Every time I promise myself that I will work on controlling my temper, I always end up making a scene.

This time, it wasn’t my fault. All I wanted was a bagel. A bagel, a cup of coffee, and perhaps a spot near a window where I could idly watch the traffic go by as I browsed through the newspaper and licked cream cheese from my fingers. But apparently the Gods were not on my side.

Today I got in line behind a middle aged woman in a fur coat who was barking orders at the poor bagel girl like she was a dumb misbehaving dog. Fur Coat was ordering multiple bagel sandwiches from a list, but instead of ordering them in such a way that would make sense, she was attempting to order them all at the same time. The Bagel Girl was obviously confused and you could tell by her shaking hands that Fur Coat’s harsh tone was intimidating her. Finally, Fur Coat snapped, “I said light butter on that bagel! Light butter! Jesus!”

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I cut in, “You don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

Fur Coat glared daggers at me and stated, “I’m not.”

“Well, I beg to differ.”

With a disgusted ‘Hrmph,’ Fur Coat went back to her overly complicated order, but she did so quietly and even managed to begrudge the poor girl a ‘Thank you’ after she was finished.

I have a theory about asshole customers: I think they only act that way because no one ever calls them on their bullshit. The poor kids behind the counter can’t stand up for themselves lest they lose their jobs and other patrons look the other way claiming ‘it’s none of my business.’

Fuck that. When I see some self important asshole verbally degrading a teenaged kid with dead eyes behind a counter, it ruins my day. So, I say some shit. Besides, I feel that if I stay silent, I am almost giving an abuserpermission to act like a raging asshole. Ignoring their behavior suggests to them on some sick level that what they’re doing is Ok.

It’s not OK.

The phrase ‘The Customer is Always Right’ is the single worst philosophy that has ever been adopted by American culture. It gave an entire generation of people the green light to be as impolite, unreasonable, and demanding as their little hearts desired because they were always going to be considered right. It destroyed the entire concept of courtesy and rendered manners obsolete. People began to treat their peers in the service industry like incompetent morons, lacking in feelings or human dignity, who deserved to be browbeaten and abused for no other reason than they had the audacity to run out of a particular brand of coffee. Furthermore, instead of suffering negative repercussions for their appallingly disrespectful behavior, they are awarded with free coupons and plenty of ass kissing. In reality, they should be shunned and humiliated for behaving like such self absorbed little children.

Speaking of respect, another idea that has ruined American culture is the one that states, ‘I don’t give respect freely. You have to earn my respect.’ This one is most often uttered by punk kids with bad attitudes and black fingernail polish.

Fucking gag me.

I mean, how egotistical does one have to be to automatically assume that their respect is so fucking important that one must jump through multiples hoops in order to earn it? How about we give people respect because they are humans with lives and feelings just as important as our own? Why not give people a default level of respect and more or less can either be won or lost based on the behavior of the individual? The loss of respect is something that should be based on actions. The idea that that one must win basic respect in the first place is incredibly belittling. How narcissistic can you be to embrace that ideology?

A few Sundays ago, my husband and I went out to breakfast. If anyone has ever attempted to go out to breakfast on a Sunday morning, they know that restaurants are usually packed around then. We were finally seated and our server was not only very busy, but also a new employee according to her ‘Hi! I’m new!’ nametag.

I’d like to say that everyone in her section was very understanding. The place was a madhouse and she was obviously out of her element. I wish I could say that the patrons in that restaurant were mannerly and polite and treated her with even an ounce of dignity and consideration. But, if I did, I’d be fucking lying.

Nearly everyone yelled at her or condescended to her like she was a stupid little child. One guy ordered a side of ‘home fries’ and reamed her ass when she brought him French fries. Had he looked at the menu a little closer, he would have seen that ‘home fries’ weren’t listed. This particular restaurant only served French fries or hash browns. Her mistake was understandable and he was basically yelling at her because she didn’t read his mind accurately enough.

But let’s all forget about that for just a moment. Instead, I want to point out that there are a multitude of things that can go wrong in one’s life. Death, illness, and poverty just to name a few. Yet, here I was watching a grown man lose his fucking shit because he was going to have to wait 5 minutes for a side of hash browns. Suddenly, I lost my appetite.

At this point, the angry little man demanded to speak to a manager and a kowtowing corporate whore scuttled over with free coupons and many apologies. The angry man furiously demanded that his waitress be fired right that instant. Over hash browns.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I leaned over and interrupted, “When you’re finished talking to this man, I’d like to speak to you. I have the same server.”

The angry man smiled smugly, no doubt convinced that I was going to back him up on his quest to get a new girl fired because he had to wait 5 fucking minutes.

The manager finished with him and moped over to my table ready for his second tongue lashing of the day. I surprised him by loudly saying, “I just want you to know that our server is doing the best that she can. She’s been trying very hard and has been very sweet to us even though that asshole has treated her so poorly.”

The manager suddenly looked panicked and started shooting terrified looks at the table that just finished reaming him out. “I know,” he whispered fearfully, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to fire her.”

And while I was pleased to learn that this particular manager wasn’t going to fire the new girl based on the whim of some fat ass piece of trailer trash, I was disappointed that he rewarded said trash’s temper tantrum with free food. I long for the day a manager walks up to a table and says, “How dare you treat my employee this way. Get out now.”

I’m sure they want to, but that ridiculous policy ‘The Customer is Always Right’ silences them. So until we banish that phrase from American culture forever, I suggest we quit looking the other way when people behave like scumbags.

After all, technicalities may suggest that they are always right, but that doesn’t make them any less an asshole.

I’m standing in the middle of my cheap, already furnished, efficiency apartment that sits on a busy street just a few miles from the ocean. There’s a cop standing in front of me. He’s got broad shoulders, dark hair and a face that looks like it’s made of play-doh. Tears are streaming down my face, my cheeks are red and swollen, and snot is dripping from my nostrils…I have never been a pretty crier. My knees are shaking like those of a newborn colt. My eyes dart around the room, nervously flitting back and forth from door to the window. Both seem like they are a million miles away.

I am only 15 years old.

The cop is angry and he asks me yet again, “Is your name V _____?”

I shake my head. I point to the state ID sitting on the nicked up nightstand. It fooled my landlord. It fooled my boss. It doesn’t fool him.

“What kind of a fool do you take me for?” His voice is measured and firm. “I know your name isn’t Susan! So how about you tell me who you really are?”

Again, my eyes dart around the room. One of the dresser drawers is open. I can spy my clothes inside. Three months ago, those clothes were packed up by my little brother in makeshifts bags made of sheets while I stood in the kitchen getting dinner plates smashed over my outstretched hands in punishment. He then lowered those bags outside of my bedroom window to my waiting boyfriend with a pair of jump ropes. My little brother was already in bed, feigning sleep, when the last dinner plate shattered against my knuckles.

The scars aren’t so bad.

Now, my boyfriend is standing outside of my apartment talking to another cop. This one is a muscular black man with a neatly trimmed mustache. The cop says to him, “Son, do you know you can go to jail for harboring a runaway?”

My boyfriend says, “I am only 17.”

Right next to the door of my apartment is my backpack. It is full of textbooks and all the schoolwork I never turned in. Three months ago, I was wearing it when my Mother dropped me off at school and watched me walk in the front door. I was also wearing it 10 minutes later when I walked out the back door and got into the car with my boyfriend. It was sitting on my lap when we drove to a pay phone and called my boyfriend’s Mother.

My boyfriend told her, “No one saw her. Make the call.”

Then, my boyfriend’s Mother called my school secretary posing as my Mother and informed her that I would be staying home from school sick that day. She did this so the secretary wouldn’t call my house and ask where I was.

The cop standing in front of me suddenly flicks his fingers in front of my face. Startled, I focus on him again.

“I am losing my patience with you, young lady,” he warns, “So how about you tell me your name?”

Outside, I can hear my boyfriend. “You don’t understand!” he tells his cop, “She will be in danger if you take her back there!”

Against the right wall of the room, there is a piece of shit desk with a wobbly leg. Inside that desk drawer is all the money I have in the world. Three months ago, we drove from the pay phone to the bank and waited outside until it opened. Three months ago, at around 9am, I withdrew what was left of my raped college fund. I added it to the money my friends had all pitched in to give me. Now it was all sitting in that desk drawer, hidden under the holy bible.

My boyfriend suddenly starts yelling, “If you don’t believe me, call my Mother! She can verify everything I’m saying!”

Earlier today, my boyfriend had attempted to drive down to visit me. He was bringing me another calling card, a stack of books, and letters from all of my friends. We had planned to take a ferry ride and have a picnic. It’s the same thing we do every weekend.

Only this weekend, my boyfriend had been followed. Normally, he watches for things like that, but an uneventful three months can make people careless. He was followed over three state lines. When he reached his destination, a phone call was made to the police. They showed up on my doorstep minutes later after running his license plate number which was flagged in some fucking database.

The cop in front of me suddenly softens his voice.

“Listen sweetheart,” he says, “I think I can help you. Did you know that in this state the legal age to leave home is only 15? That means we can’t make you go home unless you want to go home. All we have to do is take you down to the station and call up Missing Persons. We tell them you’re OK and that you’re not missing anymore. Then, we let you go.”

I look at him hopefully.

Outside, my boyfriend is shrieking, “CALL MY MOTHER! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WILL YOU CALL MY MOTHER?!”

My cop continues, “All I need to help you is your name. Now tell me the truth; are you V ______?”

Slowly, I nod. “There,” he says, “Do you see how easy that was? Now all we have to do is go down to the station, make a phone call, and I’ll bring you right back here.”

