I first wrote about Piglet back in April--that first love/first breakup that wrecked me for years.
December 3 will mark 16 years since our first weekend alone. Hard to believe it's been that long. I can still hear "Mystic Rhythms" by Rush playing on her stereo as I was pulling into the driveway.
I don't remember nearly as much of the phone call from April of 1995, when she babbled about my replacement, Mr. Perfect, the good little Mormon missionary ex-boyfriend who came back to her. Money, flashy car, and all the other stuff she claimed didn't really matter. Funny how that's all she talked about. Mr. Perfect was an angel--good job, good religion, all the things I apparently lacked.
But things didn't stay perfect; they were engaged in August, but then in March of 1996 another of her ex-boyfriends came back: the one I've named Scumbag. He was the opposite of Mr. Perfect, the Bad Boy women claim to dislike. She dumped Mr. Perfect--the love of her life, just like I was!--for Scumbag (who dumped his own fiancee' for her). Then she'd get pissed off at Scumbag and go running back to Mr. Perfect, then get bored and run back to Scumbag. I got to hear about the play-by-play because of that stupid "let's be friends" crap I was doing. By the time I wised up and booted her in late '97, I had lost count of how many times she went back and forth...let alone how many OTHER guys she'd gone to in the meantime. I sometimes wonder whether she's stopped with the pinball act, but finding out would mean having to look her up. That's okay.
This whole thing with the three of them and me is a freaking real-life soap opera! The best I can do to try to describe all the twists and turns is with a timeline:
October 29, 1994: I meet Pocahontas (she gets named Piglet later) at a Halloween party in Tallahassee. We talk, she flirts, but doesn't mention that she's engaged. I get her address, we write back & forth, but she doesn't mention her fiance' for a while. By late November, we're a long-distance item and she's dumped her fiance. I wonder how many times this has happened?
December 3: First weekend alone at her parents' house.
December __: Xmas party at her parents' house.
March 27, 1995: She casually mentions that an ex-boyfriend of hers has popped up, but don't worry, nothing will come of it! Yeah. I'm dumb enough to believe that, but everyone else and her dog all know it's about to hit the fan.
April 1, 1995: she goes out to a movie with Mr. Perfect.
April 8: The Phone Call, when she pretends that she's got a big decision to make, but it's obvious who she'll dump. I've never been through this before, so I think the "let's be friends" thing will really work.
August 12, 1995: I move to Tallahassee. People think I'm going there to try to win her back, but I hardly ever SEE her. Looking back, I'm not willing to give her any credit for my decision.
August 20 or so: she's engaged to Mr. Perfect. I already knew it was coming.
January, 1996: I meet a guy at work who seems pretty cool...then I find out that he dated/was obsessed with Pocahontas during high school--to the point of camping out in her front yard after she dumped him. By late February, I'm renting out his living room (my previous roommate was making things unpleasant).
March, '96: Scumbag earns his name by going sniffing after Pocahontas. He dumps his fiancee'. Within a few weeks, she tries to kill herself. Everyone blames me. Pocahontas earns her replacement name: Piglet. She dumps Mr. Perfect for Scumbag.
Over the next few months, the only constant is Piglet-as-pinball...a Navy guy, some Air Force guy, I think someone from Special Forces. Several others, and the original two. I don't know what I did to keep myself from being one of her "go-to" ex-boyfriends, but I'm glad it never worked out like that, given what I learned about her as "just a friend."
The last I saw of her in late 1997, Piglet had finally settled down with Scumbag. Then Scumbag went to prison, but that's another story.
Showing posts with label Piglet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Piglet. Show all posts
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Nicknames and Tone
I wish I had more stories for some of the nicknames I've come up with. I've tried to make the nickname fit the person, just the right amount of snark or contempt or whatever to give the reader an idea of what that person was like--I'm too lazy to flesh things out all the time and I like the mental picture that pops up with the proper nickname.
I came up with some really good ones--like Sergeant Allstate, the insurance salesman by day, sergeant for 1 weekend a month, the cheap and kind of slimy salesman--or Farmboy-san for one of the blackbelts back in my karate days; he really did have a farm, and the whole country-boy thing, but without being your Larry the Cable Guy redneck. But those are pretty much one-story guys. I didn't spend a lot of time around either of them. It's a shame--those nicknames took a while to work out (Farmboy-san only occurred to me this morning!).
