Should I stick it out?

I'm coming to you with a situation for which I need advice.

A few years ago, I met a Guy. He was honest with me pretty early on about his feelings for me. He really wanted us to be together. I'll admit, I was scared. But there were other complications as well, and I wouldn't date him. We had our ups and (some serious, serious) downs, but we came through it all as friends. Very good friends, in my opinion.

After graduation, we each moved on to new cities. Neither of us knew anyone where we were. We spent hours on the phone with one another each night. Guy still wanted us to be together. I still refused.

One night, after several days of no phone interaction with Guy (which was incredibly unusual), I called him. He told me he was dating a Good Friend. I couldn't tell if Guy was telling the truth or yanking my leg.

Good Friend and I had known each other for at least four years at this point. She was there through every movement of the whole Guy saga. She'd offered advice when I was trying to decide what to do about him. She knew all the dirty details.

I called Good Friend when I got off the phone with Guy. With a quivering voice, she confirmed that they were together.

I'd like to say all was well with Belle's world after this. It was not.

Friend Loss #1

Guy stopped calling me. He stopped returning my calls. He stopped e-mailing me. Contact went from nearly-constant to nearly-non-existent. I missed talking to him. I didn't appreciate the change. I told him as much. He made half-hearted gestures toward maintaining contact for a bit before stopping again. I was hurt to have lost another friend to the all-consuming Relationship, but I could see (or can now see) reasons that we couldn't really maintain a friendship.

About a year ago, Guy came to D.C. for business, and we hung out one night (with Travel Buddy serving as "chaperon"). I was reminded that night of several reasons I had refused to date Guy. Aside from an apologetic call from him the next day, we haven't spoken since. Even though he was once a very integral part of my daily life, I rarely even think of him now.

Friend Loss #2

When Good Friend started dating Guy, there was a general buzz of disapproval from our mutual friends. The primary reason was that Good Friend went from social butterfly/life of the party to relative recluse overnight. Since then, I have reasons to believe she's gotten better about maintaining ties and such.

Except with me, that is.

I was recently reminded that she tossed out an incredibly lame excuse the last time I was in her town and wanted to meet up with her. The reminder came in the form of her ignoring my attempted contact when I was recently in her town again.

Then I remembered the last time I saw Guy. And the fact that Good Friend called no less than 2,974 times in the few hours we spent together (with a chaperon, dammit!). And I started to feel hurt. And a little pissed off.

Having known Good Friend for more than five years now, she's been there for the retelling of a good many of my exploits. She was there to see me devastated when I found out -- a year after the fact -- that some guy I'd drunkenly kissed at a party had a girlfriend at the time who promptly dumped him as a result of our little show. And she was there to hear me vent my anger toward a gorgeous FWB when I found out he had a girlfriend the whole time we'd had our, ahem, arrangement. She was there to comfort me after I shot down a guy I'd longed to be with for months because he started dating someone else and then tried to put the moves on me.

So, suddenly, I'm wondering, what the hell? She doesn't trust me? Have I ever tried to move in on a friend's man? Um, no. Do I even want one someone else has? Also, no. And she knows this. Or she should.

Still, I suppose, things are tricky with the whole Guy situation, considering his feelings for me in the past and her knowledge of those feelings. But the two have been dating for almost two years now. They live together, for fuck's sake, and I live more than a thousand miles away. I don't contact Guy (nor does he contact me). I don't even have his contact information anymore. She has nothing to be worried about from me.

So why can't Good Friend and I remain friends? You know, the kind of friends who take one another's phone calls. The kind of friends who actually want to get lunch together when they're practically within spitting distance after months (years?) of separation.*

My questions for you, dear readers, are several. Do I keep my mouth shut or say something about this? If so, what? If not, do I sit silently and hope that one day I'll be able to rejuvenate my friendship with Good Friend, or should I do myself a favor and consider it a lost cause? Is asking for some form of relatively reliable contact asking too much? Is wanting to see her for a few hours when we're in the same ZIP code asking too much? Am I being unreasonable?

I need answers!

Let me reiterate something before I end. I know I'll probably have dissenters, but I'm throwing it out there anyway. Whatever feelings I might have had for Guy are distant memories now. Like I said, I barely think about the guy. Whatever issue I may have had at the beginning of Guy and Good Friend's relationship are long gone. By all accounts (not firsthand, of course) the two are happy together and will probably remain that way for many moons to come. I wish them all the happiness and luck a couple can handle.


* I've spent time with her parents more recently than I've seen her, for crying out loud.

On The Southern Homestead

After last Wednesday evening's tears, I managed to make it all the way to the Southern Homestead on Friday without shedding a single one. The visit was mostly good, despite my dread.

I started out keeping notes. The first few looked something like this:

17 minutes after arrival

Little Bro: I need to get me one of them Vietnamese wives. (In front of his wife, and referencing my cousin's new wife, Asian Bride.)
Belle: Asian Bride isn't Vietnamese.
Little Bro: Well, what is she then?
Belle: Chinese.
Little Bro: I need to get me one of them Chinese wives...

36 minutes after arrival

Sister-in-Law: The Mexicans are everywhere now. We were at a gas station the other day and saw a whole school bus full of 'em.

48 minutes after arrival

Sister-in-Law: We even got Vietnamese working at McDonald's now. You don't know whether to order a hamburger or shrimp fried rice.

12 hours after arrival

Belle: How do you like living in New Southern Town?
Aunt By Marriage: It's a little dark. (laughs)
Belle: (Utter confusion... Is New Southern Town mountainous? Does it lack street lights?... ??? ... Ohhhhhhhh...)
Aunt By Marriage: But they're good people. They're good people...

Yeah... I just had to stop. I mean, I would've spent the whole time I was there scribbling furiously. Even my cousin who married Asian Bride was spouting homophobic BS the whole time.

My favorite exchange of the trip?

Uncle Smartass: How do you like the D.C. area?
Belle: I really like living there.
Uncle Smartass: Yeah, it's a good area... except that it's giving you liberal ideas.
Belle: Well, actually, Uncle Smartass, somehow, despite coming from this family and this state, I managed to develop those liberal viewpoints all by myself before I moved up there. I think I should have my DNA checked...
Obese Cousin: What you need to do is see a therapist. (laughs)

I wanted to point out that the most effective therapy I found came in the form of moving 1,004.30 miles away from the Southern Homestead. Instead, I bit my tongue and just smiled sweetly at Obese Cousin. There is no point arguing or defending my views to these folks. It will do absolutely no good, and I know that. If I want to maintain anything resembling family ties with these people (which I'm ambivalent about, by the way), I'm the one who has to play nice.