Finally, I speak. “C-c-can’t we call from here?”

“No, we have to call from the station. It’s standard procedure. But we’ll come right back, I promise. Just come with me.”

I follow my cop out of my apartment, past my boyfriend, towards his squad car.

My boyfriend says, “Hey! Where the hell are you taking her?!” He is crying now, too.

The black cop tells him, “We’re going to need you to pack up her things.”

I ask my cop, “Doesn’t he know I’m coming right back?”

“Not yet,” my cop tells me, “But I’ll tell him. Also, I’m going to need to put these cuffs on you.”

“W-w-why?”

“Standard procedure.”

The cop cuffs me and helps me into the back of his squad car. I glance over at my boyfriend who is furiously waving his arms around. The black cop is pointing at my dresser. I hope they don’t make a mess of my apartment.

After a short drive, we pull into the parking lot of a brown brick building. I can see the hint of a very tall fence towards the back. There is razor wire at the top of this fence.

It doesn’t look like a police station. It looks like a prison.

The cop leads me into a foyer and turns me over to a severe looking black woman with short, curly hair. They remove my cuffs and the black woman leads me by the arm down the hall. I look back at the cop who is talking to someone behind a counter. I am wondering when we are going to make my phone call.

The black woman pushes me into a side room. “I’m going to need your mug shot and your fingerprints,” she tells me.

Too confused to argue, I oblige. Then she says, “Now we’ve got to get you a shower. Follow me.”

Finally all of the little things that weren’t quite right added up into one great big wrong. I ask, “But I thought I just had to make a phone call? Then the cop said he’d take me back to my apartment.”

“Is that what he told you?” she asks.

I nod my head. She laughs.

We head down to a shower room and the woman orders me to undress. She tells me that she’s got to watch me, but trust her; she doesn’t like it anymore than I do. Once I’m naked, she tells me to open my mouth. When I do, she puts her fingers inside and probes under my tongue. “Don’t bite me,” she warns.

“Now I’m going to ask you a question and I want the truth,” she says, “Do you have any drugs or weapons hidden inside your vagina or anus?”

Horrified, I say, “NO!”

“I’m going to check anyway,” she tells me as she reaches for a box of latex gloves, “And if I find out you’re lying, you’re going to be in a world of hurt.”

“There’s nothing!”

“This is your last chance to tell me,” She urges, “This is your last chance to remove anything inside of your vagina or your anus yourself.”

“There’s nothing there! I swear!”

“Bend over.”

After my search she hands me a bottle of shampoo.

“I don’t have lice!”

“It doesn’t matter. Use it anyway.”

After my shower, she hands me a pair of khakis and a navy blue t-shirt. “The boys wear orange,” she says. I’m not sure why she thinks I’m interested in that particular piece of trivia.

After I’m dressed, she tells me the rules. “You are not allowed to talk to the boys. No love connections here. And when you walk, you must keep your hands clasped behind your back. Letting your arms swing is called ‘traveling’ and will get you in trouble.”

“How long do I have to stay here?” I ask.

“Until your Mother picks you up. Probably around tomorrow afternoon.”

I’m not sure what I said next because I was hysterical, but I’m pretty sure there was plenty of fruitless begging involved. And struggling. And screaming. And people coming to help restrain me. And finally, vague acceptance of my situation.

I was brought in on a Friday. Every Friday is pizza day and the other kids were already in the process of eating when I joined them. I was taken to a table with another girl about my age, maybe a little younger. She was a chubby thing, with greasy mouse brown hair and terrible acne. She was picking at a piece of pepperoni.

“I’ll bring you a slice of pizza,” the warden said to me. This one was a guy.

“No thank you,” I told him, “I’m not hungry.”

The girl at my table interrupted us, “You can bring me some aspirin!”

“Now you know I can’t do that, Stacy.”

“But I have cramps!” she wailed. “I’m bleeding! I’m clotting! The clots are killing me!”

The warden rolled his eyes, “I can bring you a heating pad.”

She wailed again and slumped over in her chair clutching her stomach, “My insides are falling out, but I guess it’s better than nothing.”

When he walked away, she sat up straight and looked at me. “What are you here for?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, really.”

A few minutes later, the warden came back with a heating pad. Stacy slumped over in her chair again. “The clots! The clots! I am bleeding great, big, killer clots!”

He rolled his eyes again and walked away.

I looked around the room. It was huge and would have resembled a high school cafeteria if you could imagine one two stories tall. On the first level, 3 of the 4 walls were lined with small cells with metal doors that each sported a single square glass window. Against the fourth wall was a room made almost completely out of reinforced glass. There were a couple of cots in that room. On the second story, against the wall directly opposite the glass room was another window with an office behind it. The wardens looked down on us from that office. The other 3 walls on the second story were simply more cells.

Later that evening, while all the other kids were being lined up in front of their cells for bed, Stacy and I were taken to the glass room. We were assigned a cot and locked in for the evening. I watched all the other kids as they were locked up for the night as well.

Then I sighed and said to Stacy, “Don’t we get any pillows or blankets?”

“Not in here,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, “Probably because we might hang ourselves with them.”

I shook my head, confused. “Whatever,” I told her, “Turn off the light then.”

“We can’t turn off the light in here.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because they can’t watch us all night if the light is off,” she replied as she pointed upwards to the office window.

“How come they don’t need to watch everyone else all night?” I asked.

“Because everyone else isn’t on suicide watch,” she answered.

“We’re on suicide watch? Fucking A.”

“Yep,” she giggled, “But I think I can get out of here anyway. How hard do you think I’d have to bash my head up against this glass to make it break?”

Suddenly, I understood completely why the warden had kept rolling his eyes at her. “Pretty hard,” I said, “Considering that it’s pretty thick. Besides, even if you broke it, you couldn’t get out. Look at it. It’s got like a little metal fence embedded inside of it.”

“Oh that is no problem. I am a reincarnated butterfly. Once the glass is broken, I can shrink down into a little bug and fly out.”

“You know,” I said to her, “I’m starting to think you’re a real fucking wacko.”

She started laughing hysterically. I groaned and covered my eyes with my arm. She didn’t want me to go to sleep just yet, so she started singing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ at the top of her lungs.

I thought to myself, Maybe if I beat her up, they’ll let me stay. Maybe if I hurt her enough, they won’t make me go home.

I was too exhausted to do more than think about it, though. So I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

The next day, after breakfast, they gathered everyone up in the cafeteria-like room again. A motivational speaker was there to talk to us. He went around the room and asked us all who we thought of as our hero. One kid told him, “Kurt Cobain.”

The speaker said, “Isn’t that the musician who killed himself? Why would he be your hero?”

“Because he had a hottie wife, a kickass band, and $5000 a day to spend on heroin and I ain’t got none of that shit.”

I’m not sure who I told the motivational speaker my hero was, but I hope I said something profound.

Shortly after the class, a warden came over and whispered in my ear. “Your Mother and her husband are here to get you now. Come on.”

“Her husband?” I whispered back, “When I left three months ago, she didn’t even have a boyfriend.”

He ignored me.

My Mother didn’t say much to me as we left although she did introduce me to her new husband. Apparently, his name was Gene.

My brother was outside waiting in the car. I slumped down in the backseat really close to him.

“You OK?” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “She’s been so pissed at you that she hasn’t paid much attention to me at all. I’ve been spending a lot of time over at Willie’s house.”

“I thought she’d be glad to be rid of me.”

“Yeah, probably. But you took that money. Also, she told the new guy she had a daughter before she realized you were gone. After that, he kept pushing to meet you. She was pretty fucking embarrassed when she finally had to tell him you ran away.”

“What are they going to do to me?”

“I think you’re safe as long as that cheese dick is around. She still tries to play ‘Nice Mom’ in front of him.”

“He won’t always be around, though.”

“No. He won’t.”

“You know V,” Gene called back to me, “In my line of work, I’ve have a lot of experience with girls like you. You don’t know this about me, but I’m a police officer.”

“Security guard at a shopping mall,” my brother whispered.

“Girls like me?” I answered, “What do you mean by that?”

“You know….pregnant….on drugs….”

I looked over at my brother, shocked. He shrugged.

Very forcefully, I said, “I am not pregnant or on drugs. I am a virgin!”

My Mother sighed, “Gene, in your professional opinion, how often do drug addicts lie?”

“All the time,” He answered.

“Look!” I said, “If you’re a cop, then you know how to go about getting me tested for drugs, don’t you? I can pee in a cup and prove it! And I’m sure you can take me to a doctor and he can tell you that I’m not pregnant!”

He and my Mother exchanged a look.

“Here!” I said as I ripped out a couple of strands of my hair and held it out to him, “Can’t you test my hair? For drugs? Test it! You’ll see! I’ve never done a drug in my life!”

“Young lady,” Gene said, “Do you really expect me to believe that you were able to afford an apartment for three months without selling drugs?”

“No,” I sighed, “I expect you to believe that I was pushing heroin on the mean streets of suburbia.”

My Mother turned completely around in her seat to face me. She smiled at me; a lazy, smug, evil grin that still wakes me up sometimes in the middle of the night. Then, she turned back around in her seat.

“Don’t bother with him,” my brother whispered to me, “He’s hopeless. She could turn around and cut your throat right in front of him and she’d convince him it was self defense.”

“What do I do?” I asked miserably.

“Maybe you can jump out of the car the next time it slows down?” he offered, “Or, when we stop at a rest stop or something, you can take off when they’re not looking. That’s my advice. If I were you, I’d run.”

