Posts Tagged ‘memory’

That sense of possibility. It never gets old.

June 13, 2013

There is something special about being in that time of life when everything is sexy and full of possibly.

As a teen, one of my best friends was very different than me. She went to a state school and I went to private – there was more to it than that, but that seemed to be the major difference. Her friends from her school called me ‘Mary’ as I went to Catholic school.

I had my first alcoholic drink with her. She was fucking daring; she mixed my mother’s Peach Schnapps with orange juice and we drank on the balcony off the kitchen. She knew people our age who had kids. She took me to parties where people smoked pot. We sometimes bought Coke just to drink a bit and pour rum in the bottle. This was serious shit, very real and different and risky.

Her windshield had a big crack through it, she knew tonnes of cute boys, I helped her stalk ex boyfriends. We drove around for hours, listening to her country music – some songs I have such a deep nostalgic fondness for because of the hours spent with her.

As it turns out, both myself and her male best friend ended up being gay, which is neither here nor there, but in those heady days it was about flirting and drinking and just seeing what it was like to not be me. Her friends thought I was cute. They found Catholic school girls a challenge and sexy and odd, but in an alluring way. She was ballsy and loud and amazing, and it rubbed off on me a bit.

I did a lot of kissing, a lot of stepping outside my comfort zone and discovering I was actually a lot more comfortable when I was outside of the box I’d been raised in. Most of the time, anyway.

When we were about fourteen, long before the drinking and kissing and stalking began, we were at camp. I remember a late night in the counselor’s tent, talking about sex, and we both vowed there was NO WAY we would have sex before marriage. We both broke that vow, but the spirit of it? Two young women so sure of themselves and their beliefs? The beauty of it all was that even when our world views shifted we maintained that sense of self and rightness and boy, did we laugh.


Thing I am most ashamed of.

May 7, 2012

The obvious, and most true, answer is losing my cool with my kids. I have written here before about my struggle with anger, usually on a specific day of my period cycle every month. I am fine the rest of the time – I do not hit, smack, or yell. I’m fucking awesome. Except when I’m not. I am deeply ashamed of this and will probably return to the subject again.

But for now, I’ll talk about what keeps coming up in my head when I read the comment by @tatchull that suggested I write on this topic: a trip to the doctor when I was about eleven or twelve.

I don’t remember why we were there. My mom took me. My mind seems to colour in the details as being there for a jab/injection of some sort, though my experiences in therapy years later suggest something else. But perhaps I’ll return to that. Whatever the reason we were there, my Mom and me, it seemed pretty harmless and not a big deal.

Until he asked me to take off my underpants.

He had asked if I’d started my period, and when I said no, he said he wanted to look inside my vagina to see what was going on. As an adult, this shit boggles my fucking mind. What does my vagina have to do with my period?!?! And why would my mom, a medical professional, countenance this sort of invasion of a young girl?

So I was naked, ashamed, lips spread open while a man I did not know peered into my vagina, his face so close I probably felt him breathing on me. He said my hymen was still intact, and that I would need to come back in six months if I still had not started my period as he would have to cut my hymen open (!!!!!!!!!) so the blood could come out.

My mom thanked him and said we would come back if needed. Thank fuck my period came.

I don’t understand any of this, even now. I am ashamed of my mother, that she let this man do this. That she let him touch me, talk of cutting me. Surely she knew letting a strange guy rupture my hymen was unlikely to suddenly bring me to physical maturity? The whole thing confuses me. And, my GOD, if a doctor tried to mess with either of my children’s genitals – well. I’d stop that shit, and we would never return. I would talk to my child about it and try to help them make sense.

My old therapist, L, (if you are a new reader, I am a counsellor. My intensive training required each candidate to undergo extensive personal therapy – and I LOVED it!!) made a suggestion one day. Might my mother have taken me to the doctor specifically to check if my hymen was intact, given the high probability of sexual abuse from my father? Just to make sure that whatever else had happened, I was intact? As disturbing as this suggestion was, at least it makes sense – and happened because my mother was trying to protect me.

