That Kind Of Woman

To think, that there is someone who just wants you.
Just as you are. 
Cracked bones, crooked teeth, rough skin.
They see things to love. To want.

Messy hair, bad morning breath, and minutes filled with hiccups.
Someone wants you.

They want to hold you close, and breath in the scent of your skin.
They want to stand on your stoop in the frosty air waiting for you to let them in.

They sweat sickly sweet with you on hot summer days hiking to abandon water sheds.
Will rub your sore muscles with concern and care.

Will overindulge with you in your not so vicious vices.  
Will whisper true love’s words into your hair and neck in the dark morning light.

They will want you, so bad.
Ache, toss and turn.
Imagine.

And you, will want them too.

So bad.  

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

I have trust issues. 

I suppose it comes from the experiences I had as a child, and the amount of stock that was put on getting me up in the morning and safely back into my bed at night. I can’t imagine how my mother felt. Well, maybe a sliver.

I was 8 month old when my mother discovered I suffered from anaphylaxis. It turns your child into a ticking time bomb. At any moment something they touch ( I was able to go into shock through tactile), or put in their mouth will kill them within 15 minutes. Everything is poison. Food, yes. But makeup, lotion, and house-hold cleaning products among other things. 

Now, I’m not the only kid to go through it. No, I have met other kids. But the level of sensitivity that I have to my allergens is shocking. Medically shocking. They said maybe I would outgrown it. I didn’t. It’s actually gotten progressively worse with my age. 

They had said, I remember, that perhaps by the time I was 13 I would be… “normal”. I could eat out, go over to sleepovers at friend’s houses, and finally eat ice cream in the summer. 

Instead, over the years since my 13 birthday, it seems like the mental anxiety that comes with a severe food allergy has progressed. I was 18 when I moved out of my parent’s house. My mom had done a phenomenal job preparing me to live alone. I’d been learning to cook since I could stand. I knew my way around my kitchen like the back of my hand. 

Socially however, I was a tad stunted. There was no chance what so ever of being a rebel in high school. No underage parties in someone’s parent’s basement, pressure to smoke joints under the bleachers or any other cliche you see on television. I also for the most part only socialized in school. It’s just that my parent’s believed that I wasn’t prepared as a 17 year old to deal with the fear of anaphylactic attack and the peer pressure that came with being a teen.

So, college. I was fine, for a bit. Then I started having panic attacks. The funny thing about panic attacks is that they are similar to the symptoms of anaphylactic shock. The back of your throat itches, it gets harder to breath and your heart begins to ache… no not ache, scream. And, in my mind, I thought it was better to excuse myself to the nearest bathroom and wait the 5 excruciatingly long minutes where you wait to see if your symptoms worsen, epinephrine in hand, taking deep breaths and apologizing to your parents under my breath for being foolish enough to order a tea and, after realizing they use the same mugs for hot chocolate and cream filled coffee, taking a few sips because, well you ordered it, why wouldn’t you drink it. 

You may be wondering why I didn’t tell someone. Well, the people I would hangout with at college was vast for the first few years. In fact, it was safe to say I managed to make an impression with my goofy friendliness. I was funny and fun because I was finally free. Free from every single person knowing that I was “defected”. High school was filled with adults who kept close eyes on me and publicly freaked out if I even was near food. Students would avoid coming near me if they had food in their backpacks.

College was 10,000 people who knew nothing about me. 

That takes it toll. When I tried to trust people, they ended up… well. To be fair if you’re 18 and in college you are pretty much on your own path of self discovery. You have your own problems.

I didn’t want anyone to feel responsible for me. Or for me dying on their watch. So I told few, and most of them didn’t understand my need for those 5 minutes in the bathroom, to straighten my body and my mind.

I don’t want people trying to make situations more comfortable for me, because most times, no matter how hard people try, I will still feel the panic. I didn’t let anyone, including my sister cook for me. My mom was allowed, but even after I came back to live with her and my dad, I questioned her cooking. How she did it, what she used. 