I looked out the window. We had to be going at least 70 miles an hour, so jumping out of the car right now probably wouldn’t work. But the rest stop idea wasn’t a bad one. I mulled it over in my head.

“You can do it,” my brother encouraged, “You’re fast.”

---

Part II – The Ultimate Luxury

I am lying in the middle of a hot, dark, empty room.

Wait.

I take that back. The room isn’t completely empty. I am in here, after all. And over in the corner is a bucket–that’s where I’m supposed to go to the bathroom. A couple of feet away is one of those two pound containers of cheesy goldfish crackers—my breakfast, lunch, and dinner respectively. Everything else has been removed from the room–including the light bulbs.

My clothes are filthy and stained with sweat. My hair is limp and greasy. The hair under my arms and on my legs has grown out and I am itchy all over. I feel like I have just swallowed handfuls of cotton, my teeth feel like they are all wearing little sweaters. I can’t stand the stench of myself.

I have been laying here for two weeks.

The very worst part is the thirst. It claws at the back of my throat. I quit eating the crackers simply because the hunger is easier to deal with than the feeling of my tongue, swollen and dry.

Two weeks ago, I was sitting in the backseat of a car listening to my brother urging me to run. I had planned to, but I never got the chance. My Mother watched me like a hawk and when we reached her destination, she brought me here.

Now, I see her once daily. She comes in every afternoon and dumps my bucket. Sometimes she insults me, sometimes she kicks out at me, but most of the time she ignores me. I used to ask her for water, but now I just lie on the floor and stare at her shoes. She wears a different color of high heel every day.

I only stand up straight once a day, when I hear the click of tiny pebbles hitting my window. Then I go to my window and my boyfriend throws me up a roll of toilet paper. I stuff my pockets with handfuls of it and throw the roll back down to him. Then, he throws me up a bottle of water. It is always lukewarm, but I guzzle as much of it as I can anyway. It tastes delicious. Sometimes, he throws me up a candy bar and I take a few bitesand throw it back down. He used to throw me up books and I would throw them out the window every time I heard a noise outside of my door, but that just got too tiring.

Directly beneath the window is flat pavement. Otherwise, I would have jumped. But jumping seems kind of pointless if I only end up breaking my leg.

A couple of yards away from my window are some rosebushes. Every time I use the bucket, I wad up my toilet paper and throw it out my window aiming for those rosebushes. Later, all the neighborhood kids I used to sit for will come by and pick up those wads of toilet paper before my Mother sees them.

My boyfriend says they are figuring out a way to get me out.

I used to say ‘I know.’ Now I just change the subject.

I ask my boyfriend where my Mother’s husband is. How come he isn’t living here if they’re married?

My boyfriend tells me that Gene is waiting to move in after the lease on his apartment expires. My brother told him that this won’t be until the first week of September.

“Months,” I say, “Months with no food or water or shower or toilet.”

“She can’t leave you up there that long!” my boyfriend insists.

I laugh and say, “Don’t you understand, Derrek? She says I’m not worth the energy bills anymore!” I laugh and I laugh.

It seems like I’m always three seconds away from hysteria these days.

I tell my boyfriend that I am tired. I’ve got to lie back down. I don’t understand why I’m so sleepy all the time when I spend my days doing nothing at all, but I am. He tells me he will be back tomorrow. I tell him to bring more water.

One night, my door slams open. The hall light is on, so I can see my Mother semi-clearly. She is holding a bundle and she’s obviously in a rush.

“Stand up!” she snaps.

She thrusts a sweater in my direction. “Put this on!” she orders.

I go to take my shirt off, but she stops me. “Just put it on over what you’re wearing!” She holds out a hairbrush and hair clip. “Brush your goddamn hair and put it back in this clip!”

I immediately start brushing. “When I call you, you come downstairs right away,” she orders. When she walks away from me my door is slightly ajar.

My brother peaks in my room.

“What is going on?” I whisper.

“Someone called the police,” he says.

“Derrek’s Mom?”

“No, they won’t listen to her ever since she helped you run away. I think it must be the parents of some of those kids you baby-sit for…”

I crane my neck so I can hear what is going on downstairs. My Mother is saying, “Why, that’s just ridiculous!”

I can’t make out the answering murmur, but I do hear my Mother say, “Of course you can.” Then she calls my name.

I think, Oh thank God.

There are two policemen at the front door. Obediently, I stand beside my Mother. She says, “See? Does she look abused to you?”

“How are you?” they ask me.

“Fine,” I answer, but I try to widen my eyes in such a way as to communicate to them that I am not fine.

“Ma’am,” they say to my Mother, “We’re going to have to interview her alone for a minute, if that is alright with you.”

All confidence, my Mother says, “Of course.”

A police officer leads me outside towards the sidewalk. He says, “We’ve been hearing some pretty interesting stories about you….”

I say, “Listen, you’ve got to help me. My Mother has got me locked up in a room—

He says, “Sounds to me like you’re grounded.”

“No,” I begin again, “It’s not like that. You see, there is nothing in this room—

He interrupts me again, “Yeah, when I ground my daughter, I take away her television set, too.” He smiles a little.

“Listen,” I demand, “It’s not like that at all! There’s a bucket—

“You know what I think?” he interrupts again.

I say nothing.

“I think you’re a spoiled brat.”

“Huh?”

“Look at that sweater you’re wearing,” he continues, “Isn’t that one of those expensive sweaters? That thing is probably worth more than my daughter’s entire wardrobe.”

I am incredulous. “This sweater? It’s not even mine! My Mother….what she is doing is abuse!”

“I don’t see any bruises on you,” he says, “All I see is a spoiled girl wearing a fancy sweater who needs to shape up and listen to her Mother and quit making up stories to scare the neighborhood kids.”

I am speechless.

It is hopeless.

When the police leave, my mother holds out her hand. She wants the sweater back. I give it to her. She wants the hair clip, too. It’s all hers. Then she leads me back up to my room.

I lay there for two more weeks.

My Mother quits emptying my bucket every day. It is pointless, I barely go anymore. But when I do, the stifling heat makes the entire room reek of piss and shit. I am so filthy; I want to claw my own skin off.

I hear the click-click of pebbles hitting my window. I am too tired to get up. The pebbles are insistent, though, so I drag myself to the window.

“V!” my boyfriend says, “How about we get married?”

I stare at him silently.

“I’m serious!” he insists, “This is your Mother’s idea!”

“Wha…?”

“She says that she is thinking about letting you get married. She says it’s the best thing for the baby!”

“But I’m not pregnant,” I say. The wad of toilet paper currently jammed in between my thighs is proof of that.

“I know that! Jesus, you don’t think I know that?” he says, “My point is that’s what she’s been telling her husband! And really, who cares what he thinks as long as you’re free!”

“I’m only 15. You’re only 17. Isn’t that…illegal or something?”

“In this state it is. But if we go to West Virginia, we can get married as long as we have parental consent.”

“Your Mother,” I remind him dully.

“She said she’d do it! V, if we’re married, your Mother loses all of her legal rights to you! You will never have to see her again! You won’t even have to hide! You can go back to school! Your Mom is supposed to ask you about it today!”

I was starting to warm to the idea. It seemed too good to be true. But then he said:

“And V….I really do love you. We can make this work.”

Those two sentences told me all I needed to know. My boyfriend wasn’t going to view our marriage as a sham, something convenient we did simply so I could escape. He was going to take it seriously, like a real marriage that would last all of our lives. He loved me enough to want to be with me forever…or at least he thought he did. I loved him too (Because who wouldn’t love the boy who tried so hard to break you out of prison?), but I did not love him enough to seriously marry him. I did not love him enough to want to spend my life with him.

Because I was too young and immature to communicate my fears to him thoughtfully, I simply said:

“No. I won’t do it. It’s not right.”

Then I walked away from the window so I could lie down.

Sure enough, my Mother opened my door a couple of hours later and said, “You know, you can stay here for the rest of the summer. Or you can marry Derrek and get the hell out of my life for good.”

I said, “If you let me go, I’ll leave forever anyway.”

She said, “No, it doesn’t work that way. I’d still be legally responsible for you.”

“I won’t do anything wrong. I won’t get you in trouble.”

“I don’t believe a word you say,” She sneered, “If you want out of this room, marriage is the only way to do it.”

“No,” I said.

She slammed the door.

I lied there for two more weeks.

Every day she’d open the door and offer me marriage. The first couple of times, I would verbally refuse. But after awhile, I quit bothering to answer. Instead, I would just stare at her shoes. Every day, a different color high heel.

Early one morning, she opened the door and just stared at me. After 6 weeks without a shower, I must have been disgusting to look at. My hair was falling out.

Finally, she said, “I told Gene that you’re having trouble in rehab. Perhaps they won’t let you out this summer after all. Maybe they’ll keep you in for 6 more months. It’s a pity that you’ll miss school, of course, but we’ve really got to get you well.”

I said nothing.

“But then again, maybe you’ll turn your life around. Maybe the baby in your stomach will inspire you to stay clean.”

I hated her.

“Maybe you’ll decide to straighten up. Get married. Settle down and be a good girl. For the baby.”

Dear God, please give me the strength to kill her.

“Marriage or 6 more months of rehab….I guess it’s your choice.”

“Can I have a shower?” I croaked.

“Absolutely,” she said. “And a fresh change of clothes, too”

“Water?”

“I’ve got a cold bottle right downstairs in the kitchen. Hell, I’ll even order you a pizza.”

“Ok then.”

“I want your word.”

“I promise I’ll do it.”

She smiled suddenly and slammed the door. I heard the lock click. I should have known it was all a trick. I went to sleep.

