So, there was this bartender.
He was cute. He looked exactly like a more Irish version of the Wily Republican, which, I suppose, was fitting, since I saw him when we were out in Buffalo for St. Patrick's Day.
After ten minutes of watching this boy work behind the bar, I decided I was in love with him and that I wanted him to set aside the bottle of Jameson that was perpetually clutched in his hand so that we could duck out into the alley and kiss.
What I settled for was pushing my way to the bar and ordering a drink for Becky. She wanted a Bailey's and milk.
"A Bailey's and milk?" the bartender asked. He wrinkled his nose.
"Hey, it isn't for me," I said. "My friend requested it. I don't know."
"I'm not even entirely sure we have milk back here," he said. "Let me see what I can find."
He ducked down and rummaged in a cooler. And then another cooler. And then a final cooler--way back, under a row of dusty glasses. He pulled a gallon of milk from the cooler and hoisted it up so I could see. He unscrewed the top and cautiously sniffed. Then he gave me a thumbs-up.
"Great!" I shouted. "I really appreciate it!"
"Anytime, sweetie," he said, and then he got to work mixing the drink.
Later, after I had decided I was super in love with him, I went back up to the bar. There was a lull in the action, and there was some space up there because a large group of people--including a girl who spent a whole lot of time fingering a guy's ass for all to see--had left for the night. So I slid up to the bar and my bartender came right over.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked.
"Of course," he said.
"You look exactly like my ex-boyfriend."
"Really?" he said.
Do I even need to admit here that I'd had a lot to drink by this point in the night? There was, after all, a good reason the cute bartender always had the bottle of Jameson in his hand: Everyone was drinking it, and the boys who'd parked themselves at the bar early in the night--the ones who were getting their asses fingered by slutty drunk girls--bought us several shots.
"Yes," I said. "You look exactly like him. And I was thinking that maybe later I would bring my camera over here and take your picture so I can show him he has a twin in Buffalo."
The bartender tipped his head to the side. "Is that all we're going to do?" he asked. He grinned.
I had to restrain myself, lest I leap over the bar. "Honey," I said, "I'll do whatever you want, but first we need to take that picture."
And I did eventually get that picture. It was busy again, and the bartenders looked like they were seconds from losing their minds, but still the cute bartender came over to me--we were leaving then to get tacos; we wanted Crunchwrap Supremes more than anything in the world at that point in the morning--and I needed to get the picture that second.
And, luckily, he humored me. He leaned over the bar and let me snap a picture with him. And then I pulled whatever money I had left in my pocket--which amounted to seven dollars--and I shoved it at him.
"Here!" I said.
"You don't have a tab," he said, shaking his head.
"No," I said. "It's for you. For being cute!"
And ten minutes later, since I'd given the last of my money to the bartender just because he looked like the 24 year-old version of Wily, Amy's boyfriend had to buy me a taco because I was officially poor, poor, poor.
Showing posts with label Wily Republican. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wily Republican. Show all posts
Friday, March 19, 2010
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The Eighth of August
It was a warm night in Minnesota. It was late. You could smell the soybeans from the processing plant across the river. Everything was as it should be.
I was on the sidewalk with the Wily Republican and his best friend and his best friend's girlfriend. We'd been bouncing between bars for the last few hours, and now we were hungry. What we wanted more than anything in the world was fried mac-n-cheese from one of the bars across the street. So we were paused at the intersection, waiting for traffic to go by so we could cross.
"I was a cheerleader, you know," the girlfriend said.
"I would've guessed that," I said. She was a peppy sort--bright, bubbly, full of spunk. She was smart and had freckles. I liked her.
"Watch this," she said, and she flipped into a string of cartwheels she unraveled down the sidewalk.
The boys whistled. I clapped.
"Very impressive," I said.
"I know," she said. She stood back up and blew her curly hair out of her eyes.
The light changed then, and we went across the street and into the bar where we could get our food. The Wily had worked there once, his first semester at school, and back then I would sit at the bar and watch as he brought cases of beer and liquor out from the back room or stood watch at the door, sending away the undergrads who were testing out a new fake ID. Those were some of the moments I remember most about my time with him, and they were moments that happened before we kissed, before we screwed everything up just by being us. Back then there was nothing better than sitting there sipping a lime vodka tonic and smiling at him when he smiled at me.
Inside, the WR and his best friend went to order our food and talk to the guys behind the counter, who they knew a little bit, and the girlfriend grabbed my arm and dragged me into the bathroom.
We stood in front of the mirrors and fixed our hair, leaned in close to consider our makeup.
"Wily loves you," she said.
It came out of nowhere, that statement, and for a second I thought maybe I'd hallucinated the words. I stepped away from the mirror.
"What?"
"Wily," she said. "He's in love with you."
And standing right there, in the bathroom of the bar where it all really started, my heart broke open from the weight of all the blood that had flooded it, frantic and excited. I couldn't speak. I opened my mouth. I closed my mouth. I opened it again.
She was still in the mirror, looking back at me through its pane. She smiled. "It's pretty clear," she said. "I've never seen him act like this around a girl before. Never."
"Like what?" I asked. "How does he act?"
She waved her hands in the air. "Oh, you know. Like he does. The two of you are very cute together. And you should hear how he talks about you. He talks about you all the time."
"Oh my God," I said. This was better than any number of dreams I'd had about the Wily Republican--and there had been some pretty fantastic dreams along the way.
The girlfriend finally turned away from the mirror and wrapped her hand around my arm. She leaned in close and pressed her shoulder against mine. We were conspirators. We were insiders. We were drunk, and we were in love with best friends. We thought we knew things.
"Don't worry," she said, squeezing my arm. "You'll be at my wedding, and I'll be at yours. I'm sure of it."
Here's what I can tell you now: that girl did marry the Wily's best friend, but I wasn't there. And today the Wily will stand at an altar and wait for his bride to come down the aisle, and that girl won't be me. In fact, I won't even be in the audience. Instead, I'll be here, in Maine, and I'll be thinking about him.
The fact that the Wily Republican is getting married today doesn't make me sad, but it does make me reflective. It doesn't make me want to stay in bed all day with a pan of brownies on the pillow next to me, but it does make me remember things. It does make me amazed by things.
Like it or not--and I know a lot of you (and me, sometimes) won't like it at all--the Wily Republican really got inside my head and shook things up, changed me, challenged me, made me the girl I am today--the good and bad parts, both.
This summer I read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, and in it she wrote about her own maddening, toxic, unshakable relationship, and how she recognized her man was wrong for her, that he was making her crazy, that he was like a drug, but at the same time she was sure he was her soulmate. Of course, for Gilbert, the definition of soulmate isn't the one we throw around often--the one that's fizzing with hearts and exclamation points. Instead, this type of soulmate is a person who comes in and picks you up and challenges you and makes you crazy because they are the opposite of what you are--or close to it. That kind of soulmate is your balance. That kind of soulmate has the potential to teach you immeasurable lessons about yourself. With that person in your life, it is suddenly that much easier to define yourself, to say, Here I am. This is who I am. Love me even if you think it's a bad idea.
That can be a hard love, but that doesn't mean it isn't worth having. And I think at that point in his life the Wily Republican really needed me. When he's feeling kind and generous, he tells me I'm his voice of reason, that I'm the one he needs around to say, "Listen. You're unreasonable. You're wrong. Here's why." And I did that for him for years. I said, "Wily, you're an asshole. Do you want to know why?" And he always did. He always does.
And at that point in my life, I really needed him, too. An MFA program is fraught with all kinds of drama, and it's incestuous and intense, and there were days in Minnesota when the last thing I wanted to do was talk to another sulky writer, another frowning English major, but I was surrounded by them. That's when the WR came in handy. That's when I called him and said, "Please save me." The Wily Republican did not want to discuss what was literary and what was not. He did not want to tell me that all I write about is sex and that I should stop it, for Christ's sake. He did not want to get drunk and talk about killing himself. What he wanted to do was tell me I was fun, I was a hippie--a sweet one, but a hippie nonetheless--and I wrote things that made him want to read. What he wanted to do was get drunk and kiss.
It wasn't a bad life, but it's not mine anymore. It hasn't been mine for a long time, and it seems strange to me that today it becomes someone else's life. He's marrying the girl he wanted: a pretty little Republican doctor, someone who smiles at him and says, "Yes, Wily, yes. You're right about that. You're so right." She shares his ideals and has what he refers to as a "strong moral code. She won't be any trouble for him.
But he's always been trouble for me. He's always been the one whose memory I can't quite sweep from the darker corners of my heart. And today I won't even try.
I was on the sidewalk with the Wily Republican and his best friend and his best friend's girlfriend. We'd been bouncing between bars for the last few hours, and now we were hungry. What we wanted more than anything in the world was fried mac-n-cheese from one of the bars across the street. So we were paused at the intersection, waiting for traffic to go by so we could cross.
"I was a cheerleader, you know," the girlfriend said.
"I would've guessed that," I said. She was a peppy sort--bright, bubbly, full of spunk. She was smart and had freckles. I liked her.
"Watch this," she said, and she flipped into a string of cartwheels she unraveled down the sidewalk.
The boys whistled. I clapped.
"Very impressive," I said.
"I know," she said. She stood back up and blew her curly hair out of her eyes.
The light changed then, and we went across the street and into the bar where we could get our food. The Wily had worked there once, his first semester at school, and back then I would sit at the bar and watch as he brought cases of beer and liquor out from the back room or stood watch at the door, sending away the undergrads who were testing out a new fake ID. Those were some of the moments I remember most about my time with him, and they were moments that happened before we kissed, before we screwed everything up just by being us. Back then there was nothing better than sitting there sipping a lime vodka tonic and smiling at him when he smiled at me.
Inside, the WR and his best friend went to order our food and talk to the guys behind the counter, who they knew a little bit, and the girlfriend grabbed my arm and dragged me into the bathroom.
We stood in front of the mirrors and fixed our hair, leaned in close to consider our makeup.
"Wily loves you," she said.
It came out of nowhere, that statement, and for a second I thought maybe I'd hallucinated the words. I stepped away from the mirror.
"What?"
"Wily," she said. "He's in love with you."
And standing right there, in the bathroom of the bar where it all really started, my heart broke open from the weight of all the blood that had flooded it, frantic and excited. I couldn't speak. I opened my mouth. I closed my mouth. I opened it again.
She was still in the mirror, looking back at me through its pane. She smiled. "It's pretty clear," she said. "I've never seen him act like this around a girl before. Never."
"Like what?" I asked. "How does he act?"
She waved her hands in the air. "Oh, you know. Like he does. The two of you are very cute together. And you should hear how he talks about you. He talks about you all the time."
"Oh my God," I said. This was better than any number of dreams I'd had about the Wily Republican--and there had been some pretty fantastic dreams along the way.
The girlfriend finally turned away from the mirror and wrapped her hand around my arm. She leaned in close and pressed her shoulder against mine. We were conspirators. We were insiders. We were drunk, and we were in love with best friends. We thought we knew things.
"Don't worry," she said, squeezing my arm. "You'll be at my wedding, and I'll be at yours. I'm sure of it."
Here's what I can tell you now: that girl did marry the Wily's best friend, but I wasn't there. And today the Wily will stand at an altar and wait for his bride to come down the aisle, and that girl won't be me. In fact, I won't even be in the audience. Instead, I'll be here, in Maine, and I'll be thinking about him.
The fact that the Wily Republican is getting married today doesn't make me sad, but it does make me reflective. It doesn't make me want to stay in bed all day with a pan of brownies on the pillow next to me, but it does make me remember things. It does make me amazed by things.
