Why Girls Are Weird

by Pamela Ribon

  They itch. Once a month, they start itching like a motherfucker. You will find yourself leaning over your desk and rubbing your chest against the edge so it looks like you’re just sort of grooving. You will figure out how to use your forearms to scratch yourself. The itching is terrible. And when it first starts happening when you are young, your mother will tell you it’s because they are growing. When it’s still happening at twenty-five, it’s okay to panic, just a little.

  Women outwardly hate you because of your chest. Even your best friends.

  There will be lines you can break, drinks that will be free, things that you can have, and tickets you might get out of.

  There will also be friendships never had, clothes never worn, sports never played, and pictures ripped to shreds in agony.

  Your back hurts. Just all the time. A constant state of hurt.

  You have a terrible fear of catching a football. It is completely understandable.

  New boyfriends won’t know what to do with them. They will opt for a mix of lifting and lowering, licking all over the place, hoping to hit a spot you like.

  Sometimes you accidentally drop food down there, like popcorn. People think that’s hysterical.

  Sometimes you’ll lean over a table to get the salt and will end up dipping your breast in someone’s ketchup. Yes, you’ll be humiliated. No, you probably couldn’t have avoided it.

  You may catch yourself leaning on a table, resting only your breasts on it. Stop. You look obnoxious. I know you didn’t realize it. It just happens sometimes.

  Find yourself a period play and act the shit out of it. May I suggest Dangerous Liaisons?

  Did I frighten you or just make you want your own pair of big boobs even more? No, boys, I’m not talking to you. I know what your answer is. Even you gay boys. I know you want a fancy pair for special evenings. I’m just talking to the Itty Bitty Tittie Committee here. All in favor of keeping your new knockers, say “Aye.”

  Hello? Hello? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

  Love until later,

  Anna K

  -----

  Subject: We Needed a New Subject Line

  AK,

  Thank you. Never let it be said you aren’t accommodating to your friends.

  I like how I feel I have absolutely nothing to lose by writing to you. I’ve never met you and you know nobody in my life, so I can say anything to you (“Right, LDobler, ‘Say Anything’, asshole”) and not worry that I’m making an ass out of myself. I never have to see your reaction. You keep writing back, so I must be at least slightly interesting to you. And what’s sexy? Women who think I’m interesting.

  Having said that, I’ve decided something. I’d like to apply to be your stalker. Officially. I won’t ride by your house on my bicycle or anything, but I’ll be the one to write to you every day, several times a day, letting you know what I’m doing, where I’m going, and when exactly I was thinking of you. Think of it: You’ll never be alone again! Of course, all that love stuff will have to be taken care of by Ian, but I’ll be the person who makes you famous. I mean, you can’t have fame without creepy fans, right? So here’s your first creepy moment with me:

  Tonight I will dream of the two of us together trapped on a small rowboat. When you figure out the way to get us back to shore, I’ll smother you with chloroform (I hid a bottle in the cooler with the love sandwiches I made before we set off) and I’ll hold your passed-out body, whispering how much we belong together into your ear. When you wake up you’ll be with me and you’ll have forgotten what land looks like. You’ll only know us; you’ll only know our world. And we’ll live happily ever after. WRITE ME BACK OR DIE.

  Ha.

  -LD

  -----

  000018.

  Every time I visit Hartford I feel like I’m in the past. I rarely leave the house once I get there, so it’s like I’m stuck in a time loop. It’s just me, four rooms, and tall trees outside. I make sure to always bring three books with me and I usually read two of them. We don’t normally all get together for my mother’s birthday, but Mom had called all three of her daughters to request our attendance, so Shannon and I flew in together.

  Just after dinner, as we all gathered around the dining room table, Mom had her hands to her chest in anticipation. Shannon carefully carried the cake in from the kitchen, kicking off the birthday song with a shaky “Haaa-ppy Birrrrthday,” holding out the notes until we all joined in. She wore a Radiohead T-shirt with a thermal sweater underneath. Her jeans were frayed around the cuffs. Her shoes had holes in the toes that she’d wrapped with duct tape.

