Yerrr. It’s me. Your girl. I haven’t written in a few weeks honestly because the majority of the people in my life have requested (demanded) that I not include them in my blog in any way, shape, or form and it makes it a little difficult for content purposes. You would think that people would loosen up a little and let me talk about their STD’s for the sake of my ART but some people are just selfish I guess. Anyway, I’ll see what I can come up with.
In what was truly an eye opening experience for me, I discovered yesterday that there are, in fact, Americans that care about soccer. I always thought that soccer was sort of like football, baseball, and basketballs distant cousin with a wonky eye that no one wants in the family photo-op because they’re going to fuck up their likes-per-minute ratio on Insta. Or maybe that’s just me.
Anyway, Italy played England yesterday for the final in the EuroCup (???) and won with a final score that I truly can’t be bothered to google. Just talking about it is giving me PTSD war flashbacks because for some reason I agreed to bartend at an Italian restaurant during the game and people were hanging from the rafters. Literally. At one point, I looked up and someone was hanging off the mezzanine. I also heard rumblings that a fight broke out in the Board Room and that someone had taken off their belt and was snapping it together in the manner of a parent who was threatening to beat their child, but I decided not to involve myself in that one. I had just narrowly avoided my own fight with a busboy who can only be described as on some sort of spectrum. I walked back into the kitchen drenched in my own sweat, and saw him sitting down on his phone looking fatigued. After I screamed at the top of my lungs for him to get behind the bar because we were out of glasses, beer, and really anything that would have enabled us to serve 350 people he immediately sprung to his feet. Unfortunately, his version of rising to the challenge was running in and out of the bar at gale force speeds like a bull in a China shop swinging full baskets of glasses.
Nevertheless, after the game I was able to dip out from the bar and leave my 19-year-old coworker to fend for herself with a busboy who may or may not have done a bit of crystal meth while I went to see what was going on outside. And I really wish I hadn’t. Every man, woman, and child who had any semblance of Italian heritage or had ever seen an episode of the Sopranos for that matter had taken to the streets to celebrate Italy’s win. There had been a makeshift moshpit formed in the middle of Bedford Street that inhibited any cars from passing through and that song We No Speak Americano was playing on repeat seemingly from nowhere. I drew the line when a young man who I knew was hanging out of a moving car at a full 90-degree angle screaming inaudibly draped in nothing but the Italian flag.
In other news that can be filed under my 13th Reason Why, I am soon to be homeless. My mother’s SURPRISE reasoning behind her SURPRISE visit is apparently that she is planning on selling our childhood home and casting my sister, our fleet of cats, and myself out onto the streets. Although my sister and I are rapidly approaching middle age and can probably be expected to fend for ourselves, this was far from a welcomed announcement. I’m only about a month in to the consistent SaLaRy LyFee and my savings can be described anywhere from bleak to entirely nonexistent. To that end, I am not entirely looking forward to apartment hunting on a budget in one of the priciest zip codes in the United States. I’m a simple girl with simple tastes, but some of these apartments in my price range I’ve seen on Zillow are enough to send a chill down my spine. I could always rent a room from a stranger on Craigslist, but being raped and murdered in an cocaine den in the Cove has begun to seem less and less appealing. I think I’ve surpassed the age where my tragic death would be national news, and it would instead probably be nothing more than little blurb on the second page of the Advocate next to that week’s bear sightings. Not worth it.
I also have one final (ish) thing to say, and it involves an encounter I had the other night that’s been weighing on my mind.
I was sitting at the bar sucking down an Aperol Spritz when someone I had given an over the pants handjob to in highschool and had not had that much contact with since approached me.
“Heyyyyyyyyyy Rachel. So good to see you,” He said, visibly intoxicated. I hate when people say this. It isn’t good to see me. You know it. I know it. We all know it.
“Hey,”I sighed.
“How are you?”
“I’m good, how are you?”
“Good, good. I’m glad to hear you’re doing good.” I nodded, thinking that this would be the end and I was going to be able to efficiently get out of this conversation in six words or less. It’s not that he wasn’t a nice guy, I’ve just reached the point where my social bandwidth has a verrrrrry low threshold. I don’t even want to have conversations with myself.
That’s when he hit me with the following:
“I really am glad to hear you’re doing good. You know, I said the other day to Matt (mutual friend) that judging by your Instagram posts . . .” his voice trailed off and I thought he was going to mention that he read my blog or something to that effect and I smiled preemptively.
“Look, I know a person in crisis when I see one,” he said.
The smile dropped from my face. “In crisis? Do I seem in crisis?”
“I’m glad you’re doing good though , really. Anyway, it was nice seeing you!” he said ignoring my response completely and walking away.
I sat there, dumbfounded. In crisis? What exactly is it about me that seems like someone who in crisis? On second thought, maybe he does read this blog.
#italy #eurocup #soccer #england #fairfieldcounty #househunting #realestate #bartending #aperolspritz #aperol #homeless
Wine and Zoloft 