girlfiend

When I’m driving alone I sing at the top of my lungs. Rather than singing along to the lyrics of whatever song is on the radio, I make up my own words and harmonies. Often, these lyrics are nonsensical and offensive.

Today, as I drove to JJs house to meet her for some bridesmaid dress shopping, an Indigo Girls song was playing on the radio. I’m not a fan of the Indigo Girls, but I don’t hate them either. In fact, their song isn’t so bad. You know the song I mean- that one song where they play guitar and sing in harmony. They sort of remind me of Mazzy Star in the sense that they only appear to have one song that varies slightly each time it’s played. But with Mazzy Star, I really like that song. I actually have two albums worth of their one song. But back to the Indigo Girls.

I’m on Kelly Drive and some Indigo Girls song comes on. I’m sure that they were singing about love or freedom or gay rights whatever it is the Indigo Girls sing about, but I changed the lyrics to suit my mood. My Indigo Girls song went a little like this:

It gets better, I swear. As the song ends, another song comes on. Only this time it’s a guy with a guitar. I was really into my lesbian song so I kept it going.

And I stopped. Because in all of my embarrassing singing-offensive-lyrics-at-the-top-of-my-lungs glory, I couldn’t actually sing the phrase “eat their pussies.” Immediately after I censored myself I had no trouble telling the story to JJ and T, just as I have no trouble typing it now, but for some reason when I’m in the car, I fear that someone is secretly videotaping me and footage of me singing about lesbians harmonizing with guitars will be televised nationally.

So if you see me one day, driving too fast on Kelly Drive, alone in my ugly-ass Toyota Corolla, remember my Indigo Girls tribute song, and be thankful you’re not there to hear it.

See. I can’t even type the ‘t’ in ‘what’ I’m so drunk. Why you ask? Why am I so drunk? It’s because I went to eat at TGI Fridays. Boyfiend and I hate chain restaurants, but we went to the mall to register for wedding gifts and man, was that a bad idea. We slept until noon then had breakfast, then Boyfiend thought his house flooded again, only it didn’t and then we went to the King of Prussia Mall, the biggest mall ever. And we went to Crate and Barrel only it was all Christmas stuff on sale except for the plates we liked, then we went to Macy’s which sucked because I hate department stores, but we registered for a bunch of stuff there. Then Boyfiend got all cranky since he hadn’t eaten since the pancakes he made me for breakfast before he thought his house flooded. So we went to Friday’s. Not anywhere else cause we wanted booze, and booze we got. No food for hours, just booze. And our waitress had the same name as me (not girlfiend) and she was really apologetic about us not getting food. So we didn’t get our food forever, and the waitress with my name was really nice about it, and she sent the manager over after more than an hour and he decided to comp us our bill, including the three Long Island Ice Teas I had and then after we left, we saw these girls who were too young and too scantily clad to be outside when it’s. hold on. i have to check weather dot com. Okay. they were too underdressed for 31 degrees farenheit. Luckily I had stuff in my trunk, so I gave the little fourteen year olds a sweatshirt and a sweater and a pair of pants and they said that was enough. But they weren’t wearing shoes and I didn’t have any shoes in my car, and there was no way I’d give up my boots.

I just went back and reread that other paragraph to see if I could make it into more than one paragraph but I faile.d

We were supposed to go to Pottery Barn and William Sonoma but we’ll have to save that for later.

My cat, the really fat one, was outside wrestling with a really, really big black cat.

See, you know i’m drunk if I’m writing about my cats.

Three screen names you have:
1. girlfiend
2. sireia
3. sireia1

Three things you like about yourself:
1. My hair
2. My eyes
3. My smarts

Three things you hate/dislike about yourself:
1. My slouch
2. My upper arms
3. My permanent bad mood

Three parts of your heritage:
1. English
2. Portuguese
3. Russian

Three things that scare you:
1. Debt
2. Fat
3. dying alone

Three of your everyday essentials:
1. boyfiend
2. internet access
3. water

Three things you are wearing right now:
1. sweatpants
2. purple tank top
3. socks

Three of your favorite bands/artists at the moment:
1. The Pixies
2. Todd’s victrola mix
3. Modest Mouse

