The Things We Deserve

During a Mutual Admiration Society tangent between my future mother-in-law and myself, she expressed her fear of the world while admiring what seemed to be my fearlessness.

My mother looks at it as foolishness.
Language.
Perspective.
Always interesting to me.

"I remember you! You called me out!"
This was spoken by a 275 lbs, 6'3", hulking mass of ebony flesh.

At the time, I was working at the restaurant where I was fired for blogging about a Disgusting Pig of a Man. Outside, enjoying a cigarette with Kissy, my darling ex-work comrade, this, I suppose, intimidating man was approaching from the west.

I looked into eyes which did not meet mine. Eyes are the best barometer for mental stability. His eyes registered a sort of guilt. I say sort of because unlike the Germans, we do not have a word for that feeling of we've-done-something-wrong-even-though-we-didn't-do-anything we often feel when a police cruiser is in our relative proximity.

I blame society and media whom I suspect have burned this onto his brain.
You're a big, black man. You should be ashamed of yourself.

He looked safe to me.

Months later the same young man came into my once a week place of employ, remembering that interaction.

The Shamed Man: I could have been dangerous.
The Comrade: Dangerous? With sweetie-pie eyes? I think not.

Calling one out.
It's a thing.

I remember shoe shopping with my mother when I was 10 years old. The shoe salesman and I were having a very nice conversation, though not poignant enough for me to remember what was discussed. Upon leaving, an induced insistence by my nervous mother, she said, "You really shouldn't talk to strangers. Why do you do that?"

I can't help it.

I don't talk to everyone, but I have an urgent need to talk to most. My body is the best gauge of other's inherent sincerity, sociopathy, goodness or false sense of entitlement. I observe, test and direct my findings to nearly all of my subjects. The only ones who don't receive a full report are the ones from whom I detect more than a modicum of violence or mental instability.

I am crudely honest. Strike that. I am crudely subjectively honest.
I wouldn't be honest if I didn't put that last part in.

Last Monday, at my once a week engagement at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, slinging colourful cocktails with equally festive paper umbrellas leaning against funnel shaped baths that aphids would have wet dreams languidly back crawling through, I accused a 23 year old young man of being, among other things, charmless, shallow and stupid.

Grant.
Young, tattooed, muscular, cute in a Dylan McDermott sort of way.
I met him the week prior.

Grant: I need some advice.
The Comrade: You've come to the right place.
[she said as she gained the attention of all who were sitting at the bar]

I believe in at least a second opinion.

Grant: So I've met this girl. She's really a nice girl. I like her. I think she's someone I could see myself with.
The Comrade: That's great.
[she said as she thought how great it is when you're 23 and you're not thinking about forever... or The One]
Grant: Yeah, but the problem is... she's got really bad breath.
The Comrade: Is this a one off? Because all of us can have those days.
Grant: No. I've met her a couple of times.
The Comrade: Is this a hygiene or a gastro-intestinal issue?
Grant: I DON'T KNOW!
The Comrade: Both times you met, each time was skanky?
Grant: Yep. The second time I met her? We were playing video games on a laptop? And her breath was bouncing off the screen.
The Comrade: Jesus.
Grant: So what do I do?
The Comrade: You really like her?
Grant: Yes. She's really nice.
The Comrade: You have to tell her. In the quickest most direct way possible. She has to know.

Grant came back last Monday for the debrief.

The Comrade: How was her breath?
Grant: Still bad.
The Comrade: Did you tell her?
Grant: I couldn't. I'm going to break up with her.
The Comrade: You're an asshole.
Grant: I don't think we have that much in common.
The Comrade: She was really nice last week.
Grant: Well, she's Persian, right?
The Comrade: Okay.
Grant: And Muslim. And 19. And a virgin.
The Comrade: So far, so good.
Grant: But she can't kiss. She's not experienced.
The Comrade: You are in the perfect position to mentor!
Grant: I don't want to do the work.
The Comrade: Allow me to add lazy in front of asshole.
Grant: I don't know. I was going to break up with her today, but something happened.
The Comrade: What?
Grant: She let me feel her boobs.

Which apparently were quite a set of fun bags.
And who cares about breath when you're eye to eye with those.

Grant: I can only see her on Mondays and Wednesdays anyway. Maybe I can handle it.
The Comrade: Dude, the only thing you handle are those.

The Doyenne, my lovely boss/ friend perked up when she heard the combination Persian/Muslim/ virgin.

The Doyenne: End it! Nothing good will come of this. She's looking for a way to get out of her parental home.
Her advice fell on deaf ears.

Visions of a beautiful, fat, cooing baby with olive skin and almond eyes, like a Teletubby in the sky, danced in my mind's eye.
I always wanted to be a Teletubby.

The Comrade: You know, Grant, you're going to get everything you deserve coming to you.

He didn't think that was very nice.

But, I think we all have what we deserve coming to us.


The attention didn't stay on Grant forever. The hotseat never remains piping for too long.
The attention rod wavered towards me. No amount of ducking made any difference.

The Doyenne: You are still married.
The Comrade: Not really.
The Doyenne: If you haven't a divorce decree, yes, you are still married. You need to get a divorce.
The Comrade: Why?
The Doyenne: Because you can't go on with your life until you take care of the shit from your past.
The Comrade: Oh, you projecting bitch!
The Doyenne: I think you're using Ack as a safety net.
The Comrade: I am not! And anyway, it's just a piece of paper.
The Doyenne: Exactly! And what about Fatty?

Three other souls agreed.
Damn, my committee meetings.

I did think about it.

The circumstances regarding Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, are extraordinary. We don't hate each other. We quite love each other. We count on each other like functional families do. Ack is my chosen family. My brother. My best friend. Before Fatty and I got together romantically, he asked me what I'd do if I got married again.

Round 3.

The Comrade: I'd keep Ack's name.
Fatty: And if the guy didn't understand, that would be his problem.

Boy-o-boy, I'm a lucky, lucky girl.

Admittedly, the idea of divorcing Ack made me feel a bit nervous inside. My best thought processes happen when I'm lying in bed, pre-coffee, in the morning. It's not that Ack and I will ever be married again. There is no chance of a reconciliation. We don't have that kind of relationship. I thought if I divorced him, maybe he wouldn't be my family anymore. Maybe I would feel orphaned again.


Sunday night, probably around the time I was having a 3 hour conversation with my future mother-in-law, my darling Fatty was gathering some troops to crash the Much Music Video Awards ceremony. It was held at the upper level nightclub of the restaurant we'd both worked, met and honed our wonderful friendship. He went to this party with a tiny personal test mission. There wasn't a shortage of beautiful women there. As Fatty is not shy, and quite cute, he spoke to many of them, trying extra hard to be very charming. His pursuit was to try to find someone who made him feel remotely the way I make him feel.

Fatty: It's not from a lack of trying. I spoke to dozens of beautiful, stupid women.
The Comrade: But that party was a just a pinprick of the population of the world.
Fatty: No, you don't understand. There's no one in the world like you. I adore you. And it sounds cliché, but I mean it when I say I'm nothing without you.

He is now exempt from doing dishes all week.

It took me 36 years for me to able to say I deserve Fatty.
And I will be getting a divorce proper.

Maybe one day he'll say he deserves me.