Posts Tagged ‘tea’

Tonight was an interesting night. I swung by Brooklyn’s office around 4 to drop off his iPod and winter hat which had been left in the rental car before heading home. We had some tea, chatted awhile, flirted a bit.  It was fun. We talked about my birthday on Friday night and what the plans were and I ran into a raging little queen I know whom I haven’t seen in ages. Since he knows me as a raging dyke, he was probably a little confused to find me with my legs entangled with those of a man and looking romantic. I’ll explain it to him later. I walked Brooklyn back to his office and jumped the train home.

When I was approximately 20 minutes from home, I decided I really wanted Pho for dinner.  I am fighting off a nasty head cold and Pho is usually just the thing. I texted a few friends asking who might be up for it and my old punker/surfer turned successful IT professional friend said a wholehearted yes. We met at the train station and he decides that we should go somewhere else. Suddenly my quick hour meal of steamy pho turns into 4 hours, nearly 5 hard ciders and some french fries and middle eastern food. Did I mention that it turned out the bar had a bad punk dj set up? Punk/surfer and I relived our old punk/industrial childhoods from 20 years before and laughed at the kids surrounding us. Many of these kids were in diapers, if even born, when we were out at clubs seeing these bands. I threw my shoulder out in the mosh pit of a concert before these kids were walking.

At some point I got up to use the bathroom, waited in line and some prick decides to kick his way through and cut in front of 6 of us. I called him on his shit and stuck my foot in the door so it wouldn’t shut. Fine, you wanna piss? Piss in front of everyone you fat fucking 20-year-old dirt “punk” in stretch skinny jeans, Reebok sneakers and leather studded jacket that you can’t zip around your enormous gut. Go ahead. So, he does and then he attempts to strut by, as well as any fat man in stretch skinny jeans can strut. I pee, sit back with my friend and tell him the story, pointing out the idiot prick at the bar.

Punk/Surfer Friend and I continue to finish our drinks and half reminisce and half make fun of the kids when suddenly the fattie “punk” is on the microphone next to the dj and beginning some diatribe he thinks is comedic. One of the things he says is something about the suburban girl who was like, umm, excuse me..about the bathroom. Hmm, you talking about ME fattie? UM? suburban? And he said it in this mousey voice. I’m like,”No, uh uh. No YOU didn’t”. Mostly, I was pissed because I was really aggressive about the cut at the bathroom and responded in a way to honor my industrial/goth punk and Brooklyn backgrounds by swearing at him and kicking the door open.

So, anyway, he finishes his little rant and next thing you know we happen to be leaving and he’s outside by the door. So, I’m irritated by his bullshit and so I slap him on the arm in front of all his friends and say,” so, did your little diatribe make your dick feel big?” as I walked by. He tried to talk smack to my friend and I but we are not having it at all. We looked at them, “dude, you don’t even know who John Peel is, let alone The Damned.” Let alone Throbbing Gristle!

As we walked back to the car, we laughed at their store-bought recycled era punk nonsense. 20 years ago we were doing the same shit they are, difference is, we were actually at some of the shows that they can now only listen to on their parent’s vinyl. Just because we opt to look attractive and conventional-esque now, rather than wear our freak on our sleeve like we did 20 years ago, just because we blend… don’t think you know us. I don’t feel the need to get their approval of my “street cred”, I am just more annoyed at the way the fattie tried to pass me off as some mousey suburban girl with long blonde hair saying, “umm, hi, umm, sir, excuse me. ” I have a strong inner freak flag and I can wave that bitch. I’ve been a Dom, I’ve hung with hardcore, industrial, and punk legends AND I have cleaned up well enough to have spent time with political dignitaries from other countries. I may look Anthropologie meets Brooklyn to your Hot Topic meets your Uncle Pete’s closet but I have dirty secrets and piercing scars that you can’t see. Don’t judge books. Sometimes the ordinary ones, have the richest ingredients and the strongest verbal left hooks.

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Brooklyn Boy commented tonight,” You really are infatuated with me, aren’t you?” . I was taken aback. I don’t really like the term infatuation, to me it stinks of reckless teenage crushes. I was also mildly offended for a moment. He then said,”well, cause I am too, so that’s good.” I laughed and asked if he was infatuated with himself and he smirked.  When I got home I found an email from him with a self-portrait. I loved it. A closeup of his jaw, lips and scarf wrapped neck. Very much the style of photo taking that I gravitate towards.  I commented back, lamenting that his handsomeness is killing me. I also voiced issue with the use of the term infatuated, stating that for me, it is more of a deep admiration and appreciation for him, and that I like him more than the average bear. His reply was that for him, he did believe infatuation was what he was feeling, perhaps without the extravagant foolishness and that he likes my intensity and finds me very “hot”. The boy makes me laugh.

