Suddenly it seemed that everything in my life had started to change. I exchanged my Converse sneakers for Gucci heals and my hoodies for Fendi wrap-around blouses. Now that I look back, it’s sad how easily I let someone—or rather, two people—change me into someone else. You would never have known where I came from, who I once was, by the way I was molded into the person I had slowly become.
I PEEK OUT MY bedroom door to make sure it is safe to venture into the hallway, and head towards the bathroom. After taking a whiff of myself and realizing life’s not all it’s cracked up to be, I decide to scratch showering off my list of goals for the day and just stick to the basics, which come in the form of toothpaste and a stick of deodorant. I haven’t bothered unpacking my fancy things that came along with The Stacey Roommate Plan, like my electric toothbrush, so at the moment I am currently using a 1980s normal non-vibrating toothbrush while gagging on my parents’ original, probably first addition ever, Crest toothpaste.
I have yet to take the plunge and unpack my stuff. I figure, why bother? I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon anyway.
Now let me be the first one to tell you that wallowing in one’s self-pity is a full time job. It has a tendency to take away from the other semi-more important things in one’s life, such as hygiene and self-awareness. One major step I have been avoiding during my “poor me” parade is looking in the mirror. I have spent so much time self-loathing and crying like a baby that I am not too sure I want to take a look at the loser I have become. The only good thing that came out of this is the weight loss, which we can thank not eating for, due to my pitiful life blowing up in my face. (Please refer back to bubble splatter.) I figure since I knocked off showering, I do have an opening in my appointment book to look up and judge.
I am staring into the eyes of a stranger. Well . . . I can probably do without the bags under my eyes, I think while I try to calculate when the last time was that I had an eyebrow wax or a proper hair dye. Some things, whether your life is ending or not, should not be neglected. I look awesome . . . for a homeless person. “Well that’s enough for today,” I say to no one in particular, then I spit, rinse, and turn to complete my task for the day.
Behind all the fancy clothes and designer toothbrushes, I was no one special to begin with. Standing at an unimpressive height of 5’4,” I have normal brown hair, sometimes referred to as my “mop,” and fair skin since I’m no longer following Stacey’s daily ritual of self-tanner. I had eyes the shade of the sea, per Steve. Now they are just hazelish green. Who gives such lame compliments and falls for them anyway? Ugh. Shades of the sea. Vomit.
I’ve always had a great metabolism so weight was never really an issue, but Stacey insisted we attend classes together at the gym. If it wasn’t to look fit, it was to meet guys. No complaints about a little sweat if a pack of tanned abs came along with it.
With Stacey being the stereotypical tall, beautiful blonde, I’m not sure anyone would have acknowledged my presence if it wasn’t for my incredible rack. I know. How self-righteous am I? But a girl can’t lie. If she’s got the goods, she knows it. In the end my rack didn’t keep the guy so who cares anyway?
Onward toward my day in Loserville.
My parents live in a small ranch house in Oak Park, Illinois, just outside of Chicago. They bought it once my dad was finally able to settle down after the Navy and they never left. It’s a three bedroom split-level house that makes you feel like you ventured back into the 70s every time you walk in. Ah, the life. I really hope their decorating skills rub off on me. Not.
I always hated the suburbs. I hated the cattiness of all the neighborhood kids. Did you fit in? Were you the bully or the geek? I hated that if you didn’t swagger along with the other kids on the street you would get bullied to not be allowed to use their side of the sidewalk. Petty little kids. Add it to the list of things to do today: finally use the sidewalk. I’m thirty-one. No one’s going to tell me what to do anymore.
Walking into the kitchen, I spot my mother at the stove doing what she does best: cook. Surprisingly enough, no one in our family is overweight due to her extreme expertise on how to make a gourmet meal. It is beyond me. Well, I take that back. Looking at my dad at the table in his overalls, he is looking a bit snug.
“Well finally, dear, it took you long enough. Are you hungry? I have a list of things I need you to do today. Feel free to take your aunt with you or drop her off first,” my sweet mother recites. Nothing like being bossed around, but in a sweet motherly way.