Then there are Pocahontas/Piglet (first ex), Number Two (second ex), Scumbag (haven't written much about him, aside from the "Saving Whitney" post a few years ago), Hank (the insane stepbrother) and the Old Man (stepfather), some of whom are regular topics.
Lots of snark. It seems at first glance that I don't have a lot of happy stories. But I intend them to be at least partly funny, rather than just a collection of angry rants.
I came up with some really good ones--like Sergeant Allstate, the insurance salesman by day, sergeant for 1 weekend a month, the cheap and kind of slimy salesman--or Farmboy-san for one of the blackbelts back in my karate days; he really did have a farm, and the whole country-boy thing, but without being your Larry the Cable Guy redneck. But those are pretty much one-story guys. I didn't spend a lot of time around either of them. It's a shame--those nicknames took a while to work out (Farmboy-san only occurred to me this morning!).
Then there are Pocahontas/Piglet (first ex), Number Two (second ex), Scumbag (haven't written much about him, aside from the "Saving Whitney" post a few years ago), Hank (the insane stepbrother) and the Old Man (stepfather), some of whom are regular topics.
Lots of snark. It seems at first glance that I don't have a lot of happy stories. But I intend them to be at least partly funny, rather than just a collection of angry rants.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
April 8--Two Bad Days
Updated Nov 23 25.
I wasn't even alive for the first one. His name was John Garner. He would have been my grandfather.
On April 8, 1965, John Garner killed himself with a 12-gauge shotgun.
This is open to speculation, since all the people who'd know what really happened are all dead. My adoptive father told me in 2017 that word had it John was shot by my grandmother. If he was abusive or violent the way Alzheimer's folks can be...understandable. And it changes this entire part of the post.
I don't know much about him. I know John was full-blood Cherokee, small in stature. I know he was a blacksmith who made and repaired anything a farmer would need. There's a length of fence still standing, decades after he built it, along a highway north of Castleberry, AL. I've got a knife he made. But I have no memories of him.
I don't know much about him. I know John was full-blood Cherokee, small in stature. I know he was a blacksmith who made and repaired anything a farmer would need. There's a length of fence still standing, decades after he built it, along a highway north of Castleberry, AL. I've got a knife he made. But I have no memories of him.
Correction: John was, in fact, lily-white from both sides of his family. The "Cherokee" thing was family folklore-we're also supposed to believe John's father James was Geronimo's kid. He wasn't--and Geronimo wasn't Cherokee. I wonder what other bullshit I was told.
I know he wasn't one to start a fight, but he'd end it. I was told about a day when he was working in his shop; a few white guys came up to start some trouble. He gave it back in spades--and two of them went to the hospital. That's the kind of man I only wish I could have been. Someone with a backbone, one who wouldn't just back down. I never learned how to fight.
I've wondered about him for much of my life, wondered what it would have been like to have a grandfather, wondered what hurt him so badly that he would kill himself, wondered what made him so selfish that he would deprive me of a father figure, something I never really had with my stepfather.
I wonder how much different my life would have been if he'd been around and showed me how to make the emotional tools I'd need later in life, but still don't really have.
I know he wasn't one to start a fight, but he'd end it. I was told about a day when he was working in his shop; a few white guys came up to start some trouble. He gave it back in spades--and two of them went to the hospital. That's the kind of man I only wish I could have been. Someone with a backbone, one who wouldn't just back down. I never learned how to fight.
I've wondered about him for much of my life, wondered what it would have been like to have a grandfather, wondered what hurt him so badly that he would kill himself, wondered what made him so selfish that he would deprive me of a father figure, something I never really had with my stepfather.
I wonder how much different my life would have been if he'd been around and showed me how to make the emotional tools I'd need later in life, but still don't really have.
He had Alzheimer's. I wonder how much of him was left by 1965. How much would be gone by September 1967?
April 8, 1995 wrecked me. She doesn't have a name here, other than Pocahontas...or Piglet, depending on my mood. She was my first love; I fell hard for her the night we met at a Halloween party. I'd never had a woman flirt with me before, let alone find me interesting, attractive. She wanted to spend time with me. I was always the loner, the lonely, and she was intoxicating. I didn't know anything about relationships, didn't know what to do or say. The only thing that mattered to me was that I finally had someone of my own, the one thing I'd ever wanted.
