April 21, 2012

Church and Plate

I have an Evil Grandmother. (EGM) 

She is my paternal grandmother and a Protestant Bible thumper. 

Maybe it’s not fair to call her evil, but when I was a teenager, I found out how she disciplined my father. She made him strip naked, kneel on dry grains of rice, then beat him with a leather strap. 

That sounds pretty evil to me. I’m sure by today’s standards she would be arrested for child abuse. 

Just before I was born, EGM tried to convince my mother to let her raise me. Because, you know, my mom could always have other children. I can not even imagine…  

To this day, I’m sure she holds animosity towards my mother because, in her mind, she would have done a better job raising me. 


EGM is a stocky woman about 5’ 2”. She has dyed, black hair that frizzes around her face, and small dark eyes that narrow whenever anyone says anything that contradicts her view of the world. Despite her unfriendly appearance, her silent glare is better than her condescending conversation.  

One Saturday, when I was in college, EGM came over for dinner. This was a rarity since, as I said, she is evil. She doesn’t get along with anyone. Ever. She especially criticized that my sister and I were raised Catholic (I think she took it personally).  After repeated arguments and attempts to circumvent our religion, my parents decided not to discuss religion when she was over for dinner.

It was a clear separation of Church and Plate. 

Pre dinner was pseudo polite. A black and white movie played in the background while we talked about my studies. I was a psychology major and believe it or not, EGM is a social worker. Even talking about school was a competition to her.  As the conversation went on, it was clear that she was attempting to break down my confidence in my career path, because she knew better. 

Eventually, my mother called us into the dinning room.  

My grandmother sat next to my father, across from my mother, her stocky body jiggled as she settled into her seat.  My sister sat on EGM’s side of the table and I sat beside my mother.

As usual, my sister and I vented our frustrations through inappropriate dinner conversation. We were upset about an animal abuse story we heard on the news. Our conversation drifted from stories of animal abuse to the creative tortures that we thought animal abusers should suffer. We were on the receiving end of several dirty looks from my grandmother. Perhaps it was the, "how to keep our victim alive as we tortured him for days,” that upset her. 

“The Bible says man has dominion over animals.” I knew she couldn’t stay quiet for long. She reminds me of Dolores Umbridge from the Harry Potter movies, completely self righteous. 

I told her that, biologically, man is an animal. 

“I am not an animal,” she yelled across the table, then turned to my mother, “They are like this because you didn’t beat them enough.” 

My sister and I stared at each other, wide eyed and appalled. I didn’t know if I should laugh or just ignore her. 
“If you ask them, I was too harsh,” my mother chimed in.

My grandmother tried to justify beating my sister and I by quoting more Bible passages. Knowing what she did to my father, it made me so angry. Who the hell does she think she is? 

I told her that the Bible was just a book, written by a man. I emphasized, man. I said, “If you need a book to be close to God, then I feel sorry for you. God should be here.” I pointed to my heart. 

Granted, I said it to piss her off, but I was not prepared for the woman to go berserko.

She reached across the dinning table, grabbed me by my wrists, and started to shake me. I was pulled halfway across the table before I realized what she was doing. I think she was trying to pull me closer to smack me. I firmly, but calmly said, “Let go,”  as I got to my feet. 

I wasn't going to push an old lady.  No matter how evil she is. 

My mother finally stood up and yelled, “Enough.”  

EGM let go of my wrists and glared at me, her beady eyes expressing murder. She grabbed her bag and stormed out of the house, ranting her religious nonsense under her breath.  

That was the last time she was ever invited to dinner. 

March 14, 2012


I knew the instant the words left my mouth, it was a mistake.

“Andrew could do it.”

I am aware that making comparisons between boyfriends is a BIG no-no. But making sexual comparisons is relationship BLASPHEMY.   

David loathed Andrew. He was younger, stronger, charismatic, and my family loved him. He was also known for his large penis nicknamed Black Magic. Andrew, like David, is Jewish.  When he was circumcised, the skin on his penis darkened, hence Black Magic. 

Andrew is a very long, very complicated story. He was my college sweetheart. We had tons of crazy adventures. I can only describe him as being very loud in that funny, obnoxious, Jack Black kind of way. I always felt something was missing, I knew he was not the one. 

I dated Andrew for almost three years. There were a number of problems in the relationship, and after a disastrous vacation, we broke up. I was in my first year of graduate school, and Andrew was in his fifth year of college (after changing his major). We were going in different directions. 

“I don’t want to marry you.” I blurted it out. He hadn’t asked, but we talked about it. We had a huge argument at a Superbowl party the night before and it was the final straw. 

He was silent for an awkward thirty seconds. Without looking at me, he nodded  and said he didn’t want to marry me either. We shared our crocodile tears and went our merry ways. Two days later, I called him to get back together. I’m such an ass. He said he was too young to have been in such an involved relationship.  

