November 21, 2009 at 12:39 am (favs, future, in my head, It's all about me, On dating and mating, past)

Long enough ago that it feels integral to who I am, someone called me a cold-hearted bitch. I don’t remember what I’d done or said, I just remember being terrified of soliciting that response again. I didn’t actually think I was a cold-hearted bitch, I just knew I never wanted to be called one.

Over the years I’ve learned what it really feels like to hurt someone. The kind where looking them in the eye breaks you into bits and “I’m sorry” doesn’t begin to cover how much you wish you could take back the judgment, the wound, the “you can’t do it” that should have been a “you can,” the peeling of a carefully constructed exterior to reveal exactly what they hate about themselves.

I canceled a date today over IM.

I hadn’t done it sooner because I was afraid it would be mean. The move of, yes, a cold-hearted bitch. Yet I knew, from the second I said yes to his fourth request for my email address, that I didn’t want to see him again. I wasn’t attracted to him and I didn’t find him interesting, but I let myself be talked into a date by all of the “give him a chance”s people were flinging in my direction. I let his interest in me (and it was Swingers-answering machine-messages-esque interest) be reason enough for me to feel that I should be interested in him.

I’d rather be alone.

I was 15 the first time anyone talked me into dating someone. The Dangerous Ex’s girlfriend at the time did the convincing. I remember liking the guy for approximately two minutes while enjoying free beer and the warmth of his jacket. Beyond that he was rude, pushy, obsessed with football, and dumb. More recently, I dated someone who deserved better. He wanted a small life in a big place with drive-in movies and red-sauce Italian food. He was kind and loving and my head fit perfectly under his chin, but I should have let him go months before I did. Something talked me into our first date…and then I talked myself into our second. He liked me. He really liked me. And for a time that was enough for both of us.

But I’d rather be alone.

This post isn’t about the dumb jock or the sweet kid or even the slightly creepy guy I was to see on Sunday. This post is about me. About finally realizing that I have to ask for what I want. And what I want is something real, something solid, something that requires no convincing. Someone I say yes to not out of fear of being called names, but out of a desire to know more. I want someone who interests me, not just someone who tells me that I interest him. Until then?

I’d rather be alone.

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I want

July 7, 2009 at 3:12 pm (favs, future, in my head)

A weekend in a hotel room overlooking a cold beach. A crisp glass of white, giggles, lingering kisses on my shoulders, rolled-up jeans, and wearing one of his sweaters in the evening.

A dog to come home to. A wagging tail and barking at the doorbell and an adorable little face that couldn’t be more excited I’m home.

A studio apartment with exposed brick or a bay window or Victorian details. A small table set with my mother’s black glass goblets and fresh cut hydrangeas. The smell of lemon and tarragon. Three friends on their way over.

Late night study sessions with baked goods. And Pirate’s Booty. And index cards full of research notes. College-ruled notebooks. Lucky pens. Falling asleep with a photocopied article on my chest and a highlighter in my hand.

The sharp edges of a mountain, the smoky burn of bourbon hitting bottom, cashmere, tomato soup, tiny white lights, and the smell of pine. A dance party in the kitchen. Extra-soft cotton pajama sets. Extravagantly priced winter strawberries.

Time to explore a new city. With minarets and soft cheeses. With folks speaking in languages I don’t know and dialects I’d never be able to learn. With fabrics in ochre and oxblood. With a rhythm that jumps about and weaves its way into my limbs.




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Protected: Letter to a younger, stupider me

June 4, 2009 at 12:29 am (favs)

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Protected: Sláinte

March 18, 2009 at 4:02 am (favs, past)

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A Little BS

February 4, 2009 at 6:20 am (favs, in my head, plays well with others)

BS: dude I should totally sell an egg
Ex-ALM: wow. Um, that’s worth a little research before jumping in…
BS: nah
my DNA should be passed on
it’s only fair to the world
but I don’t want to get fat and be tied to a shit machine for 18 years
Ex-ALM: I am way too tired to come up with as witty a response as that comment deserves.
BS: $20,000+!!! it would take me like a month to make that if I became a high class hooker
Ex-ALM: You are in rare form today. Truly.
BS: I’m always in rare form baby. My form is RARE. Rrrrowrr.
Ex-ALM: You know you shouldn’t drink at work, right?

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Love in red pen

February 2, 2009 at 7:53 am (favs, past, plays well with others)

If I could find my childhood diary, I’d bet you a Wall Street girlfriend’s diamonds that it would be covered with some version of “I love Billy*”. Billy was sweet, smart, and adorable (as 5th graders go). He had the kind of eyes girls and their mothers envied. He was cool. He didn’t care that my best friend had the rad Guess denim jacket with striped lining on the hood. He was always nice to me when we played kickball at recess. He knew I could kick his little ass at Four Square and never made me pretend I couldn’t. He was a third. As in William Brockton Andrews III. But mostly, Billy had a Cubs hat.

