What an uplifting moment that was.

The night before I found out about my little prize, I had written exactly one line.  The blog was a place I used to come to.  There was a period where I was cranking out daily postings, my brain was a buzz with activities and ideas. My office was the first place I’d go to in the morning, coffee cup in hand, CBC2 in the background.  I would fill my notebook with ideas for future pieces, I used to work every day…sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, and late into the night, words tumbling out of me, fingers feverishly accosting the keyboard, pounding out phrases.

I entered a couple of writing contests, and I was never considered.  I got a little discouraged, got incredibly busy, and then…now, enough time has gone by that it’s gotten weird between us.  Like running into someone you used to be close to, there’s history there so it’s hard to be casual.   Or like when you bump into someone you know at the grocery store.  Say, you once took a class together, or worked at the same job one summer.  You like and respect them, wish them the very best.  You say, “nice to see you…we should really have coffee sometime”.

“Absolutely” they say, nodding earnestly. Boy is it a nice idea, chipping out a little time for this old friend, grabbing a latte and catching up.  But let’s be honest.

I hear you girlfriend.  That’s how I feel about the blog these days.  But I want to get back to that place.  Without the blog, without the creative outlet, I feel a little lost…a little deflated.  I’ve been through a trying couple of weeks.  I’ve gotten into a bit of a slump.  I’ve been feeling gold medal, black belt levels of the blahs.  Today I called my best friend, organized my closet, got a hair cut and bought a few new items for the winter season.  I spruced up a little; wore a dress and boots to the mall, and left feeling much lighter.  My husband and I visited with friends, and now I am at home taking the time to visit with an old friend of my own.

I’m to answer these questions about myself, so here goes…

1.       If you could be any animal, what would you be? 

My husband calls me ‘goat’, because I am stubborn, small and have been known to head butt .  I call him Bear because of his stature and magnificent beard.  In the animal kingdom we would be a goat and a bear and we would still be best friends.

2.       Invite three people to dinner, living or dead – who are they? 

I wish I could honestly answer this question more academically, Margaret Atwood  Oprah and Jesus and whatnot…but I’d have to go with Audrey Hepburn, Nora Ephron and Tina Fey. 

3.       What’s the best Christmas gift you could get?

Plane tickets with a big red bow. 

4.       What is your favorite blog entry you’ve written – please, post a link for us to read.

Oh I’m sorry…did you say my favorite five…no it was ten? Okay then!

https://pinuppickspenup.com/2013/06/06/double-duchess/

https://pinuppickspenup.com/2013/07/12/mazel-tov-cocktail/

https://pinuppickspenup.com/2013/05/29/tweets-twats/

https://pinuppickspenup.com/2013/07/19/ten-sense/

https://pinuppickspenup.com/2013/03/14/intensive-care-union/

https://pinuppickspenup.com/2013/09/22/something-blue/

https://pinuppickspenup.com/2013/08/15/guns-mom-jeans/

https://pinuppickspenup.com/2013/06/19/beyonce-it-isnt-so/

https://pinuppickspenup.com/2013/06/11/day-in-the-life/

https://pinuppickspenup.com/2013/07/10/rules-of-the-roadhouse/

5.       Who is your greatest inspiration? 

Nora Ephron, David Sedaris, Tina Fey, Elizabeth Gilbert, Barbra Streisand, Meryl Streep and Audrey Hepburn.

6.       Most embarrassing moment (that you are willing to share) 

Good Lord, how much time do you have?

7.       Name one thing that you wish you had done in your life thus far.  

Traveled to Europe.  To me, Paris is a necessity. 

8.       What’s your favorite food?        

I love food in general; curry, satay, pasta…I prefer vegetarian but I eat a little meat.  I’m more savory than sweet.  My death row, last meal would be various kinds of bread with lots of things to dip into. And french fries.  Yes, definitely french fries.  And then I’d have a latte.     

9.       Cheesecake or Cake?   

I can appreciate both, but wouldn’t turn down an exquisite slice of cherry cheese cake. 

10.    Favorite Olympic sport?     

Ha ha, bitch please! 

11.    If you could ask your great grandparents one thing, what would it be?

Were you happy?

I’d like to pass the award onwards to some of my favorites.