Three of your favorite songs at present:
1. Gigantic- Pixies
2. Here Comes Your Man- Pixies
3. Gouge Away- Pixies

Three things you want to try in the next 12 months:
1. Getting a new job
2. Unsupported handstands
3. getting knocked up

Three things you want in a relationship (love is a given):
1. fun
2. conversation
3. intelligence

Two truths and a lie:
1. I love seafood
2. I’m a pothead
3. I’m a huge fan of the WB’s Felicity

Three physical things about the opposite (or same) sex that appeals to you:
1. Eyes
2. Arms
3. chest hair

Three things you just can’t do:
1. shop at kmart
2. eat ham
3. splits

Three of your favorite hobbies:
1. cooking
2. writing/reading OLJs and blogs
3. yoga

Three things you want to do really badly right now:
1. buy a laptop (get better soon, E)
2. Motivate myself to leave the house
3. Go someplace hot and beachy

Three careers you’re considering:
1. Yoga instructor
2. Private tutor
3. housewife

Three places you want to go on vacation:
1. South America
2. Italy
3. Greek Islands

Three kids names:
(So my future kids can get their asses kicked)
1. Banana
2. Niles
3. Phinnaeus

Three things you want to do before you die:
1. Buy a house with a huge kitchen
2. Go on a cruise
3. learn how to do a cartwheel

My mother, without asking me first, invited her good friend’s granddaughter to be the flower girl in my wedding. Boyfiend and I had no intention of having a flower girl.

I was furious when she first told me that she had made a decision about my wedding without asking me first. I was going to refuse out of principal. When she nearly burst into tears I realized that this is really, really important to my mother, and if I refuse to make the concession she’ll look like a smacked ass. She doesn’t want to be humiliated, and I don’t need another fight with my mother.

But she went ahead and made a decision without me. Whether she wants to accept it or not, it’s my wedding. If I allow her the flower girl am I setting a precedent? Will she think that it’s okay for her make decisions without consulting me first? Perhaps if she was paying for the wedding I’d be more apt to allow her this one decision, but she’s not. And at some point she needs to learn how to act like an adult and take responsibility for her mistakes. This was a big mistake on her part, making a promise she can’t keep. But my mom’s crazy. When she cuts someone off, that’s it. She hasn’t spoken to her brother in more than ten years.

I’m leaning towards letting it slide. Perhaps the flower girl’s mother will think it’s more trouble than it’s worth and she’ll simply thank me for the offer and decline. I don’t want this to be something that my mother holds against me for the rest of my life. With her I have to choose my battles and I’m not sure if this one is worth the effort.

What would you do?

Dear Boyfiend,
Your family is wonderful. I’m glad that I’ll soon officially be a part of it. But please, please tell your mom not to buy me any Christmas themed gifts. I’m Jewish.
Thanks for putting up with me even when I’m bitchy. Thanks for rubbing my forehead and making me coffee. Especially when you Irish it up for me. Thanks for your instinctive ability to insult others without realizing it. It’s hilarious. Thanks for the gifts I’ve not yet opened. Thanks for making me laugh when we brainstorm baby names in the car. I think we should name our future kid “Dollar Eighty five.” Or maybe Doyles. Or Jenks. Or Omega. Or something that will cause him to be the butt of jokes for the entirety of his childhood. Thanks for being so damn cute. I’m in love with you.

Dear Friends,
Thanks for everything. Thanks for setting up a subdomain of Junkiegirl.com just for me. Thanks for buying me that supercool Onion book. Thanks for the My So-Called Life DVDs and all the rest. Thanks E, for the gift you haven’t given me yet and hours of tech support I know you’ll put in once I buy the laptop. Thanks for listening to me whine and complain. Thanks for being there. You all rock.

Dear Readers,
Thanks for reading. Thanks for saying such nice things about my writing. Thanks for your support and interest. I’ll even thank you for the advice, even though most of it is completely unwanted and unnecessary. I love you anyway.

Merry Christmas people. Eat too much and get sloppy drunk for me.

Love,
Girlfiend

Here’s a timeline thing I swiped from someone else’s site.

