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The self-appointed "committee" keeps spamming me via Facebook and e-mail, so I know it's coming: My ten-year high school reunion, something that in my mind is akin to the ten-year anniversary of my narrow escape from being forced to shank someone in prison.
Granted, I hated them all at the time (or at the very least 85 percent of them), but I stopped caring about them approximately nine years ago and began devoting my energy to more important things, like popping zits and brushing my cat.
Here are the other reasons I'm not going to my high school reunion:
1. I can live without chugging a bottle of champagne, smashing it on the ground, brandishing it like a weapon and screaming, "You're all cunts, all of you! I still hate you all!"
2. What will I wear? If I dress too formally, it will look like I'm trying too hard; if I wear flip-flops and jorts (read: dress how I normally do), everyone will assume I live in a van down by the river; if I wear a simple, casual dress, it won't fit quite right and my black bra will hang out because it always does, and everyone will assume I bought it at Target. And they'll be right -- I will have totally panicked at the last minute, purchased it at Target on my way to the venue and put it on in the parking lot. There is no way to win.
3. I don't remember most of my junior and senior years of high school. Confession: I smoked a lot of pot. But also I'm not sure I want to remember -- I was in a fucked-up relationship with a real sorry excuse for a male human at the time, and I'm afraid returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak, will cause long-dead emotions to rise from their graves like zombies, gnaw my flesh and slurp my brains like spaghetti.
4. Some of my former classmates are going to be fat and ugly now. Some of them are going to be bald; others are going to be wearing mom jeans. Due to excessive tanning, others are going to resemble a leather handbag that was left in the rain, then the sun, and then rediscovered in a dumpster by a homeless lady who uses it to haul around aluminum cans and bits of wadded-up tissue. Still others are going to be smoking hot, and I'll probably want to check out their asses. Do I care who falls into which category? Not especially. I'd much rather use my imagination.
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5. I have nothing to say to these people. I haven't seen them in ten years. I don't want to see pictures of their kids. I don't care where they work, if they still live at home, or if they, as sheltered Midwestern kids from the suburbs, tried to make it in the "big city" and either failed or were wildly successful. At this point, it's the same as hearing this shit from some stranger I just met at the grocery store who won't shut the fuck up when all I want to do is go home so I can put my ice cream in the freezer.
6. Facebook. Enough said.
Today I received an invitation to a bridal shower in honor of a good friend of mine. And that's fantastic -- she is a smart, sexy, funny woman who has found a wonderful man to share her life with, and I couldn't be happier for her.
But then, like the ants that keep coming back in my kitchen despite my repeated attempts to murder them with bleach, the word "single-ism" crawled all over my goodwill like those 20-times-their-body-weight-carrying sons of bitches on a forgotten cupcake.
I couldn't shake the feeling: It seems unfair that individuals who have already found the loves of their lives also get rewarded with lavish showers, parties and tax breaks.
As a single, 28-year-old girl who is not -- and has never been -- engaged, my only option if I want a new sheet set, accent rug or non-stick frying pan is to buy it myself. I don't get to walk around Target with a scanner gun ticking expensive household items off my wish list. I don't get to invite friends over for mimosas and cheese cubes and be presented with gifts from said list. Instead I -- with my single income -- get to live in an apartment where people fuck hookers outside my bedroom window and I routinely find empty bottles of gin and women's earrings in the parking lot -- true story.
And I know this sounds bitter; it's not supposed to. I never thought I'd still be single at 28, but here I am, and it's really not as bad as I'd imagined; in fact, I like to think of it as an adventure. Is it possible that I'll still be single at 38, 48, 58? I suppose, and my thoughts and feelings about that possibility revise themselves every day. Regardless, I know I'll survive (and hey, I might even be awesome).
