Friday, May 30, 2008

Slow It Down Some, Have Some Space

So Sara Larson and I now have something else in common, other than both being part-time models* and having breasts the size of Gummi Bears. We've both been kicked to the curb on May 28. While Sara was solemnly packing up her g-strings at George Clooney's house**, I was celebrating my Second Annual Scramiversary, aka Mopestock '08.

I can't vouch for what happened in the Clooneyverse but my own breakup (again, two years ago...not that I dwell on things) wasn't anticipated, appearing out of nowhere like a gremlin on an airplane wing. My former boyfriend and I had--cue the Alanis--spent the evening at a wedding shower, the kind of event that's only entertaining for the couple involved since they're the sole participants in party games like "Guess My Middle Name" or "What Do You Mean You Slept With Phillip?". Everyone else just stands around making mindless conversation about the relative humidity, slopping grocery store sheet cake onto monogrammed paper plates and wondering when it's polite to leave.

We were the second couple to cut out. We drove home, changed clothes, and were standing at our respective sinks getting ready for bed. There was nothing remarkable at all about the evening until he started talking.

"I'm not sure this is working," he said, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

I had been brushing my teeth, a nightly ritual that included liberally coating my mouth with Aquafresh froth and pretending to be a rabid animal. I whirled around, wiping my face on the sleeve of my oversized "World's Greatest Grandma" sleep shirt. "What? The rabies thing? Because I can stop. Or maybe simulate some other foam-based illness".

He shook his head. Cleared his throat. Straightened a hand towel on the rack. "Us. We're not working".

I couldn't have been more surprised if he'd told me that Osama Bin Laden had been living behind the water heater. I had no idea there were problems. That there were issues. That we "weren't working", whatever the hell that means.

The conversation that followed is a blur. For someone who regularly walks out of a movie quoting chunks of onscreen conversation or who can hear a song once and chime in on the chorus by the second verse, it's odd that the most devastating discussion of my life didn't cling to my memory. Maybe it was a survival mechanism. Or maybe it's because it was less of a dialogue and more a collection of clips from the Massive Asshole Magnetic Poetry Kit ("It's for the best", "We've grown apart", "Please don't set my house on fire") and my contribution, a series of agonized noises and liberal conjugations of the word "douche".

That was it. Roll the credits on the previous seven years. I spent a larger percentage of my life with him than I'd spent with anything, save for my stuffed dinosaur and crushing disappointment. And it was over.

He went to bed. I slept on the floor in the bathroom, crumpled where he left me like an empty Diet Dew can he'd chucked toward the trashcan. At some point during the night he did cover me with a blanket, the one gesture that kept me from peeing on his toothbrush.

I woke up before dawn, examined the tile creases on my cheeks, and haphazardly grabbed enough clothing from my closet to get me through the weekend. I drove home--to my parents' place--where I knew they'd let me wail and throw things and my mom would tell me that I was the cutest even when my unwashed, sofa-sculpted hair made me look like a horned owl. My dad would tell me I was better off without him, that I shouldn't give my heart to a man who tucks in his t-shirts. Also, they would give me Xanax.
__________

He said the breakup was because we'd been having problems but the real problem--I later learned--was another woman, a dried-up creature who looks like beef jerky with hair. She was over-tanned, under-educated and her default expression made her look like she just ate bad shellfish. Worst of all, her nasty Lady Clairol-ed head was resting peacefully on my former pillow before my first prescription pills had even worn off.

Twice-divorced goblin for the win.

Of all of the people he had to leave me for, I hated that it was her. I'd met her on several occasions and never liked her, mainly because she had a fondness for touching him in front of me and and--when she troubled herself to talk to me-- she used the same slow, moderated speech pattern that one may use to communicate with Charlie Gordon or conservatives.

They're still dating and it's still a suckfest to see them together. Inevitably, I picture them having sex and it always makes me think of plunging a toilet.

Despite looting my love life, she still finds it necessary to taunt me, as recently as the other day when she pointed out that she saw my car parked outside my "little shoe store" when she was "on her way home". Home. To his house. Where my mountain bike and crock pot and memories still live.

Her bitchcraft no longer bothers me. REALLY. She has him, yes, but I still have collagen and a functional uterus.

Someone told me that it takes three years to recover from a seven year relationship. That may be true. Two have gone by and I'm not entirely Over It but I've MapQuested how to get there. Another two and I hope to have forgotten his high school mascot and favorite breakfast food but I'll probably never stop hoping that she gets an anal fissure or alopecia or any number of skin allergies.

Or that one day, he'll do this same thing--this "we're not working" thing--to her.

* My sole modeling gig was in a commercial for the Fertile Turtle maternity shop when I was five. I didn't get any offers after that but I'm trying to get back to my toddler weight.
** Confidential to George Clooney: Call me. I think you are very handsome.

