Call Waiting, It's Irritating

I hate the phone. The phone surely hates me. It is the bane of all my relationships. Since this is a blame-seeking culture, I am placing the blame on the demise of any potential relationship on my lack of Phone Presence. I don't have it. In fact, the next time some guy asks me for my phone number, I am giving him a friend's number, so that she can mediate the Call That Will Inevitably Bust All Hope.

Seriously. Let's take a look at the facts. I have been accused of sounding aloof, indifferent, and even ditzy on the phone by many boyfriends. Definitely by every boy I have gone out with on more than three dates. Some just gave up after our First Phone Conversation. And then I had to do the pursuing and later they would confess their reason for never calling me back. The reasons are always of the same theme, "You just sounded disinterested."

Lest you think I am being overly sensitive, obsessive, and insecure, it turns out I do have a history of Bad Phone Presence. I can look back on every relationship, courtship, etc. and each First Phone Conversation has always been just - AWKWARD. For me. There might be several reasons for this.

First, I have never liked talking on the phone in the first place. Even with girlfriends. As a teenager, I never even wanted a phone in my room. When I did have a need for it, I would take the phone from my parents room that had a 50-yard extension cord and bring it into my room. Shut up. I'm old. We didn't have cordless phones back then. Why yes, I did walk uphill to school. Both ways.

Second, I am hard of hearing. I need to get that checked. (Wait. I am old. Is hearing the first to go? Or your bladder? Or is it your mind? I think I have proved my Crazy previously. Thankfully, I still have bladder control. Unless you make me laugh really hard, then forget that. So - old? Check then.) But I digress. I can read lips better than I can hear. I'm visual like that. So, the phone? I am always saying "what" into it. This also is why I almost never hear my cell phone ring. But now, I keep that on vibrate. I'm tactile also. But auditory - forget it. Too many rock concerts as a kid. And loud car radio playing. But I'll never learn.

Third, I am soft-spoken, for the most part. The flipside of not hearing? The other person can't hear me half the time either. They are always saying "what" too. So, a typical conversation with me might go like this:

Me: I bought some new shoes today.
You: You fought the Vishnu away?
Me: Where'd you get that?
You: What'd you say?
Me: What? When?
You: Just now.
Me: What?

Which brings me to my fourth problem. I bring up inane shit because I panic. First of all, anybody who knows me knows that I buy shoes ALL THE TIME. Ain't a news flash. But they know you so they think you have more substance than Shoe Buyer, Mistress of DSW. So they think you must be telling something newsworthy - like fighting Vishnu. Only, not. But what guy wants to hear that I bought new shoes today? I might mention it to fill in some empty space or the panic sets in and I might mention it at the most inopportune time, like he could be telling me that he just broke his foot and I'll think, foot = shoes = I bought some. Something in common! So I will blurt "I bought new shoes today!" Until he is like, "Gotta go!"

Fifth, I try too hard to be Cool Breezy Chick. "Oh, you are calling me back." "Great." "Whatever." "Whenever." "If you do you do, if you don't you don't." "I don't care." "Maybe, maybe not." "OK." "I might." "See ya!" Breezy turns into a fucking windstorm of Confusion. You see? It always ends up backfiring and I end up being aloof and uninteresting. Classic story of Girl sits by phone. Phone never rings. Girl ponders what went wrong. Cool Breezy Check morphs into Irate Insecure Freak.

Finally, First Phone Conversations demand my full, undivided attention. That means no noise or visual stimulus. I turn the TV off. I unplug the humming refrigerator. I shut the windows. I'll cut off the A/C. Muffle my cat. Sit in a corner and stare at a bare wall. You get the picture. Concentration. Right. I did say I can't hear. But really the undivided attention is necessary for me not to blurt out something stupid like, oh I don't know, say "I love you!" People, I have this unhealthy fear that I will blurt out "I love you" at the end of the call! See? I am a freak. Who does that? Nobody, right? But I am afraid I will be that person.

Or, can my Bad Phone Presence and the subsequent demise of any Second Phone Conversation be boiled down to Karmic Justice? For all the times I never call back boys I am not interested in. I have been smited for my bad ways.

