A Letter to Myself a Year Ago

Dear Year Younger Me,

I'm sure you have realized by now that you always have high hopes for a "New Year" and it never lives up to those (Great) Expectations. You bet your "Dickens" this year is no different. But you will be happy to hear, the year is not going to be a total bust after all. That is, if we are looking on the bright side.

First, you are going to get a chance to relive high school. I know what you are thinking: Like I need to relive THAT phase again. But one day you are going to log into Facebook to look at who you might know (some might use stronger language like "stalk") with no intention of actually being ON Facebook. But by the next morning you will be “friended” five times by people you haven’t given a rat's ass about since high school, or even, elementary school. This will force you to post your picture, get Mav to join in on the fun, and start snarking status updates. In one month you will be knee deep in high school insecurities again. You will stress about why this person hasn’t friended you and so on and you still don't get asked to prom.

But your colossal insecurites are worth it because there is an upside to the re-connecting. You will re-connect with people that you actually end up liking a lot. Like the guy from elementary school that you will trade writing samples with. You will meet up with two high school girlfriends in NYC in October, all who happen to be single, and you will commiserate on this lonely fact and paint the town 99 shades of red. You will dance all night long literally in the Meatpacking district with some guy, who turns out to be married. You only learn this the next day while recounting the events of the nights before over hungover burgers and looking through the photoroll and seeing the blaring gold band on the man's finger. The symbol you don't notice the night before as you soak up the attention to get you through your "man" dry spell.

Speaking of men, you will spend 4th of July weekend at the beach with Hollywood, Shamrock, Disco and his wife and some extremely hot guy. You will have to share a bed with him and the first night will find you making sweet punch-drunk love but you will spurn his advances the next two nights not to mention totally shut down and turn into they shyest person this way come because of the morning after awkwardness that you can't shake. This will sink you into a depression for a whole month later stewing over why you couldn't muster the cute and the witty.

I'm sorry to say, the guy situation will be more of the same of prior years. You won't have a serious boyfriend for three years running. See making sweet punch drunk love above. You'll take it where you can get it. You're just kind of over it already. You'll get the memo, "He's just not that into you" for the millionth time over the course of the year.

But you want to know what is going to be great about this year (and I'm giddy thinking about how you don't even know it yet)? You are going to travel! Of course there is the trip to Chicago to catch up with your oldest Bestie, Martini. You will go to Lollapalooza as it has become something of a tradition for you two. You will rock out to Love and Rockets who will re-assert themselves to your personal Favorite Band lineup.

You will go to Aruba with Mav, mini-Mav, and Pierre. Mini-Mav will threaten to shove her binkie up all your asses all the time. Lots of laughing will take place. You will scuba dive for the first time and love it. And Younger Self? I am currently looking into getting you - us - certified.

You will go Ireland all by yourself. I know you are probably shocked by that. You have always hated the pseudo-Irish Americans who hijack drunk for all themselves. You have always hated Irish jigs, Celtic music, American Irish bars. But this trip kind of falls into your lap and you think it is a good time to get outside your comfort zone. So you go. And you fall in love with the country, the people, the music, the Guinness. But you know who you don't fall in love with? The tour guide. He will sexually harrass you until the cows come home, even begging you shack up in his hotel room with him.

So hold tight and take this year for what is worth, my dear.


Signed,

Year Older Me

Girl Power

Going through some old Drafts. This was written last May, right around Derby time, before and after the death of Eight Belles.

*********

May 2008 -- I put on a sundress. I drank mint juleps, I bet on a horse and I bought a horse in an auction. I won actually. A few hundred. But I don't know if I can support horse racing anymore.

I've wrote about my love for the Derby here and here and here. I've always said I watch it with one eye open and one eye closed. I am opposed to greyhound racing, why shouldn't I be opposed to horse racing? Especially when the Derby is known as a grueling race to begin. Especially for a 3-year old.

I even wrote this diddy before last Friday:

This post brought to you by tampons.

If a female can bust through the sunroof ceiling and win an Indy car race,
then a little girl by the name of Eight Belles can run with the big boys in the
Derby.

