Bibliophiled Away

Introducing THE INCREDIBLE UNADULTERESS!! now with more poor life choices!

In preparation for my move to places unknown, I’m cleaning out my home office/junk room and unpacking pieces of paper that are old enough to drive. I have progress reports from middle school and report cards from high school. Some teachers remarked that I was capable of better work or showed great effort.(Apparently I was giving high school the ol’ college try). I had terrible grades in math and science, but my parents didn’t encourage tutors so I blame them for me not being a doctor. If I were in 26th grade, I wonder what my report cards would be. Probably the same sentiments.

A self-proclaimed unadulteress, I am failing as a an adult in the home maintenance department. Did you know that you’re supposed to clean things that clean things, the washing machine and the dishwasher for example? This is breaking news to an almost 33 year old. Why does no one tell me these things?

In preparation for the big move, I’m sorting through old exams and notes and papers from college and wondering what the point of all that time and money was. I have no need to retain what strategic branding is from my marketing class or how microeconomics is different from macroeconomics. A college degree is great until you realize that your dishwasher reeks of neglect and only when it’s a segment on “The Today Show” do you realize that every exam you kept from German History 320 won’t help you know what to do to get rid of the stench.

Why isn’t there a class that teaches low functioning adults like me basic life skills? Someone please teach me how to change a flat tire, how to stick to a budget, how to clean gutters, how to prevent insects from getting indoors, how to sort laundry, how to know how much money to put into an IRA, (what does IRA even stand for?) how to initiate small talk at job networking events, how to write a resume worthy of not getting sucked into the black hole that is the online job application process, how to stop a running toilet (for months, I’m only using one half of the one and a half bathrooms of my house. My knowledge of plumbing ends after twisting the silver football shaped gizmo to the right), how to make $45,000 in advertising sales on this blog so I can stay at home with my kids not that I have kids. I’m telling people that I’m a stay at home mom. And then they’ll ask about my kids and I’ll tell them that I don’t have any. Did you know that women of child bearing age should be taking prenatal vitamins? Ugh, screw you, blissful ignorance, you have done me no favors!

Am I alone in this? Is there anyone else out there who feels incompetent to tackle the real world? Why doesn’t someone write a book called “What you should know by the time you are 33″. I would dog-ear the shit out of it.

My next post will be coming to you from my parents’ basement. Obviously I shouldn’t have left it in the first place.

blo job

Blow dry salons are all the rage these days. I’m tempted to apply for a job at blo in Myers Park just to be able to tell my mom that after months of searching I got a blo job.

Man, I need human interaction fast as I’m starting to forget what’s considered funny. Always home alone, I’m the funniest person in the room. I haven’t had a job since Bruce Jenner was a man.

Universe, give me a full time job with benefits and co-workers who appreciate good humor. I’m dying for a laugh.

Craigslist missed connection: cheesecake edition

Thursday May 7.
Me strolling along Tryon St. in white slacks and a denim blouse, a sweaty mess from 80 degree weather and the Angry Orchard I was sipping on. You, seated on a bench outside of uptown’s Staples. I made a u-turn when I noticed the delicious slice of cheesecake you were eating out of a to go container. In my slightly buzzed state, I had the courage to ask where you got it. You said you liked thick cheesecake. I didn’t have enough to drink to make a joke about the thickness of things, so I asked if the restaurant didn’t allow you to eat his dessert inside the restaurant. You were waiting for your friend inside Staples.
Tell me, future father of my children, what restaurant did your dessert come from?
Tell me so we can have our first date at the Cheesecake Factory and discuss girl names, Sophia, Blanche, Rose and Dorothy.

check on me every nine days

I’m sipping on a milkshake du jour at Fahrenheit and thinking how happy I am that I no longer work at the building I can see from my post at the posh rooftop bar.

My three months of dispiriting job rejections have bled into my social life, what little of one there was to begin with. I’m afraid to make plans because I get excited for a reason to put on something more than sweatpants and leave the house. And then for one reason or another, those plans involving me putting on deodorant are scrapped. Probably a good thing considering I have forgotten how to interact with other humans.

Just now, a song plays on the PA system that reminds me of yoga class. My body misses yoga. When I roll out of bed with near thirty three year old aches and pains, my body misses the weekly yoga classes.