But I still cannot abide a society that not only punishes but seems to frown upon people who, through choice or circumstance, end up remaining single. Case in point: Ever notice that when discussing someone who's maybe a little "different" or possibly "crazy," one of the first things people say is, "Well, he/she has never been married," as though this indicates some sort of fucked-up personal failing?
And this greater societal belief, that there's something inherently wrong with being single, has rubbed off on our traditions so that we reward people for finding love and companionship and ignore people who do what takes some real goddamn courage: Slog through life, deal with plodding day-to-day bullshit, solve problems, overcome sadness and insecurities, grieve, cry, scream, laugh and never stop trying, all on their own, with no one to rely on but themselves.
That's not to say that if the opportunity for love and a shared life presented itself, I wouldn't jump on it. (Another thing that takes some fucking balls: Loving again after you've been burned.) But in the meantime, I propose that once a year on -- what's today? -- June 10, single people should get wasted with all their single friends, pat each other on the back and say, "Congratulations, you melancholy fuck, you fucking made it."
And then the next day, we'll all get some goddamn coffee and go print off our friends' registries at Target.
(Note: I do not intend to make it sound as though I believe marriage is a solution to one's problems, and I would much rather be single than in a fucked-up relationship. I am simply tired of being made to feel that I've somehow failed because I'm not married.)
This isn't a joke, she said. This morning I saw a squirrel on the power line, and it ran halfway across and then part of the wire must have been exposed, or something, because it got cooked. I mean, like, singed alive. You could smell it on the air, that rotten smell of burnt hair and cooked flesh -- there's no other smell like it. Like if a fire could come on as quickly as a rainstorm, or if running your nails across a chalkboard had a smell, it would smell the way this smelled.
You're drunk, he said. Or you're high, still, from last night. There wasn't any squirrel getting cooked alive on any power line.
She slammed the curling iron into the sink. The sound of the hot metal barrel against the cool ceramic bowl was startling, and several water droplets hissed and then evaporated, vanishing as though vanquished, as though forced.
I saw what I saw, she said. Don't tell me I'm wrong.
THE BEST
Amy's cheese enchiladas
+ purple-flavored Gatorade
If your dad was anything like my dad, he definitely had a stockpile of questionable frozen food, mostly those ten-for-ten-dollars Hungry Man dinners and perhaps a stash of "Mexican" dishes, including those oddly brownish enchiladas with the super-gooey cheese that you had to scrape off the sides of the wax-paper container with your fork.
But here's the real secret: If you were anything like me, you looked forward to the days when Dad was responsible for lunch and he would dig the enchiladas out of the freezer and shove them in the microwave. You knew Mom would hate it that he was feeding you that crap, and really, that was part of the fun, like a weird junk food alliance forged between the two of you.
Today I can no longer justify eating the frozen enchiladas of my youth, but that hasn't satiated the craving, especially after a night of boozing. Fortunately, Amy's cheese enchiladas exist. They're supposedly "organic," or at least as organic as frozen food can be, and they have the same brown sauce, puddles of grease and gooey cheese as the ones I remember from childhood.
Pair the enchiladas with purple-flavored Gatorade (because sports-drink flavors defy all description except their respective colors) and two Tylenol, and you'll be on your way out of bed in no time. Because even though Eugene Mirman's way of saying "thank you" is to get drunk and not go to work, in most of our cases it will not express gratitude; it will just get us fired.
THE WORST
Simply Asia spicy kung pao noodle bowl
+ milk
Make no mistake about the Simply Asia noodle bowls: Despite the slick packaging featuring photographs of yummy-looking, restaurant-quality noodles garnished with shit like cilantro and orange slices, that shit is nothing but dressed-up Ramen. Seriously, imagine a homeless guy putting on a brand-new shirt from, like, the Gap but not taking the time to shave his beard, comb his hair, brush his teeth, put down the bottle of Old Crow, etc., and you will have an idea of what the Simply Asia brand is all about.
