Dating Portlandia: The Surprise Ending

I should have taken it as an omen when he wanted to meet at Space Room.

Space Room isn't just a dive bar in Portlandia.

It's the kind of dive bar where you're afraid you're gonna catch the clap from using the bathroom. 

The walls are black, the gambling machines are neon, and I don't even want to think about what's making the benches so sticky. 

BUT--

I am nothing if not open minded (and judging him shamelessly while being so) so I said, Sure, let's meet there. 

Because who doesn't love a scary dive bar to set the mood.

I went for a run before the date.

Yeah. I can't believe it either. I've always HATED running. Any woman with DD breasts will understand why running sucks. But I discovered a way to securely strap the ladies down--three bras to be exact, one underwire, one sport, and one sport that's too small--which basically created a corset for my boobs and voila! I can run! It's a miracle! It also gives me fabulous cleavage which is great because who doesn't love a sweaty redhead with cleavage up to her eyebrows. 

But dive bar or no, I didn't want to wear my running clothes on my date. 

My dresses are soooooooo much cuter.

So I got to the bar a little early so I could change in the bathroom.

Now I use the term "bathroom" loosely as it was the size of a closet and not even wide enough for two people to fit in the entryway. 

I nearly tripped on a girl waiting to use the one stall.

Though in her drunken stupor she graciously let me go ahead of her.

While I changed the two ladies loudly discussed their evening thus far with the kind of slur usually reserved for sorority girls.

Then the bathroom door went flying open and some guy started yelling at the Delta Nu pledges.

Now I am all for a good bar brawl.

I will probably even film it and turn it into a vine. 

But not while I'm naked and trapped in the closet bathroom of ickiness.

The girls managed to leave the bathroom with their pimp and I went flying out of the bar with gusto.

Gusto? Does anybody ever actually say gusto?

I immediately texted my date and informed him that since I was nearly a casualty in a bar fight I was going to mosy -

Mosy? Seriously why am I talking like a southern grandmother?

mOsy over to the Sapphire Hotel, a bar that was the Dom Perignon to the Pabst that was Space Room.

Thankfully my date was adaptable and he joined me at one of my favorite bars in Portlandia.

Conversation was fine and he was cute enough.

But truthfully?

I felt like I was on one of those dates where he just wasn't that into me. 

No bother.

You win some you lose some. 

So as we walked out I prepared myself for a hearty handshake and a fare thee well.

But to my surprise he leaned in and kissed me. 

A long, hard kiss.

If my life were a movie that would have been the moment I gasped, "Oh!" like a cartoon and then burst into song with the chorus something like, "He likes me! He really likes me!"

But since my life isn't a movie I just stared at him. 

Dumbfounded. 

"Where'd you park?" He asked. 

'Um. Over there.'

We walked towards my car while I tried to process what parts of the date gave me any indication that he'd want to kiss me. 

We got to my car and he kissed me again. 

Actually he kissed me a LOT.

If my life were a movie this would be the post prom teenage make out scene. 

He kissed me with that same level of desperate intensity. 

Then I started laughing. 

Like, stupidly, incessantly laughing. 

"What are you giggling about?" He asked me.

I hesitantly started to speak. 

Then I blurted out, 'I don't know your name!'

I didn't realize until that moment that I had no idea who I'd been on a date with.

I am SUCH a whore. 

On to the Next

I will say one thing--

Ha.

One thing.

You know I'm gonna say a lot of fucking things.

But that one thing is, that going through that shit with Sheldon and his future ex wife really lit a fire in my soul about what I will and will not put up with.

From this day forward I have ZERO tolerance for bullshit.

The days of being a nice girl who settles for what she gets are fucking over. 

I had TWO men this week, not one but two, reveal to me their bullshit mentalities and in both instances I said, Buh Bye.

Bullshit One-The Phantom.

Yes. 

It was very lovely that he called to say such swell things out of fucking nowhere.

Was it?

The point of which was.......waving a white flag?

