FORE!

When fore! is not a shout from someone in plaid pants, waving white gloved jazz hands; nor an album by Huey Lewis featuring the memorable hit “Hip to Be Square” - when we know Huey wasn’t hip, because if he was he would have spelt it “Hip 2 B SQR.” Patrick Bateman did call it a masterpiece in American Psycho.

When fore! is a shout out to you dear jiminy reader crickets. I’m not blasting off golf clubs and I haven’t jumped the karaoke circuit designated nirvana. While we are on the subject of golf, no, I have not joined the Tiger brothel. It’s been five years and you’ve been through some of it but over the last few years not much of it.

While I like to stamp my foot and brat, "it's all about me," I finally feel like I'm even closer to that moment when I am actually the center of attention (the star of my own life) and everyone is cheering...

More to come...

Kickboxing Dream

When you are old enough to know cause and effect, you know that “You want to go to kickboxing tonight?” translates to, “You’re gonna eat lightning and crap thunder!” And because that would make a good story to tell Al Roker (he's literal and he'll believe you), you say sign me up for the shitastrophe!

In my “softer” days, I would prefer to maintain a horizontal position on the couch, my tush comfortably nestled in the cushions, head propped up by pillows, remote control resting on my belly. Exercise would be exercising my right to not watch Two and Half Men, Big Bang Theory, or Gary Unmarried or any other ABC shitcom with a laugh track (because people need to be told when to laugh, is the way ABC sees it). I exercise my right not to laugh on cue. At least when there is no reward of a treat manufactured by Haribo. (My tongue is wagging and I answer to Bruiser by the way. Some things will never change.) So this whole get up off the couch and sweat it out brain trust that I’ve been assigned is merely a salve from the depressive (i.e., lazy) funk that has permeated my every fiber of being, comfortable as that couch may be. It answers to Lov-ah.

In preparation for the workout, I drink a glass of raw egg yolks, shadowbox up Constitution, run up the steps of the Capitol, leap in the air, and shake my fist. (Secret Service mentally taking notes of this Cool Factor to add to the boss' routine. Since the Mom jean's didn't work on the baseball field.) Theme track unfortunately drowned out by a diplomatic motorcade, because when in DC…

When I arrive at said kickboxing studio I’m reminded of a set leftover from Rocky. The ring, the Snoop soundtrack, Mike Tyson. I make a mental note to save my ears. I conclude that the gym was bought on Ebay with the advertisement: Apollo Creed v. Italian Stallion. There’s a sign in the water fountain that says, “Don’t spit in the fountain.” Because frogs, snails, and puppy dog tails will do so if you don’t give them a friendly reminder that, hey, your spittle that comes from the bowels of your stomach...is kind of disgusting. Boys.

Then I hear the laugh track, Al Roker comes out from the wings in all his jollyness, and my ear starts to feel cold and clammy. Al's asking me something about bowels and thunder and he's wearing boxing shorts. And that's no TKO my friends. That's when I wake up to a thunderstorm and my dog licking my ear. Yet, AL ROKER IS STILL PRESENT.

I change the channel and nudge my tush deeper into the cushion and coo, "Oh, Lov-ah." That is, after Al Roker was long gone.

Gluttonous Maximus

"Life is a smorgasbord and most poor suckers are starving to death." — Patrick Dennis (Auntie Mame: An Irreverent Escapade)

“I guess I’m just a glutton for punishment,” she said wryly and jokingly. There was a shrug of the shoulders, a downturned corner of the mouth, and big puppy dog eyes batting Joan Crawford spider-legged eyelashes. She could have just as easily been saying, “Woe is me,” as is often the case.

So she hikes up her skirt and strolls down the information highway, Exit Online Dating (Population: Everyone) where she will be met with disappointment and heartbreak over and over and over. Nothing good EVER comes out of it, yet she has watched one too many Nora Ephron rom-coms and believes that Shopgirl will indeed some day meet her “Joe Fox” complete with a Brinkley (soon to change his name to Tom Ford) to adopt all her own.

She’ll come across “that guy” over and over. "That guy" who doesn’t follow up, "that guy" who wants one thing, "that guy" who is going to trade you in for tomorrow’s latest model, "that guy" who wants his peas, carrots, and french fries. Men and their buffets. They just can’t help themselves when their options on the menu are Everything and All You Can Eat.

On the flipside, for her, while the options are the same - everything - she is only looking for one thing: the real thing. It can't possibly be found on the buffet but the chef (i.e., God) won't let her order off the menu. Just call her Sally.

[Ed.: Our heroine is really, really hungry at this point. I've asked Sally Struthers to step in and plead her case.]

You're Leaving Fingers Crossed, Arkansas Now

“I still believe in Hope - mostly because there's no such place as Fingers Crossed, Arkansas.” – Molly Ivins

Despite my uber-pessimism in all things Love and Relationships (The glass is half full? I never got a glass!), I still harbor a modicum of Hope. It’s hidden deep, sure, like in my thighs where everything else seems to congregate (French Fry meet Hope), but I know it exists.

Last week, I went on my billionth first date. At my (Golden) age, a product of wasting 7 years with a Yukkell, letting the “good guy” get away once or twice, living in DC, and low self-esteem. (Although I might argue that the low self-esteem is a product of that guy, that guy, that guy, and all those guys.) To the world, I put on the face of pessimism and say things like, “Here we go again” (eyeroll), or “He has no where to go but up” (used car man smile), and “I’m not expecting to be swept off my feet” (Mother Theresa nod).

But deep down (from the deepest regions of my thighs) I think but never say out loud, “Might this be the one?” I dare to hope.

