humans are funny

Category: singledom

  • Thanks, Racism.

    When I was a kid, I went to my friend’s house and heard her dad complaining about the ‘mulanyans.’ The “fucking mulanyans.” I had no idea what that meant, so I asked my friend while we were playing Barbies. She whispered as if it were a sin to say it: black people.

    The Urban Dictionary defines “mulanyan” as “a term used in place of the ‘N word’ by VERY racist Italians.”
    I guess my friend’s dad was a very racist Italian. Sadly, I think my town is full of them.
    In high school, my ‘Racism Sucks’ poster was ripped down at every single party I threw.  That old poster got more wrinkly by the party, but I insisted on putting it back up.

    Because Racism Sucks.
    But now I’m having second thoughts.
    Racism may not suck all the time.
    Racism can be funny. And helpful.

    I was sitting at a bar in my hometown of Addison, IL last week when a bunch of Italian gentlemen joined me. I’ve often compared my town to The Jersey Shore because of the large population of Italians, Affliction shirts, fake nails, and tans. We just don’t have a shore.

    “Are you Italian?” One mobster guy asked me.
    “Twenty-five percent,” I said. Ew. Why did I even answer this man?
    “What’s the other?”
    “Spanish and…”
    “I’m sorry,” he said before I could finish.

    He was sorry I’m not 100% Italian. To him, anybody who is not Italian should be sorry.

    And I was sorry. Sorry that anyone has ever let themselves get upset over comments like these. Because, come on. They’re so ignorant they’re just funny. So I laughed in this man’s face. And laughed some more. I don’t want to make fun of the overweight Italian man who later set off an M80 inside the bar and has the audacity to think that nobody is better than he. That would be stooping to his level. But if he’s anything like some of the kids I went to school with, he’s just as Italian as someone who has never been to Italy and only knows one Italian word: Mulanyan.

    I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit to using the ‘Are you Italian?’ or the ‘What are you?’ back when I was hitting on guys at the 18-and-over clubs. But, I was EIGHTEEN! I thought that’s how you hit on guys because that’s how I learned. Now I simply say, “Excuse me. Nice sweater. Are you still single or are you divorced yet?”

    I wouldn’t be all up in arms about my town’s racism (or is it ethnicism?) problem if it had just happened that night, but I met a similar mobster fella at a bar the following night too. (It’s really the only thing to do besides the movie theater or the Applebee’s.)

    “Are you Italian?” he asked me.
    “I’m American,” I answered. “What is with that question? Why do men here care so much about whether or not I’m Italian?”
    “Relax, Sweetie,” he said. “ I was just trying to give you a compliment.

    A compliment!
    Oh man. I couldn’t take it. Again, I laughed and laughed.

    I’m not mad at the prejudices here. I’m simply thankful that they’re helping me weed out potential dates so easily. From the very first line, I know that I’m not interested. Growing up here has unfortunately attracted me to short, dark, hairy men. But thanks to racism, I can kick the bad ones to the curb before they get up the driveway.

    “No, I’m not Italian. And, NO, I don’t want to date you.”

    Thanks, Racism. You don’t suck all the time.

  • Do you think the Stegosaurus ordered special meals on planes?

    In my mere thirty years on this planet, I have had lots of boyfriends. LOTS. Like, hundreds. First one: Pat McGovern, 1st grade. We were in different classrooms, but we each took a casual stroll to the bathrooms at the same time. He leaned his three-foot-two body against the pink tiled wall and waited for me to walk by. Then, just at the perfect moment, he told me I looked smashing (It was picture day, so I was slinging the old A game.). This was the first of many cheesy pick-up lines thrown at me from men leaning against walls, and I ate it up like Haagen-Das.

    Days later we were kissing under the slide at recess. That was my dating heyday, when relationships were easy. First: attraction. Then: coloring. Then: birthday parties, moms getting friendly on field trips, maybe some conversation about how the Stegosaurus was a vegetarian. And then: onto the next.

    Now it goes more like: attraction, fun times and laughter, imagining future together that is bright and perfect, time passes, perfect future slightly mired by his pot smoking and video games, six months pass, finally decide that future together indeed looks horrible, snoring no longer deemed ‘cute,’ ‘break’ requested, awkward friend period, mutual disgust. And repeat. And repeat again. And repeat again until you have had so many relationships that the index card holder you got as a teenager to record all your relationships won’t close anymore. (Yes, I record them all. Big fan of data entry.)

    And what happens to all those men busting out of your relationship box? They’re all still out there. And they’ve moved on. And they have wives and kids and they are much much happier without your constant requests for compromise or time alone to write your blog. (Yes, I’m using the universal ‘you,’ but this is obviously all about my friend.).

    There’s always been some selfish part of me that has wished those exes wouldn’t move on. I have caught myself hoping they would freeze in Ex-land, waiting for me just in case I’d made an awful mistake by ending things. In the past, I’ve heard about an ex getting married or having four kids, and I’ve cringed and perhaps had a snifter of wine, thinking WHAT IF THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ME? I could have a house and kids by now. I could be ‘settled’ into a comfortable life right now. WHAT WAS I THINKING? WHAT IF I MADE A MISTAAAAAKE?

    Interesting to note that the act of settling down has the word ‘settle’ in it.

    I recently had my astrological chart read, and the kind astrologer told me I need to “grow up and throw out my idealism.” She also told me I need to dress in a more mature fashion. She acted like it’s not cool to wear stained sweats all the time.

    I get that there isn’t a man out there who is perfect. I GET IT, okay. You guys, seriously. I get it. You can stop reminding me. Mom. I get it. Many people encourage me to settle, and that’s very thoughtful of them. But it’s not like I’m going around saying, “Oh, lord, that guy eats oatmeal with his left hand. The horror! Get him out of here AT ONCE.” It’s more about how he wears his jeans or what brand of knives he uses. No! Not that either. Seriously, it all comes down to his credit score. No, not that either. What’s going on is that I’m learning valuable lessons from each fine lad about what I want in a relationship and how I want to show up in a relationship. Each experience is making me better for the final taker. Based on my box of index cards, I have learned a lot. I am a relationship pro. I could write a relationship book. On index cards.

    The other day I saw (by accident… I swear) a picture of my 2006 live-in boyfriend. We had been on the road to Serious Town not that long ago, and now he’s smiling in a Facebook photo with his mom (who I loved), his wife, and his new baby boy. This time, instead of feeling that well-known anxiety, all I felt was relief. Lots of relief. The relief of one millions sighs, so happy that it wasn’t me in that picture. I learned A LOT in that relationship (mainly that I don’t want my partner to talk on the phone during the entirety of my grandmother’s funeral), and I’m confident that it’s not supposed to be me in that picture.

    So, there’s a moral here… wait for it… It is that people come into our lives to teach us something. People come and people go and people make a difference. And it’s okay that they’re not in our lives anymore. It feels weird to be imagining a future together one year and then well-wishing a few years later, but that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. And I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

    Just think how lucky some fella is going to be when we finally do have a relationship. He’ll get to be with someone who has already learned all her relationship lessons and knows everything.