Out Tonight

Let’s go out tonight; I have to go out tonight; You wanna play? Let’s run away. We won’t be back before it’s New Year’s Day. Take me out tonight, meow… So let’s find a bar; So dark we forget who we are; Where all the scars; From the nevers and maybes die. Let’s go out tonight; I have to go out tonight; You’re sweet, wanna hit the street? Wanna wail at the moon like a cat in heat? Just take me out tonight. Please take me out tonight. Don’t forsake me, out tonight. I’ll let you make me out tonight. Tonight, tonight, tonight.” Mimi (Rent)

 I have a serious itch… a bug crawling on the inside of my skin that’s tingling like a sleeping foot. M is back… yea it was such a surprise when I got the call. So of course I spill the beans to my homegirl in the office… Ms. N doesn’t think he’s cute though. It’s always like that…

He’s tres adorable! But of course I would think so… (hello did you read Freak?). Same great smile, nice personality, laughs at my corny-ness… YUM! Even better, he’s not interested in me in the least.  Yep, I’m not even the stage director in his X-rated fantasy.

Notice a trend? I’m the deaf/mute supporting actress in my own autobiographical movie. #fail#

But there was a glimmer of hope when I IM’d him last week.I thought maybe, for once, the jock would like the nerd and not just the head cheerleader. Of course that’s just delusions of grandeur. He did agree to play on my softball team should we ever need guys (which we always do). And I agreed to play on his soccer team should he ever need me (which I hope he does).

Truth? It’s not even M or IT or Random Man X… It’s about wanting to get out. It’s about having FB envy. It’s about experiencing a 1/4 life crisis before I’ve reached a quarter of my life! I feel like I’m breathing but not living; the days and nights of my life cleave in a way that even the pattern is mundane. The more outlandish and interesting that I try to be, the more banal my life becomes. At the naive age of 22, I feel like a middle-aged woman; with the gray hair to prove it (well before the ginger stage).

A dew drop on a leaf in the middle of the forest is more riveting the mere mention of my existence. This sedate state of being is fine for retirement, but in terms of a healthy, vivacious, attractive, youthful, young maiden: compares to receiving squirrel poo when asking for orange juice.

This kitty is too wild to be caged, so just take me out tonight and let me wail at the moon. Bank that I can be unforgettable.


Get it While You Can

“I said hold on to somebody when you get a little lonely, dear, Hey hey, hold on to that man’s heart, Yeah, get it, want it, hold it, need it, Get it, want it, need it, hold it, Get it while you can, yeah, Honey get it while you can, baby, yeah, Hey hey, get it while you can!” Janis Joplin

Sometimes I can be the biggest fool. My lack of sound judgment in certain matters is legendary, most noticeably when it comes to cupid’s arrow (note that I said Cupid and not Eros, most people get that wrong). That prickly dart is a slippery little sucker that attached to your skin like the piercing mouthparts of a mosquito. Desire is the bag full of candy on Halloween: one or two pieces has little effect, but the constant seal breaking, finger licking of melted gooey chocolate, and evidence hiding of the mounds of wrappers left in your wake; leaves you with nothing but a perpetual tummy ache and the consequence of expensive gym memberships.

Case in point, the ever-present Peanut ButterM&M with whom I communicate through IM everyday. Honestly, I’m a fool to even continue with this sham dalliance. It’s a waste of good quips and flux flirtation. He lives a 1114 miles away, he’s 7-8 years older, and he may or may not be married (clearly can’t know because he constantly tells me about dates). But that attention is addictive.

I’m the new shiny toy. The intellectual aphrodisiac in preparation for a live partner near you… I know all about buying flowers for the girl you’re seeing, the great ways to get over a broken heart/ failed relationship,  the right way to transition into the next taxi at the station. The maid of honor, but never the bride herself.

As much as I’d like to think that I have the mental perseverance for a fling or intrigue, the thought leaves me void. The chicanery demands required in that type of relationship is a happy hour without the quaff… pointless.

But why do I continue to do this?!? I’m like Julie Roberts (especially with the red hair) in Runaway Bride. Mirroring Maggie, I reinvent myself to become the ideal for the person I’m interested in. I drown in the delights of his nature as the water erodes the unique traits of my charm. *FAIL* (hand motion included).

I vow time and time again that I won’t do this. But do we remember Pete? The guitar teacher? The one to whom I spoke in a British accent for 2 months while I took lessons, until he thoroughly disappointed me (and yelled at me). I can’t even remember the countless throngs of male patrons to L’s house of removable masks. “Everybody wears the mask but how long will it last” The Fugees.

