Tag Archives: single girl

I’ve Got All My Love — to Live!

I love break-ups!

Nyet, seriously, my darlings, I am not being flippant here.

Well, okay, maybe just a lil’.  Because no matter the number of departures I’ve survived, every time it seems to hurt like a mother fucker!  You’d think I’d learn to deal, yet every time one of the participants goes, “I’m out!,” the words hit my heart like a mean defibrillator, and I feel like doubling over.

But then, as I’ve said before:  I’m Russian, eh?  We prefer to think of life as an endless series of shocks straight to the heart anyway.

As a matter of fact, I am quite sure I got myself a free one, at birth, when motha brought to register my newborn body at some local bureaucrat’s office back on some god-foresaken coast of my Motha Land.

“Oh, you’re two hours old?” the greedy and lazy government official said, accepting the bribe of vodka from my motha in exchange for my birth certificate (Stoli — is an official currency of my homeland, dontcha know?  It gets shit done o’er there.)  “Well, how about a freebie then?” — and the fucker attached the electrodes to my tiny heart.  Happy fuckin‘ birthday, bitch!

The only way we know how to deal with pain, as a nation — a nation full of tortured, exhausted hearts addicted to shock therapy — is to laugh.  Or to chuckle at least.  For me, this recent bye-bye by a beloved has caused me a few laughing sessions (mostly at my own expense though).  As for my witnesses and life-long keepers of my secrets, they tend to find me absolutely hilarious during times of loss.  And truth be told, in their tear-jerking, breath-taking laughter, I find myself again — while the heart resumes beating at its healthier pace.  So, this week, I’ve been very busy, you see:  taking my stand-up routine around town and groveling for the healing powers of laughter by my beloveds.

But that’s not really the reason for my recent love of break-ups.

I’ve noticed that if I behold long enough after the initial heart-shocker, there always comes a moment of clarity; and that’s exactly the one I am starting to adore.  Now, the messier the relationship and the more chaotic of a break-up, chances are this clarity will take years to sweep over (if ever).  So, it must be some odd joke I’m currently living through, but just like the relationship itself, this break-up has been… well, kinda great.   Because that’s just the thing:  If during a love, the participants agree to behave according to their personal graces (as my recently beloved and I have), at the end of it, there is no room for guilt or self-defense to suffer through; making the process of healing much quicker.  All along, my lover and I remained kind and generous, so besides an occasional self-delusion on both of our parts, there has been no injustice committed upon each other.  So, in comes forgiveness. 

(Want a little personal secret?  “Forgiveness” was the first one-word message from my beloved that I’ve archived, until recently.  Are you smirking?  That’s bloody irony for ya!  Yourr velkom.)

But here is V’s newest discovery.  Had I been on Oprah, she would’ve called it an Aha Moment.  (What?!  Shut up!  I don’t watch Oprah!)  So forgive me, my darlings, if I go a little New-Agey / SoCal-Hippie on your pretty booties.  I promise soon enough I’ll be back to ranty-cuntry — and we’ll share a laugh again.  But this time around, my Aha Moment is so fragile, I hurry to commemorate it; because tomorrow I might wake up in so much pain, I’ll have reach for the defibrillator myself.  So, let me cradle my tired lil’ heart for a while — a heart that, thank Shiva, has so obviously refused to give up on loving, even after its recent shocker.  Let me cradle my heart and whisper it to a steadier rhythm with the help of a humbling insight:

It’s part of it, my darlings!  It is ALL part of it. 

The loss, the pain, the tragedy; the mourning and disappointment; the bitterness and the letting go — they are equal components of love, just as happiness and lightness.  I am not sure where and how we’ve learned to misinterpret love as only its collective moments of elation.  They are, of course, a part of it.  Or rather they are part of falling in love.  But the actual state of being in love — or BEING LOVE — encompasses every possible emotion, except for the destructive ones.  Why not the destructive?  Because (oh, boy:  I’m about to let it rip!):  Love — is life.  And if one is gripped by emotions that are meant to damage and to destroy oneself or another person, then the story becomes about the pursuit of death.  A thousand little deaths that get one closer to the state of non-living; non-being.  Non-loving.

