Date Night


It’s nice to be a part of a club that doesn’t require a background check.

The bad news is that a date cancelled on me tonight, but the good news is that my monthly cheese club delivery arrived.  It’s like having a box of chocolates brought to the door just moments after being unceremoniously dumped.  The pain might not go away, but it can certainly be suppressed by consuming an ungodly amount of calories.  If I hadn’t had my earned leave scheduled for an hour after it showed up and an obligation to try to enjoy it dateless, I would have spent the evening eating my feelings in the form of a “Montery Jack Wild Morel & Leek”, a “Mona Lisa Very Old Gouda”, and a “Wisconsin Emmentaler Swiss.”  Thankfully, I planned a back-up shopping date with a girlfriend at the last minute.

Against all odds, I met an attractive gentleman (well- his “gentleman” status is currently in question after his heartless cancellation tonight) at work last week.  He came in with a friend, and because it was slow and around the closing hour, I had time to talk.  I was immediately attracted to him.  I feel like it’s so rare that I meet someone that I feel that way about in general, and with being on house arrest and unable to go out, it’s even more rare.

I never know how guys are going to react when I tell them that I’m on house arrest.  I thought about casually bringing it up somewhere between the bread bowl and the appetizers, but the opportunity didn’t seem to present itself.  Thankfully, he and his friend kept ordering drinks and got a pretty good buzz going.

Once they seemed adequately intoxicated, I decided it was time to find a subtle way to confess to having a criminal record and explain the tire of an ankle bracelet that was hidden beneath my work pants.   Best to get the cards on the table.  After I discovered that we had a mutual friend, it seemed less wildly inappropriate to inform customers that their waitress is a felon.

Amazingly, the news wasn’t a deal-breaker and we exchanged numbers.  WINNING!!!

For the record, it’s possible that he is, in fact, still deserving of a “gentleman” status.  He didn’t intentionally bail on me tonight.  He got called out of town for work.  Still sucks though.  It’s very hard to make plans to go out while on house arrest.  I have to plan everything a week in advance, and if someone’s availability changes, well, mine doesn’t.

At least I’m not in prison.  There is that little ray of sunshine again.  If I were trying to “date” in the big house, my options would be-er, more limited.  Sure, some of us may have “kissed a girl and liked it” one time or another, but, let’s just say that when you’re living in incarceration, it’s not like you’re living at the Top Model house.

265 days  to go.

I found boots that fit under my ankle bracelet!!! Hooray!!!



“What are you wearing? ” “Er… an ankle bracelet?”

When I left prison in November, I was afraid that I would have a hard time making money during my house arrest.  I had a serving job, but there was a question of how often I’d be scheduled.  I wouldn’t be able to pick up extra shifts on a whim because everything that would involve leaving home, including work, would have to be pre-approved the week before.  I didn’t know how much money I’d be making at the restaurant.  I did, however, know that my bills weren’t going anywhere, including the $209 monthly cost of my ankle bracelet, and that somehow I’d have to find a way to afford all of my expenses.

I made a friend named “T” during my stint in the big house.  She was a loveable, curvaceous black lesbian, who would be as comfortable (and knowledgeable) talking to you about dual-action 3 ft. dildos as she would be about an advanced trigonometry equation.  She had a master’s degree in math, and her prison job was teaching other inmates.  Before being incarcerated, T held a wide variety of jobs.

One day, in the laundry room, a group of inmates and I huddled around the machines to listen to T divulge ribald stories about the time she spent working as a phone sex operator.  She told us it was her favorite job she’d ever had, and that she was thinking about getting into it again upon her release.  She said it was pretty good money and she’d loved that she didn’t have to leave her house to go to work…

I remembered this when I got out.  After returning to the restaurant, I saw that I was scheduled only three days a week, which was alarming.  I felt broke and worried about making ends meet.  I Googled “phone sex operator” and found a wealth of job postings.  I noticed that the correct term, for the record, is “phone actress.”  How apropos.  I thought, “what the hell?” and responded to one.

I was greeted by an automated voicemail system, and decided to leave a message.  My perky introduction went something like this:  “Hi!  Uh, my name is Meili.  I saw a post for the, er, job online, and I‘m interested in the- position.  Uh… yeah… I’m available to work.  I look forward to hearing back from you.  Thanks.”  I never heard back.

I thought about it after, and I wondered if maybe I hadn’t sounded “sexy” enough on my voicemail.  Maybe they hire based on that?  I guess I could understand that, considering the nature of the work.  I thought about leaving another message, using a different name so they weren’t onto me.  Perhaps I would stand a better chance if I gave a breathier voicemail of something like, “Hiiiiiii, my name is Chantelle.  I saw you online, and I’m reeeaaally interested in having a position with you.  I mean- the position.  I mean, whatever position you want me in- I want to be there- with you…  in a position.  Yes.  I like them all.  I’d like to talk to you about them.  Please, call me…  I will be waiting for you.”

I didn’t end up leaving that message.  I could, though.  Thankfully, right now I’m covering my expenses, but If things go south slinging alfredo at the restaurant, it’s nice to know that I have a back-up.

Since I was a little girl, as an actress, I dreamed of having the “triple threat” advantage as a performer.  Traditionally, the “triple threat” refers to actress/ singer/ dancer.  In my early auditions in local musical theatre, I was often asked to leave after my singing/ dancing audition, and stripped of the opportunity to perform my prepared monologue.  It occurred to me then that this “triple threat” resume might not be in the cards for me.

I suppose that I’ve come to have a “triple threat” all my own now, for good or ill: Actress/ felon/ would-be phone sex operator??  I’m sure that Stanislavski and the gals back in Unit G-South at the Victorville Prison Camp would be proud.

267 days to go.



I got stuck behind a bus on my way home from work.  Par for the course for today.  On the way to work, I found myself driving in the geriatric lane, with each car ahead of me lulling in traffic, clinging to their right to drive, based on outdated qualifications.  I have love for the elderly, but it’s frustrating when I have to share the road with them when they would probably be deemed legally blind if the law-makers cared to test them in the interest of keeping the roads safe.  I guess we can’t expect so much.

As I slugged along the route, I took note of everything that I was passing on my way.  Everything that’s not available to me right now.  It’s easy to forget what freedoms I’m denied, when I’m focused on a schedule.  Driving past them today, I thought about what I would do if I weren’t on house arrest…

This is where I would have liked to go running when I woke up this morning.

This is where I slept through the morning and had nightmares that I was back in prison instead.


This is where I would have liked to order a tall soy latte on my way to work.

This was the next best thing.


This is where I would have gone to dinner with friends after work.


This is what I would have worn to dinner with friends.


This is what I wore instead.


This is who I would have liked to sleep with when I went to bed tonight.


And this is who I slept with instead.

Just another wild weekend on house arrest.

270 days to go.