Dating Portlandia: The Good Kisser Guy

When I saw his picture online I thought, 'Yes. Please.'

He was a DOLL.

Big blue eyes, adorable smile, the kind of handsome that stepped off the pages of an American Eagle catalogue.

Only less douchery and more charm.

I was stoked to meet him.

He picked a place I'd never been to on Belmont. 

Circa 33.

It ended up being the kind of bar that's right up my alley.

Kind of chill environment but fancy enough to use the good dark cherries in an Old Fashioned.

(By the bye, that is the sign of a good bar: One that makes a damn good Old Fashioned. Try ordering one at a dive bar or a Mcmennamins? Absolute rubbish).

When I walked in, he was already there, with a drink nearly empty.

I sat down and was immediately attracted.

He was a little pretentious and arrogant (as I discovered he was also an actor--and what talented artist isn't at least a trifle narcissistic?)

But I honestly find it amusing when guys flaunt their raging egos on dates.

I know they're trying to impress me.

Which really just means they think I'm cute.

The date was going well enough, conversation flowing, along with the whiskey.

But I was having a hard time figuring out if he was into me or not.

Maybe it was my own nerves, because I found him so attractive, but I honestly thought maybe the night would end early.

"Come on, let's go to Aalto." 

He paid for our drinks and without even waiting for me to agree or not, headed towards the door.

We headed to Aalto Lounge (which is like three doors down from Circa 33).

I've actually had quite a few dates at Aalto over the years.

Although, I apparently hadn't been there in awhile because the decor had vastly changed.

It used to have the kind of bathroom that made you afraid to sit on the toilet but everything looked much more classy than I'd remembered.

There was modern art on the walls and obvious coats of fresh paint (though Aalto's notorious lack of lighting had remained in tact).

I was impressed.

With the swanky new Aalto, with the cool confidence of my date, with the fact that after just a few minutes of sitting next to each other he leaned in and kissed me.

I've only had a few first dates with moments like this.

Where the guy gives me a goodnight kiss in the middle of the date.

It takes the right kind of swagger, and an insane amount of chemistry.

But it's always awesome.

I blinked several times as he pulled back, smiling at me.

"You know. You're not my usual type."

'I'm not?' I played along.

"No. I usually go for girls that are like this big," He cupped his hands like he was holding an imaginary grapefruit. "And like, this tall," he held his hand about three feet above the ground.

'Pixies!' I said.

"Yeah. But you're a total fox."

I grinned.

And let him kiss me again.

Or rather, devour my mouth.

He had no idea but his little compliment fit snugly in this tiny hole in my heart.

Guy, the lost love of my life, had hooked up with a tiny little pixie months after our breakup.

It alway stung that his rebound was a girl ten years my junior, with a body type exactly the opposite of mine.

But this guy was telling me I was so irresistible I broke the mold for his usual pixie girls.

Pretty much the perfect thing for him to say.

He wanted me to come home with him (Gosh, isn't that sweet?) but being that I'm not a skeezy skank I politely declined.

We did however french beside my car long enough for me to wake up the next morning with a hickey on my neck.

(I didn't know guys still gave hickeys when you were in your thirties).

And it was the first date I'd been on all year, where I didn't feel this longing to see Guy.

I felt a longing to be kissed again. 

And no sooner had I crossed the bridge and gone from SE to SW than my phone rang.

It was the Good Kisser Guy.

'Hello?'

"Where are you?"

'I'm downtown. Why?'

"Already? I wanna see you."

'You just saw me,' I laughed.

Gee. I didn't just break the pixie mold, I was such a good kisser, he wanted more. 

After only five minutes of being apart.

My ego inflated and nearly derailed my car.

'Next time,' I cooed into the phone.

"I look forward to it."

I hung up and couldn't get rid of the stupid grin painted across my face the entire drive home.

 

Dating Portlandia: The Intense Guy

I actually got there early. 

Which is surprising because I'm always late.  

For E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. 

If I ever get married I'll probably show up after the groom.  

I like to make an entrance. 

I'd never been to Interurban before.  

Part of what I enjoy most about dating, other than the possibility for something new and fabulous, and other than the sheer entertainment of men in general, is learning about hidden gems in Portland.

Interurban is a bar on Mississippi.  

And Mississippi is the new Hawthorne.  

(Or rather, Mississippi and Alberta are the new Hawthorne and Belmont.) 

NE is actually cooler than SE now.  

Because it's still indie enough that the majority of people haven't realized how cool it is.  

But I'm a total baller.  

Or rather, my date was.  

He picked the venue.

The layout of the bar was relaxed with only a few tables.  

I walked along the bar down a narrow hallway which led to outside tables.

The fall weather coupled with my dress didn't bode well for outdoor seating so I headed back towards the front of the bar.

I actually kind of love being the first to arrive on a date because then I can scan out the best seat in the house to be viewed.

The kind of placement that makes you easy to spot and makes it easy to spot the guy when he walks in the door.

I tucked myself in the corner right along the wall, near the front entrance, and he spotted me right when he walked in.

He looked like my first love.

If my first love had gained thirty pounds and smoked a lot of weed.

I think my date may have been stoned.

This is Portland after all.

He started talking and he was an open book.

He spoke very passionately about life and his interests.

About how his ex girlfriend and he had turned their relationship into an open one and she fell in love with some other guy and so here he was.

"And what is your feeling on open relationships?" Intense Guy asked me.

The good thing about dating in your thirties versus dating in your twenties is that in my twenties I may have been too nervous to give my honest opinion about things I didn't fully agree with.

If a guy was cute I wanted him to like me.

And what guy's gonna like me if I tell him his ideas are dumb?

'Oh no. Not for me. I'm terribly old fashioned. And I don't like to share my toys,' I replied.

"Your sex toys?"

