Do Tampons Take Your Virginity?: A Catholic Girl's Memoir by Marie Simas Page B
Book: Do Tampons Take Your Virginity?: A Catholic Girl's Memoir by Marie Simas
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Authors: Marie Simas
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didn’t know what she wanted to hear. Deep down, I was angry. All my life, my father’s side of the family turned a blind eye to what was happening in our house. None of them called the police. None of them tried to save my mother.
My mother and I suffered unimaginable cruelties for years. At least Lourdes’ death was quick and painless. In a weird way, I felt that she was lucky.
Part of me expected them to advocate for us, but they never did. So I didn’t care what happened to Lourdes.
She never felt sorry for me, so I didn’t feel sorry for her.
Stopping the Bus
1993, AGE 20
When I was going to high school, I didn’t have the money for a car. In fact, my father didn’t believe that women should drive. It was a measure of independence that my father wasn’t prepared to offer any woman who lived under his roof. My mother wasn’t allowed to drive, either.
I didn’t get a driver’s license until I was twenty-five, so I rode a bike everywhere. All four years of college, that was how I got around. I bought a used bike from Goodwill. It was a piece-of-shit ten-speed, with peeling burgundy paint. Only the front brake worked. I rode it everywhere and I had a U-Bar to lock it. When I got home, I carried the bike on my shoulder up three flights of stairs to my apartment.
It was my second bike. The first shitty bike got dismantled and stolen because I was too lazy to carry it up the stairs on my back at 3 a.m. after cycling home from work. I woke up one morning, went downstairs and it was gone. Someone must have spent hours sawing through the metal railing I had attached it to. The bike wasn’t worth more than $30 bucks, but they took it anyway.
I learned how to carry gallons of milk on the handlebars. When I went grocery shopping, a lot of my purchasing choices were logistic—I needed to make sure I could carry them home on my bike.
I tried to show off, sometimes, by riding without my hands. I got pretty good at it.
During my final year at San Francisco State, I got a part-time job at Dine-In, which was a restaurant delivery service. It was basically pizza delivery for rich fucks who didn’t want to order room service at their five-star hotel. These bastards wanted a $100 lobster, but they didn’t want to get off their asses and go get it themselves. Dine-In catered to them.
I worked the phone banks. There weren’t many of us. On any given night, there would be two or three girls working the phones, a dispatcher, and a few drivers. That was it. One of the other phone girls was a thin Hawaiian with NO eyebrows. She may have had a single row of eyebrow hair. But that was it. She didn’t wear any makeup—just lip liner and eyebrow pencil. She plucked and groomed her eyebrows all day long. She brought out that little eyebrow kit and tweezers every hour, looking for an errant hair that dared to pop out of her forehead. Her whole forehead was shiny and hairless.
The dispatcher was a frighteningly thin white chick with bad skin and mom jeans. She wore Lee jeans—the ugliest mom jeans on earth. The crotch zipper was tucked right up under her tits. And then she wore half-shirts. It was an odd look. But I guess you can get away with a lot when you weigh eighty pounds. She ate like a horse, too. She was jittery. I suspected cocaine or speed.
The manager was a really dynamic guy—I can’t remember his name. He wasn’t that attractive—he kind of reminded me of Jack Black. Same looks, same personality. I thought he was funny and cute. I probably would have slept with him if I’d kept working there much longer.
It was the only job I ever got fired from. I mixed up my schedule and didn’t show up for three days. One of the other employees said that she “called me”—but I was home the whole time and I didn’t get any calls. I think that she was full of shit. To this day, I’m not sure if they switched the schedule on me after the fact, or if I just fucked up and read it wrong.
When I showed up on the day
My mother and I suffered unimaginable cruelties for years. At least Lourdes’ death was quick and painless. In a weird way, I felt that she was lucky.
Part of me expected them to advocate for us, but they never did. So I didn’t care what happened to Lourdes.
She never felt sorry for me, so I didn’t feel sorry for her.
Stopping the Bus
1993, AGE 20
When I was going to high school, I didn’t have the money for a car. In fact, my father didn’t believe that women should drive. It was a measure of independence that my father wasn’t prepared to offer any woman who lived under his roof. My mother wasn’t allowed to drive, either.
I didn’t get a driver’s license until I was twenty-five, so I rode a bike everywhere. All four years of college, that was how I got around. I bought a used bike from Goodwill. It was a piece-of-shit ten-speed, with peeling burgundy paint. Only the front brake worked. I rode it everywhere and I had a U-Bar to lock it. When I got home, I carried the bike on my shoulder up three flights of stairs to my apartment.
It was my second bike. The first shitty bike got dismantled and stolen because I was too lazy to carry it up the stairs on my back at 3 a.m. after cycling home from work. I woke up one morning, went downstairs and it was gone. Someone must have spent hours sawing through the metal railing I had attached it to. The bike wasn’t worth more than $30 bucks, but they took it anyway.
I learned how to carry gallons of milk on the handlebars. When I went grocery shopping, a lot of my purchasing choices were logistic—I needed to make sure I could carry them home on my bike.
I tried to show off, sometimes, by riding without my hands. I got pretty good at it.
During my final year at San Francisco State, I got a part-time job at Dine-In, which was a restaurant delivery service. It was basically pizza delivery for rich fucks who didn’t want to order room service at their five-star hotel. These bastards wanted a $100 lobster, but they didn’t want to get off their asses and go get it themselves. Dine-In catered to them.
I worked the phone banks. There weren’t many of us. On any given night, there would be two or three girls working the phones, a dispatcher, and a few drivers. That was it. One of the other phone girls was a thin Hawaiian with NO eyebrows. She may have had a single row of eyebrow hair. But that was it. She didn’t wear any makeup—just lip liner and eyebrow pencil. She plucked and groomed her eyebrows all day long. She brought out that little eyebrow kit and tweezers every hour, looking for an errant hair that dared to pop out of her forehead. Her whole forehead was shiny and hairless.
The dispatcher was a frighteningly thin white chick with bad skin and mom jeans. She wore Lee jeans—the ugliest mom jeans on earth. The crotch zipper was tucked right up under her tits. And then she wore half-shirts. It was an odd look. But I guess you can get away with a lot when you weigh eighty pounds. She ate like a horse, too. She was jittery. I suspected cocaine or speed.
The manager was a really dynamic guy—I can’t remember his name. He wasn’t that attractive—he kind of reminded me of Jack Black. Same looks, same personality. I thought he was funny and cute. I probably would have slept with him if I’d kept working there much longer.
It was the only job I ever got fired from. I mixed up my schedule and didn’t show up for three days. One of the other employees said that she “called me”—but I was home the whole time and I didn’t get any calls. I think that she was full of shit. To this day, I’m not sure if they switched the schedule on me after the fact, or if I just fucked up and read it wrong.
When I showed up on the day
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