Confessions of an Ugly Girl (4 page)

“You like him too!” Donna exclaimed triumphantly. “You’re blushing!”

Considering practically everything makes me blush, I didn’t think this was a fair assessment. “I don’t like him,” I hissed at her. “My God, what’s wrong with him anyway? Why is he in a wheelchair?”

“I think he’s a quadriplegic,” Donna said. “You know, like Christopher Reeve. Before he died.”

“Great.”

So that was that. Sam saved me by fixing my computer, was really nice to me, but I blew him off just because he’s disabled.

I told you I wasn’t beautiful on the inside.

July 18:

When I got home from work today, my mail was missing from the mailbox. I assumed that my landlady had taken it. This happens at least once a week.

I live in a one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a house with my own private entrance. The bottom floor is occupied by my landlady Martha, who is around 70 years old. I’ve lived here for about eight years, and I could definitely afford a better place (in a building where the landlady doesn’t take my mail), but I’m reluctant to leave Martha. She’s not my favorite person in the world, but I’ve become attached. She’s like that annoying relative that you hate seeing during holidays, but you still sort of love her.

I knocked on the front door to the house, and after a lot of shuffling, the door cracked open. Martha never opens the door all the way. She only opens it about six inches and expects you to do the rest. So I pushed the door the rest of the way open.

The second I walked inside, my black work pants and blouse instantly became coated with a fine layer of cat fur. Martha is like this horrible stereotype of a crazy cat lady. She has about eight cats, and I feel bad for saying it, but I’m almost positive that when she eventually dies, I’m going to walk into her apartment and find her cats eating her. And then the cats will inherit the house. I’ll have to pay them rent.

(Actually, at that point, I’m pretty sure I’ll find a new apartment.)

Tiny, rotund Martha was standing in the middle of her living room in her bare feet, wearing a flower-printed nightgown. I’ve literally never seen Martha wearing anything besides a nightgown or any shoes besides slippers. She never leaves the house aside from going out to the mailbox. She gets her groceries delivered, and if there’s anything extra she needs, she can usually persuade me to pick it up.

“Hello, Millie,” she said, like she was surprised to see me. As if she didn’t realize she had taken my mail hostage.

“Do you have my mail?”

Martha nodded. “It’s in the kitchen.”

She made no move to retrieve my mail for me. I guessed she expected me to go get it.

As I walked through Martha’s living room, my nose started to feel itchy. I don’t have cat allergies, but the sheer amount of cat dander in this room would make anyone itchy. Except for Martha, I guess, who is now immune.

“Do you have any plans for tonight, Millie?” Martha asked as she followed me to her kitchen.

“Not really,” I replied.

Martha looked pleased with my answer. She’s never been married, and she doesn’t seem to approve of any of the (few) men I’ve brought over here. The last guy I invited over stepped on the grass when he was picking me up, and Martha ran out in her nightgown and bare feet to shoo him off the lawn using her broom.

I have to wonder when Martha got so crazy. It seems like she’s gotten worse during the time I’ve lived here. I wonder if the cats are what makes her crazy or are a symptom of her craziness. Apparently, 50% of cats have evidence of infection with toxoplasmosis, a parasite that’s usually asymptomatic, but can sometimes cause encephalitis, which is inflammation of the brain. Maybe that’s what happened to Martha. Maybe she was totally normal prior to the cat era.       

In any case, it’s pretty much convinced me to never ever get a cat.

“If you’d like,” Martha said to me, “you can come down here for dinner. I’m making chicken pot pie.”

I was tempted. Martha is a really good cook. Everything she makes has at least one entire stick of butter in it. The first year I moved in here, I gained 15 pounds. No kidding. That’s how I learned to say no to Martha’s dinners. I may never be skinny, but I draw the line at being so fat that I have to wear a circus tent to work.

“I’m pretty tired,” I said. “Maybe next time.”

When I got into the kitchen, I saw my mail was on the kitchen table. And on top of my mail was a black-and-white cat who was busy licking himself.

I looked at Martha, who was making no move to remove the cat. “Um, Martha,” I said. “Peaches is on top of my mail.”

Martha frowned at me. “That’s not Peaches. That’s
Muffin
.”

(All of Martha’s cats are named after food.)   

“Can I just get my mail, please?” I asked meekly.

Martha sighed and coaxed her cat off my pile of mail. I’m almost positive there was some cat pee on a few of the envelopes, but it was all junk mail anyway. If I ever actually start getting important mail, I’ll definitely have to move.       

July 19:

Every Friday night, Donna and I go to this bar by work for drinks. Not that I expect it, but in the ten years we’ve been going there, not once has either of us ever been hit on. Considering guys go to bars to hit on women, it’s a little sad and maybe insulting. Then again, who’d want to date any of those losers anyway?

Actually, I take that back. The men in that bar aren’t losers. Most of them work at the same company as me and Donna, so they’re guys with good jobs who want to unwind after work, just like us. And a lot of them are young and cute. But still, none of them hit on me.

But tonight I wasn’t thinking about that. You know why? Because I actually have a date tomorrow. With Harry the Collector, who is possibly a serial killer, but probably not. Despite my resolution to be single forever, I’m actually really looking forward to it. Maybe Harry will be great and we’ll really hit it off. He looked moderately cute in his photo.    

Donna always gets a Corona with a lime in it and I always get a Guinness. I don’t love beer, but I love Guinness. I could drink like six of them, although I usually just have one so I don’t smash my car up on the way home and end up in jail. The alcohol makes it so much easier to unwind and forget the week. At least my computer was working again without any sign of hieroglyphics. Thanks, Sam.

