Douchebags

This is a lovely inbox message I got from a fifth grade teacher…. Does he think I’m into Photography or Pornography? Disturbing…….I guess it would seem pretty odd, asking for a bikini shot/pic, but really, Nothing big. You do weird things to me…it’s something different for me to deal with. I know I’ve never even met you, but when I wake up in the middle of the night, sleeping on my stomach with a rod between me and the bed, and I ACTUALLY KNOW why I have the erection and WHO it’s from…and then have to do something about the erection so that I can sleep without pent-up energy making me shaky with uncontrollable throbbing — well, let’s just say my libido/sex drive (again, with me never even seeing you) is at full strength. I can’t clear my head here at school, and I end up thinking some thoughts that I’m just glad can’t be read on my forehead, b/c they would be SUPER-inappopriate for kids! I think I just asked for the new pic b/c if I can’t meet you in person, then I want to see you in picture form, you know?

So, yeah, I still want a picture, if that’s O.K. Totally up you……………

Post Break Up Realities

I remember my biggest opposition to being in a relationship was that if at any moment I no longer wanted to BE in that relationship, if you don’t commit, you don’t break up.
You don’t hurt.
You don’t cry,
No one cuts or abandons or cheats.
Everyone wins.
The Collector, the only one able to pop my boyfriend cherry, in his hopeful childlike beliefs, made me change my mind actually, an impossibility being the bull I am, friendly and sweet for a bull, but still a bull.
Not many people can ever shake my core, question my beliefs, pull out the raw power of a simple touch, a touch that altered my very being.

I kind of like the word “Bullshit” thinking of me before him, literally full of shit.

Love will stomp out any thought your mind can possess.
I wonder what he thinks now, for actually I was correct, the million reasons he denied possible are the blinding flags I waved, flags I threw on the ground, so I did commit to him, and here we are, broken up.
And it hurts.
I do cry.
And certainly being right didn’t make me win.

Neither one of us won a damn thing, which leads me to reevaluate my old way of thinking, the beliefs that had shaped me then should justify this heartbreak, renewing my lifetime commitment to single bliss, heart perfectly in tact, my feet in a brisk walk or skip out the door before someone breaks into anything real.

To have walked through the fire of such intense fear, such incredible abandonment issues that have suffocated me, the literal vision of a pillow on my face comes to mind when I changed my status on facebook, the old me so comfortable in “single” land was a stage that dropped with me standing, so I fell, not one graceful thing came of it.

Giving into fear without a clue of how to control or mask my insanities to a man who could walk out the door at any minute terrified me.
I thought I was broke.
My father left, with a long list of anonymous faces, which all compute my father left, which is not even fair. I left the faces first.
No one was going to do that to me again.

I was wrong.
He is gone.
In fact, the very thing I never wanted to feel is at my door, reminding me of the oath, asking me what I have to say for myself now.

I say to this feeling, this deep oozing wound that what I never wanted a real man or my own self to see, well, I guess the only thing I have to say is this.
“Thank you.”
I know broke all to well, the breaking in my soul, in my spirit, it is the ultimate price. To deny myself of love or trust, my own worth out the window but flying through single land, without a person to hurt me, well, is like trying to fix a bullet hole with a band-aid.
What I didn’t know however, is that broken comes in so many forms, so many layers of truths, that in fact, for me it is the only truth I had to face to be set free.
It is a transforming humility, this type of broke.
It is wild and strong, the vigilant energy of an oak deeply embedded into the earth, roots grown by courage and faith have not brought me the man on the white horse.
I have no illusions, deep sadness, an added failure, so perfect in its imperfection.

Imperfections have not given me the romance ending, but this broke has led me back to the only safe place.
It brought me home to me.

It is only when facing the thing we say we must not, that we discover the hidden power of the human spirit, become empowered by the truth of what we so bury deep in our hearts.
We are more lovable and beautiful than we know.
I thought I was unworthy of anything real showing up, failure stamped my forehead like a piece of meat being branded for sell, burnt flesh for the world to see, to smell, my scar I won’t even look in the mirror for fear I might see the horror of something so ugly, it would be a part of me for life.
I thought I must have been terrible at relationships, to have been through a divorce, to lose a father, in the worst way.

I was wrong.

I found I love powerfully, with total commitment and fierce loyalty, that I am sweet and melt like the best butter on a big pile of popcorn, the sweet warm sensation of watching a tearjerker in a crowded theatre on a rainy day.
I thought I would hate relationships.
I found I love coffee in the morning, feet can feel quite lovely rubbing against your own, the deep satisfying patterns of breathing while asleep, the comfort of a backrub, the desire to make him happy, to want to be selfless shocked me.
It was quite my cup of tea.
Or maybe he was the tea I liked so much.
I remembered what I hate about it too, the compromises, the irritations, the making up when you want to fight like a child, not a grown woman.
I found wild lust and even brutal angry fights require you to show up.
To woman up.

Walking away now free of damage leaves a bad taste in my mouth, these fists now have been in the air, fighting, loving, fucking, crying, living.