Other than those things (and all the similar/redundant incidents I didn't bore you with), the weekend was good. I got to see Father and his side of the family, The Moms, a family with whom I was really close, and my best friend from high school. I spent time with my adorable nephews and even got in a little shopping on The Moms' dime. I came back a little worse for the wear physically (oh, sun, how you torture me!), but mentally as sound as I was before (which may not be saying much...)

It's nice to be back.

Play Ball!

Amber: Ms. Stoeger, my plastic surgeon doesn't want me doing any activity where balls fly at my nose.
Dionne: Well, there goes your social life.
- Clueless, 1995

Have I mentioned that some moron called Belle agreed to play softball with a rec team this year?

This was a bad idea for a plethora of reasons. The first of which is that I was always that kid who got pegged with the ball in gym class. Always. The second of which is that, up until two weeks ago, I smoked about a pack of cigarettes a day. Third: That little thing we call hand-eye coordination? ... Practically nonexistent.

Oh, and have I mentioned I know nothing about baseball? I mean nuthin'. Two years ago, when Roommate and I had just met, she invited me to a baseball game. Three or four batters into the first inning, I turned to her and asked (in all seriousness), "Who is that guy standing behind the catcher?"

Ummm... yeah...

So anyway... when I was first asked to join the team, I tried to beg out. I told them how terribly uncoordinated I am. I told them about my lack of knowledge about the sport. To no avail. They needed female players. So Roommate and I signed up.

Apparently, my teammates are somewhat masochistic. They play "to have fun," they say, but we suck so horribly that we're getting slaughtered every time we step on the field. Even though the team isn't quite up to par, I am, as feared and predicted, the worst player by far.

I outdid myself in this week's game though, I must say. After being hit with no less than four pitches* during the first inning, our team came in and I stepped up to the plate to bat.

First pitch: foul
Second pitch: strike
Third pitch: I hit the ball as hard as I could. Through some miraculous (read: logical-trajectory-defying) action, I was immediately smacked in the nose and upper lip with the ball.

Oooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuch!

Painful and humiliating. Now that's my kind of fun...

* They usually have me playing catcher because I'm so freakin' wonderful at everything else. Of course, I can't catch, either...

I should know better by now

Walking through the lobby of my office this afternoon, I hid the tears behind black sunglasses, thankful that my latest purchase was larger than the shades I'd chosen in years past. George, the security guard who usually engages me in a few moments of small talk as I exit the glass-enclosed lobby each afternoon, was distracted by a man in charcoal suit leaning on his desk with both elbows. I managed to avoid eye contact with quick steps and a strategically-timed hair flip.

As the revolving door turned me through to the too perfect sunshine of the too perfect evening, I muffled a sob. Fifty-four. Fifty-five. Fifty-six. I focused on counting my steps and keeping a straight face as I passed the flower-laden meditation pond. When my foot hit the second step in the parking garage stairwell, my vision blurred to blindness, and I had to stop and wipe away the tears before moving on.

In the safety of my car, the sobs flowed freely as I leaned on the steering wheel for support like a distraught heroin on the silver screen. I collected myself enough to set out for home, but the tears didn't cease.

I cried for a potential loss in the fast-approaching future. For the lack of certainty in my career choices. For the absence of a shoulder on which to let my tears. But, primarily, for the things I endured in the Southern Homestead. For the scars I still carry. The scars I fear I will always carry. For the fast-approaching revisitation of the crime scenes. For the silence. For the lack of closure. For the things I fear are happening now and feel I can do nothing about.

Belle: (to Roommate less than 48 hours ago) I'm not typically one who drinks to drown my sorrows.

And, yet, tonight I drove at least two miles* out of my way during rush hour to purchase the whiskey necessary to do just that. For the last three hours I've been catching up with old friends and gardening and cooking and blogging and hanging out with my ferocious hunter of a cat. But I've primarily been working on making that whiskey disappear. And I've nearly accomplished my goal.

Oh, the weekend at the Southern Homestead should be the best ever.

* I'm sure there's a liquor store closer than that, but I've been on the outs with liquor lately and haven't noticed the actual location. How sad is that?

The Dread Southern Homestead

LADirtyDisco called one night last week. She was back on the West Coast after spending a week or so with her family in the 'Sip. I asked about her trip.

LA: (sighs wistfully) It wasn't long enough. You know when you go home and you think, 'This is wonderful! I love it here. Why did I ever leave?'
Belle: Not really... I cry every time I go home... On the way there...

I booked a flight ages ago for our family reunion this weekend. As it nears, my fearful anticipation is constantly evolving. My stomach has been knotted with dread for weeks already. I've stopped myself from checking my itinerary online for fear I'd cancel my ticket in a moment of desperation.

I've never quite felt like I belonged in my family. They're my family, and I love them and feel loved by them (in varying degrees), but I've never felt like an integral part of what's going on with them. Always the outcast. The black sheep.

And why am I the black sheep?

Because I'm female and did not make wifedom* and motherhood my primary ambitions in life.
Because I read.
Because I don't constantly exhibit the prescribed and acceptable attributes of a nice Southern girl.**
Because I'm not a bigot.
Because I wanted to see more of the country, more of the world.
Because I obtained a university-issued degree.
Because I don't think that a woman's place is in the kitchen unless that's where she fucking wants to be.
Because I don't espouse the ideas of the Christian Right.
Because I made it through 25 years without getting locked up or knocked up.
Because I escaped the 'Sip.

That list pretty much exemplifies why I'll proudly tell you I'm the outcast of my family. But it does very little to ease any tensions I have when I revisit the Southern Homestead.

Roommate pointed out that any visit home confirms that hightailing it out of there was the best decision I could've made. That I'm happy with the life I've chosen. She's right, but it doesn't make the whole experience less emotional or exhausting.

* Yeah, like serfdom. You got it.
** I'm fairly certain I'll remain a girl in the eyes of the fam until I pop out a kid or get hitched.

CBS, You've done it now

Apparently the geniuses at CBS have decided to cancel Jericho.

Television and I already had a spotty relationship. Growing up, I never had cable. I watched what I could on the three or four static-ridden channels our antenna (yes, I mean antenna) provided. When my television was on while I was in college, it was almost always tuned to one of the news networks, the Weather Channel, or Comedy Central. If I watched anything with any regularity, it was typically at Travel Buddy's or another friend's house.

This past fall was the first time I made the conscious decision to start viewing certain programs in my own home at the beginning of a season. I set my DVR* to record five new programs. Of those, I stopped watching one, one is still running, and two have been canceled.

Wait... three have been canceled.

