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.

Dating Portlandia: The Clit Tease Guy

He used to be a waiter at this restaurant I went to all the time.

I had a little crush on him even while I had a boyfriend.

-Relax. Not a real crush. Just a gee whiz, isn't he cute crush.-

I couldn't help it.

He was so my flavor: tall, lanky, kinda shy, a little awkward, cute in a totally understated he has no idea how gorgeous those baby blues really are sort of way.

He lived in the same building as my boyfriend.

On the same floor, five doors down, actually.

Like some sitcom from the Friday night line up.

For the next year and a half he became my elevator friend.

That was the only time I ever really saw him, on my way to and from my bf's place.

But eventually my boyfriend became my ex boyfriend.

And one night, while planning a ladies night in January, I decided to have it at the restaurant he worked at.

I wore my green lace Nicole Miller dress that fell over my hips like I was poured into it.

How could he resist me?

He charmed me and my friends the entire night and I left my number adorably on the receipt.

But I never heard from him.

Which of course meant he was either gay or never actually got my number.

It didn't matter. 

By then I was dating a third of Portland anyway and trying to ignore the two timing under age pixie slut my ex was currently sort of casually dating.

God I hated her.

And one summer day, passing by the door of my ex's neighbor I thought, you know what?

What the hell. I'm just gonna go for it.

And I left a note on his door.

A sort of hey there, remember me, the elevator girl with the yoga mat you saw the other day.

Yeah, I've sort of had a crush on you for awhile now and my best friend lives down the hall from you (we used to date but we're just friends now) and I thought if you were single and interested I'd love to meet up sometime. Let me know.

I've been that way my entire life.

Asking boys out in third grade, asking out the hot barista I had a crush on, the cutie in my sociology class, the hottie waiter that conveniently lived doors down from my ex boyfriend.

No shame, no patience.

I want what I want when I want it.

Are you in?

And miracle of miracles, he was.

The next day he texted me that he got my note and was flattered (awe, schucks) and yes he'd love to grab a drink sometime.

So we set up plans for next week and I had my date.

Except I didn't have my date.

Because the night before our never to occur rendezvous he bailed.

Yeah I actually have kinda been seeing someone and now's not really a good time for me. Sorry.

Then why'd he text me in the first place?

I mean, I get maybe wanting to be nice and respond to the note I left but why not tell me you're seeing someone?

It just got my hopes up only to make me feel rejected when it all could have been avoided in the first place.

Lame sauce.

So I never texted back and deleted his number and that was that.

I was more annoyed than anything and I had the rest of Portland to date anyway so whatevs.

Months later, I get this text.

Some number I don't recognize, Hey if you're ever around the building and you wanna stop by for a glass or a pint or a bowl, or whatever, feel free, I've been working from home and am usually around.

I'm sorry.....WHAT??

I knew it had to be someone who didn't really know me, because if you know me then you know I don't smoke -I do guys, not drugs.-

But I had no idea who could be inviting me over for anytime alcohol and pot so I asked who it was.

And it was him.

Chinatown/Elevator was what he wrote.

Which was kinda poetic.

He really was the guy from the elevator in old chinatown.

I'd passed him the night before actually.

I was leaving and he was returning home.

Which totally stroked my ego because I figured he musta seen me, thought I was looking good and thought, that's someone I want in my apartment drunk and high.

Ohmygod. Hetotallywantstobone.

I was thrilled.

I'd been pining for this guy (albeit moderate pining) for the past year and a half and it was finally gonna happen??

And what timing!

This girl was ready for her rebound.

And I'd have the icing on the cake possibility of rubbing my ex's face in it?

Oh no. No no no no no, it was too good.

Crush procured. Much needed rebound commencing.

All was right with the world.

We made plans to meet up in a few nights and I was gonna meet at his place for some wine.

Et cetera.

Everyone I told the story to agreed waiter guy sounded like he totally wanted to hook up.