1) An Opinionated Girl VS. The World. http://lilynichol.wordpress.com/

2) Entrepreneur by Nurture. http://www.effectiveenterprise.co.nz/

3) Vinyl and Pearls vinylandpearls.wordpress.com

4) Lonely City http://lonelycityperth.wordpress.com/2013/09/02/allow-me-to-introduce-myself/

5) Vodka, Unicorns and Lincoln Logs http://dagmartully.wordpress.com/

There are so many great blogs out there, and I wish you the strength and perseverance to continue…no matter how busy life gets…cause once in a while you get a little reminder about just how fabulous you can be.

Images Courtesy of Google

On the drive home, I think about what I would name her. I’m big on naming things.  My bicycle in Australia was Miss Daisy, my car, Cracking Rosie. In a downtown apartment I lived in my early twenties, I stuck a label above my mail box that said ‘H. Golightly’.   Any excuse to make a movie/book/music reference I guess.  What would I  call her?

She’s icy blue, and classy as hell, how about Grace Kelly?

But she’s also a sweetheart, maybe Doris Day?

Is there anything cuter than Audrey Hepburn?

I love Carole Lombard, and who doesn’t want room for your dog? (I’d like to give a shout out to my good friend Harriet for this one).

Should Igo for something exotic, Brigitte Bardot?

Maybe something short, a la Twiggy?

 I reckon this bike is a bit feisty, if she talked maybe she’s sound like Katherine Hepburn.

I won’t commit just yet,  I think.  Riding around the parking lot, on this nearly sixty year year old bicycle, I think about when she was brand spanking new.  And all the people that owned her.  This bitch has seen some things.  And so I named her Norma Jeane.  And then the bike belonged to me, even though we had already purchased her and bought her all the way home.

(Just a snap of me riding bikes with Audrey Hepburn.  I think the bicycle is rather slimming, don’t you?)

All Images Courtesy of Google

My best friend Evelyn is going to Paris.  And I am vert with envy.

Incidentally, she is going because she will be in the neighborhood for a wedding.  As we are talk on the phone, she confesses that good ole Paris has never called to her as it does to me.  I then pull out the Western Europe Lonely Planet guidebook that once belonged to my friend Shannon, and read aloud, over the phone, why Paris is so great.  I’ve never been of course, I’ve only visited it in a cinematic aspect. Which is what I say to her, when she asks why it interests me so.  Well, Audrey Hepburn once famously said that “Paris is always a good idea”, and I tend to agree with Audrey.

To my dearest girlfriend, about to hit the streets of Paris, a list of my favorite movies about the “City of Light”.

Julie and Julia, Nora Ephron claimed she would miss Paris when she was dead.  Now that is an amazing impact for a city to have on you.

Two Days in Paris, I will never get sick of this movie.  I love Julie Delpy, and love this funny, strange little movie.  They visit Jim Morrison’s grave, and see other fabulous sights.  Also, they used to date in real life, that adds a particularly delicious contextual layer.

Midnight in Paris, if you want to see Woody Allen’s version of Paris. He explores era, and the most fascinating members of  Parisian avant-garde movement of the early 20th century- Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Alice B. Toklas and Gertude Stein. It’s sweet and nostalgic, and Allen films the shit out of this amazing city.  Beautiful. Funny.  Special. So up my alley.

Before Sunset, More Julie Delpy, the amazing sequel to “Before Sunrise”, and she and Ethan Hawke wander through Paris and fall in love all over again.

Amelie, this movie is my cinematic happy place.  Maybe this is where the love for Paris was conceived.  Sometimes I just listen to the soundtrack because I love this film so much.

Moulin Rouge, the Best of Baz, I think.  Again though it is fantastical and ridiculousness, it is firmly grounded in a real time and place.

Funny Face, just what every girl dreams of, being plucked from obscurity and then being swept off to Paris for an epic makeover and fashion shoot.  And then french kissed by Fred Astaire, a man old enough to be your grandfather’s grandfather.

So, girlfriend, watch and absorb, and then walk these magical streets and know that I couldn’t be more excited for you.  And that I will require a fabulous present.

