That 25 things you say about yourself that I refuse to publish on Facebook.

So I'll put it here.

1. I like to talk… a lot.
2. I have a really big heart.
3. Excessive noise drives me insane.
4. When I say insane, I really mean it. I turn into a mean, mean girl. We’re not talking Tina Fey "Mean Girls", but Tina Fey is really awesome, so I’d take that compliment.
5. Until I turned 12, hit puberty, and got rid of my braces, everyone said I looked like Punky Brewster. Even complete strangers.
6. I’ll have a Bourbon on the rocks please.
7. Repeat is my favorite feature on any listening avenue.
8. I love words like tickle, though I’m not a huge fan of being tickled, well… unless it’s by someone I really like. He can tickle me if he wants to.
9. Dirty is a pretty great word too…
10. I can’t live without music.
11. I miss climbing trees, skipping down the street, doing cartwheels out of nowhere, riding my bike in the woods and building forts out of sheets.
12. Coffee must enter my system at some point in the day or I get very cranky.
13. When I get kissed by a boy, I like it when he puts his hands on my face.
14. I don’t wear much make up, or many high heels, but I do paint my fingernails... A lot.
15. I fall in love all the time, but really its only been with you.
16. I miss North Carolina so much it hurts sometimes.
17. I do not, however, miss Tennessee that much.
18. Apparently I look like my Aunt Jeanne, not my Mom.
19. I’m still friends with people I’ve known since I was five.
20. One day I will publish something.
21. Solidarity suits me as I am an only child.
22. But I love to go out!
23. I’m not afraid to die.
24. Seriously.
25. My bed is one of my all time favorite places to be, ever.

The Digital Age

I guess I've been off the market too long... shut down like some poor, old PC undergoing upgrades or something, trying to catch up with the times. I only say that because I either got real old (much like my sprouted gray hairs suggest) at the ripe old age of 27, or I just forgot that Casual Dating is so, well, casual. It all started with actually getting back on the Market- like being sold on eBay or something- by meeting someone I found amusing. I was drunk, so really I don't recall the meeting. That should have been my first warning...

Perhaps he was a purchase I put in the "Save For Later" box that I eventually bought just because it looked like it might look great on, and oh hell, the price was right... This is a meat market right? Or am I mixing too many metaphors? He probably felt the same about me... except he's the one who put the bid out first - on Facebook.

Like I said, we met one night when I was out with friends and I apparently told his friend that I thought he was adorable. Which he is rather cute, in that small, pale, tight-bodied, not-my-type-but-almost kind of way. He said I was adorable too. So that was that. We hung out some, got down and dirty, and started the whole 30-day free trial process. (You can return this with a receipt in just thirty days if it just doesn't fit!) We were feeling each other out you know, trying to decide if we should actually date, casual or not, or just continue this annoying (but quite enjoyable), late-night sleep-over situation.

Other than that, we hardly knew each other outside of the few actual dates we had and the daily online chatter that we engaged in via gchat and text. Good god, what happened to talking face to face? Dating has been reduced to nothing but abbreviated mixed messages. OMG, LOL, WTF? The Ivy League schmuck who invented this online way to easily conduct narcissism and stalking at the same time without the fatal awkwardness of a live audience must fit comfortably in his chair laughing his way to the bank. (Checking his statement online of course) Way to go Mark Zuckerberg, WTG...

Anyway, so here I am, finally sort of trying out the Washington dating scene, at first out there with the rest of us fatalists who need a crowd, then sadly, mostly digitally due to scheduling conflicts. Albeit, that is rather typical- we do spend enormous amounts of time in front of computers for work, for fun, for the blindness of our eyes... we can't see our dates anyway...

Then, just before the expiration date on the refund into our once-a-week slumber parties and daily cyber-speaking sessions, I started to get the impression that he had either lost interest in my make and model, or had found a different one all together to try on for size. He wanted his refund.

This was not to my, well... not surprise, really, or chagrin either, as I was not wholly saddened by the end of this attempt to show off my PC upgrade in a what turned out to be a mostly-dominated Mac world. It was more that I should have known better to try and seek warmth through a computer. I could feel the cold shoulder all the way through the screen. All the while we "chatted", I could sense that I'd already been packed up back in the box, just not taped up... Each long pause was like a sigh.