A couple of hours later, the door opened again. “The arraignments have been made,” my Mother told me.

I stared at her dully.

“Come on, get up. Go get your shower. I’m sure you remember where the bathroom is?”

Tentatively, I got to my feet.

“I’ve still got a couple of phone calls to make,” she said, “You can take care of yourself.” Then she walked away again. Only this time, she left the door open.

I crept down the hall to the bathroom. On the sink, there was a fresh toothbrush and a cold bottle of water waiting for me. A new pair of shorts, a shirt, and a pair of panties were neatly folded and sitting on the toilet. There was a fresh towel on the towel rack.

It was like staring at a mirage.

The first thing I did was snatch at the bottle of water. I drank the entire thing in a couple of gulps. Then I ran the water from the faucet and started slurping more water out of my cupped hands. I drank and drank and drank until my stomach felt like a water balloon about to burst.

The second thing I did was brush my teeth. Once. Twice. Three times. I brushed my teeth until my gums bled.

Have you ever had a shower after spending a significant time dirty? If you have, I’m sure you know that it is the ultimate luxury. There is no greater feeling in the world than standing under a steady stream of water, a bottle of shampoo and a new razor blade within easy reach, holding a fresh bar of soap, washing away layer after layer of filth.

No. Greater. Feeling.

Because of this, I stood in that shower and I sobbed…big, choking, heaving sobs that doubled me over and almost brought me to my knees. I gasped and shuddered, I writhed and I wailed; I clutched at my eyes as if I were trying to push the tears back into the ducts.

This felt too good.

And what I had I paid for this? I was preparing to break a boy’s heart, lie to his face, use him as if he weren’t a person with feelings of his own, but a means to my end.

All that…for a shower.

It wasn’t right that it should feel so good.

It was at that precise instant that I quit believing in God.

---

Part III – 15 And Already a Wire

I promised my Mother I would get married on a Friday.

I was married by Monday afternoon.

Late Sunday night, my Mother drove us all to West Virginia to get the job done. My boyfriend’s Mother rode shotgun and my brother, my boyfriend, and I all crammed into the backseat. I wore a pair of jean shorts and a purple tie-dyed t-shirt. Not exactly the stuff weddings are made of, but that’s life.

The only time I smiled during the whole thing was right before the vows when the judge made us all raise our right hands and swear that my boyfriend and I were not of blood relation. Can anyone from West Virginia verify if this is proper procedure? Or was the judge just making a joke?

During the actual exchanging of vows, I bawled my little ass off. I just couldn’t get over the fact that I was just using the boy next to me. I was using him just like my Mother had used the men in her life, over the years. I just couldn’t get over the idea that this marriage was proof that I was just like her. So I stood before the judge with tears streaming from my eyes, cheeks red and swollen, and snot running freely from my nose.

I have never been a pretty crier.

When it was done, my new Mother-in-law tried to take a picture. I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t want photographic evidence of that day…although I do still have my old marriage license.

My new husband and I sat on a bench and waited for our parents to get some paperwork in order. When they were finished, my Mother waved my brother over to her side. I heard her tell him that they would be driving back alone. His sister and her new family would be renting a car.

She walked away from us without a word to me, without looking back, and with a gait that was both purposeful and brisk. The sound her shoes made as they clicked against the marble floor echoed throughout the room. I noticed her high heels. That day, they were black.

That was the last time I ever laid eyes on her.

Thus concludes what my friend would refer to as one of my good stories.

And now that I’ve told it, how do you feel? Do you want to shrink away from it? Close your eyes? Or perhaps you want to deny, deny, deny that it ever happened?

Do you want to ask me, ‘How can this possibly be true?’

A long, long time ago, I would have answered you with a shrug of the shoulders. I would have told you that if you met my Mother before I told this story, you would have liked her. She was pretty and smart and so very charming. You would have wanted to be her friend.

I would have also told you a truth about human nature. That is simply that people see what they want to see. Take, for example, the cop who visited my house that night long ago. He didn’t see my greasy hair. He didn’t see my cracked and bleeding lips. He didn’t see the funny way my clothes hung on my emaciated body or how too much movement made me dizzy. He didn’t see those things because he didn’t want to see them.

What he saw was a spoiled girl in a fancy sweater who was making up stories because she was on drugs. That’s what he wanted to see. He wanted to see this because no one on God’s green earth wants to believe it is possible for a Mother to hurt her child.

A long, long time ago I used to get into arguments with my friends. They would tell me that abused children don’t necessarily end up ruined.

They would say, “Just look at how you turned out, V!”

I always had to fight the urge to ball my hand up into a fist, slam it onto the table and scream, “YES! THAT’S EXACTLY MY POINT! LOOK HOW I TURNED OUT!”

But my friends would have only blinked at me, confused. When they look at me, they see a smart girl who toughed it out and eventually made a life for herself.

They don’t see the alcohol or the pills or the chronic insomnia. They don’t notice my obvious discomfort with physical affection or the way I tear up very suddenly sometimes for reasons unknown even to me. And that way I panic and claw at my face should anything even come close to covering my nose and mouth? Why, that’s just a funny little phobia!

People see what they want to see.

After my explanation, I would have asked you to fucking spare me the claims of what you would have done if you were in my position. I would have told you to kindly shut the fuck up when you insisted that you would have made someone believe you. You speak as an emotionally healthy, grown adult. You don’t speak as a scared little kid who has spent her life reaching out to people only to suffer the consequences when she was once again left alone with her abuser.

But now if you ask me, ‘How can this possibly be true?’ I won’t say any of those things.

Instead I’ll laugh and tell you, I told you so. I told you it would be too bitter to swallow! I told you it would be easier to treat it all like it was some made-up fantasy bullshit! I told you I wouldn’t mind if you looked at me with suspicion and distrust!

I didn’t write the story for you, anyway.

I wrote it for the teenage kid reading from a dark room somewhere who is nodding silently to himself. I hope it does his heart some good to read something real for a change and not that Good Will Hunting bullshit.

Good Will Hunting. What a fucking joke.

Should you ever meet one of the kids who read my story and nodded to himself, all I ask is that you be careful before you pat him on the head and tell him, “There, there.” Most of them fear your pity more than they fear facing what happened to them.

Before I end this and move on to discussing more lighthearted things, let me take a moment to discuss the permanent damage.

1. I very adamantly disagree with a legal system that gives any parent totalitarian control of a child at the exclusion of the other parent and all other adults. When a child is isolated from other adults, the adult in control loses all accountability. People like my Mother do what they do because the legal system treats them as if they were omniscient.

2. I cannot stand the sight, smell, or taste of goldfish crackers.

3. For the most part, I fucking hate cops.

Also, I ask that you not condemn me too much for believing in God for as long as I did. I want to believe in God because I want to believe in Hell.

Without Hell, my Mother will have gotten away with every bad thing she’s ever done.

---

Part III – 15 And Already a Wife

I promised my Mother I would get married on a Friday.

I was married by Monday afternoon.

Late Sunday night, my Mother drove us all to West Virginia to get the job done. My boyfriend’s Mother rode shotgun and my brother, my boyfriend, and I all crammed into the backseat. I wore a pair of jean shorts and a purple tie-dyed t-shirt. Not exactly the stuff weddings are made of, but that’s life.

The only time I smiled during the whole thing was right before the vows when the judge made us all raise our right hands and swear that my boyfriend and I were not of blood relation. Can anyone from West Virginia verify if this is proper procedure? Or was the judge just making a joke?

During the actual exchanging of vows, I bawled my little ass off. I just couldn’t get over the fact that I was just using the boy next to me. I was using him just like my Mother had used the men in her life, over the years. I just couldn’t get over the idea that this marriage was proof that I was just like her. So I stood before the judge with tears streaming from my eyes, cheeks red and swollen, and snot running freely from my nose.

I have never been a pretty crier.

When it was done, my new Mother-in-law tried to take a picture. I wouldn’t let her. I didn’t want photographic evidence of that day…although I do still have my old marriage license.

My new husband and I sat on a bench and waited for our parents to get some paperwork in order. When they were finished, my Mother waved my brother over to her side. I heard her tell him that they would be driving back alone. His sister and her new family would be renting a car.

She walked away from us without a word to me, without looking back, and with a gait that was both purposeful and brisk. The sound her shoes made as they clicked against the marble floor echoed throughout the room. I noticed her high heels. That day, they were black.

That was the last time I ever laid eyes on her.

Thus concludes what my friend would refer to as one of my good stories.

And now that I’ve told it, how do you feel? Do you want to shrink away from it? Close your eyes? Or perhaps you want to deny, deny, deny that it ever happened?

Do you want to ask me, ‘How can this possibly be true?’

A long, long time ago, I would have answered you with a shrug of the shoulders. I would have told you that if you met my Mother before I told this story, you would have liked her. She was pretty and smart and so very charming. You would have wanted to be her friend.

I would have also told you a truth about human nature. That is simply that people see what they want to see. Take, for example, the cop who visited my house that night long ago. He didn’t see my greasy hair. He didn’t see my cracked and bleeding lips. He didn’t see the funny way my clothes hung on my emaciated body or how too much movement made me dizzy. He didn’t see those things because he didn’t want to see them.

What he saw was a spoiled girl in a fancy sweater who was making up stories because she was on drugs. That’s what he wanted to see. He wanted to see this because no one on God’s green earth wants to believe it is possible for a Mother to hurt her child.

A long, long time ago I used to get into arguments with my friends. They would tell me that abused children don’t necessarily end up ruined.

