“Were you talking about how fat I am? Are you saying, ‘you gotta get him to the gym?’”
I’d never had a guy get physical with me before, but I wasn’t about to let myself be victimized, especially not over some dude’s lame body issues. I broke free and stormed out.
Headlocks are a deal breaker, and while I would’ve been more than justified in using the fade-out on this guy, I wanted him to know never to contact me again. So I emailed him a short, civil, note that said, “After your behavior last night, I don’t feel comfortable moving forward in our relationship. I have no hard feelings, and I wish you well.”
Well.
He saw my one paragraph and raised me six. He replied with an epic email detailing what a snob I was, how he “expected more” from me, that I could “at least treat him with a bit more respect” and explain myself. He conceded that his behavior “may have been immature, brutish, and insensitive,” but claimed it wasn’t nearly as callous—if he knew a word that big—as my refusal to give him a chance to “learn from [his] mistakes.”
It ended with a final paragraph written entirely in the third person: “I’m sorry Francesca Serritella from Philadelphia thinks she’s too good to get to know [Idiot’s Name Redacted] from Long Island, New York.”
[Idiot’s Name Redacted] should be the title of my future romantic memoirs.
So there are pitfalls to being a straight shooter, but in general I think it’s the right thing to do.
Unfortunately, I’m out of practice.
So recently, when things fizzled with this guy I’d been seeing, I was dreading breaking the news to him.
And lo and behold, the mutual fade-out appeared to save the day.
He and I both slowly fell off each other’s planets at exactly the same time.
It’s pretty much the best ever. No awkward conversation. No hurt feelings. No problem.
I pulled it off almost by accident. Looking at our stats, I was on the fence about whether I could get away with a fade-out. We had been on six dates, which is right on the borderline for blow-offs, but, because I was traveling a lot, our relationship was spread out over a couple months, which points to a phone call, at least. I was going to bite the bullet, I just hadn’t gotten around to it.
While I was procrastinating, it dawned on me—hey, I haven’t heard from him either.
Thing is, I’m kind of surprised. I thought he liked me. I thought it was only me who didn’t like him. I thought telling him I didn’t want to see him again would hurt his feelings.
So it’s good that it was mutual, of course.
Because I didn’t not like him. I simply began to think we were too different, and the fragile bubble of my crush had popped. The truth is, I might’ve given him one more chance.
Just to be polite.
I knew we weren’t going to work out in the long haul. He’d flaked out on me on our penultimate date, canceling our Friday night plans at 6:30 P.M., after making me get in touch with him to confirm. Six-thirty is too late to cancel on a weekend night; I thought it was rude and unreliable. So that was the beginning of the end for me.
But wait.
What if his flaking out was the beginning of the end for him?
That would mean his beginning began before mine.
Maybe when I thought I was giving him a second chance, he was already giving me my third.
Even so, when I said goodbye to him after our last date a week ago, I knew that it would be the last time I’d see him.
I just hope he knows that.
You didn’t fire me, I quit.
The other night, I had a dream where I saw him at a party. He was in a full-body cast, complete with a halo brace, and he was deeply apologetic that he hadn’t been in touch:
“I would’ve called, if it weren’t for the accident…”
I’m glad to know that my subconscious has such great self-esteem.
Although also in my dream, I rebuffed him when he asked me out.
Yes, dream-me broke up with a man after an accident that put him in a body cast.
Less glad to know that my subconscious is a heartless bitch.
But I guess that proves it, I really don’t want to see him again. And apparently he doesn’t want to see me either. And nobody got hurt. The technicality of who dumped who doesn’t matter in the slightest.
Who cares?
Not me.
Moving on.
(Are you buying any of that?)
Ugh. See? This is why I don’t do the fade-out.
The Good Wife or the Dumb Wife?
By Lisa
Things just got real for the Real Housewives.
As you may have heard, Joe Giudice and his wife, Teresa, who is one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey on Bravo TV, are going to jail for bankruptcy fraud.
I’m going to miss Teresa, whose lack of anger management was a thing of beauty. She famously turned over a table in anger, and I don’t know a single woman in the world who hasn’t dreamed of doing that, or at least being the kind of woman who would do that, on impulse.
By the way, when she flipped the table, she yelled “prostitution whore,” which is a great thing to yell at any time.
Try it and see.
At home.
Not in the library.
Everybody made fun of Teresa because it wasn’t the most literate phrase, but to be fair, English isn’t her first language, and in any event, you need to have fun in life. So when you’re about to turn over a table in a blind rage, feel free to scream whatever noun combination you can come up with.
For example, flip a table and yell “bankruptcy fraud.”
It’s fun.
I also think Teresa and Joe deserve to go to jail for Perpetuating Italian-American Stereotypes. I’m proud of my Italian-American heritage, which is as plain as the nose on my face.
Mother Mary always liked to say that we got more oxygen than anybody else in the room.
She’s always with me in spirit, especially when I breathe in.