A filly surround by 19 boys. Well nuzzle me jealous.

And like the little girl who gets the head start on the race track, this
filly will get a five pound weight allowance. A girl's got to maintain her figure after all. To run with the boys, you don't have to be one of the boys.

So stuff your bra, wiggle your butt to and fro, giggle coyly, and use your
sexuality. That's your advantage.

Besides, a black cat crossed Smooth Air's path so I know I am not picking him.

I went in with the feminist vote, I am going out with the animal rights vote.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Count This as Bloggin in '07, Be Back in '08

This just in:

"We think Hello Kitty is accepted by young men as a design statement in fashion," he said.

...so said the chap as he rode off in the sunset on a pink vintage Strawberry Sizzler bike.

Vroom vroom.

Oh. And this:

"Young men these days grew up with character goods," said Tohmatsu. "That generation feels no embarrassment about wearing Hello Kitty."

Heh.

It's Not You It's Me

After several months of a Goldilocks-storied dating experience: “this one’s too little” “this one’s too whiny” “this one’s too wimpy” “this one’s too shady” "this one's deathly thin" “this one can’t get from point A to point B without a momma” – a too-this, too-that, not-the-one, moving-on kind of pattern, I may have stumbled into Baby Bear's bed.

But not before I questioned whether my expectations are way too high – the cookie jar that even my highest stilettos will never reach. Or, is it that I am just that non-committal and actually relish spending Saturday nights alone in my Juicy Couture with a baked potato and a bag of gummy bears and a bottle of wine? I can entertain myself after all.

But then I have that date that makes me realize that I am not an unsatisfied Goldilocks. I’m not swinging from the chandeliers, mind you. I am in no way saying that this Baby Bear is The One. I'm in no way saying that he knocks my socks off. But it is refreshing that he warrants a second peek.

But now, after that second date, I am right back to being the unsatisfied Goldilocks. I could list a million reasons why whilst lounging in my Juicy sweats and talking to the make-believe dog; or, I could push those thoughts away and go for the third date.

And my t-shirt says: I blog the mundane details of my life

July flew by without a document. So this bulleted where-ya-been post will have to do to fill in a July entry. It pains me to do this.

I started a post called N.O. I DO Get to Go, which means I did get to go. To New Orleans. It was going to be in answer to this post but I'm not feeling very sappy. The punchline was going to be something along the lines of New Orleans being more depressed than I could ever imagine to be. I know! Who needs another Original Me self-indulgent weep fest? Because the trip, the city, was not at all what I imagined it to be. Sadly.

I've been to the beach a couple times. Once with Mav and Morgan (Pierre, to you). Naturally all kinds of hilarity ensued. That led up to the post I never finished called, The One Where They Call Me John. But I have retired the John alter ego because I never really liked "that John person" anyway. That is part of the character. But that post would have been very you-had-to-be-there in an abstract way. (On second thought, that post is coming to a blog near you, as I am chuckling thinking about it. Heh.)

I ran into this guy and became a Missed Connection. Or not. I blew it though. That might warrant a story. We will call that one, Love Me Two Times, or more likely, Hate Me Today. You may not want to say to a guy you run into (whom you spent one weekend two summers ago running your fingers through his hair), "Do you have lumps on the back of your head?" as the distinguishing indentification recognition (or pickup line) when you can't remember his name. Ahh...Kevin! A day late and a bus short, indeed.

Next month: family time, Outer Banks, and a Tavern on the Green wedding.

In the meantime: looking forward to John Doe tonight, welcoming a new friend to the neighborhood on Wednesday, condo board dramatics on Thursday. and obsessively watching Flight of the Conchords over and over again.

Inspiration will come to me soon...