This is my problem with tokenism.

When he got off the phone with me he was meeting his friends for brunch. 

He was meeting his FRIENDS.

His actual friends. 

The people who mattered enough to spend time with. 

Do you know how many weeks I'd been asking to see him?

How many weeks I'd practically BEGGED to see him because I was so worried about him because he nearly died and because I desperately needed closure?

TWELVE.

Twelve mother fucking weeks.

T-W-E-L-V-UH!!

The mother fucker is up and at 'em, out of his death bed, pep in his step, back in the classroom and his beloved work place and he has time to spend with his real friends. 

And time to give ME a Phone. Call.

It was a grand gesture.

I'll give him that. 

But the PROBLEM with his gesture, like every interaction we've ever had together  is that it's merely words.

Words. Upon words. And words. And more fucking perfect poetic words.

But No ACTION.

Never.

None.

Judge a man by his actions and his actions said I meant N O T H I N G to him.

Do you think he made time to see me that week after that phone call?

Of course not.

Why would he?

He'd offered his blatant fawning & flattery and that was ALL I'd ever been worth. 

When he called me last month it was praise upon compliment upon poetry any woman would dream of hearing. 

But then did he follow through on that as he promised?

FUCK NO.

I not only didn't SEE him, like he said, I DIDN'T EVEN HEAR FROM HIM FOR TWO WEEKS!!

So I gave it some good long real hard thinkin' and came to one stubbornly resolute conclusion:

He doesn't get to be my friend. 

We aren't friends. 

He is a horrible friend. 

One of my favorite theatre professors said once, Don't let what others choose to do influence what YOU do.

And it was a lovely gesture on his part to send positive words my direction. 

But it did not mean I needed to suddenly let this inconsistent, chaotic force back into my life, whose only behavior has shown me that he never means what he says. 

And he never does what he says he will. 

One week before his outpour?

He texted me that he needed space and the context was pretty much, Take a fucking hint, woman. 

I'm not exaggerating. 

It was harsh as fuck.

So No.

There will be no frolicking in the rose garden, no catching up over the last twelve fucking weeks.

He wanted space. 

Well he was gonna fucking get space. 

He never even knew me because he Never. Made. Time for me.

If I was really his friend he would have made time to see me right away. 

It would have been important to him. 

And he certainly would have responded to my question of what prompted him to call me in the first place.

But he never texted back. 

He never answered what should have been an easy question.

And I was tired of this boring game he was playing. 

The second gentleman I bid adieu to this week was the date I was supposed to meet for round two of debauchery last night. 

Truthfully?

I wasn't expecting a second encounter. 

But he'd been determined in texts to cross our paths again and nothing is more flattering than a man who is determined. 

And who backs up that determination with what he DOES and doesn't just compare my beauty to a summer's day. 

So he tried to make tentative plans with me for Saturday but since rehearsal started and I don't have as many free eves, I'm certainly not going to pass on other dates for a guy who "yeah probably I think so" wants to meet. 

So I told him I'd make other plans if he wasn't sure and he said no let's meet. 

Ok.

Cool.

We're on the same page.

There was just one problem.

We didn't pick a PLACE.

I go into the city a lot but I don't live there. 

I'm about thirty minutes away from Portlandia.

So if I'm meeting someone there I need to know where I'm going. 

And I didn't hear from him ALL. DAY.

I had said if he wasn't sure he could meet that I'd make other plans.

But I didn't make other plans because he said we would meet. 

And then I was that girl waiting to hear from him.

Oh, heeeeeeell no.

Hey, Mother Fucker.  

Do you know how many invitations I had this weekend that I turned down for YOU?

You're short. 

And you know what else is short?

Yeah. 

You do.

So you're really not in the position to be acting like a dick because the only men who can get away with that kind of behavior are gorgeous and twice your size. 

And size.

And yes, he did finally text me, after when we'd agreed to meet, like I was supposed to go running to him, loyal dog that I was. 

Look.