I was a little nervous and a little excited 

-I'm not gonna tell you how long it'd been but let's just say Mama could use a little lovin-

And I had absolutely no idea what to expect.

And what happened was definitely not what I was expecting.

He talked at me for hours.

Not with me.

AT ME.

He'd seemed shy the handfuls of times we'd interacted but no, he wouldn't shut up.

I learned everything from his distate for his writing class at pcc, to his childhood tales of woe from his abusive and alcoholic father, to his unresolved feelings for his ex girlfriend who went back to her husband, to the erotic short stories he hoped to soon get published.

And I still had no idea what the hell I was doing there.

He didn't sit next to me, he sat on the couch opposite me.

He sat on the floor by the patio door, flicking the ashes from his cigarette.

He paced in front of the coffee table and rifled through the over crowded book shelf handing me copy after copy of tattered coverless books.

Are we gonna make out or what? I thought to myself.

Is he ever gonna shut up long enough for something to happen or am I just here like some free therapist?

Everything about this guy screamed rebound.

He was a tortured artist, guitar playing poetry writing nihilist.

Who hated everything about everyone but still was sensitive enough to want to cry about it.

He had holes in both his socks like he didn't care enough to be bothered to change them.

His twin bed sat nudged between one of his couches and the wall a table should have gone.

He said his friend sometimes stayed with him so he let him have the room.

Okay, I thought, so if anything happens it will be on the twin in the living room.

I feel like I'm in college.

He's older than me, but I feel like I'm back at PSU.

This is perfect.

I could never actually date this guy.

And he's totally going to quote EE Cummings as we make passionate love and it's the best rebound EVER.

And then it happens.

Come here, he motions for me to lay with him on the couch.

This is it, I think.

This is when he's finally gonna make his big move.

But he doesn't.

He just lays there.

He HOLDS me.

Like we're preteens on some Disney Channel show.

We S-N-U-G-G-L-E.

That's it.

He kisses me on the cheek and gives me a great big bear hug as he walks me to my car and that was it.

What a fucking clit tease.

Nights later, feeling amorous, I flirted a little text his way to which he pompously said he really didn't think THAT was a good idea and he really couldn't get into it right now.

He. Texted Me. And Invited Me. To drink. And smoke a bowl.

But he really didn't think it was a good idea for anything to HAPPEN between us.

What a Mo.

And I deleted his number once again and that was that.

I wonder who I'll be in your blog, he'd mused when I'd been over.

The Clit Tease Guy, Asshole.

What a proud day for your bony ass.

New Year. New You. Well, for a Day.

I'm not really big into the whole resolution thing.

It's a little contrived.

A little forced.

It's too.....well it's just too much like every other asshole.

And I'm a unique snowflake, dammit!

I hate blending in with the masses.

So instead of Setting a New Year's Resolution, I quietly told myself I was going to quit one of my less than lovely attributes:

From now on, when upset, I will no longer bring up the past.

The past mistakes, the past hurts, The Way We Were crap, none of it.

Just present in the moment, accepting all that is instead of dwelling on what was.

-Which is completely different than setting a resolution. Obviously.-

I felt kinda proud of myself.

Hit the personal growth quotient, the being better to others factor and I'd decided it all on my own without even telling anyone about it.

Snaps for me.

I'd really outdone myself.

This was going to be the New Me for the New Year.

Yeah.

I made it a day.

We planned on watching a movie.

We were gonna eat popcorn and drink this fancy beer we'd been saving and it was going to be awesome.

Instead he sort of got sucked into playing this game for three hours.

The thing was, I really didn't care.

At first.

I was watching my show on Netflix and just generally enjoyed being lazy.

-Does anyone else agree with me that "How I met your Mother" is a really great show but that Ted, the lead guy, is really annoying??-

I figured we could always watch the movie another night since it was getting late.

I really didn't give a shit.

