Peanut Butter & Pickles.

So I'm sitting around my apartment, exhausted, procrastinating on some stuff, and suddenly I have an OVERWHELMING NEED FOR ICE CREAM. And then I made a quip on Facebook about requiring a pregnancy test. In actuality, I'm pretty sure that pregnancy would be impossible for me right now. I mean, more impossible than usual as I totally have an IUD.

And then I thought of the five greatest flavors of ice cream that don't exist. Enjoy.

5. Mandarin Orange and Fortune Cookie.
Dude, I don't even like fortune cookies, but doesn't this sound amazing? I would eat the shit out of that. And none of this orange swirl in vanilla ice cream crap, I mean the whole ice cream would be mandarin orange flavored, and then there would be chunks of fortune cookie in it. Mmm.

4. Birthday Cake and Lemonade.
Okay, wait. Don't give up on this one yet--just think about it for a second. Candied lemon peels, chunks of white cake, and a pink buttercream frosting swirl? Yes.

3. Sangria.
Red wine and fruit sorbet. I could seriously eat about a gallon of that.

2. Balsamic Vinegar and Granny Smith Apple Pie.
Okay, hold on. Just...alright fine. This one might just be me.

And finally the greatest ice cream never invented,

1. French Fry Neopolitan.


Exes in the Inbox: Part 6.

I should probably take the time to explain what this is all about.

And yeah, maybe the end of this series is the most likely and appropriate place for that, but trust me. You need to know this now.

I slowly lost myself in my three years with Matthew Chase Collum, and whatever was left over he took from me with a firm hand around my throat and a strong thumb pressed inside the softest spot beneath my jaw.

Now that the idea has been placed in your head I know that you want to; you want to right now, so go ahead. Take your first couple of fingers and place them right underneath your chin, below your ear. Can you feel it? Your heartbeat lies there, and that beating heart is the only thing that stands between your consciousness and the absence of your consciousness. Press a little harder and feel it become more aggressive. Know that the harder, the longer you did this, you would feel your heartbeat slow. Your vision blur. Tears would come to your eyes whether they’re open or not. That is the reaction your body has when your consciousness feels threatened—it will gather everything that is left to try and undo what has been done as it is our natural state to persevere.

I’d like to set the stage, if I may.

Beacon Hill is a big hill way over in my little hometown that holds a large piece of my heart. I stayed there last May when I was visiting, and it's so different now! The Pub is gone and there's all this new commerce, but there's still the same bartender at Baja and the parking lot at McPhereson's is completely packed as per usual and then there's that winding drive into Georgetown that I'm fairly certain I could navigate blindfolded. In the Fall of 2008 I was still barely 27, had just moved back to Seattle from San Francisco and had been fucking my blonde neighbor on and off for a month or so. I was a special kind of mess back then, back when I had just started working at a coffee shop on Beacon, and that autumn and the snowy, snowy winter that followed are, for me, synonymous with Beacon Hill and a whole new cast of characters I found there. A cast that included Ben. And no, I don’t mean Ben Harrison.

Here's something you may not know.

Chase, or as I just described him, ‘my blonde neighbor’, was of zero consequence to me when I first met him. Zero. I actually stopped sleeping with him at one point because he did something I thought was mildly inappropriate. I don't even really remember what it was, but it was something about the way he made fun of an Angry Samoans song that he ironically always called our song, and I never actually told him that that song was the reason I had broken up with him in our inaugural days. I say that like there was something to break up, because in our beginning, there was not.

Much like the coffee shops I had worked at in San Francisco or Miami I had regulars at my shop on Beacon, and as per usual, many of those regulars became friends. Beacon is still a relatively inexpensive neighborhood in Seattle, so naturally a lot of kids live there, both the variety that can be described as actual children and the very adult kind that refuse to grow up. Beacon Hill is filled, nearly from tip to tail, with single family residences, so when you hear of kids who live on Beacon they likely inhabit some rental house with a small handful of roommates. You can imagine, I’m sure, how easy it might be if you were in a band to live there—you have an instant group of kids to turn into your roommates and scheduling practices and recording becomes infinitely easier when you all live together. A lot of bands make Beacon their home and frequented my coffee shop, most famously The Blue Scholars, but there are so many more.