25 years ago:I was twenty months old. We lived in Connecticut. I don’t remember much about Stamford except for the lake behind our house with the ducks. I very clearly remember feeding Rice Crispies to the ducks in our back yard. Not knowing the proper way to do it, I dumped the entire box at my feet and was immediately attacked by quacking ducks, that at the time seemed as big as I was. It didn’t scar me or anything. I have no fear of ducks. Or quacks, for that matter.

20 years ago: I was six. I was in first grade. I was reading at an eighth grade reading level, so while the others read from a series called Pug (similar to Dick and Jane), I had my own reading group. I also got to circulate the room helping the other kids with their math. I was loving life.

Yo, my cats just got into a raging, hissing fight.

15 Years ago:I was eleven and in the sixth grade. I was just starting to learn that the kids at my snotty private school were incredibly cruel, especially the girls, who were snobby, heartless bitches. A few months later, just after my twelth birthday, I was hospitalized for depression.

10 Years ago: I was fifteen and my mother shipped me off to boarding school after she divorced my father. I was using a lot of hallucinogenic drugs to keep my mind off of things and I was sleeping with one of my teachers. That year was a nightmare.

5 years ago: I was twenty-one and lived one block away from where I live now. I was teaching kindergarten in Philadelphia and drinking. A lot.

3 years ago: I was twenty- three. I taught reading to SpEd students at an inner city high school. I loved those kids. I really miss them. They were crazy. Boyfiend and I had our first, and until now only, Christmas tree. We decorated it with many disco balls. I spent Christmas Eve at his parent’s house with him. We had sex in their living room.

1 year ago: I was twenty-five and working in the suburbs. My students were interested in learning and many of them were gifted. It was the best job I’d ever had. I recommended books and kids would run out and buy them. I assigned work and if the kids asked why they had to do it, they’d understand once I explained it. And do the work without bitching. Boyfiend and I were broken up. Despite my fabulous job I was miserable. I wasn’t eating much and didn’t weigh any more than 102 pounds.

This year:I am twenty-six. Boyfiend and I are getting married in less than three months. For the most part, I’m the happiest I’ve been

Yesterday: Was the last day of school before break. It was a half-day, which to me seemed like a misnomer, as we didn’t get out until 1.30. Boyfiend and I went Christmas shopping later in the afternoon. We went to a store that had a massage chair set up with a calf-massaging ottoman.Last night was the first of our Christmas rounds. We went to Northeast Philly to celebrate Boyfiend’s cousin’s birthday. I hate the Northeast. Aside from the Russian Jews (and Boyfiend’s family, of course) most of the people I see in the Northeast are uglier than regular Philadelphians. Maybe it’s something in the water. Their bars are terrible too. And the accents. If only there were a way to accurately describe the horror that is the Northeast Philly accent. It’s something about the ‘O’ sound, a long drawn out nasal twang that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Today: It’s after 11 and I just got out of bed. I’ve been waking up sporadically since six, but it’s my first day of vacation, so I felt I should sleep in. The trash and recycling people did not agree with me. They wanted me to get out of bed to give them Christmas tips, so they drove through the neighborhood honking their horns to the tune of Jingle Bells. Just imagine waking (for the second time) to a toneless rendition of the holiday classic that went a little like this:

Boyfiend just ran out and got me sugar for my coffee, so I’m slowly beginning to come around. Later I’ll go to the gym for the last time until Sunday and gossip with my gym friends. I’ll see my friend JJ before she goes away for Christmas. Then tonight, we’ll go to Boyfiend’s parents for Christmas dinner where we’ll stay until tomorrow.

Tomorrow: Tomorrow is Christmas. We’ll have breakfast with Boyfiend’s parents then we’ll probably come back here for a while before we go to his uncle’s house for Christmas dinner. I’d love to meet up with my other Jewish refugee friends, but who knows if that’ll happen. No Chinese food and a movie for me this year.

Looking back at this, the timeline’s a little on the depressing side. But whatever. Things are looking up. Happy Christmas Eve.

