Bibliophiled Away

my heart and postage on the line

I wonder the distance between a love letter traveling from Here to There. I wonder where it is the day after I put it in the capable hands of the United States Postal Service. I wonder about the states that separate here from there. I wonder what other declarations of love its traveling with. I wonder if it’s nestled among a pile of “I miss you”s and “I love you”s, or if it’s mostly overdue bills, junk mail and slow-moving bad news. I wish I could scrawl ‘fragile’ over the contents of my heart like I did with the box I just mailed.


NSFW means nothing to the unemployed. Short of porn, I am looking at everything that has been labeled NSFW. It should be more like NSFPL (not suitable for public libraries) for poor folks who don’t live with Internet.

love wins

Today and everyday.


When cable was still a companion, I watched “Becoming Us” on the Family channel. And it was during an episode where young Ben gets a driving lesson from his former father that I wondered:

How soon in your transition from a man into a woman do you become terrible at driving?

Don’t worry, sweet readers, now that TV will no longer be a distraction, I will be more enticed to seek gainful employment and soon my blog posts will be full of new job antics!

dance it out

not a Monday in sight

Four and a half months of unemployment feels like the longest weekend ever. And lonely too because no friends are available to play. My days are peppered with home maintenance, and I use that term loosely as it means finally driving down the street to Home Depot for replacing the lightbulb in my fridge that has been out since last year. It’s been a fun game of playing what’s in the Tupperware? in the meantime. In addition to home maintenance, I tackle car maintenance. The guy at the other end of the phone of the tire center wrote my last name as Sunnycard which was close enough. Imagine how much of our lives is spent schooling strangers on the correct pronunciation of our names. I also spend a lot of time at the public library job hunting, and when I say job hunting, I mean watching “Orange is the New Black” like it’s my job. Season three is just as entertaining as the first two and I’m Team Ruby Rose. My days of mysteriously free cable have ended with the introduction of a digital cable adapter. I’m trying to be strong and not get emotional about having to say goodbye to my pixelated friends on the food network, TV land, TLC, FX. Ugh, I need a tissue. How am I to relate to my peers now that I have no popular culture reference points? I drown my sorrows in food and spend a lot of time in the kitchen. After scoring a giant box of bruised tomatoes from the farmers market last week, I’m feeling like Bubba from “Forrest Gump”, except for extolling the versatile virtues of shrimp, I’m waxing poetic over tomatoes. Tomato soup, tomato sandwiches, salsa, caprese salad, etc. Its only slightly crazy that I’m cooking up a storm considering its been SO hot lately. Why do I still live in the South with its oppressive heat and humidity? Starbucks cupcake frappuccinos are a delicious way to beat the heat, albeit a pricy one with a $4.28 price tag, but it was a birthday present gift card. I had a birthday last week (or did I actually turn a year older if I removed my birthday from Facebook so friends were left to do their own remembering? Another post for another day about how we outsource our lives to social media) and feel that 33 is the age when you start doling out zero fucks. I always admired old people who spoke their minds as if old age was a carte blanc to say/do whatever. I think I’m closer to bellowing “get off my lawn” with each passing year. I already see 5:00 as dinner time. I welcome the gifts of 33, and if they happen to look like something an octogenarian would like, then so be it.

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.


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