Tag Archives: marriage

Truthfully.

For Michelle.

When I’m sitting on my porch, and it’s about to be dark, and I’m staring at my garden which should have little sprouting flowers in it instead of bottle caps, Bic pens, and cigarette wrappers, I feel like I could be really good at basketball.  I start thinking how the net’s not really all that high up, relatively, and no matter where the mysterious three-point shot area might be, it can’t be THAT far away, right?  I could play HORSE with the really tough neighborhood pre-pubescents and they’d think me a mentor, and a real friend. I start thinking I can run around the court for more than three minutes without wheezing, and that I might be graceful this time. 

 

When I’m taking a shower and singing that one Alana Davis song and surveying the bundle of bones and skin and fat I’m washing or shaving or rinsing that only I am required to look at every day, I feel like it’d be so easy to get in shape.  It’s no one’s fault but mine that my attractiveness has steadily declined and now it’s completed its frantic surge to the floor, where it’s bundled up around my ankles where my cankles will be once I let it get that far.  I’ve got the treadmill that I won in my parents’ divorce, and I’m the proud owner of a Netflix subscription complete with free streaming workout videos, and if I would only walk to my two jobs, because I’m not really that far away, I could do it.  I could tone myself and lose ten, even five pounds, and I’d notice.

 

When I’m running over to my nephew in attack mode, and he’s about to be crushed by whatever monster or burglar or creature I’m portraying at that moment, and then I catch him and scream and he grabs my face and giggles and emits a bunch of bullshit junk sounds that I decide must be my name, I feel like I could be a mother.  Or maybe not a mother, but a mom.  I have so faithfully documented my entire life in blogs and cell phone pictures and Facebook posts, and I did it all for my non-existent child.  Maybe my kid would be like I was with my mom, memorizing what Clinique compacts she kept in her bathroom drawer, watching her cook with the sinking feeling I would never quite figure it out, hating words like “youngster” for no other reason than that she hated them, feeling a hunger for proof that she was ever a kid, old yearbook photos, college roommates’ testimonials, anything.  There has to be someone in the world for everyone, someone who only responds to your touch, and will only answer to your voice, and will adopt your thoughts and opinions because if YOU said it or thought it, it must be true because no one else exists in the world.

 

When I’m bartending, and it’s a busy night, and I’m watching invisible walls construct themselves and implode between every interacting person, boys failing to notice endearing sweater removal or what drink she just finished, girls positioning themselves only under the red LEDs and checking their lipstick in the strategically placed mirrors (you’re welcome), and I see what guys’ girlfriends ACTUALLY say when their boyfriends send them an unwelcome text, and I hear what boys ACTUALLY think about the second the perfect girl walks away, I feel like I could be a pretty great wife.  I wouldn’t be snarky or jealous, and whoever I marry would be super proud to show me off because my hair would never be frizzy, I wouldn’t have ten extra pounds, I’ll be a great cook and a great mom, and I am very good at basketball.

 

When I realize I can no longer distinguish the difference between my lawn and the fourth step up to the porch, and the fifteen-foot trek to my car might again result in the discovery of five socks, a bag of Oreos, the headphones I lost last month, and a fifty dollar bill, and I finally find my car and I’m on the way to Harris Teeter for some more cookies, and I’m stopped at that one red light that forces me to look at the Carrboro Tent City and Community Garden, I feel like I could be a real good lawn-mower.  Even though the gas cap on my mower pops off every time I round a corner and one of the really important screws that holds the handle to the rest of the mower is completely rusted out so that I almost fall into the blades every time I have to mow around a tree, I feel like today will be the day I conquer this stupid machine and figure out how to groom my lawn with it much like men learn to grocery shop after losing a leg or the way women learn to look in the mirror again years after childbirth.

 

Truth is, I don’t even know how to PLAY basketball, and I’m about as graceful as Robert Smith with no lipstick.

 

Truth is, I eat like shit and I really like Havarti Cheese and croissants, and I’ll never be small again because I have absolutely zero self-discipline.

 

Truth is, what haunts me is that at my mom’s funeral, my eulogy will clock in at over four hours long, and everyone will be bored because they won’t understand.  And the truth is, it is a fact that no one will ever sit at a computer and write that sentence about me.

