You Wynn Some…

Met an out-of-town visitor at the Wynn last night for dinner and drinks. Unfortunately that was all it was. I had on my sexiest (well, as sexy as it gets in my size) underwear too. Darn it. At first I thought the night would go well because on my way to the bar, in the lobby, some cute foreign guy said good evening to me. At least I think that is what he said. It sounded like “Bonus Nachos” and that is good evening in Spanish, right?

But that turned out to be the only even remotely sexual attention I got all evening. I knew the second my friend showed up nothing was going to happen because he gave me one of those awkward little side hugs; you know the type, I went in for the full-on full-frontal hug and he moved in such a way that only our shoulders touched. I was hoping that little spark of confidence the random foreign guy gave me would be enough to get me inside my friend’s hotel room but it was not to be.  Oh well, my born-again virginity stays intact a little longer…

Now I Am More American Than English

Yesterday was the anniversary of my leaving England and moving to America. I am now double the age I was when I left. So that means I now have lived more of my life in America than I did in England (well, not technically, the exact date is sometime next April (taking into account leap years, etc.)).

In my BS life (Before Sammy) on those extremely rare occasions when I thought about moving back (during Wimbledon. Or when it rains. Or watching Fawlty Towers. Or eating what passes for chips in this godforsaken country.) I often thought I would leave before this “half and half” anniversary so as to retain as much Englishness as possible. Oh well. I guess that moment passed the second I got my American passport and started dropping my aitches (it’s pronounced “herb.” Not “erb.” Because it starts with a fucking aitch.).

My Happy Space

So where I live, huge apartment complex, about 425 units. Each has its own assigned parking space plus there are some open spaces for guest parking and, of course, about a million prime real estate spaces designated for disabled drivers. My favorite open parking space (my assigned one is yucky) is close to the nearest entrance to my unit. It is also close to an elevator. This may explain its popularity because finding it available when I come home was pretty hit or miss but, for the most part, I got it. That was until about two months ago, when this cobalt blue PT Cruiser started parking there ALL THE TIME. Saw the owners once, a couple in their early 60s, maybe. Saw their designated space once too (on a rare occasion they were actually parked in it), not far from this space, which makes this extra annoying because it is not like their space is way over the other side of the building like mine is. To make matters worse, about a month ago, the car shows up with a disabled license plate. Which means they can now park in any of the two million disabled spaces. But do they? No. Fuck that. You can park ANYWHERE and yet you park in my favorite space all the time. Petty, I know, but when your life is as empty as mine, having your favorite parking space taken all the time by a COUPLE who can park ANYWHERE is a big deal. And, boo-hoo, if you do not get your favorite parking space, you still have EACH OTHER. If I don’t get my favorite parking space, not only do I not have my favorite parking space I am also ALONE.

Dwayne Update

So the boss just called a meeting to give us an update. Dwayne survived and is in the ICU at the mo. The medics said if it were not for the efforts of his co-workers he might not have made it. I was getting all teary during this, as I was yesterday when it was all happening. Part of it is PMS, part of it is dread because it is not a matter of IF it happens to me, it is simply a matter of WHEN. Then the boss said something about having spoken to Dwayne’s girlfriend. And, boom! just like that, I lost all empathy. Not that I want to be his girlfriend (not my type at all) but knowing that he has someone of the opposite sex to whom he is not related that cares about him (something that I do not) made me literally stop caring. Let his girlfriend do all the caring.

Once, at a free movie showing at the public library in Boulder, I was sat there, shortly before the movie was due to start, and a man and woman, obviously married, approached me and asked if I wouldn’t mind moving over so they could sit next to each other. I shrugged and said I was settled and I gestured that I was right in the middle and I liked where I was sitting. Yes, I refused to move one seat over. Petty, I know, but fuck them. If they wanted to sit together they should have arrived earlier. And double fuck them because I am sure they had sat next to each other at a thousand different movies and would have many more opportunities to do so before the divorce or one of them died. Because then you’d be alone and welcome to my world. At least my aloneness did not cost me thousands in divorce lawyer fees or funeral costs. And not having a boyfriend, like Dwayne’s girlfriend does, means I am not pacing the corridors of an ICU. See, how is that for that positive thinking crap you Yanks are always espousing? Being alone equals not having to worry when your BF has a heart attack!

Yesterday he laughed at one of my jokes…

And 20 minutes ago I saw a co-worker perform CPR on him as he lay in a corridor turning blue and not breathing. I don’t know much about him except that his name is Dwayne and as of right now I do not know if he is alive or dead (the paramedics just took him away). I know he has kids and isn’t morbidly overweight like me. I know his life is never going to be the same again. And I know when I get home in an hour or so, I will try to hug Sammy harder than I usually do. But I know I will still drink the two or so glasses of wine I do every night and eat the unhealthy food (in tonight’s case, leftover pepperoni pizza). I know I should do something about my health and if watching a co-worker have CPR and defibrillation and all sorts of medical stuff performed on him doesn’t spur me to do something, then what will?