Category Archives: Single Life

Divorciversary

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My American vagina says I was supposed to be super psyched for Valentine’s Day and desperately wish I had a beau. The gun under my pillow disagrees. Two years. Happy divorciversary to me.

dead bouquet

Stupid Crap I Tried Really Hard to Believe When I Was Married

“Your wedding ring is real.”

“I didn’t start that house fire.”

“I have a job. They just aren’t paying me… like the last job I had. ”

“I don’t know where your iPod/guitar/grandma’s bracelet/video camera is! Stop calling me a liar!”

“I wasn’t the one who wrote all of those bad checks.”

“You can’t call me at work or I’ll get in trouble.”

“I got fired, because you called me at work.”

“I paid the rent. They evicted us because we have a cat.”

“I don’t know where that $400 went.”

“I’m sorry your lost the hundred-dollar bill from your wallet, but it wasn’t me.”

“I had the rent money, but I got mugged… again.”

“I don’t know why they issued an arrest warrant.”

“I’m no longer welcome at family events, because they think I stole from them and I didn’t.”

“I have to work out-of-town… over night… for the job that’s not paying me… and I’ll need your car.”

“I’m enrolled in college again.”

“I don’t know why the dog dug a hole in the floor and is bleeding. I didn’t keep him chained up the entire time you were in Alaska with your mother.”

“I changed the oil. I don’t know why the engine exploded.”

“I fed the dog. I took him out. That dried urine he’s laying in must be fresh.”

“While you were working two jobs, I spent the whole day applying for work. That’s why I couldn’t clean anything.”

“My friend you’ve never met bought me those frozen pizzas from 7 Eleven. I didn’t steal your money.”

“My mother moved everything that survived the fire into storage for us. She didn’t throw it out.”

“I won $400 on a scratcher!” I later found out that this was his one and only paycheck from the gas station that ‘never paid’ him. He even tried to argue against the W2.

– Roses are red.
So is the dog’s blood.
You’re fucking crazy.
I hope you die soon. –

I’m not one for poetry.

The Top Five Ways He Broke Me: A Valentine’s Day Tribute

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I was never huge on Valentine’s Day. I always thought it an excuse to either exclude single people or make your spouse (usually the husband) try to top whatever romantic thing he did last year. You can’t do something nice for your love just any ol’ time, such as when the restaurants and movie theaters aren’t packed? But, I used to participate anyway. It was just harmless fun.

Then Gail’s daughter died the day before Valentine’s Day, right around the time I had begun to suspect my ex-husband was cheating on me.

Then, three days after the following Valentine’s Day, my divorce was finalized.

Fuck Valentine’s Day.

There’s nothing to make you apprecieate being single like your Divorciversary and looking back. So in honor of Valentine’s Day, I post the top five ways he broke me. Keep in mind these are only the top five. The other day I almost threw out my only glass baking dish… because he once touched it.

i hate you sweet heart

1. I am a food hoarder.
It’s true. After spending the summer of 2010 eating free movie theater popcorn and explaining to the neighbors that I didn’t know why my dog’s ribs were showing, I will never go to bed hungry and neither will my beagle. I’ll never know for a fact that there is literally nothing to eat in my home. I have a framed receipt for corndogs on my bedroom wall, because corndogs were $4.95 for a box of 16 and it was the most food I could get for $5. It’s a reminder of how far I’ve come. It’s symbolic. Duh. My ex-husband constantly complained that it’s all we had, though he still wouldn’t get a job. I had to start carrying unperishables around in my car, so he wouldn’t eat them, leaving me nothing. I will never go back to that. As a result, my kitchen looks like that of a mom of three… or a doomsday prepper. I take care to buy canned and frozen items, because they won’t go bad before I get the chance to eat them and throw out anything that does. At the time of writing this, though, I had:

3 pounds of chicken
2 pounds of turkey franks
2 pounds of ground turkey
1 pound of breakfast sausage
3 pounds of turkey lil’ smokies
1 pound of ham, two pounds of cheese
2 dozen eggs
8 bags of frozen vegetables
1 container of fresh spinach
2 onions
2 avocados
4 cans of soup
4 cans of spaghetti O’s
4 boxes of cereal
2 loaves of bread
2 bags of frozen fries
1 bag of oranges
1 pound of grapes
5 pears
5 cans of fruit
4 cans of tuna
2 cans of beans

