Found Notes

I remembered who I was before I spent time thinking of you.
I forgot what creative delight thoughts could possess!
Shame on thee for cluttering this mind, for taking space where beauty deserves to reign.

I thought the thoughts I held I cherished but I was deceived.
The toxins I held to my heart smothered me when I breathed them in and I lied and told my watering eyes that pain was love.

But I found a music box and played a song I forgot I knew.
The melody made it easier to breathe and I felt for the first time the sweet oxygen that existed yesteryear, when hope was full and love shouted from roof tops.

I dug a once treasured novel from the heaps of cast offs and opened the dusty pages.
The words danced between my eyes and twirled a smile on my lips as I recalled that girl who once was inspired by the moon.

And I realized how few love with such ardent fervor, how then few minds must long to comprehend the kind of connection that prompts insomnia; to create, to discover, to know a portion of the shattered puzzle, the chaos that brings tears with such smiles.


No one holds these hands and at last I see--the only one waiting to waltz, to run, the only one needed to play the music, was me.

I miss my records

A Mouth of Many Colors

I'm not a morning person.

I'm sure there are some studies out there that would say all it takes is thirty days to learn a new habit and if I just woke up early every day and committed to it I could learn to be a morning person.

And to that I say, rubbish.

One of the only things that gets me out of bed in the morning is the promise of a cup of coffee and my sheer vanity that demands I allow enough time to do my makeup before seeing any other human beings.

Other than that I'd probably sleep 'till noon every day.
My body wills me to give the day a chance to start without me and then stumble into it head first, gaining momentum to conquer the night.

But today I had a work meeting.
At what felt like the butt crack of dawn.
Let's just say it was five hours earlier than when I normally start work.

Mean meanies.

And by the afternoon I was starting to get a little grumpy. 
It is hard being patient with people when you barely have the energy to keep your eyes open, let alone smile and be agreeable.

So of course, I would get the World's Most Indecisive Grandma looking for a lipstick. 
And of course Grandma's lipstick had been discontinued.

Why do they always get rid of the colors I love?  Grandma asked.
Because you buy lipstick once every five years, Grandma.

But I simply sighed and began showing her the 31 flavors of lipsticks.

Here is where the fun began.

The lipstick she wanted to replace was called G-O-L-D-E-N  B-R-O-W-N. 
I repeat, Golden Brown. 
BROWN. 
Brown!!

But the shades I found that were similar to the one she wanted she didn't like.
"They're too brown," Grandma fussed.

My eye began to twitch.
My lips pursed.

I really shouldn't have been attempting to provide customer service when I felt so lethargic.

So I went through all 2,345 shades of lipstick available and finally found a color pretty damn close to her discontinued shade but more this side of mauve than that of brown.

Her response?

"It looks pinker than the one I had."

At this point I lost all patience with her and I said in a tone more condescending than I've ever used on a customer in my life, "Well you said you thought the other shades were too. brown. so this is the best one."

I mentally clapped my hand over my mouth.
Now I was in for it, I thought.  Now she was going to yell at me and ask for my store manager and I was probably going to lose my job and inevitably be back serving lattes in coffee land.

"Ok, I'll take that one," Grandma said.

I mentally let my jaw drop open.

Holy hell.

The grandma not only let me talk to her with the harshness I did but she listened and bought the damn lipstick.
She'll likely return it in a week because she refused to try it on in the store but still.
She bought it!

When she left I walked away shaking my head.
Then I just kind of stood there, dumbfounded.

People are Really. Fucking. Strange.
And surely with all our oddities, some of us really are better suited for the night.

Red lipstick does look more vibrant when the stars are out.
And unlike grandma, I know what colors I like.

Giddy Green

I've decided if I believed in reincarnation I'd believe that I used to be a little girl in another life.

But not a little girl the way I was twenty-five years ago. 
But a little girl who found the fountain of youth and never grew up.

Just because I could.
Because age six and three quarters suited me just fine.
Because I looked really good in pink tutus.

I am terribly impatient.
I mean, ridiculously, stubbornly annoying as hell I want it all and I want it delivered by cute, naked men impatient.

My six year old niece probably has more patience than I do.


I met a boy.

A very cute, very charming, total nerd of a boy.

But I totally dig guys who are kids at heart, who like cartoons and whose voices still sometimes crack like they're going through puberty at age thirty-two.

I find them endearing.

And wonder of wonders this boy seemed to be equally as taken with me.
Which is never how this works.

