Friday, September 12, 2008

Finding My Voice Again (Really...I Think)

You know that feeling when you have been away from something or someone for so long and when you reunite there is so much distance that you don't know where to start - where you fill in the gaps? Yes, well, that is the way I am feeling right now. I'm not going to try to fill you in on the past year. That has been the hard part of starting to write again. So I think it is best to segueway into this by just starting anew.

Friday, August 08, 2008

For the sake of a story...

January 2008, I pulled myself up by the elastic Juicy terries and said to myself, "No more. I'm not looking for love in all the wrong places, looking for love in too many faces. (Or that was a karaoke dream.) But essentially the message was this: "I'm on hiatus!"

And so it was. I had good intentions to pursue creative and athletic goals and I have sort of pursued them, if you count paint-by-numbers and Wii. You know, the pop psych momma advice to "immerse myself in myself" and not pay attention to the menfolk. No, I wasn't popping in 1990's Lillith Fair tapes, reading Simone de Bouvoire, and running to California to get hitched, but you know what I mean.

And this little plan worked. No dates since 2007. Unless you count the purely textual relationship I have with a boy from my morning metro ride to work. We were "strangers on a train" for 2 years, until we saw each other out of context. (Our usual context being my face implanted in his armpit as the morning train twists and turns and jerks out of Courthouse. Or him stalking me on the platform, waiting for me as we board the train in silence for 3 whole stops while admiring his Hugo Boss and Varvatos wardrobe.) But we had to run into each other in a bar one night and then another night. All of a sudden our context was the local Tavern. He had to go and ask for my number as homo sapiens with opposable thumbs and conversational lust are wont to do. I gave him the digits with the promise that he wouldn't "go calling me all the time, in fact don't call me, just text me. " And he took that to its literal grave. Texting me all the time, yet not asking me out. So we proceed to "get to know each other" on text messaging, as much as you can get to know someone that way. (How ws ur day? good....out of town...what r u doin? watching TC, etc.) We are going on six months now.

So between only having texting relations with the opposite sex and totally losing my shit when forced to spend Fouth of July weekend with a hot guy, I realized that it was time, Internet. Time to get back into the dating pool, if only for the stories, and this was my plan:

Saturate the Market Place

Part one of the dating game forthcoming...

Friday, May 16, 2008

It's In My Head, Filler

You might know these things about me.

One, I generally don't like people in bulk (and by bulk I mean large quantities). Gummy bears should be in bulk and Charmin triple-ply toilet paper, too. Because you can never have enough of either. I like "A Person" and maybe another "Person" and maybe another but you get too many at once and its a clown car experience that I am not laughing at. There are some exceptions to the One Person Too Many rule. A Chippendale dance-off might be one where I would enjoy the more the merrier.

The other thing is that I live in my head most of the time. I am always having conversations with myself. But "you" don't see that because I am quite good at keeping the voices IN MY HEAD. So what you see is a person walking down the street, minding their own business, but with a Being John Malkovich thing happening behind closed doors, so to speak. But minding their own business to a fault because I probably won't see you or, notice you and you will take it personally when really I just might be adapting songs a la Tori Amos or William Shatner or, even, David Cook, depending on my mood. It's not personal. It's my own personal rock concert, preferred with no audience.

I have to remind myself from time to time that I do share this world with other people.

Honing into a point, I tend to be oblivious to the people around me when I am walking to work in the morning. I can't be sure what my exterior self is showing when I am IN MY HEAD. Like I think I might be smiling but it might not translate. Oh, John Cusack!

For instance, I might look intent, vacuous, crazy, joyous, or annoyed in the morning. At any moment my expression might lead you to believe that someone died, I won the lottery, I just scarfed down a baked potato with butter, or Ted from How I Met Your Mother asked ME to be the Mother.

Thus, my expression = it's a toss-up. And again, people will take it personally.

Another thing about me is I don't mess around in the morning. I'm a biped on 6-cylinder hot wheels. Vroom. Vroom. The way I see it, if everyone moved along the same speed/way as me in the morning all would be right with the world. I'm convinced we could Save our Planet, Spay and Neuter All Animals, Achieve Peace and Live as One. Bed In or Foreign Adoption not required. Instead, all would walk the escalator not ride it, I would get a seat on the metro each morning, or, as I slip into my walking dream state...I'd gallop to work on a white stallion led by a knight in shiny armor (Hi Ted! Am I the Mother?).

