She was giving you the nastiest look. When you were bent down looking for it, she was standing there watching you giving you this really awful glare.
I don't like things that are fake.
I don't like fake designer handbags.
I don't like fake butter.
I don't like fake devotion, fake affection, fake orgasms or fake friends.
Fakeness is like orange to me.
I fucking hate the color orange.
Are you serious? I asked my friend after he told me of the spiteful looks cast in my direction.
Yep, he said, ready to do battle with me.
I'm going back now to get the one I need.
I'm going with you, he said, giddy as a school girl.
As expected, the Ogress spouted some venom my way as I regretfully had to cross paths with her.
What's your problem? I posed, calmly.
I wasn't talking to YOU, the acrid words flung my way.
Oh, ok then, barracuda.
And I gathered my desired items and walked away.
My pixie trailing beside me, excited by such confrontation, mused over what had just happened.
What crawled up her koolats! he exclaimed.
I don't know, I replied. I think she's just one of those people who doesn't enjoy life.
He laughed.
And I thought it over.
Every work place has one of these.
-Some, several. Bless their wretched hearts.-
Women who are moodier than a prepubescent teen on her first month of birth control.
I'm sorry but men never behave so passive aggressively as women. Men who are assholes? Are just assholes. Women who are bitches? Are one way one day and then moody, chaotic vipers the next. At least with men we know what we're getting. Love you, you lovable douchebags, but you surprise me not with your disappointments. Chicks however are supposed to know better.
But these women, ALL of these women, possess one commonality: they are miserable, joyless creatures. Do you know how sad a person has to be to behave so wretchedly? No sane, contented, somewhat happy person possesses the energy to cast such hatred towards people they care little for. Hatred is a whole other frequency of energy to that of joy. You have to take your insides, churn them around, tighten all your muscles to the point of contortion until finally you can slip from smiles to rage. It's overwhelmingly exhausting. And only those already in such a state are able to unleash venom with so great an ease.
And these women also use their Bitch Bravado to mask how incredibly insecure they are. If they're mean to the pretty girls than the pretty girls won't take notice of their intense imperfections and instead of poking fun at them they will fear them. And feeling feared makes the insecure feel powerful. And feeling intimidating and threatening sure beats feeling undesirable and unlovely, doesn't it? Poor, unhappy, unattractive bullies.
Oh, but I don't feel sorry for you.
I call you on your bullshit.
Every single bitch of a bully I've encountered, I've confronted. True, when I was younger, and less confident in my brazen forwardness, it would take me time to work up the courage to tell my nemesis, You don't have to talk to me that way. But less out of cowardice and more out of a desire to embody the quiet, agreeable womanly nature I saw so beautifully illustrated in my Mother.
I admire her greatly but I will never be a quiet, agreeable woman.
God made me this bold.
He musta had some idea what He was in for.
It amuses me how surprised bullies are when you call them out on their harshness. Most people agree to fear them and so they trudge through life, their little hate cloud hovering above them, carting few friends along the way and even fewer folks they sincerely trust. But when some rare Spitfire, like myself, stands up to their Goliath with nothing but a nimble mouth, they always, ever always, lose their footing, stumble and turn away mumbling.
I've yet to meet a bully who doesn't back down when confronted.
I love out bitching the biggest bitches.
Because I am not a fake person.
And if you piss me off?
I have the guts to tell you to your face.
Not cast withering glances at your back side.
So mix that with your bitter pudding and choke on it.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
I've been punk'd by the Almighty
I found an old journal.
I say "journal" and yet it seems I made but one entry and then failed to see its merit after that.
It remained buried in my nightstand amidst books and pens and other.....novelties.
Ahem.
Curiosity stirred, I opened the notebook and read over the journal entry.
Dated my birth month of last year, a portion read as follows,
A week ago I was feeling sad about Prince Charming and Mr. Volcano and asked God to bring a man into my life I could trust. The next night, to my utter surprise (to which I literally exclaimed, "Holy shit!" when I saw the missed call) Mr. Volcano called me. It had been five months. Our conversation was awkward but cordial. Trust between us will take time.
Upon reading the entry I promptly dropped it on my lap unable to hold it upright as my laughter nearly knocked me over with its sheer force.
It seems memory had granted me the gift of forgetting such absurdity.
Dear reader, allow me to bring you up to speed.
Mr. Volcano, though for a short time duped me and my small community of friends into believing him the seemingly mild mannered, even tempered, gentle spirit he feigned, is in fact one of the most erratic, double minded, inconsistent childish men that ever embodied a 6'4" frame. This man, who declared We can have nothing more to do with each other ever again months prior to this phone call, who invited me and uninvited me to more events than I care to recall, who sought the man he learned I had fallen for after him to meet for drinks-a vain effort to what? Extract secrecies? And bond over musings at my expense??-this B.O.Y. deemed me worthy of a phone call for some unknown, ill timed reason and it Just. So. Happened to be the night after I prayed a most sad hearted prayer.
Foolishly I deemed Providence had quickly answered my prayer and my phone had rung, as if from Heaven, to encourage my hopes, lift my spirits and affirm the truth I'd held so firm, that my faith in Mr. Volcano had not been unwarranted and our friendship, at last, should be reunited!
:Trumpets Blare: Angels Sing: Chilren Dance: Our hearts Take Wing:
Reality-
I have heard not a word from him since.
And what I HAVE heard is most unflattering, undesirable, and NOT in my favor. It seems the young Man Child speaks to everyone on the subject of me, sans moi. I am so terribly important to still be a topic on his lips but so terribly offensive as to be shunned from his communication.
And here I'd dubbed him The Answer To My Prayers.
It seems I was punked by the Almighty.
Good one, Big G.
You really had me going.
Props for creativity, theatrics and the element of surprise.
But seriously.....what the hell was I thinking?
I shook my head in amused disgust, You have GOT to be kidding me.
I say "journal" and yet it seems I made but one entry and then failed to see its merit after that.
It remained buried in my nightstand amidst books and pens and other.....novelties.
Ahem.
Curiosity stirred, I opened the notebook and read over the journal entry.
Dated my birth month of last year, a portion read as follows,
A week ago I was feeling sad about Prince Charming and Mr. Volcano and asked God to bring a man into my life I could trust. The next night, to my utter surprise (to which I literally exclaimed, "Holy shit!" when I saw the missed call) Mr. Volcano called me. It had been five months. Our conversation was awkward but cordial. Trust between us will take time.
Upon reading the entry I promptly dropped it on my lap unable to hold it upright as my laughter nearly knocked me over with its sheer force.
It seems memory had granted me the gift of forgetting such absurdity.
Dear reader, allow me to bring you up to speed.
Mr. Volcano, though for a short time duped me and my small community of friends into believing him the seemingly mild mannered, even tempered, gentle spirit he feigned, is in fact one of the most erratic, double minded, inconsistent childish men that ever embodied a 6'4" frame. This man, who declared We can have nothing more to do with each other ever again months prior to this phone call, who invited me and uninvited me to more events than I care to recall, who sought the man he learned I had fallen for after him to meet for drinks-a vain effort to what? Extract secrecies? And bond over musings at my expense??-this B.O.Y. deemed me worthy of a phone call for some unknown, ill timed reason and it Just. So. Happened to be the night after I prayed a most sad hearted prayer.
Foolishly I deemed Providence had quickly answered my prayer and my phone had rung, as if from Heaven, to encourage my hopes, lift my spirits and affirm the truth I'd held so firm, that my faith in Mr. Volcano had not been unwarranted and our friendship, at last, should be reunited!
:Trumpets Blare: Angels Sing: Chilren Dance: Our hearts Take Wing:
Reality-
I have heard not a word from him since.
And what I HAVE heard is most unflattering, undesirable, and NOT in my favor. It seems the young Man Child speaks to everyone on the subject of me, sans moi. I am so terribly important to still be a topic on his lips but so terribly offensive as to be shunned from his communication.
And here I'd dubbed him The Answer To My Prayers.
It seems I was punked by the Almighty.
Good one, Big G.
You really had me going.
Props for creativity, theatrics and the element of surprise.
But seriously.....what the hell was I thinking?
I shook my head in amused disgust, You have GOT to be kidding me.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
An Incubus of Viral Plague
There is a great connection between our bodies and our minds.
It seemed inevitable I should become sick.
Despair weakens the body and develops itself into overpowering germs that will away all energy from the body. I remember last year seeming unable to overcome a plague that, try as I might, refused to leave. It was also one of the hardest, most depressing times in my life. My body seemed to know this and took to illness like it was some emotional remedy; focus on rest, deal with the pain later.
With some demented delight I took pleasure as the plague devoured my body.
At least now I needn't feel guilty for my misery.
I'd have no energy to fight it.
I'd have to lay around void of responsibility and expectation.
What else could I do?
My body was now host for a parasite.
And always when I'm sick I crave companionship like a small child. And is most often the case, for tests only come in bountiful waves, never simply ones and twos, I most assuredly shall spend my bed rest in isolation, void of cuddles or comfort, sans my little foot stuffed animal and two very precocious felines.
Rest assured I don't admit all this to incite pity but to showcase the almost boring formulaic repetition life seems to offer; hope sprung to love that shattered to despair and festered into illness. Finally a wave of peace healed, a new appreciation fueling a drive to overcome, beginning anew, channeling and deriving a renewed energy, new faces, 'til finally a renewed hope, and once again, a new love.
My wave was still crashing, my pain still throbbing.
But somewhere quite far ahead I glimpsed my hope.
I need merely to endure while I gathered the strength to receive it.
It seemed inevitable I should become sick.
Despair weakens the body and develops itself into overpowering germs that will away all energy from the body. I remember last year seeming unable to overcome a plague that, try as I might, refused to leave. It was also one of the hardest, most depressing times in my life. My body seemed to know this and took to illness like it was some emotional remedy; focus on rest, deal with the pain later.
With some demented delight I took pleasure as the plague devoured my body.
At least now I needn't feel guilty for my misery.
I'd have no energy to fight it.
I'd have to lay around void of responsibility and expectation.
What else could I do?
My body was now host for a parasite.
And always when I'm sick I crave companionship like a small child. And is most often the case, for tests only come in bountiful waves, never simply ones and twos, I most assuredly shall spend my bed rest in isolation, void of cuddles or comfort, sans my little foot stuffed animal and two very precocious felines.
Rest assured I don't admit all this to incite pity but to showcase the almost boring formulaic repetition life seems to offer; hope sprung to love that shattered to despair and festered into illness. Finally a wave of peace healed, a new appreciation fueling a drive to overcome, beginning anew, channeling and deriving a renewed energy, new faces, 'til finally a renewed hope, and once again, a new love.
My wave was still crashing, my pain still throbbing.
But somewhere quite far ahead I glimpsed my hope.
I need merely to endure while I gathered the strength to receive it.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Veronica's Jeremiad
Veronica felt quite the fool.
The past months' roller coaster of events had left her inconsolable.
She was an avid pursuer of truth and as such evasive answers always dissatisfied her.
The man she'd agreed to let back into her life had once again shut her out as their closeness gave way to intimacy. It seemed a rather cruel trick worming your way back into ones daily thoughts, excessively doting on them with overwhelming praise then becoming so frightened at such intensities as to end all relations by a quick route of escape.
She felt dizzy and tired.
Somewhere between sadness and anger in a state of disillusionment.
She could not lie and wish none of it had taken place.
But she also could not ignore the after effects that left her heart paralyzed with doubt. Such conflict love always seemed to bring. Such ecstasy always coupled with misery.
Veronica affirmed her hurt excelled the value of complacency. But she feared such continued abuse, years of love swerving, was silently taking its toll.
Love must always believe the best. But in truth or of vital necessity? Believing what all looked to be filled Veronica's heart with shame and regret, the manipulations and faulty declarations prompted her to admit her gullibility and willingness to devour such lies.
But an undercurrent within her urged her to hold onto her secret truth; that the love that had once seemed to be, the love that had looked to her with desperately pleading eyes was as real as the ache now choking her breaths. Surely he, distracted in his desperation though he attempted to be, felt equally all Veronica did, longed for the nervous anticipation they'd left in overcast afternoons, and silently took comfort as night fell and they allowed their thoughts to find one another once again.
It was either true or merely another lie. But Veronica had swallowed so many jagged words that she feared another would do her in, her eyes still stinging from believing such falsities. So she accepted her ray of hope with silent reverie. And asserted that what was true for all was never all that was true for Veronica.
The past months' roller coaster of events had left her inconsolable.
She was an avid pursuer of truth and as such evasive answers always dissatisfied her.
The man she'd agreed to let back into her life had once again shut her out as their closeness gave way to intimacy. It seemed a rather cruel trick worming your way back into ones daily thoughts, excessively doting on them with overwhelming praise then becoming so frightened at such intensities as to end all relations by a quick route of escape.
She felt dizzy and tired.
Somewhere between sadness and anger in a state of disillusionment.
She could not lie and wish none of it had taken place.
But she also could not ignore the after effects that left her heart paralyzed with doubt. Such conflict love always seemed to bring. Such ecstasy always coupled with misery.
Veronica affirmed her hurt excelled the value of complacency. But she feared such continued abuse, years of love swerving, was silently taking its toll.
Love must always believe the best. But in truth or of vital necessity? Believing what all looked to be filled Veronica's heart with shame and regret, the manipulations and faulty declarations prompted her to admit her gullibility and willingness to devour such lies.
But an undercurrent within her urged her to hold onto her secret truth; that the love that had once seemed to be, the love that had looked to her with desperately pleading eyes was as real as the ache now choking her breaths. Surely he, distracted in his desperation though he attempted to be, felt equally all Veronica did, longed for the nervous anticipation they'd left in overcast afternoons, and silently took comfort as night fell and they allowed their thoughts to find one another once again.
