Any Given Friday

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I collect people.

My life is what it is because of the acquaintances made and paths crossed. I live for the stories that so vividly fill my life chapters and without all the many interesting characters my pages would be blank.

I like interesting types. Artists, deviants, intellectuals, but I don’t limit myself to these groups exclusively. I am an unbiased collector, looking for all original pieces.

On a particular day in my most recent chapter, I filled my character list with all sorts of colorful collectibles.

The day began with a plumber, an electrician, and a less than cordial landlord. It involved reparing the roof around my leaky skylights, reversing the damage done by a previous tenant that liked to pot his plants in the bathroom sink, and trying to pull a little "tom-foolery" on my sly eyed landlord when he began to question the possibility of a newly vacated witch.

Never trust a man named Steve.

Next came my usual downtown antics that resulted in erratic flirtation with nearly every alpha male that took a second glance at my fishnets and entirely too much time well spent with a lovely assortment of white guys in ties. Throw in a photographer, an idolization of Bettie Page, and I’m on my way back to the heart of the city for a brief rendezvous with my latest admiration.

My excitement was genuine. So was his disappointment.

My already saccharine sensibilities combined with a newly damaged ego sent me into a mood ride with nothing to hold onto. Destination? Anywhere but lachrymose. Strangely enough, I had no taste for retail therapy.

Suddenly it’s evening and I’m cursing audibly at the friend who is supposed to be cheering me up but instead has sent me on a wild goose chase in the rain for pre-ordered vegetarian thai somewhere in the middle of busy Ballard where I had to pay to park and then walk blocks in the downpour in heavy boots and false lashes. I was less than pleased.

A couple quick conversations and pats on the back exchanged and I’m home again redressing for the third time today and off to meet trouble somewhere outside the confines of the city. The dreaded ex. Or X. Or something unfamiliar that allowed me to be in a room full of men craving back scratches and pancakes. My able hands were all to eager to please.

Get your minds out people, I was simply doing the back scratching. I let the boys do the pancake making and I was smart enough to decline a stack. My role for the evening was to play interesting stranger to a house full of testosterone, and players, and youth. I didn’t mind my part. Lingerie parties were visited, unlikely unions were made, and experiments were performed and observed. As the only non participant in their evening’s exploits, I had front row seats to the libidinous displays of affection (mostly directed my way...the pleasure of being the only girl) and was suddenly feeling my ego rise with each pair of wonderfully tightening pants.

Too much information. In general, too much information.

By the time I drifted off my mind was drafting versions of this day’s chapter and wondering just how many characters would make the final cut. If in this passage your find yourself identified, bravo.

I enjoy my new collection additions, what a colourful array.