They would say, “Just look at how you turned out, V!”

I always had to fight the urge to ball my hand up into a fist, slam it onto the table and scream, “YES! THAT’S EXACTLY MY POINT! LOOK HOW I TURNED OUT!”

But my friends would have only blinked at me, confused. When they look at me, they see a smart girl who toughed it out and eventually made a life for herself.

They don’t see the alcohol or the pills or the chronic insomnia. They don’t notice my obvious discomfort with physical affection or the way I tear up very suddenly sometimes for reasons unknown even to me. And that way I panic and claw at my face should anything even come close to covering my nose and mouth? Why, that’s just a funny little phobia!

People see what they want to see.

After my explanation, I would have asked you to fucking spare me the claims of what you would have done if you were in my position. I would have told you to kindly shut the fuck up when you insisted that you would have made someone believe you. You speak as an emotionally healthy, grown adult. You don’t speak as a scared little kid who has spent her life reaching out to people only to suffer the consequences when she was once again left alone with her abuser.

But now if you ask me, ‘How can this possibly be true?’ I won’t say any of those things.

Instead I’ll laugh and tell you, I told you so. I told you it would be too bitter to swallow! I told you it would be easier to treat it all like it was some made-up fantasy bullshit! I told you I wouldn’t mind if you looked at me with suspicion and distrust!

I didn’t write the story for you, anyway.

I wrote it for the teenage kid reading from a dark room somewhere who is nodding silently to himself. I hope it does his heart some good to read something real for a change and not that Good Will Hunting bullshit.

Good Will Hunting. What a fucking joke.

Should you ever meet one of the kids who read my story and nodded to himself, all I ask is that you be careful before you pat him on the head and tell him, “There, there.” Most of them fear your pity more than they fear facing what happened to them.

Before I end this and move on to discussing more lighthearted things, let me take a moment to discuss the permanent damage.

1. I very adamantly disagree with a legal system that gives any parent totalitarian control of a child at the exclusion of the other parent and all other adults. When a child is isolated from other adults, the adult in control loses all accountability. People like my Mother do what they do because the legal system treats them as if they were omniscient.

2. I cannot stand the sight, smell, or taste of goldfish crackers.

3. For the most part, I fucking hate cops.

Also, I ask that you not condemn me too much for believing in God for as long as I did. I want to believe in God because I want to believe in Hell.

Without Hell, my Mother will have gotten away with every bad thing she’s ever done.

Anyone who suggests that I absolve people of personal responsibility in losing weight hasn’t been reading my site long enough.

Look, I know it’s possible to lose weight without a lot of money. I know you could theoretically live on whole grain rice and bean sprouts that you grew in your garden on the weekends after spending your work week walking in the door at 6pm and preparing an entire meal from scratch after which you’ll walk around the block one hundred times to avoid the cost of expensive running shoes only to come back home to prepare your lunch for the next day because you don’t have enough time to commute home on your break to prepare lunch from scratch too so you do it the night before and fuck breakfast because skipping one meal won’t kill you and besides that’s your only time to grocery shop since you garden on the weekends and now you have just enough time to do a fuck load of dishes before you collapse into bed but at least you’re thin.

I know it’s possible to do it that way.

But that sounds pretty fucking miserable to me and I don’t advocate anyone doing something that makes them miserable. If living a healthy lifestyle makes you unhappy, live fat and free, my whale of a friend. Life is too fucking short.

Also, I have one thing to say to all the sanctimonious assholes who suggested their brilliant ‘Quit eating, duh!’ weight loss regime: Enjoy your 20’s. Because by the time you’re in your mid 30’s, your metabolism is going to slow to a fucking crawl. Which means you’ll have to cut your calories back more and more to take off a couple of pounds. At that point, we’ll all throw you a ‘Welcome to Anorexia’ party, OK?

Ideally, you need six meals a day to keep your metabolism running like a well oiled machine. Cut your calorie intake back too far and you’ll only succeed in training your starving body to eat its own muscle mass.

I have a confession to make. When I graduated from high school, I weighed in at a very svelte 88lbs. However, during my freshman year of college my diet consisted of pop tarts and pizza, so I gained quite a bit of weight. Now I never crossed the line into morbid obesity, but I was a size or two away from being a plus sized girl. So, having been on both sides of the spectrum, I have a unique perspective.

I wrote that article yesterday not to give people an excuse to be overweight, but only to offer them a different perspective on how they got that way in the first place. It’s easy to accuse someone of laziness or insist that they lack willpower, but what I learned about weight loss is that willpower can be bought. But ultimately, an individual controls what he spends his money on just as much as what he puts in his mouth. My intent was to suggest that a healthy lifestyle is an investment worth more than the latest electronic gadget or brand name purse. I did not intend to doom poor people to a life of uncontrollable obesity. No one is a victim here. They’re just fat people with different priorities.

Anyway, I never made it back down to 88lbs, but that’s a good thing because I was too fucking skinny in the first place. I did, however, hit the 120lb mark which is the weight where I currently feel the most comfortable.

I did not live on brown rice and bean sprouts. I suspect that if that was my only option, I’d still be one fat fuck today. However, I do invest daily in my body. Here are some of the things that I did:

1. Run your diet past your doctor before you begin

This sounds like a no-brainer, but you would be surprised at how many people start all cabbage soup diets without first consulting a professional. If your diet idea is bunk, all it a takes is a $20 co-pay to save you a lot of wasted time and effort.

2. Ignore magazine covers that claim to teach you how to lose 10lbs in 7 days

They’re always filled with cutesy suggestions like ‘always park towards the back of the parking lot so you have to walk more!’ As if walking an extra 15 steps a week is going to change your fucking life.

3. Cut the cable

Have you ever noticed that the fattest people are also the ones who follow the most television programs? If you’re always rushing home early to watch ‘Survivor’ or ‘Wife Swap,’ then it’s likely that you lead a pretty sedentary lifestyle. End your TV addiction. Not only will your brains stop leaking out of your ears like radioactive sludge, but you’ll have an extra $40 a month to put towards your body.

4. Put the entire family on the same program

Some people out there have nerves of steel and can stick to a plan even when they’re surrounded by people eating pizza and ice cream. More power to those people, but I am not one of them. The main reason I don’t get up in the middle of the night and have a couple of cookies is because I don’t keep cookies in my house. My Step-children whine and cry every time they visit because I won’t buy them pop tarts, but that’s just tough shit. For all I know, my husband eats lunch at McDonald’s every single day, but when he sits down at home for a snack he’s eating a bowl of grapes with me. Tyrannical? Maybe. But consider the fact that most of your children are fat fucks just like you. A big part of parenting is leading by example. So toss the dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets and pizza rolls in the garbage. A salad won’t kill them; it’ll likely do them some good.

5. Don’t join a gym more than 5 miles away or one who makes you sign a contract

If your gym is halfway across town, you won’t go. Seriously, you won’t. Might as well burn that money now for all the good it’s going to do you. Also, don’t join if they won’t let you pay month to month. The reason being is that you’re going to get bored at the gym. It’s inevitable. However, if you’re paying by the month, you can simply stop going without wasting any money. Then you can use that money to take up kickboxing instead.

6. When you get bored, mix it up

When I get tired of the gym, my trainer takes me to the stadium so I can run up and down the bleachers for a change of pace. When I’m sick of cycling, I switch to water aerobics. Or karate. Or dance. If your exercise routine gets grueling, you’ll quit doing it after awhile. So keep it interesting and keep it fun. You don’t have to spend every day on the elliptical. Some days, you can simply go hiking.

7. Find a personal trainer that you’re comfortable with

If your trainer is an attractive member of the opposite sex, you might not feel so comfortable working out in front of him. If your trainer is a 19 year old twit with a bubbly personality, thoughts of wringing her little neck might interfere with your concentration. Find someone who makes you feel comfortable and who knows his/her shit. My trainer is fucking awesome. I did sit ups every day for months with absolutely zero results, but she adjusted my form and the next thing I knew I had a six pack. Also, she has a knack for keeping me interested in a conversation so I’m not focusing too much on the pain.

8. Make sure there is plenty of variety in your diet

There are some people who can happily eat the same goddamn thing every day for the rest of their lives. Those people are freaks. I’ve got to have a lot of variety in my diet or I’ll get bored. So yeah, swordfish and spinach might be a little on the pricey side, but it’s better than eating a candy bar for no other reason than you’re sick to death of chicken.

9. If you plateau, kick it up a notch

I know there are people who say that plateau-ing is no big deal and suggest that you tough it out for 6-8 weeks before you panic. More power to those people; I wish I had nerves like that. The only thing I thought to myself when I stepped on the scale and saw the same number I saw last week was, “Fuck this. All that for nothing. I should have had a piece of cheesecake.” I am the type of person that always needs to be making progress. So when I hit a standstill, I kicked it up a notch. I’d add a mile onto my daily jog or I’d pick up an extra cycling class. I never stagnated for two weeks in a row. Even now, I like to be constantly progressing whether I’m shaving seconds off of my mile or I’m gaining a little more definition in my arms. Results keep me inspired.

10. Brainwash yourself

This is the most questionable of my advice. I’ve never heard of anyone else attempting it, let alone having it work, so take it with a grain of salt. But when I first starting working out? I fucking hated it. I loathed it. I dreaded it. However, I refused to let myself believe it. Every time I found myself thinking about how miserable I was, I would stop and chant to myself, ‘I love to work out. I feel so much better when I work out.’ During my work out, I’d say to myself, ‘This feel so good’ even when I was crying inside. After my work out, when I was dead tired, I’d say to myself, ‘Wow, I feel so refreshed and energetic!’ Even if I skipped my work out and spent the day luxuriously relaxing on my couch, I’d think to myself, ‘I feel terrible and tired. If I would have worked out today, I would have felt a lot better.’ After awhile, I didn’t have to force these thoughts anymore. They came naturally. Now, it’s no longer a lie. I really and truly love to exercise and I feel like utter crap when I don’t. I brainwashed myself.