In the past month my voiced ambivalence about Jericho had morphed into full-fledged obsession with the program. Okay, well, not quite obsession. I don't really do that whole "unhealthy obsession" thing. (If I were really obsessed, I would've known before this morning that the damn thing had been canceled...)

Anyhow, the show was really starting to reach that potential it had from the beginning. It already had a unique and interesting plot line and characters that I cared about. And in the past few weeks it had moved from intriguing to captivating. I literally couldn't wait for the next episode. I went 'round talking to anyone who was fool enough to listen about the damn show.

And now what? It's gone. Just like that. And CBS isn't even going to give us some kind of thrown together, half-assed, BS closure until 2009/2010. And even then, only maybe, if the goobs in charge are in the mood or something.

So, that's it. You hear me CBS? I'm not watching any more of your stinkin' programs.** I'm already almost completely Netflix-reliant for my television watching, anyway, and I don't think I could stand another mid-season cancellation of something I seriously enjoy watching.


* Apparently, the networks care not a whit about their faithful DVR viewership. I say, we're viewers, too, dammit (and likely more loyal than Average Joe who has no DVR and might have a scheduling conflict every now and then). If you can cater to new marketing strategies based on people skipping ads with their DVR, then certainly you at least know people are watching your program in something other than real time. Find a way to make that viewership count!
** Unless, of course, it's really good. But even then I'll wait 'til it's out on DVD.

Things I'm looking forward to...

Blogger Happy Hour & Collecting on Bribes

Hitting up Eastern Market

Checking out Bodies: The Exhibition


Taking a short "hike" in a beautiful setting

Visiting some nurseries & Doing some "gardening"

Volunteer work

Pride

Screen on the Green, and more

Hard Time

When I started working with him my freshman year of college, he was one of the (many) arrogant guys who'd been reporting for a while. He was all about following sports, pushing buttons, and instigating arguments. He'd do anything to get me fired up, and he did it well.

One night, I made the ill-advised decision to take a stupid "slut" Internet quiz everyone in the office had been laughing about. Looking onto the screen over my shoulder, he deemed me The Slut. Despite my relative innocence at the time, the name stuck. He always did know just how to push my buttons. I retaliated by nicknaming him The Bigot, a name he disliked greatly, in part because it was a tad more accurate than he wanted to admit.

For the next several years, The Bigot and I loved to hate one another. Sometime along the way, though, the nature of our relationship changed from hateful to more friendly. The truly mean comments were replaced by jokes and jabs more underscored by sexual tension and something akin to friendship. Contrary to all indications, I found The Bigot could be a really great guy underneath his asshole demeanor.

Of all the people who came into my life during college, he is one of the few with whom I've maintained fairly regular contact. I spoke with him last in November, I believe. I remember walking toward Georgetown on a cold clear day to meet some friends as I took a few minutes to catch up with The Bigot. We shared about our respective love lives and careers. We bitched about mutual acquaintances who've lost time for even the most cursory periodic updates or contact. We flirted shamelessly and threw around the idea of seeing one another again.

Earlier today I learned he has been in prison since April 2. I don't know the story or the length of the sentence. And I don't know how to react to the little information I do have. At this point, I can't even write him a letter. Even if I could, I don't know that he'd want to hear from one more person in the periphery of his life who knows he's been convicted.

All I have are questions. What circumstances lead to this? What is he living with daily? How is it affecting his family, his friends, the lawyer girlfriend he'd told me he was going to marry? When is he up for parole? What will he do when he gets out? Will he be a completely different person?

First Responder: In Case of Emergency, Vamp

One Thursday night a few weeks ago, I'd managed to get myself into bed at a reasonable hour and was deep in REM when the phone rang. I felt around the bed for the handset and answered without opening my eyes to check the caller ID.

Belle: [mumbles] Hello?
LADirtyDisco: Hey... Were you asleep?
Belle: A little*... what's up?
LADirtyDisco: Sorry, but wake up. You'll definitely want to hear this...
Belle: What's going on?
LADirtyDisco: Sister and I were just talking, and we realized we know the perfect guy for you...

My friend went on to tell me a little about First Responder. He's 30, has a "good" (and oh-so-D.C.) job, is originally from Texas, went to school in the South, etc., etc. My eyes still closed, I remembered a similar notification of said 'perfect guy' via e-mail some months past. This time, LADirtyDisco was insistent that I contact him. I agreed I would, hung up, and made my way back to dreamland.

The next day, First Responder and I exchanged a few e-mails -- fun, flirtatious, and relatively light in content. He asked for my number, promising "a drunk dial or two" in return. I probably should've withheld because he put it in those terms, but I figured I might as well. This guy came with trusted references, right?

Even though I kept officially (and somewhat unsuccessfully) declaring myself out of the dating pool, and even though I typically try to keep my expectations to a minimum, I'd gotten a little hopeful at the prospect of meeting First Responder. Aside from one woeful setup arranged by a distant cousin many moons ago, I'd never been on a blind date that came with recommendations. Guys from the Internets hadn't proven particularly viable, but a guy my good friend knows and likes and thinks would be good with me? Now that had potential... Might as well get the ball rolling soon, right?

First Responder called as Roommate and I were returning from the Nats game that night. We spoke for about 15 minutes. He was drunk. I was nothing of the sort. Still, the conversation was good, perhaps even great. He seemed to be an entertaining drunk, at least. Toward the end of it, he suggested meeting up that night. I declined, telling him we were on different levels, and suggesting we could another time. I refrained from voicing my concern that he'd get his drunk ass to my place and start working toward a hookup.**

Our conversation ended with him telling me he'd call when he woke up and we could figure out how to make me have "the best day ever." I hate to admit it, but I liked the way he was thinking. I was even more excited and began to contemplate blowing off date number two with The Minarchist, which I'd planned for the following evening and about which I was not incredibly excited.

Aside from a missed call from First Responder in the wee a.m., I didn't receive the promised call that Saturday. Instead, we exchanged several very flirtatious texts (initiated by me in response to his later drunk call) throughout the day. I kept my date with The Minarchist fairly short.

When I returned home, the texting with First Responder resumed, and soon I'd invited him over to share a bottle of wine at my place. He showed up around midnight. We sipped our wine and chatted for about thirty minutes before his phone rang. I was distracted by the suddenly-rambunctious Greatest Cat of All Time, so I only heard the latter part of his conversation.

First Responder: You can't be doing this to me... Seriously?... You have NO money? ... Where are you?... Did you check your pockets?... Nothing? [sighs] Okay...

Belle: [Thinks] He's getting the emergency opt-out call! What the fuck? What the hell have I done in thirty minutes to make him vamp?

