Yankee Pot Roast


Belated Apologies to Girls I Have Known

Brian Graham

Sara Wolbrecht — I’m sorry I stole your umbrella. I had a crush on you, and this was the best plan I could think of to make my romantic intentions clear. They say the brain is a complex and intelligent organ, but I’m not so sure I buy that.

Erin Leary — I’m sorry for whatever it was I said that resulted in you throwing an iron at me. Maybe something about your hair.

Anita Solanki — I’m sorry I asked you to prom. You probably could’ve found someone better-looking to go with, and definitely one that didn’t spend all dinner avoiding eye contact and gnawing on a sheepshank so large it nearly consumed our entire table.

The 2002 St. George High School girls’ soccer team — You may not remember me, but on the 4th of July you and I were at the same Iceberg Inn drinking chocolate shakes when a nearby firework show began. I’m sorry I did not invite you to join with me in some kind of makeshift orgy in the parking lot later that evening.

Erin Leary, again — I’m also sorry that I used to feign sleep to avoid fighting with you, and especially sorry for the time I tried to pull that trick while driving.

Teresa Van Winkle — I’m sorry I let my dad call you “devil woman” the first time he met you, although, to be fair, a few months later you proved him somewhat prescient.

Mandy Nelson — I’m sorry I said you had crazy fucking stork legs. But you do. You have crazy fucking stork legs.

Kelly Martin — Remember that night during freshman year of college when we were drinking in your dorm room and the R.A. knocked on the door to break it up and instead of facing it like a man I dove into your closet? I’m sorry you had to witness my final strand of dignity disappear amongst your freshly laundered linens—which by the way, smelled fabulous—as the R.A. forced you to sign paperwork stating that you agreed to spend a month is alcohol-awareness class.

Kathryn Hansen — I’m sorry I referred to your clitoris as “unwieldy.” I was just joking, honest.

Lisa Gottgetreu — I’m sorry I called your boyfriend Dave a “selfish jackass.” What I meant to say was, “He’s a selfish jackass who is only with you for the sex and has the mental capacity of a jar of mayonnaise, though is only half as charming. Also: he looks a little like a retarded Frank Stallone.”

Cynthia Connor — One night, while we were at a bar called the Irish Emigrant I motioned for you to come closer such that I might say something horrendously witty and urbane that would result in you falling deeply in love with me. I’m sorry that my mouth chose this moment to produce exactly the right amount of spittle to send a single drop hurtling towards your face, ruining the moment. When I was little, the doctor said I had a lazy swallowing mechanism. Ask my mom if you don’t believe me.

Heather Locklear — I guess I don’t, technically, “know” you, but I’m very sorry your husband is in Bon Jovi. You must have heard Slippery When Wet a million times.

Tinker — I’m sorry I threw you into my little kid’s pool when you were small. I was six, I didn’t know cats didn’t like being immersed in water. I thought you were scratching and hissing wildly and struggling to break free of my arms because you were so excited to go swimming.

Girl in Mexico who said, “You’d be hot if you were taller” — I’m sorry I have these self-imposed rules about not hitting women.

My sister Katie — I’m sorry those rules did not preclude me from dragging you out of my bedroom by the ankles. But seriously, those rug burns were hardly noticeable and you really didn’t need to go crying to mom because, let’s face it, you totally started it.