Dizzy

9 Mar

Spin after spin, after spin, after spin. I have almost forgotten how fun it was to dance. So often I go out, only to dress up and drink, but tonight I remembered what my feet have been begging me for.
When my friends first proposed the thought of line dancing, I rolled my eyes at the idea. However, I am diplomatic, and that is what the masses wanted to do, so I went. I go alone, in case I need to make an early escape, but I used my magic number for courage. Three. After 3 drinks, I am brave enough to try a few dances, and to even oblige when a handsome young cowboy extends his hand out to me, asking me out for a whirl. These men know how to show a beginner a good time. “Just let me lead” he says. The nerve of the demand to me, a stranger, brings me to oblige. Like he just invited me to a dare, and I was in need of something exciting. And so I remove my eyes from our feet, look in his eyes, and feel the direction of his hands. It is not the usual bump and grind I have grown bored of. This is dancing; following someone’s lead and just trusting that you will have a great time. It isn’t the fact that this man is handsome that puts this silly smile on my face, but the spins! He twirls me around like I’m a child again, and we are in an intense session of ring around the rosy, with the objective of not falling down. With every end step, I feel like a little girl twirling in the grass, arms extended fully and seeing the world blur around me. Just when I think that I may fall into his arms, (and perhaps I would like nothing more), the song is over, and just like a gentleman, he thanks me for the dance and lets my hands free. For the first time, in a long time, “dizzy” is a good thing.

Looks Really Sweet

8 Mar

He looks really sweet sitting there all by himself; very out of place as everyone else is distracted by their drinks and banter. My guess was that he was waiting for someone, but he’s doesn’t have his phone out expecting a call, and he doesn’t glance at the time at all. No, he’s here alone. I came with friends, more like acquaintances, and we always have a great time. For some reason I can’t keep my eyes off of him. Why would someone that looked like he could teach me beautiful things about the world, come to a place like this? A place with nothing but us drunks, with our misplaced priorities. We are loud, clumsy, and apparently co-dependent on each other’s company, and alcohol. He, he was refined, like black silk against our clashing neon print. Even his drink was gentlemanly. Some sort of brandy, or whatever those classy drinks are that you can’t shoot back, chase with a lime, or become watered down with tap water ice. Whatever, whoever this guy was, he was definitely foreign compared to other encounters, and therefore, something I was highly curious of. For all I know, he is Pandora’s Box, but I will never know until I open it.

“Morning After” Sarcasm

21 Dec

Hmm.He’s still here….

There are two types of women; the kind that go to bed with a stranger hoping he fell in love with her during their rendezvous, and the ones who go to bed with a stranger in hopes to wake up and find out that he left in the middle of the night, and locked the door behind him. Oh, and didn’t steal anything on his way out.

Sometimes the conversation was decent, and maybe I don’t mind that he stays behind for a glass of water, mouthwash, and a polite morning chat. Hell, I’ll even share the Advil. Sometimes, the introduction was had when I was already drunk, the whole experience was nothing more than a fuzz, and at the point of morning consciousness, I want nothing more than to be alone, in my bed, and this dude, gone. We can’t always have our cake and eat it too though, can we?

I’m lying in my bed, facing the wall. I wake up to hands stroking my back. At first I freak out a little and then remember, “Oh shit, that’s right, we had sex…. My friends are right. I need a vibrator.”

Pretending I’m still asleep, I fidget a little and make that sleepy, “uh uh” sound. Then he asks that dreaded question, “Are you awake?” In the middle of asking the question, he gets closer and tries to hold me. NOOO! Don’t do THAT! “No, I’m sleepy. I have work later, super hung-over and I need to sleep it off” I reply. He backs off a little and agrees. He continues to stroke my back, even tracing my legs and hips with his fingertips. At least he isn’t trying to hold me anymore. I’ll allow it. I fall back asleep.

