Birthdays are like Christmas to me–I love them. There is no better time to make things all about you, and I milk this like an expert. Every year I send out a birthday wish list–sounds demanding to some, but really it’s the only way to ensure you get exactly what you want. Surprises are for children–no reason to pretend I want perfume when I really want a David Yurman bracelet. Anyway it’s that time again and this year is particularly amazing because I have 3 things going for me:
1. A boyfriend–how wonderful it is to have a boyfriend on your birthday (this also applies to Christmas, New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s day). This may seem insignificant to some (e.g., those people who are never alone...bitches), but it’s a big deal to me because I never seem to have a boyfriend on my birthday.
2. I’m 10 lbs lighter than I was on my last birthday.
3. I’m getting diamond earrings.
This almost seems too good to be true (maybe it’s the Rapture). Oh, so I guess I should give a little history about these earrings. Years ago, I inherited my grandmother’s precious diamond earrings (diamond princess cut studs–1.5 total karat weight). I often admired them as a teenager when I understood the importance of diamonds, but before then when I was a child playing dress up, my grandmother would finish my look by adding red lipstick and these beautiful earrings. (It wasn’t until 2 years ago that I would wear red lipstick again.) My aunt often mocked my grandmother for her “gaudy taste” as she called it. My grandmother would always reply, “only people who can’t afford large jewels find them gaudy.” a statement she got from the great Elizabeth Taylor and one that I carry with me to this day. The earrings were flawless. I adored them for nearly 2 decades and one horrible day or drunken night (I blocked the memory) I lost one. I would like to believe the weeks of crying were due to the connection the earrings had with my childhood, but I knew it had more to do with the loss of a diamond. Because I had come to let these earrings define me (sad, I know) I would tell anyone who listened the story of their loss, including my then boyfriend (I told him the real story–about what the earrings meant to my childhood and their connection to my grandmother).
He told me that one day he would buy a replacement pair, and he’s keeping his word. I know you're wondering how I know. Well, we share a laptop–okay, we don't really share, but he uses mine and vice versa. I was going through the internet history (not stalking, just cleaning the cookies–wink) and I noticed a few searches to some jewelers. I synced his blackberry calendar to the information of one store in the area and noticed it was on his to-do list the day before. So what if I happened to be in the area and accidentally bump into the most unattractive sales girl in the store and tell her how I adore her outfit and ask where could I find the fabulous pair of shoes she was wearing (She should have known I was lying). And so what if she gets to chatting and the next thing I know I’m asking if a man with my boyfriend's description came to the store and she states “yes” and tells me that he put the most exquisite pair of diamond earrings on hold and should be returning tomorrow to pick them up. All a coincidence. The point is, this is going to be the best birthday ever!
“So, honey, I was thinking of something romantic for your birthday–something local but nice. A 5-star hotel in the city and a nice dinner,” he says.
“Sounds perfect!” I say, gleaming with joy.
“This is going to be the most memorable birthday ever!” he says enthusiastically.
It’s the day of my birthday and I’m going through the day at various grooming appointments (hair, manicure, pedicure, and wax). I already have the perfect outfits for dinner and night time activities. We arrive at the hotel around 5 p.m. Dinner is not scheduled until 7. We sip champagne (I hate champagne but it goes with the picture-book romantic scene) and we do a little lightweight making out, and then it's time to get dressed. I pull my hair back to show off my soon-to-be new gift. Everything is in place except the earrings. (I purposely don’t bring a pair since I’m getting earrings for my birthday!)
“Baby, do you want your gift now or at dinner?” he asks.
I contemplate. I would love to open my gift at the dinner table just as the waitress is approaching. I imagine her, blinded by the reflection, saying “Oh, can I see?” And then I hold them up and her mouth drops open. But I would hate going outside without earrings, so I opt for the gift now.
“Gimmie, Gimmie!” I dance around.
“Okay, calm down, baby–I just want to say happy birthday, and I love you dearly,” he says, choking up a little.
“Aww, thanks bab, I love you too.” I reply.
He pulls out a Tiffany’s box from behind his back. “Tiffany’s? No way!” I think. I’m not one to question gifts, but diamond earrings from Tiffany’s had to have set him back. I mean, this is even a bit much for me. Wait, what if it’s not earrings but an engagement ring? We haven’t been dating that long, but I would never ever turn down an engagement ring from Tiffany’s – that is, depending on the size, clarity, and cut (in that order). I’m nervous now. Am I ready to be a wife? Have we dated long enough? Do I know his favorite color (yellow)? I do.