Anyway, I hate it when an Italian-American does something bad, whether it’s a crime like bankruptcy fraud or a simple error in judgment, like not marrying me.
I’m talking to you, Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro, and Bradley Cooper, whose mother is Italian-American.
For us, that counts.
In fact, if you like Italian food, you’re Italian to us.
We’re liberal in our interpretation.
We take all comers.
Especially Bradley Cooper.
Also we need new team members.
To replace the ones who go to jail.
Just kidding.
Anyway, I cringed when I saw that Joe Giudice had committed tax fraud, because it was a trend that Al Capone started, and people are going to get the idea that Italian-Americans don’t pay their taxes, which will mean that they think I don’t pay my taxes, and I will never get the credit I deserve for paying every last penny and then some.
I pay my taxes, people.
Finally, I admit, I feel bad for the true victims of the Giudices, their four young daughters. It’s never a good thing when mom is going to jail for over a year and dad for about four years. The court staggered their sentences, so that Teresa can go to jail after Christmas, and then her husband will serve his time after she returns.
You might think the timing is a sweet deal, granted because of their TV fame, and you might be right.
So Bravo!
I watched Teresa being interviewed on TV last night with her husband, Joe, and her defense was that she signed whatever he put in front of her without reading it first.
Was she The Good Wife?
Or The Dumb Wife?
As a result, she’s no longer a Housewife.
To be honest, she is not the first woman who has made that mistake.
I’ve even done it, and I’m a lawyer.
So ladies, have we learned our lesson?
I have.
We don’t want to be seen as Only The
Wife anymore, and we can’t have it both ways.
We can live blissfully, just not blissfully ignorant.
Troublemaker
By Lisa
Well, that settles it.
I’m not moving to China.
You probably read last week about Guo Yushan, a Chinese man who was arrested there, for breaking the country’s law against “picking quarrels and provoking troubles.”
Yikes.
Somebody needs to stop sweating the small stuff.
Lighten up, China.
I can’t imagine making a law against picking quarrels and provoking troubles. I don’t think life is worth living if you can’t pick a quarrel or provoke troubles, from time to time.
In fact, I was raised to pick quarrels and provoke troubles.
Mother Mary specialized in picking quarrels and provoking troubles.
I remember the time I ordered her a crossword puzzle jar from the New York Times, but it never got delivered to her. She raised holy hell with the New York Times itself.
The Gray Lady was no match for my gray lady.
I wouldn’t want to live in a country in which nobody picks quarrels or provokes troubles.
First, there would be no lawyers.
Okay, maybe that’s a bad argument.
Please don’t think I’m making fun of the Chinese situation, because I’m just trying to find the humor in it, which is exactly what Mr. Guo did himself, before he was arrested. He predicted his own arrest because, two years ago, he had helped his friend, a blind legal activist, escape to the United States with his family.
So Mr. Guo knew he’d get in trouble for making trouble.
Because, under Chinese law, that’s the same thing as helping your friend.
Who just happens to be blind.
I’m pretty sure the Chinese government must have a heart, but I’m not sure exactly where.
I’m guessing they kick puppies in their spare time.
Seeing Eye puppies.
But to be fair to China, the world abounds with people who wish you would just Sit Down and Shut Up, and some of those people make their way to the top of companies.
Like Microsoft.
I’m referring to Mr. Satya Nadella, who recently advised female employees in the tech industry not to ask for raises. He said, “It’s not really about asking for the raise, but knowing and having faith that the system will actually give you the right raises as you go along. It’s good karma. It will come back.”
In other words, ladies, don’t pick quarrels.
Don’t make trouble.
Sit down and shut up, and the system will reward you.
Is there any woman in the world who believes this is a good way to operate, in any area of her life, on any planet in this or any other galaxy?
Honestly, I tried that and it doesn’t work.
Mr. Nadella also said, “That’s the kind of person that I want to trust, that I want to give more responsibility to.”
Of course, as soon as he said this, any woman worth her ovaries threw a fit, so he later apologized for being “inarticulate.”
I disagree.
I think he was articulate, and he said exactly what he thinks, and I don’t accept his apology.
You can’t apologize for being sexist.
The only thing he’s sorry for is that he said it out loud, to a roomful of people with ears.
And ovaries.
What scares me is that his attitude isn’t unique to him, CEOs, or even men, but there are plenty of women who feel the same way.
I myself was one of them.
I was a good girl, who did all the homework and got good grades, so I naturally assumed that if I kept quiet and kept doing well, success would follow.
I learned the hard way that it doesn’t.
That you not only have to ask for what you want, but if they don’t give it to you, you have to go out and get it, all by yourself.
Bring a club, so that you can bonk it on the head and drag it home, if that’s what it takes.
And by the way, it might take years to get what you want, but don’t be patient.
On the contrary, be impatient.
Ask, then demand, and if you have to, get out your club.
Karma might work, but it takes too long, and why wait?
