Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

They are everywhere. The spectres of relationships. These ghosts of boyfriends past.

I would say "I can't swing a dead cat without hitting someone I once dated" - except I just hate that expression. What kind of freak coined that phrase?

However unfortunate the phrase, the experience is even worse. And not because these men are mean, hideous or otherwise unacceptable social specimens, but almost entirely because they make me reflect on my life. And there are days when I'm simply not prepared to do that.

So instead - I lift my glass to these men. I drink a toast. (Okay, fine - a giant glass of wine, whatever). And I think - each of these apparitions has made my own soul stronger.

For that, I forgive their trespasses in my memory and okay, my favorite hangouts.

I relinquish my inner-Scrooge and instead favor Tiny Tim on this one.

It's not morbid (well, not entirely)

Truth is - I like cemetaries. Okay, fine - sue me. I don't get the "scary" or "creepy" thing. Cemetaries neither scare me nor creep me. Now digitally animated movie characters - that's an entirely different thing, but we'll speak of that later. (Shut it, RK)

Cemetaries offer an infinate amount of peace - the kind you just don't get unless, well, you're dead. 'Cause really, you think a bunch of dead people have the inclination to give you a hard time? That's what work is for.

Anyway, I guess my point is - there is an other-worldly grace to be found amongst the marble, stone and granite garden. There are stories waiting to be imagined. There are stories that will never be known. And if I am aware of anything - it is that life is fleeting. Not always short, but hardly ever cherished to the level it ought.

I know that life is a gift, not a promise. And maybe that's all cemetaries are for me - a reminder to breath, blink, smile, laugh, dance and dream. Well, that and to cut back on the salt and butter

Precious Metals

This is one of those song lyrics that sticks with you. Or it stuck with me, at least.

"She's becoming gold."

I feel that way. Don't get crazy, I don't feel gold or anything quite so pricey - but I feel my value increase daily.

There is sweat and toil that goes into mining gold. It isn't easy. It isn't even always lucrative. But you dig. You dig deep every day. And it isn't one day hitting the jackpot - it's day after day of searching, hoping, believing...and then magic.

Life IS a mystery and the answers may never unfold. But through living the very questions (thank you Rilke) - each of us is becoming gold.

Art is Everywhere

I am a fortunate person. Sometimes when faced with frizzy hair, cellulite and life at the Cube Farm, it's hard to remember how fortunate I really am.

Spent a few hours with some girlfriends tonight and that will lighten the load of any woman. Okay, fine, we topped off 4 bottles of wine, but still - even un-tipsy, these are felines I'm willing to spend my free time with.

Anyway - art. It is in the silly stories shared. It is in a quick "we have a secret" wink. It is in the intelligence of flip-flops. And sometimes we have friends who have an entirely artful way they look at life. I have many of those friends. This is one.

The point? Art is everywhere. Even in the loud chaos and incoherent chatter. Especially then.

A Kick-ass Writer

I tell you, there are some writers who just speak to me. It's like a foreign language that only some understand. Anne Lamont is one of those writers for me.

Aside from the fact that she constructs a beautiful sentence - she's funny as hell.

I'm partial to Bird by Bird and Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith.

That's the kind of kick-ass writer I hope to be one day.

60 Minutes ticking and other things I dread

It all started when I was in school. Sundays were days spent finishing up homework and science projects and it was all brought to the pinnacle by the sinister ticking of the 60 Minutes stopwatch.

Was there ever a more stomach-dropping sound than that stopwatch? The splendor of Dukes of Hazard and The Love Boat were a distant memory in the tick-tick-tick-tick (times infinity) of that second hand. And it all meant one thing - the weekend was over. Turn in your Fun Passes at the door and settle in for another week of monotonous lesson plans and poorly-written teen drama. (I like my teen drama well-scripted: ala Dawson's Creek or Buffy the Vampire Slayer - real teen angst is ugly and not equipped with snarky, funny and smart banter. Bummer)

Anyway, even in the absence of Algebra II homework and my OCD-ish ability to avoid network TV on Sundays - I'm still left with the Phantom Stopwatch. It's like people who lose a finger or a leg and they still imagine its presence. No matter how old I get, Sunday nights just suck. They suck up one side and down the other. They suck my big fat toe. (Okay, maybe my maturity level is the same, 'cause "suck my big toe" is about as adolescent as I like to go.)

So, what am I getting at? I dunno. Abolishment of Sundays? Death to all stopwatches? Kicking Andy Rooney in the ding ding? None of them seem particularly likely (or fair), so I guess this - maybe a mental realignment. Nobody likes a hater and I'm definitely a Sunday hater.

So let me begin with a meditative mantra: Love your life. Even Sundays.

Afterall, what has Sunday ever done to me?

Self Portrait

Okay, so if the world were black and white, reversed out, backwards and distorted by shadow - this is what I might look like.

Upchuck at the Cineplex

I swear - sometimes I am such an old friggin' lady.

Had this amazingly beautiful day off and headed down to the movie house with my pops. He's retired, which makes him the world's best playmate on days off.