So there you go. That’s how I did it. I’m sure if you add up the cost of all my techniques, you’ll see that I spent a pretty penny to achieve my goals. Swordfish and trainers and cycling classes don’t come cheap, my friends.

But for me? It was worth it and it still is.

When I was in college, Erica Lynn was one of my best girlfriends. Erica Lynn was a fun girl and we often went bar hopping together. Sometimes, when she got sloppy drunk, she’d lose control of her bladder and pee her pants. Because she was so hilarious and outgoing, everyone ignored this little aspect of her personality. My friends and I figured if she kept it up after we graduated, we’d have an intervention or something. But as for right now, we were in college. When else are you supposed to get sloppy drunk to the point where you pee your pants?

Shortly before we began our third year, Erica Lynn and I decided to take our friendship to a new level. We decided to become roommates.

Before this, Erica Lynn had lived with her parents, so I really had no way of knowing how neat she’d keep our apartment. I’m not exactly a neat freakmyself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not dirty. I’m cluttered. I happen to think there is a difference.

For example, my jacket is currently draped over my kitchen chair. There are various papers stacked on my desk. In my bedroom, my pants are on the floor. But, I don’t have anything disgusting lying around. No plates of old food hiding under my bed, no used tissues in my bathroom sink, no animal puke dried and crusted on my carpet. No filth at all whatsoever. Just clutter.

So, if Erica Lynn was equally cluttered, I wouldn’t have a problem with her. If Erica Lynn was a neat freak, I figured I’d just make an extra effort to pick up after myself.

What I didn’t expect was that Erica Lynn would be a pig.

This fun girl was also one of the laziest girls I have ever met in my life. We kept our trash bin under the kitchen sink. Erica Lynn would stack all of her garbage on the kitchen table because she didn’t feel like opening the cabinet door and accessing the bin. Erica Lynn would blow her nose into her hand while showering and wipe the globs on snot on the wall. If Erica Lynn spilled some food or drink on the floor, she’d leave it there like nothing had happened. And I’m not talking about a drop of milk or some crumbs, people! If she dropped an entire hot dog, she’d just leave it lying there. She was that bad.

Even worse, at this time I had also gotten a dog. So while I was dealing with Erica Lynn and her innate filthiness, I was also trying to housebreak a puppy. My dog was very smart and I had trained him to sit, lie down, shake, stay, and roll over. But peeing outside was a challenge. My biggest problem was catching him in the act. If I was in the room and he had to go, he’d go sit by the door and whine. Then, I’d take him out and he’d pee. However, if I wasn’t watching, I strongly suspected that he’d just pee around the house. How else could I explain the fact that our house always smelled faintly of urine?

After a few months of this, I admitted defeat. I gave up trying to potty train him and gave him to a police officer who specialized in training police dogs. Like I said before, my dog was incredibly smart and the officer was convinced that he could train him and give him a good home. Even so, I was heartbroken. I loved that I dog and I felt that I failed him.

After the apartment was officially dog-free, I had it professionally cleaned and I had the carpets treated. For the first time since we moved in, the house smelled wonderful.

About a week later, it reeked of urine again. I couldn’t understand it. The dog was gone. I asked a friend about this and he told me that sometimes the urine gets in the floor boards under the carpet. He told me to kiss my security deposit goodbye. When I told Erica Lynn about this, she was surprisingly amicable. I apologized to her and assured her that I would personally return her half of the security deposit if we lost it, but she insisted that it was no problem.

I thought: Erica Lynn might be a filthy slob, but she sure is a nice person.

One night, Erica Lynn came home from work late. I was sitting on my bed writing a paper on my laptop. Erica Lynn sat down at the end of my bed and we chatted for a few minutes. Then, very abruptly, she ended our chat and bolted into her room to go to sleep.

I shrugged my shoulders, closed my laptop, and snuggled down into my own bed. My feet immediately came in contact with moisture. Confused, I pulled back my blankets. There, at the end of my bed in the exact place where Erica Lynn had been sitting just moments ago was a big wet spot of fresh urine.

Erica Lynn had peed in my bed.

Dead.

Cold.

Sober.

Have you ever watched one of those movies where they explain a mystery to you by showing you previous incidents in a series of short flashes? Well, my mind did something like that. I saw my dog sitting obediently by the door waiting to go outside and pee. I saw Erica Lynn at the bar, sloppy drunk, wearing urine soaked pants. I saw myself sniffing my couch because it suddenly smelled like urine. I saw my dog lying at my feet because he knew he wasn’t allowed on the couch. I saw myself paying to professionally clean my house. I saw myself standing in my living room a week later and exclaiming, ‘How the Hell does it smell like urine in here again?’

To say that I was livid was an understatement. It was very late and I was tired, but instead of sleeping, I was furiously scrubbing my mattress. I thought about knocking on Erica Lynn’s door and confronting her, but I know my temper. If I didn’t wait to confront her until after I had calmed down, it is likely that the situation would have escalated to blows.

The next morning, Erica Lynn had left for class before I woke up. I dialed the number of a mutual friend, explained the situation and asked her advice.

“Oh V,” she said, “I bet she has a medical problem. She probably can’t help it!”

“I thought of that,” I answered, “But if that’s the case, why isn’t she wearing some depends or something?”

“Maybe she’s embarrassed.”

“I get that,” I assured her, “I really get that. But, she peed in my bed. If she would have just got up, apologized to me and told me that she had a medical problem and she would help me clean up, I would have been cool with that. But she didn’t! She just peed and acted like nothing had happened! Also, she knew I was giving away my dog because I thought he wasn’t housetrained. She knew that there was nothing wrong with my dog and it was her all along. She knew it and she still let me give my dog away!”

My friend clicked her tongue sympathetically and said, “Who knows, V? People do some pretty fucked up things when they’re ashamed or embarrassed.”

Well, Ok. Yeah. I get that.

I decided to put off confronting Erica Lynn until I had figured out a more tactful way to go about it. But as fate would have it, Erica Lynn called me that very afternoon from school. She thought she had forgotten her notebook at home and she wanted me to go up in her room and look for it. I obliged.

I had never been in Erica Lynn’s room, but what I saw that afternoon horrified me to the point where I almost dropped the phone. Erica Lynn had a pile of used menstrual pads stacked precariously in the corner. Not in a trash can, mind you, but on the floor. She had various bags of half eaten fast food scattered everywhere, each with a complimentary cloud of gnats hovering above them. I spied her notebook on her bed, but I was afraid to touch it because her sheets looked…..crunchy. And the smell! Oh Good God, the smell!

“Erica Lynn,” I whispered into the phone, “You have to move out.”

“What?” she grunted in response.

“You have to move out.” I struggled to make sense to her even as I stared in disgust, “Within the month. You’ve got to move back in with your parents or something. I don’t know. But you’ve got to be gone within the month.”

You can imagine the ensuing fight. But by the end of the week, Erica Lynn had moved out and had taken most of her filth with her. Once again, I had the house professionally cleaned and I ended up getting my security deposit back after all.

My friendship with Erica Lynn permanently ended because I was unable to handle her pig-like tendencies with grace or tact. I find this only marginally regrettable.

After all, Erica Lynn was a fun girl. But you know what they say happens when you lay down with pigs…

…They wet your fucking bed.

I’m sick of political correctness.

I’m sick of wondering if the term African American is the only one available to me or is it ok to call someone a ‘black guy.’ I’m sick of covertly wording a sentence to describe someone only to leave out their color because I’m not sure how to do it non-racist-ly. I’m sick of avoiding conversations about race relations because an overheard repeated insult might just earn me an ass whooping. Sure, I could dart my eyes around and breathlessly whisper, “Then he said the N-word!” But seriously, now! The N-word? Are we fucking children here?

Nigger. There, I said it.

What’s more is that lots of other people still stay it, too. They just say it quietly and behind closed doors. Race relations have not improved just because white people know that black people have guns now, too.

My questions is: How are we supposed to improve race relations if we’re too scared to talk about them?

Also, am I allowed you call you gay? Or do I have to sound all dry and technical and say ‘Homosexual?’ I am not scared or intimidated because you enjoy dick in your ass. On the contrary, I applaud you because a dick in the ass never caused an accidental pregnancy and I’m all for less episodes of ‘Super Nanny.’ I have absolutely no religious objections to man on man love and I think pearls look pretty on boys. My only beef is that I’m not sure what I’m allowed to call you anymore. On top of that, I’m not sure what I’m allowed to call my brother anymore. I used to call him a fag, but I don’t want you to be offended when I insult my fucking brother.

Again: How are we supposed to learn that you’re just like us (only with better fashion sense) if we avoid interaction with you simply because we don’t want to accidentally offend?

Additionally, will you men please stop apologizing after you say anything that can even remotely be seen as sexist? If you quote a statistic you read that says women aren’t usually as good at math as men, I promise I won’t run out of the room in tears. I know that you are not implying that a scientific study totally absent of gender bias proves that women couldn’t possibly be good at math EVER so I should get back into the kitchen RIGHT NOW and make you a chicken pot pie; you are simply pointing out that men, as a whole, are a little better at math. The truth is I’m not good at math. And that’s ok because I do own a calculator. Men and women are different sometimes, but that doesn’t mean they are fundamentally unequal. I’m ok with that. So stop apologizing.

