You Give Love A Bad Name

That's right Bon Jovi, I do. To say that I'm bad at relationships is an understatement. I know that it's all psychosomatic, but I've always hung out with guys who are allergic to paying for dinner or don't want to be with me exclusively or don't know my correct name (i.e. Sapphire Jordan). I'm not sure that I've figured out what I'm looking for, but I figure that I'll just know when I find it, that we'll fit like puzzle pieces.
I recently thought that I had found my missing puzzle piece in Graham. I had known Graham since college, although not super well. He was in a fraternity and I was in a sorority, but I spent most of my time hooking up with losers in other fraternities. My friend Kristy invited me to a local bar for an 80's style New Years Eve with Graham, but as much as I love champagne and kissing strangers at midnight, I have never liked this holiday so I stayed home. Thank you for keeping me company, Andy Cohen and Real Housewives.
I met up with a hungover Graham and Kristy the next day for brunch. Remembering that Graham also worked out at 24 Hour Fitness, I got his number and because health comes way after partying, we made plans to work out like a month later. We had fun working out together on the elyptical machines until his back gave out, and then we went and had dinner at Sushi of Naples.
Hanging out with Graham was effortless. He was funny, sweet, romantic, kind…he was the perfect boyfriend. So naturally I messed it up. I got scared and pushed away. I partied like I was Andy Dick. I did everything that Kate Hudson did in 10 Ways to Lose A Guy only he didn’t come back after we broke up.
I want to invent the Heartbreak Clock. It will be bigger than Billy the Big Mouth Bass, and will revolutionize the way we look at heartbreak. It will look like one of those countdown clocks mounted on the wall of a dive bar that says “10 days, 14 hours, 5 minutes until St. Patrick’s Day.” And when you finally stop waking up with that dull pain in your chest, then you can stop the clock and see officially how long it took you to get over the heartbreak.
They say that your heart takes half as long as the relationship lasted to heal. Since my relationships are often short-lived, it takes me 100 – 150% of the time to heal from a breakup because you don’t mourn so much as you speculate as to what could have been. Your significant other hasn’t had time to leave the toilet seat up innumerable times and get on your nerves. I missed Graham every day; he was my bud and I adored him. I used to hyperventilate when he wanted to spend so much time with me because I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to be around me for that long. I don’t even like being around me for that long.
The best thing about having a boyfriend is that you are finally able to graduate from the kids table. I felt like I was able to do more, and instead of getting to know what a great guy Graham was, I showed him off like a Westminster show pony.
I began to feel manic after that breakup. I knew that I was the reason that my relationships were insubstantial, and I didn’t want to grow up to be (or look like) Dorothy from the Golden Girls. I didn’t like being around or hearing about couples. I would cry at night a lot. I worked out in the hopes that if I looked like a supermodel then I would have better relationships…only to gain 6 pounds. I finally decided to see a therapist that I went to right after college. Being the child of divorce, my mother trounced me around like a Westminster show pony from therapist to therapist when I was in high school. If I rearranged my closet, I was “depressed.” If I stayed home on a Friday night, I was “depressed.” I had been on Prozac and Xanax , and Beer and wine coolers, and nothing fixed the problem. I would watch Intervention, and think that my parents should be throwing me a ticker tape parade because I wasn’t that messed up…after all, I was functional. I called the therapist that I hadn’t seen in twelve years. Not only did she say that she remembered me (what kind of fucked up shit could I have told her that she remembered me more than a decade later?!?!), but she scheduled an appointment for the following evening.
I went into her office. It looked just like I remembered, only older. She came to the door, and we exchanged pleasantries, and she asked for my check right away. Back in the day, my insurance covered a bulk of my therapy and the co-payments were like $8. I now had to pay full price, and the payments were close to $100. We sat down and she started asking questions. When we talked about substance abuse, she asked if I could give up drinking while we worked together. She asked this like she would ask me to take out the garbage. This was of course after she made the mistake of saying, “You drink alcohol like I eat ice cream.” I remember staring at her, and realizing that in that moment, I was sitting across from my mother. I was not going back to see her again. What makes me feel good is church, working out, and writing. I think as long as I stick to those things, the heartbreak clock doesn't have anything on me.

