by K. B. Draper
I spoke to Kellie a week later. She called after she’d gotten my number from The Grinder. I thought it was rather bold of her to ask her friend for her date’s number, but as I was the date and the one she was calling I was perfectly okay with it. Or at least I was when I thought she’d called because she was attracted to me, had thought about me all week, and couldn’t get me out of her mind so she’d screwed all friendship etiquette and asked The Grinder for my number. It was a good thought, but then she divulged the real reason for her call. Her girlfriend was coming to town for the weekend, and she wanted to know if they could stay in my extra bedroom since she was currently living in her parents’ basement.
“I’d really appreciate it. I know I don’t really know you, but I talked to Misty and she thought it would be okay. I thought Friday night Misty could come over and I’d make dinner for everyone,” she suggested.
I contemplated this request. Let’s see … do I want to see my new crush reunite with her girlfriend over dinner, which has the high potential of me having to listen to The Grinder talk about the wrongful naming of inanimate objects or the economic suffocation of big named discount stores? Nope. I’d rather remove my skin with a potato peeler, pour vinegar in my eyes, and wear cement hearing aids.
“Sure,” I heard myself say.
Perfect. Along with lactose intolerance and ADD, I could now add Polite Tourette’s Syndrome to my list of imperfections.
Kellie did the cooking; dominated the conversation, the room, the evening, and my thoughts; and did the dishes so the night went better than expected. Kellie and her girlfriend were downstairs making up for lost time while I was upstairs with The Grinder, who was grinding, while I was being thankful I’d decided to go smooth after the great “Maybe I can shave a design” shaving disaster of 2000; otherwise, I’d be as matted as a stray cat in a briar patch.
Kellie’s girlfriend left after the weekend but not before they decided a long-distance relationship was not exactly working for them. And like any new friend with ulterior motives, I offered a shoulder to cry on.
Two weeks later, I said good-bye to The Grinder, and Kellie and I started spending time together. And just when she realized we were more than friends and began enjoying the increased privileges, she left. Before she and I met, she’d committed to go to Alaska to work in a fish processing plant for the summer, so she left for her next big adventure. We wrote and we tried to talk every day. Though I missed her more each day, I was excited that the forced distance gave us time to really get to know each other without the confusion of new relationship lust and sex. We talked about everything. I talked about Carly, and she talked about wanting to be a stand-up comedian. I talked about my fears and she talked about her childhood. She knew more about me than I’d ever told anyone, and I fell for her over the phone.
After a long three months, she came home. She came straight from the airport to my house and didn’t leave. Kellie consumed my world, and I forgot about Carly for long periods. She was like no one I’d ever met. She started performing her comedy routines and I sat in the audience every night watching, laughing, and wanting to grab the mic and yell out to the crowd “That’s right, that’s my girlfriend!”
Kellie brought out the “uncensored, unreserved” part in me. I began exploring my artistic side that I’d always longed to use but was too afraid of being judged as subpar. In a year, we traveled to New York, Texas, New Orleans, North Carolina, and Colorado. We went white water rafting, went to Broadway shows, and went hiking. We learned how to kayak, we mountain biked, we walked down Bourbon Street, we camped, and we walked through small-town art galleries. I had the most amazing, freeing, exhilarating time of my life and it was exactly how I had wanted to live.
“I think I need to do my comedy in Chicago or New York,” Kellie stated.
A flash of me and my dogs walking down a big city street as I hold a baggie full of dog dung filled my head.
“Yeah, probably so,” I replied as another flash of grabbing taxis and sitting next to a stinky guy on a subway played through my mind. “I definitely think you’d have more opportunities in a bigger city than you do here.”
“Well, we can move …”
I couldn’t hear the rest of her comment over the pounding of my heart. My palms began to sweat and my breathing became erratic as flashes of Carly—and flashes of the pain of watching her leave, knowing that she had built a new life somewhere else without me—came crashing back in my mind. I quickly wondered if you could have post-traumatic stress from a relationship and if it’s covered under Blue Cross Blue Shield?