Besides, it would be kind of hypocritical of me to bitch and moan that men don’t understand women only to take offense every time you delve into our brains.

All Muslims are terrorists. Jews are stingy with their money. Chinese women all know how to put on acrylic fingernails. Christians are bigots. Hispanics know everything there is to know about drywall. If you’re a geeky teenage boy and you read a book about vampires, you’ll shoot up your school.

Is any of this shit true? I’d ask, but I don’t want to offend.

Political correctness does not create a more tolerant society. It creates a society of people secretly consumed by resentment because one honest slip of the tongue can earn them a label as an intolerant boob. Political correctness limits speech and creates hatred where none existed in the first place.

I have an idea; how about we drop all this politically correct bullshit? How about we all talk to each other openly and honestly without making certain words off limits and without deeming certain subject taboo? How about we eliminate the fear of offending our fellow man and replace it with an honest attempt at understanding our fellow man? Go ahead, ask me anything. I won’t cry and I won’t tell you what a bad person you are. In return, however, I might want to ask you a couple of questions. Please don’t pistol whip me because you didn’t like my phrasing. Real tolerance comes from education, so let’s all quit being afraid to raise our hands in class.

We might just end up loving each other after all. Or we might end up hating each other’s guts. But, either way, we’ll be loving and hating for all the right reasons.

Exactly one year after working at the Worst Job I Ever Had, I took my one week paid vacation. I hated that job so much I couldn’t even wait a couple of days to plan a trip. I snatched at the vacation time the millisecond it was offered to me and I intended to spend the week lounging around my apartment doing anything but going there.

On Saturday, I woke up and thought: 9 days before I have to go back there.

On Sunday, I thought: 8 days before I have to go back.

Monday through the following Saturday went similarly until Sunday came around and I started a countdown: 12 hours before I have go back there. I couldn’t even sleep that night. Instead, I just kept ticking off the hours before I had to go back to work, the minutes, the seconds. I couldn’t think about anything else. My alarm went off at 4am on Monday morning and I slapped at the button with a heavy sigh.

It was time to go back.

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I pulled myself out of bed, showered, dressed, and filled my thermos with coffee. I grabbed my car keys and I was behind the wheel by 5am. Work was exactly 12 miles a way and during my entire commute, my eyes would periodically glance at the odometer. I thought: 9 miles before I’m there.

Desperately, I tried to think of something else. At 5am, the streets are deserted and the sun is slowly starting to make itself visible on the horizon. The birds wake up and minus the sounds of traffic and noisy families bellowing at each other, you can finally hear them sing. I tried to force myself to focus on the birds.

Instead, I thought: 2 miles before I’m there.

It was at that point I slammed on my brakes. I couldn’t go another mile. I just couldn’t. I clutched my steering wheel for a few minutes and willed myself to ease up off the brake and gently press the gas. But I just couldn’t.

Finally, I did ease off the brake and press on the gas; but only to make an illegal U-turn and go home. I told myself that I would call off today. But deep down, I knew I would never go back there.

I went home, stripped naked, and crawled back into bed. I pulled a pillow over my head and waited for the phone calls. When they came, I couldn’t force myself to answer.

My husband said, “Are you going to get that?”

“I don’t want to talk to them!” I hysterically cried.

Back then, my husband and I weren’t as financially well off as we are now. So quitting my job without another one lined up was going to put a damper on our standard of living. Friday was my payday and the paycheck from my vacation was waiting for me, but still, STILL, I couldn’t go back there. Not even a cash incentive was enough convince me to walk through those doors again. I sent my husband to pick up my money.

When he got back, he gave me a message. My employers apparently thought the way I had quit my job was pretty shitty.

Fuck. Them.

There wasn’t a single thing wrong with the way I quit my job. Those people treated me like crap, all day, every day, for an entire year. Frankly, I’m getting sick and tired of companies expecting that their employees give them better treatment than they’re willing to dole out. They tend to do this in 3 major ways.

They Demand Respect While Simultaneously Treating You Like a Child

When you excel at your job, companies have a tendency to reward you with meaningless symbols of merit. Every company I have worked for has had some sort of employee recognition program set up. A job well done might earn you the title ‘Employee of the Month.’ You might get a plaque with your name on it. Or a pre-printed ‘Thank You’ letter from your boss. You might even earn the privilege of wearing a special pin or you may simply get a pat on the back.

You know who else is rewarded like this for good behavior? My 9 year oldstepdaughter. After she completes a ballet class, she earns a pat on the head and a sticker for her jacket. This, of course, thrills her.

But it’s pretty fucking degrading if you’re a grown ass adult.

Face it, if your employer really respected you and valued the work that you did, he’d reward you with money. He’d cut you in on the profit. You’d get a slice of the pie.

He wouldn’t draw a little smiley face on a slip of paper and expect you to proudly display it on your refrigerator like you’re a 6 year old child.

They Make it Taboo to Steal

Your job steals 40+ hours of your life a week. They steal your weekends. They steal your dignity. Your soul. Your self respect.

How dare they begrudge you a box of fucking paper clips?

They Demand a Two Weeks Notice Before You Quit

Yet, very rarely, do they give you notice before they fire you. Unless you work for a company that offers a severance package after terminating your employment, fuck them and their notice.

A lot of people give notice before they quit a job not out of respect for their employer, but because they fear their employer will give them a bad reference. Most of the time, this is a baseless fear. Large companies fear slander lawsuits too much and will refrain from saying anything bad about a past employee…no matter how much they hated him. Most places even make a policy out of confirming dates of employment and saying nothing else when asked for a reference. This is so common practice now that your new employer won’t even bother to ask your old employer what he thought of you because he knows damned well he’ll hit a brick wall.

If you like your employer and feel that the company treated you well, by all means, give them a bit of notice before you quit. Otherwise, fuck them. They would do the same thing to you, given half the chance.

Honestly, a lot of big companies could stand to review the Golden Rule and start applying it to how they treat their employees. If they are unwilling to treat the people who make them rich with an ounce of dignity or respect, then they have no right to get upset if we just turn our cars around one morning and go home.

Someone asked me what my formula is when calculating the profitability of a rental property, so I thought I’d post it. But before I do that, I just want to take a minute to disclaim that there are multiple formulas you can use effectively. And honestly? It’s probably best if you figure out your own. Different areas require different expenses and all that jazz.

The very first thing you should do before buying a rental property is visit other rental properties in your area to determine what the competition typically charges for rent. To do this, I’ll usually pose as a tenant looking for a new place to live and take a few tours of different apartments. Then, I’ll check back periodically to see how long it took for the apartment to be rented. For example, if I find an apartment for rent for $700 a month and it took 2 months for the landlord to get it rented, I will assume the rent is slightly higher than it should be. After all, a 2 month vacancy can kill your profits for the year. I prefer to keep my rent low enough that I can re-rent it in 2 weeks. One month, tops.

OK, so you’ve done the footwork and found that you can rent a 3 bedroomhouse with air conditioning and a dishwasher (Remember to keep your amenities comparable to other properties in your area!) for around $900 a month.

You will need $900 a month to cover:

1. The mortgage
2. Your taxes
3. Your insurance
4. Maintenance costs (How much I put aside for maintenance every month depends on the age of the property. For example, if the property is fairly new and won’t need any serious repairs for a few years, I’ll only put aside $30 per month. If it’s an old property, maybe I’ll decide on $70. But no matter what, put aside something every month. After all, eventually you’ll need to replace the roof, the furnace, etc, someday and you don’t want the cost of that coming out of your profits. Also, it’s good to have some extra money put aside in case you end up with a problem tenant who trashes the place. On average, I put aside $50 per month per unit.)
5. Utilities, if you elect to pay them. (I usually don’t elect to pay the utilities)
6. Vacancy (I generally plan on a 1 month vacancy per apartment, per year. If I luck out and no one moves out that year or if the empty apartment gets rented quicker, I consider it gravy.)
7. Your profit

As far as profit goes, I minimally need to make $50 per unit in straight profit. So if it’s a single family property, I would have to be able to pay all my bills and still pocket $50 a month. With a duplex, I’ve got to make $100 a month right off the bat. A four unit apartment building would have to generate $200 a month for me. And so on and so forth.

This might not seem like a lot of money at first…especially when you consider the time and effort it will take you to get new tenants. You’ll rack up minor expenses simply by placing ads in the newspaper or using gas to head to the apartment periodically to show it to potential tenants. Also, you’ll have to answer service calls (sometimes in the middle of the night) should something break. A lot of people consider these things and ultimately decide owning rental property isn’t for them.

Nevertheless, there are a couple of things they’re not considering:

1. Tax write offs. I do not factor in how much I get back in taxes into my monthly profit. I consider it all gravy. Still, it’s nothing to sneeze at. Also keep mind that any repairs you make to the property can be written off as well.
2. As the years go buy, you will eventually be able to charge more and more for rent. However, your monthly expenses will generally remain the same. The longer you own a property, the more your profit will increase.
3. At the end of the day, you will end up owning a property that someone else paid for. Not only that, but by the time it’s paid off, it will have likely increased in value substantially. Hello, easy retirement fund!
4. $50 per unit is what I want to make minimally. Generally, I end up making much more. For example, the apartment building I’m looking at now will generate closer to $90 per month per unit.

So back to our single family property that will generate a rent of $900 a month….