I did a rapid mental assessment of the conversation we'd had in the last half hour. From my recollection, nothing was amiss. The dude had seen a picture of me before he came over. My hair was a bit shorter and a different shade at the time, but there have been no other noteworthy alterations in my appearance since. So what the hell? Was he really just going to skedaddle like that 30 minutes into it? I've had horrible dates that lasted much, much longer.

First Responder: Sit tight. I'll pick you up... I'm not going to give you a time frame. I'll be there when I am... Okay... Okay. [Hangs up]

After hearing the end of his conversation, I thought maybe it really was a friend in need. Okay, so he's not rushing out. That's... something, right?... I wasn't entirely convinced, but I plowed gamely on.

He stayed for a bit longer than an hour after the call, during which time "we" continued "our" conversation. We talked about his work. We talked about his educational background. We talked about his fraternity. We talked about his friends. We talked about his family. We talked about his hobbies.

Noticing a trend here?

Shortly after his "friend in need" called a second time, First Responder made his exit. I walked out with him to retrieve my ever-so-important visitor parking pass, and he gave me a strange sideways hug** accompanied by the obligatory line about "doing this again sometime."

Back inside, I uncorked another bottle of wine and sat back to evaluate the night's events. I decided that if he expressed further interest I'd go out with him... this time on a real date. Overall, though, I admitted to myself and started working toward accepting the fact that he probably just wasn't that into me.

When I relayed my impressions of the night to LADirtyDisco, she was, I believe, a little mortified and a little pissed. She waited a few days (at my request) to see how he played things before sending him an e-mail. See their correspondence below.

From: LADirtyDisco
To: First Responder

Okay First Responder, what is the deal? Did you really do the whole emergency fake out "Oh No! My friend needs my help!" blah blah blah routine on my girlfriend? WTF?

From: First Responder
To: LADirtyDisco

LMAO - whoah, you guys are like a frickin old wives club!

That was soooooo not a fake out. Had to go rescue a bro up in Gtown; ended up getting into his liquor stash when I got him home. I totally hung out for like an hour! Helped her find her cat and everything! AND drank some fruity wine she hated! I think I did goddamn good. :P

- FR

I could try to save face by going on about how I don't need a 30-year-old who still talks about his frat hazing with deep, sincere fondness and longing. Or that dating a guy who drinks so much on weekend nights that he's useless for the following days is not a scenario I want to revisit. Or how I was completely turned off when he talked only about himself, failing to take the simplest cues to inquire about me. Or how he was too short. Or too work-oriented.

But, really, none of that matters. It all comes down to this: the guy was just not into me.

Admitting that delivers a different kind of freedom than one might expect.



* I'm not sure why this is typically my affirmative response to that particular question.
** The sideways hug was, at least partially, due to the fact that I had finally recaptured Greatest Cat of All Time and was holding him in one arm.

Hey, DoD: What's the point?

This pisses me off.

The thing is, these sites are probably the best way for these troops to maintain contact with their families and friends back home. This is the first time in history they've had the opportunity to maintain such contact with their home base while away at combat. And now much of that is being taken away.

The DoD pulling access this late in the game seems fishy (to put it nicely). FOUR years into this thing, and they're suddenly concerned about a drain on resources... right.

Right, okay, so they admit they're also "protecting information." Again, FOUR years into it? Isn't that a little late, sirs? And if information needs protecting from Myspace and YouTube and the like, why the hell not from the rest of the Internets?

Certainly troops can (and will, I'm sure) find other sites that will serve their purpose of keeping in touch with loved ones and being entertained. Those sites will also be a drain of resources and facilitate the possibility of information being disseminated rather than protected.

So, really, what's the point? If the powers that be are really concerned with protecting information and cutting down the "drag" on resources, doesn't it seem like an exercise in futility to ban these sites when similar sites exist and will likely become popular among troops as a result? Sites that serve the same functions? Sites that will cause similar "drag" on resources?

The only difference I see is that the banned sites are already incredibly popular with so many civilians. Is this yet another way to keep the general populace out of the loop when it comes to what's going on over there?

But, I digress. Really, the policy pisses me off because it hurts the troops and their families and friends.

Although I fear and dread the day when my company blocks me from the sites* DoD has deemed unacceptable for troops, it's not at all the same. When I put in my eight hours, I can take my happy ass to my house and get online there. I can check up on friends and listen to music and upload pictures and, you know, do all that personal, non-work stuff at home. I may not want to waste precious non-working hours in front of the computer, but I have the option. The luxury, even.

The troops stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan do not. I don't have stats, but I'm making an educated guess that the number of soldiers who hauled their personal computers across the world to the combat zone (for the second, third, fourth? time...) is significantly less than those who use computers regularly to communicate with their loved ones.

To be honest, this new rule won't affect me one bit. The people I know who are serving right now are definitely in my thoughts, but they aren't people with whom I'm in regular contact. But it will affect many people both here and serving abroad.



* I'm listening to Pandora right now. And YouTube... well, You know.

On Signs:

Leaning back contentedly in my seat, I looked around at Pissed Off, her family, their friends. The wine had been flowing freely for hours, and the adults were laughing and making jokes as the kids ran around the room. After five courses of authentic Italian cuisine (too delicious to describe with any justice), the morning's First Communion service was a wine-clouded memory and we were all full and happy.

The short, bald man serving us wore a red vest and spoke freely with us in English and Italian. Giuseppe had friendly eyes and a fantastic attitude. He placed the plates in front of Pissed Off and me simultaneously and turned to retrieve dessert for the rest of the party. I'm certain he wasn't malicious when he served my cake.

The cake was yellow with chocolate filling. It had white icing and blue flowers and icing wishing Pissed Off's brother a happy First Communion. When Giuseppe set mine down, the bottom of the upended slice faced my direction, the icing out of my sight. When I turned the plate around to have the icing face me, there it was: N.R.A.

The weekend had already been overcast with thoughts of NRA Guy. Saturday was his birthday. And, suddenly, probably having consumed at least a bottle of Chianti on my own,* I was sitting in his home state and faced with the prospect of eating a slice of remarkably birthday-like cake with his name (literally) on it.** I poked Pissed Off's arm to get her attention and pointed a finger at the offending iced letters. Her eyes widened as she looked at it, and we exchanged plates with one another.

I haven't heard from NRA since the last time we saw each other. He hasn't contacted me, and I've been relatively content with that. A small part of me wishes we could maintain some kind of friendship, but I know that's unrealistic. I'd been debating for weeks what I should do regarding his birthday. Contact or no? If so, what form? A card would require no response, but would also:
1. (if he's still really mad at me) give him something tangible to rip into a million shreds and piss on; and/or
2. (if he's dating someone else) cause major issues.