I fought for a man I love, and still love, but this has been my first experience on the other side of the fence. I have been one brutally pushing change upon men who never asked for it, a control I know too well, but now I can relate to myself.
The Collector wanted control too, just like me, and I remember Divorcee telling him with a hint of laughter to be aware, to be with me requires total release and acceptance, that I am what I am, that no man controls me.
“Trust me,” he said.
He was right. He tried the hardest.

I knew it would not be easy to be with me, a free spirit, a lover of people, all of my relationships are with men, that I forget places and time slips away with a story I had not ever heard, amazing details lost the minute I see anger replacing my boyfriend’s upset face.
I knew he would have to be strong, incredibly strong and secure, and he wanted to be the one in my life, not one of the ones of the ones, a list of people he felt replaced continually with.
I felt stripped and pulled and ashamed for this part of me for most of the time, the other outraged and betrayed that he knew this all along, that he couldn’t just love me for me.
To be asked to give up a dream, just this piece here and there, of course that never is enough. My dream obsesses my very core, my art, my desire to meet and chat and fly, to cut out time with my children, for him, was a deal I never signed. This passion was what made him supposedly fall in love with me was now being asked to be just his, the way he wanted it.
I do not blame him.
I do not ask him to feel sorry or bad for his feelings are his own.
He has a right to them.
He has a right to change his mind.

I on the other hand, have passed the ultimate test for my own peace, a peace that beats hand in hand with loss, the very truth I have been seeking.

I do not need a warning label.
I am packaged perfectly and I came here talking too much, to way too many people, loving business, making art, my little room was splatter painted at six, my closets are full of journals I came here to write, Polaroid photos included for emphasis on little girl handwritten poems, a thought that makes me smile to see a blog is no different.

I will make you jealous, bring up every insecurity, live with my own ex, travel in packs of men, but I am exactly what I have always been.

I see him in my mind. I see the man who is leaned against the back of a crowded room, sipping a beer slowly and with ease as I flirt and dance, laugh and talk.
He is waiting on me.
He knows that no man is like him, that I can be alone on the worst night after a bad fight with an ex and too many shots, but that I’m coming home.
I always do.
My heart can’t lie nor can my body and when I give this completely, he will smile, proud, and he will chat with me about all the characters I met, question little for his own life will be full and beautiful, and he will take me to the bedroom the way he should.
In total raw confidence I love him, that I fought for him, that I fought for me.
That in reaching for me, without losing hope, in my biggest defeats, I made room for him.
He will love my dreams and release me with a kiss not a jealous text, brag on my accomplishments, and be my best friend.
It will probably be me who whips my head around in jealousy.

The Collector is a beautiful man, but he was named this for a reason. He collects beautiful things, ornate lamps, interesting art, but I am not a part of a collection.

I am unique, one of a kind, not for anyone or everyone, but perfect, in the most imperfect disastrous ways.

This song came to me tonight, like it was written for me, just for this exact day, and this isn’t uncommon, but isn’t it surreal every time?

You must know life to see decay…
But I wont run.
Not this mind and not this heart…
I wont run.

I will find my way over the hill, I can see it, can almost touch it.
I will find love that wont break my heart, and I most definitely will wear flowers in my hair..
That’s just my style.

The Collector Speaks

Who knew “The Collector” blogs?

He is full of secrets, that man.

And I have tried to keep him one, but no longer.

Here is his side, certainly deserved.

http://who42.wordpress.com/2011/01/24/fallinghead-first/

“Shame Erasers” Part 2

All I see today is the cursor in front of me, staring, blinking.

I have to move through this, terrified to write bullshit, and so now an hour later I return, coffee in hand, a new thought of how I will trick my mind into leaving, the only sign I am writing from my heart, the blood pounding as I feel keystrokes, not letters or words, but keystrokes. It is the only way I know I am writing. Here goes.

Girl met boy.

Boy fell hard and girl did not know.

Boy loves Girl.

Girl Freaks Out.

When I say freak out, what I mean by that is I lost my ever loving mind. I let this man take me out, for school work only and drop me off at the house, telling him he was now “friend’s zone.”
The next visit, I led him in the house to leave him on the couch with Divorcee, while I hummed my evilness from room to room, letting him sweat.
I came up with a list of deal breakers people, and if you know me, this part is strange.
I do not write lists.

All the man said to it was, “But I want you.”

I was disgusted he kept coming back, sweetly and patiently with lots of optimism,
which ensured the man did not have self esteem.

I called Clyde and said he had no goals and did not pay taxes.

I told my mother he smoked pot.

I became something I have never been.
I became out of control.

I brought him to Kat, smug, while she asked many questions, giving him her “evil eye” which she told him meant she were “suspicious.” I was certain she would catch him.
I coached Divorcee on how to warn him about me, who not only didn’t listen, but interrupted me to turn up the television, looking at me strangely from time to time. This dude, ‘The Collector,” I called him made me so mad I could feel my blood temperature rising.

