Home, Adequate Home

stop lying. nothing is awesome.

Last week an old friend of mine told me that a former customer of one of my former restaurants was asking her boyfriend about me. Unlikely after 20 years, but who knows.

Sometimes people use your story as fodder for their own. “He’s obsessed with you, you should look him up! He’s on Facebook.” There he was, heavily promoting his “mindful” lifestyle and proud single fatherhood. Of course he’s going through the rolodex. He’s single again.

I sent a nice note (a little more enthusiastic than I really was to be fair) and wished him well, get in touch! I signed off. After finding out that I was no longer a B list restaurateur in a big metro area, or finding out I’m in dustbowl Mexico feeding street dogs, he was quick to dash off a canned response.

So glad you reached out, your name came up over coffee, I’m here in the ATL living my best life as a single dad to an amazing kid congrats on your work helping 4 legged friends. Read your story online, it’s amazing! All the best. Bye.

Shorthand: You’re not in town, I didn’t like your picture because you look like a 20 years later version of the person I had imagined in my brain and also I thought you’d be rich by now with a healthy real estate portfolio and some plastic surgery. I glazed over your page. Beige and sad spay clinics. Ugh. Bye.

I remember having cocktails with this TV producer nerd long ago. It’s a number’s game, he’d say. If you throw out enough nets, you’ll pull one in!

Yea but what are you pulling in? A tire?

I was so bored with him at cocktails I didn’t even bother with dinner. But free advice, Dr. Charm, no one wants to hear that you’re number 432. That was dating in 2000. Today you can swipe I guess, I don’t bother. It’s the same but you can stay in your jammies now, which is nice.

After 5 minutes cringing at his social media feed, I reminded myself to not listen to exaggeration and hyperbole from girlfriends after 5pm. They’re deep into wine time, weed pen time, gummies kicking in “he’s obsessed with you! look him up!” GenX has perfected the heavily pilled up, come up come down better living by chemical soup. Hi octane caffeine and something mid day to pull them into dream land. High functioning meth heads. I forget everyone is spaced out and full of shit.

I took a look at this guy’s super tagged, co-sponsored logo heavy posts of “awesomeness” and VIP seats at whatever sport thingies you get box seats at…for whatever season it is, basketfootbase. A bunch of old dudes standing around talking about themselves and drinking shitty beer. I’ve catered those events, I remember. I didn’t have anything in common with him at 35 when I was cute, sexy and successful and for sure 55 year old me could give zero forks.

I was briefly curious because well, I’m in dustbowl Mexico with a bunch of dogs and outside of neighborhood gossip about Lupe getting fired for stealing hardware from the power company supply closet, I don’t get a lot of hot takes. But I knew better. Still I figured, what’s the harm in saying hello.

None really except I felt bad about myself and looked at my faded green hoodie and slip ons with a dog chew hole in the heel and thought, sheesh. I’m a mess. And then the real me poked her head in and said well of course you fucking are. You’re running a dog rescue in the desert with no support and no services in the middle of nowhere.

Just be real.

Anyone who calls Atlanta The ATL is cringe and even the best “amazing” 15 year old is still a teenager and you’re raising him alone and life is life. So. Let’s stop lying.

Being broke and menopausal has its privileges. I don’t have to keep it “tight” and people pleasing is a distant memory. No one is sniffing around me as an opportunist except hungry, actual dogs. There’s still the predictable, occasional drunk who asks the Rich Gringa for money but after two plus years, they realize I’m just The Gringa and don’t bother.

I don’t drink anymore or go out after dark unless it’s to see if there’s flan at the ice cream shop and I no longer wear makeup, color my hair or have any groovy clothes. (*mostly because I can’t find any natural product here) No one is trying to get into my comfy yoga pants, thankfully. Some people ask me if I’m looking for a novio and I laugh.

I had a broken faucet spigot on property last week and I turned off the water line so it didn’t blow all over the yard. In 2 days the entire house was dry as the storage tanks weren’t filling up. That’s how cisterns work in Mexico. I was more excited about learning new plumbing skills than someone looking me up from the past. The empty cistern. That, in a nutshell, is menopause for me. Will it change as years go on? Will the baseline set itself?

If you’re one of those women who say, “oh I never noticed menopause…” just go sit down somewhere.