SPIT IT OUT, MAN!, I thought, as I clicked the keys in anticipation! And then there it was...

I've been trying to figure out how to say this... it makes my stomach hurt to think about... it wasn't supposed to be like this... I just happened to find you both at the same time ... I don't know... I like you!... but I think I like this one better... What do we do now? He said most of that ... all in TYPE. BIG. FLAT. DULL. TYPE.

What do we do now? Shooo, this ain't my first Pac-Man...

Maybe we should have stayed in cyberspace where people live on plastic dreams and self-created friendships. The ones that survive through networks and hard drives because they mean more than they ever will in person. (Ironically at this moment I am listening to my iTunes and Brendan Benson comes blaring on with the line "Well, there isn't anything between us"). So, complaining aside, I guess I am sort of content in this digital world after all. At least it knows what I'm thinking while in the midst of an earphone isolation and echoes my sentiment back to me- one more time with feeling!

Truth is, I'm not all that upset about getting dumped on gchat. I'm just sort of disappointed. There really is no more romance these days? A girl can't even get broken up with in person? Not even on the phone? I questioned my bed-mate about this and his excuse was that he might have been too upset, might have even cried. Yeah right, I said, you don't like me that much. Proof-positive by the sound of the clicking of your pristine nails on the keyboard. You go get your refund, honey, I already got mine.

I guess I'm not ready for an upgrade... Maybe I still like things a little less perfect. Maybe, just maybe... I'm not ready to be a Mac girl after all. It's not Mac's fault, and I may move over that way after all.. but in the mean time, I'll keep my Game Boy thank you very much.

Cut My Hair.

I'm going gray. As in, my hair has started to turn on me. Appropriately it began in my widow's peak, so I don't know if that is irony at it's finest in my singlehood, or just the way things are.

I might just be one of those people whose hair goes gray at really early age, like 32 or something. I'll have to decide what to do about it, you know, like just let it go... or am I too vain for that? Like my mother, testing dyes to see if red or blond (or both) suits my one-time black head of hair.

For now I pluck them out like one night stands I don't care to remember. But they grow back... slowly, suddenly. Just like that guy who left in the middle of the night, but you still remember his name and think of one night out of no where when you're making the bed. Oh yeah... that guy.

I don't mind going gray. It can be as charming as anything else I suppose. Like casual dating. Though when you wake up next to him, sometimes there's a tinge of sadness because it's not really what you want. At least its not a bad hair cut. That's like a bad break up. It'll grow out, but damn it looks like shit, and man it feels like shit.

I guess when it comes to going gray, it'll happen some day anyway. One can only hope you take it gracefully. The same goes for love I suppose, one can only hope you get the chance to dye it whatever color you like.

Your room is my favorite band.

Going to see a band you love is like walking into your lover's room for the first time. All the intricate details are exposed, revealed, layers are peeled off. You get an idea of who they really are, how they really work.

It's sexy, really. Talent revealed in such a raw way. Like finger tips on your neck still standing up before he's even kissed you. The floor vibrating from the sound of the guitar plowing through your toes up into the moment that you bite your lip from excitement. There's so much to take in. Eye contact. Or maybe you're turned on and you think the drummer spotted you in the crowd and liked the look of you. Your lover wants to devour you as you devour the walls and surfaces around you.

You tilt your head. Listening, watching, thinking... oh, that sound in that song really was from the keyboard. Oh, that's the smell of him next to me.

Before you know it, he is next to you, and the he's got his chance to take you on like you took on his room. The show is in full swing and you know when it ends you will want to listen to them again and think about that eye contact, the voice in the microphone, that first rip on the guitar that sent a shiver up your spin. With the thought of that, maybe you wish you you'd invited your lover over to see your room... Or maybe what you really want is the one who makes you feel like that all the time.

Stitches

My cousin wore a dress on Christmas Day that she made. Proud of the simple stitching and bright, colorful fabric of the two-layered creation, she told everyone how she crafted the little thing by hand and sewing machine. If only dichotomy were as easy and pleasing as sewing two pieces of fabric together with a little touch of style.