'N-O. My men. My men toys. Like, my favorite toys, my favorite things. Not sharing them.'

I knew within fifteen minutes of the date that this guy and I weren't compatible.  

But I also ordered steak tartare that happened to have just arrived and it also happened to be phenomenal.

Interurban had this rad combo of having a sort of casual dive energy about it but the menu was swanky enough to have bacon wrapped figs.

It's like topping chocolate chip cookies with salt.

An unlikely pairing that's fucking fantastic!

So instead of leaving my date right away, I enjoyed my food, and my delicious Old Fashioned (that was made with a delicious dark cherry--yes, this bar was a keeper) and nodded with interest to what the Intense Guy had to say.

Eventually, though, he sensed my disinterest.

"I feel like I might have alienated you with what I said," he observed.

'I just don't feel like we're compatible at all.'

"Well, I appreciate you being honest. Most people aren't like that."

He was quiet for a minute and I thought how this seemed to be the best worst date I'd ever had.

"I'm really glad we met up," he smiled at me.

We split the bill and I thought how amazing it would be if all dates could be so forthright and straightforward. 

"You know, I think there are some things that you want that you don't even realize you want."

'Like what? Like being in an open relationship?' I asked.

"Like being tied up and dominated."

'Ohhhhkaaay. And with that, dear one, I bid you adieu.'

So maybe a hint of guile and secrecy is better on a first date.

Good Lord.

Dating Portlandia: The Nice Guy

"I agree. Dating sucks."

I was kind of drunk so I don't really remember what I said for him to agree with. But maybe I didn't say anything specific.  Maybe it was just my tone he heard.  It's hard to find someone who understands you.  Especially when you have no idea what you want anymore.

I went out with him twice.

The Nice Guy.

Who I curiously enough would have dubbed The Pervert after our first date but first impressions aren't always very accurate.

My last boyfriend I first thought was queer.

Turned out instead to be the best lover I'd ever had.

Jokes on me.

Repeatedly.

The first time The Nice Guy and I met up was at Goldust Meridian.  The bar has a casual vibe but it's dark and kinda sexy too.  I think that's why I like it.  If the date goes well, it helps set the tone.  But if the dates a dud it's easy to think of it as just another Southeast hipster bar.  It boasts 10 different champagne cocktails.  One, Death in the Afternoon.  Champagne and Absinthe.  Which always hits me hard.  I've had several dates where Death in the Afternoon played a part.  But I didn't order one that night.  I drank Old Fashions instead. I was feeling understatedly classy.

He was tall and lanky. Dressed in a button down shirt with a vest.  I love it when guys dress up.  Vests and suspenders and ties.  It all just makes me lose my freaking mind.

We shared a couple appetizers.  I always feel a date is good when you're already sharing your food and your cocktails.  It's like admitting you're comfortable with their mouth being in the same vicinity as yours without openly  admitting you've already thought of each other naked.  He was fun and made me laugh.  It wasn't one of those awkward first dates where you keep looking toward the door every time someone walks into the bar just so you can have someone else to look at.  

But he did seem to have problems looking only at me.  He had a bit of a wandering eye.  No, let me rephrase. It seemed every pair of tits that walked by our table he had to check out.  At first it was sort of funny because I thought, man you're not even being subtle.  But then it just got kind of annoying.  I go on dates all the time and no other guy I've gone out with has had such a hard time keeping his attention on me. Have you seen my ta ta's?

He paid and with the exception of his boob radar I had a decent time, so I decided if he asked me out again I'd go.

And he did.

So I went.

I planned on calling him out on his blatant douchery should it persist a second time.  I'd be playful about it. Like, hey buddy, let's at least check 'em out together.  What do we think of her over there? My thing is, I hate being ignored.  So if I'm at least included in your undesirable characteristics, it will at least entertain me. And dating is all about being pleased, is it not?

The thing of it was, though, he wasn't oggling anyone the second time around. He was actually really sweet and attentive. I was running late and he asked if he could order me something. And when he noticed my first drink was empty and our waitress was nowhere to be found, he went to the bar to get me another cocktail.  He listened intently while I talked and at some point in the middle of some story I was telling, he softly said, "You are so beautiful." When I got back from the restroom he'd already paid the tab and feeling so overwhelmingly wrong about my first impression of him (and feeling the warm embrace of the bourbon I'd been drinking) I shared my mistaken view of him thinking we'd have ourselves a good chuckle over it.

But he just sat there. Blinking at me. He looked wounded. And I felt like I'd kicked a puppy. Eventually he quietly mumbled, "I don't want to feel like I can't ever look at anyone."

I was ready to leave and felt I'd shifted the energy of our date so I just changed the subject and said we should head out.  He walked me to my car (all 12 feet across the street) and leaned in to give me a very unexciting goodnight kiss. It was the kind of lackluster kiss you'd expect a highschool actor to give the class virgin in the spring musical.  Only in my play there was no orchestra accompanying us.  Only the sound of my own thoughts convincing me I should let him kiss me since he'd been so nice.

I didn't hear from him again.  Maybe he knew when I kissed him, I really didn't mean it. 

Maybe he didn't hear an orchestra accompanying our kiss either.

But I did realize at least one thing I know I want that night.

I want the kind of goodnight kiss that makes my vision blurry.

It's out there.

I felt it just the other night.

Who knows

I

"So. How's your girlfriend?"
'I don't have a girlfriend.'
"Fine, the girl you're dating."
'I'm not dating anyone.'
"You're not?"
'No.'


II

'It's not official but I'm still hanging out with "that girl," just so you know.'



