Dating Portlandia: The Comedian

So.

I'm reading this book on attachment. Called 'Attached.' 

It was actually recommended to me by a boy. 

Boys reading books about relationships? Mind blown. 

It was actually really funny when I went to Powell's to buy it.

I went to the information booth just to save time and asked the kid there if they had it. 

Yeah they had it.

"Purple room. Relationships. Self help."

The kid said it three times as he was writing, probably louder than he needed to. 

"Purple room. Relationships. Self help."

Yes I get it. 

You think I'm one of "those girls." 

Those pathetic, lonely, sad, little girls wanting another book on relationships to help her try and solve the mystery of her single life. 

For your information, the book was recommended to me by a man. 

That's right, a MAN. 

With a penis. 

A huge penis, which I experienced. Repeatedly!

So get off my nuts!

I may have overreacted slightly. Thankfully I internalized that explosive rant and demurely smiled and thanked him for his assistance. 

The smug bastard. 

I knew I wanted to read the book because Ireland had brought it up on one of our dates and when he described the traits of a person with anxious attachment I felt like he had cut open my brain and was reading the hard wiring. Yep. 

That sounded like me, alright. 

And leave it to me to have the attachment titled Anxious. 

Because Secure would be way too boring for this vortex of chaos. 

The first chapter describes a relationship between a girl with Anxious attachment dating a guy with Avoidant attachment.

And it's literally exactly my relationship with Sheldon. 

Like draw dropping details. 

It's both comforting and infuriating when you realize your life is so basic it's a chapter in a book. 

A self help book. 

Relationships. 

Purple room. 

I realized that my attraction to Ireland was a repetition of my past. 

Like Sheldon, he too was an Avoidant which is why both men never complimented me. 

Withholding was one of the many ways an Avoidant keeps their distance. 

Why that was so attractive is beyond me. 

Though I think it's much simpler than any psychology: his kisses made my knees wobble. 

And any man whose mouth on mine makes me that dizzy? 

He can pretty much behave however he wants and I'm gonna keep going back for more. 

Because most of the boys in Portlandia don't kiss like that. 

Most. 

But I met another one who does. 

Like most of my first dates I wasn't expecting much. 

There are some that incite a greater level of excitement than others and this kid, the Comedian, made me laugh. 

Any man who can make me laugh with a text I know is going to make me laugh in person. 

And I had subconsciously convinced myself nothing would come of it because even though I brought my hot heel booties in the car I left my flats on. 

I wasn't trying to impress. 

And the date I'd gone on days prior I wore my sexiest little number, peep toe heels to boot. 

Don't ask me why. 

I have no rational reason. 

Except bachelor number one must have made me feel I needed to up my game.

And the comedian made me feel more comfortable. 

Or maybe I was just worried I'd get drunk and slip in my heels in the rain. 

I was myself the whole time. 

I mean, I'm always myself but this time I wasn't mostly myself with a hint of demure self restraint like I normally am. 

I was my balls to the walls full out sassafras self. 

I even admitted to the Comedian that when I heard my neighbor bawling outside my door earlier that day my first thought was, That's really distracting. I'm trying to edit. 

I'm such an asshole. 

But he just laughed and told me how sexy I was. 

And I was glad we were going to another bar. 

Before we left he said he'd be right back.

And for a moment I wondered if he was actually just leaving. 

And I thought what a funny story that would make. 

My date abandoning me. 

Then I remembered how charming and adorable I am and I confidently waited for him to return. 

I looked up and he was standing outside in the rain with an umbrella. 

He'd gone to his car to get an umbrella. How adorable was he? 

Guess that makes two of us.

We got to the next bar and as I set my coat on the bar stool I thought how large the table was and how far away he was going to be when he sat down across from me. 

I looked up and realized he was headed towards me and he scooped me up in a kiss before I knew what was happening. 

And there it was. 

That wobble in my knees. 

Oh. How I'd missed that feeling. 

I was like Juliet when she tells Romeo, "You kiss by the book." 

Though in some translations of the text they say she was actually mocking Romeo so who the fuck knows what Shakespeare was saying anyway. 