As I untie the bow, my heart is racing. I keep looking up to see if he has gotten on one knee. I open the box–he’s still standing. (Okay, you are not going to ask me to marry you unless you’re on one knee and you say my full name somewhere in the proposal.) Box open (standing), I pull the foam filler back (still standing) and there it was, staring at me. My eyes began to well up with tears. (Oh, stop it, you'd better not cry!) 3 tears fall, then 10 more. I’m officially crying. I leap up to hug him, “Oh, baby, thank you so much for the necklace–I love it!” (A necklace, not earrings, but a fucking necklace) "Oh, baby, I didn’t realize you would be so emotional. I’m so happy you like it,” he says. (Note to self: if I decide to have children, I must teach them to be more grateful than their mother) He intercepts my thoughts:
“I really wanted to get you the earrings, but my mother thought it was too much too soon.”
“Your mother?” I whisper. I’m balling now.
“Yeah, I told her the story of the earrings and she thought it was a great gesture but it would be a better gift for later in the relationship.”
(Don’t say anything bad about his mother, don’t say anything bad about his mother, don’t say anything bad about his mother. Ok ready … deep breath, speak)
Well, honey, we are in this relationship together, and I think it’s important that you make decisions based on how you feel and not how other people feel. (Because frankly, your mother doesn’t have to fuck, suck, or smell your shit daily.)
“I know, but she’s my best friend and I value her opinion,” he replies sheepishly.
(These people can suck it already with their my-mother-is-my-best-friend crap. Your mother birthed you––she is not your best friend. If she was your best friend, she would know about the threesome you had junior year in college, the week you and your friends bet $100 dollars for every chick you could screw, and the time you almost got arrested for fighting.)
I understand. I love you, and in the future I just want to make sure we are doing things that make us happy (and by "us," I mean "me"), agreed? I say this while wiping my nose from all the crying.
“Agreed" he smiles.
“Thanks for the necklace–do you mind helping me put it on before we go to dinner?” I reluctantly ask.
“I’m happy you love your gift; I knew this would be a memorable birthday," he says while clasping the necklace.
Indeed it was!
Monday, April 27, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Year of Yes- In the Past
I’m sitting at home channel surfing and I come across this woman on The Today Show who wrote this book called The Year of Yes. For an entire year, she said yes to every man who asked her on a date. As she relayed the good and bad parts of her experience, I started to think, “I could I do this.” I listened more intently. She went on to explain that, in order for this experience to work, you must be open. “Open,” I say to the tv, “what does that mean?” She went on–women in urban areas have the greatest access to meeting men daily, but we shut ourselves off from them. “Go on,” I say, intrigued. She says we walk down the street talking on the phone (Yep, I do that), listening to our iPods (I never leave home without mine), reading books (me too), or we display looks that suggest we are not approachable (Damn, that too...) “Ok, so open, huh?” She tells me, "No distractions, and smile, ladies–be friendly and open to small talk." I hate small talk, but I think, “Why not?” At the end of the year she found a husband, so I really I have nothing to lose.
The next day I step on the commuter train, feeling naked–no phone strapped to my ear, no iPod drowning out the dumb conversations of others, and no book to help me slip out of reality.
“Hello, how are you this morning?” says a train patron. I ignore him and walk to the next available seat. (Oh, shoot, I’m supposed to speak to people–this is hard; it’s too early to speak to strangers.)
“Hey, you left your music today?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry–hi, I’m Dan; you usually have your iPod.”
(Stalker alert) “Oh yeah. Hi.”
He continues on with some small talk, but I’m not interested. He stands to exit the train and says, “Well, it was nice to have met you.”
“Yeah, you to.” (We didn’t really meet, but okay...)
“Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Great. Now I need to get on a different train car.
As I’m walking to the office, the Heineken truck vendor yells “Hello, beautiful!”
“Hello," I say enthusiastically. His eyes light up–I’m thinking no one has ever responded to this remark before.
"How are you?”
“I’m good, and you?”
“Much better if I could take you to dinner sometime.”
“Sure, but maybe we just start with coffee one day.”
We exchange numbers and I’m on my way. This sort of exchange happens again with a postal worker before I enter my office building. I plunk down in my seat. “Damn, this is exhausting,” I think.
On the way home, I speak to Mr. Heineken on the phone and we agree to meet in the morning at the Starbucks on the way to my office. (I should add another one of my many rules here: Rule #17–always schedule a first date that allows for an easy exit strategy (e.g., before work, or on a lunch break).
When we meet the next morning, we chat for a bit, and I learn the basics: age, occupation, likes, dislikes. Then we are interrupted by a phone call from his daughter. “Hi, honey. I’m busy, do you need something?....Okay, I love you...Yes, and mommy too.”
I think, "Um, excuse me? You're on a pseudo-date, and you just told your daughter to tell her mother you love her?" Instead, I just say, “Well, it was nice meeting you. I’m going to get going.”
“Oh, so soon? Did I pass?” he asks with a smirk.
“Pass what?” I reply, still affected by the love comment.
“Your mini-date test? Do I get to go on a real date with you?”
“Naw, maybe your daughter’s mother would have a better time,” I reply as I’m pushing my chair in.