Answering the Call

“My grief lies all within,
And these external manners of lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortured soul”
--Shakespeare

Five years ago, June 30 fell on a Saturday too. The night before I "inadvertently" called my parent’s home phone – I was trying to reach some friend. Who? I can’t really remember. But I mistakenly punched in "mom and daddy" in my contact list. My daddy answered, awoken from his slumber, his temperature already spiked, no doubt Death already making a bed for him at the Inn. The disorientation would happen later on Saturday, the disorientation that would prompt my mom and dad to say, "Something is not right." But my daddy answered the phone and I had one last conversation with him that went pretty much like this: “Oops! Hi Daddy! (giggle) Did I wake you? I meant to call (so-and-so). So sorry!” What I can’t remember is if I said "I love you." I often said "I love you." I hoped I did that time. I’m afraid I probably didn’t. But I just don't know. That same cell phone would be tucked away in my purse the next night, June 30. Me, oblivious to its constant ring over the evening, my family's repeated calls to tell me, "Something is not right." When I finally stumbled home I was able to retrieve the messages and talk to my brother and imagine that haunting image of my daddy, the protector, the funniest man alive, lying in a hospital bed, glazed eyes, hooked up to a respirator with no jokes to tell. I laid on my bed bargaining with...someone, waiting for my daddy to call me. After what felt like hours with no word, but was probably more like 10 minutes, I dialed my mom's number, my brother's number...No one was answering their phones....Five years later, I still wonder if that "no cell phone policy in hospital rooms" meant that my phone call attempts conflicted with the respirator's frequency that just couldn’t pump life back into him anymore. That one phone that got through to him the night before.

This just in: Grown Woman With Job, Car, House, and Pretend Dog...NEEDS Her Momma

Paris Hilton recently displayed an all too familiar truth that painfully prodded me to say about a girl I seemingly have nothing in common with, sex tapes not withstanding, "I can identify with Paris Hilton."

If not for the simple, basic, carnal, inherent truth that - me and her? - we need our mommas. In her case, it's "Momm.....!!!" In my case, "Mommyy...!" It's really apples to apples. It's still ya momma.

I'm offering up no opinions on the subject of Paris Does Time, when Time isn't a beefcake offering up a night IN Paris. But I will share with you this: I did laugh a little when Sarah Silverman taunted her with prison-bars-as-penis jokes. But the laughing really stopped right there. Even as the media splashed Crybaby all over the papers.

Especially, when a grown woman, in her most hopeless state, reverted back to...

...princess leia buns on the side of her head, donning her first-class brat t-shirt and hopped on her strawberry sizzler pink huffy and trucked it down to mommy when some neighborhood girl bullied her and her butter sandwiches.

Or that's just me.

You see, I can tell my mom ANYTHING. Yep, that. And she's not even that kind of mom that tries to be your friend and asks you to smoke pot in the boy's room and five-finger some Revlon lipstick. Nope, she's Mom. And sometimes you just need your momma. She offers motherly advice, cookies and milk, and bandaids when the boo boos sting. I ALWAYS turn to my mom. And for Paris to recognize that? Finally tells me that she may be, just maybe, isn't entirely made of vapid stares, lip gloss, and hair extensions.

Very recently, when I was crying to my mom about recent troubles, my own mom offered me this: “You do need to come live with me. You need your mother.”

Paris and I know that Mom is where it's at.

Now Blogging In Technicolor

Well, it's about time. The 'ole blog needed a new look. Some paint on the walls and...voila! Once I mastered the smart touch sensor on my microwave in which I discovered the potato has its very own setting (after all these years), it was only a matter of time before I could get a handle on Blogger templates.

What? You don’t like carnations? Or is there not enough “tea” in your Long Island?

The horses are on the track and, y’all….Street Sense is taking his bad ass self out of the running. It’s the Race of Champions – does he not want a double crown at least? I think we can take Curly-Que, ‘ole boy. You had him!

Alas, a Rumble is not what he wanted. Perhaps the mile and a half is too long for a smoker in a wife-beater. Perhaps he feels too pretty, witty, and gay. Perhaps he can’t get out of the West Side. Perhaps Uncle Unchie wants him to make the keilbasi. Perhaps Michael Jackson dressed up as him and sung (and rumbled and snapped his hooves) to “Beat it.” Perhaps he is dueting with Barbara Streisand. Perhaps James Dean has risen from the dead to play a role that was meant (and intended) for him. (Come back to mama and not the five and dime, Jimmy Dean Jimmy Dean.) Well, slap my ass and call me Maria!