I too sit in stitches of the handmade kind, tied perfectly into my purgatory like some little sister you can’t shake. I don’t really know what that’s like- I am an only child, but I imagine it’s pretty much the same. Pieces strewn about, waiting to be put together, begging to be used in some twisted quilt of old noise built anew. Me, living out the remains of the fantasy of a life I left behind, trying to find the one in front of me. I can't ever seem to get the last stitch. I am always torn, like a rip in your favorite dress. The kind that makes you hiss when it catches, sigh at the damage surveyed, then absently thumb it all night.

I've got a feeling the fabric I left behind has a big hole in my quilt pattern. If I stumble upon it again here in my present, I'll probably rip the shit out of my dress. Or maybe he'll do it for me.

I might not mind thumbing that one for a while.

Space and Time Continuum.

Squeezing into limited space hardly seems the point unless maybe you live your life floating by doing just that.
Its just seems so cramped. But maybe there's something more intimate to it.
Big things do happen in tiny places.
You, tangled in my limited space, your stuff climbing out of a backpack sitting by the door, half on the carpet and half on the hardwood floor. Some change from your jean pocket spilled out under the bed. Unpacked just enough, you seem comfortable, and so am I.
I never knew how to guess you like this with me into existence.
Sharing small moments squeezed into a limited space in time.
This compressed affair must fit your schedule fine, but I want you here like this as long as I can have it.
I couldn't have asked for a better stop watch, but next time I'm breaking the batteries and you're staying longer.

Nudged by North Carolina

It ended with The Fair. Or maybe started... Eyes opened to only half-slits, I narrowly slithered my way through the swarms of fair folks, requesting only two things from my companions- Funnel Cake and the Ferris Wheel. I must have looked as fucked up as felt- mouth wide like a child lost in wonderment. I slowly regained my composure while trying not to lose my mood. Giddy, drunk and surrounded; for once I was too distracted to be judgmental, but that could have been the pills and the bourbon. Or maybe it was slipping into the familiar warm feeling of a sense of belonging (almost overwhelmed by a strange tickling desire). Home. I felt like I was home. But I think that welcoming had long settled before I set foot among the freaks.

If I hadn't loosened up by the time Monday rolled around and the idea of going to The Fair was first presented, then that day made it all possible. But trust me, I was loose. Saturday morning landed me in cool and crisp North Carolina air. Sunlight splashing leaves with their last chance of green, I already knew every event all together would be delicious and inviting. Gelato 'round the campus, crisscrossing around town to bargain shop, a surprise pumpkin purchase, clamoring to catch up over a still-hot brunch at an ever-increasingly cold bench table, falling asleep reading, smoking weed to laugh at nothing and everything. Nothing could be more splendid than the people I love bringing it all back home.

So naturally, getting up with the boys on Monday morning was perfect. Not even noon yet and we were already high as a kite and headed to the neighborhood park. Mind you, plotting an out-of-town visit on somebody else's day off can be tough (much less adding another pal with an unexpected day-off), but this execution could be in the books. Once at the park, the boys played tennis and I flirted nearby. God how I missed the company of men! After doing a little yoga and pretending to jumping rope, I walked over to the baseball diamonds to investigate. By then the mowers had arrived and the grass and dried leaves were flaking dust everywhere. The mower by the Little League field and I exchanged obligatory waves. We exchanged admirations as well, he for my tight red pants, I for his sunglasses. It had become pretty bright out, and my eyes were naked to it. I didn't mind though, either the brightness of the sun, or his staring through the tinted lenses.

I watched him aimlessly for a minute as I made my way to the closest base- Third- and smirked at my stupid thought, whens the last time I've gone to Third Base with a man? Standing on the plate I decided it would be better luck to walk toward Home than Second (to increase my chances of figuratively getting back on the bases again) so I did. Suddenly it seemed I was upon the little caged cut out Home. My right black Chuck touched the plate far faster than I ever remember as a kid. Surely I just imagined it being that short, or maybe I was still stoned. I peered back at the boys and decided to continue on to First Base to double check my distance. Same results. Short. Unsatisfied with the results, I ran to Second. And then to Third. I rounded the base and trotted into Home, again planting my feet firmly on the dusty plate. Hmm.

