a two-package-of-oatmeal kind of monday

After sex, I usually want something. I cannot always distinguish the properties of what this thing looks like or feels like. Usually, I want it to feel like a swift kick in the rear. That's black bitter coffee. Or a cigarette if I smoked. Or a crisp sunburn. Today, that was two packages of cinnamon-bun-flavored instant oatmeal. A wrecking ball of oats and butter flavor socking me in the gut, forcing me to sit down and work on compositions. 

I think that is the function of desiring such a harsh transition: I need to switch modes and leave sex-lounge-around-land. Like ripping off a band-aid, transitioning as quickly as possible is considered best practice.

alone with fresh pasta

There are not many nights I eat alone. Not because I have friends. Let me assure you: I do not have friends.  Making friends is another project I can describe to you later. It is a full time job that I take seriously. Look at my planner and cringe at the Amateur Volleyball League, Bible Study, Practical Anarchy Book Club, Crafting Social Circle, and Community Garden meetings. I am trying to connect with one person in each group, really broadening my social circle and giving what I like to call, depth. Variety perhaps. 

Tonight I am eating alone, and since it is a rare thing for me not to be on a date...solitude at dinner time has developed into something I treasure. Why does it feel so good? First of all, there is the silence. It's a silence that is intimate and encourages introspective thoughts. I spend time hearing patterns of the rain, the squeak of the fan, and the rhythm of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. With this silence, they are not droning or elements of white noise but special and something of focus. Tonight: fresh spinach pasta with butter garlic and fresh parsley. Smell the gas as it clicks and catches. Water takes too long to boil, and I don't care. The salt shaker breaks while trying to make sea water for my pasta, and I don't care. 

Through these sounds, at the table I can quietly absorb nuanced feelings of the heat from the hot pasta start to increase my temperature. I start to sweat. How each red pepper flake reacts in stinging my tongue, and how heat is dissimilated by the creaminess of the sauce again. This is cyclic and calming and a rather pleasurable eating experience. 

There is a freedom that comes with eating alone. It is the freedom that makes a good party a great party: the feeling that there are no rules. I can take bites with four bowties and choke, gulp. I can eat as slowly as possible, feeling the moment as deeply as I can. What I like to do is break all the rules. I don't even realize there are rules to eating until I am alone and can break them. My legs are in the chair, one up, one dangling. No pants. Set the table to make it feel special knowing no one is coming over. No one. Dirty too many dishes. Drink old coffee. Flop on plate presentation. Use an inappropriate amount of butter. And ultimately cause an unknown amount of debauchery and chaos in the respective dining area. But my favorite indulgence of all, the biggest baddest error of all is to be able to leave my dishes on the table and walk away. Walk away! Damn, that feels good. These are the feelings your guests need to be entitled to, must be entitled to. Anyone who has broken these rules knows it feels like royalty. 

fresh spinach pasta with garlic and parsley

fresh spinach pasta, bowties

1 garlic clove, minced

3 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoon salted pasta water

salt and pepper

dash of red pepper flakes 

4 tablespoons parsley 

cook fresh pasta for 3-4 minutes, maximum. when it floats to the top, it's done. drain and toss while piping hot with the rest of ingredients. eat when comfort is needed. 

the dogs need name tags

I admit I was arrogant walking into this mixer. Walking down the street, cars honk at me, trucks run over small dogs and firemen let children die. I am not exceptionally attractive but my features are soft and my aura is lacks any pretentiousness. It is the kind of face that men are attracted to because they feel they could jizz on her face and it is the face that would keep smiling, exuding graciousness, accepting them as they are.  Jizz and all. I have that type of face, which is highly desirable and in high demand, because everyone wants a face to jizz on.

I do not think anything could have prepared me for what the expectations of desire seemed to be and how I could have missed the mark so explicitly. The women wearing dresses that resemble aprons. This anti-attracting-men style is taking off. At first, my understanding was that overalls and harem pants and grandma shoes were a stab at men, saying yeah? you want to sleep with me? well you are going to have to put up with my unshaven legs and untoned stomach. Take that, Man. Way to stick it to them.

These women seem to have little respect for themselves sexually: throwing themselves at these cool Brooklyn boys. Scouring around this mixer like sex-hunger teenage girls. They dress so unattractive. Ruffles and frills and clogs. Compensating for their lack of fashion sense by flirting relentlessly.At the bar. At this miserable mixer. It must be confusing to get such conflicting messages. I identified with the men at this mixer and their potential confusion. Maybe it's exciting and mysterious for men. Maybe it's good that emotionally compromised women have found a way to identify themselves so quickly.

I am in heels, cuffed jeans, casually styled button down and am cleverly using my scarf to color block. Conservative, a little sensual with the hair down. Entering the mixer, I realize we have to wear name tags with our favorite type of pie written beside it. Pie is another word for vagina. What flavor is your vagina? It really was a lot to think about. Men looking at my chest, nodding when I say my name and raising their gaze to meet mine when they say...sweet potato. I don't think I can ever eat pie again now that I have a different hipster as the mental image for each type.

The women have dogs in their laps. The dogs don't have name tags. Doesn't the dog deserve a name tag? The men are all short and frail and look like they need to eat something. They are playing super-cultured games that look like small scale curling or something else Canadian, and I'm frozen. Frozen sweet potato pie. It is everything but inviting and I do not feel like mixing with people that already have groups. All the young grandmas are so secure with this assumed identity. Here I am, overdressed in the summer, with a scarf. Where do you even put a name tag on a scarf? On my dog? Where is my dog, and why don't I have one?

sensitive to shuffle choices

"The End" by Kleerup came on my ipod. Understanding this as a sign, I stand up, jerk both earbuds out of my ears and realize the panicky-ending feeling is not as big of deal as it felt, minutes ago lying in the grass. The park was as hot and still as it was before pre-"significant" song.

Going with my gut, I left--sacrificing the tan on my stomach and quads in order to tell you about about what's more important: who I slept with last night. So my tan is uneven, at the cost of the visual displeasure of he who sees me unrobed. Let's be honest: he, whoever he is, doesn't care.