Three days go by with only a few more awkward encounters. Finally, it’s Friday. I agree to go to this birthday party with a friend. I decide to leave work early and hit a few stores to look for a cute top. The unexpected warm weather has more people out including the dreadful street performers. I hate them–beating on buckets, doing magic tricks, and dancing is not appropriate for the crowded downtown streets. I’m walking past this café and the infamous street performer–the silver man– is in full getup, sitting and eating a burger on the outdoor patio. (The silver man is this guy that spray paints himself in all silver metallic, including his face, clothes, and shoes. He stands on a box doing different poses and dances to Michael Jackson songs–by far the most talentless and annoying street performer of this decade.) As I walk past the patio he says “Hey cutie. How are you?”
I stop. “Excuse me, are you talking to me?”
“Yes, I am. Do you want to have lunch with me?”
“You can’t be serious?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you spray paint yourself for a living––you’re like a modern day clown and you’re asking me to have lunch with you?”
“Clown?” He laughs.
I laugh.
His grin instantly fades. “What’s funny?”
“I’m sorry, I just find it remarkable that you would try to ask me out looking the way you look. It’s comical. I’m not sure if I should be offended or intrigued at your level of confidence.” I give one last hearty laugh and walk away. (I’m only saying ‘Yes’ to sane people! )
Shortly after I arrive at the party that night, I spot the perfect guy at the bar. (I mean, if I’m going to play this little game, I could at least position myself next to men I am physically attracted to.) I pretend to order a drink.
He speaks: “Hey, I’m Jay, that’s a strong drink you ordered.”
“I can handle it,” I reply shyly. (I can’t, but I knew a double whiskey would get his attention.)
I sit at the bar most of the night as we volley questions to each other. He’s from Las Vegas, graduated from a state school, Mercedes dealer, and found his way to my city because his ex-wife had a great opportunity here.
“Oh, you’re divorced,” I say.
“Yeah, divorced with a son. It’s new, but I think I’m adjusting.”
After hours of chatting, dancing, and drinking, we decide to go to breakfast the next morning.
On my way to breakfast, I think, "Maybe this idea of 'Yes' is not so bad–I mean, I only slightly care that he has a child." I arrive at the restaurant, and he’s already there, which is a good sign. After ordering, I enquire a little more about this divorce.
“So, divorced at such a young age–what did you do?” I ask with a smile.
He laughs and says, “What did I do? Nothing.”
“Oh come on, something had to happen. You just don’t wake up and leave."
“Well, some people do.”
“Really?”
“Yes, that’s what happened–I woke up and she was gone.”
“Huh?”
“My ex was gone. I went to work and when I came home, she and my son were gone–furniture gone, car gone–there was nothing left.”
I could hear his voice cracking. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that–let’s change the subject.”
“No, you asked so we are going to talk about it.”
I think to myself, "Don’t curse him out––he’s being emotional!"
He continues. "How can women just do that? Just wake up and leave someone? Why are women so selfish?”
My mouth is open. He continues to rant as tears start streaming down his face. I’m speechless.
“My wife is gone," he says. (Um, ex-wife.) "She just left me and now I have no one.”
I wait for him to finish. I stand and say, “I’m sorry–– it seems like you have a lot of things to work out, and I hope you find the answers you need.”
“You walked out on him?" asks my friend, laughing.
“Yes––what was I supposed to say? I don’t know how to deal with someone crying about his ex-wife. He clearly needed time to himself.”
“Oh, come on––that was mean, even for you.”
“Whatever. My line is clicking––hold on."
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Jay.”
“Oh, hi––I’m on the other line; let me...”
“I don’t care if you’re on the other line––what you did yesterday was rude and insensitive.”
“Rude? It was rude of you to ask me on a date knowing you still needed time to grieve the loss of your family.”
“You’re a selfish bitch and I see why you’re alone."
“Back at you, cry baby.”
I hang up.
So much for the year of Yes!
The next day I step on the commuter train, feeling naked–no phone strapped to my ear, no iPod drowning out the dumb conversations of others, and no book to help me slip out of reality.
“Hello, how are you this morning?” says a train patron. I ignore him and walk to the next available seat. (Oh, shoot, I’m supposed to speak to people–this is hard; it’s too early to speak to strangers.)
“Hey, you left your music today?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry–hi, I’m Dan; you usually have your iPod.”
(Stalker alert) “Oh yeah. Hi.”
He continues on with some small talk, but I’m not interested. He stands to exit the train and says, “Well, it was nice to have met you.”
“Yeah, you to.” (We didn’t really meet, but okay...)
“Well, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Great. Now I need to get on a different train car.
As I’m walking to the office, the Heineken truck vendor yells “Hello, beautiful!”
“Hello," I say enthusiastically. His eyes light up–I’m thinking no one has ever responded to this remark before.
"How are you?”
“I’m good, and you?”
“Much better if I could take you to dinner sometime.”
“Sure, but maybe we just start with coffee one day.”
We exchange numbers and I’m on my way. This sort of exchange happens again with a postal worker before I enter my office building. I plunk down in my seat. “Damn, this is exhausting,” I think.
