Forever Love

The Plaid Shirt

The Plaid Shirt
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Ashley

The plaid shirt was marked 50% off, and I didn’t have a hard time understanding why. The left sleeve had a tear in the elbow, and I wondered how the sales associates had missed that. However, when I glanced over at the register and saw two raggedy employees, chewing on gum and reading tattered tabloids, it all made sense. A long, red string dangled lazily from the hem of the shirt as I scratched at a glob of dried mud on one of the buttons. I picked it up off the wobbly rack and held it up, tilting my head as if it were a piece of art that isn’t fully appreciated for its astounding beauty until you’ve looked at it a certain way.

It was still hideous. I was just about to place it back on the rack when my friend David popped out from behind a rack of puke green trench coats, probably the most fashionable items in the mom and pop clothing store.

“Hey, Asher. Look at what I found,” he announced as he held up a paid of dapper pin strip pants, a bright blue silk shirt, and a pair of black and white bowling shoes.

“That’ll be awesome for when you go back to the fifties,” I teased.

“Right? I’ll be the life of the swinger’s party!” he played along, winking playfully as he tap-danced his way over to the rack of plaid shirts. “Are you getting that shirt?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied. David draped his arm over my shoulders as I chewed my bottom lip nervously.

“You should,” David said. “Red is a good color for you.”

“You think?” I asked.

“Yeah! How much is it?”

“Five dollars, which is kind of pricey for this shirt.”

David smiled coyly. “What?” I asked apprehensively. I never got an answer, but walked out of the store with David and a dare to attend one of David’s swanky parties wearing my new plaid shirt.

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Franny

The plaid shirt brought back a flood of memories. James would wear it whenever we went camping, and when he wore it after those trips, he would still smell of pine needles and campfire smoke. I loved that, and I loved how James always seemed invincible when he wore that shirt, as if it held some secret power that only he could tap into. His optimistic mood was infectious, and it radiated throughout our small apartment in the city. His usual polished, placid demeanor faded away and he became childlike, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement and imagination.

One night he transformed our balcony into a comfortable fort out of blankets and chairs from our dining room set. He laid out our sleeping bags on the floor, put up the lantern we used for actual camping trips, and made s’mores in our microwave. We stayed up all night talking and licking chocolate and melted marshmallows off our fingers. James told scary stories and I screamed, hiding beneath a large quilt. As he finished each story, he would lower his flashlight and whisper, “It’s alright, Fran, they all lived happily ever after.”

I smiled against his soft lips and repeated, “Happily ever after.”

The day James proposed, he wore that plaid shirt. He didn’t waste time and money to reserve a table at a fancy restaurant, or to dress in a suit he would have had to rent. Everything about the proposal was positively James, positively us. He took me to our favorite camping spot along the Appalachian Trail with just a basket with a few blankets, snacks, and a lantern. When we reached the landing where we usually camped, James spread out the blankets, poured some wine into small, plastic wine glasses, and lit the lantern. We stood on the near the edge of the landing, peering out through the pine trees as the land billowed all around us.

James pointed to a hill nearby, “That’s where we camped last year, remember?” I nodded. “I do, that’s when I got poison ivy.”

He smirked, “And I ran back into town for five bottles of calamine lotion.” He pointed to another spot, this one farther down, where a creek ran through and deer and bunnies usually drank from. “Do you remember wading in that creek a few months ago? It was so hot out.”

“It feels like it was yesterday,” I replied. I turned to face him. “You’re rather reminiscent today.”

“I want to make you remember all the times we’ve had together. I don’t want you to forget these when you make room for more moments.”

“I won’t forget, James.”

“Then you won’t forget today, either,” he replied as he knelt down, pulling a small, diamond ring form the pocket of his shirt and grabbing my hand. “Marry me, Franny.”

We were married the next summer, but we never went back to that landing. The time we always allotted for camping was sacrificed for doctor’s visits and chemotherapy sessions, and the landing where James, though I’ll never forget, would never see the return of the scrawny man in a plaid shirt and the girl that said yes.
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Tab

The plaid shirt reeked of beer, but it was the only clean shirt I had. I was already running late for the meeting, and needed to make sure I caught the bus on time. I drenched myself in a curtain of Axe cologne, but I’m sure that didn’t cover the stench of week old beer, since every time I moved, my nostrils were filled with the awful stink that was my strongest vice. I shot out of my apartment, struggling to buckle my belt and forgetting to lock my apartment door. I ran down the street to the bus stop just as it was pulling up to the curb. Once I was on, I sat down in the only spot left, next to a homeless man who regularly rode the bus and always smelled like dead fish and cigarettes. He probably wouldn’t mind my own stench, but I did mind his.

