The audience is sitting in my head

I think I'm way too aware of my audience.

A strong performer learns that you have to modify your performance sometimes depending on whose watching.
If a venue is small, you can bring the level down to be more intimate.
If the venue is outdoors, you sure as hell better project.

And life is one big grand stage.

But sometimes I get so caught up in being aware of my surroundings, the self awareness almost impedes my delivery.
I'm too aware of how my words ring in certain ears.
And that is throwing off my verbal prowess.


When you're young, you're unawares you even have an audience.
Unless you were a kid like me who asked to have her picture taken every time she saw an adult with a camera.

The other day I was on my break and some teeny bopper in her short short A&F shorts walked up to me, interrupting my thoughts, and demanded, Excuse me, I need to use your cell phone.
No May I or Would it be alright if just I need it give it to me.

The determined look on her face and her sense of entitlement baffled me.
I just handed over my phone and muttered, Sure.
And after her important conversation of Where ARE you? to presumably some other A&F scantily clad preteen she handed me my phone and was on her way.
I shook my head over how unmoved she was by her lack of social graces and wondered how the rest of the world might act if I attempted the same sort of demanding presumption over their mobile devices.

Something tells me I'd have a lot of lattes thrown in my face.
So long as they were made with soy.
Mmmm.

Why is it Hannah Sluttanah was blithely unawares and I'm all too aware?

It is possible I over think things.
Just a skosh.

I'm really aware of my writing audience.
Or I should say the audience I'm getting to know.

My Mother told me she hasn't read my blog in a long time.
I think the last time I read it you were ranting and raving about something.
I was childishly crushed.
Mama was one of my first readers.
To think I'd lost one of my original followers made me question my voice as a writer.
Is she scandalized by how unladylike my writing voice has become?
And then my mind inadvertently started considering censorship.
Poppycock.

I am being too self aware.

Surely, if anyone KNOWS how much of a lady I am or ain't it is my Mother.
Ya can't kid a kidder.

And I can't fake a Reese.
I can simply embrace her.
And trust that'll draw the type of audience suited to this type of lady.
Whoever she turns out to be.

Life as a Starbucks Bitch

Spotting the Texter

I have really wretched taste in men.
Really, really bad. Baddy bad.
I am just stupid when it comes to dudes.

But I really am good at other random things.
I have rad parking karma and I always find a spot.
I'm great at making girlfriends because I have no problem asking them out.
And I'm really good at getting boys to kiss me.

But I'm really starting to question my taste in who I'm kissing.

And spotting the Texter reminded me of how incredibly idiotic my tastes really can be.

The Texter was the kid who a couple years back got in contact with me because we used to know each other. 

Thank you again, Facebook and Starbucks, for supplying me with an endless supply of men to canoodle with.  I would surely be a crazy cat lady by now had I not sipped on all the naughtiness you provided.  I thank thee.

So Texter and I exchanged numbers and talked about meeting up sometime.
Only he never wanted to meet. 
He only wanted to text.
For MONTHS.
It was one of the weirdest things I'd ever experienced.

How is he supposed to stick his tongue down my throat if we never actually meet up?

Men are fucktards.

But I thought he was so damn cute I was determined to make something happen.

And because there's flint in my fingertips, eventually I did start a fire.
But not the way I was used to.

I'd started hanging out with Mr. Volcano and my unavailability to Texter made him finally pursue me.
He wanted to meet.
And I was SHOCKED.

I met him at a bar and we made out in the back room and in his car.
That's all!  I'm a lady, thank you.
And I'd like to say it was the bomb diggity and totally worth the seven months of inane texts but like I said, my taste in men kinda blows.
And I was preoccupied thinking about the tattoo clad kid who played his guitar for me.
Texter's cigarette laden kisses couldn't compare.
He was a one night only event.
And proof that sometimes lame things come to those who wait.

Which is why when I happened to drive by him on the street the other day I shook my head in utter amusement.
As I live and laugh, the Texter himself.

What the hell was I thinking?
SO without.
Matt Damon, my ass.

I think my pheromones must render my intellect useless.
Has to spare energy for all the hormones surging.
And those eager bitches deserve only the finest candidates.
Those whose kisses make everything else seem to fall away, who are always worth the wait.

I miss being called darling

There are few things a single gal can't take care of on her own.
Insert snicker here.
But there is one thing in particular that just cannot be accomplished no matter how clever she may be.

I cannot sweet talk myself.

I know I'm extraordinary.
I peer at my reflection and smile at the loveliness I see before me.
But sometimes I really long for someone else to see me.
And for that handsome somebody to tell me all they're delighting in.