Did I love her enough to move? Did I believe she was my forever girlfriend, which meant I’d need to make some sacrifices for her? Did I love her enough to have a long-distance relationship?
“I think you need to do whatever is best for you and your career,” I responded.
What is my deal with attracting women who want to move? Why couldn’t I meet a nice girl with separation anxiety or a nice cute agoraphobic chick?
“For me and my career? You won’t go with me? You got the big title and big job so you think you’re too good to go?” she asked in a tone that over the last few months I’d begun to recognize as the “this conversation is going downhill fast” tone. Recently she’d begun to demonstrate a flaring temper. At first I thought it was just the result of Aunt Flo coming to town each month, but I quickly realized if that was true, Aunt Flo was not just in for her monthly visit, but had taken up residency.
“No, that’s not what I was saying at all. But that I’ll support you in whatever decision you think will help your career and if you—”
“Oh, you think my career needs help? Now you don’t think I’m a good enough comedian?” she interrupted.
“No, geez … You said you wanted to move to do your comedy in New York or Chicago, so I was saying if that’s what you need to do to get your career going—”
“You don’t think I’m going anywhere in my career? You think I should quit my dream and sell myself out to a corporate job like you?” she yelled.
I looked around for a sign that showed I’d accidentally entered the city limits of Crazytown, Population: One. I tried to formulate my words carefully in an effort to end this spiraling conversation. “Kellie, I’m sorry. Maybe it didn’t come out right. I’m trying to be very supportive. I think you’re an amazing comedian. That’s why I think you should do whatever you think you need to do, so you can do what you love to do.” Let her decipher that complimentary, non-opinionated, completely wimpy statement into a twisted translation of my comments.
She stared at me with eyes I’d never seen before, eyes with pure anger and if I didn’t know better, hatred. “You don’t think I support you and you’re the only one that gives anything to this relationship? And it’s not what I THINK I need to do, it’s what I have to do. People here don’t know or appreciate comedy like people in Chicago and New York, so I HAVE to go,” she hissed venomously.
Well at least she was taking her craziness out on all the people in the city versus just me. “Babe, I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Of course you don’t!” she yelled as she left the room.
To-do list tonight: Hide the knives.
Things went back to fun normal for two weeks until Kellie, Stacy, and her latest girlfriend, Janet, whom I actually liked, and I were heading back home from a weekend getaway.
“I’m hungry. I think we should stop for lunch,” Stacy suggested.
I was a little hungry too so I was immediately accepting of the idea. Apparently, Kellie was not because she mumbled something from the passenger seat. I didn’t hear her comment in its entirety but I did make out “stupid ... fucking … french fries ...” I ignored the grumblings and pulled over at the next restaurant.
Kellie dropped her tray on the table with an aggravated huff. Warning sirens went off in my head alerting me to the impending doom of lunch. I looked at my plate and then back at Kellie. I was relatively sure lunch was either going to be
ruined because of Kellie’s attitude or the large amount of melted cheese on my burrito and my lactose intolerance problem. I ate and waited for either Kellie to fly off the handle about something or me to excuse myself to the restroom. Please let it be the restroom. Halfway through lunch Kellie finally spoke. “You know, Stacy, you don’t always have to get your way. There are other people on this trip, too.”
Damn. Well that answered that little question. As I’d been subjected to a few of Stacy’s tongue-lashings myself, I knew she could hold her own. I sank in my seat in a fruitless effort to avoid the verbal clashing. Stacy said nothing, but gave me a look that I interpreted as “Your girlfriend is a bitch. Deal with her or I will.” Double damn. My stomach gurgled. Double, double damn.
“I don’t know about everyone else, but I’ve had a great time this weekend,” I said, trying to defuse the situation.
Silence.
“Okay, well ... I gotta go to the bathroom.” I bolted from the table before an eruption happened at the table or in my pants.
