For someone with a personality like mine it was somewhat surprising when I realized that I haven't been single once in the past 8 years. I have been in some sort of relationship for almost all of my adult life. You know why this is? I hate to date. I really do. It's slim pickin's out there ladies and the older you get, the worse it is. It used to be simple: if he was cute, that's all you needed and you could enjoy seeing each other between classes and say "there's my Boyfriend!" even though you never really knew anything about him except his favorite CD "ohmigosh! Mine too!" and the time you could have spent getting to know each other was spent doing more important things like making out......duh! Your mothers knew each other and would say "Oh, they are just so adorable." when they'd run into each other at the grocery store. In about two weeks, for no particular reason, you'd just start to hate him. Ew, ew, ew, and you'd devise a completely elaborate and totally unnecessary plan to break up with him; usually involving several friends and a short note written in sparkly gel pen. You wouldn't feel sad, you just moved on....like the next day, to his friend Justin. He'd do the same and that was that. Ah, it was all so simple then when the hormones ran wild.
It's not so easy now. There are more things to consider. Does he have a job? A car? A criminal record? That alone is hard to find in this day and age then add in sense of humor, good looks, compassion, honesty......forget it! There are so many weirdos. I have been on dates where I truly felt like I was on Candid Camera. I once showed kindness to a geeky guy working the in the photo department at Walmart and he showed at my house one night with a wilted rose and a kitten. My photos however, never made it back to me. I once went on a date with a man who told me he was addicted to heroin and then after seeing my face said "I'm just kidding actually I'm dying." and then said "Actually I'm just kidding." I told him to kick rocks and for weeks afterwards he would show up at the parking lot at my work, take his shirt off and yell while hitting the dumpsters with a shopping cart. I went on a date with a guy who had two small whippets (tiny dogs that resemble rats) and let them lick his mouth and lips when he ate Doritos. Grown men that live in their parent's garage. Men who "forget" their wallets on dates. Yes. That's not just an urban legend as I had once thought. These are just the ones I remember. I have dated a ton of losers. It's scary out there. The scariest thing now is that most of those very same losers are all married with kids so what does that tell you about the ones that are left?
As much as I hate to date, I think it's even harder to stay with just one person. I hate when people state stupid facts that they think are interesting but every one's already heard. My favorite of these is "Did you know that penguins mate for life?" Whenever someone says this there's always one moron who chimes in with "That's sooooo cute!" Is it? Penguins all look the exact friggin' same, there are no ugly or fat penguins. Penguins don't have to worry about paying mortgages on time or college tuition for their eggs. They don't have to worry about in-laws or car repairs or couples therapy. It's just not the same. I love those old wrinkled couples who have been married for 60 years. I once spoke to a 90 year old woman about her long and prosperous marriage. I asked her what she does day-to-day, if she played bingo or whatever. She leaned in and told me flatly, "I've just been waiting for that son of a bitch to kick the bucket."
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
My relationship with food.
My mother was never a good cook. It's not that she couldn't do it, it's just that she never had the desire that some women do.
"Being a mother is a thankless job." she often told me.
"You slave over a hot stove for hours and then your kids complain! I don't like that."
She really didn't.
The phrase: "Slave over a hot stove" to this day still reminds me of what hell will probably be like. My mother used this phrase often, although I never actually saw her "slave over a hot stove." She did however, "struggle over a wine cork" on a daily basis. I do admire the way she refuses to feel guilty about her lack of culinary skills though. When I lament to her about my childhood school lunches and how they scarred me for life, she simply says
"Well you're alive aren't cha?"
During third grade lunches though, I would have rather been dead.
Sitting in the middle of a long, forest green table, I would scan the tabletop. Capri-suns glittered in their shiny package, Dunkaroos, Little Debbies, Fritos, my god....a Squeeze-it! I hated all the other girls with their cool 90210 lunch boxes and their handwritten notes. They'd look at me smugly crunching Cheetos and licking florescent orange power off their fingertips. I would always hold my crumpled bag in my lap until the coast was clear. My lunch always consisted of 3 main items: 1. a smushed half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (strawberry jelly mind you, which of course I loathed but blackberry preserves where "too expensive") 2. a mealy red apple (the kind you know has been sitting on the bottom of the apple pyramid at the grocery store for weeks and then goes on sale for 30 cents per pound.) 3. stale tortilla chip crumbles from the bottom of the bag. (those sharp tiny triangles cut the roof of my mouth.)
