The Boys are Watching

Smile! You're Pretty.

The City.  I am in seventh grade, Mr. Z's age now.  I am flat as a board, wear an unpadded bra and big oversized tee-shirts from The Limited that says Forenza in cursive writing where the breast pocket would be if there was one.  As I walk into the heart of the city from my dad's ratty duplex, the one with the telephone wires scrambled in a cage behind the driveway, my movement is nervous, I would hide my hands in my sleeves if it were cold enough to be wearing them.  I am worried about my too pale skin.  Look at me: on my face is Clinique foundation a shade darker than my real skin thinking, incorrectly, that it makes me look tan or at least healthy.  I wear pink Clinique blush over this foundation and then--over this!--I wear red as apples gel rouge.  Three layers of crap because I am scared of myself and of you and because I feel the need to hide.  I think I ripped the rouge off of drugstore in the small downtown which doubles as the university's campus.  I also wear light blue eyeshadow, purchased with babysitting monies and medium blue mascara that cakes.  Though in my mind I have long, wavy blonde hair, it is dishwater colored with yellow highlights, it is cut in layers and hangs just above my shoulders.  The curls are hardly sexy and say only: middle school eighties perm.  I  might weight ninety pounds at this point, but I am thinking it might've been closer to eighty.  I remember feeling impressed with people who hit 100 on their weight in gym lass earlier in the month.

Over the summer, several months before I am walking to Rock Bottom Records to peruse the used 45 section and lust over the Duran Duran posters, I was at a musical with my grandmother in her boring little village at the Cape.  She is my height, with a froggy face that is on the cusp of attractive cute.  She has no ass, shapely legs from golfing, a permanent tan, and breasts larger than anyone I've met since,; my grandmother might not have mush, but she's got those double D's. She also has my eyes, or I should say, I have her's, turquoise blue and o matter what kind of bad hair day I am having or how concave my bony chest looks in comparison to other girls my age, they are remarked on, aften. People describe m by noting my blue eyes before anything else.

I am used to blending in.  I am next to my gram and we a re in line for Joseph and His Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat.  My flowered Benetton Sweatshirt goes to my knees but it is tucked into my skinny white jeans in the front and is left hanging low in the back.  I do not understand that I should be showing my butt off yet.  All I know about are boobs, mostly because I do not have any to speak of. I am humming Jacob and Sons to myself, thinking fondly about the church we all went to before my parents separated and suddenly I realize that I am the center of the line.  People from the front are looking, as are the people in back of us.  I was humming so quietly; how cold they have heard me?  I want to ask my grandmother, but she is staring, too.  I must be so ugly to have them this entranced, right?

What I did not know is this: teenage girls are more beautiful than anything on the planet: brilliant, glistening stars punctuating an early blue sky, moss carpeting the labyrinth of trees in all each and every forest; the lonely, perfect sand dollar on a New England beach during the winter.  Teenage girls, even if the are weird, acne coated, flat chested, and the large legged, are creatures unlike any other.  And sadly, nobody whispered this truth in my ear.  My grandmother was so clueless thinking only of acting herself out of her welfare background, worried more about my pronunciation of words than what was in my heart.  My mother, tall and "handsome" had no experience with being tiny and adorable.  She was playing mirror mirror every morning.  She did not want to soften the blow of the world kicking me out of childhood, but wanted to steal any joy that could have been my own; it was my time.  I deserved to feel pretty because I was.  Teenage girls have always been, and will always be the most illuminated creatures on this earth.

She Thinks She's the Passionate One

Some people know that I am in a relationship/friends with benefits/ best friend situation with my son’s father, my ex husband. The Baby Daddy Mommy Drama here in rural New Hampshire is never dull. I am rarely lonely these days. However, this was certainly not always the case. When I lived with my son in a farmhouse with friends (another story, another day), some days were pretty horrific. Loneliness seemed insurmountable at times back then. This loneliness propelled me into the mostly sad, but sometimes-hopeful world of Internet dating.

Here was my story back then:

“She Thinks She’s the Passionate One”

She has known people who could speak, at length, to their horrific encounters while using this site. Other friends swear by it, saying, straight-faced, “How else would you meet somebody?” She knows people who have met their current, live-in significant or spouse on this site. She thinks online dating success is a combination of: luck, attitude, timing, social skills, looks, chemistry, and how badly one wants to “find somebody.”

Within the “Profile” there is “The Dating Headline” which for her is: “She thinks she’s the passionate one…” This is not an indicator that she is indeed the passionate one, but is actually an illustration of her immature taste in music. The girl is a hardcore Beastie Boys fan because, really, she has the mentality of an eleven-year-old boy. This, right here, could be why she is on an Internet dating site in the first place. Other women, she considers of a more mature, sophisticated ilk, might meet men at a ballet, opera, or at Whole Foods.

