Anonymous
I’m punch drunk with the feeling of summer. I think it happened last night, or, erm this morning, driving out to the ‘burbs with the sunroof open. The rotting stench of spring filling my car, the twist and turn of my allergies with the changing of seasons. I think about how different my life is compared to last spring. I suppose I don’t remember much as I vaguely remember living in and out of a klonipin coma. Sweaty palms. White loafers and grey dress pants falling off my non-existing waist line. Court rooms, clubs, and coffee cups. It’s like that damned song from Rent, “How Do You Measure A Year?”
I was anonymous then. Just a girl in the city nobody knew, nobody knew my stories, my struggles, my lows and my highs. I still am somewhat anonymous, as any acquaintances I do possess just merely recognize the highs, and shunning me for any visible lows.
Yesterday I ventured out into the sunshine, rubbing my bare feet in the muddied sod of Rittenhouse Square. Making new friends, waving hello to the old. Searching for something. We are all searching for something. Love, giving our life new meaning, a deeper high, a cork for the hole in our wine bottle of a heart.
“You know, I read your blog once. I mean, I have to admit, even though I am a guy, I love it. You are really gifted. It’s so well written. I mean- wow.” His voice trailing off in a hushed breath, as if admitting this secret to me was a crime. As if perhaps he would have rather been anonymous.
I smiled and walked on with my new friend. We will call her Swift.
Swift turned to me with big eyes and said “Wait, you have a blog? You write? What? WHY don’t you talk about it.”
I shrugged and went on to tell her about this heinous novel I have been working on, my website, the freelancing, the bullshit. I gave her the run down. The story I must always explain to new people. How a well educated upper middle class girl ended up working in the bowels of hell. How I struggle and try to survive on my own while never giving up on my dreams.
Stripping is the mark of death. It gives an anonymous girl the black spot of avoidance by any half decent human being. I mean girls hate strippers. The term ‘stripper’ is used to describe anything raunchy or crass. Like ‘Oh my God Courtney, that girl has stripper hair.’ Or ‘I used to date that guy, but now he’s dating some stripper whore.’ All these terms lashed out in a fury of tongues, used in the same sentences as ‘serial rapists’ and ‘murderers’.
It seemed so glamorous and sparkly in the beginning. When a 19 year old working 3 jobs to survive just got tired. I got tired of changing geriatric diapers, of coming home with raw fingers from getting my hands bitten while trying to remove dentures. I got tired and the idea of ‘easy’ money was much easier than spending my days in class and my nights working with dementia patients. So I said ‘fuck it’ and joined the sorority of spangled g-strings.
I expected her to gasp in horror like most girls do when they learn about me, but she didn’t. She welcomed me into her life with open arms. I was no longer anonymous, but I was that girl. I could have lied, said I was Veronica from Vancouver and I work behind a desk. But I didn’t.
Anonymity is my bread and butter, but it’s fun to let it slide once and a while.
Heartless
So we know how much I love The Fray, but this cover of Kanye West’s ‘Heartless’ just made me worship them…
Happy Anniversary Cartier!
Cartier is celebrating its 100th anniversary in the U.S. this year. This staple of the fabulous and the fashionable is an icon.
You may recognize the Cartier Trinity ring. The white represents friendship, the yellow for fidelity, and the rose for love.
My other personal favorite from Cartier is the Roadster. The Roadster was inspired by the automotive design for men, but now has unisex appeal. I know I will one day have one of my own.
Why I Don’t Get Dates…
So I guess I have come down to the loser truth: I cannot get guys. Ever. So I decided to create my bio for dating websites. Here it goes…
I love long walks, but only in cities or on the beach. I know it’s cliché, but I have a vagina. My idea of curling up to a good book is lounging on a chaise poolside, clit lit in hand. Traveling must be your passion. I have so much passion about the things I care about. I don’t do public transportation. I have 3 different car services on speed dial. I’d rather walk then take a cab, but will when it is the only feasible option. Dining is my religion and your plate is mine as well. Flowers are a must, but you have to be creative, it’s much more than a dozen roses. You don’t wear Juicy Couture sweat suits; that’s my job. You don’t wear Brooks Brothers or POLO. You know that Rock & Republic is not the name of a bar. If you want to cook me dinner on the second date, you’re cheap. You cannot drink anything girly. I need someone with a sense of adventure, and if you don’t have that, then I am not the girl for you. You ideally live alone and have furniture that isn’t second hand. You’ve experienced pain at one point in your life, have evolved communication skills, and want to find a partner in crime. I will be your Bonnie if you will be my Clyde. You’re intelligent, and audacious with an enduring sense of character. You know when to swallow pride, grab me, and fight for it. An emotionally available man who doesn’t acquiesce because it’s easier than confrontation has a spot beside me. Men with mommy and daddy issues or who manage their anger with drugs or alcohol need not apply. A strong sex drive is essential, really, no seriously, I mean it. Enjoy listening to music, with me by your side, sipping wine from your glass. Holding my hand and kissing me on the street is a have-to. It’s all about passion. I crave it and give it, good. A good first date would include honesty and alcohol. And, most of all, be armed with attention span, an appetite for everything, and an open mind to chick flicks and music that might as well be a chick flick.