It was either true or merely another lie. But Veronica had swallowed so many jagged words that she feared another would do her in, her eyes still stinging from believing such falsities. So she accepted her ray of hope with silent reverie. And asserted that what was true for all was never all that was true for Veronica.
Veronica does Hawthorne Part 1
Veronica met Cece at a greasy taqueria where Hawthorne nearly dropped off.
The evening was surprisingly warm and apparently everyone had shared Veronica's keen idea and the line to order wrapped along the side walk.
The pair gabbed over pleasantries and civilities and waited until their food was served before sharing their less than lovely stories.
Recounting all of her tale Veronica halted having run out of words to speak.
Cece, ill equipped but ever loving simply replied, That's hard. I'm sorry.
Veronica continued pontificating with the usual diatribes of things working out for the best and the morality of what is right and having exhausted herself of all strength to appear composed simply uttered, I'm sad.
They each sat in silence as only the closest friendships can comfortably and understandingly do.
Let's go somewhere else, Veronica broke the reverie. Somewhere with big cocktails.
I want to smoke, Cece said. No. I don't want to smoke. Besides I'd have to first find a place to buy the cigarettes so no. Never mind.
Veronica having known Cece long enough to know well enough, lovingly asked, Am I supposed to help you get cigarettes or not help you get cigarettes?
Both, Cece answered honestly.
Come on, let's go to Saphire, Veronica said.
I love that place, Cece agreed and with that one addiction was put on hold.
The bar was overly crowded and their usual quiet intimacy was replaced with the loud humming of a Saturday night. They both stood there contemplating their next move. An empty table in the corner to the left of them shone a possible haven of escape. But then Veronica's eyes landed on the face of one of the parties sitting at the next table. She sighed a groan of discontent. In no mood for feigned formalities Veronica opted to avoid the girl whose company she never enjoyed and turned to her companion.
Let's go get you some cigarettes, Veronica decided to which Cece, relieved ,turned abruptly towards the door.
One of us should get our fix for the night, Veronica concluded.
As the blocks passed behind them they approached the mart of possibility.
I'll wait out here with the baby, Veronica said patting the champagne bottle in her arms wrapped under Cece's shawl.
Her friend went inside and Veronica breathed in the evening air.
Then suddenly she took in a quick breath of surprise. Music emanating from her phone signaled her addiction had found her once again. And the elation she felt as she reached for her phone must be akin to that long awaited puff her friend was soon to take from her cigarettes.
Reading his words her heart leapt with relief.
Cece returned with her new found treasure and they began walking down the street they'd only just departed. She lit up and took a drag and exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. Veronica unable to ever keep her secrets sighed her own relief.
What? her friend asked.
He texted me, Veronica confided. But I'm not texting him back, she quickly finished the thought.
Cece took a long drag eyeing Veronica through skeptical eyes.
Veronica relented. But I really want to.
What would be the point? Cece posed bluntly. What good could come of it?
Well, Veronica started, It could ease my withdrawal. Soften the ache. Twenty-three hours and counting. 'Tis the longest detox of my life.
Cece said nothing but kind of tilted her head and shrugged her shoulders.
Veronica nearly gave in and took another hit.
But she refrained and instead basked in the second hand smoke dancing around her and Cece.
Some habits die hard.
And some sadly will never die at all.
The evening was surprisingly warm and apparently everyone had shared Veronica's keen idea and the line to order wrapped along the side walk.
The pair gabbed over pleasantries and civilities and waited until their food was served before sharing their less than lovely stories.
Recounting all of her tale Veronica halted having run out of words to speak.
Cece, ill equipped but ever loving simply replied, That's hard. I'm sorry.
Veronica continued pontificating with the usual diatribes of things working out for the best and the morality of what is right and having exhausted herself of all strength to appear composed simply uttered, I'm sad.
They each sat in silence as only the closest friendships can comfortably and understandingly do.
Let's go somewhere else, Veronica broke the reverie. Somewhere with big cocktails.
I want to smoke, Cece said. No. I don't want to smoke. Besides I'd have to first find a place to buy the cigarettes so no. Never mind.
Veronica having known Cece long enough to know well enough, lovingly asked, Am I supposed to help you get cigarettes or not help you get cigarettes?
Both, Cece answered honestly.
Come on, let's go to Saphire, Veronica said.
I love that place, Cece agreed and with that one addiction was put on hold.
The bar was overly crowded and their usual quiet intimacy was replaced with the loud humming of a Saturday night. They both stood there contemplating their next move. An empty table in the corner to the left of them shone a possible haven of escape. But then Veronica's eyes landed on the face of one of the parties sitting at the next table. She sighed a groan of discontent. In no mood for feigned formalities Veronica opted to avoid the girl whose company she never enjoyed and turned to her companion.
Let's go get you some cigarettes, Veronica decided to which Cece, relieved ,turned abruptly towards the door.
One of us should get our fix for the night, Veronica concluded.
As the blocks passed behind them they approached the mart of possibility.
I'll wait out here with the baby, Veronica said patting the champagne bottle in her arms wrapped under Cece's shawl.
Her friend went inside and Veronica breathed in the evening air.
Then suddenly she took in a quick breath of surprise. Music emanating from her phone signaled her addiction had found her once again. And the elation she felt as she reached for her phone must be akin to that long awaited puff her friend was soon to take from her cigarettes.
Reading his words her heart leapt with relief.
Cece returned with her new found treasure and they began walking down the street they'd only just departed. She lit up and took a drag and exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. Veronica unable to ever keep her secrets sighed her own relief.
What? her friend asked.
He texted me, Veronica confided. But I'm not texting him back, she quickly finished the thought.
Cece took a long drag eyeing Veronica through skeptical eyes.
Veronica relented. But I really want to.
What would be the point? Cece posed bluntly. What good could come of it?
Well, Veronica started, It could ease my withdrawal. Soften the ache. Twenty-three hours and counting. 'Tis the longest detox of my life.
Cece said nothing but kind of tilted her head and shrugged her shoulders.
Veronica nearly gave in and took another hit.
But she refrained and instead basked in the second hand smoke dancing around her and Cece.
Some habits die hard.
And some sadly will never die at all.
Who knew a town that small could hold all our ex boyfriends?
Do you know what's amazingly fantastic and stupendously demented about life?
The world is really fucking small.
I went out with some friends the other night and it was greatly needed because the only way to get out of your own manic mind is to work all day and then drink with your co workers until it is officially the next day. And then in your inebriated state you can ask yourself, Oh yeah, who was that asshole I was obsessing over again? Cajun tots and jello shots I think I almost forgot!!
One of the wonderful characters at my table was a beautiful man who happens to know another beautiful man in my life. I love beautiful men. I think we all need more beautiful men in our life. And yes there is a difference between a guy who is pretty and a guy whose just a douchefuck. More on that in a minute.
The beautiful man sitting across from me took immediate action when I promptly urged him with the task of finding me a distracting rebound.
Letting go is so much more plausible when you're busy holding the flexed pecks of another.
He scrolled through his phone and came up with a picture of bachelor number one.
What about HIM? he asked confidently as he shoved the picture in my face.
Oh my God! I fired back. Is that Mac? I know that guy! I WORKED with him! He always seemed like a total douche.
He is, my matchmaker admitted. But he just texted me that he's back in Portland and looking to get laid.
I shook my head with amused disgust and threw a lime at his head.
See this is why Portland is too small.
There are so few men that I've actually dated most of them and my only options are men I already know.
I can't believe you know that guy! I muttered almost to myself.
What about him? he asked holding up a picture of bachelor number two.
I'd make out with him, I replied. But he looks like a douchebag too. And he looks young. How old is he?
My matchmaker assured me he was actually sweet and old enough and that every tattoo on his sleeve had a special meaning.
Like he got doves in honor of his mom, he announced proudly.
Jesus! I laughed. No more men with bird tattoos. Or sleeves. Was he in the army too? They're all the same. Maybe I need to stop dating the sensitive ones. I just need a MAN! to which we raised our glasses in cheers.
I pondered. Does there happen to be a brightly colored sparrow on his arm? I've made it a rule to avoid men with birds on their appendages. Literally not figuratively. I've found it's meant to serve as a warning: this one intensely emotionally stubbornly double minded; irksome, tiresome, incapable of any sound consistency. So I'm avoiding men with this tattoo. Also men whose names start with the 10th or 14th letters of the alphabet.
My pretty boy puzzled a moment trying to count in his head.
Never mind, I interrupted. No recently divorced men. No working at Starbucks men. No 'I've only slept with one other woman' men. No married men. No army men. No I hate my mother and am a latent homosexual men.
By this point my matchmaker was nearly choking on his beer he was overcome with the giggles.
I'm serious, I tried to convince in a most nonserious tone.
Oh just find me some hottie whose as ripped as you. But not some guy who KNOWS he's that hot. They are not good in bed because they've never had to be.
He smiled and I chugged the rest of my cocktail.
Do you have a Facebook? I asked my new nonsexual lover. I'm a total Facebook whore and we need to be friends. I found him and clicked to add him. We have three friends in common I wonder who they are! I scrolled through the names. Oh you know J of hearts! I said. I love that guy! We totally bonded one night over talking about our exes and dancing all night. How do you know him?
With that question he artfully raised one eyebrow and his newfound silence spoke more than we had the past hour.
Oh, I understood.
We dated for like two years, he said.
Wait, I started putting the puzzle together. You're an ex...? When did you break up?
Close to a year ago, he answered slowly.
And you two have had a hard time staying friends? I asked quite certain now.
Yeeeah, he answered reluctantly.
Oh my God! You're THE ex! You're HIM! He told me all about you!
With that my poor matchmakers face dropped several feet. I reached my hand and placed it on his.
They were all very loving words, I reassured.
But knowing I knew such a chapter of who he was left him stripped and unnerved. I hastily changed the subject but the change was evident. And a heaviness weighed on his face.
It's rough when people know chapters of your story you've tried to overcome.
It makes you feel raw and exposed.
You're still Facebook friends, I jarringly tried to encourage.
Huh? He didn't follow.
You and J of hearts. You're still Facebook friends. I never stay Facebook friends with exes. I never stay much of anything with exes. They only remain in existence if I write about them.
See this is one of the many things I love about gay culture. When two gay guys break up they can still be linked to each others lives unlike the sensitive sissies I fall for who have to delete and/or block me because they can't handle seeing my daily life.
How is it the straight men in my life are bigger drama queens than the QUEENS in my life?
Riddle me that.
The world is really fucking small.
I went out with some friends the other night and it was greatly needed because the only way to get out of your own manic mind is to work all day and then drink with your co workers until it is officially the next day. And then in your inebriated state you can ask yourself, Oh yeah, who was that asshole I was obsessing over again? Cajun tots and jello shots I think I almost forgot!!
One of the wonderful characters at my table was a beautiful man who happens to know another beautiful man in my life. I love beautiful men. I think we all need more beautiful men in our life. And yes there is a difference between a guy who is pretty and a guy whose just a douchefuck. More on that in a minute.
The beautiful man sitting across from me took immediate action when I promptly urged him with the task of finding me a distracting rebound.
Letting go is so much more plausible when you're busy holding the flexed pecks of another.
He scrolled through his phone and came up with a picture of bachelor number one.
What about HIM? he asked confidently as he shoved the picture in my face.
Oh my God! I fired back. Is that Mac? I know that guy! I WORKED with him! He always seemed like a total douche.
He is, my matchmaker admitted. But he just texted me that he's back in Portland and looking to get laid.
I shook my head with amused disgust and threw a lime at his head.
See this is why Portland is too small.
There are so few men that I've actually dated most of them and my only options are men I already know.
I can't believe you know that guy! I muttered almost to myself.
What about him? he asked holding up a picture of bachelor number two.
I'd make out with him, I replied. But he looks like a douchebag too. And he looks young. How old is he?
My matchmaker assured me he was actually sweet and old enough and that every tattoo on his sleeve had a special meaning.
Like he got doves in honor of his mom, he announced proudly.
Jesus! I laughed. No more men with bird tattoos. Or sleeves. Was he in the army too? They're all the same. Maybe I need to stop dating the sensitive ones. I just need a MAN! to which we raised our glasses in cheers.
I pondered. Does there happen to be a brightly colored sparrow on his arm? I've made it a rule to avoid men with birds on their appendages. Literally not figuratively. I've found it's meant to serve as a warning: this one intensely emotionally stubbornly double minded; irksome, tiresome, incapable of any sound consistency. So I'm avoiding men with this tattoo. Also men whose names start with the 10th or 14th letters of the alphabet.
My pretty boy puzzled a moment trying to count in his head.
Never mind, I interrupted. No recently divorced men. No working at Starbucks men. No 'I've only slept with one other woman' men. No married men. No army men. No I hate my mother and am a latent homosexual men.
By this point my matchmaker was nearly choking on his beer he was overcome with the giggles.
I'm serious, I tried to convince in a most nonserious tone.
Oh just find me some hottie whose as ripped as you. But not some guy who KNOWS he's that hot. They are not good in bed because they've never had to be.
He smiled and I chugged the rest of my cocktail.
Do you have a Facebook? I asked my new nonsexual lover. I'm a total Facebook whore and we need to be friends. I found him and clicked to add him. We have three friends in common I wonder who they are! I scrolled through the names. Oh you know J of hearts! I said. I love that guy! We totally bonded one night over talking about our exes and dancing all night. How do you know him?
With that question he artfully raised one eyebrow and his newfound silence spoke more than we had the past hour.
Oh, I understood.
We dated for like two years, he said.
Wait, I started putting the puzzle together. You're an ex...? When did you break up?
Close to a year ago, he answered slowly.
And you two have had a hard time staying friends? I asked quite certain now.
Yeeeah, he answered reluctantly.
Oh my God! You're THE ex! You're HIM! He told me all about you!
With that my poor matchmakers face dropped several feet. I reached my hand and placed it on his.
They were all very loving words, I reassured.