If not a card, then what? An e-mail? An e-card? A text? (A phone call was never an option.) By the time the weekend arrived, I was still uncertain about contacting him. The only thing I did know is that, if I were to wish him happy birthday, I would wait until after the day.

The cake thing kind of confounded my evening. A few people who heard the story retold mentioned that it "must be a sign." I suggested that the sign was I didn't need to trust lying jerks.

Still, I'm a sap, and I had many hours to occupy during the drive home Sunday. I sent NRA a text*** saying I hoped he'd had an excellent birthday. He responded with the brief (and appropriate) "Thanks."

I did open myself to the potential of more drunk calls, but his response didn't make me fear that on the horizon. If I'm wrong, I hope I'll have the good sense to ignore any incoming calls from his number in the near future.


* If I were a less happy drunk, this stupid little coincidence would have undoubtedly elicited tears.
** NRA and Pissed Off's little brother share a common first name. NRA goes by an abbreviation thereof, which is how I ended up with his name on my cake.
*** I was unhappy to discover that I had not, in fact, forgotten NRA's number, as I'd convinced myself I had.

Welcome to America. Now Speak English.*

The Moms called me several weeks ago and requested we plan a trip to Europe. To France, specifically. Maybe even a little jaunt to Italy. Together.

*sigh*

So many things factor into this being a terrible idea.

I.
The Moms has been having her nails manicured regularly for about 10 years now. Down in the Southern Homestead, that all but requires visiting a shop operated by Vietnamese women (and the occasional man). The Moms takes great offense when any of the people in the shop speak their native tongue. She is convinced they are talking about her.

The Moms: I know they're talking about me. I can hear them call me "cow."
Belle: Oh? When did you learn to say "cow" in Vietnamese?
The Moms: I didn't, but, you know, it sounds like "cow" when they're talking...
Belle: The Moms! They speak another language! A very different language. I'm sure the word for cow does NOT sound the same in English and Vietnamese.
The Moms: (mumbles) ...well, it sounds like cow to me...

As much as I hate to admit it, The Moms has actually said things like, "They need to speak English if they're going to live here. This is Ahmericuh."

And I'm supposed to go to a foreign land with this lady? To France?

Right.

II.
In December of 2001, The Moms and I journeyed to good ol' PA to visit some of her friends acquaintances. Initially the idea was sold to me as a trip to NYC.** I'd never been. The cost for me was nil, and I'd been out of The Moms' house just long enough to forget how wonderfully we get along with one another.

The night before our flight, the two of us were standing in the kitchen. She was nagging me about something, and I was being a 19-year-old pain in the ass, I'm sure. But then she had to go and do it. You're acting just like Older Brother!

The thing about Older Brother had been a sore spot for years. You see, Older Brother's entire life had been devoted to breaking every rule, crossing every boundary, doing whatever it took to get what he wanted and hurting as many people as possible in the process.

But, somehow, it seemed he was never punished or held accountable for any of his actions. No, not Older Brother. He was the Golden Child. No matter how much property he destroyed or how many people he emotionally maimed, his word was still valued above anything I ever said or did.***

Comparing me to Older Brother when I took even a pinkie toe off the line was a favorite past time of every adult in our family. And doing so was the ultimate insult because it was pretty much the only time anyone acknowledged that I was basically a good kid, but at the same time it put me in the same boat with this relative monster. And the comparison was always unfair. I wasn't malicious or hateful. A mouthy teenager? Yes. But I was not evil.

That night in the kitchen with The Moms, having been out of her house for about two years and having a bit of family-related counseling under my belt, I couldn't stand it anymore.

You're acting just like Older Brother! she'd said, pointing an accusing finger at me.

And I lost it.

FUCK! I yelled. I am NOT Older Brother! You always say this to me. FUCK!

I'm pretty sure I was a bit more verbose in my high-volume response, but I can't remember the specifics, and the point is that I yelled 'fuck' at The Moms. She stood there a long moment with her jaw slack before tears filled her eyes and she left the room. Yeah... She pretty much didn't speak to me until about 24 hours later... well after we'd arrived in PA and sat through an uncomfortable dinner with a bunch of people I'd never met.

The trip itself only got worse. We actually got into an argument on a bus in NYC. I vowed to never travel with The Moms again, and her sentiment was "ditto." We didn't speak to each other for another 12 hours or so after that one.**** (And no one else spoke during the entire trip back to PA.)

III.
A few years later, The Moms decided to send Older Brother and me on a cruise for Christmas. The day before we were to depart, Older Brother went MIA, and The Moms ended up accompanying me to Mexico.

I have to admit that we had a better time on that trip (the massages and booze helped), but things were still tense between us. Especially when our ship docked and The Moms and I ventured out for a little shopping. She refused to buy anything from anyone who tried to bargain with her, which caused me infinite annoyance and meant she paid a great deal more for items at stores than she would have paid for the same goods at local sellers' shops. It also showed me she's not willing to deal with anything unfamiliar, even when she's in another effing country.

IIII.
Due to circumstances beyond our control,***** The Moms moved in with me for a time soon after I left The Black Hole. The city was bigger than any she'd lived in before, and she was completely unfamiliar with it. Rather than equipping herself with maps and finding her way around, The Moms called me at work at least once a day, lost and sobbing. I had to try to figure out where she was and where she needed to go.

And, guess what? That was a city in Ahmericuh, and pretty much everyone spoke English there.

Did she ask for directions? If she did ask, were the directions accurate? If they were accurate, were they useful to her? The answer to all of these questions: Not Likely.

Now take all these factors and mix them up. Put The Moms and me in a country where the primary language isn't English. Where we aren't familiar with the methods of transportation. Where the money isn't what we're used to. Where the people aren't what we're used to... You get the idea.

Sounds like a recipe for disaster.

At least I convinced her of one thing and demanded a second the last time we spoke on the subject.
1. We will go only to Italy.
2. She will learn some Italian before we go.


* The Misogynist saw a shirt that said this when we were in O.C. Ugh.
** In reality, we were in NYC for a matter of hours, almost all of which were spent watching The Lion King on Broadway.
*** Younger Brother had the same lot, but he and I don't share The Moms.
**** Making our hosts quite uncomfortable, I can assure you.
***** Mother Nature is a bitch, and the U.S. government was (is) neither equipped nor prepared at this time to deal with serious natural disasters. And that's all I've got to say about that.

Ode to Roommate

Roommate wasn't here to hear me singing* snippets of sappy love songs to/about her at top volume this afternoon,** so I’m posting in her honor here.

"Have I told you lately that I love you?"

"I can't liiiiiiive, if living is without yoooou..."

Cheesy? Undoubtedly. But those two lyrics (not the songs in their entirety... work with me here!) described exactly how I was feeling at the moment.

