I Should've Just Stayed Home

Maybe I shouldn't have gone out last night in the first place. I was just in no mood. The only other time I ventured out of the house yesterday didn't go well either. I was attempting to pay rent. I had a check from the roomie who just moved out, some money orders for my part and then $12.92 in cash because I'd done the math wrong and luckily had found exactly that much in my purse, but they wouldn't take it. "We're not equipped to handle cash." Um, what? It's CASH. It's the only part of what I'm giving you that's actually MONEY. Take the goddamn rent and let me be on my way. "I'm sorry, we're just not equipped to deal with cash. There's a bank across the street," she offers in her most polite fake voice ever.

So, I go to the bank across the street and wait in line. The two tellers are politely apologizing again and again to the customers they're serving for the slowness of their computers. Occasionally, they extend a fake smile and apologize to me, too, "I'm so sorry. We'll be right with you." So nice, so kind, so fake. I smile my fake smile back in a way that says, "Oh, it's fine. It's just fine." But really I'm watching the clock because there are only a few minutes left before the leasing office closes. Like it matters anyway, I could turn it in tomorrow; I have the day off. When I get to the counter, I ask for a money order, but once it becomes clear that I don't bank there, a manager is called who offers an apology and a fake smile, "Oh, I'm so sorry, but we don't do money orders for non-customers." I don't mention that I'm put off that I've suddenly become a non-entity, "But I have cash!" I wave it around as if to entice them. "I'm sorry, but we don't do money orders for non-customers." Nice.

WTF, people. I have a thousand dollars in my pocket and nobody wants it?! Really? Fine.

So, I go back home where I belong to slip back into bed and watch even more episodes of Californication all rife with poor life choices and unrequited love, which may be the cause of the day's angst, for surely it has nothing to do with my own poor life choices and unrequited love or where I am in my cycle or how it's raining again in June for cryin' in a bucket, which is where I stay until I decide I have had about as much of me as I can take for one day and hop in the shower with every intention of going out.

I get myself all clean and smooth and shiny and sweet smelling. I put on my skinny jeans and high heel shoes and some slinky top, but it’s just not right. I change my clothes three times, including under garments, before I decide this is good enough, just go already. Hair straight and shiny, lips glossed, back of the ear softly perfumed, when I decide to see who I could chat with on FB. This could have been my cue to just stay home, but no, I carry on. I get a couple good conversations going with some of my best girlfriends. They all agree I should go out if I want to go out, but to trust my gut. Really, I don’t know any other way. My gut plays a big role in my life, but my gut didn’t seem to give a shit either way last night.

So, eventually I go. I drive with fun music on loud, but I get pissed off at the idiot driver going 40 over the Marquam bridge where I like to go really fast (okay 50), except for that one time where I wished I could stop to look at that HUGE orange moon low in the sky. But there was no huge moon for this idiot to be slowing down for; he was just going painfully slowly and people were passing him left and right. I shouted all sorts of obscenities at him and would’ve flipped him the bird if I’d thought it was safe to take my hand off the wheel while going over a double-decker bridge at night. This could have been my cue to take the first exit back home, but no, I carry on.

Although, when I get to the CL, I don’t get out. I stay in the car. I turn it off. I’m not even waiting for the song to get over singing with the radio at the top of my lungs. Nope. I’m just sitting there. Breathing. And I’m saying to myself, “Why are you here? Why don’t you just go home?” This could have been my cue to start the car back up, but no, I carry on. “You’re here, m’dear, because you’ve spent the entire day with you and Hank Moody and as much as you like you and Hank Moody, it’s time to see some new faces. Besides, there’s music. You LIKE music. You don’t even have to dance if you don’t want to (which was an oddly compelling argument given that I love dancing, always everyday all the time). You can just get a drink, take a seat, listen to some good music and go home.”

So, I go in, order myself a Long Island Iced Tea because it’s the most liquor I can get in one glass for my money, although one barely gives me a buzz anymore, so great have become my drinking skills. Still, I order it because it’s all the cash I have and I’m glad to have found somebody in town who’ll actually take my money. I spot one of my girlfriends and go over to say hi. Hi. She’s occupied with a handsome fellow, which I completely understand, so I make my way to the front door and chat up the doorman because he always acts like he likes me. He’s not my type at all. Maybe it’s the braids and the do rag or the giant clothes with the sports logos and the sneakers or that he’s 14 years younger than me and still showers me with attention, which simultaneously makes me feel flattered and like I’m a nasty old cougar, but he’s sweet so I give him a hug and a little kiss like I usually do and hang on his arm for a minute. I forget that I agreed to just sit down and listen to music.

Enter stupid guys. Guys who are also not my type, but not sweet like the doorman who actually knows my name.

“Hey, baby. What’s yo name?”

“What you up to tonight?”

“What you got going on?”

One of them actually remembers that we had this conversation last week and asks me how work is going. Fine, busy, I say.

“So, what you up to tonight? What you got going on?”

Sometimes I just turn it back on them to move the conversation along, “Not much. Things are good. How ‘bout you? How you doing?”

And I swear to god the very next words out of his mouth are, “So, what you up to tonight? What you got going on?”

Really? Seriously? Didn’t we just do that?

“It don’t have to be nothin’ serious. It can be all casual,” he says.

“I’ve got enough of nothin’ serious. I’ve got enough casual.”

“Well, alright. Let’s get married then. Just for tonight.”

Really? Seriously?

And I swear to god the very next words out of his mouth are, “So, what you up to tonight? What you got going on?”

I should’ve just stayed home.