I have spoken to my mother about this incident. She says she doesn’t remember it ever happening. So she either wants to keep the truth from me, or it was a such a non-event to her that she genuinely doesn’t recall it. I think it’s the second option. Given that she insists on keeping me up to date on a family member who DID sexually molest me, given that when I told her she told me to shut up, given that when I repeatedly told her as an adult she just acts embarrased, well, I can believe she might not consider this event a big deal.

I don’t write this to say I had a bad mother. She did, and continues, to protect me in the way she can. But was it enough, when I was so young, and that man looked at me in that intimate way?

It was not.

So I feel shame, on many levels. But the main one is not my own shame, but the shame of my mother. Her shame around my sexual self (another long blog post or two, folks), her shame around any sexuality, how her shame impacted her ability to say NO or to allow me to say it. I don’t remember if I tried. Probably not. Sometimes, when you’re little, you need someone to say no for you. This is a lesson I have learned, carved deep into my core self. I needed someone to say NO, to stand up for me, and they didn’t….in the way I needed. That being said, I don’t remember ever going back to see this doctor, so perhaps she did what she could, when she could. I forgive her.

This post brought to you by my compelling desire to write, and complete inability to do so. Generous people have given me funny, thoughful, and factual suggestions for posts. Click here to see them, or add your own. I’ll work through them all in time.


April 29, 2012

My whole trip down memory lane had me clicking around my old blog, reading random entries. And I found one where my pal David asked me ten questions. One blew me away. Look:

6) If you had to choose between a life without legs and a life without children, which would it be?

I’m answering these out of order, and this one keeps catching my eye. It seems an impossible choice, and I can’t believe that I find myself leaning towards having legs.

In truth, I can’t imagine myself without legs OR without children. Except that I do know what it’s like to not have children, and I don’t know what it’s like to not have legs. I really believe disability isn’t a huge problem; this is primarily because of my first degree.

I’m not saying it isn’t limiting in some way, if you choose to see it as that, but in other ways it allows people to experience similar things in different ways.

I wonder what the limitations of this question are. For instance, can I foster children or teenagers? Or is that merely getting out on a technicality?

Essentially, I believe it’s possible to have a fulfilling life either way.

But…I guess I would choose having children over having legs. Except I WOULD totally get some bionic ones.

Children offer family, continuity, laughter, love. Legs offer a lot, but I would hope I would be adaptable and resilient enough to face life without them.

I hope, though, I will have both.

Shit. ‘Children offer family, continuity, laughter, love. Legs offer a lot, but I would hope I would be adaptable and resilient enough to face life without them.’ Have I? Have I exibited the grace and hope these words imply?

After all, while it sometimes feels I actually made the choice of having children over being able to walk normally, it wasn’t really a choice. I didn’t know it was a choice I was making before it happened. Who thinks they are going to end up with a permanent disability because they chose to get pregnant? It never entered my mind, which is why this past entry seems spooky and prophetic and….well, hopeful.

It reminds me that even if I HAD had the choice – mobility or my children – I’d choose my children. Every time.

Thank you for that, David from 2004. One again you have brightened my life. I love you.

A story about rain.

April 28, 2012

Brie says: I would like a story about rain, please.

Once upon a time there was a young girl. She was about 14 years old.

This girl loved reading in the bath; on the particular evening we are talking about, she was in the bath, rindow cracked to ventilate the room. It was your typical dark and stormy night – lashing wind and rain. That’s why it was so odd that she heard a voice out on the deck, which was a story below the window of her bathroom.

She knew, in the way that children sometimes know things that are impossible to know, that it was her father on the phone with another woman. He was hiding outside so no one could hear him speaking. She rose from the tub, water dripping down her beautiful body she didn’t know how to appreciate, and walked into her mother’s room. She grabbed the phone, lifting it in that oh-so-careful way she had perfected when she wanted to listen in without anyone knowing an extension had been picked up.