And it wouldn't even be that bad -- because let's face it, there's a time and place for Ramen (it's called "college") -- if it weren't 90 percent sodium. Think about it: You're hungover. You're already dehydrated. You need something that's gonna fill your stomach and distract your body from the fact that you spent all of last night poisoning it, not sap your remaining moisture, which is your lifeblood and the only thing preventing your brain from banging against the sides of your skull like the dried-out husk it has become.
Pair this bowl of nasty with a glass of milk (yes, I've actually made this mistake) and you'll find your innards twisting in weird, violent ways, and then you'll find yourself hugging the toilet and begging it to stop. I didn't puke, but that's only because I have an iron stomach and could probably eat a live iguana without puking. But you don't have to take my word for it...
Last night instead of dinner I decided to buy wine and colored pencils. If you assumed I was a total dork before, the following booze-fueled illustrations should confirm your suspicions.
1. In the bathroom of my new apartment, you can hear EVERYTHING. Not exaggerating – entire conversations (and other stuff) that occur in the bathrooms of my upstairs and downstairs neighbors are mine to behold, even the upstairs chick imitating her cat’s good morning meows and guffawing at sitcoms and the downstairs dude singing “Sweet Caroline.” Sometimes, however, when I’m in the bathroom and they’re, say, in the living room, the conversations are audible but muffled, leaving me to ponder weird, loose interpretations such as, “Granny Smith’s in the foyer.”
6. And in conclusion, I generally find rituals of personal hygiene pretty boring. With the exception of oral hygiene, which is the absolute fucking coolest. If I could brush my teeth and floss 10 times a day, I probably would.**
*I am embarrassed to admit that I recently watched the romantic comedy “Eat, Pray, Love” starring Julia Roberts and that it made me cry. I generally dislike romantic comedies or any movie that comes out of the gate with the intention of manipulating me, but this quote really did it for me: "So miss him. Send him some love and light every time you think about him, and then drop it."
** I don't really pee in the bathtub, because that is disgusting.
For the last three weeks, while getting ready to move into my new place, I've been staying with my parents in the KC 'burbs, and this is, hands down, the most consecutive time I've spent with them since I moved out ten years ago.
For the most part, they're normal folks, but I'm starting to notice some of their quirks.
For example, my mom's morning routine includes drinking coffee and watching the weather while brushing the cat, and at least once a week my dad brings home leftovers from his neighborhood hangout, announcing to an indifferent audience, "I've got livers and gizzards. Who wants some?" He has also been known to enjoy the occasional episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (though he'll tell you it's my mom).
Last night after brushing my teeth in their bathroom, I found them stretched out in their respective recliners watching Dancing with Desperate Former Celebrities, or something like that. I had discovered something peculiar that demanded an explanation.
Me: "Do I even want to know why there's a giant Tylenol bottle by the sink labeled 'POISON?'"
My mom, who throws away everything on the exact date it expires, pointed to my dad, whose advice for eating past-prime foods is "just cut the mold off and it will be fine."
Dad: "That's mine."
Me: "Why do you have poison in the bathroom?"
Mom: *shakes her head* "Your father..."
Dad: "It expired, and your mother was going to throw it away. I told her I'd keep it."
Me: "So it's not really poison?"
Dad: "Your mother thinks it is."
Yes, I know I will be fine. Yes, I know it gets better with time. Yes, I know I can be strong blah blah; I don't need someone else to be happy blah; it was probably for the best blah vomit blah; and I'm gradually moving on with my life blah blah facedesk, but the truth remains: Getting dumped by someone you love fucking sucks, and I'm not going to pretend like it doesn't.
Three years later,
you fit in a box.
I taped you shut
while I wait
for a blanket to become
just a blanket again,
or a necklace
just a necklace.
For now these
once-comforting
once-loved
cold metal
paper postcard
hard plastic
relics
whisper
remember,
combing through my hair
with the rigid fingers
of ghosts.
I’ve been trimmed away like fat,
but you’re still in the
water I drink.