“No thanks, I already ate,” I reply, regarding her breakfast invitation, thinking about the extra toothpaste I indulged in earlier. “So, what kind of ‘things’ are you requesting here?” I ask suspiciously. Seriously, if my mother sends me to her hairdresser’s house again, just so she can attempt to hook me up with her forty-year-old live-in son, I’m going to vomit.
“Well, your father and I have been talking about building an addition to the back of the house, and I need you to go pick up the blueprints from our contractor. It’s not far out of your way.”
“Do I get gas money out of this?” I ask.
“Do we get rent money out of you?” my father chimes in.
“Fair enough.” Ugh, I hate when I lose.
“Speaking of which,” Dad continues, “when are you going to start looking for a job? You are wasting away that education I paid for.”
“Oh Harold, leave her alone. She is doing the best she can, aren’t you dear?” Go mom!
“I have some potential companies in mind. I am buttering up my resume and will scope them out sometime this week.” Lie.
“Which ones?” my dad asks.
“There is this really big marketing firm in the city.” Lie. Lie. “They are interested in my background.” Lie. Lie. Lie. “I will be in touch with them later this week.” My nose is growing so long, it is literally spelling out the word lie.
“Well that’s great dear!” my mom praises. “Keep us posted. We are rooting for you.” Will do!
I don’t know why it is so important for everyone to have a job. A job doesn’t make a person. Mr. Henderson’s son, Hank, doesn’t have a job and he seems fine. But he was also in jail for a while and is now living off government money so, whatever. Money is money, right? Is being dumped considered a disability? Note to self: check into government payouts.
If I was honest with myself I would say that I haven’t spent an ounce of my free will looking for a new job. The truth is I really am afraid. I worked at Hamilton Corp for almost seven years before I openly expressed my not-so-pleasant feelings for Steve in front of the whole management board, then quit. How am I supposed to go into an interview with my one and only job as a reference? “We were going to hire you until we cross-checked your reference and they told us what a freak show you are. Thanks anyways!”
Do I regret what I did? Maybe. A little. Well yes. Who wouldn’t? I busted my nice little ass at that job and spent seven years crawling my way to the position I was in, only to have it ruined by some asshat. And I remember being so excited when I got that damn job.
Insert Hamilton Corp.
I had been searching for a job for what felt like eons, but I never got a call back or any acceptance letters. I didn’t get to the point of panic since Stacey’s parents were practically paying for our rent in full at this point and I still had a comfortable savings to live off of.
Then one day I landed an interview for Hamilton Corp. It was huge. I had been sick all morning with nerves, worried I was going to blow it and end up barfing on myself mid-interview. I had arrived there early and practiced all my questions and answers over and over again. I had my portfolio with me, primped and ready to shine. I sat and waited to be called in. And I waited . . . and waited some more. Finally, when I asked the secretary what the deal was, she replied that the position had been filled an hour ago and they were not taking any more candidates. Before I could strangle her or cry like a baby—I couldn’t tell which I wanted to do more—I told he
r to have a nice day, while in my head I said other things, and hurriedly left through the gigantic glass doors I’d come in through.
While scurrying through the lobby, I decided it was a good time to turn on my waterworks and did a bee-line for the bathroom. While in mid-turn I not so ladylike body-slammed into a hard male figure, knocking all of the papers out of his hand and watching them scatter all over the marble lobby floor. Horrified to say the least, I apologized to this guy, or god, whatever you want to call someone standing at an impressive six-foot-two, golden eyes and a body that screams, “Lick me all over.” Then Mr. Lick-me-all-over kindly helped me steady my legs while asking if I was OK. I had helped him pick up his papers and apologized again. He didn’t take no for an answer, and convinced me to join him for coffee and discuss why I was upset. Turns out Mr. Lick-me-all-over was the son of Hamilton Corp and the job—my job—was handed straight to him due to his bloodline, no interview required. He introduced himself as Steve and insisted he help “squeeze me in” since he had rudely stolen my job.
