Palmetto Girlie

  

I’ve never been, nor wanted to be, at Disney World and, as I approach 40, it seems that to begin to exhibit this desire should, by all accounts, corelate with a mental illness.  So, as I suddenly find myself living in Orlando- land of the theme parks – I am once again the anomaly to What You Are Supposed To Be.  That I cannot change. 

Over the past few sunny, coconut sunscreen scented weeks, I, unable to legally work, have decided to use my ample free time to develop a complex about making friends. In particular, about the fact that it is so damn hard to make friends the older you get.   

That, I figured, I can try to change. 

 

I joined a few Orlando Girl groups, and learned very quickly that the majority of the girls here are into God and Disney, looking to Worship and Ride Frankenstein. Most of their photos are of them in Mickey Mouse ears, and most of those friendship connections are made through having similar park passes. I also learned that, to be Friend Material, you have to add the suffix ‘Girlie’ to something you like or is important to you.  Lululemon Girlie. Chronic Illness Girlie. I would rather sit on Art The Clown’s face (look it up) than refer to myself in that way, so that’s me out. 

My fellow outliers include a middle aged woman who posted a photo of herself crying, with the caption: “The man I loved most in the world shot me in the head. The last thing John Hallen said to me was ‘here comes the gun’. I love garage sales and thrift shopping. Don’t say you want to hang out and NOT mean it.” 

On another occasion, I found myself in a chat group of 20 something girls planning a night out when one of them suddenly left the chat, leaving behind her the words: “I’m out. Nobody wants to be friends. Hate Florida. Bitch” to which I couldn’t resist writing “I’m turning these messages into a fridge magnet”, which nobody laughed at, so then I also left the group. I later found the Lady Who Left’s profile, and discovered that her profile photo was her holding an angry looking dog, with the caption: “Fifty, Single, and Fuckin Want It That Way. Whys It So Hard To Make Friends?”.  Fighting the intrusive thoughts that this was what was to come of my future, I decided to try harder, and posted a general post into the Orlando Girls group, introducing myself. 

A few girls messaged me and, for a while, it was sort of nice. Then, the conversations became something like “Do you like that bar?” “I have never been” “Me neither” “Ah okay”, and I wondered if I need friends at all, because I have a puzzle I would much rather work on than get involved in any of this.  Also, I got ghosted by a single mother, which actually kinda stung because I had the highest hopes for a friendship with her, but I think the child’s father was finally granted parole, and things just kinda took off from there.  C’est la vie.

Tubing at Kelly Springs Park

Our new whip

I do consider our exterminator a stable acquaintance. He’s a sassy Mexican man who comes by every few weeks for preventative bug maintenance, and likes to assure me proudly that after he’s done his rounds, if I see any bug, “They gonna be belly up”.  After he’s done, on his way out, he stops to give me a thumbs up. I give him a thumbs up right back, thanking him like he’s just saved my life. It’s our thing and he doesn’t even know it.

At one point, desperate for familiarity, I stopped by Sally. For those who don’t know, Sally is a beauty store and a judgment-free oasis where everyone is super nice, and you are free to ruin your hair however you want, and the girls will happily point you in the direction of the bleach.  It was a good call: the cashier was incredibly friendly, and gave me the Sally discount without asking for my Sally card, but just as I was about to leave, she asked “And are you happy with how I greeted you today?” To which I stuttered: “I’m sorry?” because my brain needed an extra minute to process a human answer to the question. “Everything okay with how you were acknowledged today?” she tried again. “Of course,” I answered. This reminded me of a review of an Orlando pizza shop I had recently seen, where someone had given it two stars with the note “Good pizza but took them a while to say Welcome. Also out of Baja Blast.” It’s clear to me that we live in a city that values the very pillar of friendship - a forthcoming acknowledgment of one another – so why is building anything beyond that a chronic impossibility?

 

 

  

 

Then there’s the opposite end of that spectrum, where some people want to skip the middle stuff and go right to the end. I attended a party a few weeks ago, the details of which are irrelevant, but the theme of which (Easter) was very wholesome. Left alone, I gravitated towards a group of strangers and began to talk about my favorite topic, aliens. It was a hit, of course, and one couple in particular seemed interested in literally everything I was saying, bringing it back to Bob Lazar, and Disclosure, and basically anything else an alien-phile could ever dream of. Later, when the wife went to top up her egg salad, the husband put his arm around me, looked up and said “That one looks like a babe on a motorcycle”,  pointing to a cloud that most certainly did not look like either of those things. Being a people pleaser, I agreed, then agreed to give them my number, then later found out they are the sort of couple who enjoy having people ‘join them’, but, being a people pleaser, I’ll likely have to agree to that too. I just hope that call doesn’t come for a while.