III

"Let me see the picture you have of her on your phone."
Silence. Staring. Eyes locked.
"Let me see it."
'Well, there are some on her Facebook--'
"No. I mean the picture you have on your phone."
Silence. Deeper staring. Not blinking.
"I know you have a picture of her on your phone."
'Here's one from Forest Park.'
"Oh you took her to Forest Park. How sweet. I told you about Forest Park. We were supposed to go there."
'I've gone there a bunch of times by myself.'
"She's not pretty. I can't believe you'd rather sleep with her than me."
'What makes you say that?'
"Well you are, aren't you?"


IV


"Lying to me about it makes it a much bigger deal."
'I didn't lie.'
"You said you weren't dating anyone."
'I'm not. Look....it's not on Facebook.'
"Are you kidding me??!"
'What? That was a big deal to you!'
"Oh my god."
'Well, it's hard to explain....it's complicated.'
"What's complicated? That you have a new fuck buddy?"


V

"Do you know how I knew you'd have a picture of her on your phone?"
'How?'
"You always have pictures of the girls you're getting naked with when you first like them."


VI

'Look. I still don't know about things. I still don't know what's gonna happen.'
"Yes you do. You're sleeping with someone else."
'It's not serious. She lives in Vancouver. I see her like once a week.'
"You're just another guy. I thought you were my soul mate."
'I still could be your soul mate.'
"No."


VII

'Maybe when things are....maybe when I get my condo.....'
"You won't have enough money saved up to buy your condo for three years."
'Yeah, depending on how much I want to put down.'
"You expect me to just sit around waiting for you for three years?"
'......no......'
"And what's gonna happen when you finally own your condo? I'm still gonna get my feelings hurt sometimes by what you say. You're still gonna get mad at me for leaving my clothes on the floor. Things will still be the same."
'......i know.....'



VIII

'Hey look. I took you there.'
"I remember."
'And remember when we went there?'
"Hmm."
'Who knows what will happen.'
"Stop."
'Who knows.'

Numb Nights

I was "That Girl."

Which is totally acceptable and even understandable when you're in your early twenties.
It's a right of passage, a stair well to true womanhood.

But after all the relationships I've had I should have known better.

Love makes you a painfully devastating fool.

Everyone knew.
Even the people who didn't know me knew.

...He is stringing you along until something better comes along....

But I wouldn't believe it.
I knew he loved me still.
He had to.
It was written in his eyes, somewhere inside, buried behind the lies, was the truth he longed to sing out.
I love you. I want you back. Take my hand and walk with me.

He's fucking some new girl instead.

'It's not serious,' he tried to reassure me.
'You know me. I don't know what I'm doing.'

Awe.
I see.
So I should feel better that I have been replaced by a fuck buddy?
You are shattering my heart for sex that doesn't mean anything?

Perfect.
Brilliant, really.

Because if he really liked her, if he was excited about the connection and wanted to pursue it then I could be happy for him.
But he was indifferent.
Numb.
As lost and discontent as ever.
So his actions left the bitter aftertaste of indifference in his mouth and blood in mine.

I am so pathetic.

Love believes the best, so they say.
Which is why I called him back when I found out his friend committed suicide.
And then we ended up back in each others arms.

And she took my place while my side of the bed was still warm.

What a silly little girl I am.

No lover. No friend. No soul mate.
No truth and nothing but the truth.
Just hollow words.
And one long hug.
And lips soft against my cheek.

A blur.
The merry go round keeps spinning even as I fall off it.
All I see is gray.
And the gnawing numbness.

How did it so quickly die?

One page from a lover's discourse

The weather the other day was so warm it reached a point of discomfort driving in my car.
For no reason, except perhaps a stubborn refusal to accept the changing seasons, I held back from turning on my AC.
Driving down the road, clutching my iced coffee, I remembered his mutual disdain for hot weather.
I knew somewhere, as he scuffled past the sea of strangers in the city, he had sought the solace of the shade as I had.

Hating the heat (especially when that "heat" is a sunny, breezy day in the low 70's) is an oddity I don't share with many people.
So the first time I heard him complain about the sun I remember thinking, I Love You Even More.

His strangeness complimented mine.
Like all young, inexperienced loves, we parted.
The hopeless romantic dwelling inside me, who refused to stay locked up in the basement of my heart, kept resurfacing at inopportune moments to whisper, He Can't Live Without You. He'll Figure It Out. He Will Declare His Love When He Is Ready.

.....................................


Shoveling the butter in my face I disguised as bread "with" butter, my dinner guest looked at me with earnest.
"I just don't understand how someone with your fabulous personality would put up with that."
Since he was obviously trying to be a gentleman I knew "fabulous personality" was his way of saying "cup size."

I knew I was beautiful.
The way a little girl is aware of her captivating prowess when a room full of grownups watches her twirl in her pink tulle skirt in the middle of the room.
Being seen by so many smiling faces sends pulses of energy across my porcelain skin.
It's like having the spotlight on a stage lit upon me all the time.
It's intoxicating.

The men I work with adore me.
I'm the only woman there who understands the importance of a good pushup bra and a well drawn red lip.
Even customers lingered around after their purchase just to smile alongside my cheery bubbliness.

I am captivating.

Yet possessing this knowledge, even honing it to my advantage didn't diminish my desire for the man who didn't know what he wanted.

.......................................

The problem was trying to explain love.
It was like trying to reason with a manic depressive.
There was no logic to my behavior.
And yet to me I was the sanest of them all.

But how could I begin to describe my own unfathomable reasoning for having faith in a man that could possibly choose me after he had thrown me away?

Could I attempt to divulge in detail the way he remained calm when my face became red and tear stained from unprompted hysterics?
How after intense intertwining thrusts instilling satisfaction to every nerve between my lips and toes he would soften and kiss my forehead?
How he would nurture the little girl living timid inside me by making her rose tea and handing her the tiny stuffed penguin wrapped in my favorite fluffy blanket knowing how deeply it comforted me?
How instead of keeping it tucked away in the back of his closet where it had lived the sixteen months prior he began keeping it on the shelf near the left side of his bed, the side I always slept on?

