Ghost Dry Spell Killer

You’d never know he exists.

I don’t refer to him, especially by his name. I have no photos of and/or with him. I have zero things that link myself to him via social media except the fact that we’re connected amongst various platforms. 

He was only meant to serve as a distraction and then at some point he became some sort of unintentional focus. Out of the gate he was the first one tell me I was sexy, to pay me enough attention that I had to continue giving him moments of my time. I’m not gonna lie, it was gratifying as hell. What woman doesn’t want that?

So through his persistence and my approval he became my resident ghost-dry-spell-killer. 

Why the ghost title? Because. There are a dozen or so circumstances I refuse to elaborate on. A dozen reasons why I shouldn’t have been fucking with him in the first place (literally), but I indulged myself cause I figured it was a good time to be selfish. Honest truth.

But I’m a rookie, I’ve never had a “friends with benefits” arrangement before. So I did what I could… I avoided asking him personal questions, cause I figured “if I don’t know you—I can’t like you.” I tried to keep him at a safe distance, but after a while you kind of figure each other out. After a year and a half of constant communication he eventually figured me out, so maybe I lied about no one trying before (but I try not to count him).

Out of nowhere I found myself attaching invisible strings, but I cut them as soon as they appeared. Do you know how nice it is waking up next to someone? Being the little spoon? ITS PRETTY FUCKING NICE. So when I speak of the vagina vs. heart vs. brain battle—its real.

There’s a certain level of guilt I get with being involved with him, he can only give me the time he can steal away, its minimal and it doesn’t even involve a minute outside of his bedroom. I’m the lady with a thousand standards and now here I am, accepting quick D at the drop of a text.

And this is where it ends, cause I can’t do it anymore. It was fun while it lasted. So. Fun. 

But the brain wins. Again.

PS. He reads this. How interesting is that? Yeah, I know… =)

The Prototype

He’s not the first one I think of in the morning, nor is he the last face I picture before I finally drift off into sleep. I don’t ever find myself looking at my watch and trying to figure out what he’s doing, 3,000 miles and 3 time zones away. Promise.

I’ve since distracted myself from those types of thoughts, it’s been a good amount of time.

But when he’s next to me, when I visit home and we catch up—my muscle memory wants to kick in. I’m fully aware of this, I prevent it, but I still want to unconsciously react.

I want to fix his collar, cause its a little crooked. I almost loop my arm through his while we walk to our next destination and I’m sharing my latest stupid anecdotes. I make funny faces as he sits across the table from me.

And he still knows.

He can pick out the single drink I’m about to order off the menu, the one crafted with scotch or rye and doesn’t sound too sweet. He knows that if I could I would put Frank O as vocals on a Dilla track and call it a day, fuckit, they can make an entire fantasy album together. He knows that I hate that the clock is ticking in my head from the moment I land at SFO, but at the same time I can’t wait to get back to NY.

Go figure, he has history on his side. He studied and helped shape the woman I am.

And now… after a minute to reflect I’m kind of a mess. I hate that he’s the only one who knows me like that right now. I hate that my body still feels completely at ease around him (even though my mind knows better). I hate that he can still predict my every move and get it right.

But what I hate most… is that ever since him… no one else has honestly tried, cause he’s not the one, he’s just the prototype.

So Good

I keep telling my girls at work that I look forward to the day I can relate to love songs again. This one in particular tho... I just want to feel again.

This is 30

30 is choosing between day drinking and going out at night. You can only pick one. Exceptions: Saturday brunch followed by a serious nap or Las Vegas. (Note: Las Vegas is always on the exception list.)

30 is knowing you better stay hydrated while day drinking or you will be cursed with a waking hangover hours later.

30 is predetermining that you don't want to go out on a Friday night, cause you've had a hell of a week, but you give people hope anyway. Then you text them that you're exhausted and in bed at 10:30pm.

30 is paying for all meals when you're with your folks. It's also paying for a majority of things when they're in your company. Role reversal gets expensive, but its payback time.

30 is not apologizing for your own opinions as long as you have a valid rationale. I might apologize for offending you, but I don't have to apologize for disagreeing.

30 is asking for what you want out of life. Whether that means you need to have a conversation with your boss about the next step in your career or if you need to have "the talk" with the person you're sleeping with.

30 is seeing opportunities and taking them. Watch out for the open doors and windows, sometimes we're too preoccupied to pay attention.

