Every night, my husband and I compete to see who can yell out the answers to Jeopardy clues first. He thinks my favorite part of the game is Final Jeopardy, but I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I relish the personal interviews after the first commercial break. It pleases me to hear the adventurous and quirky anecdotes of the contestants – I can relate to these mini-brainiacs and choose whom I’m going to root for.
The same, brief thought passes through my mind every single night. “What anecdote would I share with the Jeopardy producers for Mr. Trebek to discuss with me?” For a fleeting moment, I realize how uninteresting I am. I’ve never climbed Mt. Everest. I was never class president at an Ivy League university. My mug collection is hardly noteworthy.
In fact, I’m painfully average. I’m a high school teacher, an army wife of five years, and a mommy to a beautiful little girl. I’m also a graduate student and an amateur photographer, but isn’t everybody, these days?
“So, Violet, it says here that you have a baby girl. What’s that like?”
“Well, Alex, being a mother is the most inspiring endeavor I’ve ever undertaken.”
Right. That would make for smashing t.v. I’m sure millions of viewers would be jumping at the bit to see me beat the returning champion after a story like that.
“Violet, it says here your favorite word is fuck. What’s that like?”
“Oh, Alex, it’s the best word ever invented. It’s a noun, a verb, an adjective – I could go on and on!”
That same population for whom the Poly-Grip commercials are intended would just eat that up, don’t you think?
I’m just an average Jane; making my way through this middle class Floridian rollercoaster I call reality. I play with my baby. I cuddle with my husband. I grade papers, watch Weeds on Netflix, and laugh for hours as my cat chases the little red laser up the walls of my kitchen. So why do I deserve your attention? What makes me think you should waste your precious spare time (because we all know you’re not reading this at your desk, pretending you’re really on Microsoft Outlook) reading my thoughts?
Because I’m a certifiable bitch; that’s why. You know those people who suffer some offensive injustice, then spend the next twelve hours rehashing the incident in their minds, thinking of what they should have said? That’s not me. I’m that bitch who said it the first time. While more polite citizens like my dear friend Daisy might smile and bite their tongues when accosted, I’m the ruthless bastard who told the offender where she could shove her ignorant comment. This trait has served me quite well through my brief tenure as a Mommy.
Once, and only once, did someone make the mistake of attempting to touch my pregnant belly without my consent. I was in the middle of my classroom, and a new teacher popped in my room to introduce himself. I extended my hand for a handshake, and he bypassed the gesture and went straight for the bump. I grabbed his wrist, twisted it slightly, and yelled (yes, in front of my high school kids) “Don’t you ever freaking touch me without my permission; you understand that?” I still don’t know if that was the best way to handle the situation. Maybe I should have taken the belly pat and fumed silently. Maybe I should have reported him to my boss. But since I am rather hostile even when I’m not pregnant, that’s what I did.
Back on the couch, the Jeopardy theme song is gearing up for another night of trivia and academic snobbery. I can already tell that I’m going to kick my hubby’s ass tonight based solely on the Single Jeopardy round questions. So what is Alex going to discuss with me after the first commercial break?
“Violet, tell me about the time you almost broke a man’s hand for trying to pat your baby bump.”
“Alex, there’s nothing to tell. It’s simple, really: don’t encroach on my right to be left the fuck alone.”
Daisy and Violet 