I am such a sucker for sappy saccharine nonsense it's ridiculous.
Oh I'm one tough cookie and I will claim I don't care one way or the other til I'm blue in the face but the truth is, I love it when guys sweet talk me.
I don't care if it's contrived.
Sue me.

I had one lover who only ever called me baby when he was being intensely affectionate and reading or hearing that word made my heart leap right out of the rabbit hole.

Sweetie. Darling. Love?
Be still my leaping heart. I am putty in your hands.

One lover even called me darlink.
Creativity only scores you double points.

I could lie and say I'm far too intelligent for all that but the part of me that giggles giddily when a guy calls me beautiful is the same part that still fawns all over Disney movies.
I'm kind of 29 going on 14 when it comes to certain things.

And I think that makes me all the more lovable.
Honey.

I miss Beaverton

I've discovered the greatest flaw of living in the Lake Oswego/Tualatin area.
There are no liquor stores. ANYWHERE.

In the ho hum that is Beaverton there are liquor stores on every corner. 
They're like Starbucks. 
Because what do low to middle income families need in suburbia? 
Coffee and booze.

Why my sudden search for liquor, you might ask?
If you need to ask, clearly we don't know each other.

Actually I'm ill. 
And I have the worst illness a Resa can get: A sore throat.
As a singer, a talker, a loud mouthed overly opinionated pistol, having a sore throat to me is like cutting off an ankle to a runner.

I fucking hate having a sore throat. 

I always feel like whenever I get a sore throat it's God's way of telling me to shut up and listen.
I do talk way too damn much.
Which is why shy guys always love me.
So, you're welcome!

But the good news is that life near the Atlantic taught me a few things and one of those things was Blackberry Brandy.
Mmmm.
Blackberry Brandy is like Dimetapp for adults.
It coats your aching throat, especially when warmed up, and it gives you a nice buzz so you're feeling too warm and fuzzy to feel wretched.
It is mana from heaven.
And I was on a quest to procure some.

But as I drove up and down the streets unable to find any liquor stores anywhere I began to feel like a crazy person. 
Normal people had their chicken soup or airborne, popsicles or orange juice.
I, like the alcoholism that dripped from my family tree, had brandy.

Do you know what Lake Oswego DOES have a lot of? 
Sushi restaurants. 
Sake.  Bleh. 
Why is raw fish more of a staple than booze in this well to do neighborhood? 
Do they all simply drink wine?

God bless my smart phone and its ability to navigate me to the one liquor store on State Street in Lake Oswego. 
I literally swerved my car into the parking lot when I finally found it. 
I kind of wish my life were a reality tv show because I know I looked like insanity behind that wheel.

I finally got home and prepared my hot water and brandy drink and sighed a sigh of relief as the syrup coated my throat.

Sometimes I really do miss living other places.
In that moment, I even missed Newport.
I think I was delirious.

The Damn Sunshine

I am not a morning person.
AVID. ANTI. MORNING. PERSON.
I'm so fervently opposed to the concept that people wake up genuinely bright eyed and bushy tailed that I am convinced there's a conspiracy.
Those who claim they are morning people --And I've seen it, you know who you are!!--are LIARS.
Big. Hairy. Liars.

Yes.
I just called you HAIRY.

I used to live with someone who was a leader of this conspiracy and he tried for weeks to converse with me first thing in the morning. 
Then one day it finally sunk in that the only syllables I could articulate before I'd had my shower and cup of coffee were grunts.

I tried working out early in the morning once.
I nearly threw up and fainted at the same time.

I think vixens were made for night fall.
Sparkle and seduction hours happen in the dark.

It makes me wonder how I survived Starbucks for all those years.
Acting, dahling.
Mad. Award winning. Acting.

At least God gave me those skills.

My new pseudo, Richie, is an early bird.
A "morning person" if you will. 
A conspirator if ever there was one.
The sun rises and his on switch clicks in to gear and he is ready to jump out of bed and make the most of his day.
The chipper bastard. 
He makes me ill.

But he thinks I'm a crazy bird for sleeping the day away and making love to the late hours of the night.
Tomato.  Tomah-to.
I'm rad and he's nuts.
I'm completely okay with that.
Obviously he is too.

But today I had to get up with the damn sunshine for a damn work meeting about all of our damn events--Damnit!!--and Richie mockingly told me to enjoy my day of sleep.

What.Ev.ER. You don't KNOW me, I jeered.  Maybe I'm gonna stay up!
Ha. Yeah. Right, Richie sneered back.

Psssh.  That did it.
I will now stay up all damn day just to prove him wrong.
Chipper know it all bastard.

I may never be a morning person--BECAUSE THEY AREN'T REAL!!-- but I sure am determined.
And if anyone is up to the task, it's this gal.
Stubborn.  Loud.  Night time worshipping dame.