We lived 200 miles apart; out of just over 5 months, we were actually together, face to face, for less than 2 weeks. There were letters and long-distance phone calls, but they can't compare to curling up in bed and reveling in that other person's breathing while she sleeps, or waking up to feel her tracing the lines of your face and hearing her whispering, "All mine." The first kiss, clumsy and uncertain, growing in confidence and enthusiasm. Still feeling her pressed against me hours after parting the first time. Hearing her call me the "love of my life."
April 8th is the day I got The Letter and The Call. This guy she'd dated in high school was back in town; she'd been out on a couple of dates with him in the past few days and now had a decision to make. I was too stupid to just say "good-bye" and hang up. No, I sat there listening to her babble about Mr. Perfect and how much money he made, and his great car, and how the sun shined out of his ass, and I suddenly understood the meaning of "on the outside looking in." It was a complete surprise to me--but I later learned that she'd been yapping to everyone around her for weeks about Mr. Perfect--even before the last time we were together. Her farking DOG knew shit was coming down. But the one person who really needed to know was the last to know.
When I finally hung up, I just sat there in my room, numb. I hardly ate or slept for three days. For more than three years afterward, I tried being "just friends," just more of that stuff I didn't know not to do (more of those "emotional tools"). Once I'd gotten enough of that, I sent an email telling her to either come back or stay away from me. That was the first smart thing I did, I think. Haven't seen or heard from her since, and I'm good with that.
I wonder how things would have gone if I'd had a grandfather.
April 8, 1995 wrecked me. She doesn't have a name here, other than Pocahontas...or Piglet, depending on my mood. She was my first love; I fell hard for her the night we met at a Halloween party. I'd never had a woman flirt with me before, let alone find me interesting, attractive. She wanted to spend time with me. I was always the loner, the lonely, and she was intoxicating. I didn't know anything about relationships, didn't know what to do or say. The only thing that mattered to me was that I finally had someone of my own, the one thing I'd ever wanted.
We lived 200 miles apart; out of just over 5 months, we were actually together, face to face, for less than 2 weeks. There were letters and long-distance phone calls, but they can't compare to curling up in bed and reveling in that other person's breathing while she sleeps, or waking up to feel her tracing the lines of your face and hearing her whispering, "All mine." The first kiss, clumsy and uncertain, growing in confidence and enthusiasm. Still feeling her pressed against me hours after parting the first time. Hearing her call me the "love of my life."
April 8th is the day I got The Letter and The Call. This guy she'd dated in high school was back in town; she'd been out on a couple of dates with him in the past few days and now had a decision to make. I was too stupid to just say "good-bye" and hang up. No, I sat there listening to her babble about Mr. Perfect and how much money he made, and his great car, and how the sun shined out of his ass, and I suddenly understood the meaning of "on the outside looking in." It was a complete surprise to me--but I later learned that she'd been yapping to everyone around her for weeks about Mr. Perfect--even before the last time we were together. Her farking DOG knew shit was coming down. But the one person who really needed to know was the last to know.
When I finally hung up, I just sat there in my room, numb. I hardly ate or slept for three days. For more than three years afterward, I tried being "just friends," just more of that stuff I didn't know not to do (more of those "emotional tools"). Once I'd gotten enough of that, I sent an email telling her to either come back or stay away from me. That was the first smart thing I did, I think. Haven't seen or heard from her since, and I'm good with that.
I wonder how things would have gone if I'd had a grandfather.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Saving Whitney
Not her real name. "Whitney" was the fiancee' and housemate of a guy whose living room I lived in for a few months back in 1996. Things fell apart pretty dramatically, and by mid-to-late April they were no longer an item: Scumbag threw her off for this piece of crap he went to high school with (oddly enough, I dated that same piece of crap a few months before: Piglet).
Whitney tried to stay with him--and I'm sure Scumbag was playing her so he was getting some either way.
She finally reached a point where she couldn't take it anymore.
On Mother's day evening in 1996, Whitney walked out of the house. I was sitting at my old PC, writing. I didn't think much about where she'd gone. Then Scumbag comes into the living room and mutters something about her killing herself...then goes to the couch, sits on his scumbag ass, and turns on the TV.
