DC Damsel

It’s been exactly a year since we met.

It was the weekend of my best friend’s birthday

We were introduced to each other under professional conditions.

And for some reason I recognized your name

And decided to look you up.

An impressive, yet checkered recent past.

I couldn’t help but be intrigued.

And those god damn squinty eyes staring back at me.

I still remember talking to you on the phone for the first time.

It was a Wednesday and it was raining and I was in my Passat.

Driving down Connecticut Avenue.

I’ll just ring him and be clever and see what he says, I thought.

Your voice sounded like velvet.

And I knew, from that point on, your chuckle would linger with me.

I spent a weekend at the beach with 6 other friends.

3 couples and me.

And one of the girls commented, to my chagrin, how “brave” she thought I was.

To come alone.

And I silently cursed her.

And we texted each other non-stop.

The modern equivalent to a salacious love note.

Slipped under the door of a suitor in the early dawn of the day.

And I showed them your picture.

And I pained over the dress I would wear when we first met.

And the shoes.

And what I would say.

Until you landed at my door on that Sunday evening.

Fresh and young and the way you smelled…

In your cowboy boots and long-sleeved button-down shirt.

Sweating slightly.

And confident.

Blue jeans and a well-maintained silver Mustang.

And I ordered my Goose.

And you order gnocchi.

And you fed me chocolate gelato.

And somehow I suspected you had paved this path before.

We kissed.

And rubbed against each other like teenagers.

Through our clothes.

We dragged beach chairs to the roof of my apartment building.

Drinks in hand.

Cigar smoke.

Clouding our conversation.

Of politics and age and meaning and divorce.

I went to work the next day.

Exhausted and content.

I didn’t give a shit about your politics or your religion.

I still don’t.

Three more dates.

Until you told me you had to go back to her.

And prop her up.

Fix her.

And make her whole again.

You told me you were sorry.

And I cried over my running shoes.

On a different Monday altogether

And later you brought me chocolate.

And Cary Grant.

And to this day, I have no idea if what you told me was full of an ounce of truth.

I may never know.

And it took me forever to realize.

I was but a blip on your radar screen.

A pause in your progression.

A temporary deviation from your life plan.

She was the one who fit the open congruence.

In your puzzle

And I was the one you dabbled with.

Momentarily.

For fun.

Or fuck’s sake.

And I’ll never really know.

If anything I said.

Registered with you.

Or if I simply served.

As boredom’s cure.

I suppose, at this point.

It doesn’t really matter.

I’m three years and hundreds of dates into this grand experiment.

Many men.

Have slipped through the mental cracks.

Yet you have somehow endured this last year.

Like a bad habit.

Pinched between my two fingers.

A chilled chagrin.

With a tortured twist.

I can’t imagine what I would do to you.

If you were here right now.

Would I be smug and send you packing?

Beg for your bluff?

Or go all in.

With nothing to lose?

But a pocket pair of hearts.

And the will to let it ride.

Every once in a while I do something that surprises even me. Something not particularly bright or well-thought out, acting purely on impulse and an impulse I don’t really trust as leading to smart decisions.

But life is short.

And I’m a heavy smoker.

So when a random reader of this blog extended a rather ballsy invitation to buy me a drink, I hemmed and hawed for a good 24 hours, and shot him a snide email inferring he could very well be a serial killer searching for not-so-innocent prey on dating blogs.

Then I did what every 21st century girl does now a days when asked out on a blind date, I Facebooked him.

Very cute.

Very young.

Very “in a relationship.”

“Just one drink K***, that’s all I ask. Just a night to prove to you that not all men in this city are assholes.”

And with considerable trepidation, I accepted.

I chose a place next door to my office and sat at the bar, feigning my interest in the op-ed section of the NYT, with a shit glass of pinot grigio in my hand, waiting for him to arrive.

When a good-looking young man sat down next to me, I turned, acknowledged his presence, realized instantly it was him, and went back to my paper.

It was a dead giveaway when my Blackberry began to buzz after he had typed something into his own phone.

“K***?”

“B****?”