So they never call back. Atleast not the ones that I want to call back. But the ones I don't care about? I am probably Cool Chick on the phone. Which brings me to today. The boring guy from coffee last week called and asked me out again. Unenlightened Me would just not return the call, thinking that is much nicer than calling him and telling him, "Thanks, but no thanks." But let's try to turn the karma around in my favor. I will call him back and politely decline. But only after I put my hearing aid in, clear my voice, and write a script. Maybe it will start with, "I bought new shoes today." And end with, "I love you." That should lose him over, right?

How Is This For Wasting Your Time?

It is nice to see what the Internets think of me (via Googlism).

Lara is so cool.
Lara is certain of being able to break many world athletic records and so sees no challenge in this herself.
Lara is here to sizzle.
Lara is a limited edition cold.
Lara is further proof that she is too much a force of nature to be contained within the game world.
Lara is seen running through the air.
Lara is out there.
Lara is hot.
Lara is facing exactly north.
Lara is enabling a new generation of innovative applications.
Lara is a beautiful woman that can jump.
Lara is in kindergarten and she loves school.
Lara is a first grader now.
Lara is currently accepting new training horses in anticipation of her new inside barn.
Lara is in Ireland with her friend Alex Stewart.
Lara is synthetic does not lessen her appeal.

I'd like to thank Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft for making my name's internet stock go way up.

A Movable Feast

Easter. It is all about the candy.

I plan on eating lots of it this weekend.

...Cadbury Caramel Eggs...Cadbury Mini Eggs...Jellybeans...Peeps...Malted MilkEggs...Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs...Solid Milk Chocolate Easter Bunny...

{Sigh}

To be a kid again...and to not have to worry about those eggs going straight to my thighs.
To be a kid again...and have my basket of delight hidden for me to find.
To be a kid again...and put on my Easter dress that my grandma handstitched.
To be a kid again...and have my Dad make keilbasi for dinner.
To be a kid again...and smell sauerkraut and keilbasi stinking up the house.
To be a kid again...and trade and barter candies with my brother and sister.
To be a kid again...and eat my chocolate bunny in stages - ears first.
To be a kid again...and not have to worry about that bunny going right to my own cottontail.

A million and one people don't lie: "I'm getting older. My metabolism is not what it used to be." Yeah. Slowed Down Metabolism is a bitch.

So maybe I will just roam the Easter candy aisle instead and remember what that chocolate bunny tasted like. Because memory is still always sweeter than the candy will ever be.

Cleaning For Holiday...Scratch That, Cleaning For Crazy

I took a Mental Health Day yesterday. Most people might spend that day shopping or lazing around and reading a book or watching tv. Not me. You know what I do? I clean.

The kind of cleaning I am talking about is floor-to-ceiling, corner-to-corner cleaning. I move the furniture so that I can vacuum underneath and not just around. I clean out my closets to make room for the new clothes I keep buying. I scrub the inside and top of the refrigerator and get rid of anything that smells or breathes. And I put the oven that I never use on self-clean. Whenever I feel uneasiness in my life, I find that head-to-toe cleaning of my living space has some kind of calming effect on my psyche. Cleaning out my shit to get on with my shit.

Let me present to you the gloriousness of My Day Off.

Drinking in the AM! I took a break from cleaning to watch The View and they were talking their "hot topics" so I felt the only way I could properly participate in dishing was with drink in hand. So I made a martini. I'm a social drinker. But the episode was from January and they were talking about the "upcoming" Super Bowl and discussinig Nipple-gate AGAIN - a year later. So they weren't live and I no longer felt I was drinking with The Girls. So I drank fast.

Dancing! I did the at-home-whilst-raining-dance all damn day. Literally. It involves a lot of tail-wagging, some John Travolta a la Saturday Night Fever, some Beyonce, and a lot of Billy Idol fist-pumping. So as I was trying out all these moves in one tandem routine, I decided to try out The Upside-Down Microphone. It involves a Power Ballad, holding the mic upside down while you sing to the sky, or in my case, the Rain Gods. Then I wished I was at Karaoke. Cuz all these great moves were being wasted. Then, I needed another martini to stay in the game or my mind was taking a long walk off a short pier. I needed to blame it on alcohol.

