Technical Difficulties

The Single Mom hasn't posted anything in quite awhile and for this she apologizes. Due to circumstances out of her control, life has been a bit crazy and free time is very difficult to come by nowadays. Thank you for your patience. In the meantime, please enjoy the always funny, always smart and always wonderful posts that The Hipster's provides.

What's in a Name?

Hi, my name is Candy and I'm an alcoholic. When I was 12 years old I was at a party with some privileged high school kids in my neighborhood playing quarters at a dining room table with a cherry finish and smoking More 120's I had stolen from my mother. At some point four members of the high school football team decided I was the one they were going to keep making chug cups of Molson Golden. I held my own for a while, but then things started getting fuzzy. I didn't feel so good so I went into a spare bedroom and crawled under a quilt and went to sleep. When I awoke, I realized #72 was in the midst of taking my virginity. Lucky for me I didn't start getting my period until I was 13.

When I got to high school I decided if I was going to have sex, I was at least going to get something out of it. Occasionally that meant sexual gratification, but more often than not it meant drugs. Weed, hash, LSD, whatever the spoiled brats could get their hands on. When coke was involved, I had no problem pretending to enjoy fellatio. (Sometimes if I was really wasted, I actually did enjoy it.) When you're a long legged natural blond who's smart but just a little flighty and is known to have a wild side, you may not have any boyfriends, but you'll always have a lot of boys.

In college I tried to change my ways, but let’s be honest: once you’re damaged goods, you’re always damaged goods. Most people will always hold the past against you. Before I know it, I'm 25 years old making $400 a week double matting people's provincial art work and keepsakes at a small art studio on Elmwood Avenue. I realize I have to make some changes if I'm going to get anything in this life. Living in a small one bedroom apartment in a cool but dangerous section of town and wearing thrift shop finds and making necklaces out of guitar picks wasn't going to cut it much longer. That's when I decided I was going to become a different person and start spelling my name with an "i."

Candi immediately knew the only way to better her life was to get a man. And not just some loser who drove a Saturn. A man with real earning potential. He would probably have some flaws in the looks department, of course. (Candi doesn't exactly exude aristocracy.) But Candi's a hottie, especially when she wears makeup. (She's done modeling for a prestigious regional publication.) Even when Candi doesn't wear makeup, she has that cute, earthy look when her hair's down or pulled back into a pony tail. And Candi's really good at Scrabble, and even better at Boggle, which totally impresses most guys. (They think it's particularly cute when Candi finds words in French and then feigns like she totally forgot the game was being played in English.) Candi would definitely be a catch for the right guy who was looking for a devoted trophy wife to bear his children and boss him around (sometimes, not always).

Finding "Mr. Right" didn't take very long. Candi just went to a trendy supermarket in the Buffalo area a few times during the week after work and scoped out guys who parted their hair to the side and wore one or more of the following: barn coats, Ralph Lauren button downs, khaki pants, argyle socks, or black loafers. Candi would then check out the contents of their cart. If she saw grocery items such as pasta, jarred sauce, peanut butter, Wheaties, beer and lots of microwaveable products, she knew they were single and not just being "Mr. Nice Guy" shopping for a little honey at home with child. After she identified a candidate, she would pass by him a few times and smile. If he stopped at a particular section, she stopped at that section and said something to start a flirtation. "Why do they call them Grape Nuts if the cereal doesn't have any grapes or nuts in it?" "I love how they put peanut butter in the same container as the jelly now. Like can't people just open two jars?"

Anyway, it took three weeks until Candi met a boy named John. They started their conversation in Aisle 13 - the cleaning supply section - went through the check out line together where they discussed among other things whether a tabloid story about a famous married actor being gay could possibly have any merit (John said I hope not because that's gross and Candi said it's possible but why should it matter) and then walked to her aging Ford Escort in the parking lot. Candi gave him her phone number and said "we should meet for coffee sometime." When Candi saw him get into his gas guzzling Land Rover, she knew he'd be perfect despite the fact he was an inch shorter than her and suffered from a mild case of adult acne. After Candi slept with John on the third date, Candi told him she'd only had three lovers besides him, two of whom were long-term boyfriends. (The actual number was closer to 50, but who’s counting?.) Candi told John that she had never had a drinking or drug problem, she was just someone who partied a lot at one time. Now that she was into yoga and watercolor painting, she didn't miss that lifestyle at all. At some point in the relationship, she tried to persuade John to be more environmentally conscious by trading in his vehicle for a Suburau Outback (but truthfully she really didn't care).