Fifteen minutes later the bus pulled up at my stop. I practically sprinted off as the bus driver yelled at me to slow down, and ran towards the building halfway down the street. I walked in through the doors to a large lobby with linoleum floors. I looked for the sign that would tell me where to go, and when I did it led me down winding hallways until I reached one at the very back of the building. I walked into the room, picked up a name tag, and sat down on a cold, metal folding chair. A scruffy man, who looked like he could be homeless man on the bus’ cousin, next to me eyed me cautiously for five minutes.

Finally, he spoke up, his voice scratchy and rough, “I like your name.”

“Uh…thanks,” I replied uncertainly.

“They don’t sell that at very many places these days. Fuckin’ bastards.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say next. Fortunately, a tall woman dressed in very expensive looking business attire stood up and called together the meeting. She welcomed members who had come back, praising them for their achievements and milestones. After these individual appraisals were done, she spotted me and smiled, “We have a new member joining us today. I’ll let him introduce himself.”

Clearing my throat, I stood up. I stuck my hands in my pockets and rocked back and forth on my heels. “Um…Well, my name is Tab, and….and I’m an alcoholic.”

The room droned, “Hi, Tab,” and I was filled with an overwhelming, forlorn sense of togetherness and camaraderie, and I suddenly knew that I would be alright.
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Maurice

The plaid shirt was the one thing I couldn’t stand about Lauren. She was wearing it when I ran into her at the grocery store, and if she hadn’t flashed that brilliant smile of hers, I’m sure I wouldn’t have given her a second glance. She worked for a PR agency full time, but this was her day off and she certainly dressed like it was. Her blonde hair was swept into a messy ponytail that sat above the nape of her neck, her wispy bangs hanging over the right side of her face. She bumped into me with her basket as she picked out tomatoes, placing them absentmindedly in the plastic basket. She whipped around and apologized immediately.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s alright,” I replied, falling into the sparkling emerald waves of her round eyes. I picked up a peach and held it up, smirking stupidly, “it’s all peachy.”

Lauren’s face lit up and she let out a laugh, melodious and beautiful. She stared right at me, genuinely tickled by my lackluster joke. She held out her hand and introduced herself to me, scribbled her name on my palm with a pen she had stuck in her ponytail, and told me to call her. I told her I would, winked playfully, and when she walked away, I blurted, “Peas and carrots” as I held up a peace sign with my free hand, which made Lauren laugh once again.

I called her the next day and we talked for three hours before we made plans to meet again. That was the beginning of our two-year, pun filled relationship. I woke up early in the morning one cold, winter day, when the windows were so frosted you couldn’t see past the windowpanes, and the floors were too cold to walk on barefoot. Lauren slept peacefully in my bed as I prepared a lavish breakfast before hiding it in the oven to stay warm. I placed a peach on a small white, porcelain plate and sat on the couch to read the paper until Lauren woke up.

When she did, she sauntered into the main living area, one pant leg of her pajama bottoms rolled high and the other reached down to the floor. She was practically drowning in one of my old shirts and the mess of hair that sat at the nape of her neck. She walked past the couch towards the kitchen, the chair squeaking against the hard wood floor as she sat down at the table. I heard the soft motion of Lauren picking up the peach from the plate, the soft bite into the fruit, and then I heard what I was waiting for: the clink of something metal against the porcelain plate. Lauren gasped as I stood up and walked around the couch to kneel in front of her. She stared intently at the ring on the plate until I picked it up and held it between my thumb and index finger. She looked at me with wide eyes.

“Lauren, I love you so much,” I began. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. ‘Peas’….would you marry me?”

“Oh, Maury,” she siged, tears streaming down her face. I wiped them away, whispering, “Stop, leeking.” She laughed.

Bursting into full-blown sobbing, she threw herself into my arms and whispered, “Yes.”