I. Live. Alone.

2. I panic whenever someone is at the door.
From the time I graduated high school in 2006 until I moved to this apartment in 2011, I moved 10 times. Literally. Nine of them were in only three years. Once, I just came home to a housefire and his suspicious lack of tears. Though he swore he was paying the rent, I had an anxiety attack every time the doorbell rang and would have my ex-husband answer. Ocassionally, it was someone telling us to get the hell out… now. I never knew where we’d go. Once, it was his mother’s house, for several months. Then, it was a motel room for a month and a half. We lived below a registered sex offender, who’d committed offenses against children. I was far away from my Gramma and Gail. I cried myself to sleep at night or drowned myself in fiction and alcohol. It was bad. Though I’ve been settled and able to pay my rent for about two years now, my heart still jumps into my throat whenever I hear a knock at the door. A part of me will always be unsettled.

3. I can’t even masturbate without crying.
Psh. I won’t even tell my therapist the details of this one. I’m kidding, of course. I don’t believe in that voodoo crap. Feelings and animal entrails gross me out equally. I just talk to Gail, who majored in that Black Magic for 9 days.* Regardless of the cause, however, the result is the same. I can’t do anything sexual without crying most of the time. I’ve yet to try it with a man, but explaining that sexual hang-up should be haaaaawt.

*I believe in therapy plenty, which is the precise reason I’m not letting anyone crack my head open and take a shit inside.

4. I cannot sleep without my wallet.
During the last year of my marriage, a lot of things went missing, such as my iPod, that cherished bracelet my Gramma bought me, the video camera I bought my senior year, my guitar, $600 in cash, a jar of pickles from my car. Incidentally, the XBOX never disappeared. On the night of my four year anniversary, the car even vanished, just before I sliced my hand open on a broken candle. I was alone and bleeding and had no way to get to the E.R. He didn’t return until morning. I began stuffing my keys in my pillowcase at night and leaving any valuables in the car. I forgot once and noticed my wallet wasn’t in my bag, where I left it, and realized the last $15 I had for gas and food had disappeared. I called my Gramma screaming and crying as if someone had died. She couldn’t even understand me and immediately promised to give me $25 once I “quit yelling.” Then I threw up from crying so hard. It was glorious. Soooo, after that, I began keeping the keys and the wallet in my pillowcase every night and to this day cannot sleep without my wallet in reach.

5. Sometimes, I sleep with my gun.
I was defenseless when I was married. I never will be again. Some nights, I wake in a panic or in tears. The next night, I sleep with Cecile, my guard issued Smith and Wesson 681 revolver in its bright pink gun sock, with home defense bullets in the side pocket, which were personally reloaded by my daddy. The gun’s not loaded. But if anyone ever threatens me or my puppy again, it will be. I’m damned accurate with Cecile and with .357 home defense rounds, it wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t.

Time may heal most wounds, but in some ways, I will always be the frightened 23-year-old driving around with her Gramma’s jewlery in the car. The perfect Valentine’s Day gift is a giant Reese heart, an equally disproportionate box of ammo, and respect for the fact that I don’t fucking do Valentine’s Day.

Dear PoF:

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Alright, Plenty of Fish. It’s time we had a talk. No, this isn’t about the guy who took me out and tried to sell me a diet plan. No, it’s not about the man who asked if the reason I hadn’t had any real luck was because I was Catholic… and then called me an uptight bitch when I didn’t respond. It’s not even about Abdul542 and his “Ooh very awesome to me I love to be your friend” message.* It’s about your offensive fucking ads… you bag of dicks.

*Copy and paste. Actually.

offensive ads_1

I am being whored out to whom, now? The cop who’s about to use his furry handcuffs to arrest me for “drinking while sexy” or the one who is working diligently on his 1993 MS-DOS 6.2 with a smile on his face?

offensive ads_2
Well, now, obviously the gaping wound between my legs means I’m looking for someone with money. Fortunately, these guys don’t mind claiming that online… perhaps because they’re only 22? That’s why they haven’t had time to date (or put on clothes), because they work so much! Super believable. I suppose this isn’t a surprising pitch in a post-Christian Grey world where I am to assume the man in a pooka shell neckalce is a “megabajillionaire” without asking questions… or he’ll punch me in the neck… and it will be haaaawt.

offensive ads_3

My profile lists me as average, so I can only assume this advertisement was directed at me, because I’m dating online… of course I’m fat and insecure about it. That, however, does not mean I don’t deserve a well-hung billionaire just as much as the next gal. Fortunately for all chubby ladies, there’s an apparent shortage of pushin’ cushion here in the Midwest, where we’re known for vegetarianism and marathons!

