A Change of Address

Web address that is.

You may have noticed that I have not written much here lately and that is due to one big fact - I've been working on my own web site. I'm gonna go ahead and say it's a little like giving birth - minus the need for an epidural.

• First, you need to decide if you're the kind of person who can take care of a web site. Are you responsible enough to check in on it every once in a while?
• Then comes the task of "making a web site". This is fairly enjoyable and yet some times you find yourself in awkward positions - wondering "What the eff just happened?" But mostly fun.
• You start to feel weighed down by it for a while. You think about it all the time. You wonder how it will turn out. And it's even been known to give you body aches (from hours spent hunched over your laptop).
• Finally, it's the big day and you're still not sure you've picked the right name, but it's time to just hold your breath and jump in already
• Finally, it's out there in the world. And you're ridiculously proud, probably because your ego and vanity are all tied up in it too. You find you can't stop looking at it and fawning over it. And you think, "Huh, look what I done."

If you're interested - my new blog and other writing will be at:

http://emilyhaines.weebly.com/

You should take a look - I'm a proud mama.

A Word or Two About Airplanes

Airplanes

I am not what you would call an avid traveler. That is to say – I am a homebody who understands that to experience real Fish-n-Chips and snorkeling – I must leave my quaint little city on occasion.

The past few months, however, I’ve been doing a bit more traversing than usual. And naturally, along with all the traversing, comes some observations.

Just this past weekend, I hopped on a plane to ol’ Maryland to visit Sister, Bro-in-Law, Niece and Mama. (Sidenote: did you know the state motto of Maryland is “Manly deeds, womanly words”? This in itself is effing hysterical, but I digress.)

Anyway, I packed light, managed to make it through Security without any cavity searches and got to the business of reading Vanity Fair. I flew my most favoritest airline, Southwest, and had the great pleasure of choice seats, singing stewardesses and even a George W impersonator. Southwest rocks my sheltered little world.

Anyway, after we boarded and I got a leggy exit row seat – I noted a semi-handsome fellow swaggering down the aisle (“Dum Dum Dum-dum. Dum Dum Dum-dum…). He was tall with dark hair, scruffy facial landscaping and broad shoulders – which is all good in my book. That is to say – all good if you’re in a bar or perusing the shelves of your local Books & Coffee store. This is not, however, an ideal seat neighbor. I immediately shoved my nose in my magazine and tried to avoid eye contact.

To no avail.

It was a nice try, but nobody is just gonna let an exit row seat pass them by – even if it is in between a seemingly annoyed magazine-reader and an elderly woman with black jeans and navy socks.

My new Boyfriend (What? I didn’t call him “Boyfriend” to his face – chill out already), ahem, my Boyfriend settled in, shot a Crest Whitestrips smile at me and proceeded to do exactly what I’d feared he would do.

He grabbed his book and landed his elbows on both of the arm rests.

Seriously.

Now, I get that armrests aren’t just there for show. But neither are they there for men to hog up and start spilling over into your seat area.

Armrests in airplanes were created for one divine reason – to keep strangers from touching each other. It’s simple really. You climb onto a flying apparatus; you find your seat – which is smack dab in the middle of 150 people you never met before. Just a bunch of people who happen to be heading in your general direction. Armrests were invented to keep my bits from touching your bits and vice versa. No touching of bits. At least not until the second vodka tonic.

The reason I know that airplane armrests were not meant to be used for the resting of arms is because there are four of them for three seats. I’m no mathematician, but most the folks I know have two arms. Two arms times three people equal six. That’s six arms and four armrests. Something just don’t add up.

But what two arms do you suppose were cemented on the middle two armrests? Ah yes, my Boyfriend’s.

Something in that Y chromosome makes it impossible for a man to forego the armrest and simply cross his arms across his chest. This would, amongst other things, free up armrests for the ladies. Not that we’d be so bold, but since our breasties make it damn near impossible to fold our arms across our chests – it wouldn’t be such an outrageous idea. Now would it?

Aside from all of the armrest hogging, my Boyfriend was actually quite nice. We smiled coyly over Sudoku puzzles and I hardly minded that he kept interrupting me and making me pause “Single Ladies” (which was on repeat almost the entire flight.) That is until the last few minutes of our flight. While we were all busy returning our seats and tray tables to their full and upright position – he was busy elbowing me every few seconds. I swear, I think even the color-blind old lady on his other side mouthed something a skosh more truck driver than happy granny.

