Bored to Death

It's Wednesday. There's a possibility I have strep throat. As of yesterday I've been suffering from painful injections of antibiotics to my posterior that are making my butt bruised in purple and blue. I find it hard to swallow the Cuban coffee I can't function without in the mornings and it's making me quite the irritable hag. Lovely.

The weekend went by as all the others are wont to do. There were brunches, mimosas, picture-perfect Miami weather without a cloud in the sky, a rental convertible, milkshakes, and such good food I could die mixed in with a few bars and nightclubs. There was also gentlemen of the attractive kind interested in my whereabouts and my company, along with the realization I am so utterly bored of everything I could cry. Has that ever happened to you? You are somewhere, doing the things that are advertised in movies and glossy magazines as "living the life" and suddenly you look around at the beautiful people around you and the drink in your hand and it's like, What the fuck am I doing here?

I'm guessing this is how incredibly rich people feel at twenty-two or movie stars who take up drugs because they don't know what else to do -*cough, Lindsay Lohan*- but in spite of sounding like an ungrateful bitch I am just sick of all the things. Maybe this is something everyone goes through but nobody talks about as they post their little "life is perfect" pictures on Facebook and cry silently on the inside. Maybe it's just me being too honest but that's an ailment y'all already knew I suffered from so there's no surprise factor there. I can only assume this is a rite of passage into adulthood or something but it's as if nothing piques my interest anymore.

(Except maybe cupcakes and movies about terrorism. Those things are always quite interesting to me.)

I'm not clinically depressed or anything, guys, so no need to worry. You won't find me on the news jumping off a cliff or anything any time soon. It's just a matter of transitions, I guess. Now what it is I am transitioning to is yet to be determined.

In the meantime, there is one thing that makes me deliriously happy and not bored at all, and that's how amazingly well Rebecca is coming along (if you all remember her, that is).

Life is sweet,

Annah

It Couldn't Have Been More Perfect Had I Meticulously Planned This for Months

As you know oh-so-well, I've lately been attempting to finish up the labor of love I like to call my book. I don't know about you, but sometimes when I'm close to finishing something that I've worked really hard on, I begin to undergo what I like to call a narcissistic existential crisis. It's as if the this thing that's been a part of you for so long is finally leaving and although you know it's for the best, you simply don't want it to. I can no longer say, "I'm writing a book" to people I don't feel like seeing when they ask me what I'm doing on a Saturday night. Nor can I have an excuse for procrastinating on doing the dishes or shaving my legs for weeks on end.

When I finished the cover art the other day and my best friend squealed in delight as she looked at it and said, "It's perfect," I honestly felt like crying (tears of blood).

It's like seeing your child graduate and moving out even if you were really looking forward to being able to walk around the house naked again. I guess what I'm trying to say is, in some way I've been subconsciously avoiding the end, and as it all draws near with only three more chapters to go, I feel like there's something "missing."

"Of course something's missing," my friend tells me over the phone as we discuss weekend plans, "it's the end. The end is missing."

I tell her I've been experiencing some writer's block and that there's this chapter I just cannot finish because it feels like it's not good enough and I have no idea what else to write about.

Her advice? Online dating.

Me: What does online dating have to do with anything?

Carla: Everything. Do you know how much material there is in those websites?

Me: But the dudes in there are mostly weird and stuff, no?

Carla: Exactly my point. Just sign up for a few, chat it up with some guys, and in two weeks you'll have enough juice to make a blender of books.

I apprehensively made my foray into online dating (yet again) last night in the hunt for "book juice." It was almost bedtime and I was just browsing profiles and laughing a little at the guy who wrote, "You are really beautiful and hott and gorgeous you are."

Um... I guess "I are" if makeup is applied adequately and I brush my hair. Anyhow, I was about to go to sleep when I get a notification that I have a message from "CubanBarber." Just from the screen name I already knew this wasn't going to go anywhere, but as I looked at his main picture of him boxing I was all, I know this guy from somewhere. I began to browse through his pics and what am I hit with on the third? This shit:

And you know... it really would not have been a big deal that a guy on a dating website who's twenty-six and a barber and from Miami and who's interests are "my bike, haircuts, casual sex, and my dick" to have a naked picture of himself with a hat over his junk. At the end of the day, I hear girls are into that sort of stuff and 1/10 times it works. What is weird, is that this gentleman, is the same precise gentleman who texted me a picture of his penis on my last post after I declined his breakfast invitations which only leads me to the following things I already mostly knew:

1. There are no available men in this town and I'll have better luck in Alaska mating with a polar bear.
2. Thank Lord Jesus I didn't go have pancakes with this psychotic exhibitionist.
3. Carla was totally right about online dating.