Sometimes there was a "treat." A box of raisins or one generic fig newton.
If my mother felt especially generous, she would take the time to spread nonfat cream cheese on a bitter celery stalk. By the time it got to me, of course if would be warm but it might as well been rock candy to me. I remember once when my mom was sick, my dad prepared our lunches. When I got to school I pulled out a can of tuna and one napkin. Not the cool little tuna packs with the crackers and relish and the cute little plastic spoon. Just a regular can of tuna, with no way to open it much less drain the smelly water. I shoved it back in my backpack before anyone saw. I took it as a personal assault and fumed on the bus the whole way home. When I arrived home I threw the bag on the bed next to my sleeping mother who was surrounded in a sea of used tissues.
"Just look at what your husband made me for lunch!" I shouted.
I liked to refer to my dad as "your husband" or "that man" when I was really mad even though I knew that was usually reserved for step-fathers...or so I'd seen on the WB. I stood there with my hands on my hips, waiting for an explanation.
"Honey, I'm really sick now. Can we talk about this later?"
I stormed out and slammed the door to my room. I felt bad about the whole thing until years later when a can of baked beans replaced the tuna.
We never had soda, except on 4th of July. This was the one day of the year we looked forward to more than Christmas. We'd go to the grocery store and watch wide-eyed as my mother loaded the shopping cart with bags of ice and cans of Pepsi, 7up, diet Coke and Root Beer. My brother and I would call dips on which ones we'd gulp down first. We knew mom only bought them because the party was always at our house and she didn't want people to think we weren't a traditional American family. Once the guests started to arrive my brother and I would sneak off darting behind grandparents and diving behind trees on our way to the cooler. There was no way she could keep track of how many we had as we sprinted for cover to the tree fort with the cold cans under our shirts. To this day, if given a full can, I 'll suck it down as if destroying the evidence before mom comes around the corner.
My mother did not bake cookies because when she did we'd all eat them in a single sitting because we hadn't had them in so long. It was a vicious cycle. One that mom gave up on. Dessert didn't mean the same thing to us as it did to other families. Our dessert might have been a half of a peach or a few grapes. To compensate for this loss, I'd stand on the counter and look in the pantry for a square of bakers chocolate which I would cocktail with a packet of sweet and low to cut the bite. I'd tear open bags of mini marshmallows and smush them on a spoon full of peanut butter. I'd pour honey in a cup of half and half and gulp it down. I had a problem and I knew it even then at the age of 8. I only really knew I was being "abused" when I went to over to my friends house for the first time. She had a cookie jar, which until then I had only seen in comic strips. And there were cookies in them. Heaven. My friends mom actually baked so much that she would have to keep extra cookies in the freezer. Oatmeal chocolate chip, flaky peanut butter, snickerdoodles! My brother and I would go over there and make ourselves sick with all the cookies. Years later my friend told me her mom used to "I'd better make some cookies because the Jenkins kids are coming over." She had to have an extra hidden stash.
My relationship with food hasn't changed much. I don't drink soda, I try to avoid cookies but I still eat ice cream standing with the freezer open in case "someone" comes in and finds me.
"Being a mother is a thankless job." she often told me.
"You slave over a hot stove for hours and then your kids complain! I don't like that."
She really didn't.
The phrase: "Slave over a hot stove" to this day still reminds me of what hell will probably be like. My mother used this phrase often, although I never actually saw her "slave over a hot stove." She did however, "struggle over a wine cork" on a daily basis. I do admire the way she refuses to feel guilty about her lack of culinary skills though. When I lament to her about my childhood school lunches and how they scarred me for life, she simply says
"Well you're alive aren't cha?"