offensive ads_4

Well, we’ve already addressed the weight insecurity, so really, your question about artificial sweetener is redundant at best. Even if that works, though, it’s likely time has managed to kick my ass, because I’m desperate enough to find a partner… online!!!!!! Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if he saw me for the first time and I looked like one of The Golden Girls? But let’s get serious people. This is a free dating site. Like I can afford Botox? Fortunately there’s a cream that will stop “women from going under the knife” to battle their insecurities! You know what else might do that? Botox. It’s a fucking injection.

offensive ads_5

For starters, the headline “Wanted” kind of makes everything look like an ad for a drug trial that may give me either the power to start fires with my mind or an exotic venereal disease. Furthermore, what about this random guy signifies his religious beliefs? Am I to assume the back of his shirt reads “I’m Catholic and I Know It”? He is, however, on a beach, so he must be rich, since you know… those cost a lot?

In conclusion, Plenty of Fish, I must admit that your ads are not going to deter me from using your site, because I’m still too cheap to pay for any other. No, no. The fact remains that what might actually deter me is the last “catch” who initiated contact:

Photo: none

Profession: Job

About Me:

“It makes me laugh when people want a picture on your profile but yet they dont have one themselves lol. People on this this are shallow. And i know i look good cause i am in body building. Kgcbhgcbhfcngc fhjgc ghjh ghjh ghhbfc ghjjh vhjjh”

… but that’s a different rant.

“Marry me, eh?”: Post-Christmas Empowerment

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How long until the Christmas tree can just be considered to be up really early? I mean, it’s a new year. Christmas 2013 may be a long way away, but Christmas 2012 was last year. I’ve just got a jump start.

I have this really loud laugh. Gail calls it a cackle. My guys compare it to the sound of a dolphin. It’s my dad’s laugh. Fucking bastard. I say that in jest. I love my daddy.

Guy in bar: “I love your laugh.”
Me: drunk and aware that this is a line “Really? Because no one else does.”

Twice this week, I’ve laughed loudly and uncontrollably in restaurants. Both times have been with Gail and about things that we shouldn’t discuss in public.

discussing anal sex, which I’ve told Gail she only likes because it “makes her grandma cry”/is tabboo
Gail: “You know… the thing that makes my granny sob.”
Me: “You call it your granny?”

This lead to maniacal giggling and disgusting jokes about how you could create euphamisms for not having sex, such as “My grandma has a nose bleed.”

The second time was at McDonald’s. Both of us are nervous about this country’s future and I was looking up the requirements to move to Canada the other day. Gail talked about it as well, because we’re oddly attached to one another.

Me: “I highly doubt I’ll ever move that far from Gail and if she moves away, I imagine I’ll follow and I don’t care if everyone in the family thinks I’m a lesbian because of it.”
Dad: “Hey, I don’t care either way.”

My redneck daddy told me he doesn’t care if I’m a lesbian. Awwww. I mean, I’m not, but still…

So, I told Gail that Americans always say “I’m moving to Canada” as a threat (not so much me, as I’m actually intersted in Canada), because we’re stupid. It’s  apparently really difficult to move to Canada.

Me: “I imagine if I wanted to, I might be able to get a visa based on my education, which is apparently a thing. Otherwise, I’d have to find a job where they want me badly enough to go through the trouble to help me get a work visa.”
Gail: “Which means it would be really difficult for me to work for their postal service.”

(I’d like to interrupt to clarify that we’re not packing our bags for Canada. We come up with these schemes all the time. We’ve already moved to North Carolina, Colorado, Oregon, and New Zealand in our heads.)

Me: “Not necessarily. You see, I was thinking, gay marriage might be legal in Canada. They’ll allow you to move there with a spouse. So… I move to Canada and then…”
Gail: “I think I would rather stay here under The Regime than be your wife.”
Me: “Come on. It’s not like we have to be practicing lesbians. We’d just be lesbians on paper. Marry me, eh.”

Then Gail tore the corner off some trash and gave it to me like a ring, as she once had a dream where her ex-boyfriend proposed to her that way and I make fun of her for it all the time. She then told me that she thinks that vaccinations are possibly just the United States government running experiments on us and she’s aware that she’s completely paranoid, but still. I interrupted her for my faux crying panic impersonation of her.

Me: mock hyperventilating “Oh, my gosh! We didn’t land on the moon! We didn’t land on the moon and now I’m going to have to move to Canada and be your lesbian wife because of it! Do we have to consumate this marriage? Is that even possible with lesbians? Does that even count? How do lesbians even consumate anything?!?!?!”