Images Courtesy of Google

I was strangely soothed by all the other celebrity goss out there–beautiful people recommending beautiful products, with beautiful children, on beautiful holidays.  George Clooney is single again, Justin Bieber is being a little dick head, Amanda Bynes is blowing her fortune on cocaine and bad wigs.  All is right in the world.  I especially enjoyed a special on celebrity homes, where all these smug B-list bastards can show off all their awesome shit.  My favorite was the Dita Von Teese article.  As you can imagine, she has some pretty amazing possessions.

She has beautiful vintage furniture, and a bizarre taxidermy obsession.  She turned multiple bedrooms into spectacular closets filled with costumes, shoes, lingerie, and there’s a whole room dedicated to hats (which to me, is really a reason to never have children). “Sure, someone could carry on the lineage…but then again, I wouldn’t get my hat room”

She is such a glamorous icon, a burlesque queen, the modern-day equivalent of a golden age movie star.

Many of the most beloved icons from yesteryear are remembered in part of their marriages or affairs.  Marilyn Monroe with DiMaggio, Miller and that other guy, Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, Liz Taylor and everybody.  As for Von Teese, she spent the better part of a decade shacked up with none other that Marilyn Manson.

I’m assuming this was at a costume party, but that is a seriously disturbing looking fellow.  I have always wondered what the attraction was, if she would gaze at him from across a crowded room and think–”Lucky me, I get to go home with that“.

Last night, wide awake, and lying next to my gently snoring husband, I think about Dita Von Teese, what that hat room must look like.  Eventually I give up on trying to sleep, and head into the office.  I write a few notes about this topic, and then proceed to look up pictures of Dita and Marilyn.  Which is not the greatest idea at 1130pm.  Marilyn Manson…is not someone I enjoy.

I came of age in the advent of this particular chapter of goth-culture… circa 1996 with Antichrist Superstar.  Marilyn Manson burst creepily onto the scene, and just bled all over the place.  Parents were concerned about his presence, his influence.  He was being banned and censored, which made the fans love him even more.  Rumors flew about him killing animals onstage, and removing his ribs so he could perform fellatio on himself. Which makes no sense to me, why would you want to suck your own dick? If you have the money to have elective rib removal surgery, couldn’t you just hire someone who likes going down on freaky dudes…(and possibly be into doing a little laundry and light dusting)?  In high school Marilyn Manson was such a revelation and there was a definite social pocket of teenagers that jumped on that bandwagon.  Personally, he scared the hell out of me.  But then again, if Manson was an 11 on the hard rock scale, I was a 1.5.  I was listening to ABBA, Mamas & the Papas and the Bee Gees non-ironically.  I had pictures of Audrey Hepburn in my bedroom.  I was not in his demographic.  Simply put, going to a Marilyn Manson concert would be my version of hell on earth, I would rather be swarmed by a pack of flying monkeys from “The Wizard of Oz”, than listen “Beautiful People” in a packed stadium of Satanic looking freaky-deeks.  And you just know that they would do weird things with strobe lights…no thank you.  The fine folks behind the film “Burlesque” actually snuck a sample of that song into the soundtrack; even in a different incarnation I can not bare it.  You’re just never going to find me at a fan club meeting, and that’s all there is to it.

This morning, as I’m working on my social media project, looking for pictures of Charlie Brown and the Fantastic Mr Fox, I keep running into Marilyn Manson.  And it always gives my heart a little flip.  I wonder if ever he came around the corner and startled the crap out of Dita.  “Oh my god, Marilyn, why the face?’  I read that when Tim Burton was casting for “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”, Manson expressed interest in playing Willy Wonka.  That’s a long fucking way from Gene Wilder isn’t it?  Even Johnny Depp was too creepy (who allegedly based his character on Micheal Jackson, and Manson–the two Godfathers of creepy musicians).  Even Tim Burton, who makes his own distributing imprints on the world (don’t even talk to me about “The Nightmare Before Christmas) must have been like–no, Marilyn, that’s even too fucked up by my standards.  What’s worse, I don’t know which way is scarier, Marilyn Manson with makeup….

Or just plain ole Brain Warner…(cute koala though).

Yes, of course, never judge a book by it’s cover.  It’s just…what a terrifying cover.  In my research about these two former lovebirds–who were both raised in middle America, living lives through audacious, controversial theatrical alter egos.  He tried to get her for a music video, their schedules clashed, but on his 32nd birthday, she showed up with a bottle of absinthe (and a stunning outfit, I’d imagine).  And the rest, as they say, is history.