So we have the stress (or fear in all honesty) of people, the daydreaming, and the speedwalking all leading me to my point.

One particular morning recently there was an obstacle, in which it was not acceptable to pull the horse back, whisper a "giddy up" sweetly in his ear, and jump the barrier to great applause and British cheer. Even I know when to leave the stories IN MY HEAD. So I proceeded to go right, but...the barrier moved. I go left...the barrier got wider. Egads. I had no choice but to bust right through and go up the middle. I had a clear shot. The right and left would never see me coming, is what I thought.

To be more clear, there were two gals exchanging in an early morning gabfest, best reserved for the water cooler. Hot Topic Mondays be damned! And they spread out their space about 4 people wide, you see, perpindicular to any incoming traffic. Because it wasn't enough to only occupy the space which your mass encompasses. More space was necessary in a space barely big enough to contain them as it was. "Look, mom, no hands" became "Look, mom, I can move to and fro WHILE talking." My space, was now their space, apparently.

But I found a moment to squeeze through them (walls on both sides when we all know that only in reality I can't walk through walls, but with Ted and the horse IN MY HEAD- fuh-get-about-it). And I eked by with not contact, nary a disruption. "No harm, no foul" is what the referree would call the play had he been there. But one of them did not see it like that. She was moved enough to disengage from her very engrossing early morning chat fest, to turn her attention to me. And she clucked her head, called me unsavory names when I was only minding my own business trying to get from Point A to Point B. Life, really. She is lucky I didn't demand a red carpet (is the way my head would call it).

Ignore it, I could, but my mind wouldn't have it like that today, I'm afraid. The mind (was it John Cusack?) opened the door to let them in. The response was, "I can't help it. My equilibrium is off today."

I have no idea where that came from but, frankly, I couldn't have said it better myself.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Reason #423 I Should Not Be Left To My Own Devices

Because I will embarass myself. And at the time, while "said embarassing act" is happening, I will giggle it off. Because look at me, I am ss-tt-r-ee-aa-k-i-nnn-ggggg, and, gosh, isn't it funny? It's not just for movies and your movie-watching giggles.

Said embarrassing act usually involves wine. Or beer. Or liquor. Really, whatever is handy.

And I don't know why I am even telling you this because I really am embarrassed for myself. My cool egg has been cracked. When The Internet only knows me as poised.

Sigh. Alas, I didn't go streaking. (See, e.g., Movies, Cinema, Magazines, The Occassional Celeb Car Exit.)

You know (but you really don't) how I have waxed poetically in my head because this blog has been so 2005. I haven't wanted to write about the general malaise I have experienced over the last year (or longer?). Dr. Phil didn't try bailing me out of my depression. Alas, I had to pull myself up by the Juicy sweats and off of the baked potato cloud that my butt was wedged in and say, "Really, Self, this shit has got to stop. So what if people have disappointed you. So what if life is kind of going on and all your friends are well along that ride but you can't seem to catch a break."

So I hibernated all winter long. Just like a Bear in a den (but with the benefit of a TV). It was a chore to have to go out and be social and act the part of a person who actually enjoys being around people. Imagining them as gummy bear characters wrapped in baked potato coats (winter, duh) helped. But then that gets creepy. Or fun, however you look at it. I pick fun.

Anyway, so I got really pale staying in and now it is spring and the daisies are sprung and I just want to go out all the time now. People are no longer gummy bears to me, but actually people I can converse with. They're one of me now. Don't get me wrong, I still don't want to small talk and give a weekend transcript of my comings and goings. And I still want to give out fashion citations to passers-by while sitting outside at Mexicali Blues.

And so I go out now. And I went out, in particular and for purposes of a point, last Saturday night. And this caged bird had herself some cocktails, both before I went out to have cocktails and after I came home from cocktails. So, cocktails bookending cocktails, you see?

You see where I am going with this, right? I'll tell you, far away from any respectable option, such as:
  • Oh, it's 1:30 AM, I am going to put my pajamas on and GO TO BED.
  • Oh, it's 1:30 AM, I am going to put my pajamas on and GO TO BED.
  • Oh, it's 1:30 AM, I am going to put my pajamas on and GO TO BED.