Like it or not--and I know a lot of you (and me, sometimes) won't like it at all--the Wily Republican really got inside my head and shook things up, changed me, challenged me, made me the girl I am today--the good and bad parts, both.
This summer I read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, and in it she wrote about her own maddening, toxic, unshakable relationship, and how she recognized her man was wrong for her, that he was making her crazy, that he was like a drug, but at the same time she was sure he was her soulmate. Of course, for Gilbert, the definition of soulmate isn't the one we throw around often--the one that's fizzing with hearts and exclamation points. Instead, this type of soulmate is a person who comes in and picks you up and challenges you and makes you crazy because they are the opposite of what you are--or close to it. That kind of soulmate is your balance. That kind of soulmate has the potential to teach you immeasurable lessons about yourself. With that person in your life, it is suddenly that much easier to define yourself, to say, Here I am. This is who I am. Love me even if you think it's a bad idea.
That can be a hard love, but that doesn't mean it isn't worth having. And I think at that point in his life the Wily Republican really needed me. When he's feeling kind and generous, he tells me I'm his voice of reason, that I'm the one he needs around to say, "Listen. You're unreasonable. You're wrong. Here's why." And I did that for him for years. I said, "Wily, you're an asshole. Do you want to know why?" And he always did. He always does.
And at that point in my life, I really needed him, too. An MFA program is fraught with all kinds of drama, and it's incestuous and intense, and there were days in Minnesota when the last thing I wanted to do was talk to another sulky writer, another frowning English major, but I was surrounded by them. That's when the WR came in handy. That's when I called him and said, "Please save me." The Wily Republican did not want to discuss what was literary and what was not. He did not want to tell me that all I write about is sex and that I should stop it, for Christ's sake. He did not want to get drunk and talk about killing himself. What he wanted to do was tell me I was fun, I was a hippie--a sweet one, but a hippie nonetheless--and I wrote things that made him want to read. What he wanted to do was get drunk and kiss.
It wasn't a bad life, but it's not mine anymore. It hasn't been mine for a long time, and it seems strange to me that today it becomes someone else's life. He's marrying the girl he wanted: a pretty little Republican doctor, someone who smiles at him and says, "Yes, Wily, yes. You're right about that. You're so right." She shares his ideals and has what he refers to as a "strong moral code. She won't be any trouble for him.
But he's always been trouble for me. He's always been the one whose memory I can't quite sweep from the darker corners of my heart. And today I won't even try.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Literary Critic
The Wily Republican is really good for certain things.
This point would be contested by many people, including my friend Greg, who, just this week, told me he thought the Wily Republican is a total waste of flesh, that he has no capacity for empathy, that he exists on this earth only to cause misery and pain for other people.
I've never believed that, even on the days I hated him more than anything. The Wily Republican has some exceedingly good qualities even beyond what used to be his most impressive, which was looking really good in a towel.
The other day, as I was reading through my whole book, I came across a line that suddenly struck me as really filthy, really perverted. But I wasn't sure if I was just getting a little loopy--was it the (strong) mojito? was it the five hours I'd already spent reading and editing?--or maybe the line really was pretty gross and foul.
And I could've called a lot of people to run it by them, but that might've led to discussions that were a bit more in-depth than I thought the line needed. The quickest test would be to just call up the Wily Republican, read him the line, and listen to his reaction. The WR is, after all, a self-proclaimed pervert, well versed in filth and ick.
So I called him. "Listen," I said. "I'm just going to read you a paragraph. I'm not going to tell you what to listen for, but I do want you to listen carefully. And just have whatever reaction you're going to have. Don't censor."
"Okay," he said. He was just coming in from a day of military training, and he was more than happy to stop thinking about logistics and start thinking about writing. "I'm just going to get naked first, and then I can listen better," he said.
I'd clearly called the right person.
"Fine," I said and then read the paragraph to him. The last sentence ends with the phrase and she was sure she'd never be dry again. I read it, paused for a split second, and then the Wily started laughing.
"Ha," he said. "She was wet."
"I knew it!" I said. "I knew you'd think it was perverted!"
"Hey, hey," he said. "In my defense, you also had the phrase 'she was dripping' in that paragraph."
"THEY ARE IN THE RAIN," I said.
"Still," he said, laughing, "that'll set up the sick-minded readers. And you know that's why you called me. That's why you'll always call me."
"Yes."
"That's what I'm good for," he said.
"I know," I said, and later, after we hung up, I changed the line to something less dirty-sounding.
This point would be contested by many people, including my friend Greg, who, just this week, told me he thought the Wily Republican is a total waste of flesh, that he has no capacity for empathy, that he exists on this earth only to cause misery and pain for other people.
I've never believed that, even on the days I hated him more than anything. The Wily Republican has some exceedingly good qualities even beyond what used to be his most impressive, which was looking really good in a towel.
The other day, as I was reading through my whole book, I came across a line that suddenly struck me as really filthy, really perverted. But I wasn't sure if I was just getting a little loopy--was it the (strong) mojito? was it the five hours I'd already spent reading and editing?--or maybe the line really was pretty gross and foul.
And I could've called a lot of people to run it by them, but that might've led to discussions that were a bit more in-depth than I thought the line needed. The quickest test would be to just call up the Wily Republican, read him the line, and listen to his reaction. The WR is, after all, a self-proclaimed pervert, well versed in filth and ick.
So I called him. "Listen," I said. "I'm just going to read you a paragraph. I'm not going to tell you what to listen for, but I do want you to listen carefully. And just have whatever reaction you're going to have. Don't censor."
"Okay," he said. He was just coming in from a day of military training, and he was more than happy to stop thinking about logistics and start thinking about writing. "I'm just going to get naked first, and then I can listen better," he said.
I'd clearly called the right person.
"Fine," I said and then read the paragraph to him. The last sentence ends with the phrase and she was sure she'd never be dry again. I read it, paused for a split second, and then the Wily started laughing.
"Ha," he said. "She was wet."
"I knew it!" I said. "I knew you'd think it was perverted!"
"Hey, hey," he said. "In my defense, you also had the phrase 'she was dripping' in that paragraph."
"THEY ARE IN THE RAIN," I said.
"Still," he said, laughing, "that'll set up the sick-minded readers. And you know that's why you called me. That's why you'll always call me."
"Yes."
"That's what I'm good for," he said.
"I know," I said, and later, after we hung up, I changed the line to something less dirty-sounding.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
My Love of Buttercream Knows No Bounds
Last week sometime I sent the Wily Republican a link to this cake over on Cake Wrecks. I included some snarky little message to the tune of wouldn't it be just oh-so-funny if your in-laws rolled out something like this at your wedding?
I hadn't really thought about his wedding since he announced he was engaged. He and his fiancee had some seriously different ideas about when the blessed event would take place--his idea was of the extended engagement variety--but he knew his ideas were probably going to get trumped by bride fever. And it looks like that might have just happened.
The WR e-mailed me back to tell me that he was never going to get a cop-themed donut cake with buttercream frosting because, well, he doesn't like donuts, cake, or buttercream frosting. If he had his choice, his groom's cake would be made of ice cream.
I was appalled by his response. He didn't like donuts? He didn't like cake? He didn't like frosting? He recently let it slip that he's taken up chewing tobacco to keep himself awake on the overnight shifts ("WILY!" I screamed when I heard the news. "YOU ARE MARRYING A DOCTOR! ARE YOU AN IDIOT?!" "Listen," he said, "come talk to me about it again after you try to pull a couple million overnight shifts.")--and apparently the taste of chew is okay, but not donuts, not cake, not buttercream.
I wrote back to tell him I didn't think ice cream cakes went over so well at wedding receptions, and was he going to make an exception for the big day?
The entire conversation was happening in the abstract, and it occurred to me that it had been months since he had talked about specific plans for the wedding, so I figured I should ask about the progress, if they had a venue, if they had a date. And the next time I got him on the phone I did.
"Are you, like, getting married any time soon?" I asked. "I mean, do you have a date?"
"Oh," he said, "yeah. We're getting married in August."
"AUGUST?!" I said. "So much for the extended engagement."
He snorted.
And then--because I am a girl, because I am predictable, because I am a predictable girl--I rattled off about a thousand questions about the wedding, trying to construct an accurate picture in my head. I wanted to know about flowers. I wanted to know about rings. I wanted to know about the cost and who was footing the bill.
And the answers to those questions were as follows: lots, expensive, thirty grand, and him.
"What do you mean expensive?" I asked. "How much did her ring cost?"
And then he said a figure that was so obscene I almost swallowed my tongue. I quickly composed myself. He must have been kidding. He must have made a mistake in the way he phrased the cost.
"Are you kidding me?" I asked and then repeated the obscene amount. "For real?"
"Yeah," he said. He didn't seem to think it was a big deal.
"Jesus," I said. I pictured his fiancee walking around Minnesota with her left hand held straight out in front of her so that everywhere she went everyone could see the fantastic rock on her ring finger. "Oh my God," I said. "Why didn't you ever want to marry me?!"
I wasn't serious, of course; it was just interesting to think what it would be like to get a wedding that included pretty much everything I've ever wanted. And from the sounds of it, the Wily's girl is going to get just that.
"I didn't want to marry you because you're a liberal," he reminded me.
"Right," I said. "Because of that."
Later, after we'd hung up and gone on with our days, I saw that the WR had written back to the snippy comments I'd shipped his way after hearing about his hatred of cake and frosting. There's going to be a buttercream cake at the wedding, he said. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
Have you been to a cake tasting yet?! I wrote. Is it pretty much the best thing in the world? Tell me about it!
He wrote back to tell me that no, he hadn't been to a cake tasting yet, but one was scheduled for the end of the month and he would tell me all about it after it happened.
I had a better idea. Can I come? I wrote. Do you think that would be awkward? You could tell your girl I am your butch lesbian friend who just so happens to be a cake expert. I'll wear lots of plaid.
And what a scene that would be: me draped in ribbons of plaid, plaid, plaid, standing shoulder to shoulder with the dimpled girl the Wily Republican will marry, sharing forkfuls of cake and frosting with her, giggling. I can see the WR in the corner, his arms crossed, his eyes rolled to the ceiling, his brain off dreaming about all the chilly edges of some ice cream cake. "Don't worry about him," I will tell his girl. "Let's try that pear-ginger one again. Or the cherry-almond. Or the butterscotch-walnut. Let's try them all." And we will. And the WR won't be able to say one cross word to either of us. Not a one.
I hadn't really thought about his wedding since he announced he was engaged. He and his fiancee had some seriously different ideas about when the blessed event would take place--his idea was of the extended engagement variety--but he knew his ideas were probably going to get trumped by bride fever. And it looks like that might have just happened.
The WR e-mailed me back to tell me that he was never going to get a cop-themed donut cake with buttercream frosting because, well, he doesn't like donuts, cake, or buttercream frosting. If he had his choice, his groom's cake would be made of ice cream.
I was appalled by his response. He didn't like donuts? He didn't like cake? He didn't like frosting? He recently let it slip that he's taken up chewing tobacco to keep himself awake on the overnight shifts ("WILY!" I screamed when I heard the news. "YOU ARE MARRYING A DOCTOR! ARE YOU AN IDIOT?!" "Listen," he said, "come talk to me about it again after you try to pull a couple million overnight shifts.")--and apparently the taste of chew is okay, but not donuts, not cake, not buttercream.