Her wet footprints followed her back to the bathroom, where she carefully locked the door behind her and crouched, shivering, facing the wall. If you were to ask her fifteen or so years later if she remembered the exact words she overheard over the next forty minutes, she’d say, ‘Well, some of them, but I mostly remember the wall I was looking at.’ It was old, 70s style funky wallpaper, brown stripes in various patterns and thicknesses. Water beaded and dried across her goosepimpled and naked flesh, and she looked steadily through that wall.

The young girl heard her father speak intimately to another woman. It was a shock, a surprise, a betrayal – although it wasn’t the first time her father had cheated. But it was the first time she actually caught him. And the last.

Because the rain hitting the window, the water on her body, the tears on her cheeks – oh, the shattering pain. And the deeper, colder, calculating self that wanted to punish him. That self made the girl rise and walk across the hall to her younger sister’s bedroom. Her sister had a tape recorder with a microphone attached, and this girl wanted to tape her father – to give him no chance to deny, to hide. She wanted to make him pay.

Her sister yelled ‘Get out of my room!’ despite the girl placing a finger over her lips and trying to explain. The girl heard her father say, louder than life, ‘Shit. My kid heard everything.’

She angrily, and quickly, told her sister what had happened, before running across the hall, slamming the bathroom door, and locking herself in. Her father’s footsteps pounded against the stairs, up to her door, where she sealed up a part of her. She became silent, and in fact wouldn’t speak a word to her father for the next two years. He kept his voice light and jolly, trying to skillfully kid and pretend nothing had happened. He told her one bullshit story.

Her younger sister was upset, too little to understand what was going on. The girl’s father pulled her sister downstairs, told her a different bullshit story, then sent that poor seven year old kid upstairs to fight his battles for him.

‘Dad says it’s a friend from the bar, she’s dying of cancer, he’s just being a nice friend to her,’ her sister’s voice pleaded. The girl remained silent.

Hours later, her sister went to bed. Her father stopped trying to cajole her. She crept out of the bathroom, long dry, but still naked, and got dressed. She was downstairs waiting for her mother to get home – she worked night shifts at a hospital. She didn’t know where her father was. The girl knew she was going to tell her mother, but in the end her sister did. She ran down the stairs, said, ‘She said she heard dad cheating on you!’

And that was the end of her parent’s marriage.

Not the ongoing violence that had first happened when she was still in her mother’s womb. Not the alcoholism, the PTSD, the colourful and deadly combination of mental illnesses. Not the past cheating. Not the attempted suicide in front of the young girl and her little sister. None of that.

Just one phone call, and one angry young girl.

This post brought to you by my compelling desire to write, and complete inability to do so. Generous people have given me funny, thoughful, and factual suggestions for posts. Click here to see them, or add your own. I’ll work through them all in time.

Flashback: shitting myself in a Burger King bathroom.

April 28, 2012

not for those prone to gagging.
2004-01-03 – 9:22 p.m.

I’m totally not proud, in any way, of what happened today in the Burger King bathroom. Why I need to write about it, therefore, defies all logic.

Here’s the dealio: I have not been able to have a satisfying poop in ages.

Burger King is my laxative. Immediately after finishing lunch, I ran to the bathroom. I chose the stall (one of two) which I knew had a functioning lock. There were a few drops of pee on the seat, and I had no time to think.

I decided to have my emergency bowel clean-out while squatting. It went alright; I could even watch and see how things were progressing.

At one point, however, a spectacular burst of air shot a large quantity of slightly soft poop everywhere, including the toilet seat.

I realized that perhaps I should be sitting down, but I didn’t want to sit on fecal matter, so I pulled my jeans and underwear up to my knees and pulled my sweatshirt down, making sure not to get poop on it. I ran sideways, ass to the front of the stalls, to the next stall.