Lot of exercise! Besides the cardio-burning dancing and general laughing my ass off, I know that vigorous house-cleaning also counts as cardio-exercise. You can burn 250 calories an hour! Who knew? Plus there was a lot of strength-training in there (furniture moving, vacuum pushing and mopping, and martini shaking) and some stretching (reaching up to the top of the fridge and closets, etc.).

All this exercising paved the way for guilt-free indulging. So I ate a pint of Dulce de Leche and four Peppridge Farm Nantuckets and a bowl of popcorn. And probably another martini.

At the end of the day, the best need for the clean house is that my bathroom floor is sparkly, shiny, lickety clean. So I can sleep on it. Which I totally do when I am drunk. Which is often. But I knew I wouldn't appreciate this truth when the opportunity came, so I put away the martini shaker, grabbed my quilt, and laid down on the bathroom floor. For that moment there were birds singing in my head. One was dancing, one was finishing the vacuuming, and one was in the corner drinking.

Y'all I cleaned myself to crazy.

Ennui: Not So Far To Go

[Cue: harmonica. Oh, and make yourself a jack and coke.]

I am trying to think of something to write about. The fact of the matter is that I am bored. In both my professional and personal life. I'd like to put a funny story up here but all the funny is happening to everyone else these days. I realize I am just experiencing one of those ruts I think we all experience from time to time. I know change isn't going to happen unless you drag your pity-ass off the couch and do something about it. So I have put those wheels in motion.

I am looking for a new job. I certainly can't complain about my job. I feel appreciated and I know I am compensated fairly. It is just that there is not much work these days to keep my days busy. I feel so intellectually stationary right now. Must do more crosswords. I seriously feel like I am seconds away from being Milton from Office Space. Using my office as storage space, using my office as the supply closet, and eventually relocating me to the basement. And holding up my paycheck. So until I find a new job that challenges me I will try to keep busy by journaling. Hello blog - you are my occupation (of mind and time). Stapler, anyone?

I am "dating" again. To those who know me, it is no secret that my heart was broken by the Bayou Boob. I could certainly whine about the fucked-up life he is heading towards. (What a lovely meal of bitter. Pass the salt!) Instead, I am going to take care of myself. And I won't look back because I know from experience that in order to move on permanently, you have to move on emotionally. So I am testing the waters of online dating. But...I had a date on Sunday and I wish I could say YEAH or PSHAW, but all I can muster is a grunt of MEH. BLAH. YAWN. It wasn't a bad date. It just was just...boring. See the theme here?

So I am in a rut y'all.

Nothing a stiff drink, buckets of money, and a GOOD MAN can't turn around. Can I skip ahead to that page? Because this story seriously needs to move along...

A Girl And A Car

Last night I saw a Karmann Ghia. Rare in DC, but where I grew up, not so rare. I have always had a crush on this car. I think about the person who drives it - and what kind of person would drive it. I'd like to meet that person. Might it be somebody like Art?

High school.

Art crushed me.

Was it his beautiful, perfect face? The surfer hairstyle he sported - side-parted, swept over his eye? His flawlessly-chiseled and bronzed face? His beautiful teeth and gorgeous smile? The single smile that always knocked me down.

Or was it his charming ways? Like the time he signed my yearbook, bluntly and youthfully writing that I was "...super hot, pretty, fine, etc." I wasn't "sweet", I could be desirous. And the time he gave me his phone number to "call" him over the summer. A phone number memorized but never called.

Or was it because he always paid attention to me, even though I was Am's little sister? Like the time he came over to my house when my parents were out of town and word got out around school that my sister was throwing a party. Only she wasn't even home. But I was and I was in my bedroom drawing. He came back into my room and sat down on my bed for a bit and liked what I was drawing and talked with me before his friends begged him to leave. He was in my bedroom.

Or was it because he always made me feel special? Like the time time I was broken - physically and mentally - after a car accident. When my braces ripped right through my bottom lip and I had 200+ stitches holding my bottom lip together. I was 15. I felt ugly. I couldn't move my mouth to smile. Art stroked my head. The compassionate smile and the tender look in his eye said I was pretty.