One of these bands, The Globes, had made Beacon their home after graduating high school in Spokane and hightailing it to the city. They took up residence just off the crest on the east side of the hill and began to write and record an EP in, as they’re record label describes it, “the dim and dusty basement of their little blue house.” These boys would come into my shop everyday, sometimes twice, and sometimes they stopped by with a much older benefactor who was polite and charming and would order a whole round of black coffees and chat me up a little before handing me his bank card. This was Ben Barnett, and back then he stayed with The Globes in their little blue house on Beacon, and one auspicious day that began with Chase in my bed somehow happened to end with Ben asking me out.

So I’ve set the stage for you, so I think you owe it to me to do me a favor. You’re curious now, and by the time I ask it of you, you’re going to at least consider doing it.

So just do it.

Go ahead, take the hand you write with and put your palm on your throat. Stretch your thumb onto one and your other four fingers to the opposite side of your neck and aaaaahhhhhh…go ahead. Make that sound. Make that sound, say aaaaahhhhhh while you squeeze your hand as tight as you can stand, and hear how quiet your voice gets. Feel how hard your vocal chords have to work to remain audible. Imagine someone with biceps that are nearly the size of your thigh has you pinned on your kitchen floor with a hand wrapped around your throat just like this, and imagine how hard it would be to find a voice inside of you to save your consciousness from leaving your body.

Now, you don’t really need to know that Ben and I ever dated; this piece of information is of fairly little consequence in the grand scheme of things as Ben and I the couple was just a means to get to Ben and I as friends. I mention it only because our brief coupledom cleaved a three-week hole in the very beginning of Chase and I, something Chase never, ever let me forget. Chase hated all of my exes, but especially Ben and screamed at me about him often, throwing his hands in the air and pointing veiny fingers in my direction. His jaw would clench whenever I so much as uttered Ben's name, and hated the fact that Ben continued to frequent my shop and sip black coffee and chain smoke on the back porch. He yelled at me every single time my cellphone glowed with Ben's name signaling his call and once screamed at me furiously for borrowing Ben’s car while I was driving it. I had only even borrowed Ben’s car to move Chase’s things to my house, and that, if you ever wondered, is how Chase and I first moved in together: me behind the wheel of my ex’s car crying, driving up and over Beacon Hill from Georgetown to a chorus of Chase’s screaming.

So do this for me, it’ll be quick. I promise. Just think for a second how long you might last, how long you might hold out trying to defend your friendship with your ex to someone who screams violently at you every time you mention him. I know, I know. You’re thinking that you wouldn’t have stayed with some screaming maniac that long anyway, but let’s just say that for whatever reason you did. Just imagine how long you could have kept this up.

I lasted about a year.

And then I gave up.

And I have felt guilty ever since. And I have missed him more than I probably should.

So imagine for me, just for a minute, that you cheated on your girlfriend of over three years and she has left you. She has both broken up with you and physically left you on a Bushwick street corner on a cold Christmas Eve and told you that you could come get your things another day. Let’s say you tried to grab her to keep her from leaving, twice, and instead of yielding to your grip she has wrestled herself free and landed a right hook to your nose that she perfected years ago defending herself against other men that are just like you. Let’s say that against her wishes you follow her home, and when you crack the door open it stops and instead of letting this deter you, let’s just imagine that you sneak your hand inside the open crack of door and free the chain from it’s bearing, letting the door swing open freely. Let’s just skip ahead to when you decide that the only option you are left is to get her on the ground and wrap your dominant hand around the softest parts of her neck while her voice peters to a thin wail.

If this was you, do you think that you would forget that the two of you write with different hands? If it were you, do you think you would have left her right arm unpinned, the same arm which an hour ago left your nose swollen and bloodied, while you choked her with your much stronger left?

I don’t know about you, but if it were me, I would like to believe that I would not have made the same mistake.

I am thankful, however, that that night, soon after the clock ticked just past midnight and turned a cold Christmas Eve into a cold Christmas day, that the hand that I write with was free to take my voice back by force.

In San Francisco, near the bottom of a hill on a major thoroughfare is a short block in the big neighborhood of Lower Haight. The Wonder 500 we called it, as the 500 block of Haight street is where I lived, we all lived. My apartment was the first floor off the storefront, above the Indian place, and I worked at a coffee shop across the street. Upstairs from this coffee shop were apartments that, like the majority of the other apartments that lined the block, were filled with kids. Kids in their mid-twenties mostly, kids who shared flats with roommates and got off work and drank beer and coffee on the very same block. Coffee that I made for them while making these kids my friends.