Then, there is the body of her “Profile.” Some of the site’s members write a mere sentence or two. More often, members write several paragraphs. Often, the writing is overly general. “I love to watch movies,” some people will write. Well, who doesn’t? She has met only one person in her thirty-five years of life who truly does not enjoy watching movies. This is her housemate who has adult ADHD, and claims, “There is no way I could sit for that long in one chair in one room.” Another thing she reads is, “I like dining out, but it is nice to stay in and get a pizza.” Huh. Interesting. So, this means the writer is human and that he can drive a car and/or knows how to dial and speak into a telephone. She guesses it could also mean that, thankfully, one does not have aggravated agoraphobia because at least sometimes this writer does not want to stay at home.

The girl’s profile is unlike these aforementioned profiles. It is not general. In fact, it seems overly specific, too long, and is honestly a bit rude. However, in real life, the girl tends to be slightly high maintenance, verbose, and like many girls in their thirties, a bit bitchy. Thus, the profile is a true depiction. However, she admits, reluctantly, some of the bitchiness could be a wall to protect her from this sad fact: it is hard to find love.

Recently, she added a “PS” to her profile, noting what is entirely unacceptable. She has encountered some of her very own horror stories due to dating through this site. However, she does remain positive, hopeful, and in good humor. At times, she considers adding a parenthetic (“also looking for a friend with benefits—if you’re hot”) note to the profile, but this is just a fleeting consideration. And really, it is just a joke.

The profile:

I believe whole-heartedly and entirely in the pleasures of reading. I am able to stay awake and half sane while I go to school, work, string together some sort of social life, and have adventures with my ten-year-old boy.

I am in love with: my dirty finger nailed son, anything library related; butterflies; the unexpected when it is a treat and sometimes when it is not; storms of all kinds; everything in the forest; taking pictures; walking forever and all day long; figuring out who I am; understanding what God is--for me; the culture of addiction in nonfiction and fiction; the notion of nostalgia; and sometimes crocheting.

Favorite Things: MUSIC: "Avenging Annie"--the Andy Pratt version--is actually my theme song. Also: MGMT, Hellen Reddy (no joke), The Beastie Boys, Ani DiFranco, Aerosmith, Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Michelle Shocked, P.J. Harvey, Shawn Colvin, and the Edgar Broughton Band.

TELEVISION: Lost, The Office, Welcome Back Kotter (I am still attracted to Gabe, really),Six Feet Under, Big Love, Seinfeld, and Curb Your Enthusiasm.

MOVIES: Big Fish, The Sound of Music, The Color Purple, Drugstore Cowboy, Jesus Son, Requiem for a Dream, Almost Famous, Annie Hall, Radio Days, Thirteen, Mean Girls, and Me, You and Everyone We Know.

BOOKS/AUTHORS: Lullabies for Little Criminals, Heather O'Neill; Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safron Foer; The Beans of Egypt, Maine, Chute; In Case We're Separated, Alice Mattison; The Book Borrower, Alice Mattison; Squandering the Blue, Kate Braverman; The Outsiders, S.E. Hinton; Anything by: Lorrie Moore, Mary Gaitskill, Amy Hempel, Annie Proulx, JD Salinger, and Alice Hoffman.

About moi: I am living my life without losing faith, killing someone, injuring myself, shooting my mouth off at the wrong time, robbing a pharmacy, running away with a bearded criminal, or staying in bed with the covers drawn tightly around me...So far, so good.

I have a BA in Honors English from years ago. Now I am in a Post Bac program to get a dual certification in Special and Elementary Education. I work as a Special Education Assistant and love it on most days. In my former life, I was a Librarian. Though I loved this, it made reading less interesting for me, which was heartbreaking.

On good day, it feels a bit like I am a favorite character in a most beloved novel of all times. And I would love to meet somebody who could be this particular protagonist's “man.” He would need to keep up. He would have good goals and if not a great education, then a deep respect for education. I would describe myself as "almost pretty," but hopefully this man character will be deluded into thinking I am of super model quality. And mostly, he will be a person who finally feels like home.

P.S. Be well, do good work, but do not keep in touch if you: watch Fox News in a serious way; mention ex girl friends who look like lingerie models on a date (am I supposed to be impressed?); have large snots in your mustache upon meeting somebody for the first time; mention your daughter's rack; have an obsession with an ex that is so intense your voice gets cracked up upon mentioning her existence (therapy, not match.com, just a thought); joblessness/unemployment; asking, "are you a friend of Bill W.?"; you broke up with your significant like, last week, holy yikes!; and finally, have an inability to understand that if I have ignored eight of your consecutive emails, then chances are, I am not interested...

The girl truly understands that she has high standards, is overly discerning, and also notes she lives in a rough area of the state to meet single men who are even remotely educated (“Educated, no. Stupid, yep. And when I say stupid, I mean stupid fresh” –The Beastie Boys), under sixty, and have teeth. She also understands that it is not her writing, rewriting, and then rewriting yet again--obsessively to avoid her American Nation in Education homework--that will eventually beckon Mr. Right into her life. But she has not figured out yet what this could be. Until this time, “she’s walking high and mighty like she’s number one because she thinks she’s the passionate one.”