When we joke around, there’s always this point where we’re giggling like crazy over something that’s not even funny, because we’ve both gone off the deep end. We call this a Rice Cubes moment, not because we’ve ever giggled like maniacs over the phrase, but because we would. Once, when I was heartbroken over some mommy issues, she tried to cheer me up by mentioning this.

text message
Gail: Rice cakes!
Me: Um… I think it was rice cubes.
Gail: Oh. You’re right. I was trying to cheer you up, but I guess that was just a snack.

Surprisingly, that worked.

I’ve been writing this blog on and off through the day while taking breaks from taking down my Christmas tree. At the moment, I’m lying in my living room floor, surrounded by Christmas lights and storage boxes, struggling to type with a Band-Aid on my finger so I don’t get blood on the keyboard. This shit is hard, y’all.

When I put up the Christmas tree, there was a point where it was on the floor in pieces, along with a lot of broken glass. I ended up crying on the couch texting Chad to come help me put it up, because I’d accidentally broken the stand and couldn’t get the new one on. I was pretty pissed that I couldn’t get the tree up on my own. I also knew I’d pay for that glass. But you know what? I got my tree down all by myself. You wouldn’t think that would be empowering, particularly since I injured myself multiple times doing it, (and at one point dropped it on the dog) but I’m still getting the hang of this Solo Woman single girl thing, so I’m pretty fucking proud. One day, I’ll surely find a nice boy to help with my Christmas tree, but on that day, I won’t doubt that I could’ve handled it alone. Go me.

christmas tree on judeHe did not even care.

decorated judeSo I pushed the tree aside and decorated him.

“Get your hourglass off my uterus. It’s heavy.”

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A co-worker is having a baby.

I’ve been trying to discreetly discover her age, as if that will give me some indication of my time limit.

I go out and my Gramma asks if I met anyone.

“Get your hourglass off my uterus. It’s heavy.”

She laughs…

because I’m fucking funny.

My brother asked if I ever wanted to get married again and have kids…

as he started his stopwatch.

“I’M TWENTY-FUCKING-FIVE AND IN GRADUATE SCHOOL! SUCK MY VAGINAL LIPS!” I want to yell.

I don’t…

usually.

There’s something about the phrase “vaginal lips” that upsets people.

disgusted

“If you ain’t got two kids by 21, you’re probably gonna die alone.. at least that’s what tradition told you.”

“Tiny little boxes in a row… ain’t what you want, it’s what you know.”

I sing along with the country station.

woman singing

The song wouldn’t be popular were the singer and I the only ones who felt that way.

I’m going to stop feeling like my time is running out…

because it doesn’t have to be get married and have kids.

They aren’t connected moves…

obviously.

I can do babies alone.

One year, I knew I’d miss the fair if I waited for someone to go with me.

No one wanted to go.

So I went alone.

I had a great time.

I saw what I wanted to see.

I skipped what I wanted to skip.

I left when I wanted to leave.

It was awesome.

happy woman

On the last day, Jay and Ward went with me and it was fun then, too.

Babies are the same.

I can live without ever being married again…

but I want babies.

If I hit 30 with no prospects…

I’ll just have them…

and if a boy comes along later, that’s great…

but I’m not risking my chance for family on said hypothetical man.

I told my country, old-fashioned, blue collar dad as much.

tim

“Good. Other women are weak. You don’t need anyone else.”

Go dad.

Go me.

I imagine looking for love will be a lot more fun now.

broken hourglass

Holy shit, we’re grown-ups.

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This New Year’s Eve, Gail and I rented a motel room in a town about an hour away, took a cab to one of the many popular casinos in the state, gambled the penny slots all night, lost more money than we made, ate quesadillas as the clock struck midnight, drank too much, and took a cab back to the motel.

Me: “‘Motel 6: We’ll leave the light on for you… but that’s about it.'”
Gail: looking around at the sketchy parking lot “‘Motel 6: It’s well lit… thankfully.’ We probably shouldn’t keep insulting it once they can hear us.”

motel 6 room

Me: “Ew. Someone’s been raped in this room.”

swill

Pre-drinking Smirnoff Apple and orange soda.

“Gail, the phrase is ‘apples and oranges’, because they don’t go together. This tastes like acid and urine.”

Throughout the night, as we gambled and drank, I recorded the quotes that made us giggle like maniacs in my phone.

