Tues, October 30, 2007

How embarrassing.

“Mathilda’s Journal.”

How juvenile.

I feel like I should be penciling a skull and cross-bones and block-letter “Keep Out!” warnings on the computer screen, the way I did on my journal when I was twelve.

Of course, I had secrets to write in my journal when I was twelve. Or at least, I felt like I did. I don’t have any secrets now. I am the Queen of the Mundane. I never worry about identity theft, because no thief would want my identity. “Here, lady, take your identity back! I can’t take one more day of watching first graders try to count by five’s!”

I don’t know why I’m bothering. Except, I guess, Felicity’s wedding. My best friend is getting married. I’m happy for her. I really am. She’s crazy about Shawn. And I get to be a bride’s maid!

But . . . I’m older than her. Okay. Seven months older. But still. Ramsey and I have been dating for four years, and he’s never said a word. I wish I had the courage to just ask him outright – “Hey, Skippy, where is this thing headed?” It’s not my way.

Fri, November 9, 2007

I can’t believe it’s already November 9! Today I spent my lunch hour stripping my classroom – goodbye ghosts and pumpkins, time for handprint turkeys and “I’m thankful for…” lists.

We’re still feeling the effects of trick-or-treat candy around the school. You can tell by the number of kids who had to go to the nurse’s office. One of the second graders threw up at recess. Two fourth grade boys got into a fight in the hallway – bad enough to draw blood.

In my class, Jacob didn’t stay in his seat for more than 5 minutes running through the whole afternoon. At 2:30, he was up again.

“Sit down, Jacob,” I said. I’d dropped the “Please” at about 1:15. He walked right past my desk, smiling. We’re not allowed to cage or torture them, and they know it. I made a grab for him, though, and he bolted. Right into my filing cabinet.

That was a goose egg. He told Mr. McCartney that I’d hit him with a chair, but luckily, everyone knows not to believe Jacob. Even his parents know he’s a liar. Anyway, I have nineteen witnesses in my favor. Unless he gets to them before I do. Guess I’ll make brownies for the class tomorrow. . .

Right after I sent him to the nurse’s office, Heather raised her hand.

“Yes, Heather.”

“I know a sex move.”

“I’m sorry?” I always pretend I can’t hear them when I wish I hadn’t.

“I know a sex move. I saw it on T.V.”

“That’s very nice, Heather,” I said. “Please finish your everyday math sheet.”

I was blushing! A six-year-old made me blush! How embarrassing! I’m blushing right now, thinking about it. I’m so glad it’s Friday.

Jeez. I’m twenty-six years old. Do I know any sex moves? What is a sex move, exactly?

Sat, November 24, 2007

I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it.

Okay, of course I’ll stand it. Felicity Newton is my best friend. Today, I will shop for wedding dresses with Felicity.

If you’ve never shopped with Felicity, you don’t know how scary this is. Felicity has been my best friend since we were in second grade. I love her like a sister. We have many things in common. But Felicity is . . . how can I say it?

Felicity is adorable. She’s blond, of course, and petite and pretty, with dimples. Her eyes are puppy dog brown, which I think is even more adorable than blond with blue eyes. She looks good in everything.

And, of course, she always thinks she looks like that housekeeper on Two and a Half Men. “Oh, no!” she squeals (of course she squeals – you saw that coming, didn’t you?). “I can’t wear this bikini! It makes my butt look just giant! I’ll have to buy two seats on the airplane!”

But, today, we shop for wedding dresses. She will look like a fairy tale princess in forty-two different dresses in seven different stores.

Can’t wait. Really.

We’re doubling tonight – Ramsey and Shawn are meeting us at the comedy club. Mike Venemen is the headliner. I’ve been wanting to see him.

I know Ramsey doesn’t like Shawn (‘though he won’t admit it), but he’ll just have to deal.

Well, wish me luck!

Sun, November 25, 2007

Felicity told a lie last night.

I’m not sure why. We were at the Comedy Club. That’s really Ramsey’s thing. He loves the comedians. I was so shocked the first time I went – those guys are so, well, shocking! I guess I’ve gone downhill, though. Mike Venemen does this routine about making obscene phone calls to On-Star, and I laughed so hard I thought I was going to wet myself.

