Open Letter Series: #4

To the gentleman I met outside CC’s Saturday night:

While I appreciated the cigarette, I’m terribly sorry. I still can’t be “your woman”. I didn’t really feel like we hit it off considering I understood less than 13% of the words you slurred at me. When I said “I’d take down your number but my phone is dead” what I really meant is “I’d like to graciously end this conversation now and never see you again”. Luckily, you caught the “I’d really love if you isolated me from my friend group on the dance floor” subtext. Sometimes I just have a hard time saying what I mean, you know?

I didn’t mean to send you mixed messages when I wore that dress to a gay bar. I understand now how the effective use of all of those bobby pins might skew your perception of my sexual preferences. Even after I clearly stated them. I’m sorry! My straight roommate intervened before I could leave the house in my usual blue jeans and stocking cap. Had I stuck to the usual lesbian-wear, I’m sure we wouldn’t be having this discussion right now.

Here’s the deal: you like beautiful women? So do I. We had this conversation already, but I guess I wasn’t clear. Before you take this too hard, let me paint you a visual of my Sunday morning:

10:30am, after a 5 mile jog that I woefully underdressed for, standing on the corner of 4^th and Couch. There’s hot sauce in my cuticles and tire filth on my legs. See, the night before I was very nearly run over. Twice. Sometimes a girl needs to sit on the sidewalk and eat a burrito like an animal with her bare hands. People trying to park near said patch of sidewalk may find this inconvenient. Luckily, friends will punch moving vehicles to preserve your life and limb. Twice.

After roaming increasingly desperate circles for fifteen minutes I conclude my car (the sweet baby egg I’ve owned for less than a month) was towed. Unfortunately, this realization dawns on me the exact moment my phone dies. Bad weather continues to loom forebodingly. Clutched in my icy little paws: car keys, credit card, driver’s license, dead phone. By now I’m regretting the decision to forego hat and sweatpants in favor of tanning my alien pale bodyskin.

Commence icy drizzle and search for 1) a phone charger 2) a power outlet 3) a hot beverage. This is how I found myself riding an escalator into the depths of TJ Maxx hell at 11am on a Sunday morning. The checkout girl had a vaguely foreign accent and an impressive aversion to emotional display.

Ride the escalator back into the real world, clutching a TJ Maxx bag. Become aware of darkening bruises on right knee and shin.Wander into Starbucks number one. Coffee but no power outlet. Walk three blocks, locate second Starbucks. Locate power outlet. Locate Carrrl (or more accurately, beg Allison to come to the rescue). Die on the inside when you hear the cost to spring him from the joint. Commence two hours of YouTube videos, Words with Friends, and mindless Tumblr scrolling.

And that, my friend, is a day in the life.

So. Before you call to propose another coffee date, please envision a 25-year-old woman shivering in a dark corner of Starbucks, listening to Ellen Page’s coming-out speech, and clutching a lukewarm latte. Delete my number. Be glad you dodged this bullet.

I’m glad we could have this talk. I'm sure you're a very nice fellow. 

-b

Tips for surviving a winter apocalypse

Day 1

Joke about emergency weather reports flooding social media. Tell stories about the year it snowed two feet overnight. Remember your car buried to the bumper. Discuss Portland weather. Discuss Portland snow removal tactics. Note: this will be a brief discussion. Remember Driver’s Ed. when you were 15. They drove you to an icy parking lot, pulled the e-brake so you’d know how it feels to lose control.

When the snow starts, leave work. Make sure your Montana friends know about your “snow day”. Stop by Trader Joes for a frozen dinner and 2 Buck Chuck. Contemplate buying actual survival supplies. Decide against it.

Spend five hours on your couch. Realize it’s the first time you’ve been in the same room with all four of your roommates ever. Don’t look outside. Drink beer. Watch The Heat three times. Establish a seating plan complete with 12 minute rotations. Drink wine. Around 10pm pool your resources for a nacho masterpiece.

Day 2

Drive 45 minutes for three hours of work. Only slide through one red light.