Watch Out For That--

A Public Service Announcement

Manholes. They're more dangerous than you think. Sitting in the middle of the road or sidewalk, they wait for unsuspecting victims to engulf with their ready, wide mouths. They are an unlikely predator, an unmatched terror in a world full of evils. No one is safe.

I can be the first to tell you that these attacks come swiftly and without warning. One spring day, the sun shining in the bright, azure sky, and the verdant grass blowing in the wind, I had been strolling alone, minding my own business and listening to my iPod. I had finally broken out the capris and the flip flips, and was enjoying the refreshing warm weather after a long, cold winter. It had rained the night before, creating large puddles in the unleveled dips in the concrete.

Since I was wearing flip flops, I tried my hardest to avoid stepping directly into any of the scummy rain puddles. I hated the way my feet slid against the rubber soles of my flip flops when they were wet, and I was determined to keep that from happening today--no matter what.

And then I stood before an incredibly large puddle. It was too big for me to leap over, and it took up the entire width of the sidewalk. My only option was to go around it.

The portion of the lawn this puddle sat in front of just happened to have a manhole along the edge, slanted in a tiny incline from the ground. A convenient set up, no doubt. I took a deep breath and placed my foot on the cover, having done this numerous times before with no problems, and slowly began to shift my weight over to that foot. So far so good.

But as I began to lean forward and continue on my way, something went horribly awry. Within seconds, the cover of the manhole had opened up, and down I went. It all happened so quickly. The fact that I had fallen hadn't even registered in the first few seconds. It wasn't until I looked down to see my left leg dangling in the open hole, my arms on the sides holding me up, as my right leg remained outside the hole.

It didn't hurt that much at first, but my left leg had been scratched slightly from the fall. Not to mention any semblance of self-confidence I once had was now sitting at the muddy bottom of the hole. My first thought, however, wasn't "Ouch" or a swarm of curse words. No, surprisingly, as I looked down at my swinging leg, mud caked on my calf and my pants, what first came to my mind was,

'I just washed these pants!'

'Ouch' wasmy second thought.

Slowly pushing myself out of the hole, I checked to make sure that I had everything. Limbs? Check. Purse? Check. iPod? Check. And thank God for that. If I had looked down to see my iPod in the mud, I would have dove in right after it, no doubt.

Sighing, I tried to wipe all the mud I can from myself before looking at the open hole and the cover sitting next to it.

'Great,' I thought, 'how am I going to move this back on?'

As if on cue, a rather attractive male, around my age, crossed the street to where I was standing. He approached me cautiously, probably never having seen a girl fall in a manhole before. But I couldn't really blame him, I guess.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah." I answered quietly. 'Just my pride is wounded.' I thought to myself.

"That looked painful," he said.

I nodded, thinking to myself, 'And your entrance into this scene has officially made this moment in my life the next teen blockbuster.'

The boy knelt down to move the cover back over the hole. "That's strange that it just came off like that."

"Yeah," I replied, bending down to help him move to cover. I could hardly move it, and I am surprised by the fact that it is so heavy, especially since I had no trouble moving it off before. I made a mental note to do 100 crunches as soon as I got back home.

"Oh don't worry, I can get that."

'If you insist.' I thought, standing up. I made an effort to wipe more mud off as the boy moved the cover back over the hole. "Thanks," I said.

"No problem," he replied, standing up and wiping mud off his hands. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah, thanks."

The boy nods and awkwardly walks back to his car across the street. I imagined him with his friends later that evening, laughing as he told the story of the girl who actually fell in an actual manhole. Go figure.

I turned around and made my way, with a slight limp, back home. I was torn between crying and laughing. It was a scary experience, dangling in that hole, not sure of how I got there. But then again, who falls in a manhole? Rather, how does someone who isn't a Looney Tunes Character fall into a manhole? The entire circumstance seemed unreal, and I took the time on my walk back home to reflect on it.

Winter had been a rough time for me, and I had attributed that mostly to the cold weather. Once the sun had started peeking out of the clouds more, and the days had started getting longer and warmer, I had noticed a sunnier, brighter attitude in myself. There were still some rough days, but for the most part, things seemed to be looking up. I had taken my walk to clear my mind and to meditate. It just goes to show that one minute you can be standing, having just pulled yourself up out of a funk, and out of nowhere you're dangling in a hole in the ground. Life was funny that way. I spent the rest of the night inside, and ever since that incident, I have always gone out of way to avoid manholes, even if it does mean earning some concerned glances in the process.