So, my trust issues went hand in hand with my food issues. Socializing, 9 times out of 10 involves food. Dating does too. How many times have a I had to tell a guy I can’t eat out. No, not even if I order a salad with oil dressing. 

Why would I let one poor guy in a kitchen take on my life in his hands, for one meal? The slightest slip-up would lead to my death. No one needs that. It’s just food.

So, I didn’t really date. Not only because most guys would forget about my allergies, but because I was waiting for more trust.

Amy and Kristen, my two closest friends, are the only people I allow near my kitchen. Amy tries to coax me occasionally to cook in her kitchen with her, but all the rules my mother instill in me about my own silverware, my own dishes, and cookware make my heart clench. 

I mean, I grew up in a household with color coded plates. Green means good to go, red means stop. 

Taking a step back makes me realize I avoid a lot of socializing because of my food issues, even though I love to cook. I love to entertain, I love to share the pleasure of a good meal. When I get to cook for more than just myself, I usually go all out. And, I usually like to do it alone. That way I can be sure everything is safe. 

This is just one of the things that makes me who I am today. It’s just a part of me. But, the way I have overcome certain parts of it, doesn’t mean other parts aren’t still there. 

That 18 year old girl with fear and uncertainty is still there in my heart, as well as the adventurous 8 year old. I have trust issues, but who doesn’t? Right? We all have issues. Some stem from baggage. The stuff that weighs us down. We just have to realize that we all have a heavy load of bullshit that is weighing our hearts down a bit.

We also have to realize what it takes to share our baggage, and how hard it is to understand someone’s baggage even if you love them. Be patient. And the person with baggage needs to realize how hard it is to deal with. Be kind.

Someone will show up one day, and slowly you both can share the baggage. The another person that can help, and another. It’s what true friendship, and a true relationship are about.  

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

I remember as a young child taking trips up to my grandparent’s farm. I remember every turn in the roads we took. I remember the place where my mom pointed across a field then into some woods. ‘There’s a castle back there’ She would say ’ Your uncles and I used to hike back there for the day and play in it.’ 

I remember the first time I drove to my grandparents alone in the car. I was 17 or so. I remember very vividly imagining this castle. Would it be like the ruins that cover the countryside in Ireland? Not that I had ever seen those in person. Just in the BBC and masterpiece theatre series my mom used to watch every Sunday night in the small living room of the end row home that I lived in until I was 8.  I remember sitting on the floor and the opening shots of the cartoon people wailing on the tops of a cartoon estate. Masterpiece mystery. I always thought my mom was watching a movie about the board game Clue. 

Apparently the castle is no longer there. In the 40 years since my mom played on it, the owners apparently had it deconstructed, or at least what was left. I remember how unbearably sad I became when I thought about that.  Castle don’t exist in my grandparent’s back yard. But for the gang of boisterous and curious grandkids that we were, they did. Castles, and trolls that lived under fallen trees and big rocks. Trolls that stomped through the woods at night knocking down more trees and collecting frogs as their minions. My grandfather still wears the faded jeans and fisherman’s sweaters when he emerges from his office on their farm, that he did when supervising our ruckus as children. 

Now, very infrequently, I get to go up to the farm, the same familiar roads. The garden has lost it’s tameness since my grandmother stopped working in it. It’s wild, and only restricted by the lawn mower. My grandfather and I last sat in the chairs overlooking the west side of the farm and we talked about my attempts to write poetry. A passion for him, and a talent having not only read his poetry but published it. He lets me read his poems. I get wrapped up in nostalgia, in the stores he has layered in neat stanzas. He makes me read mine aloud, and suggests changes, removals and substitutes.

The lawn still sweeps down to the woods. As I grew up, I learned that native indians were more common then knights. That these woods, and the landscape belonged to no one. Nature stood on it’s own. I think about how the earth ages, and how my parents aged. How Pop Pop aged. His stories.

How he met my grandmother, in an acting class. How he went to Penn State part time and worked as a lifeguard at the Jersey Shore. He tells me stories about how stubborn my mother was, especially when it came to her passion for riding horses. She would fall, get bucked or get trampled and stand up even more determined. How she used to beat up the boys who used to beat up her younger brother. 