Some things in life, I guess, seem a lot farther away when we're kids. I remember running my ass off to get to any base possible when I played softball- especially Home. Silly permed curls flapping from under my helmet, god how embarrassing. Now its just a short little walk through a big dusty field.

I stood for a moment and sighed. Then, after my seeming existential moment on the field, I stumbled back to the boys and we decided to go shopping for more existential moments, this time in the shape of words, not plates (i.e. the best damn used bookstore in Raleigh). More casual flirting ensued, this time amongst a dust of a different kind, old books and narrow aisles. There's nothing sexier than thumbing through text with a man you find attractive. Well, unless you're in bed together and one of those books hits the floor in a startling slap due to the decision to forgo reading.

This is where I should have known things would only get freakier. And we haven't even gotten to The Fair. Never fantasize about your best friend's best friend. Even if you know they delight in it too, because no matter what, it will always be a fantasy.

Anyway, so we leave the two dusty worlds and move on to lighter places of cups of coffee and afternoon movies, cocktails and clouds of smoke. We all decide The Fair is definitely on the list as it will cover dinner and the night's entertainment. The question of do you like pills comes up... pfft, of course... and sooner than later we've taken a muscle relaxer and had another stiff drink or two and are on the way to The fucking NC State Fair. Fabulous.

It is just as I imagine it would be. Return to my previous statement, by now I must look so fucked up that even the freaks are in hiding. A hot dog is in due order, but first the virgin ride, as the most important rule of The Fair is no puking. We buy our tickets and hop on some rickety monstrosity that immediately takes one soldier down. He is nauseated and not interested in riding anymore. He simply wants to smoke cigarettes and watch, maybe eat something and settle his stomach. So, we all grab a dog post-hast, and sit a spell, determining that there's no turning back- the flirt and I are both really fucked up and now left to our riding as a duo. These tickets must be used.

Now, maybe it was the booze talking, or maybe the pills or hell all of it, but I looked around the gritty Fairgrounds, and the man next to me and felt all at once dirty and sexy. In fact, I never knew The Fair could be so sexy. We climbed on one tumbler after another, the biggest Ferris Wheel on the grounds, the one that slides side to side, the roller coaster, the tea cups, we rode them all... meanwhile peering down at our Dad-like companion below, waving happily as each minute passed and his own tumbling tummy settled. On one screecher named the Wheel of Fire he realized that he forgot to hand over his glasses so in my sweetened state, I offered to tuck them in my bra for safe keeping. He of course excepted, and for the duration of our time clicked into medal chairs gliding through the chilly North Carolina air, I could feel the warmth of his face pressed on my chest.

We all walked away from the Wheel of Fire, the last and most violent of the rides, me and the flirt tumbled like a dryer left on too long, now feeling as woozy as Dad. And so the three amigos stumbled toward home, sharing a Funnel Cake along the way. Best damn Funnel Cake ever.

That night the flirt and I slept together. Not in the Biblical sense- we didn't even kiss. But just as warmly as I offered to hold his glasses, he whispered into the darkness, turn your body so I can nudge up against you, then pulled me tight to him and curled me into his nook. I felt at once warm and at home and slept all night.

Nudge. The perfect word. I had been nudged. By the flirt, by a well-needed vacation, by North Carolina. But now I am haunted by my former state, by the feeling of home. I know leaving Asheville was right. But, the feeling I have when I think of it, of all of it, is something I have tucked into my locket for safe keeping. A new image for that locked space. His fingertips carefully cradling the black frames, and I, trading the same care (accompanied by a sly grin) to slide them safely into the lace of my bra. Every time I see a man's glasses, I think of the NC State Fair, of a small, tender temple safe against my breast, and his arm across my shoulder where it came to rest in the darkness of night upon being nudged.

Maybe North Carolina will stay a fantasy, too. Let's hope Home will not be, where ever I can nudge my way into that.