Bird Watch

It's a bleak day, and the weather is strange for this time of the year, even in Nebraska. The sky is an awful grey color, and it's easily below 60 degrees with the slight wind and drizzle occurring outside. It's a stark difference from the 80 degree weather we had just a few days ago. I’m in my friend Jen's apartment, watching her two month old son, Jacob, for the day. After wandering around a bit while Jacob sleeps in his car seat on the bed in his parents' room, I walk back to the bedroom and stand in the doorway.

As I’m scanning the room, Jacob still sleeping soundly, I hear a rustle of noise behind me. I turn quickly, and examine my surroundings. There is a vent above the door; perhaps it was one of those noisy vents that occasionally make peculiar noises or just simply noisy neighbors. I make a mental note to look for a broom, should I be prompted to emulate the little old lady that no apartment dweller wanted to reside above.

I pivot on my foot, leaning backwards slightly and look up only to discover what had really made the noise. On top of the door sat a small, green, love bird. I was definitely not expecting that. I slowly back away from the bird, which stared down at me with its black, beady eyes, and stood in front of Jacob, whom, conveniently, was still sleeping. There was no telling what this bird was capable of, considering that it had appeared, literally, out of nowhere. I had no idea that Jen had a bird. Chuckling at my luck, or lack thereof, I shake my head and think, "Really? Of all the things to go wrong today and you give me a bird?"

Bending over slightly, so as not to give the bird any incentive to attack for making sudden movements, I pick up my phone, dial Jen's number, and press the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" she answers.

"Hi...it's Kate. Doyouguyshaveabird?" I say the last part as quietly and as rushed as I can, still in complete disbelief of the current predicament.

"He got out? Crap! Alright, well, Rick will have to come put her back in her cage. Is she bothering you?"

"Psh. No…no...not at all. Not yet," I reply.

"Alright, well, Rick should be there in just a minute."

"...OK. Bye."

I close my phone and wait. Again, I chuckle. I was being held hostage by a freaking love bird. Go figure. I sit on the edge of the bed, smoothing down the white duvet cover before picking up my book. I kept a sharp eye on the bird, however, just in case it made any move for the infant. Just when I wasn't looking however, I heard the rustle and bustle of wings flapping, and felt a soft tapping on my head as it flew above me.

'It just came at me!' I shout to no one in particular. Jacob stirred in his sleep, but after a smack of the lips, he fell back into his slumber. The two of us made quite the team.

I look up to see the bird clasping to the curtains with its menacing claws. It’s watching me. I’m watching it. Neither of us is moving. I turn my focus to my book occasionally, still glancing up to make sure the bird was hanging on the curtain.

For the next few minutes, every time I hear the flutter of wings, I lift my book and hide beneath it, prepared to swing at the damn winged creature if it came too close to the sleeping baby. I feel trapped. Still, Jacob sleeps peacefully in his car seat, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath, as he remains unfazed by the war waging around him.

I make plans to take Jacob into his room next door and close the door before the bird can follow us in. We'd be safe there. Before I can make any moves, however, the bird flies from the curtain back to perch on the bedroom door. He knows I'm trying to run. He chirps loudly, a war cry. He is making sure we don't leave, not for anything.

I glare at the door, thinking bitterly, "Birds. They think they're so high and mighty with their wings. 'Ooh, look at me, look at me, I can fly!' Big whoop, I am not impressed, far from it."

I keep my hand on my hard covered book; as if to send a message to the bird saying, "Wanna try me?"

So we sit like that until we hear the jingle of keys. Rick has arrived to save me. And Jacob, of course. Walking into the room, we, or rather, I must have been quite the sight, sitting next to Jacob's car seat protectively on the bed, a book in hand, ready to strike as I glare up at the door.

"Uh...she's not bothering you, is she?"

My face softens. "Oh no...of course not. We're just sitting here...watching TV..."

Rick catches the bird (or, I notice that it jumps onto his out stretched hand obediently) and takes him into the next room to put her in her cage. Sighing, I lean back onto a pillow and whisper, "Crisis averted."

