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.
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.
Yesterday I joined all of the children of Charlotte for free frozen yogurt at Menchie’s in celebration of National Frozen Yogurt Day which is a real thing. Even though it was 50 degrees outside, everyone was desperate for free frozen treats.
I loaded up my cup with flavors like hot chocolate, vanilla snow, and coffee royale. When it came time for decorating my chilly canvas, I was overwhelmed by so many toppings, cookies, fruit, sauces, nuts. As I reached out for the sprinkles spoon I had Progressive Flo’s voice in my head, “sprinkles were for winners.” I didn’t feel like a winner yesterday, mostly because I had snot dripping down my nose from walking two miles in the cold to get to Menchie’s. And I wasn’t proud of myself for even being there in the first place. I meant to break up with sugar this year. But it was free and I needed to get out of the house just to remember what it’s like to interact with human beings.
I ate my sprinkles-less treat on my way back to where I had left my car. At the gym where I have spent a great deal of time in the past week, not for exercise mind you, but to borrow their wifi so I can find a job. So far, no good. Applying for so many jobs and not getting any kind of interest is really depressing. I can’t wait to be able to be a winner at employment so I can adorn my frozen yogurt with sprinkles.
Unemployment feels like a breakup. I have friends calling to check in on me. They bad mouth my former occupation, saying I was too smart for it and remind me that there are other jobs in the sea when they email me job openings. They remind me that I haven’t been happy in years there.
I’m rereading my journal from May 2009 when I was going through an actual breakup. He was such an asshole for breaking up with my on Facebook and when I saw him to collect my belongings he had the nerve to suggest I try match.com.
It feels like a breakup because I have to start over and find a new job. I have to find a new routine to how to fill my days.
I don’t miss the people or the work but I do miss having something to do every day. I’m not good with idle hands. They get me into trouble.
Newly unemployed, I can’t afford to get into trouble.
Scene: 10:30 ish on a Thursday morning inside Charlotte’s Aloft Hotel elevator.
First thought: This is an attractive well dressed dude.
Second thought: It’s a Wayans brother.
Third thought: There are a million of them! Which one am I sharing an elevator ride with?
I didn’t have time for any more thoughts before the doors peeled open and I had to get out.
I hit on him before my mad dash. It’s been a long time that I’ve flirted with celebrities so maybe it was flirting, maybe it wasn’t.
Google told me that I was chatting up brother Marlon who was in town for a show at the comedy zone this weekend. If I had $30 for a ticket, I would go and flirt with him properly.
For someone four days into her tenure of unemployment, it was the most excitement I’ve had in quite some time. Now I’m expecting all of my excursions uptown to include run ins with celebrities.
*I wrote this in September and only now is it seeing the light.
I’m coming down from my high. The prodigal seasonal drink returned to Starbucks today. I ordered it with a shot of espresso. I added a chai tea latte to it to craft a makeshift dirty pumpkin. One sip and I’m outside a hot Biscuit Bitch Cafe enjoying my last breakfast in the Emerald City. Love me in Seattle.
A mother’s embrace is what I need. Any mother’s arms will do. I just need that embrace of warmth and comfort and feeling like everything is going to be alright. I haven’t seen my mother since January so I spent $215 to borrow my best friend’s mom when I accompany him to a family wedding.
It seems as if everyone makes a point to remind me of how painfully single I am. A colleague and I share the same commute from our respective parking lots to work and sometimes I’m forced to make small talk before my caffeine consumption. This morning, in an effort to get to know me better, he asked if my family was nearby. When I said no, he then asked if I was married or had a boyfriend. I was obliged to tell him that the only man in my life peed on three legs. He had a bag of peanut M&M’s his wife sent him to work with to share. He handed me two, quipping that Red and Yellow would keep me company.
He’s not the sharpest splinter in the water board, an insult to your intelligence when making fun of someone else.
My fear that I will start communicating in barks like my dog does as my interactions with humans is borderline non-existent.
A lot of time devoted to really bad reality tv shows.
My mom first asked if Ray had enough food in the house before she asked if I had enough food. I’ll start to worry about my finances once we have to start sharing kibble.
A lot of time to reread my journals. I wrote that my ex bf once told me I was 70% nice. In retrospect, he was 100% asshole for saying such a thing.
A lot of lunch invitations with former colleagues as if I want to hang out with them once I am no longer getting paid to put up with their shit.
At dinner at my college friend’s church the other night, her father, whom I hadn’t seen since the middle of December remarked that I was looking slim. I quipped that I was on a new diet called Unemployment.
You would think that I would be reading like the bibliophile I claim to be. I haven’t cracked the spine of anything this week.
When I watch the news forecast, I translate the week as percentages of boredom based on the plans I have made. 80% chance of rain means 100% boredom.
Happy New Year! Can I still say that on January 27? I feel it only appropriate as the first post of 2015.
Almost a month in and 2015 is already full of big changes. After serving a seven year sentence, my time at a dead end job a poop-slinging primate could do is coming to an end at the end of the week. I’ll be a free woman come 5:00 on Friday. When I’m not volleying worry and excitement over the fence that is unemployment, I’m packing up my office and firing up the Internet in search of a new job. I’m looking for jobs close to a boy I’m in love with. His 6’4 frame is the coat rack of hope I want to hang my hat upon. The little feminist in me thinks that it’s fucking crazy to uproot my life for anyone. The little hopeless romantic in me thinks that such a bold move isn’t fucking crazy enough. Who will come out on top? Stay tuned!