I think I've found the official end. Of everything.

Oh-My-God Enough With the Dick Pics Already!

I'm not sure if I'm blowing this out of proportion but, I'm sensing a growing trend here with the gentlemen of this age and their overzealous desire to send someone, anyone, pictures of their dicks. Maybe because pictures have become readily available at the touch of a button, or maybe because they actually believe somewhere in their minds that penises are attractive. But really, what the hell, guys?

The other month (I know I'm totally behind on blogging and I'm truly sorry about that) I went out to a bar with my best friend, Britt. A guy approached me and started a conversation. He was an alright looking fella, intelligent in thought and not stingy with the drink buying which always helps when you're a single woman paying bills. We must've chatted for about forty minutes and then parted ways. While I held my conversation with him, Britt played wingwoman by talking to his less-than-attractive friend, who was very persistent in getting her number even though she told him she was married and not interested in any men that were not her husband (a lie, of course).

The next morning when we woke up for brunch Britt was all, “You have to see this.”

Me: What is it?

Britt: The guy from last night sent me a picture of his ding dong.

Me: How do you know it was the guy from last night.

Britt: Because it’s an unknown number and a huge coincidence that I gave my number to a complete stranger to then get this on my phone the morning after.

Me: What did it say?

Britt: Nothing. I just opened up my phone and bam! Dick pic.

Me: Christ. What'd you say to him?

Britt: "Um... Who is this?" And you want to know what his reply was? “Sorry, wrong number.”

It was unsettling to me that morning just how hilarious I found this to be. How do you say “wrong number” after sending something like that to someone you don't know? But I’m guessing the more pressing question is, would it still have been a wrong number had Britt replied with, “Gimme that sausage!”

A few weeks later we went to the Blue Zombie and I confess to having exchanged numbers that evening with one too many fellows I hardly remember speaking to. Before I’d crossed over to the dark side though, I had a convo by the bar with a cute Cuban dude that kept insisting we should “go to breakfast.” Maybe he just really liked pancakes or was a coffee aficionado, but I agreed in my tipsy rage knowing good and well I’d never attempt to see him again. The next morning, Cuban dude texted me to find out if we were going to breakfast. I told him I was tired and had a nail appointment so “maybe tomorrow.” Ten minutes later he asks me to send him a picture, which I promptly ignore and resume my TV marathon. Soon after I receive a picture of him - shirtless - in front of the bathroom mirror.

Nice, I thought, and still ignored his dumb ass.

Eight hours later this animal texts me yet again with, “Guess not." You can guess what I did.

My cell had a barrage of messages the following morning from friends wanting to know about my superbowl plans that evening. I only replied to my nearest and dearest letting them know I hated football and intended to sleep all day, allowing the rest to float in text message limbo. Two days later - because I am OCD - I began to clean up the text message conversations from all the people who’d filled up my phone that Sunday, when I saw an unread message from Cuban dude. When I open, there it is, a picture of his inflated penis, which he was holding proudly like a sword called to battle. Of course I texted Britt to share that this time it’d been my turn to be on the receiving end of this virtual catastrophy.

Me: I just got a dick pic from Cuban dude.

Britt: The guy who wanted to take you to breakfast?

Me: Yes. That douche.

Britt: Had you asked for it?

Me: Um. No.

Britt: Was it big, at least?

Me: It was huge. Disgusting.

Britt: Ha ha. Stop pretending like you didn't want to see it.

Me: I *do not* want to see that. It's not pleasant to look at. Why would anyone think otherwise?

Britt: Well what did he say?

Me: Drumroll please... “Morning wood.”

Britt: Oh God. Forward it to me.

Me: Ew. I deleted it, you creeper.

Britt: You should’ve posted it on your blog.

This is the part where I apologize for not saving the picture to post here but I’m certain that like me, no one wants to see that. I asked my guy friends about this odd behavior and they said it’s a hit or miss situation that happens quite often. “Nine out of ten times it doesn't work*,” one offered sheepishly. “So if you didn’t take the bait, some dumb bitch out there did.”

And so whenever someone else asks me why I'm single, I will direct them to this blog post and accept no further questions about my relationship status ever again.

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*correction to before when I wrote that nine times out of ten it DID work. They wish.

Is This How It's Supposed to Feel?