How could I convey the appreciation I felt for the way he'd always stopped whatever he was doing, on the computer, in the kitchen, to check in with me?
The way he'd walk over and pat me on the head or speak softly a Hello with such simplicity that sighed My Beloved?
The times he'd bring me home some delectable delight so I could know by the indulgence of the dark chocolate that I was special and a part of all he did?

How could any of these scattered memories justify my inability to dismiss him entirely?

........................................

Then I had a startling thought.

What if I didn't ever hear from him again?
What if he never called and instead just learned to live without me?

I had reconciled myself with out fate: We either would be reunited as friends or lovers.
But I hadn't considered the alternative.
He could be lost at sea with the other scores of forgotten boyfriends.

The reality socked me in the gut.

But my pride dismissed the idea.
He called me sweetie less than a week ago.
There must be a glimmer of that guy I fell in love with existing somewhere deep inside his closed off heart.

My pride.
My illusion.
My faith.
My resolve.

Whatever truth might shatter my heart, I held on tightly in the dark hours between sleep.

My fabulous personality wouldn't allow me to accept the fate that my love was mine alone.
Unrequited.
And at a stand still.

........................................

Life before the Miraculous Bra

It's amusing the things we remember about people.

This woman came into the store the other day to have her ring cleaned and I recognized her face.
I had worked with her six years ago when I was a receptionist for a steel fabricating company.
My boss used to reprimand me for using the bathroom too often.
I think he was pissed because he was at that age where trips to the urologist outnumbered the times he got laid.

It's the only job I ever walked out on.

Thankfully I found a job several days later.
As a receptionist at a roofing company.
A mere street away from the steel fabricating company.
Thankfully that boss didn't mind when I had to pee so I was much happier.

The woman who had worked with me I remembered for only one reason.
She came up to me one day and asked me what kind of bra I wore to make my breasts spaced so far apart.
"My husband doesn't like my cleavage," she had said. "He wants them to be more far apart. Like yours."
I could never decide what upset me more.
The fact she was pointing out my Double D's were spaced perfectly for breast feeding twins--Oh. The horror.--or the fact she was married to such a neanderthal.

Most women desperately wanted their cleavage reminiscent of Dolly Parton the way men wanted their beards to be full like Paul Bunyan.
Yet my body dared to fight against the norm.
It had been designed for the ease of feeding bastards which I wanted none of.

Humor is Life's specialty, after all.

So there she stood before me.
Miss too much cleavage, herself.

When I brought her ring up to my eye to examine her diamond with my loop I nearly wretched seeing how filthy it was.
The way women don't ever clean their jewelry is amazing to me.
It's like not bathing for six months, carrying that filth on their hand and then placing it a few inches from my nose.
Lovely.

She didn't recognize me which wasn't surprising since I'm no longer a blonde.
Hair color's a big deal, you know.
Almost as big as boobs.

The Perfect Couple Disillusion

About a month ago I sold an engagement ring to the "Perfect Couple."

Straight out of a Disney movie, chorus singing in the background, 'Whatever YOU want, Pookie,' sappy cuteness.

They were SO googily eyed, lovesick, awestruck about one another that normally I would be overwhelmed with a desire to hurl a crying baby at their heads.

I mean, no one should be that lovey dovey when they're past 22.

But there was something about this couple that was just so genuine I didn't involuntarily wretch over their demonstrative love.
I actually felt inspired by it.

I want what they have, I thought to myself.
Mr. Vagina and I were never like that.
Not even a little bit.
And I wanted someone who was head over heels crazy about me.

The Perfect Couple had been dating for over two years and just purchased a house together.
The story of how they met was that Mr. Perfect Couple, normally charming in the presence of ladies, felt tongue tied in the presence of Mrs. Perfect Couple.
It was love at first sight.
And they were inseparable ever since.

Too fucking cute.

They were both SO. EXCITED. over the idea of getting married it was N.A.U.S.E.A.T.I.N.G.

I mean, Good Lord, it was like Giselle and her prince left Andolaysia to come buy an engagement ring from me.

But I fell in love with them, in spite of myself.

Mr. and Mrs. Perfect Couple adored me so much they brought me fruit and a cupcake when they picked up their ring several days later.
(They work in a grocery store. How peachy.)

I even wrote them a Thank You card telling them how inspired I was meeting them.
And that I hoped one day to have a relationship like theirs.

I followed up with Mr. Perfect Couple and invited him back in to get a birthday gift for Mrs. Perfect couple.
He was very friendly on the phone and told me that I was so gorgeous if he wasn't in love with his girl, he would totally ask me out.
He also said the man who lost me was a fool.

Had to love him.

He said he'd see about fixing me up with one of his friends and we both agreed we should all get together soon for drinks.
Talk about having a friend in the diamond business!

I was thrilled.

How cool would it be to meet the future love of my life through a fabulous couple I sold an engagement ring to?
What a fabulously romantic story!

But then my fantasy was rudely interrupted.

Mr. Perfect Couple started texting me more.
And his texts started bordering on flirtation.
He called me a super fox.
Fair enough.
Stating the obvious.
Then he told me, I'm not going to lie when I saw you I said to myself I hope this woman helps us.
Hmm.
Ohhhkaaay.

Then he invited me over to have a drink with him.
You know.
Since his girlfriend was out of town.

Which of COURSE, was a totally innocent thing to do.
And I'm SURE that when his GIRLFRIEND found out about it she wouldn't freak the fuck out.
Because it's perfectly appropriate to drink libations with some girl you think is hot when your lady has skipped town.

Ugh.

I felt sick.

Why is it that every time I think maybe, just maybe, I can have a male friend who isn't just gonna wanna get me naked shit like this happens?

