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. 

Anyway… 

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. 

BLASPHEMY

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.” 

Blasphemy. 

Sloth

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. 

9/11 on 9/11

Today is 9//11. I try to stay away from writing about topics that are globally tragic. I much prefer writing about topics that are personally tragic. However, I was born and raised in NYC, and given that this is the ten year anniversary, I have decided to talk about my experience.  

September 11, 2001

It was my second year of graduate school. I was living at home with my parents and my sister in Queens. I  had a habit of leaving the television on mute while I slept. I was having bad dreams and the television helped. When I woke up a movie was playing. There was an explosion, I didn’t pay much attention. I grabbed my cell phone and called a friend. He picked up and said he was fine. 

“Fine?” I asked. 

“Aren’t you calling to see if I’m ok?” Silence. “Haven’t you seen the news?” More silence. “Someone flew a plane into the Twin Towers.” 

I turned towards the television. I don’t remember thinking anything. I just remember the moment when I realized that I was watching the news not a movie. A minute or two passed and the second tower fell.  I hung up. I frantically dialed numbers; my mother, my sister, my father, my friends, anyone I knew who would be in the city. All safe. Thank God.

I watched the news for two or three hours. I turned it off. It was too much. I was just there a few days ago. I don’t remember who called who, but I was on the phone with my friend, Maye.  We decided that we both needed to get out of the house.

Maye and I met freshman year of college. We were introduced through a mutual friend. She was shy, but I won her over and we became good friends. She was born in China, but is defiantly a New Yorker. I still consider her one of my dearest friends. 

We decided to go to the movies, get our minds off of everything. When we tried to buy tickets, we received a verbal lashing from the guy in the ticket booth. How could we go to a movie at a time like this? He told us that his muslim friends had been beaten up and was in the hospital. 

Maye and I looked at each other. I told him that I felt bad for his friend but we couldn’t sit and watch the news all day, it was too upsetting. Besides, the trains weren’t running, we couldn’t even go to help.  

At this point the manager showed up and gave the guy a stern look. Then we got our tickets. I don’t remember what we watched. 

When I got back home, I found a scrap of paper in my pocket with a name and number, Will. Will worked in one of the towers. I met him at The World Trade Center a few days prior. We were supposed to go on a date. I called his number. Voicemail. I left a message.

The following days were quiet. Will called me back. He was on the ground floor getting a cup of coffee when the plane hit. He said that he ran into the subway, and followed a crowd into one of the cars. He said that the dust was so thick he could hardly see, let alone breath. 

A week later we went out on our date. He spoke about his experience on 9/11. He said that every time he heard a loud noise his heart pounded in his chest. I was sympathetic to his trauma, but the tone in his voice made me think he was trying to get into my pants.  My thoughts were confirmed. While driving me home he stopped the car, and pulled out his erect penis. 

I just looked at him. I contemplated smacking him, but as I said, I was sympathetic. Being a survivor can make you do things that you normally wouldn’t. I got out of the car. I could hear him as I shut the door. “Come on, just touch it. We would be so good together.” I walk home. It was only a few blocks. 

We went out twice after that, but I couldn’t forgive his penis display. That was that. 

The following months were tough. I was saddened about the lives lost. At the same time, I’d never seen so many people come together to help one another.  No riots, or looting, us New Yorkers were sticking together. That’s why we’re awesome. 

I’m trying to think of something uplifting to end with. Something that makes you think of puppies and rainbows, but I’m just not that kind of person. Besides, puppies and rainbows seem a little inappropriate, even for me.  

Shaking the Devil

I broke a wine glass the other day. It shattered into a million pieces on the kitchen floor. The shards nicked my feet in three different places, leaving tiny bloody dots. I was really annoyed. I only had two wine glasses.

I decided to take it as a good omen.

Breaking clear glass will ward off The Evil Eye.

I know, it’s superstitious.