Casual sex is great. 

Booty calls are awesome. 

But then I'll plan another date with someone else and maybe call you if I don't want to go home with HIM.

Don't waste my fucking time. 

A N Y  O F  Y O U.

I will choose my vibrator and a bottle of pink moscato over this shit any day. 

No one puts Resa in the corner. 

I'M THE FUCKING STAR.

The Wackadoo Within Escaped

I've been thinking about Sheldon lately. 

Unintentionally. 

I haven't really been talking about him. 

He's just been creeping into my thoughts.

It's weird not telling him about my life. 

The last thing he said to me was that he didn't want to climb with me and he wasn't going to see my show. 

I started climbing because of him. 

He's actually the reason I climbed the 60' wall when I did. 

He coerced me into trying it and then had Puppet film it because he knew I could do it even when I didn't. 

The same day Sheldon told me he wasn't going to see my show The Phantom of the Opera texted to say he would go. 

I would say that's the plot twist of the year. 

I've known The Phantom for three months and I've known Sheldon three years. 

I thought if one of them was going to come through for me it was going to be the man I had real history with. 

But people often surprise me. 

And sometimes not in a good way. 

It's only been a few weeks but I feel like there is so much I want to tell Sheldon. 

About my date with the Dom last week.

About The Phantom calling me. 

About topping out at the climbing gym.

About rehearsal starting. 

About Cartier turning two. 

And how I couldn't find that picture where he was holding Cartier as a kitten when they first met. 

Sheldon had a beard then. 

A lot was different then. 

But what really made me miss Sheldon was what happened with The Phantom. 

I'm crazy. 

If that wasn't already wildly evident. 

I'm a fucking LOON. 

(But in the most charming and adorable way. Obviously.)

Most of the time my nutbar alter ego stays locked up in the basement and doesn't misbehave. 

But occasionally when provoked or when made all the better after guzzling my weight in Jameson, the wackadoo that is Reese, climbs from the depths of the basement to throw her head back and wail at the moon. 

Or at the man whose had the insane urge to call her. 

I don't really know what came over me. 

Sexual frustration coupled with wounded pride.

My ego decided to violently lash out at the perfect penis that just wanted to be my "friend." 

I told him to delete me and leave me alone. 

I was tired of feeling rejected by him. 

We hadn't spent any time together the past two months.

And the month before that we only hung out once. 

That's a lot of time to pass with no kisses, no time together, no physical connection whatsoever. 

And yet within those three months he'd rejected me re-PEA-te-dly.

Wanting to be with me.

Not wanting to be with me.

Wanting to see me.

Then not contacting me for weeks.

So even though everything he had called to tell me was lovely and perfect and everything I could have dreamed of hearing, the fact it was wrapped in a physical rejection, when I'm a VERY amorous woman, made swallowing the sweetness of his compliments have the bitter aftertaste of drinking acid. 

And suddenly the only thing I felt was 

He doesn't WANT me. 

I was mad. 

I was still mad at him for all the shit he'd put me through. 

I wanted to have hot angry sex so I could forgive him for not making my body a priority.

I didn't want to sip chai in the rose garden and talk about my feeeelings.

Shut up and fucking show me what I mean to you with your BODY, for fucks sake you god of all that is naked!!

But that wasn't going to happen.

So I told him to leave me be. 

And to my drunk astonishment my phone rang. 

I stared at it confused. 

"Hello?" I answered angrily. 

'I was on my BIKE. I'm sorry I didn't text you BACK right away. I've been working since TEN,' he said almost as angry as me.

"Yeah. SO?" I replied with the petulance of a toddler. 

'Are you just drunk and being dramatic? What's going on?'

I was quiet for a moment.

"Maaaaaaaaaybeeeee."

T I M E  O U T.

I'd hung out with this kid a total of maybe two weeks in three months and he understood me well enough to know I was just being a melodramatic diva and didn't mean my outburst?

And can we also acknowledge the fact that I was being a raging monkey and he chose to CALL me??!