In one of these apartments lived Sally Szwed. One day Sally was sitting in her room and saw something rustling out of the corner of her eye, and when she turned to see what it was saw a mouse dart across the rug. She screamed and ran downstairs and through the doorway of the coffee shop below wondering what to do, and when I glanced up from the counter and saw her stumbling under the transom in her PJ’s I had no way of knowing that this would be day that we would become friends. I certainly could not have known that a few years of radio silence between us would end when we lived but a few miles away from each other in Brooklyn.

I felt emboldened by this, I guess. I was made to believe that even though friends hadn’t spoken in a long time, that there could still be something there to be salvaged, and so when I found that Ben was stopping in Brooklyn on an upcoming tour, I bought two tickets: one for me, and one for Sally.

There was an opening band, and Sally and I had stationed ourselves near the bar during it, and we were chatting about nothing in particular and drinking Budweiser’s from plastic cups when I felt a hand in the small of my back and turned to see Ben standing right next to me.

And then there were hugs and hello and hi, and what are you doing here? I live here! And I’m in Boston! And it’s so good to see you and what have you been doing and Ben, it’s such a big story, and Miranda, I’m touring again, and yes, I know. And then he was off, and I didn’t see him again until he took the stage.

Let’s just say that you did this, that you took a girlfriend and went to see your ex play a show a handful of states away from where you first met. What would you want to hear him play?

If it were me, and it was me, I would want to hear the same songs he used to play from the recline of an easy chair in a little blue house on the side of Beacon Hill, I would want to hear those songs that remind me of a time when I hadn’t yet lost my voice, when I and I alone chose my friends to be whomever I liked. I was lucky enough to get my wish.

He launched into the very last song before the encore, and three notes in I knew it was one of my favorites that he performs and I knew I would need a beer for it. I turned to the bartender and ordered two more, one for me, and one for Sally. As I turned back around to face the stage I heard the song halt, and Ben was already a few words into a rant before my ears caught up enough to hear exactly what he was saying, and I didn’t realize that it was because of me until I heard my own name amplified throughout the venue.

“Seriously, though. Really? Really Miranda? Are you seriously gonna stand over there and talk during one of the most beautiful songs that I play?”

“I, uh…” I had met his gaze, but broke the stare to turn and see a hundred pairs of eyes craning in my general direction. My voice caught in my throat and I could feel my heart beating fast inside my ribcage.

“It’s cool, Miranda. But seriously. This song? Come on. I thought we were homies.”

“We…we were.”

Even I didn’t realize, at the time, what I had said. But we were, we were friends. And it was so long ago, before Chase finally got his wish and I elected to never speak to him again. But there I was at The Knitting Factory very much speaking to him, struggling to find the rest of my voice before a crowd of onlookers.

“I’m sorry, seriously. I love this song—I've waited for it all night. Please. Play it. I’m here, listening.”

“You know, you guys. You guys have no idea,” he turned, was facing forward again, no longer addressing me directly, “but I’ve known Miranda a long time. Back in Seattle, when I lived there, she worked at this coffee shop on Beacon Hill and was always there when my housemates and I went every morning.”

He continued, and told a little story of Beacon Hill, right there on the mic, and I watched everyone listening intently as I was remembering the stage of the events of which he spoke. I turned to Sally and smiled, feeling lucky that I’ve lived such a big life, and I was suddenly so, so very thankful to be there. Just to be there. To be able to, just for a moment, remember fondly a neighborhood that I love so very much and remember how it was back then with everyone in it. Even Ben.

I hope that you are lucky enough to have a memory of some place that is just as good as some of mine, but if not, I have enough to share.

Let’s say it is a very cold Seattle winter that finds you at work, and toward the end of your shift your ex crosses the threshold of the front door and you smile when you see he has clearly come bearing a present for you. Imagine that he comes so often that he comes not to the front counter, but around the side of the bar by the fridge as might an employee, and it’s then that he tells you that this gift, this gift he has brought for you is an EP that he had recorded that day or the day before at work. Imagine you put it on while the snow falls outside and the two of you watch it, silent and white, through the back window while you listen to him cover a John Lennon song over the PA. Now imagine that at the moment you created this memory how strange it might feel had you known that the next time winter found you feeling as free would not be for three more years in the flat expanse of Brooklyn; the very same Brooklyn winter you had successfully managed to gain back your voice with the very hand that you write with.

Imagine that for me. Just for a minute.