During third grade lunches though, I would have rather been dead.
Sitting in the middle of a long, forest green table, I would scan the tabletop. Capri-suns glittered in their shiny package, Dunkaroos, Little Debbies, Fritos, my god....a Squeeze-it! I hated all the other girls with their cool 90210 lunch boxes and their handwritten notes. They'd look at me smugly crunching Cheetos and licking florescent orange power off their fingertips. I would always hold my crumpled bag in my lap until the coast was clear. My lunch always consisted of 3 main items: 1. a smushed half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (strawberry jelly mind you, which of course I loathed but blackberry preserves where "too expensive") 2. a mealy red apple (the kind you know has been sitting on the bottom of the apple pyramid at the grocery store for weeks and then goes on sale for 30 cents per pound.) 3. stale tortilla chip crumbles from the bottom of the bag. (those sharp tiny triangles cut the roof of my mouth.)
Sometimes there was a "treat." A box of raisins or one generic fig newton.
If my mother felt especially generous, she would take the time to spread nonfat cream cheese on a bitter celery stalk. By the time it got to me, of course if would be warm but it might as well been rock candy to me. I remember once when my mom was sick, my dad prepared our lunches. When I got to school I pulled out a can of tuna and one napkin. Not the cool little tuna packs with the crackers and relish and the cute little plastic spoon. Just a regular can of tuna, with no way to open it much less drain the smelly water. I shoved it back in my backpack before anyone saw. I took it as a personal assault and fumed on the bus the whole way home. When I arrived home I threw the bag on the bed next to my sleeping mother who was surrounded in a sea of used tissues.
"Just look at what your husband made me for lunch!" I shouted.
I liked to refer to my dad as "your husband" or "that man" when I was really mad even though I knew that was usually reserved for step-fathers...or so I'd seen on the WB. I stood there with my hands on my hips, waiting for an explanation.
"Honey, I'm really sick now. Can we talk about this later?"
I stormed out and slammed the door to my room. I felt bad about the whole thing until years later when a can of baked beans replaced the tuna.
We never had soda, except on 4th of July. This was the one day of the year we looked forward to more than Christmas. We'd go to the grocery store and watch wide-eyed as my mother loaded the shopping cart with bags of ice and cans of Pepsi, 7up, diet Coke and Root Beer. My brother and I would call dips on which ones we'd gulp down first. We knew mom only bought them because the party was always at our house and she didn't want people to think we weren't a traditional American family. Once the guests started to arrive my brother and I would sneak off darting behind grandparents and diving behind trees on our way to the cooler. There was no way she could keep track of how many we had as we sprinted for cover to the tree fort with the cold cans under our shirts. To this day, if given a full can, I 'll suck it down as if destroying the evidence before mom comes around the corner.
My mother did not bake cookies because when she did we'd all eat them in a single sitting because we hadn't had them in so long. It was a vicious cycle. One that mom gave up on. Dessert didn't mean the same thing to us as it did to other families. Our dessert might have been a half of a peach or a few grapes. To compensate for this loss, I'd stand on the counter and look in the pantry for a square of bakers chocolate which I would cocktail with a packet of sweet and low to cut the bite. I'd tear open bags of mini marshmallows and smush them on a spoon full of peanut butter. I'd pour honey in a cup of half and half and gulp it down. I had a problem and I knew it even then at the age of 8. I only really knew I was being "abused" when I went to over to my friends house for the first time. She had a cookie jar, which until then I had only seen in comic strips. And there were cookies in them. Heaven. My friends mom actually baked so much that she would have to keep extra cookies in the freezer. Oatmeal chocolate chip, flaky peanut butter, snickerdoodles! My brother and I would go over there and make ourselves sick with all the cookies. Years later my friend told me her mom used to "I'd better make some cookies because the Jenkins kids are coming over." She had to have an extra hidden stash.
My relationship with food hasn't changed much. I don't drink soda, I try to avoid cookies but I still eat ice cream standing with the freezer open in case "someone" comes in and finds me.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)