On the way home, I speak to Mr. Heineken on the phone and we agree to meet in the morning at the Starbucks on the way to my office. (I should add another one of my many rules here: Rule #17–always schedule a first date that allows for an easy exit strategy (e.g., before work, or on a lunch break).
When we meet the next morning, we chat for a bit, and I learn the basics: age, occupation, likes, dislikes. Then we are interrupted by a phone call from his daughter. “Hi, honey. I’m busy, do you need something?....Okay, I love you...Yes, and mommy too.”
I think, "Um, excuse me? You're on a pseudo-date, and you just told your daughter to tell her mother you love her?" Instead, I just say, “Well, it was nice meeting you. I’m going to get going.”
“Oh, so soon? Did I pass?” he asks with a smirk.
“Pass what?” I reply, still affected by the love comment.
“Your mini-date test? Do I get to go on a real date with you?”
“Naw, maybe your daughter’s mother would have a better time,” I reply as I’m pushing my chair in.
Three days go by with only a few more awkward encounters. Finally, it’s Friday. I agree to go to this birthday party with a friend. I decide to leave work early and hit a few stores to look for a cute top. The unexpected warm weather has more people out including the dreadful street performers. I hate them–beating on buckets, doing magic tricks, and dancing is not appropriate for the crowded downtown streets. I’m walking past this café and the infamous street performer–the silver man– is in full getup, sitting and eating a burger on the outdoor patio. (The silver man is this guy that spray paints himself in all silver metallic, including his face, clothes, and shoes. He stands on a box doing different poses and dances to Michael Jackson songs–by far the most talentless and annoying street performer of this decade.) As I walk past the patio he says “Hey cutie. How are you?”
I stop. “Excuse me, are you talking to me?”
“Yes, I am. Do you want to have lunch with me?”
“You can’t be serious?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you spray paint yourself for a living––you’re like a modern day clown and you’re asking me to have lunch with you?”
“Clown?” He laughs.
I laugh.
His grin instantly fades. “What’s funny?”
“I’m sorry, I just find it remarkable that you would try to ask me out looking the way you look. It’s comical. I’m not sure if I should be offended or intrigued at your level of confidence.” I give one last hearty laugh and walk away. (I’m only saying ‘Yes’ to sane people! )
Shortly after I arrive at the party that night, I spot the perfect guy at the bar. (I mean, if I’m going to play this little game, I could at least position myself next to men I am physically attracted to.) I pretend to order a drink.
He speaks: “Hey, I’m Jay, that’s a strong drink you ordered.”
“I can handle it,” I reply shyly. (I can’t, but I knew a double whiskey would get his attention.)
I sit at the bar most of the night as we volley questions to each other. He’s from Las Vegas, graduated from a state school, Mercedes dealer, and found his way to my city because his ex-wife had a great opportunity here.
“Oh, you’re divorced,” I say.
“Yeah, divorced with a son. It’s new, but I think I’m adjusting.”
After hours of chatting, dancing, and drinking, we decide to go to breakfast the next morning.
On my way to breakfast, I think, "Maybe this idea of 'Yes' is not so bad–I mean, I only slightly care that he has a child." I arrive at the restaurant, and he’s already there, which is a good sign. After ordering, I enquire a little more about this divorce.
“So, divorced at such a young age–what did you do?” I ask with a smile.
He laughs and says, “What did I do? Nothing.”
“Oh come on, something had to happen. You just don’t wake up and leave."
“Well, some people do.”
“Really?”
“Yes, that’s what happened–I woke up and she was gone.”
“Huh?”
“My ex was gone. I went to work and when I came home, she and my son were gone–furniture gone, car gone–there was nothing left.”
I could hear his voice cracking. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that–let’s change the subject.”
“No, you asked so we are going to talk about it.”
I think to myself, "Don’t curse him out––he’s being emotional!"
He continues. "How can women just do that? Just wake up and leave someone? Why are women so selfish?”
My mouth is open. He continues to rant as tears start streaming down his face. I’m speechless.
“My wife is gone," he says. (Um, ex-wife.) "She just left me and now I have no one.”
I wait for him to finish. I stand and say, “I’m sorry–– it seems like you have a lot of things to work out, and I hope you find the answers you need.”
“You walked out on him?" asks my friend, laughing.
“Yes––what was I supposed to say? I don’t know how to deal with someone crying about his ex-wife. He clearly needed time to himself.”
“Oh, come on––that was mean, even for you.”
“Whatever. My line is clicking––hold on."
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Jay.”
“Oh, hi––I’m on the other line; let me...”
“I don’t care if you’re on the other line––what you did yesterday was rude and insensitive.”
“Rude? It was rude of you to ask me on a date knowing you still needed time to grieve the loss of your family.”
“You’re a selfish bitch and I see why you’re alone."
“Back at you, cry baby.”
I hang up.
So much for the year of Yes!
