Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story

by Rondon, Annah

  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.

  I Will Surely Regret This

  *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.

  Fuck you, dolphin. But why do you have to be so happy all the time?

  Fuck you, Snooki.

  Fuck you, Snooki (again), for having a best-selling book and being famous before me.

  I feel better now. Thank you and please proceed to the next chapter.

  p.s. Fuck work.

  p.p.s. I will eventually go back to school for my masters but I really don’t want to so please make me famous, ‘kay?

  p.p.p.s. I probably shouldn’t have written this taking into account it’ll probably come back to haunt me in the near future but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. People will be all, God did you read that stupid book by that Annah Rondon girl? I mean, who does she think she is talking badly about Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian? They’re like, such role models and stuff. And who eats heartbreak anyway? That’s such a dumb title. Like, she can’t even spell and her chapters make no sense.

  And I get that some people will bash me for this and asking my editor to skip this chapter is suicide but those who get it, will not care. And those who don’t, well . . . fuck them too.

  Update: My editor just asked me to cut this chapter over lunch and I respectfully declined (respectfully declined = hurled a sandwich at him). He shook his head and said, “You pay me to advise you on these things, so that’s what I’m doing.” But I simply glared dramatically while giving him the stink eye and he sighed, “I know, I know. Fuck me, too, right?”

  The man totally gets me.

  The Lucky Ones

  “What are you doing next weekend?” Vera asked me after I picked up the phone without any sort of greeting.

  “Um,” I mumbled, “going to the beach with my future husband, I guess.”

  “Let’s go to Vegas!” she shouted excitedly.

  “Sure thing,” I mocked her. “Let me just ring up the pilot and ask him to dust off the ol’ jet.”

  “I’m being serious. Miranda’s getting married in Vegas to that guy she met last summer. Want to come?”

  It was six months before my wedding and I hadn’t spoken to Jonah in almost a year, no word from him after he returned from Australia, nor any attempt on my part to contact him. Miranda was a college friend who met her fiancé when she sold him her house, only to move back in a few months after they fell in love. The ceremony would be an intimate one for 30, seeing economic restraints would prevent most people from going. The idea of skipping town at a time of such personal affliction was irresistible, and I wished for nothing more than to ditch reality and rock on with some friends.

  “Can I bring Vincent?”

  “Ladies only, bitch,” Vera snarled. “This is your last girls’ trip before the wedding so tell Vin to get over it.” With that she hung up and left me to brew a resourceful plan for escape.

  It took some coaxing and incessant pleading, but my betrothed eventually gave in and allowed me to desert him for one final hoorah. I booked my flight the morning after to arrive a day before Miranda’s wedding party. Considering this was the end of my bachelorette travels, I had intentions of making the most of it. This, of course, meant catching a cheesy Vegas show and doing things I knew my friends would take no interest in. I devised a grand plan of sleeping all day at the hotel the first day, then getting up at five for a tour of the Grand Canyon by myself on th
e following. I wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or restlessness, but I merrily succumbed to the sleepless nights that preceded my departure.

  One week later, I sat at my terminal trying to kill the boredom that made up my three hour layover to Vegas, eventually caving in and buying myself a margarita. I found it hard to focus on my book, and after finishing the first drink, I returned to the bar and made a home for myself there until takeoff. I called Vincent, but he was at the gym and couldn’t talk, asking me to ring him up when I arrived to my final destination. I grumpily agreed and began to flip through a magazine I’d already read twice on the first leg of my trip. Three margaritas in, I was overtaken by a sudden urge and reached for my phone yet again.

  “This is Jonah,” he answered after the third ring and I almost fell off my seat.

  “Hey,” I said weakly, stunned that he’d picked up in the first place.

  “Hey yourself,” he replied cordially. “What can I do you for?”

  I laughed nervously and considered hanging up altogether. “You would never guess where I am right now,” I managed to spit out instead.

  “Russia?” he joked, but there was no hint of friendliness in his voice.

