It is inevitable that in the end we all get what we deserve. Some people call it brujeria and others santeria. I simply call it karma.
Point of Insertion
Although an intelligent woman with a PhD and adept at always getting her way, my mother has never been good at expressing her feelings. Reserved by nature and raised by her blind grandmother, Mom immediately shunned any relative who attempted to initiate the birds and the bees talk or explain how a woman’s body worked.
When her first period struck at 13, my Mom thought she was suffering from a rare and terminal illness. For months on end she used old towels to “stop the bleeding” and stored them away in an effort to conceal her imminent death to loved ones.
During my own childhood and teenage years, she never spoke to me about anything too personal, almost choking when at 12 I knocked on her door and said, “I need a pad because it happened.” I distinctly recall her uncontrollable weeping as I desperately searched for the adequate words to console her.
In Cuba, tampons were unheard of, so it’s granted that when the time finally came for me to enter womanhood, maxi-pads were the only acceptable option. My mom explained that tampons “were for hookers” and they would get me sick, making me promise I’d never come near them as I vigorously conceded. Of course pads were uncomfortable and sometimes moved while blood leaked everywhere, embarrassing me publicly on more than one occasion if I ever wore light colors. This said, I was hardwired to fear the unknown as a result of my mother’s warnings, and tampons were as foreign to me as friendly chupacabras and UFOs.
Fast forward to adulthood.
The year’s 2002 and I’m 20, fully aware tampons aren’t going to kill me even if I never used them. My good friend Jeremy and I are at a party, another summer outing that would end on someone’s couch; two friends and their insatiable hunger for fun and bullshit on a Saturday night. It’s midnight and Jeremy’s huddled in a corner already past the point of no return, trying to buy a blonde drinks as she explains that it’s a house and drinks are fucking free. I excuse myself from a sweaty guy attempting to pick me up and make my way to the bathroom for a bit of privacy. As I shut the door behind me and turn on the lights, I see my monthly has returned and I’ve spotted a bit on my underwear. I quickly finish my business and look for a girl named Linda whom I vaguely remember as the owner of the house. I tell her I got my period and she gives me a blank stare.
“Uh, yeah,” I continue. “So do you have a pad I can borrow?”
“Pfft! A pad?!” she laughs. “Who the heck uses those?”
“My grandma?”
She looks at me quizzically then lets out a squeal. “You’re a funny girl, Annah. Come and I’ll get you some tampons.”
Five minutes later I’m back in the bathroom holding two plastic sticks Linda just gave me. I could’ve been holding a dead goat dripping in blood for Christmas dinner and been less clueless as to my next step. It is at this juncture where I resort to calling my best friend and pray to Jesus she answers, which she does after five rings.
Olivia: This better be good.
Me: It is super urgent, so listen up. How do you use a tampon?
Olivia: Oh my God, say you’re kidding. Aren’t you almost 30?
Me: I’m 20, bitch. And I’ve got me a serious problem here. What do I do?
Olivia: It’s easy. Just take it out of the wrapper, put it in, and make sure the string hangs out of your hoo ha. That’s it.
Me: That’s it?
Olivia: Yes, babe. Super easy!
So what was the big fuss all about? I couldn’t believe I hadn’t resorted to tampon usage a decade before. I snatched my little Tampax applicator and shoved it in there, making sure the string hung like Olivia had instructed. After zipping my jeans and making sure the southern situation was secure, I left the bathroom to fetch me some hunch punch.
I had taken all of eight steps when it hit me:
The morning after, Olivia and I were in hysterics over the fact I’d left the plastic applicator inside, which pinched my tender lady skin with every single attempt to walk. That night it wasn’t quite as funny. As soon as he spotted me in a corner with a possible look of constipation, Jeremy made a beeline in my direction. “Yooo. You alright, homie?” he asked, barely taking his lips off his cup to utter the words. I said nothing, dragging him to Linda’s room instead and explained my dilemma. He didn’t seem very interested or sympathetic to my tragedy but then said, “You must’ve done something wrong. Take it out.”
“I can’t just take it out, Jeremy. I’m going to bleed all over the place.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, can’t you shove some toilet paper in there ’til we figure it out tomorrow?”
“I’m bleeding like a race horse and you think toilet paper’s going to solve it? Get a clue.”
“What about paper towels? Them Bountys are fucking absorbent,” he whispered to no one in particular.
I couldn’t help but glare at him in my mortified state.
“Call Olivia and ask her if it’s supposed to feel like that. You must’ve done something wrong.”
“You said that already,” I grumpily stated but picked up the phone anyway.
Olivia didn’t answer the second time around and after much deliberation I was convinced by Jeremy to let him take it out. “I’ll put the other one in for you. I know how it’s done.”
“And how exactly do you know this?”
So that was the night I let my friend Jeremy help me insert a tampon properly right after he took two shots from a flask of whiskey he always carried with him.
The next morning we found ourselves on Linda’s couch.
I woke up groggy in his arms, with fuzzy recollections of the previous evening and no hangover.
“You know, Annah, I had the strangest dream last night,” he mused. “We were lying in bed and all of the sudden you tore off your pants and showed me your vagina. Is that your way of telling me you want me?”