I'll like a guy and he'll be indifferent.
Or the guy will find me AMAZING and I'll find him entirely uninteresting.

It is rare a Katharine Hepburn meets her Spencer Tracy.

But only on screen, because well, he was already married.

I actually got into such a flutter about it all I stayed up most of the night thinking about it.
I was like a teenage girl doodling his name on her notebook.

So now I'm sitting here, my inner six year old dancing the twirl of impatience, wondering when and if he's going to ask me out.

And I totally had to laugh at myself and my impatience.

Good grief, Reese.
When was the last time you had a crush like this?

A long time.
Like, in a galaxy far far away.
In Galaxy Coffee, that is.

So couldn't I just revel and delight in the crush itself?

Why do I always do that?
Why do I always have to take something that's great and long for it to be something else entirely?

I thought of all my girlfriends in unhappy relationships and the constant headaches they deal with every week and I wondered why I was so eager to be rid of my freedom.

The grass is always greener.

But sometimes, in these rare moments when I actually stop looking ahead and look down at what's below my feet I see the sparkling emeralds beneath me.

Green with possibility.

And ain't no one gonna top that.
No sir.

For the love of pretty things

I have a thing for gay men.

I'm not quite sure what it is exactly but I think it's that I like men. 
I like pretty men. 
And I like that I don't have to limit myself to merely one.

I can be a greedy, greedy little fag hag.
I can have lots and lots of pixies in my life.

Awhile back a new fabulous gay man started working in my department. 
The way some women obsessed over new shoes and handbags, I had my gays.

His name was Texas. 
And I was in love.

Texas is very tall and very sweet and has one of those beards that's reminiscent of mutton chops only somehow he's handsome enough to pull it off.
I asked him if I could make an appointment so he could do my makeup to show me some tricks and to try a new look.
But mostly, I just wanted him to touch my face.

He's. SO. Pretty.

One of my co workers, who has more personalities than Sybil, announced the other day that she had a thing for Texas.

Is he really gay?  she asked.  Because I have SUCH a huge crush on him.

I blinked.

Surely she had to be joking.

I had a secret longing for a love affair with this fabulous man and that fantasy was mine and mine alone.

Didn't she have some tarot she could be reading?

It was then that I realized my love of fabulously handsome and charming gay men was turning me into a greedy bitch. 
Did I not have enough gay husbands in my life to share some of the love?

I don't want to date a man whose prettier than me but if he's just my shopping buddy then he can feel free to be more impecciably groomed than I am.

I'm totally cool with that.

I'm just not cool with sharing.

And like any sane woman protective of her designer clothes and accessories, I would never dream of loaning my Ghubs out.

Some things are far too sacred.

Makeup worthy of the stage

http://www.examiner.com/cosmetics-in-portland/makeup-worthy-of-the-stage

Feminism vs Misandry

"He lives in New York and is just so amazing.  And you know, I've been thinking about moving to New York somday myself, so maybe I'll move there too."

"Yeah, New York is amazing but don't move there for a guy."

"Fuck you."


I either bring out the best or the worst in people. 
It's just who I am.

I've been noticing this epidemic amongst my girlfriends as of late. 
This I'm-independent-and-strong-enough-to-not-need-a-man-but-I-secretly-would-follow-the-one-I-liked-to-the-ends-of-the-Earth-if-I-thought-it-would-bring-me-my-own-Fairytale-ending mentality.
But women are very defensive about this reality.
Thus the intense FuckYou reaction.

Bitch, please.
You're only mad because it's true.

And why does it have to be such a bad thing anyway?

Another girl I know is going on a trip overseas for some volunteer humanitarian work for your shelter kind of thing.  And while she's there she'll get to see an old flame that never quite fizzled out.

"You're totally going because you want to see your Irishman."

"No. I really want to be a part of this outreach.  Besides I'll only see him for a week.  Possibly two."

But of all the volunteer stations in all the world he had to walk into hers.
Come now.

Why can't these strong, independent women have the strength to stand and say, Yes, I am going for a man I love.
Does this have to be concurrent with weakness?
Shouldn't a love strong enough to cross oceans be a strength?

Or is that only in the Romeos and not the Juliets?

I had an amazing moment last night.

I'd been feeling burnt out from work (I love my job, but I am human and can only handle so much negativity bombarding my happy bubble before it bursts) and during my lunch break I was searching for some sort of outlet, some mini escape.
Being that there really is no escape from the mall but other parts of the mall I decided on happy hour at the Cheesecake because if nothing else would perk my spirits their guacamole should do the trick.