But knowing I knew such a chapter of who he was left him stripped and unnerved. I hastily changed the subject but the change was evident. And a heaviness weighed on his face.
It's rough when people know chapters of your story you've tried to overcome.
It makes you feel raw and exposed.
You're still Facebook friends, I jarringly tried to encourage.
Huh? He didn't follow.
You and J of hearts. You're still Facebook friends. I never stay Facebook friends with exes. I never stay much of anything with exes. They only remain in existence if I write about them.
See this is one of the many things I love about gay culture. When two gay guys break up they can still be linked to each others lives unlike the sensitive sissies I fall for who have to delete and/or block me because they can't handle seeing my daily life.
How is it the straight men in my life are bigger drama queens than the QUEENS in my life?
Riddle me that.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
To err is to love
I have loved a great many men in my time.
If you read my journals in college you would have laughed uproariously for hours. Every other page my heart fervently poured in amorous declarations, I love him! I really love him! And soon a week or month would pass and I had moved on to another. I remember looking back through one journal, it was the year I'd just turned 21 and I actually devoted an entire PAGE to each of my crushes. This guy I met in choir. This one, Pilates. This guy is an ACTOR and THIS one plays guitar! Good God in heaven it is a wonder I am ever able to take anything I say or do seriously. I haven't changed! It's just as you get older and are no longer in school they're not swimming like eager guppies around you waiting to see if they can score with you. Well, they are, they just don't have the excuse of extra credit to find a way to approach you.
In Kindergarten I chased them around the classroom. In fourth grade I passed notes asking boys out. I like you. Do you like me or should I start liking someone else? I had a boyfriend named Adam in third grade and one named Adam in fourth grade.
(Foreshadowing my propensity for dating the same schmuck repeatedly even at such a young age).
In junior high I'd get a new boyfriend in homeroom and then be single by fifth period. In high school I asked them to formal dances. In college I dated as many guys as I had electives. And now? Now I am pining for yet another schmuck who is not the one for me. And yet every passionate fiber in my being screams, He loves me! I love him! How then can we not be meant to be?!?
Damn. For a woman whose been infatuated with love her entire life I sure can't stand it.
How can you be pragmatic when it comes to matters of the heart?
I loved a man once and it felt like a practical sort of love. I remember admitting to myself it was not the sort of consuming passion I'd felt for lovers before him but I reasoned that age and maturity and faith in God had quieted my passions' flame. I see now that I was stubbornly refusing to admit my flame was merely a small one. When it ended and he mournfully declared, I love you but I can't be in love right now the stubborn princess in me resigned to prove him wrong: for no man that in love could ever not be with me! 'Twould be sheer madness! What kind of love runs and hides? Psssh! Impossibility. Improbability. Unfathomable stupidity!
And yet that's just what he did.
So ok. Obviously, when you've a passion for love it is easy to love the wrong candidates. But here is where I question: is loving ever truly wrong?
I greatly loved a man once who was a devout Atheist and to my Christianity he was not the right one to love. But he challenged me and changed me and for much of our time together he cherished me and taught me what it was like to watch a man delight in me, as the woman I actually am.
How then could such a love be classified as wrong?
I think it is not the love itself that errs but the desires that spring from it.
The love I feel now WANTS. It is dissatisfied and insatiable and stubbornly greedy. It stirs frustrations within me and whispers lying seeds of doubt to all that was and is and ever will be. My love poses insecurities and needs I know I'm too much of a woman to believe I truly need. And while the practical pragmatic reasoning logic tells me Let go! Move on! You can do SO MUCH BETTER HONEY! My heart....my heart....Oh man, but my heart...it aches for what filled it, for what fit so perfectly.
And I fight my own passion with reason and I remind of the never ending plethora of guppies and I repeat after me, This. Too. Shall. Pass.
But damn if I'm not a mere girl anymore.
Damn if I don't know the partial loves from the great ones.
And damn if the multitudes I've known have felt nothing the way this love has.
Love that changes can't be wrong.
To not love, now that is the greatest crime of all.
If you read my journals in college you would have laughed uproariously for hours. Every other page my heart fervently poured in amorous declarations, I love him! I really love him! And soon a week or month would pass and I had moved on to another. I remember looking back through one journal, it was the year I'd just turned 21 and I actually devoted an entire PAGE to each of my crushes. This guy I met in choir. This one, Pilates. This guy is an ACTOR and THIS one plays guitar! Good God in heaven it is a wonder I am ever able to take anything I say or do seriously. I haven't changed! It's just as you get older and are no longer in school they're not swimming like eager guppies around you waiting to see if they can score with you. Well, they are, they just don't have the excuse of extra credit to find a way to approach you.
In Kindergarten I chased them around the classroom. In fourth grade I passed notes asking boys out. I like you. Do you like me or should I start liking someone else? I had a boyfriend named Adam in third grade and one named Adam in fourth grade.
(Foreshadowing my propensity for dating the same schmuck repeatedly even at such a young age).
In junior high I'd get a new boyfriend in homeroom and then be single by fifth period. In high school I asked them to formal dances. In college I dated as many guys as I had electives. And now? Now I am pining for yet another schmuck who is not the one for me. And yet every passionate fiber in my being screams, He loves me! I love him! How then can we not be meant to be?!?
Damn. For a woman whose been infatuated with love her entire life I sure can't stand it.
How can you be pragmatic when it comes to matters of the heart?
I loved a man once and it felt like a practical sort of love. I remember admitting to myself it was not the sort of consuming passion I'd felt for lovers before him but I reasoned that age and maturity and faith in God had quieted my passions' flame. I see now that I was stubbornly refusing to admit my flame was merely a small one. When it ended and he mournfully declared, I love you but I can't be in love right now the stubborn princess in me resigned to prove him wrong: for no man that in love could ever not be with me! 'Twould be sheer madness! What kind of love runs and hides? Psssh! Impossibility. Improbability. Unfathomable stupidity!
And yet that's just what he did.
So ok. Obviously, when you've a passion for love it is easy to love the wrong candidates. But here is where I question: is loving ever truly wrong?
I greatly loved a man once who was a devout Atheist and to my Christianity he was not the right one to love. But he challenged me and changed me and for much of our time together he cherished me and taught me what it was like to watch a man delight in me, as the woman I actually am.
How then could such a love be classified as wrong?
I think it is not the love itself that errs but the desires that spring from it.
The love I feel now WANTS. It is dissatisfied and insatiable and stubbornly greedy. It stirs frustrations within me and whispers lying seeds of doubt to all that was and is and ever will be. My love poses insecurities and needs I know I'm too much of a woman to believe I truly need. And while the practical pragmatic reasoning logic tells me Let go! Move on! You can do SO MUCH BETTER HONEY! My heart....my heart....Oh man, but my heart...it aches for what filled it, for what fit so perfectly.
And I fight my own passion with reason and I remind of the never ending plethora of guppies and I repeat after me, This. Too. Shall. Pass.
But damn if I'm not a mere girl anymore.
Damn if I don't know the partial loves from the great ones.
And damn if the multitudes I've known have felt nothing the way this love has.
Love that changes can't be wrong.
To not love, now that is the greatest crime of all.
Nuh-uh! But she SAID!!
I'm re reading Jane Eyre. I read it a lifetime ago when I was surely still a girl. The story starts with Jane as a child, bullied and unloved, despised as a sort of Cinderella enduring the hatred until it nearly destroys her. Then comes a day when something within her stirs even in spite of herself and she is compelled to stand up to her benefactress. And the venom which she fires at the missus is so harsh it shakes even the vile woman that she is. Learning this effect Jane has, learning the power her words carry, her strength to defeat the most giant of adversaries strengthens her. She is described as grinning for quite some time.
I couldn't help but think of my most recent interchange with my own sort of "benefactress." I have a new foe. Though like the minority who gain my utmost respect she is not of the sort to be straightforward about her dislike of me. Those who are consistently cruel because of their hate for you are at least honest about their stupidity. But those that feign friendliness and pass off their jealousy and competitiveness as anything but apathy earn my abhorrence.
Be real. Be genuine. Be what you are. Even if what you are is a conniving, insecure bitch. Then at least we can all know what we're dealing with.
But this one is the more elusive, Are you ok? Do you need to talk about it? one day. And then snarling orders and accusations the next.
I tire of your multiple personalities. You didn't raise me nor make love to me nor earn my admiration for being someone of great station, importance, or merit, and there is no rational reason for me to tolerate such insanity, so forgive my bluntness but who the hell do you think you are?
I, being the savvy intellectual I am, sensed the tension mounting and called it to the attention of an outsider, someone I believed more fit for the situation. That seemed the mature, pragmatic way to handle things but then again when the hell are things ever as they seem?
What then ensued was an absurdly formal meeting between myself and THREE other parties. Lord have mercy, I can only imagine what would have transpired should an actual 'incident' had occurred. The girl when attempting to speak directly to me could not control her facial ticks and distortions from broadcasting her vehement loathing of me even with two others present! It took everything in me not to laugh in her face, Ladies and gentlemen! If she's this off putting when you're around imagine my enjoyment when there are no witnesses to her unbiased diatribes! One mediator actually had to interrupt her and interject a scolding, "tone" because she was unable to direct a sentence towards me calmly.
Oh. My. GOD.
Are we thirteen and three quarters?
Don't like me. I don't care! Be jealous and threatened because of your deep rooted insecurities. Be my guest. But for the love of lipstick pull yourself together when trying to settle a dispute in front of those old enough to be your Mama.
It made me feel like I should have kept my damn mouth closed and gone about my business with the agreeable, Yes m'aam. No m'aam. Whatever you say, m'aam. That's the non confrontational way of dealing with opposition. Just ignore and appease. Pacify and placate.
But I am many things not the least of which is silent.
And I thought about Jane. And how sometimes the only way to deal with a bitch is to let your own bitch bitch back. Those who need to exert their authority back down when they know you'll stand your ground.
And this bitch is a fighter and will never tolerate injustice with sealed lips.
That's why you either love me or hate me.
And if you hate me?
Then for the love of liquor be brave enough to be honest about it.
Then I can respect you while I giggle over your hatred towards me.
I couldn't help but think of my most recent interchange with my own sort of "benefactress." I have a new foe. Though like the minority who gain my utmost respect she is not of the sort to be straightforward about her dislike of me. Those who are consistently cruel because of their hate for you are at least honest about their stupidity. But those that feign friendliness and pass off their jealousy and competitiveness as anything but apathy earn my abhorrence.
Be real. Be genuine. Be what you are. Even if what you are is a conniving, insecure bitch. Then at least we can all know what we're dealing with.
But this one is the more elusive, Are you ok? Do you need to talk about it? one day. And then snarling orders and accusations the next.
I tire of your multiple personalities. You didn't raise me nor make love to me nor earn my admiration for being someone of great station, importance, or merit, and there is no rational reason for me to tolerate such insanity, so forgive my bluntness but who the hell do you think you are?
I, being the savvy intellectual I am, sensed the tension mounting and called it to the attention of an outsider, someone I believed more fit for the situation. That seemed the mature, pragmatic way to handle things but then again when the hell are things ever as they seem?
What then ensued was an absurdly formal meeting between myself and THREE other parties. Lord have mercy, I can only imagine what would have transpired should an actual 'incident' had occurred. The girl when attempting to speak directly to me could not control her facial ticks and distortions from broadcasting her vehement loathing of me even with two others present! It took everything in me not to laugh in her face, Ladies and gentlemen! If she's this off putting when you're around imagine my enjoyment when there are no witnesses to her unbiased diatribes! One mediator actually had to interrupt her and interject a scolding, "tone" because she was unable to direct a sentence towards me calmly.
Oh. My. GOD.
Are we thirteen and three quarters?
Don't like me. I don't care! Be jealous and threatened because of your deep rooted insecurities. Be my guest. But for the love of lipstick pull yourself together when trying to settle a dispute in front of those old enough to be your Mama.
It made me feel like I should have kept my damn mouth closed and gone about my business with the agreeable, Yes m'aam. No m'aam. Whatever you say, m'aam. That's the non confrontational way of dealing with opposition. Just ignore and appease. Pacify and placate.
But I am many things not the least of which is silent.
And I thought about Jane. And how sometimes the only way to deal with a bitch is to let your own bitch bitch back. Those who need to exert their authority back down when they know you'll stand your ground.
And this bitch is a fighter and will never tolerate injustice with sealed lips.
That's why you either love me or hate me.
And if you hate me?
Then for the love of liquor be brave enough to be honest about it.
Then I can respect you while I giggle over your hatred towards me.
Letters and numbers
She felt the company of words.
Each letter enveloped her, carefully resting on her skin.
Their lines and circles comforted, sharing truths she longed to give.
The end of a story began another.
But no one ever wrote the pangs of transition.
Our story begins in between stories.
The waiting, the loss, the agonizing ecstasy.
None saw the hours she whiled away, or the silent tears minutes pulled from her eyes.
An actor, resilient, strong, confined to her role as accepting, acquiescing, agreeable girl.
Relent when too pressing, retract when words too biting, agree to lies heaved on her shoulders by those older, more schooled in deceit.
Check. And check. And again and always evermore, check.
She'd stir tensions at work but stop to placate.
And open passions in lovers that needed forgetting.
And everywhere she went, everyone she met always had something to say.
Colors so vibrant instill words in the inarticulate.
She gathered them up, gems, thorns, et al, and stored them away, each box lining tattered shelves.
To remember and regret, neither confirm or deny, the hate and love that lies.
That is never strong enough to stay put.
Each letter enveloped her, carefully resting on her skin.
Their lines and circles comforted, sharing truths she longed to give.
The end of a story began another.
But no one ever wrote the pangs of transition.
Our story begins in between stories.
The waiting, the loss, the agonizing ecstasy.
None saw the hours she whiled away, or the silent tears minutes pulled from her eyes.
An actor, resilient, strong, confined to her role as accepting, acquiescing, agreeable girl.
