When I meet a guy, I always ask myself one thing first, and that is, “How will he get along with my brothers?”
No offense to my brothers, but I ask myself this question not because it is as important to me that they all be best friends, but because my brothers are going to make fun of the poor bastard forever–no matter what. I guess the question really should be, “Can I, or this new man, deal with it?”
Now when I say forever, I do not mean they will stop after a little while. I legitimately mean forever. I learned this 11 years ago when I was 18 and dated one guy in particular, who my brothers still make fun of to this day.
George and I met through a mutual friend, and our first interaction was me sharing an irrational rant about how I wanted to get married and have a family. Thank you to the high heavens, it never happened, because at 29 the thought of getting married and having a family is still terrifying to me. I was reminded of this the other day when I was babysitting my nieces and they were playing with dolls. My 5 year old niece said, “This is my wedding day! And this is my soon-to-be husband Chuck!” She then asked me, “Auntie J, how old should you be to get married?” to which I responded, “Well, I am 29 and not married.” She looked at me and after some thought decided, “I think I will be 23….”
I immediately texted B to share this story with her, saying, “At 29 I am still terrified of marriage, especially if it is to a man named Chuck”
I am glad I have grown up since I was 18, because I do not think the names Chuck or George would be acceptable for my future husband!
Anyway, after our first night out, George and I went out once or twice more before we broke up–the first of 8 break ups that would occur over the next couple of years. We never had a very healthy relationship, and looking back he was such an asshole. Evidence to support this conclusion are the time he told me I needed to lose weight, or when he told me that I was not allowed to have fun unless he was with me–and he was very serious.
We had good times, too. You know, like when I would go to his house–and by “his house” I mean he was 24 and we would go to his bedroom in his parents basement–and play Guitar Hero. If you’re thinking we would go there and do other things, you are mistaken, because even though I had lost my virginity, he had not, and the most intimate we would get was the romance of hand jobs and dry humping.
Then there were his sisters. I think they may have actually been sent from the devil. The night I met them I had come down with the flu, but George would not let me cancel, so we go get cheap pizza at the bowling alley, which I immediately dropped on the floor because I did not have strength to hold it when it was handed to me. His sisters thought it was because I was a moron, and rolled their eyes at me. Thanks. Even once they knew I was sick, they did not care. They thought I was rude and for the next 2 years were never nice to me again.
Ever since that experience, if I am dating someone and they tell me they have sisters, I am instantly terrified, and I vowed that day to never be “that” sister to my brothers’ wives! I have certainly failed at that at times, but once I remember George’s sisters I try to straighten up!
As if his sisters didn’t suck enough, there were his parents. The traveling team of truck drivers with the class of hillbillies and attitudes worse than their daughters. They hated me as well, and come to think of it, I have never had a good relationship with any of my boyfriends parents. Maybe the trend was set by George’s parents.
For whatever reason, George and I continued to date, then we’d fight, then we’d break up, and then we’d date again. He worked days in a department store and I worked nights as a server, and we lived an hour away from each other which did not help our already terrible relationship.
The first nickname he received from my three brothers was, “Johnny Cash” which he earned because he wore all black to work every single day. That is a nickname that I could have lived with, however my brothers are never ones to disappoint, and eventually came up with something they thought was better–meaning I thought it was worse.
George and I finally reached the end of our relationship after a few breakups that looked something like this:
- He sent me a text and broke up with me.
- We got back together and then he picked a fight with me about my job, on my birthday, and refused to see me that night.
- I broke up with him and gave back everything he’d ever given me, and he gave me back my stuff.
- We got back together, un-returned each other’s stuff, and then he once again broke up with me and threw all of my things in the dumpster
That should have been it. That end would’ve been unclassy enough. But if that was the end, George never would’ve gotten a nickname upgrade.
He started trying to get me back. We never did, however that wasn’t for lack of trying on his end, cause he started to stalk me. I did not know it at first, but he would sit in the cul de sac across the street from my house and watch me. I found out once he wrote me a 6 page letter and showed up to my place of employment.
I pulled up to work one day and saw him sitting in the parking lot. I hoped he would get the hint that I did not want anything to do with him when I walked right by and went in another door. He did not. He marched into the restaurant and proclaimed he would not leave until he gave me the letter. A co-worker asked if he should call the cops, to which I said no.
It’s a little ironic that this co-worker who was trying to protect me is now in prison for murder.
George sat in the parking lot for the entire afternoon and finally left, but only after he had 2 dozen long stemmed roses obnoxiously delivered to my work. I remember when I got home and gave the flowers to my mom and told her and my dad about my ridicuolous day, my Dad said two things:
- “If he pulls something like this again, I will call the cops and get a restraining order.”
- “If someone ever brings you flowers again, and you do not want them, give them to me first and I will give them to your mom as if they are from me!”
After that night, George and I were finally over, but the damage had been done. He earned the nickname Creepy McDavis, and my my brothers have never let me forget that past bad dating situation even today. Out of fear of their ridicule, one would think I would improve on picking out potential men, however based on the many stories I have shared, and the ones that will continue to come, it is clear that I did not learn from this situation!
With love, J!