September 2007


I have decided my boss’ admin guy is my nemesis.  Based on no real grounds, save for my need for amusement. 

Having been committed to the same guy for the past five years –with the majority of those years being my supposedly wild college days—I missed out on making many stupid mistakes.  As my one huge five-year mistake prevented dozens of small one-night ones, I think it’s time to make up for lost time.  Enter: my whore phase.  

Step One: Rid self of Catholic Guilt.  Note: This could take awhile.  

Step Two:  Compile List of Quotas

  1. Stupid Mistake

  2. Starving Artist  (See: Leonardo Di Caprio in Titanic)

  3. Non-English Speaking.  Also: must not be greasy.

  4. Blue-Collar.  Which seems very judgmental to write.  But as I tend to fall for the skinny, slightly-dorky types, I need someone on my Quota List who has muscles.  Someone who is capable of Vin Disel moves.  Someone with calluses on their hands.    

  5. The One Who Got Away.  Not necessarily The One, just One of the Ones.  Because I love a comeback.

Five should do it for now, but expect additions, as I think I will enjoy using this list as a justification of my behavior.  He was premeditated!  He was on the list!  I need stories to tell my grandchildren.  Scratch that.  I do not need children.  I just need stories; I need life.  My Great Aunt (and, as she used to say, I do mean Great) had no children, but she had stories.  She dated and subsequently slapped one of the Three Stooges because he was getting too “fresh”.  Nat King Cole autographed album covers with endearing descriptions about her eyes.  She conquered Europe; she danced incredibly well.

Even if my whore phase is comprised of making out in cabs or midnight skinny-dipping trysts, I can’t wait for the stories.  (And yes, I realize that last sentence totally gave an insight into my middle-school mentality). 

Yesterday, I started a new job. 

After graduating college two years ago, I had a few jobs, but nothing that would amount to anything career-related, nothing in corporate America, nothing that made me feel validated as a college-educated individual.  My income from the last two years was derived largely from a serving job at The Wine Bar, enjoyable but not necessarily professional.  I did, however, learn about wine, a skill which will likely be necessary as I climb the corporate ladder and my golf skills are found lacking. 

My regulars at The Wine Bar became family.  Not only was I sharing meals with them weekly (eating off their plates, drinking from their wine) while at the restaurant, but many expanded that dynamic to include the outside world.  I watered their plants while they went on vacation, babysat their children when the regular sitter cancelled.  They have seen me cry about The Kid From Boston and blush from … well, we’ll get into him later. 

After watching me struggle and grow into my depression, a few of my regulars tried to network to find me work.  Finally, something clicked and two of the guys found me a job within their company.  Specifically, they wrote a job description for me and pulled the strings to make it happen. 

Yesterday — and the night before– I was extremely nervous to start.  For the past two years, I have been on a summer vacation of sorts, the limbo between learning experiences.  With each passing month, I felt dumber and dumber, doubting my ability to ever again resume my education or retain knowledge.

Throughout my schooling, my relationship with summer vacation was bittersweet.  The fall return caused anxiety as my knowledge retention was not as crisp and I replayed different What If? factors.  What if the teachers doesn’t have a review?  What if I am in the dumb math group?  What if I am the only one who doesn’t know something and the whole class knows it?   A few times, I began practicing my fractions and time-test abilities in August.  But this conflicted with my heavy agenda of reading, fort building and sprinkler jumping, and the practice did not grow to habit. 

Yesterday, armed with only a few hours of sleep and four cups of coffee turning in my stomach, I arrived at my new place of employment …  thirty minutes early.  I was nervous about traffic, a ridiculous fear since I spent the summer working within half a mile.  I wished I had the professional equivalent of flash cards to sort through as a trial run.  Because What if everyone expected me to know something and I am made the fool in front of the entire corporation?

Even parking the car received second-guesses … Is this appropriate?  Where does everyone else park?  After a careful selection of parking (yes, I realize the other cars were a big hint), the anxiety and fears compounded me … Until I looked over and my boss, one of The Wine Bar regulars, pulled into the parking space next to mine. 

I had someone to walk me past security, to show me where to go, to introduce me through the corridors.  It was the corporate equivalent of having someone to sit next to on the bus.  And one of the big kids, at that. 

I have never been so grateful to my family and the relationships established at The Wine Bar … made me almost feel sorry for the one time we tp’d his house.  Almost.  

“PBR, Think of beer … Pabst”

“Smear!”

“… blue ribbon. The word was blue ribbon.”

The Kid From Boston called last night.  Called because he was miserable and depressed and I was the only one who could possibly understand.  I oddly found comfort in the call, liked knowing he was going through my same emotions. 

Until I asked about her

They are dating.  Again.  He has returned to dating the girl who was his new beginning and, consequently, my world’s complete demolition.  The girlfriend he never told me about, never had to; we live in different states. 

Which would somehow be a hell of a lot easier to handle if he didn’t text me and ruin the new world I am busy constructing … when I have convinced myself that we weren’t meant to be and better things are yet to come, he jackhammers away the fragile walls by writing, “No, we were and I killed it and I hate myself for it.”

“It’s been a long time coming, maybe you didn’t kill it but ended the suffering.”

“I just finally get it.  You made life worth living.”

“You didn’t think that while you had me.  You’re just lonely right now.”

“Just find someone who treats every second with you like a gift from God.  Which is what life with you was.  I was just too stupid.”

I guess I find some solace in her not being up to my measure.  

Ok, that’s complete bullshit. 

I have been replaced and someone else gets to kiss the guy and laugh with the guy that I still love.  No matter how much anger I can fester and how miserable he claims to be, it’s unfair.  I still want to be the one to move on first. 

Living well is not a good enough revenge, I want to live better than him.  Can I make this into a competition?  I want a kickass life while he gets fat and his toenails turn green.  Oh?  Who are you again?  I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you right now because I am too busy laughing.  My life is so wonderful  (insert head toss of luxurious hair and pivot in Prada pumps). 

Laughter might just be the official language of my new world … And even if it translates to grief, I will be the only one fluent to decipher. 

I infinitely prefer boys who make me smile to those who make me laugh. 

“Often, people ask me how to become a writer: Should they read “Moby-Dick”? Should they take creative-writing courses? Should they cultivate other writers? I tell them that there is one important first step on the road to authorship: leave home,” stated by Paul Theroux in a recent The New Yorker article

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