My drunken lamenting over not understanding the appeal of gambling:
Me: “Gambling is gay.”
Gail: “You probably shouldn’t use that as an insult in public.”
Me: “It’s not my fault they’re gambling.”
Gail: “That’s not…”

Gail drunkenly complaining that we had to wait for the cab instead of being able to take the shuttle:
Gail: “We should’ve stayed at the Holiday Inn. They have a… a… thing.”
Me: “That’s great. You should be their spokesperson.”

I have no idea.
Me: “He could’ve gone home, looked in the mirror, and preened like a peacock.”

In the night, we slept on the Flinstone beds (slabs of rock) with our own personal blankets, because motel blankets are covered in semen and tears. I woke several times to down water and ibuprofen and call the desk to ask what time we had to be out, not that there was a credit card on file, because we paid in cash… like hookers.

Gail: “You know what’s awesome? We used our own money, rented a motel room out of town, took a cab to the casino, and gambled all night.”

I was more blunt with the same sentiment as I did my makeup.

Me: “Holy shit, we’re grown-ups.”

When Gail and I became friends, we were 15-year-old virgins, who couldn’t drive, or hold jobs, had never had a date or a first kiss. She used to make fun of me for loving the show Lizzie Maguire while we played old school Super Nintendo in her little sister’s bedroom floor. Growing up, everyone acts like you’ll just become an adult at a specific age or a particular milestone. So Gail and I each turned 18, moved out of our parents’ houses, got married, got pregnant… and it still never happened. Maybe that’s because we sucked at all of those things, constantly struggling. Three years ago, I was living in a motel, imagining the death of my ex-husband, through no intervention of my own, because that would allow me to be free of him. Gail was pretty much doing the same thing, only the sweeter version where he just leaves. Being an adult, or at least our version of it, sucked and we just felt like abandoned children, both having had no choice but to strike out on our own the second we graduated high school.

Then, we sold our wedding rings together, started dating, rented our first places of our very own with no one else’s name on the lease, put the bills in our own names, started our careers at entry level positions and…

holy shit, we’re grown-ups.

Being an adult is awesome now. My childhood wasn’t all that glamorous before my sucky early twenties. But now, no one hits me or manipulates me or steals from me. I don’t have to lie to my family to defend anyone and when I come home and the place is a mess, it’s my mess. I only have to feed me and if that means cereal, sweet potato fries, and orange juice for dinner, that’s my right.

I don’t always feel like an adult, however, even now. When I call my Gramma crying, because my mother’s acting like a lunatic again, I feel like the 14-year-old kid I once was. When I open a DVD and see the case is charred from a house fire he started, I’m 19 and my pets are dead on the lawn. When I call the credit agency to ask what this charge is for and they tell me it’s from the phone company when I was married at 21, I feel like the scared 23-year-old in the judge’s office, praying he’ll sign the papers. We were mislead as children. You don’t just suddenly feel like an adult. It comes in phases, like when I take a trip with my best friend. I don’t have to answer to anyone. I pay with my own money. I wake up and go shopping all day with my own money. I don’t wonder where that missing hundred is. I go home and have soup and pears for dinner and…

holy shit, I’m a grown-up.

“Such a pretty, pretty mermaid”: A Misguided New Year…

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new-years-eve_2433453k

Last New Year’s Eve was important to me. It was my first divorced New Year and I wanted to do something fun. The boys were busy with family and my dear bestie (I use this term ironically, because it’s awful) is a killjoy who was, literally, asleep by 8:00. So that left me with two choices: crafting in my underwear… or Malik.

Malik is a friend from high school, who’s really always been closer to Gail. We initially all bonded over the fact that we wore targets on our backs through the halls of our small town high school. Gail wore the same gray sweatpants and oversized t-shirts every day of 10th grade. I wore ribbons in my combat boots with overalls, a turtleneck, and black-rimmed glasses. Malik was fabulously burnt-orange-scarf-gay. As we grew as people, Gail and I chose destructive marriages, while Malik chose felony larceny, cocaine, meth, that orgy that one time… and that other time. You get the idea. So… I knew he’d be up for New Year’s Eve fun.

The guys were over at my apartment as I dressed to go out with Malik. They disapproved of my company, frankly, for damned good reason after the last time had involved my getting punched in the chest by Malik’s angry ex-lover, on whom he had a restraining order.

Jay: “I thought you said you were never going out with him again?”
Chad: “Didn’t he steal from you?” Yes. Indeed, he did.
Jay: “Are you gonna blame us for not hanging out with you, when you get raped tonight?”

I rolled my eyes, assuring them it wasn’t a guilt trip. I was just going to have fun, with or without them. They called me an idiot. I knew even  then that they were right.