30 is not having time for bullshit. I can't deal with the dude running wack game at the bar. I don't have the patience for whiny women. No thanks.

30 is knowing what looks good on you. Cheetah print. Fuchsia lipstick. Short hair. Plaid. Plaid. Plaid.

30 is being practical. You know just how long you can survive in a certain pair of heels. You know that you can't travel to the bar without a jacket even if you don't want to hang onto it once you're inside. You’re 30, you can afford coat check.

30 is knowing your limits. I know how many drinks I can handle without hurting the next day. I know when I need to refuse peer pressure (even though I'm pretty susceptible, I can still stand my ground). I know what I can and cannot handle.

Vessels & Canvases

I do everything in my power to prevent myself from daydreaming about scenarios with men that I already know / are interested in. It's dangerous. Sidenote: It doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. I’m still human, as much as I deny that. 

HOWEVER…

It doesn’t stop me from thinking about that dude on the train this am, the guy I just “swiped right” to and that good-looking face that made eye contact with me as he was passing by. I am GUILTY AS FUCK when it comes to this. I fall into the rabbit hole of stupid simple fantasies about random men, their stellar personalities, good taste, ambition and last but not least… their amazing D’s. (Did you forget who was writing? It’s still me here… Hi. I’m Kate, I have my priorities ALL MIXED UP).

Why do I do this? Cause they’re attractive vessels with blank canvases. I can paint whatever picture I want and I will never be disappointed. I allow myself this indulgence cause it gives me hope that something still fucking exists out there for me. 

But in the end I picture such simple things…

I imagine the dude with the good haircut sitting in Madison Sq. Park knows exactly how I like my coffee prepared in the morning. I imagine the man I caught eyes with across the platform brings me a bag of peanut butter M&Ms whenever he greets me on our dates. I imagine the guy across the bar will text me the most random things that make me laugh.

They are always thoughtful. Always.

Cause after a year and a half of being completely by myself… you just want someone to think of you.

Tiny… fucking… violins… again…

Trust You

My mind is an absolute cluster fuck these days.

I don’t know if giving myself a NY end date was premature or if I’m actually meant to move home sooner than I anticipated. I’ve racked my brain through both scenarios, over and over. I still think my current plan is the right one, but there are a dozen factors/questions I am always considering. 

I'm conflicted between staying at my job or searching for a new gig. It’s getting increasingly stressful and demanding, and almost everyone I have grown close to has left the company. But for every reason to leave there is a legit reason to stay, they’re offering me better projects and opportunities to grow as an Art Director. Some days I don’t think about leaving, other days I want to flip over tables out of frustration. 

I'm always on the fence on whether or not I should continue my attempts at dating or quit “actively trying” altogether. I disabled my OKC account and I went on a dating hiatus for two months. I woke up one day and felt refreshed so I downloaded Tinder. This is all very recent, I haven’t gone on a date yet, but I am open to accepting one again. I also can’t tell if I need to stick to my ridiculously high standards or if I need to say “fuck it, you’re good, for now.” Yes, its debatable if Tinder is even considered dating.

I discussed all of this with the man who turned my world upside down, cause regardless of whether or not anyone agrees to my friendship with him—homeboy is still one of my good friends and knows me better than anyone. Ex-Mr ended up giving me the best advice ever:

“Trust you.” 

MTHRFCKR, I swear… I absolutely HATE it when he's right, and he was on-point. He elaborated with the statement: “It’s gotten you this far, and you’re doing amazing. You’re in fucking New York. You’re doing you and you’re doing it well. Just…  trust you.”

That’s all I needed to hear.

Diamond Girl

I used to believe the rings on my left hand were a tangible representation of my value. I was locked down quickly and for a very long period of time. I thought Ryan Leslie’s “Diamond Girl” was my personal anthem. Sure, I had to deal with plenty of commentary about how young I was when I got engaged and married, but I didn’t have any doubts. 

I wore the rock on my finger feeling validated. A man out there loved me enough to put down money on a precious stone set in platinum, to symbolically take me off the market for what was meant to be “forever.” (Note: Monetary value is nothing, my ring wasn’t worth that much. I was solely interested in the meaning behind it all.)

Well… That didn’t work out.

I kept the rings on for as long as I could, as long as I hoped we could work it out. I wore them through our worst times, cause we were still keeping up the facade. I was praying we’d make it. I needed to show face, cause I have too much pride. I was born with too much pride. I stopped wearing the rings shortly after I purchased a ticket to NY and asked to separate. He never asked me to stay and for a while I gave the rings back to him:

“YOU hold onto these.”