Oh but I was in for an even richer indulgence.

I sat at the bar and spent my entire lunch break having a playful, flirtatious banter with the bartender.  He looked like Prince Charming's long lost brother (So I have a type, Blah!) and had that nervous, awkward but still somehow charming thing going for him that makes my heart happy.  When I put my card on the table he asked if it meant I was leaving and when I said yes he made a sad face.
He actually stuck out his lip and pouted like a little kid.
I may have found my future ex boyfriend.

I went back to work beaming. 
It was so simple but all I'd really needed was a little male interaction.
Cosmetics is full of beautiful, bitchy, insecure, sweet, sincere, underhanded and conniving bitches. 
It's the full spectrum of feminity.

And that's fine.

But sometimes there is nothing that makes me feel more like a woman than the attention of an attractive male.

I am a woman.
And unlike my sisters that protest, I'm not ashamed of my need for love.

I deserve that.
We all do.

Smack Me

I colored my hair today.

I didn't even tell my girlfriends I was going to which is like, A Cardinal Rule of being female. 
That's why we go to the powder room together, we have to share everything. 
Our joys, our sorrows, our boob jobs, our dye jobs.

But I just craved a little change.

It was quite a process lightening my hair because it was nearly black and they had to basically prep my hair before they attempted to put on the color. 
It took two colorists and three hours to get the job done.

I loved it.
It looked fantastic.

And then later I felt dissatisfied.

The girlfriend I met after I colored my hair agreed it looked nice but casually asked, But haven't you had it that color before?

And when I got home it took Grandma a good ten minutes of looking directly at me while talking before she noticed anything was different.

This wasn't exactly the reaction I anticipated from making such a daring change.

The color had turned out slightly darker than I'd wanted.
And I suddenly felt let down.

I realized what I craved, what I had an overwhelming desire for was male validation.
And when I came to that conclusion I wished someone would smack me in the face.

What the hell was wrong with me??

I loved my new hair.
I thought it looked pretty.
I felt the change, even if it wasn't apparent to anyone else.

So why did I need someone else's approval to know I looked ravishing?

I hung my feminist head in shame.

My inner six year old was standing there, waiting eagerly, asking expectantly, Do you like it?  Am I so pretty?  Do you delight in me? 

But with no one to watch me twirl my Sparkle Friday came grinding to a hault.

I am woman. 
Hear me roar.
Me-ow.

Good. Grief.

I took myself on a walk and set myself straight.

I do look ravishing.
Whether or not anyone notices?
I am still worth someone's double take.

It's just too bad they missed it.

If these clothes could talk

"You're so fickle," one of my friends told me the other night.

I had changed my mind regarding where I wanted to go for cocktails and they were laughing at my split second change in direction. 
I can whole heartedly commit to Restaurant A and then see a neon sign and instantly whole heartedly switch to Restaurant B.
I'm kind of a whore that way.

It's not that I don't mean what I initially say.
It's just I am passionate about many things so I can be totally stoked about happy hour at a Spanish restaurant and then totally decide I'm in more of an Irish pub kind of mood.
I'm worldly in my hometown that is Portland.

Restaurants aren't the only thing I'm fickle about.

I'm also a fickle fashionista.

I have always had enough clothes to outfit my entirety of girlfriends and still have some leftover bags for Goodwill.
And I give clothes away nearly every year.
But I also buy more clothes every year.
I can't get enough.
It's like my affinity for vodka and men. 
Fashion.  Booze.  Sex.
That's me, in a nutshell.

But for how much I love clothes they always end up in piles on my floor.  You'd think for how much joy they bring me, how much I treasure them and delight in taking them out on the town I'd treat them with more respect and dignity. 
But the pile of clothes on my floor by my dresser is so thick it's up to my knees.

I am not exaggerating.

I had to laugh at myself when I was searching for a pair of shoes and thought to myself rationally, I believe I threw them over in this corner and as I started digging through the pile of clothes it took me a REALLY long time to reach the carpet.  Hmm, I thought.  I think I may have let this pile get a little out of hand.

Some things never change.   Like my vintage 50's hats, my flare for the chaotic is timeless.