Because we’re single and proud, my best friend and I often act as stand-ins for the potential significant others we clearly don’t have (minus the sex). This Valentine’s Day, I decided to be romantic and buy her flowers which I sent to her office with a note declaring my non-lesbian love for her.

Sidenote: I have to take off my hat for men during Valentine’s Day who are trying to get laid or husbands who’ve been bad and have to purchase flowers. $72.00 for a bouquet of roses and carnations?! I hope they came with a stripper.

Anyway, as a gesture to return my sweet display of love, my bestie bought me a full body massage which I happily redeemed this weekend. My masseuse was a rather large girl of about 300 pounds which is awesome because I’m into that sort of thing and figured she’d be strong and meaty in her grip. I entered the tiny room and undressed while Beefy waited for me, quickly getting under the sheet and asking her to come in. I apologized and told her I’d be listening to my i-pod while she did her thing, seeing I hate elevator music and that’s what they were playing at the spa. Beefy said she didn’t care and stood in front of me as I faced down and got ready for my relaxing experience. One minute later she was bent over me rubbing my back while simultaneously massaging my head with her two large breastesses, rubbing them rhythmically against my head and shoulders. I’m not sure if there’s a polite way to say “I’m not enjoying this” or if this is part of her technique, so I remained silent while being attacked by two pounds of flesh on each side of my ears.

Suddenly the bed began to vibrate violently and I initially thought it was part of the treatment, but later realized that every time Beefy had to move around me the table was pushed in the other direction. When it was time to work my legs, Beefy placed the sheet under my panties in the customary fashion, then went on to tuck everything up my butt crack and violently massaged my cheeks like giant balls of ground beef being molded for a meatloaf. I wanted to say something but every time I turned off my i-pod to speak up, I heard her heavy breathing and got scared. Did I mention she poured an entire bottle of baby oil all over my body and hair?

It’s safe to say I will never buy my best friend flowers again, nor go to any spas for massage treatments purchased through Groupon.

And this is why women should never attempt to be romantic.

Mortification Master: Part II

I’d like to start of this post by saying thank you to everyone that emailed me in regards to Becca these past few days (see last post) and those who donated money and canned food. I do not want to post about her until she is ready to unveil her extreme makeover, which the way things are going, will not be for another month or two. I will say that she is creeping along slowly and she is RAVENOUS at all times, which is a sign of her willingness to live and my willingness to feed her as much as it takes to fatten her beautiful self up. I am happy, albeit lacking a bit of sleep as a result of this added responsibility. Thank you all for being awesome.

Happy Valentine's Day!

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Do you all remember that time I went to the community office bathroom to urinate only to find I had no toilet paper in my stall? Then I went with my underwear down by my ankles to another stall but got caught in the process of crossing by that girl from accounting I don't like? I somehow figured that would be the most embarrassing thing that could happen to me at work but of course, I was wrong.

I’m not sure if this is general office culture but in my office when there’s ever a birthday, we pass around a card stealthily inside a file folder that looks like this and have everyone sign it, wishing the birthday employee the best and blah blah blah.

It’s supposed to be a secret of sorts that everyone is in on, including the person in question, who is expected to act surprised once they get the card and some cake before the end of the day. A few months back, I received a file folder with two birthday cards inside of it. One was for my gay coworker whom I adore and another for my favorite person in the office, Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith is a sixty-something gentleman who says things like, “How are you this fine day, Annah?” and “Good morning, young lady.” He is part of that rare breed of men who are quickly dissipating into a pool of douche bags and boys who think texting is an acceptable form of communication. I quickly signed Angel’s card and then Mr. Smith’s before getting back to work with the following sincere wish (not original card, obviously).

Later on in the day our receptionist swung by my office to inquire if I had had the chance to write in both cards and the following conversation ensued.

Me: Yeah, I signed the birthday cards. Thanks, girl.

Receptionist: You mean you signed Angel’s birthday card and Mr. Smith’s get well card.

Me: They were both birthday cards. They both had balloons in the front.

Receptionist: Yes, they did. But Mr. Smith’s card was a get well card. He’s in the hospital and the card was sent today with some flowers.

Me: Why is he in the hospital?

Receptionist: He had a heart attack.

If you are wondering, Mr. Smith is alive and healthy and back to work in one piece.

(The same cannot be said for my dignity.)

You Know I *Never* Do This

Disclaimer: I realize I may be biting off more than I can chew with all this so I have asked a few friends for food donations in this little venture of real love. If you'd like to donate a dollar or two (no more than that please), you can do so via Paypal at jrondon2112@yahoo.com or share with friends who may care to do the same.