Tsunami Ami...the longest night of my life

I mean this in the most PC way possible, but unless I was in Japan, I shouldn't have been affected by their tsunami in the way that I was. And I owe that honor to my mother. Granted, in hind sight and after much rest, her concern was appreciated. And thus begins the preface to my story.
Picture it...Long Beach...Thursday March 10, 2011. The calls and emails to my phone begin around 1am. It begins with the courtesy email "Hey Sapphire, an earthquake and tsunami just hit Japan."
2 am email: "Sapphire, are you watching the news?" (Why wouldn't I be? It was 2am on a week night. I only had to be up in 4 hours).
3am email: "Sapphire, are you watching the news? You never answered me. Send me a text that you got this. They say that waves are coming to the West Coast."
I wake up for the third time that night, and send her an acknowledgement text that I got her message, and I turned on the TV. I assume that this lack of sleep and being awoke every hour or so would be equivalent to having a newborn baby? I watched until 5am, and was just drifting back into a blissful sleep with dreams of Ryan Phillipe when she sent another email. This was my favorite.
Mom: "Sapphire, have you seen the news? A tsunami is headed directly towards Long Beach and Seal Beach (that seemed very specific). Get to higher ground. It'll be hitting around 7am."
I don't know if you've seen Armageddon or Deep Impact, but this email actually scared the shit out of me. I grabbed my makeup bag, and ran out the door. I ran to the back of my apartment building which was next to an inlet to the Pacific Ocean. The tide was low. Since I am a cornucopia of random knowledge, I knew that this could be the beginnings of a tsunami. Or simply a low tide. A total flip of the coin.
I walked out to my car and noticed all of the cars still parked along the street, but there wasn't a soul around. Were they still in bed? Had they already fled? Or was I just smarter than the rest? Was this my own Night of the Comet and I would be one of only a handful of survivors left? Would I turn crazy and befriend a volleyball named Wilson? Why is the sky blue? OK, now I'm just plain freaking out.
I wasn't sure how far inland I was supposed to go. The tidal wave in Deep Impact was huge, but I wasn't sure if I could make it to the Inland Empire, 45 minutes east, before being engulfed by waves. I settled on driving towards Long Beach State, which was 10 minutes east, but had an Einstein Bagels next to it. The world may be about to end, but I had a mocha ice blended on the mind. I pulled into the parking lot of the bagel shop, grabbed my makeup bag and purse, and went inside.
You know those dreams where you walk into a room and then you realize that you forgot to put your pants on? Or maybe you're completely naked? This was just like that...only it wasn't a dream. I really was standing inside of a chain bagel joint in snowflake pajamas with my makeup bag tucked under my arm like a freak, and I was being stared at by maybe 15 diners in suits and ties who were smart enough to realize that a tsunami was not about to wipe out our fragile little city that Snoop Dogg often pays homage to.
I bought my bagel and ice blended slice of heaven, and ate in my car. No way was I going to eat inside, I was too embarrassed. And I was exhausted. How could I possibly call in late to work, and explain my mother's neuroses to my boss without it sounding like a 'my dog ate my homework' kind of excuse?

There's Nothing Like Mom When You're Sick

I rarely get sick, but when I do, it's a tidal wave of germs. And being a control freak, the thing I hate most about getting sick is the fact that I cannot schedule the sickness. I recently got a really bad cold, and this totally conflicted with my social life. I got sick on a Wednesday, and as the week progressed, it got worse. By Saturday morning, the day of my 5K race, I was convinced that I had walking pneumonia or a bronchial tract infection. I ran half a mile with my friend Autumn, and then slinked off to the side to blend in with the crowd, inconspicuously taking off my racing number and untying the timing chip from my shoe lace. My lungs felt like they were on fire, and I wanted to vomit. I had a plane to catch to Arizona later that day, and I couldn't flake again.
And so it happened. I was that person on the plane that no one wants to sit next to. And since I was one of the last people on, I got to sit in the back between two people. I ordered my usual (a Chardonnay with a water back), and as we were making our final descent, I began coughing to the point where I threw up in my hand. Not sure what the etiquette for this was, I just shoved my vomit back in... This happened twice. It boggles the mind that no one looked my way, offered assistance or asked if I was OK. Damn you, Southworst!
My mom and stepdad picked me up, and as I told them that I was going to have to miss my friend Katie's birthday party that night because I felt like I needed to go to the hospital, my stepdad wouldn't hear of it. "You don't need to go to the hospital. We'll get you better." This was immediately followed by us pulling into the driveway, and then Jim walking into the entertainment room to watch a movie.
My mother must have felt the need to check the box for her one maternal duty of the year, and she made me a bowl of soup. However, as I sat at the counter talking to her, I had to blow my nose. I put the dirty kleenex on the counter, and without saying a word, my mom came around the corner with a garbage can saying "I don't want to touch that. There is a limit to a mother's love."
Feeling close to death, I finished my soup and walked down the hall to my bedroom, listening as Lysol was sprayed on the chair and counter where I was just sitting at. My cough wouldn't stop so I came outside and asked for cough syrup.
Mom: Sapphire, I have cough syrup, but its prescription. If anything would happen to you, I could get in trouble.
Never mind that I could die of pneumonia in her bed because of their blatant refusal to take me to Urgent Care.
Sapphire: I'm going to chance it. Give me the spoon.
I slept like a baby. The next morning I woke up, feeling a little better. Perhaps I was feeling cocky or I was delusional from my mother's LSD tripping cough syrup, but as we began our hour drive to Scottsdale, I didn't take any water or medicine.
Fifteen minutes into the drive, I still say due to the dusty Arizona desert, I started my cough of death all over again. My mother sighed, asking if I needed her to pull over. Really? Was pulling over really going to stop my cough? I finally managed to gasp "I need water."
Mom: OK. Should I stop at BP or Walgreens?
Is this really a pertinent question right now?
Sapphire (wheezing): It...doesn't...matter.
Mom: OK, then we'll go to Walgreens. I have a discount card for there.
I still can't figure out if the 13 cents that she would have saved on a single bottle of water would have went towards my portion of the will, but my mother will always be one of those couponing freaks that you see on the OWN Network.