"But when you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way," ‘ole boy! So I will forgive you this once. But first go chew some grass and think about what you have done to me. (I'll be watching West Side Story.)

What I am trying to lay out here (for them bettin’ folks and not the quittin' folks) is another round of This Is How You Do It. THIS is how you bet on the horses, in this case this weekend's Belmont Stakes. What is behind the horse's name? I'll tell you - it's turning into a race of inanimate objects and general ephemera.

But first, let’s talk refreshments! The peeps are saying that the official drink is the Belmont Breeze, which I think is just whiskey punch in a prettier costume. Whiskey doesn’t do pretty very well (at least not in high heels, just trust me on this). And I had to look this up but when I tell you about this drink, you are going to go pour yourself one in tribute because this is me tugging at your heartstrings. The head bartender of the Rainbow Room created it. Rainbow Room - of Windows on the World - of World Trade Center of - No Fucking More. I might call you a terrorist if you don’t drink that. Or un-American.

According to legend and the old-timies, the Belmont Breeze replaces the White Carnation, which has cream in it. Cream. I don’t do "cream drinks" and frankly it doesn’t have enough alcohol in it to justify frilly cream. That is one button, ruffle, or accordian pleat too many is what I'm saying. So just pour you a Long Island Iced Tea. I’ll look the other way when you say, “New York.”

OK. Now, music. Obviously, the theme song is “Georgia on my Mind.” Alright, alright. This below is about to get very “yankee”-heavy so I am just tempering it with some Southern Comfort. The theme is New York, of course – NOT New Jersey and not anything that rhymes with "bets." The key word is York - Upstate, in fact.

The song isn't - but could be - Ryan Adams’ New York, New York. If not for this lyric alone: The world won't wait and I watched you shake * But honey, I don't blame you * Hell, I still love you, New York * Hell, I still love you, New York * New York. Then consider that the video was shot 4 days before 9/11 with the NYC skyline in the background. Then punch in Ryan fucking Adams in the calculation.

And it UNFORTUNATELY isn't REM's Leaving New York. Stipe considers NYC a second home and wrote this song in an airplane flying out of his beloved. (Which could be taken and re-appropriated any which way you see fit. Like Losing My Religion will always be Losing My Virginity to me.) Back o/t: the song is a tribute to New York. And, what's more, the song is even better with the Mike Mills arrangement because he is butter to Stipe's bread. Captain to his Tenille. Iggy to his Stooge. Hall to his Oates. The two of them rock a sweet melody like NO OTHER....It's pulling me apart. Change....Find it in your heart. Change....Leaving was never my proud. Excuse me while I get all tingly listening to that song. It's THAT kind of song for me.

And it is not Bob Dylan's Talking New York, one of the first songs he actually wrote. While it isn't necessarily singing the praises of New York per se, I think it truthfully represents a New York experience, and subsequently a Belmont experience. The "City" (pick a place) can kick you in the ass. Yet it is a place to go to and make your dreams happen and Bob did just that - in this song, in cutting his first record there, in making it happen. Isn't that what the horses are doing? And like 'ole Bob, they leave town after either getting beaten down or making it. So long, New York.Howdy, East Orange.

Alas, those songs are not what it is. Traditionally, the song was an old folk song from way back when old-timies existed called, Sidewalks of New York. Tripped the light fantastic on the sidewalks of New York. It has been covered many times, by the Grateful Dead for one - so I hear. But I might prefer the Duke Ellingon rendition. Alas, that song was replaced in the 90's to make room for THAT song - THE New York song. Start spreadin' the news...

New York, New York as song by...............David Hasselhoff. I kid you not. Sung to the tune of “I want a….ham…bur…ger.” (New york. Yum. New…..ham.....york.....burger.)

I did. I just messed with the Hoff. I’ll lock up the liquor cabinet.

So you got your drink and you've got the juke box humming. Or your ipod, but take the buds out of your ear and put it on surround sound because watching the horses - the Triple Crown - is a social thing.