I laughed nervously.

“Nice to meet you.”

He was simply, too handsome.

And despite a plethora of strategically placed tattoos, he had a baby face that made it hard not to acknowledge his young age.

We spoke a little about our jobs.

And talked about my blog and my experiences dating here in DC.

We talked about where we were from.

And his six-week-long relationship.

And how to properly cook a bratwurst.

I silently lamented how little effort I had put into how I looked that day.

Damn chubby arms sticking out of this half cardigan.

And why in the hell had I missed my salon appointment a day earlier?

He offered to buy me dinner.

I politely declined and ate the pickles and a few french fries off his plate.

I learned that he was in the Navy and worked 12 hour night-shifts in a hospital.

I heard that he grew up around tattoo parlors and he explained each piece of body art, one by one, leaving the masterpiece on his upper inner thigh to my imagination.

He paid the bill.

And I made the obligatory protest.

But was so secretly thankful that this young man, who most likely pulled in half my salary, understood the lost art of chivalry.

Perhaps he recognized a case of romantic roadkill when he saw it.

So I apologized for my expensive taste in vodka.

And we moved on.

“Farragut North?”

“Yup, me too.”

I don’t remember much of the 3 block walk.

But it will be hard to forget what happened next.

“Looks like we take trains in the opposite direction.”

I said, on my tiptoes, my face not even half an inch from his.

I was close enough to smell him.

And I took a deep breath.

“You really want me to kiss you, don’t you K***?”

I really did.

He told me he had promised himself that he would either go home with me that night or nothing at all would happen.

There would be no kissing on the metro platform.

I smiled.

Because it was the first moment that evening that reminded me of my age, and his age, and our places in life, and the fact that despite every effort by him not to seem the typical guy, deep down inside, men, with enough beer and testosterone flowing in their veins, want what they want.

“Sorry sport, that’s not going to happen.”

God knows it wasn’t because I didn’t want to take him home and ride him like the painted pony he was.

I was simply trying to turn over a semi-new leaf and make decisions in life that I didn’t regret the next day when the intrigue of night and Grey Goose wore off.

So he grabbed my hair, gently (convincing me he really had read my blog thoroughly) and kissed me.

He didn’t give a shit that there were at least 20 other people waiting for the train that were watching us.

So I stood on my toes again and turned his face to the side, and slid my tongue lightly against the side of his neck.

And saw the red lights on his side of the platform start to flash.

His train was coming and we had just begun.

“That’s your train sport.”

“Come home with me.”

“No no, I have to get up early for a meeting tomorrow.”

I pushed him slightly.

“Time for you to go home cutie.”

And he kissed me again.

And the train closed it’s doors as we tasted each other.

“Take me home with you.”

But I knew, as much as I wanted to, I wouldn’t.

And then I remembered what it was like to be 23, and have nothing in the world to lose more significant, than modest virtue and a good night’s sleep.

We continued to kiss.

And I continued to curse my adult decision.

Both our trains approached.

“Thanks again for the drinks.”

“You’re very welcome K***. You sure you don’t want me to accompany you home?”

“I’m sure,” I lied.

And that was it.

I got a text a bit later that evening from him.

“Good night K***.”

“Good night B****.”

He was out having another drink at another bar.

It was his night off.

And he had moved on.

And I settled in with my covers and TV remote and Blackberry and worried I was about to encounter yet another night of insomnia.

It had been at least three weeks since I had slept for a full five or six hours in a row.

But I fell asleep that night

And to my pleasant surprise, I slept through my alarm that morning.

I walked into my office that morning and reported to the girls.

“How did it go?!”

“It was really nice actually.”

“He was very cute.”

“And very sweet.”

“And he paid for my drinks.”

“And he’s a really, really good kisser.”

They asked if I was glad I went.

And I knew I was.

And the fact that he was nine years my junior rang true in my head.

But I had lately been so committed to finding my future.

I had almost forgotten what it was like to take the night off.

And let my cynicism fade away.

At least temporarily.

And relish in the unpredictable moments that life occasionally graces us with.

