When I was 15, I had this soft spot in my heart for boys in bands, specifically, the lead singers. I guess I didn’t really care if they COULD sing, so much as if they DID sing. These boys were “sweet” and “deep,” they could feel pain and express emotion, and do sexxy things like lick the microphone while singing. It was a completely stupid school-grrl fantasy, one in which I frequently indulged and thankfully broke myself of later on.
On the rebound from another boy in a band, I met Ken, who sang in a band called 7 Times Around. The name was super deep, as it meant he had been “through the ringer” with 7 other girls. You know, because at 15 everything is very, very important and relationships happen very quickly.
Well, Your Aunt Becky because dumb ass lucky number 8.
I knew he liked me because he gave me a necklace in the shape of a smiley face with a bullet hole through it’s head. Romantic, eh? That probably should have been my sign to run away, but because I am not only stupid but a masochist too, I stuck around. Not for very long, though, because Ken was a weenie and I knew it. I mainly dated him because, you know, I was trying to get over someone else.
Out of sight, out of mind.
A couple of months later, I’d made my friend Evan pick me up and drive me around in his car, and we were gossiping like a couple of bitches when he’s all, “What happened with you and Ken?”
And I was all, “Dude, I dumped him because he was fucking lame.”
And he was all, “No way.”
I could tell by the way that he said it that he didn’t really believe me.
“Why?” I asked him. “What have you heard?”
“Well,” he said conspiratorially. “You should know that Ken’s been going around telling anyone who will listen that the reason HE dumped YOU is because you wouldn’t put out.”
“Oh?” I said, my eyebrow arched, annoyed. We hadn’t even come close to having The Sex.
“Wait,” he said. “It gets better. You wouldn’t put out, Ken tells us, because you had a yeast infection.”
Internet, I will tell you that I laughed until I cried. Whatever Ken had been smoking, I want some of that.
As the monotony of this past weekend chock full of boring speeches and long lines begins to fade in my mind, and the blisters on my feet from uncomfortable shoes heal, it has finally hit me.
I did it. I fucking graduated from college summa cum laude. No one thought I was going to do it, and I proved them all wrong just like I always do.
And now I cannot I say “I’m a student” when people ask me what I do, I can say “I’m a nurse.” And I am. I start work on July 18.
Well, I have decided to give thanks to those who have helped to see me though these long, long years.
*The Daver: with your undying support and your knack for talking me down from a sheer panic, and your willingness to hold my hair back while I barf from stress, you have been my numero uno* support system. You even pretended to listen while I described in vivid detail the green stuff that I had to scrape off of some other dude’s wang during clinical’s without throwing up.
You deserve a medal or something, man.
*The Benner, my son. You are my first reason for becoming a nurse, and the thing I thank God for most each and every day. You have taught me well to stop and look at the world around me and appreciate the smallest bug and the grandest planet. I can now ALWAYS stop and see the forest for the trees.
*BeJeweled. for the low cost of $4.99, I was able to purchase a version for my phone that I spent many a 3 hour lecture playing. You saved me from pulling out my own eyes with my admittedly long fingernails or gnawing off part of my own arm from the complete and total boredom that was my nursing classes.
*SlimFast. You have saved my diet from many a delicious looking donut. Although you may not taste any better than licking my cat’s butthole, but you have consistently provided me with many vitamins and minerals essential to my body’s well-being.
*Sugar-Free Red Bull. The taste of your brew is essentially no different than drinking Drano, but on many an early, early morning after a late, late night, you have enabled me to get to class or clinical without killing anybody, especially myself. Which, really, was the only one who mattered to me.
*Parliament Lights- the fragrant aroma of your smoke, the wonderful taste in my mouth, the nifty filters that make a sun-shape while being smoked, are just some of the many fantastic components to my addiction. Honestly, you were often the only thing that could get me out of bed when the alarm clock reared it’s ugly head.
*Ortho-Evra- although your adhesive turns grayish black and crusty by the end of the week, and sometimes you itch like herpes, you have successfully prevented me from becoming pregnant with any more children before I am damn ready to do so. Thanks for not letting me get inconveniently knocked up again.
If I neglected to thank you, let me be the first to explain that I did so simply because I hate you. I hate you with all of my heart and soul, and wish that I’d never met you.
*That means “number one” in Spanish. I know that because I have a COLLEGE DEGREE now.
I love men. I really do. I make no bones about it. They aren’t catty unless they’re gay, bitchy unless they have their period, sleazy unless, well, they are, or girly unless there’s a large critter in you’re garage that they don’t want to deal with. I love women. But I love the dudes too.
They tell you what they think about you without mincing words most of the time. And after you tell them what YOU think of THEM, they still love you and call you and tell you when you look like you ate a bowl of Ugly-O’s for breakfast. Most guys don’t look down on you if you didn’t breastfeed your kid for 12 months and they probably don’t really care if you wear the same shirt twice in one week.
That said, I had forgotten how much I hate to LIVE with them. Now sure, let’s be honest, it’s nice to have a *ahem*(slightly) bigger person to be there after a scary movie to “protect” you from the evil girl in the closet. Or to pretend that they’re going to take out the trash and lift heavy stuff except when they totally don’t.
Plus, they’ll hook up anything electronic which means that I don’t have to beg someone smarter than me (which is most of the population) to do it.
When I don’t want to deal with an irritating salesperson I can always beg off, citing that I need to “talk to my husband” and let’s face it, it’s the closest to having my own pair of balls that I’m ever going to get.
That said, I’m never sharing a bathroom with dudes again.
Because I am fucking tired of living with the casual arcs of pee that artfully decorate not only the toilet seat and the floor, but also the wall and bathtub too. While I’m certain that someone might find that to be high art, I’m afraid I just find it irritating and obnoxious because I am the one stuck cleaning it up.
Also, I am the one stuck cleaning up the pube that I found floating in my diet Coke this morning. The pube that was not my own pube. I know that because my own pubes are not 4 inches long and red. If you are forced to have a pube in your drink, it really is preferable that it be your own. But no, it was not.
I suppose the next time–and I know that there will be a next time–I will merely call it dental floss and move the hell on.
Living in condos with boys. Hm.
I officially live in a Sausage Factory.