Gypsy soul

September 1st, 2014, 6:58 PM by Goddess

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Spent the weekend in the car driving to and from Key West. I could say I spent the weekend *in* Key West at the extraordinarily expensive resort that marked up its prices for Labor Day weekend. But a six-hour commute south and an eight-hour commute north (generally 3.5 hours each way) constitutes having spent more time in the car than out of it.

That’s OK. It’s been a few years. The Blonde Giraffe that had shut down before my last trip reopened in Tavernier, so I got a slice of the tartest, awesomest key lime pie ever.

And Sloppy Joe’s never fails to provide the world’s best frozen mango mojitos. And where else would I willingly part with 10 bucks for a Sloppy Joe sammich? (Considering I rarely even eat meat?)

Most of the other meals were a fizzle. But the guy at the front desk of my resort took a shine to me and I ended up with 10 — yes 10 — just-out-of-the-oven chocolate chip cookies as I was constantly coming and going. Best part of the trip, hands-down.

Speaking of men I met in Key West … I need to delete some numbers from my phone.

Here’s my problem. And it extends way farther north than the southernmost point of the U.S.

I’m sick of, just because I give men the time of day (and that ain’t much), they feel they get to talk to me. To believe they could have me. To try in their sad little way to get me. To think I’d want to give up my freedom for whatever “life” they feel like giving me.

Case in point. I was waiting for my egg-and-cheese on Cuban bread at the Cuban Coffee Queen this morning. A guy named Pete, who was shall we say not exactly my type, decided he loved it that I was dancing around to the Cuban music, killing time.

I get picked up an awful lot while I’m dancing to the beat of my own little bass line.

Mom says it’s my “Gypsy Soul.” (Hattip to Van Morrison, I’m sure.) They see me being alive and free and maybe they think they can be a part of it … but they all end up just ruining it.

I can’t talk to a guy without hearing how dimwitted he is. I can’t flirt with a guy without getting a text that he’s thinking of me while he’s whacking off. I can’t just dance in one spot without people thinking they can touch me or invade my space.

And for what, really? Do these guys see a free soul like mine and deliberately say:

  • “I’m going to break her spirit”?
  • “I’m going to tear her down so she never wants to leave the house again”?
  • “I’m going to destroy all that is beautiful and light within her soul so that no man will ever find her attractive again”?
  • “I know she doesn’t want me but I will force myself into her life, brain, phone, nightmares till she decides to never dance again and she becomes as miserable on the inside as everyone else in the world”?

Seriously, guys. Let me know.

No, wait, forget it. Just LET ME GO.

And lest you all label me whatever you choose to label me for saying “not my type,” most don’t even care what that is. Which is a certain manner of dress. A certain manner of speaking. A certain carriage about oneself.

A certain way of solving more problems than one’s presence creates.

And a certain sense of Goddess-worship that includes respecting her wishes, her boundaries and her desires — even and especially if they have zero part in them.

But people just don’t get it. They don’t want to. And I’m tired of pretending that’s OK.



My mood can only be described as ‘murderous’

August 29th, 2014, 3:10 PM by Goddess

I scrambled to get all my shit done by 3:30 so I could leave early.

The joke at the home office is that if I leave before 6, I have to call it a vacation day.

And sure enough, ’twas the day before a holiday and I’ve worked late and come in early every day this week. (Like always.)

And now I have projects rolling in that require my presence. One I can guarantee you won’t come even though I was just asked to stay for it.

Because, I’m sure Harvey and Martha and Morty and Edith are putting off their plans to go to Early Bird dinner in breathless anticipation of receiving this.

Plans? What plans?



This ‘cute little spitfire’ has had enough

August 27th, 2014, 10:18 AM by Goddess

It’s only been a couple months since the #YesAllWomen hashtag hit the Twittersphere (because of that little twit in California who shot up his campus because girls wouldn’t sleep with him on command).

But what most don’t realize is that it’s such an ongoing “Thing” for many of us.

Look, I like getting hit on. It happens more than occasionally. Hell, it happened yesterday outside Starbucks. I ain’t mad at that.

What I am mad at is the men who refuse to take the hint.

Look, I am not a dummy. I know that when a man pays you a compliment, he’s genuinely being nice. But there are some creepazoids in my life that are only saying nice things because they think that’s what they have to do to fuck you. (Which, yes it does help.)

And while I can commend some of the men I’ve encountered for their, ah, persistence … I feel like I have to blame myself. Not that I want to or SHOULD. But because they suck at taking hints and I suck at telling people to just light themselves on fire and die already.

Not that I haven‘t said it. It just takes a lot.

Like, I let people hug me a little too hard or a little too long. I tolerate them putting their arms around my shoulder or holding my hand. Look, I’m a girl. I don’t hate affectionate signs like these.

But …

I’ve been holding out for a hero and I don’t want that hero to walk by while I’m being groped at by some close-talking fool who thinks that because he’s bought me a drink, I have to bear his children.

Or, at least get bored to death as he jackhammers me with his teeny peenie. LUCKY ME.

I am nice to everybody. But I do get standoffish because I’ve had to compromise my personal space too many times.

This is why I say no to people for two years on end. Because the one time I say yes, that means I have opened the floodgates to hell and now have to put up with constant harassment about when there will be a next time.

Or “accidental” communiques — “Ooh I was trying to reach someone else but now that we’re talking WHAT ARE YOU DOING RIGHT NOW?”

It’s hard to tell the difference between a friend and a creepazoid. So I have lately started assuming everyone’s probably out to maul you against your will. Because, that seems to be the trend.

So, I pay for my own drinks. Buy my own meals. Artfully dodge invitations. Conveniently leave my phone a mile away from where I currently am. Tolerate just enough touching until I have to go throw up somewhere. (True story. Or should I say “stories.” Because, I can vomit on command these days.)

I’m lucky I have never been violated, to my knowledge. Of course, it’s the little violations that I try not to count that add up to “OMG DANGER DANGER!” signals blaring in my brain.

On the opposite side, I wonder if I make too much out of everything. Like, no Goddess, they really don’t want you. Chill the fuck out. Everybody needs a friend.

That’s what Mom always says. Be nice. Everyone needs a friend.

Well, why does it have to be me?

Plenty of men have flat-out said, yeah, no, move along here Goddess. And I’ve respected that.

And I wish I were as good at saying, “Forget the ice bucket challenge. I challenge you to light yourself on fire.” And, moreover, having them take it seriously rather than, “Awww what a CUTE LITTLE SPITFIRE YOU ARE.”

I guess my problem now is how do you close Pandora’s box without slamming your own fingers in it?



It’s really not that difficult to get into my pants

August 25th, 2014, 11:23 AM by Goddess

But if I tell you, after you pester me all weekend, that “Mom had a mini-stroke” and all you can say is “Bummer,” well, you get what you give.

Which, is nothing.



Somehow I feel like I have a lawsuit on my hands

August 24th, 2014, 5:56 PM by Goddess

After our wonderful wild night with the fire alarms, Mom endured another TIA.

Her first mini-stroke was five Septembers ago, after she fell in our wet stairwell and pulled something in her neck/head. I have the unpaid ER bill to prove it.

Evil Landlady 1 tossed her blonde hair and laughed at her.

This place has officially killed my mother.

And yet, when I told her I called six different condos this morning, she said she didn’t like any of them.

Because this is SO much better, apparently.