Anyway, Felicity and Shawn were laughing, too. We all were. Then this couple goes by, making their way past our table to one on the side (we always get as close to center front as we can), and Felicity and Shawn stopped laughing, just like that. Like the comedian had offended them or something. But they weren’t looking at the stage. They were looking at the couple.

I think they were looking at the girl. She was about our age, all glamorous with this bobbed red hair and sleek pantsuit. I waited until she’d moved on and leaned to Felicity. “Who was that?”

Felicity smiled, but she looked tense. “Who?”

“The red-head.”

“Oh. The . . . red-head? That girl?”

“Yeah. Who is she?”

Then, Felicity shrugged! “I have no idea.”

Can you believe that?

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

I was so upset about the lie, I forgot to write about our wedding dress search. We didn’t actually go to 7 stores on Saturday. It was only 5. But I’m pretty sure Felicity tried on over 70 dresses. It was worth it.

I want to say she looked like a princess, but no princess ever looked so good. The dress is ridiculously full, like Gone With the Wind, but white, with this shimmery, silvery pattern all over the bodice and around the bottom of the skirt. Oh, it’s amazing! She put it on and twirled in front of the mirror.

The salesclerk was all like, “Those are Japan-made glass beads and Czech diamonds...” Blah blah blah. Whatever. We didn’t care. We were both crying. It was just so the dress for her.

“Your dad is going to lose it,” I told her. Her dad is a pharmacist with six daughters. He cries before weddings, not during.

“I’m paying for the dress.” Felicity was still spinning, smiling at her reflection in three panes of mirror. “He’s paying for everything else. And, I –“ She paused, peeked coyly over her shoulder at me. “– have credit cards.”

It took all three of her credit cards to pay for it, but she wasn’t worried. Which makes sense. Shawn is sort of a medium level ad guy at a phone book company, so I guess he can handle the bills after the wedding.

Anyway, the problem is, I also found my dress. I didn’t mean to. It was just . . . there, suspended on the wall. It’s completely different from Felicity’s – no beading, no organza. Ivory silk from cleavage to toe, full and rich and simple. The skirt back splits into an upside down V over an underskirt. The only trim is alencon lace around the bottom and up the back V.

I might have whimpered when I saw it; I’m not sure. Anyway, Felicity, already back in her regular clothes, came to stand beside me. “It’s your dress,” she breathed.

It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t answer. Obviously it was my dress. It’s nearly $5000, but that isn’t actually my big problem.

My big problem is, I don’t have a groom.

Thurs, November 29, 2007

My accomplishment for the day: Catching Anastasia and spinning her to the trashcan right before she lost her breakfast. She had cereal for breakfast this morning. Froot Loops, I believe. Colorful.

My big tender moment for the day: This morning, My dad gave me $200 in cash before leaving on his business trip. “Buy yourself something nice,” he told me. Which for him amounts to an outpouring of affection.

What I have to look forward to this evening: Bones and House are on tonight.

That’s sad. That’s just so sad.

Later:

I decided to quit feeling sorry for myself and do something about my mundane life. While my class was up in music, I emailed Felicity. “Girls’ night out?”

She emailed right back, so her bosses must have been out of the office. She’s a secretary in the Geology Department at the University.

“Where’ve you been? You haven’t answered your phone!”

My kids were due back in ten minutes; I didn’t have time to deal with The Lie. “Rascals has karaoke tonight. I thought we could try it.”

I went back to grading math papers, waiting for the ding that meant I had a new email. I had just decided that Felicity’s bosses had come back when my cell phone rang. I dug through my purse for it and flipped it open, keeping one eye on the hallway.

“Good time or bad time?” Felicity asked.

I checked the clock. “I have five minutes. More, if they talk in line.”

“Are you mad at me?”

The question came so fast that I couldn’t think. “Uh . . .”

“You are?” She sounded like she wanted to cry. “Why?”

“Look, Felicity. This isn’t a good time to get into a thing.”

“I didn’t even know there was a thing!” She was crying. Not fair! I’m the wronged one, here. She shouldn’t get to cry.

“There’s no thing. Not really. Look, do you want to out tonight?”

She sniffed. “It’s a weeknight.”