They were together for five years, got married in a civil ceremony, before having a lavish affair at some castle in Ireland.

And a year after that, Dita moved out of their home on Christmas Eve.  She never publicly stated what had happened (cough-cough-Evan Rachel Wood), but that it was bad enough to call a moving company the day before Christmas.

And, that’s all there is to it, the marriage ended and she never said exactly why.  But there is enough speculation that Dita could hang up her props, lingerie and boobie tassels, and just be plain old Heather Sweet; whereas between the drugs and the impressionable young female fans, Brian had a much harder time hanging up his Manson cap.   Von Teese lamented her divorce, and claimed that despite their appearances, they were a traditional couple, who valued the institution of marriage.  She intended for the relationship to last forever.  A Von Teese source said that–she just wanted to be at home on the couch with the dog with Marilyn Manson.  And I can’t imagine him just fresh faced, kicking back in his sweatpants and slippers.

As for Marilyn, I’ll be happy when he’s no longer haunting my image files.  I did come across more recent photos, and it looks like he has a sort of–Gothic fat Elvis thing, and it’s just not a great look.

So, Miss Dita with her many endorsements, is clearly the winner in this break-up face off.  She was classy dame that didn’t point fingers or name names.  She didn’t take a red cent of Manson’s money either.  But I wonder, if she ever misses him stealing her eyeliner, sneaking her corsets and pantyhose, or getting his red lipstick over her alabaster complexion after a passionate smooch in the kitchen.  Or if she now wonders what the hell she was thinking, and is happy to be back in the company of only the most beautiful people.

All Images Courtesy of Google

I miss that…the phone ringing and the mindless gabbing.  I have one friend who does not have a mobile phone, and she even leaves me messages on my answering machine.  (I really appreciate that girlfriend!)

Though my career is becoming extremely internet dependent, I still yearn for the retro elements of past eras. I miss record stores, good manners, doctors recommending cigarettes, and rotary phones.  I used to own a fire engine red rotary phone, which I loved…you know, until you had to call a government agency and you had to, oh I don’t know…press one or something.  And then you find yourself screaming “I JUST WANT TO TALK TO A REAL PERSON” into your vintage phone.  Which is not look I was going for.

So, as it stands, the land line is feeling a bit shipwrecked.  There’s not a lot of incoming action.  The occasional long distance calls, and a lot of telemarketers and my mother.  Oh, and my one friend without a mobile phone.  The phone rang the other evening, and I was preparing myself to politely dismiss someone selling products direct from their office in a call center in the third world.  And then I realize that I am getting a text message.  Through the land line.  This happened once, the summer before, when I was living at my parent’s house.  Twice the phone rang, and a robot voice asked me if I could “possibly switch shifts”, and the other time to invite me to some “candle party”.  This must be nice for folks like Rosie from “The Jetsons“; times must be tough for futuristic characters whose present is not as futuristicy as once predicted in the past.  But I must admit, I have to wonder if the robots ever see the scripts and say…”I couldn’t possibly say that”.  For when I accepted the text through the phone, I was asked a most personal question.

“What kind of IUD do you use…copper or hormonal?”.

I’m sorry, but did a robot just call me to ask about my method of birth control? Can robots even get pregnant?  And…if it wasn’t a nosy Rosie calling me about the brand my uterus prefers, who would text me that?

Luckily, the caller had the good sense to send an email as well. And so a memorable conversation was carried on via instant message.

I offered the best advice I could, made recommendations with care.  And ultimately, I suggested that when the day came, to make sure you have a pashmina and large sunglasses for before, after, and hell, even during.  Because it’s dignified.  Because it’s a little bit ladylike. Just because it’s fabulous.  I’m kind of old school that way.

All Images Courtesy of Google

Of course, this is rarely the case.  While I often hope that I can glide in to spaces, I mostly crash into them. What I’d like is to be elegant to the point of invisibility.