Anyway - we opted to see a film that rhymes with "Corn Shmultimatum" and, I wish I were kidding, I actually threw up a little afterward (yeah, Dad, I know I said "upset stomach" but the orange bathroom got a little spit up action)

And here is why I'm an old lady - it was all of the hand-held camera action of the movie. Honestly, I feel like I got off the Witch's Wheel at the Centerville Fair. Dizzy, headache and a stomach that was wishing it had more than one Boddington's in it at the time.

My fear is this: what else am I too old for? Okay, action movies with bouncy chase sequences - Check. Smokey bars with the bass turned up too loud - Check. ANY bar with a line out the door - Check. I fear the list is substantially longer, but I'm embarrassed to go on.

I guess the point is this - on my next birthday, if you're looking for the perfect gift? Maybe a nice Medic Alert ("I've fallen and I can't get up"). You can send it:

c/o
Old Geezer in Kalamazoo
4356 Crotchety Avenue
Infirmed, MI 49006

Popsicle Philosophizing

Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid

I have a dear friend who is getting married next weekend. I'll be honest, I've always liked this girl - she's a keeper in my book. But I'll tell you what I just love about her -- she had the kindness of heart to NOT make me a bridesmaid. (Just for that, I owe her a million and one thanks)

But better than one of your friends getting married - is one of your friends getting married to the right guy. (My friend has most definitely found the right guy). But what if your friend meets and marries, the wrong guy? What do you do when your friend's fiancee is a creep? The answer is, quite simply – NOTHING.

Whatever magical spell love weaves upon the unsuspecting, I'd like to bottle it up and sell it in over-priced boutiques all over the country as the first legal, mind-altering drug. I'd be a gagillionaire (that’s a lot of zeroes) and wouldn’t have to pour my blood, sweat and estrogen into corporate strategies!

Love is a goofy thing – especially when it’s lavished upon butt-scratching, nose-picking, sports-obsessing, couch-potatoing, birthday-forgetting men. I've been lured into love’s wicked web my ownself. And yes, on the outside he may look like a perfectly respectable lawyer, electrician, writer, builder, teacher, baker or candlestick maker, but inside – a butt-scratching, nose-picking … you get the idea.

Don’t get me wrong, men have many wonderful qualities too – opening a brand new ketchup bottle or say, diagnosing what’s wrong with your car by the particular ticking, clicking or knocking noise it’s making. When it all comes down to it, you’ve got your good ones and your bad ones. And since Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and that bitch, Cinderella managed to wrangle up three of testosterone’s very best, we’re all left to claw one another’s eyes out over the remaining few.

I realize I've drifted from the point. What I'm getting at is this – there’s a pretty decent chance that your bosom buddies may very well find themselves marrying Prince Charming’s very toad-like younger brother. And since you lack the skills or upper body strength to a.) magically change him into a prince, or at least some semblance of a human being OR b.) knock some much-needed sense into him – you must quietly sit in silence.

All you can really do is a.) be there for her if it falls to pieces and b.) agree with her any time she calls him a self-obsessed shithead.

But, might I suggest forming a mob-like posse with your girlfriends or fellow bridesmaids, cornering said toad prior to the wedding and threatening to strangle him with yards of baby blue taffeta if he does anything less than provide your friend with her very own – happily ever after. I'm pretty sure that’s what Cinderella’s fairy godmother did.

An interesting character

Met one hell of an interesting character tonight at my favorite bistro. Something about Mondays and micro-brews.

Anyway. I laughed a lot tonight. Laughed in a way that lightens the heart. Laughed in a way that made me think (i.e. well, maybe I do call long pants "trousers" and not "slacks"...and why is that anyway?)Laughed in a way that made me remember that spending a day with kind hearts and funny people is exactly how I want to spend my time.

The Cube Farm must die.

Fashion or Function?

It's the age-old question. And is always, always, always answered with: "But don't they look cute?"

I love rainy days

Rainy days are the best excuse in the world for not leaving the house. "Leave the house? Who me? No, sorry, couldn't - raining, don't you know."

Rainy days also prompt treasure hunts in one's closet. Sometimes you find a shirt you loved, but just needed to sew on a button. Sometimes it's a pair of shoes that really kill your feet, but you're willing to give 'em a shot on Monday. Sometimes it's a Rubbermaid tub full of writing. Today's hunt unearthed all three, but it was the latter that has taken up the last five hours of my day.

I've called myself a writer for a long time now. Mainly to friends and family. And I am, I suppose. Except I have a difficult time finishing anything. I've known this truth for some time, but actually having it visualized on a rainy Sunday in the form of a Rubbermaid tub brimming with ideas unrealized, dialogue to stories yet unformulated and pages of first chapters - well, I'm feeling a little less like a writer and a little more like a fraud.

What does it take to finish something (something more than maudlin poetry produced after three glasses of red wine)? I'm not sure.

But I did do some hammering away at one of the book ideas today and maybe that's something. And maybe if tomorrow I can do a little more, well then - maybe that's one step closer to doing more than calling myself a writer.

That's a lot of thinking for a Sunday. I take it back. Rainy days suck.