We talked and laughed as the hours passed. He had put in a few calls, me insisting he not, since it was embarrassing enough, and before you knew it I was working as an intern for Hamilton Corp. I know. Intern. It was not paid, but it was something. It was the best he could do, since he said they weren’t actually hiring at all. I would take it. It took me three months to get hired on full time, and before I knew it, I was working my way to becoming the marketing specialist for their top ten clients.
Seven years later and another mark on the unemployment list, here I am. No more fancy job title. No more fancy boyfriend.
Insert present: Living with my parents. Oh god, I think I’m going to be sick.
VENTURING OUT OF THE house is always tricky. As I said before, I haven’t really done much unpacking. I guess it’s because I am still in a bit of denial about my present living situation, or life situation at that. I kind of still believe that this is all just a bad dream and I’m going to wake up soon, and why spend half my dream unpacking? I have lived in the same shirt and sweats for most of the time I’ve been home and only peel them off of me so I can shower (which is not often) and my mother steals them to clean so I can put them back on. Taking my pathetic self out into the world requires a bit more attire.
I stumble to the garage and grab the first box I see. Whatever is in it, I will put it on. If it’s a lampshade, then it’s on. I don’t care. My mother convinced me to go grocery shopping for her last week, hoping to get me out of the house. Of course I simply put my shoes on and went. Apparently people in this town still judge and gossip, because before I was done I got a call from my poor mother asking me to just head home. Gotta love the suburbs.
First box contains my shoes. My loves. If there is anything I stand true to, it is my love for shoes. I would save full paychecks just to buy myself a beautiful pair of Jimmy Choos, or with an extra big check, Louboutins. They were just so enticing. Addicting. Obsessive.
OK, I have more shoes than clothes, but at least I earned them. I worked for the money, baby. So I pull out a pair of my nice shiny gold stiletto-heeled Manolo Blahniks. I still remember when I bought them. I had locked down one of my first clients: the clothing line for Macy’s Brand. Add a hefty bonus, and insert shoe purchase. The second I paid for them I slipped them on my feet and they fit like a glove. I think I wore them for a week straight, whether they matched my outfit or not. I remember Stacey, Steve and I went dancing to one of the new nightclubs in the city and I danced all night in them. Steve ended up having to carry me home since my feet we so blistered. Stupid Steve. “Don’t worry, Manolos,” I said to myself. “I won’t let Steve ruin our friendship.” I take out my shoes and stick to my guns. First box. A deal’s a deal.
After getting ready (or whatever you call what it is I look like), I venture downstairs. I see the note and list Mom left me on the table. Reading the note, it seems Mom and Dad ditched me to go to the neighbors’ for tea time. How lovely.
Old people. I never want to be one.
I grab my purse, car keys, list, and directions and head out to my parents’ 1980 station wagon. Let’s be honest, who needs a car in the city? I didn’t. I walked or took the sub, or had Steve or Stacey’s drivers take me everywhere. Also, who needs a new shiny one? Apparently not my parents.
Reading my mother’s note again, only because I can’t read chicken scratch that well on the first round, I attempt to locate the address she gave me on my phone to pick up these blueprints. I figure if I can scoop those up first, then make it in time to pick up Aunt Raines, I will have a smooth morning and be back in bed before noon. I know one thing is for certain and that is that I am definitely not going to miss the Golden Girls marathon.
I head east onto Waverly Avenue to start my quest. I make it out of the neighborhood and onto the main road and see an abundance of red brake lights. What I did not expect was traffic. Ugh. Who is even on the streets at this time? Aren’t people supposed to be at work? See, that’s what’s wrong with society today. Nobody is working. Too busy clogging up the streets so no one can get to where they are going. Staring at the time tick away, I pretty much start to sweat at the bad choices I have just recently made. Not that Aunt Raines will mind waiting, but my naval commander dad will have my ass if I fail at this task. Time to think, Sarah. Think!
It’s been a while since I lived around here and trying to remember what is where is a bit tricky. I look at the GPS on my phone in an attempt to find an alternate route, just as the car behind me starts honking.