The ride home was in complete silence. Kellie was fuming in the front seat and Stacy was fuming in the back, while Janet and I sent silent co-sympathy looks through the rearview mirror knowing that we were both going to hear about this as soon as we got home.
I can, to a point, deal with my girlfriend going Sybil on me. But it’s completely different when I can’t even go out with my friends without worrying about what someone is going to say to set her off. I tried to make and keep her happy, but I had a growing fear that the source of her anger was that she had settled down with me. My once fun, free-spirited comedian, whom I had enjoyed so many things with, was now caged in Mid-America without any more big corn-husking, tent-living, tuna-canning adventures. I believed the confinement to the normalcy our relationship created was the source of her unhappiness. I decided if I loved her, I needed to break up with her and set her free.
“Kellie, we need to talk,” I managed to say with about as much confidence as Paris Hilton at a spelling bee. Kellie responded with a glare that made me immediately change direction.
“I’m not comfortable with my color choice in the living room. What do you think of a nice beige?”
Another glare. Okay, maybe I’d set her free later, after feeding time.
I’d successfully completed two weeks without a fight, utilizing my old skills of active avoidance until Kellie, my mom, and I had gone to breakfast. Kellie snapped at my mother over her Belgian waffles and that was it. I would not be in a relationship with anyone who could embarrass, be rude to, or disrespect my mother. It was past time to break up with Kellie. I just had to figure out how to break up with her without setting her off on a vicious emotional tirade. This would be a great time for someone to create a long-range breakup device like a long-range missile, so I could just hit a little red breakup button from the comfort and safety of a secret underground bomb shelter.
A day or so later, Kellie forgot her wallet at home and asked me to drop it by her work. As soon as I walked through the front doors, she jumped to her feet and greeted me with an overly friendly and overly excited hello. I glanced behind her and saw a dark-haired woman who was overly interested in examining the tabletop, the walls, and everything else in the room but Kellie and me. Kellie took my arm and steered me away from and out of sight of the black-haired woman. She then gave me an overly generous and very thankful kiss. I smiled in response and left. As soon as I was out of eye and earshot of Kellie, my smile widened. And there is my long-range missile. T-minus ten and counting. It’s only a matter of time.
A week later, Kellie informed me she’d cheated on me with a girl from work. And there it was, the light at the end of the relationship tunnel, my safe passage out without the verbal assault.
After a long, strategic silence, I responded. “Well, that’s it then.”
“I made a mistake. I want to work things out.”
Okay, maybe not.
“Kellie, I’m sorry. But I don’t see how we can work it out. You cheated on me. Our relationship would never be the same. I’d be jealous and would doubt and question every time you were late or out with your friends.” I just needed to blame the ultimate failure of the relationship on me and my insecurities, softening the blow, and she’d end up not wanting to be with me. Then no one gets hurt. I continued. “Kellie, I love you but I don’t think it would be fair for either of us now that the trust is gone. Like I said, I’d be a jealous freak and that’s not any kind of relationship.”
Then it was as if fireworks had just gone off. But instead of me being the one seated safely in a lawn chair a hundred yards away reaching for an orange Shasta out of the ice chest, I was the idiot holding the punk, leaning over the Glittering Fire Fountain, yelling over my shoulder “I don’t think it’s lit.”
She exploded in a verbal assault of World War III proportions. She used every sensitive, intimate, vulnerable moment I’d ever shared as her weapons of mass emotional destruction. And I sat there and took it, every heart-crushing, self-esteem slapping blow of it. I might’ve been the one with a long-range breakup missile, but she had the atomic, ego-destroying bombs with heart-seeking verbal rockets.
Some loves last a lifetime
True love lasts forever.
