Me: No, no, what I’m saying is that when we’re eighty-five and they take our drivers’ licenses away, we should have a suicide pact.
Him: We can rent a car and do a Bonnie and Clyde.
Me [quizzical look]
Him: Um, Siskel and Ebert?
Me: …Thelma and Louise?
Him: That’s the one.
So the first edition of this history met the morning-after delete button; here is the revised second third edition. Remember, kids: writing is a process. And I am a compulsive revisionist.
The first guy I “went out” with: I was fourteen and the thing lasted one day and one interminable football game where we sat together without touching or talking, and ohmigod, am I glad that went nowhere. According to my brother and my hindsight, “Of all the guys in our high school, that one? THAT ONE?!” I believe That One is in jail now.
The first guy I kissed is now a semi-successful singer/songwriter in Nashville. Not so successful that people recognize his name, but enough that he sells songs to well-known artists. I mainly remember this relationship because holy hell, people, I was so. out. of. my. league. He was eighteen, I was fourteen; he was a senior, me a freshman; he had talent, I was emo. But there we were in a leaky high school van full of other seniors when I got my first kiss. And instead of remembering this fondly, all I remember is a slimy and surprisingly cold tongue.
The second guy: This relationship is unmemorable, but the break-up was not. Short version: NEVER DUMP SOMEONE AT A FAMILY REUNION. Especially if it’s your family’s reunion and he’s the odd one out. Later I heard a rumor that after I broke up with him, he got a tattoo of a jaguar or cheetah or whatever across his chest, and now he’s a pastor. I fervently hope I’m used as an object lesson in his sermons. (I should probably feel worse about this one, and it is a testament to my bad character that I don’t.)
[long, dry spell in which I manage to graduate from high school magna cum laude]
The fling: The fling is the inspiration to many an unfinished story about rafting, because insofar as summer romances go, this was a good one. It was just one very hot week on the Middle Fork and really, what else were we supposed to do when confronted with hot springs, starry skies, ten years of crushing on each other and the only few days in history when we were both simultaneously single?
College boyfriend: Here my feelings are mixed. You spend half your high school years wishing to date a certain someone, and then, finally, in college, he quits dating your friends and picks you. So there’s a combination of feelings including sloppy seconds and what now? once the pursuit is over. Apparently I didn’t make an indelible mark on him because this guy, nine months later, he dumped me via e-mail while I was ill and sunburned and homesick on an island in the middle of the Pacific. BECAUSE HIS FRIEND TOLD HIM TO.* And then ten years later, this college ex, he finally** turns out to be a decent person and starts dating one of my good friends. Which is fine, whatever, I’m married and happy. But really? I mean, REALLY? Does this mean I have to stop clinging to my bitterness and guns?
Speech class guy: This is the Romanian theology student in my speech class who raised his hand at the end of my speech on fly fishing and said, “I would like Chelfea to take me fishing.” And I turned bright red as the whole class burst into laughter. You would think that theology students would be pious and keep their hands and hormones where they belong, but that would be false and the v. short relationship would end because he needed to spend more time “on spiritual things,” or something like that because his accent was sexy but, at times, thick, so hey, what else were we supposed to do to fill the time?
Blind date No. One: This is the quintessential gentleman (the only one I ever dated) on whose arm I was when I ran into college ex-boyfriend’s parents at a symphony. That would be the only highlight of what was otherwise a date duller than a fencepost.
Blind date No. Two: After Blind Date No. One, I figured I didn’t have much to lose, so I turned on the flirt and managed to enter a short relationship in which I later realized that I liked his family better than him. Then I went to Oxford and dated, ever-so-briefly, a French guy named Oliver whom I met on a sidewalk. And when I returned from Oxford, I went on one final coffee date with No. Two and was pretty relieved when it turned out that he just wanted to tell me he’d met the girl he was going to (and did) marry.
[another long, dry spell that marked my highest college G.P.A.]
The last ex-boyfriend: This is the one that’s still on my conscience. I never cheated on him, or anyone for that matter, but I did break up with him after I met The Husband. The last ex, he was the one I’d known since I was five, whom I’d skiied with since I could point both skis in a parallel direction, who had been like a brother to me until one night when we’re both in our twenties and it’s just the two of us left watching a movie after everyone has gone to bed and oh, hey, he’s kissing me. Cool. By the time our first “date” rolled around it felt more like our fiftieth or eight hundredth, and it wasn’t hard to imagine that this was It: Our parents knew and liked each other, our sisters were best friends, and we had an easy camaraderie. Truth me told, there was nothing wrong with him, except his proclivity for watching baseball on sunny, summer days and his preference for the Steelers; I think in the end, he just paled in comparison to
The one I married. This one doesn’t watch baseball and that’s just the beginning of the good things about him. He’s a writer and a mathematician and he tutored me through calculus, and after putting up with me through that, I knew he was gold. Three years after we met, we married, and nearly five years after that, I still feel unbelievably lucky when I walk into a room and see him wearing three sweatshirts because he doesn’t want to turn up the heat, Orwell purring next to him.
