by K. B. Draper
“Sure, we can start looking for a house together,” I said.
“All right. I already have six houses printed out and have mapped a route between them.”
Today? Fear shot through me. Despite the fact that I believe my relationships and the House of Representatives are eerily similar, both having two-year terms or their terms cut short by sexual scandals, I needed to do this. “Okay, let’s go for it.”
I stared at the ceiling mentally counting the days. I figured it had been two months, eleven days, and approximately five hours since Nicole and I had signed the closing papers on our dream home, well maybe not our dream home, but our “within our budget” dream home. And there I was sitting on the couch, staring at the dream home’s ceiling while Nicole was explaining to me exactly how she didn’t think “we clicked” anymore. I discovered that the unfortunate side effect of the lack of “clicking” with your current girlfriend was for her to go off and “click” with a co-worker during a weeklong work trip to Albuquerque. You’d have thought this “not clicking” issue could have been diagnosed two months ago, oh I don’t know, say BEFORE WE BOUGHT A HOUSE TOGETHER! It’s official. I’m emotionally numb.
I did not protest nor did I resist the breakup. My only action was to tune Nicole out, sit quietly in my favorite sweatshirt, whose front pocket was effectively concealing my two outstretched middle fingers, and stare at the ceiling. I realize this was not anywhere near effective or mature but it did somehow give me an inner satisfaction.
After the “not clicking” conversation concluded, I left the house and went through my favorite drive-through Chinese place. I drove back to my old neighborhood and sat across from my old house and my old life. I ate my eggroll and crab rangoon and pondered my fate. What was I going to do now? I had nothing. I’d given up my house, my security, and half of my things to have a life with Nicole. I really thought I was done, done with the dating, the games, the cheating and lying. Tears slid down my cheeks. After all these years and all my past girlfriends, I really thought I’d found the one that replaced Carly. I thought Nicole was my forever girlfriend. Oh God, what was I going to do now?
Since God didn’t answer right away, I dug in the bottom of the take-out bag for my fortune cookie. I quickly prayed for the little sliver of paper to give me some guidance and some words of wisdom, to grant me comfort and a promise that I’d make it through this, or at least award me abundant wealth.
“YOU ARE PRONE TO MARITAL STRIFE.”
Seriously?
Love finds you when you’re not looking for it.
Literally …
Sometime later
Sheila called to announce she’d started dating a woman she met at a wedding. I found this humorous. Not because Sheila had met another aspiring applicant for a future girlfriend, but because I pictured Sheila wearing a dress and heels while she met her new girlfriend candidate. It was that mental picture that made me laugh. Out loud. Sheila isn’t a big ol’ dyke or anything but there are just some people that shouldn’t wear dresses—i.e., Jude Law, Papa Smurf, the women’s basketball coach at the University of Tennessee, neither one of the Indigo Girls, any of the James Bonds except maybe Pierce (he could probably pull it off), Rosie O’Donnell, Dick Cheney, Tom Arnold, and Sheila. And probably Britney Spears but that’s for a whole different reason. Of course, Sheila didn’t tell me she’d worn a dress and heels to the wedding. She more likely wore pants, but that didn’t amuse me. So as Sheila recounted her first meeting with her potential girlfriend, I pictured Sheila capturing a woman’s interest in a mauve dress, one-inch heels, and a pearl necklace. And hoop earrings, big gold ones.
“So, will you meet us for drinks? I want you to tell me what you think of her,” she asked excitedly.
I thought this was a rather ironic request, since I was currently recovering mentally, emotionally, and financially from my latest unsuccessful relationship. Therefore, I didn’t have much faith that I was an adequate judge of someone’s suitability for a relationship. Then again, I have learned a great deal about the difficult, the unfaithful, and the unstable, so maybe I could provide some valuable input.
“I’m going to call Stacy and Little Jo, too, and see if they’ll come. I just want to get your opinion of her before it goes too much further,” Sheila continued.