I don't think with any of the fights Sheldon and I have had over the years did he EVER actually call me. 

So. 

Yeah. 

We talked it out. 

I got it out. 

That's why me being so expressive is good for me. 

Once I let it out its done and I can move on. 

So I can be his friend now. 

Any man who calls me in response to me telling him to delete me is a true blue friend for life. 

And I will forever love him for that. 

(Even if I'm a little pissed at his penis for the moment.)

So why did all that make me miss Sheldon?

Because when Sheldon and I had first started dating years ago I'd turned into a raging monkey. 

Though that time it was even worse because I actually showed up at his apartment ranting about how he was gonna lose me, how I'd gone out with someone else. 

(Let's just say jealousy makes me crazy. Bat shit crazy crazy. I'm a possessive bitch. Don't fuck with me.)

And do you know what Sheldon did?

He ignored the angry monkey stamping her feet in front of him and just asked, "Do you want some hot chocolate? I have some drinking chocolate I think you would like. Let me make you some."

And he went into the kitchen to make it for me and I'm pretty sure I stood there confused, mouth agape for like, way too long. 

That wasn't the reaction I was expecting. 

I fell asleep on the couch shortly thereafter the way a child falls asleep after crying and throwing a fit and Sheldon brought the only blanket he had and put it around me and gently lifted my head and put his only pillow under my head. 

And I remember thinking, I love you too. 

There have been very few men in my life who've witnessed my inner wackadoo and still wanted me in their life. 

The few who have?

Are treasures I want to hold onto dearly. 

I was really thankful The Phantom still wanted my cuckachoo self in his life. 

But I was really sad Sheldon didn't. 

It was a weird joyful sadness coating my heart.

So happy. 

And sad too.

My Admirer Won't Kiss Me

I have to hand it to Life. 

Whenever I think I have it figured out something always happens to smack me across the face (or the ass, if I'm lucky) and remind me that I really have no fucking clue. 

The Phantom of the Opera called me. 

Like.

Out of the blue. 

An actual phone call. 

Not a bloody text. 

He hasn't called me since he watched the Mad Men finale and thought of me. 

Which as you hard core Joan Holloway fans know was more than a month ago. 

I was getting ready to meet my parents. I had on this bright, floral dress and my hair was crazy curly. I felt really pretty. 

And really happy.

And all of a sudden I looked at my phone and there was his name scrawled across the front. 

He was CALLING.

I answered the phone surprised and happy. 

He was happy too. 

I don't even remember what we really said at first.

Small talk.

We were both on our way to brunch. 

"Brunch is my favorite meal!" I exclaimed.

'It is?' He'd asked.

I swear I told him that once. 

But what was really wonderful was how happy we both were just to talk to one another. 

It's amazing how there are some people in our lives we can go through anything together, fight, cry, lash out, pull away, and after all of it, the only thing we feel is that we miss each other and we're so happy just to hear their voice speaking in our ear. 

'I just wanted to tell you that I really admire you,' he said. 

I was walking to my car and I stopped by the door. 

I couldn't move as he spoke for the next few minutes and I was late meeting my parents because of it. 

But I couldn't get in my car. 

I was afraid to move. 

'You're so transparent, almost to a fault. Almost. But you're so open and expressive, I really admire that about you. It overwhelmed me at first. It's part of what deterred me from wanting to date you. But then I realized how wonderful that is, how rare you are and I just wanted to tell you that. It's inspiring. You're inspiring, Teresa.'

I was quiet. 

If we'd been together I would have just thrown my arms around him and not said a word.

But just held on too tight. 

Just like I'd done the night he sang the song he wrote for me on his guitar.

But since it was a phone call I knew I had to speak. 

"Thank you," I nearly whispered. "That really means a lot to me."

He apologized for not communicating better with me, for pushing me away, for not meeting with me so we could just talk this whole time. 

He said he really was a good communicator and I said I thought he had been in the beginning. 

