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.

How much would I have to love you for you to stop hating yourself?

For you to believe you are worth loving?

For you to love me back?

How much would I have to love you for you to believe that I love you?

I’m over it.  Entertaining myself at night with a buzz.  I never used to do that.  I never used to have alcohol in the house.  I’d certainly have drinking nights out but until this last year, never did I entertain myself in the evenings with drinking.  I used to do things like read, and write, and simply be bored if I was bored.  Drinking feels like shit.  And has stunted my weight loss.  And makes me feel like a complete idiot.

So, I just poured out 2 bottles of vodka and 4 bottles of wine.  Peace out, party of one.

OK, a question for my friends:  is it better to have caught a tiny glimpse of a person you **know** would make a good partner or remain ignorant that such a person exists?

I’m not trying to be all dramatic, you know I suck at choosing partners, and I don’t have a clue what it’s like to be with someone who adores me, who I adore equally.  It just has never happened for me.

Right now I’m thinking ignorance is what I would have preferred, but that might just be the PMS poopy-head talking.

Tell me what you think.

His profile listed going to The Blank as one of his passtimes.  I was going that night.  I okcupid’ed him to tell him to meet me there.  No biggie.  He wasn’t terribly good looking but I thought it might be fun.

He ignored me the whole night, but texted me.  How old are we? He was less cute in person.  But I had to start somewhere.

Some events will remain un-described here, but let’s just say, after he came over a few times, he is now known as Three Strikes.

He texted and called many times.  I ignored him.  I was, after all, by this time, all gushy over a real man I met in the in between time.  But then lonliness got the best of me and I agreed to a real date.  One that includes dinner, talking, being nice to me.

The Night of The Date arrived and Three Strikes leaves work late, then has hot water problems at home (“I am NOT going out if I have to take a cold shower” he texted me.  Very romantic.), then finally picks me up at 9pm.  I was nearly passed out from too much wine and irritation and just plain old disinterest.

He has no plan for dinner.  Mind you, dude has lived here all his life like me.  He knows the goddam restaurant line-up around here.  He only says “It’s WAY too late to go to a movie.”  Don’t treat me too right, motherfucker.  So, I’m trying to be on my best behavior ever, and you all know me.  This kind of shit from anyone usually results in some kind of demerit.  Like sending the fucker home, say.  I suggest a number of restaurants.  He won’t choose.  He pretends he’s never heard of the moderately priced places.  The man who makes $150k can’t deal with a $100 dinner, apparently.  So I jokingly suggest a coffee shop with a bar.  The one that has half-price appetizers and well drinks.  Dude jumps on this.

I do not kid here, people.  The Flames on a Friday night.  This means two grown-ups are going where kids go for $4 nachos after the movies.  Fuck. Me.

But I’m starving.  So we go.  We take a cab.  I tell him he is paying for everything.  This is so out of character for me.  I never allow anyone to pay for anything.  But I’m furious now.

We sit. I drink. I order mini corn dogs and a salad. He complains about how ENORMOUS the portions are.  I say “motherfucker, if you talk about the food one more time, I will throw this mustard in your face.” By now my manners are gone.  I eat, he eats (mind you, dude is NOT a small man, he can pack it in, but has some need to discuss portion size). I try to have a conversation about his job, my previous work.  He wants to talk about the things he wants to cook for me.  I’m thinking, fuck if I’m going anywhere else with you or near you again.

He paid.  I said I would pay.  The bill was 24 bucks.  He said “you don’t have a JOB, Sarah.”  Look, cocksucker, I already have a dad, thank you very much.

We leave, walking back to my place, I ask him about work again, since he continues to complain about it.  Then, the clincher.  He goes “it’s not like you can have a SERIOUS conversation right now, Sarah.”  What. The. Fuck.  So I can’t take it anymore.  I start saying, loudly “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t inform you that I’m retarded BEFORE we left the house.” and “I can’t exactly use my brain after you take me to The Flames for dinner.” and “YOU’RE A MOTHERFUCKING MOTHERFUCKER.”  I tell him he’s abrasive and rude and his answer is “everyone always tells me that, I’m me, I am what I am.”

I wanted to just go home, but I stopped at a bar for a last drink.  I was hoping someone I knew would be there.  I know the bartender.  She gave me sad eyes and nodded to Three Strikes like “what happened to you and why are you out with this fucktard?”

In the lounge he softens a bit, telling me that “maybe he should change since everyone tells him he’s an asshole.” And that I should help him with it.  My answer?  “No, you are 39 years old, I am not running a How to Be A Grown-Up Man Service here.”  He gets grabby.  I get stabby.

We take a cab home.  Because Mr The Portions Are Too Big can’t walk a mile.  I run inside yelling “PEACE OUT, BITCHES” to him.

What has happened since?  Texts.  Bazillions of texts.

“I miss you, what are you doing?” me: “that’s weird, we obviously are not compatible. You’re a dick and I’m nice.” him: “I don’t want to believe that’s true.”

And who texts just now as I write this? Weeks later?  Three Strikes.  Like he has it like that with me.

Dating over.  The End.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I like you

Hurry up and like me

Roses are red

Violets are blue

No, taking me to The Flames is not an appropriate date.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Don’t imply that I am stupid

I won’t kick you in your junk

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.

I have a match.com profile but I do nothing with it. I don’t answer emails, I don’t talk to anyone, and I certainly wouldn’t do anything as ridiculous as meet anyone. However, I do read the email I get.

from manquaman noon-ish:

Hi Sarah! You’re funny & you’re right, your hair is cute, write back.

(I don’t write back, in fact, I see both emails at the same time, later in the evening)

from manquaman noon-thirty-ish:

Sorry, I hate socialism and socialist/collectivist political agendas, so I’m sure we would not get along.

WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!! I DIDN’T ASK YOU TO WRITE TO ME MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A  portion of my profile says:

“Politically I’m very liberal. I think we need universal healthcare, socialism is not a dirty word, anyone who wants to get married should be allowed to do so, women are the only people on the planet who should be able to decide what they do with their own bodies, and Muslims are not terrorists. Make love, not war, and all that. On this I am totally uncompromising.”

Yes, clearly socialism makes me a total asshole.