Cemented Love
Walking the neighborhood in a surprisingly cool late August morning, I said my goodbyes. In a month I’ll be moving out of my apartment, out of the quiet Elizabeth neighborhood.
With oversized coffee mug in hand, I said goodbye to the chirping birds. I bid adieu to the early morning worm squiggling across the sidewalk, hoping to not become an early bird’s breakfast. I said goodbye to the declaration of love, Ben Hearts Abby etched in the sidewalk of Eighth Street.What love to be so bold as to imprint fresh pavement with such adoration. I want someone to love me enough to write my name with theirs in cement. If not cement, then an overpass will suffice.
Too Sexy for my Vanity Plate
While cruising parts of the city I had never seen before with my realtor last night, we were stopped at a red light behind a SUV with a license plate that read SEXY. I couldn’t get a good look at the driver to determine if s/he was indeed sexy and wondered why anyone would want a SEXY license plate, sexy or not.
If you really are sexy, you shouldn’t need a sign stating the obvious. If you were a 30 year old male who still lived at home, a LOSER license plate would be most appreciated to all the ladies of the world.
Careful what you wish for…
Standing in line waiting for my bluberry smoothie to be blended at SmoothieTown, I overheard the next customer putting in her order for a strawberry banana smoothie with a shot of euthanasia. The confused, yet well-meaning cashier asked if she instead meant echinacea.
He is a better person than me. I would have given her exactly what she asked, fully believing that stupid people should be put down if they so request. If one can’t differentiate between euthanasia and echinacea, then who knows what else she doesn’t know. Someone should just go ahead and put her out of her misery.
I left the store, happily sipping on my non-death smoothie, feeling good about myself. And then when I got to work, I continued to feel good about my smart self when perusing the website www.failblog.org. Check it out for yourself, you’ll know what I mean.
For lack of a better (fill in the blank)
Last night was part three of Operation: Jamie Finds a Home. I’ve viewed eleven homes now out of the thousands in Charlotte and not one of them is for me. Upon returning to my apartment after home shopping, I was distraught thinking that I may never find a house, just like I think sometimes that I may never find my soulmate. I also thought how parallel life can be sometimes. Can I really equate the termination of my lease to the termination of my relationship?
For almost a year I have been paying money every month to live in depravity. An apartment with no central air, no dishwasher, no W/D, no pest control, no reprieve from the rushing highway traffic.
For almost a year I had been in a dead-end relationship. No ‘I love you’, no committment, no invitation to enter his world.
Believing that both experiences have prepared me for what I want most in my next residence and from my next boyfriend, I’ve compiled a list of must haves.
For my house, I must have central air, a big backyard for my future puppy, appliances, a quiet neighborhood, and a big kitchen to host dinner parties.
For my boyfriend, he must have a big heart, ambition, a sense of humor, intelligence, and not have an address he shares with his mother.
I’m looking for the exact opposite of what I’ve been subjected to for such a long time. I’m looking for fulfillment. Just like I believe the right house is out there for me, so too is the right guy.
Movin’ On Out…and up!
There are less than 2 months remaining on my lease. And already I’ve begun the arduous packing process. I thought I’d take a break and take an opportunity to write a word or two to the next person who’ll take up space in these 600+ square feet.
Dear Future Tenant of Apartment #4,
I hope you enjoy your year here. I know I have. I have immensely enjoyed waking up to mice surgically attached to glue traps in my kitchen. I have always wanted a pet. I have appreciated the workout I got from chasing cockroaches all over my bedroom to smash them dead with the bottom of my shoe. The rushing highway noise outside my window served as a calming soundtrack of crashing waves, lullabying me to a sweet slumber each night. And I feel pounds lighter as I sweated a summer away in an apartment without central air. And I’ve really enjoyed getting to know the locals every other weekend at the laundromat. I now know why God invented restraining orders.
And if you live alone like I do, you’ll be happy to know that you have company, albeit company you cannot see. A ghost comes with the apartment and s/he is a firm believer in feng shui so you’ll find belongings in a different location each morning. I found it quite refreshing.
Don’t get me wrong, my time here wasn’t all bad. The free cable was a lovely surprise.
All the best poor bastard,
Jamie
Howlin’ Good Times
Howled at the moon the other weekend. And no, I did not transform into a werewolf from the ‘Twilight’ series, howling under the belly of a full moon. Howl at the moon is a dueling piano bar (but I didn’t think it proved much of a challenge since there was a singular piano) tucked into Charlotte’s new nightlife playground Epicentre, or as I shall now refer to as Epcot thanks to my friend Erica.
It was there that Elton John tunes were pounded out while drunk revelers sipped with long straws from mixed frozen drinks in communal plastic buckets, defying any pesky swine flus to come near them. A gaggle of girls, serving their duties as doting bridesmaids, joined a bride to be on the mini stage to help her slur the words to Tiny Dancer (which still to this day I cannot help but think of Friends’ Phoebe who heard the lyrics as ‘Hold me closer Tony Danza’).
When not serving drinks, the bartenders, male and female, take a cue from another well-known bar, Coyote Ugly, and hop onto bartops for a little jig, minus the corresponding wet t-shirt contest. I had to plan my Amaretto sour refills around their two-steps.
After my evening at Epcot, I went home with an overpriced Figment t-shirt.