We are all different, but we want so much to be adored for our sidelines. For the little things most people miss, the smaller streets. For our bitten nails or the extra winter weight. There’s someone out there who wants to take us to new countries and cities and neighborhoods, restaurants, parks, or to hear a new songwriter at that new bar with the new wine list, just to witness the way we experience new. That’s their adventure: learning us, seeing through our eyes, loving the way we see the world.
She’s the kind of girl who thinks she’s good at dancing. She probably isn’t, but you don’t care. Truth is, you’d love her either way because really, you love the way she reacts to things. You love the way she cries at commercials and looks in her glasses, no makeup. And she thinks she looks ugly, but it’s when you love her most…in her sweats, comfortable. You love her like Sunday with the NY Times, coffee, and screw drivers. In her undershirt, her laugh, the way when she reads something she likes, she has to read it to you aloud. “Are you listening? You’re not fucking listening. Pay attention. There will be a test.” You like her threats and her smile, but you think she’s prettier when she doesn’t. When she thinks no one’s watching her. You like her when she’s off.
You can’t stand how long it takes her to get ready or how many times she asks you to get her water, or please do this for me, but you compromise because she rolls down the windows and makes you forget about the traffic. She’ll whine when she’s cranky and when she can’t sleep. You like that you know she’ll sip at her tea in a way you can hear, and that she chews on her shirt collar when she’s nervous. That she wishes she had a fireplace only for the smell. You love the curve of her face and the cup of her smile, the way she breathes in the dark, and how she loves you. You’ll spend the rest of your life letting her know you’re the lucky one, that you adore her, even with the extra twelve pounds, and you’ll whisper it every night, even when she can’t hear you.
You love how she does little dances when she is happy. How she gets excited when they’ve got her Ben & Jerry’s flavor in stock. She’ll spin around in front of the glass door and say, “Hells yeah.” And she’ll look up for a moment to make sure you see her, the way she does at the movies when something good happens. She always wants to share with you–you know, except when it comes to her fries. Her fries are hers, and your fries are hers. Money too, but mostly the fries.
You love the way you know her, that you know how to make her feel at home no matter where she is. Sometimes it’s as easy as a Grace Kelly movie. Other times it’s ordering in and a bedtime story she forces you to make up, and if it sounds vaguely like any movie she knows, she’ll call you out on that shit and make you start over. With something new. Because as long as you both find and make new, you can stay with everything that’s old and broken-in.
Lovers & Liars
One of my exes texted me the other day.
Are you getting any of my mail? Since you forwarded your mail I haven’t been getting important things.
I texted back.
No. I’ll let you know if I do…
I hadn’t really thought about the prick in a long time. It got me to thinking about him and I was struck with a pang of rosy nostalgia. The cuddling, the dinners, the way he would pick me up and twirl me around when he got home from work, the friendship. And that’s what I believed, that he was my friend and I missed it. But you know what? He wasn’t a friend. I was just selling myself on that idea because I wanted him to be what I had with Nil and with Noah. This prick was never my best friend. If he really was a friend he wouldn’t have been capable of what he had done. In fact, El Douche is a complete stranger.
I question my choices. I wonder where our last moment was because I cannot remember. Ending a relationship is so much easier when things are a clear cut. But I mean, I don’t know for a fact that he really cheated on me. I just know for a fact that he entertained the idea. I saw the e-mails, the photos, all a path leading up to the physical. I remember feeling a little bit like Chris Hansen from “To Catch A Predator” when he catches the strange men who ‘entertain the idea’ of going to a 12 year old boy’s house armed with alcohol and condoms. Those were choices they made. Whether they acted on them or not, “Well I wasn’t going to actually do anything” the predator will assure. Yeah. Riiight.