My alarm goes off and it’s time to get up to get the day started. “Good morning” he says to me with this silly grin on his face. I return the greeting, but only with a polite smile, not a silly one. He leans in to kiss me, but I simply let it happen. Damn it. I think he likes me. He keeps trying to ask me questions about myself. It’s sweet, but he really doesn’t have to. Really. I make up the urgency to pee, put on clothes and leave the room. My friend is passed out on the couch, so I take it upon myself to wake her up. With another person awake, I then have a reason to stay out of my room and be hospitable. When I go back to my room, Mr. Random starts asking about my momentos and keep-sakes. Again, it’s sweet, but he really shouldn’t. Really! However, he does hear my friend’s voice and concludes it’s time to get dressed. Relief pours over me. He’s finally going to leave! Or so, I was sure of until my friend belts out, “I’m so hungry! You don’t work till way later. Let’s all go out for breakfast?” “Dude, me too! I could go for an omelet right now.” Apparently it’s all up to me now, and I can never turn down a delicious stack of french toast when hung-over. It’s my cure. That, and posole. And a michelada. Mmmm…

We chat, we eat, and all in all, it’s pleasant. The checks come, we pay, and we leave. Then, it finally arrives, the moment for good-byes. He was decent enough to offer my friend a ride home. How nice. “So I’ll call you?” he asks. What’s a nice way of saying, “No, you really don’t have to. It’s fine”? I couldn’t think of it, so I just said, “suuure”. Later on, I get an alert on my phone. It’s a friend request on Facebook. It’s him.
Oh! So THAT’S his name!

Hey You

13 Sep

I cannot have children. Frankly, they bothered me, so I was okay with that discovery, even if I was too young at the time to consider the thought. When my mother chose to adopt, I was indifferent. In a way, I was a little grateful that the attention would be turned away from me for once. I was never resentful that they would want a “normal” child. Being that I was not the over-achiever or an achiever of anything much really, the pressure off my back was a relief. I was also a sick child, a “diseased” child, but I think I was more of a curse upon my parents. I don’t know what happened before I was born, but something they did pissed someone off very badly. If God had been merciful, perhaps he would’ve “offed” me in one of the MANY hospital visits, and just put my poor parents out of their emotional and financial misery. However, I lived. For the only reason, I believe, was to know him.

He was perfection. Absolutely beautiful… I had never fallen in love instantly before, but Jesus, he was definitely the exception to the rule. It was like the first glance into his big brown eyes slapped me across the face and woke me up after years of a comatose state. After meeting him, the world expanded from the confinement of my room, to the black hole that is endless, and he was the fire under my ass to explore. It was him that made me want to be better, and live a life I never cared to even recognize I could live. His curiosity for life made me feel so small, even though I had much more experience than he did. His thirst for the simplicities humbled me, even though I had worked for everything I had. This little boy changed my life, and my entire plan that I had concluded I was destined to follow. And to think, it all started with a, ‘Hey you!”

He was lying on the bed, having his diaper changed. A little boy, one year and a half, so you’d think he would be somewhat potty trained? Apparently, they don’t really prioritize potty training etiquette in foster care. Go figure. Anyway, at that moment, that very moment I burst into the room, wanting to harass my mother for some shopping money, I gaze onto him and he greets me in a manner that immediately  threw me off; “Heeeyyy You!”  As if this was all going down, and happening just for that particular moment. “Hey You!”  “Who? Me?” Almost like he was waiting the whole time for the moment that I would burst in through that door.  Like when a crowd waits for the birthday person to walk in so they may shout out, “Surprise!”  Within seconds, I shifted from a selfish adolescence, wanting her mother’s cash for some new gear, to wanting to fall on my knees and adore this little soul.