 

I won a waffle maker from our leasing agency! I've wanted one all my life

Jeff being the best husband ever

I also recently signed up to volunteer at a garden center, because I figured meeting people in a natural setting is a bit less of a wild west scenario. After the orientation, we were given a tour of the gardens, during which a random elderly couple wearing head to toe Gucci attached themselves to our group. I had positioned myself to walk beside a few of the younger people with whom I could potentially have struck up a conversation, but to my chagrin, the old woman began to fart loudly, moaning after each fart, and the angle at which she stood hid her behind me entirely, making the situation look (undeniably) like I was the producer of the audio-olfactory experience for the people that could have otherwise become lifelong friends. I eventually removed myself from the crisis I was in, but by that point it was too late. Everyone had dispersed, aside from a young man in a safari hat, the zipper on the fly of his khaki tear-away pants so far down I don’t think it had ever been zipped up in its lifetime. He asked me if I knew if there were any more cookies back in the orientation room, and when I said, “Probably”, he asked if I’d like to get a coffee sometime.  It is too depressing to continue this paragraph any further.

Unbelievable pastries from a local Scandinavian bakery

Finally found Authentic Thai Tea!

Back in Dublin, I struggled to find my place in a country of close knit friendships that were forged when people were old enough to speak. I was always the “blow in”, the girl who is…I want to say…American, maybe? The colleague you can’t speak to about Sinn Féin because I’m just not With It when it comes to politics (or maybe I avoid it because we live in an illusory experiment where discussing Our Leaders momentarily acknowledges our helpless existence in a lifetime of inherent captivity? Lol!) BUT….back in Dublin, the friends I did make were simple people from other countries, who bonded over the casual struggles of the middle class, like finding temp jobs, or finally finding a place to live in the city center. “We found a flat,” Jimena would say to our group of Expat Ladies Who Lunch, “The previous tenant stabbed the table with a knife, but it has lots of light.”

Easter tennis

The Office trivia night

 

 

A magnolia tree in our neighbourhood

 

Here, there doesn’t seem to be a middle ground to bond over.  At least not yet.  It’s hard to imagine what I could have in common with the people I’ve encountered so far, even if didn’t keep each other at a distance like we do. But I still have hope: I’m here, so there must be more people out there like me. Maybe someone farted on us and we didn’t get a chance to say hello. Maybe John Hallen got in the way. Either way, I think the key is to be open.

 

 

The exterminator once explained to me that palmetto bugs - which are actually enormous cockroaches – live on the trees outside and make their way into our houses. I asked how they do that, to which he replied, “I don’t know but they got all day to figure that out”.

When I find myself alone in the apartment, the gorgeous Florida sun beaming down on our lovely little place, I think of the palmettos sitting outside, figuring out how to get in.  Sometimes I wonder, in a world where we are all too guarded and too proud to admit we’d love the company, if maybe I should let them.

 

The trail behind Artemis II

 

 

June Roundup

This is the warmest, sunniest summer I have ever experienced in Dublin, and having a large green space behind our apartment made it easy to take my books outside, to sit in the sun with a coconut LaCroix. I regret writing that last detail - probably for obvious reasons - 

A fig leaf ganache topped eclair from Sceal Bakery. Doesn't hold a candle to Tesco..

March Roundup

One of my bigger goals for March was to take a significant leap into the world of Irish culture and start learning the Irish language. I gave up after about three hours. 

The Esoteric Business of Life

When I first got into my daytime job, I didn’t think I’d be staying. This was about six years ago, and back then, my hipster boyfriend and I had bigger plans. We were saving to move to Brooklyn and while he would continue his work with MTV, I would start writing for Psychology Today and The New Yorker.  Right around the time I received my first rejection letter from the latter publication (a classy letter, might I add), it became apparent that, while Hipster Boyfriend would continue his stint in Williamsburg, I would have to stay in Ottawa to make all of da mad cash money. Having passed the interview and obtaining a full-time job that paid the bills on the apartment I now occupied alone, I defiantly took every writing course I could find, planning for my big escape to the big apple.  This was a ‘jobby job’ as we hipsterly called it, not a career. A career-we believed with a steadfast hunger- would be the confetti of our lives: an explosion of the elusive symbiosis of talent, passion, and success. Anything less was bullshit.