And now I imagine that you have a much better idea of what this is all about.



Exes in the Inbox: Part 5.

Sorry, I wanted to drop you a note last night, but my schedule is a little crazy this week. As per usual, I work A LOT.

I'm in Brooklyn! It's so great here; tons of people make NY a destination so I have visitors all the time, which is perfect for me, haha. I actually get to sit still sometimes. 

Where are you these days?
Tell me everything.


Exes in the Inbox: Part 4.

Ahh, yes. Todd. Todd Box. This likely could have only been more poignant had Twinkle Star herself dropped us each a line--especially Twinkle Star, as their Matriarch might note. And no, he doesn't know either one of us, not that there's an 'us' to know.

Oh, Miss Milkshake. There are a lot of folks who like what I like, meaning that we can share in some small delight together like whiskey or shuffleboard. But there are times. There are some times when I come across some tidbit that must be shared immediately to make it static, to render it concrete; the act of sharing being the act that makes it real. And it's hard sometimes to let these things fade into non-existence solely because the obvious recipient is you.

But what is real, these days. I didn't even begin to know you until you were almost gone, until we finally each pulled up a barstool in Ballard just days before you moved to California and really got down--but to talking this time--and I instantly regretted not sharing you before. But you had walls then. In my memory you did, anyway; you and Sam high up in your turret, crafting nicknames for boys that held them at the length an arm at the very least, trading notes of this on your bathroom mirror that you oft forgot was not entirely private. You two shared yourselves with few, and I was not excluded from this.

And this, right here. This isn't real. You are the one who feels compelled to capitalize the first letter in a sentence in something as informal as a letter, not I. And it's also you who has dropped the second space after a period that I, the old dog that I am, just can't seem to let go of. I would similarly never end a sentence with a preposition, although I do sometimes start one with the word 'and.' I mean, I might say this. I might say something very close to this. It's not that this response is unlike me, it's just that it's not me. I mean, or wait--I suppose you mean--that this is literally not me writing this.

But that's pretty obvious, Miss Milkshake. This can't be me as I could craft this note with a much more careful hand, and you know it because I've already said my goodbyes to you just like this. I took my time with it; I wanted to say just the right thing, and while I typed it I thought of you opening Lakricia and scanning it that first time with your mouth parted and that Myricks brow of yours bent to a furrow. I thought you might then pour over it at length while your bottom lip quivered and the type blurred together and I didn't want you to find a single flaw. Just in case you kept it. Just in case it was the last of me that you ever read.

Ours wasn't an end that needed to be rewritten, BCT. It's odd to me that you chose to. I wasn't one of those mistakes that you made, some casualty of your monogamy, and I'm unsure exactly why you've lumped me together with them. It might seem, to the casual onlooker anyway, that the opportunity presented itself: here's Todd! Right in your inbox! Asking of us! It's funny to me that we once devised a fictitious character based on a very real man with a very funny name and now because of him you're now turning me into one of your characters--but it's not fair, Miranda Terese. It's not fair that you get to insert these words in my mouth, you get to make me tell you that I miss you and think of you and that I loved you--especially when I could do it so much better.

But that's why you needed me. I was better than you, and so my praise carried more weight than most. And I saw you work for it. I saw you stretch yourself for a nod from me. I used you for this too; I can admit that I miss dangling my prowess 'neath your nose whenever I ached to be showered with compliments from someone just talented enough to recognize my skill but not herself skilled enough to criticize me. Yeah, it's true. I miss that. I miss your particular brand of praise, but unlike you I'm not particularly worse off without it.

I guess that's what this is really all about. You at 23 in your grey skirt and bare feet, that balcony and your $5 bet with Jen; I would likely be better off had our meeting never transpired. But you need me to exist, to have existed. I am irreplaceable as your first naked wordsmith, and though you have but your increasingly scant memories of me to rehash you still wouldn't be who you are without them. So cheers, Miss Moure. You're welcome.

And we'll always have Rockapulco.


p.s.--As I once teased you mercilessly for using the phrase "fervent merger", I would just like to point out that I would never, and I mean never say "ached to be showered with compliments." This is an invention of your vagina. I do, however, quite like the little double entendre you've, ahem, inserted in p7 just previous to that: "dangling my prowess 'neath your nose." I put this up there with "one more John on my list among many" as another one of my favorite lines of yours. Ever. You will never eclipse me Miss Moxie, but one day you just might just come damn close. xo--MW


Exes in the Inbox: Part 3.