He gives me books to read. Classics, books of poems. He jokes with me about dating. He’s quick witted. He can charm anyone, especially my friends.

A lot of things about my past have made me realize what I want in the future. Made me realize a very important thing. If I can’t introduce you to my family, my mother, or my grandfather, and know that you will keep up with the gentle ribbing, the wit and snark, then I don’t think I will ever fall in love with you.  If I can’t sit down and tell you about castles, aging, and my childhood then I don’t think I could really ever love you. 

I, like my father, and my grandfathers am a story teller. I take pleasure in being able to ensnare an audience with my words, and have an exchange afterwards or during. 

It makes me realize what stories I have collected and gathered and how they will be passed down, and it makes me think about the kind of woman I am now, and how that will effect the kind of woman I am in 40 years. 

**Rough writing, when I basically write what comes to mind, almost exactly. With no editing. Extremely raw and rough. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

Since I got off work…
I cleaned my kitchen, while watching most of 30 Rock season 5.
I made a bed frame out of old shipping palates, I got a softer mattress.
I decided pants were not necessary and made cinnamon oatmeal cookies.  
I made a plan for my day off tomorrow. 
Made a new playlist for driving on back country roads.
Made a new playlist for driving on rural highways.
Found my journals from high school.
I marveled at my 16 year old handwriting. 
Was lazy and laid in bed staring at the fading daylight through my blinds.
Ate crumbling cookies in bed, scrolling through my dashboard.

Wrote this.  

I suppose if it were possible an artist could take a pen and gently sketch the lines of our bodies. The curvature could be represented by a meandering instrument. Mayhap, they capture the moment when your body’s grooves assemble against mine. Blurred lines sketch the messy passion in which we intersect. Sharp strokes of the felt tip will take our shapes prisoner. Imprisoned in a moment of ardor we will forever be those two forms  made rigid by observation. 

However, why would we want anyone to capture us in those moments, a you and a me becoming an us. Kept secret. Away from the curious and cataloging eyes of artists. I will paint us. our forms, figures. I will paint us with symbols that signify words.  I will paint us in the moments my lips meet yours and our language is spoken. And you will move the symbols and figures to suit us both, a duet of art. 

Who am I to you, as a whole? Or as a part. Partially captured by the gazes of others, until a pieces is made to match. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

Of late, I have been feeling the urge to sit down at the computer and write to my audience that I have collected here. More recent then not it’s been about relationships or general interactions between people. Forgivable, I think, because what shapes our world every second? Our interactions with others.

Right now I am sitting in the student union building’s computer lab. Four hexagon shaped tables with 6 computers at each one. Students come in and out, occasionally chatting with each other, other times cursing the printer for being out of paper or ink.

I sometimes wonder if my college holds more followers than I expect. My mother came home from the grocery store the other day and saw a girl I went to 3rd grade with. She told my mom that she visits TKoW and thinks it’s wonderful.

It’s bizarre to me that I have such a wide variaty of followers, and people I know. I have friends that follow, yes. However, what about all of you I don’t know. All of you that are out of reach? I mean, in all honesty if one of my followers were in this room I wouldn’t know. I like that.

I like the chance and happenstance of life. Intersecting paths leading you from one thing to the next. Bumping into people who change your path.

I wouldn’t have started TKoW if I hadn’t been in Cape May in the summer of 2009. I certainly wouldn’t have started to sartorially evolve if I hadn’t worked at the Dog Boutique in this small Pennsylvanian town. People like Janna, Amy, Kristen, Maria, and Jen shaped me every day I spent time in their presence and every day I am with them now. People from tumblr shaped me. Almost too many to mention or to reveal. (They are the ones I have met and adored on my Kindred Spirit list).

Negative people also reveal and shape parts of me. It happens. Professors don’t like the way you write, they don’t give you the help you need but that’s not your problem. That’s theirs.

It’s something I am still realizing. When other people don’t like me, or my work, or anything about me; it is not my problem.

I have to stick to what I know best, myself.

