Craigslist Shoppers
January 6th, 2010 § Leave a Comment
One time I sold a kayak to this couple who was none the wiser that I had stuffed an ice pick in the waistband of my jeans in the off-chance that they tried anything funny. As they drove away in their Porsche Cayenne I remained unconvinced that they didn’t have a hostage bound and gagged in the trunk.
I have this theory: every person looking to make a purchase online via Craigslist, is really just looking for someone to murder. So what, maybe I am a little skeptical. I always have been and chances are I will go to my grave waiting for the other shoe to drop. But ask anyone and they will tell you that’s just part of my charm. Well, maybe they wouldn’t say that exactly but I do my best to encourage them to.
Paul and I are moving and we’re selling furniture that we have no interest in hauling in a truck and lumbering upstairs. So far we have sold a patio set…which took two lookers to finally sell. The first potential buyer was quiet and fidgety. I’m still sure he was there to rape and murder me but was foiled by Paul whom I made rearrange his work schedule so he could protect me from such a fate. The second buyer came with his wife and child…both I am sure were a diversion. I remain unconvinced that the child wasn’t actually abducted and highly skilled in hand to hand combat.
So you see, I’m a little skeptical of selling things on Craigslist. I’m not so skeptical that I won’t take the chance to sell my throw-aways for cash. But I have a strict policy on never being alone when a Craigslist buyer comes to your home. It’s kind of like the Lost Boys movie where Keefer Sutherland’s mom invites this stranger over for dinner and he ends up being a vampire. He shows his teeth before dessert and is all, “vampires are powerless until you invite them in to your home.” Craigslist people are powerless, they’re just creepy people sitting in a dark room on their computer, until you invite them in to take a look at your crap — then they try to kill you, per your invitation.
So the fact that Paul scheduled someone to look at the desk for sale today in the middle of the afternoon completely disregards safety protocol. It’s 3:30 and he was meeting the guy at 2:00, he is still offline…which means the Craigslist guy killed Paul. And clearly I’m still in the stage of denial since I’m sitting here typing a blog post instead of notifying the authorities.
Broken Homes
June 24th, 2009 § 2 Comments
The first time I told my mom I was engaged she responded, “To who?”
I was 18, he was 30 – we dated for 3 months. One trip to Hawaii later, I returned home with a shell ring on my finger and big ideas for the wedding.
We lived in a house on a cul-de-sac where I would scrapbook with the neighbors every Sunday night. He bought me a golden retriever for Christmas which I named Grommit. He had his own business, was financially stable and eventually bought me a pretty wedding ring that I would sometimes turn upside down to hide. We set the date for our wedding 6 months later only to postpone it 4 months later. Our engagement lasted for 2 years.
One morning, after he had left for work, I sat at the top of the stairs in our house cradling my Christmas dog crying. I kissed his wet nose slid my engagement ring off and placed it on the bathroom counter. And then I left the house for the last time.
Being engaged to him, especially to someone 12 years my senior, had put me in a frenzied state of trying to finish school so that I could have children right after we got married. Even though I wasn’t ready to be a mom, he was running out of time to be the ”young cool dad” that he always envisioned being. I quit my full time job to become a full time student, which meant I had given up my independence and stability. 2 weeks shy of my 21st birthday, I had never been so terrified walking out of that house and into the unknown future.
Walking away was difficult – but essential. I was in love with the idea of love. I loved knowing I would have someone by my side for the rest of time. It wasn’t until the wedding grew closer that I finally realized, I wasn’t in love with him, I was in love with the idea of marriage. While he was a wonderful safe and loving guy, I was far too young to be someones wife.
My parents divorced when I was 1 1/2 years old. Growing up in a divorced environment, I knew that no matter what mistakes I made, I would do everything in my power to ensure a failed marriage wasn’t one of them. I realize things happen, and statistically I have a 50% chance of it not working. I can however do my due diligence before getting married to make sure that the person I am marrying is someone I have no doubts about and have every intention of being with until my last days. This includes not marrying someone at 18 and after just 3 months of dating.
Sadly, far too many people get married too young, too soon or too quickly. I watched Jon and Kate last night and found no joy spying on their crumbling marriage. The episode was drenched in sadness and each of them had the same cold hard stare that people who are going through a separation adorn.
Watching the episode last night I realized for the first time that divorce is much harder on the parents than it is the children. As a child I had no idea what I was missing. I thought every normal child shuttled from each parents house every other weekend. I thought all daughters dreaded alone time with their fathers. To me it was normal and like most all other children I adjusted my world view accordingly. For the parents though it means missed first steps, shared or missed holidays, not being there for the first lost tooth. It means not being there to watch your children grow from day to day. It means missing the little moments in between the “every other weekends.”
It drives me crazy when people stay married “for the children”. I respect my mom much more for being strong enough to walk away from a situation she was unhappy in, even though it meant struggling to find her way. And although she didn’t do it gracefully she did it with strength and courage. That to me is far more admirable than someone who stays in a loveless marriage “for the children.” To me that seems more an excuse than it does a reason.
I tell my friends who are going through a divorce that the best thing they can do is to never speak negatively about their ex-spouse to their children. I have vivid memories of my father talking harshly about how much he hated my mom (I am generously paraphrasing here) only to have him say to me how much I remind her of him. To a child, hating their mother or father, is the same as hating them.
In 13 years, I am a long way from the girl that returned from Hawaii with a puka shell ring. Sometimes that part of my life seems so distant I almost wonder if it happened at all. And although I am thankful that it ended in a breakup and not a divorce–I do sometimes wonder just how my golden retriever is doing.
There’s No Place…
May 11th, 2009 § Leave a Comment
It was something I had been planning for months. At the age of seventeen, and three months shy of graduating from high school, the thought of moving out of the house was constantly on my mind. I had mentally decorated my room, I had already planned the guest list for my first house party. I even devised a plan on how I was going to make sure it was stocked with enough beer. Already I was setting my sights at being a good hostess.
My plan consisted of moving the day after my last day of high school. I was moving in with the sister of a co-worker and one of her close friends. This “other friend” happened to be a guy who I secretly hoped was cute enough to be attracted to but not cute enough for me to actually pursue his attention. Turns out that two days after moving in, I ended up dating him. It was a huge misstep which I partially blame on my youth, but mostly on the fact that we moved in before the heat was turned on and were initially drawn together for warmth.
When the day to move out finally arrived I filled my Jeep up with all seventeen years of things that I had accumulated and hugged my mom goodbye. She did her best to stay composed. She was trying to pass the moment of as casually as possible. She knew I was too much like her not to move out and pursue independance. My mom moved away at a young age to escape the fighting and yelling that she endured for seventeen years. I was moving out stricly because I needed to be on my own. I knew I would miss my mom everyday. But I also knew she was only 20 miles away and I could see her anytime I needed to.
She hugged me goodbye and handed me a letter which read: I am going to miss you and wish you were coming with us to the new house. Know you can move back home anytime you want to. I of course kept that letter, for legal purposes, but mostly because fifteen years later, it’s nice to be reminded that I can always go home.