I should be using the free wifi to job hunt instead of composing random blog posts. I need a job. I need to be sipping on an après work drink right now instead of drowning my unemployment sorrows in a strawberry milkshake.

happy cinco de Hellman’s!

To celebrate the fifth of May, I’m eating guacamole. Avocado means “testicle” in Aztec which seems wildly appropriate.

jamie lately

Midtown Target became Targhetto real fast when I popped the hood of my car to administer a gallon of windshield wiper fluid to be able to see through the pollen curtain that is Charlotte in springtime. A sweet middle aged woman in the car next to me asked if I needed help, perhaps unaccustomed to seeing customers treating the parking garage like their own garage. I reassured her that I was fine and just pouring in some windshield wiper fluid (It took ALL of my willpower to not leave that store with only exactly what I went in for). She wanted to make sure that I was fine. If she only knew that my real troubles extended beyond Target’s parking lot.

Tuesday night was met with a new low. I was finally introduced to Rock Bottom at Food Lion. I was there to buy oj but my feet made a beeline for the wine aisle. I tried to keep my hands from a bottle of $3.99 wine but there was no stopping me. Do you want to know what’s worse than buying a $4 bottle of wine in the middle of the day? Not being carded for it! Hello, Rock Bottom. I was wondering how long it would be before I met you. The only reason I’m not an unemployed lush is simply because I can not afford the good stuff. And some well-meaning friends have suggested I start dating with all this free time on my hands. Trust that I would love to have someone supplement my income, but I’m pretty sure that unemployment is a turn off for potential suitors. Besides, I’d rather just have the $12 a guy would spend on my drink in another form, like a lunch from the Whole Foods salad bar.

I made such a mess in my kitchen yesterday preparing meals for the week with the contents from the farmers’ market. I made spicy sweet potato soup, tomato soup to accompany my beloved grilled cheese sandwiches, roasted Brussels sprouts, roasted cauliflower, roasted strawberries to top a pizza. I also made more granola to eat with peaches for my morning breakfast, not that I wake up during breakfast hours.

It’s been three months and I’m just as bored with myself as if it was the third week of unemployment. I need a vacation from my staycation…

dick in box: the earth day edition

How I celebrated Earth Day 2015: In keeping with the theme of putting things in a box lately, I packed up one never been used strap on (given to me as a gag birthday present) and one Rabbit vibrator (also given to me as a birthday present but one that I used ALL.THE.TIME.) There’s a company in Portland, Oregon that recycles your unwanted, used, broken sex toys so they don’t end up in landfill. I’d look up the link but as I’m using the computer at the public library.


Last weekend I was in New York for a wedding. Weddings to single 30 something ladies are like blind dates. While “Blurred Lines” plays from the DJ booth, I pan the tacky Queens reception hall ballroom and notice no good looking guys I wanted to make poor life decisions with. The new groom had a lot of single friends he could introduce me to. I wasn’t interested, no matter how many drinks I had in me. I became a lazy drunk as the bartenders wheeled bar carts around the room. Signature Amaretto sours coming to me when my feet ached from my heels? Don’t mind if I do. I only wished that the lavish buffet rolled up tableside. It wasn’t until 9 that dinner was served and I stole into some salad from the buffet table because no piece of plastic was standing between me and food when I am accustomed to eating dinner closer to when the 5 o’clock news airs. We didn’t want my fainting spells distracting attention away from the beautiful bride. The token wedding guest whore was doing just fine with that task. She wore a short dress and high heels and heavy makeup to match her heavy New York accent; clearly an ensemble she was way too old to be wearing. She caught the bouquet the bride tossed. My friend sitting next to me remarked that she didn’t seem like the marrying kind. I replied that it was probably the longest dress she had in her closet. Fittingly, her Guido boyfriend caught the garter the groom threw at the congregation of single guys.(If wedding planners could rearrange this activity before the reception, it would save me some embarrassment from hitting on guys who are engaged). They made a spectacle of themselves when he put the garter on her leg in the middle of the dance floor. It wasn’t until 11 by the time wedding cake was served and it’s my personal policy to never leave any party until the cake is served. We didn’t get home until after 1 AM. Needless to say, I was drunk and tired.