The seat was HORRIFIC. It looked like someone had:

1) Unwound an entire roll of toilet paper around and around the seat

2) Promptly peed all over all the unrolled paper, hence making it a yellow soup

3) Taken a fork and scratched at it, creating a monstrous papier mache piss sculpture.

(I don’t know who I am to judge since I pooped all over a seat, but then that’s what I do: judge.)

I swore, ran back to the other bathroom, and decided I had to keep squeezing the poop in while I cleaned the pee off the seat.

You have to understand that the pee on the seat which made me squat in the first place was only about 3 drops, yet while having my poop-coming-out-as-fast-as-diarhea-thon, I managed to also urinate all over the seat.

I took some toilet paper and starting swiping at the pee; the paper was some sort of mutant paper which did not absorb pee. It only spread it around. I threw the damp paper into the toilet and got a BIG handful of paper. While smearing the pee around, mixing my urine with the three drops that had originally been there, I started heaving.

I promptly vomited a tidy ball of onion rings and veggie burger into the toilet. I somehow didn’t vomit on the seat, which I eventually cleaned off. I lined it with toilet paper (yes, an effective barrier method to prevent disease transmision, I’m sure), sat down, and prepared to enter the 7th circle of Heaven.

Nothing came out. Nothing. Eventually I felt something worming out, and it was coming really slow, so I did that thing where you close your eyes and suck it back into your body.

I think as I was desperately wiping my ass again and again, I lost my sanity, as I started shaking and laughing. I couldn’t stop laughing.

Could. Not. Stop.

When the whole fiasco was done, I ran my hands for two seconds under cold water (again, a very healthy way to wash toilet germs from your hands, particularly after you’ve touched someone else’s piss), opened the door to the eating area, and started choking on laughter.

I walked very quickly to TMD, sat down, and started whispering…saying, ‘If you love me, TMD, swear to me you WILL NOT go into that bathroom.’

I started to whisper the story to her, but then a nice looking professional woman started heading towards the bathroom. TMD gave me The Look, and we rushed into our winter clothing and ran out of Burger King before the nice looking lady could come over to our table and demand to know what in the HELL I had done in the bathroom to leave it looking like it did.

I finished telling TMD the poop/vomit story while at the bus stop.

Then, on an unrelated note, I danced exhuberantly to ‘Jump…jump..for my love’ (80s song I can’t remember the real name to) while in the grocery store.

TMD was more embarassed of me dancing with bags of carrots and broccoli than knowing I lost control of my bowels, along with all other bodily functions, in a public bathroom.

I love that gal.

Jess says: I have one question & one question only. Do you, Existere, remember the Burger King poo experience like it was just yesterday? Um, I certainly do. To a point. I DEFINATELY remember your reaction to reading it in my blog!!

This post brought to you by my compelling desire to write, and complete inability to do so. Generous people have given me funny, thoughful, and factual suggestions for posts. Click here to see them, or add your own. I’ll work through them all in time.

No lie.

January 28, 2012

Fuck. Just had two valuations of our flat, and I suspect we’re going to book a third for early next week because I have an inability to pick between the first two estate agents. I sometimes feel like I was more of a grown up when I was nineteen.

I’d just moved into my first flat, with my ever glowing sister of the soul, Cookie. And by twenty? I was in my fourth and final year of university, living in the same flat but with two gay boys and a sometimes girlfriend. And a sometimes TMD. I was the fucking boss of that place, man. Never mind that both boys split the rent – it was MY apartment. It’s just how it was.

And while I never ever cleaned, I was in charge of bills. I was a grown up.

At twenty-two or twenty-three, I was the director of a large summer camp. Yeah. The lives of 60 staff and 2,000 campers were in my hands, and I never blinked. That shit was like breathing. Easy peasy.