  Meredith was by the light switch, wearing a green cardigan and a long denim skirt that came down to her feet. Her hair was pulled back in a braid.

  Mom and Dad were at either side of the table and I was sitting between them.

  As we sang, I watched my family. Shannon’s hair was getting so long, curling around the ends, flowing over her shoulders and down her arms. Meredith had lost weight and was looking too thin. I wondered if she was still working two jobs. My mom looked so happy having her entire family wrapped around her.

  I looked over at my Dad. He was crying. His hand rested under his chin, and he was looking at my mom’s happy face. He lowered his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Looking back up, he caught my gaze and gave a weepy smile. It was the first time I’d ever seen my father cry. My body felt a shock, like a steel cold rod slammed through my spine. Something was wrong. My stomach twisted; the taste of the garlic and chicken we had for dinner felt sharp inside my mouth.

  I was smoking on the swing set in the backyard an hour later when I heard my father’s voice behind me.

  “Can I have one?”

  Instinctively I put my cigarette out under my shoe. Dad knew I smoked, but I still felt strange doing it in front of him. It seemed like a deliberate action, bragging that I was a grown-up and he couldn’t stop me.

  As I watched him approach me cautiously, I realized Dad hadn’t stepped foot in the backyard of any house we’d had. “Are you lost?” I asked him as I handed him a smoke. He took it from me, laughing nervously. I could see the veins in his thin hands. His skin had brown spots I’d never seen before. His face was grayer and his eyebrows had silver hairs. He looked tired.

  He sat down on the swing next to me. “Just wanted to talk. How are you?”

  This, too, had never happened before. It felt like a trick. “I’m fine, Dad.”

  He nodded his head and bit his lower lip. He hadn’t shaved since yesterday and a full salt-and-pepper beard was threatening to sprout on his face. He wiped his nose with his palm and exhaled.

  “How are you, Dad?” I said into the silence.

  “I’m not so good, Annie.”

  I swallowed. I knew this was coming, but I still wasn’t ready. I didn’t want this to be real. I wanted it to stop before it happened. Staring straight ahead, it felt like I was floating outside of us, staring down at the backyard, at the two of us sitting on a swing set, staring away from each other as we concentrated on our cigarettes. Why was he telling me this here? Why now? I wondered briefly if he was going to reach out and touch me or hold me. He never did anything like that before, but the entire afternoon had become a series of new events, changes, and discoveries. Maybe getting sick made you want affection. Were we going to change our relationship right now? Did he need me to become something more?

  “What do you mean?” I heard a tiny version of me say.

  “My heart’s not doing so well.”

  I wanted to take the cigarette back from him, but I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t know any of the words I was supposed to say. Was I supposed to even say anything? It wasn’t really a conversation. It was just Dad talking to me. Talking near me, really, since we weren’t looking at each other. Dad stared at his cigarette as he continued.

  “So I thought I’d ask how you were doing, because your mother says I don’t ask you enough. Just making sure you’re okay. And I guess you migh
t want to think about coming home for Thanksgiving and Christmas this year instead of just one.”

  And with that he stood and walked back into the house.

  I sat still, my hands dangling inside of my jacket pockets. I had that same feeling after I found out there wasn’t an Easter Bunny. Like I learned something I should have known all along, something that always made sense but I didn’t let myself worry about before. My father had just said more to me than he had in years and I just sat there mute. I had a chance to talk to him and I didn’t. Worse than that, I did nothing. I said nothing. I had the chance to let him in. He gave me the opportunity. I could have told him I loved him and how I always wondered what it’d be like if we really knew each other. I could have found out what it sounded like to have him tell me that he loved me. The moment passed, and it was never coming back, just like the moment before he told me he was dying. That would never come back, either. Now he was officially dying and I had officially not said a word about it.