It happens all the time, when I read something and I think to myself 'Hunts would love that.' But this. You simply must see this.

Oh, and the post I write about this will be so, so much better if I can write your reply myself, so seriously. No need.


I'd use my best line on you.

I've been archive hunting.

I've been contemplating a new template that would have variable headers for different types of pages and each would need a tagline or a phrase, about 5 total. Anyway, I've realized that the five best/most repeated lines from IAAJD were said by somebody other than me. You know how we're gonna do this, right?

5. "So there I was..."
This is how former Duck Island Alehouse bartender Jeremiah Harrison starts a story. I often start a story this way too, and I credit him for this practice.

4. "You better start bloggin' away, bitch."
This was first left on my voicemail in October of 2007 by Lisa. This is what she says when she wants the details of something I'm being purposely vague about on the internet.

3. "Stories are all we have."
This was originally...in a poem? I mean, I know I once put it in a poem, but I stole this particular line because I knew the original author would be in the audience the night I debuted it on the mic. This was said by Nicholas "Nick the Writer" Mathisen. Also, I am suddenly remembering that he said this to me in an email in response to me inviting him out to hear some of my wordsmith friends read at Spec's in North Beach a Monday night long ago.

2. "I love you! No wait, that's gross. I don't love you."
This one was said by Bryan Kreiger. Mid coitus. The night I met him. This post is actually from our old gang blog, but I think of Team Tenderloin as a supplement to IAAJD.

I think we know the first one.

1. "And by cuddle I mean doggy."
This was, of course, Nicholas "Other Nick the Writer" Douglas. Still brilliant after all these years.

I can only come up with a few that I have said myself that I didn't steal.

"True story."

"I don't speak French."

And then there's this one. It disturbs me that I've required its use several times.

"Please tell me something to make this okay."

I have never directed this line to anyone but Lisa. Her best advice in these scenarios involves burning bedsheets at Baker Beach.

Unless they have really high threadcount.


The Fucking Manlist.

A while back, Lisa sent me a link to one woman's online Manlist--or list of criteria that her suitors must possess in order to be taken seriously. I remember reading it and thinking, damn, this bitch is demanding. But hilarious. And correct, actually.

The last post really made me realize that there are some behaviors that I simply wont tolerate because they should not be tolerated. Not by your partner. The more women who keep rationalizing these marginalizing behaviors simply emboldens them to act like that--so I'm opting out.

I've included the word 'fuck' a whole fucking lot to pay homage to the original.
Should we do this High Fidelity style? For old times sake?

The Fucking Manlist.

1. Pay a-fucking-ttention to me.

Listen, I work anywhere between 50 and 65 hours a week, so I'm not asking for you to be readily available all the time, but you might want to try calling every once in a while. And after you call, we could talk for a bit about the couple times a week that we could hang out. Also, you should live here, and I mean actually live here, not "have a room here." When we do hang out, you should be able to remember some things that I've fucking mentioned before. Did you forget my middle name? Fine. I'll forgive you. Did you forget that I didn't have a senior year of highschool? Unforgivable. That tidbit was likely part of a half-hour long story that you ignored. Also, I will not compete with inanimate objects, charitable organizations, political movements, or your parents for your time. This means that I must be more important to you than your guitar, your commitment to sustainable living, or the 99%. I understand that your Mom is important to you, but I don't want to talk about her while I'm naked. If you can't pay a-fucking-ttention to me, don't expect me to take Lakricia out of my bed to make room for you. Because I wont.

2. Don't fucking tell me who the fuck I can and cannot talk to.

I will, today and for the rest of my life, talk to whoever I please. I will not make exceptions for you. This means that I may speak to and hang out with people that I've had...OMG...sex with. Well, guess what? We're all adults, adults have sex with each other, and I am certainly no exception. This also means that you can't freak out every time I do something completely platonic with them like hug them as a greeting or help break down their drum kit after a show. These are not actions that lead directly to sex, so calm the fuck down. If I wanted to have sex with one of these dudes again I would probably just tell you that. I'm not really known for censoring myself, so why would you think I would in this situation?

