A Graduation... of Sorts

The best compliment ever tonight…. A bartender asked me if I was a bartender. Ahh… if only. I told her no, I am not a bartender, I just really like to drink. I found out she is only 23 years old. Left home when she was 13. I don’t know if I was interested in her story because she was cute, because I was jealous, or because I just wanted to know. Envy? How can a 36 year old envy a 23 year old? Hmm…. I’m not quite sure. I would like to think that none of the above applies, and chalk it up to pure admiration for a bright, independent, smart and all around a bad ass chick. More power to her. Yes, pure admiration. Glowing praise.

And then the DJ played Joy Division… I have this thing about showing my age. I love the fact that I was at a bar in Oakland, sitting by myself, drinking this great drink made by a great bartender, and listening to Joy Division. Does it really ever get any better than that? Perfect evening.  Perfect nothingness.

Home to my klonopin and the rest of my eggplant parmigiana which I didn't even bother to heat up - - it was that good! Just like being in love.  Well, almost.  Minus the penetration.  Kidding.  Sort of.

And so I went to sleep, a happy, happy girl - nay, a woman in my mind, after 4 Jeremiah Weed sweet teas and my usual klonopin. For I have truly graduated from the “looking for” stage to the “find me” stage. A great place to be. Now just find me. Just find me goddammit. 

Karma Hit

I thought I had something to say…. But then I took another half of a klonopin. Is it because I don’t have to go into work tomorrow until noon or is it because I just wanted that feeling… that dazed, dislocated feeling…. I don’t even feel like I’m breathing. I really only need 1 pill to block out the neighbors fighting downstairs. I need about 2 or 3 beers, 1 pill and a pillow over my head to block out the sound of my 300 lb neighbor upstairs gettin’ some. I sometimes wonder if they will fall right through the floor and crush me. What a horrible way to go. At one point, I think there was overlap and it was coming from downstairs and upstairs at the same time - - it was all of 8pm. The woman downstairs was yelling, the woman upstairs was moaning and the 2 men were both grunting - for different reasons of course. I felt like…. I felt like I was beyond “stuck in the middle.” I felt like my f’ing head was going to explode. I started saying why me… and then I realized that maybe this was karma taking a hit out on me and that I should retrace my steps to figure out why, why, why I was and am in a living hell. Not only am I in a living hell, but I pay to live here. I suffered through it - - sans pills because I had an interview in the morning. Big mistake. Huge. Almost as huge as the man upstairs… and by the way, there was no moaning the second time around at 2:30am…. It was just bang, bang, bang, thump. Bang, bang, bang, thump. I’m not sure what the thump was, but I’m going to go ahead and assume that he is not a skilled lover. Shake it off… I’ve got to shake it off.

The interview…. Well, I don’t know how it went because I have not heard any feedback yet. 3+ days and still radio silence. I wonder, is it me? You know when people tell you “it isn’t you” and “it’s their loss” that they are full of shit, right? I know it’s me and it’s both of our losses. But, we’ll see. I still have an 8% chance that I might get a call back for a second interview. The fact that I saw people from the office at Oktoberfest that same day (later that night) could either work in my favor or completely destroy my credibility. It’s out of my hands. I have to learn not to dwell. That’s a tough one.

I’m just such a dialogue whore…. I just want dialogue - tell me yes, tell me no - gasp, maybe explain it to me. But tell me something. I hate silence. I guess that’s perceived as bad…but like the 63 year old I met the other night said to me, “fuck ‘em.” Now, I’ve heard that before, but he was really speaking to my soul, speaking to my self-doubt. And I appreciate that. But still. There is a part of me that just wants to go back to certain times…remember and even relive them all over again. Bathe in what I felt at that very moment.... Was it a trashy make-out session in the financial district of San Francisco? Hell yes. But it was great. I felt alive. I felt like me. Do I have to do everything by the book? Whose book is it anyway? I’m not a bad person…. I like to experience things. I like to feel something unexpected… something that takes you away from where you were earlier that day…. And there you are. You are right where you want to be. And then it ends and you have to create a new place for it to fit in. And then time occurs and it fades away. I want to hang on for as long as I can. Quietly hang on... And then loudly let go. Not because I want to, but because it’s just too much for me. Before it becomes a - - god forbid - -  an issue. Gasp. "People - we have an issue here!"  Before that happens… I go cold and simply press delete. That’s what happens when you intertwine a surprise moment with a jaded past…. No choice but to let it go. Maybe not right away, but eventually. And maybe even take a karma hit for it.