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The other day I was drinking Granny's Sweet Tea when I looked under the cap and found this little message that made me smile in spite of its silliness.

 

This afternoon, my mom called me crying after having rescued what she deemed between snotty sobs "the ugliest dog I've ever seen." I laughed and told her to stop being ridiculous and to just leave it at my place, as we would resolve it like we have with so many other rescue dogs before. I really wasn't prepared to find the following animal in my guest bedroom looking very sad, malnourished beyond words, terrified to her core, and yes, probably a little uglier than most:

After crying in my bathroom so my mom wouldn't see me then washing my face, it dawned on me that this here can be a story of the happiest kind. I decided she out of all beings needs a little sassiness in her life so I named her Rebecca. I do not know if she will make it or if I will find her a forever home once this road has been traveled, but I do know I'll try my very best if the Universe permits me to do just that.

Partly because I don't think I can afford five dogs; but mostly because I believe in the kindness of the human spirit. Because I am certain that for every cruel and miserable soul there's a good one out there to set some balance. Because I believe that actions always speak louder than words. And because puppy love is real to puppies, and to adult dogs and humans too.

I guess I'll make it real then, guys.

One puppy at a time.

The Dinner Tab Debacle of 2013

Last week, my friend Glenn asked what I’d done the night before via email. “Well, you’re not going to believe what happened,” I started.

“Yes, I am,” he replied. “It’s you.”

I sent the following email to Glenn in an effort to shed light on the previous night’s event. It is important to note that A) I had already been on two dates with my little holiday fling and this had never taken place before. B) He lives in Russia and the possibility I will never see him again is high. C) I am Latin, and sometimes this makes things a little tricky when you're also a feminist. D) My dog had been vomiting all day and I was stressed and then I had to take him to the vet to shell out a few hundred dollars in hopes we could figure out what was wrong with him.

We didn't.

 

Now for that email:

Glennie Pooh:

So… He changed his flight to be able to see me. That’s one. Two! When I got home, my dog was sick. He’d thrown up all over my bed (5 times), and multiple times on the floor and couch. Blood everywhere. Had to wash everything and dry it. Then clean my room and couch and all the other places he’d vomited. Anyway I had plans to see him around 6:00 p.m. and I had to push it back all the way to 9:30 p.m. He’d already slept over a couple of times before he left on that ten day cruise, so we agreed to go to dinner and then back to my place, then I’d take him to the airport this morning. He’s been between Miami and the cruise and Orlando vacationing here with friends for about a month (fuckin’ rich kids). The point is!

We go to dinner, right? And he’s telling me how they spent like two grand each on the cruise and how he couldn’t believe it and blah blah blah. Dinner’s swell (that word is so ridiculous but yes, I use it), and then it’s time to go home. I’m so tired by this point I cannot even begin to think about having to drive him to the airport the next day before work (mind you, I’m kind of sick, so I’m grumpy as hell). When the bill comes, this CHILD asks me if we can split it. Now… I know you’re an American progressive male and you may think this is ok, but to a Cuban woman of thirty (me), this most certainly isn’t. Especially when he has lots of money and just spent a gazillion dollars partying it up on a ship somewhere in the Atlantic. I told him, “Yes, I did mind,” then I went to the bathroom to do a bit of Woooosaaaaaaaaaaaah breathing exercises because I felt like slapping his beautiful porcelain face.

I came back with a little pasted-on smile and he paid for dinner and we left. Then… I promptly drove on, but instead of to my house, I dropped him back off at his hotel. This poor child was freaking out. Like, “Oh my God why are you being like this and I’m so sorry and this isn’t such a big deal and in my country people do this all the time and yada yada.” I’m all, “Please just take your bags out of my car,” to which he refuses because he’s so flustered as he’s trying to get me to accept his apology. So in the middle of this wind storm I packed all his bags out while my dress is blowing in the wind and my underwear is probably showing and was all, “It was nice to meet you,” leaving him there at his hotel door.

On the upside, at least my poor animal hasn’t thrown up anymore. $360 dollars worth of vet bills later… I get home and I have about ten messages from this kid apologizing and it got me thinking… Did I overreact? Because in spite of everything, I don’t think I did.

Glenn’s Reply:

A few things…

1. This is why I never want to have fucking animals!

2. I didn't know you two already had a.... "relationship" before last night’s date.

3. You are correct that as an American male, as a progressive male, as a FEMINIST male, I do not believe in the man treating the woman to dinner as a default option. However, I am also a class warrior and if he has a lot of discretionary income he's spending and he's on vacation, it's not unreasonable to think he is going to pay. SECOND HOWEVER, you, as a modern woman (Cuban or not) should have laid this out to him if it was such a big deal.

