I’ve taken a break from this blog–and apparently have decided to break the silence by stating the obvious. Moving on.
Things were getting out of control with this Bachelorette finale that is my life. There’s something shockingly hopeless about going to bed hammered and happy after a college party and then waking up to find yourself a struggling middle-aged divorcee trying to be a role model for your kid. When you’re in a rut from day to day, finding something humorous and/or offensive to write about is difficult. All the nasty comments I’ve had of late are wasted on my ex-husband and coworkers, and by the time I get home at night, I’m just too tired to be creative, beyond mixing together hot dogs and spaghetti–and feeding it to my son under the pretext of a healthy meal.
It’s times like these you have to thank God for binge drinking and friends, the latter of which–if they’re good ones–will drag you to the Caribbean for some perspective and spiced rum. After a few hours, these become one and the same, and after a few days, that blurry coconut-filled cocktail slowly comes into focus as the man of your dreams–but for real this time. Who would have thought such a life-changing encounter could occur under the influence of alcohol? God, for one; me, for two. But seriously, I left the Caribbean a week later with the man I was destined to be with, and haven’t looked back since.
I’m sure by now you’ve realized that is the plot for How Stella Got Her Groove Back. None of that happened to me, but for some reason I did lose my groove there for a bit.
Life got boring. Food started tasting the same, which was disappointing because why would I have bought those $3.50 home-made marshmallows when the $1.09 JetPuff version would have sufficed. My Hot Pockets just didn’t have the same shame-to-sausage ratio as usual. Drinks all started tasting like cinnamon whiskey–no wait, that was on purpose. My weekends have been unmemorable, in that I have little memory of them. (Fortunately, I do remember the important parts, like when I called a friend’s wife a “crazy fucking bitch,” while I happened to be talking to him. Should you follow me down this path one day, I would recommend remembering it. While you can certainly appreciate the dick move post-blackout, such a feat does come with the responsibility for retelling the moment during Happy Hour after Happy Hour to admiring friends who have been thinking the same thing but aren’t nearly dumb enough to say it.)
Anyway, during my months off, I went looking for inspiration in a lot of places and to commemorate the return of Cats In Your Pants, I would like to tell the story of my soul searching in Friday’s new format: Flow Chart Friday. Don’t get me wrong, there is still nothing better than a cool beer and hot pie chart, but let’s give flow charts a chance–love sure isn’t cutting it.
How St(el)la Got Her Groove Back
Sam’s Club: Truth be told, I went to Sam’s Club for bulk purchases of fruit snacks and Charmin–ironic because one is a guaranteed way to not need the other. But I digress. Just like there is always money in the banana stand, there is always inspiration in Sam’s Club, unfortunately I didn’t want that inspiration to get anywhere near me, so I didn’t stay long.
Kaiser Permanente: It’s like Sam’s Club but way more real, and the standard-issue wheelchairs are larger and I don’t get to ride in them.
My old apartment: I’m paying for two homes this month. Despite the feeling of rich empowerment you would assume accompanies having two homes, it is really the sense of abject poverty that stands out most in my mind. Last weekend I got a bit nostalgic sitting at my brand new–literally, never been lived in–windows-for-days loft, so I went to visit my other home for a bit, where I drafted a cute little note for the downstairs neighbor that I had been meaning to post months ago:
The first floor is a common area, not a front yard for your yappy dog or your gaping hole. The rest of the complex wants to hear your dog just as much as we want to see you, which is not at all, even if the earth were to end and you two were the last source of fresh meat. I wrote to Dear Abby about you and she suggested you might get off your fat ass and take that piece of shit for a walk. Great advice, I love that bitch. In any event, should you continue letting it run free, I will see that it runs its way to another part of town. Fuck you, Your Neighbor
I ended up taking the note down before anyone could see it because I decided it needed to be written on parchment paper with a calligraphy pen, and I happened to have neither at that point in time. I don’t have either now but that’s not for lack of trying, it’s for lack of money that I can dedicate to anything other than maintaining two homes.
Steamboat: I came, I saw, and I spent $2,000 in ten minutes. If that isn’t inspiration, I don’t know what is. I also met a number of famous chefs and Food Network stars, which made for interesting conversation when it became clear I didn’t know who the hell they were–or care. I should have guessed though, because they were all overweight, which is clearly the hallmark of a good chef, Gordon Ramsay be damned.
Truth be told, the harder I looked for blog content, the more in debt I got, and, as it turns out, debt is one of the most significant forces driving my creativity. All of a sudden, in a financial hole bigger than my new home, I got my groove back. Now, I just need to get my bank account back …