But then it was like he turned into this other person and I didn't know which one was real. 

'That's the real me. The one who communicates. That's who I am.'

And he told me that I was beautiful inside and out, that he just wanted to send love my way, that I wasn't just this beautiful, buxom woman but that who I was he admired. 

And I was blown away. 

'I've been thinking about you a lot.'

"You have?"

'Yes. And I wanted to tell you.'

I waited. 

"Phantom?"

'Teresa.'

"I've been thinking about you too."

'Well you're much more fun to think about than I am.'

And we agreed we should meet up sometime. 

And be friends. 

'And I have much more free time now that school's over. You know what I want to do? I want to look at flowers. I haven't been to the gardens by Washington Park this year. Do you want to go look at flowers with me?'

And it's like, the most stupidly cute romantic thing he's ever suggested we do together. 

But he just wants to go as friends. 

Friends. 

I literally lost my best guy friend because he didn't admire my openness and transparency, because my expressiveness offended him. 

And here was this man I'd been pining for, the man who was proud to have me on his arm, the man who saw me perform and was so moved he had to kiss me, the man who admired how raw I am, even though it had originally overwhelmed him.

And instead of finally losing myself in his arms, in that kiss that made me dizzy, instead of surviving and overcoming all this shit with the amazing sex I'd been aching for weeks upon months.

He didn't want me anymore. 

I know that being a man's mere play thing is nothing to being a woman he's inspired by and wants to be around without the expectations of ecstasy. 

But how could I reconcile that the man I'd continually felt connected to, in spite of everyone telling me to just let go, really saw me, truly seeing the core of my heart, and found it beautiful, amidst its flaws, but he would not become my lover?

How was I supposed to settle once more for the men who won't even pay for my Jameson and expect me to lay in their beds when I'd been reminded of what it felt like to know someone was smiling at me without seeing me just by the way I heard him speak my name?

Dammit. 

Why couldn't I just be fucking content?

He'd been so loving. 

He cared for me and wanted me to be in his life. 

That's what I'd wanted. 

Why couldn't it be enough?

Why couldn't I be satisfied?

Because he was always more than just my friend. 

He was my lover. 

And I didn't know if my heart could ever see him as anything less. 

But I was gonna try. 

I was gonna really fucking try. 

Because to have a man in my life who admires me?

Was a dream come true. 

Even if only partially.

But a partial dream could still be magical. 

Couldn't it?

Dating Portlandia: The Worst Date Ever (The Sequel)

I think this may be the first time I actually got up and left a date. 

Without a word. 

Just. 

BUH-BYE.

It was THAT awesome. 

I had already gone on the worst date ever a year ago. 

(If you'd like to see the comedic horror of me reenacting said date check out my Youtube video, Dating Portlandia: The Worst Date Ever. Youtube.com/ResaStarXO)

We connected through Facebook. 

That's right. 

I cheated on Tinder with Facebook. 

Which I'm actually gonna go out on a limb here and tell you that you should never do that!

He showed up under 'People You May Know.'

We had some random, artsy friends in common and I thought he was kinda cute. 

So sure. 

Why not. 

Let's be 'friends.' 

Well, like any good 'friend' he started giving me lots of Facebook love. 

Nothing says I think you're pretty like lots of thumbs up on selfies. 

And my Tinder account had been fairly inactive as of late and I felt like going on a date. 

So I used that stupid messenger app Facebook made us download if we wanted to send messages to each other without ex girlfriends reading them and I asked him if he wanted to get a drink sometime. 

I used a winky face emoticon and everything. 

Which is emoticon-speak for I'm flirting with you. 

And he said YES. 

(It should also be noted that I NEVER ask guys out. I've found that the best dates are the ones where the men are interested enough to ask me out. I don't know why I broke my own rule. Don't break your own rules! Unless it might get you laid. Ok. I guess that's why I broke my own rule. Carry on, Reese.)

So I ASSUMED that the only reason a guy would accept a drink invitation was because he was interested. 

