Saturday, January 28, 2012

You can be glad because that fucktard is no longer in your life

The other day, I inadvertently recreated my past a la Douchebag.

Being my last day off before my trip to Vegas I decided that was the only day I could color my hair.
And being that I stayed up way too late the night before I hit up Starbucks on my way.

I realized, as I stood waiting for my drink, I hadn't been to that particular Starbucks since me and The Douchebag had coffee there on Thanksgiving.
There were the chairs we sat in when I gave him that journal and he was so moved he said I was gonna make him cry.
"Thanks for making my day so happy."

Pardon me while I hurl my computer across the room.
I've never known a man to prompt me to throw so much.
He's a fucking gem.

It should be no surprise that after DB's deceitful charm I started spending time with a guy who never compliments me.
I think the closest he's ever come was telling me I'm a weird girl.
At least I know I'm not being manipulated.
Obviously I'm weirder than Gonzo.

Then I remembered when I last got my hair done.
It was three days before my birthday.
I was wretchedly ill and trying to do anything to feel better.
And while waiting for my color to set I glanced at my phone.
Douchebag had emailed me.
And told me he wanted nothing more to do with me ever again because I was unhealthy for him.
Happy birthday to me.

So as I sat in the salon, all those weeks later, I couldn't stop smiling.
The things that seemed so dire then were now a moot point in the story of Resa.
I have a sexier man in my life to kiss, my health, my certainty that any man worth my texts would chase me down the street just to talk to me.
Not run away from me because he's incapable of anything genuine.

And my crushes will exit and new beaus will take their place and my hair will fade and I will paint on new coats of vibrancy.
And I will always move on.
And I will always get over the forgotten boyfriends.
And the ones who never even made it that far.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

There's a man buried inside these curves

I'd like to think that it wasn't always this way but when I look back on the men I've dated the pattern always seems to be the same.

Why do I always date men whose appetites never satiate mine?

I think the only person who may be the exception to this was Narcissus.
But he was foreign so he doesn't count.

Every other guy is too tired, too worn out, too in need of autonomy, blah, blah, blah.

I thought all men ever wanted was sex.
Rubbish!
All Resa's ever want is sex.
Or at least something in the near vicinity.

It seems ludicrous for a woman such as myself to endure sexual frustrations.
ISN'T THAT THE WHOLE BLOODY REASON MEN PURSUE ME IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Apparently I'm not the woman I always believed myself to be.
I must secretly be a dude.
Because if I'm honest about my top qualities essential for any long term lover of mine?
They are all passion driven.

Of course I want a man who is kind, who is caring and learned and respectful and successful and well endowed, whatever, whatever, whatever.

But mostly.
I want a man who can keep up with me.
Verbally. Mentally. Physically.
Sweet battery operated devices, let there be a man in existence who can keep up with me physically.

The c'est tragique timing of late is that the handsome Romeo I thought was my physical counterpart is actually much more layers of complexity and less oh baby oh baby.

Grrr.
Even my seemingly no nonsense one track minded relationships are never so instantly gratifying.

I really am Mae West.
I need a boyfriend for a rainy day and another when it isn't raining.

Maybe multiples is the answer to my madness.
Hey.
That's what a guy would do right?

And this guy?
Has got to find someone to ease her pain.



Tuesday, January 24, 2012

The girl who went searching for a little attention and wound up with a new admirer

I was dumbstruck.

Banging my head on the coffee table, mouth agape, utterly flabbergasted.
Only a man could cause such stupefaction.
And this particular man I was totally crushing on.

Mr. Unlovable and I had been whiling away the hours together for weeks.
It was the kind of relationship neither one of us attempted to label.
Somewhere between Friends With Benefits and Dating.

Initially I was thrilled with such a casual state of uncertainty.
No labels. No expectations. No smothering. No headaches.
But of course things never remain so stagnant for very long.
And eventually I realized I had absolutely no idea what he wanted from me.
Or what I even wanted from him.

Apparently I did need a label.

The problem surfaced when we genuinely started to click.
Indifference becomes quite forced when you actually start to give a shit.
What can I say, I'm so damn lovable.

So just around the time I felt like we were vibing and really might dig each other, and I might actually be ready to go all the way, he flipped the switch.
And brought out the Douchebag pants.

Thud. Thud. Thud.
I nearly cracked the coffee table with my head.

Douchebag pants rocked my love life runways last fall.
And I had very little tolerance to try and make that fashion fiasco work again.

Cue exit music. Begin audience applause. Lower neon flashing sign, "NEXT!"

So uncertain of which Jekyll or Hyde I had actually been dating. Kissing. Illin. Err... Hangin with....
Oh hell. Whatever the fuck we were doing.
I made plans to meet up with my girl and her friends including the kid who'd had his eye on me for months.
You know the kind, the guy who has the worst luck and the worst timing when it comes to girls and finds someone he likes whose unavailable so he's aggressive when he shouldn't be and not around when she's finally single.
The poor bastard.

So we went to hear some jazz and the band was swell.
My date however was unfathomably quiet.
I dig dudes that are shy but there's a fine line between soft spoken and mute.

So after an hour or so and a couple of stiff drinks I bid my adieu's and closed out my tab.
"Heeeyy! Next song they play, let's dance, you and me!" some guy shouted at me from the other side of the bar.
Only I couldn't quite hear what he said so it sounded more like HEY. NEXT. DANCE. YOU. ME.
You crazy. Me Jane.
I laughed, genuinely amused, and waved goodbye.