I was not happy, but in true ass format, I continued to sleep with him anyway. In my own defense, I don’t like to jump from one dick to another. I find it slutty. He told me that he didn’t want to date anyone else and that he still loved me. It made me think that sex with Andrew was safe. 

It ended up a really bad idea. 

 A month after we broke up, a bunch of my friends went to a party at a hotel. I went with Andrew. He was’t himself. He was distant, chatting on the phone, and halfway through the night he got piss-ass drunk and passed out in our hotel room.  

I thought I was being polite by turning the ringer off so he could sleep. A text message came through while the phone was in my hand.

“I Love You Too.”

At that moment, a psycho-rage took over. 

My first instinct was to stab him in his sleep with a room service butter knife. I held back. I know we broke up, but I loved him. He said he loved me, that there wasn’t anyone else. LIAR. 

I managed to calm myself down then went through his phone. I pulled up all the inbox and sent text messages and showed the conversation to my friends. I told them I was going to confront him. As any good friends would do, they came with with me.  

Andrew was out cold. He didn’t wake up when I yelled at him. He didn’t wake up when I straddled him, grabbed him by his collar, then smacked him across the face (repeatedly). I calmed down, filled an ice bucket with, well ice, and some cold water then dumped it on him. That woke him up. 

A huge argument ensued and a crowd of our friends gathered to watch the specticle. I think someone video taped it. I vaguely remember pushing a camera out of my face. I grabbed his phone from the table while he was denying everything.  Andrew reached around to grab it. In our struggle, I accidentally elbowed him in the nose. Red ran down his lips and chin in a bloody mess. I didn’t want him to see my concerned.  In a panic I smashed his phone against the wall and yelled, “fuck you,” as I left. 

I’m really not a violent person. I much prefer psychological destruction, but things happen. That was pretty much the end of that. I was so depressed and cried for about two weeks before I sucked it up.  

 I went out that weekend and met a rebound guy. He was sweet, but weird. He had a foot fetish. On our first date he asked to see my feet then gave me a big hug in approval. We only dated for three months, I wasn’t feeling it. He was also Jewish, and said he wouldn’t marry a girl unless she was Jewish too. The religion thing made it a pointless relationship. 

About ten months after my break-up with Andrew, I met David. Early in our relationship, while  watching a baseball game at David’s apartment, my phone rang. It was Andrew, crying. The whore he was dating, dumped him. I found out he actually met her two months before we broke up and she knew about me (hence, the whore). To this day, he swears nothing happened until after we broke up. Yeah, right.

I have to admit, I enjoyed how upset he was. I savored every pathetic, little whimper that poured out of his mouth. I was so giddy about it, I made the mistake of telling David way too much about him, including Black Magic.  

Andrew eventually went to California to hook up with some stripper he met on the internet or something. He said he wanted to, “sow his wild oats.” He called me a few weeks after he returned to New York.  Andrew thought we would start dating again. He said he got everything out of his system, and was ready start a serious relationship with me. He was too late, David and I were already serious.  

Andrew and I became friends, we went to dinner a few times. He tried to charm me into leaving David, but I could never trust Andrew after he broke my heart. That didn’t stop him from pursuing me anyway. 

He showed up at my parents house, (when I wasn’t there) and cooked dinner for them. He drove my sister to night clubs so she wouldn’t have to take a cab. He kept an indirect presence in my life, trying to win favor with my family. It worked, they loved him. 

 David loathed Andrew. He was jealous over Andrew’s relationship with my family. David wasn’t stupid, he knew Andrew kept an eye out for trouble between us. 

One year, on my mother’s birthday, a bunch of friends and family went to happy hour. My mother invited Andrew and I arrived with David. Awkward. It was a fun time, but the night ended with David and Andrew politely arguing over who was going to pay the bill. 

As I said, awkward. 

So you can imagine, the words, “Andrew could do it.” 


January 24, 2012


I’ve been a sloth. 

I haven’t written anything since 9/11.  

After my last blog entry I worked on my Halloween costume. Halloween is my Christmas. I plan my costume months in advance. It’s a big deal for me. This year I was inspired by Steampunk. I tailored a faux suede outfit with chains and pearls, and tedious details. It was a lot of work, involved many sleepless nights, but completely worth it. 

Starting November 1st, fighting off my Halloween hangover, I dove into NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Thirty days and nights to write 50,000 words of fiction. I was planning to write a horror novel anyway and I thought, No better time then the present!

It was a great experience, but I don’t know if I will do it again. I was so focused on quantity, quality was thrown out the window. My grammar and spelling regressed to a second grade level. I also suffered several hand cramps. On the flip side, I now have a little icon that says, “Winner.” 

Thanksgiving came and went. I love food (Which is why it’s my second favorite holiday). 

December 1st NaNoWriMo was over. I promised myself I was going to get back to blogging, but I was so burnt out. I started several blog entries, but I couldn’t get passed the first three sentences. I just stared at the screen and zoned out. 

I needed a break. I celebrated Christmas and the New Year, but besides that, I spent much of my time watching netflix with my dog.

I feel so much better.