Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me

by Ben Karlin

  The list of things so familiar to me but not actually tangible in my life stretches on, from that ball that should have been kicked in the net, to the solo I should have played, to the whopping check from Aunt Esther in Bayside that should have been deposited in my bank account on my thirteenth birthday. Topping the list, however, is love, or dry humping, or both; the magical friction of preadolescent groins grinding against each other through tighty-whiteys and dress pants and skirts hiked up awkwardly but erotically, an elated carpet burn feeling after. Not that I’d know, me with my pants so high up (the socks thickly bunched around my ankles) and my otherworldly knowledge of R. A. Salvadore dark elf fantasy and the sand wyrms of Dune.

  But I could know, with the right sort of girl! The kind who wears her acne like a badge, who listens to Moxy Fruvous and wears Doors T-shirts with the logo in Hebrew, who naturally gives off a rank smell I’d recognize years later as patchouli. She is apeshit crazy. She demands to know if breasts would be as attractive to me if they were located on girls’ stomachs instead of their chests. She watches The Rocky Horror Picture Show while talking about purchasing vibrators. She honks and snorts when she laughs, which she does at inopportune moments—moments of death or respect, though never moments of piety. She is deeply connected to her Jewish faith. She might just have a crush on me. I’m not entirely sure what it means when someone pins me to a couch and force-feeds me Twizzlers faster than I can chew them, red bits of licorice tumbling out of my furiously chomping jaws. She might like me, but that’s not enough. I must win her love to make up for all the bar mitzvah after-party dry humping I’ve missed; for the goals, guitar leads, all of it. For vindication.

  I, of course, can’t do this by flowers or serenading, by movie tickets or even alcoholic social lubricant, because I know I’d fail at any of these endeavors. I’d go to a flower shop, spend ten minutes deliberating what to buy, and then give up and go home and cry into my pillow. I know the “opposites attract” adage, but being normal is impossible. So I pray that some wise man on a mountain plateau somewhere has another aphorism, “identicals attract.” This will yield a love, preferably carpet burn-y. I will win her not by following the well-trod traditions of civil courtship. I can’t quite do things normally, but I certainly can be weird. Her crazy and my derangement will spark and titrate and she’ll be mine in all of her oddball glory.

  At least this is what I hope as I assemble by the buses at the end of school. I’m half-invited to my crush’s house and accept wholeheartedly (half-inviting myself, completing the invitation). To complicate things, two others are accompanying us to my crush’s house. Or, truthfully, I am accompanying them, since they were invited wholly, no halves. One of them asks me, “So why are you always looking down?” I respond slowly, almost quizzically, “So I don’t have to see you?”

  I get into her babysitter’s car. The drive to Westchester is all undulating hills and bushy trees. When I get there, I get out of the car, but spend twenty minutes in her driveway on scooters and skateboards. Eventually my crush gets bored, and decides to head into the basement, full of colonoscopy bags from her mother’s practice. I sit on one of two brown velvet love seats. One of the other two tries to sit down with me. I shoo him away. They can sit on the other love seat.

  My crush sits on me. She does not sit beside me in the open seat, not even on the arm of the love seat, but on top of me. She motions for Twizzlers, which I am then force-fed. This is the woman for me, I think. This experiment will succeed. Love will precipitate. But we are interrupted by the babysitter, who tells everyone to get into the car again. She forgot to pick up my crush’s little sister.

  I am now idling in the SUV, across from the elementary school. I watch children wait for their parents. My heartstrings twang as my crush moves from the backseat, past the middle row, and into the front seat, where she can operate the stereo. Her breasts may have brushed my shoulder. This is love, I think. Maybe I should just take that elated tidbit and be content with it, but I am emboldened, ready to be apeshit crazy. Any moment now I’ll jump into action, do something. Anything. Only problem is, I don’t know what.

