So, I wake up at 4:13am. I can’t sleep. Not because of anxiety this time, but because Vito is taking up the whole bed and snoring louder than an old Cuban man. I can’t help but wish I were cuddling with a man on this winter night, instead of a 75 pound tank of dog breath.
I pick up my phone and look at that text message from the heartbreaking ex. I know I should give him a name, so I’ll call him “The Indian.” Not the Native American kind, though I’d like to have an affair with one of those.
I type in a reply. I feel it should refer to my active and exciting lifestyle, not divulge that I’m living at my parent’s house which is filled with stolen bank pens, restaurant saltshakers and shit off the side of the road. Something like: “Sorry, but I’ll have to be brief. Just getting out of an indoor pool in my bikini and have to find a towel before one of these google-eyed guys attacks me.”
But, I decide that’s a little “forced,” so instead I go with “Nice to hear from you.”
What have I done? I’ll tell you what I’ve done. I’ve just lost “hand,” as George Costanza would tell you. You either have hand in a relationship or the other person does. Shit, I’ve really done it now. I get up and head downstairs for a little Mallomar therapy. The whole way down I’m going “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Ever since seeing “The King’s Speech” all I can say is “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” like Geoffrey Rush is my own inner speech therapist.
I open the cookie cupboard and realize this is not a good idea if I’m about to get some action soon. My plan should be: cut back on Mallomars, do leg-lifts, do butt-lifts, go running with Vito. I’m trying to think of what else when my Dad strolls into the kitchen, battling his own insomnia. He looks at me like an intruder. As he passes the open cookie cupboard he shouts, “I hope you’re not touching my Mallomars.”
“No, I was looking for something else,” I reply.
“They’re very expensive. You can buy your own when you have a job.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He just grunts and puts on the TV. “You can have the Chips Ahoy. They’re cheaper.”
I reply, “You’re very generous.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I go out on a limb. I take a chance. I jump off the cliff. And, I reach out to my father. “Did you ever get your heart broken, Dad?”
“NEVER!” Whether it’s 4am or 4pm, he projects like he’s trying to reach the nosebleed section of Yankees Stadium. It’s how he always talks.
I inquire further. “Are you just saying that? Like, you never took any risks? No one ever shot you down?”
He doesn’t bother to turn off the TV or even look at me. It’s just how he rolls. “YOU MAY NOT BE AWARE OF THIS, BUT I AM VERY COOL!”
“I can hear you, Dad.”
He continues, “There was a girl once…wait, hold on a second, I have to see this.” I’m on hold as he watches what’s on TV. Moments later… “Her name was Sally Goldfarb. I asked her to dance at a Jewish singles event. She said “No.” So, I moved on. I didn’t waste my time crying like you do…”
“Excuse me??”
“…I found someone more worthy of The King.” (That’s what he refers to himself as.)
“Mom?” I ask.
“No. She was a last resort.”
Oh my God.
“YOU GRAB LIFE BY THE BALLS AND YOU BUILD UP YOUR BANK ACCOUNT AND STOP DATING PANSIES AND YOU GET A JOB WITH HEALTH INSURANCE. YOU DON’T WRITE POETRY AND SPEND ALL YOUR MONEY ON A DOG WHO SHITS ON OUR EXPENSIVE RUG.”
I put my forehead in my hands. I tried, I really did.
“Wait, hold on,” he shouts. “I have to watch this.”
And…I exit.
I sit on my bed and look at my phone. The blinking red light. The Indian texted me, “Wanna meet up?”
I wonder what I’m about to get into. How, the more someone doesn’t want us, the more we want them. I think about my Dad not bothering to turn from the TV to talk to me. And, now that I’m seeing where my low self-esteem is coming from, I wonder if I’ll make different choices.
I pick up the phone and text The Indian. “Sure, when?”
I guess not.
My Parents Are Crazier Than Yours 
Invisible Mikey
February 5, 2011
Your misadventures are so funny, Myra. I expect you would write just as well in a cheap little room of your own, though. Have you considered Caregiving (assisted living, dementia care etc.) as a job? They can never find enough people to do it. It’s poorly paid, personally rewarding work that involves wiping the butts of old people. Since you are doing that now FOR FREE, I just thought…
thedailydish
February 5, 2011
You dad is definitely channeling Mr. Costanza.
Jim Krouskop
February 6, 2011
I second this remark. Wow, a real-life Seinfeld episode unfolded before our eyes. Thanks for sharing, Myra. Best of luck out there and keep writing.
livelaughloveliquor
February 5, 2011
Your poor mother!
CuppySkully
February 5, 2011
oh Myra…been there, done that.
and the part about the parent complaining about the dog shitting on the rug, definitely a daily occurrence here too!
sometimes we just need to hit rock bottom before we can make different choices. and i personally think that a ‘rock bottom’ is needed, if not..you’ll just be going through every day wondering “what if”. Rock bottom kinda has its way to close that ‘what if’ loophole. You’ll know when it’s time to stop things with your ex. Just follow your gut.
Myra
February 6, 2011
You are pretty frikin wise. Thank you for giving me permission to hit rock bottom. I think I may need to go there. And have fun while I do it. 🙂
p.s. Are you really in Indonesia?
CuppySkully
February 6, 2011
Yep. Born and raised here. Which is why I beg your (and others who happen to read my posts) understanding if my spelling or grammar might be off from time to time.. 😀 English is not my first language.
Anyway, more pictures of the pooch please. 🙂
jessica
February 6, 2011
OH how it hurts! i laughed, i cried, i had a pit bull. a house full of stolen bank pens. HA.
Glen Feulner
February 6, 2011
forget the cookies, why aren’t you drinking?
Erin
March 25, 2011
I wonder what I’m about to get into. How, the more someone doesn’t want us, the more we want them. I think about my Dad not bothering to turn from the TV to talk to me. And, now that I’m seeing where my low self-esteem is coming from, I wonder if I’ll make different choices.
I pick up the phone and text The Indian. “Sure, when?”
I guess not.
I know that feeling all to well. different choices
I have a tattoo, it is called an Ouroboros
It means a lot of things, one of them being it represents the circle of life. I got it as a reminder to stop doing the same thing over and over again because you just end up in the same place you started. I got it when I was 19, I’ve had it for 13 years…how many times have I ignored my own advice?
Like I said, I know that feeling all to well.
mzklever
December 2, 2011
I’m with Glen. I’d be knee-deep in whiskey by now.