Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story (14 page)

The lesson? Being responsible hardly ever pays off.

I held up a sunflower and examined it carefully that January
morning at Field of Flowers,
the shop I’d chosen to decorate my impending
November wedding with Vincent. My brow wrinkled in disappointment as each choice
failed in measuring up to the occasion, each petal unfit for the internal agony
I was feeling.

“That’s a very unconventional choice for a wedding,” the attendant
came over to me and interrupted my thoughts, “but I’ve heard they bring happiness.”

“Sunflowers are so fucking tacky,” my gay best friend, Marcus, announced
matter-of-factly and stuck his finger down his throat in mock regurgitation.

I placed the flower back in its bucket and continued to peruse the
store, inhaling aromas I hoped would invoke the giddiness blushing brides were meant
to experience. Daisies lined the wall as well as orchids, lilies, roses of various
shades, tulips, and at the very end, as if somehow too insignificant to be in the
spotlight, my favorite. I picked up three carnations and smiled, Marcus shook his
head forcefully in disapproval and the attendant took some notes.

“Would you like these to be your filler flowers?” she inquired tentatively.

“No,” I stated and turned to her, “I want lots of them in pink, all
over.”

“Annie,” my friend interrupted and batted his false eyelashes at me
sweetly, “those ugly weeds are for street vendors and empty vases at the office,
honey pie. Don’t you think Vincent would prefer something with a little more flair
for your nuptials?”

The attendant thanked him with her eyes and motioned me slowly to
a book full of choices, opening to a section marked
Weddings
. Marcus covered
my eyes with manicured hands and commanded me to point to three places without thinking.
I summoned the universe to rid me of the claustrophobia I felt in the small shop,
quickly signaling to three spots on glossy paper and dismissing the image of blue
eyes and broad shoulders that inhabited the darkness behind the curtain of my eyelids.
I opened them at once and stared at my friend expectantly.

“Perfect!” he exclaimed gleefully. “We’ve got ourselves a bouquet
of gardenias, calla lilies, and hydrangeas, for a lovely fall wedding,” he kissed
my forehead and twirled. “You’re getting married, my princess.”

I brought out my pasted on smile for the final act of the day and
handed the attendant a credit card. A few minutes later, we stepped into the vapor
of Miami’s supposed winter and I welcomed its humidity gladly. I walked toward the
car with heavy feet as my friend rambled about bachelorette parties in South Beach
and cakes in the shape of a penis. The world seemed to stop for a moment as I began
to realize that this was it and in six months, life would never be the same.

“This is such a fucking charade,” the words escaped my lips subconsciously
and Marcus rushed to my side.

“What do you mean?”

I looked at him and wiped a single tear that stained my cheek with
mascara. “I think I’m making a huge mistake with all this.”

“No, you’re not,” he hugged me tightly and I felt tears sting my eyes
as I blinked unsuccessfully to fight them back. “You’re going to make a beautiful
bride and Vincent is a work of art,” he winked at me. “I mean, seriously. Have you
taken a look at the man?”

I nodded in silence and managed a smile.

“This is nothing but a case of the nerves, my dear. And it happens
to all you women because you’re emotional and need a glass of man-the-fuck-up served
straight by me, your gay bartender.”

I resolved to listen and nodded once again in agreement as he rubbed
my back and the truth consumed me whole. “Nerves,” I repeated blankly as I twisted
the ring Vincent had given me on a winter morning, its diamond reflecting brightly
in the sun with the mystery of love and false promises of happily-ever-afters.

*Disclaimer: I wrote this chapter while suffering from a terrible
bout of crap luck as I searched for permanent employment when the economy was in
the shitter. Please proceed with caution and do not judge me (not that you would
if you’ve made it this far).

I’ve been drinking NyQuil.
And hot tea and some soup. Also, I had an Oreo against
my better judgment.

I guess what this means is, I’m not
all there.

This chapter will not make sense
tomorrow but it’s okay because it makes sense now and I’ve already resolved to include
it in the book like some sort of science experiment in its rarest form. Also?
I
will not fix typos or use proper punctuation.
That stuff is trivial and spelling
things right is overrated and if you don’t believe me, just ask my current employer
(and every other professional I’ve met over the last decade).

Last week, a job agency called me and
asked if I was interested in an office management position and I said,
Do
dogs drool for cheeseburgers?
And she replied,
Okay!
I started today and it turns out it’s
not a management position at all, but a “receptionist/housekeeper/do-girl” position
for a whopping $10.00 an hour. Because apparently that’s all an educated girl who
showers every day and has a degree from a well-known university and knows the difference
between their, they’re, and there deserves.

Let’s marvel at a conversation I had
with my boss today while I felt like shit and drooled slightly on my desk despite
my best efforts to look polished and educated, shall we?

I wanted to retaliate with this:

But instead, I simply said:

Then I came home and overdosed
on cough syrup and told my mom about my day and she goes,
Fuck those people!
And I was all,
Have you seen what the economy
is like, my fatsie? Quitting is for those who want to live under bridges.
Then she asked me to go back to school for the millionth
time and I said I would even though I have no intention to because I hate studying
more than dates who ask you to split the bill after dinner and God knows I despise
those filthy cockroaches.

Momma means well and I know it, but
bills must be paid and one can’t keep quitting job after job. So instead I did some
drawing therapy in my NyQuil induced high and I think you’ll like the masterpieces
I’ve worked on and suggest you do the same if you’re ever in the mood to stab your
boss in the jugular.

Fuck You, Stupid Lady.

Fuck you, Paris Hilton.

Fuck you, Kim Katrashian.