It’s great to have great accountability partners who call me on my idiosyncracies. I can’t say that I will stop, because clearly I haven’t yet. But call me out, tell me to stop, present the truth in a loving manner… I may continue down my path of destruction but eventually I’ll move on to another hobby. I want someone to say to me “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird” The Notebook.

P.S. I can completely understand how women can be the other “woman”… that attention is enslaving. No judgment… but let’s vow to try harder, ok?

Put Your Records On

“‘Twas more than I could take, pity for pity’s sake; Some nights kept me awake, I thought that I was stronger; When you gonna realise, that you don’t even have to try any longer? Do what you want to. Girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song; You go ahead, let your hair down; Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams, Just go ahead, let your hair down. You’re gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow.”- Corinne Bailey Rae

Some days you just wake up and want to be different. Well, I’ve been feeling like that a lot. Not that I’m dissatisfied with my life… in comparison to where I could be, I’m living the life of a superstar! But it’s more than just believing these statements to be true… you have to embody the persona. So I decided to dye my hair. I wanted something drastic, dramatic, dangerous. A color that mirrors my volatile temper and passionate nature: fire truck red! OOW!

Well initially it was supposed to be strawberry blonde, but fire truck red is what we got lol. I promise you the harrowing experience to get to the salon in Waldorf (a bloody 2 hours away from Arlington in traffic on highway 5, urgh!), then having to find a bank, worrying that this is a real salon that says it won’t take you after your appointment time (only to realize that this is a hood salon that will take you if you say you comin’), then sitting for an entire hour as 3 other people get their hair done (as you agonize over the fact that you’re dying your pure/ chemical free hair). to getting in the chair and having her say: “you real indecisive, which aint good, just don’t cry in the chair when I’m done”.  Yea so after Madame T put the color on my hair and I sat for 25 minutes as chemicals burned my scalp, all I kept thinking was that I’m going to be different when I leave the “salon”. Of course Chris Rock’s “Good Hair” is playing in the background as I contemplate the notion of my personal insecurities and constantly changing exterior.  At least I wasn’t the most extreme person in the salon. Let’s not mention the woman with 7 tattoos who had jet black hair and got front swoop blonde and black extensions in her hair as she explained that her next tattoo would be on her face. In comparison, I’m the lame uppity girl who I’m sure Madame T believed me to be.

I stare at Madame T’s unshorn mustache as she rinsed the color from my hair and lauds on the versatility of short hair, her passion for its simple tendrils, as my sopping wet shoulder length hair sways on my back. “As long as she doesn’t bring out scissors, we will be good”. But Madame T is a miracle worker. Truth? She doesn’t know much about mixed natural hair. For instance, no hairspray… the main ingredient is water. Water is the arch-fiend of natural hair. It brings it back to its kiny, curly state; thus defeating the purpose of 5 hours at the hair salon. But the color she gave me? Tres magnifique! Madame T knew what she was doing when she picked out my hydrant color.

I must say this color has definite possibilities for my social life. I went to a listening party on Saturday at the infamous BP’s house, where I cooked a savory meal of shrimp etouffe, garlic spinach, and herbed couscous. Rave reviews btw… just saying.

Anyway, at the party… a dear, dear, dear friend of BP’s came over to install the accoutrement for the party. Well this lovely, lovely man decides to insult me and the other guests at the party; disdain my food which he didn’t try until after a litany of complaints; interject his delicious opinions on subjects which did not concern him or illicit a response; and make himself an overall unnecessary nuisance, exceeding the compulsory timeframe needed to accomplish his task.

Verbal sparring however, when equally matched, can be a delightful and entertaining sport: especially when one is attracted to said fencing partner. Unfortunately, in this situation the attraction was one-sided, leaning strongly on the male-side (while the female shuddered with repulsion). Of course, this only encouraged the eccentric opponent (EO) to sit nearly on top of my upon his return 3 hours later. I kid you not, EO crushed his corpulent body next my equally plump frame on a small single-person divan, rest his arm on my left, and lean his head close to my shoulder/chest; all the while progressing to call me “comfortable” as one would a cushion or a fluffy blanket. Yes, this is exactly the compliment a woman wants to hear after your repeated insults… perfect way to win yourself back in my good graces. Even worse? EO staged whispered to me while the movie played in the background. Not that we were extremely diligent in watching “Carmen Jones”, but the loud murmurs when you’re sitting in line with my ear is a little superfluous.

Safe to say, EO was the worse reaction to the new ‘do. The best was being called Halle Berry by a charmingly married man who I work with, who in the same sentence called me Babe… gotta love it.

I must say that the color is one step farther down the rabbit hole of self discovery. Not to mention how well it suits my face. Look out world… a new ginger vixen is in town!

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