The platform puckers.

The pleasant portents.

And the painted ponies.

I was recently accused by a former flame of wanting to be saved by a man instead of finding my own happiness in life.

It was meant as a full-thronged assault on my fragile character.

And I thought for quite some time about his assertion.

My mom, the survivor of a broken and abusive first marriage drummed into my head early on, that self-sufficiency was the means to survival. That no man was the means to happiness.

And I took most of what she had to say to heart.

But I wholly admit, there have been times in my life when I’ve succumb to the Cinderella complex and hoped beyond hope, the next frog I kissed might just end up delivering me into a better pond.

I am but fortunate enough to be able to name just as many men throughout my time who have helped me live a better life as I could name the ones who made it more difficult to wake up in the morning.

For every shit there has been a salvager.

For every letch, there has been a lover

For every blunder, there has been a beauty.

For every pauper, there has been a prince.

For every army of assholes, there has been an infantry of friends.

Perhaps I get so wrapped up in the romantic failures, I forget to pay due diligence to the fortunes.

Give credit where credit is due.

And thank the boys who bolster my belief  each day, that a lifetime of love isn’t simply a pie in the sky fantasy, meant to be had only by the lovely and the lucky.

Some of them know who they are.

Some of them don’t.

Some of them are part of my daily existence.

And some of them, I no longer speak to.

But they all matter.

And they all play a role

In my ability to keep going.

And maybe I do want to be saved.

But is that really such a bad thing?

To want love to eventually pick up the pieces

And start over again?

If it makes me weak to want more

Then so be it.

If I’m less of a woman by wanting to be made whole by a man

Then I’ll swallow my sorry pride.

And surrendor to the salvation suitors.

Blame me if you must

For not wanting to do it all alone

For not wanting to weather the storm as a solitary soldier

For wanting to fall asleep at night

Wrapped naked in the arms of something better.

I’ll gladly unfurl the white flag.

If it means surrendering the loneliness.

And the apathy of each step I take into older age.

I’ll suffer fools gladly

If it means I can claim a second set of hands

As my own.

Maybe the naysayer is right.

Maybe rescuing is too much to ask

But I’ll be damned if I don’t spend every last gulp I have in this sorry suit

Digging my way to deliverance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KrZkaj37kA0)

I’ve been really emotional lately.

Call it hormones or stress

Or the thought of summer commencing without even a potential fling waiting in the wings.

Regardless, I knew better than to watch “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” today.

I had purposely avoided it when it came out in the theaters.

Or even after it was nominated for an academy award.

Or when it landed in my On Demand menu screen.

But after several nights of binge drinking and flirting with inappropriate men, I decided to give my liver and libido a rest and stay in on a Saturday night.

So the easily predictable happened.

I watched the movie, curled in my covers, the occasional cigarette break, and genuine heartfelt sigh.

A few lamentations later about never looking like Cate Blanchett even if I lose 30 pounds and grow my hair long, and dye it red, and vertically sprout six inches, and high cheekbones, and become an A-list movie star and I’m off into what I like to refer to as the sappy cinema syndrome.

Truthfully…

I laugh when I’m supposed to laugh.

Cry when I’m supposed to cry.

Hide my eyes during the scary parts.

Gag during the gory.

Clap when Will Smith kills aliens.

Cheer when Mel Gibson slays Brits.

I even silence my cell phone.

And throw away my jumbo popcorn feedbag when the credits begin to roll.

My mother and I were the last ones in the theater when “Beaches” first came out, causing an usher to walk down the aisle to our blubbering selves and asked if we “needed assistance?”

I belly laughed so loud during “Forty Year Old Virgin: I was almost escorted from the theater.

I emailed all friends about poker on Saturday night after catching “Rounders.”

Started inserting the phrase “forget about it” into all conversations after watching “Casino.”

Had ridiculously hot sex and threw some pottery after taking in “Ghost.”

Thought about installing a speed bag in my living room after watching Rocky kick Russian ass in his 4th installment.

And opened the bible for the second and last time in my life after muddling through “The Passion of the Christ.”