Sunday morning I was waking up to the pings of my cell phone. A text at 9:42 am from the mom I babysit for. Who sends texts so early on a Sunday morning?! Back to sleep until 8 minutes later when my cell phone pinged again. It was my gbf who wanted to meet for brunch at 10:30. I replied the need for a
raincheck as I was currently waking up hungover in Staten Island. It took all morning for me to feel human again. That night I was due back to Queens to crash at my friend’s house. This friend whom I went to high school with (I had a crush on him then and even asked him to Homecoming by writing on the bottom of a bag of Hershey’s kisses. He politely declined because he was going with someone else) and 8 eight years ago I would run into in the middle of Times Square where he was working as a production assistant on a shitty Eddie Murphy movie. It was a marathon weekend of drinking as my host kept me in vodka while watching “Game of Thrones” with his live-in girlfriend and best friend who lives in the apartment upstairs like a proper sitcom. Even without asking after my love life, my friend wanted me to move to NY so I could date his best friend. I made sure that the best friend had no romantic inclinations towards me. It doesn’t take too much vodka for me to loudly demand to see male nudity in any and all Sunday night HBO shows, and yes, that includes “Silicon Valley”. I’m sure it was funnier at the time, but when one nerd created a “Nip Alert” app, I joked that I wanted them to create a “Dick Alert” app. What wasn’t funny was when I was too drunk to protest my induction to the Pen 15 club which meant my friend writing “penis” on my hand in black permanent marker. It was 11:30 by the time I passed out in my clothes in the guest room.

What better hangover food than a fried pastry? Monday morning I was up early to try to get my hot little hands on a cronut. I arrived thirty minutes too late. I had to suffice with another item from the Dominique Ansel bakery case. I got some funny looks each time money had to change hands. It wasn’t until I was in the Grand Central Station bathroom that I could wash it off. I found myself in the bustling train station three times during the weekend and three times I looked up departing schedules for trains bound to Connecticut. I’m drunk in love with a guy who lives there.

lost love

Lately, I borrow a brown-eyed, brown-haired toddler for a few hours on babysitting duty and imagine that he’s mine. At two, he’s very smart and observant and enjoys bedtime, requesting to be rocked before settling into his crib. I don’t know all the words to “Rockabye Baby” so I enlist his help. Together we rock and sing and soon he is asleep, exhausted from an afternoon of outdoor excursions and hiding plastic Easter eggs in the living room. More often than not I hid them in plain sight. I wish that the things I hunted for were right in front of me for the taking.

I often think that my prayers aren’t loud enough, that my prayers for LOVE have exhausted themselves between my tear-stained pillows and Heaven. They’ve become distracted by shiny things, shooting stars and deflated helium balloons. They’ve become ravenous for a snack or two. It is a long journey after all between Earth and Somewhere Up There. They’ve stopped for roadside French fries and milkshakes. I imagine the galaxy has a lot of prayers en route to be answered. My prayers are a lot like me, refusing to ask for help. And so they suffer the consequences, completely lost. Lost LOVE.

Thirty two years is a long time to wait for love. Two years is a long time to be in love with someone I only met last year. In the meantime, I borrow the lives of married friends and continue sending up my nightly prayers for a heart to know fullness.


In between jobs I’m putting my possessions in boxes as if my next job will be hundreds of miles away. After documenting my life since college I have nearly 20 journals packed up in a box, too heavy to move from the middle of the living room floor. It’s surreal, the notion that the past decade of my life can fit inside a cardboard box. I can tell you what I was wearing on this day five years ago, what I ate for lunch this day one year ago and what adorable thing Ray did four months ago. I wrote down everything. I keep writing it all down.

With so much time on my hands, I’m baking. February was met with chocolate chip cookies and sugar cookies and this month sees peanut butter cookies made with homemade peanut butter. If those little girl Scouts would just let in a 32 year old into their little “club” I would be set. Instead, I queue up at the post office after putting such sweet treats in a box and send them up north.

When not in the house packing and baking, I’m outside tending to neglected gutters. Untouched in five years, there’s sediment that could pass for coffee grinds and so many black leaves. What took me so long, you ask. I’m a low functioning adult. Part of me resents the fact that I’m alone and have no one around to lend a helping hand. Obviously I thought that my husband, or the very least a live-in boyfriend, wouldn’t be too far behind my house purchase. A single girl’s version of “Field of Dreams”.

Everything in a box.


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