“Midnight, latest.”

“Okay. But you better tell me what’s going on.”

I sighed. I wanted to tell her that there was nothing going on. But that would have been a lie. And I could hardly lie to her, considering I was mad at her for lying to me.

Friday, November 30, 2007

First, I have to say: I love karaoke! Oh, my gosh! But more about that later. First, The Lie.

Felicity got there twenty minutes late. She looked –

Okay, how do I say this? Felicity has less, um, body fat in her upper body than I do. But she sure makes better use of what she does have. She was wearing this slinky kimono top, in an army color. There was this flower decoration center front that gathered the fabric from all directions, creating a V of pleats below a high waist band from the sides, and a deep open V above.

It wasn’t immodest, really. Exactly. But every guy watched her rush to our table, blond hair flying in all directions. She dropped her overloaded Coach knock-off on the table.

“I’m late,” she announced. “I had nothing to wear. We have to go shopping.”

Even with a nervous knot in my stomach, I had to giggle, and she grinned back at me. A few years ago, her dad gave up half of their two-car garage and installed clothing rods. The idea was that he would park on one side and his daughters could store their massive wardrobes on the other side.

The Newton girls complain that their clothes smelled like exhaust fumes, but that hasn’t stopped them from filling the racks so full that the hangers jut out sideways. They use the other side of the garage for shoe boxes, sports gear, and fashion accessories.

Mr. Newton parks on the curb.

Felicity ordered a light beer and pinned me with a look. “You have ten seconds to tell me why you’re mad at me.”

“Or, what?”

“Or, I’ll cry! Come on, Tilly!”

Tilly. That’s one of the reasons I can’t live without Felicity. She is the only person in the world who sees something in me besides Mathilda, Queen of the Mundane.

“Okay,” I said. “Who was the redhead?”

Her gaze shifted to the right. “What redhead?”

I stood up. “See? That’s why I’m mad.”

“Okay, okay! Sit down.”

I sat, fiddled with the straw.

She peeked at me from under her bangs, and spoke in a small voice. “Why can you always tell when I’m lying?”

“I don’t know. We’ve just known each other too long. So . . .?”

“Okay. She’s just . . . okay, she and Shawn had a – a thing.”

“Oh. Old girlfriend.”

“Not that old.”

No way. Okay, no way. They’re planning their wedding! “Um, how old is not that old? He didn’t, like, cheat on you, did he? No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t even –“

And, of course, she started to cry.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Ramsey got off work early today, so we he met me for lunch at the little deli near the school. I tried to talk Ramsey into going karaoke with me. When Felicity and I went, we sang about seven songs between us. We were terrible! But, it was like gambling – I kept thinking the next time would be the big one. I was sure of it!

Then, we’d get up there, or one of us alone, and, ewww. It was just so wrong. Quavery voice, bad tempo, sour notes. But that wasn’t the good part. The good part was, no one cared. Everyone there was either drunk, or as bad as us. Or, both! We’re definitely going to do that again.

Anyway, Ramsey mentioned going to the comedy club tonight again, and I dug in my heels. “Come on,” I told him. “It’s really, really fun!”

“I’m not going to karaoke,” he said. “And you shouldn’t either.”

What a stick in the mud! Why am I dating this guy?

Oh, yeah. There is that whole, he’s absolutely gorgeous thing. He really is. He’s almost shockingly beautiful, with these ridiculously blue eyes and his mouth – mmm. Felicity calls it a girl mouth. It’s perfect. And his hair is sort of loose and curly. He totally does not look stodgy. But believe me . . .

Seriously, it’s one thing if he doesn’t want to karaoke. But why should he care whether I do?

He’s all: “If you don’t want to go to the comedy club, we’ll go out to a nice dinner. You want to see a play? An opera! La Boheme is playing in Cleveland.”

That tells you something, if he’s offering to take me to an opera. He hates opera.

“Jeez, Ramsey, I’m not asking to go to a nude mud-wrestling event. It’s karaoke!”

“We can’t draw attention to ourselves. It’s not smart.”

“Because . . . we’re in the witness protection program? You’re in the CIA? I’m being hunted by the Mob? Honestly, Ramsey, what is your problem?”