I wrote back to tell him I didn't think ice cream cakes went over so well at wedding receptions, and was he going to make an exception for the big day?
The entire conversation was happening in the abstract, and it occurred to me that it had been months since he had talked about specific plans for the wedding, so I figured I should ask about the progress, if they had a venue, if they had a date. And the next time I got him on the phone I did.
"Are you, like, getting married any time soon?" I asked. "I mean, do you have a date?"
"Oh," he said, "yeah. We're getting married in August."
"AUGUST?!" I said. "So much for the extended engagement."
He snorted.
And then--because I am a girl, because I am predictable, because I am a predictable girl--I rattled off about a thousand questions about the wedding, trying to construct an accurate picture in my head. I wanted to know about flowers. I wanted to know about rings. I wanted to know about the cost and who was footing the bill.
And the answers to those questions were as follows: lots, expensive, thirty grand, and him.
"What do you mean expensive?" I asked. "How much did her ring cost?"
And then he said a figure that was so obscene I almost swallowed my tongue. I quickly composed myself. He must have been kidding. He must have made a mistake in the way he phrased the cost.
"Are you kidding me?" I asked and then repeated the obscene amount. "For real?"
"Yeah," he said. He didn't seem to think it was a big deal.
"Jesus," I said. I pictured his fiancee walking around Minnesota with her left hand held straight out in front of her so that everywhere she went everyone could see the fantastic rock on her ring finger. "Oh my God," I said. "Why didn't you ever want to marry me?!"
I wasn't serious, of course; it was just interesting to think what it would be like to get a wedding that included pretty much everything I've ever wanted. And from the sounds of it, the Wily's girl is going to get just that.
"I didn't want to marry you because you're a liberal," he reminded me.
"Right," I said. "Because of that."
Later, after we'd hung up and gone on with our days, I saw that the WR had written back to the snippy comments I'd shipped his way after hearing about his hatred of cake and frosting. There's going to be a buttercream cake at the wedding, he said. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
Have you been to a cake tasting yet?! I wrote. Is it pretty much the best thing in the world? Tell me about it!
He wrote back to tell me that no, he hadn't been to a cake tasting yet, but one was scheduled for the end of the month and he would tell me all about it after it happened.
I had a better idea. Can I come? I wrote. Do you think that would be awkward? You could tell your girl I am your butch lesbian friend who just so happens to be a cake expert. I'll wear lots of plaid.
And what a scene that would be: me draped in ribbons of plaid, plaid, plaid, standing shoulder to shoulder with the dimpled girl the Wily Republican will marry, sharing forkfuls of cake and frosting with her, giggling. I can see the WR in the corner, his arms crossed, his eyes rolled to the ceiling, his brain off dreaming about all the chilly edges of some ice cream cake. "Don't worry about him," I will tell his girl. "Let's try that pear-ginger one again. Or the cherry-almond. Or the butterscotch-walnut. Let's try them all." And we will. And the WR won't be able to say one cross word to either of us. Not a one.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
It's Because I'm Psychic (Or Because He's Been Known to Get Around)
Wily Republican: Hey. I know someone who's on this game show tonight.
Me: Oh yeah?
WR: Yeah. You should watch it.
Me: And did you sleep with her?
WR: Wait. Wait just a second. Who said it was a girl?
Me: Did you sleep with her?
WR: Well, yeah.
Me: Uh-huh. Exactly.
WR: It was a long time ago. Way before you. Why did you just assume that? I mean, how did you know that?
Me: I believe it's because I am awesome.
WR: I can't believe you just jumped to that conclusion. Why did you do that?
Me: Because I know you. And because you're a slut.
Me: Oh yeah?
WR: Yeah. You should watch it.
Me: And did you sleep with her?
WR: Wait. Wait just a second. Who said it was a girl?
Me: Did you sleep with her?
WR: Well, yeah.
Me: Uh-huh. Exactly.
WR: It was a long time ago. Way before you. Why did you just assume that? I mean, how did you know that?
Me: I believe it's because I am awesome.
WR: I can't believe you just jumped to that conclusion. Why did you do that?
Me: Because I know you. And because you're a slut.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Today Is the Day I Could've Called the Wily Republican Up and Said, "SUCK ON THAT, WILY!" but I Didn't Because I Am Classier Than That
Yesterday was my first opportunity to vote in person at an actual polling place. The whole experience was way different than filling out an absentee ballot and sending it off to some nebulous building in some nebulous location where it would be counted in some nebulous way.
When you vote in person, there are booths with festive red, white, and blue curtains that zip up behind you so you can vote in private. There are machines with greedy mouths that take in all the ballots and count them, lock them inside so no one can mess with them when you're done. There are lesbians stationed near the door to ask if you would like to sign a petition in favor of gay marriage. There are Mainers who walk by them and grumble, I will never sign that!, which makes you stop--you would've stopped anyway--and say in a very loud voice, "WHERE DO I SIGN?"
This is all very different than filling out your absentee ballot while your roommate sizzles chicken fried steak on the stove. This is very different than realizing with a certain amount of guilt that, on another day, you and your roommate have accidentally tried out your new Hello Kitty stamp on the outside of your ballot, which you both mistook to be scrap paper. This is very different than wondering if your ballot will be counted or if it has somehow been made ineligible by the happy kitten waving her paw at the person who opens the envelope.
But now election season and all its hype is over. Now I won't have to live with the fear that another candidate is going to show up at my door when I am just coming out of the shower.
It feels good to be on the other side of this. It feels good in general. Last night and this morning made me feel like I feel when I listen to Rosalita, and when I listen to "Rosalita," I feel precisely like this: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
Of course, not everyone can feel like they've just discovered one of the local stations is playing their favorite Bruce Springsteen tune. For example, my most beloved students of all time--my engineering students from the big Buffalo university--are not pleased today, and a lot of them are expressing their irritation via chirpy little status messages on Facebook. You're going to be sorry, America, one says. Another says, Bad choice! Bad choice! Bad choice! Another, from one of my students who was born in Canada: Sucks to be you guys. At least I can choose where I live and work.
For some reason, the response this inspires in me is as follows: I want to bake them cookies. A lot of cookies. And I want them to come over and sit at my kitchen table and dunk those cookies in milk and eat until they are so full they want to throw up chocolate chips and walnuts. This is what I wanted to do, what I wished someone would do for me the morning after the last two elections. It would've taken the sting away just a little bit.
When you vote in person, there are booths with festive red, white, and blue curtains that zip up behind you so you can vote in private. There are machines with greedy mouths that take in all the ballots and count them, lock them inside so no one can mess with them when you're done. There are lesbians stationed near the door to ask if you would like to sign a petition in favor of gay marriage. There are Mainers who walk by them and grumble, I will never sign that!, which makes you stop--you would've stopped anyway--and say in a very loud voice, "WHERE DO I SIGN?"
This is all very different than filling out your absentee ballot while your roommate sizzles chicken fried steak on the stove. This is very different than realizing with a certain amount of guilt that, on another day, you and your roommate have accidentally tried out your new Hello Kitty stamp on the outside of your ballot, which you both mistook to be scrap paper. This is very different than wondering if your ballot will be counted or if it has somehow been made ineligible by the happy kitten waving her paw at the person who opens the envelope.
But now election season and all its hype is over. Now I won't have to live with the fear that another candidate is going to show up at my door when I am just coming out of the shower.
It feels good to be on the other side of this. It feels good in general. Last night and this morning made me feel like I feel when I listen to Rosalita, and when I listen to "Rosalita," I feel precisely like this: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.
Of course, not everyone can feel like they've just discovered one of the local stations is playing their favorite Bruce Springsteen tune. For example, my most beloved students of all time--my engineering students from the big Buffalo university--are not pleased today, and a lot of them are expressing their irritation via chirpy little status messages on Facebook. You're going to be sorry, America, one says. Another says, Bad choice! Bad choice! Bad choice! Another, from one of my students who was born in Canada: Sucks to be you guys. At least I can choose where I live and work.
For some reason, the response this inspires in me is as follows: I want to bake them cookies. A lot of cookies. And I want them to come over and sit at my kitchen table and dunk those cookies in milk and eat until they are so full they want to throw up chocolate chips and walnuts. This is what I wanted to do, what I wished someone would do for me the morning after the last two elections. It would've taken the sting away just a little bit.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Topography
Yesterday Megan dropped me off at the Wily Republican's house because he was going to drive me the rest of the way up to the airport so I could get on a plane bound for Maine. This wasn't exactly how it was supposed to be. We'd planned to have more time together than the twenty minute ride from his house to the airport, but, as usual, things went awry.
The night before was Halloween, and I'd had an awful lot of vodka-tonics, and those vodka-tonics made me giggly and unreasonable, and I tried calling the WR several times, even though I knew he was working that awful overnight shift on a holiday that makes people lose all their common sense and decency. I figured he'd be putting a whole bunch of costumed people in handcuffs. I could imagine him driving back to the station with a backseat full of zombies and vampires and girls dressed as any number of slutty things.
I called anyway. I called because I needed his professional opinion on things. After all, crimes were being committed. While we were at the strip club, Matt's costume was stolen, possibly by a gangly man who insisted on standing in front of Katy when she was just trying to mind her business and watch that one stripper do back-bends off the pole. When the guy blocked her view, Katy suggested--as politely as possible--that he should sit the hell down so people behind him could enjoy the spectacle, too. The man didn't think much of Katy's suggestion, and minutes later we noticed that Matt's Nintendo costume, which he'd taken off so he wouldn't be obstructed when he tried to reach for his beer, was gone--along with the gangly man.
I got on the phone and called Wily. "Wily!" I said, talking in what I thought was a very serious, very grave tone, but would later to come to find out--when the WR replayed the message for me on the way to the airport--was a tone closer to "giggly" and "shrieky."
"Wily!" I said. "There's been a crime! A very serious crime! Crimes are being committed in Mankato! It was a theft! A THEFT OF A HALLOWEEN COSTUME! WHO STEALS SOMEONE'S HALLOWEEN COSTUME?! We need your help!"
Later, somewhere around 3:30 AM, I would place another call to the Wily Republican because Katy, Megan, Matt, and I had become concerned that we, too, were committing some crimes when, after ingesting a massive amount of cheese bread and Hawaiian pizza, Bill passed out on the couch and we decided to pose him with a number of filthy things. In my favorite pose, Bill is holding a banana and has a Playboy stretched out across his chest. There are wadded up tissues and a bottle of lotion resting around the magazine.
Again, I decided to consult the Wily Republican. "So," I said in the message, "if we were to put a passed-out boy in various filthy poses, would that be wrong? Is that considered wrong?"
"Is it libel?" Katy chirped in the background. "Ask him if it's libel."
"Is it libel, Wily?" I asked. "Is it defamation? Are we going to get sued? Call me back. I need to know."
The next day, after a familiar are-we-or-aren't-we-going-to-see-each-other dance, things aligned so that we were going to see each other, even if it was for twenty small minutes. And when I stood on his front stoop and rang his doorbell, the Wily Republican opened the door and said hey as casually as he might've had we been back in Mankato, had I just driven over to his house and knocked until he opened the door and let me inside, into his room, where the cardboard cut-out of George W. Bush gazed over his bed.
But it wasn't that. It wasn't like we were in Mankato anymore, and it wasn't like things were the same. I was looking at a boy who looked both exactly the same and completely different than the boy I used to know back in graduate school. He was bigger and softer-looking, but he was still so tall and square. He looked like someone who had found his niche in life, found exactly where he wanted to be.
