Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story (15 page)

Fuck you, dolphin. But why do you have to be so happy all the
time?

Fuck you, Snooki.

Fuck you, Snooki (again), for having a best-selling book and
being famous before me.

I feel better now. Thank you and please proceed to the next
chapter.

p.s. Fuck work.

p.p.s. I will eventually go back to school for my masters but I really
don’t want to so please make me famous, ‘kay?

p.p.p.s. I probably shouldn’t have written this taking into account
it’ll probably come back to haunt me in the near future but that’s a risk I’m willing
to take. People will be all,
God did you read that stupid book by that Annah
Rondon girl? I mean, who does she think she is talking badly about Paris Hilton
and Kim Kardashian? They’re like, such role models and stuff. And who eats heartbreak
anyway? That’s such a dumb title. Like, she can’t even spell and her chapters make
no sense.

And I get that some people will bash me for this and asking my editor
to skip this chapter is suicide but those who get it, will not care. And those who
don’t, well . . . fuck them too.

Update:
My editor just asked me to cut this chapter over
lunch and I respectfully declined (respectfully declined = hurled a sandwich at
him). He shook his head and said, “You pay me to advise you on these things, so
that’s what I’m doing.” But I simply glared dramatically while giving him the stink
eye and he sighed, “I know, I know. Fuck me, too, right?”

The man totally gets me.

“What are you doing next weekend?”
Vera asked me
after I picked up the phone without any sort of greeting.

“Um,” I mumbled, “going to the beach with my future husband, I guess.”

“Let’s go to Vegas!” she shouted excitedly.

“Sure thing,” I mocked her. “Let me just ring up the pilot and ask
him to dust off the ol’ jet.”

“I’m being serious. Miranda’s getting married in Vegas to that guy
she met last summer. Want to come?”

It was six months before my wedding and I hadn’t spoken to Jonah in
almost a year, no word from him after he returned from Australia, nor any attempt
on my part to contact him. Miranda was a college friend who met her fiancé when
she sold him her house, only to move back in a few months after they fell in love.
The ceremony would be an intimate one for 30, seeing economic restraints would prevent
most people from going. The idea of skipping town at a time of such personal affliction
was irresistible, and I wished for nothing more than to ditch reality and rock on
with some friends.

“Can I bring Vincent?”

“Ladies only, bitch,” Vera snarled. “This is your last girls’ trip
before the wedding so tell Vin to get over it.” With that she hung up and left me
to brew a resourceful plan for escape.

It took some coaxing and incessant pleading, but my betrothed eventually
gave in and allowed me to desert him for one final hoorah. I booked my flight the
morning after to arrive a day before Miranda’s wedding party. Considering this was
the end of my bachelorette travels, I had intentions of making the most of it. This,
of course, meant catching a cheesy Vegas show and doing things I knew my friends
would take no interest in. I devised a grand plan of sleeping all day at the hotel
the first day, then getting up at five for a tour of the Grand Canyon by myself
on the following. I wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or restlessness, but I
merrily succumbed to the sleepless nights that preceded my departure.

One week later, I sat at my terminal trying to kill the boredom
that made up my three hour layover to Vegas, eventually caving in and buying myself
a margarita. I found it hard to focus on my book, and after finishing the first
drink, I returned to the bar and made a home for myself there until takeoff. I called
Vincent, but he was at the gym and couldn’t talk, asking me to ring him up when
I arrived to my final destination. I grumpily agreed and began to flip through a
magazine I’d already read twice on the first leg of my trip. Three margaritas in,
I was overtaken by a sudden urge and reached for my phone yet again.

“This is Jonah,” he answered after the third ring and I almost fell
off my seat.

“Hey,” I said weakly, stunned that he’d picked up in the first place.

“Hey yourself,” he replied cordially. “What can I do you for?”

I laughed nervously and considered hanging up altogether. “You would
never guess where I am right now,” I managed to spit out instead.

“Russia?” he joked, but there was no hint of friendliness in his voice.

“Houston.”

After a long pause, he asked what I was doing there and I relaxed
a bit, explaining about the wedding and my layover in his hometown, plus the big
plans for a sleep-a-thon before heading to the Grand Canyon the day after. He seemed
detached but had the courtesy to feign interest in my trip and Miranda’s big day,
asking the right questions and offering little input in return. When I inquired
about him, his answers were brief and lacking enthusiasm. He gave little insight
on the details of his life and seemed mostly upset or bored, wishing me safe travels
before I told him my flight was departing soon and I had to hang up. That evening,
I boarded the plane and traveled to Nevada with my heart in a knot, forsaking the
moment I decided stirring a pot with his name on it was a good idea.

