too smart and too horny for her own good
I know many people who have recently bought or are in the process of buying their first home. Coworkers, cousins, and now my friend Dr. Smartypants and her hubby. I helped them move from an apartment to their new house this weekend, which I can prove from the bruises on my legs (I DON’T KNOW how they got there, I’m just gifted in that way) and tremendously sore arms (have you been to the gun show? –flexes girly biceps–).
For once I got into the “fresh start” mentality of the New Year, which I took advantage of in a very un-nymphoish manner. After two evenings of organizing the huge stack of mail that has been sprawled across the entry (and behind the couch, and maybe perhaps also under a huge pile of shoes) since I moved in, I sidetracked to figuring out what all the numbers on my 401k statement meant, which then had me wondering how much more loot it would take so I could roll around in my filthy wealth when I’m 59 1/2 years old, and from there I spent all weekend researching the current stock market so I can build a nest egg on the Lower East Side well before I can access my 401k.
Today one of my coworkers told me she’s four weeks pregnant. She’s my age.
In theory I know that twenty-seven is a perfectly reasonable age to have a baby, but I look at myself and think, oh holy FUCK there’s no way I’m mature enough to have a child. Don’t let the bank account and vibrator collection fool you, I am a twelve year-old tottering around in heels.
After receiving a delightfully large year-end bonus, I decided that I was going to buy one fun thing (not that getting the brakes on my car fixed isn’t a barrel full of jollies–weee, look at me stop suddenly!, and I don’t think buying more clothes for work to replace all the shirts with food stains and pants with coffee stains is exciting but more of a professional requirement so that I don’t out myself as being a dumbass who has been playing grown-up all this time).
On Friday I decided that I was going to walk into a nice jewelry store and buy myself whatever the fuck I wanted.
Lately my job as a cubicle monkey has sucked a big hairy set of low-hangers. I’m pissy and would love nothing more than to throw my feces at a deserved target. I joke with my friends that if my boss were a boyfriend, this is the time we would “need to talk,” which would probably lead to “I think we need a break… like, permanently” and finally it would come out that “it’s not me, it’s you.”
Except at a point it stops being funny because it’s true.
Today was a miserable day at the office. My new boss nearly made me cry about six times this morning. Of all my years on the job, I have cried at the office three times. Not once was it work-related.
A coworker kept eyeing me this morning because I wasn’t my normal happy-go-snarky self. A coworker I speak to about twice a week stopped me in the hall to ask if I was okay. Another coworker and I took turns bitching about being lowly cubicle monkeys who seem to be the only ones elbow-deep in our accounts. I won the my-job-sucks-more-than-yours contest because earlier I had bitten my lip so hard it started to bleed.
Last time I moved it was from a “we” apartment to a “me” apartment. I spent the first night alone in my apartment as a newly single girl with red wine and Oreos. It was fantastic. It was the first moment of pride I had felt in a long time.
I expected something similar this time around, but that’s not how it happened even though I was prepared with red wine and a fresh bag of Oreos. It felt too forced, too orchestrated. It lost the magic.
Fine. I drank down my glass of wine and went back to getting settled in my new place.
I have been packing and freaking out and whining and packing some more. My friend Barbie totally called me out on my eminent panic attack and insisted on coming over to help. My little brother (who is freakishly big and strong, so weird to see him turn from a total goob into someone kinda hot) drove in tonight and helped as well. At this time tomorrow I’ll be in my new grown-up apartment, the one I want to make a nice place to live, not just somewhere to crash and store all my crap.
When I moved one year ago it was triumphant but a little sad because I was moving on account of a break-up. This time there is nothing tainting the move. Today when I went to sign my lease I finally felt that moment of glory I had been expecting so many times before this, the one of pride when the leasing agent asks “are you the only one signing the lease?” For the first time I said “Yes. Just me.” No roommate, no boyfriend, no mother as a guarantor. Just me.
Now as I look at my living room filled with stacks of boxes, I think about how far I’ve come since I moved into this apartment. As Stockton reminded me, it will be a glorious moment when I finally sit down in my new apartment on my first night alone and take it all in, with a glass of red wine and a bag of Oreos sitting on a box in front of me. Although I still don’t know what I want, I’m in a much better place now than I was one year ago, and you know for damn sure I’ll be drinking to that on Sunday night.
We all know one of those people. Someone perfect. She is smart, gorgeous, sexy (yet modest), funny, and sweet. Most people can’t hate someone like this because she’s so nice. But I can. That’s the great thing about not being perfect–no one is surprised when you say things that prove yet again what a far cry you are from “decent human being,” let alone “respectable” or “perfect.”
That person swimming in fabulousness is so fucking perfect it makes me shit. She got married at twenty two (and will probably live happily ever after, damn her), got the perfect job right out of graduation, by age twenty six has saved up enough money for a down payment on a beautiful house in an area with an excellent school system for the wonderful 2.3 children they will have (also perfect, right down to a short labor and getting potty trained as soon as they can stand), and by twenty-eight has an amazingly $ucce$$ful career without having sacrificed her family or her sense of self. And to top it off, when she’s fifty years old I’m sure she will look fantastic (no botox or control-top underwear necessary) and still have orgasmic sex three times a week.
The bitch.
Over the last couple days I have spent hours looking up apartments online and in person. At first I wasn’t sure that I wanted to move when my lease ran out because moving is such a pain in the ass, but on Thursday I found myself asking if a stack of computer boxes in the I.T. department was up for grabs.
“You moving?” the head I.T. guy asked.
“Yep. In two months.” Oh. That just slipped out. I guess that means I made up my mind.
I have till the end of the month to decide if I want to renew my lease or not. I thought I had longer to figure out what to do. Shit. I don’t fucking know SO STOP PRESSURING ME!! HOW ABOUT GIVING ME MORE THAN A PIECE OF PAPER TAPED TO MY DOOR AND A WEEK TO DECIDE, ASSHOLE?!
There’s more weighing in on the decision than pro: ten minutes from office and con: carpet covered in dog pee. I’m in my mid-twenties (and about to enter my upper-twenties, yikes) and have been moving at least once a year since I was eighteen years old. My Amazon.com account contains ten home addresses, plus three office addresses. I’m tired of moving. I want to stay in one goddamn place for more than one year.
The break-up was eight and a half months ago. I haven’t talked about the actual break-up that much. The aftermath, the random memories that pop up–these I have mentioned as they crept into my mind because talking about them is the only way to get them to go the fuck away.
Today I had the movie Prime playing as background noise while I moved in and out of the bedroom with laundry and the vacuum cleaner. Suddenly a familiar scene snapped me to attention as if someone had smacked me in the face.
I left the laundry on the floor and sat down at the edge of the bed. Rewind. Princess Dog lay down next to me with a reassuring paw on my leg (how do they know?!). Play.
*18+ Only Please*
I'm Vix, a 27 year-old Texan. After 18 years of private education and 3 degrees, I'm trying to leave the corporate world behind to become a sex/humor writer and novelist. I'm sexy, funny, ugly, raw, and entirely real-- because there's more to me than being a blowjob queen.
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