Learning to Leave Well Enough Alone (or, Arlington Needs a Fucking Hobby)
I should have just gone home.
It was a wonderful day. A full day. I topped it off with my first yoga class in months.
I dedicated my practice to “wisdom.”
Wisdom, however, escaped me as I called my friend who lived close by for a quick visit on my way home.
It went by the wayside as I pulled into the parking spot marked “Future Resident Parking – Permit Required.”
With the dog twitching anxiously at the front door, we wrapped around the building to find a bench. Twenty minutes later, it was time for me to go home. The long day, the wonderful day, was good enough. The yoga class was good enough. But the hours at home before bed loomed over me, and I feared going home and finding solace from my loneliness in the fridge where cold comfort lives.
And when I went to find my car, there was no car to be found. Towed. Gone. My baby. The one thing in this world that I own had been stolen… legally. But it was my fault. I broke the law brazenly. $115 worth of pride. A price I can’t afford to pay. A lesson I can’t afford to learn.
I cried. Responding to the tow clerk’s inquiry, “Are you OK?” with “No. I’m not.” If she cared, I’d be shocked. If she was expecting a different response… she couldn’t have. I didn’t yell at her. I didn’t tell her they were fucking assholes. It was futile and this was her job. But let the record show. They were fucking assholes. And all I wanted was to go back in time. My night was fine. It was wonderful. I’d go back in time and leave well enough alone.
As I drove off the lot, the tears flowed and flowed. Disappointment. Anger. Resignation. It’s only money.
It’s only money.
And it was my fault after all.
An Ugly Kind of Drunk: The night I met “regret” in a trashcan
The goal was simple: Girls Night Out with my Partner In Crime, the Middlenameless Wonder. She has been a party to many debaucherous nights, from New Years Eve where I ended up on the bar of Union Jacks Ballston being sprayed with champagne, to Halloween night where I ended up making out with a 23 year old at Atomic Billiards, she is by far the best going out buddy ever.
We were going to stalk visit my latest crush working down in Chinatown. He was working the middle bar, and my friend was working the back. I beat my partner in crime to the bar, saw my crush as I walked in, and proceeded to ignore him and walk straight to the back to get started on what would prove to be a long, long night. Once she arrived at 9:45, the drinking began. The boys were scarce in our sober-er hours, giving us time to talk lucidly about urgent matters like boys and Vegas and cute outfits. I started with a Vodka Soda and moved to Rum and Diet, and she had Miller Lites flowing all night long.
At some point in the evening, I went to the bathroom and stopped to chat up my crush. He gave me a shot of something amazing. (I thought this to be a good sign.But have you met me? Stay tuned.) I thanked him and went back to my perch at the back bar. Finally, our first victim plopped down next to us. He was a german-named-asian-man. Attractive. Short. And had friends. *evil grin* They kept us entertained for cocktail numbers 3 and 4. Then we decided it was time to pay full attention to my crush. Get a final drink. Get a date set up?
Or just get completely fucking wasted.
I ordered Rum and Diet #5 which came in a pint glass and could have killed me. Thankfully, the shots he poured us took care of that first. (Another good sign? Umm….) We tipped him. Spent some time talked to the super hot guy in the salmon colored shirt (brave!) that we had been scoping all night. And headed home. Forgive me, but the details of the evening start to elude me right around this point.
Here’s what I remember:
- Stumbling from Chinatown to Metro Center.
- Deciding to take the Blue Line instead of waiting 18 minutes for the Orange Line.
- Getting off at Rosslyn.
- Vomiting over the railing as I emerged from the train.
- Being woken up by some girl and put on the train to Vienna.
- Waking up again at Vienna.
- Stumbling up the escalator.
- Vomiting in the first trashcan I found.
- Walking home. Undressing. Crawling into bed.
- Attempting to read missed text messages before crumbling into a heap and falling into a blissful, vomit-free slumber.
