A Walk in the Snark

by Rachel Thompson

  • When you decide to GO FOR IT and wonder why you get the “I’m tired,” guess what? SHE’S NOT TIRED! She’s not even mad at you, really. She’s more well, while repulsed is probably too strong a word, since hiding under that garlic blossom of a husband is the man she was attracted to enough to marry all those many, many, many years ago; let’s just say she’s more just um, biding her time until the Old Spice-smelling dude on a horse version she fell in love with shows up again.

  See…it’s complicated.

  • Add to that her disappointment that she’s already cleaned the kitchen, even suppressing her gag reflex admiringly when it came to your pyramid-shaped, sort of Close Encounters of the Third Kind-looking heap of dirty toenail clippings left in a polite little mound on the dining room table. (Lucky for you she has a thing for Richard Dreyfuss.)

  • Add that maybe she was hoping that while you were at the grocery store you might have remembered that not only was she was out of coffee, but also that the kids were out of their favorite fruity fruit snacks (since she not only asked you as you left, but also texted you. Twice.).

  Sigh.

  So, if you have not gotten it yet (eye roll), her “I’m tired” is kind of like a loaded gun.

  • A further breakdown of what I’M TIRED really means, hip-hop style, if you will (insert chicka-chickah beat here and proceed):

  NOT NOW; I’M STILL MAD AT YOU FOR STEALING MY TIME-OF-THE-MONTH CHOCOLATE DONUT; YOU DIDN’T PUT DOWN THE TOILET SEAT AGAIN, AND SERIOUSLY, DUDE—ROOM SPRAY; WHY DIDN’T YOU PUT THE WINDSHIELD WASHER FLUID IN LIKE YOU SAID YOU WOULD, ’CAUSE OMG I CAN HARDLY SEE OUT THE TINY CIRCLE OF MY DIRTY CAR WINDOW; WHY IS THE DOG POOP STILL ON THE FRONT STEP, AND THEREFORE ON THE BOTTOM OF MY SHOES AND THEY ARE PRADA; AND YO, COULD YOU TAKE OUT THE TRASH THAT GOT PICKED UP, UM, YESTERDAY?

  Listen, I’m the first to admit that women are complicated. Most men, on the other hand, are quite simple in their needs—and they will attest to that. If a guy says he’s tired, he’s usually tired.

  And the reason he forgets stuff at the grocery store? Even with a list? ’Cause he’s bought the chips and the beer. He’s rushing home for one thing and one thing only.

  That is, as long as he has Tivo’d the game.

  My advice, fellas? Clean up the kitchen and for God’s sake, put the seat down.

  I guarantee our fatigue will magically disappear.

  Kinda like that damn clean-up fairy.

  ***

  “Imagine all the men, listening to what chicks say.

  You may say I’m a dreamer. I’m clearly not the only one. #Mancode”

  YOU LOOK FINE—LET’S GO

  Besides fatigue, nothing can kill a mood faster for a chick than a man tapping his foot, saying “Let’s go already!” when she’s doing her best to look pretty. Trying to hurry me along while I put on my makeup is inadvisable if you want dessert later…know what I mean?

  Do women wear makeup for ourselves, our men, or other women? Hell if I know. What I do know is that I’m not going anywhere without my lipstick and mascara…oh, and under eye concealer. Can’t forget that.

  Doesn’t matter who’s looking at me. I love makeup and it loves me. Or something.

  Deal with it.

  I may not look like Pat Benatar, but I can rock a red lip, damn it. Every chick has the right to play with her pots and potions.

  Do not rush me. You will pay.

  “You look fine. Let’s go.” This is what my guy always says, tapping his foot impatiently as I put on my makeup...

  But here’s the thing.

  I don’t want to just look fine. I want to look great, wonderful, knock-his-socks-off fantastic.

  Or, at least some days, good enough to fake it.

  And I know that I can with a little help from my secret potions—mascara, lipstick, and concealer. If, given more time, eye shadow. Well, and eyeliner. And a little foundation. Oh, and some powder, too.

  Hurry, somebody stop me...

  My mother has never been much of a makeup wearer. She, like many women of the Fifties, put on her lipstick, drew on her brows, and off she went into the world. Hello!

  My older sister and I were lucky enough to be born with large eyes and long lashes—and no clue what to do with them. So what did we do? We did what all daughters everywhere do—went to our dad for advice. Huh?

  Well, given that Dad was a manager for Longs Drugs, we soon had his fake-eyelashed cosmetician at our beck and call for personalized instruction—along with the cost plus 10 percent discount on all makeup. Woo-hoo. (First lesson: You don’t pluck your brows—you pluck a chicken. You tweeze your brows.)

  After much trial and error (we really don’t have to discuss that unfortunate lavender mascara, do we?), I’ve become adept over the years at putting on just enough to look like I’m not wearing any, or banging it out for a big night on the town.

