Things were getting sort of monotonous around here, and I also have a strict rule against staying here on D-Day, just in case I suddenly lose my faculties and decide to lie down on the garage floor where he died to practice my crying, choking and screaming. So we booked a last minute vacation to a very overbooked part of the world. The beach. When I say overbooked I mean that I had the CEO of 15,000 rental properties personally looking for a cancellation. At 11:08 a.m. I was alerted by one of the futha’s to the very last condo available all the way from Orange Beach, AL to Panama City Beach, FL and by 4:00 p.m. we had toes in the sand. Don’t ever get in a packing race with me.
I made several observations at the beach. First of all, some of you men folk still have not read the memo regarding back hair. Women hate it. Shave that shaggy shoulder fro. Also, people need to get better tattoos. Getting tattoos is like designing and decorating your home, permanently. Mostly that’s best left to the professionals. You can’t just throw random shit all over and expect it to look nice. Also, I was the only woman my age wearing a two piece bikini bathing suit. This causes me to feel slightly uncomfortable and whorish. For about 2 seconds.
I thought a lot about my own fuckups too. Lord knows there are many to choose from involving much more than cosmetic flaws. Where did I go wrong with Dave? What red flags did I ignore?
The very first red flag is kind of funny, and Dave would kick my ass for telling this story if he were alive, but alas, this is what you get when you leave yourself defenseless against a scorned woman who likes to bang her fingers into a keyboard.
It was very early in our dating. We were both about 30 I guess. He had practically moved in with me from the beginning…not really his stuff but himself. I never asked him to stay or any of that…but I guess it didn’t bother me very much or I would have said something, like please leave. Anyway, I had plans with friends one night. He wasn’t invited or didn’t want to go, I can’t really remember. So I went out and had a good time and returned home around midnight or one to find his mom running around my house like a chicken with her head cut off. “He spiked a fever!” she is exclaiming in a very fast and nervous tone. Mind you, he is fucking 30.
Oh my God. I’m immediately thinking this wussy ass better be dead or dying, or this is really, really a bad sign. First of all, spiked a fever? Who says that? I hate that saying. Please just say he has fever. I quickly ascertained that he was mildly ill with a slight fever. Oh No. Disastrous. He has called his mommy. This is not exactly tough guy material. No. This is immediate break up material is what this is! Why is this mother here? Did this kitty cat really call his mom to come over because he didn't feel well?
She has brought soup, and a thermometer, and he is on the couch, wrapped up in blankets. She is hovering all over him, and I’m extremely alarmed. I’m not alarmed that he is sick. I am alarmed that I think I suddenly hate him. She is talking so fast and I’m working overtime in a rather inebriated state to just block out everything she is saying. I’m catching bits and pieces of the drama. He called…he said you went out….he needed help….he felt so bad.
I’m pretty sure I just stared at them. My annoyed stare face is not very subtle. She finally left and I went to bed and closed the door. In the morning I didn’t ask him how he felt. As soon as he felt better, I think I told him I needed a break and he needed to go home for a while.
When I tell this story to other women, they laugh like there is no tomorrow. Why is this funny?
I can’t imagine that I didn’t break up with him. Luckily he had some overriding good traits. He never knew that one moment was almost a deal breaker.
Let that be a lesson to you young girls. And mental note to teach baby darling that once he starts dating he must never call me unless he’s in an ambulance.