The night started off as expected. We made our way Downtown to some guy’s apartment as I explained my parameters to Malik.

Me: “I don’t care if there’s pot, but nothing harder. I’m not leaving my car anywhere or driving drunk.”

That is super fucking lenient for me. That’s as party animal as I get, so Malik agreed.

So we got to Stranger’s apartment (I think it was someone’s ex-roommate, who was out of town) and pre-drank while we waited for the cab. I’d bought a plastic bottle of vodka for $4, because I was on a budget and had refused to buy any drinks at the bar. Malik had told me he’d cover one. The night went on in one of those party montages with the song “We Are Young” playing. There were lots of cover charges and tons of pricey drinks on Malik. I drunkenly informed a bouncer of the following:

“You are a very handsome black man! I don’t even find black men attractive, but you’re really good looking! I’m from the suburbs. There are only 77 black people in my hometown according to the 2003 census!” Yes. I drunkenly quoted the census report.

There was dancing and peeing in a single bathroom with a girl I’ve known since we were literally infants, T. In a different bathroom, I drunkenly referred to a woman as Mexican, which infuriated her. I didn’t understand why and said so, explaining

“What?!?! I said Mexican. You are Mexican. It’s not like I said Mexicunt. What? I said it’s not like I said that. It’s not my fault you…”

I’m pretty sure T yanked me out of the bathroom at this point. Then, I fell asleep in the bar. You get kicked out for that… even if you explain that you weren’t passed out, you were just napping. Luckily, T ran out with me and we sat on the curb until Malik and company came out, which was only a few minutes later. By this time, I was drunk; I didn’t know these people; I was exhausted and cold; I’d called Jay and Chad at least twice to scream “HAPPY NEW YEAR! I LOVE YOU!” I’d explained multiple times that my normal idea of fun was XBOX with my boys. In short, I was done and it was closing time. Then I overheard the following:

Malik: “Get a hold of Keyshond. If he comes through, I’m in for a hundred.”
Me: “Wait. What? What are we talking about?!?!”
Malik: “We’re gonna get some coke.”
Me: “I’m guessing you don’t mean the kind with the cute polar bears?”
Malik: laughing “You’re adorable.”
Me: “I’m not doing coke, Malik.”
Malik: “You’ll just try it. Just a little bit.”

As Gail put it later, you don’t just “try a little bit” of coke. You just do coke. Malik and company continued to try to get hold of Keyshond and I texted Chad to ask if coke really wasn’t a big deal and was just like smoking pot, as Malik had insisted. Chad told me that was crap and he’d be terribly disappointed if I tried coke. At some point, I started drunkenly shouting “I CAN’T DO COKE! I’M A LIBRARIAN!” and “I AM NOT A POLAR BEAR!” which got the attention of some friendly officers, so Malik called a cab… quickly. Despite this, the night had gone well enough and we’d even gotten Malik’s brother’s girlfriend (Crazychick) to get up and into the cab. I’m paranoid and insane and had swiped some mail from Stranger and taken a picture, which is the only reason anyone had the address to get back. Points for being such a party animal. So we drove back to the apartment while Crazychick got progressively angrier. I don’t think anyone ever figured out why she was so upset, but she was loud and violent and we were all drunk, so we sort of just let her hit Malik’s brother.

Not my problem. I don’t even fucking know these people.

I was tired, but curious about pot and Malik started rolling a joint. It took awhile, so I decided to just go to sleep. As I drifted off, however, I was hoisted up and heard Malik say “No. You’re trying it. Breathe in. Don’t spit this out and cough everywhere.” The last order referred to my earlier cigarette mishap. Pathetic, I know. I don’t really remember much after that, so I assume I slept. The night had been good and just far enough out of my element that I felt I’d done something new while I was still young enough to do that stupid shit. Then, I woke up.

Why is everyone naked? Is everyone seriously naked? Shit. What did I take? Is there some kind of drug that makes you want to get naked. I’M not naked. Thank God. Why can’t I move?

I have no idea why everyone’s arguing for the legalization of marijuana, because it was fucking terrible. My whole body felt like lead. I signaled for T’s help and she quickly dressed and came to check on me. Really, she was quite sweet the whole night, even if I do know more about her pubic grooming than I should.

Me: “Did I take something?”
T: “No. You didn’t do any drugs. Don’t worry.”

Even drunk and high, I could tell that she meant I didn’t do anything besides pot, because she was one of those “If it grows in the ground, it’s not a drug” hippie types.