That night, he ate like he had never tasted before. He slept like he had never known how to shut his eyes, and since then, he smiled like he was my sneak peek into heaven. He was love. I had no choice, no control, because that darn kid was everything I never knew I needed. Whenever I felt sad or angry, he would hold my face in his hands, gaze into my eyes and say “It’s going to be ok”, almost like he felt what I was feeling, with this look of knowing my grief, then he’d just smile and it would send out this explosion of warmth. How strange. I would just shrug it off, calling it even every time he’d sneak into my bed after one of his infamous nightmares. He would wake up crying a lot in his sleep, in the beginning. Sometimes I would pretend I was still sleeping, just to laugh inside at how hard he’d work to pull my arm out and over him. No matter the obstacle I would make for him, he would rather break a sweat trying, than actually wake me up. My little Samson. Watching him interact with other kids was even more peculiar. Even when there was a child clearly uninterested in his friendship, he always made an effort to share and make them feel included. You can only imagine the restraint I had to uphold whenever I would see a kid be mean to him. There were times when I would insist he defend himself. His only response was that it was ok.  If only the world had half the heart that he did.

The accident happened suddenly. No one was able to leave a cohesive police report, even though they were ALL there and saw it happen. What we gathered was, he was crossing the street and a car came and swept him away. Fucking snob cars! What good are those stupid motion sensors when, in the end, a little boy is run over because the driver wasn’t paying attention, and didn’t want to hit a fallen traffic cone!? Fucking traffic cones! The man that hit him couldn’ t stop crying, so they say. I’m sure his life shattered a little that moment, realizing what he had done. If only he knew the little soul personally, than maybe the air would’ve been sucked out of him too, like mine did. I still can’t breathe the same. The heart and lungs function together. How can a pair of lungs fully function right, when a broken heart has no will to continue to pump life throughout your body? God, I loved him. He was sunshine! He was love! He was everything!  The first time I saw him smile, I already knew the inside jokes we’d hide from our parents. The first time he laughed, I already hated the first girl that would break his heart. So many “firsts” still to have, but I never thought he’d be the first taken. I was the sick one! I’m the one that achieved nothing much, and he was the one that deserved it all!  It was only by seeing him love so much, so easily,  that made me want to be strong enough to love him back, because love is not for the indifferent or the weak. How can such a big heart and a radiant soul fit in such a tiny body? How can a being that is not even my blood, move me with such impact? I don’t know if God is merciful, or if there even is one, but I knew an angel once with big brown eyes. And all it took for me to believe was a, “Hey You!”…

Wine and Vinegar

19 Aug

They say that wine turns to vinegar after a while, when opened then neglected; no matter how fine the wine. At this moment, I feel like the most sought after bottle of red, even by the most enthusiastic connoisseur, turning bitter after being poured one glass. Opened by someone who doesn’t even know the difference between a Malbec, and a Riesling, or a spumonte and a prosecco; probably thinks Bud Light is a classic too. With that said, how could that person possibly be able to differentiate the grapes, the notes, let alone, the taste?  What a waste! How can you taste something so fine and carefully crafted, then turn around and take a shot of gin from a plastic bottle?

First of all, it’s our anniversary. Second, I haven’t seen him in a week. Third, I look damn good in this dress! I even had my make-up done at M.A.C! How could he have forgotten?! I know things have been rocky since I found out he cheated on me with her, but we swore that we were going to try. He promised he was going to try. For a moment there, it looked hopeful. Ok, more like a second than a moment. Hey, a sliver of hope is still hope. After everything, we have history, a mountain of amazing memories. We have a river of laughs that I float on every time I remember, and a heat between us that makes me insatiably thirsty with a single touch; Sometimes, even just a glance. All that must mean something? This guy made me laugh on a regular basis, and he even brought me flowers. (Once.) This guy used to tell me I was beautiful on a regular basis. (Right before slipping his hand up my shirt.)  He would listen to everything I would say with interest.( Now he just smiles and nods). No, he may not remember my favorite song, but he knows where to kiss me to make me say, “Yes”.

Alright, alright. I know… I’m a fool. You don’t need to start because I’ve already heard it before. I deserve better. I knew he wasn’t the one when he tried changing my radio station in the middle of me singing. How rude! In the middle of Morrissey, no less! Still, for some reason I held on. For some reason, I actually considered, “I do” when clearly, I may have only used to.  And for the record, the one time he did bring me flowers, the one time in years of being together, he brought me daisies and said they were my favorite. (I decorate my apartment in lilies.) Sure, he made me laugh, but any time I made a joke, he claimed not to understand them. Of course I felt stupid, even when everyone else would laugh.