  I fidget nervously as the other two, classic rock buffs, debate with my crush the merits of Ozzy Osbourne. I can feel every written word I’ve ever read about rock, about even just guitars, fade from my mind as I grasp for one liners about Led Zeppelin. As I haw about I watch one of the two make a move on my crush, putting an arm around her shoulder. I feel desperate. Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train” rises from the speakers. Suddenly I’m stricken by the fear that my time to be apeshit crazy may be passing. I look around for opportunities and see a dog, what looks like a terrier-size German shepherd, squatting smack dab in the middle of the road—like, haunches at forty-five-degree angles to the yellow stripe, tail hovering parallel above it. The owner stands by, oblivious to whatever traffic might come along, fine with his dog brazenly defecating in the middle of the street. I fail to note a pooper-scooper in his hand. My crush and the flirtatious other are discussing whether Tony Iommi or Randy Rhoads was the better Ozzy sideman. I see vindication on the horizon. I think of one of my least favorite sayings, one goading me to action, any sort of action, before I lose my chance. Now or never.

  I jump out of the SUV and begin running towards the dog. Everyone in the car watches, which encourages me. I will try and win over my crush by yelling at a dog in the middle of the street to stop defecating. I shriek “Stop crapping!” twice. I then bellow at the dog wordlessly, letting it know my sheer outrage that a dog would crap in the middle of the road. I am hoping this appeals to my crush’s own inscrutable sensibilities. It was the best I could come up with.

  My request succeeds as the dog, astonished, stops defecating and looks at me. Then the dog decides, as my crush is deciding, that I am a crazy kid, not in the fun way, but in the way that crosses the line, the awkward line that is painful to watch. The graceful avert their eyes and sigh. The chill of humiliation causes me to turn around, away from the dog and the man who is now demanding to know what I am up to. I heave a flimsy curse in his general direction and then walk briskly back to the SUV. I want to run, but need to walk in an attempt to salvage some, any, dignity.

  It didn’t work.

  Before I despair, though, now that it’s over, how bad was it really? How deep in my skin did it embed? It shouldn’t have burrowed much, being a relatively minor event in that (a) while my love may have been spurned, she was perhaps too crazy to begin with or not crazy at all, and (b) it was embarrassing, but in front of a relative few. Three people aren’t a big deal. Of course, my mind is infested with fears of “what if they tell someone,” but for once I relish my anonymity within my school, my neighborhood. This invisibility gives me a grace period, to metamorph or incubate or simply jump from one point to another, to the socially viable person who can’t remember how it happened and doesn’t quite believe their own transformation. Besides, even if I insist that being horribly awkward and always rejected is my fate, I know that whole subcultures have sprouted for such people; depression is fetishized, commodified, gentrified even, and though being attached to a bunch of macabre-worshipers isn’t a great idea, it might be nice to have some community. It might help.

  We pick up the sister and drive back the house. Trying to redeem myself, I wait for someone to talk to me in the car, or in the driveway, or in the kitchen. No one does. I call my parents, who do, and on top of that will also come pick me up. Thank God for parents. I leave the house without anyone noticing, departing their world leaving as little mark as I did coming in, besides, of course, for a slight depression on the love seat in the basement.

  Lesson#41

  Dating a Stripper Is a Recipe for Perspective

  by Patton Oswalt

  Sometimes love goes wrong because your partner changes. Sometimes it fails because you change. But, more often than not, love fails because you stop appreciating what you’ve got. You grow complacent and bored. Quirks become annoyances. Thrills become chores. No
velty becomes drudgery. Who wants “safe” forever? Someone who will cherish you, understand you, grow with you, understand the areas where you don’t mesh and react to that gulf with maturity and understanding—these are exactly the kind of people you become disenchanted with, and then leave, and then feel like a to-the-bedrock bastard for abandoning.

  Sure, your journey of togetherness starts off all sprinkles and buttons. But even the sweetest apple plucked from the tree of love can become a rotted, flyblown failure full of disease, maggots, and yelling.

  Yes, when love goes bad, it can fill an apple with yelling.

  So how would you feel if I told you I can guarantee you a stable, healthy relationship? The kind of deep union wherein, upon waking each morning, you murmur a humble thanksgiving for the gift of eternal companionship, support, and love that’s appeared in your life. And you never get bored. And you always appreciate it. Always. Always. Always.