I figured if they were in his possession they would haunt him. Later I realized he didn’t need any type of physical object to feel guilty, he felt that regardless, but I wanted to hurt him for everything he did—for making vows and breaking them.  

Eventually when I asked for the full divorce I requested them back. I was strong enough to keep them knowing very well that I would never wear them again.

For a long time I questioned my worth. I hated not wearing my rings, but I learned—their absence from my finger doesn’t subtract from my value, by any means. I will always be wifey-status. I will always be worth everything I was promised in the first place. I will always be a diamond girl, despite my divorcé title. When I finally figured all of this out I bought myself a permanent diamond—its tattooed on my left bicep. 

You know… In case I ever need a reminder.

Apologies in Advance...

• If I forget to ask you how you are, genuinely. Sometimes I still have heavy days. I can only carry what is already on my shoulders. The load is MUCH lighter these days, but I still forget to check in with some of you once in a while. I feel as though every one has their own battle they’re fighting lately. Regardless, I’m with you—even though I forget to ask.
• If you catch me coming home loud and drunk, for some reason it is ALWAYS Adam. Sometimes he catches me SUPER FADED, and I'm rude cause he wants to have a conversation about our individual days and I throw off my shoes and go straight to my room. "SORRY. I CAN'T TALK RIGHT NOW." Meanwhile I am clumsily undressing while walking down the hallway and trying to get to my bed asap.
• If you offer me advice and I don’t take it. I realize its frustrating, you have to understand I’m stubborn and I need to learn on my own. Its difficult to watch sometimes, but I’m one resilient ass lady. I learn, eventually.
• If my music is way too loud. For the record, I have excellent taste, unless you can’t stand Trap. If so, I really apologize, cause I listen to Trap louder than anything.
• If I leave you on the Best Coast for the Beast. Your guilting is fucking relentless. I appreciate it though, truly.
• If I leave you on the Beast Coast for the Best. NY was always meant to be temporary, you shouldn’t have grown attached to me. I knew I was gonna break your hearts. That’s what I do. *Winking emoticon here* 
• If I am the worst wing-woman ever. I try. I HONESTLY TRY, but sometimes these dudes are too lame for me to even pretend. 
• If you wrote me an email and I haven’t responded or it has taken me FOR-EV-ER. I have the worst etiquette when it comes to personal emails. I get buried in them. I am soooo sorry.
• If I start to sound redundant on this blog. Some days I have no motivation to write, other days that's all I want to do. I'm just trying to keep up with content. =P

Moniker

Insomnia is a biiiiiiiiiitch. Published at 5:15 am.

------

Whenever I give away my IG handle to men they always have some sort of comment. They laugh and look at me with “Really???” plastered all over their faces. Never fail.

I have to explain to them: “It’s a reference to the Mary J. Blige & Method Man song, ‘You’re all I need.’” 

In the first verse Meth spits:

“Nothing make a man feel better than a woman
Queen with a crown that be down for whatever”

Sure, I’m self-proclaimed, but the second portion of that last line is the truth.

I have a hard time refusing peer pressure. When I get together with a few people in particular *AHEM*COUGH,* it is a dangerous combination of people egging each other on with no one to say: “Hey guys, maybe this isn’t a good idea.” We convince each other to take shots, take vacations and visit each other on the other side of the country. When we reunite my wallet hurts, my liver suffers and they haze the hell out of me. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Our “fuckit attitudes” are all on some inflated level when we’re together.

Ex-Mr still refers to me as a DAB. As a wife I was down for anything. I could be exhausted from work but if he had free tickets to a freeeeezing Giants game at At&t, I was there, every time. If at any point in our relationship he was about to get into a fight, I was there. I would either be talking him down or ready to stab the opposition in the face. Whatever the fuck he wanted / needed / dreamt about—I was ready to provide it. Down ass bitch. He’s an idiot for letting me go. It’s alright, he knows it. 

If I have no real reasons to turn down an invitation, I have the most difficult time declining. This is particularly pronounced for life in NYC. I'm very much open to broadening my horizons and being exposed to different types of people and experiences here. This is a huge change for me because pre-divorce I was very closed-off. Sidenote: If I have absolutely no interest in what you just invited me to, I will refuse. I still consider my time valuable. I turn down invitations to go to yoga all the time. I fucking hate yoga, with a passion.

