Girl Walks Into a Bar (11 page)

His response to this question made the phrase “Silence of the Lambs” pop into my head. He told me unequivocally that yes, he definitely was curious and would taste human flesh if given the chance. But it was almost like he was actively seeking out this opportunity. Like maybe, somewhere in his world travels, he’d be lucky enough to discover a restaurant called Cannibals!
Try Our Breaded Human Fingers!

He continued, saying something about how when he would cauterize pigs in the science lab (don’t ask … I never did), the smell of bacon would fill the air and it would make him crave bacon. I think the implication was that when he did procedures or experiments on human cadavers, it made him hungry. I guess I’d have to add “Scientist (Mad)” to my list of Do Not Date professions.

I never saw or heard from Steve again. In hindsight, getting blown off via text was probably a blessing in disguise. And maybe the fact that my back went out was actually a gift. Maybe it’s not that God didn’t want me to date, but rather that God was actually sifting out the bad stuff for me through a divine intervention at Trader Joe’s. I may have narrowly avoided spending the rest of my nights with a man who drinks whole bottles of wine at a table for two, sharing the braised human abs or the triceps risotto.

Body by Shtetl

The experience with Brent
—oh, sorry,
Steve
—definitely put a dent in my morale. He seemed like such a nice guy at the party. In reality, he was just a douche in sheep’s clothing.

The worst thing about this was now I was going to have to “get out there” again, and in terms of “getting out there” I’ve never exactly been one to strut my stuff. When I was in my twenties, I had terrible posture; I was always hunched over, trying to hide my huge jugs. All of my ancestors on both sides of the family come from the same general region, what was then the Jewish area of what is now the Ukraine. That means basically that I am of 100 percent Russian/Ukrainian Jewish peasant stock. You could drop me into any production of
Fiddler on the Roof
, throw a kerchief on my head, and I’d fit right in. (You hear that, Hollywood?! … What’s that, Hollywood? … Nooo, I don’t think there were any lesbians in
Fiddler on the Roof
. Though now that I think of it, Yente the Matchmaker may have tendencies—Oh, forget it, Hollywood!) The point is my body is 100 percent shtetl. This is especially apparent in
my ankles, which are basically nonexistent, and in my huge jugs. I mention this because recently I found a picture of my great-grandmother and her six sisters posing for an Old Country Photo Shoot. I took one look at it and burst out laughing. Each sister in the photo has total shtetl bod, many with their own set of genuine, nature-made Torpedo Tits. No
wonder
I had these boobs; they were of my
people.
but I was still fighting them in my head.

The seven Pick sisters (Great-Grandma Sarah is in the top row, second from the left.)

Back in my twenties, I caught a glimpse of myself on tape at Second City, saw how horrible my posture was, and decided “That’s it! I’m going to stand up straight!” This really happened: About an HOUR after I had that conscious thought, I
was walking down Belmont Street in Chicago. I think I was wearing a white T-shirt, and a guy who was dressed like a seventies pimp, complete with one of those puffy patchwork hats and skinny bell-bottom pants, said to me in a low and slow and creepy voice as he walked by: “Big Tiiiits.”

Blech.

As gross as that was, I wasn’t going to let it deter my posture mission. However, the
very next day
as I was entering the theater, and standing up straight, some guys yelled out of a car, “Nice tits!” Was I in some movie where a character makes a decision, and reactions happen to them
this
fast? I don’t mean good reactions—I mean
this
is why it’s better to hide what you’re packin’ unless you are Ice-T’s wife, Coco, and you want to make a living off of that attention.

The only time I know for sure that I was the object of someone’s illicit fantasies was in a dark movie theater—the Music Box in Chicago. A man entered the theater when the movie was almost over and sat down a few seats away. I had the feeling he was looking at me and then I saw that his hand was going at it. I abruptly hissed to my friend, “That man is masturbating!” and moved my seat quickly. I was pissed because this was the end of the movie, and I wanted to pay attention, and I didn’t have time for this nonsense. This is a pretty run-of-the-mill man-masturbating-in-a-movie-theater story, I know, but what I find unique about my tale is I was watching
Europa Europa
. I had a man whack off to me during the last ten minutes of a Holocaust movie.

No, I could hardly characterize myself as lucky in love. I’m even the only person I know who managed to get a sexually
transmitted disease by having no sexual contact whatsoever. One summer when I was living in Chicago, I went to a cottage with a friend of mine named Alice. Her family had rented the cottage along Lake Michigan up in some little resort town. We spent the weekend there—myself, her dad, some of her siblings. She comes from a huge family. Partway through the day on Sunday, I began to feel some itching in my nether regions. Anyway, I got back home to Chicago and I was on the phone with a friend—not a really good friend, more an outer-circle friend. There was that itching again. While I was on the phone, I took a peek down south and I noticed that there were some little dots on my skin. Yes, I’m still on the phone while this is happening. I pick at one of the little dots and, upon closer examination, I look at it and discover that IT IS MOVING.