(Do you hate me yet?  It’s okay, babies, I promise I’ll get nice and angry tomorrow and overcompensate with a cunty lil’ rant.)

“We are meant to live a life of love.  When we’re not in love, something is the matter.” 

These are the first words from a book gifted to me by my dear departed boo (my baby-boy, my kitten; and my big, strong man); a book titled Zen and the Art of Falling in Love.  It has been my go-to during this most gracefully-executed romantic relationship of my life, and although I still have kilometers upon kilometers to go in search of my personal Zen, I feel that with this fleeting realization — that life is not just synonymous to love, but IS love — I am ever so closer.  So, even as I find myself newly single — lashing out on occasion, to earn the laughter of my permanently beloved — I have not fallen out of love.  I carry on loving life itself — loving you — and what’s most difficult, yet rewarding, loving myself.

Oh-kay!  That’s enough!

As my love used to say in our phone chats:

“Hey, Eckhart!  Give the phone back to V.”

If Angels Must Fall…

Oh boy!  Oh boys, rather!  This shawty woke up ranty in the morn’!

Just for the sake of your wild imaginations, my rougher creatures, I shall confess that in the midst of my sleep today — while naked, with tan lines slowly marking their territory all over my skin — I had a thought.  Well, actually, I had a muscle cramp first, in one of my calves.  It came from marching in 12-inch heels yesterday eve, while strung out with endless pearls and whipping my boys with my askance glances.  But after the cramp passed, the head had a moment of clarity; and then, I tossed my caramel-colored bod into a diagonal angle across the bed, and went back to my dreamin’.  (I don’t have much height on me, so I tend to terrorize every bed I sleep in by assuming the least economical positions.  It’s what I do:  I toss ‘n’ hog.)

The thought was tiny at first:  a lil’ echo from one of my Amazon’s words I read yesternight.  But by the time I awoke — in my bed that looked like a war zone — the thought had grown into a Wild Thing.  It had been hanging onto a plank of my canopy because that was the only space unoccupied by my petite frame; and when I opened my yes, it began swinging above my head in some silly acrobatic act that was suppose to both entertain me and to terrify.

Now as I write, the Wild Thing is still here, running around my single girl’s apartment, rummaging through the drawers of my memories, reshuffling the books of my library in search of inspirations, and braiding my Martha Stewart’s ribbon collection into its hairy body.  It’s demanding my time.  I’ve tried to calm it down with a saucer full of milk ‘n‘ coffee on the tiles of my kitchen floor; but it ain’t having it.  It’s climbed upon the window sill in front of which I rant every morning and proceeded to stick is stubby fingers into a bottle of my honey; and as it started to gnaw on my gypsy earrings and dry-hump my still aching calf, I can ignore it no longer:

“Alright, alright you silly thing,” I pet it funny face.  “What is it?”

And thusly it growls:

“Do you realize the fortune, dear gentlemen, of having the love of a woman?  And if you do, how dare you waste it on your fear, or on some hideous spiel of your ego about your readiness; or a presumptuous idea that if you let that love depart, you’ll be worthy of more of it — and better kind! — in the future?

Does it stroke your egos — and your penises — when you finally get the girl you’ve been chasing?  And if it does, why do you must you daydream about deserving better than what you’ve got?  

And when, due to whatever juvenile bullshit your ego whispers to your mirror reflection during the morning shaving routine, when you break an angel’s heart, does your manhood grow when you watch her weep for the loss of your love?  Do you feel more like a man to have a woman’s tears soak your chest?  And if you do, pray do tell me, does your heart ache for her, in that very moment?

And when your angel finally gathers her belonging and the shards of her broken self-esteem and walks away, does the lingering perfume of her hair make your heart wince with missing her?   

And when another woman breaks your heart by being underserving (karma’s long term memory — is a bitch), do you remember us:  An army of angels who’ve made you better men; and for the risk of having your love, committed themselves to falling?”

Damn, you Wild Thing!  You growl with poetry!

Ow!  And there it goes, onto the next thing.  It’s gotten a hold of my old, tortured flip-phone and started flossing its fangs with it.  I got my hands full with this Thing, so I show it how to work it.  Now, it’s scrawling through the archives of my messages in search of some tender words from my recent lover.