Me: “Can you help me take my boots off?”
T: “Of course.”
Crazychick: crawling on top of me naked “Ooooh. Are we undressing her?”

Crazychick then started talking about stripping me and leaving me in Stranger’s bed as a gift. It was a terrifying thought even when I couldn’t bring myself to care that a naked woman was crawling on me, likely dripping some kind of venereal disease over my sweater dress. As the night wore on, however, I stayed clothed, save for the stockings I’d worn and ripped when I got up to pee. T took her clothes off again and she and Crazychick danced naked.

“Let’s do more shots!”
“We can’t! We did all the shots!”
“We did all the shots?!?!”

“You’d make such a beautiful mermaid. Such a pretty, pretty mermaid.”

T’s fully clothed husband sat on the couch next to me and watched his wife, the girl who played the Virgin Mary in the Christmas play when we were 7, perform oral on her mermaid. I was too high to care and ate most of a box of Reese Puffs that I had found in the cabinet in an attempt to sober up. At one point, Crazychick crawled on top of me and asked:

Crazychick: “Have you ever kissed a woman?”
Me: “I don’t care.”
Crazychick: “Do you want to kiss a woman?”
Me: “I don’t care.”

Seriously, what is the appeal of pot? Or kissing women? Their mouths are way too soft. It’s like swallowing not-yet-set Jello.

So, in summary, I got kissed by a woman, got to see the Virgin Mary all grown up and performing some girl on girl action with a complete nutcase, and had a nice chat with T’s husband about how it doesn’t bother him to watch his wife go at it with a woman, because he can’t offer her that anyway. Then Malik’s brother came out and saw his girlfriend under someone else and it was just about time to go. All the while, Malik slept in the chair next to me until I felt I had enough Reese Puffs to absorb the liquor and drive him to work sober. I got home, vomited, went to sleep and once again vowed never to party with Malik.

12 Things I Didn’t Have To Do This Christmas

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1. Lie to my family about whether or not he was working.

2. Buy my gifts on a college book voucher.

3. Be snowed in with a man I hate.

4. Buy gifts for a man I hate.

5. Accept a gift while wondering if it was stolen.

6. Use my Christmas money to keep from getting evicted.

7. Lock myself in the bedroom with piles of fiction to escape my life.

8. Lock myself in the bedroom with bottles of liquor to escape my life.

9. Return my gifts so I can buy food.

10. Borrow money from my grandpa to pay my bills until I get my financial aid.

11. Throw out all of his belongings.

12. Convince my friends that the divorce isn’t breaking me.

It’s the little things that remind you how far you’ve come.

All I Want For Christmas Is Me: A Single Girl’s Christmas Ramble

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At Least 12 Things I Shouldn’t Have Said This Christmas

Discussing my cousin’s bracelet made of her horse’s hair:
Me: “Well, I’m glad you like it, but it’s weird.”
Other Cousin: “It’s not weird. It’d be like if you made something out of your dog’s hair.”
Me: “Or maybe I’ll just cut off his foot and make it into a necklace… or a keychain for good luck!”

Discussing same bracelet later:
“I once donated my hair to Locks of Love. That’s sort of the same.”

Me: “So where’s your gal?”
Cousin: “Oh, we’re not together.”
Me: “What?”
Cousin: “S and I aren’t together.”
Me: “What did that mean? Like today or anymore?”
The answer was anymore and I. Am. Smooth.

“Come on. The gifts we get at the big family Dirty Santa always suck and everyone knows it.”

“Oh, no. The library carries all kinds of books. If it’s in demand and the public wants to read about his throbbing member, then that’s what we have.”

“Next year, when you play the game with us for the first time, just know that it’s tradition for the youngest member to get an adult gift, preferably from a sex shop.”

“Taste this and tell me if I’m just not a wine person or if it really does taste like vinegar… and salt… and urine.”

Discussing my four and a half year old niece:
“You know… I think she’s old enough now, that she’s gotten to the age where I really don’t like her anymore.”

“Icy Hot in the lube.”

Brother: “Why’s she crying?”
Me: “She’s being a brat.”

Aunt: “Now why didn’t L and L come?”
Me: “Because they’re selfish and self-absorbed.”

Discussing Uggs:
“I know they’re covered in sheep blood, but they’re so freaking comfortable, I don’t even care.”

Christmas Confessions

I took the batteries out of my vibrator and put them in the Furby my Gramma got me.

I danced to Michael Bluble’s Christmas CD wearing nothing but a pink sparkly Santa hat.