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Got Milk- In the past
I bring my breakfast and lunch to work everyday–well, at least 90% of the time. I pride myself on the fact that I've avoided the temptation of spending money on eating out during the work week. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not because I’m not wasteful in many other ways, it's just that this is one habit I’ve never indulged in.
Like any communal office refrigerator, all things are marked by their owners–names, initials or phrases–some identifier to ward off the public. I eat Kashi Go Crunch, strawberries, and skim milk in the morning. I usually place my milk toward the back with my first initial and last name and the phrase “this does not belong to you” with cross bones that my coworker added, just for dramatics. One Thursday afternoon, I’m in the kitchen chatting with a cube neighbor while he makes his afternoon coffee. An editor from the other side of the floor walks into the kitchen. She’s older–60 or so, white hair, cane, the whole nine. I ignore her like I do most of the older editors. They hate the non-creative team–they believe we infringe on their creativity.
“Sorry, Mr. Science editor you can’t produce a 300-page book about grass just because your grandson has a fascination with eating grass. This is a company and we are here to maximize profits and lower cost,” my cube neighbor says to me.
After the older editor glances up at us, (disapproving of our candid conversation) she proceeds to pour what is probably her 4th cup of joe that day, she opens the fridge and pulls out a blue carton of Dean’s skim milk. The only reason I even notice this is because I vaguely see a cross bones figure. I wait for her to pour. (I’m actually intrigued by her arrogance–a level-headed person would never steal in front of others.)
“Is that yours?” I say.
“Is what mine?” she replies.
“The milk (bitch)–does that belong to you?”
“There was no half and half left!”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
She sips her coffee (are you serious) and says, “Well actually I suppose it’s not mine.”
(Suppose?!?) “Well who does it belong to?”
“Well,” she says, staring at the container, “I.. I.. don’t know.”
(Ladies and Gentleman, an editor who can’t fucking read. Great!) “It’s mine, and for the record, it has medicine in it and I hope you drop dead.” I storm off.
I’m standing around telling my cube mates the nerve of the old frog and my work phone is ringing. I don’t recognize the number, so I ignore it. (I never answer the phone, not even at work, if I don’t know the number. Thank God for caller ID!) 15 minutes later the new HR intern comes to me. "Mr. Law wants to see you in HR ASAP," she mumbles.
I slide the door open and say, “Yes, you asked for me?”
“Um, you told Mrs. Cane there was medicine in a product she was consuming.”
“A product she was consuming? Yes, it was milk and it belonged to me. It had my name on it." (And cross bones to ward off villains but apparently that meant nothing to her!)
“Mrs. Cane is very concerned about her health. Can you please reveal the names of the medications?” he says, frowning.
(Concerned about her health!) “People who drink other people’s milk are not concerned about their health."
“She has phoned her doctor and he is afraid the medications consumed could have adverse reactions to the medicine she is taking. We would not want something life threatening to occur as a result of the alleged incident.”
("We" don’t give a shit.) "Alleged? There is nothing alleged about it–I saw her with my own eyes drinking my (fucking) milk."
“Can you please just write down the medications that were in the milk?”
He passes me a sticky note. I ignore it.
“My medications are my personal business and I’m not comfortable disclosing them to my employer for fear it may be used against me in my employment advancement.”
“And for Mrs. Cane–what should I tell her?”
“Tell her that her days on this earth are numbered. Have a pleasant day.”
Like any communal office refrigerator, all things are marked by their owners–names, initials or phrases–some identifier to ward off the public. I eat Kashi Go Crunch, strawberries, and skim milk in the morning. I usually place my milk toward the back with my first initial and last name and the phrase “this does not belong to you” with cross bones that my coworker added, just for dramatics. One Thursday afternoon, I’m in the kitchen chatting with a cube neighbor while he makes his afternoon coffee. An editor from the other side of the floor walks into the kitchen. She’s older–60 or so, white hair, cane, the whole nine. I ignore her like I do most of the older editors. They hate the non-creative team–they believe we infringe on their creativity.
“Sorry, Mr. Science editor you can’t produce a 300-page book about grass just because your grandson has a fascination with eating grass. This is a company and we are here to maximize profits and lower cost,” my cube neighbor says to me.
After the older editor glances up at us, (disapproving of our candid conversation) she proceeds to pour what is probably her 4th cup of joe that day, she opens the fridge and pulls out a blue carton of Dean’s skim milk. The only reason I even notice this is because I vaguely see a cross bones figure. I wait for her to pour. (I’m actually intrigued by her arrogance–a level-headed person would never steal in front of others.)
“Is that yours?” I say.
“Is what mine?” she replies.
“The milk (bitch)–does that belong to you?”
“There was no half and half left!”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
She sips her coffee (are you serious) and says, “Well actually I suppose it’s not mine.”
(Suppose?!?) “Well who does it belong to?”
“Well,” she says, staring at the container, “I.. I.. don’t know.”
(Ladies and Gentleman, an editor who can’t fucking read. Great!) “It’s mine, and for the record, it has medicine in it and I hope you drop dead.” I storm off.
