Stick A Fork In Me

I'm done.

And not like a delicious, juicy, perfectly-cooked steak. I'm done like Jill Zarin with Ramona Singer at the Pinot Grigio party. Done like my 63-year-old father after a rousing game of racquetball. Done.

Monday night of Memorial Day weekend, I get a text from Josh (wine-guy, Hoboken, good date. Hard to keep track, I know. I often have trouble myself.) He got home very late from his weekend trip to San Francisco, and would I mind post-poning our dinner until Wednesday? No, of course not Josh. I'll just unpack tomorrow's gym bag with my date outfit, matching shoes, cute underwear, make-up bag and reschedule my entire day/week that I had previously planned around you. No problem. Wednesday is perfect.

Trying to make the most of my underwhelming Tuesday evening, I go out for a drink with a friend for her birthday, and come home just tipsy enough to be crafty in the kitchen. Quite crafty indeed. I saute some onions in olive oil and salt, and then throw in some scallops, calamari, and shrimp. I season all this with lots of garlic, garlic powder, red pepper flakes, dry parsley, salt and pepper. I then add steamed broccoli, and serve it all over Shirataki noodles. [Note: Shirataki noodles are made out of tofu and they might be god's gift to the universe. They have just 20 calories per serving -WHAT?!- and I swear one gets the sensation that regular noodles are being consumed. Just saying.] So, disappointing evening made fun and delicious. I was able to celebrate a friend, cook a healthy meal, and go to bed early (albeit alone).

At 9am this morning, however, I receive a text message. It is from Josh. This is what it says: "Hey, I'm not going to be able to make it tonight. Have a good rest of the week. Sorry." Now, if that is not a break-up text, I don't know what is. What on earth am I doing wrong?! Someone, anyone, a bone?!? I wish I had responded, "HAVE A GOOD REST OF YOUR LIFE, ASSHOLE!" But I didn't. Then he would know how crazy I really am, as opposed to the level of crazy I allow others to see. According to my therapist, my disappointment around these dates not working goes back to my early years... Was it hard to be away from my mother? Check. Did I allow myself to be treated badly by men in earlier stages of my life? Check. Do I feel that I need validation from men to feel real? FUCK!

So, here we are. Here I am. I just ate tomato soup for dinner. But, let's be realistic. How done REALLY is Jill with Ramona? Doesn't my dad always go to his next racquetball game even though he has ace bandages on every appendage? I may be done for now, but I do believe I see my OkCupid Inbox flashing...