Wisdom among the cantaloupes

I came back to dust off this mother fucker and found this in my draft folder. I wrote it more than a year ago. I’m not feeling quite so full of angst today, but reading it still gave me what my college roommate called the “bubble guts.”

First of all – spelled cantaloupe wrong. Again.

I know it’s been a while, but it seems like writing this blog used to be a lot easier. Sit down, bang out a post, and publish. Done and done. But I am struggling over here, y’all. I feel like not a whole lot of stuff is happening in my life, but I know that’s not true. I keep a list on my phone of essay ideas, but I just can’t seem to string more than 20 words together.

Here’s one such post.

Just Stay

“Why do you have to move to Baltimore? Do you know how long it takes to get to Baltimore? I’ll never see you. You won’t come down here. Why can’t you stay here?

Just stay, okay? Just stay.”

I overheardĀ this half of a phone conversationĀ at one of my neighborhood grocery stores. I almost started crying right there in front of the JIF peanut butter (fuck you, Peter Pan). The angst in her voice was like a punch to the gut.

So I’m sitting there in the peanut butter/jelly/pickle/olive aisle (kind of a weird combination, but I can dig it), sick to my stomach. Because I have totally been there. Pleading with someone to just care. I stood there, filling my cart with an unhealthy amount of Nutella, fervently wishing it was appropriate to hug strangers in the grocery store.

(Side bar – what are the most appropriate places to hug strangers? Right now I can only think of one place – game shows, namely The Price is Right, just after you are invited to COME ON DOWN. If you are a person with good smelling hair, I would imagine that you could be giving out more hugs than you are currently dishing out. Hugs and donuts, friends – we could make the world a little bit better.)

How badly do I wish this photo was staged? So bad.

How badly do I wish this photo was staged? So badly.

Text from my (new) neighbor yesterday:

“I’m letting the boys out to potty, then letting Ernie run with Dyna (her dog). Hope you don’t mind.”

And that’s how I found out she has a key to my house. While is cool and all, I guess. It’ll keep me from letting the dirty dishes pile up in the sink. Ernie has already trained me to keep dirty underwear hidden in the closet, so three cheers for shame-induced housekeeping!

As I live alone, and have for a while, certain things have become habits. Peeing with the door open. Singing in the shower. Sitting on the couch in my underwear watching Weeds and crying (side note – I thought that show was going to be funny, but really it is depressing as shit and I have a huge widow crush on Jeffrey Dean Morgan).

Seeing as we are close friends and all, I’m going to let you in on another secret: if it’s yellow, I let it mellow. Please, hold your applause. Just doing my part for the planet.

But.

On the day in question, I came home to find a distinctly un-mellow deposit in the toilet.

“Did she really? What kind of person does something like – oh wait. I did that.”

I DID THAT, FRIENDS.

Let the judging begin.