I’m standing around telling my cube mates the nerve of the old frog and my work phone is ringing. I don’t recognize the number, so I ignore it. (I never answer the phone, not even at work, if I don’t know the number. Thank God for caller ID!) 15 minutes later the new HR intern comes to me. "Mr. Law wants to see you in HR ASAP," she mumbles.
I slide the door open and say, “Yes, you asked for me?”
“Um, you told Mrs. Cane there was medicine in a product she was consuming.”
“A product she was consuming? Yes, it was milk and it belonged to me. It had my name on it." (And cross bones to ward off villains but apparently that meant nothing to her!)
“Mrs. Cane is very concerned about her health. Can you please reveal the names of the medications?” he says, frowning.
(Concerned about her health!) “People who drink other people’s milk are not concerned about their health."
“She has phoned her doctor and he is afraid the medications consumed could have adverse reactions to the medicine she is taking. We would not want something life threatening to occur as a result of the alleged incident.”
("We" don’t give a shit.) "Alleged? There is nothing alleged about it–I saw her with my own eyes drinking my (fucking) milk."
“Can you please just write down the medications that were in the milk?”
He passes me a sticky note. I ignore it.
“My medications are my personal business and I’m not comfortable disclosing them to my employer for fear it may be used against me in my employment advancement.”
“And for Mrs. Cane–what should I tell her?”
“Tell her that her days on this earth are numbered. Have a pleasant day.”
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Bachelor #2- In the Past
Shit. I’m almost late. I have to make the 7:47 a.m. bus–not because of the obvious reason (i.e., if I miss the bus, I’ll be late for work)–I couldn’t care less about that. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen my bus boyfriend–you know, the really hot guy you see just enough so that you keep gloss on your lips even though you’re having your morning tea; your only real reason for flat ironing your hair or wearing your 3-inch heels to the bus stop instead of carrying them in your work tote–him. It’s been two weeks since we’ve last seen each other, and I need a recharge.
This guy-let’s call him Bachelor #2–he’s one of the reasons I run daily, ward off carbs most weekdays, or say “no thanks” to that donut at the morning meeting. I actually have two others. Bachelor #1, however, is out of my league. He’s model gorgeous, has beautiful skin, beautiful teeth, designer Hugo Boss suits, Ferragamo shoes, and a black leather Prada laptop bag. Now that I think about it, he’s probably gay. But Bachelor # 2 is my favorite–probably within my numeric range. Let me take a moment to explain the numeric range, otherwise known as Rule #32 (another one of my many rules), because lots of people get confused by this or think it’s a shallow way to judge people: no one really cares about personality when they first see someone–maybe later, but in the beginning, you’re meeting the outer shell, and that shell has a number. There are always people out of your range, no matter who you are (well, except Beyonce, but let’s face it–none of us are Beyonce.) So, in order to keep the universe in balance, most people should stay within 1 standard deviation from their number. That means if you’re a 5 it’s okay to date a 4 or a 6, but not below or above that–doing so never works and it only takes away viable people from an already shallow pool.
Back to Bachelor #2: he’s tall, dark, and handsome–well dressed, Kenneth Cole inspired wardrobe and Cole Hann shoes–total cutie pie and absolute whore. He seems to have a healthy appetite for women. There have been countless times he has gotten on the bus with women carrying very obvious overnight bags (they are all average, which is the only reason I’m still hopeful.) They do slight things like adjust his tie or fall into him as the bus makes a sudden stop–small signs of their intimacy the night before. “How tacky,” I think, to let the world know you’ve spent all night slutting it up (though I secretly wish I was one of them.)
Then, there is Bachelor # 3- slightly attractive but more so because of his resume than his outer shell. I know I would be the prize in the relationship, I’m out of his range. He’s the one I smile at occasionally and whisper something to when I’m in a good mood, such as ”good morning’” as he walks past my seat. Not nearly as doable as Bachelors #1 or #2, but equally attractive, since the other two are not aware of my existence.
I make the bus. We pull to their stop and (damn it!) Bachelors #1 and #2 are missing. “Good morning,” says Bachelor #3.
“Morning.”
It’s Friday. I’m walking to CVS, and who do I see, but Bachelor #2. He’s standing in the corridor, talking on the phone. I promised myself and every friend I told about him that if I ever saw him outside of the bus, I would speak.
“Hey, what’s up?” I say
“Let me call you back,” he says into the phone. “Hey, how are you?”
“I’m good.
“You ride my bus right? Well, used to–I moved.”
I think, “Damn, I ran this morning for nothing,” but say, “Oh really? Where to?”
“The other side of town.”
“I see you like the phone.”
“Well, if I had your number, I would love to talk to you.”
(Omg, this is not happening–Bachelor #2 is asking for my number! Lord, thank you so much for answering my prayers.)
He called that Sunday.
“What are you up to?”
“Studying at Panera. You?”