Here we go, in post position:

Imawildandcrazyguy - AKA The SNL Catchphrase

He's just a Lithuanian horse who'd rather be cruising for American foxes in his tight plaid pants (with bulge of course, you know what they say about horses). He'll be the most fun to watch as he wiggles that sashay down the track sometimes slipping out of character to do his famous "happy feet" bit. The "rock star comedian?" He's the Rock Star Horse. [Credit: thanks to the genius of Steve Martin.]

Tiago - AKA The Brazilian

Ladies, cross your legs. A cult of pain has swept the racetrack this year. Hot wax getting all up in there. Frankly, there's not much hope for "Tiago," he's going to be busy with his legs over his shoulders, wincing in not-quite-but-close childbirthing pain. But he'll be the sexy one as he will be bare ass except for an exclamation of hair to cover his lady bit. Prediction: Guy's choice.

Curlin - AKA The Perm

I've retired the Canadian athlete bit. Our Preakness winner has reinvented himself. He took his winnings and marched over to Truvy's Beauty Parlor where the latest glamour technician gave him his current look. He's bringing perms back!

CP West - AKA The Monogram

That Monogram is EVERYWHERE. He's adorning your luggage, your clothing, your towels, your Tiffany charms. This is what you will know him by on Saturday: CWP. He makes me want to bring back the "L" for Laverne shirt.

Slew’s Tizzy - AKA The Trumpet

You take Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis' Bitches Brew and you've got yourself a horse! As they say: Have trumpet, will excite. This is the horse to do that. Like his "parentage," he is known for fast runs and venturing into his upper register. Is he a cool melodic improviser? Or an aggressive explosive one?

Hard Spun - AKA The TightAss

Is he uptight? Or does he have an exceptionally attractive bootie? You tell me.

Rags to Riches - AKA Little Orphan Annie

He’s the horse with the little mop of red, curly hair and will be accompanied by his ever-faithful canine companion, Sandy, tagging along beside him. Right off the gate he might be yelling, "Leapin' lizards!" as the other horses take lead. But he will pull himself up from the spoils like he knows best. He’s got spunk, street smarts, and clown hair. Don’t be surprised if he breaks into a number...the ever optimist.

What are you betting on this time?

Avoiding Dates Like The Plague (But Not Dressing The Part)

Uh-oh. I'm thinking I might be dressed to sexy for the office.

This morning in the breakroom, a female co-worker was giving me the up-and-down-times-ten. The kind of look I get when I'm working on the corner of Two-dollah and Me-Love-You-Long-Time Streets. Not in, you know, my day job. And this contemptuous look was accompanied with, "Wow." (Not exclamation wow but ironic wow.) Believe you me, if I had a button to button, I would have buttoned it. Instead I said, "I know my heels are really high!" and kicked my leg up like a reject for the Rockettes. (Forward extension of the leg, Original Me. Forward.)

For the rest of the day whenever one of the girls in the office would give me that look (that "how much?" or "work it!" look), my insecurity would take hold and blurt out, "I know I am probably too sexy for the office." Which comes across like: I'm too sexy for this shirt (so sexy it hurts) ... too sexy for your love...and, perhaps, I am too sexy for this song. (Which did you know has a guitar riff straight from Jimi Hendrix, "Third Stone From the Sun." Just to show you I am a fact-finder and not a poster child for lycra tube dresses leaning into car windows or face down in men's crotches. In my day job.)

Perhaps I should not have put together a new ensemble of existing pieces from my wardrobe, thrown them in my gym bag, and then dressed AT the office. You sample the recipe FIRST -you know, before you share it with the people. (Southern Living, Vol. 1, No. 1)

Is it that my silk blouse (Shakesperean-esque in its bustier-clinging empire waist and princess neckline) gives way to a cinching of my tiny-tiny little lady bits thus giving the appearance of a girl who carries the world in her bosum? (Lipstick? Check. ID? Check. Two dollar bills? Check. Small baby? Check.) The suppressed rack makes me look like, well, I have a rack. I could get on board with that. Is the pencil skirt too flirty with the little dip in the back hem? So the silhouette is more va-va-voom (and actually begs for fishnets)? Are the shoes - the shoes! - in their 3-inch platform leapard print heel too bedroom-sexy for the boardroom? I wanted to wear my hair in a bun but I needed the hair on my back since the blouse kind of dips in the back. Yeah, kinda lower than I anticipated. I don't like wearing my hair down in the office. That's street-wear.