"Can I see your kitten?" I asked--one of the first things I said after hello. The Wily Republican had driven to the shelter with his fiancee not long after I'd gotten Abbey. The two of them--the WR and his fiancee--picked out a tiny tiger-striped kitten with white paws. He was cute--ridiculously so--but I'd spent several months asserting that my kitten was cuter. I just needed to make sure of it in person.
The WR disappeared inside for a second and then came back to the door, a cat dangling from one of his palms. "Here you go," he said and deposited the cat in my arms. Had I tried this move with Abbey, she would've looked up at the unfamiliar person and--if this person hadn't immediately given her treats or canned food--assumed that this was some giant new toy I had gotten her, and she would've started playing with vigor. This tiger kitten, though, just looked up at me with its big eyes and then twitched its nose before reclining in my arms. It didn't even mind when I pressed a few kisses into its head because I am a sucker for that warm spot between a kitten's ears.
The kitten smelled good. The kitten smelled very good. The kitten smelled like boy, like the Wily, like whatever cologne the Wily wears. Everything about that cat was very, very sweet and very, very cute.
"Here's your cat," I said. I passed the cat back to the WR. "He smells like you."
"He was napping with me," the Wily said.
"Aha," I said. "Well, my kitten is cuter."
"Doubtful," the WR said.
And then we left. We got in his car and started back up the long road to the airport. I looked out the window and watched southern Minnesota flash by: brown field after brown field after brown field. You could look out across those fields and see forever. There was so much emptiness there, and it was only occasionally interrupted by a water tower, a gas station with old-fashioned pumps, a restaurant that advertised a T-bone dinner for $15.99. Except for those things, there was nothing except long stretches of churned-up farm land.
I've always been fascinated by the landscape of Minnesota. When I moved there for grad school I could feel a difference in me--a difference turned over by my surroundings, by the sun sinking into soybean fields, by the flatness, by the smooth patchwork that unfolded underneath me when I saw the state from the air. I was an East Coast girl who was used to hills and valleys, to views that rose and fell instead of just stretched. There was comfort in that kind of topography. There was comfort in things that changed and moved, things that had shape.
And even though I got used to the Minnesotan landscape, and even though I even grew fond of the way I could watch the sun sink and sink and sink so far away on the flatness, I was always still a little suspicious of that much wide open. It was disconcerting to be able to see what was coming at you from such a long way away.
I was thinking about all of these things as the Wily drove me farther away from the town where we met, as he drove me toward the airport where I would board a plane and fly back to the coast, to the rocky shoreline, to the rise and fall of a place whose landscape breathes, rolls, sings wild songs.
The Wily and I were doing what we do so well together--our usual snarky routine--and I realized that my feelings about Minnesota's landscape were the same as my feelings about the WR. Both were things that I'd had reservations about. Both were things that were different and new, things that set me on edge. I'd loved the Wily for the same reasons I found a certain level of love for those wide open fields: there was so much space, so much room to run and scream and act up. It seemed like that could go on like that forever, and even if you saw what was coming at you, and even if it wasn't good--even if what was headed your way was heartbreak and ruin--you still had a good long ways before it caught up with you, before you and it were anywhere near each other, so why not keep running?
But later--after the Wily Republican had dropped me at the curb and hugged me in one of those half-committal ways, a way that implied here was a boy who was engaged, a boy who had a new life, a boy who couldn't be seen hugging some strange girl with red hair as she clutched her carry-on and stood on her tip-toes to reach him--there was a strange swell of relief inside me as the plane lifted off the Minneapolis runway and turned itself East. Soon, things would start to look more familiar, more rolling, more unpredictable. Soon, I would be back in a place that smelled of sea and sun, a place where you couldn't quite see all the beautiful things that might be coming at you over the crest of the next hill--and that, that surprise, was exactly what I was craving.
The night before was Halloween, and I'd had an awful lot of vodka-tonics, and those vodka-tonics made me giggly and unreasonable, and I tried calling the WR several times, even though I knew he was working that awful overnight shift on a holiday that makes people lose all their common sense and decency. I figured he'd be putting a whole bunch of costumed people in handcuffs. I could imagine him driving back to the station with a backseat full of zombies and vampires and girls dressed as any number of slutty things.
I called anyway. I called because I needed his professional opinion on things. After all, crimes were being committed. While we were at the strip club, Matt's costume was stolen, possibly by a gangly man who insisted on standing in front of Katy when she was just trying to mind her business and watch that one stripper do back-bends off the pole. When the guy blocked her view, Katy suggested--as politely as possible--that he should sit the hell down so people behind him could enjoy the spectacle, too. The man didn't think much of Katy's suggestion, and minutes later we noticed that Matt's Nintendo costume, which he'd taken off so he wouldn't be obstructed when he tried to reach for his beer, was gone--along with the gangly man.
I got on the phone and called Wily. "Wily!" I said, talking in what I thought was a very serious, very grave tone, but would later to come to find out--when the WR replayed the message for me on the way to the airport--was a tone closer to "giggly" and "shrieky."
"Wily!" I said. "There's been a crime! A very serious crime! Crimes are being committed in Mankato! It was a theft! A THEFT OF A HALLOWEEN COSTUME! WHO STEALS SOMEONE'S HALLOWEEN COSTUME?! We need your help!"
Later, somewhere around 3:30 AM, I would place another call to the Wily Republican because Katy, Megan, Matt, and I had become concerned that we, too, were committing some crimes when, after ingesting a massive amount of cheese bread and Hawaiian pizza, Bill passed out on the couch and we decided to pose him with a number of filthy things. In my favorite pose, Bill is holding a banana and has a Playboy stretched out across his chest. There are wadded up tissues and a bottle of lotion resting around the magazine.
Again, I decided to consult the Wily Republican. "So," I said in the message, "if we were to put a passed-out boy in various filthy poses, would that be wrong? Is that considered wrong?"
"Is it libel?" Katy chirped in the background. "Ask him if it's libel."
"Is it libel, Wily?" I asked. "Is it defamation? Are we going to get sued? Call me back. I need to know."
The next day, after a familiar are-we-or-aren't-we-going-to-see-each-other dance, things aligned so that we were going to see each other, even if it was for twenty small minutes. And when I stood on his front stoop and rang his doorbell, the Wily Republican opened the door and said hey as casually as he might've had we been back in Mankato, had I just driven over to his house and knocked until he opened the door and let me inside, into his room, where the cardboard cut-out of George W. Bush gazed over his bed.
But it wasn't that. It wasn't like we were in Mankato anymore, and it wasn't like things were the same. I was looking at a boy who looked both exactly the same and completely different than the boy I used to know back in graduate school. He was bigger and softer-looking, but he was still so tall and square. He looked like someone who had found his niche in life, found exactly where he wanted to be.
"Can I see your kitten?" I asked--one of the first things I said after hello. The Wily Republican had driven to the shelter with his fiancee not long after I'd gotten Abbey. The two of them--the WR and his fiancee--picked out a tiny tiger-striped kitten with white paws. He was cute--ridiculously so--but I'd spent several months asserting that my kitten was cuter. I just needed to make sure of it in person.
The WR disappeared inside for a second and then came back to the door, a cat dangling from one of his palms. "Here you go," he said and deposited the cat in my arms. Had I tried this move with Abbey, she would've looked up at the unfamiliar person and--if this person hadn't immediately given her treats or canned food--assumed that this was some giant new toy I had gotten her, and she would've started playing with vigor. This tiger kitten, though, just looked up at me with its big eyes and then twitched its nose before reclining in my arms. It didn't even mind when I pressed a few kisses into its head because I am a sucker for that warm spot between a kitten's ears.
The kitten smelled good. The kitten smelled very good. The kitten smelled like boy, like the Wily, like whatever cologne the Wily wears. Everything about that cat was very, very sweet and very, very cute.
"Here's your cat," I said. I passed the cat back to the WR. "He smells like you."
"He was napping with me," the Wily said.
"Aha," I said. "Well, my kitten is cuter."
"Doubtful," the WR said.
And then we left. We got in his car and started back up the long road to the airport. I looked out the window and watched southern Minnesota flash by: brown field after brown field after brown field. You could look out across those fields and see forever. There was so much emptiness there, and it was only occasionally interrupted by a water tower, a gas station with old-fashioned pumps, a restaurant that advertised a T-bone dinner for $15.99. Except for those things, there was nothing except long stretches of churned-up farm land.
I've always been fascinated by the landscape of Minnesota. When I moved there for grad school I could feel a difference in me--a difference turned over by my surroundings, by the sun sinking into soybean fields, by the flatness, by the smooth patchwork that unfolded underneath me when I saw the state from the air. I was an East Coast girl who was used to hills and valleys, to views that rose and fell instead of just stretched. There was comfort in that kind of topography. There was comfort in things that changed and moved, things that had shape.
And even though I got used to the Minnesotan landscape, and even though I even grew fond of the way I could watch the sun sink and sink and sink so far away on the flatness, I was always still a little suspicious of that much wide open. It was disconcerting to be able to see what was coming at you from such a long way away.
I was thinking about all of these things as the Wily drove me farther away from the town where we met, as he drove me toward the airport where I would board a plane and fly back to the coast, to the rocky shoreline, to the rise and fall of a place whose landscape breathes, rolls, sings wild songs.
The Wily and I were doing what we do so well together--our usual snarky routine--and I realized that my feelings about Minnesota's landscape were the same as my feelings about the WR. Both were things that I'd had reservations about. Both were things that were different and new, things that set me on edge. I'd loved the Wily for the same reasons I found a certain level of love for those wide open fields: there was so much space, so much room to run and scream and act up. It seemed like that could go on like that forever, and even if you saw what was coming at you, and even if it wasn't good--even if what was headed your way was heartbreak and ruin--you still had a good long ways before it caught up with you, before you and it were anywhere near each other, so why not keep running?
But later--after the Wily Republican had dropped me at the curb and hugged me in one of those half-committal ways, a way that implied here was a boy who was engaged, a boy who had a new life, a boy who couldn't be seen hugging some strange girl with red hair as she clutched her carry-on and stood on her tip-toes to reach him--there was a strange swell of relief inside me as the plane lifted off the Minneapolis runway and turned itself East. Soon, things would start to look more familiar, more rolling, more unpredictable. Soon, I would be back in a place that smelled of sea and sun, a place where you couldn't quite see all the beautiful things that might be coming at you over the crest of the next hill--and that, that surprise, was exactly what I was craving.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Absolutely No Vomit. Absolutely No Stabbing.
The Wily Republican is engaged.
I know this because the WR rang me up the other night, and, after months of ignoring him after our biggest fight ever, I suffered some sort of ridiculous guilt complex and answered the phone. He'd been sending me e-mails and texts for a long time now. He wanted to know if I thought we could ever be friends again. He said he wanted to try. He wore me down, and I answered the phone.
He told me things, and I told him things. I told him that Greg had just gotten married, that I'd flown to Michigan to be there for the momentous occasion. I said, "What do you think about that, Wily? Your arch enemy, the man you hated more than anyone in my grad program--he's married!"
Then, after the Wily remarked on that, I said, "You didn't run off and get married in these last few months, did you?"
The Wily laughed. "No," he said, and then he paused. "I did get engaged, though."
If this had been revealed to me a year and a half ago, I probably (no--definitely) would have cried. I would've had the breath knocked right out of me. I would've had the sudden desire to stab myself in the heart repeatedly. I know this because that's exactly how I felt the fall I'd moved back to Buffalo when the Wily called me up one night and, during the course of that conversation, revealed to me that, oh yeah, his girlfriend had moved in with him. And they had a cat. The Wily was living with his girlfriend, and they owned a cat together.