“I’m tailgating, you should stop by.”
“Okay.”
This is so not me. I hate last minute plans, and I never go with the flow, but I guess I’ll do anything for Bachelor #2...
Tailgating is so much fun–it’s five of his friends, two of whom are his brothers everyone is really friendly, including him. I feel like we have been friends for years. (I’m also sure this is his MO, but I don’t care–I’m smitten!)
After that, we start hanging out–we meet for drinks, movies, basketball games, and it’s moving fast. He comes over (we all know where this is leading), and I have the perfect outfit––black lace bra and lace boy shorts fresh from the VS semi-annual sale. The candles are lit (yes, candles, but not because I’m a romantic; it’s because candles are a great way to make sure men wear condoms without seeming like an after school special.) We start kissing. I can’t believe I’m going to have sex with Bachelor #2! What if I’m not as good as I think? What if he’s not good? What if he’s a sweater? Do I want to do this? This could totally ruin my image of him–he’s so perfect in my head.
“Wait!”
“What‘s wrong, are you okay?”
“Nothing––sorry”
He takes the candle from the night stand. “Stand up; I want to see your outfit.”
(WTF? Okay, I don’t care who you are or what kind of shape you’re in, but having a man ask you to stand up in the bed while he holds a candle to examine your body is a blow to your ego.) So I do what any girl in my situation would have done: I suck in my stomach, stick out my butt, and pout my lips. He loves it. Everything after that moment is effortless. We quickly fall into a routine–24 hours of non-stop contact–breakfast, work, lunch, dinner, movies, sex–then 48 hours of no contact. I love it. It’s the first time in years I’ve truly been okay with “no strings attached.” I don’t ask about other women, and I don’t care. I don’t glance at the screen when his phone rings or assume when my text message indictor comes on that it’s him. I enjoy him when we are together. When we’re not together, I go about my life, which sometimes includes entertaining other people, but I only share myself with him. This continues for another three weeks.
Then, one night–it’s late, 3 a.m..,I just got home–he calls. Since we rarely do the late night thing, I’m alarmed.
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come over?”
“Sure.”
“Just so you know, I’m really drunk.”
(Great. Really drunk like throwing up or just can’t get aroused? Either would annoy me...)
I buzz him up. Turns out, he’s both. After he showers, he talks for hours about his family, and I’m half asleep trying to listen. (This is usually the time when most women say things like “oh, he’s sharing something personal with me–we are growing.” I, on the other hand, don’t want to know. I just want my 24 hours of lust. I’m addicted.)
We sleep most of the morning away. I get breakfast in from the local diner. We spend the rest of the day eating, watching football, and “playing.”
Then it’s getting late. He needs to leave.
“Let’s have sex before I shower.”
We kiss. He seems alarmed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I...I…I… don’t have an erection.”
“Really? (I stutter––I feel a slight blow to my ego--it’s me).
“What’s wrong with me?”
(What’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with me?) “Nothing. We’ve been “playing” all day. It’s fine.”
As I’m reassuring him, he’s staring off into space. I already know I’ve lost him.
He showers and kisses me goodbye. I lay there knowing we will never speak again. He is embarrassed or feeling something I’ll never be able to justify for him. I’m sad, but then a slight grin comes to my face–it’s the same grin I had after my first ½ marathon–painfully exhausted but pleased with the memory of everything it took to get there–all the long days, the endless miles, expectations, and the fear of failure.
My grin turns to a smile; I can’t believe I actually banged Bachelor #2. Victory!
This guy-let’s call him Bachelor #2–he’s one of the reasons I run daily, ward off carbs most weekdays, or say “no thanks” to that donut at the morning meeting. I actually have two others. Bachelor #1, however, is out of my league. He’s model gorgeous, has beautiful skin, beautiful teeth, designer Hugo Boss suits, Ferragamo shoes, and a black leather Prada laptop bag. Now that I think about it, he’s probably gay. But Bachelor # 2 is my favorite–probably within my numeric range. Let me take a moment to explain the numeric range, otherwise known as Rule #32 (another one of my many rules), because lots of people get confused by this or think it’s a shallow way to judge people: no one really cares about personality when they first see someone–maybe later, but in the beginning, you’re meeting the outer shell, and that shell has a number. There are always people out of your range, no matter who you are (well, except Beyonce, but let’s face it–none of us are Beyonce.) So, in order to keep the universe in balance, most people should stay within 1 standard deviation from their number. That means if you’re a 5 it’s okay to date a 4 or a 6, but not below or above that–doing so never works and it only takes away viable people from an already shallow pool.
Back to Bachelor #2: he’s tall, dark, and handsome–well dressed, Kenneth Cole inspired wardrobe and Cole Hann shoes–total cutie pie and absolute whore. He seems to have a healthy appetite for women. There have been countless times he has gotten on the bus with women carrying very obvious overnight bags (they are all average, which is the only reason I’m still hopeful.) They do slight things like adjust his tie or fall into him as the bus makes a sudden stop–small signs of their intimacy the night before. “How tacky,” I think, to let the world know you’ve spent all night slutting it up (though I secretly wish I was one of them.)
