1988

So, as I was walking Red up and down the bedroom yesterday, humming my little "go to sleep" medley to lull her into her naptime stupor, I thought it was about time to update the world on what Momma's Little Wild Ape was up to these days (mainly using my house as her personal gym). But, she suddenly figured out the English language and told me, in no uncertain terms, that it was almost time for another guest entry. Then, once again losing the power of speech beyond "no" and "miao," she clammed up and I started to think about how she came to be and times in my life when things changed.

1988 was one of those years. It may be the pivotal year in my life.

In January 1988, I was sort of dating an incredibly good looking asshole who's name should have been (and probably was) William but, because he was a pretentious, poser asshole (and undeniably gorgeous) went by Willem. Ick Yeah, I know.

Let me just say for the record that I NEVER said I was always 100% smart.

But really, everybody needs a male bimbo (a mimbo, in the pop-culture parlance) in their lives. Just once.

So, in the fall of 1987 (after Televangelist World came crumbling down), I was sort of dating Willem. And, we had agreed � because we're SO above all that - that we were NOT a couple. We were NOT dating. Just hanging out and having lots of sex.

Riiiiiight. Yeah, that alllways ends well.

How much of a poser was this guy? He had a trust fund but lived in a room on a second floor of a house in which all the other rooms were rented out by other friends of his. They shared a bathroom. He decided he was a poet � a la William S. Burroughs � and wrote poems using the cut-up method. This is where you write down a lot of ridiculous prose that looks like it resembles a poem. Then, you cut each line apart from all the others. You now have strips of paper littering your floor. Each with a line of "poetry" on them. Then, you reassemble the strips any way you want.

Voila! You have a poem.

Or a lot of pretentious tripe. Take your pick.

But, in January, I had a routine gyno exam in which the doctor discovered a tumor on my ovary the size of a grapefruit.

That was fun. Especially considering I had no health insurance at the time. But, it had to come out immediately or my future ability to bear children would be kaput. Not something I was particularly thinking about but: Yikes.

So, I had the surgery (we won't go into my personal hell of trying to get the hospital to declare me indigent so the costs could be written off � eventually they were.). Did my beloved come to visit? Only on the last day of a 3-day stay. Hospitals gave him the heebee-jeebees and really, he made sure I knew he was stopping by AS A FRIEND. Since we were absolutely NOT A COUPLE.

Uh huh. Okay.

Asshole.

The week after I got out of the hospital, he took me to a local bar/restaurant. I drove my VW Bug through two feet of snow. He walked, naturally, because a) he lived within walking distance and I most certainly wouldn't want to put HIM out by going somewhere inconvenient for him, and b) he had no vehicle. He was too pretentious for anything as pedestrian as car ownership. (Nevermind that trust fund I mentioned earlier. No, of that we won't speak).

He showed up with my boom box/tape player and announced that we were broken up. Pushed the tape player toward me so I had to peer over it in order to see his lips move.

I laughed and said, "How can we break up if we were never together? By breaking up with me, you're admitting that we'd been a couple."

Oh, no, he protested and harrumphed and blah blah blah. Whatever, dumb ass.

I left and drove back through the snow to my apartment. I was both pissed off and relieved.

Then, as soon as my six-week-no-using-your-body healing had occurred, I started dating a nerdy, immensely unattractive (physically) guy. He was sweet and a few years younger than me and it was clear that I was instantly not only his girlfriend but his first. He'd hoped I'd be his only forever but sadly, because he was woefully inexperienced, he did not realize that he was Rebound Guy.

It was nice while it lasted. It might have lasted a bit longer than three months if I hadn't met my husband at a party in a whole other city, three hours away.

You know how "they" talk about love at first sight? Yeah, it was kind of like that.

Only problem: we were both kinda dating other people but not seriously. More because they were there and we hadn't met the right person yet.

Now, clearly, we had.

I tried to break it to Nerdy Guy as easily as I could but I don't think he ever forgave me. He's a nice guy, really, but it was never meant to be. I hope, after all these years, he understands that now.

So, in June, right before my 22nd birthday, my husband and I started dating. We spent the first year and a half of our relationship commuting 180 miles each way on the weekends. It killed my poor VW. His diesel Jetta didn't bat an eye.

And, that, is how, all these years later, I am humming my lullaby medley in my toddler's ear helping her get sleepy on a dark, rainy Sunday afternoon. The curtains are drawn and the lights are off and the room is warm and the fan is on to create a white noise effect. And I'm so very, very grateful that I was able to keep my ovaries so they could give me Dusty and Red. Because they are everything. Everything.

Because events happened, like evolution, in a particular sequence and���.here I am.

The End.

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