DC Damsel

I can do it in my pjs
I can do it when I’m sick
I can do it when boys are assholes
Or when my boss is being a dick

I can do it when it’s sunny
I can do it when it rains
I can do it when I feel great
or suffering menstrual pains

I can do it on a Friday
When my paycheck is in hand
Or do it when I’m very poor
With credit on demand

I can do it on a weekday
or on the sabbath Sunday
I can do it on my day off
Or just in case of Monday

I can do it after a cocktail
A vodka tonic or some gin
I can do it before happy hour
Or after midnight sin

I can do it when I’m lonesome
Or the most popular girl in town
I can do it when I’m on top of the world
Or when I’m feeling down

I can do it during a crisis
of security, foreign, or state
I can do it while working in a newsroom
or when I feel sedate

I can do it when I feel fat
I can do it when I feel slim
I can do it on my lazy ass
Or after I visit the gym

I can do it when I’m post-coital
Or haven’t gotten laid
I can do it when all I want is sex
Or after orgasms fade

I can do it when I’m forelorn
Or when I’m missing you
When the only cure for heartache
Is the perfect Italian shoe.

There aren’t many men I’d get up at 3AM for.

Still a bit taken aback at how polite the doorman was at 16th and K.

I was his last task before locking up for the night.

You were one of the great vanishing acts of my time.

But I always understood.

Really glad you reappeared.

In room 309.

And I’m really glad I could assist.

In your welcome to Washington.

I have a confession to make.

I hate being a flack.

I hate promoting other people’s work.

And doing none of my own.

It’s a secondary citizenship in a newsroom.

Pimping for press.

It’s tying the bandanna to the the microphone, but never getting to sing the song.

It’s raking the sand, without getting to swing the bat.

It’s climbing the tree but never getting the coconut.

I’m the prop master, waiting in the wings for the diva.

I’m the caddy.

The sidecar.

The Barney to his Fred.

The Ethel to her Lucy.

The amuse bouche.

I’m the caretaker.

The keeper.

The wet nurse.

The bench warmer.

The stand-in.

The harmony, but never the melody.

Welcome at the party, but never backstage.

New Jersey instead of New York.

Atlantic City but never Vegas.

The negotiator.

The pockets to their pants.

The jockey.

I’m Alfred Pennyworth.

I’m Vanna Fucking White.

Flipping the letters, but never getting to spin that damn wheel.

I’m Ed McMahan.

John H. Watson.

Tattoo and Tonto.

I can get to the island, but never get the fantasy.

Fight the bandits, but never ride the steed.

The sherpa.

The rodeo clown.

The agent provocateur.

And the reality is.

I get to flirt.

But never fuck.

And honestly.

I really want to fuck.

“Im not a miracle worker. I’m a janitor.” - Michael Clayton

My best friend is in love.

All my life, my closest friends have been men. And for most of that time, I’ve had to contend with the “other woman” in one way or another. And in every situation where that best friend falls in love, I’ve been forced to retreat to the “friendship-of-a-lesser-degree.” I’ve gotten better at it with time. I don’t get as jealous now, not nearly as much as I used to. And eventually the situation normalizes to a state where I either get to spend time with the friend when said ”Number One Girl” is out of town, is busy shopping, or I get to enjoy that somewhat pathetic phenomenon known as “couple companionship.” Whatever the circumstance, you reach the point, when you have to face the fact that your relationship will never be the same. It’s the day I always fear, and the day where I’m always reminded how the world really works.

Maybe it’s why my Mom always encourages me to befriend more women. She’s been telling me since I was 12, to find more girlfriends. And I’ve been telling her, since I was 12, that boys are just more fun.  

“Surely Mother, I am sophisticated enough to keep my emotions in-check, draw lines in the sand, adhere to plutonic ground rules…it’s not 1955 anymore Mom, men and women can “just be friends.”

Funny how Mom really is, always right.

Funny, how I’m still too damn stuburn to listen to her advice.

So, each time, I go through the typical territorial dance. And as passive aggressive as it sounds, I usually find some way to assert that “I was here first.” I find a way to subtly let her know I entered his narrative sooner than she did.

So nah na nah na boo boo to you too.

But this time, it’s different. It’s a bigger deal.  And it’s not jealousy I feel or envy. It’s hard to explain, it’s both a loss and a gain. It’s the quintessential definition of “bittersweet.” 

