It's Not Me, It's You: Subjective Recollections From a Terminally Optomistic, Chronically Sarcastic and Occasionally Inebriated Woman (14 page)

“Chinese food it is.” I prayed that the Pick Up Sticks near my apartment ran their lunch specials on weekends.

We sat in silence over our orange chicken (full price). I tried to ask her all kinds of questions, but she gave her usual
one-word answers or ignored me completely until we were done and I was settling up the bill.

“I want to go to the mall. I need some new lip gloss. Chanel.”
You’re nine, you ungrateful brat. You don’t need lip gloss; you need a better attitude.

“Do you have any money?” I asked.

“No. Don’t you?”

“Um…” I was actually hoping the thirty-two dollars I charged to my Visa for the Chinese food wouldn’t put me over my limit.

“We’re not going to the mall. How about a walk in the park?”

“
Terry
always bought me lip gloss.”

On our way back from the mall, I dropped Ashley off at her home, where she hopped out of the car with her new lip gloss and ran into her apartment. No “You’re the greatest Big Sister ever!” No “I had fun.” Not even “Thanks.” At that point I would’ve been happy if she just waved.

Before pulling away, I reached into the Macy’s bag for the lip gloss I’d bought for myself and it was gone. That little bitch stole my lip gloss! And Red Serenade wasn’t even her color! I glanced down at the Big Sister literature I still had on my dashboard.
“Volunteering is fun! Being a Big Sister is simple and rewarding. It is as easy as showing your new Little Sister how to play a favorite computer game, bake an apple pie, or reading the funnies together. We’ve learned that being someone special to a child doesn’t take much more than that. But the impact is huge—for both of you!”
Ha.

The next couple of outings went about the same way. I’d suggest the park or a game of ping-pong at the local rec center and she’d look at me like I’d grown a mustache. We’d end up at an arcade or movie—where she’d need her
own
large popcorn, candy, and drink. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep this up—at this rate, I’d need a second job.

I didn’t see Ashley for two weeks. I needed the time to save up my energy and money for our next outing. During that time, she never called me, but her mom did again and again, leaving me messages.

“Ashley really wants to see you. When are you going to take her out?”
Was that true?
I wondered. Maybe she did want to see me. I wasn’t in the business of letting down nine-year-olds in need of my special brand of mentoring—even if they were kleptos. I figured hanging out with me was the only thing standing between her and juvie. And after all, it hadn’t been that long ago that I’d saved a certain group of thirteen-year-olds from a life of prostitution.

A few days later, I called back, and although Ashley was too busy to come to the phone, Patrice was kind enough to arrange for me to come get her the following weekend. This time I was determined not to clear out my bank account trying to outdo Terry. I had a lot to offer. I’d always considered myself to be pretty good company—especially if you like snarky humor. I was determined to have a breakthrough with Ashley. When she got in the car, I told her we were going to Color Me Mine. She looked at me like I had just suggested we spend the day collecting aluminum cans. It’s not like I
actually wanted to go to Color Me Mine either; I had zero interest in painting a coaster shaped like a kitty cat or a miniature flower pot, but it seemed like an appropriate activity for a nine-year-old so I was sacrificing.

“I don’t want to go to Color Me Mine. I want to go see
Like Mike.
Little Bow Wow’s in it.”

“Maybe next time. Today we’re going to go express ourselves. You’ll love it.” She didn’t speak the whole way there. I considered opening up a dialogue about how it’s wrong to steal lip gloss out of your Big Sister’s Macy’s bag, but I didn’t have the energy.

“I want to go home,” Ashley muttered under her breath, like a pouty toddler.

“Me, too,” I said.

“Are we at least going out to lunch first or are you going to let me starve?” I wondered what the Big Sisters Organization’s policy was on bitch slapping nine-year-olds.

At Color Me Mine, I realized I’d made a huge mistake. I would have gotten off cheaper if we’d gone to Magic Mountain. Painting a single mug was fifteen bucks and that didn’t include the charge for the kiln. Between the two of us, we weren’t going to get out for less than forty bucks. To make matters worse, suddenly Ashley got into the gift-giving spirit.

“I want to make something for my mom’s birthday. And my cousin’s birthday’s coming up, too. Actually, two cousins ’cause they’re twins.” An hour and a half and a hundred and thirty dollars later, we were finally on our way home. I couldn’t wait to drop her off.

“That was boring,” Ashley said. “Terry never made me do stupid stuff like that.” Terry could have her.

When I got her home, her mother wasn’t there. I had called ahead and left a message, and Patrice knew what time I was dropping her off, so this was confusing to me. I tried her cell again and again but got no response.