I'm just that fucking fantastic.

Veronica's Summer Winds

Veronica drove home, watching in her rear view mirror the orange sky following behind her.
She was calm and content, feelings her heart had nearly forgotten how to embrace.
The sand was still scattered on her cheeks and on her feet.
She kicked off her sandals and drove bare foot, wiggling her toes in delight over the pedals.

The music filled her car with loving guitar chords and the wind kissed her face. 
She rolled down her window further and leaned out to hug the wind back.
She was overflowing with love.
For no one and no thing in particular.
Just, love.

Veronica kept smiling as she recalled details of her nights reveries.
Somewhere deep inside, mixed with her skepticism and shattered adoration, a new warmth stirred within her. 
It carried her forward, gliding along hills, possessing her wounds and wrapping them in tranquility. 
The pair of eyes now bouncing around in her mind belonged to a new face.
And that was a comfort.
Each day seemed to carry with it blankets of comfort, extra soft and fuzzy, just the way she liked.

Veronica had inadvertently released a treasure and stumbled upon what seemed an even rarer find.
She reached her hand out to catch the wind, warm and inviting, as it returned her appreciation.
Veronica had felt that continuously.
Reciprocity.
Shared melodies and whispered lyrics sung under lamps that scattered shadows.
And hugs, long squeezes of gratitude, timidly offered for exchanged company.

The summer always carried change in its winds and Veronica shook her head over her forgetfulness.
She finally stopped and stepping out of her car she glanced back at the fragments of orange sky that remained.
They crept up on her, those nights she failed to look up, wanting to skip from sun to stars and miss the stroll.
But it knocked her down, the power of such hope.

And for once, for one blissful breath, Veronica stopped.
The thoughtsdoubtsscheminguncertainty.
And she tasted the oxygen that was all her own.
And placed her hands neatly in her pockets, relinquishing control for how the clouds of her heart would part.
She had seen a glimmer in those eyes, a glimmer like the pair she'd once grown intoxicated on, like a pair she had nearly forgotten.
And the glimmer reminded Veronica that orange skies weren't nearly as rare as she once believed.

So she watched, drinking it in.
And she waited.
And she had never been so thrilled to wait, to see, all she'd yet to believe could be seen.
The grins overpowered her mouth and she laughed.
She laughed loud, long laughs.
And she waited with renewed faith, she waited.

Summer Love

 

 

My sunset. Not yours.

I was sitting on the beach, waiting eagerly for the sunset to begin. 
I had my books and my journal, my water bottle, my hoodie for when it would surely get cold. 
I was set. 
And as I sat there, smiling at the ocean, some young, shirtless stallion walked past my smile and grinned furiously back at me. 
His grin followed me as he continued glancing my way as he walked past and I was glad my sunglasses hid the expression surely covering my face.

You know that scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding when Tulah has finally stepped out on her own and is working at the travel agency?  And as she happily goes to the water cooler she notices Ian staring at her from outside her window?  Ian smiles and waves sheepishly.  Tulah frowns and tries to hide behind the water cooler.

I had a Tulah moment with the beach stud.

I was doing my own thing, minding my own business and suddenly was being oggled like a toy in a display window.

It's hard to feel sexy and ooze scandalousness while soaking in the majesty of nature, contemplating life and love.

Apparently, some things are just inherent.

Or maybe he just really had a thing for chicks wearing heart sunglasses.

begotten woes

his touch whispered tender odes
     of appreciation and anticipation
               for all she might be
                     all she yet was
                          wasn't his

                            old songs played to unfamiliar ears
                                  and where memory halted
                                         sensations began
                                            entwined tightly around shaking fingers
                                               eager to forget
                                                   to find
                                                      release
                                                        and restoration

                                                        theres was an ill timed dance of uncertainty
                                                              full of missteps
                                                                 mistaken declarations
                                                                   two by two and one by none
                                                                     bodies collided
                                                                       falling
                                                                         misguided
                                                                          clueless as to the tunes that moved them


                                                                                 she was not her
                                                                and he was his own him
                                                          she was merely a she
                                               searching for possibility

A Failed Exit

Why is it that when you think you may have finally figured somebody out you realize what a whopping failure you actually are at reading them and it turns out they're as unmoved by you as your ex lover who moved to Alaska?

Or maybe that's just me.

I do have a tendency to bring out the very extremes in people.

A quality I've yet to relinquish as being B-A-D.
Surely some good must come from the reactions I incur.

Mustn't it?

..........

I think sometimes there is more of my Mother within me than I even realize. 
My big personality comes from my Father's genes, along with my stubborness and my affinity for wine. 
-- That actually comes from both sides of the family. --
But Mother has given me the overwhelming need to please.
Not knowing quite how to do that, especially with a male you admire, has got to be one of the most virulent ways of tearing ones femininity apart. 