“Of course,” I said, promptly excavating the depths of my mind to find a pool of mortification waiting there to wash over me.
“So what happened to that blonde girl?” I nudged his shoulder playfully and feigned interest in an effort to change the subject. “Did you finally get to buy her a drink?”
He yawned and looked confused for a moment before answering, “Why would I buy anyone drinks at a house party, dude? They’re, like, free.”
I sat there quietly thinking if I should even try to explain the answer to him as I adjusted my hat and sighed.
“Let’s have Bloody Marys!” he said while getting up and sauntering to the kitchen.
I took that as my cue to run to the bathroom and check on my new absorbent friend. It wasn’t a surprise to see that unlike its winged frenemy, he hadn’t betrayed me in a puddle of leakage. And that was the day I became a believer, or as my mom would be horrified to learn, a tampon-wearing hooker.
Interlude
I initially relished the idea of writing about my first love and his deceitful ways, spinning me into a web of insecurities and trust issues that comes with the territory called womanhood. The truth is I’d probably bore you to tears when all the fun is beginning, and that’s the last thing I yearn for in this quest of progressive awesomeness. Also, I have an inkling that every girl’s “first love” story is exactly like mine, so there’s really no point to retelling it in detail.
He was beautiful.
He pretended to be in love with me to get what he wanted.
He eventually did.
He followed it by breaking my heart.
Then promptly left me for a model who worked in Milan.*
*Milan, Italy. Not to be confused for Milan, Tennessee. Although I’m sure the models in Milan, Tennessee, are much nicer and speak better English.
It is my deep belief that in love and war fat girls always finish last. While I can’t exactly claim to have been a chubsters in my early youth, when your nemesis weighs 90 pounds wet, you’ll ete
rnally be the fat girl in a tragedy you never want to revisit (unless you’re drunk at a bar talking to a stranger who’s possibly passed out or dead). The thing I didn’t know then but realize now after having friended many a model and fat girl, is that we all suffer the same when men of the handsome kind are involved.
We begin to doubt ourselves.
We turn to mush.
We settle for less.
We take their shit.
We crumble to nothing.
We ultimately send them to hell.
We eat a lot of cupcakes.
We down too many mimosas.
Then one day, we snap the hell out of it.
And just when we thought we were wiser to no one’s surprise, we do it all over again with the next guy.
Shit Happens
Months spent in tearful agony came and went as I got over the fact that most times, destiny knows best. I harbored a tiny shred of hope that at some point the idiot you just read about and his model girlfriend would break up (which of course they did), and he’d come to his senses (which he eventually did), and I’d love him forever (which I remarkably didn’t). That’s the beauty of fretting over something for so long, just when things start going your way, you no longer give a shit.
After getting over my little existential crisis, life went on and it was time to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. I first took a chance on journalism, thinking reporting in front of a camera wouldn’t be such a bad way to earn a living for a young dreamer like myself. I quickly changed my mind after interning at Telemundo and realizing reporters work nights, weekends, and every single holiday known to man, including every apocalyptic scare. I preferred spending those times cuddling in bed with a burrito supreme, so there went that idea. I then turned to business and marketing, but seeing I could hardly balance my personal check book, it’s safe to say those were fleeting ventures. After much deliberation, I decided on psychology. Here’s what no one will tell you because they’re assholes: Psychology isn’t a real major unless you’re going for your masters or beyond. If this isn’t the case, save yourself and go for stripping.
After declaring psych as my main interest of study, I worked full time and attended classes in the evenings and weekends. I took every summer off because summers-are-for-fun-and-I-stick-by-my-choice, even though it only delayed my graduation about, say, 27 years. The summer was almost over and I was miserably single, spending a lot of time with one of my closest friends, Michael. People often assumed we were more than pals since we spent every breathing moment together, but M and I shared one of those rare friendships where both people are straight and marginally attractive yet never consider crossing the friend zone line. One Saturday morning, I woke up alone in Michael’s bed. He’d left me a note on his computer saying he’d be at the gym and to “make myself at home,” as if I needed him to tell me that. I quickly looked at the time and realized it was past noon. Seeing I was still living with my parents and they would never condone me sleeping over a guy’s house, I hurriedly put on my sweatpants and ran out of his room, grabbing my purse on the way out.
“Where you rushing off to?” said Michael’s mom from the kitchen.
“You startled me, Mrs. Hernandez,” I gasped, forcing myself to slow down and walk over to greet her with a kiss.
“Did Michael leave you for the gym again?” she squeezed my cheek fondly and returned her attention to the oatmeal she was making. “That boy is obsessed. Here, have some breakfast before you go.”
“No, thank you. I can’t really stay,” I kissed her cheek again and started walking toward the door. “I’ll see you later.”
“Another Blockbuster night?”
“Most likely,” I yelled before shutting the door and finally heading home.
