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.