The dreadful thing about taking in the magnificence that is
the Grand Canyon, is driving through Arizona on a bus loaded with – mostly Asian
– tourists and a toilet that won’t flush. By 11 that morning all my friends had
touched ground in Vegas and were planning on renting a cabana at the hotel to sunbathe
and drink in style. Traveling with a herd of cranky tourists and seniors was probably
not as fun as laying by a pool sipping mimosas, yet sometimes there’s more to life
than champagne campaigns and tanning oil.

After an exquisite day of discovery and too many pictures of old sediment,
I was back at my hotel. It was a little past 10 and I was the perfect picture of
exhaustion in my blue jeans and dusty sweater. Vera was meticulously applying red
lipstick as I entered the room, and although she incessantly nagged me to change
my mind and go out, I assured her the only dancing I’d be doing that night would
be with two pillows. I crawled into my heavenly bed after a hot shower with nothing
on but underwear and a smile. Seconds later, I was riding the spiral that leads
one to a deep sleep. There was a ringing noise that prevented me from crossing fully
to the dark side, and I really wished the people on the room opposite me would answer
their fucking phone, but then it thankfully stopped.

Two minutes later it was back in full force and much louder, definitely
not part of a dream nor in any other room than my own. I grumpily picked up the
telephone prepared to tell Vera off if this was an attempt to get me to The Venetian.

“Hello?” I croaked out feebly.

“Did I wake you?” a male voice I recognized all too well said on the
other end of the line. “It’s only 11.”

“Jonah?” was all I could offer in my confused state. “Are you okay?
How did you get this number?”

“You told me you’d be there when we spoke two days ago, remember?
And yes, I’m okay,” he said warmly. “But I’m guessing the more pressing question
is, are
you
okay?”

“I’m beat.” I let out a loud yawn and was immediately embarrassed.
“The Grand Canyon kicked my ass and I’m taking it on a recharging trip all over
this bed tonight. What’s Houston like?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he sighed. “I’m at a certain lobby in a certain
hotel waiting for a certain someone to come down and take me away from this poker
table.”

The inability to speak that engulfed me was so strong it felt permanent.
I lifted myself against the headboard and switched on the lamp on the night table,
pinching myself in the process.

“Did you hear what I said, Annah?” he asked with a voice that dripped
with concern and hinted of impatience. “You’re not going to leave me here all alone
after I flew three hours into this desert, are you?”

And I wanted to say and ask a thousand things but all I could muster
was a whispered, “No.” I dressed and applied makeup on with shaky hands, brushing
my long hair with strokes marked with anxiety as I prayed it was all a nightmare.
Thirty minutes later, my body would be down at the lobby standing right in front
of him once more, but my mind and soul were suspended in a place so high up, I could
only assume it to be heaven.

Ever heard of a phrase used by young people or teenage
kids and wondered
what the hell it meant? I’d been on Twitter and Facebook
a few times on a particularly boring Tuesday when I noticed my friends using the
phrase, “long hair, don’t care” on more than one occasion. Few things make me feel
more inadequate than not knowing the current lingo, and inadequacy makes me feel,
well, inferior. After two minutes of wallowing in self-pity, I picked up the phone
to message my friend Miguel, a total nerd who’s sometimes cooler than me but knows
tons of useless information like all the lyrics to
Don’t Stop Believing
and
the meaning of numismatics.

Me: OK. So I have to ask. What the hell does “long hair,
don’t care” mean?

Miguel: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Me: You lie. It’s what all the cool kids are saying.

Miguel: Then I definitely have no idea what you’re talking
about.

Me: Faahhhhk. We’re no longer young.

Miguel: Speak for yourself.

Me: Old. Old and outdated with the hip lingo.

Miguel: Hold on, dude.

Miguel: “Long hair, don’t care”: Expression to state you
don’t give a shit. As in, the length of your hair is proportionate to how much you
let things affect you. For example, I have short hair and I’m always getting worked
up about things. Hippies have long hair and don’t give a fuck about anything. Get
it?

Me: Ahhhh. Totally.

I then went on my blog and
made a handy picture scale for others who were surely wondering the same thing.

I posted the aforementioned and felt so cool and useful that
I almost restored youth to my ego, like a crusader for those who wanted to be in-the-know
or something but didn’t have access to the Internet or friends like Miguel. That
was, of course, until I received an onslaught of comments by kids who actually know
what they’re talking about and put me in my senior citizen place immediately.

Anonymous said . . .

So, not to burst your bubble or anything, but I don’t want you
walking around thinking that phrase has anything to do with the hair on your head.
It’s from a Lil’ Wayne song and he’s talking about how he doesn’t care if a girl
has long hair down south (if you know what I mean). That he’s still gonna eat her.
Therefore, “Long hair, DON’T CARE.”

Um . . . gross? Kids these days.