I left the bar and got maybe twenty feet from the door when all of a sudden my suitor was tapping me on the shoulder.
"Wait. I'm sorry. I just can't let you leave without getting to talk to you. I've been watching you all night and I just had to tell you, you've really got it goin' on."

This is the part where those who know me will appreciate what happened next.
Because there is a part of me that is a genuine hopeless romantic and loves those cheesy romantic comedies and would love to have a guy dance with me in the middle of the street and sing a song softly in my ear while under the stars.
But that was also more me when I was 19.
There is another, possibly larger, part of me who no longer trusts such saccharine tripe.
Which is why I artfully raised one eyebrow and replied, 'Bullshit.'

"No. I'm serious," he quickly replied.
"You came in by yourself, right? And I saw you sitting there alone and then you were looking at your phone so I thought, Oh she is waiting for her boyfriend or her husband. So I came by and walked past you and I noticed that ring on your finger."
I looked down at my jewelry and shook my head.
Only a man from Jamaica would give a damn there's a diamond ruby ring on my ring finger.

"Come back inside, have a drink with me."
'I can't have a drink with you! I just left a date with another guy. I think that'd be pretty rude to have a drink with someone else at the same bar.'

It also would make me a baller but for the moment I was remaining a lady.

So he pressed and pleaded and convinced me to walk and talk with him "just for fifteen minutes."
We end up stumbling upon some benches a few blocks north and conversationally he was refreshingly charming.
He asked me questions about myself and spoke openly about his own story.
"Things are different in Jamaica. There, when we see something we want, we go after it."
'Clearly. I noticed that.'
An overwhelming contrast to my usual We can't hang out cuz I might FEEL something pattern of emotionally stinted boys.

He questioned my continuous laughter and I didn't quite know how to tell him I was waiting for the orchestra to begin playing and the rest of the cast to enter for the big dance number in the movie I was clearly starring in.

But instead, I told him I was ready to walk back and he tried offering me his number.
'What? I don't want your number. I'm not contacting you.'
"Well I know I'm interested in you but how do I know you're interested in me?" he dishes back.
'You have been so charming and wonderful this evening, why would you go and blow it?'
Then he was the one laughing.
'I don't chase men. If you're interested YOU can call.'

So he quickly got out his phone to take my digits and hugged me goodbye.
Then he leaned in and with a swiftness like Batman stole a quick kiss.

I'm fairly certain my jaw dropped open.

"I will text you in the morning and we can do something tomorrow."
I nodded, not believing him in the slightest and drove home just as mystified as I'd felt over Mr. Unlovable.
I was like Keri Russell in that scene from Waitress when she has this confused look on her face for minutes until finally it gives way to a giant grin.

I woke up and he'd texted me.
He called later too.

I literally went out seeking a little male validation, seeking out some new distraction.
And it chased me down the street.

If my life really were a movie, I couldn't have written it better myself.



Starts around 2:30

Sunday, January 22, 2012

The pretty that was wasted and other small tragedies

He never really knew anything about me.
I don't think a question was ever even asked.
Not once.

Years into the future, if someone were to ask him about me his eyes would glaze over and he would tilt his head, searching a blank file where my picture should have been painted.

He knew nothing of my passions or interests.
My schooling or family.
My past lovers or my indifference towards having children.

I was a stand in to him.
A warm body filling the void until the next player should enter.
Stage Left. Dimmed house lights. Spot up.

Curiously, onlookers watched my willing participation in such an imbalance of equilibrium.
Musings over rumors of my walking coma, my narcotic hazed delusions, my memory loss excused such tripping steps.
But only I embraced awareness for my broadcasted insanity.

I wasted the beauty.
And hadn't even a photo to show for it.

Peculiar to patterns past this play was shortened in acts.
Rather than a full chapter, a mere page.
Words pulled and poked at one another striving to create another full paragraph.
But the letters were merciless.
And unmoved to form even a single sentence.

The tragedy was his obliviousness to such a rare and vibrant connection.
The potential for words inaudible to be understood. Clear.
For the strain of isolation to give way to warm bodies, entwined.

But as Timing and Ego and suffocating Facades would have it, such anticipations became moot.
And gathered coatings of dust.

Glimmers of the passion sparked in between blinks when some flint got in their eyes.
But the saline waters washed each faint flicker out.
And all that remained was an unmet look. Searching.
In vain.

Maybe you're wrong

You know how some people boast really good intuition about people?
Well, I don't.
In fact, if there were a game show called Good Idea Bad Idea I would always inadvertently choose the bad.
I would never win the showcase show down.

It's comical actually because I'm kind of like Charlie Brown with the football.
This time I'm really gonna kick it.
And there I fall, laying flat on my back wondering how I could have been so wrong yet again.

The past is an unpredictable force.
Sometimes unnoticed.
Sometimes ill affecting the present.

Stop living in the past.
But what if its memory lingers without my consent?

Walls go up, guards, protective falsehoods to keep strangers from repeating pasts indiscretions.
And I catch my reflection mirroring such foolishness, having open the gates only to slam them shut again.