I hated to disillusion Sheila that her little plan would be fruitless for several reasons. I knew myself and my little trio of friends so well I could already predict the outcome of the meet-and-greet. Unless Sheila’s date was she-Satan herself, Little Jo would like her since she’s the kindhearted, see good in everybody type, so she would be for Sheila dating her. Stacy, unless it was Hillary Clinton, would not like her, because no matter who Sheila or I dated, they’d never be good enough. I had yet to determine whether this was out of friendship and love, or since Stacy had slept with both of us, she believed we had no chance of seeing anyone better. Ever. Either way, after numerous failed attempts on my part alone, I really couldn’t argue with her. Then there was me. No matter who showed up with Sheila I would be indifferent, since my current belief was “there’s no such thing as love; therefore, date whoever you want because it won’t work out anyway.” All that being said, despite the one “for,” the one “against,” and the one “whatever” vote, Sheila was an incurable, hopeful, blind romantic and she’d date her newfound person no matter what we said.
“Can you meet us or not?” she asked with her familiar “I met a girl and I think she’s the one” excitement in her voice.
I wanted to respond, “Fine, but I’m not going to bother even remembering this one’s name,” but I rolled my eyes instead and replied, “Sure. Where?”
Since I was a little stir crazy, a little curious about Sheila’s latest love, and the place she chose to meet served an Appletini rimmed with Pop Rocks versus sugar, a personal favorite, I agreed.
“Cool. I’m excited for you guys to meet her. I really like her!”
I rolled my eyes again, feeling a bit of dread and wariness creep deep into my “all women suck” mood. “Okay, I’m excited, too. I’ll see you there.” Then to brighten my pessimistic disposition I quickly followed with, “Hey, Sheila. Wait.”
“What?”
“Will you wear a dress and heels tonight?” I asked, immediately blissful at the thought.
I got “whatever” and then a click of the phone as a response.
I hung up and went to my closet to decide on a “meet Sheila’s girlfriend” outfit. Since I hadn’t gone out for a while, the urge to dress up hit me just for a change of pace from the sweats and T-shirts I’d sported for the last month and a half. On the other hand, I couldn’t get too dressed up because you can’t be hotter than your friend who’s bringing a new girl around, or at least that’s what I tell all my friends when I’ve hosted my own “meet the new prospective girlfriend” party. That and most of my dress-up outfits require ironing. However, I couldn’t risk going too grubby because girlfriend candidate might also be bringing friends to meet Sheila and one of them might be future ex-girlfriend material, NOT that I’m looking.
I decided to go comfortably cool. There was no chance of out-dressing Sheila, while effectively limiting the need to plug in the little appliance of pain. I’m not typically so opposed to ironing, but the iron and I were currently not on speaking terms. Three weeks ago we had had some rather harsh words. Okay, I was the only one with the harsh words while it sat there silently as my skin, which seconds earlier was effectively covering the side of my neck, was baking to it. This occurred after I had not wanted to disrobe due to time restrictions and not wanting to disturb my Alfalfa flip that had taken five minutes and a half can of hairspray to get to lie down. I’d grabbed the iron and attempted to iron a curling collar while still wearing the shirt. Needless to say, my time-saving technique caused me to burn the side of my neck, which resulted in me screaming and dancing in pain and exchanging my shirt for a turtleneck even though it was the middle of summer. After three weeks and two tube
s of scar cream, I was still left with a scar on the side of my neck that my friends affectionately refer to as my “perma-hickey.”
My outfit contemplation took longer than expected so I had just under an hour to get ready and get to the bar. I considered not showering, but one look at my hair convinced me that the only chance for a viable remedy was to start anew. I jumped into the shower and washed and shaved the essential parts. Not that I was going to be looking for anyone, but I might get into an accident and get a cute lesbian paramedic and there was that whole first impression thing.
I experienced a small jolt of joy when I realized my going out jeans still fit and my hair was actually going to cooperate. I realized I didn’t have any cash on me, and, with only ten minutes until I was supposed to be at the restaurant, decided to rob my emergency change and cash fund in lieu of going to the ATM.