Relent when too pressing, retract when words too biting, agree to lies heaved on her shoulders by those older, more schooled in deceit.
Check. And check. And again and always evermore, check.
She'd stir tensions at work but stop to placate.
And open passions in lovers that needed forgetting.
And everywhere she went, everyone she met always had something to say.
Colors so vibrant instill words in the inarticulate.
She gathered them up, gems, thorns, et al, and stored them away, each box lining tattered shelves.
To remember and regret, neither confirm or deny, the hate and love that lies.
That is never strong enough to stay put.
Ink Stains
If all we feel are merely lies believe the facts handed you
If you are wrong and they are right speak not since none of it's true
If contradictions invoke complications stifle each sob
Reflections unbecoming refract colors tired from each job
I'll counter, I'll hold to all unspoken
I'll see, I'll believe all others ignore
Forget me nots unpicked grow brighter still
Watch sparrows flying overhead soar
Days pass to weeks and the years to seasons
Clouds casting shadows reach above reason
Open your mouth release what's locked and true
Whisper with trembling lips I love not one but two
If you are wrong and they are right speak not since none of it's true
If contradictions invoke complications stifle each sob
Reflections unbecoming refract colors tired from each job
I'll counter, I'll hold to all unspoken
I'll see, I'll believe all others ignore
Forget me nots unpicked grow brighter still
Watch sparrows flying overhead soar
Days pass to weeks and the years to seasons
Clouds casting shadows reach above reason
Open your mouth release what's locked and true
Whisper with trembling lips I love not one but two
I Know
You didn't want me to know
How much you missed me too
Or that you pretended not to feel
All that stirred within you
You didn't want me to know
The fires stirring between your lips
Words daring to be whispered
Clenched jaws stealing amorous sips
You didn't want me to know
You awoke from dreams you rarely recall
Leaving lingering nightmares that numb
Laying side by side pushing you to fall
You didn't want me to know
Truths mirrored in eyes of a stranger
We two don't know each other
Such contradiction unleashes danger
You didn't want me to know
The letters in your words read release
But misspelled such intents of purpose
Revealing every unuttered piece
You didn't want me to know
Your fantasy was our reality
And you will try where some swallow lies
Good night stranger sleep lightly
How much you missed me too
Or that you pretended not to feel
All that stirred within you
You didn't want me to know
The fires stirring between your lips
Words daring to be whispered
Clenched jaws stealing amorous sips
You didn't want me to know
You awoke from dreams you rarely recall
Leaving lingering nightmares that numb
Laying side by side pushing you to fall
You didn't want me to know
Truths mirrored in eyes of a stranger
We two don't know each other
Such contradiction unleashes danger
You didn't want me to know
The letters in your words read release
But misspelled such intents of purpose
Revealing every unuttered piece
You didn't want me to know
Your fantasy was our reality
And you will try where some swallow lies
Good night stranger sleep lightly
caught in the rain
I am here to hold the blame
to agree 'twas nothing real
we walked, hand in hand,
the rain
dancing in our ears
you brushed my face
the wind
pulling my hair
but we too blinked away
the sparks
willing heat to be shared
we glued our hearts
still
no longer creeping away
I took a picture
when you looked afraid
to keep
tucked away
for only my eyes see
such love peering back at me
to agree 'twas nothing real
we walked, hand in hand,
the rain
dancing in our ears
you brushed my face
the wind
pulling my hair
but we too blinked away
the sparks
willing heat to be shared
we glued our hearts
still
no longer creeping away
I took a picture
when you looked afraid
to keep
tucked away
for only my eyes see
such love peering back at me
your ex lover has come and gone
and his love was not like yours
his love did not run and hide
his love let me be,
flawed,
fucked up
beautifully
you thought I'd never know
all you tried to dig,
sneaky, clever really,
you never guessed he'd tell what you did
your attempts revealed transparency
dying to know if what you heard was true
and hoped he'd back the rumor mill
not confirm the fear you held onto
and his love was not like yours
his love did not run and hide
his love let me be,
flawed,
fucked up
beautifully
my words echoed in indifferent ears
I. fell. for. another.
your pride longed to know
if he hated me with the passion you once loved to show
reaching our hands across the table
we shook our heads as only lovers do
he winked and squeezed my hand
laughing for those who hadn't a clue
sparkling in the sun an exchange of truths unveiled
he saw 'twas amazing even though I was my own
nestled between our lashes tears reflected smiles
sparks forever buried continued love shone
and his love was not like yours
his love did not run and hide
his love let me be,
flawed,
fucked up
beautifully
his love did not run and hide
his love let me be,
flawed,
fucked up
beautifully
you thought I'd never know
all you tried to dig,
sneaky, clever really,
you never guessed he'd tell what you did
your attempts revealed transparency
dying to know if what you heard was true
and hoped he'd back the rumor mill
not confirm the fear you held onto
and his love was not like yours
his love did not run and hide
his love let me be,
flawed,
fucked up
beautifully
my words echoed in indifferent ears
I. fell. for. another.
your pride longed to know
if he hated me with the passion you once loved to show
reaching our hands across the table
we shook our heads as only lovers do
he winked and squeezed my hand
laughing for those who hadn't a clue
sparkling in the sun an exchange of truths unveiled
he saw 'twas amazing even though I was my own
nestled between our lashes tears reflected smiles
sparks forever buried continued love shone
and his love was not like yours
his love did not run and hide
his love let me be,
flawed,
fucked up
beautifully
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Cry babies
Have you ever had something happen, something trying, something that made you want to throw up your hands and stomp your feet in a tantrum like a little girl, but you were determined not to cry?
I have.
I was determined to be a big girl today.
Cry babies are not sexy.
And this vixen is most definitely sexy.
I didn't think I wasn't allowing myself to feel all I was.
I just wanted to handle it all in a mature manner.
There's no reason to cry over something you know is for the best.
But when what happens takes a tiny piece of you with it, how can you not cry over the hole that's been cut in you?
But I didn't cry.
I held my chin high.
And was thankful for the moments that put a smile on my lips.
And I came home and took a nap.
(Sleep always makes the hurt seem less so).
And I put on a new, shiny blue dress with my favorite ivory cardigan with pearls. And I pinned my hair back. And I did my makeup flawlessly. Fake lashes and everything, which I never do!
I was going to meet my new gay boyfriend for cocktails but the bitch flaked out on me.
Again, I was determined to not let anything deter me from being the mature lady I am and decided if I didn't have a date that didn't mean I couldn't still take myself out.
So I headed downtown and managed to find a parking spot in the Pearl, no small feat, let me tell you. And right in front of my car was a little chocolate cafe I'd never seen before. Providence! I stepped inside and seemed to be transported to some European cafe. Look at you! the girl at the counter gushed. What are you doing tonight? You look great! I smiled and told her I was taking myself to the movies. Jane Eyre is supposed to be amazing, I said. It's about these two people who share this rare connection and fall in love but can't be together. She handed me my decadent drinking chocolate and tiny truffle. You'll have to come back and tell me if it's good, she smiled.
I left the cafe, my cheeks kissed by the wind and sipped the rich chocolate. It was so dense I could have eaten it with a spoon. I headed to the record store to look for some of the artists I've recently fallen in love with. It's wonderful to listen to a cd before you buy it, isn't it? The gentlemen at the record store were very friendly. I can always tell when a man finds me beautiful. They go out of their way to find extra things to tell me. And their eyes linger when they look into mine. It's nice being around new people and new energy. Especially when they see how beautiful you are.
Back into the arms of the wind I headed down towards the book store. You look nice, a man who had made me slightly nervous said. Thank you, I smiled back and realized he wasn't a threat. Into the book store I delighted over all the colors to choose from. I found a card that made me laugh, She requires a steady diet of Faith and Fancy with a little mischief here and there for good measure. I picked it up and continued sipping my drinking chocolate and looking over all the tiny trinkets and treasures lining the shelves. I added a novel and a necklace to my pile and eventually worked my way toward the register. I continued looking through books on my way out and looked down at my little cup. There was a crack along the rim of the lid. And suddenly I saw it. Somewhere along the colors of the rooms I had managed to spill the rich, decadent drinking chocolate all along the front of my dress. It was on the silk colar of my dress, along the pearls and front of my sweater and even splotched along the skirt lined with lace. Like a little girl decked out in her frilly birthday frock and left alone with her chocolate cake, I. Was. A. Mess.
I'm not going to cry, I mumbled to myself. It's fine. I don't care.
I headed back into the wind, now pushing my face aside instead of caressing it, and headed back to my car. I got in and shut the door. And in spite of all the indifference I tried to muster up I felt the tears worming their way up my throat. I can't cry it will ruin my makeup! I said out loud. I laughed at my own absurdity. And the laughter broke open the reservoir in my throat. And the tears streamed down my cheeks.
I'd tried so hard.
I'd done so well all day.
And then like a little girl, I was crying because my new dress was ruined.
At least, that's why I seemed to be crying.
I knew it was just an outfit.
I knew I could get a new one.
And I knew that there were plenty of others out there.
But I really loved this one.
And I was wearing it for the first time.
It just felt really unfair.
It's hard to find something that fits so perfectly, you know?
So I gave in and let the cry happen.
And I accepted all that might very well be ruined, all that would never share such evenings with me again.
And I saw an airplane fly over head.
And remembered there was so much I didn't see and didn't know.
And decided I'd just go out and find myself an even prettier dress and more lovely cardigan.
But I'd still miss my old one.
Some things just are.
No matter how much you try to not be a cry baby.
I have.
I was determined to be a big girl today.
Cry babies are not sexy.
And this vixen is most definitely sexy.
I didn't think I wasn't allowing myself to feel all I was.
I just wanted to handle it all in a mature manner.
There's no reason to cry over something you know is for the best.
But when what happens takes a tiny piece of you with it, how can you not cry over the hole that's been cut in you?
But I didn't cry.
I held my chin high.
And was thankful for the moments that put a smile on my lips.
And I came home and took a nap.
(Sleep always makes the hurt seem less so).
And I put on a new, shiny blue dress with my favorite ivory cardigan with pearls. And I pinned my hair back. And I did my makeup flawlessly. Fake lashes and everything, which I never do!
I was going to meet my new gay boyfriend for cocktails but the bitch flaked out on me.
Again, I was determined to not let anything deter me from being the mature lady I am and decided if I didn't have a date that didn't mean I couldn't still take myself out.
So I headed downtown and managed to find a parking spot in the Pearl, no small feat, let me tell you. And right in front of my car was a little chocolate cafe I'd never seen before. Providence! I stepped inside and seemed to be transported to some European cafe. Look at you! the girl at the counter gushed. What are you doing tonight? You look great! I smiled and told her I was taking myself to the movies. Jane Eyre is supposed to be amazing, I said. It's about these two people who share this rare connection and fall in love but can't be together. She handed me my decadent drinking chocolate and tiny truffle. You'll have to come back and tell me if it's good, she smiled.
I left the cafe, my cheeks kissed by the wind and sipped the rich chocolate. It was so dense I could have eaten it with a spoon. I headed to the record store to look for some of the artists I've recently fallen in love with. It's wonderful to listen to a cd before you buy it, isn't it? The gentlemen at the record store were very friendly. I can always tell when a man finds me beautiful. They go out of their way to find extra things to tell me. And their eyes linger when they look into mine. It's nice being around new people and new energy. Especially when they see how beautiful you are.
Back into the arms of the wind I headed down towards the book store. You look nice, a man who had made me slightly nervous said. Thank you, I smiled back and realized he wasn't a threat. Into the book store I delighted over all the colors to choose from. I found a card that made me laugh, She requires a steady diet of Faith and Fancy with a little mischief here and there for good measure. I picked it up and continued sipping my drinking chocolate and looking over all the tiny trinkets and treasures lining the shelves. I added a novel and a necklace to my pile and eventually worked my way toward the register. I continued looking through books on my way out and looked down at my little cup. There was a crack along the rim of the lid. And suddenly I saw it. Somewhere along the colors of the rooms I had managed to spill the rich, decadent drinking chocolate all along the front of my dress. It was on the silk colar of my dress, along the pearls and front of my sweater and even splotched along the skirt lined with lace. Like a little girl decked out in her frilly birthday frock and left alone with her chocolate cake, I. Was. A. Mess.
I'm not going to cry, I mumbled to myself. It's fine. I don't care.
I headed back into the wind, now pushing my face aside instead of caressing it, and headed back to my car. I got in and shut the door. And in spite of all the indifference I tried to muster up I felt the tears worming their way up my throat. I can't cry it will ruin my makeup! I said out loud. I laughed at my own absurdity. And the laughter broke open the reservoir in my throat. And the tears streamed down my cheeks.
I'd tried so hard.
I'd done so well all day.
And then like a little girl, I was crying because my new dress was ruined.
At least, that's why I seemed to be crying.
I knew it was just an outfit.
I knew I could get a new one.
And I knew that there were plenty of others out there.
But I really loved this one.
And I was wearing it for the first time.
It just felt really unfair.
It's hard to find something that fits so perfectly, you know?
So I gave in and let the cry happen.
And I accepted all that might very well be ruined, all that would never share such evenings with me again.
And I saw an airplane fly over head.
And remembered there was so much I didn't see and didn't know.
And decided I'd just go out and find myself an even prettier dress and more lovely cardigan.
But I'd still miss my old one.
Some things just are.
No matter how much you try to not be a cry baby.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear
I am very fair.
I read in a magazine once that Nicole Kidman and Julianne Moore had porcelain skin. I decided my whitey white whiteness parallelled theirs and from that day forward I thought of my own fair skin as porcelain. And I don't hesitate to correct those who try to call me pasty. This bitch is porcelain. And don't you forget it.
But because I am so very fair it is EXTREMELY hard to find a foundation white enough for this white. I always tell my customers I just have to take the lightest foundation and add white to it. And then it's almost light enough.