When I woke up the next morning, hell had reigned down on my stomach, sparing my head the typical haze of a hangover. With only a few hours until my mom’s arrival, I needed to get into working order… and quick.
Ya know, I honestly hadn’t been that obliterated in about as long as I can remember. It was not my finest hour to say the least. But I let go. And I never do that.
And my crush? Yeah. I got the ultimate brush off the next day. It was the 3rd time he had backed out of plans after two perfectly wonderful dates. He told me to call him and I did. He said he was going to “just chill” for the night. I said, “Ya know, just let me know if you ever want to do something.” His response, “Yeah. I’ll call you.”
Yeah.
Always trying to better myself, there is surely a lesson to be learned in this. How about this: With all the calories I drank Saturday night, I might as well cozy up with a piece of chocolate cake, and skip my chance encounter with regret at the bottom of a Metro trashcan and the embarrassment of being sloppy drunk in front of a man who couldn’t care less.
Rejection Letter FTW!
When I opened my mailbox yesterday, I saw two items waiting patiently in the shadows: Prevention Magazine (do.not.ask.) and an unfamiliar white envelope… with a handwritten address and… a stamp.
Please understand that these days, the only mail I receive is the RedPlum coupon flyer, Self Magazine from my favorite former boss, and credit card statements that I have tried to receive online to no avail. Oh, and wedding invitations (almost as depressing as the credit card statements…blah). So when I saw this beautiful, pristine, white linen envelope, I was really excited.
Upon examining the return address, I saw that it was from a company I applied to (#15 of 25 applications) about two weeks ago. While it has been many moons since the time of college acceptance/rejection letters, I felt the entire process flooding back to me like a bad dream. I remembered that acceptance letters come in big thick envelopes with lots of fun information, dancing monkeys, and cork-popping champagne bottles. Rejection letters, from what I hear, are sad, one-pagers politely thanking you for applying but regretfully informing you that you suck a little and should go fuck yourself.
I mean, I never got a rejection letter in college, so I wouldn’t know.
Clearly, this letter was the latter. And, in fact, it did reject me, but in the most amazing way. It was professional and polite. But more importantly, it existed. I have applied to over 60 jobs between my last job hunt starting 8 or so months ago and this one which I kicked off in June. Sure, I’ve received the automatically generated email message from a few companies, but for the most part the applications I sent off into the ethos have disappeared. *Poof*
Honestly, I want to send a letter back to this company thanking them for the rejection letter. It would be facetious, either. I genuinely appreciated receiving the letter, and respect the company SO much more for sending it. I would summarily recommend this company for anyone to work for even though they clearly thing I’m a piece of shit. Fuckers. But nice fuckers!
As a matter of fact, I believe that rejection letters should be standard practice in not only job hunting, but dating as well. I think that there should absolutely be such closure on all relationships. I tell you, this whole job hunting thing combines the worst parts of dating (courting and rejection) with the worst part of real life (money and health care). If you don’t woo the employer with your skills and all of the je ne sais quoi they are looking for, you just wait, hoping for the phone call, the email, the anything that gives you permission to move on with your life. If only boys, and potential employers, would have the decency to just flat out reject a person instead of leaving them hanging out there waiting, wondering… well, the world would be a better place.
Plus, my dad gets his pension from the Postal Service, so every stamp helps. 
Don’t Talk to Strangers… Seriously
From the annals of “Why Jane Shouldn’t Talk to Strangers” comes this gem from last week.
I take you to Bethesda, MD. 6:45pm. It’s drizzling as I exit the gym. I open my umbrella narrowly missing a younger-than-middle-aged-gentleman on the sidewalk next to me.
Average Jane: Oh, I’m sorry. I almost hit you..
Guy: It’s OK.
Average Jane: It wouldn’t have been OK if I hit you.
Guy: No. It’s fine.
Average Jane: In this litigious society, you could have sued me for everything I’m worth.
Total Creeper Formerly Known as “Guy”: Yeah. *awkward pause* But I would have gotten your name and address.