I spent years in high school and beginning of college forcing myself to be what I thought others wanted me to be. It backfired in high school.

My mom, again saw someone from my past a girl from high school. She mentioned something to my mother about me. About how she would look up to me because I never let anyone get me down, not the boys that bullied me or the girls whose words cut. Here’s the thing, back in high school I didn’t really care.

I didn’t see it as bullying. Because it’s not unless you let it affect you. This girl let the words of others change her opinions. I didn’t. Sure, I was a stubborn weird kid in high school, but honestly those are the people that come out being original and bringing something different when they become an adult. Not to say that other don’t do the same, it’s just high school is not the peak. It’s not the best years of your life. At least , in my opinion, it shouldn’t be.

We have a lifespan, let’s be hopeful, that is about 90 years. If you peak at 18, I hate to think what those other 72 years are going to be like.

High school doesn’t define you, neither does college, neither does the job you have. You define you. The way you dress, talk and communicate with others, the hobbies you have, what you do for fun.

So, kids -I know I have a large following of young women in their teens- remember, don’t peak too soon. Save some fun. I say eat up the horrible times, keep them. You never know when you might need to break out a story of inspiration for people who were just like you.

Also, don’t be in a rush to grow up. I wouldn’t willingly go back to high school, but being 14, 16, 18 and 20 had their great moments.

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

I’m tired, confused and sad. I mean, don’t get me wrong I understand, in the grand scheme of things these emotions are not peculiar and they are rather minuscule comparative to other people’s problems.

But, still it’s hard to move past the sadness that seeps into the car as you drive home after a long day. The fear, the twisting serpentine fear of failure that has slithered in your gut all day finally has a chance to feed on you in silence. 

Car radio off, windows crack you weave through the back roads. Hoping against all hope that the tears blurring your vision don’t distract you from being alert. A rushed and nonsensical voicemail left on a friends machine. “I, just…. Amy, I don’t get it. I know it’s selfish of me, but I don’t get it.”

I an give the best advice, I can talk you down, I can rationalize with you, muck through all your emotions, but can I sit alone with myself and tell myself what is best? Of course not. I still do things I shouldn’t, disregard the feelings of other because I am as moral philosophy explains, acting under the fundamental understanding that all acts are self involved. 

I curse to myself. I yell. I weep big crocodile tears that don’t suit my face. Why? Because, it makes me feel better. So that when I pull my car in the garage and walk those 20 yards to the house I won’t combust. I speed, taking corners of deserted roads too fast. I grip the steering wheel tight as I slow down. I gnash my teeth stuck behind people who are wasting moments of my life.

I am tired, confused and sad. I and tired of the long days, and the short nights. I am confused as to why I am not good enough for some. I am sad, because why do I care?

I care because no matter how evolved I believe I am, I am young, I am fragile. I am naive. I just want, at the end of the night someone to read me a story, tuck me in and tell me they love me. Okay, maybe I don’t want that. Maybe I want to strip off my clothing, grab a beer from the fridge and sit in bed staring at into the mirror on the wall. Maybe I want to some home and give my cat a kiss on the head, then fall asleep under the quilt but not the sheet. Maybe, I just want to fall asleep and wake up to do something more, something better, something great. 

Who the fuck knows. I certainly don’t, all I know is tomorrow I will wake up and put one foot in front of the other, giving myself moments of good, moving on from moments of bad, and patiently fighting for something more. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

Long stretches, messy hair we had each other. Just that worn frayed carpet between our bodies and the cold wood floors. Just those two worn quilts, the record player and the slight scratching noise. Petal soft skin that my fingers can feel, then rough. Maybe if you and I lay here long enough we could speak without words. Maybe my deep glances will tell you how I feel. Or the way my hand just twines into yours. Interchangeably staring at each other and the ceiling. The flicker of the bee wax candles. The perfume I dabbed on my  neck, the detergent used to clean your shirt. You seem to fill up my eyes when you are in my sight. You fill up my senses. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

Romantic despair, I call it. 

