A few weeks ago I received a text from a phone number that was like a ghost whispering in my ear, “Remember me? Thought you’d quite forgotten?”

The strangest thing about this particular text is that I managed to recognize the long-deleted number from the guy who stopped calling me and blew me off when I was sick with whooping cough one January THREE YEARS AGO.

Happiness that you deserve, he says. How nice. How quaint. How flimsy and pointlessly offered. Why this? Why now?

Please don’t misinterpret my annoyance and disgust for conceit. The thing is, it’d be one thing if it was a fluke, but it’s not. His unnecessary text is not unique.

At 31 years old, I find that one of the most insulting things about dating has been the “after-the-fact” one-two punch of many an ex-boyfriend/ dalliance. Months later. Years later. After no contact whatsoever. No friendship. No nothing.

Why is it that my worth, my “value,” to these men is only evident once I’m in their rearview mirror? Why can’t they see what they have when I’m sitting in the car beside them? Ex after ex after ex after ex…they find their way back and want….what? What do they want?

The truth is, I have nothing more to give them. They’ve gotten the best of me already, had their chance, and I warned them. Be sure you’re done before you say it. This is the last of me you will have.

There is no more going back. And yet. There are texts, emails, Linked In invites, Facebook requests, and tweets cluttering personal and work inboxes left and right. Clawing at my eyes, my consciousness. More requests. More demands. They cling to my legs as I wade through the present. How do I go forward when I’m dragging around so many yesterdays? Where can I go, where can I look, that they have not yet papered with their inquires?

I have nothing for these men who used to know me. There is no piece of me that remains that they would be content to have. My heart is tired. My will to converse with them silenced. My unkissed lips have gone cold. My insatiate desire waned. I am no longer the woman they knew. “DIDN’T YOU TAKE ENOUGH OF ME LAST TIME!” I want to scream.

It occurs to me that I have not burned enough bridges. I have not been a bad enough girl to release these former somethings from their attempts at rekindled knowing. Rather than lash out or maim with words or deed, I retreat within myself and do not respond.

Happiness that you deserve, he says. Happiness. You. Deserve. I deserve.

What happiness might that be? Surely none that any ex-whatever can give me.

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Why? Well.

I am irked because TOO MANY HATERS seem apt to treat dogs like sub-humans. Yes, I said “sub-humans.” I say this, despite dogs obviously not being human, because animals should in general be treated with respect (and this is said by someone who was recently bitten by a horse, mind you). They ought to be treated with love. Or, at the very least, with common decency. In particular, I am absolutely sick of people being mean to dogs.

I’m sick of being yelled at by complete strangers because I’m walking Wendy down the sidewalk (mind you, on leash, perfectly well-behaved, and oblivious to batshit crazy lady’s presence HALF WAY DOWN THE BLOCK).

I’m sick of being scowled at in the building where I live because I have to use the “people” elevators and not the designated freight elevator because said elevator dates back to when the building was built (1927!!!!) and is frequently out of service- or stuck with someone inside.

I’m sick of drivers flipping the fuck out and screeching forward when you don’t walk your dog fast enough across the street.

I’m sick of seeing a dog treated inferior and literally dragged down a sidewalk, being yelled at and choked along the way.

And I’m sick of people being downright insensitive as evidenced by this lady’s blatant disrespect when, quite frankly, she of all people should have known better.

I don’t care if this makes me sound like some crazy dog lady. I don’t. My dog and so many other dogs exist only to be loved and cared for. They’re loyal and loving. And to many of us, they are our children and may be the only ones we ever have. Fuck you if you think that’s a dumb statement. You’re a toolbag for being mean to dogs and thinking less of those who love them dearly.

I told you. I’m irked. Toolbags will do that to a person.

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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We had some good times, you and I, during office lunch breaks and coworker birthday celebrations. Whether in the lunch room or at my desk, we ate many a waffle, pasta salad, and guilt-laced cake. Oh the cakes! Remember the cakes? And all those times the time we absolutely destroyed that can of Spaghetti O’s with meatballs?

Those were the days! When we carried on with abandon, never questioning, never realizing how good we had it, nor how soon we would be parted. With trust in my heart, I tucked you away in the office kitchen’s dishwasher. I took care. But then I set my out of office notification and left for Bloggers in Sin City. It was days- DAYS, I know- before I returned. And in that time…

I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t know, didn’t think it would come to this! By the time I came back, someone had secreted you away. You, with your shiny silver tines and simple three-line decorative handle, were absconded from the erroneous safety of the dishwasher.