Is it all the great cooking I'll miss if Roommate decides to leave me one day? The conversations? The willing DD? The friendship? The road trips? Well, yes, but those things aren't the reason I was singing...

I had to give Roommate a shout-out because of her fantastic, fully-loaded, beautiful to behold and completely irreplaceable chest

... of tools. (You people. I swear...)

Because of Roommate’s tool collection (and the one specialty tool I borrowed from my buddy Buddhist Catholic), I was able to save something like $100 by replacing my passenger-side mirror myself.

I’ll admit, the glass had been broken since 2005, so it was about damn time I did something about it. But getting out there (still dressed for work and wearing a skirt, no less) and doing the damn thing myself made me feel all kinds of awesome.

Of course, I made a few calls to Big Bro and Little Bro, who helped me figure out how to do what needed to be done, but I’m proud to say I did it alone.

Back to Roommate, though… You rock! And you can’t leave.

I can’t allow you to go. If you do, I get joint custody of the tools. I’m serious.

* I use the term "singing" very loosely here.
** My neighbors were. Somehow I imagine they're less pleased than Roommate would be.

Rode Hard and Put Up Wet

The Misogynist parked his car in the last empty spot in the lot. It was early yet, but the two bars in the strip had obviously pulled in fair-sized crowds. Stepping out of the passenger side, I was hit with a cool breeze of ocean air that reminded me of home (minus the unbearable humidity, of course). I felt relaxed and ready for what the night might hold.

When I'd first agreed to accompany him to Ocean City, The Misogynist mentioned a few clubs as options for a night's entertainment. Picturing myself put to shame by what I imagine are his infinitely more skillful dance moves, I asked if he knew of any dives. It had been a while since I'd been to a bar that didn't thrive on pretense and pomp. I longed for an establishment where I could sit down, order a beer, and strike up a conversation with a stranger that didn't devolve into inane talk about who does what for a living.

We found just the place in a sort of happy accident. The Misogynist had been to one of the bars in the lot a few times, but I wasn't thrilled at the prospect when he told me it was a bit upscale. Glancing down at my much-loved but ratty green 'Roos and distressed jeans and up at the well-dressed patrons enjoying cigars and single-malts, I knew it wasn't going to be my first choice.

We never made it over to the upscale place. I glanced through the open door of the first bar as we approached, and I knew I'd found my dive. The crowd was still pretty thin, and there were two open stools beckoning from the bar as we stepped through the door. Two middle-aged women sat to my right; I assumed they were lesbians. An older couple sat to the left of The Misogynist. Within five minutes, we were engaged in friendly conversation and banter with both parties.

If I'd met them separately, neither of the women seated next to me would have immediately struck me as a lesbian. Seeing them together, though, I didn't really take time to doubt my hasty assessment. I'd guess the two were in their mid-thirties to early-forties. As Brunette, the woman to my immediate right, sipped on her beer, I noticed she had on a little makeup, had a decent haircut, and wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Her friend Blond was larger, wore more makeup and jewelry, and had some crazy things going on with her bottle-blond hair. She wore a button-down shirt and a short jean skirt.

As the night progressed, Blond grew a bit rowdy. She spent most of her time harassing the much-younger bartenders and kitchen staff. At one point I heard her tell our server, "If you like screwing older fat chicks, I'll take you home tonight." When Brunette mentioned her husband at home, I made a mental note to figure out exactly when, where, and why my gaydar malfunctioned. I consoled myself with the fact that I wasn't at all alone in my initial and faulty assumption. As Blond continued with her ill-advised methods of seduction, Brunette lamented the fact that the pair were always mistaken for a couple.

Brunette: The bartender told me we look like lesbians.
Belle: What?!?*
Brunette: [Motions toward Blond] We started going out together once a week several years ago. We had a friend who was in an accident and needed care, so we went to her place every Thursday on a schedule. Afterward, we would go out. We were physically and emotionally drained from everything with our friend, and we were always dressed like hell. But we noticed that guys always made it a point to come talk to us. Finally we started asking them why. They told us it was because they thought we were lesbians.**
[Belle's eyes widen]
Brunette: When we came in here tonight, I asked the bartender if we looked like lesbians, and he said, 'yeah.'
Belle: Wow. [Glances at bartender] It really is his first night, isn't it?
Brunette: Yeah. He'll learn.

Eventually, Blond and Brunette headed out, as did the couple The Misogynist was talking with. The woman who next occupied the seat next to The Misogynist was dressed like a teenager, but her caked-on makeup did nothing to hide the wrinkles that belied her age. She was friendly and engaging, if a little drunk, and I found myself liking her at the same time I felt pity for her.

When she excused herself for the ladies', I told The Misogynist she looked like she'd been "rode hard and put up wet." He agreed.

From the conversations we had with her, it was pretty apparent that she spent much (if not most) of her time in bars. And I wondered if that was all she had.

Having been a bit of a bar-fly in my past, I know that you can meet lots of cool people and have lots of fun times hanging out in bars. But that experience has also left me with the knowledge that most of the friendships formed in that setting aren't lasting or true. And that most of the fun times are hard to remember, at best, and often accompanied by a good deal of grief. And that eventually the whole experience will likely come to light as more than a little bit empty.

The whole thing made me wonder how long is too long to keep up the constant partying? When does (or should) that start to matter less than the other things in your life? Or are some people really happy with such an arrangement? Am I just projecting on the last woman we met?

I didn't feel sorry for the other people with whom we'd shared part of our evening. All of them were at least a little bit drunk, out looking to have a good time, just like The Misogynist and I were. All of them had ridiculous things to say. (Blond to Belle: You're making The Misogynist eat seafood?? You're going to have to swallow tonight!)

But I didn't get the same feeling from those folks as I did from this woman. She looked like she was trying to have fun, and maybe she was, but it was quite depressing.

Was the difference that she was alone? That she seemed to be grasping at her faded youth? That it seemed her life was one big bar crawl?

Or was it that I was scared I'll end up like her... alone and living for my next drunk, trying to look half my age and adding years in the process?


* The shock on my part was not feigned, but it was more that a person who works for tips was ballsy enough to make such a statement to a person potentially delivering said tips.
** The straight guy fascination with lesbians still kind of baffles me. You don't really want lesbians, do you? Wouldn't bi girls or women who experiment be more, erm, accommodating? True lesbians are pretty much sexually useless to a straight guy, right?

Firsts

This weekend contained a few firsts for me.
1. First trip to the Eastern Shore.
2. First time on a boardwalk.
3. First time to shoot tequila and not end the night in tears.