He sighed, like I’m being completely unreasonable. “Mathilda, some people are born to put on a show. Others are born to watch the show.”

That stung. It really did. “That’s right.” I got up from the table. I almost didn’t care that some other people in the restaurant were looking at us. “I could never be interesting or fun. Good, old, predictable Mathilda. Queen of the Mundane, that’s me.”

“Mathilda –“

“Just forget it, Ramsey. Enjoy the rest of your day off.”

“Wait.” He stood, too. “What about tonight? We’re still going out, right?”

“Not together, we’re not. I’m going to go karaoke. You can go to the comedy club and watch other people put on a show.”

I stalked out. I wasn’t sure if he was following me or not, but I made myself not look back, until I was already to my car. And, get this! Was he following me, to make up from our fight? Was he standing in the middle of the restaurant, looking stunned and distressed?

No!

I could see him through the window. He was still sitting at our table, as casual and picturesque as ever, looking out at me and talking on his cell phone.

The jerk!

The jerk, jerk, jerk!

NOW how am I supposed to get him to propose marriage to me?

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Friday, December 7, 2007

It’s 2:30 a.m. I should go to bed – I have a ton to do tomorrow, papers to grade, and lunch with Felicity (she’s still with Shawn – can you believe that? The beast!)

But I’m totally too wired to sleep! Tonight, I was a star!

Okay, definitely over-stating it.

Okay, from the beginning. After Ramsey was such a jerk, I tried to get Felicity to go with me, but she’s got a cold, and she has to work a half day tomorrow. Today. Whatever.

Anyway, you won’t believe this . . . I went by myself! I mean, Oh, my gosh, it’s a restaurant up the street that I’ve been going to since I was six, but, still! I’m 27 years old, but my dad would still have had a fit. Luckily, he’s still out of town. He works for AM Corp, and he has to go back to the home office in Indiana for meetings every few months. Ramsey works for AM Corp, too, by the way, but in a totally different area. But I digress.

So I did the hair and makeup thing. I should explain about my looks. I’m . . . not Felicity. I’m not ugly, seriously. But I’m sort of average height and average weight, with straight brown hair and brown eyes. And I have chubby cheeks, so whenever I blush (way too often!) I look like Santa’s wife. When I dress up to go out, Ramsey says, “You look nice, Mathilda.”

Way to pour your heart and soul into the compliments, you silver-tongued devil.

Anyway, since my dad hasn’t given me an entire garage as my closet, I have a limited wardrobe. So I just put on jeans and a white tank, and lots of danglies. A couple of necklaces, seven or eight bracelets, and dangly earrings. With the lipstick and all, I looked, well, maybe not sexy, but at least less like I’m going to serve you milk and cookies. I felt good, anyway.

So I went out, sat at one of those high tables, and ordered a soda. I’ve been practicing some songs with the radio, and I started thumbing through the book, looking for Teardrops on My Guitar. Pretty risky choice, because I don’t look anything at all like Taylor Swift. Have you seen her in that video? Oh, my gosh!

So while I was trying to read the song titles in the dim light, somebody sat down at the high table next to me. “Hey.”

I looked up and couldn’t place who he was. Then I realized that I couldn’t place him because I’d never met him before. “Hey,” I said. I think I sounded sort of breathy.

“Buy you a drink?”

He was checking me out, so I checked him out. Kind of cute, in a hip, angular way, with an earring through one eyebrow.

“I don’t drink,” I said.

“Oh.” He seemed to think that over. “Are you, like, in recovery, or something?”

“I’m allergic to alcohol.” Even as I said it, I knew he wasn’t going to be satisfied with that explanation. He was still checking me out with this overly bright look, like a hawk who just spotted a mouse.

“So you break out in hives or something?”

Okay. I have to admit, after dating Ramsey for four years, it was kind of flattering to have some other guy interested. But there was something sort of predatory about this guy. Also, he was distracting me from finding my song.

“If I take even a sip of alcohol,” I said, “I will throw up on you, and have to be carried out of here.”

He looked shocked, and I don’t blame him, but it’s the absolute truth. One night when Felicity and I were out, I accidentally took a sip of her Long Island Iced Tea, and I thought I might die. Seriously.