Yeah, that message I did not get.

So, I proceeded to pour the Heavy Pour of the bottle of wine I started earlier in the evening and I got out my laptop and proceeded to email people. Guys, really. Guys, I haven't talked to since before the Winter Hibernation. Guys I've never met in person, guys I've only went out with once, and guys who I have been doing the Metro Dance with for two years now.

While this is going on, one guy actually emailed me right back. At 1:30 AM. And I am this close to doing the, "Can he seem me?" duck behind my couch. Because it is not far-fetched to believe that computers have special powers.

The other guy, I can't even bring myself to see what I wrote to him. I don't even remember his name. I think it was Tim? I went out with him once and I wore a charcoal gray turtleneck which is so not my color and so not my fashion pick and where did it come from. He was during the Great Winter Depression and did not get the Best of Me. I'm pretty sure I curled my lip in a sneer the one time we went out and he talked about duck hunting. I also stuck 2 daisies in his eye sockets and released a dove in his name and walked around him in a circle holding a sign that said, "Ducks are People too.". But why did I email him and WHAT on earth did I say? We will never know because I can't bring myself to look at my Sent folder. Shocker that I never heard back from him.

The third one is harmless really. And he really warrants his own post. So that is forthcoming.

So, right about now, you, Dear Reader, are probably thinking, "how lame" because you were probably expecting something embarrassing along the lines of having a booger hang out of my nose on a first date. Just trust me when I say, I really didn't need to carry on like I did.

But, in the end, it is a good thing that I am at least entering civilization again and appreciating people for the people that they are and not the gummy bears that they were.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Inching Along One Flower At A Time

I have never had a boy send me flowers. And you know what that translates to? I have never had a boy send me yellow tulips. I'd even settle for white. Or a dandelion. Buehler?

Heh. You'd give me the one already blown out, right?

Story of my life.

This is not to say that the Real Love Of My Life, as opposed to myriad Posers, never showed up on my doorstep with the random greenery picked from the neighbor's lawn or the carnations from the local Giant. Stolen flowers have more meaning? Because nothing says "I love you" more than a five finger discount. Bonnie and Clyde built a relationship on it.

My office is plastered with pictures and drawings of flowers. I actually had to take some down because it became a little overkill. Shrubbery.

I also spray lavender in my office a lot. As a panacea to Job Stress, a remedy according to the Feng Shui, Hippies Are Dope, Mercury Rising, Moon in Jupiter, Chakra Kundalini Express bus. It's a short bus that safely transports me througout this life. But I wish the bus driver was a little nicer to me.

One of the partners at work does actually give me flowers. On more than one occasion. He also gives me Thanksgiving presents. One of the few people who actually take the literal meaning of the word "thanksgiving." He also give mes Starbucks and iTunes gift cards. Alas, he doesn't give me anything for Arbor Day, so take your head out of the flower patch.

I am just in love with floral teas. White peony tea. Chamomile. Lavender jasmine. Honeysuckle. Yerba Mate. Hell, I even get Hibiscus sorbet. I am dying to make lavender scones, I just got to get my hands on some edible lavender. I think those would be just tasty-cakes.

Now I am into painting flowers like a Georgia O'Keefe rip-off artist.

Flowers, flowers everwhere.

Now, I just need a Garden Boy for watering purposes. Bring your own hose.

Monday, April 14, 2008

John Travolta Should Get It Over With Too

It started with a date three years ago. I liked his boyish good looks. His average, boy-next-door, preppy style - benign and DC attorney-like. You know, average. We shared similar tastes in music. He was a "rock star" (for DOG's sake), fronting a college band and he even performed on stage with Paul Westerberg one drunken time in his youth. Now, that's rock and roll - not hair band rock and roll but smoke-a-pack-of-cigarettes-pop-beer-tops-with-your-mouth-punch-a-kid-in-the-mouth rock and roll. He was from upstate New York. He was apple pie.

We seemingly hit it off but for whatever reason never went out again. I guess I expected a full court press because I was popular in those days, what with the Yukkell and The Carson, et. al. He remained passive yet kept in touch over the years. I didn't pluck any "he loves me" "he loves me not" petals.