He told me this while I was chopping vegetables for the stuffed pork chops I was making. It was the worst possible time to tell me that news. I put the celery and carrots aside and considered sticking the blade of that knife into the center of my eye.
But this time when the Wily revealed he was taking the next logical step with his girlfriend--a future doctor I most times suspect he actually sort of hates--all I wanted to do was ask him how he'd done it. I was actually interested. I was curious. I wanted to know if the Wily had gotten down on one knee and done a respectable job of proposing to his woman.
And it sounded like he did. It happened at some waterfall, after a hike. When I said, "And did you say sweet things, Wily? Did you wax poetic?" the WR admitted he did. He said he worked some things out in his head before they climbed up to the summit, and he got them out the best he could. He said, "Yeah, I did pretty okay, I think." And I guess he did because she said yes.
And while he was filling me in on their wedding details--and while he was busy complaining that they're probably going to end up getting married way sooner than he'd like just because she's already whipped herself into a bridal frenzy--I was busy half-listening. The other half of my brain was busy being impressed with itself, busy realizing that even if I had a knife in my hand, I wouldn't care enough to stab it any soft tissue. And after the Wily and I hung up the phone, all I wanted to do was call up the Boy From Work and tell him thank you, thank you, thank you; thank you for so many things I will never be able to list them all.
I know this because the WR rang me up the other night, and, after months of ignoring him after our biggest fight ever, I suffered some sort of ridiculous guilt complex and answered the phone. He'd been sending me e-mails and texts for a long time now. He wanted to know if I thought we could ever be friends again. He said he wanted to try. He wore me down, and I answered the phone.
He told me things, and I told him things. I told him that Greg had just gotten married, that I'd flown to Michigan to be there for the momentous occasion. I said, "What do you think about that, Wily? Your arch enemy, the man you hated more than anyone in my grad program--he's married!"
Then, after the Wily remarked on that, I said, "You didn't run off and get married in these last few months, did you?"
The Wily laughed. "No," he said, and then he paused. "I did get engaged, though."
If this had been revealed to me a year and a half ago, I probably (no--definitely) would have cried. I would've had the breath knocked right out of me. I would've had the sudden desire to stab myself in the heart repeatedly. I know this because that's exactly how I felt the fall I'd moved back to Buffalo when the Wily called me up one night and, during the course of that conversation, revealed to me that, oh yeah, his girlfriend had moved in with him. And they had a cat. The Wily was living with his girlfriend, and they owned a cat together.
He told me this while I was chopping vegetables for the stuffed pork chops I was making. It was the worst possible time to tell me that news. I put the celery and carrots aside and considered sticking the blade of that knife into the center of my eye.
But this time when the Wily revealed he was taking the next logical step with his girlfriend--a future doctor I most times suspect he actually sort of hates--all I wanted to do was ask him how he'd done it. I was actually interested. I was curious. I wanted to know if the Wily had gotten down on one knee and done a respectable job of proposing to his woman.
And it sounded like he did. It happened at some waterfall, after a hike. When I said, "And did you say sweet things, Wily? Did you wax poetic?" the WR admitted he did. He said he worked some things out in his head before they climbed up to the summit, and he got them out the best he could. He said, "Yeah, I did pretty okay, I think." And I guess he did because she said yes.
And while he was filling me in on their wedding details--and while he was busy complaining that they're probably going to end up getting married way sooner than he'd like just because she's already whipped herself into a bridal frenzy--I was busy half-listening. The other half of my brain was busy being impressed with itself, busy realizing that even if I had a knife in my hand, I wouldn't care enough to stab it any soft tissue. And after the Wily and I hung up the phone, all I wanted to do was call up the Boy From Work and tell him thank you, thank you, thank you; thank you for so many things I will never be able to list them all.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
1521.97 Miles, Part Two
Even though I've got that buffer of 1521.97 miles between myself and the Wily Republican, he feels close, like he's right over my shoulder, breathing down my neck, haunting me. That text message he sent--his angry little au revoir--has been echoing in my brain ever since I got it.
It took an awful lot of restraint on my part not to pick up the phone and call him back and say, "What are you trying to do to me? Make me scream? Make me yell? Make me crazy?"
But instead of starting off a conversation that way, I picked up the phone and called someone else. I called Katy. "Hi," I said. "I need you to talk me into or out of calling the Wily Republican back and giving him a piece of my mind."
Katy was the only person I could call in this moment because she is what I'll loosely describe as not a fan of the Wily Republican. And, unlike all my New York friends, she has actually met the boy. She has floated in the middle of a pond beside me, beside the Wily Republican, and listened to him spout his thoughts on everything from fraternities to the government. And while I was busy tuning out his snarky talk about everything I disagreed with and thinking instead about the meatloaf I was going to make him later that night, Katy was busy being horrified that her friend was in love with a boy like the Wily Republican. Later she would ask me just what the hell I thought I was doing with a boy like that. She had just seen him wet and in a bathing suit, so I thought that answer was fairly self-explanatory. When I told her this, she made a face and pretended to gag.
Katy still feels that gag reflex when it comes to the WR, although she will concede that she does not think he's evil, even if there was a time during grad school where she really believed he might be. But she is still wary enough that, when I told her she needed to talk me into or out of calling him back and setting this whole matter straight, she shouted, "NO!!" in a tone she usually reserved for her husband when he did or said something incredibly stupid or insensitive.
She told me to be honest with myself. Really honest. "It's not so much that you want to set him straight, is it?" she asked. "It's more that you just hate it when people don't love you."
And she's right. It drives me crazy. It's an irritating and not-so-flattering trait of mine, and I spend way too much time thinking about how to win people over, how to get them to like me. I also spend too much time wondering why people don't like me. I take it way too personally.
Katy isn't the only one who knows this, of course. The Wily Republican is also well-versed in the ways of my ugly traits. I'm pretty sure if it were up to him, he would've taken me to a tattoo shop and gotten FUCK THEM burned into my skin so that the next time I was sitting on his couch whining about this person or that person who didn't think I was nice or fun or charming he would just gesture to my tattoo and tell me to read it out loud. It would've saved him an awful lot of breath from having to say, "So what? Fuck them!" about 1,000 times.
I'm sure he remembers this. I'm sure his tactics--the calling, the angry messages, that final text that came like a steel stake to my jugular--were chosen because he knows--oh, he knows--just how much that would screw me up in the head. He knows I will sit around and analyze that and battle the urge to call him back and make it all better, make it so that he wasn't angry with me anymore, make it so he wasn't thinking I was just some crazy bitch who took things too seriously, who got "all emotional" when I didn't need to.
But you know what? I made it through that night, and I made it through others since. I have resisted the clawing urge to call him back when it scrapes its way up my esophagus and into my mouth, into my brain. I want an I'm sorry. I want some sort of evidence that he is human, that he cares, that he's sorry for making me more scared, more confused, and more sad than I was before I picked up that phone and called him just because he was my friend and I needed him.
It took an awful lot of restraint on my part not to pick up the phone and call him back and say, "What are you trying to do to me? Make me scream? Make me yell? Make me crazy?"
But instead of starting off a conversation that way, I picked up the phone and called someone else. I called Katy. "Hi," I said. "I need you to talk me into or out of calling the Wily Republican back and giving him a piece of my mind."
Katy was the only person I could call in this moment because she is what I'll loosely describe as not a fan of the Wily Republican. And, unlike all my New York friends, she has actually met the boy. She has floated in the middle of a pond beside me, beside the Wily Republican, and listened to him spout his thoughts on everything from fraternities to the government. And while I was busy tuning out his snarky talk about everything I disagreed with and thinking instead about the meatloaf I was going to make him later that night, Katy was busy being horrified that her friend was in love with a boy like the Wily Republican. Later she would ask me just what the hell I thought I was doing with a boy like that. She had just seen him wet and in a bathing suit, so I thought that answer was fairly self-explanatory. When I told her this, she made a face and pretended to gag.
Katy still feels that gag reflex when it comes to the WR, although she will concede that she does not think he's evil, even if there was a time during grad school where she really believed he might be. But she is still wary enough that, when I told her she needed to talk me into or out of calling him back and setting this whole matter straight, she shouted, "NO!!" in a tone she usually reserved for her husband when he did or said something incredibly stupid or insensitive.
She told me to be honest with myself. Really honest. "It's not so much that you want to set him straight, is it?" she asked. "It's more that you just hate it when people don't love you."
And she's right. It drives me crazy. It's an irritating and not-so-flattering trait of mine, and I spend way too much time thinking about how to win people over, how to get them to like me. I also spend too much time wondering why people don't like me. I take it way too personally.
Katy isn't the only one who knows this, of course. The Wily Republican is also well-versed in the ways of my ugly traits. I'm pretty sure if it were up to him, he would've taken me to a tattoo shop and gotten FUCK THEM burned into my skin so that the next time I was sitting on his couch whining about this person or that person who didn't think I was nice or fun or charming he would just gesture to my tattoo and tell me to read it out loud. It would've saved him an awful lot of breath from having to say, "So what? Fuck them!" about 1,000 times.
I'm sure he remembers this. I'm sure his tactics--the calling, the angry messages, that final text that came like a steel stake to my jugular--were chosen because he knows--oh, he knows--just how much that would screw me up in the head. He knows I will sit around and analyze that and battle the urge to call him back and make it all better, make it so that he wasn't angry with me anymore, make it so he wasn't thinking I was just some crazy bitch who took things too seriously, who got "all emotional" when I didn't need to.
But you know what? I made it through that night, and I made it through others since. I have resisted the clawing urge to call him back when it scrapes its way up my esophagus and into my mouth, into my brain. I want an I'm sorry. I want some sort of evidence that he is human, that he cares, that he's sorry for making me more scared, more confused, and more sad than I was before I picked up that phone and called him just because he was my friend and I needed him.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
1521.97 Miles, Part One
There are 1521.97 miles between me and the Wily Republican. There are 1521.97 miles between me and the Wily Republican and it's been two years since we've seen each other. There are 1521.97 miles between me and the Wily Republican and it's been two years since we've seen each other and it's been over three years since we last touched each other in a way that had everything to do with sex. But despite all that space and time--all that distance and perspective--the boy still manages to drive me insane.
A few weeks ago, before spring break, I had a minor crisis. This shouldn't surprise anyone, since this semester has witched my students into strange academic zombies who want to ruin my good time. And I am sick of people ruining my good time. But still my students persist in doing strange things, in thinking strange things, in just being strange. And so it shouldn't come as any shock that one of them decided to ignore common sense and boundaries and follow me home one night so he could leave a note in my mailbox.
I'm not going to go into it--suffice it to say there was a lot of unpleasant nonsense that came along with that--stuff that involved the head of security and, later, the cops--but I will say that in those first few moments after I unfolded that note and read it, I really, really needed the Wily Republican. I didn't need him for comfort or to soothe my panic (I'd already called Amy and the Boy From Work to deal with that), but I did need him to give me advice. He is, after all, a cop. He is an officer of the law. He has experience with these things. He has inside information. I thought he of all people would be able to tell me how to proceed.