Donna was whining about how it was her husband’s turn to do the laundry and he wasn’t doing it. Clearly, Donna has really important problems. I put on my most sympathetic face, but I was only half listening. I do my own damn laundry every week, trudging down two flights of stairs to the basement in Martha’s house with my basket. I think Martha owns the first washer and dryer ever made. Half the time, the dryer stops functioning midway through the cycle and I have to kick it to get it going again. If that doesn’t work, air drying is the only other option.   

Anyway, Donna was in the middle of a spirited rant about skid marks, when the 20-year-old skinny-yet-big-boobed waitress (who, by the way, gets hit on
all the freaking time
) plopped another Guinness down in front of me.

“I didn’t order that,” I said, rolling my eyes. I know the waitresses here aren’t brilliant, but you’d think they could get my order for
one beer
correct.

The waitress gave me a look. “It’s from that guy over there.”

The first drink a guy ever bought for me at a bar in my entire life! I’m embarrassed to admit how excited I was. I looked across the room to where the waitress was pointing. And guess who? It was none other than Cute Computer Guy Sam. He was with a couple of other guys who looked vaguely familiar from work and he lifted his bottle of beer to me as a greeting. I waved back while Donna gawked at me.

“Aren’t you going over to talk to him?” she hissed in my ear.

I glared at her. “No. Why?”

I had thought the idea of dating Sam was a nonissue when I found out he was disabled, but now, weirdly enough, it was more of an issue than it was before. I looked at Sam across the bar and tried to figure out how I felt about him.

I’d been out with some pretty unattractive guys before, and Sam definitely didn’t fall into that category. Not exactly. I’d never dated a guy who used a wheelchair before. I felt awkward about it, but then again, it was incredibly hard not to like him. He was cute. Really cute.

I confess that part of reason I didn’t want to go out with Sam was that I was worried about how it would look. You’d think someone like me wouldn’t care about appearances. But when someone who looks like me is dating a guy in a wheelchair, everyone feels sorry for both of us. Like I’m some loser who can’t get a normal guy and he’s some loser who can’t get an attractive girl. If I were pretty, I could date Sam in peace.

“I know he’s a little different,” Donna said, “but he seems really sweet. What have you got to lose?”

Then I remembered:

“I’ve got a date tomorrow,” I said.

I was immediately sorry I said that because she then proceeded to pump me for all the details, but at least she stopped talking about Sam. I never went over to talk to Sam, but I couldn’t help but glance his way a bunch of times. Once or twice, I caught his eye and he winked at me and smiled. God, he has a really great smile.

July 20:

I just got off the phone with my mother, which always puts me in a bad mood.

Ugly girls have two kinds of mothers: the kind that are really wonderful and supportive and tell them not to give up, and the kind that tells them that they’re not going to find a man till they drop 20 pounds.

Three guesses which one my mom is.

My dad is okay. Normal even. My mother is the one who drives me crazy. Nothing I do is ever good enough for her. I know, it’s the oldest story in the world, cry me a river, but let me tell you, it would be nice to call her once and not have her yell at me that I’m too fat. Just once in 33 years. That’s all I ask.

My social life (or lack thereof) is apparently going to give her a stroke, or so she says. I’ve made her old before her time. Every gray hair on her head is my fault. It’s not enough that I have a good job and I don’t do drugs or cause any other sort of trouble or major embarrassment.

Just to show you how desperate she is for me to get married, she doesn’t even care whether I marry a Jewish guy anymore. When I was younger, this was really important to her. My future husband
had
to be Jewish. And he
had
to be a doctor or a lawyer, or something else respectable, like maybe a professor. (A professor of medicine or law.)

Now she just wants me to find someone who is breathing, and hopefully speaks English.

Luckily for my mother, my younger sister Rachel already married a Jewish doctor. Rachel not only lucked out by being named Rachel and not freaking
Matilda
, but she’s also completely gorgeous. I’m not sure how that happened. She’s so pretty that if she wandered out into the forest, the animals would surround her and start singing. I know since we’re sisters, we must share some genetic material, but it really doesn’t seem that way sometimes. One of us must have been switched at birth.  

It drives my mother crazy that I live on my own even though I’m not married.
A single girl should not live on her own.
Every day I go into the city unescorted I’m risking my life. Do I want to be
raped or murdered
?

I feel fairly confident I won’t get raped, at least. Who would want to rape me? I’m sure any would-be rapist in a dark alley would decide to hold out for a more attractive victim.

Lately, my mother has stepped it up and made it her mission to get me a man. I allowed her to set me on a date exactly once, and then decided I would never allow her to do it again. I’m fairly sure that the man that she set me up was mentally retarded or autistic. Sorry if that isn’t PC or whatever, but I don’t want to date a guy who doesn’t look up from his food once through the entire meal and only speaks to me in monosyllabic grunts.

Oh, and now that my mother has figured out how to email, I get daily diet tips emailed to me. Yesterday was Beyoncé’s lemon detox diet, which involves eating nothing but lemons until I die from lemon poisoning. I love getting a daily reminder in my inbox that I’m fat. I’m essentially dieting 100% of the time anyway.

At least this time I was able to tell my mother about my super exciting date tonight. She seemed pleased to hear about it. “What’s his name?” she asked.

“Harry,” I said.

“Does
Harry
have a last name?”

Obviously, she knew he had a last name—that was her little clever attempt at sarcasm. But I didn’t want to tell her Harry’s surname, lest she try Googling him. That’s another thing my mother learned to do recently, which has been causing me endless grief. I don’t even want to think about what she would do if she stumbled on his email address.

“I can’t remember his last name,” I mumbled evasively.