My tastes in fashion have varied too.  I'll try trends as they come and go (Remember how cool fancy ponchos were seven years ago?) and I'll embrace different store brand looks (my A&F red plaid shirt ROCKS!  And I don't care if you hate Abercrombie) but year after year the style I'm most drawn to is lady like and feminine. 
And I realized as I sort through the clothes actually hanging in my closet (they're not ALL on the floor but that's only because I have enough to fill a closet, my floor, my dresser AND my Grandma's garage) that I really am no longer sporting the 25 different looks I used to.  My look has simplified and it's time what I own matches my tastes.

Spring cleaning is happening late this year but some bitch shopping at Red Light is going to be really stoked when she comes across my donations.

I changed into sweats when I got home today (Of course they're bedazzled with a sparkly guitar and PINK logo on them so they're still totally girly) and I grabbed a shirt from the small pile of folded laundry.  (There are tiny glimmers of clean, organization within the chaotic confines of my room).  And I laughed when I saw what shirt I'd grabbed.

The red and white striped tank top from Banana Republic has been in my possession for 5 years.  This is surprising since I went through a phase of throwing out nearly my entire wardrobe associated with The Foreign Years.  (Any relationship with a guy dubbed Narcissus that spanned my entire college career earns me the privilege of chucking my entire wardrobe and starting fresh).  But this tank has withstood the test of my adoration and is still a favorite today.  And what's funny is that I only bought it because I was really ridiculously hot.

I worked in an office back then and had chose to wear some sweater on a day that surprised the heck out of Oregonians by being in the 90's.  I don't do hot.  I hate hot.  I want it balmy and breezy not sticky and stuffy.  So I went to the mall on my lunch break to buy something I could breathe in.  I remember coming back from my lunch break and my co worker laughing at my costume change.

Did you just go buy that shirt? she mocked me.
Nooooooooo, I lied.  I don't know what you're talking about.

But I totally did.
I totally just bought the classic, fabulous top because I was too damn hot to survive another four hours of work.

And now five years later, it turns out, I had really good taste.
It matches perfectly with one of my favorite vintage cardigans that has matching red and white stripes.

Jesus wanted me to have that tank.
Good thing he gave me an eye for style.

Love and Hate letters

I save everything.
I mean, I'm a total pack rat.
When I moved last year I found love letters from guys I dated five and ten years ago.

I'm kind of ridiculous.

Nowadays people don't write letters anymore.

But they do send emails.
And texts.
And I save all those too.

I save everything.

Sometimes I think it's good to have people's words held hostage.
People often times reveal their hand without meaning to.
And it can be good to look back in reflection of a time and realize, I wasn't crazy.  They did say those things.  They were double minded scoundrels.

And I have the proof.

I'm working on this book that's retracing my steps from last year.  It's kind of surreal recalling it all and privately as I type away on this little laptop, I'm reliving it.

But it's easier this time around because I know how the story ends.  I know who never writes back.  I know who does come around.  I know I survive it all and can laugh at myself in my sarcastic memoir.

Some people think you should forget the past and live in the now which is definitely important in making sure you don't get stuck somewhere that no longer exists.

But I think it's also good sometimes to take another look to really see what all was back there.

Things are rarely what they appear to be.

And sometimes even if they are, you can at least understand why they were so very grey.

A Girly Narcissistic Voyage

I have a profile on Okcupid.

It makes me feel pretty.

Every day I get messages from guys I'm not interested in telling me all sorts of lovely and amusing things.

Sure the guys making the declarations of adoration are not exactly Prince Charmings (Cinderella's or my own) but still, it makes a gal feel purty to hear she is noticed by so many eyes, albeit cyber eyes.

That is why I decided to start an I'm So Pretty journal.
Think of it as the Pretty Pretty Princess game but for adults.
Every time I get a little treasure of a compliment from some undesirable I'm going to write it in my I'm So Pretty journal.
I may even add stickers and dot hearts over my eyes.

Why?
Because I can.
And because it's fucking ridiculous.
And because the next time I so much as contemplate feeling sad over being man less I'm going to flip open my tiny book of narcissism and read over and over again how I'm SO PRETTY!

Yes, this makes me a common attention whore.

But I think it also makes me savvy.

Girls spend so much time being hard on themselves and so little time celebrating themselves.

I celebrate my beauty every day.
And starting today I'm celebrating those who celebrate me.

They are smart undesirables.
And a keen reminder that there's a whole sea of sailors waiting for this fair maiden.

I'm simply waiting for one who takes my breath away.

The rest can feel free to fill up my journal.