I'm saying, the man could kiss. 

Laughter and a knee wobble. 

I was in trouble. 

Then like some silly school girl I waited to hear from him. 

Guys have no idea what goes through our minds when they take forever to contact us after a date. 

Of course, we get overwhelmed if they contact us too much so really men just have to understand that we're crazy and nothing we do makes sense. 

Obviously. 

And they should just know what to do. Because we don't know what we want either. 

So I'm reading my book from the purple room, wondering why he hadn't texted me. 

Hello! Do you not see how fabulous I am! Tell me all about it!

And the book says that if an Anxious person feels unsettled in a relationship situation it takes minimal reassurance from their partner to get them back on track. 

And sure enough, a few pages later, he "liked" one of my stupid "moments" on stupid Tinder and I felt pretty again. 

I'm a fucking chapter in a fucking book.

My whole life is. 

But I still have no idea what's gonna happen. 

And I love that.  

And I can't wait to find out. 

Dating Portlandia: The Artist

The last time I saw Ireland was totally unexpected. 

We'd already said our goodbyes but then I ended up meeting up with him & a couple of his friends days before he left. 

They were two fabulous gay men. 

And gay men do love me. 

After all, I am their queen. 

One of them, within minutes of me being there, took out an old vintage Polaroid camera, even older then the one I got when I was nine, and he took my picture. He took several pictures of me at the table and when we went outside so the boys could smoke, he suddenly said, "Come with me." 

Excited, I asked if we were going over there and pointed to a wall that had beautiful colorful graffiti all along it. 

Sure enough, he told me to stand in front of the wall and he started taking my picture. 

I was high. 

Loving every second of it. 

When I was a little girl if I saw anyone with a camera I'd light up and tell them to take my picture.

Even though I've never smoked a day in my life I ran over to him and stole his cigarette, posing like some 50's pinup.

"You are such a dish," he said, the camera clicking away. 

Lost in the moment, as though under his spell, I forgot I was there to see my lover. 

The friends left shortly after that and I was still beaming from the photo shoot. 

I even told Ireland that that's what I wanted. 

I wanted to be someone's muse.

I'd forgotten what that felt like, to meet a guy who looked at me and immediately saw something, something that they wanted to capture, that they had to hold onto. 

I met a guy. 

He's an artist. 

And in the middle of the date he said he wanted to sketch me. 

I'm certain I actually blushed. 

Jesus, was I to be the Rose to his Jack a la Titanic? 

Who DOES that? 

Sketch me?

But the way he looked at me proved he wasn't merely flattering me. 

Later, I looked at him and said, "You're really intense."  

This must be how I make my dates feel. He was literally a male version of me. 

It kinda freaked me out. 

But I wasn't sure what freaked me out. 

If it was actually him and the way he looked so deep into my eyes I swear he was reading my thoughts.

Or the fact that he was so aggressive he literally sat beside me on the bench, blocking my escape. 

Or the fact that I was actually getting what I wanted. 

It was like I had willed the universe to make me someone's muse. 

And all I ever seem to attract are the withholders and the avoiders who never tell me I'm beautiful. 

This guy told me my face was so beautiful it made him hard. 

"I don't even have to see the rest of your body. Your face is enough."

I mean, holy shit. 

On my first date with Ireland he said the waiter was cute. 

He paid me no compliments.

Zero. 

This guy was already envisioning me as a painting. 

I wasn't used to that. 

In fact I hadn't been around a man who made me feel so captivating since Narcissus. 

And that was ten years ago. 

I guess it makes sense why I felt overwhelmed when he texted me right away. 

Where was the withholding and the mind games and the inconsistencies?

This.......this was something entirely different. 

And it had been so long it felt like a stranger to me. 

It was unnerving to feel like I wasn't the one dominating my date. 

This guy could handle me. 

I didn't make him nervous. 

I made him inspired. 

And that freaked me the fuck out. 

Dating Portlandia: The Goth Cowboy

I'm definitely not the same girl I was ten years ago.

I went on a date with a cowboy.