I remember calling him on it. The way he swallowed hard over the phone when I questioned him. He was ok with covering it up. He was ok with being deceitful. He traced over his steps. Making excuses fro what I saw, making me look like some psycho girl. I know I was right. He shouldn’t call himself a lawyer. He should just say ‘liar’.
He was never my Mr. Right, but I sure as hell tried to let him be. He was my blanket. My place holder. I beat myself up over its failure. I guess because I was selfish and stupid and I wanted so badly to have that person, that friend, that lover.
I vaguely remember much about us, but I do remember one of our last moments. The one that perhaps stings the most.
“I don’t like your blog. I am a private person. I don’t like what you write. You make me uncomfortable. Sick to my stomach. I want nothing to do with you or your stupid writing.”
I wish he would have told me that from the beginning, instead of lying, instead of saying he liked it all. It would have saved me a lot of time. But I think that when Mr. Right does appear, he’ll read this blog with a smile. Perhaps, even read “Living With a Writer” and understand that as a writer I pull from my life to create my works. And Mr. Right will deal with it all. He will love every part of me, blog and all. I guess that’s the difference between lovers and liars.
Jet Set
Apologies for my distance. Reality has set in. Well, my reality has set in. There are so many realities in this world. And they are all seen through their eyes, people’s eyes. One reality is always more than another and yet I always catch myself apologizing for my own.
I apologize too much. I mouth ‘sorry’ without thinking anymore. I want to make excuses, but I can’t. My life got in the way and I have been consumed with work. Recession has managed to come around and fuck me in the ass. Finally making money again. Beginning to slowly pay off my medical bills. It’s a pain, especially when I see friends around me spending pay checks on new handbags and fancy dinners. My bills have taken over my life. I spend my days handing over wads of cash to the bank teller who cringes when I hand it to her. Dirty money-she knows it too.
I don’t go out anymore; as I can barely afford to and I am too embarrassed to keep asking for friends to pay for me.
It’s hard for me to date. My job aside, I have a very big past for being so young. And I am sick of having to explain it over and over and over again. I’m sick of having to apologize for it. It’s my past, and yes, I have a lot of baggage, I suppose I just haven’t found someone strong enough to carry the weight of it all.
I need a different perspective. I need to get away from this place that harbors all the crap I don’t want to deal with. I am going to Denver on Saturday to be with Tay. She knows me the longest, she’ll tell me what she thinks, she’ll make it better. She always does.
I’ll do what I do best, I’ll run, I’ll keep myself in transit, travelling. Denver this week, Miami, Vegas, and Hawaii after that.
The Jet setter Dixie is back and as we know, she doesn’t travel light.
Turkish Tuesday
My $11 profit yesterday put me in one of the worst moods of my life. I went into work today determined to make money. I pulled out all the stops. I snapped long blonde acrylic extensions into my hair, self tanner, false eye lashes, I looked like the perfect little slut. And well, it worked.
$560 later I am home gnawing on a Wawa hoagie and sipping Gatorade.
“That’ll be $9.75, miss.” The obese man at the register announced.
I rummaged through the wads of cash in my purse; pulling out a stack of dollar bills. I handed him 10 singles.
“You must be a waitress.” He said confidently.
I threw my head back in laughter. Grabbed my bag and stumbled out.
I thought about my night on the drive back to my house. Nothing eventful happened. Some Turkish man came in and took to spending his cash on me.
“You’re Turkish.” I said.
He nodded.
“Merhaba.” I said.
A smile broke out across his face and he replied, “Nasilsiniz?”
“Iyiyim.” I said giggling.
He looked pleased and was taken by the fact some 20 year old Irish chick could converse in Turkish.
“How do you know this?” He said.
I shrugged and said “Hadi dans edelim.”
“Smart girl, you waste no time.” He said blowing smoke from his cigar.
He got up and followed me into the couch dance room. I danced for him; devoid of any real emotion.
He took my chin into his hand and looked at me in my eyes, “Gözlerin çok güzel.”
“I don’t know that one.” I said.
He whispered, “You have beautiful eyes.”