  “Houston.”

  After a long pause, he asked what I was doing there and I relaxed a bit, explaining about the wedding and my layover in his hometown, plus the big plans for a sleep-a-thon before heading to the Grand Canyon the day after. He seemed detached but had the courtesy to feign interest in my trip and Miranda’s big day, asking the right questions and offering little input in return. When I inquired about him, his answers were brief and lacking enthusiasm. He gave little insight on the details of his life and seemed mostly upset or bored, wishing me safe travels before I told him my flight was departing soon and I had to hang up. That evening, I boarded the plane and traveled to Nevada with my heart in a knot, forsaking the moment I decided stirring a pot with his name on it was a good idea.

  The dreadful thing about taking in the magnificence that is the Grand Canyon, is driving through Arizona on a bus loaded with – mostly Asian – tourists and a toilet that won’t flush. By 11 that morning all my friends had touched ground in Vegas and were planning on renting a cabana at the hotel to sunbathe and drink in style. Traveling with a herd of cranky tourists and seniors was probably not as fun as laying by a pool sipping mimosas, yet sometimes there’s more to life than champagne campaigns and tanning oil.

  After an exquisite day of discovery and too many pictures of old sediment, I was back at my hotel. It was a little past 10 and I was the perfect picture of exhaustion in my blue jeans and dusty sweater. Vera was meticulously applying red lipstick as I entered the room, and although she incessantly nagged me to change my mind and go out, I assured her the only dancing I’d be doing that night would be with two pillows. I crawled into my heavenly bed after a hot shower with nothing on but underwear and a smile. Seconds later, I was riding the spiral that leads one to a deep sleep. There was a ringing noise that prevented me from crossing fully to the dark side, and I really wished the people on the room opposite me would answer their fucking phone, but then it thankfully stopped.

  Two minutes later it was back in full force and much louder, definitely not part of a dream nor in any other room than my own. I grumpily picked up the telephone prepared to tell Vera off if this was an attempt to get me to The Venetian.

  “Hello?” I croaked out feebly.

  “Did I wake you?” a male voice I recognized all too well said on the other end of the line. “It’s only 11.”

  “Jonah?” was all I could offer in my confused state. “Are you okay? How did you get this number?”

  “You told me you’d be there when we spoke two days ago, remember? And yes, I’m okay,” he said warmly. “But I’m guessing the more pressing question is, are you okay?”

  “I’m beat.” I let out a loud yawn and was immediately embarrassed. “The Grand Canyon kicked my ass and I’m taking it on a recharging trip all over this bed tonight. What’s Houston like?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he sighed. “I’m at a certain lobby in a certain hotel waiting for a certain someone to come down and take me away from this poker table.”

  The inability to speak that engulfed me was so strong it felt permanent. I lifted myself against the headboard and switched on the lamp on the night table, pinching myself in the process.

  “Did you hear what I said, Annah?” he asked with a voice that dripped with concern and hinted of impatience. “You’re not going to leave me here all alone after I flew three hours into this desert, are you?”

  And I wanted to say and ask a thousand things but all I could muster was a whispered, “No.” I dressed and applied makeup on with shaky hands, brushing my long hair with strokes marked with anxiety as I prayed it was all a nightmare. Thirty minutes later, my body would be down at the lobby standing right in front of him once more, but my mind and soul were suspended in a place so high up, I could only assume it to be heaven.

  Long Hair Don’t Care

  Ever heard of a phrase used by young people or teenage kids and wondered what the hell it meant? I’d been on Twitter and Facebook a few times on a particularly boring Tuesday when I noticed my friends using the phrase, “long hair, don’t care” on more than one occasion. Few things make me feel more inadequate than not knowing the current lingo, and inadequacy makes me feel, well, inferior. After two minutes of wallowing in self-pity, I picked up the phone to message my friend Miguel, a total nerd who’s sometimes cooler than me but knows tons of useless information like all the lyrics to Don’t Stop Believing and the meaning of numismatics.

