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The moon was awfully bright tonight, and it reminded me of missing you. Which is not to say I miss you.
But the fact is, you’re so far away.
Some impossibly expensive plane ticket away.
I wish you would call me.
We were always best like this, at a distance, exhausted, a candle burnt at both ends. It was hard to sleep without you, maybe it’s harder to sleep without you in the same city.
This is just a series of hardships, slowly decreasing in severity.
Which is to say. I don’t miss you like I used to.
But the moon makes me feel like I should be.
I’ve been saying,
We’re only still married by fault of a piece of paper,
a pair of names on the mailbox,
And another set on the doorbell.
They took our names off the doorbell.
I am burnt out, yet electric. I’m not sure what happened in the last week to set this strange collision off. Perhaps I just had a reason to be creative (the interview), perhaps I had a multitude of anxieties (the interview), perhaps my young lover…(redacted, for decency).
Perhaps I am just here to brag.
To smile, to tuck a yellow rose behind my ear.
The sexiest thing I’ve seen recently?
A screenshot of an email from the Handsome Devil
about the little trip we planned,
showing he had already arranged gluten-free meals for me.
If you’re looking for the sexy part of that sentence, it’s: “he had already“.
If you’re looking for the sexy part of that sentence, you’re probably a guy.
The involuntary gasps from my friends when I showed them said it all:
We love a competent man.
As I’ve said before, the bar for men is so low it’s a tavern in hell.
But we love a competent man.
As I’ve said before, I’ve been sitting at the oak-and-leather bar of the Tavern in Hell,
drinking watered down gin and pretending to have a good time.
He makes it so easy to show him off. I love a planner.
Perhaps that’s the issue: I keep showing him off.
A picture is worth a thousand words,
and the expression I make when I text him is worth at least twice as much.
“Ooooh, what’s Alessandra doing? Her face says it all.”
Everyone who loves me wants to see the queen of puppy-love in another love story.
Maybe, after the last year, everyone is rooting for the underdog.
I may be the underdog,
but I am also the Ladybug of the Christmas Market.
After all the input from my friends, I considered it.
Considered him. Considered if he was worth dating.
I hate to disappoint, but this is not a love story.
It’s a leaflet of smut, tucked beneath a mattress.
It’s not love, but it’s glorious.
“I just want to keep things like they are.”
Absolutely, Sir. Zero complaints.
Keep things as they are: without obligation.
I’m not his, he’s not mine.
I have conned my way into a gloriously good time.
So I’m still sitting at the bar, in the Tavern in Hell,
But I’ve upgraded to sherry cask whiskey.
I’m seated next to the Handsome Devil.
His hand is subtly grazing my knee.
The music on the jukebox changed, and I’m tapping my toe to the beat.
I’m sitting at the bar of the Tavern in Hell,
Still waiting for the right guy to ask me to dance.
Christmas in Love
Nick, evil CEO, is in town to buy out Ellie’s Christmas Kringle factory. He’s exchanged his Big-City-Italian-Suit for an appropriate uniform, complete with shoe covers, hair net, and gloves. Ellie, on the other hand, is in full Christmas glam- her long blonde hair free-flowing into those Christmas Kringles. Yummy. Evidently, her homespun charm exempts her from stringent health codes followed by everyone else at the factory. Oh, and those adorable Christmas baubles hanging over the mixer won’t be quite so cute crushed up in a pastry, but this is small-town America, and we like our food authentic, and absolutely riddled with adulterants.
Big City Health Inspection Grade: C, for Christmas
A Gingerbread Romance
Chef Annabelle Renard, the supposed villain of this story, is the only character who gives a damn about her clients’ health. She is also the only person in this movie capable of pulling her hair back. Meanwhile, architect Taylor and single dad/hunky baker Adam have teamed up to build a giant gingerbread house. Do they utilize child labor to do so? Yes. Do they even once don a pair of gloves? No. Does everyone get the promotion they dreamed of? You bet.
Big City Health Inspection Grade: P, for Promotion.
Ice Sculpture Christmas
Callie, an aspiring chef and future poisoner, has been unwittingly entered into an ice carving contest against her boss and his villainous sous chef. How do we know the sous chef is a villain? Her hair is pulled back. What do you think this is, a big city? We don’t believe in hair elastics around here. What we do believe is that every single room should contain at least four fully decorated Christmas trees.