Then, there is Bachelor # 3- slightly attractive but more so because of his resume than his outer shell. I know I would be the prize in the relationship, I’m out of his range. He’s the one I smile at occasionally and whisper something to when I’m in a good mood, such as ”good morning’” as he walks past my seat. Not nearly as doable as Bachelors #1 or #2, but equally attractive, since the other two are not aware of my existence.
I make the bus. We pull to their stop and (damn it!) Bachelors #1 and #2 are missing. “Good morning,” says Bachelor #3.
“Morning.”
It’s Friday. I’m walking to CVS, and who do I see, but Bachelor #2. He’s standing in the corridor, talking on the phone. I promised myself and every friend I told about him that if I ever saw him outside of the bus, I would speak.
“Hey, what’s up?” I say
“Let me call you back,” he says into the phone. “Hey, how are you?”
“I’m good.
“You ride my bus right? Well, used to–I moved.”
I think, “Damn, I ran this morning for nothing,” but say, “Oh really? Where to?”
“The other side of town.”
“I see you like the phone.”
“Well, if I had your number, I would love to talk to you.”
(Omg, this is not happening–Bachelor #2 is asking for my number! Lord, thank you so much for answering my prayers.)
He called that Sunday.
“What are you up to?”
“Studying at Panera. You?”
“I’m tailgating, you should stop by.”
“Okay.”
This is so not me. I hate last minute plans, and I never go with the flow, but I guess I’ll do anything for Bachelor #2...
Tailgating is so much fun–it’s five of his friends, two of whom are his brothers everyone is really friendly, including him. I feel like we have been friends for years. (I’m also sure this is his MO, but I don’t care–I’m smitten!)
After that, we start hanging out–we meet for drinks, movies, basketball games, and it’s moving fast. He comes over (we all know where this is leading), and I have the perfect outfit––black lace bra and lace boy shorts fresh from the VS semi-annual sale. The candles are lit (yes, candles, but not because I’m a romantic; it’s because candles are a great way to make sure men wear condoms without seeming like an after school special.) We start kissing. I can’t believe I’m going to have sex with Bachelor #2! What if I’m not as good as I think? What if he’s not good? What if he’s a sweater? Do I want to do this? This could totally ruin my image of him–he’s so perfect in my head.
“Wait!”
“What‘s wrong, are you okay?”
“Nothing––sorry”
He takes the candle from the night stand. “Stand up; I want to see your outfit.”
(WTF? Okay, I don’t care who you are or what kind of shape you’re in, but having a man ask you to stand up in the bed while he holds a candle to examine your body is a blow to your ego.) So I do what any girl in my situation would have done: I suck in my stomach, stick out my butt, and pout my lips. He loves it. Everything after that moment is effortless. We quickly fall into a routine–24 hours of non-stop contact–breakfast, work, lunch, dinner, movies, sex–then 48 hours of no contact. I love it. It’s the first time in years I’ve truly been okay with “no strings attached.” I don’t ask about other women, and I don’t care. I don’t glance at the screen when his phone rings or assume when my text message indictor comes on that it’s him. I enjoy him when we are together. When we’re not together, I go about my life, which sometimes includes entertaining other people, but I only share myself with him. This continues for another three weeks.
Then, one night–it’s late, 3 a.m..,I just got home–he calls. Since we rarely do the late night thing, I’m alarmed.
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come over?”
“Sure.”
“Just so you know, I’m really drunk.”
(Great. Really drunk like throwing up or just can’t get aroused? Either would annoy me...)
I buzz him up. Turns out, he’s both. After he showers, he talks for hours about his family, and I’m half asleep trying to listen. (This is usually the time when most women say things like “oh, he’s sharing something personal with me–we are growing.” I, on the other hand, don’t want to know. I just want my 24 hours of lust. I’m addicted.)
We sleep most of the morning away. I get breakfast in from the local diner. We spend the rest of the day eating, watching football, and “playing.”
Then it’s getting late. He needs to leave.
“Let’s have sex before I shower.”
We kiss. He seems alarmed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I...I…I… don’t have an erection.”
“Really? (I stutter––I feel a slight blow to my ego--it’s me).
“What’s wrong with me?”
(What’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with me?) “Nothing. We’ve been “playing” all day. It’s fine.”
As I’m reassuring him, he’s staring off into space. I already know I’ve lost him.
He showers and kisses me goodbye. I lay there knowing we will never speak again. He is embarrassed or feeling something I’ll never be able to justify for him. I’m sad, but then a slight grin comes to my face–it’s the same grin I had after my first ½ marathon–painfully exhausted but pleased with the memory of everything it took to get there–all the long days, the endless miles, expectations, and the fear of failure.
My grin turns to a smile; I can’t believe I actually banged Bachelor #2. Victory!
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