Or was it because he had great taste in music? We liked the same bands, went to the same shows. Did it help that he had a band in college that came back to play at my high school reunion party? Rock star points will get you everywhere.

Or was it the day he drove to school in his new car? A beautiful emerald green Karmann Ghia.

I don't know. I never got to ride in the Karmann Ghia.

Let The Madness Begin

I'm a girly-girl. I think most of my friends would agree. But I love sports. And I take issue with the phrasing of that declaration, self. "But?" Girly-girls can't like sports? Of course we can! And I'm here to tell you about it.

I'm sure it started very young, probably in the womb. But my earliest memory of playing "ball" was when we lived in Connecticut and I was maybe 6-7. My dad was a real hands-on kind of dad and when he got home from work, it was all about us kids. That is when he started our weekly ball games. He was the pitcher, two of us would field and one would be the batter, and my brother, sister, and I would play against each other. But we also supported each other in the field, so we would have to work together. It was a good combination of team-playing and healthy competition. We anxiously awaited daddy coming home to continue The Game.

Then we moved to Florida and my parents immediately signed us up for every sport that was available. I played soccer, softball, basketball (short-lived), and swam competitively. My dad was often the coach for one of our teams. He taught us the game. He showed us the game. He would share stories of his own experiences playing as a kid. You knew how every position worked - and how they worked together as a team. It was never really about winning but doing the best you can, enjoying yourself, and making sure everyone had a fair chance. In fact, we were often - but not always - the losing team when my dad coached because he believed in nuturing everyone's natural ability. He figured if you were there to play, then play you will. All's he expected from you is that you try your best. His believing in you inspired a desirous effort to do the best you can. Years later, when my dad would run into a kid he had coached 10-20 years earlier, they still affectionately referred to him as "Coach Ski". He loved that.

Not only did we play, we watched sports. Even my mom. I always admired that my mom could chat sports with their friends. And we always went to see the Los Angeles Dodgers spring training games in Vero Beach, where I developed this insane crush on Steve Garvey. I had posters of him and one time I remember, in particular, Dodgertown was hosting fan appreciation day so my dad took me to get my picture taken with Steve and have him sign my mitt. Well, he was swarmed with fans and I couldn't get close enough. I was probably 8 and my dad took me up on his shoulders - or maybe he picked me up - but I was at a high enough height that I could get his attention. I yelled out his name, "Steve!...Steve!..." He looked up and....winked at me! But not only that he called me and my dad over and posed for a picture with me. My first crush on an athlete - and an older man.

There was no escaping the world of sports. And it may sound like it was forced on us. It wasn't. It was a natural existence and one I didn't mind. We were always allowed to make our own decisions about playing or not playing. When I delved into the world of art and gave up sports for a couple years, my parents were fine with that. It was all about passion. Find your passion. And the only way you will find your passion is by trying new things. So then they went out and bought me the best paints, pastels, pencils, paper, and art supplies any young budding artist should want.

I think the best story to sum up how my dad's love of sports impacted how my brother, sister, and I approached sports involves my brother. My bro, The Jock. The Jock excelled at every stinking sport he played (MVP, MVP, MVP, college scholarship, etc.) But it was a particular award he received while playing football in high school that touched my parents deeply. It wasn't an award for the best athlete, which he would undoubtedly deserve. But this award was for the best all-around player. The player, who in addition to being a great asset to the team, always gave 110 per cent (even though Coach Cornball sucked). The player who inspired his teammates. The player, really, with the most heart.

So, really, it is this kind of Spirit of the Game that excited my dad and that he passed on to his kids. He loved March Madness and I do too. It's got a whole hell of a lot of Spirit. That is true with college sports. Professional sports - which I do watch - are tainted with greed (bloated salaries), glorified "all-star teams" (hi Yankees), and altered strength (steroids). Its athletes are also too perfect - the game too polished. But college sports still has the Heart and thrives on the imperfections of young athletes. The college game is more fresh. Sure, there are under-the-table incentives, the occasional envelope stuffed with cash, ethical lapses, questionable conference reshuffling, recruiting scandals, the BCS debate, Wide Right, etc. It is what it is. It's an athletic competition, but one still rife with home-grown rivalries, alumni loyalty, tradition, pep bands, and the cutest mascots (I'm looking at you Uga). Give me the thrown visers, dadgummits, College Gameday, and the pageantry of The Big Dance any day.