There's this book that talks about how the greatest desire within every woman's heart is to feel captivating.
I wish men read that book.

I wish a lot of things where men are concerned.

But sometimes no matter what words we exchange, no matter how tender the kisses we offer in the night, we miss each other.
We fail to hear all the other isn't saying.
And that is our greatest shortcoming.
In both of us.

My desire is to find one whose extreme delights in me.

Now that's a reaction I'd be proud to be responsible for.

I am merely a woman, after all.

Jane releases Trent

Have you ever forgotten about someone until you suddenly became vitally important to them?


It's kind of surreal.


I don't delete contacts very often. 
I think if I had my druthers I'd be friends, or at the very least, acquantances with just about everyone. 
I have an annoying desire to cheer up the world.
That is quite a responsibility.

But for whatever reason, I can't even tell you what came over me, I scrolled through the contacts in my phone and deleted several.  No animosity or malice of any kind, just people I never talk to who are contacts on Facebook and I figured if for some reason we ever did need to get in touch there would always be that.

Facebook has been responsible for more of my love life than I'd care to admit.
But I kind of love it for that.
<3 FB <3

So this girl I haven't talked to in eons, I deleted.
And as Fate would find it, she texted me the very next day.
First text in many, many months.

The only reason I even figured out it was she who was those nine numbers was because she asked me a question about a certain boy. 
A boy I introduced her to. 
A boy she'd had quite a love affair with this past year.

I really do possess skills to pair up others.
It's strange the way those skills refuse to inverse.

As with most love affairs theirs had ended and alongside the standard pool of tears and confusion.
The Why's and the How's and the fear of letting go.
The poor thing was heartbroken and reached out to me because I was there for their beginning.
I felt really special and honored to be who she chose to confide in.

Surely we would have been best friends in high school had our birthdays not landed 14 years apart.
She reminds me of the me who knew nothing of pure heartache nor the powerful endurance of love.
Every word she uses to describe her feelings are words I've uttered myself.

Losing a love must be the harshest ache our hearts can barely handle.

And no words I offer can truly console her because some aches don't need words.
They need love reflected in eyes.
And in certain times, at certain hours of the night, only one pair of eyes would do.
The very pair you shant look upon.
And so, water lines the corners of your own.

To witness a heartache in someone else when I still register that very feeling within my own gut is overwhelming.
I feel such sympathy for her.
And such relief that I am no longer in such a state of mourning.

The beautiful thing about pain, the thing no one ever explains when you're crying buckets of blood is that the pain is truly sweet.  The pain, if endured, strengthens.  It coats the once raw heart with wisdom and determination.  To love means the lover is capable.  Where one exits, another follows.

Always.

Eager hearts wait in the wings.

I stumble upon them every time I finally take a step forward and stop looking back at what is no longer there.

But it takes time to take those steps.
And my dear young friend will dance them in her own meter, in her tempo.

She awakened within me a resilience.
A belief that we shall endure.
Our love, though it may change forms, lives.

Whether we delete them.
Or they block us.

Life has it's way.
Fate, it's timing.

And we, our smiles.
For all that awaits.

Look up.
New eyes await to see you.

Dazzlingly Clever

" I read of a girl in a novel once who was divinely beautiful.  Have you ever imagined what it must be like to be divinely beautiful?  Oh, I have often.  Which would you rather be?  Divinely beautiful, or dazzlingly clever, or angelically good?"-Anne Shirley



Sometimes certain words form little burrows in the corners of my mind.

At times they are treasured and I go back to where I've hidden them to take them out and hold them in my hands, caressing the arc of the letters, smiling at my reflection mirrored in their love.
Other times they worm their way uncomfortably into dark corners and I'm never able to get them to budge.  They sting to the touch, they reek of disdain.  I close my eyes and hum a song and pretend I don't feel their toxic venom penetrating my skin.

Words have the culpability to incite both tears and smiles.
And lately I've been appreciating their strength.
Even to do both.

I think every woman wants to feel beautiful. 
We want to be perceived as beautiful. 
I don't know that all even want to truly be beautiful. 
They just want to be believed to be.
Beautiful.  To someone.  Anyone, really.

I told someone I'm getting to know how much it meant to me to be mentioned in a review last year for my role as Helena.  The writer said I dispelled the myth that a woman couldn't be both funny and beautiful.

"I think it meant a lot to me because those are things I aspire to be; to make people laugh and to be seen as lovely."
'Those are probably the first two words I would use to describe you. Funny and beautiful.'

It fit in this tiny crack along the hallways of haunting words within my mind, right in between the refrain The Most Beautiful Woman in the World and We Can Have Nothing to do with Each Other Ever Again.