Could someone PLEASE install a mute button or something on me? Maybe a radio-style 7-second delay, perhaps, so someone in an office somewhere can stop me before I do something this retarded? Creepers will always be creepers, but the “I Heart Creepers” stamp I seem to have permanently across my forehead is a bit unnecessary. *sigh*
My Date with DC
I was invited for walk in DC. He was a stranger of sorts. The three hours we spent meandering the city was more a courtship with the district than the man in my company.
I was wooed by the streets. They flirted with me and I defended myself against perceived attacks on their character.
It went like this:
We started in Dupont headed nowhere. Disappointed that our path seemed to be headed straight for the Circle, I pushed us left. The next Circle was Logan and that seemed like a nice place wander. The Logan Circle I knew was no circle at all. It was a Whole Foods. A string of mediocre restaurants. Yuppies and Staffers. The Circle I found was beautiful and green. Filled with strangers in their own worlds. Reading, laughing, throwing a ball with their pup. Overtly sipping white wine with ice cubes out of glasses that seemed familiar. We stopped and chatted with some friendly, warm, fascinating Logan Circle residents. He worked for the Red Cross. She had spent her lay off in France and Indonesia. Her curly red hair struck me. His perfectly straight cut marks slightly below his tattoo struck me, as well.
We walked on past Logan Circle which fast became less desirable. I was uncomfortable as sunset began to settle over the city. He asked me what I thought of a house he was looking at buying. I said I wouldn’t move there and he asked why. “It’s feels so isolated.” Defensive, harsh, he countered: “But the nicest restaurant in DC is right over there. Just a few blocks. What are you talking about?” It didn’t feel right there. It felt removed. Apart. “There’s no escape route. No metro. No access to the highway. There’s no way out.” When those words came out of my mouth, I hoped he hadn’t noticed… noticed that I just described my take on life, love, everything. He pressed me on it. He wanted to know why. He didn’t ask nicely, though, and I found myself defending my love of DC while explaining my fears of moving into the city. I was recounting every failed relationship I had ever had and didn’t even know it.
From there we walked to one final circle, Scott Circle, where he took me to an apartment complex and we peered over the wall. “I never knew this was here,” he said as we looked at scores of children splashing so happily in a pool just feet away from the busy intersection I’ve driven through countless times. He found it on Google Maps as he was exploring the area. “I walked by it every day and I never knew it was there.” The city hides her gems, as I was about to find out.
I let him lead me as I was turned around by the streets I never walk. All of a sudden I saw a familiar site. We were almost on top of the White House. “Let’s go!” I exclaimed, as excited as a schoolgirl. “I have a plan in mind. It’ll be great.” Within minutes we were at the W Hotel, inside, on the elevator escorted by a list-wielding elevator concierge type, and finally on the roof. The view was breathtaking. This was the DC I brag about. This was the familiar friend and long time crush. This was the DC I’d miss if I left, an option so tempting to a wanderlust like myself. Some time later, after identifying all the obscure landmarks we could, we went downstairs to the White House where we dawdled for a bit as he learned about Ashraf and I gawked at the building I never tire of admiring.
Then it was back home. I don’t know how we got back to Dupont, but there we were. I couldn’t thank him enough. Not only did I get to bond with a stranger, but I got to know a great guy, as well.
Lost: One Box of Condoms — An Open Letter to the Cosmos
Dear Cosmos,
I get it. You’ve been pretty good about reminding me that my sex life is your little inside joke. You introduce me to amazing boys about to go on two-week vacations to tropical places with lots of drunk, easy women. You whisper, “don’t bother shaving your legs” to me while preparing for the one night on the town when I meet a boy worth meeting. YOU MADE ME A RETARDED HEIGHT! But really cosmos? Did you have to lose my box of condoms?