“Oh, he’s gone, my darling,” I respond to the disappointed little face now confronting me, “and so are the messages.”

It whimpers.  I know, baby.  I know.

I take over the phone and download the words that birthed this Wild Thing into being in the first place:  The words from a co-hurting angel who’s been letting me borrow her halo while I healed:

“[Men] must chase, hunt,” she’s written, “and as soon as they feel they’ve caught you, had you totally… sexually, emotionally… as soon as you’re theirs for the taking, they no longer want it.  I fucking hate it, and it terrifies me.”

Amen, my darling.  Such is the sad coincidence in too many tales I’ve overheard from other angels, fallen for the sake of love.

Men must hunt, in pursuit of better opportunities, situations and loves.  In this day and age, they no longer need to do it on women’s behalf, for we are often capable of doing it for ourselves.  But if they must carry-on hunting, how I wish they wouldn’t get greedy — even if only for the sake of their own selves!  Because an angel’s love does not take away their freedom in pursuit of beauty — it opens their hearts to comprehending it.  It forgives the past mistakes of their mothers or resuscitates the futures they may have given-up on due to previous heartbreaks.  So, I wish our glorious men would learn to recognize their angels when they see them — to be wise enough to unload their bows and guns, to land their messy heads upon their bosoms — and to give this whole hunting act a rest.

Shh.  The Wild Thing has fallen asleep, still clutching my useless phone in its paw; and suddenly, it looks like the little thing that woke me in the middle of the night.  There, there, my darling.  There, there.

“Catch Me if You Can — But You Ain’t Man Enough”

Gentlemen!

Hold on to your balls!  This broad — is coming out swingin’, and it’s gonna hurt a lil’.

Because I’ve gotten a bloody earful of grievances from my girls (and none of them are the dainty types, waiting to be rescued by the way); and because, although my gender has a shit load of its own faults, when with a guy, women aren’t typically the ones to own-up to the following question:  Just how laid back — and just for how bloody long! — do you think you can remain about commitment, without eventually coming off as a playboy or a boy-child?

Now, look!  If acting either like George Clooney or Peter Pan is your shtick, that’s cool.  No, really:  IT IS!  Just be honest about it — with yourself, but most importantly, with the women you’re shagging.  If you are, I swear you’re gonna save yourself a lot of headache; because when clearly aware of your own intentions (which you then just as clearly communicate with your sex partner), you’ll get paired up with the most suitable girl (or girls) for your needs.

“Oh, but you women will never go for that!” some of you might say.

Uhm, hello?  I’ve been known to go for that.  And so have some of my girls.  Because you see, our dear creatures of the opposite sex, this is the time in the history of humanity when women are just as ambitious and independent as you — and they have an equal amount of opportunities to which to apply that ambition.  Even those of us who are interested in an eventual marriage tend to spend most of our 20s in pursuit of additional dreams that aren’t directly related to the best possible pairing-up with a penis owner.  (Sorry to break that to you!)  And while we chase those dreams, some of us do look for sexual gratifications with a moderately nice guy.  I repeat:  I and most of the women I know either have been or currently are in a pursuit of that type of a relationship.  We want sex.  Just like you do.  Yourr velkom!

Now, of course, you still have to work for it (that is the only catch!) — even if just for the mere symbolism of it.  But what are a couple of nice dinners and extracurricular activities in exchange for a beautiful woman to satisfy you and then — get this! — leave because she is just too damn busy to stay and cuddle with your ass?

What sparked this cunty-ranty blog of mine?  Well, one of my Amazons, with a body of a warrior queen and a career on a rise, has been confiding in me on her dating life as a single woman.  Having recently dragged herself out of a relationship with an official asshole by her own luscious hair, she’s been taking it slow, while recuperating and playing the field a little.  But not in any manipulative or gold-digging way, mind you; because, you see, this kitten — has dreams of her own and those dreams take time.  So, in between her producing, and screenwriting, and acting, and traveling, and yoga-certification ambitions, she just wanted to have a little fun with a few nice guys, while remaining completely honest about with them about her priorities.