Only four 6th graders were in attendance so the first two periods of the day were a breeze. All of my 5th graders but one were in class, and their parents must have fed them candy canes, pixie sticks, and shots of espresso for for breakfast. As they jumped up and down, shaking their booties and singing Christmas carols, I called out, “It’s quiet game time, the winner gets candy.” The kids immediately shut up, writing notes back and forth trying to make their classmates lose.

After giving every kid fistfulls of candy, Mikey, Nellie, Brandi, Ollie, Dana, Mark and Dan begged to stay in my room for lunch. Feeling less grinch-like than usual, I allowed them to stay. While they devoured their pizza and french fries, I rearranged the classroom. The kids bickered and watched until it occurred to Mark to ask, “Ms. Fiend, do you need any help?”

Ollie, Dan and Dana took off immediately as they had no interest in work. Nellie organized the supply closet, making neat piles and lines of alternating highlighters and black markers. Mark rearranged the text books that other teachers have left piled in my room. Brandi cleaned desks, while Mikey played Solitaire on the computer. They gave me big hugs before they left for the afternoon assembly and I collapsed in a heap at my freshly relocated desk.

Now I am done. No more students, no more books until January 3, 2005. I’m wiped out, but feeling good. Except for my back. Because last night, after working out for 45 minutes, I stupidly decided that a yoga class would be a good idea.

We started off with this, which I’m pretty good at, moved into this (check out the variation in the pictures, I somehow managed to pull that one off as well- but only on one side), and ended with this. After four years of yoga, I’m finally able to do some of these arm balances, but the older I get, the more I feel it in my back. Which is probably why I should do more yoga.

Mikey: Ms. Fiend, I wrote my response, but I didn’t get my Reading Log signed, but I have a really good reason this time, I swear.
Me: Okay, what happened.
Mikey (all in one breath): My dad and my stepmom broke up last night and they were yelling and fighting and I was too scared to ask someone to sign because my dad’s really big and he has a bad temper and I didn’t know what was going to happen.
Me (wiping away his tears): Don’t worry about the signature. I’m glad you wrote your response.
Cindy: Are you going to be okay Mikey?

Me: The prompt is asking you to write about why role models are important for young people. One of the ways you can address this, is by writing about one of your role models. Who here has a person they look up to?
Mikey: I look up to my stepmother because she’s a teacher.
Brandi: I look up to my softball coach because she helps me play better.
Cindy: I look up to my basketball coach because he makes me work hard in school so I can stay on the team.
Nellie: I look up to my cousin because even though she has a job and a baby she pays attention to me and will look at me when I cry. My mom says she doesn’t like my face when I cry and tells me to go away.
Me: Nellie, I like your face even when you’re crying.

Me: Mom, it’s my wedding. I’m making the decisions with Boyfiend. You’re welcome to offer a suggestion, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to take it.
Mom: Wrong, this isn’t about you.
Me: Um, mom, yes it is. I’m getting married.
Mom: Wrong again. It’s about me. If we don’t like your decisions we’re cutting you off.
Dad(shaking his head and begging me not to yell with his eyes): Is dinner ready?

Boyfiend: Where are the Lindsay Lohan pictures?

Boyfiend, the greatest guy I know, hasn’t been looking so good here at I Like Purging Things. Even so, this morning he sent me an email telling me to”keep writing good stories.” His email included a boring post written in my point of view, describing last Friday night.

And then he waited for me in the gym, his glasses fogged from the cold outside. I stepped off the treadmill and walked towards him. We smiled then kissed and walked across the street to buy a Christmas tree. Boyfiend also looked at a 3hp shop vac while I waited outside for the tree to be wrapped, but he decided to put off the purchase.

We rearranged the house to make room for the tree. The hanging plant basket broke during the move but after a little effort, tape, wire and elbow grease the basket was good as new. We drank wine and reminisced about ornaments as we removed them from the boxes that collected dust in the basement. He asked, “Girlfiend, remember when we bought this disco ball at Urban Outfitters?”

“Yes, I do,” I replied and added, “Remember when I painted this stained-glass ornament with the Star of David?” Boyfiend answered, “Yeah, that’s an awesome ornament, but not as awesome as my 1970 Volkswagen Bus stained-glass Christmas ball.”

How’s that for volatile, bitch?