For three years we exchange very cursory emails. Small talk, if you will. I always thought he had a girlfriend and when things went bad, he would email me for some kind of male ego-stroking.

Like I said, this goes on for three years. Some bizarre online chat with some guy who, at this point now, I can't even remember what he looks like. And all I remember about him is the descriptor I gave you in the first paragraph. We literally are virtual strangers.

But this last time, he sends me a different kind of email. A drunken slur of "ohmigod I can't believe I did what I just did last night! OMG OMG. But don't ask me, I can't tell you. It's sooo embarrassing!" Of course, just like when mom said, "Don't look under the bed or in the closet for your Christmas presents", you look under the bed and in the closet. And so I bite back with "tell me more" and then he lays it out.

The story comes out in layers.
Him: I had a date with a guy I have had a crush on for awhile.
Me: Whoa! Hold the sausage. I didn't know you were gay.
Him: Oh yeah, I thought you knew.
Me: No, I don't even know who you are really, what you look like.
Him: What? This whole time? Three years?
Me: You are they guy I had drinks with at the Mayflower, right? You're a Westerberg fan?
Him: Yes, that's me.
Me: Were you gay then?
Him: No, not out of the closet yet. But I always liked your style and thought you were really pretty.
Me: [blushing]
Him: I'm actually a cross dresser and I like transvestites.
Me: Whoa! Hold the Hairspray. So you came out of the closet WITH A DRESS ON?
Him: In full regalia. I'm actually a passable woman. I never leave the house without my wig and full makeup. It feels good to be telling you this.
(The full description of his lovefest is redacted. The FCC will shut me down.)

So we remain pen pals. But now he signs off with "Luv ya hon, Betsy." And I laugh everytime.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

I'm not kidding...

I have a slew of coffee mugs in my office that I have received over the years from various vendors. There is 9 to be exact.

Each day as I get my green tea with rose petals, I select the mug that will match my outfit.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Still Life With Grapefruit, Cabbage Soup, and Light 'n Healthy Orange Juice

Paul Cezanne's Still Life with Apples & Peaches

As Cezanne once proclaimed, "with an apple I wish to astonish Paris", I proclaim that with a head of cabbage I hope to astonish the menfolk. And there you have it, this potato-chomping, gummi-popping, root-beer-swilling gal has put herself on the big D. When D just means a healthy way of living, a less sedentary lifestyle. Watching Golden Girl re-runs at the gym instead of the couch with one hand in the buttered popcorn bowl and an elastic waistband.

This last year has been, well, kind of sucky. When sucky isn't a giant lollipop and good ships and all that. I know. I said that about the year before. Well, don't they say that when you hit 35, it's all downhill? When downhill doesn't involve Utah powder and groomed ski trails. But the point is, I have spent most of 2007 flat on my back. When on my back doesn't entail my hands tied to the bedposts in Missoni scarves and a boom-chick-a-boom soundtrack.

Anyway, it's not so much a D---, just a healthier way of living - a more toned bod, better posture - a better spirit, a better outlook. I am getting back in touch with the artsy-fartsy me. I am sewing L's on all my shirts, using calligraphy in all my correspondences, making my own loose teas, sewing baby booties for all my friends' babies. Or. But I will paint that big canvas for my bedroom. I will be more Green. Then, maybe, I will start that children's book I want to write, where Slow Pie, the one-toothed cat gets into all kinds of shenanigans.

Do I sound too hippy-dippy? (I'm sorry, that is what happens when you go to church on Christmas day, when you haven't been in at least 3-4 years, and find out that the priest's dog is part of the Mass now. A sign to finally make Tom Ford a reality (except his name is going to be Hugo)? Or a sign that God is Dog (or Dog is God)? Play that on 33 1/3 rpm backwards, Satanic backmaskers.)

You see, Cezanne's still lifes weren't about the bulbous fruit as the object of the art. But their relation to - and place in- the space they occupy - draped cloths, jutting corners of the table tops, pitchers (or ewers, you crossworders) and background planes - as parts of a whole. And how the light bounces around and illuminates.

Mind, body, and spirit.

Honk if you love Dog.