His responses were always slow and patient, kind and gentle, and like this.

“Okay, but I am not waiting. I know you are just right for me.”

He said annoying shit like that all the time, and I knew he was a liar when he said he loved my mouth, a lie I caught on the spot. No one likes my big fat mouth, much less the exact color of my hat the day he first laid eyes on me, my height, the way he “knew” I stole his heart, wandering aimlessly and talking from person to person, unaware I even had him completely frozen, his heart pounding, begging me to not say goodbye.

I reminded him I had an orange peel stuck on my white frizzy hat, had not slept nor did I even remember him.

He replied that he loves me in glasses.

“Gag me,” “Good Luck,” and “You’re fucked,” are the responses I made, with great emotion, slamming down my phone after reading such ridiculous texts.

Until this one night, this one cold unique night, he had enough.
He left.

I had been most terrible and he finally left, finally. I sighed with relief, certain the worst had been over, my strict mean rude nature helped save a great guy from me, so I felt the burden lift, my heart pounding in adrenaline when I heard him walk out the back door.

I slept like a baby.

I woke the next day certain to be in relief everything I had created to lose him had occurred. I could finally relax.
I noticed he didn’t text me.
I noticed my neck and shoulders stiffen at the thought of his bear hugs gone.
The living room was quite different, the WI was not loud or annoying.
I had told him not to let Lola beat him in games.
Perhaps it was kind of sweet he couldn’t stand to let her win.

It makes her very upset, especially in sword fighting.

I picked up my camera, thinking it would surely erase this ridiculous irritation, and I remembered just this one thing to ask him, picked up my phone, and my heart dropped.

He had not even returned my last text.

I never felt stupid asking him anything. He always made me feel completely brilliant, even while looking for post it notes to help me remember my shutter speeds.
He was excited to find my keys in the horrible missing places, like the yard, and he didn’t judge.

He liked being the one who found them, he’d say. I hadn’t let that fool me.
I had been certain to see all the warning signs.
It hadn’t even gotten to breakfast for my heart to ache and ache, my stomach sicken, my mind to race in madness.

But he said all the wrong things.
So why was I crying?

When I discussed this with Thelma, my twin and counter part friend in corruption and evil, she said, after also hearing for months how awful this man was for me,
“You know, sometimes we just need the very thing we don’t know we want.”
She was right but I had lost him.
Even worse, maybe I hurt him.

I decided I must tell him I am sorry, and maybe even beg, or ask nicely, to be forgiven. On the way to his home, I pulled in the parking lot, aware something was off.
I had saved his home address wrong on purpose, just in case I ever tried to see him.
This moment, my friends, came the moment of salvation.
My salvation came in form of the ugly cry, a deep kneading grief that pounded, pain and hurt so deep it felt like my lungs were closing and my chest was being pressed open.
I finally saw that I believed everything I touched seemed ruined afterward, that nothing good came from people loving me.

I am a big mess, a terrible problem to solve, a wife that couldn’t make her husband love her, a little girl certain her daddy would eventually leave her.

It was all lies.

And so, I went to find him. I had a long list of things, important things, apologies, and when he opened his door and saw me, I opened my mouth and he physically shut it closed with his hands.
“NO. Do not say a word.”
He sounded a little intense, for the Collector, usually calm, grounding my insanity. I was waiting for the hatchet I deserved, my chin trembling, hoping he could get it out and at least let me explain.
“Let me just say something to you. I have to say it right now, first, before I know what you have to say.” I waited, unsure if I had just lost something I could never get back.
“I love you,” he said.

Love exists whether I believe in it or not, love is free whether I want to withhold it or not, love is beautiful even when I am afraid or in pain.

Love doesn’t leave with my Dad, The Collector, with Divorcee.
I know I am capable of loving deeply, fiercely, wildly, but I hadn’t been afraid to love.
What I had hidden was that I was terrified of being loved back.

And he does.
Salvation is the moment I realized I was worthy of letting him.

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Shame Erasers Part One

The ugly truth about writing is that it is not something you choose.

It chooses you.

I have been avoiding this blog like crazy.

Writing is the only way I know how not to lie.

One of my favorite writers said we have no choice to write or not, that inspiration is bullshit. She said you show up, every day, like all other writers, because it is your job, and that is what you do. Fine. But I don’t have to like it.

……………………………………………………..
Shame Erasers Part One….

I wish I could write this in outline, or power point, to make it less blinding.
I need lists to make even grocery stores less frightening.

Its like I have been living with the sound of a dentist drill in my mind,
an irritating awful pierce demanding I sit down and write.
I just want to get under my covers and hide.

A man I have been dating wants to be my boyfriend.

Good God. That statement even looks as dumb as I imagined.