As a side note, this is what I kept in a folder called 'inspiration', back in those days. I don't even

 

This too, but this makes a bit more sense

A short while later, Hipster Boyfriend disappeared like Harmony Korine’s creative flow in Spring Breakers (lol right???), and I was left alone in the nation’s capital with a job that mocked me. So, I mocked it back, by wearing donut sweaters to work, and using the word “masturbatory” in meetings, among other elitist wanna-be edgy terms, to the inevitable horror of my coworkers.  I hated what I did because I thought I could do better, but I didn’t know what better I could do, so my hatred remained stagnant and unproductive.

Maya Angelou said: “If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude. Don’t complain.”  I’ve thought about those words for years, but as with most quotes, they look much easier and prettier on paper than incorporated in real life.  And yet, something in me knew that there was no purpose in complaining about a job that I didn’t know how to leave. I didn’t know where to go, so I began to consider the thought of actually enjoying what I did while I was there. A short while later, I started taking on extra projects, joining committees that were agents of change for issues I cared about, and asking for extra assignments at higher levels. Then, one day, I was offered a temporary promotion, just until they found a person to staff the role permanently.  The promotion was incredibly high and suddenly, my words were appearing in policies, and the writing techniques I had developed in those courses I had so defiantly taken while wearing my ironic t-shirts were now guiding my sentence flow in communication documents that were being read by hundreds of thousands of people across the country.  It wasn’t an underground oil painting collective, it wasn’t an SNL gig, or a screenwriting partnership with Terry Gilliam (or even Terry Richardson),  but it was a difficult job that left me feeling proud for those moments that were few and far between, when I did it right.

Then, the staffing process was announced, and I worked my ass off applying to keep my own job, despite the competition, despite how little I thought of my capabilities. Of course, some of the most stressful moments of my life had to coincide with the day my application was due, and I remember on several occasions, having to step out of the office to cry because my 70 million word job descriptions wouldn’t fit into the 200 word limits.  Over the next few weeks, I studied everything I could find about my job and its requirements, and while it meant me basically not having a break over the winter holidays, I’m glad to say the work paid off.  Just a few days ago, my managers and director shook my hand and offered me my position permanently, and when I left their office, I felt my eyes welling up with the kind of tears I had been reserving for Brooklyn.

My very sweet coworker treated me to a maple latte to celebrate...

And my thoughtful boss left a honey cruller on my desk! He asked if I would share it with my family and I said yes LOL k

 

What I’ve come to realize, and why I’m writing this now, is that a person’s happiness is not dependent on the type of job they do, but on how the job makes them feel.  A couple of weeks ago, I had provided some comments on a document that was later reviewed by my boss. I was later told that he had forwarded those comments immediately to his boss, because they had introduced an idea that nobody had thought of before.  On paper, that sounds utterly bureaucratic and dry. In real life, I must’ve smiled like an idiot while staring at my stuffed office monkey for about ten minutes. My silly ol’ words were resonating with a bunch of middle aged men! Wtfbbq! Also, my new office has a huge window so it’s always bright and sunny, which has been awesome for my new garden, and I’m far enough away from everyone that I can play my top 40 hits ad nauseum (a guilty pleasure since the end of my Placebo/Weeknd snob days)…

The flowers on my windowsill!

This morning, I found myself telling our boss to demand our stakeholders take the lead on a procedure that aims to establish roles that should have been defined in a working agreement years ago.  Then I did my nails and watered my roses. My job isn’t an eternal stream of happiness and creative out-pour, but it lets me balance who I am with being able to live a life of travel and endless desserts.  I wouldn’t be able to take my mom on a trip if I were working a low paying job in an over-saturated creative field, but with this one, I bought our tickets to Cuba for next month without worrying about what it would do to my Visa. You know what you just can’t top? Making another person happy, especially when you know that person could really, really use a break...

And on that note, I’m happy. I’m proud of the fact that I’ve come this far in this difficult job, that I haven’t lost myself, and that I’m this much closer to living the kind of life where we value today, and honour it, instead of worrying about where we aren’t, or about the things we can’t have.  Maybe I’ll discover another career path in the future. Maybe I’ll follow this one for a long, long time. I watched a video called “Status Anxiety” recently, from a series called The School of Life (you can YouTube it, it’s very cool) where, in the end, they say: “There remain so many vital sides of us that will never appear on our business cards, that don’t stand a chance of being captured by that maddeningly blunt and unimaginative question, ‘So, what do you do?’” So really, if all else fails, remember that you are so much more than where you sell your time for 7.5 hours a day. For me, that was the most difficult thought to live with, and something I wish I had stopped worrying about sooner.

Loving the job you have means taking all of the great parts from it and realizing how lucky you are to have them. I have a feeling the rest of life works that way too.

Alright, so back to being less serious…