I skipped out of work a little early on Friday to make the trek to O.C. with The Misogynist. I made up my mind before departing that I would maintain a positive attitude despite whatever traffic horrors I had to endure. After the first three hours of pretty much sitting parked on various roadways, it was smooth sailing.

I was happy to be able to drive (kinda) fast, roll my windows down, turn my music up, and sing at the top of my lungs without worrying about breaking the windows in the cars next to me with my mad vocal skillz. The first weeks of nice weather always make me want to drive with speed and without aim. That was never a problem when I lived at the Southern Homestead or in The Black Hole. Around here, it's an entirely different prospect.

While I did maintain the upbeat mood I'd promised myself, I was made much more aware of the trials and tribulations of Average Joe Commuter in these parts. If I had to deal with that B.S. on the regular, I'd become homicidal in no time.

We got to O.C. and found a nice little dive called Kirby's. We had some good seafood and some hilarious, entertaining, and blog-inspiring* conversations with the people around us. Good conversation with The Misogynist and deep sleep followed.

We got up Saturday morning, which was gorgeous weather-wise, and made our way to the boardwalk. Happily, the crowd was thin. I had to get my feet in the freezing water, just to be able to say I'd done it. We walked down the beach for a bit and stumbled upon what appeared to be an homage to yours truly written lovingly in the sand. I had to have some photographic evidence.**

After we meandered back down the boardwalk and stopped into a few stores (including Ocean Gallery, pictured at right, which I couldn't not go in), I left The Misogynist and headed back to the District to celebrate a landmark event in Travel Buddy's life. In keeping with the spirit of Cinco de Mayo, we started with margaritas at Alero and moved on over to Adams Morgan. (It was still pretty early, so the hoards of dickheads and asshats hadn't arrived. I told Travel Buddy we had to beat it out of there before anyone started vomiting on the street.)

We continued the Cinco de Mayo theme with shots of 1800*** but threw in some mint juleps to join in the derby festivities. A dangerous mixture, I know, but I'm glad to report that neither of us suffered for it. After the sun went down and the crowds started to emerge, we booked it back to Dupont and stopped in at the Front Page for one more drink before ending the evening watching some early-'90s Eddie Izzard at Travel Buddy's place.

I headed home after a mediocre brunch at Mimi's (did they sell the place or something? It just isn't the same...) and actually got a few things accomplished**** before crashing last night.

All in all, an excellent weekend.



* Posts to follow.
** Okay, okay. So it originally said "Bella" and I changed the "e" with my foot. Close enough, right?
*** I haven't had a shot of tequila in many years because it always makes me cry. This time, I didn't even come close to tears. Yay for small accomplishments. **** Not the least of which was arranging the magnetic poetry on our fridge by parts of speech, with much help from Roommate (and not a little from the Internets).

The Dissimulator, Part Five: The End of the Saga

Check Out Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four

At the end of the semester, Naïve Nancy and The Dissimulator were still dragging the good name of the engagement through the proverbial mud.

She was put on academic probation and went home to her family with her tail between her legs, having to admit, I’m sure, that they were right to be concerned about her venturing out of their home to go to college. She continued to see The Dissimulator for at least part of the summer. Eventually, they really broke up. He moved away, and she (finally) moved on.

But none of this happened before he’d convinced her that they were going to marry and move to Italy. Or before he told her that his father was a major figure in the Indian Mafia (?!?) and issued threats on her life should she decide to say or do anything he deemed inappropriate.

The Dissimulator contacted me twice during the next school year. He claimed to be engaged to a basketball player at some college or another and talked about how wonderful his life was. I choked back the rage that bubbled to the surface and the vomit that rose in my throat. I haven’t had contact with him since.

Naïve Nancy came to visit me a couple of times that year, and I went to several raves in dirty, dirty City Below the Sea with her and a friend.

She found me on myspace recently. She’s married now and has a beautiful new baby. The Dissimulator is a figure in her distant past.

I still tell people this long and true story from time to time when the setting is appropriate. I tell it because the things he lied about are so outrageous that they make for great telling. And I tell it because I learned a whole helluva lot more that year from my association with Naïve Nancy and The Dissimulator than I did from any of my classes.

The Misogynist and I discussed the story of The Dissimulator last night over drinks. I realized that a good portion of Nancy's sticking around probably had to do with her being/feeling indebted to The Dissimulator, since he paid for her first semester of school. It may have also had to do with her not wanting to be alone. (And, you know, that whole 'love' thing I hear so much about might've actually played into it just a bit.)

This whole experience is a large part of the reason I can’t handle lying. I realize that lies are often easier than the truth within the moment, but I don’t believe they're worth it in the end.

The Dissimulator, Part Four: Moving in on the Neighbors

Check out Part One, Part Two, and Part Three

This post is a jumble of events I can't quite place chronologically, all of which involve Ditsy and Dopey, the girls next door.

The Bowl Games

At some point while Naïve Nancy was still living in The Dissimulator's apartment, I got tired of him always being around my room while she was at work. I had papers to write and toenails to paint and, you know, just generally wanted Belle time. So, sometimes when he came over, I'd check him in but let him wander around our floor a bit. (Shhhhh! DO NOT tell the hall mother. She's a bitch.) He got familiar with Ditsy and Dopey, the girls next door to us, and often hung out in their room.

The Dissimulator had been talking about taking Naïve Nancy to the SuperBowl and to the (now-defunct) Aloha and/or Oahu Bowl since the first weekend I'd met him. She was all "foozball? Ick!" at first, but I convinced her that was just silly. Hey, said I, I’m not a fan either, but it's the SuperBowl! I mean, that's the game to see if you're going to go! And the other ones? Well, I don't know what the hell they are, but they're in Hawaii, Dipshit. Never say no to a free trip to Hawaii! And she was convinced, or at least she put up a good front.

I was chatting with Ditsy and Dopey one day when they mentioned that The Dissimulator had promised to take them to the SuperBowl. Oh? I asked, Did he promise to take you to some game in Hawaii, too? Their nodding heads affirmed. Yeah, I wouldn't so much count on that.When I told Nancy, she wasn't thrilled, but she wasn't particularly crushed, considering her lack of interest in the sport.

Ditsy and Dopey, of course, did not go to Hawaii or to the SuperBowl with The Dissimulator. The Dissimulator, of course, stopped mentioning these games in the weeks leading up to them. I'm sure he was conveniently called away for "family business" or some such nonsense on the relevant days.

Breakin' Up and Makin' Up

Naïve Nancy answered the phone early one spring Saturday morning. It was The Dissimulator. Unhappy with whatever he was saying, she began whining into the phone. All my empathy and sympathy having been drained at this point, I shoved my head under my pillow and kicked about grumpily until she got the hint that she was disturbing me and left the room.