He grew up on a dairy farm. 

But he wore black nail polish, hoop earrings, a necklace & an assortment of bracelets on his wrists. 

It's not a real turn on for me when my date is more accessorized than I am.

I'm the cute one, dammit. 

All eyes on me. 

Once I dated this guy who always liked to sit at the bar when we'd go out.

It's a different aesthetic feeling part of the scene where the action is and conversation with the bartenders was always interesting, to be certain. 

But one night the bartenders at Barlow were more interested in my dates ensemble than my own. 

And that was the end of sitting at the bar.

Next date we went to Driftwood Room and as we walked in he asked if I wanted to sit at the bar.

Oh no. 

Let's sit right over here. 

Tucked neatly in this dark corner where you have no distraction but ME.

Cut to my goth cowboy. 

In spite of his accoutrement abundance there was something about him that was attractive. 

It could have been the dumb way he kept grinning at me. 

"You're like the sun.....I can't look at you for too long or I'll go blind."

Jesus. 

Did he really just say that?

SO fucking cheesy. 

And yet I willingly drank the cheesiness in like some famished little mouse, every last drop of it. 

He just had such earnest in his eyes. 

It was endearing. 

That's my favorite, you know.

The way men look at you when they think they might get to sleep with you but they still don't know. 

They hope. 

I found myself, in spite of myself, wishing he'd slide up next to me in the booth and kiss me. 

Instead.

He asked me for my hand. 

He HELD my HAND.

It was beyond awkward. 

That's supposed to be sweet but it just felt so corny.

I couldn't hold his hand for very long. 

It was the length of time that goes from slightly awkward to painfully uncomfortable. 

And there was nothing I could do but giggle out of feigned modesty and subtly wrench my hand away from his grasp.

Then, ten minutes later, because the date hadn't been sufficiently awkward enough yet, he was telling me how he was into BDSM.

He even had PICTURES!

"Look. This is me tied up."

That's nice. 

The visual aids really take it up a notch. 

Too many genres going on. 

Too many accessories. 

Too many boxes I had no idea which one to put him in. 

And when he did kiss me goodnight all I could think was how much I wanted Taco Bell to chase all those Manhattans. 

Then again. 

First dates are rarely a reflection on your connection with someone. 

But I doubt there will be a second one. I'm not really into whipping someone. You can pull my hair but you can't lash me. 

And you can't hold my hand at the damn table. 

Have some dignity man. 

Hopeless Unromantic

I'm watching 'Pushing Daisies' for the first time. 

Which is a little ridiculous, I know, considering the show was on the air years ago, back when people still read books instead of playing with their iPhones & Bush was still in the White House. 

My best friend has been encouraging me to watch the show for ages, not just because it's cute but because she knows how much I love Kristin Chenoweth, Broadway Goddess. 

And the show IS cute. 

But.

It's also incredibly sentimental & so saccharin sweet I find myself slightly nauseated. 

I didn't used to be so pragmatic.

I guess age does that. 

I met this couple once who'd recently gotten engaged & when I asked how he proposed she told me this story about how on their first date he gave her flowers & a box with all these different things that related to what they were gonna do on their date. 

'Had you met before, were you already friends?' I queried. 

No.

It was their first date. 

And for the proposal he asked for the box back saying he hadn't used it for one of their dates in awhile & then put the engagement ring under a bunch of marshmallows in the box. 

Yes. 

Marshmallows.

They ended up having s'mores on the beach. 

I politely smiled throughout her story & validated it with the required "that's so sweet."

When the reality was I thought if any guy ever gave me a box of activities along with flowers the first time he met me I'd think he was a giant wackadoo. 

Let's take it down a notch, sweetie. 

Maybe we can just start with you buying my Old Fashioned. 

I might have thought that was adorable ten years ago. 

But now? 

It's just so over the top. 

It's like a bad movie script for some rom com I wouldn't like starring Katherine Heigl.

That bitch annoys the hell outta me. 

I've become more of a practical Carrie Bradshaw. 