Amazingly enough I do use a foundation that's pretty damn near close to my actual skin tone.
(Product Placement: Estee Lauder Double Wear Foundation. It will change your life. My mother swears by it. And the Divas at my dance studio will testify that I never sweat it off. Not even after three classes. And trust me. This. Girl. SWEATS).
I went in for a makeover the day of my movie premiere and didn't tell the gal I had anything on. She did my eyes and just used concealer in a few spots on my face and that was it. Someone walked by and commented on how great my look was and asked my makeup artist what she'd used. She went on to say that she'd used that particular concealer, But the rest is just her skin, she'd said.
Best. Compliment. EVER.
Because actually, I was wearing my foundation.
It's just that good that it looked like my own skin.
Things aren't always what they seem.
Mama used to always remind me, Judge a man by what he does not what he says. Because words are very easy to manipulate. But most people aren't clever enough to trick their actions into not giving away their motives.
Words lie. Actions scream truths.
Mr. Volcano used to drive me batty because he was the only person I knew who always wanted to talk but would speak a plethora of words without ever actually saying anything. You know those people who can just talk and talk but after you leave the conversation you still don't understand what the hell they're thinking? It was like that. ALL the time. If I date one more man who needs to talk about his feelings all the time I'm going to use tweezers to pull out every one of my eyelashes.
I was always the hopeless romantic growing up. I was the girl writing poetry and feeling so emotional and wanting to share all her feelings. And my first love was this poet, this artist and musician. And that seemed SO sexy, you know? That he was so in touch with all he was and he'd slow dance with me under the stars and write me songs and write short stories about me. He always called me Maggie. And he, Jake.
But NOW? Now I hear that my cousin's groom wept when he saw her come down the aisle and my first thought was, she's marrying a WOMAN! If I ever were getting married and as I walked down the aisle in a sexy dress my hub to be got so emotional he lost it in front of the crowd? I'd turn around and walk out. Weeping in private, one on one, showing a raw, vulnerable side? Totally sweet and totally sexy. But weeping in front of hundreds of people? SO.NOT.SEXY. I'll take men I prefer not to marry for 1000, please.
But I know I'm not attracted to those burly, manly men who chug beer and yell at the refs on TV and think shooting deer is a sport, either. I am doubtful that hybrids of these two male extremes do exist.
My brother told me that if I want passion then I have to accept the chaos that goes with it.
And if I want dependability then I have to settle for stagnancy.
What you need is a loyal man who would be just fine if you died, he offered.
WHAT?! I'd guffawed. These are my options? Obsessive and crazy or indifferent and comfortable? I. WANT. PASSION!!
I really do.
I choose the crazies over the meek, ANY day.
I want a flame that BURNS.
Not one that dies out yet feels safe.
Friendships are for comfort.
Lovers are for heat.
And getting burned is all part of the fire, baby.
I read in a magazine once that Nicole Kidman and Julianne Moore had porcelain skin. I decided my whitey white whiteness parallelled theirs and from that day forward I thought of my own fair skin as porcelain. And I don't hesitate to correct those who try to call me pasty. This bitch is porcelain. And don't you forget it.
But because I am so very fair it is EXTREMELY hard to find a foundation white enough for this white. I always tell my customers I just have to take the lightest foundation and add white to it. And then it's almost light enough.
Amazingly enough I do use a foundation that's pretty damn near close to my actual skin tone.
(Product Placement: Estee Lauder Double Wear Foundation. It will change your life. My mother swears by it. And the Divas at my dance studio will testify that I never sweat it off. Not even after three classes. And trust me. This. Girl. SWEATS).
I went in for a makeover the day of my movie premiere and didn't tell the gal I had anything on. She did my eyes and just used concealer in a few spots on my face and that was it. Someone walked by and commented on how great my look was and asked my makeup artist what she'd used. She went on to say that she'd used that particular concealer, But the rest is just her skin, she'd said.
Best. Compliment. EVER.
Because actually, I was wearing my foundation.
It's just that good that it looked like my own skin.
Things aren't always what they seem.
Mama used to always remind me, Judge a man by what he does not what he says. Because words are very easy to manipulate. But most people aren't clever enough to trick their actions into not giving away their motives.
Words lie. Actions scream truths.
Mr. Volcano used to drive me batty because he was the only person I knew who always wanted to talk but would speak a plethora of words without ever actually saying anything. You know those people who can just talk and talk but after you leave the conversation you still don't understand what the hell they're thinking? It was like that. ALL the time. If I date one more man who needs to talk about his feelings all the time I'm going to use tweezers to pull out every one of my eyelashes.
I was always the hopeless romantic growing up. I was the girl writing poetry and feeling so emotional and wanting to share all her feelings. And my first love was this poet, this artist and musician. And that seemed SO sexy, you know? That he was so in touch with all he was and he'd slow dance with me under the stars and write me songs and write short stories about me. He always called me Maggie. And he, Jake.
But NOW? Now I hear that my cousin's groom wept when he saw her come down the aisle and my first thought was, she's marrying a WOMAN! If I ever were getting married and as I walked down the aisle in a sexy dress my hub to be got so emotional he lost it in front of the crowd? I'd turn around and walk out. Weeping in private, one on one, showing a raw, vulnerable side? Totally sweet and totally sexy. But weeping in front of hundreds of people? SO.NOT.SEXY. I'll take men I prefer not to marry for 1000, please.
But I know I'm not attracted to those burly, manly men who chug beer and yell at the refs on TV and think shooting deer is a sport, either. I am doubtful that hybrids of these two male extremes do exist.
My brother told me that if I want passion then I have to accept the chaos that goes with it.
And if I want dependability then I have to settle for stagnancy.
What you need is a loyal man who would be just fine if you died, he offered.
WHAT?! I'd guffawed. These are my options? Obsessive and crazy or indifferent and comfortable? I. WANT. PASSION!!
I really do.
I choose the crazies over the meek, ANY day.
I want a flame that BURNS.
Not one that dies out yet feels safe.
Friendships are for comfort.
Lovers are for heat.
And getting burned is all part of the fire, baby.
Friday, April 15, 2011
G-Hubs
Do you ever have those moments when you think you're going somewhere because of a certain person or because you expect a certain something to happen that night only to find that the real reason you needed to go to that somewhere was for an entirely different reason?
I met an inspiration last weekend.
I was hitting the town with my new boyfriend (I use the term "boyfriend" loosely as he is clearly a homosexual). But being that I am a lady now and not a mere girl I don't often have the energy to go clubbin' 'til the wee hours of the morning. So I wasn't sure if I was really going to go out or not. So we went and pre funked at his place (I love that having a cocktail now has such a scandalous title) and then we headed over to his friends place before going to the club. I was still unsure about whether or not I wanted to go dancing because I could hear my satin pajamas calling my name. Mmm! Sooo silky! But once I got to our second prefunk locale I met another love of my life.
This J-man was not only gorgeous, (I love pretty men, I really, truly do). But he also had this fearless energy about him. This playful, I'm so cute don't you want to take my picture? smile coupled with an edginess that warned, Don't fuck with me.
Love. At. First. Sight.
Why are you wearing a tie with a short sleeve shirt? J-man's roommate asked him.
The puppy dog look is really big this season, I keep trying to tell you that, J-man quickly snapped back.
I giggled. I really love men in ties. So dreamy.
He even made us a mixed cd for the night and burned ME a copy.
Presents on our first encounter? Oh you can absolutely buy my affection!
I've been groovin' to my new cd while I drive around town.
He titled it, Fuck me on the dance floor.
You're a little in love with him too.
Don't lie.
But the best part of meeting my new love was that he is a Nordstrom rock star and within six months was promoted to being a personal stylist which usually takes years to do. I was overwhelmingly impressed so I asked him a ton of questions and sought any advice he could give me about how to be a fellow rockstar. I don't know if it was because he was a kindred spirit and just spoke in a way I totally understood or if it was just because he was so damn pretty, but I took what he said to heart, applied the new strategies at work the next day and doubled my sales from the previous day.
And all this week I just feel like I've finally settled into my job and I get it and I'm good at it and I love it.
And if I wouldn't have dragged my lazy, too tired ass to go out that night I may have never met my inspiration.
Oh and I did go dancing.
And I shook my ass off.
And we were totally fierce.
Rock stars not only look the part, they know how to work it too.
I met an inspiration last weekend.
I was hitting the town with my new boyfriend (I use the term "boyfriend" loosely as he is clearly a homosexual). But being that I am a lady now and not a mere girl I don't often have the energy to go clubbin' 'til the wee hours of the morning. So I wasn't sure if I was really going to go out or not. So we went and pre funked at his place (I love that having a cocktail now has such a scandalous title) and then we headed over to his friends place before going to the club. I was still unsure about whether or not I wanted to go dancing because I could hear my satin pajamas calling my name. Mmm! Sooo silky! But once I got to our second prefunk locale I met another love of my life.
This J-man was not only gorgeous, (I love pretty men, I really, truly do). But he also had this fearless energy about him. This playful, I'm so cute don't you want to take my picture? smile coupled with an edginess that warned, Don't fuck with me.
Love. At. First. Sight.
Why are you wearing a tie with a short sleeve shirt? J-man's roommate asked him.
The puppy dog look is really big this season, I keep trying to tell you that, J-man quickly snapped back.
I giggled. I really love men in ties. So dreamy.
He even made us a mixed cd for the night and burned ME a copy.
Presents on our first encounter? Oh you can absolutely buy my affection!
I've been groovin' to my new cd while I drive around town.
He titled it, Fuck me on the dance floor.
You're a little in love with him too.
Don't lie.
But the best part of meeting my new love was that he is a Nordstrom rock star and within six months was promoted to being a personal stylist which usually takes years to do. I was overwhelmingly impressed so I asked him a ton of questions and sought any advice he could give me about how to be a fellow rockstar. I don't know if it was because he was a kindred spirit and just spoke in a way I totally understood or if it was just because he was so damn pretty, but I took what he said to heart, applied the new strategies at work the next day and doubled my sales from the previous day.
And all this week I just feel like I've finally settled into my job and I get it and I'm good at it and I love it.
And if I wouldn't have dragged my lazy, too tired ass to go out that night I may have never met my inspiration.
Oh and I did go dancing.
And I shook my ass off.
And we were totally fierce.
Rock stars not only look the part, they know how to work it too.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Go
I thought I knew how I'd react.
I've played it over in my mind more times than I'd like to admit.
I've shown indifference. I've shown sincere affection.
I've locked eyes and stared down hatred with an intensity that chills.
But it was all hypothetical.
And with the most overwhelming hope for an encounter that would never happen.
Lord save me from my ghosts.
But today I felt the reality of such an encounter.
And it surprised me with the instinctive gut reaction.
I saw him.
Or who I thought was Mr. Volcano.
'Twas merely his doppleganger, some lanky tower with methodical steps that glide and a melancholy disposition daring you to alter it.
My stomach leapt into my throat.
I hate rollercoasters.
And I slid down the ramp of a drop straight down.
I held my breath and felt the clarity of anticipated pain just before you smack cement.
ohmygod, I whispered.
And my body involuntarily shook.
Are you ok? my coworker asked me.
No, I felt.
This ghost needs to leave me be.
He needs to go.
Far, far away.
I've played it over in my mind more times than I'd like to admit.
I've shown indifference. I've shown sincere affection.
I've locked eyes and stared down hatred with an intensity that chills.
But it was all hypothetical.
And with the most overwhelming hope for an encounter that would never happen.
Lord save me from my ghosts.
But today I felt the reality of such an encounter.
And it surprised me with the instinctive gut reaction.
I saw him.
Or who I thought was Mr. Volcano.
'Twas merely his doppleganger, some lanky tower with methodical steps that glide and a melancholy disposition daring you to alter it.
My stomach leapt into my throat.
I hate rollercoasters.
And I slid down the ramp of a drop straight down.
I held my breath and felt the clarity of anticipated pain just before you smack cement.
ohmygod, I whispered.
And my body involuntarily shook.
Are you ok? my coworker asked me.
No, I felt.
This ghost needs to leave me be.
He needs to go.
Far, far away.
my ocean
I love the beach. I don't know if it's because I grew up with the ocean in my backyard or what exactly it is but I love the coast.
Whenever I'm feeling lost breathing in that salt air always makes me feel balanced. I don't think many people would drive an hour and a half to stand in mud, rain blowing in their face, just to see the ocean. But I did. And it was all I needed to feel so much better.
I stood there, getting soaked, sharing the entire beach with only four other people, each scattered at opposite ends of the sand and I started laughing. It felt like a scene out of a movie, My Own Life Story. The sparkly girl in her fancy dresses, who buys her own diamonds and leaves a trail of men in her past is in fact happiest, her most content, standing in the rain in front of the ocean.
It reminded me of going to the hockey game weeks ago. When our goalie carelessly let the puck glide past him and score a goal I instinctively screamed at the back of his jersey. I will never forget the look of surprise that crossed my guy friends face. Oh yeah, I do that, I'd casually remarked.
Most people probably don't know how much I like hockey let alone how comfortable I am screaming at the players. But most people don't know a lot about me. I'm good at driving people away.
Sometimes no one else knows what's best for you because people rarely know all of you. They pick and choose the parts they like, the parts they accept, the pieces of you that fit with the pieces of them. But rarely does anyone ever see all that others can't.
I was the only person who knew what I needed was a long drive, an escape out of town, to see what will always be there, what always reminds me I'm ok.
I will never love a place as I love the coast.
I will never feel so fully myself as when I'm facing that water, sand beneath my feet.
I will only be able to hold onto the hand of someone who would stand in the rain and the mud with me.
And know who I am is right.
And who they are with me sets them free.
Whenever I'm feeling lost breathing in that salt air always makes me feel balanced. I don't think many people would drive an hour and a half to stand in mud, rain blowing in their face, just to see the ocean. But I did. And it was all I needed to feel so much better.
