The day Ned and I broke up, which is more than two months ago now, and I know. You're all, "Really? It's been that long already?" Yeah, why don't you go cram something in your nethers. I've felt every nuance of the pain of these last two months, but I'm super glad it went quickly for you. Really.
Anyway, the day we broke up, I called my tenant and told her she had to move, which I felt guilty about, but what're you gonna do? I toyed with finding a whole NOTHER place, then I remembered I have 26 pets. So.
The point is, I kept imagining my first weekend day in my old house. How I'd wake up to the sun shining in this back room. I could see myself padding down the hallway to make coffee, just like the old days.
Yesterday morning was my first weekend morning here, and it was fucking chaos.
On Friday night, a bunch of us from work schlepped out to this concert venue out at a farm, because our friend and coworker Molly was playing.
Here she is playing last year. I was at this concert, too. You can probably feel the June presence, can't you? I know. She just should have had me come up on stage. Do interpretive dance.
Anyway. It was outside, her concert Friday, and there were gonna be bonfires and so on, but I really had to get a warm coat. My regularly scheduled coat I'd thrown out in this move, as it was tore up from the floor up, as opposed to my current, hep lingo. REI was having a sale, so right after worked I tore over there. Tore like my winter coat, which is illin'.
As soon as I got there, I hated this British woman. She was the type who'd push all the coats aside for better viewing even though you were looking at the same rack of coats. Oh, don't mind me. I'll just imagine what they're like. That's fine. I'll go all John Lennon on the coats.
Then, I swear this is the truth, she TURNED THE MIRROR so she could see better WHILE I WAS LOOKING IN IT.
Hated. Hated the Brit. Wanted to go all Revolutionary War on her English ass.
After looking at 75 coats and bothering the REI saleswoman who desperately needed the Curly Girl method (she clearly brushed her hair. Dear curly people: Don't. Don't brush your hair. Unless the Voltaire look is your goal.), I picked up a coat. From the rack.
"That's mine," said the British woman.
"Yours?" Like, I thought maybe she came in with it and had inexplicably hung it up.
"Yes. I'm planning to buy that. I just put it back temporarily."
"You put it back on the rack and I was supposed to know you're buying it?" I felt my face grow hot. I'd detested this bitch since the second I'd walked in there. No. I'll bet I've detested this bitch all along, since birth, and I didn't know it yet. It's like how Michelangelo said the sculpture is in there, you just have to chisel it out. My hatred for this hose-faced nincompoop has been a part of me my whole life, like my blue eyes and "blond" hair.
"Yes. I just put it there temporarily," she sniffed. Literally sniffed.
You know that Harry Chapin song where he runs into his old girlfriend in his cab, and she gives him a big tip? And he says another man woulda been angry, another man woulda been hurt. Another man woulda never let her go. And Harry Chapin stuffed the bill in his shirt?
"You can have it," I said to this whore of Brit-alon.
"Well, no, if you wanted to buy it..." she said, pretending she had a considerate bone in her body.
"It's yours," I said, stuffing the bill in my shirt.
"You're so sweet!" she called after me. Bitch.
The point is, 7939302 words later, I got a really warm, layered coat, and I didn't feel a scootch cold all night. I went with Ryan, he was my date, even though I'm twice his age and he has a girlfriend who could kick my ass. Mostly because she's half my age. On the drive there, Ryan was playing a CD. "This is such a high school song!" he exclaimed.
It was from 2005.
The venue was the prettiest concert space I've ever been to. Oh, it was gorgeous. And they'd clearly put something in the bonfires that made them smell good. You'd wander around, and coworkers would pop up. Oh, there's Poochie and her husband, who'd brought not only chairs and blankets, but a whole table with a spread of snacks and champagne.
There's no-nonsense Fleeta, in just her chair. No need for more.
We stood with Bitchy Resting Face Alex and her spouse and I wouldn't shut up about the stars, and we all talked about how Molly should be famous and why wasn't she.
I really hate it when people put something on Facebook and just write, "This." Oh, shut up. Be more affected, why don't you? But I stood under all those stars, with people who are my friends, and looked around at that crowd of all kinds of good-looking age-appropriate men, and thought, "This." This is just where I want to be. I mean, it isn't. Where I want to be is happy with Ned. But since that's not happening, this is just where I want to be.
Every once in awhile I get a feeling in my bones that I will be okay. I won't be sad like this forever. And I have to take the happy moments when they come. So, this.
On the way home, Ryan, who is 26, stopped off at a barbecue place and got the BBQ plate, hush puppies, onion rings, a chicken quesadilla and some chicken nuggets.
"What? I work out," he said.
He ate that at 11:00 at night and then probably went to bed and didn't struggle with GERD in the morning.
As for me, I came home and stayed up awhile, took sad selfies.
But I was FAST FAST asleep at 10:00 the next morning when that idiot rang my bell to do my yard. When I was moving, one of the movers said, "I also do lawn work. You need a lawn guy?" I really did. My yard was in shambles, weeds everywhere, and it was one of the things haunting me and making me overwhelmed. The guy said for $75, he'd clean it up. We agreed I'd leave a check in the mailbox and he'd just show up on Saturday.
WHY RING THE BELL, THEN?
"Oh, I hope I didn't wake you," he said as I went to the door with my mattress.
Fifteen minutes later, he RANG THE BELL AGAIN. You can imagine how calmly the dogs took this. "You got a outdoor plug?" he asked.
It wasn't long after that Marty Martin showed up, because he said he'd help me do manly things, such as hook up my DVD player. (Step one: Plug into back of TV. Step two: Plug into wall. ...Oh.) You know that thing where you aren't in the room, really, you're so tired?
So, my Saturday a.m. Not the peaceful morning I'd envisioned. The lawn guy TORE IT UP with my yard, though, man. Hedges, trimmed. Weeds, gone. Leaves, raked. I mean, he was out there for ages. I know he hates me for giving him $75 for all that work.
I have to go. BRF Alex is on her way and we're gonna paint the bedrooms. It's my clever way of getting her into my room, where all the magic happens. And by "magic" I mean my sex life has disappeared.