I don't know this version of myself.
This girl cautious and accutely aware.
I once flew headstrong into everything, no thought for what wasn't but only for what I believed.
Everything else caused me to blink twice, unmoved.

Now I am unawares of what I want or what I even need.
Maybe I don't know what I want.
Maybe I concur inclusively.

But while each set of eyes is incapable of catching such similarites, I all too knowingly anticipate the distance growing.
The hesitation outweighing instinct.
And such timing never dancing in sync.

Then again, maybe I'm wrong, as so often is true.
Maybe time will instead stir surprises.
And I can once again sleep soundly knowing I'm home again.
And I will fall, tumbling forward, having finally kicked the damn football.
As I always knew I would.

Friday, January 20, 2012

Play Me

The music of Yann Tiersen is my favorite to play on the piano.
Though Schumann would be a close second.
And Beethoven and Chopin. Third and fourth, respectively.

But of all Tiersen's pieces that I've learned to play there has only ever been one that has given me difficulty.
His Sur Le Fil is rhythmically the most challenging.
It's the only piece I can never go on auto pilot and manage to play through without a mistake.

And tonight I realized that women are like the Sur Le Fil.
To master something so complicated and intricate takes discipline and focus and careful attention to detail.
One faulty move and the whole run is off.
And so is the woman on her way out of your bedroom.

The thing I find so amusing about the section I find so challenging is that it's a matter of tempo and build.
If I try and slow the tempo down too slow my timing gets off, the notes are garbled and jumbled and the phrasing doesn't work.
Yet if I try and rush through it, speeding up the tempo the whole thing becomes one slurred mess and the accents are lost, the arc of the music, fallen.

Women need the right tempo, the right build.
Not to be slowed at the most challenging section nor rushed neither.

I'm thinking most men could use a refresher course in music theory.

And for those who also need to brush up on their french?
The piece so intricate, so delicate, so in need of an expert's touch?

Is entitled Just In Time.

Here's to the lover skilled enough to learn my tempo.
Sur Le Fil.

Or I shall hand the sheet music over to another.


Thursday, January 19, 2012

sights unseen

There are these moments
That disappear when I blink
Moments where you think something really beautiful
And those thoughts appear in your eyes

Sometimes my glance is quick
And catches each thought
As they dance from iris to iris
Mirroring the tentative hope twirling in my own eyes

Sometimes my glance is distracted
It looks with trepidation towards pasts clutch
Gripped tightly around each ankle
weighing slowly the steps I skip

There are these moments
That reappear when I sleep
Moments where I remember something really beautiful
And those thoughts appear in my dreams

Sometimes your role is brief
Our passions mere flickers
Heats rise and scatter
And you vanish before each eye blinks

Sometimes your role is vital
Your mere presence of great import
I run to your side
To stop from falling down the rabbit hole

And to both our surprise
You draw me close
Huddled together in silence
Willing the nights curtains consume us

a song stirred your ghost awake

The years continue to ease by
You still haunt
And while I know we're not those kids anymore
The nervous whisperings shared huddled under trees
I wonder why must you stalk these thoughts

I, unawares, am drawn to your tall counterparts
Passions are greater
Connections stronger
And your image grows more and more faint
But still it lingers
Your presence nudging my mind

Did your card make you smile
Did it make you glad
I'm not like the rest
Did it make you sad
You lack the strength to write me back

My heart
No longer yours
Still skips a beat or two
When a shadow mirrors yours

Happy year, my lost love
My heart sings to you
Surely the mountain air carries each harmony your way

I am not yours
And yet
Still
I am no ones

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Is it lust or loathing or something in between?

I love the movie Vicki Cristina Barcelona.
I saw it when I lived in Rhode Island and it was one of those nights that made the year splendid.

I watched it again the other night and as my own life is a script in progress, Timing cued a particular sir to enter, stage left, for his reocurring appearance that always leaves me with one eyebrow skeptically raised.

This sir is someone I can't quite figure out.
His motives are unclear, his agenda shaky, and yet every encounter I have with him seems to be poignant and significant in some unprecedented way.

He seems to always appear in juxtaposition with someone else I'm seeing.
He is inconsistent and disappears for great stretches of time.
And yet, ever always, makes his way back into my life, continuing to make me tilt my head to the side, in wonder.

What. Is. He. Up. To?

I remember one of the first times he wanted to meet up PC was aware of our rendezvous and teased him about it, indirectly.
PC was convinced the young sir merely harbored a school boy crush on me and was hoping for some naughty little intrigue.

But I've never felt that he liked me the way most men do.
In fact, there is an odd balance of intrigue and disgust when he looks at me.

There's a line in Vicki Cristina Barcelona where the narrator says Juan Antonio speaks of Maria Elena whom he both idolized and criticized.

I sort of feel like this kid sees me in a similar light.

He told me once he had to prepare himself in anticipation of seeing me.
That there was something about my wit, my dialogue, my very presence that kept him on his toes.
And yet he also claimed there was a freedom in his laughter when he was around me.

A peculiar sort of suitor, if ever there was one.

In spite of myself, I agreed to meet with him again.
An exchange sure to leave me shaking my head as I walk away in the opposite direction.

But I had to wonder, since his timing so often aligns with others, if anyone else from my past is lurking around a corner.