I don’t need to tell anyone I am a free spirit, a boastful pride in the fight I put out for that freedom. I love being and going, free to kiss, flirt, drink, touch, dance, and to be single is bliss. Utopia is Granny panties or lace thongs worn just for me, ice cream out of the box,
a delightful bed with no sweaty needy hairy man waiting on me to get there,
asking where I went, why my cell phone wasn’t charged, or if I knew how dangerous dancing, live music, oh, and the other hairy sweaty sex crazed filthy mind controlling men I hang around are.

These are the men in past I have referred to as boyfriends or husband, and believe me, it never ends well.

It begins with a promise they make after four beers while I am in red heels,
a short black dress revealing cleavage and legs, leaning in with my glass of red wine.
This is not my first rodeo people.
I laugh at the thought of life and cramps on the bathroom floor,
Lola being put in time out for talking about hairy pee pees, Kat irritated Lola stole her label maker.
And so, my response is usually, “Good Luck,” said with ease and flirtation, ending with me in my bed,
my girls safe and snug a room away. Bliss.

And so, today, for my mini series, you understand the pitch I gave, the same one a million times over it feels, but now there is one man who refuses to sign.

He will not budge. The immovable mountain I can not climb, cross, surround, depart from. He has the most annoying response ever to all these questions I spit, like nails, all the time, every hour.

“I want you.”

Seriously? That is not the correct answer.
That is actually kind of stupid.

And he smiles patiently, a man I named THE COLLECTOR, his house full of little groups of old cameras, beautiful treasures in all types of forms, put together like a kid building legos, but with art.
I can’t decide if I am experiencing love, horrific fear, warning signs from God, or intimacy.
He is like a nightmare wrapped up in a teddy bear, the very thing that looks so soft, I am suspicious of how it is stuffed.

Is this what people call love? THIS is the feeling women crave?
I feel like I ate too much beef jerky and got on a six flags ride I can’t get off.
Is this vibe what we are going for on romantic comedy movies,
which are all hired actors by the way, who are divorced three times over,
a side fact for the romantics to chew on.

I must lose him or commit to him, which I think has brought up every issue I have.
He kind of just required it.

How dare he? How dare a hairy sweaty man be so good, so kind, so sweet?
I don’t know how to control this ridiculous man, and I am mad with love and hate over this lack of control, especially in bed, as if every secret I have invites him inside with little thought to what this could become.
There should be prisons for people like him, torture chambers.

I don’t know what is bigger.
To lose something so big it will destroy me and all that I have worked to become.
Or to live in this, this fear, so ridiculous and mind altering, I just can’t do it. I have to get rid of him and fast.
Clyde says that is extreme.
Clyde says the things everyone says, and asks this question, which makes me laugh, for reasons I am so happy he doesn’t understand.

“WHAT IS THE WORST THAT CAN HAPPEN?”

I know this question.
It is designed to see that a simple truth holds the key in hoping that there is nothing to fear but fear itself.
I wonder if Clyde as a grown man had been told by his father point blank,
a man he had known and loved his whole life that he was an investment,
a bad one that never paid off. Then stand in the ruins of a life built on lies while the masses poke and smile,
asking for news on the latest man, a humiliation that rubs like a skin burn, a deep pulsing heartache no
words can describe.

I need a shame eraser. I just don’t know where to find a parking lot of them, my shame for watching
this man in his stubborn insistence stay reminds me daily I was not free at all.
I was as sick and chained and controlled in my mind from fear now as I was with the sweaty hairy men.
This is a nail biting mind altering truth to me, MISS OBVIOUS, soaking in single loving bliss.
It is humiliating, scary, and makes me wonder if I might be seriously damaged, like beyond what I could even
exaggerate, so much that I could hurt him, a thought I can’t live with.
What if I were like my Dad?
What if my Dad left for reasons the Collector will find?
What if I trust someone who becomes a mad man, like my Dad, and the girls will have it done to them.
No, no, this is wrong, wrong, wrong. I know who did the crime.
I just can’t justify at the right time if it is him, or me, or both who believes the crime has to be paid.

And so here I am, with a freight train headed, in the complete dark, his mere existence mentioned and teased by well meaning friends makes me want to fall over the edge, my balance knocked, my leg shaking.
The girl with the mouth from the South is in trouble when she can’t talk, not to anyone, not about this.
I have found my personal truth lies within me but in this, in this, I have become the unknown.

Part of me hears Clyde say “Breathe,” and “Go Slow,” but I don’t feel that. I feel betrayal coming like a smoke monster hurling at my door, shadows cast from giant magnifying glasses, my fears coming from the ground whisper I am drowning and the life boat I need, well, he is running out of time.

The saddest part is I don’t know if I’ll drown before I can tell him I want him back.

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Hands

God, I had forgotten about hands, his hands.

They were ungodly perfect in the way they touched, kneaded, teased, heat moving wherever they moved.
In one touch, I found myself not caring about anything else but that they didn’t stop, and I don’t beg.

These hands made me beg.

I was not in control of them, but somehow they commanded me, a deep pleasing vibration came from them, and I loved them, salivated for them, my mind never leaving them, watching them, asking them not to stop, to never go away.