  I looked toward the house and saw him through the back window. He sat back in his recliner and turned on the television. All I had to do was walk into the house, put my head in his lap, and ask to start our relationship over again. I could place my hands on his and ask, “If we don’t have much time, can we try to make this work now?”

  Could I turn my father into my daddy just because the clock was ticking? Would that make it harder to deal with him dying? Dying? That word had lost all meaning over the years. It didn’t feel possible. Although it was quite probable, with the way he’d been getting sick, it just felt like something that was never going to actually happen. We’d had so many false alarms over the years—frantic trips to see him only to have him recover at the bleakest hour. Too many times I had rushed home thinking it was time to say good-bye and it wasn’t. He’d always bounced back before. Maybe he’d do it again this time. Maybe this was another false alarm. I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like without him around. I knew he was weaker every time I saw him, but he’d been frail for so long I was used to having a fragile father. He always recovered on his own, opting not to talk about it or ask us for help. He didn’t even like us in the hospital room with him when he was being treated. He’d send us away on errands and keep us busy until he was released. He’d never needed me then. Why would he need me now? And why was he the one telling me he was sick this time instead of Mom? What was he doing talking to me? What did he want from me?

  I held on to the swing chains, leaned back, and kicked my feet up hard. I held the chains until my palms were aching. I pumped my feet back and forth, pushing the swing into gear, jerking and rocking, higher and higher, feeling the wind in my ears melt the sounds of the house out of my head. I could hear the birds in the trees above me. I felt myself rise out of the chair, my stomach getting lighter, my head getting cloudy, my vision numbing into pure blue. I could feel the weight of gravity on my shins as my body crashed back down onto the swing. Tears streaked my face as the wind strained them.

  What was I supposed to do? Give up my life and move to Hartford until he died? Did he expect me to move in with Meredith? Did he want me to move back home? Did he think I could just quit my job and move to the other side of the country? Who did he think I was?

  More important, who was he?

  000019.

  Apologies and Gossip:

  Courtesy of Hugh Grant

  17 SEPTEMBER

  Right.

  Um…yes, ah…hello.

  So, Anna K has seen fit to…uh, sort of…you know, hire me to do sort of…urm, spot work for her. It seems she finds my ability to apologize my way out of anything short of murder to be, well…uh, rather charming, actually. So today she asked if I might…sort of…you know, fill in for her and do one of these cute little…talking-to-the-computer sorts of things.

  I’m supposed to talk to you about whatever’s in my head, make a few…you know, points that Anna K asked me to say and then…well…urm…flash my baby blues to you and do that side grin thing I’m so…you know, rather capable of doing, see.

  [Imagine me now posed with my hand sort of, you know, cupping my chin, I suppose you’d say, and I’m grinning, but not actually showing any of my teeth. My face says, quite simply, “Ain’t I a cutie?” Insert that picture here.]

  Right.

  You know, Anna K is a wonderful, wonderful woman. Delightful. Charming. Really…just…can’t say enough about the girl, you know. But that’s all neither here nor there, right? Time to get on with the talking and the smiling and the charming the panties off of you. That’s…not to say that you wear panties or anything. Anna K tells me there are a few lads that read this thing so…I’ll just…try to charm…well…whatever sort of knickers grace your bum.

  [Picture this. I’m sitting in a field, and I’m looking towards you but not quite at you, really. Sort of…near the vicinity of, I guess you could say, your left eye or, rather, just below it and right…possibly towards the tip of your ear, I guess. I’m laughing—not at you, mind you, but I’m laughing at something ludicrously funny that you just murmured towards me. Got it? Good.]

  Right. So.

  Yes.

  Uh…

  Anna K’s been a bit absent lately, hasn’t she? Well, she took a few days off here and there for personal and family reasons, you see. She can’t just live to entertain you all day long, now can she? Well, I guess technically she can, but rather she chooses not to, what with the repetitive business of garnering a paycheck in order to pay for rent and utilities and whatnot. She’s become quite accustomed to that sort of thing. And I already mentioned the family thing, which, if you don’t mind me saying so, is really none of your bloomin’ business, is it? I don’t even say “bloomin,”’ you’ve just got me so upset with your arrogant nosiness and gossip munching. Really, you should be ashamed of yourself. Look at you. Disgusting. Horrid. Filthy. It’s really…quite…sexy, actually, you dirty, dirty, disgusting girl, you. Or boy. Whatever. I’m flexible.