Lo Siento

Well, I did exactly what I promised not to do, and that's neglect my writing/this blog. I will get better, I promise. My whole Sunday writing thing isn't working out so well, unfortunately. Getting up at 4:30 AM just knocks me out and I tend to just go to sleep and not wake up for 12 hours. Anyways, Parts II and III of Prop Str8 are being edited, my BETA reader is just a bit indisposed with school and a novel of her own, so I am just waiting patiently for her. I am finished with one part of another 3 part fiction story, I just need to have it edited, and I'd rather finish the other two parts before I send it off to be proofread, just because I'm OCD like that.

School is going well, it just seems to drag. Work is work, it never changes. I just wish people actually knew how to order their coffee. I guess the bright side of work is that the longer I stay there, the more material I have for my book. Whenever I think I've seen/heard it all, someone surprises me. I have my classes for next semester, and I'm on the wait list for one. Hopefully I can get it, but I'm sure I will, because there's always at least one person who drops.

Now I'm just rambling. There should be an update coming soon. :)

No Touchy

There's nothing like an epiphany on a Monday morning in July. The sweltering heat mixed with the suffocating humidity that usually comes during Nebraska summers can make someone so lethargic and listless that the only thing that can be done on these days is thinking. And my day came, as previously mentioned, on a Monday morning standing behind the counter of a small Starbucks, which occupied the darkest, dampest (in the summer: it was the stuffiest) corner of a midtown grocery store. There was a lull in the flow of traffic of people on their way to work; to their air conditioned offices and bosses clad in black trousers and suspenders, and that lull had left me bored and lonely.

As I stared out at the store, watching people walk in and out, sometimes through the wrong door, a middle aged, grey haired man walked by slowly, catching my gaze and tucking it into the back of his mind as a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He slowed down even more as he waited, with rapt attention, for me to greet him in some way. It came, in a rather acute form of salutation, when I smiled politely before turning my gaze back to the automatic doors in front of me.

"Morning," the man said, taking a step towards the stand in hopes of initiating a riveting conversation with a strange girl he had never met before.

I nodded, groaning inwardly, as I replied, "Morning."

He kept his eyes locked on me as he slowly walked towards the door, which opened and closed as people passed through with carts loaded with groceries for the week. He finally reached the door, and before walking out, he nodded at me and said, "Have a good day."

"You too," I replied, twirling a pen between my fingers as I anticipated his departure. He finally left, and a heavy sigh escaped my lips. There are too many creeps in my life, and more often than not, they're men who are, or close to, the same age as my father. It was just a little too weird for me, the way that man stopped in his tracks, just to get a good look at a twenty year old female who was a complete stranger. I was all for being polite, working in the customer service industry and all, but it was almost as if this man, like many others, had an ulterior motive to his sudden chivalry. I've found that too many times in my life, I've been the object of affection for middle aged men, a stark contrast to the skaters and preps who have stopped by before to flirt with my co-workers. In fact, it happens so much that often I feel compelled to curl up in a ball in the corner of the store. Or hiring a bouncer.

As I am writing this, the Photo Center manager, Marty, walks across the front end of the store, strolling along to his department, a camera bag draped over his brawny and experienced shoulder. Well into his thirties, with a few gold teeth and a laugh like an eighth grade girl, Marty has made a few moves on me in the past, the most awkward moments being the most recent. Just about a month prior to today, I had ventured over to Customer Service, conveniently placed next to the Photo Center, to retrieve some in-store charge slips, which are crucial in order for us to properly charge customers with Starbucks gift cards, since they are not accepted by the computer system the grocery store uses. I waited in line at the counter just as Marty rounded the corner, carrying a few medium-sized boxes.

Noticing me, he had walked up and asked, "What's going on, Katie?"

"We're out of in store charge slips," I stammered, cowering slightly under his focused stare that seemed to last forever.

"Well that's not good, is it?" he finally asked, as I shook my head, ready to dart back to my dark little corner of the store. He walked behind the Customer Service counter and reached into a drawer beneath one of the registers, pulling out a stack of bright, florescent pink in-store charge slips.

"There you go, sweetie, that should be enough for now."

"Thank you," I replied timidly before walking back to my department, having been thoroughly creeped out by Marty's perpetual stare.

