My Uncle John is so much more that can be put into words…you can tell he has a little bit of wise guy in him, but at the end of the day, he’s a big ‘ol softy. (but don’t tell him I said that.) A few years ago, my sister and I were over at his house to say a quick hello. HI! HOWAH YAH GUYS! GOOD SEEIN’ YAH! We were catching up on family and how their latest trip to the British Virgin Islands was. Oh my gawd, I’ll tell yah somethin’…it was fantastic. Clee-yah blue oceans-ow-wah own private captain. Yah. (Let me just interject right now, if I may—the use of the word ‘yah’ encompasses everything in a conversation. How are yowah parents? Good! They’re good! Response: Yah. Good. Yah. I heard that (insert name here) got a great job promotion. YAH?! Oh yah! I heard that (insert name here) is battling cancer. In lower voice: Yah…yah. ) ‘Yah’ is the perfect response for everything.)
You read correctly. I am one of the many that have given a shot to online dating. I’ve tried match.com, but the one and only date from that site I had was of the crash and burn genre. (True story. He took me to a liquor store and bought a 6 pack of pabst and we sat first on a park bench drank a beer, then we walked back to his apartment, I sat at one side of the couch and he at the other while watching the end of Training Day and drank another beer. Awful.)
So, after match.com I dated someone for a bit (not from a dating site) and suffice to say, I’m no longer with said someone. (praise be to jesus.) I recently decided to give online dating another shot. Well, that’s not quite true. Bonnie convinced me to sign up one night because she had recently met someone that was cute and funny. And we both had some Syrah coursing through our veins. Ok Bonnie. Sure. I’ll sign up.
I can’t tell you the types of people that have emailed me. One gentleman emailed me and offered to clean my whole apartment top to bottom. There was a catch, however. I had to watch him clean. In my underwear. I actually gave it like, 3 seconds worth of consideration. There have been many South American dudes writing to me and saying: You pretty girl. We meet? Uh, sure! No problem, Carlos! (for the record, one of their name’s was Carlos, and I’m not being grossly politically incorrect.)
Then there was Jonah. Oh Jonah. We met at the Trident Book Store, and as soon as I sat down he immediately began hysterically coughing, and was complaining the heat was up too high. It was the end of April, and the heat wasn’t even on. So Jonah urged me to move outside, to the patio which was so uneven i had to hold my teapot in place. The thing about Jonah was a)he didn’t blink. Like, not even a little. b) he didn’t talk, so I had to literally down shift to “So…(throat clear) what kind of music do you like?” (I’m referring to genre, as I’m assuming you are as well…)Jonah’s response: Oh, primarily the fiddle. THE FIDDLE? ok. I would judge you if you said the Dixie Chicks, or even Van Halen, but I didn’t ask what type of instrument you like, and who says fiddle? Are we in King Arthur’s Court or some shit? I realized this date was not to be repeated, so I said in a saccharine and horrified tone: Oh my god! I can’t believe it! I left my black berry at work! I have to go! so i escaped the crime scene back to my lovely little apartment. Crisis averted.
The absolute best though, was an email I received about 3 weeks ago. The participant(s) screen name? Threesnocrowd. The message went somewhat along these lines:
Hi! We are a married couple who recently moved to Boston. Your profile interested us, and if you’re up for an adventure, write us back…;-).
Ok. first of all, the smiley winkey face is a no no. It’s as if to say Hey! Maybe you’re leaning towards our offer, so how about we add an extra wink to really convince you. Next, I don’t know where Threesnocrowd got the impression that I was up for their antics. I specifically state in my profile: If you still do keg stands, I’m not the girl from you. NOT: I dig married couples with kinky appetites.
I suppose if worse comes to worse I could always email Carlos. And for the record, the guy Bonnie was dating up and moved to Argentina without telling her.
So here you have it, the 3 loves of my life. From Left: Darcy, Esme, Bonnie and me.
I cannot tell you how happy I was that we were all in the same state for a full TWO DAYS together. For some unknown and wondrous reason, I have had the fortune of growing up with the most amazing people. We have literally been witness to each others lives; loves, losses, jobs, apartments, heartbreak and utter humor. Take Darcy, for example. Darcy’s sense of navigation is that of a blind mole sniffing around above ground in search of something tasty to eat but blithely unaware of anything else. She once asked how to get from my living room to the den. True story. The thing about Darcy is that she is so fucking loving and supportive and creative, Bonnie last week made a good point: “I judge people that don’t like Darcy. People that don’t like her aren’t good people.” It’s totally true. She is the complete opposite of me; I like to have things in their respective place at all times, it helps keep order, especially in my huge purses I lug around. Darcy? The inside contents of her purse look like the United Nations puked up artifacts from different countries and landed inside her bag. She has a wallet, but doesn’t put her money in it. She has a debit card, but instead of putting it somewhere in her satchel, she stuffs it in her sock, as in to say, her feet. Darcy is this incredible genius; she writes so well it puts everyone else to shame. She is this whirling swirling force that makes me laugh and constantly is able to lift me up out of dark places in my life and see brightness.
Bonnie is this seemingly quiet polite girl who has a wonderful giggle that makes men weak in the knees. Get a drink in her, and the next thing you know she’ll wrestle anyone to the ground (ahem, me). I picked her up from the bus station, and immediately she put on this song and jammed out to it like it was 1984. Bon is an actor, and was recently Christine in the Phantom of the Opera in Las Vegas. (she’s a big fucking deal. i’m not joking). She walked onstage without uttering one note and I turned into a blubbering mess. I sometimes think she is more mature and wise than any of us because not only does she own property, but she knows about like, tax write offs and shit. I’m lucky I know that I’m supposed to file them.
Then there’s Esme. I first laid eyes on Ese when I was 5 years old, and she was swinging around the flag pole with a navy blue hat and red horns coming out of it. She was a grade above me, and from what I could tell, would be able to kick the shit out of me. Thank god that she had to stay back a year, because it was in Mrs. Mansfield’s first grade class I initially met her. She was this quiet, observant person that had a mischievous grin whenever she was about to persuade me to do something. I have more than once (twice, hundreds of times) leaned on her for support; it is through her grace and patience I am a better person. She’s also the one that told me there was no Santa. I’m still recovering.
So years later we’re all the grown up versions of the children we were, and thank god these three women are in my life; they are some of the best humans on the planet, and are the rocks that make me stronger than I could have ever been on my own. xo.
My whole life I’ve been the shortest. Classmate, friend, sibling…you name it, I was the runt of the litter. And a late bloomer. (Only when I was 19 did my boobs decide to say hello to the world.)
Suffice to say, going to the local pediatrician’s office in my early teens was quite a treat. At 14 years old, it was the last time my mother was in the room with me during an exam. Going through puberty is a mortifying experience enough, so laying on a sterile table while a sinister woman claiming to be a doctor prods around in the places my breasts are supposed to be with my mother looking-on was icing on the cake.
After being weighed, poked and measured, the exam was complete. I was sitting on the crinkly-papered table while the Dr. (name excluded for obvious reasons) attempted to describe my body.
“Margaret…how shall I say this: Girls your age have started to develop or have already developed pear shaped bodies. (she makes a pear outline with her hands.) You on the other hand? You have nice long skinny legs for your height, that can be the stem. But from there on up (and motions this in a circular shape) you’re a round plump apple. Let’s work on that.”
Let’s work on that? I’ll tell you what I’m about to work on, Doc. Your face. And there you have it. Round Plump Apple is no longer a shameful description, but a title I own with pride.