They were sweet, impossibly sweet, in their attention, a mindful impossible tender attention to detail, to me.

How could hands be so sweet?

The forgetting was as unbelievable as the touch themselves, and so my mind churned as they touched,
pressed in the wanting and asking of me.

How could hands be this way? I wondered what they wanted from me.
I thought of other hands, the way they moved with simple suggestion.

I thought of awkward hands, the way I moved them for them, just in case they did not know.

I thought of my father’s hands on my mother’s neck.
This thought made me begin to sweat. She trusted those hands too.

What if I were like her, trusting hands that seemed made for her?

My heart pounded now, and I felt sick, wondered if I just weren’t ready for hands, not sweet ones, because what if hands that felt this good were the ones you don’t trust?

Hmm. This made sense.

I thought of asking him to stop, but how? What do you say? He wouldn’t understand.

The hands were moving sweetly and elegantly, to music and candles, but now what felt wonderful started to
claw, scratch, burn.

Maybe I just needed some water, or a pill, an anxiety pill, of course.
No. Maybe, well, no.
No, these hands were wonderful and kind. No. NO. I was fine. These hands were fine.
Or were they?

How would I know? My heart now started beating rapidly, but not in the good way,
the pain and burn of them circled with the churn of my thoughts, racing, racing, running away, or at least trying.

Where could I run? I was trapped with these hands, hands so beautiful they made me want to cry.

“You okay?” It came from a sweet voice, its question made me feel like a complete fool.

The room got dark, because I turned off the light.

The hands paused and I wanted to rock and scream and yell to stop, that they hurt, that I was burning,
that they hurt. But, this couldn’t be true. They were sweet hands. Nice hands.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
I don’t know how to love hands yet.
I don’t know how to trust them.
These are the words I wished I said, but what would have happened?
What if the hands went away?
They most certainly would go away, wouldn’t they?
This made me certain. I had to have done the right thing.

And so I lie. I lie and I lie and I lie…..

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One Word. Cyber Crush.

I have my first ever cyber crush.
It’s ridiculous.
He is about the size of my thumb nail, which is why I suppose they call them thumbnails..
Who knew?
He writes, and has a blog, and looks like the character off Lord of the Rings, the hot one.
Wait. Maybe that is the ACTUAL guy off Lord of the Rings, but a girl can dream.
He came up with this awesome idea I “StumbledUpon” which is the best invention since the Pregnant Snuggy.
ONE WORD. SIXTY SECONDS.
I wrote on Rejection. I wrote about Paper Clips.
And the other day, he inspired me to write this.

I still know that house. I loved all the smells, the Kroger lady who always waved, the shed I crafted furniture late in the night, the Raulph Lauren Satin paint, the green chair, not any green, the perfect green, vintage but not.
I had made plans with that sweet little house, and we shook hands in ink..
The energy of it filled my heart and lungs, like a love balloon.
I am sorry little house.
I took away all of your insides and they were held and passed by dirty greedy fingers picking up and dropping, breaking, departing.
“Yes,” a dollar would be fine. I cringed, my head low.
I noticed my vintage wedding gown hanging from a flagpole flying like a red flag, draping the sky, a homemade tag flapping in the harsh April breeze.
I decided to photograph it.
It burns, the smoke of that home, the trails of dark choking chalk dust lies, the flame I followed to freedom.
It took years of wanderings, smoke signals spotted and lost, just like my dreams, grief pounding my heart like bread dough.
And so, I went to an advertising school, for photography, actually.
I became alive just like I did when I smelt Raulph Lauren paint, the way I felt in my perfect vintage green chair,
my favorite shade of green.
I had spotted the vintage dress with the tag in the April breeze, hadn’t I?
Perhaps I could capture something else.
Something even bigger than the promises I broke to my favorite house.
The one that left big dark holes in my heart where my soul once danced.
And so, Lola, on my bed today, said she wished for all her heart for one thing.
She closed her perfect eyes, her little breath tickled in and out on my cheek.
“What love?” I asked. “Is it from Toy’s R Us?” I sipped coffee, thinking of emails to send.
She shook her head no, her little hands gripping her stuffed bear.
“I wish with my whole whole heart for you to quit Photogwaphy Sckwool,”
her broken baby words finished quickly behind.
“So that mommy always has time for Lola,” and my heart stopped.
…The little house came flooding back, the one I spent all my time with Lola,
the one I had rocked and rocked her, in the perfect green chair, my favorite shade of green.

Oh, and Phoenix, thank you. You know I had to include this, the perfect song…..

Douchebag Determinator

I am pretty ignorant about Superhero inventors, but I would bet on this amazing slice of Johnny’s Pizza I’m eating right now that men invented the majority of them. How could they know the ultimate sexy fighting warrior in spandex did not fight crime with her wrists and big tits? It is pretty clear Wonder Woman can’t get shit done because all her superhuman powers are being used to fight off the Douche Bags, that’s right.