After opening the electric gate and parking my car, I felt lazy and decided to wait for the elevator instead of taking the three flights up to my apartment. I was distractedly going over my to-do list for the day as the elevator took its sweet time. When the beat up door finally opened, I was lost in thought doing mental laundry and smacked right into someone coming out, knocking a bag full of candy to the floor. I instinctively got to work and began to pick up the contents of the bag, stuffing them in without looking up. “I’m so sorry,” I muttered.
“No big,” the guy standing in front of me replied.
I didn’t recognize the voice but looked up anyway and became paralyzed to find him looking down at me. You know that older guy who lives in your building/goes to your gym/washes your car, whom you harbor the biggest crush on ever? That was Noah. Handsome. Boyish. Totally unattainable. Wearing a burgundy Seminoles t-shirt with tanned cargo pants and flip flops, he never looked better. He grinned, and I spotted a hint of pity in his brown eyes as he stared at me in thoughtful silence.
“I’m so sorry,” I said once again, barely a whisper this time.
“It’s not a problem,” he blessed me with a megawatt smile. “You weren’t looking.”
I handed him the bag and stepped past him into the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor violently as the door slowly groaned its way shut.
“See you around.”
“Uh-huh.” My heart pounded loudly and I saw my reflection staring back at me from the elevator mirrors. Sweatpants, oversized t-shirt that belonged to Michael, hair piled in a messy bun atop my head secured with a pencil, and a look of dejected terror in my eyes.
The following Saturday morning, a loud pounding on my door woke me. I dragged my numb behind out of bed and opened to see Michael holding a six pack of Bud Light and a plastic bag. “Let’s go to your pool,” he announced cheerfully and took out a purple bong from the bag.
“Good morning to you too, cupcake,” I yawned.
He smacked a loud kiss on my forehead and sat at the dining table, totally unfazed.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m smoking weed. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“My parents are going to kill me. Stop that right now!” I did my best to sound angry.
“Your parents are in Cuba for a week. We’ll Febreze the shit out of this place before they come so, please, try to relax.”
I walked over to my fridge and pulled out some milk to make café con leche while he cheerfully inhaled from the bong at warp speed. When he was done, he stood up and stripped to his swimming shorts right in my kitchen, revealing the results from long hours at the gym. I tried hard not to stare, but it was a futile effort considering he looked like he’d just stepped out of an Abercrombie ad and into my apartment. I felt a twinge of jealousy laced with desire as I looked at him, fully aware I didn’t look anywhere near as fit in my bikini.
“I look good, don’t I?” he winked at me. “Say it.”
I shrugged my shoulders and remained silent, waving my finger at him.
“Yeah right,” he sneered. “You totally want me.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were tanning by the pool trying to survive in the sauna that is Miami on any given summer day. We hadn’t been there long when Noah showed up with a group of girls and a cooler the size of a truck. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him but I succeeded at pretending I was unaware of their arrival. Michael was elated to be entertained by the new boobs and making a spectacle out of ogling them in his very high state. I was sipping a Diet Coke through a straw when Michael turned to me and asked, “Do you know that guy over there with those hotties?”
“Not really,” I offered nonchalantly. “I think he went to high school with us during our freshman year or something but I’m not a hundred percent sure. Why?”
“He keeps staring at you,” he smirked. “Maybe he likes you, in a creepy pedophile sort of way.”
“Maybe I have big booger in my nose,” I tilted my head back so he could see, “and he’s only three years older.”
He brought my head down and frowned. “You don’t have any boogers that are visible, stupid. And you’re an okay looking girl,” he sighed. �
�I mean, nothing compared to those hoochies he’s with, but you’re alright.”
“Thank you so much, honey,” I said sarcastically. “What would I do without you?” I rolled my eyes and lay back down, blocking the hope that reared its head out in my mind in light of what I’d just learned. Asides from a refreshing swim in the pool, nothing meaningful happened that afternoon, yet every time I sneaked a peek at Noah, his eyes were boldly locked with mine.
I was on the phone with Britt that night while cooking, filling her in on the Noah gossip and his strange behavior at the pool. “I don’t know what the big deal is,” she sounded annoyed. “Why wouldn’t he be looking at you?”
“Um, because he never so much as glanced my way in high school? Maybe he’s just sorry for me.”
“Sorry my ass,” she laughed on the other end of the line. “He saw you with Michael and now he wants you. That’s how men work.”
I pondered the thought for a moment and couldn’t help but acknowledge that even though her brain was like a Taylor Swift song on replay, Britt often times struck genius when it came to the opposite sex. “Michael is pretty hot. Maybe it makes me look more attractive to be hanging out with him.”
“Pretty hot? I don’t know why you’re not screwing him instead of day dreaming about Noah, you fool.”
“Men and women reserve the right to be friends without sleeping together.”
“And you reserve the right to be an idiot,” she shot back with conviction. “You and Michael do that well. He’s gay and you’re a come mierda.” With this she hung up and I was left without the chance to defend myself or Michael’s heterosexuality. I took out a jar of alfredo sauce from the cupboard and began to pour its contents into the skillet while a No Doubt song played in the background. Pounding at the door startled me and I dropped the empty jar of alfredo, the shattered bits of glass and sauce spreading on my kitchen floor and walls. The pounding continued, louder this time.
Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story Page 3