So here I am, some ten years later, and I’m probably not going to be able to sleep as my brain explodes from worry. We’d be better off financially if we’d never bought this place and just rented for the last four years. Yes, renting is throwing away money. But you know what else is throwing away money? Buying a flat when you’re going to be there for a short period, especially when it’s worth less than it was when you bought it. All the solicitors fees, estate agent fees, decline in housing market – ah, yes, it’s the wonder world of hindsight.

Except I love this flat. Really, really love it.

Now if only I could grow some courage and manage to figure out how to choose which estate agent to go with.

On a related (?) note, I am striving for the life I/we want. I’ve entered a ‘I just don’t give a shit’ phase of my life that allows me to donate clothes that I have been holding onto for memory’s sake for about fifteen years. Including my first peach coloured negligee. Yes, I just don’t give a shit.

I do give a shit in the worry stakes – is it the right thing to move? Are we going to lose all our money? How can we possibly afford this mortgage once we have moved?

In the big picture, though, Snort discovered Mr Potato Head tonight and thinks it’s the greatest thing ever. And we took the kids into the city today, and Coconut danced to live classical music. So on the family front, things are good, gooder, goodest. I have to remember that, even as we try and try to be grown up enough to handle negotiating fees, dealing with keeping the place clean(ha!) all the time for viewings, and getting rid of even more stuff we don’t need.

Weird how I long for those days when I was dealing with a camp van being stolen, the office being broken into, a camper being abducted and taken into a neighboring country. It all seemed much easier.

Moving house….peeing….whatever.

January 27, 2012

So, we’re moving. And I’m totally not grown up enough to sell this flat.

It’s a fairly major move, to another part of the country. All of TMD’s parents live there – though FIL (my father in law) is basically giving us his house and he’ll be moving about an hour and a half away to live with his partner. He’ll come spend the night once a week or so. I’m not an ungrateful sow, but I do wish he’d sell his house, invest his money for his future, and give us a bit so we can buy a house we actually want. He is redoing his house – new carpet, windows, paint, bathrooms, etc – and it is a nice house. Four bedrooms, big garden! I am just so not a city/suburban woman.

We might live in a small two bedroom flat now, but our back garden is expansive, with a path leading down to a huge park, woods, and yet more countryside. I’m all about the trees, yo. All about the trees.

Still, the area we’re moving to is nice, and there is lots of green space nearby – just a bit bummed that we’ll have to drive to it rather than our back door opening to it.

We plan to move pretty fucking soon – end of March. We have a lot to do before then. Step one was getting our wobbly toilet fixed yesterday, which necessitated both adults in the house pooping in children’s potties today before dumping it in a big bucket which is currently covered with cling film and in the bathtub. It’s all glamourous here.

(Sidenote: for some reason, my grandmother essentially lived in her basement – as most of my extended family does. Not in a weird ‘put the lotion in the basket’ kind of way, but in a cozy, comfortable ‘this one giant room is all we need, sod the rest of the house’ sort of way. When we were little, she showed us how to pee in a special red pot (like the sort you boil water and cook things in!) rather than walking all the way upstairs to pee. She did it, so we did too. Might have had something to do with her arthritis, or maybe¬† my family are crazier than I think. So ANYWAY. The point of this sidenote was to say I felt perfectly happy peeing in a bucket last night and this morning.)

Our new house – I have to try to start thinking of it that way, rather than as FIL’s house – has a bathroom downstairs and upstairs. So we can all pee without climbing stairs or resorting to using kitchenware to help us void our bladders.

I have the feeling I got off topic somewhere…

Sketti ball 2011!

December 24, 2011

Snort calls spaghetti ‘sketti.’ He loves balls of all kinds. He also loves Elmo. How are these things related?

We have an Elmo DVD entitled ‘Kids Favourite Songs 2.’ It’s a bunch of kids and muppets singing a bunch of random songs; the common thread in the video is, though, a ‘sketti ball.’ Snuffleupagus begins the DVD by singing ‘On Top of Spaghetti’ (aCHOO, Snort says at the appropriate time). His giant ass sketti ball rolls off the table, and onto the floor. In fact, it rolls right out the door.