Edited to add: OK, in all honesty, after all is said and posted, I just now looked at myself in the mirror (Confidence, you know, giving myself the one-over), and it MAY appear that the blouson-effect of the princess- empire- seaming of the blouse?...yeah...I may appear pregnant. Soooo, the up-and-down body-to-shoes-body-to-shoes-body-to-shoes look MAY just have been: she-looks-pregnant-but-fuck-me-shoes-say-perhaps-not confused look of someone who may just be ready to ask: When are you due?

Two pizzas walk into a bar...

My motto on friendship: A good friend is someone you call when you are in jail...a best friend is in the next cell over saying, "Damn that was fun!"

And so it begins.

It is the Friday of Memorial Day weekend and Mav and I can not believe we are actually in town. It is her birthday weekend after all. But after the debacle of last Memorial Day, it really isn't that bad - this being in town business. And since her and Morgan are "working from home" in some wireless environment that wasn't a bar, and I was "slaving" away at the office catching up on the music blogs and zines, it was only a matter of seconds until the three of us jumpstarted the three day weekend.

So Mav, Morgan and I settle into the glorious summer day on a deck with a grill (insert Miami joke here) and like a gazillion beers. I know, settle if we must. After all this consumption of food and I should pause right here to give that a mention. Mav WAS the grillmaster of some lovely kebabs - steak AND chicken, veggies, corn on the cob and various sausages (andouille, hot AND sweet italian). The food being swished down with the beers. But somewhere between beer number 1 and 20 (I'm not sure where as calculations were not being kept and none of us are accountants), things took a turn for the worse, as Mav suddenly found herself hanging off the deck writhing in the pain of what could only be alien babies taking over her stomach because her stomach was giving her that sign - the one that closes up shop and says, "Enough, bitch! Get this shit out of here." Except the shit - or the alien babies - whatever was terrorizing her stomach -was having a little problem finding a new home, which Mav was choosing to be a pile of leaves - her hanging off the deck, just inches from the citronella tiki lanterns.

Those buggers in her belly needed some coaxing along. Our dear friend was in pain! So good friends that we were, we each took turns holding Mav's hair back as we concocted the following story to help her along to feeling better.

So in the name of releasing alien babies, this story was born, as told by Me, Morgan and (enter stage left) Diamond who had just returned with a bottle of Moet, a birthday cake and three iPod shuffles for the gals. Best housewarming gift ever? Oh, that's right, it is his house. How about - best boyfriend/fiance ever! (Seriously awesome, Diamond!)

The Perfect Storm (Or I Licked The Tongs)

Two pizzas walk into a bar. (And not just any bar, it's Jay's Elbow Room.) Meat Lover Pizza says to Anchovy Pizza, "J'u wanna pizza me?" And Anchovy P. responds, "I'll slice you a new one, Meat Head!"

The Pizzas could go on all day talking like this, this was their song and dance. But today was unlike no other because just when Sausage, the bartender (Hot Italian) - pipes into the bad joke gone awry with, "I'll blow a casing if you guys don't stuff it!" a Raw Chicken Breast Cutlet walks into the bar and saddles up in between the two pizzas rubbing against them as breasts will do. One could say she might be flirting. Others might call her "easy." Hot Italian Sausage Bartender offers them up a round of shots. That dirty fella - Anchovy P. - wants the Buttery Nipple and Meat Lover wants the Three Kings. So two shots they do.

The Breast gets on top of the bar top and does the chicken dance to nobody's interest but Mr. Peanut from the peanut bowl. Then the Marlboro Man rides in on...a horse? A Harley (on account of Memorial Day in DC)? No - he chooses a dirty ashtray as his magic carpet ride. And he rides into the Elbow Room in a cloud of smoke as only the Marlboro Man can do. He looks around the Elbow Room and then flicks his lit cigarette which gets embedded in the breast that is the raw chicken which slowly cooks her to...a Southern. Fried. Chick. Which, incidently, cures the dirty whore of any disease she was walking around with.