All was hunky-dory, until one of her players started to take the lead.  And when he did, he, albeit timidly, requested for a monogamous upgrade of their relationship.

“Fine,” said my girl, because she was starting to like the guy as well (and because she is not a female douche).  Besides, regardless what you may think, dear gents:  You too can be quite high maintenance, and a girl has just so much energy to spend on building you up — or stroking your ego, or nurturing, or feeding, or mothering you — let alone on performing these, may I say, partner-like duties for several guys.

So, our couple made a step closer to their official coupling.  Now:  No one started dropping hints about marital commitments, I swear.  Neither has anyone rushed off to update their Facebook status yet.  They were taking it slow — still — and my girl was perfectly fine with that.  And you gotta be when you are being flown all over the world to shoot commercials and films; and when you start getting calls from major agents in this town to suggest their talent for the independent film you’re about to produce; and when you spend an hour a day negotiating SAG contracts for the actors you’re about to hire for your web-series, right?!

But after about two months of this laid back routine, the player seems to have laid so far back, he leaned right out of the relationship.  Any relationship!  Yep, I’m talking even sex!  So busy and blase this man has been acting — even when scheduling shag dates with my girl — you would think he was indeed the very George fucking Clooney!

Time for newsflashes, boys:

One:  The majority of you, dear gents — are not George Clooney!  Nor will you ever be! Because if my girl ever complained about her Clooney’s lack of commitment-worthy behavior, I would be the first to tell her to stop being a dumb bitch and summon her gratitude.  But since she is shagging a regular guy — a struggling actor type with little cash to spare for their extracurricular activities, let alone on any ambition to save the world — his act of a man with a line-up of panting bitches at his leg is quickly becoming ridiculous and offensive.  Mismatch!

Two:  Just how many good women do you think you gonna come by in your life? Seriously.  From your own dating experience, you must know that this town of LA-LA is filled to the rim with money- and opportunity-grabbing bitches.  So, when you meet a chick cool enough to be your go-to pussy — without displaying any needy or greedy behavior — you better start counting your blessings.  And when that chick turns out to be Girlfriend Material, you would be the biggest idiot to let her slip away.

“Oh, but I’m not in ‘that stage in my life’,” you might say.

Fine.  Excellent.  Do take your time.  But then, don’t get all insecure and possessive when your girl continues to see other men.  If you have the balls to demand monogamy from your pussy-on-call, be man enough to keep up with the necessary progression of things that permits you to keep having the first dibs on it.

Yep, it will take courage and a leap of faith for you to grow.  And oh, it will be petrifying when you start falling for your girl.  But (and this is just my observation):  As the world’s masterpieces of literature, and films, and songs, and fine art tell me, this whole love experience might be if not utterly magnificent, then life-changing for you.  Because loving a woman will introduce you to your own humanity. It will teach your about your heart, and about your past (and how to forgive it), and it just might graduate you into your manhood.  Congratulations.

I’m Much Prettier — in LA

Let me paint you a picture, my comrades:

Still jet-lagged since my departure from LA-LA Land half a week ago, every ungodly hour of the morning, I’ve been treading my home ground of Man’s-Hattan on foot:  either in running shoes or 6-inch heels.  Whenever reuniting with my people here, I observed their beloved faces, blotchy-red and frozen, emerge from the ice-covered cabs or appear from behind the swamp-green gates of the Subway.  They defrosted their bodies in my embraces; their darling hands—on cups of hot water and coffee or while groping tea lights at perpetually packed bars; and injected their blood with red wine:  anything to escape the cold.

“What do you mean:  You’re walking?” they lisped when saying their goodbyes outside, droplets of their breath freezing on every syllable and hitting the pavement between us like hail.  Then, they ran for cover while I watched the City eat up their bodies.  Oh how many of my loves this Island has swallowed!  Despite the MAN in its name, this City must be a woman—a woman of exceptional beauty, with a boudoir full of addicting potions and perfumes and custom-made, designer frocks.  It took the Bitch less than 48 hours to enter my system, and before I had the chance to miss the vast real estate of the West Coast—She was in my blood stream.  So, how can I possibly blame my beloveds for committing to Her for life? 