Not even a week later, I had been dusting merchandise on one of our shelves in front of the Starbucks counter when Marty walked over, carrying a few small boxes in his left hand. "Laccie brought me a caramel macchiatto, so I brought you girls some animal crackers."

"Oh, thanks," I replied, taking the box with a picture of a train filled with animals on it.

Marty smiled at me and rubbed my arm gently, causing me to tense up immediately. "I gotta make sure my Starbucks girls have something to snack on."

My insides had gone completely bonkers as that familiar red flag in my head sprung up, alert and forewarning.

"Holyshitthisisawkward. Pleasestoptouching. Pleasestoptouching."

Finally, he dropped his hand and nodded, as if reading my mind. "You ladies have a good night."

"You too," I replied as he turned on his heel and walked away.

Standing now at my register, I am reminded of "Creepy Produce Guy", who also walks by as I am writing this secret testimony under the protective cover of the register, and who just can't seem to turn off the "I want you" vibe-for any female walking by him. I am generally safe from him in the little corner we occupy, but I can't stay back here forever. When I passed him on my way to the shelf in the back not too long ago, he had locked eyes with me, smiling suggestively and asking, "How's it going?"

"Good, thanks," I replied, turning towards the shelf quickly in order to escape an awkward conversation. Sighing, I began to step on the edges of the shelf, climbing up in order to find a hidden bag of espresso. Having no luck finding it, I climbed back down, turning my head slightly to glance over my shoulder, only to find the "Creepy Produce Guy" peering through a stack of bread racks to get a good look at my ass.

'Ugh, time to leave,' I thought as I hurried past him before he could make any remark or comment about what he saw. I know I am not alone in thinking he is creepy, however, and I find solace in the fact that many of the female employees are creeped out by him, and that it's not just me. If only the management could see what we saw.

And then there's Jeff. Or Creepy Jeff, depending on who you're talking to. He has been coming to our Starbucks for some time now, yet he only appears when the object of his affection is working on the particular day he choses to grace the store with his presence. I have had the misfortune of being that person on a few accounts, and I can fervently say that I never want to have to endure any of Jeff's advances ever again.

On one day, my co-worker Laccie and I had been, ironically, talking about how we hadn't seen the elusive Jeff for a while. As if on cue, Jeff walked through the automatic doors in front of our little shop in the corner, and had made great strides toward us, a cheeky and confident grin playing on his lips.

Being the braver of us, Laccie remarked, "Well, speak of the devil!"

Jeff gave her an inquisitive look before Laccie explained, "Kate and I were just talking about how we haven't seen you in a while."

Locking his jaw as his eyes darted from Laccie to me, he leaned on the counter and smirked, "You ladies wanna make out to make up for lost time?"

'Gross,' I thought as I looked down, shuffling papers around in order to avoid looking at him. Since that day, I haven't had any run ins with him, and I am counting my blessings every Sunday when I realize that this has been yet another week without having to serve Creepy Jeff.

My most recent endeavor into the awkward realm had actually occurred outside of the store, at my aunt Muirne's house for a family barbecue. With the rare arrival of my aunt Marg from Seattle comes her old boyfriend and long time pal, Tom. It's an awful Catch-22; the excitement of seeing fun, quirky aunt Moogah again is mixed with the apprehension and worry of standing under Tom's gaze. There's not much I can do about it though, being a quiet person who just couldn't carry the weight of knowing I had broken up a twenty year friendship, all because I had been a little creeped out.

So as we pulled into Aunt Muirne's steep, narrow driveway, I was not surprised to see Tom standing in the backyard with Marg. I rolled my eyes and sighed, stepping out of the passenger's side of the car and trudging my way around the back as slowly as possible, enjoying a small taste of freedom from watchful blue eyes.

"Hi, Miss Kate," Marg chirped delightfully as she embraced me.

"Hi, Moogah," I responded, keeping a safe distance from Tom as I welcomed one of Marg's notoriously comforting hugs. Standing awkwardly next to Marg, I answered Tom's questions of how school was going and how I was enjoying my summer. Once there had been a pause in the conversation and he had started talking to my father, I made my way inside the house, where I would be safe at least until dinner time.