But the Salmonella is out there. The Pizzas and her didn't use protection and certainly didn't wash up afterwards. And Raw Chicken really got around this evening in the Elbow Room. At this point, the pizzas are not feeling so hot as Salmonella has opened up a Disco ontop of Meat Lover Pizza and a Third World Country on Anchovy P.

But now Chicken Breast is Smoking Hot. This is when the illegal immigrant working in the back of the Elbow Room - Del Taco - decides to get him some of that Breast now that she's all warmed up. Only he has no arms and no legs, him being a taco. So he pours a stream of tequila on which he slides into the Elbow Room. Southern Fried Chick jumps off the bar, excited for her third drink of the evening, swims into the tequila, and slides into the fold of the taco. The cigarette butt still stashed in her breast.

While a disco inferno is brewing on the pizzas and Marlboro Man is pulsating to the beat of the disco music in his dirty ashtray, Sean Connery walks into the bar. He is hungry and sees the taco and takes a bite. A bite that has the lit cigarette.

Well, the combination that is the Hotness of Sean Connery (we had to scratch Louie Anderson for this very important plot development) and the burning butt caused Sean's head to BLOW RIGHT OFF. But he is still hungry so a headless Sean Connery sits on the Pizzas. Hot Italian Sausage has backed into the corner - he doesn't want to be anywhere near that region, even if it is Sean Connery. He takes off for the Sausage Factory. Mr. Peanut, dancing across the bartop, ditches his cane and heads for the Peanut Gallery. And the Marlboro Man goes up in a puff of smoke - the Big C finally taking him over and leaving tobacco lobbyists without a job.

End scene: It's closing time in Jay's Elbow Room and Jay sweeps up the reamins of the day....sausage bits, pizza crusts, taco shells, peanut shells, and the town drunk with no head (little does Jay know he has a movie star in his dust pan). To Jay, it's just another day in the life of the Elbow Room...

The end.

An hour and half later, the story came to a close, but not until Mav had finally released a stomach's worth of discontent all over the back yard. More fodder for the dust pan at Closing Time. The story was a successful means to that end, Dear Friend.

Selfless Acts Of Love Will Get You A Seat Right Behind Your Ex and His Wife

"You can't control an independent heart, Can't tear the one you love apart" -- Sting on If You Love Someone, Set Them Free...“Free, free, set them free…” Just like Sting said.

On being the bigger person...

The Yukkell – not the guy who drove me to drinking, but to blogging actually - was my best friend/confidante/lover for five years. Our relationship was not traditional by any means but you could hardly say we were on-and-off. Barely a day went by when we didn't talk. But sure, you could say we were up-and-down. He picked me up, he put me down, but he was always THERE and I knew he would always be there. Or something like that.

One night in January of 2005, he called me to give me the kind of news you sit down for. I was sitting on my kitchen counter and not the crapper, which is where the shitty news should have gone. (But, remember, I am being the bigger person.) I don’t know what I was prepared for, perhaps I assumed he was going to say that he met someone. I never expected it was going to be what it was. The-One-Who-Got-Away (herinafter TOWGA) came a’knockin’ after – what? – ten years. The story unravels – details aside, and in my opinion they don’t put TOWGA in a good light and this isn’t TOWGA bashing so details omitted. But the relevant punchline is that she is now widowed with four tiny little girls, one barely a year old.

We spent the weekend together talking about all this. I knew a good deal about her already - more than she probably cared for me to know. But the situation needed hashing and slicing and dicing. I was doing what I did best by him - offering unwavering support. His perspective that weekend was just to help her from a professional standpoint (i.e., a legal standpoint).

As the days rolled on, TOWGA pushing the Hopeless card (and not to fault her on that), wants him to come see her. He doesn’t want to and tells her as much. His work can be done by afar. I nudge him to reconsider. I was buying that she needed him. It was He, himself, who told me much later on in this story: She needs me more than you do.

