My Artichoke Heart
When I was a freshman in high school, before I hooked up with Alex, my now husband, I had a wonderful boyfriend. He was sweet, sexy and oh so kind. When we kissed I went weak in the knees and when I saw him or when he called me my heart did flip flops and my stomach got that delicious butterfly feeling. At the time I was attending a private Catholic all girls school with girls who had real problems, such as, “Should I have my daddy buy me a Mercedes or a BMW for my 16th birthday? “ I was depressed and out of place. I tried very hard to hide, but this boyfriend was very intent on getting to know me, the real me. I had only one pair of pants, and they were filled with holes. I wore the button down shirts that were left over from my Dad’s career as an electrical engineer. My mom had kept everything after he died. He had a few nice cardigans, and I was sorry that his pants didn’t fit me in any way shape or form. I wore his old boxers and undershirts, as he called them, around the house. My mom really shut down after her husband’s death. Truth be told, she gave up on everything from parenting to cooking. After so many years in a hostage like situation I was free, and I had no idea what to do with that freedom.
After school my boyfriend would call me. My mom had used some delivery service to get cases of a few foods delivered. We had boxes and boxes of Wheaties and Cheerios, and the cupboards were filled with cans of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. Everyday when I got home I would heat a can of soup even though I knew then that I wanted to be a vegetarian. I couldn’t stomach another bowl of those two types of cereal, and we never had milk. After a few weeks of phone calls my boyfriend would say, “Let me guess, you’re eating chicken soup and your mom is watching Mary Poppins.” It wasn’t even a question as the TV blared Mary Poppins and when you’re talking to someone with “Spoon Full Of Sugar makes the Medicine Go Down” in the background what can you say? My mom watched that movie every single day after work and if we moaned or complained about it she turned the volume up.
I had been trying to hide the fact that I didn’t have much in the way of clothing by wearing a large long coat everyday. I wore that coat even in the summer, pretending I wasn’t hot when people in shorts and tank tops asked about it. It was my security blanket.
Once I was talking to weak in the knees maker with the beautiful eyes and he told me what he had made for dinner. It was something with artichoke hearts. I had never heard of or eaten an artichoke before, and at the time I thought that it was an animal. I imagined people eating the heart of this creature and I let out a “EWWWWWWWWWWW”.
“They’re really good; you’d like them.” he insisted. Being too embarrassed to admit that I had no idea what he was talking about and admitting that the most exotic thing that had ever graced my plate was an avocado I told him that there was just no way I would even try such a disgusting thing.
Eventually, I broke up with him. He was so nice and he seemed to be truly good at heart. I didn’t know what to do with nice, and so I hooked up with Alex, who was cold and standoffish and utterly obnoxious. Alex also didn’t appear to give any indication that he wanted to get to know my inner most self. I felt safer.
Now Alex and I are married with two kids and I eat artichoke hearts on everything from pasta to pizza to salad.
Tagged as:
dating,
grief,
poverty
' November 21st, 2007 at 12:52pm 10 comments
This entry is like a stab in my heart.
I’m sorry Jean. I was thinking and the entry just came out. I considered not posting it or taking it down but I decided to leave it.
Tammy
I meant that in a good way, Tammy! Every once in a while, a written piece brings back some memory for me that is so vivid – like my own heart wrote it. Your writing does that to me sometimes. It hurts to feel it again, but makes me feel so alive!
Ok….I’m not sure I even get that, but I don’t know how else to say it.
Ah Jean, I understand exactly what you mean. I have the same reaction to certain pieces of writing. Feeling alive can be painful but I’ll take it anytime over feeling dead inside. Tammy
We would be friends if we knew each other. I have learned so much from the vibrantly, honest way you share your struggles.
Thanks Jean. You made my day. I am afraid that I don’t have any friends, unless you count my mom and my puppy. I struggle to converse, to open up, to let myself feel. I appreciate your kind words.
Tammy
Oh, I’d make you be my friend. And I’d make you talk about the hard things in your life, so I could talk about the hard things in my life and we’d both have a grasp on what’s relative, you know? Then we’d bitch (a little) about our husbands and kids, have a beer and discuss world affairs. Oh, and lots and lots of laughing. Gotta laugh at stuff. I know my life has some episodes that are pretty damn funny!
Those are the kinds of friends I like to have/be. We’d be like that. I have a kind of sense about people…it’s why your writing talks to me.
Here’s something we’d discuss – last night, I went to a Pamp*red Chef party and held a 2 week old baby boy for about a half an hour on my chest. He sighed and snuggled and was warm – I swear I was () this close to demanding my uterus be returned to me so I could have another kid.
Seriously, I have never ONCE had a passing regret about having a hyster until 7:04pm CST Nov 29. I had forgotten what that felt like. It was like taking a dip in a big warm pool of ESTROGEN!!!! I’m still all fuzzy thinking about it.
Both of my sisters have three kids. Maria’s kids are 9, 6 and 2. When she would bring them over to visit me I would hold them and think to myself if you could bottle that, the feeling that you get when you hold a newborn, you’d have a cure for depression, at least mine.
Those parties “Pampered Chef” and the like always make me spend money I can’t afford to spend. The woman two houses down from me invited me to a makeup one the other day. I had to decline because all of the sudden when I was browsing through the catalog I needed makeup and skincare in the worst way. It wasn’t even a brand I’d ever heard of.
PC is the only party I even ever think about attending – mostly because I can *sort of* justify spending $$ on things that benefit everyone, not just me. In fact, people have quit inviting me because I never go.
However you’d bottle the baby thing would have to have the same smell babies have right behind their necks…