Hexes. Curses. The Evil Eye. All intentionally, or unintentionally, cause misfortune, illness, or harm.

Ever feel someone staring at you before you notice them? Feel the thick air of tension from someone agitated nearby? Is it that far fetched that someone can focus their agitation, envy, or hatred, and it cause harm?

After the Hok incident, my mother didn’t think so.

How do you protect yourself, you ask? Preemptive measures! When I was a child, that meant a ritual blessing and spiritual cleansing.

Flower petals, leaves, spices, and blessed water, these are the ingredients for a cleansing ritual. The specific ingredients change for the person, and the desired results. I remember the scent of cinnamon, and the shock of having freezing water poured over me, while my mother and aunt recited prayers.

I was SAVED!

There was a log break from the family witchery after that. Besides the bi-monthly tarot readings, all was calm. At least, until high school, when it was decided that I was hexed. I don’t remember how, or even why it was decided, but it was.

“Put a glass of water under your bed tonight,” instructed my aunt, the bruja. She said she was going to come back the next morning. So, before I went to bed, I picked out sturdy glass, filled it with cold water, and found a spot directly below my pillow.

The next morning, I met her in the backyard with my glass. She told me to pour out the water, while reciting a prayer, and leave the glass. I did. As I turned to face her, I was assaulted with florida water. She dowsed her hands then splashed it at me.

The florida water I expected. I did not expect her to grab me by my shoulders, turn me towards the trees, and shake the Devil outta me. She shook me very hard, yelling, “Pray, pray!” while reciting a prayer herself.

I was taken incredibly off guard! In my head, I was like, What the fuck?? I tried my best not to laugh. It’s not that I didn’t take it all seriously, I just have a nervous laughter (which has gotten me into trouble).

Afterwards, she gestured with her hands, done. Then she walked into the house, and had a cup of coffee with my mother. You know, like any normal person would do after a sorta exorcism. I just went back to my room and gossiped about it with my sister.

Hexed or not, better safe then sorry.

NOTE: Florida water is a floral and citrus scented cologne used for ritual purification. It is available at your local botánica, voodoo shop, or witchcraft store.

Sordid

 “You know, I’ve always had a rape fantasy.” That’s what David said when I told him about my rape. I KNEW he was way too interested. He kept asking questions and leaning in to hear all the sordid details.

It happened a long time ago. I'm over it. Luckily, I wasn’t a virgin anymore. That would have been traumatic. I wasn’t beaten either. I suppose that would be the bright side, if there was a bright side to rape.

The History of Rape, he was almost proud to bring out his prized porno. I assume he thought that since he had a rape fantasy and that I had been raped, we were cosmically meant to have a deeper, meaningful relationship.

On the surface, David was highly educated, with a double major. He grew up in the Midwest, and was raised as a Conservative Jew. In reality, he was void of common sense. I often wondered how he survived life. He was also, hypocritically, an atheist. When I met him, he lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and worked in the financial field.

At this point, we were experimenting sexually, and had recently become exclusive. We were in the tell me your dark secret phase. “Can we role-play a rape?” He had the nerve to ask me that. I wanted to punch him in the face. Hard.

It may sound incredibly fucked up, but after some thought, I agreed.

The role-playing lasted about three minutes. I screamed as he ripped off my shirt then I did it. I punched him in the face. Hard. Suddenly, he wanted to stop. He said I was fighting too hard. I assured him that real life rape was nothing like his circa 1980, big bushed, oh-no-don’t-put-that-big-cock-inside-a-me, wannabe history of rape VHS.

Idiot.

I don’t know why I stayed with him. Maybe I was too busy with graduate school to invest time in anyone else. Besides, before the confession of his delusional rape fantasy, we got along well enough. David never brought it up again. Who knows, maybe that punch knocked some sense into him.

One can only hope. 