Remember when she was dating the Russian & they were headed to the opera & she's in the couture gown he spoiled her with & a string quartet is playing in the street & he asks her to dance & she faints & then looks at him & says, It's too much. You gotta take it down a notch. I'm a New Yorker.

And so instead they go to McDonalds & have a night that isn't dripping in sappy romance novel events. 

I feel the same way. 

But I feel guilty for not being a mushy gushy hopeless romantic anymore. 

I used to be. 

Back when I thought I was gonna marry the guy I lost my V card to. 

I wonder whatever happened to that fucker.....

I think I just feel like real love is so much simpler. 

And there's something ingenuine about it when it's so showy. 

This coming from the most flashy dramatic diva Portlandia's ever seen. 

But I don't want my great Love Story to be that way. 

I'm enough sparkle for my life.  

If I find love, I want it to merely shimmer, in a subtle way. 

Just the way it is. 

Uncomplicated.

Pure.

Passion.

That's just the kinda girl I am. 

Too Much for Even the Biggest Pricks

So I solved the mystery of the IG Block. 

It was another woman. 

Or rather. 

I was the other woman. 

I've been cast in that role so many times I'm beginning to think I'm being type cast. 

Except anyone who thinks I should be waiting in the wings instead of front & center, cue spotlight, hold applause,

Clearly hasn't met me.

I'm not the Supporting Actress. 

I'm the DIVA. 

'This girl I'm in a relationship with, she's not my girlfriend, wasn't comfortable with the level of intimacy between us on social media.'

I don't know what I was expecting him to say but it definitely wasn't that. 

I'm sorry. 

What??!

All I commented on the picture was, "What a doll."

So your not girlfriend is feeling possessive about some gorgeous woman calling you a doll & your knee jerk reaction is to block me?

She does know we fucked, right?

Or is that not obvious to the entire female sex that you're incapable of monogamy?

He's like a modern day Don Juan or Don Draper, minus the alcoholism. 

But I didn't care!

Hell.

He was a Transition. 

Every woman needs a great lay after a great heartache & I treasured my time with him. 

It was exactly what I needed. 

I just thought we were on the same page about how casual it all was.

I didn't realize he thought I was monograming our matching robes. 

I don't think anything is more frustrating to me than when someone has the wrong impression of me. 

I went on several dates with this one guy ages ago & I thought things were going swimmingly. 

He was a total Baldwin & I felt like I could be myself with him. 

I imagined he would eventually become FBO & we'd post all sorts of annoyingly cute photos together. 

Then on our last date he said, "I wanna know what you're really like. You seem disingenuous. No one is that bubbly all the time."

I was LIVID. 

I haven't walked out on very many dates. But I gave that guy the what for & stormed out of there. 

I may be a lot of things.

I may be Histrionic & a Drama Queen, I may be emotional & uncensored. I may even be bat shit crazy. 

But I am NOT disingenuous. 

I'm the most genuine woman you'll ever meet!

The same guy told me he didn't like the way my outfits attracted attention from other men.

I thought men wanted every other guy in the room to admire the gal on his arm?

And among the other asinine ramblings of Ireland, he said he was weirded out that I'd created a GoFund account. 

OhMyGod!

It was a joke!

A fucking joke!

"I don't have to explain my art to you."

(Name the movie reference, have Baller Status).

It was also an experiment. 

I kinda wanted to see if anyone would actually donate. 

I mean, who the hell am I to ask anyone for anything?

But why the hell not?

Sheldon is always trying to convince me to stream on Twitch because those broads make stacks of cash. 

And ultimately, I would like to make money doing these projects. 

Because I love doing them. 

And isn't getting paid to do what we love everyone's goal?

So after his long distance kiss off I went to my GoFund site to delete it. 

Because it weirded him out & I was never gonna see him again anyway. 

So why not. 

And then I saw it. 

I'd received a donation. 

Holy shit. 

It worked!

Years ago I used to blog all the time. 

I was sassy & unfiltered. 

And I loved sharing my diary with the world. 

One entry I'd offended a bunch of people at work & I doubted myself & thought, Maybe I should be more censored. Maybe I should stop writing all together. 