41 comments:

A Lover and a Fighter said...

Screw him. You're better off. If he wants to have babies with Skeletor, so be it. You're hilarious and brilliant and anyone who doesn't get that can go jump in a lake.

Team J-Money!

The Dutchess of Kickball said...

Just remember, what goes around comes around and Karma is a big assed bitch.

nancypearlwannabe said...

In this situation, it's J-Money for the win.

Sounds like he got the shit end of the stick, a life with a shriveled up biznatch.

Nate said...

I don't care for beef jerky. Or people who refer to things like shoe stores as "little." I already hate her.

Word Perv said...

Fuck! 3 years to recover from a 6 year relationship?! I'm 9 monhts out of a a 7.5 year relationship - which included a walk down the aisle and several glorious, exotic vacations and a stint living on a Caribbean island - and now you're telling me it's going to take me 3.75 years to "move on" and "get over it". Lovely. I thought I was improving when I stopped hysterically crying EVERY SINGLE DAY. Never mind that I cried last night (twice) and again this morning. It's still progress, and I've got to take it where I can get it...

La said...

I've been reading for a while, but I think this is my first comment. But I just had to tell you how hard this post struck me. I was in a six year relationship that ended six months ago, for the same reason, because he was cheating on me, with a woman I knew and had interacted with on several occasions. And even though I sort of despise him with every fiber of my being? It still hurts like hell. And I can't imagine it hurting for another two and a half years. Hang in there, and thanks for writing this.

:)

jg_38 said...

I'm six (6) years out, and not sure I'm over it or over anything.

On the plus side, I got a kid out of it! On the downside, I still have to see her all the time. I wishing someone dead something they keep you out of heaven for doing?

deutlich said...

Hmmm.. I wonder why pleather is the new look? I surely wouldn't want my skin/face resembling such nastiness..

Xenia said...

You are so better off without him. And I am pretty damn sure that in time, pleather-head will be going the way of the dodo as well.

So, how's it going with junior? :)

d said...

some day i'll invent a spray that makes ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends just disappear (POOF!) so none of us have to endure the fact that they have sex with someone else. that, or it'll render them impotent (is there a female version of impotent?) so not only will they never have sex again but we'll get to witness them never having sex again.

Vanilla said...

It's a good thing it wasn't the rabies thing because I really can't think of any other "foam-based illnesses" that you could have simulated.

/making light of a crappy situation.

bourbon please... said...

Definitely Team J-Money! Tell Ms. Tanorexia that pale is the new tan.

Max said...

First comment as well, but know how you feel. It's also awesome living across the street from your ex, so you can't help but know when he's home (or NOT home, more importantly)...hypothetically, of course. And conjugations of douche are underrated. My favorite of the week is douchemobile, in reference to the car.

My Life My Life My Life said...

My ex told me about his doctor telling him that it would take 5 years for every year we were together...now of course my ex was telling me this when I was dating someone but failed to follow his own advice because he was already engaged to someone...go figure.

kleph said...

when it comes to relationships, i'm a certifiable disaster but the one piece of advice i can offer comes via a buddy of mine who originally offered it when i went through this similar hell - it's always better to be with someone who wants to be with you.

lacochran said...

Sorry you didn't actually pee on his toothbrush.

I think you must be more over it than not to be able to write about it in such a LOL funny way! Least I hope so.

Your Ill-fitting Overcoat said...

Oh my god, I feel bad for laughing so hard at such a sad post. Like most of your commenters, I've been there and it's lame-tastic.

At least now you're freed up for George.

paisana said...

My ex dumped me because he was convinced I was sleeping around with another man who lived two states away and was engaged to another woman. No, really. Part of me has moved on totally and completely. Part of me still can't believe I dated that moron. He'll kick that other girl to the curb one day, trust me.

Also, there's a formula for healing, I think: isn't it something like it takes half the time you were in the relationship to move on fully and a quarter of the time to be ready for another relationship? Or, that's how it seems to work anyway.

And as for George Cloony? I get him first, but you might be able to pacify me with a little Will Smith c. I, Robot.

Amanda said...

Definitely have been there. The only piece of advice that actually helped when I was mending a broken heart post-engagement, was "time takes time." It's just how it is. It sucks. But you can't rush the healing process. Just know that each day is better than the one before, and you WILL love again.

Joy @ Big Time Fancy said...

Because nothing says awesome like dating someone who resembles your favorite flavor of jerky.

He sucks. She sucks.
You? Do not suck. Keep on not sucking, lady.

emily said...

Augh. Yeah, Xanax was my best friend for awhile, in a similar situation. I'm so sorry that asshat hurt you, and fervently hope that Madam Velociraptor gets the karmic bitchslap she so richly deserves.

Felicia said...