My days never cease to surprise me.
And only Time seems to know the frequency of those surprises.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

I wanted to call the blog Stupid Cunt but that seemed too obvious

There's a saying in theatre that comedy happens in threes.
I'm beginning to think tragedy also happens in threes.
Or at least tragecomedy because the events of late have really been less tragic and more fucktastic.
Hilarious, really.

I'm having a People Just Really Suck week which is similar to the PMS I Hate People Day only worse because my hormones have nothing to do with it.
People. Just. Really. Suck.

First I had to deal with confronting an emotional topic without getting too emotional.
You mean, when you said don't eat the chocolates and I ate them anyway that wasn't how you wanted the night to go down?
Boundary pushers make my head implode.
I'll take deal breakers for 500, please.

Then I was reminded of how obscene it is that Facebook allows whores to indirectly bitch slap me without having the demure decency to confront me with any sort of honest communication directly.
I'm sorry but when I misled you into believing you could trust me it was merely to fuel my own slanderous agenda and since you don't ski or play golf, there's really no room for you on my Facebook. De-LE-te! 

Then I came face to face with the realization today, as I was doing it yet again, that I am so foolishly trusting in offering my raw honesty with people who have no business in Resa Land.
They shouldn't even be allowed to take pictures.
Jealous sluts, move along, please.

I want people to feel included and accepted so I try and treat them the way I would any of my soul sisters and then feel ridden hard and cast aside when they're interrupting my openness with their judgment and criticism and disdain of all things Resafied.

When the fuck will I get it through my sparkly head?

You can't trust everyone.
You shouldn't trust everyone.
There are so many wonderful, kindred spirits in existence that those wanting to suck the joy out of your soul aren't worth the dialogue.

Some people do not have your best interest in mind.
They don't want you to be your genuine, authentic self.
They want you to change.
They want you to be something they can understand, something they can line up with their paper doll cut out of preconceived ideology.

I'm so over people who can't handle all I am.
I can't even imagine dating anyone again who tries to subdue the passion that is me.
But thankfully the number of soul crushing biddies pales in comparison to the number of stellar soul mates who appreciate my glitter stained mind.

Everyone else?
Can suck it.

Monday, January 16, 2012

Facebook is a dirty pirate hooker

I'd like to take a journey back through time and remember what life was like when people didn't have the obsessive tendencies to passive aggressively delete you from their lives at the drop of a hat.

Today I had that familiar revelation that we've all experienced on more than one occassion.

The bitch deleted me from Facebook.

Months ago, when I was mixed up with DB, I ran into this chick I hadn't seen since high school.
She came into my store and since her husband shared the same name as Douchebag I brought up that I'd recently run into him too and that we "met for drinks" since "made out topless" seemed a less than ladylike thing to say.
She then worked into the conversation, it does take a trained gossip to manage this, that the reason DB was divorced was because he cheated on his wife.
Would you like an affair to go with your Happy Heart perfume?

I, stunned, channeled my academy award winning acting skills and tried to appear as unmoved as possible.
Oh. Really. Isn't. That. A. Shame. I'm. Just. Going. To. Go. Dry. Heave. In. The. Back. Room. Now.

And she also happened to be BFF's with DB's ex and OF COURSE she decided she wanted to get coffee with me and be super duper friends!!

"You would totally make such a great addition to the group."
Yes.
She really said that.
My distrust-o-meter was on full scale BATSHITCRAZYBITCHABORT.
But do I ever trust my gut when it comes to pschizophrenic deceitful lying manipulative cheating gossiping two timing shallow whores?
No.
I wanna believe the best.

Sometimes I think I should be studied.
Maybe they could even sell tickets.

So after a very meaningful heart to heart in which she revealed to me all the intimate details of DB's marriage debacle
Because true friends shamelessly gossip about each other. O-B-V-I-O-U-S-L-Y.
The wench in question declared her and I to be newfound sisters and that we just HAD to do this again soon!!

This is the part where you all feign surprise when I inform you that I NEVER HUNG OUT WITH HER AGAIN.
'Twas most curious how after she convinced me I could trust her and open up about what happened with me and the DB she vanished.
Manipulation. Deception. All to get what you want and then bounce?
Hmm. Seems like it's painfully obvious why she was so close with Douchebag herself.

So for whatever reason, Facebook's evil whiles taunting me to type in her name, I discover the two faced bitch has deleted me.

One of my homegirls even tried to warn me that the bitch had always been a gossipy twit in high school and I probably shouldn't trust her.

But did I listen?
No. Why the hell would I do that?
I'm an irrational trusting ninny.

I hope the bitch and DB go bowling together.
They'd really make quite a handsome pair.

And schemers as skilled as they should really stick together.
That way the clouds of darkness looming over their heads will warn the rest of us to run screaming into the night.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

It's been awhile since I played

Maybe this time

Relationships accessorize with complications.

People tend to cart their past around with them with the same meticulous care as though it were some new designer handbag.
Sometimes the past is written and the person laying beneath you is nothing like the last twelve undesirables you dated.
Sometimes they're exactly the same.

It would be easier to understand people if they played fewer games.
But for so many appearing a certain way takes precedence over actually being their genuine selves.
It's more important people think of them as the way they want to be seen than they embrace the real nerd behind the glasses.
And while they juggle their dueling personas their audience shifts in their seats quizzically.
What is one to really believe of anyone they date these days?

