Want my status with you

http://youtu.be/ggurvovxJGM

I got dumped.

I thought he was gay.

He worked in Designer Handbags and wore tight pants and fitted vests and showed me pictures of the vegetarian lasagna he'd made at home.
He was nice to me.
And since my taste in men always mirrored my cooking and cleaning abilities--Lord send me a rich chef to marry--I welcomed the idea of a fabulous new gay boyfriend with the kind of girlish excitement that can only be rivaled in a room full of tiaras or pink cupcakes.
He was handsome.
And he dressed well.
And he thought I was worth talking to.

This was going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.

On our first date he didn't tell me I was pretty.
He didn't compliment my Grace Kelly dress or even my matching velvet bow hat.
He didn't wish me a Happy Day After My Birthday either.
And he didn't pay for my drink.

What kind of gay man doesn't gush about how fabulous I am??

He wasn't gay.
He grabbed my ass in the elevator.
And we made out in a park on our second date.
And he turned out to be the greatest lover and my best friend.

But he was relationally retarded.
And now he's my ex.

I really need to stop falling for gay straight men.

He was different from the guys I'd dated.
He didn't worship me.
He didn't need me to save him.
We were genuine friends.
And I could actually be myself with him.
And we'd talk about everything.

If I got mad at him he never got mad back.
He'd smile, amused, and offer to make me hot chocolate or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Once I went to sleep on the couch and he brought his only blanket out to me to cover me with it.
He slipped a pillow underneath my head.
He was caring.
He was understatedly romantic.

Once I babysat a co workers daughter and he spent the day with both of us.
It was one of those summer days that was unbearably hot so when we all got back to his apartment, without saying a word, he mixed up a sparkling citrus drink and handed each of us a glass.
I smiled.
He did loving stuff like that all the time.

But he never told me I was beautiful.
He never even said he liked me.
He never bought me flowers or jewelry or introduced me to his Mom.

And while I tried to accept that he communicated his affection with his time and his actions, a nagging doubt continuously poked my heart.
If he can't say it, he must not feel it.
And what a wretched fool I am to stick around and wait for it.
I'd never known a man to not tell me how he felt or how he saw me.
Strangers on the street stop to tell me how lovely I look or what beautiful eyes I have.
And my own boyfriend didn't even want to be "in a relationship" with me on Facebook.

What else was I to think?

He wouldn't give me any traditional boyfriend anything.
It annoyed him when I wanted to take pictures together.
If I asked him how I looked or if he liked my outfit all he'd ever say was, "You look adorable."
I knew he liked me.
He obviously wouldn't spend so much time with me if he didn't.
But I felt like some kind of friend.
And I wanted to feel like a woman.
I wanted to feel adored and loved and desirable.
And I didn't.

So I'd get hurt and I'd tell him.
And I'd ask why and he'd say he wasn't ready.
Because to him "I love you" meant Forever.
And it was too soon for that, he'd tell me.
But he wanted to be with me, he reminded me.

And then one day he called and said he wanted to take a break.
He said he didn't know if he did or didn't want to be with me and he needed to know.
But that I did nothing wrong and it wasn't about me.
And he said maybe he'd realize it was all a mistake and then it'd be up to me.

So here I am.
Single because the man I love is confused.
Because he's too young to decide his forever and too scared of his own pasts repetition to bravely trust me with his heart.

I wish I could hate him.
I wish he'd done something or cheated on me or looked me in the eyes and declared he felt nothing for me.
But he was just sad.
And uncertain.

And I'm not 22 anymore.
And I don't want to try and change his mind and help him realize how good I am for him.
Because if he doesn't want me then I don't want him either.

I want a man who knows I am wonderful, from deep inside his gut, even when he doesn't see me or even when I cause him a massive headache, he still smiles.
Because I am his headache.
And he is my stubborn fool.
And we'll make passionate love together and stay up late laughing in bed and rest our heads together snuggled up in the morning.
And he won't run away.
And he won't push me away.
And he'll let my love pour through him and fall back into my own eyes.