Today Candi and John own a charming four bedroom house on a tree-lined cul-de-sac in an affluent suburban neighborhood with a great school system and lots of boring neighbors who are sleepwalking through life (when they're not cutting their lawns, that is.) Candi has been a stay-at-home mom for four years watching over two kids – Isabelle, four, and Jack, two. Sure, Candi's husband doesn't know the difference between Mark Rothko’s style and Barnett Newman’s, and when Candi wanted to name their chocolate lab Raskolnikov, he had no idea who that was. At least he takes Candi to a nice restaurant every Saturday night while his parents baby sit and on one vacation a year to some place warm. (This year they're going to Disney.) John also works long hours peddling drugs to doctors. This means when Isabelle’s at pre-school and Jack's taking a nap, Candi has time to work on one of her watercolor paintings while listening to NPR or to sneak one of the three Marlboro Lights she has throughout the day. Sure her life could be a lot better, but it could also be a lot worse. If you don't believe me, just ask Candy.

Gone Daddy Gone

Joe Manson started losing his hair during his senior year of high school. A classic case of male pattern baldness if ever there was one. The gene ran in his family, so it's not like he didn't know it was coming. Still, when he started seeing clumps of dirty blond hair clogging the drain after an extra hot 15 minute shower in the morning, it made him feel sick to his stomach, like when his first love, Suzie Jones, broke up with him sitting in the passenger seat of his blue Chevette three weeks before his junior prom.

“I don’t want to be your girlfriend anymore. (Pause) I’m going to the prom with Kurt.”

“But I love you. (Pause) Why are you doing this?”

“Because Kurt’s a varsity wrestler. (Pause) You’re just you.”

Heartbreakers come in all different shapes and sizes. In the case of Suzie, the form was a cheerleader. Not one of the stereotypical, stunning blonde bombshells you see running around in many mindless teen movies, and not a varsity one either. She was just your average looking brunette with a perm and a pear shaped body - someone you could pass countless times and not even notice. Pompons, megaphones, splits, and blue and gold horizontally striped sweaters (tight but not slutty) have a way of making all the difference in the world, even when you’re only on the J.V. squad.

Normally a guy like Joe who wore flannel shirts and black concert T-shirts to school, with tight, faded Levi jeans and construction boots would never stand a chance of landing a girl with a modicum of visibility and status. But sometimes lady luck is on your side. Joe’s best and only real friend in high school was a bespectacled girl named Elizabeth with big dimples and ample breasts (which Joe pretended to never notice) who just happened to be dating a boy named Tim, the starting center on the varsity football team, and Suzie’s older brother. When Suzie needed a date for homecoming in October, which was only three weeks away, Elizabeth and Tim thought it would be oh so cute if she went with Joe.

With some encouragement from them and the proper assurances that Suzie was interested, Joe made out a list of things to talk about on a 3” x 5” card before placing the initial call. Surprisingly, there was an immediate connection between the two, and within minutes the 3” x 5” card which Joe held between his thumb and forefinger was insouciantly propelled with a quick, confident snap of his wrist towards his Realistic stereo that just happened to be playing side two of Rush’s “Signals” loud enough for Suzie to hear. (Joe decided to play side one - the better of the two sides - once the conversation got into a flow. Suzie only recognized one song - “Subdivisions.” She had recently seen the video a few times on MTV.) The next day Joe walked Suzie to all of her classes. At the end of the seventh period he asked her to the homecoming dance. At the end of eighth period he said what the hell and asked her out. When she said yes, Joe had his first girlfriend since Jamie Gilbert in 8th grade. Joe’s biggest fear was that Suzie would leave him after homecoming. She didn’t. In fact, three weeks after that dance they went to a baseball diamond behind a private school near where Suzie lived to make out on the infield grass.