I’ve looked for you each and every work day for three weeks, all to no avail. Where could you be? Whose hand now holds you? Are they washing you? Have you been accidentally tossed into a desk drawer? Or worse, the trash? No. No, I won’t even suggest it.

How could they do this to you? What inadequate foods are you now being pressed into service for? Limp, flaccid noodles? Soggy lettuces and other sundry greens? Perhaps even a vegetarian burrito? Actually, that kind of sounds awesome. For your sake, I hope it’s a veggie burrito (although we both know it’d be better with chorizo).

Who knows if we’ll ever see each other again, if we’ll ever partake in another meal; hand to fork. You were my one, my only. And now, your replacement is a plastic spork. A spork! A pale shade of your industriousness, your fortitude, your food-rigging capabilities. I miss you! Come back to me! STAB the perpetrator next time you are in their employ and drop to the floor with a clatter. I’ll find you and we’ll eat cakes together once more!

Until then, I vow to devoutly pen many a passive aggressive note in your honor until the culprit is found, at which time I will ruthlessly force them fork it over!

Yours truly,

Nic

P.S. The butter knife and teaspoon miss you too (the steak knife, of course, could care less…but then we both know he’s always been a bit of a serrated fuckwad who can’t even cut for shit anymore)!

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See, the couple sitting next to me turned out to be one of THOSE couples: an Icky Couple. And they were proving to be your quintessential Icky Couple. You know, the kind that can’t seem to walk down the street without grasping hands and kissing at each red light, the kind who can’t eat an otherwise perfectly acceptable meal without rubbing each other’s backs, necks or legs (BARF!), or the kind who has to stick their tongues down each other’s throats before parting each morning like one of them is being sent off to war or something. Dude, it’s nine or ten hours apart. I think you’ll make it.

As for this particular Icky Couple, they were making quite a show of it, acting like a bunch of janky ass fifteen year olds, holding hands, kissing each other’s cheeks, practically crawling into each other’s laps, laying their heads on one another’s shoulders à la “oh-my-god-we’re-so-sleepy-because-we-presumably-were-up-all-night-hahahahahahaha,” and talking in a tone louder than a whisper. Can you imagine?

If they were “just kids,” maybe I could have kept my disdain from growing into the seething fire breathing rage dinosaur it has become, but they weren’t. No. The Icky Couple consisted of two otherwise professional-looking adults, dressed for a day at the office where presumably they hold actual, grown up, professional jobs. So I have to wonder…who’s all this ickiness for anyway? Is it really necessary demonstrater your “love” amidst your fellow CTA bus riders? And is the 15-25 minute bus ride the right place and time to properly display said love? The way I see it, romance isn’t about being an Icky Couple to everyone around you. It’s about genuine and PRIVATE moments that don’t result in PDAs on the #135 route into the Loop before 8 am on a Tuesday.

Which brings to mind the day my own boyfriend and I accidentally wound up on the same bus route downtown. Strolling up to the bus stop that morning, I decided it would be best to throw my hip into him from behind, then wait for him to turn around all surly and shit. Which he totally did, except “Hi! It’s just me! Ha ha ha ha ha!!! Good morning!”

After the initial “Oh, it’s you” moment, we go on standing there all aloof and junk until the bus comes and then we sit down side by side, barely touching. And- this is key- for the short 15 minute ride downtown we don’t talk because 1) we don’t have to, and 2) it’s fucking annoying when people do that on public transportation in the morning. Seriously. Just don’t do it. Whether you know someone riding the bus with you or you dare to use your cell phone. DON’T. And, no, there’s no “texting loophole” either- unless you have your phone on silent and don’t make Icky Couple faces while sexting or whatever the fuck else it is that you’re doing. 

Anyway, to cap off the bus ride with my boyfriend that morning, we parted ways with a blasé eyebrow raise and head nod (from me) and a “peace out” punch to the arm (from him). You know, totally normal stuff really and, most importantly, no one’s morning was stymied in the process.

