Apology Letter 1

I am sorry
Because I know and have done unbearable things
I have seen you
and rebuild
each time with fewer pieces
because I have broken what was not mine

I have done too much
and nothing to protect you from a wrath
of doubt
and fear
and I am sorry.



I was attracted to him from the moment I saw his face. His eyes were so stunning that I couldn’t look away; I’m sure they are the most intense I’ve ever seen. His hair was a mess and he had a smile that could shatter glass with its intensity. I knew that whatever he was, I wanted it. And years after I began to adore him, he was finally “mine.”


So that lovely little beginning there was written I don’t know how long ago. And it sounds like a really sweet story.

Here’s how the end of that story goes:

We fell in love. For real.
But we both had intense emotional issues because of the things we’d been through, because of our parents, because of our pasts… and after about two years, he broke my heart.

I thought I would die from the pain, but I haven’t yet, so I think I’ll be alright.

The End.

It’s 2016. I guess.

I will be notably more frustrated when filling out daily paperwork (you know, because of the 6 there at the end instead of the 5) but that’s the only real change I can think of.

I just recently moved, so I should be here in good ol’ Central Kentucky for at least a while longer. Not that I have anywhere else to be.

I have decided that this year will be different but I really haven’t decided how it will be different.
I know that I want to read more books and drink less coffee (which is heartbreaking, but hopefully a healthy decision). I want to go out more, too– being a homebody does not fit me well.

But I don’t believe in resolutions, partially because sometimes I seriously doubt my ability to make actual changes to my life. Apart from growing up, which I may need to do a bit more of, I don’t plan on doing anything significantly different.

The mid-twenties are my worst age yet, in my opinion. With one ridiculously bad break-up under my belt, my parents and friends still wonder if I will “meet the one” or “finally decide” to have kids and settle down. Neither of those things seem all that appealing to me, though. (Sorry, dad– I know how badly you want grandchildren).

So. The one thing I really want to focus on this year (you know, apart from paying my bills, etc.) is playing guitar. I used to be fairly good and I really loved it. (Partially, I want to get back into it, and partially I am being coerced by my ukulele-obsessed roommate to do something musical and creative again).

And of course, like every other year, I’m promising to write more and fear less. To those of you who are *still,* for some reason, reading this– thanks. And I don’t know how you put up with me. Because I can barely put up with me.






*This is a really long, messed up way of saying something like “the thing that is almost the thing you want” in German.
A hot German told me it kind of made sense, but that no one who spoke German would actually ever use it.
There’s your language lesson for the day.

Dear Old Fashioned,

I knew you were sin and trouble and happiness and adventure from the moment I saw you.

I loved watching you cook dinner.

I loved the way your arms felt around me when we would lie on your couch, or sometimes mine, and watch TV.

I loved the night we listened to “I Wanna Be Like You” and danced, madly, as you sang to me.

I loved it when your face lit up after I said, “I want to sing Tainted Love,” on Karaoke night, and you agreed to sing with me.

I loved it when you were almost drunk and I was driving you home, and you said you needed french fries, you didn’t care where they came from, but you needed them. So we went to Wendy’s, and you yelled through the microphone that you wanted “GHOST FRIES! GHOST FRIES!” and even though he’d asked us to wait, the guy at the drive-thru window laughed, and you got your fries. You also got them all over the carpet of your apartment.

I loved that as we drove back to your place that night, you insisted that we listen to “Atlantic City.” And you sang the words so desperately, grabbing my hand, smoking one of my cigarettes (which you never did on any other occasion), that I thought you might actually love me.

But I was only almost the thing you wanted.



The Girl

The Girl

It wasn’t until my fiance was home from his two-month trip to Greece that I learned about the girl.

When he confessed, all he said was that they “nearly” had sex; that things “almost went too far.” I heard the few words he did say to me over and over in my mind until my tongue swelled between my teeth and I lost the courage to ask anything else.

