What do PMS, Labor Day, and an afternoon of antiquing have in common? Nothing. But they do add up to a day I don't feel like writing a brand new blog post. Lucky for me, (and you) I happen to have this one waiting in the wings...
Ok, I'll admit it. It’s true. I've had issues with men in the past. But, it really wasn’t my
fault. It was what I'd learned my whole life that had brought me to the place
I was in. That blurry little place where the line between man and dog isn’t
completely defined. When did I first get the feeling that man was a creature
with major design flaws--structural inadequacies that threatened the entire
human existence? I guess it all started on the night of my birth. December 31,
19(something or other.)
While my mother was laboring to bring me into this world, my father was off
somewhere, toasting the New Year, and his new tax write off. I don’t remember
much of this, as I was very young at the time. But nevertheless, I’ve heard the
tale countless times from my mother, who even then swore up and down that all
men were bastards. In fact, for years, my sister and I believed that
"bastard" was a term of endearment. After all, that’s
what she called him.
“You old bastard.”
She always said it with a smile, so surely it must mean something kind, and
sweet, and full of love and respect. A belief we held on to until the horrible
night my poor sister said, “goodnight you old bastard,” when Dad tucked her into bed. But, was my dear father delighted to hear those endearing
little words uttered from his sweet innocent little girl? Afraid not! That was
the first time I realized that bastard was not a term to be revered. No, it was
her way of saying that men were the root of all evil. Bastards who would
use and then discard you. (But not a second before trampling mercilessly all
over your poor pitiful heart.) It was several years before she spelled it out
quite so plainly, but that’s what she meant just the same.
This was a lesson hard learned. My first memory of an encounter with a
member of the opposite sex, not related to me, occurred in kindergarten. He
was the class clown, and he had a major crush on me. He stopped at nothing to
show his affection, including eating the dead flies on the classroom
windowsill. Hardly the way to attract women, of course, and despite his
countless attempts to woo me, no amount of candy bars or crayon scrawled love
notes could ever dispel the fly eating imagery. I never gave him more than a
second glance. Although, I will say, I still remember him to this day, so he
must have made some sort of impression, not the one he was working toward, I’m
sure. But it was an impression, nonetheless.
In second grade, I met the boy who would be my first real boyfriend. Which to
an eight year old consists of holding hands and making goo goo eyes at one
another. (No kissing or sex of any kind). He was the dreamiest eight year old
at Breesport Elementary School, and all the girls adored him. He was a hero to
all the boys, in no small part due to his unique talent for flipping his
eyelids inside out, (an image that grosses me out to this day.)
I, on the other hand, was a tall, gangly creature with an absolute lack of
coordination (not much has changed there), long straight Marcia Brady hair,
except mine was mouse brown, not blonde, and for a lack of a better expression,
eyebrows that made me look like the mutated offspring of Bert and Ernie from
Sesame Street. Yes, I was a sight to behold, and yet this scruffy around the
edges cutie liked me. He called me his Cherokee princess, and although I can’t
begin to imagine the comparison as my skin was the color of mayonnaise and my
eyes the color of fresh cucumbers, I was delighted by the attention he gave me.
Not to mention the sweet gifts he bestowed upon me, small toys pulled from the
bottom of Cracker Jack or cereal boxes. I tried desperately to hide any trace
of evidence from my parents and sisters for fear of embarrassment. This
unfortunately did not deter my evil sisters from mercilessly taunting me when
they suspected the existence of this mystery man.
I, in turn, folded under the pressure and vowed to give up dating forever.
This vow/curse was one that I struggled for many years to break without much
luck.
Instead, I turned my attention toward a new man. It didn’t matter that he
was a fictional character, or that he was older than my father. I was in love.
Oh, this was much more than my earlier crushes on Donny Osmond or Speed Racer.