So I called him. I got his voicemail. So I called again--the signal for THIS IS SERIOUS SO FREAKING PICK UP YOUR PHONE! I should've known better, though. I knew exactly where he'd been the night before and I knew exactly what state he was likely to be in at the moment of my calling. After all, the night before he'd driven down to our old college to watch the hockey team trounce their opponents. He'd also gone down to move in and out of all his favorite bars, drinking himself into a wreck as he went. And he did a fine job at that. I know because when he told me his plan for that weekend, I'd requested a call. I wanted him to tell me about the hockey game, about the bars, about everything that felt different now that we weren't a part of it. When he called, he was in the middle of his umpteenth gin gimlet, and he sounded just like he used to when he'd call me at all hours of the night: unreasonable and happy. He would pay for that happiness--not to mention all that straight gin--the next morning.
Which is exactly when I called him. I knew he was sleeping it off. I knew he was probably in bad shape--all bleary-eyed and crusty. But I needed him to wake up and talk to me, which is why I insisted on calling again. And then sending a mildly panicked text message.
When he called back a few seconds later, he sounded like death. His voice--gravelly on a normal day--was pure stone. He sounded hard and tired and mean. I had an inkling this was not going to go well. Still, like an idiot, I persisted.
I told him the situation. I told him I was a little freaked out. I told him I wanted to know what I should do. Surely he had some tips, some tricks. Maybe he could tell me about what could be done.
He wanted to know if I was certain which student had done this. I said I had my suspicions. Very reasonable suspicions. And then I wanted to know if there was a way I could find out some more information about this student, about his past. I told the WR that I'd googled this student, just to see what came up, and I found out that he had a record of some sort. I wanted to know if there was some national database the WR, the cop, had access to and if there was any way he'd do me a little favor and find out some more information for me. I wanted to know what I was going up against. I wanted to know if this student was real trouble.
The WR--still sleepy and grumpy--didn't do what I needed him to do in that moment. He didn't fill me with practical information. He didn't try to assure me that it would be okay and that I could do something about all of this. No. What he did do was this: he yelled at me.
"Oh my God!" the Wily Republican said. "People can be so stupid about what cops can or can't do and what we have access to! People assume I have allll this information about everything! This is what happens when you watch too much Law & Order."
Now it might be true that I've been watching an awful lot of Law & Order lately--what can I say? I'm soothed by Lenny Briscoe--but I don't suffer delusions that I'm hip to the inner-workings of the police department or the district attorney's office because of it. That's why I was calling the WR. I was calling him to see, to ask, to wonder. I was calling him for his professional opinion. I was calling him because he was my friend, and I needed him to talk me through something.
And I might've been okay with his rant if it had stopped there. If he needed to get that off his chest because he was in a wretched mood, fine. I could've cut him some slack for being hungover and pissed that he was now awake. But he didn't stop himself there. His rant continued. And he kept talking about all these stupid people and what they assumed he could do and how he was just so sick of it.
And in that moment something in my brain short-circuited. I took the phone away from my ear and stared at it. I couldn't help but thinking that all I'd ever done for the Wily Republican was love him and bend over backward to get his attention, to please him. I baked meatloaves and cookies and cakes for him. I proofread papers. I once even sat through a Christian revival with him after we showed up to an event that was misleadingly advertised. He thought we were going to see Charles Manson's cellmate give a talk about how wickedly disturbed Charles Manson was and what it was like to be locked into a very small room with him for years, but what Charles Manson's cellmate was actually going to talk about was Jesus--finding him, loving him, worshipping him. And we stayed for the whole thing because it was held in a small lecture hall and walking out would've been both horrifying and embarrassing--we would've been forever marked as heathens--which meant that at the end of the session, I stood up and held hands with everyone else there and sang up to Jesus and thanked him for saving Charles Manson's cellmate--and all of us--from wickedness.
I always did whatever the Wily wanted, whenever he wanted it. I was downright dutiful. I came when I was called. And what did he do back? What was easy, what was expected. He did enough to skate by. He did just enough to keep me coming back for more. But now, years after all of that, I figured he could do a little something real for me. He could help me out.
But he was still going on and on about people and how stupid they were and all the strange things they believed he had power over. He'd launched into anecdotal evidence. He hadn't even stopped to take a breath and ask me if I was okay. He didn't want to know how I was feeling, and he was definitely not at all disturbed that one of my students was following me around and putting notes in my mailbox.
I was still holding the phone away from my ear, just staring at it. I was staring at his name on the screen and the timer that was ticking away the seconds that this conversation had been in existence. I was thinking Why don't you just shut up and pretend you care about me for ten seconds? and the next thing that happened was just a reflex.
I hung up. I just hung up. I couldn't stand listening to his angry voice anymore. All I wanted to do was cry. After all, here was a moment where I needed him--really needed him--because he was the one most uniquely suited to the moment, to the situation, but he couldn't be a normal human being for even this tiny sliver of time.
I muted my phone because I knew he would call back. He would be even angrier then, and I had no interest in explaining myself or even in explaining what about his actions drove me to mine. All I wanted to do was sit and wallow in my anger toward him for a good long time.
Which I did. He called back, and I ignored. He called again. He left an angry message. I ignored it. He tried again later, but I tossed the phone across the room. He wrote an angry e-mail that said I didn't need to be "so emotional" about everything. He told me the ball was in my court, that he wasn't going to bend over backward to try to get me on the line anymore.
And I didn't respond. And I didn't call. And a week later he started calling again, and I ignored, ignored, ignored. Last night he called again, but I didn't answer, which prompted him to send me a text message that said, It's been real. Have a nice life.
A few weeks ago, before spring break, I had a minor crisis. This shouldn't surprise anyone, since this semester has witched my students into strange academic zombies who want to ruin my good time. And I am sick of people ruining my good time. But still my students persist in doing strange things, in thinking strange things, in just being strange. And so it shouldn't come as any shock that one of them decided to ignore common sense and boundaries and follow me home one night so he could leave a note in my mailbox.
I'm not going to go into it--suffice it to say there was a lot of unpleasant nonsense that came along with that--stuff that involved the head of security and, later, the cops--but I will say that in those first few moments after I unfolded that note and read it, I really, really needed the Wily Republican. I didn't need him for comfort or to soothe my panic (I'd already called Amy and the Boy From Work to deal with that), but I did need him to give me advice. He is, after all, a cop. He is an officer of the law. He has experience with these things. He has inside information. I thought he of all people would be able to tell me how to proceed.
So I called him. I got his voicemail. So I called again--the signal for THIS IS SERIOUS SO FREAKING PICK UP YOUR PHONE! I should've known better, though. I knew exactly where he'd been the night before and I knew exactly what state he was likely to be in at the moment of my calling. After all, the night before he'd driven down to our old college to watch the hockey team trounce their opponents. He'd also gone down to move in and out of all his favorite bars, drinking himself into a wreck as he went. And he did a fine job at that. I know because when he told me his plan for that weekend, I'd requested a call. I wanted him to tell me about the hockey game, about the bars, about everything that felt different now that we weren't a part of it. When he called, he was in the middle of his umpteenth gin gimlet, and he sounded just like he used to when he'd call me at all hours of the night: unreasonable and happy. He would pay for that happiness--not to mention all that straight gin--the next morning.
Which is exactly when I called him. I knew he was sleeping it off. I knew he was probably in bad shape--all bleary-eyed and crusty. But I needed him to wake up and talk to me, which is why I insisted on calling again. And then sending a mildly panicked text message.
When he called back a few seconds later, he sounded like death. His voice--gravelly on a normal day--was pure stone. He sounded hard and tired and mean. I had an inkling this was not going to go well. Still, like an idiot, I persisted.
I told him the situation. I told him I was a little freaked out. I told him I wanted to know what I should do. Surely he had some tips, some tricks. Maybe he could tell me about what could be done.
He wanted to know if I was certain which student had done this. I said I had my suspicions. Very reasonable suspicions. And then I wanted to know if there was a way I could find out some more information about this student, about his past. I told the WR that I'd googled this student, just to see what came up, and I found out that he had a record of some sort. I wanted to know if there was some national database the WR, the cop, had access to and if there was any way he'd do me a little favor and find out some more information for me. I wanted to know what I was going up against. I wanted to know if this student was real trouble.
The WR--still sleepy and grumpy--didn't do what I needed him to do in that moment. He didn't fill me with practical information. He didn't try to assure me that it would be okay and that I could do something about all of this. No. What he did do was this: he yelled at me.
"Oh my God!" the Wily Republican said. "People can be so stupid about what cops can or can't do and what we have access to! People assume I have allll this information about everything! This is what happens when you watch too much Law & Order."
Now it might be true that I've been watching an awful lot of Law & Order lately--what can I say? I'm soothed by Lenny Briscoe--but I don't suffer delusions that I'm hip to the inner-workings of the police department or the district attorney's office because of it. That's why I was calling the WR. I was calling him to see, to ask, to wonder. I was calling him for his professional opinion. I was calling him because he was my friend, and I needed him to talk me through something.
And I might've been okay with his rant if it had stopped there. If he needed to get that off his chest because he was in a wretched mood, fine. I could've cut him some slack for being hungover and pissed that he was now awake. But he didn't stop himself there. His rant continued. And he kept talking about all these stupid people and what they assumed he could do and how he was just so sick of it.
And in that moment something in my brain short-circuited. I took the phone away from my ear and stared at it. I couldn't help but thinking that all I'd ever done for the Wily Republican was love him and bend over backward to get his attention, to please him. I baked meatloaves and cookies and cakes for him. I proofread papers. I once even sat through a Christian revival with him after we showed up to an event that was misleadingly advertised. He thought we were going to see Charles Manson's cellmate give a talk about how wickedly disturbed Charles Manson was and what it was like to be locked into a very small room with him for years, but what Charles Manson's cellmate was actually going to talk about was Jesus--finding him, loving him, worshipping him. And we stayed for the whole thing because it was held in a small lecture hall and walking out would've been both horrifying and embarrassing--we would've been forever marked as heathens--which meant that at the end of the session, I stood up and held hands with everyone else there and sang up to Jesus and thanked him for saving Charles Manson's cellmate--and all of us--from wickedness.
I always did whatever the Wily wanted, whenever he wanted it. I was downright dutiful. I came when I was called. And what did he do back? What was easy, what was expected. He did enough to skate by. He did just enough to keep me coming back for more. But now, years after all of that, I figured he could do a little something real for me. He could help me out.
But he was still going on and on about people and how stupid they were and all the strange things they believed he had power over. He'd launched into anecdotal evidence. He hadn't even stopped to take a breath and ask me if I was okay. He didn't want to know how I was feeling, and he was definitely not at all disturbed that one of my students was following me around and putting notes in my mailbox.
I was still holding the phone away from my ear, just staring at it. I was staring at his name on the screen and the timer that was ticking away the seconds that this conversation had been in existence. I was thinking Why don't you just shut up and pretend you care about me for ten seconds? and the next thing that happened was just a reflex.
I hung up. I just hung up. I couldn't stand listening to his angry voice anymore. All I wanted to do was cry. After all, here was a moment where I needed him--really needed him--because he was the one most uniquely suited to the moment, to the situation, but he couldn't be a normal human being for even this tiny sliver of time.
I muted my phone because I knew he would call back. He would be even angrier then, and I had no interest in explaining myself or even in explaining what about his actions drove me to mine. All I wanted to do was sit and wallow in my anger toward him for a good long time.
Which I did. He called back, and I ignored. He called again. He left an angry message. I ignored it. He tried again later, but I tossed the phone across the room. He wrote an angry e-mail that said I didn't need to be "so emotional" about everything. He told me the ball was in my court, that he wasn't going to bend over backward to try to get me on the line anymore.