When she reentered the room, she was sobbing. The Dissimulator had broken up with her. Wait, this is new, I thought. I got up, shook myself to a higher level of alertness, and began trying to comfort her. Although I really did not like to see her hurt, I thought this was best. She needed to be rid of him.

Intending to step down the hall and wet a washcloth for her face, I opened the door to our room. Ditsy and Dopey, carrying overnight bags, passed by just as I did and looked in at the disheveled and obviously upset Nancy. They stopped and asked about her. I glanced back at Nancy for the go-ahead and told them of the morning's phone call.

Ditsy: I hope this isn't because of us.
Belle: Why would it be because of you?
(Ditsy and Dopey exchange looks.)
Dopey: Because we're going to City Below the Sea with The Dissimulator today.
Naïve Nancy: (Suddenly alert) What?!? (Bursts into fresh set of sobs)
Ditsy: We thought you knew...
Belle: No... obviously (Gestures toward Nancy)
Dopey: I didn't know he was going to do that. Nothing's going on with us...
Ditsy: Yeah! Nothing's going on... We're just friends...
(Nancy sobs louder)
Belle: Sure. Look, I need to take care of her.

Ditsy and Dopey didn't change their plans. I spent the weekend doing my best to console Nancy. I let her talk about all the things that were wrong with their relationship. Having not yet learned that it's rarely ever okay to trash your girlfriend's (recent) ex, I probably put my 2 cents in more often than advisable. She vowed she'd never date him again. I did a little dance in my head.

Ditsy and Dopey slinked into the dorm and past our open door two days later without a word. The Dissimulator called within the hour. Naïve Nancy took him back before the night was over. I kicked myself for having been gullible enough to do a mental dance of glee.

Breakin' Up and Makin' Up, Take Two

That whole scenario above? Rinse and repeat. Same actors. Same plot. Same execution (minus the dialog, as Ditsy and Dopey had little to say to Nancy or Belle, and vice versa, after the first trip to City Below the Sea). Naïve Nancy took The Dissimulator back again. Having learned from my previous mistake of premature celebration, I just shook my head at the whole situation.

Ditsy and Dopey might not have been as stupid as their names imply. Very much like Naïve Nancy, they let The Dissimulator try to woo them in the only way he seemed to know how… by throwing his "money" around. Unlike Naïve Nancy, they didn’t seem to get emotionally involved, and they definitely didn’t stick around when the favors started to slow. If you’re going to deal with one, that’s the way you should work a manipulative asshole like The Dissimulator.

I have to admit, my respect for these girls is newfound. It was pretty much hell living next to them for the remainder of the semester. I found their behavior despicable at the time. Naïve Nancy was busy fighting with and fucking The Dissimulator most of the time. Meanwhile, my somewhat misplaced loyalty landed me in a near-daily battle against two fairly fierce girls.

Stay tuned for Part Five.

The Dissimulator, Part Three: The Money & The Illness

Check Out Part One and Part Two

That semester, Naïve Nancy's tuition never got paid. The Dissimulator was supposed to be taking care of all that, remember? He didn’t take her to get her books until the third or fourth week of school. Ultimately, she failed almost all her classes.

So the financial aid office was on her back about the tuition and dorm fees. Then there was the matter of the unpaid credit card bill. One day before the winter break, Nancy was leaving early for work so she could stop by a local department store and pay a credit card bill on her way in. She had a check written out and in her hand. The Dissimulator stopped her and took the check from her. "I'll pay it for you," he'd said.*

Thinking her boyfriend fiancé would do as he'd said, Naïve Nancy put the whole matter out of mind until she got a call from the company one day, telling her the bill was long overdue and asking for a payment. The Dissimulator feigned outrage, telling her he'd paid them himself and that he would take care of it the very next day.

You can imagine how this went on. The company calling and sending letters. Nancy, by this point out of a job and out of money, hoping and trusting that her boyfriend fiancé would take care of it all. The Dissimulator doing anything but that.

Eventually, the company turned her over to a collection agency. The Dissimulator was still spewing his game and promising to take care of everything. Naïve Nancy was still trusting him. After they couldn't collect, they threatened to bring charges and have her arrested.

Meanwhile, The Dissimulator was suddenly without cash alarmingly often. It seemed he'd nearly always just transferred a large amount of money from one account to another, but it hadn't posted yet, or some such likely story. Nancy was charging up her MasterCard at every turn. The Dissimulator was promising he'd take care of the bills.

Nancy and I were on friendly enough terms at this point, but it's hard to say we were anything more than cordial. I thought she was an idiot for staying with someone who was obviously a pathological liar. I tried to reason with her (leaving out the bit about her being an idiot, of course), but that just made her pull back from me even more.

The Dissimulator had Naïve Nancy in a great situation for his purposes, though. During the winter break, he'd supposedly gone to the doctor and been diagnosed with liver cancer. She didn't feel she could complain about his habit of spending on her dime because he could die in less than a year. This was the man she was going to marry. And he was going to die.

I asked her questions to get her thinking again and again. Have you been to the doctor with him? No? Why won't he let you go? You're going to marry him, right? Don't you have a right to know what's going on with him? To support him through this? ... Why did he cancel the appointment after he said you could go?... Why did he tell you he canceled the appointment only to go anyway by himself? Doesn't that seem a little suspicious to you?

In retrospect, I wonder why I didn't haul my ass down to the library (or the monitor, whatever) and do some research to help her see his lies for what they were. I think at that point I'd pretty much washed my hands of the matter, convinced she was a moron who would follow him through anything and wondering to my (virginal) self, is (the) sex really that good?

As all these tensions mounted, the thought of a long-promised, long-anticipated cruise with The Dissimulator during spring break gave Nancy pleasant dreams of respite. Those dreams were dashed when, conveniently enough, The Dissimulator found out the day spring break started that he would have to fly (alone) to Chicago for surgery.

I, of course, was already en route for the-most-awesomely-tiresome-spring-break-road-trip-ever when all this happened and (amazingly enough) didn't even have a cell phone. I didn't hear about Naïve Nancy’s non-break until my return. And it made me furious. I just couldn't contain myself. I imagine I laughed or snorted when she told me. I'm certain my face displayed the mixture of disgust and rage and pity I felt at the moment. I started with the questions again. Why didn't he know before? Where is he now? What kind of surgery would allow him to fly back here already? They did what? He says they used a laser to eradicate the cancer... through his belly button?!? Is there even a scar? WHY ARE YOU BELIEVING THIS?

To no avail. My questioning her achieved squat.

Stay Tuned for Part Four: Moving in on the Neighbors

* I was a first-hand witness to the beginning of this story.