3. Don't you fucking dare tell me what I can and cannot do with my own goddamned body.

Let's be really fucking clear here: you do not own my body. It's mine. And I will do with it whatever I please. Now, don't get me wrong, if you would like to suggest something I may want to do with my body like take a vitamin or go for a hike, I'll probably do it. I'll even allow you to say something like: "You know, you really shouldn't wear such high heels. They're bad for your feet and I worry about you." If you said that you would be absolutely correct, and I should probably strongly consider your advice. However, if you say something like: "I'm only 5'9"! I look like fucking Tom Cruise over here when you wear heels. You cannot wear them when you're with me," then you can go straight to fucking hell. I will wear heels whenever I please, as will I similarly don and remove my clothing, have abortions, get tattoos, and get fucked--at my discretion. This doesn't mean that I wont fuck you exclusively--that may happen. But if that scenario should come to pass, it will be because I made the decision to be monogamous to you because I want to, likely because you require that of a partner. That will be a decision that I make myself, for myself, to be with you. Also, I don't and will never need your "permission" to be/get naked for any reason. It's my fucking body. I will show it to whomever the fuck I please. Forever.

4. Fucking do something.

You don't have to have a lot of money. You don't have to be particularly successful. You don't need a post-graduate degree or a cabin in the Catskills or an office above the 25th floor somewhere. You must, however, love the fuck out of something and fucking do it. That's it. It could be pretty much anything--you could make t-shirts or raise chickens or play the glockenspiel--seriously, I don't really care what it is as long as, a) you love the fuck out of it and b) you are actually fucking doing it. If you get paid to do this thing, more power to you! That's great, but not a requirement from me. The only thing that this thing cannot be is play the fucking didgeridoo. I'm sorry, but a man cannot love a tube. And I'm not putting up with that shit again.

and finally,

5. Be fucking smart.

I require that you are smart. I mean, these are all requirements, but without this you prolly wont even make it to the barstool next to mine. Let me be exceedingly clear--I don't mean you need to act smart, but rather you must actually be smart. You can act like an asshole for all I care (as long as you pay a-fucking-ttention to me), and I'm not asking for you to be particularly scholarly, I'm asking that you be smart. Where you went to school, who your parents are, what you do for money, and the current standings of your fantasy fucking football team have no bearing on your inherent smartness, so don't bother bringing them up when stating your case, should you have to. Just do me a fucking favor, okay? Please just be fucking smart. Just be it. Or move on.

Other than that, you can pretty much look like anything or be any gender. I have somewhat of a type but break free of that mold quite often, so take that as you will.

"Now wait a minute," you're thinking, "if this person can be any gender, then why is this called the fucking Manlist?" Well, there are two reasons for that. 1, because that's what the original was called and it cracked me up. And 2, because women have their own list.

The Fucking Womanlist

1. Stop fucking crying.



I'm just a girl, standing in front of a microwave, waiting for my Hot Pocket to be done: Part 2

[Some more OKCupid hilarity. Enjoy.]

After spotting your page I've come to conclusion that you couldn't actually REALLY be from new york. You just don't seem to fit the profile! Serious question, did you JUST move here?

No, I'm not. Nor do I say I am. In fact, I explicitly say in my profile that I routinely pick up and move to different states often, and have another city tattooed around my left bicep which you can see in one of my pictures. Women hate it when you don't pay attention, so if you'd like to meet one, I suggest you do so. 

Aaah! Well I'm into photography... and sometimes I pick up on little things. See most native new yorkers give off a more wound up or uptight energy. You can see it in the tightness of their shoulders, and even their jaws! But the vibe I get from you is more welcoming... you have a relaxed, real friendly thing going on. This could mean many things... I just took a wild guess about not really being from NYC. But then again, pictures can lie... so you could totally be the one kicking ass and causing a ton of trouble ;-)

Welcoming? Are you serious? You wrote me two sentences and I blew you off. The part that is killing me is that you then wrote BACK to me extolling on your ability to intuit. Well dude, your intuition is 0 for 2, because I am way too jaded to be welcoming or relaxed. No, I wasn't made for New York, but it was made for me. This city was born for me to live in it and waited patiently and expectantly for me to arrive. Her streets shook when I came above ground in Midtown for the first time, and she sings for me everyday to kick ass and take names. Which I do. Trouble fears me, so if I didn't cause it, I wouldn't even know what it looks like. 

[11:28pm edit]

Lol well okay buddy, I guess I was only half right then haha! But hey, quick favor... cuz you seem like perfect person to give point of view on something I've been wondering about. From female perspective... skinny jeans on men: is that sexy or not so much?