And I didn't respond. And I didn't call. And a week later he started calling again, and I ignored, ignored, ignored. Last night he called again, but I didn't answer, which prompted him to send me a text message that said, It's been real. Have a nice life.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Start Spreading the News
Here's where I'll be tomorrow:
I'll be returning to the mother ship.
The first time I went to the AWP conference I was a first-year in my grad program. The conference was held in Chicago that year, and a bunch of us hopped into a caravan and drove off to our hotel, loaded down with the necessities: dozens of cookies, bottles of vodka, a case of Red Bull, and high-heeled boots.
Here's what I can tell you about AWP that year: I was drunk for most of it.
I was drunk at lunch. I was drunk at dinner. I was drunk at midnight. I went to bed drunk and giggling.
I ran across the city like a girl possessed. I wanted to see everything I could in the few days I was in Chicago. I wanted to eat a deep dish pizza whose crust was made with two sticks of butter. I wanted to walk the Miracle Mile and press my nose against all the windows keeping me from all the fabulous things I couldn't afford. I wanted to stand on the edge of the lake and look East. I wanted to wander through the aquarium, wide-eyed and blinking at all the glowing tentacles. I wanted to listen to writers talk about writing--especially my ultimate author crush. I wanted to read my own writing and have people listen. I wanted to be drunk.
I did all of those things. I did the last one--the getting drunk--for a pretty good reason. There was this boy, and I'd had a momentary crush on him when I first got to Minnesota. He found out about the crush and somehow thought I would wilt, I would wither, I would become a lumpy pool of girl on the floor after I realized he didn't like me back. So what did he do? He called me up, asked me to meet him for a drink, and then he told me--out loud, to my face, sitting mere inches from me--that he was sorry but he would never like me like that. He told me he liked someone else, he was going to pursue this other thing, and he really hoped we could continue to be friends. "Listen," he said, kindly, near the end of the already horrific conversation, "I'm sorry if I maybe gave you the wrong idea about things. And I'm sorry you made the decision to come to Minnesota because you thought something was going to happen between us."
At this point in the conversation my head almost fell off my neck. This boy had been an ambassador for the college when I rolled into town after getting my acceptance. I was there to look around, see what there was to see--which turned out to be, uhm, soybeans--and to find an apartment. I'd promised myself to the school. I'd promised myself as a teaching assistant. All of this made me nervous, and this boy was around to take some of that nervousness away. He did a good job. He also did a good job of being cute and charming and sweet. His was the first set of Midwestern blue eyes I ever encountered, and looking at them made me think, Sign me up.
But to think I'd come to Minnesota because of him was ridiculous. I'd already sent in my paperwork and started planning my schedule. I'd already spent precious hours meditating on my first day's outfit--and that day wouldn't happen for months. I was settled. I was devoted to Minnesota. Say what you will about me, but I've never been the kind of girl who stays or goes depending on a boy. You can say I'm frivolous, boy-crazy, and silly, but you can't say I don't have a good head on my shoulders.
So in the moment this boy revealed he was just so concerned about me, a little girl from Buffalo who had packed up all her things and driven West because he was just so irresistible, I wanted to vomit up all the vodka-cranberries I'd mainlined in time I'd been at the bar.
I sat up straight. I tried to look strong. "I did not," I said, "come to Minnesota because of you."
And he smiled at me and patted my hand, like, Whatever you need to tell yourself to make it through the day.
I wanted to run out the front door, screaming all the way down to the river, where I would promptly throw myself in and drown out of embarrassment.
Anyway, the embarrassment didn't last for long. I got over it pretty quick, in fact. I had lots of things to occupy me from that point on, and one of those things was the Wily Republican. He and I had taken up together a few months before AWP, so I didn't really care what that first boy thought anymore. I knew what I was thinking, and I was thinking, Thank God for the military and the way it develops boys with great abs. That first semester we ran around together, the WR still had his military-built body, and when he took his shirt off it was really a thing of beauty.
But when we got to AWP, suddenly I was face to face with the embarrassment once again. After all, there was that first boy with his girl--the one he'd been referring to when he took me out for a drink--and they were sitting on each other's laps, cooing into each other's ears, gazing into each other's eyes. And they were doing it right in front of me.
I knew the boy had told his girlfriend about what happened with me, and that made me feel so foolish--mostly because this girl was achingly beautiful, more beautiful than I could ever hope to be. I felt that whenever she looked at me, she did so with pitying eyes, eyes you use when looking at a beauty pageant contestant who has everything going for her--body, poise, brains--but a jacked-up face. It's a look that says, Oh, you were so close to being pretty, and then this whole face thing happened.
I'll be returning to the mother ship.
The first time I went to the AWP conference I was a first-year in my grad program. The conference was held in Chicago that year, and a bunch of us hopped into a caravan and drove off to our hotel, loaded down with the necessities: dozens of cookies, bottles of vodka, a case of Red Bull, and high-heeled boots.
Here's what I can tell you about AWP that year: I was drunk for most of it.
I was drunk at lunch. I was drunk at dinner. I was drunk at midnight. I went to bed drunk and giggling.
I ran across the city like a girl possessed. I wanted to see everything I could in the few days I was in Chicago. I wanted to eat a deep dish pizza whose crust was made with two sticks of butter. I wanted to walk the Miracle Mile and press my nose against all the windows keeping me from all the fabulous things I couldn't afford. I wanted to stand on the edge of the lake and look East. I wanted to wander through the aquarium, wide-eyed and blinking at all the glowing tentacles. I wanted to listen to writers talk about writing--especially my ultimate author crush. I wanted to read my own writing and have people listen. I wanted to be drunk.
I did all of those things. I did the last one--the getting drunk--for a pretty good reason. There was this boy, and I'd had a momentary crush on him when I first got to Minnesota. He found out about the crush and somehow thought I would wilt, I would wither, I would become a lumpy pool of girl on the floor after I realized he didn't like me back. So what did he do? He called me up, asked me to meet him for a drink, and then he told me--out loud, to my face, sitting mere inches from me--that he was sorry but he would never like me like that. He told me he liked someone else, he was going to pursue this other thing, and he really hoped we could continue to be friends. "Listen," he said, kindly, near the end of the already horrific conversation, "I'm sorry if I maybe gave you the wrong idea about things. And I'm sorry you made the decision to come to Minnesota because you thought something was going to happen between us."
At this point in the conversation my head almost fell off my neck. This boy had been an ambassador for the college when I rolled into town after getting my acceptance. I was there to look around, see what there was to see--which turned out to be, uhm, soybeans--and to find an apartment. I'd promised myself to the school. I'd promised myself as a teaching assistant. All of this made me nervous, and this boy was around to take some of that nervousness away. He did a good job. He also did a good job of being cute and charming and sweet. His was the first set of Midwestern blue eyes I ever encountered, and looking at them made me think, Sign me up.
But to think I'd come to Minnesota because of him was ridiculous. I'd already sent in my paperwork and started planning my schedule. I'd already spent precious hours meditating on my first day's outfit--and that day wouldn't happen for months. I was settled. I was devoted to Minnesota. Say what you will about me, but I've never been the kind of girl who stays or goes depending on a boy. You can say I'm frivolous, boy-crazy, and silly, but you can't say I don't have a good head on my shoulders.
So in the moment this boy revealed he was just so concerned about me, a little girl from Buffalo who had packed up all her things and driven West because he was just so irresistible, I wanted to vomit up all the vodka-cranberries I'd mainlined in time I'd been at the bar.
I sat up straight. I tried to look strong. "I did not," I said, "come to Minnesota because of you."
And he smiled at me and patted my hand, like, Whatever you need to tell yourself to make it through the day.
I wanted to run out the front door, screaming all the way down to the river, where I would promptly throw myself in and drown out of embarrassment.
Anyway, the embarrassment didn't last for long. I got over it pretty quick, in fact. I had lots of things to occupy me from that point on, and one of those things was the Wily Republican. He and I had taken up together a few months before AWP, so I didn't really care what that first boy thought anymore. I knew what I was thinking, and I was thinking, Thank God for the military and the way it develops boys with great abs. That first semester we ran around together, the WR still had his military-built body, and when he took his shirt off it was really a thing of beauty.
But when we got to AWP, suddenly I was face to face with the embarrassment once again. After all, there was that first boy with his girl--the one he'd been referring to when he took me out for a drink--and they were sitting on each other's laps, cooing into each other's ears, gazing into each other's eyes. And they were doing it right in front of me.
I knew the boy had told his girlfriend about what happened with me, and that made me feel so foolish--mostly because this girl was achingly beautiful, more beautiful than I could ever hope to be. I felt that whenever she looked at me, she did so with pitying eyes, eyes you use when looking at a beauty pageant contestant who has everything going for her--body, poise, brains--but a jacked-up face. It's a look that says, Oh, you were so close to being pretty, and then this whole face thing happened.
The girl probably wasn't thinking that, but I felt she was. I'd already suffered through the embarrassment brought about by her boyfriend, and I didn't want to suffer through any more. And so I drank a lot. And I ate a lot of cookies. And whenever I felt like I was going to vomit from the embarrassment of everyone knowing what happened, I would think about the Wily and his big bed and his good shoulders and eyes and arms and legs and everything. And that made me feel a little bit better. A lot better. So did the drinking.
But now I don't have any of those issues hanging over my head. Now I am a different girl. I am gainfully employed, boyfriended, stable. Which makes me wonder what this little trip is going to be like. Who will I see, what will I remember, how will I feel when I get to spend time with the people who picked me out, shaped me up, and set me singing?
I'm ready, ready, ready.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
There Are Some Days When I Think, "I Should Invite Her Over for a Cocktail or Eighty."
The Wily Republican called yesterday. He wanted to tell me about some really stupid criminals he's arrested in the last few weeks, and I like those stories, so I listened as he filled me with tales of drug addicts and parole violators.
"Sounds fun," I said. "I don't know how you do it, Wily."
He didn't answer right away. He was distracted by something. "Oh," he finally said. He sounded glum. "My girlfriend is calling."
"I'll let you go," I said.
"No, no," he said. "I'm not going to answer. She's just calling to tell me she's on her way home, and that means I have to hide my medication."
I was confused. "Wait a second," I said. "You're hiding medication from your girlfriend? What is going on?"
Turns out that the Wily had developed a particularly nagging, phlegmy cough, and his girlfriend--who is studying in the medical field--told him he had bronchitis. She suggested he go to the doctor and get some antibiotics to clear up that cough. This idea rankled the Wily Republican. After all, in his world, doctors are for pussies. Sissies. Wusses. The Wily Republican does not think he is any of those things. Pussies and sissies and wusses show weakness, and the WR isn't fond of showing he is anything but steel and grit, strong and unflappable.
The only emotion the WR likes to show is anger. The very first night he and I went out, he almost got into three separate fights. He and his friends puffed out their chests and barked foul words at other groups of guys who were giving them evil eyes. In those moments, the WR and his friends would step in front of me and the other girls and case us out, block us from what was going to happen next. I was the only girl saying, "Come on. No. Stop it. It's okay. It's fine. Let's just go."
There was a part of me that was terrified, another part that was wary, and a final part that was exhilarated and thrilled to be seeing this kind of thing that I thought only happened in movies. There was an ugly side of me that was thinking, Yeah, yeah. Hit them. Fight them. I should have recognized no good could come from this, from following this type of boy around and wishing he would just love me, but I did not. I certainly did not.