I remember being nervous about getting married, wondering if it was a good idea, if things would get better or worse. OH MY GOD: SO MUCH BETTER. I’m glad the list came to an end where and when and with whom it did.
*Shortly after being so unceremoniously dumped, I was wading in the ocean and got propositioned by a local guy who knew about five words of English: “Sex? You have sex? With me?” I don’t think this one counts as making the list, though, since I turned my back on him and stalked off, and stalking away when you’re up to your thighs in seawater is very undignified.
**Emphasis added b/c this particular person reads here occasionally; I suppose he was probably decent-ish back when we were dating.…
Me: Ugh. I hate reading Foucault.
The Husband: You mean Fuck-allt.
Me: Right. Fuckallt.
The Husband: And you know what his mom was called? Mother Fuckallt!
Right now I’m working on putting together my master’s portfolio in order to, like, leave grad school without actually dropping or getting kicked out. This portfolio must contain the following items:
All of this is in a current state of half-assedness, due in about two weeks, and my stress level is through the roof. I want to find a place in Pullman to stay so I’m not so totally wiped out on Tues/Thurs but it’s impossible. Gah.
So if I’m a bit snappish and angry for the next few months, know that it’ll pass. And in May, I get to get some kind of hood thingy that says, Yeah, this girl is now a fucking magister. Worship her, bitches.
*big fat lie
10. Clean the cat litter. In every house in town.
9. Watch that evil Hann*h Mont*na show
8. Do math.
7. Pay last month’s electricity bill. This month’s should be better, seeing as how it’s, yeah, SIXTY DEGREES WARMER. Frick.
6. Fuzzle Trollop’s furry belly.
5. Watch anything on FOX “news.”
4. Play Risk or Axis & Allies, or other mind-numbingly long, boring games.
3. Get a tattoo.
2. Shop at Walmart.
1. Break my own leg so as to avoid being able to drive to campus.
Oh well, it’s all moot, seeing as how school has started. Internets, I will need your support. Teaching ESL is OHMYGOD so much different from regular freshman comp.
Ravens vs. Titans
Cardinals vs. Panthers
Eagles vs. Giants
Chargers vs. Steelers
My preferred picks are in bold, but the teams I think will win are in italics. Of the eight teams left in the playoffs, I care about approximately zero. But I still hate the Chargers, and though it pains me to root for the Steelers, I find myself in that position this week.
(If things go as they did last week, the winners will be Ravens, Panthers, Eagles, and Chargers, and I will be aught for eight.)
Um, apparently I’m terrified of holding babies in their first few days of life. I kind of feel like I might have possibly maybe insulted T&H for not holding Baby V when I saw her today (um, CUTIE!), but I swear that the idea of holding a newborn makes my hands shake and my heart palpitate, and combine that with my usual klutziness (hi, do you REMEMBER how I got my black eye?) and the baby has no chance. So forgive me, new parents, but I’d prefer to not be blamed for your kids’ ill health until much later, at which point I’ll be able to say, Hey, she was eighteen. It was TIME to discover dark chocolate.
Today and Sunday’s games (my picks are in bold, or in the case of Philly v. Minn, I couldn’t possibly care less):
Atlanta vs. Arizona
San Diego vs. Indianapolis
Baltimore vs. Miami
Philadelphia vs. Minnesota
Reasons: Want to see rookie QBs like Atlanta’s Matt Ryan go to the Super Bowl; Miami has a great comeback/underdog story; and, um, intense hatred for San Diego.
Just read Stanley Fish’s column about my two favorite things, bad customer service and grammar, and scanned through a few of the comments. Came across this logical monstrosity of a suggestion:
“Two word solution: Cellular Telephone (with nationwide or both your domiciles)”
My friends, I count eight words (two unnecessarily capitalized, and without sufficient parallelism) in that solution. I guess the stuff in the parentheses doesn’t count? If so, math after pre-algebra could be simplified real easy-like:
2(j+xy-cow^2/49) = 2
Q.E.D.