No, this was true love. There was something about the way Starsky wore his
brown leather jacket, and his bright blue sneakers and cruised the mean streets
fighting crime with his partner Hutch in his bright red Gran Turino with the
white swoosh down the side. I carried his picture, a clipping from the TV
guide, in my little plastic daisy wallet and showed it to all my friends,
informing them that this was my new boyfriend. They of course believed me,
because nine year olds are basically stupid creatures. At least we were back
then, back in the days before the Internet.
Starsky was merely the first in a long line of pretend boyfriends that
included both Hardy Boys and, I’m embarrassed to say, Leif Garrett. They filled
the void left by the lack of a real boyfriend.
Junior High was a blur. I learned how to swear, and it wasn’t long before
“fuck” and “shit” became as much a part of my daily vocabulary as “please” and
“thank you”. I don’t know what the fascination with cuss words was exactly, but
my little group of friends and I couldn’t get enough of them. They were like
food for our pitiful little souls, a miserably failed attempt to be one of the
“cool” kids at school.
My friends were all social outcasts like myself, and included “braces girl”,
“big nose girl”, “probably gay but still not admitting it boy”, and me “the
stork”.
For a teenage boy to be described as tall and lanky is perfectly acceptable,
but for a teenage girl it is certain death, social death that is. And I was the
walking dead.
Why is it that “boobs” are such a big thing in junior high? (No pun
intended.) If you have them, you’re made fun of and called names, and if you
don’t have them…you’re made fun of and called names. All things considered, I
would have rather had them, which of course I did not.
“Carpenter’s dream…flat as a board.” That was me, coupled with straggly
hair, chapped lips, pale skin, and legs that went all the way up to my flat
ass. And not as much as a swell in the bust area. I’m forced to rely on memory
for much of this, as I have personally burned every photograph taken of me
during his pathetic phase of my life.
At thirteen years old, I had yet to master the art of style. And my mother,
with her checked pants paired with large print blouses, was little help. I
can’t think of anything worse than having a fashion outcast shop for your
clothes. It was years before I realized that you could actually buy pants that
reached the tops of your shoes. Mine always seemed to hover just above my
ankles as if preparing for an oncoming flood. My bargain shirts always looked like
they housed deflated balloons, with extra air pockets trapped in the ill fitted
bras my mother bought. I have often wondered where she was able to find such a
wide assortment of embarrassing underwear, and why no one else seemed to own a
stitch of it.
My hair was a constant mess no matter how many trips to the beauty shop I
took. When my hair was long, I looked like a hippie with a hygiene problem, and
when it was short, the layers clung to my face in a static cling nightmare. No
matter how great the cut, I couldn’t make it look right. But, hair and clothes
weren’t my only problems. The only make-up I had was my mother’s leftovers or
rejects, the sorts of things no one should be wearing in the first place, so I
stuck with the basics, bare skin and Chap Stick.
My little band of outcasts were famously close until the day, “he” blew into
town on the tail of a storm. His name was Mark and he was tall with sexy brown
eyes and fashionably disheveled dark hair. He wore a white tee shirt under a
red flannel button down and perfectly worn Levis with construction boots. He
was the poor girl’s Keanu Reeves, back before anyone knew who Keanu Reeves was.
I wasn’t the only one with a crush on the new kid. But I was the only one to
get his phone number. It was fun while it lasted, but it was my first real
lesson in heart break.
I recovered from my teenage years fairly unscathed. I grew into my body, and
somewhere along the way my hair decided to behave in a respectable fashion. But
somehow, while I was learning to properly tweeze my eyebrows, and apply makeup,
I missed the lesson on how to date successfully. I’ve done quite a bit of
research on the subject, and I was amazed to discover that I wasn’t the only
one having these problems with men. I started to think that maybe it wasn’t me.
Maybe it was the guys. Maybe it was what I have since labeled as the “penis
factor”. And maybe my mother was right all along.
Or maybe not...right Mike? Love you honey!
Until the next time...I'll be making more cartoons of me!