“Do you wanna touch?” Suzie said after about ten minutes, lifting her burgundy Izod/Lacoste pullover windbreaker. Joe moved his hands under her shirt (she wasn’t wearing a bra) and he was suddenly very conscious of the fact his hands were attached to his body. Through the years he had never given his hands much thought, except when he tried to teach himself guitar. At first he approached her breasts cautiously, like he was surreptitiously trying to sample a package of Charmin toilet paper and was worried Mr. Whipple might be peering around the corner. With a little help and direction, he got the hang of things pretty fast.

“You have good hands,” Suzie said after the feeling-up session was over.

“Who else has been up your shirt?” Joe thought to himself. He was Catholic.

Instead of saying that, he just smiled and said “thanks.”

Incidentally, Joe’s hair was completely gone by graduation, which wasn't so bad in retrospect. Along with the fact he played chess regularly during homeroom with a student who was eventually arrested for manslaughter, it was the only thing people remembered about him.

Little White Lie

Sitting on a wooden stool at a trendy coffee shop in Buffalo, I start to eavesdrop on a conversation between an intellectual looking Samoan named Leo who has his hair in a bun on top of his head and a bleach blonde girl in a hot pink sweater named Rose.

I just learn that one of Rose's friends recently passed the bar exam when a bespectacled young man of Indian or Pakistani decent waves to me in the window with a big smile on his face. His white teeth contrast nicely with his dark complexion. Now that he has my attention he points to a nearby mountain bike that's chained to one of the ubiquitous parking meters that valiantly guard our thoroughfare curbs. For a moment I don't know what he wants. Then everything clicks. I feel a rush of excitement, like when I guess the right answer in Pictionary or charades. He wants to know if the mountain bike is mine. It's not, but he looks so hopeful and excited, I’m not sure what to tell him. I hate disappointing people. Even strangers I’ll probably never see again.

It would be so easy for me to simply nod my head in that universally understood sign that means yes, right, yup, uh huh, and so on. It doesn’t cost anything, and no one would get hurt. Sure, technically it would be a lie, but he would feel good, I would feel good for making him feel good, and the world would be a better place because of my altruism.

Then I think of all the bad things that could happen if I say yes. He could come in and ask me crazy questions about the bike, like how many gears does it have, how much does it weigh, or how often do I ride. Then again, he could have one just like it and feel that qualifies us to be friends. No offense to him, but I’m a loner, like Clint Eastwood in a Spaghetti Western or Clubber Lang in Rocky III. Plus, if he wants to go riding sometime, it would really put a damper on things if I showed up with the bike in my basement - a hybrid Huffy 12-speed I haven’t used since 1990. Worse, the person who owns it could walk out of the adjacent book store at the exact moment I’m telling him it’s mine. I imagine the disappointing look on his face turning to contempt as he glares at me for a moment before stalking off. I don’t want to be responsible for the guy losing faith in humanity.

I can see he’s starting to become impatient. His motioning back and forth between the bike and me has become more deliberate and theatrical. He probably thinks I’m slow on the uptake or dense, like fog in the morning or a tropical rain forest. My eyes momentarily drift off to his left where I notice two attractive girls smoking cigarettes. One has a short trendy hair cut, a nose ring and is wearing a puffy black down jacket. I like watching her smoke. The other has curly red hair and no jacket. I think she works at the book store. Her smoking style is a little rushed and her exhales are weak. She could use some pointers from her friend.

Well, this has gone on long enough. I decide to go for it and tell the guy what’s he’s longing to hear by shaking my head up and down and mouthing the words, “Yes, it’s mine.” He smiles and gives me the universal sign for “cool” by putting two thumbs up, and then strides off as happy as a first-time bride.

Now that I’ve done my good deed for the day, I can go back to writing in my black and white composition book and drinking my plain cappuccino in a tiny glass mug with lots of cinnamon on top.