  The answer is quite simple, really. Date a stripper.

  Strippers are our country’s most precious resource for keeping people together, and humble, and happy. Forget about counseling. Forget about that weekend retreat to Sedona. And forget about self-help books featuring any of the following words: Secret, Code, Steps, Life, Love, Power, Triumph, or Borderline Personality Disorder.

  Doubt me? Take these paired examples as all the proof you need:

  Arguments

  My wife at her worst:

  Sometimes yells. Sometimes conflates one mistake I’ve made into a global condemnation of my character. When I point this out, she relents, laughs at herself, and apologizes.

  My stripper ex-girlfriend at her best:

  CHIVAS [her stripper name, not her real name]: You didn’t introduce me to your friend.

  ME: Whuh? [It’s 4:17 a.m., and she’s woken me up.]

  CHIVAS: Two days ago. When we were on Larchmont and those people you knew came up. There were three of them and you only introduced me to two.

  ME: Mike and Millie? Those were the only two I knew. I didn’t know the third person, so I didn’t know his name—it was a friend of theirs.

  CHIVAS: WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING WITH THAT MOTHERFUCKING MIX TAPE, YOU FAGGOT?

  ME: What?!

  CHIVAS: (Louder, over the sound of her two pit bulls, both of which are now furiously barking) I HATE ROXY MUSIC!

  ME: What . . . what . . . wait . . .

  CHIVAS: You think I like listening to that shit? Make a different fuck mix.

  ME: Uh . . .

  CHIVAS: Is that why you didn’t introduce me to your gay friend on the street?

  ME: What the fuck are you talking about? Why are you waking me up now?

  CHIVAS: My dad molested me and my dogs hate you.

  Finances

  My wife at her worst:

  Buys a lot of, in my opinion, overpriced skin care products.

  My stripper ex-girlfriend at her best:

  CHIVAS: So, you’re going to start work in a movie next week?

  ME: Yeah. It should be fun.

  CHIVAS: I need to borrow some money.

  ME: What for? You okay?

  CHIVAS: My landlord is a Nazi Hitler.

  ME: What’s wrong?

  CHIVAS: He’s all like, “You haven’t paid rent in five months, and if you don’t cough up the money, I’m going to be a total Hitler and padlock your apartment.”

  ME: Why haven’t you paid your rent?

  CHIVAS: WHAT ARE YOU, MY DAD?

  [bark bark bark bark bark bark]

  Your Chance to be a Hero

  My wife at her worst:

  Sometimes sleeps until noon, depressed about a writing project that’s stalled, and needs reassurance about her skills.

  My stripper ex-girlfriend at her best:

  CHIVAS: Where the fuck are you?

  ME: I’m, uh, at work. It’s Tuesday and I’m at work like I always am.

  CHIVAS: The police in El Segundo are goddamn Nazi Hitlers.

  ME: Oh.

  CHIVAS: I need bail money.

  ME: Holy shit, what happened?

  CHIVAS: They let these old ladies with Alzheimer’s disease drive school buses in El Segundo.

  ME: Oh shit.

  CHIVAS: And this bitch blocks the intersection suddenly, like out of nowhere, and now the front of my car is mulched and CAN YOU FUCKING GET DOWN HERE?!

  SHERIFF IN BACKGROUND: Language.

  CHIVAS: Oh, bite my clit you Naz–

  Phone is hung up for her.

  Extended Family

  My wife’s family, at their worst:

  Typical kookiness and social awkwardness, alleviated by genuine charm, love, and understanding.

  My stripper ex-girlfriend’s family, at their best:

  ME: You feeling okay?

  CHIVAS: Yeah, sweetie.

  ME: It’s just that . . . I want you to know I’m here for you, and especially afterward, if things are uncomfortable. We can talk.

  CHIVAS: What’re you talking about?

  ME: You know, what he did to you.

  CHIVAS: And what exactly did he do to me?

  ME: You said he molested you.