Such is my dilemma.
When I encounter someone who seems to be a walking dichotomy, who displays their contradicting personas so openly, I am at a loss as to know which is which.
Do I listen to the words they speak and accept they're as unfeeling as they seem?
Or do I listen to their actions that seem to unveil a goodness that even surprises them?

The relationships of the past lay jumbled in this misshapen heap and it reeks of something odious.
And try as we might all we experienced seeps into our present conversations with every lover and potential lady or man friend.
We see them as needy as our girlfriends past or as ashamed to be seen out with us like boyfriends forgotten.
We assume they'll all grow too attached too quickly, or harbor mountains of expectations or use us for momentary pleasures without caring to know our middle name.

But what if for one moment, with one person, we drew the curtain down on our stifling pasts and looked into the eyes looking upon us openly and honestly, with a raw vulnerability that inspired?
What if our fears and insecurities, our needs to remain guarded and indifferent melted away and what transpired between two people was simply pure truth?

Wouldn't that be something to write home about.

Maybe such honesty exists in fairytales and black and white movies.
Maybe hoping for those connections is as trivial as hoping for flowers when someone crosses a line they agreed to respect.

Or maybe there are those who drip stars from their eyes.
Maybe there are some whose melodies transcend the voice singing them.

And maybe they are the kisses our mouths hungrily wait to receive;
The honey still dripping from our tongues as we salivate for more sleepless nights to come.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

How many gays does it take to make a husband?

My Ghub moved to Nashville.
The Bitch.
And since his departure I have searched high, I have searched low, but alas, no gay man can quite fill his shoes.
I guess it takes a very special sort of gay to make a husband.
But thankfully I still have LOTS of boyfriends!

I. Love. Gay. Men.
And yipee skippy for me I'm like catnip to those pussies.
Heehee.

I doubt that there are many women that can boast that a gay man has approached them to take their picture just because they looked so fabulous!
That was the week I was hit on by more gay men than straight.
But I still felt pretty.

It's almost MORE of a compliment to be hit on by a gay man because they are so overly particular about what they like whereas the average straight man likes anyone with boobs.
They're simple, they're shallow and they're common whores.
Which is why we're soul mates.

And as a fabulous singleton there is something to be said for the reassurance and validation of gay boyfriends.
They're like regular boyfriends only you don't have to worry about their STD's and they are WAY prettier.
I love men.
But I especially love BEAUTIFUL men.
And gay men are so shiny and fancy.

I knew this one kid and I were meant to be when he walked by and stopped me dead in my tracks with his hot legs.
Are you wearing leather?!!
No they're waxed denim. They're Balenciaga.
Well, they're HOT!
Love at first Balenciaga sighting.

Another one of my gay crushes is married and a total homebody.
But he's so ridiculously adorable I will not rest until we're snuggled up in a booth somewhere taking pictures together.
I hope you know I am never going to stop asking you out, I told him one day.
So just tell your husband that this crazy girl at work has a giant crush on you but she promises to keep it in her pants.
He shrugs off my affections but I know he loves it.
How could he not?
I'm such a shameless flirt.

But it's easier flirting with gay men.
Straight men get so overwhelmed so easily.
They think I'm coming on too strong and don't quite know how to handle me.
Silly billies.

Which is why it was really hilarious when I thought this one guy was gay and then found out months later that he was actually straight.
So all those times I thought he was the Jack to my Karen I was actually just being shamelessly inappropriate with a kid who thought I was being insanely flirtatious.
Cut to me overwhelmingly embarassed and wondering quite how to redeem myself.
Five orgasms later I decided misconceptions still made for very happy endings.

So while I wait for the real prince charming to make his entrance and my gay husband to realize Portland misses him like the deserts miss the rain, I have a city full of fabulous men who appreciate my musical theatre voice, my designer handbags and my affinity for all things 50's.

Every man needs his muse.
And every gay man needs his Resa.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

The obligatory PC reference

Yesterday one of my old Starbucks regulars came in to my store.
And while I know she means well, she inevitably always asks me about Prince Charming.
If I've heard from him, if anything is going on with him and I always politely change the subject.
Only this time I made the mistake of admitting that last month I thought I saw him on the escalator and my heart lurched into my throat.
'I guess I didn't think he still had that effect on me.'
"Well, maybe it isn't over between you two. Timing is everthing, you know."

That was not exactly what I needed to hear.
Especially when I was already feeling needy and emotional because of a stupid cold and stupid hormones and my friend with benefits has given me no benefits for nearly two weeks.
Eleven Days.
But whose counting.

And it's like some cosmic joke that all the characters in my story are handed the same script and don't even realize it because just last week my friend brought up PC too.
"When was the last time you heard from him?"
'November.'
"That's all? It feels like its been forever."

Yes. It does.
But it really hasn't.
I mean, it hasn't even been two months.
And sometimes I still think of him and miss him and wish I could tell him about all that's been going on.
And sometimes I'm glad I haven't heard from him and I know he feels the same way.

Seeing that old regular made me kind of realize my need for a new relationship.
My La Fee Verte is charming and I cherish his presence right now.
But I also know he will never be one of those epic relationships I'll write books about.
He just doesn't see me that way.

My mother and I had an interesting conversation over the holidays and she said something I wished so badly I could share with PC.
"I think you were having a hard time realizing the only man who ever loved and accepted you as you are was unavailable. And these other men have made you doubt yourself and its made you feel awful."

There's something romantically tragic in that and I smiled knowing it'd make a wonderful moment in my book.
Which I desperately need to get back to writing.

I also need to get back to relationships.
I'm ready.
Dating is fun and making out is great but I'm ready for something of substance.

The drama at work has subsided and I love my job.
The tension at home has evaporated and I love spending time with my family.

And now I'm ready to release all of the past so I might embrace all that awaits me.

Someone just needs to get the memo to the real prince charming so he can make his grand entrance.
And I know PC will be watching in the wings, smiling approvingly.

Monday, January 9, 2012

Did you hear the one about the curly red headed girl with the big mouth?

My big mouth is going to get punched one of these days.

I lack a filter.
But that's part of my CHARM.
That's what makes me so amusing.
Unless you lack my sense of humor.
Or don't think it's funny when my drunk ass is making fun of you.

My bad.
It's not me.
It's the vodka talking.
Or the champagne.
Depending on what dress I'm wearing.
I really do have to coordinate such things.

 I do love making people laugh.
I think my love for making people smile has got to be in my top five favorite things to do.
Somewhere between getting naked with a sexy guy and shopping for vintage clothing.
I'm a versatile lady.

Really, the blame lies in Facebook.
I am now compelled to constantly update my profile with witty sayings and sometimes I even make my friends laugh so hard they quote me.
To be quoted as a FB status?
Ah, perchance to dream.

So one of my soul sisters took it upon herself to quote my sassy buzzed arse and post it on my wall for all posterity.
And for all cyber stalking hotties to view as well.
Including, possibly, the one I was mocking.

Gulp.
Shame thy name is me.

I hate it when words are taken out of context.
Anything can sound wretched when it lacks the original tone.
Oh. He's charming can mean several different things depending on who you are.

Douchebag?
Oh. He's charming.
My La Fee Verte?
Oh. He's charming.

Same quote.
Two very dissimilar meanings.

But as mother pointed out at least he didn't block you from his life or start gossiping about you to half of Portland....
Alas, something more than one lad has succumbed to in my life.
In the last year or two.
Gee wiz, I sure can pick 'em.

But rather he just casually brought up in conversation that he housed particular interests and he wanted me to be well aware.
To dissuade any preconceived misconceptions I harbored that attacked his intellectualism.

Because, I mean, really, his brain was what I was drawn to in the first place.
The tall, lanky, european sex god housing that brain had absolutely nothing to do with why I longed to rip his clothes off.
I mean, get to know him.
I'm always mixing those two up.

Once this guy told a friend of mine that the reason he liked talking to me, the reason he enjoyed my company was not because he thought I was particularly beautiful but because he thought I was particularly bright.
I've never been so insulted in all my life.

Of course, months later, he DID put the moves on me so something tells me his little speech wasn't entirely truthful in its accuracy.
Dialogues rarely ever are, especially when they're being retold.

Though in some rare instances the simplicity is clear as diamonds.

Hugging you today made me feel even more high and giddy than the dayquill I was on.

Go ahead and quote me.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

We can't be friends. My vanity won't allow it.

I got dumped.

I got dumped by a guy I never met.
That may be a new record.

It was supposed to be a blind date.
Which is always a charming way to kill two hours.

But rather than agree to a truly blind blind date I thought we could be Facebook friends first.
That way we could each have the stalking opportunity to scam on each other and decide if the profile pictures really warranted an exchange of fluids.
Vodka. Gin.

It also gave me the delight or possible terror of engaging in a repartee with someone who might make me laugh or make me squirm.

This particular suitor?
Beige Guy.
His messages were cordial enough but boring.
Nothing that made me smile, nothing that prompted a second read through, just Meh.
I was almost certain that my date with him was going to be Be capital Eige exclamation point.
Dud.

BUT
I am an open minded overly opinionated shallow frisky know it all and I was WILLING to look past his lack of intriguing qualities.
Particularly handsome?
No.
Inciteful and intellectual?
Hardly.

And no, my acceptance at his invitation had nothing to do with the fact I was lining up several different dates with several different guys in the same week.
And I wasn't trying to merely make him lame date Wednesday before potential date Thursday and mostly friend date Friday and naughty date Saturday.
Not. At. All.
It was an honest to goodness gen-u-ine date.

For the most part.

But what should happen days before my week of debauchery??

Beige Guy has the nerve to cancel our lametastic rendezvous.

I'm sorry but I've changed my mind about meeting you. I feel our personalities are really very different. Of course I am not saying yours is bad or mine is bad or anything like that, just different. I hope there is not any hard feelings. I'm sorry if I've wasted your time.

Ahem.
Let's all take a moment and laugh a long hearty guffaw.
Ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha ha.

Beige Guy cancelled our beige date and opened up my Wednesday night and he hoped there weren't any hard feelings?
Oh honey.
We all know you're the only one who felt hard.
I do have some great profile pics.

And who wants to hang out with someone exactly like them?
Even my ego isn't that much of a narcissist.

The one factor that intrigued me was what it was about my Facebook profile that pushed him over the edge to no longer want to meet me.
My blog posts? My pictures? My sassy status updates?

I'll never know and I'll never get to have my beige date.

But I did get to write about what a giant ass he was and that's far more important to this notorious lady anyhow.

Mix that with your beige juice and suck it.

Saturday, January 7, 2012

An answer in search of a question

You haven't slept with him?
No. But I want to. It's been, like, sixteen months and the last time lasted only two minutes.
She stops chewing her food and stares blankly at me. I'm sorry. Did you say sixteen months??
Yup.
Oh I think you should definitely sleep with him.

If I took a survey regarding my latest interlude the results would make an amusing pie graph.
EVERYONE has an opinion about my sex life.
Which is kind of ridiculous considering the way most people hand it out like they're a pez dispenser.
But I'm not like most people.
And my friends know this.

I'm actually a pretty old fashioned debutante about the whole thing.
Relatively speaking, of course.

But the particular beau I've been delighting in as of late is different from the men I'm used to dating.
And maybe because of that I've found myself writing my own Hamlet soliloquy.
Ophelia's dirty to do or not to do speech.

Everyone from my pseudo boyfriend to my favorite customer has an opinion about whether or not I should keep my panties on.
And Lord knows mother will be wagging her finger in disapproval when she reads this one.

You're too bright and beautiful to put up with anybody's bullshit.
Right now he has the power and until you have the power you're subservient.
Only do it if you can accept the fact you'll inevitably get hurt.
After you do it only allow a maximum of five minutes of snuggling and then be the first one out of bed and get dressed.
Find someone else to sleep with so you can stay friends with him.

It's really kind of amusing the monsoon of advice I'm receiving.
I'd kind of like to make a video of everyone getting interviewed.
Maybe dig up some ex boyfriends too.
Just to make the video all that more hilarious.

I'll add that to my to do list.
Or not to do.

Obviously I'm not the kind of gal to act now and think later.
One of my many best and worst qualities.

But regardless of what I choose to do or not to do I had to ask myself....

Why am I so calm considering something with someone I barely know when there were men I was over the moon for I refused to ever consider?

Maybe this kids really special.
Or maybe I'm no longer a mere girl.

I'm not looking for myself in my relationships anymore.
I don't need to find myself.
I'm here already.
I think I've made that pretty apparent.

So maybe that's the real answer.
Maybe I shouldn't consider such intimacies with anyone until I'm certain I am whole without whatever it is they have to offer.
So I don't know.
I mean, I likely won't, because that's just the kind of dame I am.
But I have to wonder....
I want to sleep with him more than I've ever wanted to sleep with anybody else.
And I'm not in love with him.

What the hell is up with that.
Maybe I'm not as deep as I thought.

Or maybe some questions have more than one truthful answer.

"Actually going all the way is like, a really big decision. I can't believe I was so capricious about it."

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Will you be my obsession, Valentine?

I've discovered a rare anomalie in dating.

The guy who asks you out but never takes you out.
The guy who wants to date you merely in theory.

The only time I ever experienced anything similar to this was when I was talking to The Texter.
Texter was a kid who never followed through with making any actual plans but when it was late at night and he was bored he'd want to start our verbal tennis with his oh so clever ice breaker of HEY.
The ridiculous part was I went on texting him for months before I grew weary of Texter's asinine dialogue and started dating Mr. Volcano.
And true to form, as soon as I was no longer available to volley his tedious banter he suddenly had to see me, NOW.

I'm so sexy when I'm unavailable.
Which never happens because I hate that game.
If I wanna see you naked then I'm not pretending like I don't wanna see you naked.
That's just how I roll.

Oh and ps?
The rendezvous with Texter ended with me making out with him at a bar in front of Mr. Volcano's best friend because I'd tried fixing him up when Mr. V was out of town.
The next day I filmed my first movie hung over and wondering if it counted as cheating when the guy you were dating didn't know if he wanted a relationship.
I decided it didn't.
After hearing of my spit swapping Mr. Volcano decided we should be exclusive.
Happy endings all around.

So Texter ancient history, what's happening now?
I have three different dudes who pop up out of the woodwork just around the time I forget we're still Facebook friends to let me know they still think of me inappropriately.

One guy took me out during the summer for a pleasant though lackluster date and then would occassionally message me about taking me out again but never actually set a time.
He texted me one night in December and imagine my surprise when a message from a number I didn't recognize read, So you're at Mumford tonight? I saw it on your FB.

Awwwww!
Who the fuck is this??
It's that guy who took you out for wine months ago.
Oh. Hi.
I'll be back in town in a week wanna grab a drink?
Uh. Sure.

And guess who never contacted me?

I love being rejected by guys I'm not even interested in.
It's SWELL.

Another kid who took me out on a few pleasant but lackluster dates did the same thing around my birthday.
And again, no follow through.
And again, a rejection from a guy I don't wanna kiss.

But the weirdest, most WTF is he thinking schmuck of all?
This kid I used to work with in Coffee Land who finds the most bizarre ways to try and get my attention.

I hadn't heard from him in.....10 months?
When he commented on a picture of me and him together on Facebook.
No one else had commented on the picture he just randomly decided to talk about that night knowing I'd see the comments.
How clever.

So curious as I am at his lack of subtlety I agree to meet with him for a drink.
And it turned out the kid needed someone to discuss his sex life with.
And he thought of me.
How flattering.
I have no idea why I was the one he sought counsel from.
I try not to think about it.

So assuming we're now friends I suggest meeting up again.
He's pretty busy, he explains to me.
I pretty much have something planned every day for the next month.
Damn, Romeo.
I know when I've been dismissed.

So another few months go by and what do I receive?
Another message from the kid himself.
A text, again from a number I don't recognize reading, So I saw you today and waved. But you didn't wave back.

Nothing says I care like creeper stalker messages from guys you deleted out of your phone ages ago.

Twenty bucks says they all decide to poke me on FB for Valentine's day.

Fucking freaks.

Monday, January 2, 2012

The worst date in the world

This is the story of a girl and a boy.
Though I should warn you this is not a love story.
This is a loathe story.
As in I loathe the very remembrance of his image burned in my mind.

The man raped my soul.


I was at work one day when who should walk past me?
But the soul raper himself.
Can I just say the way you have your hair, well it, it just looks lovely.
I blushed, in all modesty, of course.
He seemed a handsome fellow.
They all do when they cleverly sport beards to hide their ugly mugs.
Actually, do you think you could help me? I'm looking to get a fragrance for my aunt.

So I showed him several different kinds and he made up some elaborate story of needing to send it to her and then he asked me what my name was.
So I handed him my business card.
Actually, can I get your number? I don't really have an aunt I need to buy perfume for I just thought you were cute and wanted to talk to you.

My very own Meet Cute happening at work.
Merry Christmas to me.

But I didn't give him my number because that's considered quite the professional no no.
So I told him he could email me and one week later, he did.
A cleverly worded note he suggested a day and time and place for our rendezvous.
And I. Was. Thrilled!!

How romantic!
How delightful!
How magically unexpectedly lovely.

Shudder.
Soul Raper used the word lovely so many times on our date I may never enjoy the word again.

You look lovely.
This stew is lovely.
Some girl he met in Belgium was LOVELY.
My fucking nightmare of a date?
LOUSY.

I get to the pub first and it's a place I love that I'm a regular at.
So I tell the waitresses what's up and we're all giddy and giggling over my prince prospect.
The place is pretty packed but there's a booth in the corner with a Reserved sign.
For us, of course, he'd planned in advance.

Not really, but it seemed like some adorable coincidence.
There was a romantic corner booth saved just for us!
C'est magnifique!

Clearly we were about to star in two very different screenplays.

My first warning sign was the second he sat down he was not as cute as I remembered.
The beard was gone and he had very nondescript features.
You know how in every romantic comedy there is a peculiar looking guy who plays the funny side kick to the handsome leading man?
Well this guy was definitely miscast as my leading man.
The dick prick side kick was his area of expertise.

He then proceeded to violently spew his narcissistic bravado all over my vodka press while my eyes darted around the bar desperately trying to plan an escape route.
Talking with Soul Raper was like being out with Gaston.
Only without the dashing Disney sex appeal.

He interrupted me when I tried to talk, insulted the greatest review I've ever received in my acting career, disregarded my sincere compliment with a snide, Yeah, I've heard that before and bored me with tales of his latest South Park viewings.

If my life were a reality tv show I would have thrown my drink in his face and used a bunch of expletives to tell him where he could shove the rest of his evening.

But my mother raised me well and I was determined to remain a lady.
A lady who was delighting over the words she'd use to write about such a disappointing date.

He didn't pay.
And his Napolean Complex reared its ugly head when we stood up to go and he hissed my heels were sure tall.

What a fucking waste of my Miraculous bra.

Lucky for me I left the bar right as my la fee verte was getting off work.
So I met up with him and went home with a few hickeys as a souvenir.

Next time some weird looking side kick sits in front of me?
I'm downing my vodka and heading for the door.

Life is far too short for anything less than a handsome leading man.

my tongue is still numb

There are two types of people, those who burn the candle at both ends and those who burn the candle at only one end. Those who burn the candle at one end are more methodical, they burn slowly, deliberately. Those who burn the candle at both ends are a little more reckless though never boring. The candle burns faster but also brighter.

My la fee verte and I are opposite candles.
But somehow I maintain I shine just as brightly.
I'll be the judge of that, I'm sure is what he'd say.

It's wonderful having a little intrigue.
It has honestly been years since I've had something so carefree and reckless.
I love appreciating the moment for its raw simplicity.
And not staring into the eyes of a man whose looking to me to save him.

I don't want to be with a man again who suffocates me merely to keep from drowning.
That is not romance.
I'm beginning to wonder what it even looks like.

I read that I should not get involved in a serious relationship until I know what I want.
Until I have a clear picture in my mind of what it is I'm seeking and what that looks like.

But I haven't a clue what I want.

And I love this stage in dating.
This stage where I've found someone I connect with.
Whose gorgeous.
And oh. yes. how. that. matters.
And when we look at each other we don't yet know what we're seeing.

And I love having no idea what may happen.
I love that I don't feel like I need to impress him because I don't know that I'd ever want to really be his.
Because I like feeling free.
And content in all that is.

And should I while away certain hours sipping absinthe in his kitchen?
Then that delights me.
And should I while away certain hours sipping champagne on my own couch?
Then that delights me just the same.

My la fee verte has me under his spell.
But for the first time in a very long time, I'm not reeling from all he took while I was asleep.
I'm here, intact.
Basking in the glow of a shared high.

Candles burning continuum.