Big City Health Inspection Grade: J, for Jingle.
Murder She Baked: A Plum Pudding Mystery
Hannah Swensen, baker and unlicensed gumshoe, has found herself in a caper. Well, to start off, her sous chef plates croissants for service without wearing gloves. Oh, and THERE IS A DEAD BODY. She VISITS A CRIME SCENE and then returns to the bakery, without washing her hands. Eat your heart out, Ignaz Semmelweis. Despite all this, upon entering her kitchen, Hannah actually pulls her hair back into a ponytail.
Big City Health Inspection Grade: M, for Murder.
I went Christmas shopping with my friend D. today, in search of stocking stuffers and an escape from the confines of our respective apartments. We found ourselves in front of the Tom Ford counter, and she gave me the eye.
“Didn’t the guy wear…?”
“Yeah. He did. But I am not thinking about him. Definitely not thinking about him.”
I say, staring at the bottle of his cologne.
“Yeah, sure. Which one was it?”
“That one, the tobacco vanilla one. It’s like fucking catnip for me. When he put it on I basically just wanted to lick him.”
“And did you?”
“Actually, no. He was a little hot-and-cold in that department.”
The saleswoman grabs the bottle, and goes to spray it on a tester, but I shake my head at her and reach out my arm, pulling back my glove to reveal my wrist.
D. says, “They have it at the commissary for like half price.”
My nose is pressed to my wrist, and I mumble at her from behind my palm,
“Yeah, mmhhmm, half price of way-too-fucking-much. But, I might need you to buy me a bottle. I don’t need the guy- I can just buy the damn perfume.”
“Or you could just keep fucking him knowing you’ll go home smelling like it.”
“Yeah, that’s super practical, completely logical. No, it’s not happening. I’m through with him.”
“Yeah, uh-huh, you seem really through with him.”
“Shut up. Ugh, I can’t escape him- he said it himself. His name showed up on the Bee yesterday. That word game I play.”
“I can set you up with my investment manager, I bet he smells nice.”
“I told you, I don’t care if the guy has money- is he a good person? Not a “nice guy”- a good person.”
“Well, he seems very laid back for having such a large trust fund.”
“I really don’t think you’re hearing me: not-interested-in-rich-dudes. Just buy me the damn perfume.”
God, I am a bit of a mess today. Actually, I’m not, I’m perfect, I’m exceeding expectations. My life is pretty neatly managed at the moment, I’ve got my shit together. I worked incredibly hard, it paid off. I also just want to cry a little- but I can’t, because my makeup looks flawless. I am having a fantastic day, excuse me while I…sob?
To be fair, I did bonk my head on a drawer while I was grabbing the laundry. But it was a sort of charming, movie-quality clumsy. I’m having a delightful day, really.
I think I am just nervous about the interview tomorrow. And, you know, nervous about the gaping maw of the unplanned future.
This year has been an exercise in learning that plans, no matter how secure they may seem, are prone to change. So I will have to settle for dreams, goals, and god forbid, hope.
Now I want to cry and vomit. Lovely.
You’re not possessive, at least not so far, but when I set a risqué post to draft- I realized I was curating my smut. That perhaps we have something going that I don’t want to risk fucking up.
This cursed blog has always been a corner for unedited musings, reckless abandon, and the heart-on-my-sleeve ramblings that befit me. A junkyard of brutal honesty. I am a foghorn of a woman, calling men to shore with a warning. The most off-key singer of any siren, the most asthmatic mermaid. I’ve been on the beach, waiting.
Hey Sailor, come home to me.
Best of luck to any man I go quiet on. Your girl is not a gambler. Your girl.
There’s this old movie, this old broadway show, really. Funny Girl. Fanny Brice falls for Nicky Arnstein, prince charming and poker player, he shows up wearing a starched collar and he brings her yellow roses. She follows him across an ocean, wilted roses in hand. He gambles her fortune into oblivion. She bets everything on him, and loses.
I’m pretty good at asking for exactly what I want- until I really want something. Until it’s a thing I am afraid to lose. I am not a gambler. Never take a bet from me.
But, I realized tonight that maybe, just maybe, I should shut up for once. Maybe, you are a man I am afraid to lose.
Perhaps that’s a compliment, perhaps you complement me.
Perhaps I’ll publish the risqué post anyway.
Perhaps I don’t have to be silent for you to chase me. To choose me.