  Chivas’ father and his new girlfriend, who’s younger than Chivas and looks almost exactly like Chivas, enter the Sizzler where we’re meeting for dinner.

  CHIVAS: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHEN THE FUCK DID I SAY THAT?

  ME: Last n—

  CHIVAS’ DAD: What’re you hollerin’ about, doodlebug?

  CHIVAS: He says I told him you fucked me!

  CHIVAS’ DAD: That was a nightmare you had! We agreed! [To me] Who the fuck are you?

  CHIVAS: Who’s this bitch?

  CHIVAS’ DAD’S GIRLFRIEND: Cowgirl with a bomb-ass pussy, that’s who.

  Chivas throws pepper mill at no one.

  What it’s All About, in the End

  My wife at her worst:

  Has taught me the past is dead, the future is uncertain, and all we can truly know, or come close to knowing, is the present.

  My stripper ex-girlfriend at her best:

  If you go down on a girl, or leave her a note saying you miss her, or don’t pay her rent, you’re a faggot.

  It only took two months of me dating a stripper to appreciate what a miracle my wife is. And I didn’t meet my wife until three years after my stripper girlfriend’s final, typo-heavy text message saying she was flying to “arJenteena” with a “music band.” “Watch out for all the Nazi Hitlers!” I furiously texted back. Alas, she was gone.

  I’d like to think she’s still out there, perhaps not in arJenteena, but somewhere else, Bolivia for example, giving some other poor fool a lesson he will never forget, and mentioning casually, in her own off-handed way, that her dad may or may not have molested her.

  Lesson#42

  Sometimes You Find a Lost Love, Sometimes You Don’t

  by Bob Kerrey

  In January 1961 at the beginning of my final semester of high school I put a photograph of a woman I loved in my wallet for the first and last time in my life. She had just won a skating competition. Head back, hair cut short, and smiling. She was beautiful but something about her captured me beyond her raw beauty. Nothing quite matched the spark, which arose between me and my girl, skating across the ice. The only problem was I had cut the photograph from The Lincoln Journal sports page. I had fallen in love with a total stranger. A very pretty one at that.

  There wasn’t much detail in the story accompanying the photo other than she was sixteen, a year younger than me. A month later she was featured on the front page of Sports Illustrated as the most promising U.S. female skater. Inside I learned that her older sister and both her parents were skaters and that her father had died when she was seven. I learned she was planning on attending college in the fall. Later, I learned—as I prepared to write about this lost love—that she and her mother had purchased several copies of Sports Illustrated right before boarding a plane bound for Brussels where she was to compete in the World Champio
nships.

  As it turns out, a wallet is the least safe place to put valuables. I didn’t hold on to the photograph long. That summer my wallet fell into the warm water of a sandpit lake along the Platte River. The physical image was gone but the memory of her face has stayed with me to this day.

  I thought of her when Darrel, one of my best friends, recently called to tell me about finding his lost love. Impressive, since Darrel is eighty-seven years old. His first wife died shortly after they celebrated their fifty-fifth wedding anniversary. His second divorced him after three years because he didn’t act his age; he likes to swim in Puget Sound with the otters early every morning. (What is the proper age for early-morning swims with otters anway?)

  The divorce depressed him and he began seeing a shrink “for the second time,” he told me. Before long he was feeling better except that he was dating women who were in their thirties. I should say “because” he was dating women in their thirties. The shrink asked him about his past love life and Darrel told him about falling in love with his nurse when he was in the hospital for gallbladder surgery during the summer of 1963.

  “That was when I went to a shrink for the first time. I asked him how much it would cost to talk me out of this [affair]. I did not want to destroy my family. I never saw her again.”

  For a man in love there are no more terrible words than those. I’ve uttered them too. In 1963 I called my girlfriend at the beginning of my third year in college. Her mother answered the phone and told me Sherry would not be coming back to school. “She’s not Sherry Morse any longer; she’s Sherry Poole. She got married this summer.” I never saw her again. I would hope, if that were to happen now, I would at least get an e-mail.