Maybe a gay Superhero, Mr. Awesome could show up as her sidekick, but they tend to get sidetracked with shiny materials, a shame, gay Superheros are so a century overdue.
Spiders, Jokers, Gigantic Green Men called Hulks, so what.

I would rather be caged with an Avatar not on my side smoking a crack pipe in a teeny wrestling ring then be spotted by the common Douche.

Even my poor mom, a NANA, got cornered by Grandpa Douche, telling her at the bus stop he can pick up 40 year old women. Get real people, we need more than blue elastic skin, lightning eyes, and pointy tits to fight off the common Douche. You could put a paper bag on Wonder Woman’s head, wrap her in a Snuggie, and the Douche will still find a way, so back to the drawing board Superhero writers, Douche Baggies need Wayyy more than a belt and a push up bra to be kept at bay. This is not my first rodeo and I have had some fine tuning in Douche determining and eliminating school, and I still find myself throwing my hands up in the air, DOUCHED again, this weekend a perfect crime fighting fail.
I had a lovely night on Friday with Harpua, discussing with a bad ass chick on his balcony her infuriating encounter with the pool Douche, a man who was NO LIE, on the DR. PHIL Show about DOUCHE BAGS, a guy who went to an Ivy league school, who can’t find anyone smart enough to hang out by the pool with, a statement he yells over at her, which by the way, he also mentions he has his own modeling agency, of course.

I laughed till my sides hurt at little Miss Cowgirl from Auburn describe these models with track marks down their arms, her disgust over his constant harassment finally coming to confrontation. She said she lifted her self right off the pool chair, her top forgotten not on, to wave her pretty little finger in the air, her Southern drawl in full effect.

“Hey honey, you really don’t think girls from Auburn can be smart, do you?”

She took a long sip of her beer for dramatic effect. He called her sweetie, said that Auburn was fine for people who loved football, that he had a Marketing degree and this is my favorite part. I made her tell me three times.

“Sweetheart, I am a Nuclear Fuckin’ Chemist,” she says with fire, flipping her long brown hair, her lip gloss shining as bright as her infuriated eyes, and she is, in fact, a brilliant scientist with brains and nice breasts.

She loves getting in the elevator with him, her husband giving her a look, which she doesn’t care, glancing over at him, her eyes saying, “Your penis is absolutely teeny.” Instead she says rolls her eyes asking him, “How is the pool?”
We need more of her, and I don’t have nuclear chemist brains, but I do have big boobs, so I have to fight with what God gave me, which is sadly, a lot of experience. I met up with Mr. Confident after he sent me a message on face book that said, “You are way too beautiful to be single.”

Now, I know this is total grounds for Doucheness but I remember him to be sweet and completely harmless in high school, now writing me about my blog, the impact of losing a loved one, and so, my heart strings rattled for of course, just one drink.

Little did I know the man was twice the size of my bedroom door, and had just came off the set of the 80′s sitcom, no lie, Joey Lawrence, down to the chin drop and signature, WHOAH, breathing God’s fresh air with his mouth dropped open while his eyes lost in space. At least, I thought, until I saw it was the GA game behind me.

Honestly, he reminds me of Joey from “Friends” now that I think of it, his Doucheness was especially skillful, so I was on red alert, aware his mental handicaps could appear adorable if not watched carefully, and he had in fact a real head injury, so I needed some Super Woman help here. She must have been at Auburn, cause she sure as hell didn’t show up at Taco Mac.

He began by asking me if I knew across the street from his house there was this place that was a bar that had a lot of, wait for it, good wine. He said it again, much slower.
I pointed out to him we were at a bar with wine right then, my head cocked in my own, “Really?” a signature head cock of the Super Woman Douche Bag Destroyer.

He hit his leg, laughed, showing dimples as enormous as his pecs. He then told me this unbelievable story. His last relationship had been going great, an Australian woman he picked up in a t-shirt shop, and said that they had gone out and had some fantastic sex.

He said I wasn’t going to believe this next part.

He got drunk, sent a text to come over for a hundred dollars, and she actually ripped him a new one, said he had treated her like a prostitute! He took a sip of his beer, shaking his head, signaling the “Crazy Woman” head shake.

Bat Mobile Back UP.

Say what? I then asked the two lovely women at the bar next to me to hear a story about my friend, one who had taken a girl out, had sex with her, who then preceded to text her later to come over for a hundred bucks. Then, that same man told the story to a woman on their first date.

Oh, Super Douche Bag Fighters, it was a win, a hilarious win, and he got an earful, a glorious earful, not to mention the Braves were on, not the Georgia game.
I gave him the short list on our way out, which he laughed, saying this is why everyone tells him he is single.

His “STORIES” about receiving and sending texts while receiving a blow job, one about being broken up with after on a “break,” he sent a text saying how hot this chick looked that morning. His girlfriend replied saying, “You didn’t see me this morning.”
He is a HUGE fan of my blog, but has never heard of Rob Dyrdek, but my favorite was him asking me, “What did you think when you saw me, sitting over here, on the bar?”

I told him he looked like a man sitting on the bar.