I stood there, getting soaked, sharing the entire beach with only four other people, each scattered at opposite ends of the sand and I started laughing. It felt like a scene out of a movie, My Own Life Story. The sparkly girl in her fancy dresses, who buys her own diamonds and leaves a trail of men in her past is in fact happiest, her most content, standing in the rain in front of the ocean.
It reminded me of going to the hockey game weeks ago. When our goalie carelessly let the puck glide past him and score a goal I instinctively screamed at the back of his jersey. I will never forget the look of surprise that crossed my guy friends face. Oh yeah, I do that, I'd casually remarked.
Most people probably don't know how much I like hockey let alone how comfortable I am screaming at the players. But most people don't know a lot about me. I'm good at driving people away.
Sometimes no one else knows what's best for you because people rarely know all of you. They pick and choose the parts they like, the parts they accept, the pieces of you that fit with the pieces of them. But rarely does anyone ever see all that others can't.
I was the only person who knew what I needed was a long drive, an escape out of town, to see what will always be there, what always reminds me I'm ok.
I will never love a place as I love the coast.
I will never feel so fully myself as when I'm facing that water, sand beneath my feet.
I will only be able to hold onto the hand of someone who would stand in the rain and the mud with me.
And know who I am is right.
And who they are with me sets them free.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Crash
I don't watch a lot of TV.
Certainly not the cool tv shows.
If I ever do watch sitcoms it's always reruns of cancelled programs.
And it's always late at night.
I would never need to zone out and escape in the middle of the day.
It's nights that sneak up on me.
Once I watched a program I'd never seen before.
And have not seen since.
I don't even know the name of it but it was one of those undercover spy shows.
Some girl was an agent for some organization of truth and justice.
And of course this girl had a dark past.
I don't know why I watched the whole thing.
It was an hour and I don't usually get sucked into dramas like that.
Maybe her acting was really good.
Maybe I was truly that catatonic.
Maybe I needed a visual for the shivering pulsating through my veins right now.
The part of the show that haunted, that stirred empathy for the girl, was that she was a recovering drug addict who was kidnapped and while tied up she was given a dose of the drug she had worked so hard to give up. Her eyes glazed over and after hours of being high she began sweating and shaking, quickly going through withdrawal. One hit and she was back to being hooked. The friend who had sold out the girl to be kidnapped wept upon seeing the state the girl was now in. Her greed at wanting the girl close to her had brought the girl back to such crashing shakes.
The girl sat locked in a cage, writhing, her body twitching in pain. At one point the dealer got close to the cage with another vial of the drug and seeing it the girl nearly tore apart the cage to get her hands on it. The whole scene was beyond disturbing.
When someone goes through withdrawal they feel like the bottom has fallen out.
Something inside them has made a hole that needs filling.
And nothing satisfies.
The head hurts. Hair hurts.
Every inch of skin stings.
And closing their eyes won't make the darkness go away.
I was lured in a cage placed atop the highest shelf.
And given a vial of a drug violently forced down my throat.
And the dealer, having succeeded in getting me high, fled.
Stealth. Secretly. Casting all stolen jewels in the sea.
Laughing, he crept back, breaking vials at my feet.
My tears fell and swam with the broken glass.
And his snickers echoed like drums making my ears bleed.
Fuck your long term.
I have the shakes now.
Certainly not the cool tv shows.
If I ever do watch sitcoms it's always reruns of cancelled programs.
And it's always late at night.
I would never need to zone out and escape in the middle of the day.
It's nights that sneak up on me.
Once I watched a program I'd never seen before.
And have not seen since.
I don't even know the name of it but it was one of those undercover spy shows.
Some girl was an agent for some organization of truth and justice.
And of course this girl had a dark past.
I don't know why I watched the whole thing.
It was an hour and I don't usually get sucked into dramas like that.
Maybe her acting was really good.
Maybe I was truly that catatonic.
Maybe I needed a visual for the shivering pulsating through my veins right now.
The part of the show that haunted, that stirred empathy for the girl, was that she was a recovering drug addict who was kidnapped and while tied up she was given a dose of the drug she had worked so hard to give up. Her eyes glazed over and after hours of being high she began sweating and shaking, quickly going through withdrawal. One hit and she was back to being hooked. The friend who had sold out the girl to be kidnapped wept upon seeing the state the girl was now in. Her greed at wanting the girl close to her had brought the girl back to such crashing shakes.
The girl sat locked in a cage, writhing, her body twitching in pain. At one point the dealer got close to the cage with another vial of the drug and seeing it the girl nearly tore apart the cage to get her hands on it. The whole scene was beyond disturbing.
When someone goes through withdrawal they feel like the bottom has fallen out.
Something inside them has made a hole that needs filling.
And nothing satisfies.
The head hurts. Hair hurts.
Every inch of skin stings.
And closing their eyes won't make the darkness go away.
I was lured in a cage placed atop the highest shelf.
And given a vial of a drug violently forced down my throat.
And the dealer, having succeeded in getting me high, fled.
Stealth. Secretly. Casting all stolen jewels in the sea.
Laughing, he crept back, breaking vials at my feet.
My tears fell and swam with the broken glass.
And his snickers echoed like drums making my ears bleed.
Fuck your long term.
I have the shakes now.
Thorns
I am false
I am a hologram
I am the stuff of error and regret
I am an illusion
I am without
I am fleeting emotion, fickle and unmet
I am a lie
I don't exist
I am what you white out, what needs cleansing to correct
I am an ellipsis
I am a question you shouldn't ask
I am the silent driveby, looking away from the wreck
I am a ghost
I am past tense
I am not here
I am unredeemed and absent
I am a hologram
I am the stuff of error and regret
I am an illusion
I am without
I am fleeting emotion, fickle and unmet
I am a lie
I don't exist
I am what you white out, what needs cleansing to correct
I am an ellipsis
I am a question you shouldn't ask
I am the silent driveby, looking away from the wreck
I am a ghost
I am past tense
I am not here
I am unredeemed and absent
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Art that never imitates
Flirt: to act amorously without serious intentions. Put simply, 'tis insincere affection.
Not genuine.
Deceit.
A fake Fendi in a sea of artful masterpieces.
Flirtation is the margarine of love. People who've actually tasted the richness of real, cream can believe it's not butter. It doesn't even come close. There is no comparison. But you can't spot a knock off until you've known the real deal. Phonies are tricky that way. They appeal to nearly all the five senses; sans the one savvy enough to know insincerity from ecstasy.
I've always wanted a Chanel handbag. I've never understood the appeal of a fake one. People think they can deceive the world into believing their bag of plastic is the same luxurious fabric of such iconography. They're not interested in the quality of the bag. They're disinterested in the art itself. They only care how the world perceives them and the lie on their shoulder.
I want more.
I want art.
I want butter.
I want a love that possesses the courage to reveal all it veraciously is.
Love is not love when it hides behind the mask of flippancy. If I longed for trite connections I'd go to the bar. I'm sure there are PLENTY of men there who find me adorably beautiful. And would have no qualms exploiting such art.
I want more.
I want truth.
I want passage.
I want a love that can only exist in the form it's fighting to be.
I'm not a young girl anymore. Colored glass simply won't cut it. I long for diamonds and rubies. I long for art that can be worn. I long for taste that's satiating.
So I buy my own jewels. And I save to make art something I can carry. And I don't stifle my hunger with splenda and margarine and thinness in a can. I eat hearty decadence that sings with my tastebuds. Harmonies so wickedly beautiful I can hear the overtones dancing in my head.
And I marvel, I wonder over those who think impossibilities remain as only such, who hold tightly to holograms and fantasy when the art they covet is within their grasp.
I no longer crave such phony amour. Men who love and long and fright themselves of their own passion. This maiden desires courage and strength, one whose straightforward pursuit of truth coincides with mine.
I mean what I say.
I foolishly believe others also reveal the longings in their hearts.
I live with this misconception that everyone is as forthright as moi.
But looking inside the dark recesses within your gut is frightfully telling, it unveils truths you don't want to digest, it hides art you long to possess.
So they cover all they feel and profess the rhinestones sparkle with the vibrancy of diamonds, precious stones they fear they could never afford, and they swallow dry toast without rich calories of taste, feigning moans of enjoyment over savoring the emptiness of dispassionate breakfasts.
And they look at the art from afoot afar off marveling over the improbability it once rested in their hands. But their disbelief frightened fingers from wrapping around such loving trust.
So they go without.
They continue dissatisfied.
They want and never possess.
I live for art.
I make beauty a necessity.
I seek arms strong enough to caress.
Not genuine.
Deceit.
A fake Fendi in a sea of artful masterpieces.
Flirtation is the margarine of love. People who've actually tasted the richness of real, cream can believe it's not butter. It doesn't even come close. There is no comparison. But you can't spot a knock off until you've known the real deal. Phonies are tricky that way. They appeal to nearly all the five senses; sans the one savvy enough to know insincerity from ecstasy.
I've always wanted a Chanel handbag. I've never understood the appeal of a fake one. People think they can deceive the world into believing their bag of plastic is the same luxurious fabric of such iconography. They're not interested in the quality of the bag. They're disinterested in the art itself. They only care how the world perceives them and the lie on their shoulder.
I want more.
I want art.
I want butter.
I want a love that possesses the courage to reveal all it veraciously is.
Love is not love when it hides behind the mask of flippancy. If I longed for trite connections I'd go to the bar. I'm sure there are PLENTY of men there who find me adorably beautiful. And would have no qualms exploiting such art.
I want more.
I want truth.
I want passage.
I want a love that can only exist in the form it's fighting to be.
I'm not a young girl anymore. Colored glass simply won't cut it. I long for diamonds and rubies. I long for art that can be worn. I long for taste that's satiating.
So I buy my own jewels. And I save to make art something I can carry. And I don't stifle my hunger with splenda and margarine and thinness in a can. I eat hearty decadence that sings with my tastebuds. Harmonies so wickedly beautiful I can hear the overtones dancing in my head.
And I marvel, I wonder over those who think impossibilities remain as only such, who hold tightly to holograms and fantasy when the art they covet is within their grasp.
I no longer crave such phony amour. Men who love and long and fright themselves of their own passion. This maiden desires courage and strength, one whose straightforward pursuit of truth coincides with mine.
I mean what I say.
I foolishly believe others also reveal the longings in their hearts.
I live with this misconception that everyone is as forthright as moi.
But looking inside the dark recesses within your gut is frightfully telling, it unveils truths you don't want to digest, it hides art you long to possess.
So they cover all they feel and profess the rhinestones sparkle with the vibrancy of diamonds, precious stones they fear they could never afford, and they swallow dry toast without rich calories of taste, feigning moans of enjoyment over savoring the emptiness of dispassionate breakfasts.
And they look at the art from afoot afar off marveling over the improbability it once rested in their hands. But their disbelief frightened fingers from wrapping around such loving trust.
So they go without.
They continue dissatisfied.
They want and never possess.
I live for art.
I make beauty a necessity.
I seek arms strong enough to caress.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Heron Hopes
I wanted to show you the colors that have changed
Some have faded and some returned
Some linger in a golden haze
Like sunset streaks that line our cage
The fears fled left dusty trails of rage
And The Blackness that swallowed
Surely light reflects through
Fighting clouds whose stifling storms
Blanket blue herons flying, two
Giving in to winds their wings take flight
Side by side soaring such great heights
These colors paint grey canvases unmoved by your absence
Such time passed luck that I saw freedom's radiance
Some have faded and some returned
Some linger in a golden haze
Like sunset streaks that line our cage
The fears fled left dusty trails of rage
And The Blackness that swallowed
Surely light reflects through
Fighting clouds whose stifling storms
Blanket blue herons flying, two
Giving in to winds their wings take flight
Side by side soaring such great heights
These colors paint grey canvases unmoved by your absence
Such time passed luck that I saw freedom's radiance
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Know
Have you ever asked a question you already knew the answer to
Because something within you trusted the answer could surprise you
Because the boldness of asking stirred truths to overflowing lips
That whispered in silence the thirst to indulge in sips
Because answers changed when paired with unerring questions
What no could know the joys of yes' transformations?
Some wonder and never know
I wonder and seek to show
A road seeking the soles of two
Trodden trails where love is due
Unclench your tired shaking palm
Release the chaos with my calm
Because something within you trusted the answer could surprise you
Because the boldness of asking stirred truths to overflowing lips
That whispered in silence the thirst to indulge in sips
Because answers changed when paired with unerring questions
What no could know the joys of yes' transformations?
Some wonder and never know
I wonder and seek to show
A road seeking the soles of two
Trodden trails where love is due
Unclench your tired shaking palm
Release the chaos with my calm
Meow
I think I'm part feline.
Emily Dickinson and Henry Wodsworth Longfellow, they would be the cats of the house, sleep all the time. Sometimes I leave the house for hours at a time and return to find them still snuggled in the same spot on the couch. Sometimes Henry even has his paw lovingly wrapped around Emily.
It's times of such quiet intimacy I want to squirt them with water.
The damn cats are getting more action than I am.
Something's rotten in the state of Lake Oswego.
And I'm not sure what it is but I keep finding myself so tired. The other morning I woke up at 8am on my day off, feeling mostly rested but thought, I'm not quite ready to get up. So I turned off my alarm and went back to sleep for three and a half hours.
You must have needed it, Grandma concluded.
I guess.
But why am I so bloody tired all the time?
If I am part cat then this kitty's addicted to java. I admire those people who have real energy in the morning. They're the ones who run every day at 6am and get more things done before 10 than most people complete all day. I got up and ran at 6am for a couple weeks. I felt like I was gonna vomit all over the sidewalk I was so exhausted. The best part of early morning jogging? The number of people in my neighborhood I caught in their underwear. ROBES, folks. Invest in one. Though nothing like scaring the bejesus out of the well to do silver haired man at the end of the block who I caught THREE times. I think he was just showing off. Get 'em with your bad self, sexy Grandpa.