These are the things I taught myself, because I had simply forgotten the lesson that Mother Mary used to say to me, which isn’t exactly sweet and motherly-sounding, but is profoundly true:
She always said, “Lisa, don’t take any crap.”
Only she didn’t say “crap.”
Because she was cooler than that.
Mother Mary would not have done well in China.
God bless her.
Seeing Ghosts
By Francesca
Last night, I ran into my ex-boyfriend’s best friend while on a date with someone new.
This wasn’t a passing glance or a casual bump on the sidewalk; this was a full-on meet-and-greet. We were at a Brooklyn biergarten, and I had just put my purse down on the chair when I locked eyes with the person sitting at the very next table.
“Hey!” I cried, sounding like someone calling for help.
“Francesca!” He mirrored my expression of shock and fear.
But we hugged—I was with my ex for two years, so his friends had become my friends, too, and although I relinquished any claim on them now, I still had genuine affection for this guy. I just wished I’d run into him at any other time than this.
After making rapid, anxious small chat, my ex’s friend introduced me to his three pals, which meant I had to introduce him to my date. As they shook hands, I could feel my smile twitching.
“Well, it was so good to see you!” I grabbed my date by the arm and wheeled him away.
“You don’t want to sit with your friend?” he asked in my ear.
“Nope.” I didn’t know how to explain it further without sounding preoccupied with my ex, and I didn’t want my date to feel as awkward as I did.
We sat farther away, but over my date’s shoulder, I could see my ex’s friend sneaking glances in our direction.
Or maybe I was the one glancing at him.
Eventually, my date decided to sit beside me for a cuddle, and I realized two things, 1) we were now in full view of their table, and 2) I could no longer hide my discomfort.
I didn’t want my date to think he was the problem, so I spoke the words that never need explanation to a man:
“Let’s get out of here.”
Misleading, perhaps, but it got us out of there without finishing the beers.
When I told my mom and my friends the story the next day, the general take was: awesome! And some petty part of me did enjoy it. Running into your ex’s friend has all the envy-inducing benefits of seeing your actual ex with none of the pathos. If I had to be seen by a member of the enemy camp, at least I was wearing a red dress, with a tall, well-built guy on a Saturday night.
If we were keeping score, I was up one.
But it didn’t feel like a win. Seeing the ex-friend that night threw me off my game. He didn’t fit into the version of my life I was trying to create with this new person. He was a reminder of the past, a ghost, and I wanted to feel carefree and open to indulge in the heady promise of potential.
And I definitely didn’t want to think of my ex out with a new girl.
When a chapter of our life ends, we want the metaphor to be made literal. We want to turn the page and leave the past behind, completely. But that’s not possible.
Not in a small town like New York.
Even without physically seeing an ex, we have Facebook and Instagram to sprinkle breadcrumbs of past loves, leading us backwards instead of forward. Before I ran into his friend, I had avoided my ex’s social-media presence completely and without effort. But afterwards, I found myself creeping online.
The next morning he posted a picture with the friend I ran into. I wondered if he told him. I wondered if I wanted him t
o.
In other pictures, I saw he attended a friend’s wedding, one that we had both been invited to before we broke up. He had told me to put it in my calendar, but I hadn’t. I remembered wishing otherwise but knowing that we weren’t going to make it to summer.
Now, I couldn’t stop myself from combing through the photos, scanning for him, reading into body language, trying to see if he’d brought a new plus one.
It didn’t look like he had, I thought, with too much relief.
You want to move on from your old life, but you don’t want it to move on from you.
Past lives stubbornly live on in art. I write about past and present relationships often. But for the first time, it’s a fair fight. My ex is an artist himself, a musician. It’s been five months since we broke up, and although we didn’t end on bad terms, we haven’t seen or spoken to each other since. Now, all of a sudden, I feel a fleeting urge to go to one of his shows.
I’m not really sure what I’d seek to accomplish by doing so. In my fantasy, I don’t go to the show to reopen any doors, or even to get an ill-advised drink with him afterwards. I simply feel a wish to go by myself, listen, then leave.
“So then why go at all?” my best friend asked when I confessed my thoughts to her.
I’m not really sure. Maybe to spook him. Maybe to spook myself.
“I guess I just want to listen to the music. Look for signs of happiness, of sadness.”
Look for signs of me.
But I probably won’t go.
Because as hard as it is to accept that the ghosts of our past linger in our lives and surroundings, it’s even harder to accept when they leave no trace at all.
Quarantine Me
By Lisa
Today we’re talking quarantine.
In short, I’m in favor.
Quarantine me.
You know, of course, I’m talking about the recent Ebola epidemic, and it goes without saying that this epidemic is horrific and terrifying. My heart goes out to anyone in the world who has lost someone they loved due to this dreaded disease. And my prayers are with anyone who has contracted Ebola. And thank God for the doctors, nurses, and others who are going over to West Africa to fight the epidemic, because they are true heroes.
Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?: True Stories and Confessions Page 14