The glass jar, which kept my riches, was not as accepting of this idea, which resulted in a small yet shattering result. Two minutes later I was driving my car with my knee and holding a towel to my left ring finger, which was now splayed open to the bone and gushing blood. While attempting to keep my life liquid from getting all over my going-out jeans and cute but slightly wrinkled shirt, I called Sheila for sympathy and to tell her I wasn’t going to make it to her little girlfriend aptitude meet-n-greet test. Typically, my overly caring and sometimes overly dramatic friend’s response would have been, “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU OKAY? WHERE ARE YOU? I’LL BE RIGHT THERE IN CASE YOU NEED ME FOR A TRANSFUSION. I HAVE THAT ANYONE-CAN-USE-BLOOD!” However, being currently infatuated with her newfound lady friend, she said, “Okay. Well, call us when you’re done. Maybe you can still come down to meet her.” Nice. I’d have to call my mom for some sympathy fulfillment. Voicemail. Double nice.
I walked through the sliding glass doors of the ER with a blood-filled towel and a serious lack of empathy. I glanced around the waiting room looking for the sweet and hopefully cute nurse who was going to finally provide me with some much-needed care and concern. There was no sympathy-giving nurse greeting anyone, only a mother who looked like she was in desperate need of some morphine as she sat next to an unhappy snot-nosed kid who amazingly didn’t need the air intake from his nose to scream at ear-piercing levels. I found the admittance desk, and without any questions, care, concern, or even so much as a friendly greeting of hello, the nurse handed me forms to fill out.
“Thank you. Do you happen to have a pen I can use?” I asked in my nice voice, fighting to not continue the sentence with, “or would you like me to write it in the BLOOD THAT I’M CURRENTLY LOSING FROM THE GAPING WOUND ON MY FINGER?” She handed me a pen, and I sat with the screaming snot machine to fill out my paperwork.
When I reached the “reason for your visit” question, I tried to come up with a disease that would spark some reaction from the non-sympathy-giving nurse. But with limited disease knowledge and then limiting those selections to the ones that I could actually spell, all I could come up with was Mad Cow and Cooties. Not thinking Cooties would get much of a rise out of her and fearful the reaction to Mad Cow would be less than desirable, I opted for the truth.
I returned my forms to Nurse Sunshine with a strategic drop of blood on them, thinking maybe the little droplet would spark at least a raised eyebrow. She reviewed my paperwork and motioned for me to show her my wound. Yes, finally! I put my hand on the desk and opened the blood-soaked towel. She promptly replaced my towel, which I thought was effectively containing the somewhat sizable amount of blood I was losing, with two delicate pieces of gauze. I silently questioned her actions, but she presumably was the one with the stop-blood-flow education so I swallowed my concerns and didn’t protest.
She finally looked at me and then asked dispassionately, “On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain you ever experienced and one being a mosquito bite, how would you rank the pain you’re experiencing right now?”
I briefly considered answering ten to see if it would score me an additional gauze pad, but since she was glaring at me, I said four. She then waved me back to the snot- and germ-filled waiting room.
Fortunately for me, my ears, my immune system, and my two pieces of gauze, ten minutes later a nurse with a smile called my name. Relieved to be moved to where the sounds around me would be below deafening levels and hopefully out of infectious range, I bounced out of my seat and followed the happy nurse through the swinging doors.
The doctor came in after another short wait. I could very well have been hallucinating due to blood loss, but in my weakened state the doctor looked like Carly. Carly, the most incredible, intelligent, caring, and beautiful woman who had ever broken up with me. Carly, the love of my life, despite that eight years ago I lost her because of my own self-doubt, fear, and an overly caring nurse she’d met during her last year of medical school. Yet, I knew this wasn’t Carly. Carly was a doctor currently practicing in Minneapolis and living in her dream home with Nurse no. 2, who she met after the over-caring Nurse no. 1 returned home. Yet, my body still reacted to her memory. It could’ve been the blood loss thing again, but my heart flipped and danced in my chest until it slowly remembered her good-bye, and then dropped like a rock to my stomach.
I’m no stranger to this high, low roller coaster of emotion that occurs every time I have some kind of reminder of Carly. I first feel this instant uncontrolled jolt of pleasure at the memories, then just as quickly, the end flashes and joy is replaced with pain and loss. It’s kind of like when you’re a kid playing in the ocean, happily jumping over waves, and you turn to your parents on the beach to give them the “look how high I’m jumping” wave but then a tidal wave-size wall of water slams into you, knocking you ass over ankles into the water, and you come up with salt water up your nose and your bikini top turned to the side exposing your left nipple.