Today, I opted for a delicious sleep in (7:06am, but whatever).  Ben took the car, and so when time came to run pressing errands, I had to walk to pick up the vehicle.  The first order of business was to retrieve my final cheque from my former employers.  I handed in my resignation notice last Friday, incidentally on payday.  I was dreadfully nervous, fearful of retribution or confrontation.   I had  just come from an hour long yin yoga class, one that focused on hips and upper thighs, so when I stepped out of the car, my knees nearly betrayed me.

I came into the building on my jello legs.  And stood in the reception area for a moment.  I could not, for the life of me, remember the word “resignation”.  I just stood there, my sweaty palm moistening the envelope.  “Resigning”? “Resignatory”? “Resignative”?  No matter, I could go into the office, drop the perspired paper purposefully on the desk, recite a haiku in German, and it wouldn’t really matter.  But somehow, I needed a grip on that exact word…like it was a mantra.  I offered the letter to the only person in the office.  And she took the letter without a fight.  Not that I wanted a fight, but in the same way you want to glide all over town like a chic starlet, it wouldn’t hurt for a wail, a cry to the gods, a shaking fist  to the sky, or my favorite, the ‘on the knees begging you not to go’.  “You have to let me go, I’ve just given my reignignatory letter, please, you’re only embarrassing yourself”.  She wished me the best, we shook hands, and I wobbled out on my rubber legs.  And I made it all the way to the car before I realized:  “Ah frick, I didn’t get my cheque”.  There’s nothing worse than having a tense or emotional moment with someone and then pop your head back in and ask if they validate parking.  Luckily, I was able to get my pay without having to pop back into the office with a cute “Me again!” kind of shrug.

Anyway, today, heading down the hill in black leggings and tank top, wearing black flip flops.  Listening to Erykah Badu on my I-Pod, and envisioning myself walking into the building, grabbing that cheque and walking right back out.  Don’t look back.  I was grooving to Badu, negotiating my way down a dusty hill, and imagining the end game. I pictured myself picking up that cheque, already basking in the closure–check mate, bitches, I don’t have to play this game anymore.

I’ve walked this way plenty of times before, but this was a first in these shoes.  It was lightning quick, the sliding, the levitation that occurs before a fall, with just enough time to know that you are about to eat shit, but not enough time to do anything about it.

Lying in a cloud of dust, I propped myself up on my elbows.  This is when I see the blood.  It appeared that my big toe decided to separate itself from…itself.  There was a strange, dusty, dirty divorce on my left foot, and still a small distance to walk.  I stepped gingerly down the path, loathing the fact that my in-and-out plan was thwarted.  This is the moment to walk through that door, coolly pluck that cheque that out of someone’s fingers, and go back the way you came.  You never, ever want to smile weakly and say “There’s actually an awful lot of blood here, mind if I raid the first aid kit for old times sake?”  The receptionist was very kind, she guarded the first aid kit politely, (as if I had tried to cut my toe off just to get my hands on unlimited antacids, PMS tablets and finger condoms). After I was washed and bandaged, I took my cheque, and excused myself.  Not the graceful exit I had hoped for.

It was not glamorous.

Not chic or elegant.

Not adorably injured, I was bleeding like a hobo after a parking lot knife fight.

And let me tell you, with the money I just received, you can just forget about buying a 24-karat gold wheelchair a la post-hip surgery Lady Gaga.

I  limped away, covered in dust and dirt all, my foot throbbing, final cheque in hand.  I exhaled. No matter the exit, at least the job was over.  And I hobbled  towards the future, whatever it held for me, forgetting the injuries of the past.

All Images Courtesy of Google

What if…I choked?

In the end, ll was perfectly successful, which absolutely lifted my spirits. Home late last night, watching “Pretty in Pink” at midnight,  I felt like Eliza Doolittle in “My Fair Lady”.  Undressing after the ball, when all the hard work paid off, and no one recognized her as the cockney flower girl she really was and totally bought her as a fictional aristocrat.  When she got home, she was singing “I Could Have Danced All Night”, and mooning dreamily all over the bedroom.  Those poor maids were hard pressed to get her ready for bed with her dancing all around, and admonished her: “It’s after three now/Don’t you agree now/She ought to be in bed”.

If my maids clucked about me swooping around my four post bed about my fantastic weekend, they would hear about it.   I can go from zero to sixty on the diva scale (which zero being Audrey Hepburn, sixty being Naomi Campbell) in ten seconds flat.