The other stuff lasts 2 years, 1 month, 3 weeks, 8 days and 21 hours …
Nicole July 2005 - September 2007
Like many times previously, Stacy, Sheila, Little Jo, and now Lucy—boss turned friend after the Loren and casino flick of 2001—and their respective girlfriends had decided that the cure for getting me out of my “there is no way in hell I’m ever dating again because all women are crazy” funk was for them to drag me to the bar. I assumed it could work for other people, but I thought taking me to a bar full of lesbians to alter my current frame of mind would be about as successful and healing as smoking pot with a bulimic and then taking her to an all-you-can-eat Cheetos buffet.
Despite my protests an hour prior, my friends and their respective girlfriends showed up at my door all dressed in their going out clothes. I answered their enthusiasm with an overly exaggerated sigh, combined with every body language gesture that would translate to “I don’t wanna go.” They ignored me.
“Come on. It could be fun,” Sheila suggested.
“It might be good just to get out for a bit. If you don’t end up having fun, we don’t have to stay long,” Little Jo added.
“I don’t care what we do but I’m going to have to eat soon,” Lucy advised.
“God, quit being a loser. We’re going out. You’re going to like it. You’re going to get drunk, have a one-night stand, and get over it,” Stacy instructed.
“Whatever.” I went to my room to change. I found my “going out jeans” I’d last worn before the demise of my relationship with Kellie and quickly realized I had gained weight. Great. Now I was disgruntled and depressed.
On the way to the bar I made one last fruitless effort to suggest we change the venue of our little adventure to something less lesbian populated, like the free cake decorating class at William Sonoma or a nice Republican Convention. That suggestion was answered by Stacy informing me it was Third Friday and we were going to the bar. My heart started racing, my palms started sweating, and I began to hyperventilate.
“I’m not going to Third Friday.”
“Why?” Stacy asked, accentuated by an irritated and exhausted eye roll.
“Why? Why? Third Friday is like a full moon Halloween for single lesbians. All the freaks come out.”
“So you’ll fit right in,” Stacy replied.
“Oh, funny. Seriously, I’m not going.”
“It’s just a simple gathering for women. Like a happy hour for the like-minded. It’s a chance for you to get out and mingle a little,” Little Jo chimed in.
“It’s a happy hour for crazy lesbian vampires who are out looking to pounce on and suck the life blood out of weak lone lesbian prey. Who, I might add, have no chance of survival because the head vampire slas
h money-taker lady identifies all the potential single victims and then marks her prey by making them wear those stupid glow in the dark plastic rings!” I proclaimed.
“You’re stupid” Stacy stated, accentuating the statement with a head shake and another eye roll.
“You don’t have to tell them you’re single,” Little Jo said, trying to be reassuring.
“They can sense it! Plus, it’s not hard to figure out when there are NINE of us and you all will be walking in two by two like it’s the final boarding call for the gay Noah’s Ark!”
“You’re going and you’re going to like it,” Stacy informed me.
I resigned. “Ugh! Fine! But we’re stopping to get me some garlic and an ‘I love Dick Cheney’” T-shirt to fend them off.”
We walked into the bar, and I caught the appraising look of the hostess vampire who started to reach into her bowl of glowing plastic rings. I stepped forward, grabbed Sheila’s hand, and laid my head lovingly on her shoulder. Sheila winced and attempted to shake me off, but I held on while I told the vampire hostess, “I like them feisty.” Since Sheila was already holding the hand of her actual girlfriend I felt compelled to add, “So does she. She’s a freak.”
Out of habit and as every single lesbian, and some not-so-single ones, do immediately after entering a lesbian bar or gathering, I scanned the bar for two things: Exes and potentials. I only counted one ex, Stacy, the bitch who had just dragged me into the vampire’s lair and the one who was already notifying me of potentials, indicating there was a “kind of cute” one in the corner.
I turned. “Really? She’s like 4 feet three inches and I think she’s wearing Chic jeans. Do they even make Chic jeans anymore?”
“God, you’re so shallow. Can’t you just flirt with someone and have a one-night stand? Who cares if she’s wearing Chic jeans?”
“In all the years you’ve known me, what would have ever led you to believe I could have a one-night stand? Or date someone in Chic jeans?” I asked.