Bloody Sheets

As I mentioned in my Foot Note, sex was not a big topic in my family. I was “Catholic” and sex was for marriage. The idea of waiting until marriage was absolutely ridiculous. My greatest fear was loosing my virginity on my wedding night and it sucked. Then what? A life of bad sex? No thank you. Besides, unless I married young, it made no sense. I had plans. I wanted a career. I was not going to end up a thirty year old virgin because I wasn’t married.

About a year after the Awful Kiss, I decided I wanted to loose my virginity. Chris, a guy that lived just a few blocks away, was 2 years older, and was not virgin. He was very cute, funny, and slightly unsure of himself. I didn’t know him very well, and he was a little shocked when I asked him to be my first. “Don’t you want it to be special?” he asked.

I explained to him that I wanted the experience. I did not want to loose my virginity to a boyfriend, who would destroy my heart when we broke up. No man will have that hold on me. 

He obviously agreed. He’s a guy. Free (safe) sex. No brainer.

The first time was… painful. But it was an enjoyable pain. There was tearing. There was blood. But there were also endorphins, pheromones, and adrenaline. Afterwards, there was no awkwardness. I did not feel any different. I felt like I had gotten something out of the way.

We met up once or twice a week after that. I needed practice, and he’s a guy, free sex. I bled the first several times. The tearing healed up and ripped open every time he reentered my body. I was sore, and my inner thighs hurt like a bitch. Eventually though, my body adjusted. I felt a little bad about all the bloody sheets. When the bleeding finally stopped, we hi-fived.

I know everyone is told to wait until they’re in love, but that’s bullshit. No teenager can understand love. I mean no adult can understand love, or even being in love, unless you’ve had your heart stomped on. It’s the only way you understand your mistakes, and how to be a better person. Or at least, how to be a better person in a relationship.

I understood that even then. 

I was always so wise. 

Very Bad Dreams

I can’t wake up.

The doll with the burnt out eye is playing the piano and turns towards me, “You are going to die here.”  

I panic. I scream. My eyelids are heavy.  

I can’t wake up.

I know I am asleep. I know this is a dream. But this does not change the terror I feel when the doll looks at me.  

I open my eyes.

I feel the dead weight of my body. I am lying in bed. I can not move. I can still hear the piano. There is a dark figure standing over me, watching me. 

I can’t wake up.

I am in a waking dream; terrified, unable to move, unable to scream. I use every ounce of strength I have to move but I can only wiggle my pinky. It was enough. The spell is broken. I sit up. There is no dark figure. There is no music. It is 3 a.m. And once again, I can’t sleep.

Sleep paralysis. In the transition state from asleep to awake, my mind, in it’s terror, is partially woken. My body is paralyzed, playing catch-up with my mind. It’s fairly common. The effects are paralysis of the body and simultaneously being awake and dreaming causing hallucinations. Trippy and terrifying.

This all started because I have fucking insomnia. Between cramming all night, and work. I had too much on my mind. countless nights I'd lay in bed and stare at the crack in the ceiling.  I tried to exhaust myself at the gym, count backwards from a thousand, nothing worked. It wasn’t healthy. I needed sleep. 

On a random visit to the pharmacy I picked up some over-the-counter sleeping pills. Main active ingredient: diphenhydramine. They knocked me out. I was a rock. They also made me very groggy in the mornings. 

Everything seemed manageable until I had a very bad dream. I’ve always had bad dreams, ever since I was a child. In fact, the first dream I remember was a reoccurring nightmare. It involved furniture moving on it’s own, a barking rottweiler and the devil. I was seven and it terrified me. 

Over the years, my nightmares became worse. I dreamt of demons, dreamt of serial killers, dreamt of death. I became desensitized. No matter how bad the dream, I’d wake up and just go back to sleep. That was, until the sleeping pills. 

Sleep paralysis. I had two or three episodes a week; terrified, frozen, helpless (although, I enjoyed the one with the cartoons dancing around my room). At first, I didn't know that the sleeping pills contributed to my condition, when I did, I stopped taking them. I don't know why but the episodes continued. 