I don't know how I'd function if I quit coffee. I love watching the transformation of you before you've had coffee and then after, my co worker told me. It's AMAZING. It is really hard to be nice when you're not awake. It is also hard to pretend to give a damn when you feel anything but. I had a class this morning and couldn't even focus my eyes to look at the teacher and feign interest to be engaged. I could not possibly smile and nod with my eyes half closed so I just zoned out and tried to occassionally bob my head in agreement.
I don't know that any of this is normal.
I know normal is relative but I feel like if I were a kid I'd be taken in to the doctor to see if I had some blood deficiency or something.
I can hear my brother thinking, eat some meat! Bah. Eat it yourself.
I haven't been tired for the last 8 years just the past month. I blame Nordstrom. There is no zoning out allowed. No auto pilot there. Thus my reserves of energy are being zapped before I even get home. I rarely am even up to dance when I'm actually able to go.
'Tis eerie indeed.
But sometimes there's nothing more comforting than little lace pjs snuggled under piles of fuzzy blankets and just giving in and napping like Sir Henry and Lady Emily.
Sometimes you need to give in and indulge in something a little wicked.
Sometimes you need to just listen to your body and fall in.
I'm purring already.
Emily Dickinson and Henry Wodsworth Longfellow, they would be the cats of the house, sleep all the time. Sometimes I leave the house for hours at a time and return to find them still snuggled in the same spot on the couch. Sometimes Henry even has his paw lovingly wrapped around Emily.
It's times of such quiet intimacy I want to squirt them with water.
The damn cats are getting more action than I am.
Something's rotten in the state of Lake Oswego.
And I'm not sure what it is but I keep finding myself so tired. The other morning I woke up at 8am on my day off, feeling mostly rested but thought, I'm not quite ready to get up. So I turned off my alarm and went back to sleep for three and a half hours.
You must have needed it, Grandma concluded.
I guess.
But why am I so bloody tired all the time?
If I am part cat then this kitty's addicted to java. I admire those people who have real energy in the morning. They're the ones who run every day at 6am and get more things done before 10 than most people complete all day. I got up and ran at 6am for a couple weeks. I felt like I was gonna vomit all over the sidewalk I was so exhausted. The best part of early morning jogging? The number of people in my neighborhood I caught in their underwear. ROBES, folks. Invest in one. Though nothing like scaring the bejesus out of the well to do silver haired man at the end of the block who I caught THREE times. I think he was just showing off. Get 'em with your bad self, sexy Grandpa.
I don't know how I'd function if I quit coffee. I love watching the transformation of you before you've had coffee and then after, my co worker told me. It's AMAZING. It is really hard to be nice when you're not awake. It is also hard to pretend to give a damn when you feel anything but. I had a class this morning and couldn't even focus my eyes to look at the teacher and feign interest to be engaged. I could not possibly smile and nod with my eyes half closed so I just zoned out and tried to occassionally bob my head in agreement.
I don't know that any of this is normal.
I know normal is relative but I feel like if I were a kid I'd be taken in to the doctor to see if I had some blood deficiency or something.
I can hear my brother thinking, eat some meat! Bah. Eat it yourself.
I haven't been tired for the last 8 years just the past month. I blame Nordstrom. There is no zoning out allowed. No auto pilot there. Thus my reserves of energy are being zapped before I even get home. I rarely am even up to dance when I'm actually able to go.
'Tis eerie indeed.
But sometimes there's nothing more comforting than little lace pjs snuggled under piles of fuzzy blankets and just giving in and napping like Sir Henry and Lady Emily.
Sometimes you need to give in and indulge in something a little wicked.
Sometimes you need to just listen to your body and fall in.
I'm purring already.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Cutting puppet strings
I don't like being told what to do. Don't. Like. It.
My aversion to direction is so off the charts it is probably listed somewhere in some book under psychotic disorders. Once when I had just started dating Narcissus he told me I should paint my toes red when I got my pedicure because you know, red would look pretty against my white skin. I got so irrationally upset with him the poor foreigner was understandably confused.
Clearly, I have a sensitivity on the subject I'm gonna need the grace of God to overcome. Today ain't that day.
Grownups know a lot. Yes, I know I am technically a grownup and my new job and latest diamond ring purchase do make me feel like one. But there are still plenty of real grownups (and by that I mean, older) who have years of experience and vaults of knowledge to impart. And I appreciate that. Really. I do. And often they are right. Totally onboard with your wisdom. But when the advice is coupled with condescension, with mocking ridicule over the unliklihood that I will actually follow through on being so responsible? Well then I kind of wanna kick your cane from under you and watch you bruise your chin.
I'm NOT an idiot. And I have NO patience when I'm being treated as one. Speak your thoughts, offer counsel and then let me live my life! Even GOD has given me free will can you not respect my right as a human to fail and fumble and bruise my own fabulous chin if I so desire?
Even as kids we want to feel our opinions matter. We want to pick out our clothes. We want to carry it ourselves. I want to be trusted enough to be given room to move. If you really doubt my ability to function as a capable adult then why don't you pray the big G prompts me to do things?
Oooh. Got ya there.
But then they'd have to get their hands out of it and controllers like to be in control. And I'm savvy enough to pick up on that. Which is why I grind my teeth whenever it happens.
DO.NOT.TELL.ME.WHAT.TO.DO.
You cannot control me.
I will find a way to gain my own authority back.
If anyone is capable of anything it's this chick.
Leave me the fuck alone and we can enjoy our library books in peace.
My aversion to direction is so off the charts it is probably listed somewhere in some book under psychotic disorders. Once when I had just started dating Narcissus he told me I should paint my toes red when I got my pedicure because you know, red would look pretty against my white skin. I got so irrationally upset with him the poor foreigner was understandably confused.
Clearly, I have a sensitivity on the subject I'm gonna need the grace of God to overcome. Today ain't that day.
Grownups know a lot. Yes, I know I am technically a grownup and my new job and latest diamond ring purchase do make me feel like one. But there are still plenty of real grownups (and by that I mean, older) who have years of experience and vaults of knowledge to impart. And I appreciate that. Really. I do. And often they are right. Totally onboard with your wisdom. But when the advice is coupled with condescension, with mocking ridicule over the unliklihood that I will actually follow through on being so responsible? Well then I kind of wanna kick your cane from under you and watch you bruise your chin.
I'm NOT an idiot. And I have NO patience when I'm being treated as one. Speak your thoughts, offer counsel and then let me live my life! Even GOD has given me free will can you not respect my right as a human to fail and fumble and bruise my own fabulous chin if I so desire?
Even as kids we want to feel our opinions matter. We want to pick out our clothes. We want to carry it ourselves. I want to be trusted enough to be given room to move. If you really doubt my ability to function as a capable adult then why don't you pray the big G prompts me to do things?
Oooh. Got ya there.
But then they'd have to get their hands out of it and controllers like to be in control. And I'm savvy enough to pick up on that. Which is why I grind my teeth whenever it happens.
DO.NOT.TELL.ME.WHAT.TO.DO.
You cannot control me.
I will find a way to gain my own authority back.
If anyone is capable of anything it's this chick.
Leave me the fuck alone and we can enjoy our library books in peace.
The Hope Deferred
The next time I pick up a snake I vow to not be surprised when it bites me.
I'm so bad for you, the snake whispers.
But with misplaced faith I draw the snake to my heart.
It won't hurt me, I grin stupidly.
And even snakes need love.
Ouch.
That little fucker broke the skin.
What did you expect? the snake grins back. Are you ok, it asks as it slithers away and it takes me just as long as the poison drips down my neck to realize the question was rhetorical.
I think some men don't want women they want dolls. Little.Fragile.Porcelain.Dolls. The kind that shatter when thrown across the room. Nothing feels sexier than having power over something else. Especially the kind of control that destroys. I did that the man can boast. There are creators and there are destroyers. The destroyers would create if they only knew how. So they create chaos in the wake of destruction. They find beauty in pain. They are the sadists who long to be masochists.
And who wouldn't want to take light to keep in his pocket. Or shoe.
I am one, singular. It baffles me those magicians who cut their insides into tiny pieces and strategically compartmentalize each and every one, categorically, alphabetically organizing each distorted truth. The mirrors housing each shifted reflection are aligned just so that one tiny pebble could start a ripple of shattering glass as simply as it dances with the ocean.
Conveniently for me I always travel with a bag full of rocks for just such an occasion.
Boys are stupid. Throw rocks at them.
I like lies. I enjoy watching them executed by an amateur. I like the way their eyes can't meet mine. The falter in their voice that counters the validity of their words. Actions reveal. Words deceive. I heard all 'twas spoken and laugh most heartily at the shaky delivery. An acting class would serve well for making an audience believe requires ingenuity, sincerity and depth. You can't fake a faker. I'm a much better liar. They've yet to shatter my mirror. Observe.
A touch of revenge. A dash of disdain. A pinch of indifference, pity, disgust.
The men I never heard from again had nothing more to say. What more was left?
You cannot be sorry for outcomes you orchestrated.
You cannot play the fool in a story penned in your own hand.
You cannot profess deep romance for the rulebook reads simply, "can't be r.o.m.a.n.t.i.c."
So you do what you always do what you hate to do what inevitably destroys you.
And cut off the tiny piece inside of you so it grows no more, yet refuses to die.
And with shaking hands you find an empty box and place it inside.
And shift the hall of mirrors to reflect the dissatisfaction into smiles.
And years tick away, and suspicions peak and fall, and the tiny piece in the tiny box twitches involuntarily. And it sends shivers through your gut and perfumes the air.
And at times your hand reaches for its hiding place to take it out and feel it again.
But the mirrors have buried each door. And the box is no longer in sight.
So it just sits there. Stirring. Calling to numbed ears. Willing for release. For freedom.
So you swallow more broken glass and convince your tears the pain is beauty.
And rub your fingers over the tiny bird and try not to see the colors in his opened wings.
And whisper, I am free.
I'm so bad for you, the snake whispers.
But with misplaced faith I draw the snake to my heart.
It won't hurt me, I grin stupidly.
And even snakes need love.
Ouch.
That little fucker broke the skin.
What did you expect? the snake grins back. Are you ok, it asks as it slithers away and it takes me just as long as the poison drips down my neck to realize the question was rhetorical.
I think some men don't want women they want dolls. Little.Fragile.Porcelain.Dolls. The kind that shatter when thrown across the room. Nothing feels sexier than having power over something else. Especially the kind of control that destroys. I did that the man can boast. There are creators and there are destroyers. The destroyers would create if they only knew how. So they create chaos in the wake of destruction. They find beauty in pain. They are the sadists who long to be masochists.
And who wouldn't want to take light to keep in his pocket. Or shoe.
I am one, singular. It baffles me those magicians who cut their insides into tiny pieces and strategically compartmentalize each and every one, categorically, alphabetically organizing each distorted truth. The mirrors housing each shifted reflection are aligned just so that one tiny pebble could start a ripple of shattering glass as simply as it dances with the ocean.
Conveniently for me I always travel with a bag full of rocks for just such an occasion.
Boys are stupid. Throw rocks at them.
I like lies. I enjoy watching them executed by an amateur. I like the way their eyes can't meet mine. The falter in their voice that counters the validity of their words. Actions reveal. Words deceive. I heard all 'twas spoken and laugh most heartily at the shaky delivery. An acting class would serve well for making an audience believe requires ingenuity, sincerity and depth. You can't fake a faker. I'm a much better liar. They've yet to shatter my mirror. Observe.
A touch of revenge. A dash of disdain. A pinch of indifference, pity, disgust.
The men I never heard from again had nothing more to say. What more was left?
You cannot be sorry for outcomes you orchestrated.
You cannot play the fool in a story penned in your own hand.
You cannot profess deep romance for the rulebook reads simply, "can't be r.o.m.a.n.t.i.c."
So you do what you always do what you hate to do what inevitably destroys you.
And cut off the tiny piece inside of you so it grows no more, yet refuses to die.
And with shaking hands you find an empty box and place it inside.
And shift the hall of mirrors to reflect the dissatisfaction into smiles.
And years tick away, and suspicions peak and fall, and the tiny piece in the tiny box twitches involuntarily. And it sends shivers through your gut and perfumes the air.
And at times your hand reaches for its hiding place to take it out and feel it again.
But the mirrors have buried each door. And the box is no longer in sight.
So it just sits there. Stirring. Calling to numbed ears. Willing for release. For freedom.
So you swallow more broken glass and convince your tears the pain is beauty.
And rub your fingers over the tiny bird and try not to see the colors in his opened wings.
And whisper, I am free.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
A trip to the beach
mean what you say
say what i mean
name the birds who've known no name
learn guitar
brighten overcast days
embrace emotions burying flames
question truths that may have won
smile in spite of the holes within
while away sleepless hours til the sun
cry over all that might have been
take your truth to the beach
pack butterflies, sunscreen, luv and sparks
sit with the sand and wave adieu
i'll take your hand in the dark
say what i mean
name the birds who've known no name
learn guitar
brighten overcast days
embrace emotions burying flames
question truths that may have won
smile in spite of the holes within
while away sleepless hours til the sun
cry over all that might have been
take your truth to the beach
pack butterflies, sunscreen, luv and sparks
sit with the sand and wave adieu
i'll take your hand in the dark
Mine is Bigger than Yours
My Ego would like to take yours out for drinks.
That is if the Superegos will allow it.
Something tells me your Id is definitely game.
Every game has a shelf life.
There are times when we are consumed with the outcome.
Or with every.subtle.calculated.move.
But waves crash after such great heights.
And momentum is rarely recreated.
The Players simply tire and move onto other games.
Ones more suited to maintaining highs, with rules that mean what they say.
That shed light on rainbows within.
Grey is the color of indecision.
It has no hue and reflects and transmits only a little light.