The most wonderful notion of knowing what you need romanticly.
No longer do you go open eyed into every encounter you have with an attractive member of the opposite sex. Instead we stand armed with a checklist of things that are necessary, unecessary or forgivable.

First, forgive me for all my romantic ideals, for my commands. I just want someone to challenge me, as well as meet and overcome all the mental obstacles I build around my heart. I demand, I desire, I deny. I am a Rubik’s cube of romantic opportunity.  I am all intentions, I have plans, I have plans about plans. I will fight, grab and want. I need for you to do the same. Do not tell me you don’t know, tell me what you want. Tell me you want for nothing. Tell me that it is working, or it isn’t. I can’t read you mind, so I say what’s on mine. Blunt, perhaps. Or maybe I just know that moments are precious and if I have expectations then I won’t spend trying to find out what I want. Or finding out you don’t really want me. Fight for me. 

I want a confidante. I want someone who will grab me up and laugh loudly with me. Be foolish with me. Touch my elbow, or arm. Let me know that you, like me, sometimes just have to reach out and touch. Double check, that this, us, is as real as it’ll ever be. I don’t want the moon, don’t throw a lasso over it and bring it to my door. Don’t bring a boombox under my window. Don’t even pick me up after my sister’s wedding when everyone forgot my birthday with your perfect hair and your perfect car Jake Ryan.

Just indulge me on my silly requests. Get my jokes, even when they are horrid. Understand how my “blog” makes me feel. Listen to my music. Kiss me often. Do something with me. Let’s build something, or make something. Hell, let’s invent something. I just want it to be about challenging each other, or understanding the horrible days. Let me cry, I am not pleasant nor pretty when I am snotty and weepy, but just let me get it out. 

Love my pets. Get along with animals, if you don’t I just may have to kick you to the curb. Unconditional love from an animal is something a lot of people don’t understand, but a hell of a lot of people do. I will cook for you, I will come home from a long day and throw on some sweats and botch. I will try to be positive. Our lives are not a J.Crew weekend Lookbooks. I am not always beautiful in the morning, Usually I am not, in fact. 

I am sarcastic. I am sassy, when need be. I will stand up for what I believe. I will fight my own fights. But you having my back is always nice.

I drink beer, and please don’t buy me a miller or bud light. I drink whiskey. I eat meat. I devour salads. I dance, enthusiastically and wildly. 

I want to live in the city, but not too long, I want to settle in the countryside, but not too soon. I want to have a garden. I want to instill the same values my parents instilled into me into my kids. I don’t want to have kids until I am emotionally, and financially ready. 

I want to name them ridiculously old fashioned names like Archer, and Gwendolyn. I want to fall head over heels and yet I don’t want to give up my independence.

I call it romantic despair, and it really just gets more despairing. 

Honestly, I know you, sir, are out there. I know. I feel it when I finish books like The Age of Innocence, I know that once I find you, or you find me, or we are thrown together by the universe that it won’t be perfect. It will be hard, and work. I can’t wait, though because once you get to know me you know if I want something, really really want something, I work damn hard to get it, or as close as I can get. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

It’s that bone deep kind of tired.
The one that aches from your skeleton to your heart.
It’s the kind of hurt that doesn’t let you get up in the morning. 
You have to scratch tooth and nail against it just to move.
That kind of tired is unbeatable long term.
You just have to take the day as it will.
Forcing your left foot ahead of your right.
Eventually that way, you can get where you need to be.  
Along the way you’ll have good times,
but you are the one who determines how deep the hurt goes.  

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

snuck my laptop into bed with me. 
Like I used to to see you.
Hidden under covers, hushed tones.
I would see you through the lens of your computer.
Itching to reach out and hug you close.
What happened to the happier times.
what happened to us falling for each other.
You made me laugh, and smile.
now 
strangers. 800 miles apart. 
when i used to swear I could feel you touch my heart at the same distance. 
I went to text you today, but I remembered I deleted your number,
couldn’t bear the late night temptation.
I went to email you three simple words today “I miss you” I couldn’t.
Your words ringing in my head “things will never be the same.”
you used to make me crave to hear your voice, to see you.