Knowing what was happening to me did not make me any less terrified. Every time it happened I focused on my pinky. My greatest fear was waiting for the day that moving a pinky no longer worked. I was afraid to sleep. So once again, I had insomnia. 

I continue to have insomnia. I've tried everything. I rarely take sleeping pills any more. If I do they are defiantly not diphenhydramine. I haven’t had an episode in a while (knock on wood).  But I still have very bad dreams. 

SPLAT

A year after my stalker saga, I finally opened up to dating. It wasn’t that my faith in the male of the species was restored, but my sister convinced me that I should avoid my path towards social freakhood and ostracism. I agreed to go out with a friend of hers. She had nothing but nice things to say about him.

I honestly don’t remember his name. All I remember is that he was really tall, knew martial arts, and was not blond. While driving to dinner, he confessed that he only befriended my sister to get closer to me. I think he was trying to flatter me. I found this appalling. Especially after all the nice things she said about him. It was an immediate validation of my dating sabbatical.

The rest of the night was so-so. I let him kiss me after dinner (Probably the wine). He asked if I felt the electricity between us. So cheesy. He really thought I was going to sleep with him. I knew this because after I asked him to drive me home, he called and cancelled a hotel room.

Dickhead.

Two weeks later my sister told me, SPLAT, he got hit by a truck. I Laughed. I couldn’t stop laughing. She got all upset. It never even occurred to me to ask if he was still alive. At least, not until she said he got away with only a few broken bones. I did wonder what kind of truck it was, if only for the visual. 

I can't even tell that story without a giggle. I guess I would call that schadenfreude (pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others). But in my defense, he really was a dickhead. 

Pretty through the Window

I never liked dating. But my general strangeness had already labeled me a freak and a bitch, so dating seemed like a normalizing step. Unfortunately, I was too preoccupied with school and personal projects to differentiate between passionate and obsessive. This was a problem. I wonder if I had payed more attention that I could have weeded out the stalkers. My Bad. 

Psycho Bob

My first stalker was Psycho Bob. I met Psycho Bob at a seance orchestrated to relieve the boredom of a high school dance. He was just Bob then. Bob was 6’1” with hazel blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and a damaged personality.

We dated for a year before Bob’s “psychoness” began to seep through. His love notes entailed passages such as keeping my dead body encased in wax. I am sure he thought it was romantic, turning me into a Bodies exhibit. I slowly became aware of his possessiveness, spying, stalking, and accusations of cheating. 

I decided it was time to say good-bye to Bob, but Bob, now Psycho Bob, did not agree. The attempt ended with his hands around my throat threatening to, “squeeze out my last breath.”  There was a sense of, Oh, fuck! Probably not as scary as waking up chained in his basement, but still. I somehow convinced him to let go. Then he said, “It’s not over until I say it’s over.” Typical.

I was starting university and decided I was going to be a Bitch to him until he broke up with me. Bitchiness triumphed! A week later I was Psycho Bob free. It was genius!  Or so I thought. 

He called me constantly asking for forgiveness. He threatened to let his fish starve because he was too depressed to feed them. Yes, his pet fish did die and it was all my fault. When that ploy didn’t work, he claimed to have cancer.  Miraculously, he was in remission a week later. Apparently, Jesus loves him. 

Once he finally realized it was over, he left hate mail at my house (which I kept), roadkill on my doorstep (which I did not keep), and stalked me around campus. He even ranted about me on university radio. Great for my social life (thumbs up). I should have sued.

It finally ended with a restraining order through the University.  

The Foreigner

After Psycho Bob (PB), I was understandably jaded. I decided to focus on my studies. The Foreigner overlapped with the tail end of my break-up with PB, my freshman year at university. Like PB, he had dirty blond hair and blue eyes (a sign), unlike PB though, he had a Ukrainian accent. The Foreigner was part of my small group of friends that met up after class, went out to eat, and mostly just hung out. 