When that time came, I had been lucky enough to nab a spot by my grandpa, aunt Marg, and aunt Beth. It had been an enjoyable dinner, as it always is with my family, and we had finally gotten to desert when my aunts and uncles had started discussing a recent local news scandal involving an embezzling nun, that my family knew and believed to be innocent. In the skirmish of getting the table cleared and ready for desert, Tom had somehow found his way into the seat next to mine. As I was momentarily staring off into space, I had suddenly felt a hand wrap around my arm. Looking over, I saw Tom leaning in to whisper, "This is your problem to fix."

Having my mind go blank at this sudden and intrusive touch, I replied, "What?"

Nodding at my aunts and uncles, who were deep in the throes of cursing our archdioceses, he repeated, "This is your problem to fix. Your generation. So fix it, babe."

He had a point about my generation's task, as I was already aware of the issues we were facing, but I was not his babe. And frankly I was annoyed by the way his thumb was grazing my arm. I glanced around the table and noticed my aunt Beth and uncle Steve staring at the hand on my arm, trying to remain as passive as possible, while also shooting daggers at Tom with their eyes. This was getting uncomfortable for everyone (save Tom), apparently.

I chuckled and subtly moved my arm from Tom's grasp. By now, the conversation had reverted back to the family's recent trip down to Missouri, without Tom, thankfully. In the midst of it all, Tom turned to me and asked, "Did you get any ticks?"

"No," I replied, staring down at the plastic tablecloth.

"Why not?"

I shrugged nonchalantly. "I wore a hat."

He leaned in and scratched at my arm, "What about leeches? Did any leeches snatch on when you were in the lake?"

Leaning back slightly as he attempted to imitate leeches, I replied, "Nope."

Dragging his finger along my arm slowly, he continued, "And snakes? Did any snakes slither into your presence?"

I shook my head, looking around the room for someone, anyone, to take notice of Tom's behavior, which was becoming increasingly more inappropriate. "No," I said.

My stand-offish answers weren't causing him to give up, unfortunately. He looked at me one more time before he went back to scratching and tickling my forearm.

"Are you ticklish? Are you ticklish? Tickle, tickle," he squeaked, as if he were talking to my 5 year old cousin Robbie and not twenty year old me.

'I feel so degraded,' I thought to myself as Tom continued to squeak in his patronizing way, trying to get me to launch into a hearty guffaw, often brought on by way of tickling fingers. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't ticklish on my arm. And unfortunately for him, my aunt Muirne, the lawyer, would be hearing about this later. I knew my rights. His behavior was becoming intrusive and I was starting to feel suffocated by his social ineptitude. I imagined myself pushing back my chair, pointing my finger at him while shouting, "NO! TOUCHY!"

This outburst would, no doubt, be followed by a doggy pile tackle by my father, uncles, and male cousins; a genuine Irish brawl. But I knew I didn't have the guts to tell Tom off. Besides, with my grandpa's new wife sitting two chairs down, I figured this family had already filled the drama quota for at least one more year.

So I sat, waiting for a proper segue, as Tom playfully scratched my arm, squeaking, "Tickle, tickle."

Finally, it came, as aunt Marg addressed him, causing him to turn to her, while pointing at me, and say, "Not now, I'm bothering her right now."

Therein lay my cue to leave. I turned towards aunt Muirne and quickly blurted, "I'm going to go upstairs to look at those pictures."

Nodding, she gave me permission to leave the dinner table. I pushed back my chair and, having already cleared my dinner plate, made a bee line for the upstairs bedroom where I know photo albums are waiting for me. I knew I would be safe there. And there I sat, flipping through old photo albums, until my aunt Mydge had come up to check on everyone, while also letting me know that Tom had left and that it was safe for me to go downstairs.

As I trudged down the carpeted steps in the narrow staircase, I reflected on my bad luck with men, in that the only ones that noticed me where the ones that were twice my age. It's a hard fact to face; knowing that the men you're attracting are older, desperate men when what you're waiting for is someone your age, an intellectual with the ability to empathize with the trials that come with young adulthood, and a good sense of humor to boot, like Jonathan, the cute pharmacy technician at the store.

I realize now that, if I do want these advances from older men to stop, or at least become a rare occurrence that I don't have to worry about every time I come to work, then I have to place myself in an environment of people of like mind and age, and come Sunday morning, via the Marketplace Job Ads, I will be throwing myself completely into the task of doing just that. And frankly, it's about time.