He asked me what I was looking for in a man, and I was almost about to answer, but he either got excited or had a nervous tick, waving at the hostess, calling her over to tell her she was doing a great job.

“Confidence,” I was saying, as he turned to me, his eyes on the big screen.
“I don’t have that,” he said, his hands cutting across his throat to signal no way, not at all.
I am still not sure if he was being serious.
It was kind of funny and authentic, a word I love so much I said enough for him to comment, something I have been told before, a quirk of mine, being I do love the dang word.
“You love saying, what is it, Authentic?” He must have asked six times.
It was then when he was driving me back to my car, the beers in my system, that my fine tuned skills appeared from either experience, DNA, or just being a smart ass.

“You are hot, baby,” pointing to the curve of my neck with his finger.
“Really?” I said it sweetly, pulling my shirt off the side of my neck with one finger, letting one bra strap fall down, and then the next, “I will give you three chances to see this if you can answer one question,” I said leaning in, his face locked. He suddenly got serious.
“What is my favorite word?“
He beat his head against the steering wheel, thought of Awesome, Intuitive, and Awesome, again.

“Authentic.” My straps felt tight back around my shoulders, and in spite of it all, I laughed at his reaction, telling me it had to have been the brain injury from his coma.
Maybe I am not a chemist, but I think I did okay.

I used my breasts and big words, the only material they clearly gave Super Woman, and she wasn’t even around to save me.

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“Booty Calls and Chips, Who Knows the Difference?”

When it comes to work, I have something to be grateful for.
I believe Chips N Salsa are responsible for a booty call.
He said he wanted them from the restaurant I work, heated in his microwave, and so I brought them, pretty sure he was ordering me into his house for a night out, or at least my ego would like to believe that, for God’s sake.
It was a random malfunction of untimely events that the two most spontaneous people by nature would collide, Harpua being the only other person I know who doesn’t know what he is doing from one hour to the next. I am notorious for this so it makes me laugh to ask, “What you doing tonight?” to be returned with the obvious text being, “I have no idea.” I laugh because that is what I am supposed to say, and do, so our attempts to meet up never happen, until last night.
At once, the ingredients of getting off work, the girls not having school linked Harpua’s unplanned chain of events to me, an episode of “COPS” just waiting to happen.
Here are some of the highlights.
Harpua orders Oatmeal Cookie shots, ignoring the fact I say, “ABSOLUTELY no JAGER,” signaling back to me that a “teeny” bit of jager doesn’t count.
His local bar, and by local, I mean we walk to it as if it were a trip to the basement from your living room couch. Ridiculous.
No one should be that close to liquor, or a jukebox, at any given moment.
It gets him banned for playing too much Phish, which I love him for that, and me screaming Alanis Morrisette at the top of my lungs with a random older black dude. That guy was awesome.
We bonded at the jukebox, him stumped still over that one song where she starts off slow and has lyrics that have to do with her headed up stairs, just to jolt into shouting rage. What is the name of that damn song?
We never did find it, but I would love to know who invented the jukebox, a genius move, so on top of chips, I am thankful for jukeboxes.
The elevator taking him back to his apartment was suddenly stopped by a ridiculously drunk dude. It is rather precarious to be in a stunning Buckhead tower, elevator adorned with mirrors and touches of gold, unbelievable views, and front desk security to be interrupted by a stranger stopping the door on his floor with his hand in dramatic flair, yelling, “SNORTING OXYCONTIN IS THE WAY TO GO!”
Of course, a friend of Harpua.
So, we were informed of a mission, to find the DVD, “The Last Waltz” because the INXS party had to be stopped.
The INXS party, hosted by a woman with three inch cowgirl boots and no pants with a thong, was happier to see me than any family member I have ever known, yelling and hugging me, her first words to me were, “I am going to be a fat bride.”
The adorable man that reminded me of a Koala bear kept telling her to put some fucking pants on, who I soon pieced together was her fiance, the two of them were in a week getting married in Vegas.
He was apologizing for the mess, cigarette in hand, upset that it was going to smell like cigarettes the next day, in attempt to clean, dumping a whole box of Chinese food all over the floor.
I laughed, noticing one guy on the phone in intense conversation on the couch, with his eyes closed.
Harpua was being humped by Cowgirl, a fact that was cool with Koala bear, except that she had no fucking pants on, he said over and over, asking for advice as to how he was going to marry a chick who wouldn’t wear pants.
This just made her slap her own ass, fall over, and pass out, face first, next to me on the couch. Koala, the fiance, pulled her shirt down a half inch, patted her back, motioning the control towards the t.v., people shouting at “Chatty Kathy” to stop talking, his eyes still shut.
No one hesitated. Let “The Last Waltz” begin.
It WAS awesome. The wasted commentary made my sides hurt from laughter, the music was incredible, the singing along horrific, the night ending by me begging Harpua not to let anyone stop our elevator door.
I had a blast, not being the Circus for once, but coming to visit it, Harpua in town. We had breakfast with fluffy french toast and bananas surrounded by cages of exotic birds, all saying hello and goodbye.
It was then I found out that Cowgirl was a playboy centerfold, but even more entertaining, a rocket scientist, some kind of brilliant engineer of chemical formulas she works to find solutions for lubrication, or something like that. The Koala fiance, a lawyer.
Who knew?
I told Harpua not to text or call me, EVER, which is what I always tell him, who laughs in response, a total agreement.
Of course it doesn’t make sense.
It is just our way, two childhood friends colliding, mysterious chemistry drowned by bold statements made to each other, both our fingers pointing to lines clearly made in the sand. I was certainly not the woman for him, unable to produce six kids and undo my divorce and two offspring, which I agree as well, pointing out I could not live like a circus monkey, his life ridiculously absurd and beautiful, but just for a visit, not for a stay.
But there is a spark that somehow keeps it rolling, a text floating here or there, landing, a chemistry I can’t see, but feel, an illusion, but not. “If I’m inside your head, don’t believe what you might have read,” I hear him singing on his balcony, in his tower in the night sky, his glass of wine next to his bare feet.
It is good advice, in perfect tune, and so I try not to read his mind, but instead close my eyes. He is inside my head, and I may be just a memory fading away, a disappearance on a long list of short lived acts, but I hope I am wrong. I want to believe the reality I will always visit his tower, waste my time, and when he sings, I will always dance to his songs.