After a few months, I started to get strange phone calls at night, mostly hang-ups. I assumed it was PB until I received a call with nothing but music playing. It was No Doubt, “Don’t Speak.” I had my suspicions who it was after The Foreigner started showing signs of jealousy towards my other male friends. 

I confronted him about the phone calls. I expected him to deny it, but he didn’t. I told him that if he wanted to talk, he could. The Foreigner then admitted that he had also sat in his car across the street from my house, watching until my light went out. 

Defiantly not okay. I made him promise to stop. He reluctantly agreed. Two nights later, I saw his car across the street (I must look pretty through the window). I walked up to his car and told him, very firmly, to leave. 

That was the end of that. 

Since then I’ve steered clear of the blond haired, blue eyed types. No offense.

Evil Bitch

I was writing a blog entry just a moment ago. It is about the boyfriends I have disposed of. I don’t mean dissolved with lye in the bathtub disposed of, obviously (although, I have been tempted a few times). I started going off on a tangent about getting hate mail, hate messages, and notes of general unhappiness.

You see, I keep my hate mail. I like to read them from time to time. You know, to gain perspective on how I’ve grown as a person. I noticed they have a reoccurring theme.

Here are some highlights:

“You are an evil bitch.” (Maybe True)

“You are so selfish.” (Sometimes True)

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” (Not True. I Love Animals!)

“If I died, you wouldn’t care.” (Probably True)

Could it be, that I am so awesome, that the absence of me makes them go crazy? Maybe, or maybe I’m just a crazy magnet. Probably a little bit of both.

Hok

I am told that, when I was a child, I could see spirits. Yes, I know how that sounds. Just to make things clear, I do not claim to see any spirits. In fact, I can say with 100% certainty, that to my memory I have never seen any spirits, ghosts, poltergeist, or anything of the sort.  But, this is what I was told.

For those who are spiritual, it is a common belief that children are more open to experiencing something of a supernatural nature. Hell, I actually do believe it.  Both children and animals. But to hear it about you is just very different than actually believing in it.

My mother tells this story from my childhood with hesitation. The kind of hesitation that tell me she remembers the fear she felt when it happened. She said it started when she noticed me reaching my arms up in the air, the way children do when they want to be picked up. I reached at nothing. She also noticed that sometimes I’d hide behind a chair, or even behind her legs, peeking my head out. I was afraid of something.

I am told that I stared at it, whatever “it” was, and followed it with my finger as it passed through the room. Most people would assume I was following a bug or some dust in the air but my mother, somewhat versed in the spiritual, asked me what I was looking at.

I said, “Hok.”

On night, my mother came to check on me in my bedroom. She says it was one of the most terrifying moments in her life. She said, “It was like someone grabbed you, and was slamming you around the room.” She said she ran to my side but was pushed against the wall, and had to use all her strength to get to me. She says that when she finally had me in her arms, she prayed over me all night. For all I know, I might have had a seizure. It was dark. Maybe I pushed her with seizure strength reflex. 

The next day she called a priest. I don’t know if it was a real priest or a witch doctor type. She had the house cleaned and blessed. To explain, when I say cleaned, I don’t mean with maid service, I mean like horror movie, “This house is clean,” kinda cleaned. A spiritual cleaning to remove negativity.

After the house blessing, I don't know how long after, my mother said I pointed to the window, and whisper in her ear…

“Hok is outside.”

Foot Note

Believe it or not, I get embarrassed when I write about my sexual experiences. It’s true. I was raised in a strict Spanish, Catholic home, and you didn't talk about sex. Sex was for marriage. Sex was private. Even now when I look back at what I’ve done, I shake my head and think, I can’t believe I did that. It was like some crazy movie, cheesy dialogue and all. Still, to talk about it, I’m embarrassed.