Felicity called my dad to tell him she was taking me to the hospital, but he wouldn’t let her. He said he keeps the antidote at home, since he has the same allergy. The two of them practically had to carry me into the house. He gave me some vile liquid to drink, and I chewed on some ginger crackers, and I did start to feel better. But I still missed three days of work.

Anyway, the hawk decided that I was sending a “not-interested” message, which I was, and he moved on. I found my song, and sang it, and, guess what?

I wasn’t half bad!

And guess what else?

Three other guys offered to buy me drinks!

Here I was worried about working things out with Ramsey. I don’t need Ramsey! There are a kazillion of other fish in the sea.

I didn’t accept any invitations, but I’m definitely going back next week!

Friday, lunch hour, December 7, 2007

What a weird day. It started when Anastasia’s mom showed up before school and yelled at me for fifteen minutes.

I handled it in my usual Navy Seal, take-no-prisoners manner.

I groveled.

Apparently, Christopher has been pinching Anastasia’s bottom whenever she turns her back on him. Also, he calls her “babe” and “hon.”

“Sexual Harrassment!” Mrs. Harris screeched. “My daughter is being sexually harassed.”

Okay. They’re six. Actually, I think Anastasia has already had her birthday, so she’s seven. But I’m really not convinced that Christopher is trying to take their relationship to the next level.

“I wasn’t aware –“ I began.

“Were you in the classroom? Do you watch these kids at all?”

“Yes, of course, but there are twenty three –“

“You know, I don’t pay taxes so my kid can come here and get sexually harassed by some little pervert!”

It was so embarrassing. A couple of teachers walked past my open door, glancing in real casual. I know my face was red.

“I will make sure,” I said finally, “that Christopher is kept well away from Anastasia in the future. I will make sure that this doesn’t happen again.”

“I don’t think so.” She flipped her highlighted hair over her shoulder and glared at me. “My daughter isn’t going to suffer reprisals because she reported this abuse. I want that boy removed from the school. Permanently.”

Really, Mrs. Harris looks perfectly normal. Hair and nails all done, seams pressed into outfits that look like they were just taken off the mannequin. You’d never know by looking that she’s nuts.

“I can’t actually do that.”

“Who can?”

Ahhh. My work here is done. “I think you need to talk to the principal. Mr. McCartney should be in his office.”

She stomped out, just as the kids came pouring in.

Then, during my lunch hour, I checked my cell and saw that my dad had called. My dad! I called him back, my heart pounding. “Dad! Is everything okay?”

“That’s what I wanted to know. What’s this about Ramsey?”

Okay, what? He’s suddenly taking an interest in my love life? How does he even know? He’s in Indiana!

“What? Oh . . . We broke up. It’s no big deal. I’m okay,” I added, in case that was what he was worried about.

It wasn’t.

“Why did you break up? What are you doing now – karaoke? You can’t do that. No more. Why don’t you try skiing?”

Yeah. Because skiing is pretty comparable to karaoke.

“You should get back with Ramsey. He’s been very good to you. You’re biting off your nose to spite your face.”

“My face is fine, Dad. It’s just time to move on. And I tried skiing, remember? I was on crutches at my junior prom.”

“How about knitting?”

Knitting? “Dad, everything’s fine. It’s just karaoke. I’m not, you know, doing a strip tease or anything with it.”

“It draws too much attention.”

I like attention, I thought, thinking about the drink offers last night. But it didn’t seem like a good idea to say it. “When are you coming home?” I asked instead. “You’ll be home for Christmas, right?”

“Of course. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“Today? I thought you needed at least another week.”

“I’ll be home today. We’ll eat out. Invite Ramsey.”

“No.” There was a short silence. He was probably as shocked as I was; I never say no to my dad. But he didn’t get to run my personal life. “No more Ramsey.”

He sighed. “Mathilda, you make my life difficult.”

Probably the first time he said that to me, they were still wiping the bloody goo off of me after my birth.

Friday night

Short note, because I’m SOOOOO tired. These late karaoke nights!

We went out to The Steakhouse. Dad and I both ordered salmon. We always do – I know it’s silly, but The Steakhouse has the best grilled salmon in town. Ramsey always orders the salmon there, too.

