Girl and City

The other night, I was supposed to go out for dinner with OBF and ALS, but we ended up eating at OBF‘s house because she was “too broke” to pay for parking or food in The City. Saving money always sounds like a good idea to me considering the amount of shopping I have been doing, so I agreed.

After two hours of feasting on pasta and strawberry shortcake, I decided it was time to go home. My mom was still being a bitch extraordinaire due to work-related stress plus menopause, so I did not want to stay out too late and give her something to bitch about. As I backed out of OBF‘s driveway, I heard a loud thud. I whipped my head around to look out the back window, but I couldn’t see anything. It was dark and raining. I got out of the car and checked the rear bumper. It was hard to see anything, but I ran my head along the bumper and didn’t feel any scratches.

Phew, I thought. My mom would kill me if I scratched her car. I mean, a few weeks ago, I had accidentally scratched the front bumper when I was trying to squeeze into a parking space, and she’d flipped out when she noticed. That was barely a mark. Ever since, I had been extra careful, always parking far away from other cars in wide open areas. And I’d always check the car doors before and after I parked to make sure no one had banged into them.

As I drove home, I stopped at a 24-hour grocery store on a whim and decided to buy my mom some flowers. She’s been extra cranky lately, mostly due to menopause but partly due to stress at work. I certainly didn’t help the situation when I told her we couldn’t go fishing this weekend because of the wedding I had to attend. The fishing thing was a two-week walleye migration and this weekend would be our last opportunity to go. I shouldn’t have felt guilty considering she knew I had this wedding months ago, but when my mother looked so unhappy every morning, how could I not feel guilty?
So I bought her some flowers and took the opportunity to check the car’s rear under better lighting in the parking lot. Still, I did not see a single scratch. This was weird, considering how loud the noise was when I backed out. Maybe God is giving me a break, I thought. Because I really don’t need another reason for my mother to be upset with me. Besides, I am a good daughter. I do want my mother to be happy. I mean, her unhappiness has been on my mind for two days, and now I am getting her flowers in the middle of the night. I am not thoughtless. And I don’t deserve this guilt-trip.

On Friday, my mom came home from work and called me out of the house to look at the car. And there it was. An enormous scratch on the rear bumper. It was hidden on the side, below the part of the bumper that sticks out, but it was still a huge, obvious dent. Oh fuck.

So now my parents think I am a bad driver, despite the fact that I had not gotten a single scratch on her car since I started driving. Oh, another secret I have kept from my parents. They think I started driving last August, when I got my license. Actually, I started driving the Christmas before that, because they were on vacation and I was stuck in a house in the middle of nowhere. And although it had been two years since my driving lessons, and I had no license, I drove anyway. I even drove on the highway, by myself, for the first time, at midnight. No biggie.
I’ll admit that it wasn’t the smartest decision I’ve ever made, and I was a far better driver once I’d actually gotten my license than that one Christmas I spent terrorizing the streets, but even then, I did not get a scratch on the car.
And all of a sudden, in a span of two weeks, I scratch the car twice?
Is it really because I’ve suddenly become a worse driver, or is my luck just running this way?

I’m not religious, but sometimes I feel like some higher power or fate or something is deciding arbitrarily whether my life is in a rut. I mean, I have had ridiculous bad luck streaks before. The decision to throw my life in the shits, once made, cannot be reversed no matter how hard I try. It’s only over when “they” say it’s over. When it’s high, everything is going my way. I might as well have angels clearing paths for me. I could go to an interview in a Kool-Aid costume and still get the job. When it’s low, everything is in the shit. I can’t get a job. I can’t get a scholarship. My mom is constantly screaming at me. And I am constantly getting into situations where she has a right to scream at me.

So, in conclusion, the night I spent at my friend’s house for dinner in order to save $10 on parking and $30 on dinner ended up costing $1500 in car repairs.

I got an award from Pursuit of Matching Accessories! Thank you honey!

The goals of this award…
1. As a dedication to those who love blogging and love to encourage friendships through blogging
2. To seek the reasons why we all love blogging
3. Put the award in one post as soon as you receive it!
4. Don’t forget to mention the person who gave you the award
5. Answer the awards question by writing the reason you love blogging

I love blogging because I have a ton of stories and I love sharing them with others. Under the anonymous embrace of the Internet, I can do so without feeling restricted in my analysis of the people or events. Plus, it’s a great way to make friends, and bloggers make good friends :)

6. Tag and distribute this award to as many people as you like
7. Don’t forget to notify the award receivers and put their links in your post

I’m tagging:
by teresa wu
Confessions of a Twenty Something Year Old
Live It, Love It
More is Better

“God, I hate the rain,” WAF remarked as we huddled under her umbrella. Just as we approached an intersection, a gust of wind flipped her umbrella outwards.
“Fuck. I hate this umbrella, too. It’s completely useless.” Without another word, she tossed the umbrella on the ground. It was still open, still flipped backward, and now lying on the street in front of a parked car.
“You’re just going to leave that there?” I asked, as she started to cross the street without checking traffic.
I jogged to keep up with her. “You can’t just leave that there, what if it flies into oncoming traffic?”
“Don’t be silly. How could it do that?”
“Wind! Strong wind! I mean, Mary Poppins could fly with her umbrella!” Nearby, a guy in a suit gave us a strange look.
“Nope, it’s not going to happen.” She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