I’m what some may call a movie producer’s wet dream.

So logically, what can be expected after watching two and a half hours of Brad Pitt as a cute Grandpa, muttering lines like, “nothing ever lasts?”

“Our lives are defined by opportunities, even the ones you miss.”

“You never know what’s coming for you.”

Let’s be honest here and admit this movie is for girls just like me.

Strong during the daylight.

The kind that struts into the office, still wearing her sunglasses and her iPod cranking Eminem songs, feeling bad ass at a think tank in the District of Columbia at 9:30 in the morning.

And weepy at the end of the day.

Snuggling her stuffed lion because no man wants to spend the night.

Smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo.

And buying $500 shoes to compensate for loneliness and a lack of self fulfillment.

Maybe tomorrow I will bust my chubby ass on the treadmill, seriously regretting the thirteen and a half smokes I sucked into my semi-tender, grey lungs today.

I will stow away my copy of “When Harry Met Sally.”

And I will no longer harkon back to the perfect man that was Lloyd Dobler in “Say Anything.”

Cary Grant could shout expletives laced in poop and I’d still fantasize about being Katharine Hepburn’s “Tracy.”

Rest assured I’d end up in his arms wearing a smirk and a beautiful bonnet.

Nazis Schmatzis Mr. Bogart.

Here I am looking at you too Rick Blaine.

Deborah Kerr would have been so much more convincing if she would have taken a swan dive off the Empire State Building.

I want to channel Nicholas Cage when he screams, “I love you!”

Only to hear Cher (minus some Bob Mackey monstrosity) yell back, “snap out of it!”

I guess the problem Rhett, is that I really DO give a damn.

So I’m going to give up for the night…

And watch, “You, Me and Dupree.”

Anonymous blogs are an interesting beast, especially for someone like me who tends to write angry and under the influence a good portion of the time. Just like cleaning my apartment, blogging about dating in a city like DC is usually more palatable with a cocktail in hand. And anyone who frequents my ramblings knows I tend to be very frank about my indiscretions, the good and the bad. But occasionally someone stumbles upon my blog who knows me, or worse has been one of the said indiscretions, and they respond the way the coxswain did yesterday. Pissed off or hurt, armed with venom and a decent thesaurus. The “miasma of my self-loathing?” That’s a nicely turned phrase my friend and I do intend on slipping it into as many future conversations with my shrink as I possibly can. I’m sure he’ll be thoroughly impressed with my ability to engage in my own consciousness. All of the sudden your penchant for armchair psychology came rushing back. I really should have left a few bucks on your nightstand after all those “sessions” we had together. They definitely cleared my head.

Obviously when you write about the most personal of topics – sex, emotions, regret, depression, you open yourself up for a world of hurt if someone decides to spew hatred back at you in a comment. Your first inclination is to erase it. My reaction was to publish it, cry about it, lash out at someone I genuinely care about, comment back, and pass out. In the midst of my cyber encounter last evening, I read the comment to a friend of mine. He thought it was funny that the one thing that really bothered me wasn’t the plethora of insults about my emotional state, my admitted self medicating, or even the commentary on the redundancy of my writing – the thing that pissed me off the most was being referred to as “trailer park trash.” I’m about as white bread as you get but I’ve never made mayonnaise sandwiches out of it. My parents would be wholly dismayed to discover their sprawling ranch home in the burbs was mentally reduced to a mobile home.  Can we throw a ficticious meth lab in there just for fuck’s sake too?  Regardless, I’m sure Mammy and Pappy would rule their imaginary double-wide like no one’s business. Nothing wrong with rockin’ whatcha got.