I can’t tell you this in a message. you are polite words and phrases. 
I can’t tell you I miss the time we sat on the edge of your bed eating cake I baked with our hands and drinking  that wine we bought together.
I can’t tell you I miss the time we listened to “this must be the place” and my heart felt so full and content. Every time that comes on I think of you. 
I can’t tell you all this because its over. It will never be the same.
6 months and I still want to share moments with you.  
I still can’t delete those photobooth photos of you and me. I kept them hidden away in a folder marked with a plain title.

I can’t help but miss just being in you life, or you being in mine. I can’t help but feel like the one who made a mistake.  

But, maybe these pleasantries, and your detachment is the mistake. Or maybe it will just never be the same. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

Tonight is a night I drove home and thought to myself “wouldn’t it be lovely if I had an apartment and at home waiting for me was a lovely gentleman, so we could curl up on the couch with pb&j’s and watch a movie. And by watch a movie I mean cuddle, laugh and kiss while the movie plays. Then we would lay in bed and I could talk about how frustrating I find losing my train of thought in the middle of discussion. Or maybe how I finally after years and years of education gain more than disposable information from my professors. Or maybe that I am worried that when I graduate I won’t find a job. Couldn’t a trace my nails along the backs of his hands, as he tells me his recently discovered truths and worries.

Maybe I could tell him that every halloween as a 5-10 year old I refused to be a princess or a fairy. That instead I was Robin Hood, or a Mummy. That my mom sewed every costume. That my mom is probably the most understanding and determined women I have ever met. That I love her, and losing her is a fear I carry around in my heart. Maybe  I could let the tears of fear show, and he would clench my hand and rub my earlobe, just like my mom did when I was a little kid. 

Maybe he’ll just be silent because that’s what I need. Maybe he’ll whisper a word of wisdom or comfort, because that’s what I need. Maybe he will just be with me because that’s what I need.

Plato’s view on gender is my view on love. We humans started out as creatures, rounded with two faces, eight limbs, two of each and that we were so proud and misbehaving -because we were complete in our happiness- that the Gods decided as punishment they would split us down the middle. They thought that our being able to see these wounds would scare us straight. They took pity on us and shaped us into more pleasing shapes. Our middles once a gaping wound was formed into a smooth stomach and closed at our belly buttons. We were given reproductive organs to give us a way to achieve the same sort of wholeness that our original selves had, during sex. To become one. We are destine to scour the earth looking for our other half so that we may finally be complete. 

I know scientifically this is impossible, but who is to say that in our past life we were not in a realm of these dual beings. Two as one, complete and selfishly happy in each other. One self. Arrogant beings that we were we spoiled it by challenging fate. Reborn in this world and life we are lonely. Some have lost their mate, be it death or some other reason and end up alone.

I know my other half walks the earth. I know we may not be destined for each other now, or even years down the road, but what I do know is that someday I will find him. Not because I need to, but because it’s just what is supposed to happen. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

Sometimes I laugh at the way people are so ready to judge others. Especially people who get so upset over what I post on my blog. It makes me think of the things I am studying in my classes this semester.

The word authentic has been coming up a lot.  Authentic thought, authentic essence, authentic listening. The existentialist believed that authentic achievement came to those of us who were non-judging, and for lack of a better word self-involved. Society shouldn’t dictate what you wear, say, eat, or do. You’re actions may define you in the eyes of others, but your intentions are unclear. Intention. Steretyping or judging slows down only the person who takes the time to do so. 

I have been realizing the person I have the potential to be, and now I need to remind myself of that. I need to not judge, or be angered by anyone. I am alone, inherently. I will always be. I may pass through life with connections with other people both shallow and deep but I am alone. There is something comforting in that. I have the choice. 

I have the choice to laugh at an attempt to demean me. Only I can demean me, by allowing someone elses opinion affect me.

So, don’t allow anyone the power to affect your emotions, you control them. I am not saying be cold to people, or not open yourself. But don’t allow them the upper hand, make your own decisions. Be open to a world that doesn’t define you, define the world around you in your own terms.

(Source: thatkindofwoman)