Growing up in the middle of California generally meant that you grew up a Dodgers fan or a Giants fan. Growing up as the daughter of a man who was 11-years-old and a Yankees fan in 1957 meant that I could follow neither team. “We don’t talk about the Giants – they left. And we don’t talk about the Dodgers, period,” Dad would say. To me, Billy’s hat made him exotic. Foreign. Special. He wasn’t like the other boys. He had roots somewhere else, just like me.

He liked my best friend first. Either she wasn’t interested, or it didn’t last, I really can’t remember. Then, in what would become a pattern that lasted into the first year of high school (where it blessedly died a quick and thorough death), her leftovers came looking for me. She and Colorado Friend and I were BFFs at the time. We were chicks before dicks before any of us knew what a dick was, but somehow we worked it out and I found myself going out with Billy.

We barely talked. We passed notes (“Do you like me? Check yes or no”). We might have held hands. And then one day, Billy told me he loved me. He didn’t use those words exactly, or any words at all actually, but I knew. One day Billy let me wear his hat. And I learned why he was so careful with it, so scared to let it get knocked off his head or worn by any of the other girls who asked. There on the inside lining, scrawled in all caps, was my name and a heart written in red pen.

Billy moved away before junior high. I don’t know where or remember exactly when. Years later at Grad Nite, I ran into him on a boat. I was dating The Dangerous Ex at the time and thought I was an adult in an adult relationship (or at least I knew what a dick was). He cringed when I introduced him to my friends and said, “I go by Bill now”. I can’t remember whether he was headed to college and if so where, but seeing him made me think of that simple declaration of love as pure and perfect as any I’ve received since.

Yesterday Billy found me on Facebook.

*Names have been changed to protect the adorably innocent.

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If only I’d known then what I know now,

November 17, 2008 at 5:10 pm (favs, in my head)

I’d have done things differently. I’d have had a little more fun. I’d have worried less. I’d have let Southern boys kiss me. I’d have played my cards closer to the vest. I’d have said yes more often. I’d have enjoyed shooting stars and holding hands and learning a new dance. I’d have watched that movie or let two drinks turn into four. I’d have admitted that he let me in years ago and I knew it. I’d have breathed more, laughed more, liked more. I’d have crushed harder and walked softer. I’d have spoken up and relished the quiet.

I can’t get to sleep
I think about the implications
Of diving in too deep
And possibly the complications

Especially at night
I worry over situations
I know will be alright
Perhaps its just my imagination

Day after day it reappears
Night after night my heartbeat, shows the fear
Ghosts appear and fade away

Alone between the sheets
Only brings exasperation
Its time to walk the streets
Smell the desperation

At least there’s pretty lights
And though there’s little variation
It nullifies the night
From overkill

Day after day it reappears
Night after night my heartbeat, shows the fear
Ghosts appear and fade away

I can’t get to sleep
I think about the implications
Of diving in too deep
And possibly the complications

Especially at night
I worry over situations
I know will be alright
Its just overkill

Day after day it reappears
Night after night my heartbeat, shows the fear
Ghosts appear and fade away

“Overkill” – Colin Hay

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August 27, 2008 at 10:56 pm (favs)

There are so many things I love about this, most of them having to do with Ryan Gosling. The kid was only 25 at the time, but there are all of these charming touches that, whether choreographed or not, make this one of those video clips that just makes me smile. I like how he stretches first, sort of a non-verbal, “let’s do this thing.” I love how he grabs her hair – it’s not rough, but it gives you an idea of the fire between them. I love how he puts her down, gently, like a present, so that she can land easily on one sky high stiletto. I love that he knows his only words should in some way compliment her. And I love that he picks up her coat on the way out, because like offering the last bite of whatever they’re eating, it’s something most men would never think to do. 

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Where I stand

July 25, 2008 at 8:09 pm (favs, if I ruled the world)

I believe in representative democracy, kissing on the first date, wine on an empty stomach, sandals in winter, and sprinting the end. I believe that dancing can be a spiritual experience. I believe comfort does not require sacrificing style. I believe my left thumb is adorable and my pinky fingers look freakishly small. I believe that convertible pants, Crocs, and the “art” of Thomas Kinkead are signs the apocalypse is near. I believe store-bought cookie dough is an abomination. I believe in loyalty, forgiveness, skinny dipping, and trying the things that scare you. I believe in erring on the side of overdressed, giving presents for no reason, and putting mustard on my soft pretzels. I believe in coffee – lot’s of it – and real whipped cream in small doses. I believe in the snooze button, sleeping in, cool sheets and warm towels. I believe uniforms are sexy. I believe in alone time, date nights, girls’ nights, and mental health days. I believe that you can’t change someone else, but that people can change. I believe the sky is at its most beautiful on the coldest of nights. I believe every woman should own a piece of clothing made just for her. I believe I’ll dye my hair red when it starts to gray. I believe in mourning your failures for a week, tops, before picking up and moving on. I believe in sarcasm, wit, and the healing power of chocolate pudding made from scratch. I believe heaven involves wine, puppies, baseball, ballet, brownie sundaes, and shoulder freckles.

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May 22, 2008 at 6:21 pm (favs)

more cat pictures

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