So it took a night’s worth of sleep and a brisk walk this morning to clear my head. I never have been one to stomach criticism well, especially when it comes from a scorned lover. If you would have thrown a few fat jokes in there, it may have sent me over the edge completely, but hey, there’s always tomorrow. But perhaps the thing I won’t as easily let go of after I’ve forgotten this lovely slice of life moment in time, were the comments you made about my ex-husband. You can call me as many names as you like, but I’d be wary of commenting on my relationship with someone I cherish.  I loved him, he loved me, and when it stopped working we came to the consensus that it would be better to part as friends than as enemies. So your assertion that he escaped the clutches of my cruel psyche aren’t particulary accurate, but if it makes you feel better about yourself to misconstrue the truth, have at it. Funny though, I don’t recall seeing marks on your left ring finger where a wedding band once perched , but who am I to point out the obvious? How IS that search going sport?

So, consider this my official rebuttal and be sure to friend me back on Facebook. God knows I’m dying to linger over pictures of you in your rowboat and bemoan all that might have been. Love and kisses darling, we’ll always have the summer off of Interstate 66.

“Feel the tension, soon as someone mentions me. Here’s my ten cents, my two cents is free. A nuisance, who sent? You sent for me? Now this looks like a job for me. So everybody just follow me. Cause we need a little controversy. Cause it feels so empty without me.” -Eminem

1. The Dirty Old Drunk Who Resides on the 7th Floor – Out of the kindness of my Midwestern heart and for fear that the old coot was stroking out on the sidewalk, I stopped, scraped this man up off the lawn of the apartment building next door and practically carried him home on my back with the help of another woman. Little did I know the old drunk bastard would spend the next two weeks of my life knocking on my door, following me into the laundry room, and waiting for me at his door when I walked past his apartment. You’re married dude, you’ve got a wicked bad addiction and you’re like 80 years old. Please get a clue and let up so I can stop taking the stairs just to avoid you slurring weirdness into my face on a daily basis.

2. Mike Hanson from 7th Grade – If you didn’t want to take me to the dance, why did you ask? I spent that night watching you talk to every other girl in the gymnasium but me and had to lie to my Mom when she picked us up and tell her we had a good time, only to break down in tears the minute you exited our car. What did I do that made you ignore me the whole night? Do you regret it? My mother to this day still wants to kill you. Why Mike?

3. The Twitchy Guy from Match.Com with the Abnormal Marmot Obsession: Dude, for future reference, don’t open with the ferret thing, it’s creepy and as loving a pet as they might make, they’re smelly and oily and they bite and 3 hours of constant chatter espousing their merits broken up only by your bizarre adversity to telling me what you did for a living (he turned out to be a traffic cop) ranks up there with a night spent telling my bitch former mother-in-law how great her cooking is and how much I love Jesus.

4. The Hot Red Head Who Asked Me If I Wanted to Smell the Cheese While on a Date at the Phillips Gallery: God you’re so hot and so dumb and you got me so drunk at Russia House that before I knew it I was naked and alone and clutching a lone sock you had left behind in your haste to exit my apartment. Not one of my prouder moments to be sure. I can only hope the thought of your lost navy blue dress sock haunts your dreams at night.

5. The Bartender with a Well-Concealed Hard Drug Habit: Third date, I fell asleep next to him while watching a movie, he said he was going to grab a pizza, four hours later he returned, awoke me from my slumber and proceeded to provide me with one of the scariest nights of my life. Thankfully for you, I hit back, I run fast, have a forgiving heart, and you vanished into rehab somewhere in Florida never to return.

6. The Anti-Semite Reporter: God you’re so handsome and sooooo good at your job and so smooth, so naturally it’s still difficult to comprehend that within 20 minutes of our dinner conversation you confess your disdain for “Jews that rule DC.” Damn, what a waste of such a fine piece of ass.

7. Mr Five And Fly: You know who you are, you bald little fuck. Five minutes into a conversation on our first date and you tell me you don’t think we’re a match and then like the class act you are, you insist on going dutch? Why do I have a feeling even your best performance in the sack doesn’t last five minutes. Oh but I forgot, you volunteer at an orphanage! That makes it all ok then you pompous douche bag fuck.

8. The Coxswain: We met at a complicated time in my life for certain, but the day you excused me from your house when your user ex-girlfriend showed up at your door makes me quite sure, I completely regret letting you ever row your boat ashore.