I thought of all the pictures he’d sent me during his trip and wondered if she had taken them.

He attempted to apologize; all I could hear were the creaks of some stranger’s dorm-room mattress, the sounds he would have made in bed with her. I wondered if he thought about me while he was with her, or if he had wished it were me instead.

Then I realized: I could not remember the last time he’d touched me. We kissed and said goodbye at the airport, my eyes full of tears, and that’s the last time I remember being close to him at all. I wanted to remember so badly what his hands felt like against my face, the way his arms wrapped around me when we’d hug each other. I could not.

He was supposed to love me. He was supposed to want me. I was supposed to be his wife.

I don’t know how much time passed before he asked me to say something.

All I could manage was “I understand.”

I do not.

What it means to be an Administrative Professional

When I started working for one of Canada’s largest Privately-held companies as an administrative assistant, I did not know what to expect– which was fair, given the fact that I had never exactly been an “administrative” anything before.
So me, myself, and I, college degree in tow, decided to give it a try.
And at first, I hated it.
I never knew what was expected of me and I couldn’t prioritize my duties… but the most frustrating challenge was not knowing what to say when someone called and asked for extension such and such and to speak to so and so– but in French.

Now, six months later, I love my job.
I actually love it.
Now that’s not to say that I wouldn’t prefer to do something else, (like get paid to write shit like this for a living– wouldn’t that be grand?) but it’s certainly worth my time, at least for now, and it does pay the bills and put Woodford on the table as needed, so I guess I can’t complain.

What I’ve learned from this job (so far, anyway,) is that there isn’t a list of expectations I’m required to meet. What’s closer to the truth is that there is a wheel of expectations, and every morning, some lucky contestant will come along and spin the wheel. Everything the pointer touches on that spin is expected from me– but only for that day. I can see how that would sound bad, but in reality it keeps things interesting.
I’ve also learned that there is no need to prioritize my duties, not in the long term, anyway.
It’s actually far simpler (at least for me) to write a list of things and just do them, because (let’s face it,) no one else is going to do them. And really, but the time I get half of them done, I’ll have a bunch of new stuff to do that wasn’t even on the list to begin with but has now usurped all importance and requires my undivided attention until completed.
Lastly, I have learned how to say “One moment, please,” (or, “Un instant, si vous plait”) in French, so I’m not wildly transferring our French-speaking customers out to some other branch of the company, hoping that whoever answers the phone WILL be able to understand them. I’ve also learned that if you try hard enough, you can usually pick a name out from all those other words and get them where they need to go.

So if you want more details (can’t imagine that you would,)
this is what I think I do at work:

Because let’s face it: When you’re any kind of assistant, you have to stay on top of people like white on rice to get the information you need for whatever it is they’re asking you to accomplish. I feel like a constant nag, because I have to be. But my coworkers mostly love  me for helping keep them on task, and I mostly love how they forget little things and are appreciative when I remind them of said things.

This is what people think I do at work:

And although I do pretty much consistently have a cup of coffee near my hand, a pair of glasses somewhere on my desk, and some seriously large black heels on, I do not have time to prop up said black heels and relax.
Even on my lunch break, I can’t help but answer a few quick emails from my phone so I don’t have so much to do when I finally get back to my desk. This is the life of an assistant: you only have as much free time as your boss. Which is almost always near the zero-minute mark.

And this is what I want to do at work:

The smoking and the red hair and the 50’s attire I’ve pretty much got down to a T.
The whole being a boss-ass-bitch thing… still working on that. I don’t think I’m necessarily doing a bad job, though. You might have to ask my coworkers about that one.

In reality, though, I love my coworkers; I’ve yet to come across a task I didn’t enjoy or at least learn from; and I know that what I’m doing does make a difference, because sometimes I am the glue that holds everything together. Sometimes I have no idea what is going on, but more often than that, I am the only person who knows exactly what is going on, with everyone. 

That is really as close to a “job description” as I can get.