I’d shriek, “I don’t pay you to hold me back when I’m celebrating my fabulous good fortune through the majesty of song“.  And then I’d throw whatever was within reach at the offending servants before commencing with my song about loving the shit out of my life.

Don’t worry, I pay them handsomely.

I’m sort of basking in the glow of knowing so many good people.  I feel blessed. I feel reconnected to this feeling I’d thought I’d lost, a sort of existential emptiness with which you could not identity the source.  Turns out…having a stone-cold pack of theatre weirdos back in my life is what was lacking. My heart is bursting with happiness.

Cheers for the love everyone.  You know who you are.

All Images Courtesy of Google

Or maybe, the interviewer would stare at me with an unintelligible expression, lean in to the telecom as I steel myself for the brusque handling of the security guards.  “Angela…do we have any more of those ponies? This girl needs a ride to her new office”.  He would commend me for my refreshing honesty, and call Tiffany’s personally to look into that tiara.

Ah, dare to dream.

“Why should we hire you?”

“Because I’m a god-damned delight, that’s why…also I’ve got a lot of gambling debt”.

“Why do you want this job?”

“Because I love folding sweaters for eight hours/because I need to feel the weight of a tray in my hands/because I want to wear a head set and apron at a bubble bath and candle chain/because I think I look great in hairnets/because I can’t seem to sort out a career for myself/because I have bills to pay, and I don’t have the figure to be an exotic dancer”.

The last job interview I went to was degrading at best. We were interviewed the day before, and told to come back the following day.  I was interviewed with another fellow, and we were asked the exact same questions from the day before–minus the one question that I’d never been asked but personally enjoyed.

“Who are people you admire?”

“Tina Fey and Audrey Hepburn, because they’re never above working hard, and both women are fabulous”.

But, as we all know, what I really want is to be professionally fabulous/being paid to write at home in yoga pants, listening to CBC 2 all day long.

It’s not an unreasonable request.

Two young men come in the room…and I mean young men, I could have babysat them when I was in high school.  The main interviewer was wearing running shoes, unhemmed trousers, a wrinkled, untucked dress shirt and a fedora.  His goatee was scraggly and disheveled.  His associate was wearing a brown leisure suit, had a pimply,crater face and wore a pink alien ring on his wedding finger.

Needless to say, I didn’t mean for the threesome to happen, but when surrounded by such animal charisma, and classic good looks, a lady simply cannot be tamed.

In truth, I kept my trench coat tightly fastened, and kept my purse on my lap, clutching it like an elderly woman surrounded by gang members on the subway.

How’s that for intimidating?

The office is filled with boxes and piles of paperwork.  Not a single picture hangs on the wall.  The job posting described a ‘marketing position’, these sons-of-bitches were talking above getting out there and knocking on doors.  The fedora wearing gentleman, who kept promising  ample opportunities, that he has only been there seven weeks, and already he was conducting second interviews. “Eventually, you could be like me”, he smirks, which made me grip my purse tighter.  He grabbed on of the many loose sheets of paper and drew a crude pyramid-like design of how the job worked, how the pay scheme worked.  “Don’t think of it as $10 an hour, think of it as $80 a day”.  Plus commission.  Oh, the bounty to behold if you actually knock on someone’s door, bother them at home, and attempt to sell them something they already have.

Where do I sign up?

Once the interviews were conducted, both men left the room. The man other interviewee and I looked at each other, and burst out laughing?

“Is this for real?”, I ask.

“I was thinking the same thing, kept wondering where the cameras were”.

When the first interviewer returned, he rubbed his hands together as if at  some Hawaiian pig roast.  “So, what d’ya think?”

He looked at the man first, who shook his head before speaking.  “I have never seen this level of unprofessionalism, those kids were condescending, and I’m embarrassed to even be sitting here”.

My jaw dropped, and the interviewer blanched.  “Well the company is throwing us a party today, it’s a pretty big deal, so that’s why some of us are dressed casually.  But I won’t waste any of your time, thanks for coming in”.