This is the friend who has seen me through one of the most difficult points in my life. He appeared within a month of my move to Washington, has carried me through bad jobs, bad boyfriends, a lay-off, a divorce, a massive several-month-long depression. He’s the one person who held me when I didn’t want anyone else in the world to even touch me.

We had established, at one point, something I liked to call “Adventure Sundays.” It was an attempt to teach me about my new city and all it had to offer. I loved “Adventure Sundays” and I had the best tour guide in the business.

And then, one day, after several failed attempts at online dating – he struck Internet gold, and met his girlfriend, and fell in love….the real kind, not the virtual.

It took him a decent amount of time to introduce her to me and it was in a group setting at that. And as much as I hated admitting it, I liked her right away. She was cute, funny, not easily offended, and most importantly, she laughed at all my jokes.

So, I’m not the first one he calls anymore when something significant happens in his day. I’m not the one who gets asked to family functions anymore. And I’m not the one whose hand he holds when watching fireworks from a Dupont rooftop on the 4th of July.

So now, I’m quickly collecting our mutual memories and trying my best to burn them into my mind. Trips we’ve taken, laughter we’ve shared, epic battles we’ve fought, nights of dancing to the satellite radio, and eating take-out, and getting drunk, and getting sober, and a New Year’s kiss we shared at the Kennedy Center, the cliff we scaled on the Billy Goat Trail, with me screaming at him all the while for not warning me about the death-defying feat I was having to face, all the Scrabble games (he never won), and the hugs that brought me back to life, and all the tears I shed onto his purple button-down-shirt everytime a boy broke my heart or I missed home like mad.

I remember all these things and it always makes me sad to know they’re forever in a past I won’t get back, wishing I had treasured them more at the time.

Then I see him smile at her.

And I realize, “Adventure Sundays,” were custom made for the two of them.

Along came Mary.

And he was never the same.

And I was glad.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sYJhhKSXOBo

“Oh bring me the love that can sweeten a sword A boat that can love the rocks or the shore The love of the iceberg reaching out for a wreck Can you love me like the crosses love the nape of the neck? ” -Josh Ritter

On my way back from moving car off Connecticut Avenue this morning, I saw two of the loviest things.

First, four deer bounding down Tilden Avenue. I literally stopped my car in the middle of the street to watch and didn’t come back to earth until I was honked out of my gaze and they scampered out of sight.

Second, approaching my apartment building, two people, the woman about to get into a cab on her way to the airport. Obviously, lovers, because the way he kissed her goodbye, even made me sad to see her depart.

Good Morning.

I’ll take heartache over pity, any day of the week.

Nothing a bit of booze and Van Morrison records can’t cure right?

Or numb, for the time being at least.

If you need me to disappear, I surely will oblige.

But I had been hoping to at least hang on in the back of your mind for a bit.

Hoping to move up in the pecking order at some point I suppose.

But if I need to develop an exit strategy, please let me know.

And I’ll send up the flares.

With sorry hands.

“And I’ll be praying to my higher self. Don’t let me down. Keep my feet on the ground.” -Van Morrison

I’m standing at the soda machine in the basement laundry room.

And the cutest boy in the world walks in.

And I’m in my “Eat Bertha’s Mussels” t-shirt with bed-head. So I don’t say hi.

Well played Kate.

You’re a serious inspiration to all the single ladies out there.

To beauty and her bouquet

The volumes it speaks

Like a sharp slap across the face.

Wake up

You stupid fucking girl

He’s not yours for the taking.

There’s no point in fighting

Or waiting

The blown up tribute

Staring at me

Dead center

Pick your battles Kate

Practice some pragmatism

Diplomacy at the very least

Reason your way out of this

And retreat

With at least a stray piece of pride still attached

Oh the wars I would fight

To touch your cheek

The armistice I’d disavow

To kiss you into tomorrow

My trigger finger is itchy

And the gallows

Await my arrival

“There’s a time the heart admits defeat, and starts its grieving.” 

I decided today. That I need a crush.

You know the kind? A nice distraction to the “matter at hand.”

An attraction. Someone who makes me bite my lip. Hard.

Someone I can take or leave. When the mood strikes.

No guilt. No positioning. No fucking games.

A passive power. I can call on when my ego needs a boost.

Someone to fetch me a glass of water. After a sweaty session

Of fumbling for zippers.

“Who takes you down and pleases you just like a lover?” – Ryan Shaw