I got up and walked out with no idea of where Whitney had gone. I knew she wasn't able to drive, had no car, and no one had picked her up, so I just picked a direction and went.
Scumbag apparently decided that This Was Important, and he tagged along.
I found her huddled in the bus stop shelter around the corner. I sat down with her and tried to get her to talk. I sent Scumbag home. Whitney told me that she'd taken pills, and she had a razor blade in her purse in case they didn't work. I tried to talk her out of it, but I knew I was out of my depth. I knew Whitney would only really listen to one of her close friends, and I knew I had to get to a phone to get that person out here. And I knew she needed medical help, since I had no idea what pills she'd taken. She told me to go away.
I felt shitty doing it, but who had a cell phone in 1996?
I ran all the way back to the house. Scumbag was still watching TV. Apparently the notion of calling 9-1-1 or friends or anyone who might help hadn't occurred to him.
I grabbed the phone and shouted at Scumbag to give me the friend's number. It rang for more than a minute.
"She might be out for dinner," Scumbag suggested. I tried a different friend. No answer. I called 9-1-1, knowing everyone in that tight-knit little group would resent the intrusion and not caring (maybe I'll try to explain their attitudes at some point). Within a minute, flashing blue lights whipped past the house, converging on Whitney. They found her wandering in the road. I was still trying to reach anyone in the group to have them get their asses moving, but it was nearly an hour before I got an answer.
I was right--everyone got pissed off at me for calling cops and ambulances and fire trucks out to help Whitney. None of them bothered to think that maybe her life was more important than some outsiders' intrusion on their clique.
Whitney spent a few days under observation in a psych house and made a full (physical) recovery.
But last I saw of her when I moved out a few months later, she'd moved back in with Scumbag. And that was 1996.
I did look her up online recently and found her blog. She's still alive and apparently happier, but still busted up over Scumbag even 13 years later. At least she's not with him--and I'm happy with that. She deserves better.
Whitney tried to stay with him--and I'm sure Scumbag was playing her so he was getting some either way.
She finally reached a point where she couldn't take it anymore.
On Mother's day evening in 1996, Whitney walked out of the house. I was sitting at my old PC, writing. I didn't think much about where she'd gone. Then Scumbag comes into the living room and mutters something about her killing herself...then goes to the couch, sits on his scumbag ass, and turns on the TV.
I got up and walked out with no idea of where Whitney had gone. I knew she wasn't able to drive, had no car, and no one had picked her up, so I just picked a direction and went.
Scumbag apparently decided that This Was Important, and he tagged along.
I found her huddled in the bus stop shelter around the corner. I sat down with her and tried to get her to talk. I sent Scumbag home. Whitney told me that she'd taken pills, and she had a razor blade in her purse in case they didn't work. I tried to talk her out of it, but I knew I was out of my depth. I knew Whitney would only really listen to one of her close friends, and I knew I had to get to a phone to get that person out here. And I knew she needed medical help, since I had no idea what pills she'd taken. She told me to go away.
I felt shitty doing it, but who had a cell phone in 1996?
I ran all the way back to the house. Scumbag was still watching TV. Apparently the notion of calling 9-1-1 or friends or anyone who might help hadn't occurred to him.
I grabbed the phone and shouted at Scumbag to give me the friend's number. It rang for more than a minute.
"She might be out for dinner," Scumbag suggested. I tried a different friend. No answer. I called 9-1-1, knowing everyone in that tight-knit little group would resent the intrusion and not caring (maybe I'll try to explain their attitudes at some point). Within a minute, flashing blue lights whipped past the house, converging on Whitney. They found her wandering in the road. I was still trying to reach anyone in the group to have them get their asses moving, but it was nearly an hour before I got an answer.
I was right--everyone got pissed off at me for calling cops and ambulances and fire trucks out to help Whitney. None of them bothered to think that maybe her life was more important than some outsiders' intrusion on their clique.
Whitney spent a few days under observation in a psych house and made a full (physical) recovery.
But last I saw of her when I moved out a few months later, she'd moved back in with Scumbag. And that was 1996.
I did look her up online recently and found her blog. She's still alive and apparently happier, but still busted up over Scumbag even 13 years later. At least she's not with him--and I'm happy with that. She deserves better.
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