  I did have major lipstick anxiety when I found out I was pregnant the first time. My husband never seemed to mind getting lipstick on him—he liked knowing he’d been kissed. Yet I started to worry how on earth was I going to kiss my baby’s precious cheeks (and soft tush and chubby legs and tiny toes) without covering them in goop?

  This was most certainly not covered in the pregnancy bible What to Expect When You’re Expecting—and I had the most updated edition.

  Did being a new mother mean I had to give up lipstick?

  Oh. My. God.

  The husband just shook his head. He clearly didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation. Men.

  I’d ask my friends with new babies not “How was labor?” or “Is breastfeeding difficult?” but “How do you kiss her and not cover her in sticky gloss?”

  I really needed to know.

  But they were no help—they just wanted to talk about poop.

  Thankfully, my trusty Chanel came to the rescue. They make this fabulous Ultra Wear Lip Colour—I don’t know what’s in it, but I do know that it must have been created by NASA or something because it doesn’t dry your lips out and the color stays on forever. It still looks good after kissing your guy or your baby—and after drinking martinis—always a plus.

  Both of my men love it—the little guy calls it “magic lipstick” because I can sneak in kisses on his amazing cheeks and he doesn’t get all goopy. The husband loves it because there’s no taste—he hates glosses that have a taste (can’t say I blame him) and it’s the all-important “Can you put this in your pocket?” size slim.

  If you are a guy reading this, go buy your chick one of these at Nordstrom or Saks— it retails for around $34—pricey yes, but so what? Think of all the kissing you can do and she won’t be worrying about fixing her makeup. Plus, you get major points for actually knowing what Chanel is.

  Of course, my honey still says I look great without all that “stuff.” Mostly I think it’s because he’s just hungry and wants me to decide already where we are going to eat, damn it.

  So I reply, “Thanks—that’s so sweet. Now go away. I’m putting on my makeup.”

  ***

  *Poignancy Alert*

  Occasionally I take a departure from the funny and talk about, oh, real life stuff. Stuff that not even I can make funny. So if you picked up this book just for the funny, skip this section and any other with a poignancy alert tag.

  Don’t worry… I’m not watching :-)

  But if you would like a look at the more serious side of Rachel in the OC, read on…

  INTRODUCTION

  I don’t believe there’s a Girl Scout badge for something like this.

  I had no idea how the unexpected suicide of a man I once loved intensely would affect me.

  A man who crushed me with the weight of his love to the point that I had to make a choice: end it or go forward with our emotional roller coaster of intensity, accepting the scars and heartbreak along with the soaring highs.

  I couldn’t do it. I let go.

  For twenty years, I had let him go. I had moved on with my life. Married, had
children, lived life.

  When he contacted me in the fall of ’09, it shook me. Did I want to revisit the ghosts of all that had, at one time, broken me? I was torn. But, there were many unanswered questions. For those who believe in closure, I did not have anything like that. Perhaps this was a way to get that—for both of us.

  I found our conversations engaging, brave. I didn’t hold back or go easy on him; he was apologetic, tender. His attention to detail shocked me—I had filed and locked safely away much of what he remembered about our good times. Our attraction was magnetic, his strength—undeniable. His temper, jealousy, and alcohol were always issues, but it was his cheating that buried itself deep within me and shaped who I ultimately became.

  We spoke intently for several months, mostly online. A single dad with a young son, I’m not sure what he hoped for. Intimacy, a reconnection, friendship. ( It took only moments—a look—and that was it. We were on our course.) We said so much during those few short months, crafting ourselves carefully into something unique…yet much remained unspoken.

  I didn’t know that he had recently attempted suicide twice before with alcohol and drugs. This time he took no chances. He was a hunter; he made sure he used a gun.

  Unknowingly, I started writing many of my pieces about him with a “D” in the title, the first letter of his name. I didn’t realize this until I started editing this book. Clearly, my subconscious also grapples with his death.

  D came back for me, in his own way. I left him for a reason and I don’t idealize who he was. Yet it took courage on his part to contact me at all, to be a man and stand up for his mistakes.

  His silence leaves me breathless...

  HE LOVED ME THAT MUCH

  My twenties were very different from the funny, tightly knit group seen on Friends.

  Maybe that’s why I loved the show so much—it was the complete antithesis of my experience.

  Part of the reason is that I was deeply in love with a man, D, who was the very protective, jealous type. I thought that was love. It certainly felt that way. Working together at Longs with him created a difficult dynamic when it came to my social life with others.

  When I read an article, about a college girl killed by her jealous boyfriend, it struck me with full force how, to a certain extent, my situation was similar to this girl’s. Not in the physical abuse that Yeardley suffered, or the verbal, mental stuff that went on.

  Adding to all that was the fact that he had contacted me out of the blue in summer ’09, and the crazy aftermath of that; I felt compelled to write about it.