9. The Best Friend: After all the time we spent together and all we shared, you questioned my genuineness? I would have been a friend to you for life. What a shame to let your girlfriend’s petty insecurities get in the way of true friendship.

10. Mr Georgetown Condo Guy: OMG, you actually had me come to your apartment on our first date and then proceeded to tell me the DVD player in the living room was broken and we’d have to watch the video I brought on your bedroom TV. Convenient, just not very clever. No man who sells medical supplies should ever make more money than I do. Your dog was your single redeeming feature and even he would have left with me if had the choice. Hang in there Pup!

I’ve always been a bit of a bull in a china shop when it comes to love

Had some fun with the boys in high school

Had even more fun with the boys in college

Got married much younger than I had ever expected

And divorced at 30

Then I moved to DC, newly single, scared out of my wits, dying to go hog-wild and never look back

I spent a good two-plus years on a kind of carnal bender

And then I surprised myself

And began to give a shit

About the kind of man I was attracted to

I suddenly had standards

(What a buzz kill that was)

He had to want to stay through the night

Not just through the orgasm

He had to buy the dinner

Before he got to nosh on dessert

He had to make me laugh

Before he made me moan

Etcetera

Etcetera

But

To my chagrin

I realized a good many of the men who could make me laugh

And moan

And care

And cum

Were already taken

I was shit out of luck

Some other girl had been quicker to the draw

Beaten me to the proverbial punch

And I had wasted my young and single years fucking fugazees

So I was left wanting things I couldn’t have

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife

Or his brother, father, husband, or cousin-once-removed for that matter

Look

But don’t touch

Admire

From afar

Doing the fornication fandango

In my head

Browsing the candy shop

But never getting to lick the really good lollies

Awaiting the first round of divorces

And dating down the priority pecking order

Sifting through the knuckle draggers

Hoping one of the good guys

Slips through the cracks

And finds his way to me

Preferably not on all fours

But beggars can’t be choosers

No matter how hard I try to distract myself from the thought

I can’t help but wonder, what you said to her on your wedding day

Did you cry?

Did she?

Did you eat roast beef sandwiches on your wedding bed?

And make love in the fancy chair?

And watch the World Series in your hotel robes?

Or was she delicate, and white, and everything your mother had ever hoped for, in a blushing bride?

With unwavering devotion and a blind eye?

The memories of me, that will be wiped away by babies and backyard barbeques

She probably won’t mind the spilled spaghetti on the new carpeting

Or your sweaty stains on the pillow cases

Or the sigh you let out

Every time she tries to talk to you

About something besides poker and baseball.

Perhaps when she tells you

She kissed another man

You’ll grab her

And shake her

And tell her you’re angry

Rather than silently falling asleep

And snoring away the night like it was any other on the calendar

And all those songs of true devotion

And family dinners

Will make so much more sense

With her at your side

She will never be one to test your limits

Or ask you for more

Or die to know

What lies beyond the edge of the obvious

I’m sure she’ll love the crystal bowls

That Aunt Marge buys in bulk

And the tips that your mother has for her in the kitchen

She’ll certainly never surprise you

With $500 boots

She bought in an attempt to make her look sexy

That prevent you from paying the cable bill

She’ll never silently grab the hands of your friend and quietly correct him

When he’s drunk in your kitchen and making a pass at her

Prada will never matter to her the way Pampers do

And she’ll always be contented to spend her summer vacation by the lake

Rather than the Amazon

She’ll make you a daddy

And mash the potatoes to your liking

Never a night spent in belligerent protest

When she doesn’t get her way.