Mad Match Madness Skills

With a little research from Clyde, I was sent a Match profile of a girl with a superhero scifi name for Divorcee.
I copied this straight from her profile: “I am a huge nerd who can recite all the dialogue from the original Star Wars trilogy (but not the prequels because they suck.)”
I learned her favorite spot was the movies, she is a fan of diet coke, is an introvert, works for a television Research manager, a brunette, and she only lives a few miles away.
I think Divorcee’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
She had him at True Blood, almost had him pass out over Harry Potter, and he is ready to make sweet love to her when he noticed she watches movies over continually. On top of this, she is agnostic, reads, walks, and loves to stay home. She seems cute from her photos, proud to be goofy, authentic, and her mentioning the Lord of the Rings and popcorn seemed to override his only concern, being that she listed herself as curvy, something I can’t understand being an issue, seeing that he considers himself to be a boob and ass man.
Wait. Aren’t all men boob and ass men?
And so, he just wants to hang out with her, enough to deadline me to write his profile, and so we have it cyberspace strangers, the beginning of my future as an Online Profile Dating Professional.
Maybe I should get a t-shirt made to make it official.
I need to take his photo, which I will tell you right now is going to be annoying, seeing as he never listens to my direction, can not take it seriously, meaning I am going to have to follow him around until I catch him not in the Superman pose, or using gang symbols to torture my ass.
We have a date with destiny, to write, photograph, and post his profile so he can contact her, I guess with a little Spock foreplay hopefully, seeing as a vampire discussion might send him over the edge.
I suppose I am going to need to join the site as well, seeing as this is how I plan to make some cash to buy that Canon 5D Mark II I have been lusting over, the one that will film in HD, and lead Rob to me like a moth to the flame.
What should my profile name be?
Clyde suggests Miracle Magnet, which he would, because he is Mr. Awesome, and I thought about what I might say that is totally honest, and sincere, and of course legal. Clyde says its like I am asking questions, giving them a resume, in which they pay for, and how that resume lands him a woman is not my problem. I must put on my best journalist persona, selling the idea, showing I mean business, for all the men out there with no game.
I wonder what my profile catch phrase should be. Maybe something like, “Unless you are Rob Dyrdek, I am not on this site to date.” That paradox may prompt curiosity. Maybe I could link my blog so my professional ideas will be taken seriously, seeing as Paypal always sends the wrong kind of message, you know?
Harpua is going to be a problem as well because he doesn’t get past the very first glance of cleavage, especially on a red head, and he did admit to going on two dates, seeing the two girls, and leaving them without even a hello, his tires screeching his exit. How horrific is that? Clyde says that is acceptable if the women have misrepresented themselves in the photographs, which is such a man comment to make anyway, considering the chick could have been really cool or a nice time.
Man Cubs and their ways are a mystery, aren’t they?
Harpua’s profile was so terrible I can’t believe a woman even went to meet him, probably a good idea to have bolted out of the parking lot. I’m also a little concerned that it only takes cleavage and red hair and the man has a decision having not read a word she said on her profile. I knocked one out 100%, a total fail waiting to happen by what she had written, while he scrolled the pictures, nodding yes, that this one was hot.
He profile were on the lines of that he went out way too often, never met any women he liked, didn’t play enough golf, went to the pool on Saturdays, and burns easily.
Oh, and that is is an Entrepreneur, and yet, told me he didn’t want to attract women who cared about only money.
Dynomite Girl is well worth it, and if she sent out a line out of Goonies, memorized, at exactly the right moment, Dragoncon better watch it.
Divorcee just might have a date lined up.