I bought the box long enough ago that it’s depressing they aren’t all used yet, but not long enough ago to have expired. I think. See, I can’t check because I can’t find them. Could they have been lost in the move? Could they have been taken as a parting gift by one of my friends who moved me? Most likely not the latter.
See, Cosmos, there are two possible bad endings to this story: 1) I don’t get laid because I don’t have any condoms. We all know that the only time I get offers is when I am completely unprepared anyway, so maybe this is a good thing? No. No, probably not. 2) Next time I move, my mom will find them and I’ll die. And my blog readers will miss me. And it’ll be your fault.
I know, I know. Go buy another box. And I will. But COME ON. Throw me a friggen bone here. Or don’t. Because if you do I WOULDN”T BE ABLE TO DO ANYTHING WITH IT! *Le Sigh*
Yours truly,
Celibate Jane
Lessons from Unemployment: Fans, Friends, Coax, and Eggs
This round of not-so-employed-ment has been a little more difficult than last time. My rent is exponentially higher and my motivation is slightly lower. I find that I may have had a set amount of job search energy for the year, and I used mine up first quarter. That being said, I have been inspired by said unemployment to re-examine the cost of my life and start to make some serious changes. Here are a few you might be able to adopt if, ya know, quality of life isn’t on the very top of your list.
1) Buy a fan. About a month ago, I turned off my air conditioning. As anyone who knows me can attest, my ideal temperature is 83 degrees. Indoors. Below that, I freeze. I had a space heater under my desk at work, wore fingerless gloves for typing, and was admonished by a former boss for wearing a turtleneck in July. However, as I speak it’s 85 degrees in my tiny little apartment and mama’s a little warm. I have the world’s most awesome fan in my bedroom. Why is it the world’s most awesome fan? Because it works. And it was fucking free. And free things that work are gifts from God (or mom or Freecycle. See also: food processor. Incidentally, did you know Elmer’s Glue is mostly water/food proof? And apparently non-toxic? Free things that work sometimes have cracks to fix and stuff.) So my bedroom is a livable temperature but I’m schvitzing like a polar bear in Nappa Valley sitting here in my living room. Question: Is it worth it? Abso-fucking-lutely. My Dominion Power bill, a lofty $101 last month, was a “cool” $45 when it arrived today. Hallelujah. Could there possibly be a downside? Um… apparently house guests aren’t a fan of my fan-only cooling system. I do kick on the air so as not to run off prospective gentleman suitors. This involves some pre-planning/hoping/jinxing. Also apparently, 78 degrees is still not cool enough for boys. Fuck em. When they start paying my bills they can turn the AC as low as they want
2) Get Crafty with Coax. There was about a week before I left my job where I decided not to turn on my TV. I wanted to see if I could live without cable. One day I’d like to buy a house (or new speakers for my car) and even before this job went to hell, I wasn’t saving a penny. As it turned out, I could in fact live without cable, although the Internet was another story. That would have to stay no matter how bad it got. So when I lost my job, I pulled the plug. Literally. I was sad. Very sad. It felt like my dog died except I don’t have a dog and I did have cable. On a lark, I tried turning on the TV to see if maybe they had taken pity on me and left it on. Shockingly enough, they did not. On a second lark, I went into the bedroom, turned that TV on, and wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, it worked. Taking to Twitter, I found out that this wasn’t a mistake. If you don’t cancel the Internet, they leave the cable line hot. It took me a week to stop being an idiot and go to Home Depot to buy 50′ of cable and a splitter. See, I have this fuckoff huge TV mounted to my wall in the 85 degree living room, and I felt like watching TV in here was a slightly better plan than living in my bed so I wouldn’t miss West Wing or any of the 12 hours of court shows throughout the day. For the week I did live in bed, I found myself sleeping way too much, and being very depressed. It’s amazing what a panacea coax cable can be. Was it worth it? Abso-fucking-lutely. Cable bill before: $120+. Cable bill now: around $40. Win. I worry a little that it’ll all come crumbling down on me, but for now I just have to be happy I can watch Paula Deen and blog about life on the cheap.