*Cough*

But let me continue. 

So we exchange numbers and begin texting. 

He suggests a myriad of swanky bars around town to choose from--the only good thing to come from this wretched experience was the list of bars I will be checking out WITHOUT him--

So I choose a new bar in the oh so posh Pearl District called Hamlet. 

I walked in and he was already seated at the bar. 

As you know (Or maybe you don't--we should really be better friends) I have an aversion to sitting at the bar on dates. 

Some men get preoccupied and distracted sitting at the bar. 

They forget they're sitting next to a Goddess. 

Priority Me, darlings. 

So I sat down and we chatted a bit. 

And he was handsome enough. 

A little older. 

Which seemed a nice change. 

Very knowledgable about whiskey and cocktails. 

(A man after my own heart.)

And then after a few minutes of that, I spent the following hour BEING IGNORED.

My date was more interested in talking to the couple sitting on his left, talking to the bartender, talking to Siri. 

He would occasionally say something to me, but it was so infrequent you'd have thought I just showed up at the bar uninvited like some crazy stalker. 

Ok.

Let's get one thing straight. 

I am AMAZING. 

I looked lovely. 

I'm a charming conversationalist. 

I'M FUCKING ADORABLE.

But I was feeling like Cher in 'Clueless' when her date just wasn't that into her and she said, "What happened? Did my hair go flat? Did I stumble into some bad lighting?"

And then my ego wanted to shout, EXCUSE ME, DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO I AM?!?

When he wasn't ignoring me talking to everyone else in the bar, he was constantly messing with his phone. 

So much so that I finally asked, "Do you have somewhere else you need to be?"

He said no. 

And I began to grow more and more annoyed. 

Honestly I just felt so CONFUSED. 

Why would a guy agree to meet me for drinks if he wasn't interested in talking to me?

The couple on his left he'd been so preoccupied with was finally leaving and I thought, Maybe he'll be more attentive now. 

And shortly after thinking that a girl walked up to him. 

They clearly had plans to meet up. 

NOW. 

On. My. Date. 

I was introduced but with such casual indifference, like I was the house pet. 

That's our dog, Fluffy. 

Oh, how cute. 

T H A T was the last straw. 

I had given him time to redeem himself and the more time I gave him, the worse he behaved. 

So. 

I'd had it. 

And I stood up and walked out.  

Actually I found the bartender on the way out and paid for my drinks. 

I wish I would have just walked out. 

That would have been so much cooler. 

But I was in such shock. 

The classy lady in me wanted to diffuse the situation as quickly as possible. 

Shortly after I received a text from him, You left?

I wasn't going to respond and then I thought, No, he needs to be told he was a cad. 

So I wrote back, That was the worst date I've been on in years. The bartender was more attentive than you and I'm fairly certain he's gay.

His response?

I didn't realize that was a date. I thought you just wanted to meet to discuss drinks. I'm seeing someone. Sorry. 

What?

Seriously?

You thought I wanted to meet to merely "discuss drinks?"

Why the fuck would you think that?

I had never met this guy. 

And he'd seen from my incessant Facebook posts the kind of woman I am. 

NO ONE would ever think I'd ask a stranger out for drinks without any amorous intent. 

Come on. 

So I didn't respond. 

I just deleted his number. 

Deleted him from Facebook. 

The whole thing felt ridiculous. 

Even if it had been a platonic interlude, he was TERRIBLE company. 

Do not ignore me. 

When I was five I took my Grandpa's face in my hands and said, "You're not paying enough attention to me."

If I ever have a date ignore me like this again I'm doing that. 

And MEN OF THE WORLD---

If you have a girlfriend, a fiancé, a wife, it is your job to make that clear to buxom, sassy redheads you know who are wildly single and inviting you to cocktails. 

I mean the relationship status wasn't on his Facebook. 

So. 

How the fuck would I know?

A Midsummer Night's Awakening

I was curled up in bed, watching tv and assuming I'd go to sleep fairly soon. 

