t even work!  Sometimes it doesn’t work if we asked you to take out the trash one too many times and now your feelings are hurt.

Look, I want a boyfriend, a partner, someone to love, to adore, who adores me.  But I’m not putting up with this crap anymore.  Go away, shallow, empty men.  Or I might have to figure out a way to marry my dogs and Charles Shaw.

Ohhh, where to start?  How about, I was looking through the Target magazine rack for a goddam holiday magazine for cookie decorating ideas and the only thing I found was this bullshit?  What is the point of this?  Obviously to sell magazines, but the girl is already selling her album.  Why does she do this?  Why do any of them do this for that matter?  We all know I’m not a prude, but I certainly will call you out on your naked-for-no-reason idiocy.

This talented girl could capitalize on sympathy for the rest of her life, if she is interested in making money on something other than her talent.  But no.  She needs to show her “power” and her “femininity” and her what, exactly?  What goes through a young woman’s mind when she is super popular, super talented AND got the shit beat out of her by America’s Boy Sweetheart so-will-forever-have-our-hearts, when she does a photo shoot like this?  I wish she had a woman in her life to explain to her you do not empower yourself by giving it away to millions of people.

I’m disgusted.  And sad.  And angry.  Mostly disappointed she made this choice.

It started with the realization that my COBRA subsidy ended December 1.

It continued with deepening depression about my financial situation.

Then there was a really shitty bff birthday party.

Then sweet Miss Callie went to doggie heaven.

Then competition and nosey-ness reared its ugly head.

Then sweet Miss Abby went to doggie heaven.

Then I had to figure out how to pay bills.

Then I couldn’t stop eating.

But.

I spent days and days with Cutest Baby.

I got two (small) cupcake orders.

It’s looking like I might just sell the BMW and get a little cash to live on.

I met fantastic women who will help me build the diaper bank.

But.

I am still hoping for a few less things that suck next week, though.

My dad picked me up on his way to get pumpkin pancakes at IHOP.  Since I’m game anytime food is involved, I was happy to go.  I was also extra-thrilled to see not only pumpkin pancakes, but also gingerbread pancakes on the menu.  Of course, I can’t decide and want one of each.

Me:  Can I get one of each?

Server:  Um, uh, uh, no.

Me:  Why?  They’re making them fresh back there, right?

Server:  yes

Me:  So can they just make one of each?

Server: no

Me: What are you saying?

Server:  I’ll get the manager.

Manager:  We can’t do that.  You can buy one of each, you can’t get one of each in the $4.99 breakfast deal.

Me:  Are they in a set?  Are they frozen?  Are they conjoined?

Manager:  You can buy one of each a la carte.  It will be four-something

Me:  Four-something?

Manager:  You can’t get one of each

Me:  You know what you’re saying is crazy, right?

Manager: <blank stare>

Dad:  I’m so proud you don’t give a shit what you say.

On the very long, ever evolving, just because I say so, list of things think are lame and I just don’t like are Kids Birthday Parties.  If for no other reason than I have no kids to bring, and therefore have no reason to want to come to a Tinkerbell/Transformers/Shit Your Kid Loves This Week party.

I do, however, like booze and eating.  These things can make a kids party bearable.  Oh, wait.  Unless it’s a party with no booze and really awful food.  Really, people?  Do you really think I want to spend 4 hours on a Saturday afternoon in this rec center with 30 kids, 60 adults, nasty food, and not a single cocktail in sight?  I considered many times walking back to my apartment to chug a beer, but I knew I would not actually go back to the party if I left.

And another thing?  If you have two kids, and you have these massive birthday parties for each of them, every year, I think it’s disgusting that you accept gifts.  These 30 families should not have to finance your kids’ toy chest all year.

So the kid whose really sucky party I went to on Saturday hits Pepper.  She wants to pet him, but she isn’t gentle.  Poor Pepper loves kids, but this one might turn him.  So, what did I buy for her?  Good Dog Carl, Puppies Touch & Learn, Little Poky Puppy.  Three books, all about dogs.  When I see this ginormous two-year old (did I mention she’s the size of a 1st grader?) in the park next time I’m going to ask if she has done her homework.  Otherwise, I won’t be coming to her sure-to-be-sucky third birthday party.

Oh, and the caveat to this is, I will always love going to Cutest Baby Ever and Bad Baby birthday parties, because they are related to me, but more importantly, their parents know the importance of good food and a well-stocked bar and cooler.

I got married when I was 19 because I must have been in Bizarro World….doing the opposite of anything normal. Right when we should have broken up, we got married. I walked down the aisle SOBBING, everyone under the impression I was  happy, but really I couldn’t believe the mess I was about to get myself into. (Come on, adults, did you really think a 19-year old should be marrying an idiot?) But I tried, I worked, I was a good wife, a good cook, a good housekeeper (this last one might be a lie). I survived many plates of food thrown over my head, the remote thrown at me many times, being called pretty much every nasty name in the book, until the day, four years into all this, he tells me he’s not in love and we need to get a divorce.

