It's really tough to figure out when someone is stalking you. All morning, my friend and I have been on the phone. Talking about good stuff like her french onion soup recipe that turned out great, some boys we remember from back when we were girls. New jeans she got for $2 at the Goodwill that make her legs look super long. And then she gets a text from an ex. Another text from this ex.
The two of them broke it off months ago - in fact, he was the one who broke things off before he realized she was an excellent catch. She's moved on as people do. And he just won't let it go. At first it was just sending her texts every day, stupid poems about how much he missed her and telling her to 'touch the ocean and feel my heart beating beside you.' Which just goes to show he wasn't much of a loss. Sidenote : I never liked this dude. First of all, he was too old for her. He said he was 50 years old but I'd like a gander at that birth certificate. He looked like the guy in the painting in Ghostbusters 2, Viggo,the one who wants to take over the world. Also he was a bad guy in Die Hard. But I digress.
He wasn't just physically too old, but emotionally. While also managing to be simultaneously too immature for her. He could never keep a job, was a terrible father to his grown-up kids.
I remember once he told me 'If my kids don't side with me in the divorce (Oh, he also wasn't divorced yet) I'll be like a ghost, I'll be gone. I'm using these kids in the divorce to get what I want.' Which is perfect, since that's exactly what all the experts recommend, right?
Anyhow, he was texting her all the time and we all said Ignore it. It's no big deal. But then he started calling her sisters. In fact, once he even parked outside her sister's apartment overnight, chain smoking and watching the door. That was creepy. My friend called him to say Get a hold of yourself and his response? 'Hi Baby, how are you. I miss you...' Jesus.
Then he started calling her very pregnant sister at her office, pumping her for information and upsetting her. The texts kept coming, except this time her new fiancee started getting them on his cell too. She threatened to call the police. The texts kept coming. We thought I should maybe go over there with a baseball bat and rough him up a little, but figured he would just love the attention. So she just kept ignoring him. Ignore, ignore, ignore...
Until today. Because c'mon, enough is enough. I told her to call the police. She hesitated. It's just texts, what are they really going to do? Does she want him getting in trouble with the law over something so small? Except is it that small? Is it? She said to me 'Do I really need to call the cops because someone is texting me too much?' and isn't that just so convenient for him, the way we can minimize it. Our problem is, we laugh everything off. When he was stalking her sister, we laughed about it. When he called her boyfriend, we laughed. On account of how ridiculous he looked. We laughed like we did in high school. Except it isn't high school. We have families now, she has a daughter and a fiancee and a new life she's trying to build in another province. She's trying to open the next door and walk on through but he has this firm grip on her wrist, keeping her between the two doors and she can't get away. She's having nightmares, panic attacks. She's never free of him. And it's not that funny. It's scary.
I wish I could be there when the police go to his door - and by the way for any of you going through the same thing, ten minutes of phone calls to the police and there you have it. You've got official back up. I hope they scare the shit out of him. I hope he slinks back to his parents' house with his tail between his legs and never calls her again. So we don't have to talk about him anymore.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
The Mirror Has Three Faces
(You know how people like to share the good news about cheap gas? Like how just the other day it was on for 116.2 at Zehrs? Well, I just found another good mirror. Sportchek - I just spotted myself in an accidental mirror, make-up free and I didn't scream. Go on and get yourself an ego boost.)
There is simply no such thing as an absolute mirror. A mirror you can trust to reflect you back to you. You can go from one mirror to the next and the next and look like a completely different person at each one.
Far be it for me to insinuate that there could possibly be a mirror conspiracy. No, no not at all. It’s not as though I believe faulty mirrors were invented by the same diabolical masterminds that brought us fat free cream cheese and Angelina Jolie’s lips. It could very well be several different diabolical masterminds, determined to make us feel atrocious and therefore sell us whichever Thigh Masters, lotions and lip-plumping lip gloss they are selling. Although...okay, maybe not the Thigh Master. Chrissy from Three’s Company invented that one and I don’t think she’s in danger of being called a diabolical mastermind.
I’m assuming it’s something to do with the glass. Or the way it’s treated or something. I don’t know why all the mirrors of the world are different but I do know this – I have three mirrors in my house within ten steps of each other. A vintage mirror in my bedroom, mirrored closet doors beside my bed and a bathroom mirror. I wake up in the morning, roll over to face the mirrored closet doors and see a hag lying in my bed. A hag wearing the pyjamas I wore last night. Her hair stands up on end, her face is rumpled and old from sleep, and she has a decidedly fleshy arm the size of a normal person’s thingh sticking out from under my covers. We glare at each other and climb out of bed. Then I turn to see myself in my vintage mirror. Here I see a faded, sepia-tinged reflection. Like a lost woman from the nineteenth century or a plain-faced ghost. I always feel a little sad when I see this reflection, and wonder if I said ‘Bloody Mary’ into the mirror five times this version of me would climb out of the mirror, fingers curling around the frame, to hack up my whole family.