So, this sketti ball features in a few songs and sketches, rolling around and creating mayhem as sheep, bears, and Snuffy try to catch its wily meatball ass.

The finale – a truly dramatic moment – is when the giant sketti ball picks up speed and rolls RIGHT AT ELMO!! Holy shit!! Move, ELMO!! For the love of god, get out of the way of the skeetttttiiiii baaalllllll!!!!!

The kids like it. Snuffy steps in at the last moment and stomps on the ball, rendering it mushy.

Now, sketti ball. Snort randomly invented it. It began with a stuffed yellow dog from TMD’s childhood and two footballs. He makes me hold the yellow dog so I can make it scream and run away from the sketti balls (football!) that he pushes after it. Okay. He does proclaim that it has turned to mush if it gets too close to the dog, so I guess I have that fact to comfort me when I get freaked out by games involving repeated violence.

The game now also involves a one-eyed alien (eye monster) that goes, ‘Eee, Eee,’ instead of screaming. I have to hold the dog in one hand (AHHHHH!!!) and the eye monster in the other (eeeeeeee). Mayhem ensues.

Coconut invariably joins in, but she doesn’t do any pansy mush stuff. No, while Snort kisses the dog and lovingly invites it to eat the mush, Coconut screams like a fucking warrior and pushes the sketti ball over the dog with no mercy. He’s lying on his back saying, ‘Ahh! You’re smushing me!’ and she’s laughing like a manic.

This very specific routine happens a few times a day. Now it goes on with me making my arms into a hoop because Coconut asks for basketball (and Snort communicates quite clearly his sadness at having no high hoop in their room), and going ‘do do, do do do’ – I think it’s the Mission Impossible theme. After they throw heavy footballs at my chest for awhile, Snort then leaps and throws his body, head first, through the ‘hoop.’ Coconut does the same. AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN.

So. That’s where our routine is at now. It’s like a perfectly scripted play in which no one ever forgets their lines. The sketti ball/basketball game is so choreographed we could perform it every night to different audiences and the only way people would know it was a live show would be beacuse we were wearing different clothes.

I wonder how it will evolve. I hope it doesn’t involve another stuffed animal because contrary to popular belief, I only have two hands. Though my right arm is certainly getting longer from Snort yanking it as he asks me to come to his room for some sketti ball. If I try to put him off in any way he just begins to sob.

What can I say? We like PG rated violence. It’s exciting.

Where’s Bowser when you need a good time?

October 25, 2011

Lately I find myself compulsively reading and rereading my pregnancy on this blog. Last night I even reread a bunch of IVF stuff – I was sort of impressed with myself. It seemed like a complicated mess of needles and medications from three years down the road. Like I couldn’t believe I ever knew how to mix medications or have needles stuck through my vagina to aspirate my follicles. (Yum!)

My crazy obsessive reading has led to me noticing three tiny sentences in separate entries, all relating to Super Mario Brothers DS. I was delighted to remember that I spent literal hours helping TMD try to beat a ghost house in that game.

I mentioned this to her and she was like, ‘Oh, yeah. I was talking with _____ and we spoke about how bored we were before children. How empty the days were. What did we do with all that time?!?!’

I was like, ‘Uh, we spent hours watching each other play Mario Brothers.’ Like I HADN’T JUST TOLD HER THAT.

So, my life before kids: whipping Bowser’s ass while I was on pregnancy bedrest (self-imposed, as I could not walk). My life now: sadly lacking in Bowser time. Blogging is about as close as it gets.

So watch out, people. I’ve got my firepower plant and I’m not afraid to consume it.

(Sigh. No, it’s just not cool. I need to carve out some time for my little DS. And that’s NINTENDO DS, not ‘dear son’, you freak.)