It's peculiar which words lock hands with one another.

There's this part in Anne of Green Gables when Anne mulls over which words would dance most flatteringly in her minds eye. 
Beautiful.  Clever.  Good.
I'm beginning to notice that perhaps I don't even know which words taste delicious until the honey drips from my lips.

"You are such a Clever Woman."

My femininity swelled with pride.

Beautiful.
Open to see such a quality possessed me.
Good.
Courage to grow each day of my life moreso.
Clever.
Surely a minute few could boast 'twas true.

But today, one he, saw I was.

And I confidently danced in his minds hallways, tucked neatly between Amusement and Wonder.

Phoney Spumoni

So I used to have a crush on this guy.
I mean, I genuinely thought he was K-E-E-N.
Handsome and charming and funny.
Totally the kind of guy I'd wanna roll around and make funny noises with.

But the predictable thing about people is that eventually the truth of who they really are surfaces.
Like, rather than try and pretend I'm some demure feminine flower I prefer hitting my dates over the head with my lack of shame or subtlety.  Or restraint.
This is me.
Take me or leave me.
Or take me.

So this guy, this charmer, threw a little flirtatious glance my way, danced a little dance of possibility and I made room in a little corner of my imagination for him to exist.
My Maybe Transition Guy.

But through misinterpretation on my part, or deceit on his, our liklihood for romance was halted.
He just wasn't that into me.
So I cut my losses and moved on.

Weeks passed, hand in hand with my interest, and inevitably, our paths crossed again.
To my horror, he tried to continue the insincerity of his flirt with me.
Same smug smirk. Same sad show down.

He made a particularly scandalous comment and then made eye contact with me to try and make me the cream filling in his oreo of sleaziness.

Instead, I gave him the Resa raised eyebrow of disgust.

Eeeww.
Phoney Spumoni.

Are you flirting with me?
You who already sang your ballad of cowardice?
Why the pretense?
Why the need for feigned affection?


YOU. DON'T. LIKE. ME.

I don't need your put upon affection.

The truth is?
You're totally without.

Sorry Charlie.

I've moved on.

I've seen what genuine looks like.

"O, You don't know how a girl in love feels!'

Parolles: He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.

King of France: How is that?

Parolles: He loved her, sir, and loved her not.

-All's Well that Ends Well



For such a pattern of indecision among males to be prevalent even when Shakespeare was the man about town, it stands to reason it really must be a genetic trait. 

It made me laugh hearing the line because for me, faltering wishy washy indecisive men are the bane of my existence. 
There are a lot of both wonderful and wretched qualities men possess but the I Don't Know Virus is the one that makes my skin crawl. 
And is also the one I seem to draw nearest to me.

The irony is that I'm everything but wishy washy.
Even men have told me it's attractive when a woman is confident enough to know who she is.
But what about men?
Why don't they know?
And why do I always like the ones who don't?

Once again my masochistic tendencies rear their ugly head.


I want to be the type of woman content enough, self assured and self respecting enough to trust the men in her life, to trust they will figure out who they are and what they want one way or the other.
The problem is waiting around for their indecision to transform into certainty leaves room to be desired.

It's fucking ridiculous is what it is.

But see the tragicomedy is on me.

What these men need is space and time.
What I've always failed to give is space and time.
The villain may be them but the equal culprit in fact is me.
I'm an accomplice to their muderous dance of uncertainty.

What we women, surely I'm not alone in this, fail to fathom is the only way to really love is with open acceptance, with room to breathe, with lives of separation.

If I'm honest, those I grow fondness for at increased rates are those I miss.
Those I long for and seek to find.

Why must I forget my desirability is proportionate to my individuality?

It is I who entices.
I who must be had.
I who captivates every fragment of his mind.

How dare I forget the power in my every cell.

same tunes, new moon

You know those people who smile when they see you?
The ones who know a part of you others will never understand, who remember a time you shared a connection as rare as a summer full moon? 
Those who accept you for all you aren't and still always feel the corners of their lips involuntarily curling up when you hug them?

You know those people who challenged you, who watched you cry, who pushed you to heights you doubted you could climb?
The ones who held your hand and whose eyes twinkled when they reflected back in yours?
Those who let you in, who stroked your hair and wrapped you in comfort that could only be felt at three in the morning?

You know those people who seemed unreal because you laughed at the same jokes and swayed to the same music?
The ones who finished your sentences and knew how you liked your tea, who grabbed you a blanket before you even said you were cold?
Those who seemed drawn to you before you even looked up from your book?