Dude, are you serious with this? I'm not your buddy, nor do I have any interest in doing you any favors. I already gave you free advice that you haven't even followed. Do I know whether skinny jeans on dudes are hot or not? Yeah, I do. I could teach you, but I'd have to charge.


Exes in the Inbox: Part 2

Noah is always teasing me about the sheer multitude of my exes.

But I really should explain.

I date lots of different kinds of people, but I know exactly what I'm looking for. Does that make sense? What I mean is that I'll know in a matter of weeks if you're it, but I'll almost never know when I first see you because you all look different. This means that I will try on a lot of people, take a spin in the mirror, and know pretty quickly if they're to be placed back on the rack or brought to the counter. This turns a lot of men of my acquaintance into go-backs, but these aren't bad dudes, they're just not for me. Not like that.

Now I'm a pretty good judge of character (no quips, please), so most of these dudes are actually seriously solid people--and as much as I know I wont be able to stand to date them, I'm usually pretty positive that I don't want them extricated from my life either. This is the situation that creates a pretty severe semantics problem, one I oh-so-cleverly solved in San Francisco. While I can count on one hand the number of Boyfriends I've had, I will casually call most of these men my exes. 

Why? Because they are. They are ex-paramours and ex-fuck buddies and ex-lovers, and since I probably hopped into bed with them within a matter of hours or days, the friendship portion of the relationship was likely just starting to get good by the time I decided I didn't really want to sleep with them anymore. So, I usually just remove the nakedness from the situation and carry on.

This would often present a small problem in the arena of introductions, specifically when upon seeing us out together people ask the seemingly innocent question: "How do you guys know each other?" This was met too many times with my ums and ahhs while I searched my head for some sort of artful way to describe what happened in a few words and I got sick of it. Now I'll just head the question off at the pass, drop the qualifier, call them my ex, and call it a night. I feel like this way it's honest about where we came from and respectful of where we are now. It also makes it pretty clear that there are parts of our relationship that are squarely in the past. The naked part, generally.

It used to be so simple--I had my friends, my currents, my exes, and then on down the line were some re-runs and backburners. And then I tried monogamy. For the first time.

And it was weird because mid my one-and-only adventure in monogamy one of my exes, my favorite ex, was trying monogamy, too. Trying and succeeding I might add, so much so that he proposed to and later married her. And then one day there he was in my inbox explaining to me after months of silence the reason for the silence, about how his new wife had given him an ultimatum before their wedding: that it was me or her. He obviously chose her.

I read it through several times and was devastated and sad and pissed and confused. So confused in fact that I called Chase to explain to him what had happened, and I got even more pissed when I heard the relief in his voice. You see, the object of my monogamy hated every last one of my exes, but especially my favorite three in Seattle of which this ex, Mark, was one. Chase had asked me more than once why I continued to hang out with them and screamed at me when I wouldn't stop. I defended my relationships with them to him so many times until, that is, Mark's letter came and I thought, "This is one of my best friends. He's smarter than me and older than me and has more experience at this. This must be what monogamy looks like." I stopped fighting for the rest of them after that.

I called Woody, my current favorite ex (no quips, please), within days of breaking up with Chase. I missed him terribly, and I do right now, and I tell him this often. I'm so glad to have him back even if he is clothed and far away.

But there are more.

And I miss them.

And I've been thinking that maybe it's my turn to be the Ex in the Inbox that inspires shock and surprise, and I'm hoping that a few of the olive branches I extend will returned in kind.

Stay tuned.


Vonnegut is for boys, Robbins is for girls.

Some of you may have met Les recently, and even those who have not might know that I am completely obsessed with him. Don't know Les? He is a white-tail deer head that was stuffed long ago and is currently mounted on my wall. He watches me while I sleep and I hang my bras from his antlers.

I know Les is new, but as soon as he arrived I felt like he'd already been a part of my life forever. He fit right into my oversized bedroom seamlessly, and everyone (with the exception of Davis) loves him as soon as they see him. I love him too. Les also serves a super awesome purpose in my life--to round out my inanimate foursome.

If you haven't read Skinny Legs and All, do yourself the favor. I know, I know. It's hard for you to get past the first hundred pages, right? But if you can, you'll not only be privy to protagonist Ellen Cherry-Charles' emotional and physical journey from Seattle to New York, but also the same arduous journey performed by a purple sock, a silver spoon, a conch shell, and a can of beans.

Yeah, I know. You think this story line is nuts. But I counter that inanimate objects becoming characters isn't completely nuts until you name them.

