So my ex is over. At my house. For the first time since the first time after a long time. Only three days after the first time after a long time. We shouldn’t be here really. I’m making tea and telling him about how I have a blog now. He’s calling at me from the lounge. His new job pays less but it’s fewer hours and he’s actually really connecting with the kids.
In the morning, these trains are dull and akin to anyone’s subway or bus commute, if fueled by a bit more aggressive energy due to the commute’s length. At night, as commuters, having worked all day, wait out the train ride to get home and entertain themselves with socializing, drink, and who knows what else, things get weird.
Pat your love interest’s head when they say something you approve of. Pet the underside of their chin and whisper four letter words like “soft,” “nice,” and “face.” Lie on the floor listening to “1979” by the Smashing Pumpkins and make irrelevant commentary about forest animals before making out. Wait till the song ends before moving to the bed.
Book clubs—the phrase alone conjures up the taste of white wine and melty cheese cubes and a vision of copies of The Deep End of the Ocean, only the first halves even slightly perused. We can thank Oprah for this template, despite her best intentions, but it’s also kind of a primal urge to get together and drink, and a slightly-less primal urge to conceal this liquoring-up behind the veneer of literature.
In Europe I learned many important life lessons. I learned that I don’t like one night stands. That spending the day munching on tapas and reading Patti Smith’s memoir in a local cafe, can be just as crucial as spending the day photographing every inch of the Sagrada Familia.
Fuck unrequited love. The gnawing. The possessive desperation. The ache of unknowing, worsened only by the slow-dying thud of knowing for sure. The over-commercialized but no less real feeling that you will die, you will just DIE.
Kidman is, of course, slavishly well-shot and edited and given a million plum moments in the film, so I guess my appreciation of her was incidental, but it was real! She was everything an actress is supposed to be – surreal and fantastical but recognizably an actual person.
Roseanna has tried to kill herself thirteen different times. She has made a career out of creative suicide attempts. She is seventeen and smart and stupid. I asked for a pencil she says and the idiot doctors gave it to me, so I erased all the skin on my wrist. I rubbed it raw until I bled. She is not allowed to use pencils, paperclips, tweezers, plastic forks and knives, but she is permitted access to spoons.
Recently, I got downsized. Boy, did that suck! Now, I’m looking for a new job. Mostly, I’m a writer, so this isn’t easy. Although, I have also discovered there are other ways one can make money these days. Here are a few of them.
Sarah Wambold, 26, is an Austin, Texas-based funeral director-turned-patient navigator and writer. After getting her funeral director’s license in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Wambold spent three-and-a-half years working as a funeral director. I asked her about what it’s like to deal with dead bodies on a daily basis, the secret lives of female funeral directors, and what sex has to do with death.