My dog has a Christmas stocking and I played Santa.

The gift I made for you that seemed so thoughtful? I forgot about you this year and found that in my yarn bin, leftover from last year.

It’s possible that I worked on your Christmas present on the toilet.

My Homemade Themed Dirty Santa contribution was a hat I’d made for myself and messed up.

I only gave you that peanut brittle, because it was the batch I botched.

I Made Your Christmas Present Because I’m Cheap and Didn’t Want to Buy You Anything

lily's hat

britt's hatIt’s a baseball.

cross

Proof That My Gramma Knows Me

ove gloveI burn myself every time I cook… usually while talking on the phone with her.

furby
Hellz yeah, nostalgia!

shoes

Proof That My Grandpa Doesn’t

sparkly spongeIt’s a blinging pink sponge. To be fair, I do like pink… and clean stuff.

A Single Girls’ Christmas in Photos

storm air quotesIn the Midwest, we threaten to cancel Christmas for this “winter storm.”

dog stocking My stocking… and the dog’s.

hair dryerI don’t need a boy to clear the ice off my car! VAGINA POWER!

pina colada

pink santa hat

redmecl wine glass Redneck wine glass I won in Dirty Santa. Don’t worry. There are two, so they’ll match.

Fantastical Failures…

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… or why I’m too high-strung for my own sexual fantasies.

woman_alone_bed_m-425x282

Okay. So maybe we meet at a bar over drinks. Wait. If we’re drinking, who’s driving? I’m not doing it with him in a bar bathroom. I mean, even the cleanest bar bathroom… That’s illegal, isn’t it? Okay. So he doesn’t drink much and we take his car to his place. I met the guy in a bar. I don’t want him to know where I live. But wait. Do I want to go to his place with him and leave my car? It would be super awkward to ask for a ride in the morning. I can’t exactly sneak out and call one of the guys to pick me up. Ugh. Fine. We take separate cars. So no one drinks? I don’t want to sleep with someone who drinks irresponsibly and I don’t want to get a DUI. They don’t let you be a librarian if you have a record. Who am I kidding? I couldn’t have a one night stand sober. I’d be halfway to his place and just decide to get McDonald’s and go home. Ugh. Fuck it.

Okay. It’s an established relationship. We’re parked where no one can see, in the bed of a pickup. Wow that sounds uncomfortable, unless there’s a blanket. It would have to be a pretty thick blanket, too. What guy just keeps a super thick blanket in his truck? It would probably be dirty if it were just in there, anyway. Fine. I brought it along. But wait. It would be cold. Or it would be warm and there would be bugs. Maybe we were out earlier in the evening and put on bug spray? But that would be greasy and kind of gross. Maybe there’s a camper? But that would limit movement. Ugh. Fuck it.

Same relationship, we’re in the cab. That wouldn’t really allow for a lot of space, either, though. If I’m 170 and 5′ 5.5″, he’d have to be at least 6′ tall and over 200 pounds. I mean, this is a fantasy. No reason he should be dainty. Would there even be room if we did it in the driver’s seat? I mean, of course he’d be driving. I don’t want to drive. If he had a nice truck, he probably wouldn’t let me drive. I’m a terrible driver. Fine. It’s a ridiculously extended cab and he can move the whole bench seat back so I don’t have to worry about the discomfort of a bucket seat. I mean, I would so get my leg stuck and hurt myself and that would totally ruin the moment. Wait. If it’s that extended of a cab, why not do it in the back seat? Ugh. Fuck it.

Okay. Established relationship. We’re at home. Kitchen table? My kitchen table is way too small for that and it’s held by a central support post in the middle. The table would tip. Fine. It’s a different table. But the wood would be awfully cold. Maybe I keep some of my clothes on? Is this really even that sanitary of a fantasy? We eat there, presumably. I guess I can’t remember the last time I ate at my table. But I live alone. I wouldn’t want to be the couple that sits on the couch to eat dinner every night. That’s not sexy. Ugh. Fuck it.

Okay. We’re on the couch. I straddle him. Wait. I’d have to get up in the middle to take my pants off. Fine. I’m in a dress… commando. I would never do that. Whatever. I was trying to be sexy or something and I’ve failed like nine fantasies already, so I need to just fucking go with this one. Wait. I don’t like to be on top. How the hell do I even know that? I haven’t had sex for like 12 years. God, I exaggerate everything. Maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about God while I’m doing this. May as well think about my dad. Great. Now I’m thinking about my dad. Ugh. Fuck it. I’ll just go read.