But this morning, the temperatures dropped even more:

“How do you like me now?” the indifferent Bitch arched her eyebrow at me. 

Oh, but I do!  I do. 

This morning, while my host was still stretching her model-esque Mediterranean body in bed next to me, I took off—in my pink-and-silver running shoes and my Little-Red-Riding-Hood hat.  (In my defense, the rest of me was still clad in black!)  Past the pale and ghostly faces of the natives I jetted, still immune to the cold treatment by the Bitch.  An occasional dog-owner trotted past me, dragging his or her animal’s frozen corpse through the snow.  No other jogger was anywhere to be found.  My toes tapped along the Island’s brown skin—”I-do, I-do, I-do”—never slipping on any traps of black ice or dog shit.  I flew, utterly in love with my old flame.  Accidental pedestrians looked at me askance:  “She must insane.”  But they’re used to oddities around here, and I am finally grown-up enough to not mind being one. 

My breakfast?  A shot of nuclear, jet black espresso and a granola bar laced with dark chocolate—the pleasure of the minimum.  As I strutted down 7th Ave., I chomped down my breakfast of champions with utter satisfaction and stubborn joy.  A brown man at a bus stop faced North, and, after noticing my inconvenient intrusion on his privacy, mumbled to himself.  Oh you, another sufferer, an incident away from loosing your shit—never mind me!  I took the last mighty bite out of my bar (or rather shoved one-third of it into my mouth, smearing its chocolate on my lips and chin).      

“You’re very beautiful, ma’am,” the stranger suddenly spoke up, traces of old-fashioned grace and Southern accent reigning over his vocabulary.  This entire time, he must’ve been mumbling to me!

Startled, I covered my mouth with my mitten, and struggled to relieve my tongue from the grainy texture.  “Shank you,” I manage to say. 

The brown stranger nodded, in seemingly sincere awe, and when I passed him, said:  “Oh my god:  Beauty.”

This—was the first flirtation I’ve encountered here.  So bogged down by hard life, poor diet, lack of time and space the men of the Island appear, none have made a pass at me so far.  There’ve been a few arousing and mysterious glances from the tall, dark strangers in bars; but no phone number requests—or offers.  Even to catch a cab, my unbuttoned coat and exposed leg no longer did the trick:  I’ve had to leap under its wheels, Anna Karenina style, in order to hail one. 

(Just the other day, I’m on Lex and 45th, when the Bitch decided to jumpstart a snow flurry.

“Need a ride?” a sickly looking driver of a yellow cab asked through the rolled-down window.  I considered for a moment and nodded.  Fuck it:  Let’s party it up, even if I am only four blocks away.

“Where to?” he asked me once I situated my floor-length black coat on his back seat. 

“Broadway.  Thanks.”

His eyes, under an awning of a uni-brow, examined me in the rear-view mirror for a moment, and then he said:  “No.”

“‘Cuse me?”  I couldn’t believe the fucker!  He picked me up!

After another moment of silence and another glare, he negotiated:  “Twenty dollars then.”

Half-a-blink of an eye—and V’s new-agey, Californian pleasantries evaporated:  “Fuck you:  I’ll walk!”)

But the brown stranger this morning made me fantasize about the possibility of dating in New York again.  I’ve thought about it, and to quote the uni-browed taxi driver, I must say:  “No.”  Even though back in LA-LA, I’ve often been guilty of being that ass-hole New Yorker reminiscing about the City she left behind, I would not want to be single in Manhattan.  Besides the lack of personal space, overcrowded commute, miniscule apartments and lack of sanitary bathrooms in which to fix one’s make-up, I would not be able to put up with the competition.  By that, I don’t even mean competition with other women.  I mean:  Competition with the Island—the Bitch of my own bitter-sweet addiction.  Surviving Her is difficult enough, for either gender.  But if I had to figure out how to notice a Nice Guy in a unanimously black-clad crowd, or in an overstuffed restaurant; or how to read him past the stress lines and the furrowed brows; or how to decipher a flirtation in an innocent greeting or a rare compliment—I would most likely lose my mind.  But then, again:  I don’t mind being odd.