I was downtown with WAF during her lunch break to make sure she was ok – and by that I mean, she wasn’t running back into the arms of BAD. Except now she wanted to run into the arms of her married coworker, who was apparently very sweet on her and open to the idea of a no-strings-attached affair. As if.
We ducked into a 50s-themed restaurant-bar and WAF ordered a bottle of wine before I had even removed my coat.
“Are you not eating?”
“Are you kidding? Everything on their menu has to be at least 300 calories. I can’t afford that. Plus I need alcohol if I’m going to get through today without calling BAD.” So this was how she lost twenty pounds since the last time I saw her. Good ol’ anorexia. Who needs food when you have cigarettes and alcohol? I considered force-feeding her fries, but by the time our waitress returned, I was happily buzzed and had forgotten all about it. Great, I was drunk at noon on a Wednesday off of indistinguishable house wine. And I wasn’t even the depressed one. (more…)

“He played me! He completely played me!” were the first words out of WAF‘s mouth. It was just before midnight and I had been getting ready for bed when she called. I could tell she was not okay.
“What happened?” I had a sinking feeling I already knew what this was about. Did she catch him with another girl? Did he tell her he wanted to go back to his girlfriend?
“SG, I feel like such a fool!”
“Don’t be silly, you’re not a fool at all. Don’t blame yourself. Now tell me everything that happened,” I said, in what I hoped to be a reassuring voice. I settled into a rocking chair and stroked my dog’s ears while I listened.

She began from the beginning. “My coworkers are all older than me, and, you know, they have a lot more experience with sex and relationships and stuff. So we were chatting it up Sex-and-the-City style during our lunch break, and I mentioned my relationship with BAD. All I said was, ‘He’s very confused and won’t commit. He has a girlfriend but won’t break it off with her.’ Just that. Then my BAD-ASS coworker started describing the rest of his behaviour. BAD-ASS‘s description fit BAD to a T. And he was a perfect stranger! I hadn’t told him anything.”
She took a breath.
“Apparently BAD-ASS used to do the same thing with girls. I was being played textbook-style. And I fell for it! I completely fell for it!”
I didn’t know what to say. BAD was playing her and she had fallen for it. And I had known it from the moment she started describing him – them – to me (which, to be honest, was only a few weeks ago, and they’ve been at this for a while), but I had said nothing. Now too, I said nothing. I hoped the silence would be a receptive audience to her venting. I hoped letting it out would calm her down.

In the absence of conversation, I could hear her crying and sniffling and trying to blow her nose all at the same time. She continued to describe all the signs, his little tricks and manipulative schemes that she could now pick out.
“I feel like such a fool! I am so stupid!”
“You are not stupid. This was his game. You were his target, and you believed what he said because he only said things he knew you were going to believe. That’s the name of the game. It is not your fault. That’s like saying the bank is to blame for a robbery because their security wasn’t good enough. But the robbers are the ones who picked the bank, who mapped out the specs, who knew how to get what they wanted. You are not a fool.”
“But I fell in love with him! Almost!” She paused to blow her nose. “He even said stuff about this other girl friend of ours, how she was just being played for sex, but I was too smart for that. He must have been laughing inside the whole time!”
My heart ached for her.
“I was so willing to believe everything, I just ate it up! I should’ve known better.”
(more…)

One of my favourite books by Sophie Kinsella is Can You Keep a Secret?. The reason is simple: the heroine of this particular story has some secrets. Mostly derived from a few little lies. Ok, maybe more than a few. See? I do it too. But who doesn’t?

We all have secrets, from little lies that we tell, or what we don’t tell. We already know there are plenty of things I don’t tell. Here are some more.

Secrets from my boss:

• I told the CEO at Not-A-Real-Job that I wasn’t doing anything this summer other than this internship. Complete lie. As you all know, I am desperately secretly searching for another job.
• He is obviously going to find out when he receives a call from places I have applied to because I put him down as one of my references. I probably should have told him that he is one of my references. I also said I’d been an intern with him for two months. Slight lie, considering I started last month. Hmm…

Secrets from my parents:

• My parents think I have never bombed a single course in university¹ and that I am awesome at science. Neither of these beliefs are correct. I did bomb a course (Cell Biology), which just goes to show I am not awesome at science. I just left the field before it became obvious. My parents desperately want to believe I am awesome at science because 90% of the people in my family are serious scientists, and they want me to join their ranks. Imagine their disappointment when I went to business school instead.
• My mom thinks I am trying to lose weight. Not because I said I was on a diet or anything, just because she thinks I should. So it’s really her fault for making assumptions. When she is not home, I eat ice cream. Lots and lots of it. She also thinks I go swimming every other day. I do not.
• That stain on the bathroom rug that my mother loves? The dog peed there. But it was because I locked the dog in the bathroom when she was getting really annoying. My parents think the dog just went crazy on her own (which does happen sometimes) and I’ve never corrected their notion. It’s not like the dog is going to tell on me.
• One time, my phone dialed my home number on its own while I was out clubbing at 2am (it must have been pressed against something in my purse and hit speed dial). All my parents heard on the resulting answering machine message was “loud noise” (their words, not mine – my guess is it was very loud music). They called me back and when I saw that “Home” was calling, I didn’t answer because I was drunk and I didn’t want them to know I was still out clubbing. They thought I’d been kidnapped or something terrible had happened to me and the recording was all I could get out, so they called the police. I never told them the truth. I switched phones after that incident.

(more…)

1. The Asian definition of bombing: getting below an 80 – or a 3.7 out of 4.0. [↩]