Here’s a story I made up, completely fictional, as a practice for boosting my word count for National Novel Writing Month and my confidence level. I read in comedian Chris Hardwick’s book The Nerdist Way that if you were a writer, you should write the hackiest thing ever. Today, I am doing just that, for I thought of the hackiest love story running around in my head that makes me believe…
I’m better at telling better stories or even crappier stories than Twilight whatserface who can’t come up with anything good rather than getting into a happy romantic relationship, film and fairy tale worthy or otherwise.
Here’s the story-
Kids, I’m going to tell you the story of how I met your father. It’s more of a blind transaction story than a love story, because in the end you know that your father and I aren’t doing so well as a married couple.
You see, kids, I was a very desperate woman who lived alone with five cats and no roommates. My cats’ names were Sasha, Talula, Lola, Tink, and Tweedle. I had to take a heavy dose of allergy medicine because I was allergic to them, but I sure as hell loved them more than I loved your father.
But I was very lonely. I went to bars to check out other guys and none of them were really into me. Most of them just stared at my frizzy red hair. Back then it was frizzy because I had very low self esteem and I didn’t bother to wash my hair with conditioner. I didn’t like how it felt anyways, so I always kept it pulled back.
Sadly, I did not meet your father at a bar.
I went to a number of my friends’ parties every year. I wore all my good clothes, I wore costumes on Halloween, and I did everything a normal girl would do when she’s on the prowl for the man of her dreams. Only one guy followed me one New Year’s night and he was too young and he reeked of liquor.
And sadly, I did not meet your father at a party.
I met your father on an online dating site. My ad read at the very top: desperate nerdy cat lady wants a husband. I thought no one would answer my ad and wouldn’t you know it? The ugliest man I’ve ever seen responded.
He had premature baldness in his grimy black hair and a lateral lisp. He also wore glasses and had a knee problem that affected his crooked walk with his feet.
I tried taking him dancing and he didn’t want to. His singing voice was so bad that even the birds died as he sang karaoke. He had a love for awful music: twangy redneck country, hip hop and redundant rappers, and bands with whiny singers who didn’t know how to write. This was the kind of man your father was.
The best thing about him was that he was a God fearing person. I believed in the same things he did and he valued my celibacy so I could afford a good doctor and health benefits when I got a decent permanent job. We worked out just fine together those weeks.
Sometimes I would say, “No one really wants to be my boyfriend or husband,” and your father would say, “Well gosh, I’ll be your future husband.”
But the problem still remained that we met online. I never saw his face until we arranged a time to meet. We finally met face to face at a movie theatre and we had dinner at an Indian restaurant in the next block over.
I learned that your father was actually part Hindu and part Jewish. A Hindjew. His first impression of me was that I was a very nice pretty American lady and his parents might even approve the match. I wasn’t sure what he was going for and why he insisted meeting earlier, but then he told me.
“My parents are forcing another Indian girl on me,” he said. His name was Dehndi, by the way. “If I elope as soon as possible, my parents will have to accept you into my family. So, is it alright if I ask you to marry me right now?”
I wanted to say no. God knows I did. I did not want to get into an arranged marriage so quickly, even though yes, I wanted to find a husband as quickly as possible. I just wanted someone I imagined in my head more than this guy. Someone who looked handsome, drove a nicer car, had no physical problems with him, didn’t want to stay indoors all the time, and was as outgoing and into nerdy things like Doctor Who and Star Trek as I was.
But I said yes out of complete desperation.
We got married in less than a month. He eventually convinced his parents to arrange the wedding for us. I wasn’t even allowed to pick out my own dress, for Dehndi’s mother was so demanding. She was one of those women who smothered her children and loved every girl he went out with. She especially looked out for me most of the time and found her own little ways of trying to get me to change to be just like her.
The day of my wedding, my maid of honor, who Dehndi’s mother picked out (a distant cousin), came in to see me all painted in henna tattoos and in a big sari in the ugliest shade of red I’ve seen in my life. Dehndi’s mother said red was the traditional Hindu color for weddings. I didn’t mind the color too much, but I hated all the jewels and the way the dress hung on me. Worst of all, the dress was so heavy, I might as well have been wearing a curtain around my torso that would fall off to show my underwear any moment.
So the maid of honor began with, “You look beautiful today.”
“I do not,” I said. “I don’t even know why I’m doing this.”
She sat next to me in the bedroom of the Vegas hotel and said, “Believe me, you look beautiful. And if you don’t want to get married today, you can get out of it.”
“I look like an idiot and I hate these slippery fabrics. I don’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has a choice.”
I got married anyway. And when we consummated our love at last, we both realized we were never going to be compatible in bed. We tried and tried to pleasure one another, but I found I still had no love for myself and he couldn’t put any faith in me.
At one point, I found out I was pregnant and I didn’t know what to do about it. I told Dehndi I wanted to keep the baby as long as he’d be the father. We fought for weeks every time he didn’t show up at my prenatal and GYN visits. He even spent entire days away from me.
By that time, I’d had enough. So I went to his workplace and found my husband necking with his secretary at work. For a long time, I cried after that, but he never showed sympathy. Soon, he started packing his things and filing for divorce to go be with his new girlfriend.
I begged him not to leave. I borrowed and bartered with him to stay because I did not want to be pregnant and completely alone. I even told him I tried going to different places, those same places again, and this time no one stared at me in adoration or interest. Every man ignored me, thinking I had a happy marriage and I was trapped in some cage. And do you know what he said to me before he left, suitcase in hand?
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck.”
So I guess I did love your father, even though I said in the beginning that I didn’t. And honestly, all of this happened before you were born. We were married for four months and I am now six months pregnant with one, or maybe two of you. I’m still thinking about whether or not if I should ask my doctor if I’m having a boy, a girl, twins, triplets, or an alien.
Still, I know I’ll have to give you up for adoption because I wanted to have a family with someone, with anyone. But now that I’m too fat and pregnant to go anywhere or do anything that single women in their twenties do, I might as well forfeit my life. I’m glad I don’t even know who you are and I hope I can get a new kitten when I come home after giving birth in the hospital. Or a truck, whichever one’s closer.
This whole thing won’t happen to me, I know. These are really the things I’m afraid of. Gotta keep writing, even if all this crap is hacky.