And the really fucked up part is that I was actually jealous of this poor girl!
I actually thought that there had been some missing element in my last love affair.

And you know what?
Mr. Vagina is a huge pussy.
He is a scared, withholding coward.
But I know he never would have pulled a stunt like this asshole.

Maybe my guy wasn't the mushiest but he was certainly loyal.
And it's nice to realize I'd actually prefer a reserved man I can trust than a charming, romantic guy ruled by his passions.

I never fully appreciated my loves differences while he was mine.
But I know that the next man I love, I won't be comparing his weaknesses to some other guys supposed strengths.
Because no man is perfect.

But some imperfections are much more desirable than others.
Hearing my man only ever call me adorable and receiving kisses on the forehead suddenly don't seem like such a bad thing.

There's No One Elf Like You

Christmas was a time of intimacy.

I brought a tiny tree and hung stockings.
We filled them with sweets and mini bottles of alcohol.
We watched Christmas cartoons and stole kisses under the imaginary mistletoe as we cooked together.
The dinner we prepared would have made any dinner guest proud.

It was a snuggly time of year.
He even took pictures with me.
And he hated taking pictures.

One night, not even influenced by a drop of wine, he opened the iron gates guarding his heart.
Kissing me, he stopped and looked into my eyes.
"I love you. You're the most beautiful woman in the world."

I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
Three days later he said he needed some time apart.
And that was the beginning of the iron gates locking for good.

Days crept by our premature ending and he was looking for something in his desk.
And that's when I caught a glimpse of it.
Safely tucked away in a drawer only he opens was the miniature snow globe I'd put in his stocking.
A little elf dancing in the snow, with the caption reading, "There's no one elf like you."

He kept it.
The minimalist emotionless purger held onto the silly little snow globe I'd given him at Christmas.
I wanted to point it out.
I wanted to tease him and pretend he had to give it back.
But I knew that'd ruin it somehow.

I felt like I'd caught the high school quarterback reading Shakespeare sonnets in the parking lot.
No one knew how much it made him smile to remember how happy we'd been under those twinkle lights.

Or to remember I saw him that way.
Him and only he.

But my heart housed its own secret.

That little snow globe had once belonged to another lost love.

I'd bought it years ago for Mr. Volcano, the year my love shined under other twinkle lights.
But he hadn't wanted to keep anything from me.
There was nothing about me he'd wanted.

So with crumpled dreams and lying love letters, it went in a box, unseen, and forgotten.
Three moves later and a season or six, I stumbled across the tiny treasure.
I thought my new love might find it amusing.

Though knowing him, I reasoned, he'll think nothing of it and mumble his usual, snide response to everything.
"It's adorable."

And yet with all of the things I'd packed up one calm night in acceptance, and all the unwanted clutter he'd repeatedly thrown out and the handful of things he actually held onto, that little elf sits still in his desk.
A symbol of all that once was.
All he let himself feel, before he locked it away, shoved in the corner of a drawer no one sees.

She's Adorable

She isn't going to think you're the sexiest man alive.

When she sees you she isn't going to feel this urge to knock you down and tear all your clothes off.

She won't think your glasses are almost as cute as your bow ties.

Or notice that your belt matches your shoes.

Perfectly.

She won't think it's cute the way you obsessively talk about cooking.

Or appreciate how hard you worked to make the risotto perfect.

She won't find it endearing the way you watch Star Trek on Netflix.

Or the fact that most of your "friends" are guys on the computer you play video games with.

She won't love the way you pat her on the head or hum when music isn't playing.

She won't understand that when you act put out having to hold her hand walking around the city you secretly delight in it even more than she does.

She also won't know you love hearing compliments even though you close your eyes and look away as though physically rejecting them.

She won't fit perfectly in the nook when she snuggles with you in your bed.

And she won't tell you how freakishly cold your feet are.

Even though they always are.

She won't start the water for your coffee in the morning.

Or understand that you won't talk until after you've had some.

She'll talk too much and make you feel like you're inadequate.

She'll wear ugly shoes and tell you her favorite restaurant is the Olive Garden.

She'll think you're weird for liking Enigma.

And for always taking pictures of your food.

And for the amount of time you spend talking and thinking about the condo you don't yet own. 

Or the Rolex.

Or the designer suits.

But you'll convince yourself it doesn't matter.

Because she's adorable.

Even if never as adorable as I used to be.

Bad wine? Or does it just need a time out?

My friend's beach cabin is stacked with her parents wine.
Because they are as kick ass generous as my own folks, they told us to drink as much as we like.

The catch?
Half of it may have turned.
You see, UNLIKE my folks, they buy wine and then don't drink it.

So we set out on an epic taste test to discover which wines were drinkable and dispose of the rest.
You may think that determining if wine is still good is an easy task but it's actually fairly complex.

Some wines give off a pungent odor, from the cork, from the bottle, from the moment it's poured in the glass.
And the instinct is to chuck the wine because who the hell would want to drink something that smells like that anyway?
Wet dog.
Wet cardboard.
Skunk.
Certainly titillating to the senses, that's for sure.

My God, titillating is a funny word.

But, my favorite, potential wine disaster of all is the wine that can smell like a skunk when you first open it, but once given time to breathe and aerate, the skunk smell will disappear and the wine is not only drinkable, it's delicious.

The site I read this on said that most people, not knowing any better, would just instinctively dump the bottle out because if it smells bad, you should get rid of it.

I totally felt like this was how my last relationship was.
It had become a smelly skunk of a wine.
And what it needed was just some time to breathe and then it could be delicious.
We just had to wait, so things could breathe, and then see what happened.

But I'm so goddamn impatient I sipped the wine while it still reeked and he decided to just chuck the whole thing.

It's really a beautiful metaphor, when you think about it, as beautiful as any metaphor can be that involves the pungent smell of a skunk.

