The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the East (Coast)

The title came to me after I put up that picture. Kind of looks like Elphaba in Gregory Maguire's Wicked.

Anyway. This is me. Me is this. I haven't entirely decided what this blog will be about, but I know I need to start writing again, so here I am. A new blog for a new life. I have no idea if anyone will ever read this but me, but being a writer who doesn't write is just too much for me now. So I'll write about myself, and hope it helps someone along the way.

So a brief history of this Wicked Witch:

I was born and raised in Upstate New York. I lived in the same house until I went away to college, outside of NYC. College was great. I learned how to drink and smoke. And some academics on top of those basic survival skills.

The story doesn't really get too interesting until after college.

I graduated in 2005 with a degree that was, to be brutally honest, extremely interesting and not at all helpful in the "real" world. So I moved back home with my parents while I tried to figure out what to do with my life. Somehow that translated to sending out generic resumes to places that weren't hiring and whining a lot. So it was actually kind of a relief when my Dad told me to get off his couch, stop drinking his beer, and find a job.

So I did. I found one of those meant-to-be-in-the-meantime-while-I-find-something-that-uses-my-college-degree waitressing jobs. C'mon, we've all had them. It wasn't supposed to last longer than a few months- a little life experience, good tips, "save" money, and then you quit without notice and you're off to your real job where you become ___fill in the blank___. (Rich and famous, an actress, married, a sports star, a singer, a lotto winner, Scarlett O'Hara, whatever it is for you).

That's the idea, anyway. But how often does it really work out that way? One in ten? A hundred? A thousand?

I was only supposed to be a waitress for a few months- six, maximum. I was already thinking about moving to Virginia- I had family down here, there were more jobs in the capitol of the US than in Upstate NY or Vermont- I had options.

How many of us out there love excuses? I mean, live for them. I can't follow that actually really scary dream I have for myself- not because it's too hard and I might fail but because... umm... my dog died? 

Well, my excuse for not moving hundreds of miles away immediately was actually a little more plausible- my Dad was diagnosed with cancer. My Daddy. Immortal. Brilliant. Cancer. Does. Not. Compute.

Of course I wanted to stay close to home while he was going through treatment. (It's true- but it's also an excuse. An excuse not to try, to keep waitressing, to date an absolute asshole-ex-drug-addict, to barely have any money, to hardly manage to pay rent, ___fill in the blanks with stupid things you do when you're in your mid twenties __).

To my credit, when my Dad was better (and he's a cancer survivor now, if you were worried, and still as immortal and brilliant as ever [and still gets mad when I go home to visit and drink his beer]) I did end up moving to Virginia, where I did a little more with my excuses and my hiding from the future. But I wouldn't trade that for anything.

I moved in with my brother and, to make a long story short, worked for almost two years as my nephew's nanny- from six weeks after he was born until he was almost two and almost a big brother to my second nephew. They are the coolest kids I know and I treasure every moment I got to spend helping them become that way.

Post-nannyhood takes me a little closer to the present day and a lot closer to where my life changed and I went from directionless to grounded, focused, and happy.

In April of 2009, when my sister-in-law was in the hospital giving birth to my second nephew, I chatted with a smart and funny guy on a dating website for two nights. Then I forgot about him completely when everyone came home from the hospital and I was helping out with a toddler, newborn, and their parents.

Five months later, on my way home from a crappy job I had at a specialty clothing store which shall remain nameless because I don't want to get sued for slander, I was walking up an escalator at Huntington Metro Station. I noticed a guy in a suit on the escalator next to me checking me out. I remember thinking I just worked eight hours at the lousiest job in the world and I still look cute, how flattering, it's eleven thirty at night and I'm a single white female at the metro, where the hell are the car keys and how far away did I park?!

Got home, poured a glass of wine, and for some reason decided to log onto that old dating website I hadn't looked at in ages. There was a new message waiting for me.

I think I just saw you at Huntington Station!

It was that same sweet, smart, funny guy I'd talked to twice and then completely blew off. He recognized me from my picture (almost called out my screen name).

We met in person for the first time two years ago this past Friday.

We've been married exactly eight months today.