darling, I've been so satisfied [since I met you]

How did I get here--sitting alone in his home? There was a tall, dark and handsome man, a bar and a band and a summer too hot. Do the stars actually ever align, and why does this Otis Redding song move me to cry? There was a line--too good and not good enough, and a life forged over coffee. A double latte, and for me, I think, I was on Americano's at the time. There's only so much magic in beans, though, so it must have been more. Maybe Kerouac? Maybe phones held up to hear ocean waves? Honest eyes and falling words [while the guard was down, of course]? Here we are, pantomiming partners--a glass of wine will do for now as I step and step together in circles around the room. I don't have the answers, only notions of gut and the pull of fate, and a man and cups of coffee that we'll drink in mornings that wait.

Happy Valentine's Day to me.

The most sizzle I can expect will be coming from my kitchen.  This ruby red Kitchenaid grill pan is en route thanks to Amazon, and my extreme levels of excitement speak highly of the sexual dry spell occurring in these parts.  

The recipe that made it irresistible: grilled pineapple rings, Mascarpone dollops in the center, warm Nutella drizzled overtop, and chopped hazelnuts sprinkled for a little festivity.  

One Year: an elaboration

Happy you're-surviving-the-unceremonious-Suck. Happy I-can't-believe-he's-really-real. Happy how-the-hell-were-you-always-this-unknowingly-strong?

It's already been a year and though there have been opportunities aplenty for a dramatic exit, I have plowed through what seems like one hundred heavy trials of will. On paper, the ratio of time apart exponentially outweighs our time together, and yet I have never been more happy and in love than this.

I wish that I were in the position to grab you by your theoretical hand and carry you off on a sickening retelling of the celebratory event. Reality, however, would so quickly snatch us back to earth and serve us the cold reminder that, "this is The Army!" So far Murphy's Law rules the land. Instead of wining and dining, tonight he is playing in sand and I am staring down this unfamiliar window of blog space. The circumstances are unfavorable but reliable and tolerable and unwavering. And the good news: it only took a year to wrap my head around these simple truths.

August 16, 2007 - He has picked the date location around my demand for coffee. I have either forgotten or disregarded his unfamiliarity with the area, and I haven't yet learned that he doesn't really entertain the fluffy coffee-house scene. The only thing I have offered is my new found disdain for a specific establishment in town that has readily decided to evolve from espresso and pastries to dinner and alcohol. My art studio sits across the street and they have recently begun refusing to cater to my late night hankering for bagels, AND they have ruthlessly covered up their laptop friendly outlets. Once a haven, this place is now on my lengthy Summer of '07 Shit List. His suggestion, Portland Brew. Why? Because he has already called to confirm the 'round the clock bagel service and ample plug access.

I am careless in my clothing selection and off-beat in the way I style my hair. I honestly don't care after a roller coaster summer of shit-for-first dates, mental masochism, and the final split of family. But what's the harm in coffee? Does it matter that my heart's not really in it or that I've already written him off for his pride in unemployment? He's a[n out of work] writer. I want to be a writer, maybe he's got something to offer in the way of quality brain picking. My roommate thinks I'm untamed, ridiculous. You can see Disapproving in her eyes, but I pull on that billowy babydoll top anyhow, and I push the unlikely headband through unnatural, brunette hair. I am meeting him for coffee at nine on 12th even if he's on welfare and writing books on scraps of grocery bags because at this point in my life, I feel like the world is sorely indebted to me.

I arrive before him to make use of free internet. I stake out a table for two away from the front door where we hug the corner a little cozy-like, an invite for conversation. It seems that I would be watching the clock, but his arrival is unanticipated. He steps around a wall to face me and I cease to breathe. He asks my name just in case I'm not who he thinks I am. The way the syllables roll from his perfect lips and his amber-chocolate eyes catching mine and the Heaven smell of roasting beans and his immaculate tall-dark-and-handsomeness are all almost too much for one body to contain. From memory, I can't quite wrangle the moment my lungs unfreeze. I never pass out so I can only assume that they do. In my head I'm moving at Mach speeds, tallying all of the outward flaws and assessing which inner ones to mask. I am like a duck, attempting Calm while beneath the surface I have surrendered to a chaos of stark, raving panic.

