Wednesday, December 15, 2004
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Something About Ari:
I may die alone. But it apparently will be my own doing. Here’s the thing, I don’t think I’ve ever been crass enough to admit this before, but; seriously? I’ve been proposed to. A lot. I’d go so far as to estimate that of every 15 cabrides I take, I walk away with 3-4 proposals. The Senegalese fucking love me. The Pakistanis and Bangladeshis can clearly avoid my covert charms but whoo wee any other nationality, add in a plastic divider, ticker tape and baby, it’s on!!
Where you going?
*Inset address here*
We then will proceed in relative silence for a few minutes with either cell phone or radio chatter in the background. Then the chatter stops, radio gets turned down or the relative in a dessert who has no water but a slammin’ satellite suddenly spotted a rare tiger and it’s all attention on Ari.
And fuck it if all cabdrivers don’t have the exact same intro;
So, you going home?
Yeah, finally.
You a very beautiful girl. You live with a husband?
Now, years ago, I was an idiot and I’d blush and say “no, no, I live alone” and then it would be 21 minutes of how pretty I am, how am I unmarried? {More importantly though, how was my mother tracking them all down relaying to them her exact repertoire!?!?} Then they’d tell me that in their country, a “girl like” me would have been long wed with buckets, barrels and bastions of screaming children. Ooooh, what a “get”, married at 18 with 6 kids, right on, I can wait until I’m 70 for my tits to hit the floor, thankyouverymuch.
Rest assured though, I’m not an ass and I wised up tout suite. They’d ask; “have a boyfriend?”
I’d say “yes” thinking that would end it.
But it seemed having a boyfriend, even a fake one, wasn’t sufficient. If he hadn’t married me yet, well he was swine and luckily the cabdriver was gentleman enough to step up and make an honest woman of me. Grr… back to the drawing board I’d go. My lying grew to create an awkward-conversation-protection-shield. I started co-opting the lives of those around me. 7 years ago, it was my friend from work; Cate, whose husband of 2 years that I’d reference. The next question was usually if my hubby and I had kids. I'd bring my upstairs neighbor and her lovely family of four into the fold. Besides… mom wants to be a granny so badly, it couldn’t kill me to throw in some fake kidlets for her too, right? So every so often mom gets to be a fake grandma and I immediately get left alone. Because while it’s always a score to get the girl, who wants her figment kids too, right?
Well, tonight I met my match. He asked and I answered.
Fake husband? Sure, we’ve been together for years.
How long married? 5 years.
Was I a child bride? Oh, no, you’re sweet, I’m older than I look.
Yes, 27 was a good age to get married.
What? Yeah, I don’t think I look 32 yet either {dear god, I’m almost 33. Fuck, fuck, fuck!!}
Kids? Sure, after all, mom and dad did buy me the mostest beautiful bracelet for Hanukkah, the very least I can give them {after stellar tickets for the pretty sold out; 700 Sundays} is a fake grandson. Yes. One. A boy. For the record, the driver doesn’t ask, but if he had, I’d already decided I liked the name Noah and he would really dig the snow.
I think I have a personality disorder.
Tomorrow, when my space shuttle lands, I'll tell you all about how people I know rocked Hanukkah out for me. And how fun things have been in general.
*ps. I know you want to beat the rush and buy me the "good" stuff off my wishlist, so here you go again.
1:22 AM
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