And that same week I got an invite to a casting call for a movie. 

A girl who'd never seen me act, but who followed my blog wanted me to audition. 

She wrote that there was a part she thought would suit me well, because of my spunk & personality. And that the role demanded a lot from the actor & if I was that raw & vulnerable with my writing that must translate into my acting as well. 

My blog landed me a film audition. 

I got cast which led to all sorts of other connections & opportunities. 

And I almost silenced myself for THEM. 

And I almost took down my GoFund for HIM.

And I am done thinking I need to change for those that can't handle me. 

I'm not like everyone else. 

And I'm not for everyone. 

But that's part of what makes me so fucking fabulous. 

FUCK YEAH. 

*the gofund will no longer be for getting me to Ireland. But it will be for going somewhere. Where? We'll just have to wait & see*

This Bitch has been Silenced

Every time I've ever gotten a sore throat, I feel like the Universe is telling me to shut the fuck up. 

Because I could have just gotten a cold or the flu or been practicing digestive pyrotechnics all night. 

But no. 

My throat hurts. 

It hurts to swallow.

It hurts to speak. 

I CAN'T TALK. 

There's some metaphor there somewhere. 

Oh yeah. 

Shut your pie hole, Ginger. 

Im a communicator.

I'm an OVER communicator. 

Over sharer, verbose explainer, doesn't pause or hold back any syllable talker. 

My co worker told me last week he didn't see me ever going into management. 

When I queried he said, "Because you don't really have a filter."

Oh right. 

THAT. 

I had a lover tell me once I was so emotional.

And I communicated every emotion. 

Which saves me the scrilla and hours on a therapists couch. 

But also means people think I'm a little nuts. 

That's cool. 

Who wants Mounds when you can have an Almond Joy?

I don't really like coconut.  

So instead of having the energy to do anything I normally would I get to just lay here. 

No sound. 

As a singer it pisses me off having a sore throat. 

Can't I just have a tummy ache?

I'm supposed to have a phone date tomorrow with Ireland regarding his recent douchery. 

Well. 

That's my summation. 

He may have a different "spin" on things. 

But if I feel like this I'm not gonna get to say much. 

Guess that means I'll just have to listen. 

Ha ha. 

Very funny, Life. 

You think you're SO clever. 

Well. 

I'm a talker.

But I'm also a writer. 

I WILL NEVER BE SILENCED!!! 

Though. 

There's definitely no sound.

I guess I'm sorta silenced. 

Damn vocal chords. 

I wish Mom was here to make me soup. 

Maybe I DO want a boyfriend. 

But only when I'm sick & can't get my dress unzipped!!

On second thought. 

I bet I could train Cartier to work a can opener. 

M-E-O-W. 

Block Deez Nuts

Ireland blocked me on Instagram. 

I didn't even know you could block someone on IG. 

I actually had to Google it because I was like, Why can't I see his pictures anymore?

B-L-O-C-K-E-D!

Let me back up for a moment. 

When he saw the video I'd posted he "politely requested I remove it immediately."

Mother of Pearl was I pissed. 

One: I poured hours into editing that project. 

B: It literally took a full HOUR to render & upload.

And D: Where was his flattery & amusement? 

I wanted him to feel appreciated not freaked out. 

Clearly our comfort level with social media bordered on the bi polar. 

I shared everything with anyone.

And he didn't even use Facebook. 

How could two people who had insane chemistry be so wildly different?

So. 

I changed my video for the Fucker. 

No, it wasn't just for him. 

I'd forgotten to include my intro which really pissed me off. 

(What is this amateur hour?)

And I conceded that using anyone's first name was probably a privacy violation. 

Blah blah fine whatever. 

Re edited re rendered. 

Re video ed. 

And now this.

Blocked from a photo site? 

What the eff?!

Now what did I do?

I can't handle people that are so S.e.n.s.i.t.i.v.e 

Grow a pair.

My balls are bigger than yours. 

That is not sexy.

What's next?

Is my dick gonna be bigger too?