But men have this really adorable quality when they feel guilty for screwing something up and instead of just apologizing and making some gesture to set things right they find a way to get really defensive and somehow make what they did your fault so you shift from complacent and accepting to This Shit Just Got Real! mode.

I am such a bitch when I'm mad.

And just like that, like some trigger, he flipped my switch, and I started bringing up all the tiny, stupid, bullshit things that pissed me off from last year -Okay, not ALL of them, obviously, because no one is THAT thorough -and I had one of those out of body experiences where you can't stop what you're doing, it's like a flooding of words escaping your body and I just thought..........what the hell happened?

It's fucking January 2nd.

I made it a day??!

I resolved not to do this, to drudge up the past when I'm pissed, and 24 hours later that's exactly what I'm doing?

This was the real reason I hated resolutions.

It's set up for failure.

It's a way to feel like you're without because more likely than not, you will inevitably not succeed at keeping your resolution because they're always things that are out of character.

And my character is pretty damn set.

And then I had a revelation.

I will never be the kind of woman who doesn't irrationally do things she shouldn't, like bring up a past that has no relevance to anything happening today.

I will never be the kind of woman who, when provoked, purrs softly and doesn't emotionally vomit all over the people she cares about most.

That is who I am!

I am crazy!

Emotional, passionate, capable of all out insanity crazy.

And instead of trying to change aspects of that to fit some idea of who I Should Be, I'm going to say instead, that I vow to love and rock the body that does fuck up from time to time.

Because without those idiotic symptoms of all that is Resa, I wouldn't be.

And I'm fucking fabulous.

Crazy's just a part of that.

Crazy is the sequins on my curve hugging dress.

And the truth is, things only ended well anyway.

Sometimes epic fuckups are the moments you realize people love you anyway.

And instead of getting mad back and having a fight or sending me home or telling me to go hang out with his douche canoe neighbor -More on Clit Tease Guy later- he just laughed.

He laughed at my tantrum like I was an adorable child throwing a hissy fit in her tiara and tutu.

And he gave me a back rub and brought me champagne.

We watched a short show together and ate our popcorn.

All was right in the world.

Broken resolution and all.

Damn fine start to the year.

Cheers!

My Not so Perfect Love

My best friend used to be my boyfriend.

We work really well as friends but not as a couple.

You know that book, The Five Love Languages?

We only had one of the five in common.

And only about once a week.

-So we didn't really have that one in common either.-

We were just too different.

And opposites do attract, personality wise, yes.

But your core needs have to sync up.

Otherwise one of you gets their needs met and one of you is dissatisfied.

So, here we are, a year later, and we've stumbled into a much better relationship than we ever had while we were dating.

Maybe the secret to being in a happy relationship is dating other people.

I kid.

We both give horrible back rubs.

Having a massage from him is like having sex when you're a virgin.

He's rough when he should be tender, quick when he should be slow, he pounds on the one spot until you're almost in more pain than you can bear,  it lasts all of five minutes and when he's done, he looks at you with a big grin of pride and asks, "You good?"

But my back rubs were of equal caliber so it worked out.

We also somehow managed to score the same on the myers briggs personality test.

ENFP.

Though my friends are all convinced he's really an introvert.

He is the most introverted extrovert I've ever known.

Yet for all Mr. Briggs and Big M's scientific method, we couldn't have personalities more different than each other.

But if I get upset he never gets flustered.

He smiles and laughs because he finds my rage adorable.

He takes care of me when I'm sick.

And I let him share all his nerdiness with me because I know how much he loves it.

-I've played more video games in the past year than I have since I was a kid. And then I only played them so I could hang out with my brother.-

He's not my perfect love.

He's moody and self involved.

He can be socially awkward and single minded.

But he's always there for me when I need him.

He's never told me to fuck off -I'm not going into how many men have-

He accepts me as I am, whether I'm a bitch or whether I'm sad.

We just work.

And it doesn't make sense.

It just is.

Sometimes the things that are imperfect work the most perfectly.

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.