But I would like to venture out on a limb and say I could be a fucking delicious wine if given the chance to chill in my decanter.

Can I get a, Come On?

I'm too impatient.
I'm impetuous and emotional and irrational.
I hate wait!

The Bible says that patience only comes from trials and I feel like if I don't get the fucking hang of this lesson soon, there's going to be a downpour of shit reigning on my sparkle fest so my stupid patience plant can bloom.

There are way too many analogies going on in this blog.
So I'm just going to set down the wine and sleep.

Perchance to dream.
That the next fucktard I adore is more than coward incarnate.

Fingers crossed.

The Great Mind Fuck

http://youtu.be/K1VNd2hRPfI




"she's a pornographer's dream, he said.
I knew what he meant.
but it made me imagine: what kind of a dream
he would have, that hadn't been spent?

...wouldn't he dream of the thing that he never
could quite get the touch of?

it's out of his hands, over his head
out of his reach....he's dreaming of what might be."-Suzanne Vega



Mr. Vagina is more than a pussy.
He's fucked up.

I blame myself.
Partially.

I chose to get sucked into his vortex of chaos willingly.
I mistakenly thought the storm had subsided.
The Love Tragedy had ended.
But like an onion, that also incites tears, he is layered.
One biting layer after another.
If only someone would throw him in a frying pan, he'd caramelize and be a fucking treat.

But he's not cooked.
He's fucked up.


I already knew I needed to steer clear of him for awhile.
His behavior towards me has been so erratic it isn't good for either one of us.
I hate inconsistency.
And it can't be a picnic for him either to have no idea what the hell he wants.

Time tells.
Distance allows growth.
BUT I SUCK AT WAITING.

I kept processing things rapidly and convinced myself that if I was now at this new stage, he TOO must be right there with me.
(Which makes absolute NONsense considering we were NEVER on the same page at the same time any day of any week since we met).

I'm an epic fool.

So it was over, I reasoned.
Oh Vee Eee Argh Over.
Taylor Swift style.
And since that was so logically clear, I inferred we were ready and capable of being mere friends because unlike lovers of years past, Mr. Vagina had been my friend more than anything else.
I missed his companionship.
I missed talking about nothing.

I was painfully lonely.

So I reached out one sunny day and he was right there.
And we walked around the city and danced with the cherry blossoms and sipped iced coffee.
And for the first time since we frenched, I felt content with what he was willing to give me instead of longing for what he wouldn't.

I felt so happy.

And we spent the next week talking.
Being friends.
Nothing weird.
Nothing implied.
Just ....interacting.
He invited me to food cart.
He took an extra long lunch just to walk with me.

He sent me a song.
Late at night, laying in bed, thinking of me.
He sent the song with the lyrics above.

I didn't know what he meant.
I didn't know what to think.
But I thought maybe he just missed me in his bed.
Lord knows I missed being there.

So we flirted.
And one night he REALLY flirted.
I mean, my oh my.
Naughty little boy.
But nothing happened.
It was just implied that something could.
That something would.
Soon.

And the next day when we talked and I told him about the birthday party that night he told me he couldn't make it.
HE HAD A DATE.
The man who had to be single right now had a date.
And what the hell was with the amorous texts of the eves prior?
'That is NOT going to be happening,' he condescended.

But....
I.....
How....
WHAT??!!

Was I a token in some fucked up game orchestrated by a little boy with too much time on his hands?
Let's make the girl who loves me think I care, just enough to stroke my cracked ego.
SO I CAN FEEL LIKE A MAN.

Brilliant.
Classic.
Loving behavior.

Oh spite.
Oh hell.
I am fortune's fool.

But in a perverse twist of tears, needed.
Because I will have no desire to reach out to him again.
He took my love goggles and he shattered them with a hammer.

It took me fucking long enough.

And it took a mere handful of days for him to contact me again.
But there are no words left for me to say.
We need a new word for over.

I'm out of his hands.
Over his head.
Out of his reach.

And he can dream of what will never be.

Turn on the Alanis Morisette, cuz this bitch is ANGRY

Ladies and gentleladies, friends and enemies, gather round because I have some exciting news to share.
It turns out that Mr. Cartier is indeed, yes, you guessed it, a COWARD!
He had us all fooled with the Prada glasses and his ability to make homemade bread but it turns out Mr. Cartier was his alias.
He is in fact, Mr. Vagina.

You know how Dr. Jekyll had his bad ass violent alter ego, the one and only Mr. Hyde?
Well it seems my daddy dearest had his own alter ego; the boy who cried love.

Mr. Vagina is actually a distant cousin to Mr. Volcano, the boy who declared once that he loved me but he just couldn't be in love right now and instead fled to the mountains of Alaska where he still resides to this day.
I was given a clue as to this relation when one day, weeks or so ago, I shared the story of Mr. Volcano with Mr. Vagina and when I repeated how he'd said he loved me but just couldn't be in love, Mr. Vag simply replied, "What's wrong with that?"

Hoh hoh hoh.
What's wrong with that?
What's WRONG with that?
You mean because you're doing the same thing you apron wearing green fairy!
Get your own bloody script!
Be an original, for Christ's sake.
I've been in this story.
I've STARRED in this story.
Your version is so much less romantic.

It's like this sad, drawn out Chekhov play and you're just screaming at the stage, Oh just DIE already! For the love of Anya, make SOMETHING happen! This inaction is making me fall asleep in my program.

He sent me a cute kitty picture.
He'd blown me off all day when I'd tried to address the uncertainty of us and I'd written that if I didn't hear from him that night, I was assuming it was the final nail in the coffin that was our romantic relationship.

Fairly simple instructions.
Interested? Respond. Not interested? Continue blowing me off.

So what does he do?
He sends me a fucking kitten.
Which was always his childish way of saying, I love you! Here's a smile!
Then he made sure a couple hours later that I understood him correctly.