That was it. I had had it. I couldn’t allow this to go on one more second. Right then and there I broke up with him. Sure, he never knew we were dating in the first place, but still – I am quite certain he could tell by my raised eyebrow that we would not be buying matching Lexuses or making adorable, broad shouldered babies. (For which my womanly areas are thanking me.)

That would be positively the last time I dated a boy on a plane. I have most definitely learned a lesson. And I hope if I ever fly with you – you’ll remind me of this story if I start flirting over Sudoku puzzles in the future.

A Writing Prompt

I hate cleaning house, but love it at the same time.

I hate my over-dried hands, the smell of bleach and emptying out the vacuum canister.

But... I love coming across books I enjoyed, old fortunes from Chinese take-out or bits of writing I scratched down on cocktail napkins.

What I found today was a poem I'd written down after I'd heard it many, many years ago on a Nina Simone album (if you don't know Nina, run - don't walk over to your iTunes store and check her out). Anyway, I remember hearing the poem first and then having it come up in a college class right around the same time.

Anyway, two simple stanzas reminded me of living in a 5th floor walk up in Hartford, working in the theater for a crazy man, going to school and being in love with a beautiful young man who played guitar, sang like an angel and loved when I read him my writing - right up 'til the day he discovered he loved men.

It was a perfectly preserved memory prompted by a hurriedly scribbled note on a sheet of a yellow legal pad. My own personal writing prompt - that I'd thought I'd share with you all:

She does not know
Her beauty,
She thinks her brown skin
Has no glory.
If she could dance
Naked,
Under palm trees
And see her image in the river
She would know.

But there are no palm trees
On the street,
And dishwater gives back no images.

(William Waring Cuney)

You're a wonder, Wonder Woman.

I have, on occasion, considered being a Super Hero.

I've watched the movies, seen the television shows, read the books. It seems like a decent gig. Especially if you can let go of all the "with great power comes great responsibility" nonsense. Super Powers are practically begging to be wasted on silliness.

Don't go acting all Messiah-y just because some radioactive spider chomped on you. No need to dwell on the whole Good v. Evil 24/7. It's practically irresponsible not to go and take those powers out for a spin.

Having considered some of the Super Powers out there - there are several that are intriguing.

Just over Christmas, my father, stepmother and I discussed Wonder Woman's invisible plane and deflective wristbands. I have, in the past, (you know, like yesterday) pulled out the wristbands at work. Someone comes up and tries to give you grief or pass off some project. You just whip up your none-too-present wristbands in the air and make the obligatory "Ching! Ching!" sound effects. People know exactly what you're doing and they walk, somberly away. My issue with the wristbands and the plane is they are really just props. They aren't actual Super Powers. I can wear a bulletproof vest and hide under a lampshade if I don't want to get shot and/or seen. I'm looking for something a little bigger.

I've often heard people say they'd choose: Invisibility. This is definitely a step above the invisible plane (which doesn't even HIDE Wonder Woman, so what's the big?)

My problem with Invisibility is it seems like a big headache. People stepping on your toes and bumping into you on the street. I lived in New York City - been there, done that. Plus, you'd go all sneak attack and hear people say nasty things about you. Of course they wouldn't know you were there, so it would be behind your back. But you really are there, so it's like behind your back, in front of your face. And let's be honest, I love my friends - but that's probably because I don't know what they say about me when I'm not in the room.

Some people are certain they would choose Flying. Oh please. My hair is a big enough rat's nest as it is. Add in some high-powered wind and I'd put Frankenstein's bride to shame. No, thank you.

I'll tell you the Super Power I'd really like...

Bend People To My Will.

Seriously, how fantastic would that be?!

You don't like my favorite dive bar that has decades of nicotine on the walls? One subtle raise of the eyebrow and suddenly you're offering to drive and buying the first pitcher of Old Style.

You think my writing submission had the grammatical finesse of an orangutan? A pursing of the lips and suddenly I'm a columnist for Salon.com.

And that's just the beginning.

• I would never buy another drink for myself.
• Date Night would include the boy in question picking "Save the Last Dance" or "Center Stage" as his movie of choice.
• I would always have right-of-way.
• My mechanic would insist on doing all repairs for free.
• My boss would prefer I work from home on Fridays.
• In fact, he'd prefer I took Fridays off.

Of course, now that I think about it - I've gotten away with one or all of those things over the course of my life (except that elusive Salon.com gig. Damn it.) So maybe I just need a little boost.
Take your Invisibility and your Flying nonsense - give me some Super Charged femininely wiles and we'll call it good.

Maybe I have some Wonder Woman in me already.