For the sake of easy math, let’s just decide to leave the utilities up to our tenant. In my area, taxes and insurance on a single family property will run around $150 per month. We’ll say the property is in average condition, so we’ll only be putting aside $50 per month for maintenance costs. A one month vacancy per year will cost us about $75 a month. That gives us a total of $275 for expenses. Add on the $50 a month profit and we’re looking at $325.

Ok, so say we’ve talked to our finance guy and he says he can get us an interest rate of 7% and we are planning to ask the sellers to pay our closing costs. How much should we pay for the property?

$900 rent (-) $ 325 expenses (=) $575 mortgage

At this point, I’ll use an online calculator to figure out how much a house with a $575 per month mortgage costs. I played with the numbers a bit and determined that we would have to buy the house for $86,000 to meet all of our financial obligations and still make a monthly profit.

This is more than feasible in my area. Your numbers may have to adjust if you live somewhere where the property value is much higher. Also consider that single family homes usually generate the least amount of profit. Duplexes and apartment buildings will get you more cash for your buck. However, single family homes are easier to get rid of should you decide the money you’re making isn’t worth it. It’s much harder to dump an apartment building.

Although your profit won’t be all that amazing, I recommend beginners start off buying a single family home for their first investment property. If, for no other reason, than to ‘try out’ being a landlord. To be a successful landlord you’ve got to be a good judge of character and have a low tolerance for bullshit. For example, if you’re the type to always give people a break, you may just end up with tenants who don’t pay rent for months at a time. You’ve got to be willing to be the bad guy. You’ll have tenants who will call you up with all sorts of sob stories about sick children and lost jobs and you’ve got to be able to say, “Too bad. I still need the rent.” If your personality is such that you’re unable to be a real prick when the situation requires, then you’ll find this out when you’ve only got a small, easy to sell building that can be dumped fairly quickly.

Of course, if you find that you have no problems whatsoever being an asshole from time to time, you can always start looking at duplexes and apartment buildings then. Once you’ve perfected your personal system, you can start making some really decent cash.

Last night, at around midnight, I decided to go to the bank. This is not unusual for me considering I have multiple bank accounts for multiple purposes. If I had my druthers, I’d keep all my money in one master account, but my accountant strenuously insists that I remain somewhat organized. Since I pay him good money for advice, I grudgingly follow it. Unfortunately this usually means I cannot visit an ATM machine without a gang bang-esque line forming behind me as I fumble around completing a long list of transactions. To circumvent this, I usually wait to stealthily visit the ATM late at night. Like a ninja.

Granted, most people would just complete their bank transactions without worrying a bit about the line forming behind them. However, most people are not half the neurotic mess of a person that I am. I can’t stand the idea that I might inadvertently hold someone up by acting like clumsy senile retard. I am the type of person who, if someone steps in line behind me at the grocery store, will panic and scoop my change up into my fucking shirt in a mad dash to move out of the way as quickly as possible. Coupons? Store card discount? Purse not closed yet? Fuck it all! There’s someone behind me!

So you can all imagine my dismay last night when I noticed a car rounding the corner of the bank parking lot in order to get in line behind me at the ATM. My heart dropped down to my stomach as I frantically tried to complete a least one more bank transaction. Unfortunately, the last transaction was a deposit and those machines only suck the envelopes in at one excruciatingly slow speed.

As the woman in the car pulled up behind me, I heard her say, “OH COME ON!” Obviously, she was perturbed that I was in line ahead of her.

At first I blushed and ducked my head. Then I thought to myself: What the fuck? It’s not like I can instantly disappear!

Then, I started to get angry. I mean, here I was, cutting my trip to the ATM short only because I was over worried about her time…and she couldn’t even give me five fucking seconds to retrieve my card from the machine? Well, if that’s the way she was going to be, fuck her.

Furious, I screamed at her, “I will wait here all night if you’re going to be a BITCH about it!”

At first, silence was her only reply.

Then an equally angry voice yelled back, “If you don’t move right now, I’ll call the police!”

The first thought that entered my mind was surely (surely!) the police had better things to do than mediate an argument over a fucking ATM machine. But then I considered the town I live in and it slowly dawned on me that there is no way in Hell the police had anything better to do than hassle me at the request of the Impatient Bitch behind me.

So I did the only thing I could do in that situation. I got my card from the ATM and pulled away, head hung low, like a beaten puppy.

HA! You all don’t know me very well, do you?

I could no more walk away from a confrontation like that than I could swallow an apple whole. I just don’t have the physical capability.

Instead, I reached into my center counsel, grabbed a switchblade, and jumped out of my car. Then, I rammed the blade directly into my own car tire. It started losing air immediately. The woman, who was watching me via the light above the ATM machine, looked stunned.

“Go ahead and call them,” I curtly insisted, “I couldn’t move my car now even if I wanted to. And I need some help with this flat tire anyway.”

“I can’t…believe…you just…” she stuttered. Then perhaps considering the late hour and the fact that I was obviously unhinged, she started her car and pulled away without completing her sentence.

I watched her drive away, triumphant.

Of course, my victory was short lived. After all, I had just stranded myself at the bank with a flat tire. And no spare.

Putting my head in my hands, I thought to myself: V, for once in your entire miserable pathetic excuse for a life can you refrain from cutting off your own nose to spite someone else’s face?

The truth is I don’t think I can.

Oh well. At least I was able to finish my bank transactions in peace.

I went hiking today and on my way home, I decided to stop by a gas station and grab myself a bottle of diet pepsi. In the middle of the afternoon, during the week, is typically a very slow time for a gas station and today was no exception. When I walked in, the gas station attendant was apparently so aimless that she had time to get into a very involved conversation with the only other customer in the store.

The women were both very animatedly discussing marriage. The customer kept interrupting the attendant to insist that ‘she didn’t need to get married, she could be perfectly happy being alone for the rest of her life!’ in that way that people do when they’re trying to convince themselves more than they’re trying to convince you. Still, the attendant nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

After grabbing my diet, I stood behind them uncomfortably gnawing my bottom lip. A couple of times, I considered holding up my bottle and asking, “Hi! Do you mind if I just buy this and leave?” But, I refrained because I was raised to believe that interrupting is impolite.

Finally, the gas station attendant acknowledged me, although she had no interest in actually ringing up my purchase. Instead, she asked, “You’re not married, are you?”

“Well, yeah. I am,” I answered.

“You guys probably haven’t been together for long, though, right?”

“Well, um, almost 8 years now.”

Both the attendant and the customer crowed at me, awestruck, as if I just told them I was preparing to celebrate my 50th wedding anniversary or something. You know the institution of marriage is in trouble when anything over 2 years is considered impressive.

“Wow! People like you are a dying breed,” the customer said, “Not many people can get married nowadays and make it work!”

“Well,” I replied carefully, “A lot of people go into marriage with a lot of unrealistic expectations.”

“Ain’t that the truth!”

At that point, I plopped my diet pepsi on the counter, gave the attendant a very meaningful glance, and sighed in relief when she took the hint and rung me out. After all, I seriously have better things to do than discuss the ins and outs of my relationship in a goddamn gas station.

But the whole thing did get me thinking about the expectations people seem to have about marriage. From what I can gather, it seems as though people get married hoping for a fairytale. They envision a lifetime of being completely in sync with another person, where every situation is tackled zestfully and worked out with optimal results and no one ever feels the least bit lonely or taken for granted or unloved. Oftentimes, if you ask them, they’ll concede that people do change, but in their particular case, they are expecting to change together because they are best friends and soul mates and they intend to stay that way forever.

Two years later, when they’re filing for divorce, you’ll find them wondering where they went wrong. The easy is answer, there is no such thing as fairytales. A marriage is a series of peaks and valleys. Sometimes, you’ll be so in love with your partner that you can’t imagine life without them. Other times? No so much. Hell, there will be moments in your marriage where you won’t even particularly like your spouse. People who say there’s no place for ambivalence in a marriage usually haven’t been married for very long.

Unfortunately, when plunged deep into the valley for the very first time, most couples panic and call the marriage counselor. If that doesn’t prove to be a quick fix, they find an attorney. After an expensive, bitter, hateful divorce, they go their separate ways destined to repeat the entire scenario with their next spouse.

No one ever tells them that the valleys are temporary. If they wait it out with good humor, they’ll likely peak again.

I don’t really know how men feel about the valleys in a marriage. However, I do know women tend to overreact intensely to any sign of dissatisfactionin the marital home. Women have an almost obsessive need to feel connected to their partner and even the slightest amount of distance instigates crying fits, martyrdom, temper tantrums, blame games and other overemotional displays of womanly angst. A man forgets one birthday or is less than enthused about a single outing and suddenly the love is gone and the relationship is dead. Unfortunately, jumping the gun or attempting to force a connection never helps. You can’t nag your way into a happy marriage.

I’m not a marriage expert. As I said earlier, I’ve only been married a shade under a decade myself. However, I’ve found that when my marriage hits a valley, a useful and effective thing to do is occupy my time somewhere else. I’ll take up a new hobby, get involved with another cause, or make a new friend. If I want to take up salsa dancing and my husband doesn’t, I don’t whine and cry that he never does anything I want to do or insist he doesn’t love me anymore. Instead, I’ll shrug my shoulders and go salsa dancing myself.

A long time ago, it occurred to me that we are two separate people who will likely grow and change over the years, but it’s not necessary for us to live the exact same lives. Sometimes, we’ve got to be willing to do our own thing. Our individual identities are our own and we’ve got to take some personal responsibility for our satisfaction in life instead of depending on each other to make us happy.

Besides, in doing our own thing, we often find more things to love about each other. No matter how long and tedious the valley may seem at the time, we always peak again.