"I don't want to get back together, but I wanted to send you that anyway."

Hi, Passive Aggressive?
Have you met your uncle, Mr. Vagina?

I'm sorry.
What was that?
And why, pray tell, did it take you so many months to admit this?

"I hadn't decided yet."

Awe.
Uh huh.
I see.
But now you have.
And why, because of me?

"Yes."

Right.
Because the whole "this has nothing to do with you, I keep trying to tell you, this is about me and what I want in my future..."
Blah blah BLEH.
Hairball.
That was all a L.I.E?
Or is this all a L.I.E?
What about when you called my Daddy and told him how much you wuved his wittle daughter and how you wanted her in your future?
Was THAT the L.I.E?

Wait.
I get it.
You're a fucking coward and never are honest when it comes to your feelings.

THAT'S IT!

I've been jerked around.
For loooooooooong enough.

But what a relief to know that I have the power to sway a grown man's mind.
A mind, that for three months was so overwhelmingly uncertain about what it wanted.
How fucking magical I am!!

Eve, move over, honey.
I am capable of turning the indecisive to decision.
You see, all you have to do is share with it the fact you're moving on and kissing another man and just clarifying that you really don't care if I date other people because this guy really likes me and he seems nice and I'm gonna give it a real shot so speak now or forever hold your peace.

So here's a fucking kitten.
Oh, but I don't want to be with you.
And you're the reason I finally made up my mind.
It's your fault.

Because obviously I take no responsibility in the decisions I eventually make.
I do have a vagina for fuck's sake.

Thank God I'm no longer a dike.
Bring on the next penis!

Match dot I seriously paid money for this?

A co worker told me I should join match.com.

These couples are always coming in to our work, looking at engagement rings, with stories of how they met online.
"I really think you should give it a try," she encouraged me.
"I think it will really take your dates up a notch."

Then, another co worker joined the site without even knowing the conversation we'd been having.
I couldn't take the peer pressure.
It was like 7th grade homeroom all over again.

Actually.
I just don't feel ready at ALL to meet someone new.
(Did I mention I'm still totally in love with my ex boyfriend who I broke up with?)
So I thought now was the PERFECT time to join a dating website.
Or rather, PAY for a dating website.
The timing is wrong.
And that's always when they say you meet your dream boat.
So bring it.
Just try and charm the pants right off me.
(Oh, like I'd even be wearing pants on a date. Pssh)

I've been on Okstupid for years.
Mostly for entertainment.
Every woman should have an Okcupid profile if only to feel pretty on those days she's feeling undesirable.
There are always world of warcraft trolls writing you poetry about what a goddess you are.
"You're hot enough to melt something unmeltable."
How fucking sweet.
And as clever as you are handsome.

I also joined Match because I'm so afraid of being a doormat.
My ex told me he needs some time to figure things out and he doesn't know if we're over for good.
How very reassuring.
But he hasn't said I Love You in two months and I have no idea what the hell I'm waiting for.
Nothing is going to magically change if I hold my breath and spend every night with my girlfriends.
I am not the kind of woman to wait for any man.
Good things come to those who wait?
How about, he who hesitates, loses.
As in, me.
Minus one buxom redhead.

Do you have any idea how many idiots are drooling over the chance to get me drunk and french me?
And I realized something.
The only reason to put up with shit like this, the indecisive, wishy washy uncertainty of my ex, is if the sonofabitch is your husband.
And son, this fool ain't my husband.

So, with timing seeming terrible and my co workers ardent faith that the caliber of people on a site you're paying for therefore being so much higher.....
P.e to the r.t compounded continuously, if I invest this many dollars into this many months then I'll have......
a true blue dreamy mcprince charming!

Right....?

Except there seem to be just as many undesirables on this site and possibly even FEWER desirables.
I actually paid for this??

Let me fill you in on a little secret.
The only time that money actually buys beauty is when you're a chick in Sephora.
I hate online dating.
Hate it hate it hate.
Men are such flakes.

I have a hard enough time trying to find a man with a stronger temperament than me.
Behind a computer?
They are spineless Mcjellyfish.

But don't think I'm not gonna get my money's worth.
These suckers are my blog fodder waiting to happen.
If I can't find Prince Charming then I will find his idiotic cousins.
And be nothing, if not entertained.

Cheers.

I'm weird. And fucking fabulous.

I like to write.
I'm emotional and always write what I feel which is usually a bad idea.
I don't have a filter.
I speak my mind and my mind is sassy.
I'm messy.
My bedroom floor has been covered with clothes since I could walk.
My car is not much better.
I love cats.

I hate the color orange and women who are always on diets and dogs and cowards.
The movie 'Tangled' always makes me cry.
So does 'Steel Magnolias.'
I once made a date with a guy just because the other guy I was dating talked to another girl.
I'm irrational and passionate and jealous.
Possessive would be an understatement.
But I need my space.

I've never stayed friends with an ex and I always wish I could.
I'm loyal to a fault.
I don't understand how people can just never talk again.
It still makes me sad that the last thing my longest relationship ever said to me was Fuck Off OK?
I'm terrified of my current ex boyfriend being as mean.

I want to get married.
I don't want kids.
I want a man who tells me I look beautiful every day.
I want him to take pictures with me and hold my hand and give me presents just because he thought of me.
I want him to like my Dad.

I don't like being judged.
I like being held.
My ex told me he didn't want to be with me because I was bad with money and I wasn't clean.
My weaknesses should be safe under your strengths not isolated and scrutinized.

I want to travel.
I want to use my passport.
I want to meet a man who means it when he says I love you.
I'm so tired of men who run away from their feelings.

I sleep with stuffed animals.
And I like to eat in bed.
I have an insatiable appetite when it comes to sex.
And if he doesn't hold me afterwards it really hurts my feelings.