And that will be our truth.
And that will be all we'll ever need.

I'm very definitely a woman and I enjoy it.

I didn't discover curves. I uncovered them.

Mother Teresa? Not likely

I've been volunteering at a daycare.

If you know me at all you'll realize how ridiculous this is.

I'm about as into babies as my dad was into me dating the long haired Lebanese narcissist he lovingly referred to as "the terrorist."

Babies annoy me the way dogs do.
They smell and they drool and they manage to get it all over your new designer shoes.
They'll stand right in front of you for minutes just staring at you expecting you to read their minds.

I don't wanna take them for a walk.
And I don't wanna carry them in a handbag.
And I'm pretty sure the only way I will actually ever pop out a baby is if the condom breaks.

But the dance studio I used to be addicted to has this exchange program where if you volunteer to work a couple hours a week then you can take all the free classes you like.
Sweet gig, right?
I've worked in the daycare now three weeks and guess how many classes I've taken?
One.

It's not that I don't genuinely want to take the classes.
It's just getting my rotund behind off my boyfriend's couch seems to be an impossibility.
I've gotten out of the groove.
And I don't wanna go to zumba.
I wanna make cookies with my bf.
We're both getting these cute little ponches from eating so much morne and I think we're all the sexier for it.

The first time I worked in the daycare there was this toddler boy there.
He was the only kid for the first hour.
He walked by me and stared at me, sizing me up.
I'm pretty sure he could smell my indifference.

I met his gaze.
Hey. How's it goin? I asked him.
He just blinked back.
It was like talking to a dog.

I don't even know how to talk baby, like the other girl who works with me.
She's some sort of professional nanny and she speaks kid with the grace of Mary Poppins.
I'm all trying to think of what to say to the five year old twins and come up with, Is your dress Calvin Klein?

The kids look at me with the same disbelief as you likely are.
They prefer the other teacher read the stories but they do let me hand them their goldfish.
I guess they realize it's pretty hard for me to screw up snack time.

I try bonding with the painfully shy girl who always acts like her mom is leaving her at a concentration camp when she leaves by coloring on a pink piece of construction paper with her.
These crayons aren't Crayola! I declare in disgust.
Certainly even a five year old can understand the pains of drawing with cheap colored wax.
She glares at me and turns her back.

Once again my big mouth seems to offend.

I better get my groove back quick because something tells me I'm not gonna last long with the drooling toddlers.
We all have our gifts.
And I do make a mean jam filled sugar cookie.

She messed with the wrong makeup whore

One of the good things about not working for Nordstrom anymore is that now I get to be one of the customers catered to instead of one of the employees doing the catering.

It's a similar high I experienced after working for Starbucks.
Excuse me, I said DENSE foam. These bubbles are YUGE.
Oh, I am so very sorry, I'd always lie, let me remake that for you. And here's a free drink coupon for being such an uptight bitch. I mean, I'll be quick & make that switch.

Customers are irrational and entitled.
God bless America.

So now, it's MY turn to be annoying and incessant.
Yeah, I really didn't like this eyeliner at all and the blush really isn't my color so I'd like to return them.
Take that, you lipstick pusher.
I just got back from L.A. with a suitcase full of quality makeup and I don't need this crap anymore.

Um. I can't DOoo that, the goth wannabe whines in her valley girl drone.
There's like, NOoo packaging. How do I know you didn't get these at May-seees?

Uh.
Gee.
I don't know.
Because they don't CARRY M.A.C. at Macy's?
Is this a trick question??

I blink expectantly but Barbie Goth is resolute.

I just don't need them anymore. They're hardly used, I counter, with sincerity.

Yeeeeaaaah. I'm sawwry. But I like, just. Can't.

I continue staring at her because I'm still waiting for her shrill JUST KIDIIIIING! because when I worked for Nordstrom I had to return empty serums "that just didn't work" and if I didn't do it like a fucking cheerleader I got death stares from the twitchy meth addict posing as my boss.