Shortly, he suggests that we make our way to the counter to order and dumbfounded, I follow while trying to appear effortless and cool. Somewhere between our table and the register he unloads the truth. The whole Writer bit turns out to be mostly a sham and The Army makes its debut like a sucker punch I never saw coming. I figure myself to be only a few paces from the swinging glass door, but at this juncture I am in thought overdrive and operating on obligation. I have suffered this guy enough with my bitchy antics. The least I can do is sit down, sip the coveted coffee owed by the Universe, and redeem some bloody Karma. We open with the usual niceties and still I cannot believe how struck I am by the gentleman sitting across the table. Maybe just for the duration of coffee I can discard my certainty that The Army just isn't for me. We talk about where we have come from, shallow specifics of his profession, favorite bands, then Kerouac. On the Road weaves its way into our introductions like a flawless thread. We are both strangely privy to the beatnik travels of Dean and Sal. It's somewhere among these pivotal streets and the, "yeah, man's," and the trippy meditations between an East and West coast that I begin to know defeat is near. I am already falling for this man no matter my anger with life or his pact with Uncle Sam.

At eleven, they ask us to leave. My skin is on fire. I am aware of each echoing pulse as we stand and he guides me to the door. He opens it and escorts me to my car in back of the building before asking if he can take me on a second date on Saturday. As the moment to part hangs between us like an obvious fog, he breaks it with, "good night" and a hug. His long arms wrap around me ten times and I melt and I'm giddy like school girls and Army or not, he'll be picking me up for dinner in 48 hours.

between the bars

After a week off, I'm gettin' back into the swing of Pole Dance classes: round 2. We're going to be tackling some new transitional moves and I, specifically, will continue trying to master this trick so I can rightfully claim it in my repertoire...and then I'll rock it sans hands. That'll really wow my sheet rock audience!

In other news, the opportunity I mentioned before, to move to the other side of the classroom, came up again tonight. Me? A bona fide pole dance instructor? It sounds a little delicious, no? It is pretty much a win-win scenario: free studio time, obligatory motivation to work out, an additional pay check, hope for the dream of Madonna's arms, AND best of all? the sheer shock-value of my answer to that age-old post-grad inquiry: So, what are your plans now? Eh, I think I'm gonna pole dance. for money.

The beginning [of something bigger?]

I was little more than a bystander, just another leggy girl dancing drunk in the southern heat. If I recall correctly, and it's possible that I won't, my evening's accomplice and I were "bringing sexy back", playing off one another's staged advances. I think it was the beading sweat on our brows that eventually broke the rhythm, and we tore ourselves away from the nucleus of the crowd. She and I stood for a moment at the outskirts of the bar's back patio, fluttering our flashy tops to circulate air beneath them, our conversation revolving around another drink and the inconvenience of July's inferno.

I never saw them coming, the two casual fellows who lumbered up from behind. I couldn't see the one-of-them's face who asked if we were models until, stunned at the lunacy in the question, I turned to face the mad man. He was the tall, dark-haired talker who prompted my stifled guffaw. The adamant "out-of-work writer" who both enticed and repelled me. The subject who, in my inebriated state, I demanded would take my number as she peeled me away from my over zealous midnight oration. It was too hot to care that the conversation was brief, and the prognosis of unemployment was all too familiar a disappointment. As Mid-Summer closed in like a plastic bag around the head of an unknowing child, we shed what articles could be spared and then faded from the festivities earlier than usual, having found no night's relief.

Are we theeeere yet?

"What are you gonna do?," he teases.

"First," pushing the improbable growl through clenched teeth, "I'm gonna cover you in kisses!"  Seconds later her rigid farce to gives way to girlish giggles.

[soft and fragile.]

Pleasure Seeker

I'm not sure why I failed to mention my birthday gift from The Staff Sergeant back in January. After all, I was thrilled and excited as the time to experience it approached. Upon request he signed me up for a six week course of Pole Dance Fitness. The classes began last week, but if you've been keeping up, you'll know that the only thing I was trying to master last Wednesday was the flu. Tonight was my first class and I love, love, LOVED it! It was so much fun spinning and twirling and trying to look graceful. It reminded me of hours spent hanging and dangling from playground monkey bars, only slightly more seductive...or an attempt to be such.

And now I really want one for my apartment [or his] and to be able to effortlessly flip and tumble upside down and around the pole. Like most things requiring great patience and effort, I already want to be a pro...I mean, not a professional dancer per se, but good at the skill.

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning
Slow beats seething
Through the screens in
The open windows
Eggs frying
Legs shaking
After we stayed lying
so long in bed
Sunday morning
Both of us reading
and looking up occasionally
Looking up occasionally

Sunday morning
You're doing your thing
and i am doing mine
Speaking words
More a formality
Cause we can feel we
are of one mind
Sunday morning
Sheets still warm
Kitties swarming
Around our feet
Life comes easy
Your sweet company
Making it so complete

Of all the Monday through Fridays
We joined the crusade
of all the saturday nights
In which we were made
of all the exorcisms
I've done with your ghosts
Still it's sunday morning
I miss you the most.

- Ani Difranco

Something to ponder

Is there anything hotter than a man in uniform? Let's be serious for a moment, is there?

No. There most definitely is not.