A Girl Who Wanted A Pony

Maybe it's only funny to me...and to my closest friends. Funny, because I am a woman who inexplicably, and quite against my own will, falls for men with ponytails.

It's not that Ponys are wrong, per se. Some men wear them quite nicely.

The problem is - Ponys usually MEAN something. They are often indicative of certain traits and attributes.

When I was in my 20s and a dater of artists, musicians and actors - the Pony came along for the ride. It was the hairstyle of choice for the fringe set. I most certainly fell for my share of Ponys.

Now that I'm in my 30s I'm quite fond of men who have steady employment and furniture that hasn't been owned by their parents or older siblings. This is where the Pony gets me into trouble.

Ponys aren't big lovers of rules... and bosses are. Ponys don't like buying into the system... and yet, that is where the sofas and love seats reside. Ponys and I don't have a lot in common these days and yet - that does not keep me from almost pathologically seeking them out in any social situation. And while my friends keep a watchful eye on me, that does not keep the Ponys from giving me long, tortured artist looks as they pass by in a cloud of patchouli.

So what am I to do? How does one weigh the gloriousness of a boy who no longer lives in his parents' basement against the free-spiritedness of a boy willing to borrow his sister's hair ties?

What can I say? I've always been a girl who wanted a Pony.

Dance Fever and Other Cherishable Items

When I was in my teens and early 20s I was proud to be friends with guys. In fact, I had a plethora of male friends and only a handful of ladies I called bosom buddies.

I thought, at my tender age, that men were easier to be friends with. I believed that men refrained from cattiness and gossip. I believed men never got jealous. I thought men were the perfect friends to have, because - well, they were men.

I held this belief for quite some time until I began to realize a few things.

A fair share of men ARE catty and love to gossip. It's not followed by shrill giggling, so it often goes undetected. Men do get jealous. Crazy jealous. Men are perfectly good friends, but what I realized is there is a certain amount of detachment with fellows. They don't really dig in with you. The ones that do listen and care and wipe away your broken-hearted tears are usually either gay or have been secretly in love with you for ages.

This is why I went and got me some girlfriends.

And didn't I win the lottery?!

I have several different groupings of girlfriends and I'm here to tell you - the more the better.

Just this weekend, many of my girlfriends were in town for the holidays. They used to all be in town all the time, but have casually relocated to other towns from coast to coast. This is regrettable, and yet does not diminish how I adore speaking to or hanging out with them.

These particular girlfriends pretty much run the spectrum. In fact, if you threw us in the Big Brother house, you'd expect hijinx to ensue. However, for all our differences, we have two loves that know no bounds.

We love wine.

And we love to dance.

In case, you couldn't tell from all my 80s movie references, I ain't no Spring chicken. I am, in fact, well into my 30s. And so are my girls.

If we were in our 20s I suppose we'd rally around wine coolers instead of a nice pinot noir, but the love of dancing is timeless. At least for us.

So we gathered at one of the girls' houses, drank some wine, laughed til we cried and then shuffled around some furniture and made us a dance floor.

And didn't we cut a fuckin' rug.

I'm not sure what kind of plans you've got for 2009, but if you're a woman and you don't have a group of girlfriends - well, then get up off your keister and get some. I'm particularly fond of the kind that drink micro brews and red wine, make me laugh til I tinkle, and (forgive this slightly lame quote) dance like nobody's watching.

But hey - whatever works for you. Just get you some girls who got your back, and you'll never, never regret it.

Home for the Holidays

I'm a bit of a holiday nomad. Since I had the habit of moving quite a bit in my 20's, I got used to spending Christmas with, well, whoever was around - instead of having an annual trek towards "home".

"Home" wasn't a particular house or even hometown. My grandparents were all in Florida for the winter, so we didn't have a multi-generational showing each year. This is not a fact I usually lament. I have great holidays.

But this year, my mother was in town and we went to spend it with her cousins. Her cousins and their spouses and their kids and their kids' kids. Their Christmas is so much different than mine and yet, exactly what'd I'd like my own Christmas to be. Loud and busy and full of tradition.

Tradition is something I treasure. In fact, I keep a small box of traditions of friends and family I've heard of over the years. Simple, wonderful ways to celebrate the true gift of the season - togetherness.

Families, both born of blood and of the heart.
Friends, old and new.
Strangers, who may have come from afar, but who are welcomed to celebrate and join our collective family.
Home, where we go to be ourselves and to cherish our infinite blessings.

My Christmas wish for you, is that you have or make for yourself such a home. Fill it with traditions that celebrate those near you, as well as those lost. And pass them on, for they are the memories we'll cherish forever.