Maybe we should be adults, should talk it out, maybe I should extend this metaphor beyond its grasp- put my cards on the table, and such. Is this an ocean or a poker table? It’s both- it’s Funny Girl. The metaphor makes more sense if you’ve seen the film.
Maybe, if you want me to be your girl, you should tell me before I get anxious and fuck everything up.
if I want to be your girl, I should just do it.
I dreamt of my mother last night. I had foster children and she was helping me move them into the house. It was wonderful, she was a great help. I bounced a boy on my hip. Maybe it’s because I wrapped the gifts for my godchildren before bed? Who knows. But mom was there, we made pleasant chit-chat, she laughed at my jokes.
Of course I miss her laugh, this is the thing everyone misses about their dead mother.
Anyways, it’s been a long time since she died, and for years after I waited to dream of her- and when I finally did we were always fighting, screaming at each other. Then years later she would appear, but I would remember she was dead, and awake in a panic, hyperventilating, having tried to warn her.
I know a lot of people who lost their mothers, some more recently than others. When mine died, my boss told me “You’ll have the dreams, you know, and sometimes it hurts in the dream and other times when you wake up- just try and enjoy it.”
So, to my friends who are in the same position, I want you to know: You’ll have the dreams, you’ll see her, enjoy the visit.
Who has two thumbs, spent too much money on his Christmas gift, and totally-doesn’t-have-feelings-for-him? This liar.
EURYDICE IS BLOOMING!
Okay, perhaps she isn’t blooming, but this little troublemaker is growing flower buds! She’s budding! In mid-December! A Christmas miracle!
My little minx, joyful and abundant despite the cold. I am so fucking proud of her. I am so proud of myself. I have never kept a plant alive let alone coaxed one out of hibernation. Oh, sweet Eurydice, I am your Orpheus, my dear, or perhaps I am your Hades, either way- I brought you back from the dead. I am, with not a hint of exaggeration, ecstatic.
My god, what a delight! This little lady, always such a metaphor for my life.
Today, I went for a walk with the man who bought her for me. When I ended things with him, all her flowers fell off. I had to look at her every day and think of him. Now I see only her, all her determination, I see myself. What a thing it is, to be a flower blooming in winter, blushing from the cold.
I walked with him, through parks and past multiple accordion players, the romance determined follow us, but I am immune now. I was there for polite conversation, and I had a pleasant time. He’s a fine friend, it’s been long enough.
Towards the end of our walk, my phone was vibrating a bit wildly. “Sorry my phone is blowing up let me check it.” I peeked at the screen, and the overwhelming smile on my face gave me away. He just laughed,
“Ah wow, your smile! Well, I will let you get back to…whatever that is about..um, yeah, you sort of make it clear, your face does…”
“Haha, yes, um…I am seeing someone, and he’s very good to me. He makes me really happy.”
“I can see!”
We parted ways, polite hugs goodbye, Then I went home to find Eurydice, looking just as radiant as I.
What a good omen.
I can’t wait to see just what she’s foretelling.
Come over here and love me already.
I think you kind of do.
I don’t know if I am lovable anymore, I’m so ready for it, it’s unbecoming.
I am un-becoming, coming undone,
My skin aches for human touch
Yet Saturday I had a gorgeous girl in my bed and
She was begging to stay,
And I could only tell her to leave.
I forgot how to trust anything.
Sleep around less.
Have left his place.
Maybe not have posted about our crazy sex.
Stop thinking about exes.
Not delude myself into thinking
That a man who
Ignored me for days on end
Would have stuck around if
I only kept my mouth shut about
Not keeping my
I should let you love me.
“If you want to kiss me you have to stop smiling so much.”
We’re back at my place, we escaped from the cold weather and the heated protests. First date, lockdown style. We walked through the center and bought some Punsch, and encountered a woman holding a flaming torch.
“So…do you want to go back to my place? This feels like a bad time to be on a lesbian date. All they’re missing is the pitchforks..”
So we went home, and sat on the couch calling each other beautiful for 7 hours.
“You have a century smile”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, I just made it up, but you do. I love your smile when you kiss me, you have so much love in your eyes. I can see that you have a lot of love to give. Do you have a camera? I want to photograph you.”
“I know what you mean. I want to paint you, but I can’t paint portraits. I want to paint on you, blue flowers cascading down your neck.”
“Let me take your picture.”