We met for a pot of tea and a chocolate chip cookie after he got off work. I was supposed to meet my Foreigner friend for an early dinner in the area of Brooklyn’s office, since I was in an area close to the Foreigner’s home, but I received a text canceling 5 minutes before we were to meet. Grrrr, Foreigner boy… grrr.

Brooklyn told his soon to be ex-wife that he joined a dating site. She was none too pleased. She believed he was moving on too rapidly it seems. The issue with divorces is, one person is always done far sooner than another. He is ready to move on because the relationship has been dead to him for longer than she is admitting to herself. He did not tell her about me in particular, at least she has not yet asked if he has been seeing anyone yet. This isn’t need to know info. Specifics do no one any good. There was someone who she had been interested, or at least it now seems that perhaps she SAID she was interested in, just to receive a reaction. His reaction was ,”wooh! Go for it!”, not exactly what she thought. He wants her to be happy. He knows that they will never be truly happy together, they haven’t been for a very long time, regardless of previous separations and therapy. Sometimes the most loving thing you can do for someone is let them go. Allow them the opportunity, and yourself, to be loved as you both deserve to be.

With that said, I promised the 25-year-old a make out session this weekend cause I keep blowing him off for dates all week and a really cool photographer winked at me on one of the dating sites. He used a quote from one of my favorite films. It was a film that my ex-fiance found to be “trite and pedestrian”. Fuck her, the pretentious douche bag. I happen to LOVE the movie.This of course earned the winking photographer some points in my book, and a reply.

I need some action soon. I could get it from Brooklyn but I want to wait until his mess is a bit more compartmentalized. Currently, it is a little too cluttered. I adore him and would like the opportunity to truly see what it could be about BUT, until he is 85% free and living on his own, I am going to continue to casually date other people and potentially get laid by someone.I need to avoid getting too wrapped up in Brooklyn’s saga… a distraction would be good. There is too much potential to become a rebound relationship for Brooklyn if I go blindly down this road. I want both eyes open for this journey, not only to avoid any unnecessary negative ramifications, but also, because he is so gosh darn pretty to look at.

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There is a lot written about the magic surrounding the number three. Good things, bad things, sacred and evil things. What I know is this: I have had three dates with Brooklyn Boy in 4 days. I don’t normally have two dates with anyone in one week, let alone, three in 4 days.  Let alone, canceling dates with one individual to go out with another. Let alone, Let alone, Let alone.

Google turns up many things regarding the significance of the number 3. One of my favorites was the Three Gifts of Grace. I feel that these are symbolic of the cards we hold in our back pocket whenever we go on a date. We have Faith, Hope and eventually, perhaps, if we are lucky, we have Love.

The first gift is that of Faith. A belief that is not based upon proof. A trust in an individual. Faith in a process, in a cup of tea, in the honest truthfulness of words that each of you say and in the way your body confirms or denies your words with its actions.

The second gift is that of Hope. To believe, desire, or trust. Hope exists as you let go and give in to faith. As you look at the individual before you and hope that all will be, as it should, as it is meant to be.

The third gift is that of Love. A profoundly tender affection. What is there to say of this gift? Most of us believe that we have felt it, experienced it, and shared it. Sometimes, as we mature, often in fact, we realize that what we once thought was love, truly wasn’t. This occurs when a richer, more truthful and accepting love comes into our lives, providing us the ability to reflect and to grow.

I’m not sure where any of this is going. This journey of mine, your journey, or of our mutual journeys… all bound up together. I spent two hours curled up in a bookstore with Brooklyn Boy yesterday. We whispered, laughed, talked and kissed, our modus operandi; beverages and then a bookstore floor. A stuffed green dinosaur, a kids toy, abandoned in the stacks of self-help books, stared down at us and watched as we became familiar with one another.  A bookstore feels like the right place to explore each other, discuss lofty ideas, philosophical  quandaries, romantic overtures.  Surrounded by musty scented tomes of poetry, sociopolitical discord, crafting and humour. Books older than our grandparents, in languages we rarely hear spoken, written in voices that will sadly be lost due to the modern dilemma of convenience via digital lifestyles. The next generations may never hold a real book in their hand, smell it, and peruse book stores in dreamy fogs thinking of all of the hands that a particular Walt Whitman 1st addition might have gone through, or the well-worn hardcover by Kingsley Amis that smells like the stories of a hundred people. The younger generation will lose the romance of the bookstore with their eBooks and iPads. While these places do still exist, Brooklyn Boy and I will hide away in them and swim in their stories as we make our own.

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