But then my phone beckoned.

It was my Puppet, the Hermia to my Helena, inviting me to join her and another friend for drinks. 

It was already almost tomorrow and the practical thing would have been to stay in. But she told me our friend was bugging her to ask me to join. 

And there's something irresistible about a cute friend anxious to see me. 

Of course it was probably partly the juxtaposition of drunkenly reaching out to The Phantom of the Opera the night prior and though remembering little of the actual conversation, definitely feeling there was no desperation from him to see me. 

I will also confess that the adorable friend I was to join could have been the little brother of The Phantom. 

Same style. 

Same artistic sweetness. 

How could I not want to be around that?

I hadn't seen Hermia in ages either. 

And there are several girlfriends in my life who I need to see with consistency because when I don't I feel out of balance. 

So of course I had to join them. 

Even if it would be tomorrow by the time I got there. 

We drank and we talked and we pondered on all things artistic. 

There's something magnetic when artists are together. 

I don't even realize how much I crave that until I'm around it. 

The three of us having too much fun decided to carry on at The Phantom Jr.'s place.

More wine & more conversations. 

Love, life and the universe. 

And then Hermia fell asleep and The Phantom Jr. and I snuck out to adventure around. 

The old building he lives in felt like the set for some old movie.

Antique vases decorate a table in the hall. 

The doors to each room looked like some bed and breakfast that would be run by an elderly couple who called everyone "Dear."

There was a short bookshelf in one corner overflowing with books for borrowing.

And then he took me to a room with shelves of all random delights and told me that it was all free for the taking. 

The shelves were lined with perfectly placed trinkets and tokens like some sort of garage sale. 

Jars and a ghost figurine. 

A hat and a pair of earrings. 

A deck of tarot cards. 

A jewelry box. 

I laughed because for someone like me it was extra special. 

I'm terribly sentimental and love keepsakes, memories from a time or place or some dear person. 

And it's something I can actually see and hold onto, even if the moment's long gone. 

I reached for a small cordial glass with tiny white flowers and smiled at it. 

"I want this," I said. 

And I held onto it with the kind of tender care a small child holds their first stuffed animal. 

We made our way outside and to our surprise it was already morning. 

The sun had danced pink and orange across the sky and the moon still hung beside it, waving adieu.

The night lamps were still lit in the street but the birds flying tree to tree painted morning over the night. 

The Phantom Jr. looked at me with a sleepy grin on his lips, 'Thank you for sharing this with me,' he said. 

I drove my tipsy, tired self home as the clock reminded me it was nearly 6am, and thought what a lovely evening that had been. 

My heart felt full. 

And my soul was smiling. 

When we'd hugged each other goodbye I'd wanted to lean in and kiss him. 

But not in a romantic way, simply because a hug didn't feel meaningful enough to communicate my appreciation. 

I had looked at that smiling face, his eyes nearly closed in a drunken sleep, and I thought how for weeks, and then months, I'd longed for a night like this with The Phantom of the Opera, the simplicity of doing nothing together but just being together, the delight in who one another was, as we are, the spontaneity of the unexpected duration of our night. 

Here was someone I barely knew who preferred time with me over sleep and solace. 

That was something the Phantom had never given me. 

And my dear friend had reminded me that it did exist. 

And I was eternally grateful. 

So I kissed him on the cheek with all the ardor of a woman with a recently stitched up heart.

I don't know if he even realized how much love I poured into that goodbye.

But he'd made me feel seen when I'd spent the last three months trying to make a broken man see me. 

He had when he first met me. 

And I thought buried somewhere inside the shadows was the flame he felt for me, blindingly bright if he'd merely let it resurface. 

I still don't know the details of what I want or what it would even look like. 

But I do know that I want to find a man who would stay up all night just to hear me talk and thank me for sharing in a beautiful sunrise. 

My phone stared blankly at me as I realized the drunken conversation the Phantom and I shared would be a hazy moment stuck in the past. 