Then I head into the washroom for my morning ablutions and voila! I have managed to lose fifteen pounds in ten steps, my normally sallow skin has a healthy glow and my face is practically line-free. But you know what? This super-flattering mirror (exclaimed over by many a friend in need of a pick-me-up) is the one I never trust. Surely that is not how I look. That is not how I feel, so no way right?
Sometimes I head out shopping to find myself a neutral mirror and Oh Boy, is this ever a bad idea. Certain mirrors are rough – Sears has terrible lighting, Reitman’s mirrors seem a little condescending and Le Chateau....I’ve been snubbed by the Le Chateau staff too many times to even try their mirrors again. Shame though. Cute shoes in there.
The worst, as any girl can tell you, are accidental mirrors. You know what I mean – when you don’t realize there is a mirror to your left and you glance over to catch a glimpse of yourself before you even have a chance to suck in your stomach or tilt your head fetchingly or anything. These are probably the most honest mirrors out there – but does anyone ever need this much honesty?
Which means we never really know how we look, not really. Pictures are the same as faulty mirrors. Your friends love you so it’s not like they are going to say, ‘Oh my God Jen – do something about your face! You look so washed out!’ My son Nathan is pretty good at telling me when I look bad (once when I wore too much make-up he told me I looked like Queen Amidala from Star Wars. If you don’t know who she is, look her up. Ouch), but he’s never in any rush to tell me I look good. Which means, I suppose, that I’m going to fumble around in the dark forever, never knowing how I really look.
The good news is, though – so are you. We’re in it together.
Far be it for me to insinuate that there could possibly be a mirror conspiracy. No, no not at all. It’s not as though I believe faulty mirrors were invented by the same diabolical masterminds that brought us fat free cream cheese and Angelina Jolie’s lips. It could very well be several different diabolical masterminds, determined to make us feel atrocious and therefore sell us whichever Thigh Masters, lotions and lip-plumping lip gloss they are selling. Although...okay, maybe not the Thigh Master. Chrissy from Three’s Company invented that one and I don’t think she’s in danger of being called a diabolical mastermind.
I’m assuming it’s something to do with the glass. Or the way it’s treated or something. I don’t know why all the mirrors of the world are different but I do know this – I have three mirrors in my house within ten steps of each other. A vintage mirror in my bedroom, mirrored closet doors beside my bed and a bathroom mirror. I wake up in the morning, roll over to face the mirrored closet doors and see a hag lying in my bed. A hag wearing the pyjamas I wore last night. Her hair stands up on end, her face is rumpled and old from sleep, and she has a decidedly fleshy arm the size of a normal person’s thingh sticking out from under my covers. We glare at each other and climb out of bed. Then I turn to see myself in my vintage mirror. Here I see a faded, sepia-tinged reflection. Like a lost woman from the nineteenth century or a plain-faced ghost. I always feel a little sad when I see this reflection, and wonder if I said ‘Bloody Mary’ into the mirror five times this version of me would climb out of the mirror, fingers curling around the frame, to hack up my whole family.
Then I head into the washroom for my morning ablutions and voila! I have managed to lose fifteen pounds in ten steps, my normally sallow skin has a healthy glow and my face is practically line-free. But you know what? This super-flattering mirror (exclaimed over by many a friend in need of a pick-me-up) is the one I never trust. Surely that is not how I look. That is not how I feel, so no way right?
Sometimes I head out shopping to find myself a neutral mirror and Oh Boy, is this ever a bad idea. Certain mirrors are rough – Sears has terrible lighting, Reitman’s mirrors seem a little condescending and Le Chateau....I’ve been snubbed by the Le Chateau staff too many times to even try their mirrors again. Shame though. Cute shoes in there.
The worst, as any girl can tell you, are accidental mirrors. You know what I mean – when you don’t realize there is a mirror to your left and you glance over to catch a glimpse of yourself before you even have a chance to suck in your stomach or tilt your head fetchingly or anything. These are probably the most honest mirrors out there – but does anyone ever need this much honesty?
Which means we never really know how we look, not really. Pictures are the same as faulty mirrors. Your friends love you so it’s not like they are going to say, ‘Oh my God Jen – do something about your face! You look so washed out!’ My son Nathan is pretty good at telling me when I look bad (once when I wore too much make-up he told me I looked like Queen Amidala from Star Wars. If you don’t know who she is, look her up. Ouch), but he’s never in any rush to tell me I look good. Which means, I suppose, that I’m going to fumble around in the dark forever, never knowing how I really look.
The good news is, though – so are you. We’re in it together.
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