You know those people who disappear, whose chapters close, who linger like a haunting wind?
The ones you try and blink away whose touch is burned in your body, whose face dances among every one of your cells?
Those who look up toward the same moon as you and try themselves to ignore the scars itching on their skin?

The stars still scatter for them
But the moon
The moon always shines for you

Angry Resa's make for keen blogs

Apparently I'm very important.
Terribly. Phenomenally. Important.
People I don't even know are reading my blog and the rage is a poppin'.

Now, anyone who reads what I write and isn't a friend of mine has immediately gained favor with me.
Why would they want to read my rantings when they know nothing of me?
I certainly wouldn't care to read their blog.
And yet there they sit, pouring over their lil' iphone, mouth agape, muttering, 'Why, I never!'

If you can't take the heat move to Alaska.


So, some gals (Yes, fellow women, not douche bag males but crazy bitches--And ladies, you're giving all of us a bad name and validating the case of lovers past that say we're all nuts, thank you ever so--) these dames are reading my words and drawing conclusions just because.
Because they just KNOW all I'm truly saying.

Like if I wrote, I'M A LESBIAN they'd start a rumor saying I was gay because they lacked the imagination through all their presumption to see I was being a blatant smart ass.

Why do I even care? you might ask.
Because the mega bitches have twisted my words and tried to pit someone I actually like against me.
She's writing all these terrible things about YOU.
Bitch, please.
You wouldn't know what I was actually writing about if you read the Cliffs Notes for it.

You know that saying people will try and tear you down?
Well you can only be knocked down if you're high enough to fall.
Things are looking mighty fine from this castle on the clouds and ain't no one taking any ounce of my joy.

Creativity Artistic Passionate Loving Spiteful Freedom of Speech Included.
I'll write whatever the hell I feel like, la-d-ie-s.
If I ruffle your petticoats you can always choose to, I don't know, NOT. READ. IT.

Thankfully in an age where the only human interaction takes place behind a computer I do hold a little power over the forces that hate.

Limited profile is Facebook's ability to make it so I can give someone the finger without actually lifting a muscle.

You wanna be my friend?  Fine.
You wanna see any shizzy I actually post?  Kiss my succulent ass.

Why I feel the need to allow people access to my life, my thoughts, my passions, my wit, when I would never willingly spend time with them is beyond me.

What the hell was life like before Facebook?

It was all, Hey remember that one kid?  I think we had that one class together?  Naw, I don't really remember.  It was ages ago.  What ever happened to 'em?  Awe well.  Whatever.

Now we have this ability to hunt folks we would never have the audacity to speak to openly in public so why am I scrolling through their status updates and pictures? 

I've even found myself looking at the profiles of exes of guys I'm seeing.

That's fucked up.

And yet I KNOW I'm not alone in that.

Why has such psychosis replaced normalcy?

And how can I believe in the hearts of men when I'm believing the illusions of technology?

The web is a magnificent thing.

But nothing can take the place of looking into the eyes of those who see what no photo can capture.

Fuck you.
I want you.
I miss you every day.
I've forgotten you already.

Believe what you will.
Take what want.
I know you already have anyway.

Sparkle Fridays

But dahling, didn't you know?

It is a rare breed of person who can make criticism an art form.

They are the sly who push you to forthrightness in an effort to catch glimpses into the vulnerability that is your unconscious netting. 
Gaps and holes in your flaws give the critic cause for pause.
Did you know your life was lacking?
Leave it to moi to close those gaps.

And yet why is it after talking to such artists I am overwhelmed with the urge to hit my head against cement?

I cringe to consider I encourage any of this.
No, rather, they are the artists who need an inferior model to stand upon to reach such great heights.
Be my guest, little darlin', I'm all for the taking.
Just don't be surprised if that repetitious sound buzzing in your ear is my snoring.

Your rampant insecurity bores me.

But choose to abuse this illusion you deign friend.ship.
The day will draw nigh when familiarity lies in each terse good.bye.

Lucky you having a confidant in me
Lucky me having the prowess to wriggle free

tricky

sometimes what fits is clear comparably
each shade of grey unintentionally casts light
where others have ceased forward motion
some try for love for both of them
and little truths are hardest to swallow
when champagne bubbles stop flat in their glass
you drink but don't taste
your hands fumble to feel
reaching out for an unfamiliar
willing love to return to exist to believe
what once believed believing
because the coldness that smothers in the late nights alone
cannot be all
           but still
                resonating
                         alive
                               where once a cement heart heard beating beside you
now at last sleep
sweet sleep
and dreams
dreams to conquer new mountains
waving toward warm smiling faces
who taste and see and touch
all the forgotten fantasies
of serendipity
and the moon

the world keeps turnin round.

I went on a date the other night.