“You can go,” Ashley said, letting herself into the apartment with her key.

“No. I can’t,” I said, following her inside, where she curled up on the couch hugging her knees to her chest and clicked on the TV. “I can’t leave a nine-year-old girl home alone.”

“My mom does it all the time.” Damn. Suddenly I felt bad. Poor thing. No wonder she was such a little deviant. We sat on the couch together in silence until her mother finally pulled up an hour and a half later.

On my way home, I called my Big Sister/Little Sister caseworker. “I have some bad news,” I said. “I won’t be able to participate in the program any longer.”

“That’s really too bad. Ashley seems to go through a lot of Bigs.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry but although I feel like I have a lot to offer, Ashley and I just aren’t connecting. Maybe you can get Terry back. She seemed to really like her.”

“Terry?”

“Yeah, her last Big?”

“We’ve never had anyone named Terry. In fact, her last Big Sister was named Jennifer and she only lasted one day.”
Of course. Ashley had been toying with me all along. I was actually relieved. I wasn’t a bad person. I was a giver. I was a thousand dollars in debt to prove it! I checked the coin compartment in my car and noticed it too had been cleaned out. Make that a thousand and two dollars.

“Would you be interested in being matched with another Little?” my caseworker asked, hopefully.
Not unless you give
them
a background check.
“The thing is, my schedule is really overbooked right now. But I’ll call you if things loosen up.” I hung up the phone, put my foot on the gas, and turned on the stereo. Screw this, I have a real live little sister. I mean, she’s in her twenties and we have little to nothing in common, but at least she has her own bank account and is sharp enough to know that Red Serenade is not her color.

A
fter nine months of dating, my boyfriend, Jon, decided to put our relationship to the test with a trip to Mexico. We had spent three full seasons together with only mild squabbles, so naturally I had to see how this sucker would hold up under the dual pressures of travel and tequila. Now, nine months is a reasonably long time in my mind. A lot can happen in that span: cells the size of a sesame seed can blossom into a full-blown screaming infant; Pam Anderson can marry and divorce Tommy Lee, contract Hep C, marry Kid Rock, divorce Kid Rock, let Tommy Lee back in her life, and then break up with him again. And Sanjaya can have an entire career.

Some people say that opposites attract. I give anyone in a relationship who says that a year tops. Our choice in vacation destination was one of the many things I already loved about Jon. We shared a general disdain for the great outdoors.
Getting up at the crack of dawn and taking a brisk hike wearing shorts with fourteen pockets is something we’d both gladly pay to avoid. I haven’t seen the inside of a sleeping bag since I was about twelve. Between the two of us, we own zero clothing items bearing the logo The North Face, and neither of us has ever owned a picnic basket or even understood the desire to use one. Why would anyone voluntarily pack up food, utensils, and napkins, and drag them all to another location to eat? We barely like the idea of eating in our backyard—it just seems like too much work for the few minutes of “Isn’t this lovely? We’re dining alfresco,” immediately followed by “Fuck! I just got stung by a bee!” and then having to pick up all the stuff and move to the safe side of the screen door. Jon and I get along so well because we both believe that too much effort is overrated. I’ve never been attracted to those people who advertise themselves as loving “long walks on the beach.” I love a beach, too, but you know what’s better than a long walk on the beach? A short walk on the beach. Or better yet? Just sitting on a beach. And if I could sit on a beach and simultaneously watch TV, well, that would truly be living.

A beach in Mexico was the perfect plan for us. This wasn’t a “get to know you trip”—we’d already spent the holidays together, been sick with the flu together, spent an entire day in bed watching a marathon of
Real World: Boston,
met each other’s parents, and he’d even blown off an important deadline to see me through a particularly intense migraine attack—by bringing me three different choices of Starbucks coffee (caffeine helps), reheating a washcloth over and over in
the bathroom sink to put on my head, and holding my hand all night. We were tight.

Everything on our trip thus far had been perfect in the way that vacations can only be nine months in, when you have nothing to do but sleep, have sex, lie on the beach (wearing SPF 80), and read. We stayed on a small private island an hour-long speedboat ride off the coast that boasted only eight casitas, which are basically little private houses. We ate seafood burritos and drank Coronas for breakfast, we dared each other to make a sex tape but backed out at the last minute, and we drank the most perfectly brewed Mexican coffee that it practically ruined us for store-bought brands. At night, all the residents of our little island joined together in the main house for gourmet eight-course meals. Every night we would drink red wine, divulge too much information about our private lives, and then head back to our casitas to fall asleep by nine. We were there for six perfect days and nights marred only by my accidentally saying something along the lines of, “I’m pretty sure I want to have children. Do you think we’ll have children? Because I need to be with someone who is definitely at least interested in having children,” mainly because I was premenstrual, thirty-three, and possibly having such a perfect time I felt the need to take a stab at sabotaging it in some way. You don’t have to have ever read
The Rules
or even heard of it to know that you don’t say things like that if it’s not your intention to scare the shit out of someone. But Jon didn’t even hop in a canoe and paddle away for some alone time. He just said, “Not right
now. But eventually.” I knew my future was with this man.