  [Another shot of me. I’m wearing a black turtleneck and I’m looking upward. Sly grin. Could that possibly be the sparkle of sunlight in my blue eyes? Yes, it could. Lovely. Lovely. Perfection. Yes. Yes!]

  So, there’s that.

  Okay. Now. Let’s see here…urh, right. What else did she want me to say? Huh. Right forgotten, it seems. Oh, well. Have I mentioned just how charming I look in these pants? They’re quite stunning. It’s the way they caress my buttocks as I sit in this chair. I can’t stop rubbing my hands over my thighs. And, uh, well, it’s embarrassing to say that I’m incredibly bloody nice to the touch right here next to my knee. And…really…what I’d like to say is that…well, I feel pretty, that’s all.

  But back to gossip and apologies. Right. Uh, there’s not much to apologize for around here. It’s been rather illuminous, actually. I just said the word illuminous there without really caring exactly what it means. Just listen to the way I say that word. “Illuminous.” It’s beautiful. I’m not even sure if it’s actually a word, now that I stop to ponder it.

  [Photo of me leaning back on a J. Crew director’s chair with hands behind head. Legs up, crossed at the feet. Hair falling impossibly perfectly over one eye. Smirk, with teeth, on right side. Hot damn on a biscuit, I’m a sexy bitch.]

  Right. Moving on, then.

  So, in any event, I do believe I’m starting to tire. That happens when I have to lay the charm on rather thick, and since I’ve spent most of this time sort of rambling on about this and that, I haven’t really done anything more than chat and pose, which is the reason Elizabeth and I didn’t work out in the first place. Honestly, that woman chats and poses all day long and when the two of us would get started, well, you know…by the end of the day my jaw was practically on fire. I mean, do you have any idea what it’s like to be witty and charming day in and day out? You haven’t the foggiest, have you? You can’t. You’re not me.

  But that’s all right, see. Because, you know…if there were more than one of me out there, then the world
really couldn’t take it. Too many babies would be born from Hugh fantasies. And don’t you play the innocent. I know you think of me every time you go for that…urm…shower massager thingy you have.

  Right.

  I’ve taken up enough of my time, here. See my movies, hug your mum, eat your greens, and be careful on Sunset Boulevard.

  [Last one. Full-on smile with wit and charm oozing from pores with a face that makes you say, “And…off go my pants!”]

  Love until later,

  Hugh Grant

  000020.

  I had spent the past four weeks in a daze, calling my parents every night. Dad was always already asleep and Mom had no news. They seemed to be constantly waiting on test results, doctors’ opinions, referrals, or something to be delivered from a lab. Dad was on medication that made him tired, and he would only be awake for a few hours a day. I rarely caught him during those times, and when I did, he’d tire easily after a few minutes of light conversation. I felt so far away from my family and completely helpless.

  Meanwhile, I was trying to live past the summer heat, to make it through September. I found myself spending longer hours at work, writing longer letters to LDobler about the need for Texas to create seasons, to participate in the passing months of the year. He did his best to keep my mind off of my problems at home. He didn’t know all of the particulars, but he knew I was troubled; he didn’t pry for details.

  I was closing up the library one Friday afternoon in late September when a girl rushed up to the desk.

  “Hey, can you do me a favor?” she asked. “It won’t take all that long, okay?”

  She looked at me with serious dark eyes. I recognized her from an earlier class that day. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her bangs were bright red. Her skin was a pretty brown shade. Her ears were pierced several times. She had a hoop through her right eyebrow. She was chewing gum and leaning forward on the desk, full of that attitude so many kids had when they came into the library, as if I were the one making their lives inconvenient.