 

Truth is, no one I know believes in marriage anymore.

 

Truth is, I’m horrible at mowing the lawn, and I always will be.

 

But I really like mowing the lawn.  And I do it every single week, even though I know my neighbors laugh at me.  And I admire my handiwork even though there’s always little tufts of grass poking up where they shouldn’t be, and shit, I mowed over the pre-existing azalea again, and yes I know that was the hatchet I hit that caused the mower to shed three pieces of unidentified metal, and why do we even OWN a hatchet?? And it’s one of the most rewarding things I get to do.  And really, I’m pretty sure I’m getting better.

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Filed under life, random, relationships

To Wed? Or Not, Instead?

Dear Adam Powers,

I just got off the phone with my lovely Grandma.

The first thing she said when she realized who she was talking to was, “I gotta get off my CELL PHONE and git on tha REGULA’ phone I cain’t HEAR YA.”

She does not have a cell phone. She thinks her cordless phone is a cell phone.

The next thing she said was, before any sort of greeting, was, “DO YA HAVE A BOYFREN?”

No, Grandma. The answer has been “No” for years.

“HOWZABOUT CHOICH?”

“Choich” means “church,” in her lovely Southern Louisiana accent, and she wants to know if I have found one in Norf Carolina yet.

No, Grandma. Choich is a place to compare clothing.

She proceeded to tell me all about my cousins and their babies and husbands, which I recognize as a thinly veiled attempt to make me feel guilty. I am the oldest unmarried, childless female in my family, and everyone is baffled as to why I am having such a hard time finding a rich dude to knock me up and make me the thrilled kept woman they know I’d love to one day be. I caught the bouquet at my cousin’s wedding five years ago, and they have not forgotten. I didn’t mean to catch it. I was trying to swat it away from me in a panic. It was aimed for my face.

My extended family’s collective relationship track record is less than inspiring. My Uncle Pat, Grandma’s son, is my favorite.

I remember he bought a Dodge Neon years ago, and he called all his family members and told us about the fabulous view he had from the windshield. “I mean, I really made a good purchase. Worth every penny,” he told us. How lucky was he to have bought a car that would allow him such great visual interaction with the highway vista?

Uncle Pat has been married five times. Want the rundown?

1. Suzen: He knocked her up when she was 15. They were married for six months. Suzen died a few years later in a house fire. Thank god she didn’t survive, because she would have gone to jail for arson and attempted murder. She was trying to burn down the house so she could kill her boyfriend, Smiley. Smiley wasn’t even home.

2. Rosemary Mosby was next. She was the alcoholic daughter of a Mississippi millionaire. Miss Mosby had a bowling alley in her house. They were married for seven months, and then my uncle left her which prompted her to overdose with a quickness.

3. Doris was the half Chinese alcoholic lesbian who married Pat so she could breed. They were actually married for five years. And yes, they bred.

4. Crystal. Oh, Crystal. Another five year marriage. I actually met this one. Crystal was an overweight Merry Maid with a weird face rash thanks to an Ajax mishap. Crystal had a habit of “entertaining” all of the (male) neighbors, and one day Pat came home to find an empty house. And when I say empty, I mean no wife, no clothes, no furniture, and no note. Crystal talked very loud in movie theaters. She was under the impression that she was the only one within earshot of her overbearing, nasally, grating, nonsensical Yat dialect.

5. Marisol. Marisol was a prostitute who would perform oral sex on policemen for cash, which she would spend on coke. Pat told me once that every time he and Marisol had sex, he would leave five dollars on the night table before he left for work. He thought this was hysterical. She tried to steal his Neon once. Apparently that was not hysterical. So he hit her upside the head with the business end of a hammer. They, um, got divorced after that.

So his marriages sucked. But damn, he had a great view from his windshield every time he drove away from one.

So yeah. I’m all for gettin’ hitched. But that shit terrifies me.

I’ll talk to you later buddy. I have a busy day planned. I’m gonna sit in my house, alone, thinking how nice it is that there’s no one to fight with.

Love,

Mandey.

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