My night had been spent in intimacy. 

Pure, platonic intimacy that I hadn't felt since I was 17 whiling away the summer hours with the boy I met in Midsummer. 

That play holds in it a bit of magic. 

And I hoped somewhere a Puck would be casting a spell over my future lover so he could at last find his way to my eager arms. 

Drunk Dials & Other Jazz

I was having one of those days where NO ONE was free. 

Why is it the times I crave social stimulation everybody is busy washing their hair?

I discovered this jazz trio in Portlandia while on a date earlier this year. 

Boy & Bean. 

They were the Bee's Knees. 

They played great. 

They looked great. 

And the venues they played at were some of my favorite bars in town. 

So on this particular eve they were playing at The Box Social, who hands down makes the best old fashioneds in town. 

The Phantom of the Opera may make the best sazerac. 

But the old fashioned at Box Social had my heart. 

I hadn't been there since last summer, the last night I saw Ireland. 

I glanced at the table where he'd been sitting when I'd walked in and remembered the way a stunned smile had danced on his lips. 

I smiled myself and then caught the bartender and who I'm assuming was the cook huddled together glancing my way. 

I lifted my drink and nodded in approval. 

I love feeling SEEN by men. 

It makes me feel so pretty. 

Like I'm going to the Prom. 

And I was glad I took myself out. 

There are times when I love being alone and then there are times when it makes me feel lonely. 

But I'd slipped into one of the new fabulous dresses I hadn't yet worn and sipping one of my favorite drinks, hearing one of my favorite bands, it didn't even matter that no one was sharing the moment with me. 

I delighted in it. 

And that was quite enough. 

After my two decadent old fashioneds I ordered a sazerac because I wanted one. 

I wanted to keep drinking.

And maybe part of me wanted to be drunk in my pretty dress. 

Fashion. And music. And intoxication. 

My passions. 

After my saz, the band still playing the night away, I got up, ready to go home. 

I was a happy little drunk and the evening had been a swell success. 

And then I decided I was going to call The Phantom of the Opera. 

Right Now. 

There is one problem with the iPhone.

It's TOO smart. 

It won't ACTUALLY let you delete someone's number from its phone memory. 

You can delete it from your contacts. 

You can delete all the texts. 

Which I'd done because enough was enough and he'd been a big meanie face and I didn't want to play with him anymore. 

(I mean, Ok, part of me did, obviously, because some men are just so good at what they do you just can't be bothered with the fact they're a perfectly poor match because, you know, well--PENIS.)

Anyway, despite my resolve to never talk to him or his penis again, there I sat, starting to compose a text so I could type in his name and my damn iphone would recall his number. 

And then I could call it. 

Because. 

You know. 

I'm good at Life Choices. 

Me drunk dialing him and leaving a rambly brambly message would have been one thing. 

I'm sure that's what I expected would happen. 

But to my absolute S H O C K 

HE ANSWERED THE PHONE. 

Gasp. 

And you know the most incredible part?

I don't remember the conversation. 

I don't remember what he said. 

I don't remember what I said. 

My call log says we talked for ten minutes and I remember like, two sentences. 

That's so not fair!!!

We hadn't talked for WEEKS, then we have an actual conversation and I don't remember it?! 

I can't even remember his tone or how it ended. 

I remember he sounded better and he was working again so that made me happy. 

But the next morning when I woke up I felt really weird about drunk dialing him (and forgetting whatever the fuck I even said) so I called and left him a sober message. 

Thinking, ok, well he answered, so I guess that means we're cool. 

I haven't heard anything since. 

My life needs to stop being a tragic comedy. 

I finally hear from him and I don't even know what I heard. 

And that's likely all I'll hear for who knows how long. 

And all I keep thinking is

Why did he answer?

I thought we were done with each other. 

And yet I surprised myself by dialing. 

And maybe he surprised himself by answering. 

Surprise. 

Your life doesn't know what the fuck is going on. 

(And I secretly love that.)