And it kind of stifles the shine of my silky, black hair.
So not sexy.
Such absence of color drains, it never adds.
It merely takes.
There is no half way.
You go half way, you get hurt.
Lies exhaust.
No amount of rest will ever relieve.
I can see your dark circles from here.
Poor.Tired.Bastard.
Because you can't have it all because you lost it because you calculated foolishly.
And failed to forecast your opponents moves accordingly.
"You know if you hadn't screwed things up with her you'd probably be doing it right now."
What a Happy Ending that would be.
T H E
N
D
That is if the Superegos will allow it.
Something tells me your Id is definitely game.
Every game has a shelf life.
There are times when we are consumed with the outcome.
Or with every.subtle.calculated.move.
But waves crash after such great heights.
And momentum is rarely recreated.
The Players simply tire and move onto other games.
Ones more suited to maintaining highs, with rules that mean what they say.
That shed light on rainbows within.
Grey is the color of indecision.
It has no hue and reflects and transmits only a little light.
And it kind of stifles the shine of my silky, black hair.
So not sexy.
Such absence of color drains, it never adds.
It merely takes.
There is no half way.
You go half way, you get hurt.
Lies exhaust.
No amount of rest will ever relieve.
I can see your dark circles from here.
Poor.Tired.Bastard.
Because you can't have it all because you lost it because you calculated foolishly.
And failed to forecast your opponents moves accordingly.
"You know if you hadn't screwed things up with her you'd probably be doing it right now."
What a Happy Ending that would be.
T H E
N
D
Friday, April 1, 2011
The Quintessential Villainess
I dealt with a psychotic customer today.
Oh, excuse me. I forgot.
Disclaimer: The opinions of this blog vixen are hers exclusively and are not affiliated with that of Nordstrom, Clinique or its subsidiaries.
Why is it that the most vile, the most unattractive and unapologetically wretched folks are the ones who stamp their image into my brain? Into my BLOG?
Why can't my mind be overwhelmed with thoughts about the woman who told me how much she liked me for being honest about the foundation I thought was best for her (Sorry Clinique, that would be one by Estee Lauder). And how we bonded so much that she opened a Nordstrom account with me without even batting an eye. Or about the shy girl who never wore makeup who I sat down and applied a whole face of color to and she walked away with such a smile on her face that after she'd already left she came back just to say, Thank you, Teresa. And it felt fantastic even though she didn't purchase a single item.
But no.
Today I do not, in fact, have a heartwarming tale of inspiration and sister hood.
Today I have a story of the Wicked Witch of Clinique who spewed such nasty venom it left me with an overwhelming sense of ickiness.
Clinique is great.
If my executives are reading this IT'S THE BEST BRAND IN THE WORLD!
However.
This best brand has produced some of the craziest of the crazies I've seen this side of Starbucks.
The price point is low. So that means we're not dealing with the classy well to do of Chanel. Or the compulsive teens of M.A.C. No, we're dealing with the frugal, no nonsense woman who KNOWS what she wants because SHE'S been using Clinique for YEARS. (Emphasis THEIRS). They want. what. they. want. how. they. want it and they don't want to see what's new. They want the foundation they've been wearing the past 20 years.
Ahem. Can you see where this is going?
The best part, the BEST. PART. of this whole interchange is that the product the woman wanted is so obsolete I hadn't even heard of it my whole month working there. That means in the thousands of dollars I've rung the past 4 weeks, not ONE single woman has requested this item. Exhibit A, friends of the jury.
Fortunately, for my own sake, I discovered this product for the first time this morning. We moved our entire bay to a different part of the store.
Good Morning, 6am! Oh how I've missed thee so! Oh, but I mean the opposite of that.
And while packing up different drawers I stumbled across this little handcream. Thank you, sweet Jesus, for this moment of learning, for heaven help me had I not known the product the Wicked Witch of Clinique had wished for!
What's this? I'd asked a co worker. It's a handcream that's AMAZING, she informed me.
Huh, I thought and tossed it in a box.
Cut to MANY hours later and the WWOC (she is so evil she gets her own acronym) asked me if we have any of the handcream. I was SO elated at not only knowing what she was talking about having laid eyes on it earlier but I figured she would for sure be thrilled as well that we had what she wanted! I searched a couple drawers looking for the one magical bottle and she reached her hand into the drawer to pull it out before I could. You found it! I declared in grins. Hooray!
Is that all you HAVE? The WWOC uttered slowly through gritted teeth. Jilted by her sudden shift in mood I hesitated before maintaining my cheer and marched over to the computer.
Well, it looks like this is the only one we have in this store but I can definitely get some sent to you from another store and.....
NO! she roared. And continued on a diatribe about how she'd driven all the way out there and Nordstrom didn't deserve her business because they didn't keep on hand the products that consumers used and she was going to give her business to Neiman Marcus because THEY would send the product to her and.......BLAH. BLAH. BLAH. BLAH. BITCH.
NO! she didn't want me to send any more to her. NO! she thought I was an idiot for citing that we didn't have control over ordering stock and received what the warehouse sent us. NO! she wanted me to tell my managers how irate she was. Excuse me, that vocab word is much too large for her. I'm quite certain she said how mad she was. As in CRAZY. Crazy like a fox! A meth pumping, haggard looking, ratty sweats wearing fox! It is never the beautiful who act so ugly. Think about it.
I would like you all to take a moment and be proud of me that I just ignored her and rang the transaction as I would any other. Though what I WANTED to do was say, So you're mad, you're furious with me because I HAVE the product you want? You drove here to get this hand cream and I have that very hand cream you desire. And yet you are irrationally angry with me because I don't magically have 20 containers of the hand cream? Maybe you shouldn't be so damn selfish. Maybe you should go visit J-A-P-A-N and realize THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS IN LIFE THAN YOUR PRECIOUS FUCKING HAND CREAM!!!!
But I didn't. I was a good little sales girl and I apologized for being so low in stock and for her being so upset. I even asked if she wanted a bag for her beloved hand cream to which she replied NO!
It's good she loves trees because it's clear the only human she is capable of caring about is her self.
That is if witches count as humans.
And I suspect NO!
Oh, excuse me. I forgot.
Disclaimer: The opinions of this blog vixen are hers exclusively and are not affiliated with that of Nordstrom, Clinique or its subsidiaries.
Why is it that the most vile, the most unattractive and unapologetically wretched folks are the ones who stamp their image into my brain? Into my BLOG?
Why can't my mind be overwhelmed with thoughts about the woman who told me how much she liked me for being honest about the foundation I thought was best for her (Sorry Clinique, that would be one by Estee Lauder). And how we bonded so much that she opened a Nordstrom account with me without even batting an eye. Or about the shy girl who never wore makeup who I sat down and applied a whole face of color to and she walked away with such a smile on her face that after she'd already left she came back just to say, Thank you, Teresa. And it felt fantastic even though she didn't purchase a single item.
But no.
Today I do not, in fact, have a heartwarming tale of inspiration and sister hood.
Today I have a story of the Wicked Witch of Clinique who spewed such nasty venom it left me with an overwhelming sense of ickiness.
Clinique is great.
If my executives are reading this IT'S THE BEST BRAND IN THE WORLD!
However.
This best brand has produced some of the craziest of the crazies I've seen this side of Starbucks.
The price point is low. So that means we're not dealing with the classy well to do of Chanel. Or the compulsive teens of M.A.C. No, we're dealing with the frugal, no nonsense woman who KNOWS what she wants because SHE'S been using Clinique for YEARS. (Emphasis THEIRS). They want. what. they. want. how. they. want it and they don't want to see what's new. They want the foundation they've been wearing the past 20 years.
Ahem. Can you see where this is going?
The best part, the BEST. PART. of this whole interchange is that the product the woman wanted is so obsolete I hadn't even heard of it my whole month working there. That means in the thousands of dollars I've rung the past 4 weeks, not ONE single woman has requested this item. Exhibit A, friends of the jury.
Fortunately, for my own sake, I discovered this product for the first time this morning. We moved our entire bay to a different part of the store.
Good Morning, 6am! Oh how I've missed thee so! Oh, but I mean the opposite of that.
And while packing up different drawers I stumbled across this little handcream. Thank you, sweet Jesus, for this moment of learning, for heaven help me had I not known the product the Wicked Witch of Clinique had wished for!
What's this? I'd asked a co worker. It's a handcream that's AMAZING, she informed me.
Huh, I thought and tossed it in a box.
Cut to MANY hours later and the WWOC (she is so evil she gets her own acronym) asked me if we have any of the handcream. I was SO elated at not only knowing what she was talking about having laid eyes on it earlier but I figured she would for sure be thrilled as well that we had what she wanted! I searched a couple drawers looking for the one magical bottle and she reached her hand into the drawer to pull it out before I could. You found it! I declared in grins. Hooray!
Is that all you HAVE? The WWOC uttered slowly through gritted teeth. Jilted by her sudden shift in mood I hesitated before maintaining my cheer and marched over to the computer.
Well, it looks like this is the only one we have in this store but I can definitely get some sent to you from another store and.....
NO! she roared. And continued on a diatribe about how she'd driven all the way out there and Nordstrom didn't deserve her business because they didn't keep on hand the products that consumers used and she was going to give her business to Neiman Marcus because THEY would send the product to her and.......BLAH. BLAH. BLAH. BLAH. BITCH.
NO! she didn't want me to send any more to her. NO! she thought I was an idiot for citing that we didn't have control over ordering stock and received what the warehouse sent us. NO! she wanted me to tell my managers how irate she was. Excuse me, that vocab word is much too large for her. I'm quite certain she said how mad she was. As in CRAZY. Crazy like a fox! A meth pumping, haggard looking, ratty sweats wearing fox! It is never the beautiful who act so ugly. Think about it.
I would like you all to take a moment and be proud of me that I just ignored her and rang the transaction as I would any other. Though what I WANTED to do was say, So you're mad, you're furious with me because I HAVE the product you want? You drove here to get this hand cream and I have that very hand cream you desire. And yet you are irrationally angry with me because I don't magically have 20 containers of the hand cream? Maybe you shouldn't be so damn selfish. Maybe you should go visit J-A-P-A-N and realize THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS IN LIFE THAN YOUR PRECIOUS FUCKING HAND CREAM!!!!
But I didn't. I was a good little sales girl and I apologized for being so low in stock and for her being so upset. I even asked if she wanted a bag for her beloved hand cream to which she replied NO!
It's good she loves trees because it's clear the only human she is capable of caring about is her self.
That is if witches count as humans.
And I suspect NO!
NiceMeetYou
I used to have an Okcupid profile.
I think it was a right of passage when the boom of internet dating took off. Some of my most entertaining dates were dudes I met online. Cra-zy! But the best part of having any sort of online interaction with cybermales was that there would always be some guy, some one or twelve that would compose a message that seemed too ridiculous to be real.
Author's Note: Women should have profiles for entertainment purposes only not actual dates.
So today, for my entertainment, some cybermale sent me this message via facebook.
Hello
Just surfing through profiles and found yours quite interesting and fascinating and I decide to get to you to see maybe we can get to know more about each other to see what the nature has for us.
Though I know it sound strange to you, since you do not know me, but I will appreciate it, if granted this Privilege. I am 48yrs old divorced with no kid. I am an American Citizen and working as an Operator Manager with a Cargo Shipping Company in NJ, USA. The nature of my job makes me travel usually once a week, so I try to travel as much as I can.
I am very honest, caring, sensitive, loving, straight forward person. I like sincere, creative mind, brilliant having transparent personality, I believe strongly in peace, and human right. I love art/graffiti music, films, reading, holidays, swimming, and social gathering.
Honestly I really want to know much about you. Right now, I am in the sea working, we take cargos from USA to England, Dubai, Australia and Japan... I am happy every time my ship duck in Japan because that is the only free time I have to visit friends and well wishers ....My vacation is for 60 days 3 times in a year .
*****Please answer the below questions:
• What is your full name?
• Where are you currently located?
• Age / Date of Birth?
• Do you have kids? (If yes then how many)
• Are you married or divorced?
• Can we be friends?
Kindly write me directly to my email........
I will let you know more about myself as soon as I hear from you.
Love always
Lawrence
Conclusion: I knew I looked hot in my profile picture.
I think it was a right of passage when the boom of internet dating took off. Some of my most entertaining dates were dudes I met online. Cra-zy! But the best part of having any sort of online interaction with cybermales was that there would always be some guy, some one or twelve that would compose a message that seemed too ridiculous to be real.
Author's Note: Women should have profiles for entertainment purposes only not actual dates.
So today, for my entertainment, some cybermale sent me this message via facebook.
Hello
Just surfing through profiles and found yours quite interesting and fascinating and I decide to get to you to see maybe we can get to know more about each other to see what the nature has for us.
Though I know it sound strange to you, since you do not know me, but I will appreciate it, if granted this Privilege. I am 48yrs old divorced with no kid. I am an American Citizen and working as an Operator Manager with a Cargo Shipping Company in NJ, USA. The nature of my job makes me travel usually once a week, so I try to travel as much as I can.
I am very honest, caring, sensitive, loving, straight forward person. I like sincere, creative mind, brilliant having transparent personality, I believe strongly in peace, and human right. I love art/graffiti music, films, reading, holidays, swimming, and social gathering.
Honestly I really want to know much about you. Right now, I am in the sea working, we take cargos from USA to England, Dubai, Australia and Japan... I am happy every time my ship duck in Japan because that is the only free time I have to visit friends and well wishers ....My vacation is for 60 days 3 times in a year .
*****Please answer the below questions:
• What is your full name?
• Where are you currently located?
• Age / Date of Birth?
• Do you have kids? (If yes then how many)
• Are you married or divorced?
• Can we be friends?
Kindly write me directly to my email........
I will let you know more about myself as soon as I hear from you.
Love always
Lawrence
Conclusion: I knew I looked hot in my profile picture.
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