The closest I came to seeing the WR expose himself to a raw emotion that did not have its foundation in rage was the night the girl he loved in the way I loved him--blindly, hopelessly--told him to forget it, that she was never going to love him. He came over to my apartment and sat on my couch. He stared straight ahead and would not let me ask him questions about what had happened. I sat in the chair and stared at him. He stared at the wall.
I thought he was going to cry. I thought this was it, this was certainly it, and he was going to break into some real side of himself and let me tell him it was going to be okay, that the girl was a fool, that she was awful and wrong for him. If he cried, I would get up and go to him. I would sit next to him and let our shoulders touch for a moment, just so he could get used to the feeling of me next to him. Then I would turn him toward me, and he would cry into my shoulder until he felt better. But he didn't cry. He just stared. And I knew enough to keep quiet for the next thirty minutes, until he stood up and looked toward the door, toward his escape.
And he is still refusing to acknowledge any kind of weakness. When his girlfriend told him it sounded like he had bronchitis, he said no, he was okay, he was going to be fine. When his girlfriend told him to get some antibiotics to clear up his cough, he said no, he was okay, he was going to kick this on his own. He told her people these days are too quick to jump all over antibiotics at the first tickle in their throats, the first rumbling in their lungs. He told her whatever it was would come and go on its own, and his immune system would be better for it in the end.
I understand the frustration she likely felt when she was having that conversation. I have had many of those conversations with the Wily in the five years I've known him now, and those conversations have done nothing except make me want to kill him. The fact that she lives in the same house with him and has yet to murder him and bury his body in the backyard is a testament to her patience and strength. She will make a fine doctor.
Anyway, after they had this conversation, the Wily Republican realized that his cough was not getting better. In fact, it was getting worse, and he felt horrible, so he made a secret doctor's appointment, was diagnosed with bronchitis, and went to the pharmacy to fill his prescription for antibiotics. Antibiotics he was now hiding from his girlfriend.
"That's just unreasonable," I said. "She was right, Wily. She was right, and she was smart about it, and you're bending over backward trying to prove that she's wrong and stupid. You're doing this to the woman you love. Doesn't that sound wrong to you?"
"It's my own form of punishment," he said. "She's on my nerves right now." And then he told me about a stupid argument they'd had--a regular couple-type fight that involved schedules getting crossed and parties they had to attend for the upcoming holiday season. She'd made him so angry, he was now hiding pills and waiting for his cough to clear up so he could say to her, "See? I was right, and you were wrong. The cough cleared up on its own."
I was so angry with him I thought my heart was going to explode. I was appalled that he was going to do that to his girlfriend, that he was going to manipulate the situation in a way that told her she was just a silly, stupid girl who didn't know anything, a girl who should keep her mouth shut unless she was told to open it.
After throwing a couple angry barbs his way--which he deflected easily because he was practically shining with righteousness--I told him I didn't think he had a very healthy relationship. My motivations behind this statement were stunningly different than they were last year. Yesterday I had no interest in trying to convince him he was in a relationship that was not at all as good and fun as our non-relationship had been; instead, my interest was with his girlfriend. I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him for her. I wanted to tell him he should just let her go, let her leave so she could start over and find someone who would actually treat her like he loved her. I've never met the Wily's girlfriend, and she might be a wretched girl, but I doubt that. I'm sure she is pretty and nice and funny--all things I used to fear. But now I just feel kinship with her. Now I just want to find her phone number and tell her what is really going on. "You won't ever have heard of me," I would tell her, "but I know exactly what this all feels like." And then I would invite her to come to Maine for a couple stiff drinks. We could paint our toenails and talk about all the awful things the WR has done to us. And maybe by the end I would have saved her from a lifetime of being pushed down, of being reduced to something small and sad.
I say all of this even though I still like the Wily Republican. Not like that, not in the ways I used to, but in new ways, different ways, less destructive ways. I like it when the WR calls me up to tell me about hijinks from his job and about his friends that I used to like. I like the predictable pattern he and I have established. But I do not like what he's doing to his girlfriend. Not at all.
So I guess yesterday I felt very thankful for the small mercy I'd been awarded when the Wily Republican did not love me back. If he had--if he'd ever decided he really liked me--I don't know if I would've been strong enough to recognize that living with him would be the death of me. I would like to think I would've been strong enough to get out while the gettin' was good, but what about me is different than his girlfriend? She sounds reasonable, smart, logical, and yet there she is, living in the same house with a man who will go to great lengths to make her feel ridiculous. If that's not the opposite of real love, I don't know what is.
And so I am thankful. I am thankful for my life, for the fact that the WR didn't look at me and feel something stir in his heart. I am thankful for my boyfriend, the bearded but glorious Boy from Work, and the fact that he will never, ever, ever do those things, that those things aren't even thoughts that would cross his mind. I am thankful, but that doesn't make me feel any better for the WR's girlfriend, and it doesn't keep me from thinking, If only I could just write her a letter, give her a call, tell her to give him a good pat on the back and say, "Thank you for teaching me some of life's most important lessons. I'm leaving." Maybe then he would learn some things for himself, but I doubt it. I really do.
"Sounds fun," I said. "I don't know how you do it, Wily."
He didn't answer right away. He was distracted by something. "Oh," he finally said. He sounded glum. "My girlfriend is calling."
"I'll let you go," I said.
"No, no," he said. "I'm not going to answer. She's just calling to tell me she's on her way home, and that means I have to hide my medication."
I was confused. "Wait a second," I said. "You're hiding medication from your girlfriend? What is going on?"
Turns out that the Wily had developed a particularly nagging, phlegmy cough, and his girlfriend--who is studying in the medical field--told him he had bronchitis. She suggested he go to the doctor and get some antibiotics to clear up that cough. This idea rankled the Wily Republican. After all, in his world, doctors are for pussies. Sissies. Wusses. The Wily Republican does not think he is any of those things. Pussies and sissies and wusses show weakness, and the WR isn't fond of showing he is anything but steel and grit, strong and unflappable.
The only emotion the WR likes to show is anger. The very first night he and I went out, he almost got into three separate fights. He and his friends puffed out their chests and barked foul words at other groups of guys who were giving them evil eyes. In those moments, the WR and his friends would step in front of me and the other girls and case us out, block us from what was going to happen next. I was the only girl saying, "Come on. No. Stop it. It's okay. It's fine. Let's just go."
There was a part of me that was terrified, another part that was wary, and a final part that was exhilarated and thrilled to be seeing this kind of thing that I thought only happened in movies. There was an ugly side of me that was thinking, Yeah, yeah. Hit them. Fight them. I should have recognized no good could come from this, from following this type of boy around and wishing he would just love me, but I did not. I certainly did not.
The closest I came to seeing the WR expose himself to a raw emotion that did not have its foundation in rage was the night the girl he loved in the way I loved him--blindly, hopelessly--told him to forget it, that she was never going to love him. He came over to my apartment and sat on my couch. He stared straight ahead and would not let me ask him questions about what had happened. I sat in the chair and stared at him. He stared at the wall.
I thought he was going to cry. I thought this was it, this was certainly it, and he was going to break into some real side of himself and let me tell him it was going to be okay, that the girl was a fool, that she was awful and wrong for him. If he cried, I would get up and go to him. I would sit next to him and let our shoulders touch for a moment, just so he could get used to the feeling of me next to him. Then I would turn him toward me, and he would cry into my shoulder until he felt better. But he didn't cry. He just stared. And I knew enough to keep quiet for the next thirty minutes, until he stood up and looked toward the door, toward his escape.
And he is still refusing to acknowledge any kind of weakness. When his girlfriend told him it sounded like he had bronchitis, he said no, he was okay, he was going to be fine. When his girlfriend told him to get some antibiotics to clear up his cough, he said no, he was okay, he was going to kick this on his own. He told her people these days are too quick to jump all over antibiotics at the first tickle in their throats, the first rumbling in their lungs. He told her whatever it was would come and go on its own, and his immune system would be better for it in the end.
I understand the frustration she likely felt when she was having that conversation. I have had many of those conversations with the Wily in the five years I've known him now, and those conversations have done nothing except make me want to kill him. The fact that she lives in the same house with him and has yet to murder him and bury his body in the backyard is a testament to her patience and strength. She will make a fine doctor.
Anyway, after they had this conversation, the Wily Republican realized that his cough was not getting better. In fact, it was getting worse, and he felt horrible, so he made a secret doctor's appointment, was diagnosed with bronchitis, and went to the pharmacy to fill his prescription for antibiotics. Antibiotics he was now hiding from his girlfriend.
"That's just unreasonable," I said. "She was right, Wily. She was right, and she was smart about it, and you're bending over backward trying to prove that she's wrong and stupid. You're doing this to the woman you love. Doesn't that sound wrong to you?"
"It's my own form of punishment," he said. "She's on my nerves right now." And then he told me about a stupid argument they'd had--a regular couple-type fight that involved schedules getting crossed and parties they had to attend for the upcoming holiday season. She'd made him so angry, he was now hiding pills and waiting for his cough to clear up so he could say to her, "See? I was right, and you were wrong. The cough cleared up on its own."
I was so angry with him I thought my heart was going to explode. I was appalled that he was going to do that to his girlfriend, that he was going to manipulate the situation in a way that told her she was just a silly, stupid girl who didn't know anything, a girl who should keep her mouth shut unless she was told to open it.
After throwing a couple angry barbs his way--which he deflected easily because he was practically shining with righteousness--I told him I didn't think he had a very healthy relationship. My motivations behind this statement were stunningly different than they were last year. Yesterday I had no interest in trying to convince him he was in a relationship that was not at all as good and fun as our non-relationship had been; instead, my interest was with his girlfriend. I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him for her. I wanted to tell him he should just let her go, let her leave so she could start over and find someone who would actually treat her like he loved her. I've never met the Wily's girlfriend, and she might be a wretched girl, but I doubt that. I'm sure she is pretty and nice and funny--all things I used to fear. But now I just feel kinship with her. Now I just want to find her phone number and tell her what is really going on. "You won't ever have heard of me," I would tell her, "but I know exactly what this all feels like." And then I would invite her to come to Maine for a couple stiff drinks. We could paint our toenails and talk about all the awful things the WR has done to us. And maybe by the end I would have saved her from a lifetime of being pushed down, of being reduced to something small and sad.
I say all of this even though I still like the Wily Republican. Not like that, not in the ways I used to, but in new ways, different ways, less destructive ways. I like it when the WR calls me up to tell me about hijinks from his job and about his friends that I used to like. I like the predictable pattern he and I have established. But I do not like what he's doing to his girlfriend. Not at all.
So I guess yesterday I felt very thankful for the small mercy I'd been awarded when the Wily Republican did not love me back. If he had--if he'd ever decided he really liked me--I don't know if I would've been strong enough to recognize that living with him would be the death of me. I would like to think I would've been strong enough to get out while the gettin' was good, but what about me is different than his girlfriend? She sounds reasonable, smart, logical, and yet there she is, living in the same house with a man who will go to great lengths to make her feel ridiculous. If that's not the opposite of real love, I don't know what is.
And so I am thankful. I am thankful for my life, for the fact that the WR didn't look at me and feel something stir in his heart. I am thankful for my boyfriend, the bearded but glorious Boy from Work, and the fact that he will never, ever, ever do those things, that those things aren't even thoughts that would cross his mind. I am thankful, but that doesn't make me feel any better for the WR's girlfriend, and it doesn't keep me from thinking, If only I could just write her a letter, give her a call, tell her to give him a good pat on the back and say, "Thank you for teaching me some of life's most important lessons. I'm leaving." Maybe then he would learn some things for himself, but I doubt it. I really do.
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