Lastly, I have a tattoo that translates to “Remember to Live” along my left rib cage. Joanne says I basically have “YOLO” in latin permanently on me. If that does’t signify “down for whatever” I’m not sure what does… 

Just be good to me...

For some strange reason I picture you as a Dodger fan.

Do you realize how much that hurts my soul? I was with a Lakers fan for 11 years. I was pumped with facts about a team I hate for over a decade. A Dodger fan though? That’s like us having different religions. I’m unsure about how that’s supposed to work. I just figure God has the same sense of humor I do, amusing and ironic. I’ll take it though, cause as much as I tell everyone about my type, my list of standards and my 5,000 other “requirements,” those are mainly just surface. 

I ask for one thing: just be good to me.

You know exactly what do to on the bad days, the days I don’t want to emerge from my room, the days words aren’t worth communicating and the days I have nothing to look forward to—although there is plenty. You’re around on the days where nothing is appetizing. Some days food can’t heal shit. I still have days like that. But even if I can’t eat all of my feelings, hey, at least I can trouble you for your company. That’s all l really require anyways.

All you have to do is say the word, provide the shoulder to cry on and I’m at ease. At this point in my life you still don’t exist and it frustrates the fuck out of me. 

I’m fully aware that our lives are building up to some simple story—some ridiculous simple-as-fuck-story. I will laugh at the defeated attitude I once had, cause in reality I was “this close” to encountering you, but the timing just wasn’t right.

Shit will happen… eventually. Untll then, Dodger fan, enjoy your baseball without me talking mad shit. P.S. Hope you like Brian Wilson as your set-up man, his command is beyond off these days. Good luck with that.

Vagina vs. Heart vs. Brain 2.0

This internal battle never ends. It’s dumb and it’s constant.

First of all, my vagina needs to STFU, cause it can be pleased with a rechargeable adult accessory. Yeah I said it, I’m a grown ass woman… we’re all adults here (if you’re not… you need to get outta here, this is no place for you). Apparently it has a brain of its own, cause it has the ability to discern amazing D and then fires off signals to my heart and brain. Stop this. Stop this now. You're the lowest on the totem pole as far as decision-making goes. Know your role, vagina.

My heart is stupid, weak and strong as fuck at the same time. I don’t blame it, it just wants to feel. I don’t allow it to. I let my heart speak when it comes to decisions about my life, but when it comes to men I shut it down. It has no say… My heart has Yezzy’s “Bound 2” on repeat, on full blast. Uhh huh honey. Its ridiculous, if my life were a movie you’d hear that song go off about anytime an attractive man gets near me.

My brain runs the show. My brain is a fantasy killer. My brain is a crush crusher, it's a friend-zone creator. Logic and analytics don’t allow my brain to send signals back to my heart. Instances in which a woman would normally begin daydreaming about Fantasy Scenario A, B, & C are all stopped in their tracks. My brain scrutinizes over the hard facts (facts like he has a girlfriend…. that one has a girlfriend… that one has a girlfriend too). It doesn’t even allow me to enjoy the simple statement of “I miss you.” "What does that even mean," it asks. I never know either, so fine, you win… all the time, brain.

You. Fucking. Win. All. The. Time.

Real talk though, one day the heart is gonna kick your ass… Kick yo’ ass harrrrd. I look forward to that day.

Better than your favorite

I could lift the world off your shoulders on the rough days. The days no one has your back, I will. You could talk my ears off for hours if it helps, or we could just sit in silence watching TV while I rub the back of your neck, whatever you prefer is fine with me. As long as you’re comforted with my company, I will be there to provide it.

I just ask you reciprocate the favor. I want you there on the days where everything goes wrong, cause you’re the only thing thats right. You’re better than three pickle back whiskey shots, a Shakeshack burger and fries and hell—you’re even better than ice cream.

Those are some of my favorite things, but they ain’t shit in comparison to you. Did you hear what I said? 

I’ll repeat myself, “you’re better than ice cream.” I love ice cream. *Extra emphasis. 

Guess where that puts you.

I only want provide the same sentiments. Whatever your favorite anything is, I want to be a step above, cause that's the level you’re on. I want to be the one you seek out when you’re feeling your worst, cause I’m better than your favorite.

Don’t worry though… I’ll come prepared, I’ll bring your original favorites too. If that means I need to pick up Ben n’ Jerry, Jack, Johnny or Jameson—we’ll be there.