Friday, February 14, 2014

Love Hurts

And sometimes it results in people getting anonymously added to inappropriate mailing lists.

A few years ago I went through a serious breakup. That's right--- I am 29, single, and (somewhat?) normal- and as a friend of mine told me after the breakup (over copious amounts of queso)-- at a certain age, if someone is single and normal, they're going to have some shit in their past. So here, dearest internet, is the story of the shit in my past.

I went through a breakup. Like living together, splitting utilities, making groceries together to doing it all on my own breakup. It was tough. I stayed in our apartment alone and tried to decide what my next move in my life was going to be. I wasn't eating. I wasn't sleeping. I wasn't smiling. I was a mess. I purchased Preparation- H for the bags under my eyes. (Side note- it doesn't smell that great. But I guess your butthole doesn't usually care what things smell like).

About a week into my devastated singleness, at 4 in the morning, my doorbell started ringing. I was certain there was only one person it could be and there was no way I wanted to see them at that ungodly hour. I rolled over. The doorbell continued, now with a furious knocking interjected. This couldn't be happening. I put a pillow over my head. The noise didn't stop. I got up, stomped to the front door, slammed it open, and had a glare on my face that would have impressed Carrie. It was my upstairs neighbor.

"Sorry to wake you up right now, but someone just hit your car."

I looked at the scene in the street. There was industrial carnage surrounding my car and another car. Shattered glass, ripped metal. I looked back at my neighbor.

"Yeah- I just got home from work and was out here smoking and some guy came speeding down the street, slammed into your car, then got out of his car and ran away."

My brain began processing it all and I started laughing. Like loling. My neighbor looked at me like I was a madwoman. "Oh, sorry," I explained, "I just realized that this is my rock bottom. It can't get any worse."

He had already called the cops. I went inside to get dressed and wait (for an hour and a half) for the police to show up. #GodblessNOPD Since he was a key witness, he waited with me. Here I was- on a muggy August morning, exhausted, starving, depressed, and having to make small talk with the asshole who had lived above me for over 9 months and had never even said "hello" before.

It didn't take long for him to get the conversation started.

"I haven't seen your boyfriend around much."

Perfect intro.

"Yeah- we broke up."

"Oh- OK. I always thought he was kind of a dick anyway." He tilted his head at me, hoping this enlightening comment would somehow make the situation better. I could have explained to him that listening to him scream at his wife late in the night, or how the fact that he never picked up his dog's shit in the back yard, or how he and his wife constantly parked us in the driveway and refused to move their cars kind of made the feeling mutual......but I didn't. I forced a half smile and stared off into the distance.

We sat there making sporadic small talk as the neighborhood started to wake up and as I waited on the stoop and watched the sun come up, I decided I was going to kick life back. That sunrise was giving me power.

I was going to start moving forward. I was going to start feeling better.

I was going to throw a party. That. Night.

After I dealt with my car, I put my plan into motion. I pulled up some recipes for desserts, bought some champagne and composed an email to my friends:

Re: No More Pity Party Party

I explained the situation and asked them to join me for booze and desserts so I could start my climb up from rock bottom. I felt good. I was taking charge. I was every woman. It was all in me.

Then my email dinged.

I looked down to see a response. It was from my friend. I opened it up and scanned the email. I reread it.

In my haste to plan the party, I had apparently mistyped an email address. Instead of my friend, Dana, receiving the email, some other horrible friendless human being, also named Dana (WITHOUT THE MIDDLE INITIAL IN HER EMAIL ADDRESS) was tuned into my situation and she had something to say about it.

Her self righteous response expressed some sympathy "Sorry to hear about your situation BUT...." and then took a page (or maybe a footnote-- it wasn't THAT harsh--- but it felt it at the time) from Rebecca Martinson, by bitchily explaining to me that I had the wrong email address and threateningly requesting to never email her again and to remove her from the group.

Bitch, you were never in the group.

I obliged. But only after signing her up for all of the most inappropriate spam mailing lists I could find.

I hope your genital warts are doing better, Dana (without the middle initial).

Love hurts. In all sorts of ways.

1 comment:

  1. Wow. Tough, as I sit alone in my little apartment... hope nobody hits my car.