04.02.12

Monday Dare: Running Away? Pack well. Trust me.

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the complete list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Share. Celebrate.

Remember that one time an essay I wrote ended up in a book? And some of you bought the book and I felt so goddamn lucky to know such awesome people? And other people *didn’t* buy the book, but I still felt so goddamn lucky to know such awesome people? Probably a little less awesome in my eyes now…but still a fairly good amount, so don’t worry.I’ve been looking forward to sharing this essay with you. We’ve gotten to know each other and like each other and commit crimes with each other. Wait, not the last one. Not yet anyway.

Thanks for listening. Thanks for being my friend.

____

“I am running away. I want you to have my CDs. Don’t scratch them.”

What did I know as an 18-year-old? I knew that I was pregnant. I knew that I was going to be a single mother. I knew that my parents wanted me to terminate my pregnancy. If I could just withstand their incessant prodding for five more weeks, I would pass the six-month mark, and the procedure would be illegal. I knew that I was running away. As soon as my best friend pulled into the driveway, I knew I would be without a home, without any money, and without a plan for the next five weeks.

I made the decision to run away the day before. I didn’t have to wait long for my chance. As soon as my mother left for the grocery store, I quickly called my best friend and I packed two garbage bags. With a teenager’s lack of forethought, I stuffed every pair of shoes I owned into one bag and three sweatshirts into the other plastic bag. I didn’t pack a clean change of underwear or any pants.

The only possessions I had given any thought to were my CDs. Every last cent I earned from odd jobs went into purchasing those CDs. They represented all my careless adventures and frivolous youthful indulgences.

I never let anyone touch them, but I knew I couldn’t bring them along. They would get lost or stolen while I shuffled around from one place to another, so I decided to leave them to my brother. But I didn’t trust him, and I couldn’t just leave them on his desk, lest the significance was lost on a 16-year-old. I decided to write a note.

“I am running away. I want you to have my CDs. Don’t scratch them.”

In that moment, as I wrote that note, I knew I was leaving behind any vestige of youth. I was stepping into adulthood.

I walked out of my childhood home with two garbage bags. As the car drove further and further away, I  couldn’t help but turn around and look one last time.

“He better not wreck those CDs.”

I never lived in that home again.

My daughter, Cal, recently turned 12.

April 2, 2012
03.26.12

Monday Dare: Toeing the motherfucking line

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the full list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Be less “awesome” and “wonderful”

When people ask stupid questions, I like to give fucked-up answers. Some may find this immature and tasteless, but it brings me a great deal of joy, and hey, if we can’t derive satisfaction from the little things in life, then shit’s going to get real bad, real fast, don’t you think?

Years ago, I had a boyfriend ask me why I loved my daughter more than I loved him. Now that I think back, it was more of a complaint rather than a question, but whatever the method of delivery, his heart was in the same place. He wanted to be #1.

I sat in stunned silence for a minute. Really, I wanted to laugh and push him in the face, but I figured that would only make the situation worse. My silence must have spoken volumes because he swept our entire dinner off the table with his forearm and left in a huff.

As he raced down the three flights of stairs to his car, I called out after him- “It’s because of the way your calves look in shorts. Get some muscle tone, asshole!”

Our twisted relationship ended after that. Mainly because he was clearly a disturbed individual with very little understanding of love and priorities, but also because he broke several dishes that I could no longer replace because Target had discontinued the set. I may have been a poor single mother with limited resources, but any man that makes it necessary to resort to mismatched dishes is where I draw the motherfucking line.

He later claimed that we broke up because I was too insensitive and sarcastic, but in my book, those are just synonyms for awesome and wonderful. And perfect. And special. I could go on, but you’re an especially smart crowd, so you know what I’m trying to get at here, yes?

There’s a line between sticking up for yourself or getting a point across and being insensitive or overly-sarcastic. I could say it’s a fine line, but that would be wrong. It’s a wide river that separates one side from the other, with a lot of gray area open to interpretation depending on how sissy and stupidly sensitive the other person is.

I’m not sure how, but I’d like to try and be more attuned to the sissiness of other individuals to figure out how much I can get away with. WAIT, I MEAN…I’d like to be more aware of other people’s boundaries and comfort levels. Because some people cry like little bitches. WAIT, I MEAN….just forget it. Y’all, I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach already. And not from the microwave burrito I just ate.

Has sarcasm ever put you in an awkward situation?

P.S. I post thoughtlessly insensitive things + funny pictures + thug life thoughts on the Flourish in Progress Facebook page almost daily. “Like” the page to see them in your news feed.
image via pinterest

March 26, 2012