Yes, I double booked two events in one night. A birthday dinner with a new found friend and a dinner get together with friends, including one thats exemplifies the loss of culture. I went to the get together. In the end, who cares? I am past the point to not make my birthday a big deal. I rather have a nice birthday dinner where I don’t have to pay the bill. I texted the birthday girl and told her I owed her one. She responded, “You don’t owe me.” And you know what? I don’t. I am not responsible for her birth nor its celebration. She’s not one, thirteen, sixteen, twenty-one or hitting a particular decade. Actually, I don’t mind other people’s birthday but don’t announce my birthday as if you own it.
I dreamt of zombies Sunday night. Monday, I exercised. Yay me.
Tuesday, work held me to a meeting. My iphone reminder blinks ‘blog’. Fed well by the illustrious Biltmore Grand ballroom’s food, I had to endure a bad roast of one of the chief officers of the company. Seated for this poor comedy show, my tailbone announced its presence. If you haven’t read my previous posts, I injured my tailbone earlier. It flares up when sitting for prolonged periods of time on hard chairs. They should end this poor attempt of debauchery of this Southern gentleman. Nonetheless, I made it home and head dove into my bed. My blog. Forgotten.
Today, the universe did not want me to have a lunch. I forgot mine at home and the drive-thru doesn’t bother to throw the salad dressing into the bag. Really? How hard is it? Manager Mary Ellen owes me a salad next time. Rather just have the salad dressing now.
Cereal for dinner sounds good. Not very epicurean.
I took the rose the florist was giving away since Valentine’s day was tomorrow and I would not otherwise get any. So Valentine’s day came and went silently this year. Usually I am ,inadvertently, out of the country during this Hallmark designed holiday. Its not a holiday unless I am off work. Work went well and I was able to smell the roses of my front office worker. I’m not a V-day hater. I smelled them twice. You know why? Because they didn’t have a scent. That’s right. A dozen roses looking regal and scentless. Who knows how much the hubby spent on them. Cupid’s presence was tethered. Maybe it was just that I wasn’t around any couples at that moment.
The next day passed plainly with a pop of funny at the Louis CK show. Saturday, I restarted my running routine after sleeping in and eating five bowls of cereal. Nonetheless, back on track to my so-called healthy lifestyle splintered with the occasional cake piece, bags of cheez-its and the thin mints I tried hard not to buy.
My mailman must hate me or finds me humorous. He’s kind enough not to send my mail back to the post office when the delinquent recipient, i.e., me, does not pick up the mail for 10 day sabbaticals. He must know I hate getting the mail. Weirdly, he would be the only to know. Then, he also must know that I had a Valentine.
I was not in any particular mood, however, I had a glint of what was to come. My friend emailed me and informed me of my card. Although he ruined the surprise, I was still giddy. I was informed my admirer chose to send my card above all others. These others were grandparents, aunts, cousins, uncles. This admirer wanted to make sure I was her Valentine. My haste was reserved to feel the moment, to let the expected remain unexpected, to let the surprise warm me. With a sharp slither under the envelope seal, I met my admirer.
For whatever reason, I am inclined to trios. Trio of wine flights, trio of highlighters or trio of bangles. This past week was a confirmation of trios. My xray ruled out a tailbone fracture but sure feels like one. I still need to place my arse on a sesame street, big bird yellow donut cushion. Either way, my modest snowboarding skills are defunct now. So, I look forward to my sf/hawaii crew to arrive next month to kill afternoons at baseball’s spring training. However, even that provided some irritation as many of the crew reneged so that left the rest of us chasing around for tickets. Spring training tickets can become absurdly expensive because..well because we live in a capitalist society and so they can. It doesn’t matter because I would pay millions to enjoy the company of interesting friends than others that demote my I.Q. by talking about the bachelorette show. Yes, I have members in my life that love this show as if they know them. I digress. So, hopefully my tailbone heals before having to sit on the hard seats at these baseball games. However, I will put up with some pain in the arse if I could keep my main supervisor in my office. Today, she informed me she is making a lateral move to another office. Now, I have to analyze if this is where I will remain or do I want to move too? Move laterally, move away, Calgon take me away? This latest trio I am not a fan but I will try to enjoy the lights..in the pic, the baseball field or just in my head.
As part of a writing course I completed recently, it was encouraged to start a journal. At first, I thought I would not really use it. I had journals when I was growing up and done that before. However, through this course I really made use of my journal. It became a part of me. Ideas, plans, visions were scribbled in various parts of the journal. An organized madness only I could decipher. I have been taking it with me just in case. I took it on a recent vacation. When my friend and I were at dinner, I showed her my journal to give her inspiration to return to her photography. I remember placing it back in my bag. A gentleman nearby offered to take our picture, we paid the bill and we left. Three days later, I curiously was wondering where my journal was. I was sure it was just somewhere since I do not misplace nor lose things easily. Plus, I just lost my gifted cashmere fingerless gloves, so the universe already took that. I searched in my work bag, my body crossover bag, my desk, my suitcase, my everywhere.
I called my travel buddy to jokingly ask if she stole my journal at the restaurant. She didn’t think I left it on the table. I even called the restaurant to check. The journal was not showing itself and my memory was fading. I knew it was somewhere but still I could not see. However, my subconscious was worrying for me as well. I dreamt of my journal. Its green leaf pattern on the malleable cover, a perfect fit in whichever bag I dropped it in. Replaying, replaying, replaying. Now, I am fed up. That morning, I awoke with a mission. I stretched out that square stiff work bag and dug deep to the bottom and released a breath of surprised relief. Slinked back in a utility pocket of the bag, lay my lost friend.
My journal had became my heart. A part of me missing. Although its pages are more empty than not, the potential dreams were waiting to be scribed. The journal had become my friend. I found my friend. And the universe can keep the gloves.