BLAAAACGHHH. HEAVE. HURL. I can’t tell this particular person on the phone what is happening, so I am in a gagging panic while trying to carry on a conversation, all the while realizing that somehow, without having had any sex … I got crabs. Welp, if that was going to happen to anyone, I’d vote me.

These were the days before the Internet, so I couldn’t look up what to do. I had to wait it out, through that long and crabby night, until morning, when I could call my doctor, who said, “Now, you’re sure you didn’t have sexual contact with anyone?” Yeah, I’m sure. I mean, does this ever happen to anyone? “Well, I suppose it
could
.” I was a damn medical miracle.

The cottage where we had spent the weekend was quite rustic and it was a rental and who knew what was lurking in those mattresses? Well, I knew. That’s actually who knew. Alice’s family was staying there the whole week, and I figured,
in spite of the embarrassing nature of my news and in spite of the fact that I didn’t know Alice’s family all that well, I should tell them, nay,
warn
them as a sort of “Do unto others” Golden Rule of Pubic Lice. I felt obliged to let them know their whole family was in grave danger of bringing home a tribe of six-legged beasts in their genitals. So I told Alice.

In a highly unsatisfying response, rather than being thanked for my honesty and candor, I ended up being somewhat shamed. She got back to me the next day, saying something oddly vague, like, “Yeah, no one’s had any problems!” in a bright and casual voice. Nothing like, “We thoroughly washed the towels, the sheets; we doused the mattresses with buckets of boiling alcohol; we made a stern phone call to inform the people we were renting from…”—all of the emergency measures I expected to hear about. I could practically hear them sitting around the dinner table. “That dirty slut girl and her crabs! And she’s trying to pass them off on our salt-of-the-earth Midwest wholesome family. Ha-haaaa! Who wants another sloppy joe?!”

Alice’s implication seemed to be that I must have gotten them somewhere else, maybe while I was out ho’ing around, for all her family knew. No, I hadn’t been out ho’ing around—I just had the unique luck of managing to get an STD without any S.

Dating the Fonz

After Horsemeat,
I was still determined to try, try again. I would have to redouble my efforts and turn my Dickhead Filters to their highest settings. You see, I was looking for a
Nice Guy.

I had always had a problem with Nice Guys in the past. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was
my
problem. Well, Nice Guys, hear ye, hear ye: I paid for it dearly. I think it all started in eighth grade. It may be a common teenage girl trait to go for a real asshole. Did I watch too much
Happy Days
as a child? I did have socks with Fonzie on them in fourth grade that were my pride and joy. Did I learn everything about boys from a guy who snaps his fingers and several nameless girls come running to him, not minding that they aren’t the only one and will have the light of the Fonz shining on them only for mere moments? Somewhere in my brain, “nice” did not equal boyfriend material. What was sexy about nice?

In eighth grade, I had my first encounter with a nice boy who liked me. Chris was a gem. To ask me out, he sent me a
singing telegram through some service that would call you up and sing the “telegram” to you on the phone. I still remember the words.

Excuse me if I’m shy

But on you I’ve had my eye

Please accept a date with me

At least give it a try

You know it would be great

If you’d accept this date

Please say yes and I’ll be happy

If you will be my date!

I was flattered, I was tickled. I genuinely
liked
this guy. I called him up and said yes. I think that was the first boy who ever asked me out. Well, except for this guy named Matt in seventh grade. We “dated” for one week until he broke up because I was “spending too much time with my friends.” The funny thing about Matt was, he left our town soon after eighth grade, but when I was at Dartmouth, I saw his name in the class below mine. I asked him—“Are you Matt who used to live in Lexington?” He said yes, but he had absolutely no recollection of me and didn’t seem at all amused by my attempt at junior high nostalgia. I think he gave me a blank stare and a grunt. Throw that onto the Dartmouth pile.

But as for Chris, the first Nice Guy, the Nicest of the Nice—after the singing telegram, I think we were kind of seeing each other, although we had no physical contact whatsoever. This was a simpler time. Or I was just a simple girl. Once we were at
a “boy/girl party”—that’s what we called them back then; these days they are probably called “blow-job parties”—and he asked me if I wanted to “take a walk.” Code for making out. I said no! I knew nothing of making out. I think I was just scared. I didn’t want to. And besides, he was nothing like Fonzie. Where was his swagger, his underlying adolescent boy assholery? It wasn’t there. He played the trombone. He would go on to Haverford.

I know we went on one date. Again, I was terrified. I didn’t know how to be alone with a boy. So what did I do? I
brought a friend.
To the naked eye, I was just being an annoying junior high school girl, but again I was driven by fear. Chris’ dad picked us up and drove me and my friend and him to the Burlington Mall. I think I bought a Wiffle ball.