I smell like a girl today

Because I put on this lotion that has lavender and lilacs in it.  Usually I stick with citrus-y flavors.  They smell more androgynous and are much less likely to cross the line and land on “the old lady smell.” Old lady smell=bad. I try to avoid it.

Hopefully I don’t smell like an old lady today.

Yesterday my friend and I were walking on the street talking when he suddenly stopped mid-sentence and turned his entire body,  following a girl who’d just passed us with his eyes.

“She smelled nice,” he said to me, smiling.

What I really need, then, is some proper perfume. Not this borrowed stuff that may or may not smell like ‘old lady.’

Does anyone have any suggestions?

“Yuck” and other realizations.

Last week my friend O. and I were at a bar discussing ‘relationships.’

 

O: You don’t want one of those, right?

 

Me: Um, I don’t know.

 

O: Do you know what one of those means?

 

Me: Uh, kisses and hugs?

 

At this point O. carefully outlined all that a “relationship” entails, including, but not limited too, meeting parents, good night phone calls, and discussions about moving in together.

 

Horrified, I stared at him.

 

“NOOOOOO,” I said fervently. “I do not want one of those.”

 

“Well,” O., said, “then what you want is the idea of a relationship, not the actual deal.”

 

Coming from a man who offers me beer when I have the flu, this was a phenomenal insight.

 

“You’re right,” I said. “I just want kisses and hugs.”

The fortune inside my fortune cookie.

Every man you date thinks that ignoring you is some kind of original approach to dumping you.

Yeah, like no one’s ever thought of that one before.

P never ceases to inspire me with the scope of his emotional capacities.

Today P called me while on a work break.

 

P: Hey.

 

Me: What’s up?

 

P: (With a tone of dull but incapacitating fear) I met a girl.

 

Me: Is that what you’re calling about?

 

P: Yeah. (Pause) There’s a problem.

 

Me: What?

 

P: I keep thinking about her.

 

Me: And that’s a problem?

 

P: Yes. So how do I dump her?

 

Me: Are you serious?

 

P: Yeah. This whole “not being able to stop thinking about someone” is really really paralyzing. (Tone of fear becoming more pronounced, voice deepening) Nothing good can from this.

I suppose it happens to the best of us.

Someone was listening to Elliot Smith in the office today and I actually heard myself say the words, “Wow, this is too depressing for me.”   

Again-Why can’t I be like other women?

The other day I ran into a girl that I’ve known since grade school, but haven’t seen since I graduated high school.

 

While picking through the produce at Jewel, she told me that she had just become engaged. Beaming, she showed me her diamond ring.

 

I smiled back and, genuinely happy for her, said, “Oh, that’s nice.”

 

She started to chuckle a little and, with a distant look on her face, began rehashing our lunches spent in our middle school lunchroom, wherein she and a group of our friends would all talk about what their weddings were going to look like. Such fantasies included beaches, night weddings, chocolate cake, blue bridesmaid dresses and doves resting on elegantly draped vines. And then the group would turn to me.

 

“And, then,” my former friend laughed, “You’d always grimace and pretend to be doing your homework and say, ‘I’m never getting married.’ Haha. You’re not like that anymore are you? Do you still think boys are gross?”

 

Mildly ashamed, I looked at my feet. “No, I mean, I date now…sometimes.”

 

“Oh, so no one special?” she said, “No marriage in your future?”

 

“Um,” I said, defeated, “No offense, but I can’t really even imagine my marriage if I try. I have no difficulty, however, imagining my divorce.”

Robert said sweet things.

When I was 20, I dated a French guy by the name of Robert (pronounced Roh-Bair, please roll your “r’s”).

 

Robert liked to say romantic things to me, like:

 

“I’ll date you until the girl of my dreams comes along.”

“You’re fat.”

“You’re lucky I’m dating you.”

“You’re not really the kind of girl that I want to waste ten bucks on.”

“Move, I’m checking out that girl.”

 

 

Oh, young love. How I miss thee.

Real love.

Today as I was on the EL two men were standing and talking loudly about their wives.

 

One man said, “Yeah, if the bitch doesn’t loose fifteen pounds in the next three months, then I’m getting rid of her. (pause) She’s lucky I love her so damn much.”

Our souls are locked and broken: A discussion about art.

Today a friend and me had a discussion about art. He’s a painter. Unlike me, he is very talented. That and he actually puts a lot of effort into his work.

 

I asked him who is inspirations were. He said he was particularly fond of Roth, Michelangelo, Cezanne and Picasso.

 

“Hmm,” I said, “I’m not as organized as all that.”

 

“How so,” he countered.

 

“Well,” I answered, “most people can’t really get behind my ‘art.’”

 

“Who inspires you?”

 

“It’s not so much a ‘who’ as a ‘what,’” I mused. “I’ve always thought the key to great art was divine misery. So, I am inspired by black roses, single drops of blood on the lips of tuberculosis victims, people stomping on kittens, Ophelia drowning in the lilies, those types of things.”

 

“Oh,” he said, sounding genuinely relieved, “so that’s why you don’t stay in relationships. The broken heart thing really works for you, doesn’t it?”

 

“You’ve figured me out,” I said, “Nothing gets me going like heartache laced with anguish and caffeine. Ah, the vile depths of humanity. What would I do without you?”

Hexes, curses and bindings.

I am talking to my friend B. about a recent breakup:

 

Me: He told me he’d never felt this way before, that he wanted to know everything about me, that he couldn’t get enough of me, then one day he called me and said, “Sorry, I changed my mind. I pretended to like you, but I don’t.”

 

B: Wow, do you want me to give his name to the NSA as someone to watch for terrorist activity? Do you want me to drive up to Chicago and beat him up? I can do that, you know.

 

Me: I might not be able to live with that. I’m kinda against the NSA right now.

 

B: Like I said, I can beat him up. I have lots of pent-up aggression, and I’ve been looking for someone to take it out on.

 

Me: Unfortunately, I also draw the line at physical violence. I wish I didn’t, but I do (Sigh in defeat).

 

B: Well, what can I do?

 

I remember that B. used to dapple in magic I bit in high school. I once caught him dancing naked in his back yard. Long story. Begins with the faerie incantation spell of the crescent moon; ends with my eyesight never quite being the same.

 

Me: (Desperate, really really desperate, because I am a (somewhat) rational, unspiritual person) Well, do you have any spells I could borrow? Like, ones that will make him love me so I can spurn him?

 

B: (Somewhat taken aback) I suppose, I still have some on my hard drive…I could forward them to you…

 

Me: Yes, do that. I’ll look at them.

 

B: Do you really want these?

 

Me: No, I’m just really desperate. Maybe you should beat him up.