The man leaves, and I am amazed…wishing I had the guts to say it like it is in an interview.  To say, “I want to be paid fairly, I want to be treated with respect, you want me because I’m the best, I want to work for you because I had my pick of the lot…but what it comes down to is you need me just as much as I need you”. But I say nothing, still gripping my purse.  The interviewer starts shuffling the papers around him, not once looking at me.  “So…you interested?”

No.

But I politely ask a few more questions,  take a business card, and try to leave calmly and casually, not bolt as if being freed from a kidnapper.  Once outside, I see my fellow interviewer smoking a cigarette, and clearly waiting for me.  He tries to get my number and explains how he knows people, and that I could get in on the ground floor of a few shading sounding business opportunities.  I politely give him the email address of an unused account, and hustle to the car, where I promptly burst into tears.  How promising the job sounded, an oasis in a vast desert of job postings.  I drove home, back to sanctity of my office, to my unpaid position as writer in residence.  They say, “Do what you love, and the money will follow”, but that just sounds like another scam.  Another pyramid built by slaves, creating an empire they have no rights to.

All Images Courtesy of Google

Some bastard pulls out in front of me, and I bark an obscenity out, mouth full of muffin.  I catch a glimpse of my reflection.

Girlfriend, you look so stressed.  And you are seriously just covered in crumbs. Like, it’s all over your face.  

This was totally understandable, as I was all but chewing of the muffin lining.  This is what I was doing when I got cut off, and when I snapped out loud to no one in particular.  Behold, my finest hour.

Naturally, I stopped by the liquor store for a bit of vino.

After a hot shower, and a proper meal, and two glasses of the California red blend, I was feeling far less crumby.  Relaxing with my husband, watching a movie, I took a sip of water, and intending to put it back on the table, I  clink it into the wine glass–cheers darling–knocking it over, the scarlet liquid cascading onto the cream colored carpet.

Fuck.

This isn’t a huge surprise.  These are things you need to know about me.  I cry all the time.  I mix past and present tenses when I write.  I’m terrible at basic math, I’m incapable of giving directions, and I’m a certifiable food and beverage spiller.  That’s why I wear so much black, it’s 5% wanting to be chic, and 98% wanting clothes I can wear again after an inevitable staining.

One night, when Ben and I were first together, I was all tucked up in bed in one of his t-shirts and sipping a huge glass of water.  I don’t quite know how I did it, but I just kind of relaxed and let go of the glass.  Water everywhere.  I just sit there in the spillage, not quite sure how to proceed.  Ben came in, smiling at his new girlfriend, the ‘super soaker’.  He climbed into bed, and he puts his hand down on the mattresses, and his smile wavered as his eyebrows turned into a “what the…hell?” kind of squiggle.  I’m holding the empty glass, soaked through the sheets, down to my knickers, smiling like it’s a beauty pageant, and the other contestant’s name was called over mine.

But he’s used to it by now, and it was absolutely not a surprise to him when we were assessing the crime scene last night.  “With the amount of wine that goes through this house, I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner”.  I am seriously one klutzy son of a bitch, in fact, that would be my rap name “DJ Spilly Britches” or “Notorious SOB”.  Although truth be told, as you can tell by my rap names, the closest I could get to being a rapper would by being the old lady in the opening credits of “Fresh Prince of Bel Air”.  That’s another thing you should know, I don’t rock that hard…at all.

The wine is spilled, and there is this split second moment where we looked at each other, and looked at the mess.   We then lunge into action, attack the stain with paper towels, hoping to lure the liquid from the clutches of the carpet.  I search the internet for stain removers.  There are a variety of options, but here’s a step-by-step approach of what worked for me:

1) Panic

2) Lament your bumbling butterfingers.

3) Paper towel that shit, while wondering if Nestle still makes Butterfingers.

4) The internet recommends vinegar, dish soap, baking soda, laundry detergent.  I suggest layering all of these ingredients and scrubbing like a post-regicide Lady Macbeth.

My god woman, how much wine did you spill?

My favorite tip was to pour white wine over the red, which sounds a bit wasteful.  But hey, maybe carpet sangria has yet to sweep the nation–what do I know?  It seemed to me that it was a bit like putting out a fire with more kerosene.  Plus, I’m not much of a chardonnay kind of girl.