When Purse Hooks Rule The World

Bars with purse hooks. Love ‘em. In California, 7 out of 10 bars have purse hooks, according to my unofficial study. I love purse hooks. It’s like the bar is giving me a big hug. Telling me that yes, it’s okay for you to be here. You don’t have to keep your purse hanging over your knee or risk someone stealing it from the back of your chair. The first thing I do when I go to a bar that I haven‘t been to before, is look under the bar for a hook. If they have hooks, I know that I’m home, albeit temporary. I relax. I order a drink - - like I’m supposed to be there. I savor the moment. My moment. After a hard day… after a long night (I tend to go to bars during the day, though in California not a lot of bars open before noon). If they don’t have hooks under the bar I start looking around for other things that are missing in the bar. I start to imagine a very sterile bathroom, with poor, too bright lighting, water splashed all around the sink (you can’t set your purse down in a puddle). I immediately go on the defensive and assume that the bartender is going to be an ass and get annoyed when I tell him/her how to make my drink (I‘m very particular). The music becomes too loud… suddenly my purse hanging over my knee weighs 50 pounds. I could put it on my lap, but the risk of it falling off is too great. Have you ever had the entire contents of your purse spill out onto the dark, spilled-drink soaked floor before? Try looking for your MAC lipstick next to a smelly sneaker and a beer soaked napkin. No thank you. I prefer purse hooks. Purse hooks are simple. Purse hooks are elegant and welcoming. Purse hooks will make me order a second, third and perhaps fourth drink. So come on bars - - not only the remaining few without ‘em in California, but around the country, around the world, give me some hook. I’ll stay longer. I’ll spend more money. I’ll chat up the guy next to me, get him to spend more money and tip you more. And I’ll come back. Again and again, I’ll come back. And every time I do, I’ll sit down, I’ll lean over and look under the bar, and I’ll hang my purse on a hook. Right were it belongs.

Gin, How Do I Love Thee?

Gin. What a motherfu**er. Woke up at 1:30am. Lights on. Television on. Makeup still on. Uneaten pizza in the kitchen (I made a pizza???). Vague memories of dry heaving over the toilet. And yes, then tears came. Glamour is not my middle name.

Mid-tears I called my husband (we don't live together). Drunk dialing my husband in the middle of the night is humiliating enough. When said husband doesn’t answer…Ouch. It hurts as much as you think it would. After he didn’t answer I sent him a text stating that “I want a divorce. Officially.” The perfect conclusion to an almost uneventful night.

Gin opened up the window that I've been denying was even there to open. Well, the window opened up wide tonight. Suddenly visible was the hurt that comes along with admitting the fact that my husband did not choose me. And I do believe that he had a choice. Though, ask him and he would say that addiction chose for him (remember when I said that sometimes things chose you?). Ask me and I would say that I begged him to tell me that if that was ever going to happen to please, just let me know. Well, it happened, and NO he did not tell me. Naive? Most definitely. I believed what I wanted to believe. I chose someone that I knew, in the end, would not choose me. Well - - I shouldn’t say that. In the end he did choose me. It was the beginning that messed everything up. In the end he said that he regretted the beginning. Comforting? Not so much. I sometimes wonder if I didn’t play along knowing all the while that I had an easy out. To opt out, press 1. To keep on going as if everything is fine, press 2. I pressed 1. I’m still trying to get back to the main menu…

So here I am. It's 3:10am. I'm still trying to remember when I made that pizza. I'm still wondering why my husband didn’t answer my call. And I still want a divorce. Officially.

Look, Ma! I'm an Application!

I was trying to decide what my blog site name would be so I did what any well-adjusted person would do and I searched ‘nicole definition’ on google. I mean, who doesn’t use a search engine to find answers to important questions? This is what came up:

Acronym: NICOLE
Definition: Nearly Intelligent Computer Operated Language Examiner

I was Intrigued, to say the least. I then did a search on ‘Nearly Intelligent Computer Operated Language Examiner’ and found that NICOLE is a Linux application. (http://www.linux.org/apps/AppId_2288.html)

NICOLE (Nearly Intelligent Computer Operated Language Examiner) is a theory or experiment that if a computer is given enough combinations of how words, phrases and sentences are related to one another, it could talk back to you. It is an attempt to simulate a conversation by learning how words are related to other words. A human communicates with NICOLE via the keyboard and NICOLE responds back with its own sentences which are automatically generated, based on what NICOLE has stored in it's database. Each new sentence that has been typed in, and NICOLE doesn't know about, is included into NICOLE's database, thus extending the knowledge base of NICOLE.

What can I say, I was floored. I felt like I was reading a synopsis of my autobiography. Linux, you had me at, “NICOLE responds back with its own sentences which are automatically generated, based on what NICOLE has stored in it’s database.” So that’s me. Well, maybe not quite. Imagine the Linux application NICOLE after 4 beers - - and that’s me. I’m an application. Linux, you complete me.