"Run South then, darlin'." But the day before he goes I panic and tell him what I am most afraid of happening at this point, which is that I don’t want to lose him.

He smiled that way and looked me straight in the eye and said, "You won’t ever lose me."

That wasn't going to prove to be true. Up until that moment he set foot on her swamp turf, he needed me. In fact, up until our last conversation when he was at the airport on some layover and reminded me that he doesn’t even want to be doing this. "Remember??" Being a cheerleader paid off, as I poured on some fake charm in the form of a you-can-do-it rah, built him up as I always did. I think he was most afraid of what was going to happen which was what did happen. They rekindled. And he knew that if he opened that door, he would never be able to close it again. Not on her situation being what it was.

I won't lie. I cried all night as being the bigger person was proving to be difficult.

We continued to talk but not every day now. He talked to her every night. We went on like this for a couple months up to our last weekend we were to spend together as a couple. He told me that she was pushing for him to marry her and had picked a July date. Yes, folks, we are still in 2005. He was pushing for me to say something...

"What do you say about that?" taunting me with his you-or-her torture. His own torture.

I couldn’t put myself down that path of "Pick Me." THIS wasn’t about me at all. And THIS wasn’t about her either. This was about HIM. I always put him before my own happiness and I wasn't going to start now, it seems. And why did I put him first? For things in his past that haunted him and made him the unhappy person he was. His demons is what he liked to call it. Sure, he loves her. Friends, he did say, “I loved her no more than I loved you.” And, “If this was you in this situation, I’d do the same thing for you.”

THIS was about him righting a wrong that happened – independent of her and independent of me. Something that has haunted him. His story that I will keep with me. But it was about him taking responsibility. Being a father. A part of me thinks I could have fought for him. I considered it. But I couldn't offer him the panacea he needed to deal with his past, his guilt. I always prayed for something to release him from his demons. I was not enough. Who knew it was to be the TOWGA and the ready-made family?

I had to be the bigger person.

They didn't get married that summer, but they did a year later. We ceased communication after that weekend - to the point where he would blatantly avoid me - the equivalent of crossing the street if he saw me coming.

Except one time. I got to see him a year ago at a mutual friend’s birthday party. We had a nice private chat. And he started that whole song-and-dance with me again. Trying to coax something out of me that I couldn't give him. It's not romantic love that I feel for him. It’s more soulful. It's selfless. It's the love of a good friend. A best friend. THAT person I would take back any day of the week, no matter where I was.

So he’s married now. We don't talk. I don't know whether he is happy. Knowing him, I think it might be possible, but then I also think it might not be. Did he bring the demons with him? Or do the cherubic faces he now fathers slay them? I hope so.

This past weekend, I had the distinct displeasure of sitting directly behind Him and Her in a church as we watched our mutual friends get married. The spurned lover in me wanted to tear her apart in critique and showcase my smoking ass that he loved so much right in front of his face. The discarded friend in me wanted to tie a friendship bracelet around his neck and pull tight on the ends.

But, alas, I want to be the bigger person.

We shared no more than a "hi." When she is around, he won't talk to me. He avoids me. (I have had one other distinct displeasing occasion to be in the same room.) I don't know if it is out of respect for her, or because he simply does not care anymore, or because he is afraid of getting sucked back into the attraction. Most likely they are his issues or their issues and I have moved on so I don't worry my pretty little head over the details.

Nevertheless, in one awkward moment on the dancefloor, she came right up to within my circle, right next to me, to join in the dancing. And for one moment, I thought she might not be as lifeless and sad as she appears. Maybe she really is a good person. The moment was right there. I wanted to turn to her and offer my hand as an introduction. I wanted to tell her that I am glad that they found their way back to each other - her being "the one who got away." I thought that maybe we - as two people who love this man dearly - could share a moment. Maybe we have more in common than I think. Maybe we would share a laugh as we tore around the dancefloor. Maybe we would actually like each other. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Or I wouldn’t?

I couldn’t be that big of a person.