So, daddy, this tip-off is for you. I hope you are watching.

A Dive Bar...Check Your Local Listings*

The Set:
Old decrepit house cum bar. Ramshackle charm. The air thick with smoke. Neon beer signs paste the wall. Maybe a nude painting. No windows. Dark but never gloomy. No cosmos or margaritas ordered here. This is a beer and shooters place - and cheap booze at that. Gloriously out of touch with the other bars in the neighborhood.

The Cast:
J, The Owner. The protaganist. Kind, generous, and compassionate. The kind of guy who when he asked you why you haven't been by in a few months and you tell him because your dad died and your rather sad these days, he hugs you sincerely, lets you cry your millionth cry, shares his own story, and gives you lots of beer. In fact, J always gives you lots of beer. So, J is the hero to all those who know him. And he's a Razorback.

Jimbo. A teddy bear of a man. Big, burly, and cuddly. He gives the best hugs. At first, he harbors a distant melancholy and you often find him slumped over the barstool. But he's the character in this story who experiences the most personal growth. The happy ending? Always a love story. He finds a lady love and now she calls him at the bar to check up on him (maybe to ask him to pick up some milk and eggs on the way home, maybe to find out when he is coming home, maybe to tell him she misses him). He is happy. He is needed. For Jimbo, The Dive Bar truly is a home away from home.

The "Kramer" (aka Do-Me-A-Favor). He's the quirky one. Nobody knows his name but your friends and you amiably refer to him by imitating his "Do me a favor" opening line (done with an accent that is a bit of Boston meets Southern?). He always starts out all his conversations with this line. He likes to ask trivia questions - which are often questions of a subjective nature (i.e., who are the top five philospers of all time?) or questions you are asked week after week. But act like it's new every time.

A typical conversation could be:
Him: Do me a favor...[emphatic flailing of the arms and gesturing with the cigarette]...for $20, what is the deepest part of the earth?
You: The Mar-
Him: The Mariana Trench
You: -iana Trench
Him: [grins...puts money back in pocket]

There is always a noticeable transformation to this character at some point in the evening. He is also a taxi cab driver so he may entertain you with sordid tales.

The Bartender. The straight man with a gruff countenance - the "soup nazi" of the bar. As endearingly crusty as the bar itself.

A DJ who plays the same songs, in the same order, every night. He doesn't take kindly to requests. He also asks trivia questions. For the night, he is in control, and you just have to accept that about him.

Tertiary characters will always include penny-pinching law school students and chain-smoking hard-living locals, but they aren't the real stars of the show. Stay tuned, they could have a starring role some day!

Finally, count on occasional special guest appearances.
Like...The owner of the sports bar down the street, always with a different lady. He's the Lady's Man.
Or The Drunk Guy Who Throws Up On Himself.

Constumes:
You might be thinking - dive bar? Costumes? And you would be right. In typical dive bar fashion, suits/ties, skirts, and high heels are left at the door (unless you are me because, duh, I love high heels). But there is one special article of clothing that no other Dive Bar can boast. A hat. But not just any hat. We are talking an original hog hat with the snout and the horns. And if you know where to find it, you can wear it. Because it's a treat!

Soundtrack:
Your typical oldies-soul mix soundtrack: Beatles, Donna Summer, Aretha Franklin, Rolling Stones, Neal Diamond, Elvis, and Nancy Sinatra, among other various golden oldies. Remember, there is a DJ. So sometimes you can get a special request like Afternoon Delight in. Sometimes!

Scene:
The Dive Bar is the heart of a real drinking culture. You hang your hat at the door and the world of the day is, for the night, shrouded in the delightful fusion of good friends, plenty of beer, maybe some dancing, some trivia-guessing, and good times.