I was pretty stoked because it was someone I went to college with and I have this belief that when people come back into my life from the past it means they're significant.
Why else would our paths need crossing again?

You know what a hopeless romantic I truly am.

He was terribly shy.
I mean, I'm always drawn to shy guys but he was like, supra shy.
The Duke of Shy Town.

I had a really good time.

It's curious, but when I'm around someone I don't know but used to, or maybe I never even knew them I just knew who they were, we both seem smehow more comfortable being around each other. 
It's like this undercurrent of knowing somehow we're still safe.

My friend told me today she thinks sometimes people don't come into our lives until we're ready for them.
I think in those rare instances people do still enter stage right before we're ready.
But I think that's only when people like me are making the entrances.

I'm kind of a lot to be ready for, you know?
Yeah.
You do.

I thought it was fitting I got my Adieu before all these new things started happening.
Like I didn't even know I needed that door locked.
But once it was my summer came alive.
Alive with possibility.  With hope and peace.
And maybe even a little love.

Life's crazy like that.
Sort of like love itself.

"Life is crazy.
Love is life."

And the world continues spinning even when my feet forget to move.

I'll stand glued to one spot looking up at the sky, smiling at the planes that fly over head, counting the stars.
Sure that one day I'll understand all that I see.

And trust you will too.

What's an enigma?

"I think that it's funny these people think that they know you when they don't."


I've been trying out this new thing lately.
I'll call it embarrassing honesty.
Like when Texas looked extra fancy I walked over to him and said, "Wanna make out?"

That kind of honesty.

I think for the most part I'd have to admit in the past I'd try and be certain versions of myself with certain people.
I was demure Resa when I went out with Mr. Fabulous.
Or there's censored Resa when I'm around Grandma.
Inappropriate Resa when drinking with fellow actors and entertaining Resa when around my family.

And I adapt accordingly and there's nothing wrong with that.

But with my new relationships I'm finding that I lack the censorship to be anyone but who I am.
And to my delight. I find that people respect that.
People respond more to that.

"She is just completely herself. Like, this is who I am. I love that," this girl I met last week said.

And how rad is it that being my uncandid, sassy, fickle self is more than okay?
It's cherished.
She is loved.

It makes me wonder all the time and energy I would have spared if I started all relationships grounded in such honesty.  Maybe it would have been okay then too.  And if not, maybe it would have made room for the folks who would have smiled when they saw the real me.
Flaws and all.

Or maybe the real me never existed until now.
Maybe I tried on different personas to find the one that would fit.

And maybe some people need more time for that than others.

All I know is the people I'm closest to now, the people I enjoy being around, the relationships I crave are the ones with the few who get me.

And smile anyway.

See Dick Run. Run Dick Run.

I have a new friend.
Let's call him Dick.

He's actually a terribly sweet guy so the unlikely juxtaposition of a nice guy being named Dick suits me.
I loathe predictability.

I don't know Dick very well but what I have determined is that he should be a spy.
He's more observant than my Father was when I'd come home at one o'clock in the morning.

"Daddy, we were just talking."
'That boy sure likes to talk a lot.'

Most boys do.


Dick has this ability to make me overwhelmingly comfortable and nervous all at the same time.
I find such dichotomy intriguing so I'm pretty sure Dick and I are meant to be life long friends.

He's attentive and complimentary, honest and a little shy and there should really be more men like him in my life. 
There should be more men like him in every woman's life.


"I don't know any other people who are like you," he told me.
Little did he know, that was about the highest praise a Resa could get.

Dick is a testament to the fact that things are rarely ever what they seem.
And that Timing continues to be one temperamental bitch who doesn't give a damn about your priorities.
She has chaos to cause and she doesn't care where the pieces scatter.
So long as the players are willing.

And I always am.

I really do like to run.

summer truths

"I believe that everything happens for a reason.  People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together."-Marilyn Monroe

Any number of endings

You know those novels you read as kids where you could choose your own ending?
 You could choose either A, B or C and then go to that corresponding chapter? 
Of course, if you were like me then you probably cheated and read all three chapters first to decide which ending you liked best.
I've never been one to just sit back and accept what's handed me.

My life, for the past two years, keeps circling back to the same moment, the same year, the same month even, as if the Cosmic Bitch that is Fate is flaunting her delicious uncertainty in my face just to show me all the things I missed. 
Then and now.

The year is 2005.  It's a pretty monumental year for several reasons.  It's the year I graduate college.  The year I stop working at Starbucks.  (Before I go back again.  And again.  And then again.  And still, again.  And yes, again.  Juries still out if they'll be a sequel).  It's the year I start working at Nordstrom.  And it's the year I date a lot of men.  A LOT.  Like, I'm fairly certain I date more in that one year than I did my entire college career.
Like I said, I've never been one to just sit back and accept what's handed me.