I sighed. My little trip to the emergency room had just become agonizing on a whole new level. I considered asking Doctor Carly-Look-Alike if she’d go get Nurse Sunshine so I could change my “level of pain” answer to ten. But she smiled and distracted me by introducing herself and saying, “Nice shirt and I love your hair.”
Okay, maybe I’d go with an eight. She reached for my hand and I saw a wedding band on her finger. I had a flashback of a photo Carly sent me a few years ago which had been attached to our yearly “How are you doing?” email. The picture was of her, Nurse no. 2, and Carly’s parents all standing with their arms around each other posing for a photographer. The attached email informed me the photo was taken at Carly and Nurse no. 2’s commitment ceremony. Okay, make that a ten.
Doctor Carly-Look-Alike examined my finger and asked when I had last had a tetanus shot. Damn. She left the room and returned with a needle the size of a javelin. I inquired whether there was possibly an alternative means of delivery, like maybe a nice chewable pill that tasted like bubble gum, or better yet one of those mint-flavored strips that just dissolves on your tongue. She laughed but continued toward me with her instrument of torture. I closed my eyes, threw my head back on the six-inch square of cotton that hospitals like to call pillows, and tried to think of a song I could sing in my head to distract myself from the impending pain. In the middle of the twenty-fourth Mmmbop of Hanson’s well-titled Mmmbop song, again the only logical explanation for my song selection was the lack of blood flowing to my brain, I felt the shot of pain. Mmmb … ouch!
My eyes flew open and I stared directly into a bright white light. WHITE LIGHT! Well that’s just great. I died from a tetanus shot or maybe it was my song choice, but either way I was going to meet my maker. Good thing I shaved, as again there was that whole first impression thing.
As I stared into the white light waiting for God to lead me to the Pearly Gates, I began wondering what God was actually going to look like. I was hoping for a Demi Moore, Angie Harmon mix. But a Meg Ryan-ish God would be good too. Ohhh, wait. Demi Moore’s body, Angie Harmon’s dimples and voice, Meg Ryan’s Meg Ryan-ness, Courteney Cox’s eyes, and Ellen Degeneres’s sunny dispo
sition and humor. Now that would be heavenly. I so would have gone to church more if that had been how God was portrayed in my Sunday school books. While daydreaming of my made-over Almighty, I suddenly realized I was sitting here waiting to get into the Kingdom of Heaven while having very impure thoughts of God. Well, this will probably be a rather short and disappointing stay. I began to pray God was busy with my paperwork versus tuning into my adulterated thoughts, but quickly realized if I prayed she’d surely get the message, thus defeating the whole purpose so I resorted to double finger crossing.
Figuring I’d better start contemplating more meaningful matters and probably come up with really good explanations for some of the less than holy things I might have done while being just a mere mortal, I flashed back on those less than heaven-worthy moments. Hmm … Yeah. I’d just have to go with, “The Devil made me do it.” Surely God couldn’t argue with that excuse. I mean, the Devil was tricky and there was that whole “it’s just an apple, and by the way you’re naked thing.” I was glad about the naked awareness thing though. There are several people out there that I wouldn’t want to see naked—Mick Jagger, make that any of the Rolling Stones; the Nanny 911 lady; Carrot Top; Rush Limbaugh; Barbara Walters; Star Jones; Hulk Hogan; Dog the Bounty Hunter or his wife; President Bush, either of them; Danny DeVito; my second-, fourth-, and sixth-grade home room teachers, but my high school track coach I would’ve been cool with … What the hel- heaven was I doing? Again, it probably wasn’t a good idea while waiting to get into the Kingdom of Heaven to be sitting here contemplating the people I did and didn’t want to see naked. Well, at least I hadn’t violated any of the top ten thou shalt nots. Okay, nine of the top ten. There was that whole “thou shalt not covet your neighbor’s wife” one, but they really weren’t neighbors, they lived all the way across town, and plus she started it.