My return totaled $34.
She was being a cunt.

I decided arguing with her was a moot point and just gave her the item I did have in a box so she'd at least process that return.
It was the eye shadow primer I'd always used and worked okay but after learning about some other incredible brands at the IMATS in Cali I'd chosen to use a different one.
And a lady really doesn't need two eyeshadow primers.
Not even makeup whores like me.

Your zip code is in BeaverTON? she hissed.
Whyyyyy are you shopping HERE?

Now I was getting REALLY annoyed.

If I wanted to return some $300 item she'd sold me yesterday?
I'd get the attitude.
But the primer was fifteen stupid dollars.

My boyfriend lives downtown, I replied, wondering why I bothered responding.

Because you kno-ow, there's Washington SQ-U-ARE and ClackaMAS. They have bigger counters. Maybe you should shop THEHRE.

WOW.
Seriously?

If anyone would have talked to a customer that way when I worked in the department they probably would have left work crying after the ass whooping they'd received.

What a stupid girl.

I walked away and then minutes later decided to return.

Excuse me? I cooed, all sunshine and sugar pops to the gal working for Chanel.
The gal that was just helping me, what was her name? 
My smile was so overwhelmingly bright and eager she fully believed I'd enjoyed Barbie Goth.
Oh, that was Tiffany, she replied, her bright smile matching mine.
Wonderful, thank you. And does Tiffany have a card? I beamed even brighter.
She reached into their drawer and fished one out for me.
Here ya go!
Thank you. Thank you ever so, I feigned another smile.

Because some department manager is going to receive an anonymous note about the customer service they received and how they'll make sure to shop elsewhere, as they were instructed to do.

Because I happen to know that customer complaints are a yuge deal.
So please, lay on the attitude nice and juicy like, and see what happens.

I look forward to it, actually.

I'd like you so much better if I'd never seen your penis

I have always wished that I could stay friends with an ex.

I've met those girls.
The ones who stay buds with their old flames.
They meet each others new hookups and they all go to carnivals together and eat elephant ears and it's like some music video to a Taylor Swift song.

I've never understood those girls.
Just like I've never understood the appeal of anal sex or beer.

My relationships with my exes are never reminiscent of a pop ballad.
Mine get me blocked from Facebook.
They involve pronouncements like, I don't need this much drama in my life or My wife says I can't talk to you anymore.

And even though every ending to every love affair I've ever experienced more likely resembles the ending of Anna Karenina than Twilight, my hopeful, stubborn determination is to maintain a friendship with SOME ex.
Some time.
Clearly, not anytime soon.

I emailed Mr. Volcano last week, motivated by god knows what, and I ended up with this.

The journey goes well for me, and each day I am filled with gratitude and astonishment at the beauty life chooses to reveal.  I hope you still experience great joy and smiles daily as well.  Good to hear from you, and happy summer!


What the hell is that even supposed to mean?
I swear he didn't sound like a fortune cookie while we were dating.


Why is it so hard for people to be real?


Hope you still experience great joy....??
Yeah, every day when I'm frenching my well endowed lover, you self righteous ass monkey.

What a fucking phoney.


I know what you're thinking.
"He sounded nice."
Riiiiiiight.
Let's take you back a couple years to his last parting words and the slander I caught him in and the fact we've had no dialogue since.


Why did he bother writing me back in the first place?
At least indifference doesn't involve pathetic attempts at vague pleasantries.
I would have preferred he not respond at all.


Ugh.


Men are idiots.
Thank god for the ones who can form a sincere sentence without sounding like they're writing from an ashram in New Guinea.

I'm so glad my hippie days are over. 

But you know, hearing from my ex did remind me the journey goes well for me too. 
It made me really think about how far I've come. 
And how smart it is to no longer be dating baristas from Starbucks. 

The beauty life chooses to reveal today is that latent homosexuals who nailed you on your roommates bed that run with the polar bears to "find themselves" should not be your Facebook friend. 

Exes merely exist so we have something to laugh at other than ugly bitches.