"My dad would tell me I was better off without him, that I shouldn't give my heart to a man who tucks in his t-shirts."

HAHA!! I just made fun of my friend last week for having his t-shirt tucked in! I was mildly disgusted.

Katelin said...

i think it would be better if she pulled the "we're just not working" card on him and have him see what it feels like. but overall, sounds like you are waaay better off. and hopefully george will find his way over here :)

Butter Chicken said...

Keeping with the Ben Folds Five theme, fuck you, too and give me my money back, you bitch. Hmmm, that probably didn't make you feel any better.

P.O.M. said...

Sounds familiar, but mine wasn't 6 years. I'm not one to let go and get over things easily either. He still has my crockpot, too.

Hang in there. That's all we can really do, right?

busypretending said...

I was ROFL. I'm not sure that's what you intended for this post, but "Osama living behind the water heater" and the Flowers for Algernon reference did me in.
No worries hun... We are all Mapquesting ourselves to somewhere, but the directions never seem to get us there any quicker.

christina said...

great post. breakups so hiliarous after the fact.

my first serious boyfriend opted for a ridiculously hot woman who was far skinnier than me and had very nice, toned arms and hair like the tail of a thoroughbred.

we all win. now he gets strangers pregnant and routinely flips his ford ranger when driving home from small town bars to his parent's house.

Dexter Colt said...

I've had the "it's not working out speech" before...actually, I've had it a lot. Whatevs. I pretty much approach dating like I'm visiting a Motel 6...I keep a bag packed and hope I don't get crabs from sleeping in the bed.

hatefulbitch said...

You are already becoming one of my favorite blogs to read.

Daszzle said...

My brain blanks post-important conversations too. Maybe we're better off that way...

Take care... and allow yourself a good cry then go do something fun. Fuck 'em

chasinglibby said...

for the record, your 20sb pic is a really good one - you look much better than this dried out overtanned ever could!! i just know these things!

Christy said...

Okay...this blog almost rendered me speechless...sorry, I couldn't resist:

1) I imagine that Hugh would get jealous if he found out you were coveting George - careful! I also imagine that he wouldn't blame you in any case, either due to the scenario of your blog or the fact that (even though he's older) he still looks good.

2) Even though hindsight is, as they say, 20/20, urine is sterile as it leaves your body. So peeing on his toothbrush would have only, err, cleaned it(?). Yes, this coming from the chick that refuses to pee anywhere but in a toilet. ???

3) Okay, here it comes: Been there, done that. Know what, though? I'm a MUCH more awesome person than I used to be (imagine that one!) because of all the crap I dealt with! Heck, I'm even incredibly happily married now! (I'm not trying to rub that in, please don't take it that way) I say this because there's still hope!!! You'll meet the right guy (hopefully Hugh or George) & you'll know right away (or soon thereafter) & be so madly in love that you'll spend the rest of you life w/him. At least, that's the plan, right? Anyway, I'm glad to see that you can make jokes about it now. You've definitely gotten the better end of the bargain, my friend. =) Go, J-Money, Go!!!

poodlegoose said...

I'm sorry I haven't been reading as regularly. I know you've missed my minor presence, but I know that I've missed your posts. Anyhoozle, back to the point. I honestly don't understand the thought process of a guy like your ex, but I gave up trying (too) long after one of my breakups. This post struck me, but you're strong, girl.

Mickey said...

Oooh- Tucks in his t-shirts? Who needs that? I feel like I know all I need to about him from that one statement.

But dude, go get your mountain bike already. At night. And leave one of those flaming bags of dog shit on the doorstep.

BRANDELLA. said...

I love you, so if you're looking for a lesbian lover who is quite proficient at making cupcakes (and various other comfort foods), hit me up.

Seriously, go Carrie Underwood on his ass and key his car ... or however that song goes.

la chaser said...

You should def go get you bike back, and while you are at it, maybe steal a few other important things, like his viagara. Cause you know he needs that for the jerky witch.

chasinglibby said...

george and sarah are over?! wow i'm behind.

and i know its completely inappropriate to laugh..but the way you talk about your breakup is ingenious. your writing cracks me up!

Yolanda Elvira said...

sucks balls. but you got a really good post out of it. i heard the thing about the 3 for 6. it's half of whatever the length of the relationship.

she's a shallow dirty wh*re and they deserve each other. the end.

KM said...

Have you given any thought to sitting outside his house at night, smoking, and throwing empty Slim Fast cans at the window?

Oh, wait, that was someone else.

Get your mountain bike back. While you're there, tell him to buy us both new cars.

Tiny Frog said...

3 years to get over a 6 yr one huh?

does that mean I am going to be going through my own private hell for 9 months?

Eh, I guess that doesnt sound so bad.

found your blog. LOVE IT!!

The Clandestine Samurai said...

Suckfest indeed.