  I read with sad interest about the murder case of young, beautiful college senior Yeardley Love. When she attempted to break up with her handsome, wealthy boyfriend he shook her, repeatedly hitting her head against a wall until she died. She was found later, lying in a pool of blood, alone.

  Many of her lacrosse teammates and friends, at the University of Virginia, where she was a star player, knew that she was in an abusive relationship. As did his. In fact, two of his teammates had to pull him off Yeardley during a violent rage only a few months prior to her death. And supposedly there is evidence of texts and e-mails threatening to kill her just days prior.

  Yet, she stayed with him. This bright, beautiful girl who was just weeks away from graduating with a degree in political science. Known to all as thoughtful, giving, fun, positive.

  How could she have been stupid enough to stay? Ah, there is the rub.

  I feel fortunate to say that I’ve never been with a man who hit me. But I have been with a man who was violent. Who hit others, frequently, in jealous rages, over me. Who punched walls in anger when we argued. Who verbally abused me. Why?

  Because he loved me.

  It sounds so silly and trite. But this was my first real love affair. I was nineteen, as was he. We met at work. He had an apartment. It all seemed rather grown-up, if you will. And it was great.

  At first.

  All consuming, as first loves often are. But dating someone you work with can be complicated, gossip invariably encroaches on your little cocoon of whispers and kisses, of late nights spent exploring only each other—and jealousy will flare and rage.

  I found that he wanted more and more of my time—something I desperately wanted as well; yet I was putting myself through college and working, which left us precious little time together. Somehow those small intervals we did have degenerated into deflecting work gossip or calming his nerves about guys at school stealing me away.

  Still, I found his possessiveness flattering.

  Soon we fell into a routine: He would call me to be sure I was home when I said I would be. He would check my answering machine to see if any guys called me. If they had (usually study or lab partners), he would freak, grilling me for hours about the nature of the relationship. He didn’t understand how women could just be friends with guys— that yes, Billy Crystal, it is entirely possible.

  I didn’t realize at the time how controlling he had become—I just thought he wanted me, loved me more than most boyfriends did. I felt special, protected, and yes, loved.

  When a mutual male friend from work called me to ask if I wanted to come over for a get-together with some work folks, I said sure. Like most young people, my work crew was also my friend crew. My guy was invited, but had to work and couldn’t make it, and therefore didn’t want me to go. I dug my heels in—if the situation was reversed, he would go and would give me all kinds of grief if I were upset. At this point he went out and punched my car.

  So no, I didn’t go.

  He loved me that much.

  So we would fight, I’d be in tears, he’d hit something, then we’d have incredible make-up sex, with tearful apologies from him that he would never do that again, and threats from me that I’d be gone if he did. When he was good, he was amazing.

  And I loved the amazing.

  And so it went. For several years.

  The article about Yeardley discusses how to look for SIGNS OF ABUSE in our young daughters:

  She doesn’t spend as much time with family and friends (check)

  The relationship has wild ups and downs (check)

  She is afraid to miss a phone call from her guy (check)

  Her boyfriend constantly insults her (check)

  When you are young and caught up in this cycle of “love,” it’s impossible to understand how someone like Yeardley would ever stay with a guy who would hurt her or play constantly with her emotions.

  But I understand. I get it.

  My guy would constantly make fun of my clothes, tell me a new haircut looked “lousy” (a word that I still hate to this day and one you will never hear me say or see me write), chide me about my friends, and tease me about my family.

  My family was great. They took one look at him and told me to run, quickly, the other way. My dad decided to rhyme his name with something akin to vomit.

  But I didn’t listen. I was in love.

  I hung on. I believed he was good, that we were good. That I could make him good. That is, until I went over to his place after work one night and saw a mascara tube next to the bathroom sink that was definitely not my brand.

  I can still feel my heart crashing to this day.

  Still, after about six months, I took him back. The physical connection was undeniable. He asked me to move in with him.

  No, I had enough brains not to.

  It was never the same, though. My trust was broken along with my heart. He knew that I had dated other guys in that six-month period and couldn’t handle the thought of me with another man. The taunts about my looks continued as I graduated and got a new sales job that took me out of town, off to meet all kinds of new people. I think his ego just couldn’t handle it, and he snapped.

  Out of the Book of Extraordinary Coincidences, he began secretly dating a colleague’s roommate. To this day I still can’t believe the synchronicity of these events.

  My colleague’s roommate was also a sales rep from the Bay Area. We live
d in Sacramento. The similarities were astounding: She was also Jewish (he was not—blond hair, tall, blue eyes, could fix stuff); she had large green eyes, sales job, college grad, though her hair was brown. Why he was attracted to her was not lost on me.

  So, how did I find out? Oh, just one of those things. He said he was out with his friends for the weekend and then I spoke with my colleague with whom I had now become friends, she told me her roommate’s new boyfriend was down and his name was D.