So, clearly, things were going as smoothly as that fifth shot of Patron as we marked the final day of the trek by sitting on the patio of a beachside restaurant trying to hoard margaritas like squirrels preparing for the long winter to come. Our tipsy-tourist profile made us perfect marks for every local vendor who angled in on our table as if we were on Sucker Radar, and after a couple hours our kitschy collection included a brightly colored woven blanket, a standing candle holder in the shape of the sun meant to bring good luck, various representations of the Virgin Guadeloupe, and about fourteen thousand Chiclets (it’s so hard to say no to the under-five street-vendor set).

Each evening during the prior week, from all around Puerto Vallarta bay, we had seen a pirate ship edge across the horizon. It was an old-fashioned
Pirates of the Caribbean
knockoff, and I was obsessed with it. It was inevitable, then, that one of our orbiting flock of vendors would arrive with a notebook filled with glossy pictures of blissed-out couples on a sunset voyage aboard this magic vessel. He told us that for the special amigo rate of fifty bucks a head, we could embark on a four-hour dinner cruise featuring a dinner of filet mignon, unlimited drinks, a mariachi band, and—weather willing—a gorgeous sunset. I imagined our last night together on vacation standing on the deck of a huge ship, gazing into each other’s eyes and clinking margarita glasses while being serenaded by the romantic beats of the mariachi band. It would be so dreamy! Maybe Jon would even propose!
After all, he’d pretty much agreed that we’re having children. Because Jon wanted to please me (and because I was begging for it like a dog under the dinner table), he said, “It’s our last night. Let’s go on the pirate ship. Let’s do it.”

At about 5 p.m. we made our way to the pirate ship dock, having bullied an older Scottish couple into joining us. They’d been sitting at a nearby table drinking themselves into a receptive mood, and hearing us talk about it got them interested. So I convinced them it would be twice as fun with another couple, plus they were Scottish and the Scots are pretty reliable for being fun people to drink with. They like their booze as much as the Irish, but their accents are a touch more understandable. Standing on the dock an hour later with our new best friends, Fiona and Andrew, tanned, toasted, and in love, life felt full of promise.

After about four seconds aboard, it was clear we’d made a horrible mistake. The first clue? Our ship’s crew was comprised of hyperenthusiastic pirate-attired little people. They were like little meth-mad Mexican sea bandits. If you can’t imagine anything more disconcerting than fourteen Tattoos from
Fantasy Island
accosting you the second you board, try picturing them shirtless, sporting only bandannas and black and white MC Hammer pants. You’re welcome.

Compounding our distress, the romantic seagoing restaurant from the glossy pictures was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a floating disco, sent across time and space from Queens, New York, circa 1979. Stacks of speakers were everywhere we looked, and a DJ perched on the bridge where
Blackbeard once had roamed. Also, about seventy percent of our fellow passengers were sun-scorched frat guys and their seminaked dates. I immediately suspected that our friendly vendor had two very different brochures selling the same cruise. The blaring of techno music at unbearable decibels kept us from having a reasoned discussion about fleeing back down the plank, so with the nervous hope that this was only the boarding spectacle, we lurched forward, waved on by our manic hosts.

“Señorita! Señor!” the midgets shrieked at us over the blaring music. “Drink, drink!” In fact, more booze was actually a great idea given the situation unfolding. Unfortunately, what they were offering was a sickly sweet grain alcohol punch just like the swill that had laid me out cold once when I drank it out of a bathtub at a high school party at fifteen. I choked down about half a plastic cup before I tossed it overboard, where I’m sure it eventually killed a seagull. Jon and I made a beeline for the farthest place from any sort of speakers or little people in big pants to stand but there was really nowhere to hide. What had looked so massive and peaceful floating along the ocean while we were sipping margaritas on the shore now seemed smaller than a New York City apartment bathroom. And there were three hours and fifty-nine minutes left to go.