Are you fucking kidding me?  YOU, Asshole of the Planet, want to divorce ME?

I was unimaginably relieved. Thankfully he came from a broken home so divorce was an acceptable solution to him.  I knew nothing of divorce, I had no idea it was an option.  I mean, my parents have been mostly happily married for forty years, for chrissakes.

So right when we are going to go our separate ways, the fucker tells me that, by the way, he cheated on me a few times over the last year. Really? This was necessary?  Now is the time for honesty and clearing the air?  No, I say no, it’s not.  I prefer naivety.

However, it became apparent I needed this punch in the gut in order to deal with the next 10 years of cheating.

About a year after my divorce, C was my next cheater boyfriend. It took me a while to realize it, caught up as I was in adoring this fucking gorgeous, sweet, generous, smart man. It was a bit more difficult to figure it out considering he was at my apartment every night. Well, of course, not every night. There were a few times here and there he couldn’t make it, couldn’t get away from work. This is the man who helped me develop my theory about a personality trait in certain men:  Men Who Love You Infinitely When They Are With You And Forget About You Immediately When They Are With Their Other Girlfriends.

J was a fucked up fucktard piece of work. He was afflicted by the aforementioned personality disorder, too, but it was a bit more complex. His wife cheated on him, now his ex-wife, the woman he adored until the end of time. So, his solution? You got it…right when he connected emotionally with a new woman, he found another to fuck, then, sad and guilty, tell girlfriend #1 he didn’t know what came over him & it’s only because wife #1 ruined him, and can you ever forgive him, please?  Also?  Not cool to tell your new girlfriends your wife was the love of your life.

Random other cheaters B, M, J…you get the picture.

But the best yet, the one that will take a miracle the likes of finding Jesus’ face on a potato chip for me to recover, went over like this:

The One, the one I thought was The One, the one who most definitely was not The One?

We got married, albeit hastily and for all the wrong reasons, but married nonetheless.  He moved to California to be with me, and on or around Day 3 of his settling into my our apartment, he began posting personal ad profiles everywhere. Match.com, yahoo personals, craigslist…name it, his shit-ass was on there. So I ask him about it and he tells me it’s just for fun, he messes around with his friends this way.

Let me be clear.

Not a week into a supposed life-long relationship, I am already breaking into his email, checking his cell phone history, web history, and all around not letting him out of my sight, ie, stalking my own damn husband.

The next clue was Sexy Tennis Partner. a) why the fuck does he need to play tennis with a woman? & b) what kind of fucko comes home to tell his wife his new sexy tennis partner asked him to go home with her? Many screaming fights later, the truth is revealed, not that it was a surprise, but at the very least I could stop feeling like a crazy person & know my fears were completely true. Then there were the random older women who wanted to know all about Morocco. No sex involved here, but certainly massive amounts of attention, home cooked meals, dinners out, gifts, parties in his fabulous Moroccan honor (say what?? why??). Oh, did I mention I wasn’t invited or welcome to any of this?

But pretty much the worst infidelity of all was his emotional affair, online of course, with a French woman in Boston. This is how I took my high school French to new levels of comprehension, via the hacked email translating, of course. This years-long affair consisted of hours online, chatting, phone calls all hours of the day and night. I’m pretty sure there were a couple clandestine meetings along the way, too. All under the guise she was an old family friend having a hard time adjusting to the U.S.

Of course I was at work all day, and he “worked” (read that, spent my 401k to start our business, which I also worked from the minute I got home from my real job until all hours of the morning) from home, so he had the freedom to do this, and clearly zero shame, embarrassment, or plain old respect for me.

I turned into a crazy person. Again with the breaking into email, checking phone calls, checking web history.  All this while I had 3 months of a cancer scare and then surgery to remove a tumor; while I worked a job I hated to support our business; while I allowed his younger brother to live with us no matter how much the kid drove me nuts; while I lived without a dog because the fucking Moroccan couldn’t handle an animal in the house; while I brought him into my family and pretended everything was peachy.  He spent all his time with her, gave her all his love, gave her his heart, his ear, his compassion, his secrets, all while I got disgusted looks & terrible fights. This is the most damaging and painful infidelity I’ve experienced.

So, Mom’s Old Lady Friend Who Keeps Asking Me Why I Haven’t Dated In Five Years, it’s because I cannot be trusted to find a normal man.  I am a huge idiot, apparently.  Are there classes for this?  I need some de-re-programming, Gitmo style.  I mean, without the torture.

Oh, and you read that right.  I am 37 and have been married and divorced.  Twice.  That’s super-fantastic to explain to people.