It might be because, prior to meeting in person, we shared good rapport with a volley of sarcastic banter complete with a McEnroe helping of “C’mon!!! Are you blind?!?!”. Oh, I did throw my tennis racket and was ready to dismiss him when the line became so blurred between the Sarcasm and the Deadpan. Did he just rename my neighborhood unfavorably? A neighborhood, I would argue, he also lives in. And so I suggested a West Side Story rumble. I kindly offered to bring the choreography.

So I agreed to meet him. You know, if I must.

In the end, I was pleasantly surprised. Not because the date ended up being fun, easy, and definitely memorable. Not because he was generous with his laughter. Not because he wore good shoes. Not because he gave great hugs, affection, and a better kiss. But because he asked me out on a second date and persisted when I had to turn him down due to a prior engagement. So he rung me again and we firmed up a second date. He's cooking and I'm baking!

I can feel the squish of Hope rubbing in my thighs now.

Avoiding the treadmill for now...

Why I Carry A Tape Recorder (and not because I'm old)

You know that 1-800 customer service battle cry, “This message will be recorded for training purposes,” that causes you to pause, clear your throat, and edit the delivery you rehearsed prior to calling? The one that the FCC bleeped? Given that prompt, now you might start the call with, "Jane, is it? Yes, Jane, have you lost weight? Looking good!" The Kill Them With Kindness First approach I learned in a Southern Fried Manners class. Visibility of the Complimented One not necessary.

So if you are anything like me – one who takes several takes on recording my voicemail greeting (see voice, recorded, mistaken for 6 year old) - you think that, yes, this conversation will indeed be recorded and filed away for a rainy day – like maybe your FBI file – and therefore you pat a heaping lump of sugar in your tone…or maybe you sexercise your best Jessica Rabbit voice…and add a Honey Bear where you intended B*%$&?

You see, I don’t want traces of my mania archived for later use which is why I always self-edit at the battle cry prompt because 'where is my recording being saved' and 'will it resurface years later when I’m running for office'?

“Original Me would indeed make a good candidate for President of Put Gummy Bears on the Menu! Let me submit Exhibit A in which Acme Cable Co. recorded her voice for all posterity and what we have here is a genuine Sweet Cheeks Long in the Tooth. A vote for Original Me is a vote for Gummy Bears at our dinner table and a coveted spot on the USDA's Recommended Dietary Allowance! Respect for Gummy Bears! Here here!”

Which brings me to my next point.

When you go to therapy, the customer service battle cry is trumpeted yet again. But not necessarily voiced as a warning, such as, “Hey, do you mind if I write your whine down and can I illustrate it with mocking faces because ethics require me to be stone-faced and all ears and I NEED AN OUTLET TO ROLL MY EYES?” No, permission is not asked, fellow nutters. Also, instead of a voice recording, you might get the pen to paper type of recording, the Luddites “recording.” So, yeah, a paper trail now.

This one is the hardest Recorded Message battle cry to navigate. Not for the simple fact that you are being "recorded" (and not because your sticky sweet 6-year old voice can't be soundbit either). No, it's because, this "recording" is an interpretation of your message. The fierce scribbling that causes me to pause to let the pen keep up and attempt a "looking good, pen" half-ass compliment. It’s a judgy pen, you want to make sure it likes you. So the “fly on the wall” is now my record. My tears and self-loathing left behind on pages and pages of yellow lined legal pads in some office on 20th Street, the crumbs of the shit cookie I’ve been eating from for most of my life (as revealed to me in therapy). Unhappiness, my lot.

So my “recordings” in therapy, the notes about me, I like to think of as my Handbook. It's mysterious to me too. I would love to get my hands on my “handbook.” The bird’s eye view on my "message," self-edited or not. Aside from being littered with white splotches of bird shit (bird on high), there would be everything one would need to know to properly care for your Lara. (I would love to know too.) I might slide in flag stickers so that the student could flag those very important sections like the chapter on when and what to feed your Lara (it does involve a valley of potatoes, I know this much), the chapter on intimacy and your Lara (it does involve a Vincent Price cameo, don't read it alone), and the joy of shopping with your Lara (this is the positive and only self-satisfying arc in the Life and Times of...).

You see where I'm going with this? We should all come with a Handbook. An instruction manual, if you will. That thing you slide across the table to every new date. The "bird's eye view" always a more accurate description than any false advertisement the subject is going to peddle (see Handbook, chapter on why your Lara is cynical - I'll warn you - it's OED-sized). Because folks, there should be a consequence for everything you say and do on a date with your Lara and that lie or false advertisement should be archived somewhere (such as, Payback Land).

You don't have to be another "Can you believe this one?" barstool chat with my friends.

Which is why I now like to bring a tape recorder to dates and start the small talk rolling with, "Hi! I'm Lara and I am a Taurus. I love tomatoes and black-capped chickadees. This coversation will be recorded for all sisterhood!"

"Yes, I would like for you to speak in to the microphone for the remainder of the date."

Because men, you can be different. When you hear that battle cry, you can be the guy who pauses, clears his throat, and carefully chooses his words. I might suggest, "Darlin, where've you been my whole life? I've missed you." Or you can start smaller and work your way up if you're shy. But, now, because you are recorded, you will mean it.

Stop Me if You Think That You've Heard This One Before

A girl walks into a bar. Sits down next to a decent looking gentlemen. Her standards are low: pretty much two eyes, two ears, teeth, and the ability to say, "Let me get you a drink." is all it takes. Six hours later he leans in for the kiss. It was a decent kiss. But, again, her standards are low on account of not even remembering what it is like to kiss. There may have been practising on the back of the hand beforehand. Goodbye was said. Sweet dreams were had, when visions of sugar plums and fairies and unicorns told a story of a second date.

...Then came reality...

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.