3) Adjust Your Palate. I eat pretty frugally. Frozen veggies. Canned tuna. But I have expensive taste in protein. I like things skinless. Boneless. Fatless. And perfectly portioned for my ease of use. Seeing as how that doesn’t come cheap, I’ve resorted to some cheaper options. Namely, eggs and protein shakes. Granted, not all protein powders are inexpensive, I sub out a dinner a week with a frothy shake of loveliness and save a few pennies here and there. But eggs? I can’t really think of a bad things to say about them. I mean, they are slightly less tasty than I’d like since I’m proud to be salt-shaker free these days. But cheap bastards can’t be choosers. Ya know?
4) Find a Friend with WAY TOO MANY Clothes… and Go Shopping! I have a new awesome friend who happens to have a bit of a shopping habit. I support this habit unconditionally as it means mama gets a bag full of clothing for the summer season. She told me to “just wait” for winter. She actually has two whole wardrobes and has to wait to unload that one until she unpacks it! Two wardrobes!!! Amazing.
I’m trying to stay human. I’m trying to stay entertained. I’m going to visit my family down the shore in Atlantic City this weekend. While the actual act of spending 3 days with my family could kill me, It’s going to be free once I get there. And I hear they keep the AC on.
Mothers and the Zen of Jewish Dating
A recent conversation with Mama Jane:
Average Jane: I went on a date last night, mom.
Mom: Oh, yeah? (This is where she waits for me to say…)
Average Jane: He was Jewish, too.
Mom: That nice, Jane. (I can feel warm glow of the hope of Jewish babies emanating through the phone line.)
Average Jane: Yeah! He was normal, too. His name was G.
Mom: Oooh… I like the sound of him!
Let’s pause for just a moment. So far, all I have shared with my mom is that a) I went on a first date, b) His name was G, c) He wasn’t a socially retarded recluse (aka “normal”). What does my mom hear, “I’M GONNA GET JEWISH GRANDBABIES!!!!”
My mom’s dating advice is notoriously awesome. And my dating escapades are entertaining at the very least. Given that my retarded brother is dating a retarded evangelical christian girl (yes, new readers, they are actually retarded), my mom is just happy that the girl can tolerate him, and that they aren’t making retarded babies… yet. But me? My dating life is an endless string of first dates, second dates, possible dates, bad dates, and, I mean theoretically, good dates, too. But the ratios are WAY off there.
The Denver Coffee Blogger said to me, “Jane, ya know my favorite blog posts were the ones about JDate.” He reminded me of every friend that says, “Go on that date with the guy you’re not into. We’d love to read about how bad it is.” Aww… thanks guys. My future book publisher will surely thank you for the material. But alas, dear readers, I haven’t been on JDate for months. Not since the Cop-tastrophe.
My lack of JDating has led to an interesting new phenomenon: J-Rage. The conversations all starts out so innocently…
Average Jane: Man, my dating life has been distinctly lackluster. I can’t find any good Jewish guys in DC! None that are normal, cute, and appropriately heighted.
Unsuspecting Friend: Ugh. I can understand. It’s tough out in the dating world. Hey – have you tried JDate?
Average Jane: (Wait for it….) Yes. I fucking have tried JDate and it fucking sucks. The men are there to get laid, and are creepy, and weird looking and short and every JDate I have been 0n has been a fucking disaster, and…
Victim of JRage: Oh my, well it’s just that I know some couples who met on JDate and they seem really happy…
Average Jane: Well that is GREAT! I mean, I do, too! And they are perfect and adorable and in love, and also not fucking “Me” because each douchebag I meet on JDate is slightly more fucking AWESOMEly douchey than the next!!!!
Now Cowering Friend: Oh. Um. So. I mean. I’m sure you’ll meet someone.
JRage is like Roid Rage. Minus the penis shrinking steroids. OK – so maybe not like that at all. But um. Moving on.