Cheers, indeed.

*I thank the lovely Morgan for her help with this post. She would make a fabulous Director of this here show.

Old Worn Shoe

I have had this Old Worn Shoe for the past six years. God, I love that Old Worn Shoe.

You know what I'm talking about? To you it's the perfect fit and so comfortable. You like to wear it on sunny days and rainy days. You don't care because you would feel naked without Old Worn Shoe. Sure, it has some holes in it - sometimes your skin is exposed to the elements and sometimes that hurts. It's that worn - but you accepted that a long time ago. It's part of the charm.

And you have tried other shoes, but you always go back to the Old Worn One. Others never understood your love for the Old Worn Shoe. They never thought it was the right fit for you. But I would just say, "Walk a mile in my shoe, baby - you'll see."

Old Worn Shoe was broken in before I got it and never forgot that fit. I guess my foot never felt the same. Now the foot that broke it in wants Old Worn Shoe back. Her foot is broken and I encouraged Old Worn Shoe to help her heal. See it's orthopedic like that. I guess I thought the fit would not be the same as remembered after all these years. After all these years of hugging my foot.

This week I opened my closet to put on Old Worn Shoe, but it was gone. I guess it really liked how the old foot felt - missed it more than it would ever miss my foot. Maybe that foot smells better. Maybe it is skinnier. Maybe it doesn't have that quirky toe that curls under. Maybe it is just a better fit. I guess Old Worn Shoe was only on loan to me. And just maybe, our fit wasn't as good as I believed it to be.

Goodbye Old Worn Shoe. I'll miss our footsteps.

So now I am walking barefoot. But I plan on upgrading very soon - to nothing less than a brand new Manolo. With a high heel - that hikes me up.

Dear Frosty

Dear Frosty,

You know I love you. But come on already. All winter, you're either half in or half out the door, and frankly your half-ass is not welcome anymore. This winter at least.

Sure, you have called plenty of times - a lot of times actually. Even when you weren't expected, you sneaky devil you. But you never really came now did you? With the exception of one or two "small deliveries", you usually just blew in and blew out leaving nothing but ice, rain, icy rain, sniffles and general malaise.

And I actually really, really like you. Each and every time, I have anxiously awaited you. I even went out this year and bought snow-appropriate trend-wagon Uggs in anticipation of burying my luxury-wrapped sausages deep within your fluffy, powdered purity. Instead all I got were puddles and my Uggs are like, "fashion victim." It's like driving an SUV in the city. Utilitarian? I think not. Aesthetics.

Now you are saying you may come - maybe Friday - maybe Saturday - you know, whenever you feel like it. Don't bother. I think we need some time apart. For personal growth. And I am going to personally grow right into the spring collection at Anthropologie. And flip flops.

So take your old silk hat, corn-cobbed pipe, button nose, and jolly happy ass home. That's right. Thumpety-thump-thump look at Frosty go. Cuz we all know you will be back again someday.

Love, Me

Me, Caryatid

I was an Art History major in college so occasionally it creeps back into my life.

I just snuck out to see the Modigliani exhibit at The Phillips Collection and became inspired so let me bore you with that. Forgot how much I love the Man as Artist. Without getting too theoretical here, I love the juxtaposition of the flat and linear with curvy rounded forms of flesh. If I were ever brave and cool enough to own a snake, I am sure I would name him Modigliani.

What I really like of his work was his Caryatid studies. A caryatid is a sculptured female figure serving as ornamental and structural support in a lot of Classical Greek architecture. It's simple math people:

Looking pretty + holding up the whole gosh darn building (insert your own personal hardship here) = Strong Woman (Roar!)

Heavy is the weight

Supportive and accepting

My burden to bear

Is Heaven Any Sweeter Than Blue Jean?*

Because you can never have enough, I bought new blue jeans, an article of clothing one can never have enough of, am I right? Let's time travel through my closets of yore...