  Me: OK. So I have to ask. What the hell does “long hair, don’t care” mean?

  Miguel: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Me: You lie. It’s what all the cool kids are saying.

  Miguel: Then I definitely have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Me: Faahhhhk. We’re no longer young.

  Miguel: Speak for yourself.

  Me: Old. Old and outdated with the hip lingo.

  Miguel: Hold on, dude.

  Miguel: “Long hair, don’t care”: Expression to state you don’t give a shit. As in, the length of your hair is proportionate to how much you let things affect you. For example, I have short hair and I’m always getting worked up about things. Hippies have long hair and don’t give a fuck about anything. Get it?

  Me: Ahhhh. Totally.

  I then went on my blog and made a handy picture scale for others who were surely wondering the same thing.

  I posted the aforementioned and felt so cool and useful that I almost restored youth to my ego, like a crusader for those who wanted to be in-the-know or something but didn’t have access to the Internet or friends like Miguel. That was, of course, until I received an onslaught of comments by kids who actually know what they’re talking about and put me in my senior citizen place immediately.

  Anonymous said . . .

  So, not to burst your bubble or anything, but I don’t want you walking around thinking that phrase has anything to do with the hair on your head. It’s from a Lil’ Wayne song and he’s talking about how he doesn’t care if a girl has long hair down south (if you know what I mean). That he’s still gonna eat her. Therefore, “Long hair, DON’T CARE.”

  Um . . . gross? Kids these days.

  Sin City

  The sun had begun its rise with glowing embers on a still gray sky. We emerged from our final destination of the night with drowsy footsteps and empty wallets. A quiet fog blanketed the morning and Jonah held the door for me. As we exited with the bridal party and thousands of other strangers into the brisk air, I shivered. My friends were congregated off to one side of the street and I moved forward with feet that hardly touched the ground.

  “I say we go to a strip club,” Vera suggested when we were all together. “Who’s in?”

  We all looked around expectantly at one another, faces plagued by sleep and intoxication that re
mained expressionless in the gray light.

  “I’m in,” our buddy Samuel finally answered. “I got a bit of cash leftover and I’m ready to blow it in the name of working mothers,” he grinned and pulled out a few crumpled bills from his pockets.

  “Good. Anyone else?” Vera asked, but no one bothered to pay attention. “Come on, guys. Don’t be pussies.”

  Most of the group ignored her and began to disperse, making their way to the hotel for breakfast and sleep.

  “We’ll go,” Jonah piped up and winked at me. “The night doesn’t have to be over yet.”

  “That’s the spirit, little buddy,” Vera said enthusiastically. “What’s your name again?” I watched my friend stumble toward him and extend a hand. Jonah shook it and then introduced himself to Samuel.

  We’d spent the night dancing and club hopping since I’d met him at the lobby only hours before, leaving little room for formal introductions or real conversations of any sort. Five minutes later we were stuffed in the back of a yellow cab and headed to some place the driver called Sapphire. Upon arriving, the guys chatted with the bouncer and we were immediately escorted to a table near the center of the huge space. A waitress wearing an ensemble full of rhinestones took our drink order, returning shortly with whiskey and champagne. Jonah moved his seat closer to mine and raised his glass in a toast.

  “To old friends,” he offered and looked into my eyes, then raised it even higher and turned to my buddies, “and new ones as well. Cheers.”

  While my friends took to tipping girls who climbed on poles and twisted themselves into pretzel-like positions, Jonah and I remained seated with our heads huddled together. The room seemed to spin us to other orbits as we talked of everything under the sun at warp speed. Somehow, it felt like I was spying on myself in a drug-induced dream as I talked about my new life to the man my heart belonged to. Our surreal state of discovery was magnified by the dozens of naked bodies dancing around us, sometimes interrupting and offering lap dances. Jonah would politely decline without ever taking his eyes off me, his smile more intoxicating than any alcoholic concoction I’d consumed.