That would be quite an accomplishment, let me tell you. 

Relationships are complicated. 

Exhaustingly unnecessarily smacking your head against the coffee table complicated. 

I'm not a placater.

I'm not gonna pretend I'm fine when I'm not. 

And I'm not gonna kiss your ass just because it was the best sex of my life. 

No. 

No no no. 

I am 100% all in, raw, uncensored CLEAR about who I am, bat shit crazy, direct bitch. 

If it cannot be handled by your well manicured hands then leave the hell alone. 

Explanation pending. 

But one thing is for sure. 

I'm no longer saving for my airfare. 

I can only imagine what would unfold in forced isolation together. 

Not enough orgasms in the world. 

Well.....

No. 

My Ex Lover Isn't Dead

I saw my married ex-lover. 

It had been, like, three years. 

Maybe longer.

I honestly can't remember the last time I saw him. 

Apparently he had seen me since then. 

Once I crossed the street and I actually walked right in front of his car.

Once we ended up at the same bar but he didn't come say hi. 

I wanted to see him.

I wanted to look at him and feel completely different. 

I wanted to feel like, I'm not attracted to you at all anymore. 

Not even a little bit. 

But I still thought he was cute. 

I've known him for more than 10 years.

I thought he was cute when I met him. 

I don't think I will ever not think he's cute. 

Our time together was surreal.

I told him he felt kind of like a stranger and he said he kind of was. 

That's the thing with relationships, lovers friendships, if you don't make time to stay connected you lose the connection.

It's never the same as when you both invested so much time into it. 

I asked him if he was nervous and he said a little. 

I felt like when I was talking I wasn't even really listening to what I was saying and when he was talking I was only half listening to what he was saying. 

I spent most of the time half outside myself as though I was just looking down watching it all in disbelief. 

I didn't know if I was ever going to see him again. 

I'm sure his wife wouldn't be thrilled to know he bought me Jameson. 

Nothing happened.

I don't think either of us thought anything would. 

Though I'm not sure I would've stopped it if something had. 

I might be more Histrionic than I'd like.

We went to Ron Tom's on a Saturday night. 

I hadn't been out on a Saturday night in ages.

I forgot what Portlandia is like.

All the bros and the girls in their slutiest dresses and the wobbly people gathering off Burnside. 

It feels like a different city. 

I felt old. 

I just wanted to talk. 

Or sleep.

I was exhausted before I even saw him.

It was weird because you think if you hadn't seen somebody for that long you would have so much to say to each other. 

But I almost felt conversation was somewhat forced. 

I didn't really know what to say. 

I didn't really know what I wanted him to say. 

When I got home what I felt surprised the hell out of me. 

I didn't long for my lover in Dublin. 

I didn't revel in the solace of being alone. I suddenly craved Sheldon. 

The kid I'd dumped ages ago. 

But not in a sexual or even romantic way. I just wished he was in my apartment.

I longed for his company. 

I guess the heart wants what the heart wants. 

And I don't think my heart has a strong connection to the logic in my brain. 

When I realized who I was craving I felt like, where the hell did that come from??

How long has that been sitting in the recesses of my mind?

But I think it's because the closeness I had felt all those years with my married ex lover I now felt with him. 

He was the man in my life who knew me better than I cared to admit.

And as much as I like to think that so many other things are so important, at the end of the day all you really want is your best friend. 

He may not be the most handsome or the best boyfriend or the best sex. 

But he gets you, he accepts you and he still loves you even though he's seen who you really are.

All the men in my life keep asking me what I want. 

My ex-lover asked me that night what I wanted. 

Coworkers I'm not even close to ask me what I want. 

Dates during our dates and before our dates ask me. 

I don't know. 

I don't know what I want anymore. 

I'm not the same girl I used to be who knew exactly what she wanted. 

And I resent the fact that everyone expects me to have it figured out. 

Because maybe even if I thought I did, I'd change my mind. 

And I'd rather just keep it open. 

Because as this week proved, sometimes the things we think have long passed, show up unexpectedly. 

I really just have no idea anymore.

And I'm fine with that.