Once the stain was out, I congratulated myself with a little Butterfingers re-con.  Good news y’all, not only is it still a thing, but they are putting it in ice cream now.  So that’s just another thing for me to bring home and spill on the carpet.  The possibilities are endless really, my clumsiness knows no bounds.

iAll Images Courtesy of Google

Still, running into an ex can be a bit of a minefield.  It is wholly dependent on your new station in life… or your place in the world compared to their place in the world.  If you’ve gained weight, recently gotten an unsightly scar, have just been fired/dumped/punted off a reality show, and he’s looking better with age and his new wife looks like she invested being young and hot…then yes, it’s a struggle.    A girlfriend of mine once told me that she saw her ex-husband  in a grocery store.  She had a moment where she recognized him, then took a step towards him, before realizing that they were divorced, and had been for quite sometime.  It’s sort of surreal, like being a kid and seeing your teacher out of the classroom. “So you don’t exist solely to teach me life lessons?”  I ran into my ex on the way to the post office.  It’s all very friendly and respectful, but there is a strange moment when you think… remember when we were a thing? And then years later, after all the dusted has settled, exchanging pleasantries by the cash register, wearing the turquoise American Apparel hoodie you pinched from him the day you moved out. Afterwards I headed to my appointment with my massage therapist.  Once on the table, she asks about my day.

“Well, I just ran into the man I almost married”.

“How was that?”

“Oh, it was nice to catch up, but I think as a rule, you’d like to be stepping off George Clooney‘s speedboat, or wearing a ballgown when you run into any of your formers”.

“I hear ya.  You always wish you looked prettier, were ten pounds thinner, and dressed smarter”.

But, then you’d never bump into them.  That’s Murphy’s Law; you could spend your whole life dressed like a fashion model, and the one day you nip out for a quick sweatpants-wearing, make-up free errand,  looking totally bland and pedestrian,  that will be the day you bump into those kinds of people.   The massage therapist’s comments about wishing you were all different kinds of things made me think about how you want to be perceived in this fleeting moment.  So, I’ve compiled a list acceptable times to run into an ex.

When looking effortlessly striking…

On a horse, amid winning a polo match:

Fresh from winning an Oscar…

Being admired by millions…

…somewhere in between being a star and a princess…

Or just passing by, hiding behind giant sunglasses…

Or while casually glimpsing over your shoulder, looking impossibly young, fresh and stunning…

Furthermore, most ladies want to run into the ex with new lovers in tow…

“Oh that’s just me with Richard Burton…pissing of the Pope in Italy”…

“Have you met Paul Newman? He’s possibly the most gorgeous man ever, so that’s what I’ve been dealing with these days”…

“Oh him? That’s just Steve McQueen…no big deal”.

What you don’t want–is to run into said ex–sans make up, or post stomach flu, or maybe ten minutes after you’ve given birth or had your mug shot taken…

Don’t let him see you making your sex face, out of context it just looks weird…

“Oh hey…how are you?” “Good”.  “So…Things are good?” “Oh yeah, real good” Good…I’m good too…” “Well you look good…your hair is…completely gone, which must be…cool in the summer?” “Yeah…it gets so hot when I beat the shit out of random vehicles with my umbrella”.  “Oh I’ll bet…”

You want to be bubbly, not blasted.  It’s wise not to get drunk as fuck and fall on your face, you never want you ex to see you flat out like so…

Don’t we all have ex-husbands/wives, ex-boyfriends/girlfriends…and whether we run and hide, or march up and say hello that’s your prerogative.  But you don’t want to duck cowardly into an aisle, and have them pass you as you try to cram yourself behind a display of hemorrhoid cream or personal lubricants.  “Oh hey…I just dropped a penny back here, just trying to retrieve it….”

It’s like the end of “Annie Hall”, which is a small montage of them running into each other with new partners, and having lunch and laughing over old times, mixed with flashbacks of them meeting and falling in love.  And in the last shot, standing in the street, they shake hands and go their separate ways.  Rather, she walks away first, and he watches her go before he turns and walks in the opposite direction with this thought in his head:  “It was great seeing Annie again…I realized what a terrific person she was and how much fun it was just knowing her”.  The love story happened.  And then it ended.  But there’s no bitterness or anger, no regret or vengeance.  Just gratitude.  And it’s always nice to say hello.

All Images Courtesy of Google