Why does it seem like immediately after a break up you notice the rest of the world pairing off, as if lining up to board Noah’s Ark? Is there a flood coming that I don’t know about? It would be like the rest of world to know of an imminent natural disaster and tell everyone but me. I’m not a good swimmer so it would behoove me to invest in some floaties, you know, those orange inflatable arm bands that kids wear the first time they’re thrown into the the deep end of the pool. Or a water vessel crafted for one person, like a kayak. But knowing my luck, I’d lose the damn paddle. I wonder if there’s a back entrance to Noah’s Ark that I can slip into and whenever their version of a cruise director would ask of my better half’s whereabouts, I’d lie and say he was in the bathroom, or parking the car. I’m sure by the time I would be found guilty for traveling sans companion we would have hit land and no one would care anymore.
I don’t know which is worse, having to dipose of a dead cockroach or a live one. This is the question I ponder while taking the offending insect in a paper towel to toss in the trash one morning. I also wonder what kind of parties these roaches throw with the mice as they scurry over my linoleum in the middle of the night, avoiding sticky glue traps, yet helping themselves to stale marshmallows set out as bait. I wonder if the cockroach I tossed in the garbage wasn’t really dead, but just passed out from too much drinking. Right now I’m picturing a cockroach upside down, performing a keg stand while his friends cheer him on.
I wonder if having mice and bugs in my apartment is the closest thing I’ll have to owning a pet, like how I read in Oprah’s biography of her befriending cockroaches in her formative years because she was too poor to afford a real pet. And look at her today, surrounded by the most adorable pups on the cover of her very own magazine!
At this point, I can do without a billionaire dollar empire. All I want is a home free of rodents and bugs and not feel as if I were living in the roach motel.
Suffering a devastating break-up, I feel like a jilted bride by the name of Carrie Bradshaw vacationing with gal pals on what was to be her honeymoon and needing her friends to get her out of a Mexicoma. Though I didn’t have a a man like Mr. Big in my life, I was caught up in a dead-end relationship with someone who had equitable commitment issues. I’ll confess that I have commitment issues of my own, like how I don’t have a cell phone contract and I nearly suffered a panic attack at signing my life away for a year in exchange for one crappy apartment. (What if something happens in those twelve months and I can’t afford rent or what if I have to suddenly leave the country? Those what-if scenarios never ever transpire, but I can’t keep my overactive imgination, the only part of me that is over acting, from thinknig that way).
But I am a grown up and as such I fully embrace commiting myself to one relationship and starting the path towards a happily ever after. Too bad I found out the hard way that I was traversing down a path to eventual heartbreak when I was dating someone diagnosed with Peter Pan syndrome, an incurable disease until one finally moves out of one’s parents’ house. I thought I could be the one to change him, to be his so-called fairy godmother, sprinkling him with insta-grownup dust to make him into a man who would tell me he loved me, who would move in with me, who would marry me. Trouble wasn’t the magic dust, it was the little boy who resisted at every turn to grow up. He was content to live in a Land of No Responsibilities where he was only responsible for having a good time and living it up with like-minded Lost Boys. Guess what, kiddo? Peter Pan was a fairy tale, fiction, meaning not real and that means it was not a how-to guide.
So now I am single and confiding in my own Samanthas, Mirandas and Charlottes about my failed relationship of almost a year with someone who will not win me back with e-love letters or a $500 pump to serve as a substitute for an engagment ring. No, he is far from my inbox and even farther from my heart, which is slowly becoming whole again. I believe I am on my way toward a happily ever after. The ex-bf was only a bump in the road, a bump that I like to run over repeatedly by putting my pumpkin carriage in reverse.
Savannah was hot. The humidity smacked you in the face and wouldn’t let go until seeking refuge on a winding trolley through the Spanish moss covered streets.
Dining at Paula Deen’s The Lady and Sons proved to be a challenge, as every other tourist with ubiquitous downtown maps had added good Southern cookin’ to their itineraries. (I kind of felt sorry for the other neglected restaurants of Savannah). After checking in to my hotel that afternoon, I walked to West Congress Street to seek out the hostess to inquire how long it’d be for a table. I was told to come back at 5 for dinner.
With 4 and a half hours to kill, I spent 90 min. on a trolley that wound its way through historic Savannah. This is what I learned: Savannah is the premiere destination for celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, attracting revelers from Europe even. The bench that Forrest Gump plopped his buttocks on for the film wasn’t a fixture to the grassy square so when the movie wrapped, Hollywood took it with them. Savannah is the second most haunted city. I did not see any ghosts during my visit, not that I was looking for them.
After learning more about the city’s history and culture, I found myself back where I started, at Lady and Sons. Dinner was certainly worth the wait. I sadled up to the bar and ate my fill from the buffet of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, mac n’ cheese, collared greens, green beans, hoecakes and banana pudding. Too bad Bobby Deen was no where in sight for him to fall madly in love with me. This only means that I have to return.
Mansion on Forsyth Park was like stepping in to a work of art. Chandeliers and framed paintings lined the hallways. Even the elevator was gorgeous! The best part about my hotel room was the stroke of genius someone dreamed up to build partitions between the bathroom and the bedroom so that one could soak in a bubble bath while watching TV. Pure genius!
Breakfast at the hotel’s restaurant was amazing. I ordered coffee and peach and pecan French toast with a side of bacon. I was delighted to find small pieces of peaches and pecans baked into the bread! It was another stroke of genius.
After breakfasting, I packed my bags and headed for home, happy to have spent my 27th with darlin’ Savannah. Already I’m dreaming up where to vacation for my 28th. I already have my 30th covered. Las Vegas, baby! (Refer to first post for more info on that).
For my birthday this year, in vain attempt at forgetting I’ll be turning a year older, I have decided to cruise down to Savannah, Georgia for a bit of history, a heapin’ helpin’ of home cookin’ and a dash of Southern hospitality, ya’ll.
I was born and bred in Cincinnati, Ohio. I have never said the “word” y’all a day in my life, but if this trip proves successful I may just have to start. Success, certainly, being defined by me meeting and engaging myself with the remaining eligible offspring of butter-lovin’ Ms. Paula Deen. It’s a good thing that Jamie Deen is married because if I married a Jamie that would be highly narcissistic, not to mention the confusion that would ensue whenever the phone rang. Although if I did marry Bobby there would be a second Jamie Deen in the world. I can’t imagine that’s necessarily a bad thing. By process of elimination, Bobby it is!
And so I will design t-shirts with ”Future Mrs. Deen” on them and stroll around downtown Savannah until Fate steps in. I’m hoping that my dinner at the Lady and Sons will help Fate along. Bobby”ll take one look at me and offer me something cool to drink and then take me to his momma’s house for my first television appearance where Paula and I will bond like mother in law and daughter in law fashion while scooping spoonfuls of mayonnaise into each other’s mouths for laughs from viewers at home. And then after wrapping, Bobby will whisk me away to some secluded part of Savannah, ask for my hand in marriage. I will of course say yes. Our storybook wedding will be televised and I will replace my brother in law as co-host of the traveling Deens, sampling everything that America has to offer, but remind viewers that they don’t have to go past their mailbox to experience these patriotic treats as they can be delivered. When tiring of life on the road, I will settle down in a mansion and give birth to twins, Jamie and Bobby, both girls because it’s been my dream to name my daughter Jamie Jr. And the four of us will live happily ever after.