Drive your roommate to the grocery store. Contemplate buying actual survival supplies. Decide against it. Panic when faced with the very real possibility you won’t make it to a store again for several days. Buy vitamins, one 16 oz. steak, and a bottle of wine.

Eat the steak immediately when you get home. Trust me, you won’t regret this. Convince yourself you’ll be a productive human in your bed with a glass of wine. Intend to write a poem. Watch three episodes of Mad Men instead.

Stumble downstairs for the Olympic Opening Ceremony. Drink wine. Narrate the first hour and a half over Facebook chat. Regret your decision to not buy the meatballs.

Day 3

Decide you can’t spend another day drinking on the couch. Suit up to drink somewhere else. Make sure to overdress. Always overdress because you hate being soggy. You’ll get soggy anyways, but you’ll feel better knowing you tried. Walk 1.5 miles to bottomless mimosas. Drink for three and a half hours. Make new friends. Hit them in the face with snowballs.

Trek to Allison’s house. Play cards. Drink wine. Play Jenga. Lose your keys. Give your friend an elbow hickey. Make snow angels. Lose your hat. Order two shots of winter from the bar around the corner. Winter tastes suspiciously similar to whiskey. Lose your mind.

Watch the Skins finale with your head on her shoulder, tucked into her bed. Cry. It’s ok, really.

Just cry.

Day 4

Crave tacos. Crave pizza. Crave sushi. Crave nachos.

Fantasize about eating an entire rotisserie chicken. Use your bare hands. All you have left is potatoes. Discuss which pet you would eat first in an emergency situation. Regret your decision to not buy the meatballs.

Crave curry. Crave cheeseburgers. Crave and crave and crave and crave.

Walk to the nearest Plaid Pantry for a $5 turkey sandwich that might kill you. Buy two ciders instead of the 6-pack. Buy your roommate the lotto ticket with the lion. Feel satisfied with your adult decision.

Spend the rest of the day in your bed. Don’t look outside.

Day 5

At this point your body will become physically incapable of sleeping even one more second. Try to trick is by lying very still in your bed. Listen to birds. Listen to ice melt. Contemplate whether or not real life ever existed. Be glad you are not a bird. Wonder when you showered last. Decide it’s unimportant.

Meet Allison for lunch. Watch ice melt. Consider calling your grandmother, but maybe your voice doesn’t work. But maybe you don’t remember how to human. But maybe another time would be better. Walk your roommate’s fat dog. Avoid street rivers. Consider writing a poem. Stare at a wall instead. Keep breathing.

Celebrate the melting with friends. With tortas. With margaritas. With bar hour. With the Tik Tok corner booth and nowhere to go but back to the real.

Day 6

Wake up. 

-b

The war is over, and we are Beginning.

The morning after the truce, after I love you sounded like I’m sorry. Standing in your kitchen. The sun looking like winter might end even though it won’t. You hand me six kumquats, say one for each month.

My eyes feels like bruised fruit. I eat the first while tying my shoes. Focus on the bitter in my mouth, my breathing. My two eyes watch my hands to make sure they stay my hands. I don't look at you because I don’t know how yet.

The second in the car while I'm pulling away. Watch you get smaller like a picture of yourself.  

The third in my empty kitchen, spitting seeds into the sink. I'm mourning the We gobbled up by Almost.  

Upstairs, I cradle the fourth under my tongue for an entire afternoon. I can't swallow anything with your name caught in my throat.

With the fifth I kiss every piece of me you would if you were here: hip, thigh, glide across the stomach, the sternum. I trace my palms and believe in life lines for the first time. They race like water to the edge of my hand.

I carry the sixth into my backyard. I want to bury this, but winter. But nothing seems to grow after I’ve touched it. But I never met your father. But bars at 2am. The sun is all knees and trembling hands. I miss when your face looked like your face.

I don’t know where the truth ends and metaphors begin, but I think that’s where I live. Here is what I know: I never meant to miss you so long. 

-b