I have taken to asking boys who have been on JDate about why they hate it so much (and yet keep going back). Their response: The girls are boring. Or gold diggers. But mostly boring. Very. Interesting. Because I may be completely insane, but boring I am not. The funny thing is, when I follow up with, “well why do you keep going back on there?” their response is typically, “Well, I was bored.”
And so it goes, and so it goes. The finest awkward Jewish men in DC cruising JDate, bored out of their minds, hoping to find the woman of their dreams. And the women, the best and apparently boringest, wait patiently to be picked. I really hope those particular “successful” JDate couples come up with better stories than “I was bored” before the wedding toasts.
Shabbat Shalom
A Call, Unreturned
When the phone rang at 10:23 last night, I didn’t think twice. I answered the unfamiliar number and heard the familiar *click* of a wrong number. I hung up, put down my cell phone and prepared for bed.
The alarm rang at 5:57. My cell phone went off at 6:03. The familiar double dose I need on my early mornings. I opted not to shower, ate my breakfast leisurely, and played around on the internet before getting ready to head to PT. I packed my bag for a morning out and about: Cell phone, iPod, book, keys, wallet… Wallet? Where’s my wallet.
I searched frantically but knew almost immediately what had happened: On my way home from metro, I stopped at the ATM to get cash. $40. I put my wallet back in my bag, not touching it again until I was 30′ from my apartment. I reached around to my bag to get my keys out and heard a *thump*. It felt like something fell out, but upon inspection I didn’t see anything. I walked on. Home. Apparently without my wallet.
I ran out the door to the bush where it fell out. Nothing. I ran back to my apartment, cursing the gods above (and God in particular) for giving me yet another obstacle. Putting up another roadblock. Punishing me for something.
For a moment, I contemplated that missed call. But what if it was a number I should have known? A friend I forgot to save in my phonebook? An ex with a new number?
I went to PT and was in tears lying on the table. A wreck of epic proportions. “Go right home and cancel everything,” she said. That would change my plans for the day, but she was right. I went home and looked to see if any money had moved in any of my accounts. It hadn’t. I opted to postpone the cancelation. In case… in case of a miracle.
After an hour of back and forth (Do I drive to MD to get a duplicate license or apply for a new one in VA? If I drive all the way to MD, I might miss my 2:00 interview, and what if they know I don’t live in MD anymore? If I go to VA to get a new license, will they know my car hasn’t been registered in state? And where will I get the money to pay for any of this?), I settled on getting a VA license. Same price. Closer. And probably more legal.
I got dressed for my interview and headed with documents in hand to the Mall, where apparently they stash the DMV around these parts. Found parking. Harassed by skin care hawker. Found DMV. Denied. “Do you have your driving record from Maryland?” Um. No? “Come back with driving record. NEEEEXT!”
Crestfallen, unable to take one more blow, I walked back to my car, harassed by the same fucking skin care hawker as 10 minutes prior.
When I got in my car, that phone call from the night before haunted me. Going against my own next rules, but hoping to avoid as much “awkward” as possible, I sent the mystery number the following text: “I missed a call from this # last night. Did you happen to find my wallet?” Send. Phone down. *RING RING RING*
“This is Jane.” — “Hello. I found your wallet.” — “I’m on my way.” I was in tears.
Her sister found my wallet while jogging last night. Had I not gone to VA. Had I not forgotten my driving record. Had I not been too lazy to cancel my credit cards… She had it.
I got to her apartment and went to offer her a reward. “I’d like to give you…”
“No no. Really. It’s ok. And there’s no money in there. I asked my sister and she said there was no money.”
So they took my cash. The $40 I had just taken out of the ATM. $6 in singles. Between 9:00 and 10:23 when that saint found my wallet, some lowlife stole $46 and then dropped my life, my wallet, on the ground for a saint to find and return.
And I couldn’t be happier.
Thank you, mystery jogger. Thank you.