And she’ll never insist on burying the fish in the backyard

Or taking one more lap around bunny park

Or send you out on a midnight run for Marlboros and Chubby Hubby

Will she dance with you to Jay and the Americans

Insisting the lights stay on

And the blinds stay open

So the passersby on the street

Can see every foolish turn

Will she beg you to call in sick

On a snowy day

That she thinks is better spent in her arms

Or ask you to stay late with her in the office

When she’s trying so desperately to make her mark

She always fills the ice trays

And clips the coupons

And never yells at you

For not knowing how to paddle in a raft

Or  beg you to listen to that Springsteen song

For the 3rd time in the car ride home

She’ll never correct the color of your undershirt

Or make you late for work

While trying on her 6th outfit of the morning

Or insist you spend a month’s pay

On surgery for her pet rabbit

She’ll never refer to you as her favorite bugaboo

Or knock you out of a poker game

Or make you sleep on the couch

After an evening of arguing politics

Or complain about your morning breath

Or the marks you leave on the wall when taking off your shoes when you get home from work

She’ll let you touch her stomach

When you’re naked in bed

And she’ll always take her rightful turn

As the designated driver.

“Now we went walking in the rain talking about the pain from the world we hid
Now there ain’t nobody nowhere nohow gonna ever understand me the way you did
Maybe you’ll be out there on that road somewhere
In some bus or train traveling along
In some motel room there’ll be a radio playing
And you’ll hear me sing this song
Well if you do you’ll know I’m thinking of you and all the miles in between
And I’m just calling one last time not to change your mind
But just to say I miss you baby, good luck goodbye, Bobby Jean”

-Bruce Springsteen

A friend asked me tonight how I was doing.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Just okay?”

“Yup,” I said.

“I’m waiting for something lovely to happen.”

“Gotcha,” he said.

I liked that he didn’t ask me for clarification

Or definition

Or explanation

Maybe he knows me well enough to understand what I mean.

That every word my chubby fingers tap into my Blackberry reads of want

And unattainable craving

And I wonder where I will find lovely next

In the sunset that is about to color my dingy windows

Or the song thumping out of my stereo on a random Tuesday evening

Or the witty banter I just exchanged with a handsome man

Or the slight sting I feel as I run my tongue across my lips

The remnants of a recent encounter

Or my fresh cherry red toes

Or the left over egg rolls in my fridge

Or the frozen vodka one story up

Or the smell of summer that insists on cutting through the stench of my cigarette

Or the Tiffany’s catalogue on my coffee table

That contains such lovelies

That I could simply save my pennies for

Or by cracking the spine

Of the dead classic resting and dog-eared on my pillow

Or the call I will share with my mom

At 10 PM Eastern on the dot

When I hear about her time working in the garden

And the giggles that fall out of her

That only I can draw

Or the recollections of a Sunday morning

In Memphis

When my whole world fit into the skirt of my yellow sundress

And the whiskers of my first catfish

When the smell of my father’s neck

Was the smell of safety

And an imperfect grace

But lately it seems

Lovely is so fucking loaded

With unreasonable expectations

For the average soul

Who has high hopes

And a standard situation.

I opted to buy a shitload of clothes this weekend instead of paying my rent on time.

I threw three diet soda cans in the trash today instead of getting up to walk the 30 feet to the recycling bin.

I forced three skinny girls to walk in succession this evening instead of yielding the sidewalk a few inches to their lithesome frames.

I wore my sunglasses on the metro rather than make obligatory eye contact with the geek to my right and the sweet old lady to my left.

I sent a random text message to my ex-husband on his wedding day just to fuck with his new wife all the while feigning genuine glad tidings.

I let my friend Charlie slide his hand up my thigh last night with no intention of letting him do anything more.

I’m listening to Jimi Hendrix sing All Along the Watchtower at max volume despite my neighbor’s early morning rise time.

Pretended to be busy on my Blackberry while I was getting a pedicure so I wouldn’t have to hold a conversation with the Asian girl working on my toes.

Told a friend they should come visit this weekend instead of attending his grandmother’s 85th birthday party simply because I wanted some attention. I’m sure she’ll see 86.

Stole one more clean breath from my lungs as I sucked down my 12th cigarette of the day.

Lied to my friend and told him I was working late so I wouldn’t have to listen to his lamentations about being jobless and broke.

Didn’t feel the need to give my liver the night off.

“Cause I’m a voodoo child. Lord knows I’m a voodoo child baby. I want to say one more last thing. I didn’t mean to take up all your sweet time. I’ll give it right back to ya one of these days.” -Jim Hendrix