Within moments of setting sail, the DJ bellowed that it was time for the traditional flag raising ceremony, which was “just for the beautiful ladies.” I tried to make myself look as unattractive as possible, but apparently by beautiful ladies
they meant anyone in possession of a vagina. One of the grinning Tattoos literally dragged me away from Jon in spite of my protests. I had him by at least a foot and a half, but the little man was a master of leverage, and I was quickly whisked to the bow to join the rest of the “beautiful ladies.” We were forced to hold hands and dance in circles around the entire deck of the boat while the men stood above us hooting and hollering. It was worse than a construction site. When I knew I couldn’t take one more moment of this, I tried to find Jon in the crowd to catch his eye, and make him see that he must save me. I finally spotted him in the crowd and I thought I saw him smiling, although it was hard to tell for sure because he was busy videotaping the entire debacle. That’s when I started to get mad.

By the time I reached the rear deck, I knew Jon didn’t share my pain. We both stood along the raised stern, where I tried in vain to block out the line dancing, sombrero tossing, or vomiting over the side of the boat that was happening on the main floor. All the while Jon continued calmly videotaping instead of joining my profanity-filled rant. Our Scottish friends, having been forcibly separated during the flag raising, spotted us and reapproached. But faced with what they swiftly diagnosed as an ugly fight brewing between the Americans, they’d discreetly edged away, never to return.

By the time the DJ broke out the Macarena, I was on the verge of tears. I thought the Macarena had been outlawed a few years back, but apparently Mexican laws are different. The music got louder and louder. I prayed that cochlear
implants would be covered by my insurance because they were definitely in my future. Jon, still glued to his viewfinder, didn’t even make eye contact with me. He was clearly unfazed by the sonic, cultural, and emotional traumas being inflicted on the innocent. That’s the moment I started to hate him.

With my buzz from earlier in the day having worn off in the absence of liquor that would willingly be consumed by adults, I was now facing this crisis without even the slightest buffer to the senses. Finally it was dinnertime and we were given a reprieve from the blaring disco and herded below decks, where our meal and one complimentary glass of reddish wine awaited.

“I have a bad feeling this wine was purchased at a 99-cents store and is actually not wine but furniture polish,” I carped, hoping at last to draw him into my web of agony.

“You think?” Jon answered, sort of…

“Well, I can’t read Spanish so I can’t call them on it.” Jon ignored me and drank his glass and mine, too.

“What?” I asked. As in
What’s wrong? Besides this fucking cruise? Are you mad at me? Am I bugging you?
It was all in there. All in my single “What?”

“Nothing.”

Immediately after I’d taken my last bite of filet min-goat, we were shooed back upstairs, where more activities awaited—two hours and fifty-three minutes’ worth, by my watch, assuming we weren’t fighting a headwind. Jon and I tried to sneak to an empty part of the boat but were immediately told that that area was off-limits and herded back toward
the main deck, where game time was about to commence. The first game involved a woman who was called up to a makeshift stage and told to repeat a phrase into a microphone only…wait for it…she had an ice cube in her mouth so she couldn’t say it correctly! And somehow it was supposed to be sexual, like she was attempting to give a blow job. Ha!

A sinister vibe seemed to take over around this time—similar to how I imagine the air felt right before the woman got gang-raped in Big Dan’s Tavern. The frat boys were all riled up and circled around a woman onstage who was so drunk she was starting to turn the ice eating into an opportunity to do a striptease, taking the cube out of her mouth and rubbing it on her nipples as it melted. A nearby Tattoo helpfully tossed her more ice, because on the pirate ship the customer is king.

At that moment, our galleon of horrors began to creak. “Great, we’re sinking!” I hissed. On second thought, I realized that a speedy trip to shore courtesy of the Mexican Coast Guard would be like having my sentence commuted by the governor.

“Relax, we’re just coming about,” said Jon.

“Huh?”

“It means we’re turning around.” Great, he was so comfortable with all of this that he was dropping nautical terms on me. I fought the urge to push him overboard. The worst part of this “coming about” meant that we were only at the halfway point. Two hours remained. I knew then that I’d have to make peace with the paint thinner they were push
ing as punch if I was to survive till shore. I grabbed two red cups from the nearest Tattoo, held my nose, and tried to medicate.

How could Jon not see how horrible this was? What was the point of videotaping this fucking nightmare? Had he drunk the booze cruise Kool-Aid? Could he be enjoying himself? I was completely alone in this. If he was having a horrible time couldn’t he just yell, “This is horrible!” just once? He had totally withdrawn, burying his head not in the sand but behind the camera, ignoring me. I’d been wrong about him. We were nothing alike.

Then when it didn’t seem like it could get any worse, the DJ stopped the music and directed our attention to the makeshift stage below him for a special treat. Two Tattoos entered with a pair of roosters with things that looked like spurs attached to their claws. It was a cock fight. This just couldn’t be happening. Who ever heard of a sunset, mariachi band, filet mignon cruise with a cock fight?