There you have it folks! A fine wine turned bitter. At one point the rarest among rare, and the most tantalizing amongst enticing. Some of the contents may have been spoiled, but someday a savant will come along, glance at what this bottle contained, and appreciate all that it is, even though he was not the first to taste. He will be a man who does not drink gin from plastic bottles, or grant any “light” beer, as credible. And I, though not aged to perfection, will know to appreciate a man of quality, like the difference between a craft beer and a common domestic. Because, let’s face it… There really is no comparison.

Bleach and Forget

15 Aug

I cleaned the tub today. I scrubbed the grime he would hide behind.

The ring of dirt was washed away, along with his lies that clouded my mind.

I must admit, he fooled me well, and fooled all of those who loved me most.

In and out like no time had past, and as evading like a ghost.

I polished away his footprints, tossed his toothbrush in the waste.

Wiped clean all my mirrors so that I may only see my face.

Laundered the towels he had soiled, cleansed the glasses he had smudged.

Pawned the jewelry he gave because I never really liked it much.

I disposed of his cologne, the “extras” and toilettries.

I mopped the tile he stepped on, since I didn’t let him tread on me.

I dissolved any and all traces of him. He was a stain I refused to give an opportunity to set in.

I scrubbed and expunged so vigorously, all muck and memory. And just like that, he’s forgotten.

Jazz and My Bed

9 Aug

I hate sitting at a bar by myself, but what am I to do when I’m feigning for a great jazz set, wetting my appetite with a glass of chilled wine, and it’s a great hair day? Besides, everyone is already home from work with their families, getting ready to go out and get wasted, or a disenchanting thought, with their significant other. I’m not bitter about relationships, it’s just that I would like to think that “the one” would bring out the best in you, whereas I have seen many of my friends fall into complacency. If that is love, and love is equivalent to success, I’d stand tall as a failure any day. Anyway, back at the bar, the vibe here is good. The food smells delicious. The acoustics in this place makes your heart tug along with each string on the bass. It’s a helpless effort to go against the urge. It’s Jazz. The genre itself is more than a genre. It’s a history, it’s a culture, and every beat sings out all the longing and disappointment I’ve felt and can cry to, but will never openly admit I feel. Strange how this music can ignite this pain in me and one bar line can make me fight against tears, yet people tell me horrible, personal stories, and my first instinct is to let out an awkward laugh and a need to change the subject immediately. Maybe I don’t like people, and my ease to get along is just denial.

The band just finished their third set, as have I with my third glass. They were really great tonight. The riffs were catchy, and the improvisation was on point. They even played one of my favorite songs, so now it’s official, I’ll have to come back and see them again at some point in my life. If they were a Facebook link, I would “like” them.  It’s time to go home and reunite with my one true love; my bed. How ready it is to receive me, secure me, warm me up, comfort me, and all after having neglected it all day at work and even when I have been out all night, not returning until the wee hours of the morn. What a great companion! There is one major flaw though… It certainly isn’t much of a conversationalist. But no one is perfect, and it certainly has been good and faithful to me. I’m in love. Just don’t confess that I still crash the occasional couch or two. Never anything serious, never any randoms, and I never stay passed breakfast. Wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impression now, would we? I know, I know. A lady should always go home to her own bed. And I did feel guilty after the first few times. Hell, I tried to fight it the very first time, truly! But I had too many drinks; there was nothing I could do. I had crashed my first couch. Un-ladylike, I know.  I swore it wouldn’t happen again, because I promised myself more self-control, but when your bed is so far away, that couch is right there, right now, inviting you in, you just slip. Next thing you know, the sun is up, morning breath hits your nose and you come to the realization that you still have to go home. After a few times of that happening, you lose the guilt. I’m weak. But I love my bed. I do.