“Geez, relax pal!” I yell out my window as I accelerate. Multitasking was one of the major bullet points on my resume, as well as my job title. Apparently trying to drive, GPS it, and yell at the guy behind me does not qualify as a positive multitasking ability, as it takes me three seconds of doing so to ram into the guy in front of me.
Now . . . who the HELL honks at someone to move when it is not time to move?! Great! “Great!” This cannot be happening. Apparently the guy in front of me is thinking the same thing. He throws his hands in the air—not a good sign. This is so not good for my layout of time. I am definitely going to miss the first episode of the Girls.
Not sure really what to do—besides get out of the car and bash the guy behind me face-in—I start to look in the glove compartment for my parents’ insurance. Because that’s what you do, right? You hit someone, you exchange info and that’s that. You both go on your merry way. I can do this. Except, I can’t find any forms. Seriously? “Seriously!?” This day is NOT panning out for me. Note to self: stop taking demands from the parental units.
I watch the guy in front of me get out of his vehicle, and I assume I should do the same and slowly exit the 80s wagon. I can do this. Put on my sweet face. Apologize to fellow neighbor . . .”Are you fucking kidding me?!” he yells. Whoa. Did not see that one coming. “Don’t you know how to drive, lady?!” Um . . . yes and no. “Can’t you wait to text your damn boyfriend till you’re not driving a vehicle?!” If I had a boyfriend, but he dumped me.
“I’m really sorry,” I tell him. “I was trying to look at directions, and then the douche behind me honked, so I—”
Rude Guy cuts me off again. “I’m running late for a meeting with a client, and now this!” He stops and stares at the damage done to his truck by the time machine wagon. If you would have asked me, I would have said it was no big deal, considering all the damage was done to the bumper. I mean, aren’t those things made of rubber?
“I bet looking at this piece of shit you don’t even have insurance, do you?!” OK, hold up, Hottie McAngry Pants. I mean, this guy is getting way too overheated. As we both turn from looking at the damage to each other, I notice how manly Hottie McAngry Pants actually is. At an impressive anger level of 8.5, he stands about 6’2,” with strong facial features, dark hair and broad shoulders that I am actually daydreaming about putting my legs around. “Hello!? Are you even in there?!”
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” I stutter. “Yes, for
one I do have insurance. I’m sorry but this is my parents’ car, so I’m not sure where it is. Can’t we just trade information and I’ll call you, or you call me and our insurance can work it out?” I stand there waiting for his answer, thinking it’s not going to be what I want to hear, considering he looks like he just went up to a 9.5 on the anger scale.
“No sweetheart, we cannot just trade info. That’s not how it works!” OK, let’s step back for a second. As much as I would love for Hottie McAngry Pants to call me sweet nothings, it’s not going to be rudely, in the middle of an intersection, while precious time is ticking away.
“Excuse me, mister. Like I said, this was an accident. It’s not like I killed your family dog or anything so why don’t you relax and it will get worked out. I’m sure my parents—” I am abruptly cut off when Hottie McAngry Pants takes this opportunity to snatch my phone right out of my non-manicured hands (which may I say I need a mani very badly), and tosses it into the intersection! I repeat! He tosses my phone! I watch it go flying, land splat in the road then get hit by about three vehicles before I turn to him open-mouthed. “You did not just do that.” I breathe in a holy shit I’m about to lose my cool and match him on the anger scale.
“Learn to know when to use your phone! I’m taking your license,” he says and takes his phone to snap a picture of my license plate, then he snatches my license out of my hand. “Don’t worry, you will definitely hear from me!” He turns and starts to walk back to his truck.
As I stand there stunned, the only thing I can do is slowly repeat, “You did not just do that!” while Hottie McAngry Pants climbs up in his truck, flips me the bird, and takes off.
That did NOT just happen! What is wrong with the world today? I mean, what kind of world do we live in when extremely hot guys, with tanned skin and rugged jaw lines, get all macho jerk on innocent people? I mean, seriously!
Life in a Rut, Love not Included (Love Not Included series Book 1) Page 2