I guess I fucking own nuts because I name mine, and Les is the fourth. This is what happens when you live alone.

The first three? In the order they came into my life:

Sinead O'Jeanskirt
So named because nothing compares to her. There are few things I love more than a bikini, a wifebeater, flip-flops, and Sinead O'Jeanskirt on a summer day. To be clear, the current Sinead O'Jeanskirt is actually the second one, as the first was irreparably destroyed after years of wear and the great San Franciscan Laundromat Debacle of '08. It was a tragic day. Sinead is constantly pissed at me that she's too short to wear to work. She hates only being brought out on Sundays.

Oh dear lord, Pony. I love her. So named because there are mustang iron on decals near the shoulders, Pony is my favorite shirt. She is a grey long sleeved western style shirt that has been carefully tailored to fit only me. I cannot live without Pony. She is known for loving champagne almost as much as I do.

Actually, it's Lakricia V, as there were 4 previous incarnations, all Mac laptops: a 14" iBook G3, a 14" iBook G4, a 13" white Macbook, a 15" Macbook Pro and finally the fast-as-balls, sleek, small and sophisticated 13" Macbook Pro. I have loved every one of my Lakricia's (especially the first, which I had for the longest time of all of them and wrote of extensively as my favorite bed partner), but Lakricia V and I are growing more and more in love with each other every day. I even bought her a Queen sized bed so she has more room, and as I always lay on my side she tucks perfectly right inside that little pocket created by my ribcage and thighs as I sleep. She always prefers the left side of the bed, and although I do too, I don't see fit to push the issue with her and [almost] always relent.

And finally,

Les was named for a taxidermied moose head that adorns a wall in a house in one of my favorite novels. Now, Les is a white-tailed deer, but as he serves the same purpose as his namesake (specifically being awesome and holding bras) I don't think the original Les will be too upset. Especially since he's fictional. And my Les is real. So real in fact that he is constantly reminding me of all of the mistakes I make, and chides me about them before I fall asleep. His most recent lecture?

Hey Mox,
You were warned several times that boy toys are people too. You prolly should have listened, but in the meantime you could always just turn off your phone for the rest of the day. And hey, it could be worse: you could be dead and have your head mounted on some slut's bedroom wall.

It's probably about now that you're all like: "Hey, Moxie's posts have been a little lighthearted lately. Think there's any reason for that? I mean, it's all nail polish and jean skirts and text messages and crap. What gives?" And you're totally fucking right. There are stories in my head that I'm having a hard time extricating from my head, and there are boys in the inbox that I can't fucking handle right now, and there is nothing on my horizon except for the long days of summer spent at two different jobs and me stacking Benji's to be able to afford to move. 

I have been spending a lot of time with Lakricia lately, and none of it is making it here. 

Les, I'm sure, will have something to say about that.



Late Night SEA-BK Text Messaging.

M: Somebody is Googleing the shit out of you again. Miss you.

A: I blame you and your blog...but I miss you too.

M: Ha! My blog is the only reason you're finding out ;)

A: Shouldn't you be asleep?

A: And nice to know you're keeping track of me.

M: I was asleep, but then my ex texted me. And I don't keep track of you, my site tracker does. I just bother you whenever I want because I'm entitled to.

A: Still sounds like you're keeping track of me...

M: I don't need the internet to keep track of you, especially since you're painfully ungoogleable. That's how I always know when someone's doing it. Go ahead. Google yourself. I'm the first or second hit.

A: Um...okay.

M: Don't get all pissy with me! You know full well I keep track of you in person. Not that it does any good, you're prolly out peeing on sombody's motorcycle as we speak.

A: No, just putting bananas in the tailpipe. Or maybe my penis.

M: Putting bananas in your penis or your penis in a tailpipe? Both sound dangerous. I'm pulling rank for a veto on this one.

A: Fine. Since I understand that your concerned about my penis, then I'll be more careful with it.

M: *you're. And shouldn't you want to be concerned about your penis for your own sake? How do you ever intend on impregnating this girl you're supposed to be finding with your dick in a tailpipe? Your Mom is gonna be pissed.

M: On a side note, I care about YOU a great deal more than your penis. Nite.


p.s.--I think this might be a prelude to an Exes in the Inbox: Part 2, but I think I'm ovulating right now so I need to make sure that a real story is happening instead of it being an invention of my hormones. Stay tuned.