In closing, all you Icky Couple toolbags out there take note and keep it in your pants. No one wants to witness your “love” on public transportation, in the gluten free aisle at the Jewel, while you’re dropping off your dry cleaning, or you know, like ever (unless it’s your wedding, in which case, fine…I guess).

Shut it down, fuckers. Shut. It. Down.

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Exhibit A: This morning, I’m walking Wendy and we’re having a lovely time in the sunshine and she’s being super cute and sassy and prancey. And then, out of nowhere, there’s a lady standing in the middle of the sidewalk about 50 feet away from us. Just standing there, staring at us. And, apparently, yelling at us. Except, I can’t hear what she’s saying at all. I just see her lips moving and her arms gesticulating.

At first, I thought maybe she was yelling at me to clean up after my dog. Wendy had just conducted her business and I had just disposed of said business, but thought that maybe the OLD COOT hadn’t seen me do so. But then I caught one word- “bus”- and thought maybe she was yelling at me to hold the bus or some junk. Which seriously? I had a dog and wasn’t anywhere near the bus, so how the fuck was I supposed to accomplish that? Whore.

Anyway, so the whole time I’m wondering what the hell this old bat’s problem is, Wendy and I are also walking slowly down the sidewalk and closing the gap between us. Just as we get within hearing distance, I hear her yell, “I TOLD YOU TO KEEP HER ON THE SIDE!” or something along those lines. As she yelled this, she scurried off the sidewalk toward the street and began to swear and gesticulate with her purse.

So there I am, standing with my dog in disbelief, and shouting at her back: “WHAT?! I DIDN’T HEAR WHAT YOU SAID- WHAT’S WRONG?” The whole time, all these people are hurrying past on their way to the bus stop and I feel like an idiot. Except all I was doing was walking my dog down the sidewalk. She wasn’t barking or pulling at the leash or anything. Just walking. You know, really vicious stuff like that.

Before I turned and continue on home, Crab Ass made sure to return the volley: “OH JUST FORGET ABOUT! YOU DON’T LISTEN! STUPID [indecipherable haterade]…”

What. The. Hell.

Exhibit B: Pharmacy shenanigans! There I am (this past January), waiting at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription for vicodin because lo and behold I have a jerkstore kidney stone (just wait, that post is still in the works) and there are three INCOMPETENT OLD DRIED UP TOOLBAGS in line in front of me. I’m practically sweating my face off, hanging onto the HIPPA “privacy” rope in pain, and barreled over. I literally was about to throw up.

Meanwhile, Old Biddy #1 has some old fucker prescription card and it’s not working. “But it’s supposed to.” But it isn’t at all. “But can’t you just run it again?” But the pharmacist has and can’t do anything for her.

So Grandma continues to stand there, looking at the card in silence, turning it over in her hand like it’s magically going to turn into a god damn coupon or some shit. Finally, as she begins to rifle through her wallet, she realizes that’s her old card and that- like her- it’s completely useless. It took her 10 minutes to figure that out.

Which is when Old Biddy #2 came up to bat. I’ll spare you the details of her toolbaggery and simply say that she was completely put out that the pharmacy didn’t have enough quantity of her prescription to fill it completely and could only give her 10 pills at the moment. She argued with the poor pharmacist about this and demanded that it be delivered to her home that afternoon. When the pharmacist actually agreed to do so on her own time after she gets off from work, the bitch has the audacity to say that’s not good enough and that she expects it by 2 pm. No “thank you” or “you don’t have to do that” or “viva la customer service!” Just, “that’s not good enough.”

No joke, while she’s finally being sent on her way five minutes later, Grandpa Jones starts in on the pharmacist about how he’s there to pick up two prescriptions, not one. But they only have one filled because that’s all that was sent to them from his doctor.

Another five minutes go by.

A cart ambles toward me and I see that the panting, old as fuck skank driving it is maneuvering to place her cart in line in front of me. Which is when I pretty much lose it and stare her down. We’re talking daggers. Unrelenting daggers. Old Biddy #3 takes notice and continues on her way, pushing the cart into line behind me. She takes her cane out of her empty cart and actually asks me to “watch” her cart while she goes into the bathroom. I’m speechless and just stand there giving her my best bitch face.

By the time she comes out, Grandpa Jones has decided he’ll come back later and I’m finally at the counter 20 minutes later. As I’m in the process of paying, Old Biddy #3 comes and stands at the counter beside me. Literally BESIDE ME. And she’s panting again. Also, she smells like feet.