The second-to-last guy I ever dated (AKA run like hell when your boyfriend shaves other men’s backs!)

September 14, 2011

The last summer I dated boys started with plans for my then boyfriend, soon to be fiance, to drop out of his PhD programme and move across the country to be with me. I broke up with him. I then dated – god help me – a gay guy. Oh yes, you read that right.

He worked at camp with me – we had very few males, and it was always a surprise to me that I always had a boyfriend when there were 60 0ther young women all competing for them. Especially when I just didn’t give a damn; I was there to have fun. And not that kind of fun. Lest you think I am big headed, let me tell you about this particular camp relationship.

You might want to make a s’more or something, cause this is a campfire tale for sho’.

Let’s say this guy’s name was Ruben – that seems suitably poncy. (Apologies to any Rubens reading this.)

His ass was stuck to me like glue. We had a lot of fun – we’d sit out all night talking under the stars, no hint of any sort of romance. Except, you know, I looked more forward to hanging out with him than I did ever seeing my boyfriend again. We were kind of shadow self best friends. We dressed up as twins for Twins Meals. We made matching baby slings for our stuffed animals. (Fuck, I SUCK! I am so gross as a human being!)

It was all gravy and rainbows and freewheeling camping weekends – right up to the point when he turned into an asshole.

That first bit happened when he heard I’d come out as a bisexual. (How I identified then, not how I identify now.) He muttered some bullshit about, ‘Having had enough of bi girls.’ Um, okay. I guess his last girlfriend was bi or something. During this time I’d broken up with my boyfriend – and remember asking him (the ex, not Ruben) how it felt to kiss me. He said the world shifted. I told him I felt like I was kissing a block of concrete. Jesus, the cruelty of the nineteen year old closeted lesbian who was pissed off.

That left me free and clear to date Ruben. Uh, mistake.

We kissed once or twice and it was…dull. It was while watching ‘Amistad’ at my mom’s house, and I actually fell asleep. Still, I think I was reeling from ending a very serious relationship and didn’t want to give up on my friend? boyfriend? Ruben.

Even when he took me to visit his friend. Now, this is the part where you put your s’more down because otherwise you might choke and die. RUBEN WENT TO THIS GUY’S HOUSE TO SHAVE HIS BACK. Or at least that’s the cover story. Yeah, his friend was so fucking hairy he needed to PAY RUBEN TO SHAVE HIM. They disappeared into a bedroom (oh, Existere, slap your forehead now) and came out like an hour later. I sat uncomfortably on a couch that smelled of dog.

And then he became more of an asshole. Bossiness, talking smack to me at my mom’s house, etc. I was so over that shit. Stopped the friendship cold – because if someone you’ve just met already treats you like a dishrag, that is not a relationship that is going anywhere. Ever. (Except places you don’t want to go. Trust me.)

My mom, not realising I’d thrown him over, fucking calls camp. I put her on loudspeaker so all my friends can hear her decry him as a potential abuser, a guy just like my dad, an asshole of the highest order. We all giggled. She also sent a six page letter outlining her concerns.

The last day of camp came, and Ruben – after me ignoring him for weeks – came over to my car, stuck his head in the window, and pecked my lips before saying we’d have to get together. Yeeeeeah, I don’t think so.

Once I got back to university and met David (the aforementioned gay best friend and computer buyer), I told him this story. He got a look on his face.

The next time I saw David, he produced what had to be the best thing I’ve ever seen: a copy of our university’s gay magazine. On the COVER was a giant picture of Ruben sitting backwards on a chair, his lumberjack sleeves ripped off at the shoulder and a dandelion stuck in his hair. Yeah.

He wasn’t just an asshole, he was a GAY asshole that hated bisexual girls. What did he think would happen – I’d run off with a chick and he would no longer have a beard to help cover up his back shaving activities??

I can’t be the only person this has ever happened to. Can I?