I was always told I was sexy. My sister was always beautiful and cute but me, sexy. I didn’t want to be the sexy one. I would have been happy with beautiful or cute. It was kind of ironic since I was a goth tomboy throughout college. I studied hard and didn’t pay much attention to what I wore, as long as it was black. I suppose being labeled sexy lead me to explore my sexuality despite my trauma from The Awful Kiss. 

When I was in graduate school I went to a foot interview. I answered this completely sketchy CraigsList ad that could have been some psycho-killer that wanted to keep my feet on a shelf in his refrigerator. But it was just some guy that wanted to check my feet out for some fetish work. I already knew I had nice feet. I previously dated a man that asked to see my feet. When I showed them to him, he was so happy he lifted me off the ground in a big hug. 

So I’m at the interview, an amazing loft with big pillows, intricately designed carpets, and a sofa area with flowing curtains like some exotic arabian movie. A chair was set up in the middle of a room, and this young, not-so-bad-looking guy has me sit down, and take my shoes off. So I can’t run away? The guy kneels next to me and holds my feet up to the light. He checks them in different angles, measures them, smells them. He did everything but lick them. Then the talk. What a foot fetish is, how they set up appointments. I knew it was a sexual thing, blah blah… kissing feet, blah, blah… massaging feet, blah blah. I passed the foot test! Yay! So, I leave and head into the subway to my at-the-time boyfriend David’s apartment. 

When I get to the apartment, Ring ring. The foot guy. Apparently, a German business man was in town looking for some foot loving. $250 bucks for 30 minutes. Plus a tip! You must always remember to tip your foot whore! I paused for a second with three thoughts; 1. $250 to get a foot massage, not so bad for 30 mins. 2. Possibly he wanted to keep my feet on a shelf in his refrigerator. I was about to say ok when into my head pops the image of an old, saggy, fat German man jizzing on himself, or even worse, MY FEET! Cringe. Shutter. Um, No Thank You.

That was the end of that. I chickened out. Good times. At least I still have my feet. 

The Awful Kiss

Before the age of 26, a sexual experience with another woman was pretty much a no-go. I mean, I‘m a good looking girl, I had offers. I guess I was more worried about the fall-out of being labeled a lesbian. After all, I was enrolled in Catholic school my whole life. However, It was my during time at an all-girls Catholic high school that there was just a little blip. 

To be honest, the first time I kissed a girl wasn’t sexy. There were no fireworks, there was no passion, it was just awful. I was fifteen when it happened, the awful kiss. At the time I had what I call whore’s lips. I recently discovered kissing and I was obsessed with it. I kissed as often as possible. At  the time, my kissing partner was my friend Sarah’s cousin, John. Sarah was WEIRD. And I don’t mean she was lesbian weird, she was just weird in general. She would get mad at me if I didn’t call her, even though I saw her at school everyday. I always just brushed her behavior off as nothing. A possessive friend. Sarah was the facilitator of the awful kiss. 

One day she convinces me to come over to her house using John as bait. I go. We talk. We play video games. I was playing Sonic the Hedgehog when John showed up. She strategically sits next to me and whispers, “Don’t freak out.” Don’t freak out?? What does that mean?? I glanced at her and  shrugged my shoulders, what?

“I want to weird him out,” she says. She sits on my lap and hooks her arm around my neck. I kept playing my game but in my head I’m like,  what the fuck??  “Don’t move,” she says. Don’t move? Then she kisses my cheek. A little kiss. I turn to look at her and I remember thinking she is going to kiss me. Like REALLY kiss me. I didn’t know what to do. Then there it was, the awful kiss. Smack on my mouth!  I was in shock from the kiss when her hand went down my shirt. I shot up, knocking her to the floor, and in a panic yelled out, “You made me lose my game!” 

For the next 12 years there were no sexual experiences with another woman. I think I was traumatized… 

There Was a Little Girl

There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad she was horrid.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow