Vacation Vents: Take 1

I'm on vacation.

Or rather, I took two days vacation alongside my regular two days off to create a sort of mini break for myself. And like everyone who heard I wouldn't be working for several days, the nagging question echoed in my ears...

What are you going to DO?

The ludicrousness that such a simple question could suddenly cause me to somewhat stress over what I should be doing made me stop and smack myself in the face so hard my cat sauntered over to lick my toes after my body made a loud thud, hitting the floor.

Why can't I allow myself the leisurely days of just Being without the social pressures of Doing? 

Vacation wouldn't be vacation unless there were exciting photos taken to upload on my Instagram. And yet, having the luxury of Time to make my apartment clean and then just sit, enjoying the space, has felt like it's own sort of holiday.

I spend money on this lovely apartment and on the beautiful things that adorn it and then want to beat myself up for using time to enjoy it?

I felt this urge to go somewhere but not because I genuinely wanted to but because it seemed the thing to do. So come Monday when people asked me what I did I could confidently say, 'I went to the beach, I went for a hike, I went climbing and running and bird watching and on a scavenger hunt.'

Seems a much more thrilling answer than, 'I enjoyed my clean apartment, playing with my iphone and sitting with my cat.' That's just not what people want to hear.

But if in that moment, that was my desire, why did I feel guilty about its simplicity?

I even rescheduled a coffee date because I just wanted to be alone. 

And as an extravert that seems a sin to say.

And yet the only time I create, is when I'm alone.

Curious.

Because the times I'm creating anything I feel most alive.

Selah.

Java Jives: Take 1

The Starbucks I'm a regular at is very different than any of the stores I ever called Work.

Of course, it's hard to maintain frame of reference, when it's been years since I last worked at Starbucks.

And even Years since I first worked there.

I think that Starbucks was solely responsible for my love life in my mid twenties.

So thank you.

And also.

Fuck off.

(Respectively).

The life of a barista is a rich blend of elite snobbery toward both the customers (we're not above handing you decaf) and the inferior baristas (those who knew how to make TRUE cappuccino foam and those who attempted comically) along with the rare kindreds who would let you wash the dishes in the back when you were on the verge of pouring vanilla syrup on a customers head.

There were cliques within a Store Team, much like any work place environment, but exaggerated greatly since the majority of baristas aged 19-27.

(Which made it the ideal job for a bubbly single college student. Would you like my phone number with that Americano?)

Alas, my days donning the green apron have long gone.

Though I do rejoice that whipped cream no longer lingers in my hair and caramel drizzle doesn't stay cemented on my beige corduroys, there was a sort of intimacy among my peers I do occasionally long for.

(Though the incestuousness of said intimacy often led to store transfers. Stores I've worked: Five. And counting).

But I digress.

The store where I satisfy my white mocha craving now doesn't have the warm, fuzzy vibe I recall in my glory days. (They didn't call me Sparkles, for nothing).

There are several friendly faces and the manager sure is swell.

But as a whole, it's not a place where everybody knows your name.

One barista is convinced my name is Grace.

The confusion happened one groggy morning when forced with the daunting task of giving my name before I'd had my morning coffee (OhmyGODIcanbarelykeepmyeyesopen). I gave a slight shrug in agreement with her mistaken certainty that my name was Grace, right?

It seemed lightyears easier to just agree with the oversight than muster the energy to correct her and as I sipped my liquid crack exiting the cafe I'd no idea it would start a lie that haunts me to this day.

Hi Grace, are you getting your Americano?

What was I supposed to do?

After about four times I felt like there's NO WAY I can admit my name's not Grace NOW!

Yeah, umm, actually.

Uuhh.

I'm sorry, my name's not Grace.

Oh.

It's not?

Then why have you acted like it was for the past few MONTHS??!

Yeah.

I'm a bitch.

My coffee name is Grace.

I may have to legally change it.

Or at least change the name on my Gold Card.

There's one barista whose the iciest of ice queens.

And not in a badass Elsa way.

She would not Let it Go if the townspeople wouldn't leave her castle when the party was over.

But really.

Who would?

(Bitch. This party be over like your mustard colored frock. Like, move over to Prince Charming's soiree already).

Seriously.

This girl is like Repsac the unfriendliest ghost.

(That's Casper backwards. In case you were wondering).

She never smiles.

She never pretends to care how my day is going.

(The obligatory interest in the daily occurrences of each customer is covered in the cost of my Five Dollar Mocha, thank you).

We don't like her.

But this past week I went in as per usual to feed my addiction and she waited at the register to greet me with the kind of excitement one would expect from a mute whose date was deaf.

And then.

It happened.

I love your shirt, the energy draining back into her face.

I stared down at the 'Sheldon is my Boyfriend' printed across my chest.

Right? I love The Big Bang Theory!

Most of the guys I date tend to be a lot like Sheldon, she proudly told me.

And in that moment I knew.

The Ice Queen's heart had melted, a moment.

And all over a shared appreciation for a skinny narcissistic genius who prefers video games over boobs.

This girl and I are gonna be like sisters.

One of these days, just wait.

Though.

Her sister's name is gonna have to be Grace.

This may be more complicated than I thought.

Maybe I should just switch to Dutch Bros.

#coffeeproblems

Still looking for a karaoke partner

I hate being ignored.

I'm sure everyone does.

Nobody's like, oh goodie, this person wants nothing to do with me!

But I think there are certain things in life I'm extra sensitive to.

Being ignored is definitely one of them.

I've had several great loves and nearly all of them have ended up never talking to me again.

I don't know why that hurts so much but it does.

My last love I was determined to stay friends with.

Though it nearly killed me in the process. 

Because being mere friends with someone you're in love with is pain incarnate.

But against all odds, sixteen months and counting, we're still friends.

I love him for that.

I'd have these moments where this fear would set in, a fear that he would never talk to me again.

I convinced myself something would happen, I'd do something or say something wrong, and that would be enough to push him over the edge and that would be that.

He'd shut me out and I'd never hear from him again.

Just like with Narcissus.

And Mr. Volcano.

And the countless Mr. Wrongs.

But for some strange reason, he'd always text. Or call.

He's somehow more resilient than most of his gender.

At least where I'm concerned.

So I meet this new guy.

And in some way, with my words, though I've yet to determine what syllables I formed that were so utterly intolerable, I push him somehow.

And this new guy has shut me out inexplicably.

I know I'm crazy.

I'm a handful.

And I'm sassy.

I'm loud. Direct. Forward.

But I swear, I didn't do anything.

I mean, nothing happened.

He just shut me out.

Because that's what he felt compelled to do.

Because that's how most people are.

And I don't know why it bothers me so much because people constantly come in and out of your life.

They make time for you and then you never see them again.

You email them and they never write you back.

No one could possibly have an intimate, meaningful relationship with everyone they know.

So why should it matter if there are those that don't think you're worth their time?

Because it is rare to find someone you actually want an intimate, meaningful relationship with.

Most people don't get you.

They don't want to.

I had a guy tell me this week, "You're an acquired taste."

Like I'm not delicious enough to be what everyone wants all the time.

I'm that one eclectic food item on the menu that makes people ask the waiter what that's all about but no one ever actually orders it.

I'm the tartare on the vegan menu.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm fabulous.

I love turning heads.

I'm glad I am memorable.

I'm glad my personality is so over the top that I'm going to another one of my customers weddings just because they fell in love with me during our few hours together.

This is not a pity party.

But I HATE that the men I care about disappear.

I would rather they told me to fuck off than never talk to me again.

You know why?

Because expressing ANYTHING is more genuine and honest than saying nothing.

I choose passion, even laced with hate, over indifference any day.

The poetry in all of this is that someone who is good friends with him, with the new guy whose shut me out, has ended up being more thoughtful and kind and supportive towards me, and I hardly know him.

So the romantic connection I had hoped would grow into something worthwhile instead led me to a different platonic connection that surprisingly has made me feel more beautiful than the man I found so handsome in the first place.

Life has a sense of humor that is an acquired taste.

Fortunately for me, I'm someone who can appreciate it.

Just like there are those who appreciate what they see when they look at me.

Not everyone can see the beauty in chaos.

Want my status with you

http://youtu.be/ggurvovxJGM

As You Are

It is rare to find someone who loves you.

I mean someone who loves you, after they've seen how you actually are.

I talk in a baby voice.

Not all the time.

But sometimes.

When I'm around my kitty.

When I'm really, really tired.

When my inner tutu clad six year old rears it's stubborn head.

Sometimes, at age thirty two, I talk like a little girl.

Now to most people, this is not only an undesirable trait, it's ANNOYING.

I understand I am a grown lady and a grown lady should act accordingly.

But I can't help it that my favorite color is still glitter.

I can't help it that I get as excited about Disney movies as I did when I first saw The Little Mermaid.

It's just who I am.

Today I was trying to reach for something at work and someone was in my way.

And rather than just shoving them out of the way (which is something I'm prone to do) or barking a terse MOVE! (which I'm also prone to do) I opted for my more playful, silly persona, and pretended I was wearing my sparkly pink tutu.

"Mmhmmph."

I moaned in what I perceived an obvious "Move" tone, the way a toddler might moan if you held it's favorite toy just out of it's reach.

My offending blockade refused to budge and merely fixed his gaze on me.

"Mmmhmmmphmmm."

I moaned in even greater annoyance, feeling my adorable curls nearly tighten into two ribboned pigtails of ringlets.

Still unmoving, the blockade frowned. 'Did you lose your ability to speak?'

"No. And if your daughter had done the same thing you would have understood exactly what she was saying."

'My daughter wouldn't do that. And she's F-I-V-E.'

The look he gave me was filled with such disgust and a lack of amusement, I had one of those rare freeze frame moments where I step out of the scene momentarily.

Those moments when something happens that stands out so greatly from the rest, whether it's that great, that traumatizing or that surreal, and I feel as though I'm looking down on what's happening, as though I'm watching my life like some Woody Allen film I rented from Redbox.

He truly hates me.

Or rather, he hates my behavior.

In this moment, what I've just done, he abhors vehemently.

He hates my baby voice.

He doesn't think I'm cute.

And he doesn't think that I should act like a little kid.

He's actually physically leaning away from me.

It's really hard to find people who can stand you just as you are.

I've loved a lot.

And the last man I loved was really hard for me to let go of.

Looking back it was so painfully obvious he'd stopped loving me.

I could actually see and feel the pity of the people in my life looking on as I foolishly held onto the ideal we'd one day reconcile.

It was the same way I felt for Gatsby, watching his misguided hope in Daisy.

Such an epic fool.

I must have known it would never be.

Because I knew, early on, that he was all wrong for me.

He didn't meet my needs, he was never who I thought I'd end up with.

It was so glaringly obvious he didn't want to be together.

But it felt so much easier to just believe, to hope.

He was the only man I'd ever loved that I'd felt I'd been my raw self with.

And even after that, he still wanted to hang out with me.

Baby voice and all.

It's really hard to find people who can stand you just as you are.

It's really hard to let go when you find one who can.

I have friends.

I know I am loved.

But how many of those friends really make time for me?

How many friends truly make me a part of their life?

I'm single.

And when people aren't single, they create their own mini world with their significant other.

It's not intentional or out of malice, but slowly, one by one, most of my closest sisters, become mere acquaintances.

We make time for the things we love, for the things that are important.

Our daily run, our Iphone apps, our phone calls to our parents while we commute from one event to the next.

Which is why I knew when my wonderful date was too busy to see me, that it hadn't actually been so wonderful after all.

If we don't make time for it, for someone, for something, it's not important to us.

It's really hard to find people who can stand you just as you are.

And it's really hard to find people who will make time for that person you are.

My two best friends are my best friends because of how much time they share with me.

Life is chaos.

And time often creeps away from us.

But it takes effort to love.

And the older I get, the more I realize how love is so simply time.

Time to be there.

To accept.

To love in spite of.

To encourage.

To believe in.

To hope with.

To support.

Because it's really hard to find people who can stand you just as you are.

And when you do find any, than you accept their faults too.

Because I don't want to feel like I can't talk in a baby voice or wear my pink tutu since most of the world will feel uncomfortable.

I want to be all the wonderful horrible sounds and colors that I am.

And if, in doing so, I only live to share coffee with five people, the five who share their time, who love the horrible wonderful I am, than that will be the sweetest cafe au lait's sipped upon.

Cheers.

The Witches of East Wick (And all the other Bitches you know)

Women are bitches.

They are worse than men.

Men might be arrogant or only interested in taking your panties off (and then get theirs in a bunch when you laugh at the mere thought) but they at least are simple and clear in their douchery.

Women, on the other hand, have the ability to be complexly conniving, one way one day, and gossip queens the next.

It's a fucking nightmare.

I used to work with all women.

There were a few token gay men -who were like extra fabulous women- so it was an estrogen extravaganza.

Drama. To the max.

Now I work with women and men and it's true what they say: women behave better when men are around.

I don't know why that is.

And as the superior sex -Sorry, dudes, but boobs beat balls any day- we really should know better.

The other day, this girl I knew from my days as a lingerie conoisseur came to visit me at The Store They Pay Me To Play With Diamonds.

We were hardly aquaintances.

We rarely even comment on each other's Facebook Status'.

But there she was with her new beau visiting lil ol' me and all the jewels I get to play dress up with.

And within minutes of her being there, her inner bitch reared its ugly head.

She not only was hating on the quality of product in the store, -Wow, there's a HUGE feather in that diamond, but I guess that's why it's only seventyfive hundred- she was questioning our policies, -I know, I know your warranty is "free" but you don't cover adding extra gold. Yeah we do. Since WHEN? She was even trying to get competitive about the sales she'd steal from us when she was selling jewelry at her last store. If I got a business card from here I'd staple their receipt from my sale and put it on the bulletin board. I simply replied, I always feel that if a customer doesn't find anything they love then they shouldn't buy it here.

What was her deal??

Did she come in as a spy for her store under the guise of dropping by to say hi to me?

And let's not even get started on the fifty pounds she's gained since we worked together or her super icky clingy boyfriend.

Grody.  To the max.

But all that wasn't even the really bitchy part.

Her boyfriend whispered something to her and she told him he could say anything in front of me.

She has less of a filter and is more uncensored than I am.

And wanting to validate what she was saying and try and be light hearted (since the majority of their visit so far seemed uncharacteristically hostile) I added, Yeah, I've even had people delete me from Facebook because of things I've said in my status or blog.

Yeah, I've thought about it, but then I think, no, it's just too entertaining.

Um.

Excuse me....

What?!

Did she just say she's thought about unfriending me because of my sass??

Hi!

Rude much!!

You don't get to come into my work and criticize me and just get away with it.

Especially with an ass the size of my dryer.

You have to be pretty or you have to be nice or no one will like you.

It's in the Bible.

And the tragic part of all is she's not the only one like this!

I feel like I encounter more bitches than sweethearts everywhere I go.

Do you know why a lot of women are friends?

Because they hate the same things.

They hate the same people.

They bitch together, bond, and then giggle gleefully through their two faced days.

I used to work with this girl who loved to hate on you not with her words, but with her EYES.

She'd stare at you from across the room, thinking she was oh so subtle, and I knew exactly what she was doing.

She'd be taking mental inventory of everything I was wearing, from the way my eyeliner was drawn on to how I'd pinned my hair, deciding if she approved of my striped hosiery or my layered necklaces.

I CAN SEE YOU STARING YOU BLASE QUEEN OF ALL THAT IS BEIGE!

You shop at Kohl's.

You aren't allowed to judge anything I wear.

This shit is vintage couture.

I find these interactions exhausting.

Unoriginal bores.

It is so much more wonderful when our focus, as goddesses in the world, is making each other smile and glow.

And not with some false phony feigned kindness but with genuine gratitude for the differences that make us each shine.

And with thankfulness that we understand, in ways a man can't, the logic of needing to cry one minute and stab someone with a fork the next.

That is beautiful.

And I wish we'd leave the ugliness to the men we'll never screw.

Because being bitchy really doesn't go with that outfit.

Just sayin'.

Dating Portlandia: The Good Kisser Guy, Part Two

A great first date is a rare and wonderful occurrence.

And it leaves you giddy waiting for date number two.

You anticipate what might happen next, what you'll wear, where he'll take you.

You wonder if the kissing will be as good the second time around.

Better, even.

You literally feel the anticipation stirring inside you, dancing on your skin, like some outside force making you giggle a lot.

But unfortunately for those first few dates, timing is everything.

And while I did get my second date with The Good Kisser Guy, it happened about a month after the first.

Now there's nothing explicitly wrong with having so much time lapse between dates, per se.

I understand that life happens, people get busy, they get ill, they travel, have family in town, get swamped at work, etcetera, etcetera.

Fine, whatever, things happen, I get it.

But this is the problem for ME.

I have a short attention span.

I am all about the momentum.

I need things to build, emotionally, physically, intellectually.....

Timing is a delicate, moody teenage girl who loses patience when events don't flow just so.

You see part of the thrill of date number two was remembering how I left feeling date number one.

Now so much time had passed that it was harder and harder to remember.

Had he really been that great?

Had our connection been real or just some fluke of the night?

And now that I had this huge expectation in my mind would he be able to live up to it?

He was charming in text.

He was one of those guys who always had something going on, some play he was seeing, some friends he was meeting up with to sing karaoke.

I liked that he had a life.

But he wasn't at the stage to invite me to all these fabulous things so it left finding a time we were both free difficult.

Finally, feeling fed up with wondering and with a curiosity partly fueled by boredom I asked what he was up to right then.

Just carpe diem, lets meet right now, sometimes you gotta just grab life by the balls kinda whim.

And surprisingly, the timing was perfect for him.

He worked at this tiny indie movie theatre on the east side and invited me to meet him there and hang out.

With the promise of free popcorn and booze.

Score!

When I got there I felt like I was in high school, hanging with my crush at his work.

He had Crown Royale hidden under the counter -Did I mention he was also the manager?- and he fashioned us some well drinks while I munched on stale popcorn.

He was super friendly -Oh, you're just gonna kiss me in front of customers? Okay, that's cool.- and super chatty about all he'd been up to.

And it was fun.

He was a cute, fun guy to talk to.

It was fine.

Buuuttttt.......

The whole not seeing him for so long and having him just wanna suck face like we were hormone crazed teenagers left me wanting.

First of all, I just got there, so I wasn't nearly drunk enough to just make out for the sake of frenching.

Second of all, he obviously started this drinking party long before I got there and seemed already slightly intoxicated which is never very sexy when you're sober.

I remembered how much he drank on our first date.

Does he have a drinking problem? I thought to myself.

And don't get me wrong, he was a doll and I liked kissing him, it's just the timing was all wrong.

I didn't feel close to him because I hadn't seen him in so long and I felt a little silly being so demonstrative in a public place.

I know, I know.

Hand over the knitting needles, Grandma.

Needless to say date number two was a little anticlimactic with The Good Kisser Guy.

He invited me to come over after and I could have had a good ol' drunken tryst but I wasn't feeling it.

The weeks that followed held some half hearted texts and excuses for why he was too busy to make time for me and I knew the great love affair I'd imagined might be never would.

Sometimes a great kiss is really just great because of that moment. 

They happen and we delight in them but they don't always last.

But kisses that are just ordinary hardly seem worth it.

And I was willing to wait for one that was great every time.

Because really good kissers always have perfect timing.