I haven’t even swiped my card yet when she gives the pharmacist her name and tells her she’s picking up four prescriptions. I turn and stare. The pharmacist says she’ll be right with her as soon as she finishes up with me. The asshat  continues to stand at my side while I sign my receipt and the pharmacist explains that I probably shouldn’t drive or operate heavy machinery. Old Bag says, “Oh my.” So much for HIPPA!

Exhibit C: If you’re wondering if maybe it’s just me who has the problem with OLD ASS FUCKERS, let me add that Fancy has recently had an epic encounter of her own. Sick and on her way home from work early, she found herself stuck in the Jewel parking lot when her car died. She was blocking a lane of traffic. Which is when the honking began. And the swearing. She became understandably upset. She doesn’t feel good, her car just died and her husband is out of town, and now she’s being audibly assaulted. She begins to cry.

The cherry on this Toolbag Sundae came in the form of one crusty old fucker with an oxygen tank that felt it his job to actually flip her off. Because clearly she did it on purpose just to inconvenience him. Clearly.

When I went to pick her up, the only thing I could say upon hearing what happened was that he was probably just in a hurry because he was afraid he’d die before he reached his destination. Which, of course, must be HELL.

Taken as a whole, I’m still really pissed about this morning’s toolbag encounter in particular. I don’t know what else to do except to say: *(#Y)*(E$@L:E>”#:R(EU*YE$*#(y)&*^&#jnj@jio{!~”~((u#uinjwnrj}we{|#+_)#*(#ji{*(_#U*(#$&*##*@HB@Nk3u2890(***@#&)Q@&#^&#^@)Q_@(###@/+UIBN!!!II(!(O(ue807&Y#$&&^#()*(_+@!!!!!!

Also, $#$)U#*(#JIKNM@IOU)#*()@_*(@)(!I()!KO&*% TOOLBAGS!

*I apologize for the length of this post, but as you can see, there’s a SHIT TON of Old Fucker Toolbaggery happening in the world these days.

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This, of course, would also mean that it is the most convenient Starbucks for me to visit on my way to work. Of course. Because what’s more convenient than a latte with an extra shot of shame?

It all began innocuously enough with the general annoyances caused by the North Shore set. Little things began to happen while getting my usual grande soy milk latte…things like the four year old in front of me in her baby pink Uggs holding up the line while she decides on chocolate milk or hot chocolate. And the morning that the “townie” who’s on a first name basis with the baristas comes in in his grody old man track shorts and informs them he’d like a “kwa- san” (croissant) with his Americano. And then there’s the barista on bakery counter duty. She’s a real gem, that one. Especially when you shout your order over all the noise and she gives you the stink eye for trying to ensure she hears you, à la “Yeah, I KNOW! Stop yelling at me! Gah!”

Annoyances aside, I’ve continued returning to that particular Starbucks because, again, it’s so damn convenient. Until one day…

There I am, in line to pay for my order, and the lady at the register….a slight bird like woman who always seems put out by the whole wearing an apron and making eye contact thing…rings me up. Except, Bitchy Bird Lady Barista doesn’t take it upon herself to actually give me my total and instead waits for me to hand her my money. So I do.

I blankly hand her a $20, which is when she tells me it’s $9.76. Thinking I somehow must have messed up- even though I just handed her a $20- I start to dig into my wallet before I catch myself. I look back at her, dumbfounded and thinking, “Yeah. And?” So she starts to hand my $20 back to me. When I ask her why, Stink Eye Bakery Counter Barista comes over and is all “What’s the problem?” Which is when Bitchy Bird Lady Barista explains that apparently I was supposed to give her a $10.

To this day I still don’t know what I did wrong, but she sure as hell made certain to give me my change in as pissy and huffy a manner as possible. In the process, I somehow felt I’d WRONGED her and was being scolded!

Ever since The $20 “Underpayment” Debacle, she’s given me this distrustful look, as though I’m trying to pull a fast one on her or something. I realize that most days I do go to work looking a bit like a vagrant, but come on! At least I’m not four years old, wearing $100+ footwear, and deciding between a tall and a grande before I roll into pre-school! AND at least I know not to act like a pretentious douche canoe when I order a croissant!

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