So how has the Cosmic Bitch been messing with my mind?

First of all, one of the guys I dated in '05 found me on Facebook four years later and then became my short lived though drama filled boyfriend for the following year.

Second, one of the guys I worked with in '05 managed me again four years later and became the scandalous rendevous I distracted myself with after the short lived drama filled boyfriend became my ex.

Third, the job I was so thankful to have to get me out of coffee land I quit the following year.  My next job at Macy's I met a girl who hired me five years later in the same department at the same Nordstrom I'd quit right before I started working with my unknown future boss.

Fourth and finally, another guy I dated in '05, the same month I met the kid I'd date the next couple years and the kid I'd date four years later, found me online and is taking me out next week.

To say life follows no circular cosmic pattern is to amuse Fate with a wave of great laughter.

I can't help but wonder how different my story would be if I'd chosen Bachelor Number two initially instead of Bachelor Number One or if I'd kept my initial job instead of waiting six years to return to it or if I'd never gone back to Starbucks again and again and, well, you get the picture, if my scandalous work tryst ever would have occurred and all the while knowing full well, no matter which ending I chose, Fate always holds a surprising twist up her sleeve.

Perhaps I could have dated any one of those men and it never mattered what sequence because somehow all of our paths were to again cross in the future.  Perhaps I could have remained at the one job instead of inconsistently hopping from one to the next.

But perhaps no matter which door I foolishly close, what needs revealing finds a way to be seen. 
What needs connection finds a way to be felt. 
What ties seem lost will one day show up unexpectedly and Fate smiles at her own cleverness, revealing all that always was, that always is, that finds its way, even when we never see all that was and is before us.

My So-Called Relationships

People constantly amaze me.

And I don't mean that in a Hallmark warm and fuzzy, Lifetime original, doesn't it bring tears to your eyes kind of way.
I mean people behave like schizophrenic malnourished wackadoos.

The moment I think I have someone figured out, or at least moderately understand their agenda and motives concerning me, they'll do something to completely shatter my so-called understanding.

It is beyond annoying.
But it's also insanely entertaining.


Exhibit A: The interested guy who loses interest

I'm not good at playing hard to get.  I find games contrived and lacking in spontaneity.  I'd rather say something so blaringly truthful it shocks the panties right off them.  Such as, "I like you. Wanna make out?"  Life is so much simpler without pretense.  But men like a challenge so such brazen behavior can be off putting for them.
It's like, I wanted to feel like a man and ask you out and now that you've gone and done my job for me, it makes me feel like my dick is shrinking. 

Then again, I could be exaggerating.
Just a little.

So the guy likes you, he flirts, he pursues, he adds you on Facebook and somewhere along the dance to get laid you never hear from him again.  No reason, no warning, maybe he got back together with his ex girlfriend or maybe he couldn't handle trying to seduce you while he's still living with his Mommy, but whatever the reason, his mojo is no go.  The guy goes AWOL and you write him off as being yet another one who got away.

Asshole.


Exhibit B: The mean girl who secretly wants to be friends

Women are bitches.  They rarely communicate honestly and if they ever utter one sentence that isn't layered with seventeen deeper meanings it's about as often as men over coming their shrunken penis syndrome.  Women are always motivated by a hidden agenda.  Jealousy, competition, insecurity, the desire to be liked, even the desire to be liked by people they don't like themselves.

Enter Mean Girl.  Mean Girl talks about you behind your back and says disparaging comments to your face.  She acts indifferent but her constant need to get your attention reeks of wanting to merely be accepted in the Confident Bitches Club.  Finally one day she opens up and tells you her life story.  Then she invites you to get drunk.  The dance of sorority bitches is complete.


Exhibit C:  The guy who wants to just be friends but gets jealous

I don't have guy friends.  I believe "When Harry met Sally" speaks truthfully on relationships between men and women unless the guy or girl is either gay or asexual.  My guy friends are gay.  Because there is no chance of me hitting them with my sexray gun thus we are safe to frolic without him accidentally getting sucked into my hoo hoo.  Straighties however are another story.  The guy who claims he's not interested romantically and goes out of his way to make his disinterest known turns into the Incredible Hulk when I try and share my dating life with him.  He sees me being picked up by a date, he hears me whine about being rejected by a crush and he responds with unsupportive, insensitive remarks making it known how unattractive and undesirable I truly am. 

Thanks a heap for the support, ya big baby.
Don't take it out on me just because I won't let you touch my ta ta's.


Conclusion?
There are few so-called relationships in my life that aren't so demented they should be written about in a psych book.
But for the rest of them at least it gave me something to shake my head at.
And laugh maniacally at their expense.

Naturally.