Exhibit A: Different pocket designs with different threads = Jordache! The pocket styling allowed you to have more than one pair and, although the same wash and cut, they would all be different. At least that is the argument I gave my parents, as I so fashion conscious in the 6th grade did not want to clash my sweater vest with the pocket design. I would be setting myself up for a few fashion citations so I may as well just jaywalk (in Jordache). Probably a real live argument I gave but since we lived in a cul de sac it was looking like I was destined for the fashion kind of citation because my parents could only get me one pair. But I wore my one and only pair a lot. Until one day, I got my pant leg caught on a nail and it put a pea-sized hole right in the shin area. You know grafitti slogans on my Jordache weren't far behind. I was now mistreating my Jordache. Then I became ashamed of them and would only wear them in my backyard.

Exhibit B: The two-toned trend. Those of you who didn't come of age in the 80's might have missed this one so insert your appropriate short-lived, what-was-I-thinking trend - like say acid-washed (a trend I avoided)? For me, the two-toned thing happend in junior high. So now my blue jeans were the equivalent of the business-in-the-front, party-in-the-back mullet. What you see coming, you ain't seeing going. Needless to say, they didn't match up with a whole lot (see above re. my insistence on matching the top to the pocket design) and thus my pair was reserved for special occasions where only a solid colored top would do. Like Fridays. For cruising the mall. And as is true with all trends, their place in my closet didn't last longer than Spring.

Exhibit C: The little red and white triangle. Yes, Guess. In high school, it was all about the triangle on the ass. They tapered at the leg and had little zippers on the bottom so - I don't know - you could get them up over your foot? While the hip gals were sporting the Guess, what were the boys doing? Pinching and rolling. Their jeans. At the ankles. Yup. What Tom Ford came up with that one?

Exhibit D: The old tried and true - the mother of all blue jeans - Levi's. This was college. Loved them. Lived in them. Bow down to the All Mighty. Levi's - Smuckers called and wants to preserve you.

Exhibit E: The 180 turn. Trading up to....Calvin Klein. Because they were going to suit my new I'm-a-professional lifestyle now. They were dark indigo and I would starch them. "Ain't nothing coming between me and my Calvins."

Which brings us to present day. Low-riding, hip-snuggin, long-legged, bell-flopping blue jeans. It's coming together now. All shapes, sizes, colors, washes. Different pocket designs, stitching, threads. Worn or crisp. Dress up. Dress down. Genius really. I'm in love. This current world of blue jeans is beautiful really, there is not just one brand and one trend that everyone is bandwagoning. And you can spend as much or as little as you want. And I am just not going to name names.

They are all Blue Jean. Let's wear them proud.

*the appropriate attribution: a la D. Bowie, of course

The Weekend of Tragicomedy

:( Tragic: The Yukkell telling me he will marry (someone else) in June. He prefers the "old lady" and eight sad little (fatherless) pigtails.

:) Comedy: Spending all day Saturday in a bar where people are dressed as Guinness bottles and cans. Waved at by the bottle, toasted by the bottle, all the while believing that Beer likes me (the Sally Field kind of humbling you-really-like-me)...and feeling at home.

Later, attend a wine inventory reduction party (not in the spirit of Reduce-Reuse-Recyle but "I live a life of Excess and you can have some of my riches") and do my part not to disappoint.

At some point in the day, thinking you lost your purse, calling the bar from the taxicab wondering if purse is left behind, sending the bar staff on a hunt for the "missing" purse only to discover that you've been sitting on it the whole time. At what point in the day did I lose all feeling in my ass?

Amusing myself with how much better that story would have been if I had just called my ass.

Brunch on Sunday with The Yukkell. Drag queens, bloody marys, wasabi cucumbers....remembering - and already missing - Him as part of the equation of Us - as this could be the last time you share his company. As he lingers around, you know he feels it too.

Finally, deciding to unilaterally put an end to the despressing winter by wearing my new open-toe wedge sandals.....new shoes = new attitude = new beginning? (Do I have a choice?)

This Is Original Me

Hi. This is Original Me. I ripped that off from an All song so maybe I'm not so original. I'm merely an illustrator.

I'll figure this thing out as I go along....what I will write about....post pictures....how much I'll give away about myself...or just give up this exercise.....we'll see.

Most likely I will ramble and probably whine (a little). And wine always.