I'm sitting cross-legged on my therapist's couch 4 months after my husband's announcement that he wants a divorce when my therapist informs me that he thinks I should start dating again.
I had told myself and others that I was going to take time off to concentrate on myself for once. Between a husband and three boys, I didn't know who I was anymore. I just wanted to hang out with my girlfriends, drink martinis like a fish, and let the hair grow long on my legs if I wanted. I had even gone so far as to announce to my friends that I was going to take a full year off from any kind of relationship.
Read more here.
Man #33, Just Because There’s a Hole…Part 1
I, for example, at the young age of 3, decided to put a penny up my nose.
Then, I went to my mom.
“I have a penny in my nose,” I said.
“A what? Where? You put a penny in your nose?”
“Uh huh,” I said.
She tipped my head back, peering into my nostrils. “No you didn’t,” she exclaimed, looking at me, “You put a penny in your nose?”
“I know I have a penny in my nose cuz I put it there,” I said.
“Did you REALLY put a penny in your nose?”
“Nope,” I said definitively.
See that? Changed my story. I figured I would get in trouble, so instead of coming clean and telling my mother I had stuffed a penny up my nose, I lied and let it stay there.
It stayed there for a couple of weeks during which time I had a…”cold.” My mother was concerned because I had the sniffles. My nose was stuffed up and I couldn’t breathe until one day I let out a big sneeze and the penny flew out of my nose and across the room. Honest to God.
My mother looked at me in shock and disbelief and said, “You DID put a penny up your nose!”
To which I responded, “I told you I did!”
My mother loves telling that story, especially when she’s trying to embarass me. It’s one of her favorites.
Fast forward twenty-some years, and I heard my eldest son, about 5 years old at the time, crying in his room. It wasn’t an “I’m dying. Come save me” cry. It was more like a “I’m so fucked. I’m going to get in trouble” kind of wimper. I opened the door to his bedroom and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I have a rock in my no-o-o-se,” he said in this pathetic, crying sound.
“How did you get a rock in your nose?”
“It was on my be-e-e-e-eddddd,” he said, sobbing.
This is the kind of fucked up shit kids will say when they realize they have done something really stupid, and they don’t want to take responsibility for it. It was the rock’s fault.
“A rock can’t jump from your bed to your nose. Did YOU put a rock in your nose?”
Let me just say that any park designer who specifies pea gravel as a playground surfacing material needs to be strung up and pelted with said surfacing material until bloodied. You get pea gravel in shoes and then in the house. Kids are constantly throwing pea gravel at each other, and then they go and stick the shit up their noses.
I started muttering obscenities under my breath. Let’s be honest. I’ve never been good at the nurturing mom role. My boys love me; I know they do. Thank God I had boys. They know I love them, but they also know I’m better launching into action in a crisis than I am in minor kissing boo boo scenarios. We have all just come to terms that someday they will need therapy, and it will be all my fault.
“Ok, come on. Let’s go to the bathroom,” I said.
My son got up and followed me, wimpering, into the bathroom.
Once in the bathroom, I tried to assess the situation. By feeling the outside of his nose, I could tell he had pushed the rock all the way up to the nasal bone. There was no way for me to apply downward pressure to get the thing out. I was silently freaking out, and the last thing I wanted to do was take him to the emergency room. It wasn’t that I was worried about the expense. It was because he did this about a week after his little brother was born. This was one of those regressive kinds of things older siblings do to get attention when the younger, new baby sibling comes home. The last thing I wanted to do was bundle the baby up and haul all of us over to the emergency room.
Luckily, I have a creative mind, I’ve always been a tinkerer, and I’m pretty good at figuring things out. I also grew up in Eastern Montana, out where the men are men and the sheep are nervous. I remembered how the men on the ranch would blow their noses without a handkerchief.
For any of you squeamish folks, I apologize for what is about to follow.
You see, out on the prairie, you just hold one side of your nose, bend over a little at the waist, and blow. The big glob of snot that results is easily flicked off into the wind. So, you see, I brought this prairie wisdom to my situation in the bathroom with my son that day.
“Ok, hold still. I’m going to plug this side of your nose, and I want you to blow as hard as you can. Understand?”
My son nodded at me, still crying, but more calm because Mom had a plan.
“Ok, here we go. BLOW!”
The snotty rock shot out of his nose and pinged around the bathroom. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!
Success! Fucking amazing!
Now, believe it or not, ALL of my boys have put things in their noses, every single one of them. I don’t know if we all have a gene that predisposes us to stuffing shit up our noses, but every single one of us has done it and ever since this first incident, I have handled the situation the same every time. I have become an expert in the projectile blowing of things from the nose.
I think it’s fair to say that we have established that I’m good in a foreign object in an orifice situation, right?
OK. Well, I told you that story so I could tell you this one.
My date with Man #33 started with the usual email volley on OkCupid, and after a few emails we decided we would meet for coffee. I was again putting my Starbuck’s gold card to good use, and while I know some of my male readers are offended by the fact that I think a coffee date is cheap, I have my reasons for despising the coffee date.
I met my date at one of the many Starbuck’s locations at the University Village Mall. We placed our separate orders, and found a comfortable place to sit outside. We made light conversation. He asked me about my job. I asked him about his. We were in the middle of this conversation, everything was going along normally when suddenly my date said, “How would you feel about putting a finger in my ass?”
No. I shit you not. That’s what he said. Seriously. He didn’t even try to sugarcoat the subject like The “Masseur” by telling me that he liked massages…
…massages of his lower intestine that is.
And, for all you squeamish people, I apologize for not warning you like I did above about the snot rocket, but I wanted you to receive the information just like I did, suddenly, caught totally off-guard, kind of like a drive by shooting, an assault on the brain.
It’s called a shocker for a reason, people.
He was just out with it with, “How would you feel about putting a finger in my ass?”
And, I…well, I coughed and tried to hold it together as chai started to shoot from my nose…
To be continued…
Photo from here.
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