Oz v. the State of Kansas.

I have a date tonight.

A First Date.

I have stolen Kat Moss' boyfriend.

I believe we are going to Mediterranean. I don't know what I am going to wear, but I did manage to blowdry my hair this morning, so that's a start. I'm not sure what time he's picking me up, and I hope my face isn't puffy* by this evening as Bijou & I had drinks last night & I ordered a third glass of wine.

*I just checked, it's actually not puffy. I just look a little palid. 

But really, none of this matters because by the time I get home and dressed and ready for this so-called First Date, my date will most likely have watched me get ready for the whole damn thing. Because, thethingis, I have a date tonight with my notboyfriend Boyfriend (He's not my boyfriend!) from Apt F.

Rewind.
I had a date last night.
Not that kind of date though.

Pretend that espresso is a glass of  Pinot.

Its been cold here as Fall has settled in to our tiny town; its taken it's Autumn form of a misty, damp half-deserted beach town. The summer crowds are gone, the students are studying at the coffee shops & the locals are well hidden on their couches in front of their tv sets. So... surprise surprise! I spent a couple hours on that well worn restaurant patio last night smoking and laughing and bemoaning a certain magazine editor with Bijou.  Like most Thursdays as of late, there we are - bundled up in knit tights, leather mini skirts & high neck houndstooth peacoats. Some of these nights we are profound, some nights we are silly, and some nights we sit and stare at each other - tired from work, tired by life, or still tired from the night before.

On my first glass of wine, she asks about my neighbor. (Or, more likely, I brought him up.) I tell her that his side of the bed has started to smell like him. And yes, he has a side of the bed he has deemed His. I explain that I'm getting sick of hearing myself complain - all the wailing and eye-rolling - and I simply just want someone to tell me what to do. I know what I want, what I see for the 'folklore of my life', and waaawaaawaaa he doesn't fit. She responds,

I can't tell you what to do, Missy. I won't tell you what to do. I don't know what you should do. But I'll tell you one thing; Life is not always going to be exciting. And I don't mean that in a negative way, I simply mean that its not always going to be magical. You're going to have to realize that...

She goes on, describing sitting on her couch with her boyfriend not long ago,

...We were just sitting there watching television, and this commercial came on - I don't know what for. But it was these cool looking people dancing in front of a wall - there were costume changes, and props, and there they were, just dancing away - at one point there was a dog. Anyway, as the commercial was ending, I got up and started to walk into the kitchen, but first I stopped & pointed to the television.

Justsoyouknow, I said to him, I want my life to be like that.

And he just looked at me, and replied, 'Uh okay.'

And yes, somedays my life is like that; surrounded by cool people, those magical nights where you just have the greatest time. And yes, you had that with the Aussie. You had that with the Dutchman. But the reality is, the reality is - some days are just going to be spent sitting on my couch with my boyfriend.

The reality is, not every day can be like that damn commercial & thats not necessarily a bad thing.

Truth be told, I want a Grande Love Story.
I want my life to be fuzzy romantic polaroids, flower crowns, oversized cashmere and French lace caftans.
I want dramatic & romantic.
I want to be swept off my feet.
Most importantly, I want something good to write about.

Its like, I want to reside in the glittery Land of Oz, but somehow I ended up living in a couchless studio apartment smackdab the middle of Kansas.
And in this state of Kansas, I have one thing I am really afraid of: Getting stuck here.



It's complex in the Complex including Apt C in Kansas.

 
Because, sure enough, as with everyothersinglenightthisweek, last night post-drinks & guac with my girlfriend, I marched my little behind up those stairs I have gotten to know so well & knocked on his door.
I can only assume he was waiting for me to get home.
I told him last night that he was the first person I have dated - ever - who I was also friends with. I'm terrified of this, because I love my friends.
And I don't want to fall in love with him. Where is that line drawn? I sometimes find myself wanting to tell him I love him; especially after a couple glasses of wine, I look at this strawberry blonde, slightly rumpled Friend of mine, in a mismatched t-shirt & shorts and I want to tell him I love him. As a friend? We don't have The Spark - but we have something.

It is a casual, adult relationship; or at least that's what we call it. We were very open about this when it started, we openly talked about what a terrible idea it was for neighbors to become lovers. (I shudder as I type that word, by the way.) Actually, he once referred to our 'lovemaking' & I nearly choked. Rolling my eyes at him, I repeated his words back like they tasted bitter in my mouth.



I meant "French", Dating Gods. Not "Friend".



He looked at me crossly; and replied,

'Oh I'm sorry. Creating hate. That's what we were doing, creating hate.'

Touche, my neighbor, touche.

Last Wednesday night, neither of us called one another. We were each giving the other 'space'.

Well, I wanted the space. Up until my movie got sad, that is. They started beating the elephant! I thought they were supposed to be feeding it water?! Then I hopped up that flight of stairs & woke him up. I felt like a child, 'My movie got scary, can I sleep with you?'

To which he said of course, and I climbed onto my side of the bed.

His smelly, wrinkled bed.

We are going on our very first date, ever, tonight.
I'm actually kind of nervous.

Sidenotes: My mom didn't like my blog that I called myself a creep. She has no problem with me sharing (quite openly) about my dating & sex life, yet the moment I refer to myself as a 'Creep', she's having to stop herself from calling me and asking me to change the wording on my own blog.
Silly Mommie.