And, speaking of Ramsey . . . guess who “happened” to show up at the restaurant just after we gave our drink orders?

There he was, all beautiful in his jeans and button down, one curl hanging over his brow.

“Well, look who’s here,” my dad said. You could tell he was trying to sound surprised. He’s no actor.

Ramsey came by the table. He had friend with him that I’d never met.

Okay, did I mention earlier that I was having a weird day? Because it gets weirder.

Ramsey shook my dad’s hand and kind of waved at me. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I said. Then I glared at him. I’m sorry; I know it was childish. I’m old enough to know better. But you know what? I’ve dated the guy for how long? Since my junior year in high school! Can you believe that? He stayed with us for a whole semester while he worked with my dad – some kind of senior project thing. And he’s been my boyfriend ever since.

And he’s never even hinted at marriage. Never made a serious move. We’ve never . . . you know. We’ve barely kissed! He’s like, well . . . He’s like a brother to me!

So, obviously, I’m pretty angry. I’m 27 years old! I’ve given him the best years of my life. He has a problem with me singing in bars? Oh, yeah? Well, I have a problem with him . . . not marrying me. Or something like that.

Anyways, I’m mad!

“This is my friend, Adam.” Ramsey directed the introduction sort of to both my dad and me.

Adam leaned forward to shake our hands. He was taller than Ramsey, and leaner. Also, not quite as beautiful, in that male model way that Ramsey is. Still, he was good looking. Athletic, with these bright, somber blue eyes that seemed to penetrate whatever they looked at. Interesting. I wonder where he came from. Because I thought I knew all of Ramsey’s friends.

They excused themselves and settled at a large round table nearby. I decided to ignore them. It wasn’t so hard. Dad told me about a meeting he’d had at corporate where one of the associates had stunned everyone with a brilliant new investment idea. I told him how Zack in my class announced to everyone that he was getting a BB gun for Christmas. “You’ll put an eye out,” I’d told him automatically.

Zack did an actual double take. “That’s what my mom said. And my aunt. But my dad said I could have the BB gun, as long as he got some special lamp that he wants.”

My dad was still chuckling at this story when I finally remembered the intruders at the next table and glanced over.

You know how I mentioned weird. There were a total of five guys sitting at that table now, including Ramsey. And, except for him, I’d never met any one of them before. And they were all, and I mean every single one of them, rip your shirt open, roll up your tongue, cry yourself to sleep gorgeous.

Saturday, December 8, 2007

Christmas is coming; the goose is getting fat, yada yada yada. I have to shop for a gift for my dad today. I’m so annoyed with him, I can barely think about what he’ll like.

We were having such a nice time together last night at dinner. I felt close to him. Really! Like we were friends or something. Then he had to go and ruin everything.

Just as the waitress delivered the check, he pinned me with this look and said, “So, which of those boys do you like?”

“What? What boys?”

He gestured toward the other table with his chin. “If you could choose, which would you date?”

I was confused, then shocked. What was this? Had he arranged for those guys to be there? Was this some kind of sick Man Buffet for the dating-challenged? “I’m not really looking right now, dad. I think I’m just going to have fun for a while.”

“Just look, though,” he said. “Which one do you like?”

I don’t know why I even looked. Ramsey, beautiful in a tousled blue-eyed way that was deceptive, considering how uptight he is. Next to him, athletic Adam. A blond guy, sort of untamed sexy like that bad country boy from Lost, sat across from them. Beside him was a guy with short brown hair, sort of preppy and English looking. And then there was the guy who’d come in last. He was – mm.

Oh, mm. If I was going to answer Dad’s question, which I wasn’t, that would most definitely be the one. The one with the deep-set brown eyes and five o’clock shadow.

But I turned back to my dad, to tell him, no. To tell him, no, thanks, to whatever evil you have in mind. I can find my own men, thank you.

And that’s when I saw it. I looked at my dad, then back at the Man Smorgasbord. They were the same. They were all the same.

I wish I knew how to explain what I mean. All the other men in that place, they had the same variety of skin and eye colors, sizes, shapes and ages. But they weren’t . . .

Whatever my dad and Ramsey and his friends were.

Oh, my gosh. What were they? What do I even mean?