I don't like knowing my guard is up again.
I know it's gonna take a lot of work from this next guy to get my wall down. Even a brick.
But I'm tired of being sad.
And I'm ready to make memories with someone who wants me there.

I don't like rock climbing.
And I don't like japanimation.
I only like cooking if it's with someone.
I love God.
I pray he orders my stumbling footsteps.
Even though I'm bound to muck them up again.

I feel guilty after I'm mean.
And I am usually the first to apologize.
I'm a sucker for a good hug.
And a man in a three piece suit.

I miss my friend.
But I hate inconsistency.
I want honesty.
I want someone who loves that I'm so weird and so wonderful.
And who writes me back.
Loving words.
Always.

The Great Fast

I'm having an Eat, Pray, Love kind of Spring.

Is it even technically Spring?
I know it's almost Easter and the beautiful cherry blossom trees have been making me sneeze for weeks.
Allergies. Pastels. Yep.
Most certainly sounds like Spring.

I'm reeling from a break up.
Except that really isn't accurate.
Because it's not like we hate each other or never want to see each other again.
It was actually my doing.
I initiated the breakup.
And he sent me roses the next day.
The first time he'd ever bought me flowers.

He at least has a wicked sense of humor, no?

I hate this stage.
The trying to understand and make sense of it all stage.
Because it never helps and you never actually figure anything out.
You can speculate and postulate and maybe years along the line you'll have a mostly accurate objective gauge of it all.
But right now I just miss my friend.
And I miss the sex.

He's not ready for something serious.
Which makes it hard for my little girly brain to understand why he was so adamant about saying he loved me and wanted me in his future all those months.
We change our minds.
We're fickle.
And we lie.

The weird part of it all is that as much as I want to be back with him, I also just want a new relationship.
I never get to be the girl who jumps from one lovers arms to another.
I'm like a humpback whale.
I have one great love and then don't even get close for y.e.a.r.s.
Lord have mercy.

What I would give to be like those women who are so busy meeting some new fabulous guy that they don't even have time to process their last relationship.
I have a girlfriend who met the current love of her life while she was still living with her previous love of her life.
She just upgraded to a new and improved model and within weeks they're jetting off to Vegas and color coordinating their outfits.
No tears. No 'Why oh why' just out with the old, in with the new.

I don't think I'm built for that kind of transition.

I went out with a guy this week who kissed me at the end of our date.
And I should have been thrilled.
He's cute and we had fun and he thinks I'm the bee's knees.
But I just felt weird.
I felt weird being kissed by someone who wasn't the man I'm still in love with.

But I know I have horrible taste and no sense when it comes to men!
I found these old notes from a year and a half ago, when I was hung up on the douchiest of douchebags, before I met Mr. Cartier.
He was such an overwhelmingly obvious epic mistake and yet I still got my feelings in a twist over it.

So now, I've made an escape for myself, at a friend's beach house, thinking that somehow if the ocean was near, everything would magically piece itself together and life could make sense again.

But it doesn't.
And I told Mr. Cartier that we needed to have nothing to do with each other for awhile.
Because he "doesn't know what our future is" and I am not the kind of woman to sit and wait for any man.

So I'm using this time to move on.

But it's really fucking bittersweet trying to train your heart to stop loving someone who isn't strong enough to choose you.
He loves me, with a boy's love.
And I am longing for the love of a man.

Time does funny things to us.
I used to think waiting was romantic.
And now I know romance is a most inconvenient, ridiculous ruse stirring discontent in the hearts of those who'd truthfully be overjoyed with contentment just to lay in his arms, snores stirring their sleep.
But still smiling, that silly fool is mine.

A party just isn't a party without your boss

I actually wrote this a couple months ago and am publishing it now. But rather than edit what I originally wrote, I'm just keeping it as is. Timelines n such.


My work is throwing its annual company holiday party.
After all the holidays have passed.
Apparently we're too damn busy during the holidays to have time for a party so they wait til the year end inventory has occured after the New Year and then we all get together to "celebrate the holidays."
How grand.

I'm fixing to move in twenty-one days but I know if I tell my co workers I can't go to the party because I have to clean my room it will incite some hateful glares.
But truth be told I don't wish to spend time with these assholes if I'm not getting paid for it.

Let's see, there's the guy who daily tells me how much he wants to put one of my tits in his mouth and let's not get him confused with the manager who sexually harassed me.
Because it is perfectly normal to call you twelve times when you don't answer your phone.
When they're drunk.

And nothing is sweeter than the jealous caddiness of a girl whose way of winning your approval is to be a bitch.l

I told a co worker once who was wearing a berry colored blouse that all she needed was a berry lip to match and she'd be absolutely fabulous.
The next day the wannabe bitch showed up wearing a similarly colored blouse and though she rarely wore lipstick, she donned a matching berry lip.
I purposely said nothing about it all day just to piss her off.

Of course my caricatures are gross exaggerations.

I've learned my lesson from those cosmetics wenches, anything I write can and will be used against me, so of course, the entirety of this all is PURE FICTION, baby!

Any coincidences with truth are pure happenstance.
Naturally.


There are several fabulous freaks I do enjoy working with it's just, it's not like this is my birthday party and I can create the guest list.
Everyone's invited.
It's like having to pass out Valentines to everyone in class when you're in second grade.
"But I don't want to give one to Brandon! Brandon's GROSS!"

Sigh.
So I have no choice but to decline the invitation with some dulcid ladylike retort of, I just don't wanna.

I will probably spend my evening pretending to pack my messy apartment, repainting my nails or playing Bejeweled on my new Ipad.
That game is really fucking addicting.
It's kind of unnerving.

Of course, I may also ponder the complexity of the awesome new guy I've been seeing.
My ex boyfriend.
But that's another fucking story.