searched that spot seven times already. When it comes to men, that describes me perfectly. Someone looking over and over in the same place for something that isn’t there. But, sitting in this coffee place, waiting for my third ex-husband to arrive, thinking about my dad coming home, it hits me all at once—
I think I know where to look now.
Two
I Love You, This Is Just How I Am
BY PRETTY MUCH ANY CONVENTIONAL standard, my dad was bad. (And badass.) Terrible even.
For starters, he was a pimp.
A fur-coat-wearing, El Dorado–driving, sharkskin-suit-clad, pinky-ring-sporting, mustache-smoothing P.I.M.P., straight out of a blaxploitation picture. Eventually, he promoted himself to drug dealer, and there he also fit the stereotype, becoming a large-scale, conspiracy-heading, recidivist heroin and coke dealer just like on Starsky and Hutch, or maybe cooler, like in Goodfellas, if they were black. It sounds awful, right? Deplorable. Appalling. Immoral.
You dislike him already. I understand.
But here’s the thing about my dad. If you didn’t know anything about him, and I brought him over to your house for dinner, you would like him. You just would! First of all, he would be exceedingly polite. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he would say upon meeting you. And he would say it in this mellifluous, almost singsong voice that would strike you as remarkably kindhearted and agreeable. That would cause you to take a closer look at his face, and you would notice the pleasing symmetry of his features, the sparkle in his eyes, and his overall warmth. He would offer to help you in thekitchen, and you would accept. You’d discover that he’s a great cook, and so easy to talk to! You would feel that he liked you, and you would be correct. You’d feel like this was a particularly good hair day.
After dinner, he’d help clear the table and just start doing the dishes. Without even being asked! The two of you would tootle around the kitchen, cleaning up, and he’d ask you about the man in your life. If there wasn’t one, he’d say something about how “a beautiful and charming young lady such as yourself” won’t be single for long, and you’d believe him. Mostly because it’s true! You are beautiful and charming. We all are. Freddie knows that.
At the end of the evening, as we were walking out the door, he’d say, “Thank you,” with genuine gratitude, and off he would go, leaving you to think to yourself, What a nice man …You’d be so dazzled, you’d call me the next day to tell me how much you liked him. Just like I knew you would.
This is the fascinating dichotomy of my dad. It is what made him such a great dad. And, of course, what made him such a great pimp.
I NEVER WANTED GUYS WITH “GAME” —the kind of smooth talkers who obviously know their way around a woman, or five. Quite the contrary. I spent the vast majority of my life with men at the other end of the continuum. Dating nice guys. Really nice guys.
Ultra Nice Guys.
Until age twenty-five, I was like someone who grew up with two fat parents and knows she will likely spend the rest of her life on a diet. Deep down, I knew that if I took even the first bite of Bad Boy, I would never want vegan pizza again. So I didn’t.
I just said no.
This wasn’t as difficult as it might sound, because I had two things working in my favor: I was afraid of sex (and of men in general); I was also extremely insecure. Which was kind of perfect really, sincesuper-sexy guys naturally want sex (a frightening fact if you’re scared of sex), and they almost always want it now (an even scarier reality if you’re insecure). What’s more, sexy guys don’t make any commitments (a truly intolerable condition if you’re still dealing with a lot of posttraumatic stress surrounding your years in foster care). The combination made them totally repulsive to me.
So, I dated Ultra Nice Guys instead. UNGs are a whole tribe of men who are generally just as they
I think I know where to look now.
Two
I Love You, This Is Just How I Am
BY PRETTY MUCH ANY CONVENTIONAL standard, my dad was bad. (And badass.) Terrible even.
For starters, he was a pimp.
A fur-coat-wearing, El Dorado–driving, sharkskin-suit-clad, pinky-ring-sporting, mustache-smoothing P.I.M.P., straight out of a blaxploitation picture. Eventually, he promoted himself to drug dealer, and there he also fit the stereotype, becoming a large-scale, conspiracy-heading, recidivist heroin and coke dealer just like on Starsky and Hutch, or maybe cooler, like in Goodfellas, if they were black. It sounds awful, right? Deplorable. Appalling. Immoral.
You dislike him already. I understand.
But here’s the thing about my dad. If you didn’t know anything about him, and I brought him over to your house for dinner, you would like him. You just would! First of all, he would be exceedingly polite. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he would say upon meeting you. And he would say it in this mellifluous, almost singsong voice that would strike you as remarkably kindhearted and agreeable. That would cause you to take a closer look at his face, and you would notice the pleasing symmetry of his features, the sparkle in his eyes, and his overall warmth. He would offer to help you in thekitchen, and you would accept. You’d discover that he’s a great cook, and so easy to talk to! You would feel that he liked you, and you would be correct. You’d feel like this was a particularly good hair day.
After dinner, he’d help clear the table and just start doing the dishes. Without even being asked! The two of you would tootle around the kitchen, cleaning up, and he’d ask you about the man in your life. If there wasn’t one, he’d say something about how “a beautiful and charming young lady such as yourself” won’t be single for long, and you’d believe him. Mostly because it’s true! You are beautiful and charming. We all are. Freddie knows that.
At the end of the evening, as we were walking out the door, he’d say, “Thank you,” with genuine gratitude, and off he would go, leaving you to think to yourself, What a nice man …You’d be so dazzled, you’d call me the next day to tell me how much you liked him. Just like I knew you would.
This is the fascinating dichotomy of my dad. It is what made him such a great dad. And, of course, what made him such a great pimp.
I NEVER WANTED GUYS WITH “GAME” —the kind of smooth talkers who obviously know their way around a woman, or five. Quite the contrary. I spent the vast majority of my life with men at the other end of the continuum. Dating nice guys. Really nice guys.
Ultra Nice Guys.
Until age twenty-five, I was like someone who grew up with two fat parents and knows she will likely spend the rest of her life on a diet. Deep down, I knew that if I took even the first bite of Bad Boy, I would never want vegan pizza again. So I didn’t.
I just said no.
This wasn’t as difficult as it might sound, because I had two things working in my favor: I was afraid of sex (and of men in general); I was also extremely insecure. Which was kind of perfect really, sincesuper-sexy guys naturally want sex (a frightening fact if you’re scared of sex), and they almost always want it now (an even scarier reality if you’re insecure). What’s more, sexy guys don’t make any commitments (a truly intolerable condition if you’re still dealing with a lot of posttraumatic stress surrounding your years in foster care). The combination made them totally repulsive to me.
So, I dated Ultra Nice Guys instead. UNGs are a whole tribe of men who are generally just as they
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