4. Was it an overreaction? Who the fuck cares! You don't know this guy. You will (probably) never see him again. AND he's a twenty-two year old child while you are a GROWN ass woman.

5. You’re going to be single forever.

Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. (Also Know As, I Am Thirty.)

A friend once told me life is an inevitable rollercoaster of highs and lows mastered only by those who manipulate the lows as gracefully as they embrace the highs.

Something about milestones…

Yesterday, I found this picture of me celebrating my 5th birthday as I looked at old photographs my aunt gave me the last time I went to Cuba. In it there’s a young girl with a mischievous smile standing behind a cake decorated with swans. She wears a girlie dress full of ruffles in shades of pink and yellow and blue. A bruise on the side of her face incurred from a fall down the stairs is being hidden from the camera. You also miss the hole on the cake where she stuck her fingers and quickly shoved them in her mouth as her grandma scolded her for being a glutton. Her mom is on the other side of the camera next to the photographer, looking horrified and praying that things turn out alright for her clumsy baby.

The girl is thirty today, and although she’s not as fond of swans or pink as she used to be, she’s still quite familiar with falling and picking herself back up. Bruises aren’t always obtained from stairs but the marks they leave no longer make her cry hysterically nor last very long. She will make mistakes and apologize to no one. Her mom will be horrified and resort to praying. If she’s lucky she’ll blow many more candles and release wishes of the best kind to the universe. After that she’ll stick her fingers in cake and rejoice in the rush of sugary sweetness that is sometimes life. It will taste exactly like she planned and the next day she'll go on a diet and curse her tendency to over-indulge. Highs and lows will go hand in hand. Embracing and manipulating will as well. She wouldn't have it any other way.

She wouldn't have it any other way...

But Alas, I'm Not That Kind of Girl.

I'm guessing when you live in a city where casual encounters are the norm, the odds of meeting someone without a hidden agenda are like winning the Powerball on an unsuspecting Wednesday night.

Enter him.

You hear men of his kind only exist in Cary Grant movies and Johnnie Walker commercials, yet there you are anyway having a conversation about the Middle East once he's bought you and your friend a round of drinks. He wants to know more about you, what kind of work do you do and the things that ignite you. He listens attentively to your friend and tells the bartender to "bring her whatever she likes." It doesn't go unnoticed he's attractive and wearing a watch that cost more than your car and furniture put together. You find him intriguing and surprisingly funny despite the fact he's probably closer to your father's age than your own. You've never dated a man much older than you and truth be told, you've no intentions of starting now. You exchange numbers as a courtesy, wondering what life would taste like in a world where money isn't a subject of worry.

Over the next few days he rings you up and leaves funny messages. You answer on one occasion and have a light conversation about your favorite foods and why you refuse to eat duck or veal. He sends you flowers to work and you're relieved to find it's an art form not yet extinct. You eventually stop answering his calls and figure he'll soon get the hint, knowing you probably passed up your only opportunity at an elite gold digging experience.

On a Wednesday he calls and you answer by mistake, feelings of guilt washing over you as soon as you hear him smile on the other end of the line. He invites you to dinner at a restaurant where soup is thirty dollars and movie stars go to be photographed pushing their food around their plates. You toy with the idea for a nanosecond but respectfully decline, offering that you twisted your ankle at the gym. He doesn't believe you but says he understands and hopes you feel better.

When the line goes dead you know he will call and he knows you won't answer. The rat race will continue and you'll probably never get to try a bowl of lobster bisque that goes for thirty dollars. Later he will find a girl whom he'll take to fancy dinners and whisk away to Greece for the summer. You sit there quietly, stretching your perfectly okay ankles on your second-hand couch. Eventually you get up and convince yourself to go on a powerwalk. On the way home you stop by the convenience store and buy a Powerball ticket with a can of lobster bisque. You don't end up winning the lottery that night... Yet your soup, just like life, is fucking amazing.

... And This Is Why I Need to Leave Facebook.

Sometimes you are human and you're bored and you fall prey to the jaws of Facebook in an effort to kill time. It is in these trying occasions that people you hardly know message you in an effort to also kill time (by getting in your pants).

I wouldn't usually throw people under the bus like this but it was really too weird *not* to share.

Then I went ahead and blocked Ismel and Albernay and his imaginary girlfriend too, but not before saving all this since no one would believe me if I ever tried to explain it to them over dinner (in an effort to kill time).