My Fresh Hell
Life in Scribbletown.

Who Loves Me, Baby?

2006-05-03

Man, this county is crawling with cops this morning. Just crawling. Itís like someone lifted up an old rotten log and...things...underneath went scurrying. I had one on my tail on the way into work that caused the car in front of me to go a few mph UNDER the posted speed limit. Dude, give me a fucking break. The universe was testing me. Must be they (the cops) knew I finally got my brake light replaced and were waiting for something else to go wrong with my car, so desperate are they to pull me over and issue a warning. Or a ticket.

Must be they know that I have to waste my time at the DMV today getting a renewed drivers license. Iíll miss my angry-35-year-old picture on my current one. Iím not really in the mood to give them a happy face so perhaps Iíll continue to look angry for another five years. After that, Iíll probably just look old. Sigh.

The other day, while looking ahead in my calendar to June, I noticed that next month marks 12 years of marriage and 18 years since my husband and I became an item. 18 years. Thatís a hell of a long time to be with one person. Damn. Whereís my medal? On the other hand, thatís a hell of a long time for someone to put up with ME.

I have spent a bit of time recently reviewing all my past boyfriends and near-misses and...encounters with men over the vast expanse of time that has been my life. At first, I was gonna call this entry Bad Boyfriends but really, only one of them truly sucked. Well, two. But some of them were simply unfortunate to hook up with me at a time when I wasnít interested in boring-but-nice guys. Perhaps I broke a few hearts though they probably have forgotten all about me by now. Which is just as well.

So, shall we begin?

Number One: Paul #1 was the first boy to ever kiss me. This was kindergarten. His mother was a teacher at the school. He was unbelievably cute with rich brown skin and a wicked smile. I had been dubbed The Kissy Girl for reasons I canít explain. But, it meant that I had free reign to run around and try to kiss all the boys. Which I didnít really want to do because, eww! But, for some reason I enjoyed a brief moment of freedom from my general shyness and tried to catch boys. I didnít actually succeed. Paul was the only one who kissed me. Behind a bush during P.E.

Number Two: Paul #2 was my first grade boyfriend. He was a total dork but sweet. I remember going to his house for lunch one day. The two of us discussed ants and how much weight they could possibly carry. It was a deep conversation as I remember. He didnít kiss me and probably never considered me a girlfriend. During that year, he moved to Texas and I never saw him again.

Number Three: Cornelius. Fast forward to middle school. I was just about the most unappealing eighth grader known to man: frizzy bad perm hair, big metal framed glasses, braces, unyielding zits, scrawny, zero tits, justÖ..man! I really should have roamed the halls with a bag over my head. Middle school is, in general, a bad time but mine was exacerbated by being bussed halfway across the city and thus becoming a racial minority, my parentsí acrimonious divorce and my latch-key kid status, and the death of my grandmother. So, when this incredibly tall, fairly attractive African-American guy dug me Ė when he had the pick of the whole school (which, in all fairness, is not saying much), I dug him back. We French kissed in my living room one afternoon while my Siamese cat kept watch. Soon after, I learned that he was sleeping Ė having actual sex Ė with another white girl named Susan. Oh, rumors flew and friendships unraveled and that was that even though he kept professing his love (puh-leese!). My Wayback Machine will NEVER include a setting for the years 1977-79.

Years later, my husband and I bought our first house across the street from Cís parentsí house. Iíd occasionally see his dad mowing the lawn but never said hi since he wouldnít have a clue who I was. C eventually decided he was part Native American (news to me!) and married a pseudo-Native American chick. Heís got a super detailed monster truck and probably a kid or two.

Number Four: Vernon. Youíd think I was picking them by their ridiculous names, huh? Not so, not so. How did we meet? A party, I believe. This was high school. I must have been a freshman or sophomore. He was three years older than me, was a night manager at Kentucky Fr1ed Chicken (the name it went by then), and was in a band. Or maybe two.

A friend and I went to this party at his apartment and my friend, who had driven us there, got shitfaced. She was an obnoxious drunk and refused to let us take her keys and drive her home so we rode with her to make sure she got home all right. She did and we walked back to his apartment (rather than, say, get my ass back home as well) and talked until around 3:00am. There was a knock on the door. It was the cops. Drunk friend had told her parents where I was and there were parental phone calls until I was tracked down. I went home somehow. I donít remember the details.

After that, we dated for about a year. He went to college Ė just down the street, actually Ė but he was always busy either with college work, his job or his various bands. Once, at another party, I caught him kissing some girl in the alley behind his apartment. We had a drunken ďYou assholeĒ / ďIím sorry, she didnít mean anythingĒ conversation. V was in a couple of bands at the same time Ė a rock and roll cover band and another more country rock band (I think). Because I was underage, I never got to hear him play. I smoked pot with his band mates (none of whom stay in my memory) but was never able to go to the clubs. He was an embarrassing-to-watch guitar player because his face made all these weird grimaces Ė like he was either constipated or having an orgasm or maybe both at once. I always had to look away. Not a good thing for a relationship. Later, I went to NYC with the high school senior class (I was a junior) and had a one-night stand (thus no longer a virgin) with a Canadian boy who was also on a school trip. I came back newly deflowered (of course, I never told him ANY of this Ė not even when I thought Iíd gotten pregnant) and our relationship limped along until I broke up with him because Iíd met:

Number Five: The Skateboarder Asshole Who Requires an Entry all to Himself even though He Doesnít Deserve it. Trust me on this. I cheated on him, too, but I also wasted 3 Ĺ years of my life with him. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Number Six: The Trust Fund Poet. Iíve mentioned this dickhead before. We werenít really supposed to be a couple because that would mean he then wouldnít be free to screw me over whenever he wished. Oh, the pain of it all!

Number Seven: Rebound Rob. Awww, what a nice geek he was. Unattractive but young and eager (for sex). We dated for a couple months. He was really a nice guy but didnít realize that he was Rebound Guy. Then, I met my future husband and had to dump him. He took it hard since I think I was his first girlfriend. Ouch. Oh well.

Number Eight: Husband. If I havenít written about this already, Iíll do so closer to our anniversary date. Itís not an epic adventure but it was nice to finally find the right musician (see Vernon, who was not) and the right time (ditto).

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1:18 p.m. ::
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