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.

16 Things You Probably Don't Know About Me

1. I own, on dvd, all seasons of: The West Wing (Cool), Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Moderately Embarrassing) and Dawson's Creek (I am hiding under my bed in shame)

2. I am an ordained minister and have performed 5 wedding ceremonies. I've realized it includes my favorite things: a. Talking to people and hearing about how they've met and their experiences up until that point, b. Taking those anecdotes and writing a new story, c. Speaking in front of people. If you know another job that combines those three things - send me your ideas. I think it's the perfect job for me.

3. Brad Pitt bumped me on a New York City street while he was jogging. He apologized, smiled and kept running. I don't get star-struck, but that smile - made me go weak in my knees.

4. I have become an "accidental" collector of antique typewriters. I pulled an old Underwood out of the garbage in NYC and since then have been given several by friends. If you're thinking of collecting them, DON'T. They are heavy as a mother scratcher. However, I do like looking at them on my shelf and one day imagine them in this cool study.

5. My worst "after school" job was at Popeye's Fried Chicken and Biscuits (I shouldn't have to explain why) and my best one was working at a health club. Handing out towels to a bunch of sweaty guys - yeah, way worse ways to spend your Sat/Sun mornings.

6. I have attended 5 different colleges. Can you say unfocused?

7. I worked as a company manager for a small theater in Connecticut for 3 years. While there, I spent an evening as companion to Hal Holbrook (his daughter was in one of our shows). He was a delightful man.

8. In Junior High, I wrote a soap opera called "Soapy" featuring all my friends. It was passed around "note-style" from locker to locker amongst my girlfriends. I just re-read it recently. It's embarrassing - mainly at how bad the writing is.

9. The worst punishment I ever received growing up was being grounded from my bicycle for two weeks. Yeah, I didn't get into a lot of trouble.

10. My sister and I once looked at all our Christmas presents before the big day. My mother found out, threw the presents in the middle of the living room floor and yelled "Here's Christmas!" For future reference, don't trust my sister when she says she'll take all the blame if you get caught.

11. I'm planning to participate in the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Jackson, Mississippi one day. My fellow Sweet Potato Queens are all invited to join me.

12. I'm lucky to have great girlfriends, more than one best friend - and that my sister fits into those categories as my oldest and dearest.

13. One of my recurring dreams is of walking down the lane from my grandparents' house at the lake and picking asparagus with my grandpa in the nearby field.

14. I am currently reading 5 books. I rarely pick up one book, read it and then pick up another (except with the Potter books)

15. My favorite breakfast place: Mo's Midtown Diner/Hartford, CT; favorite lunch place: Food Dance Cafe/Kalamazoo, MI; favorite dinner place: Brother's BBQ/New York, NY

16. I drove 4 hours with my friend to a Patty Griffin concert, sat in the front row and then drove 4 hours back... on a Thursday night.

AWOL

I know it seems as if I've been a delinquent blogger, but I promise - I have a good excuse. My mother is visiting me for 35 days.

That's right, my friends, 35 days. That's 5 days shy of Noah's stint on the ark. So let's just go ahead and say I'm undergoing a visit of biblical proportions.

Don't worry - I'm not hiding under my bed just yet. In fact, it's going better than initially anticipated. And please don't think I'm not finding plenty to write about. I expect that "35 Days With My Mother" will not only be a best seller, but a major motion picture featuring Sarah Silverman as me and Faye Dunaway as my mother, okay, Shirley Maclaine.

Anyway, forgive me if I seem a bit absent over the next few weeks - I'm bailing water in my own personal ark.

A Day of Writing

It's been a very long time since I set aside an entire day for writing. Probably since the days when I used to get paid for it.

So, I found myself with a weekend with no plans. Zero. Zilch. Nada. I am having a hard time remembering the last time I had a totally free weekend. It works out well, as I'm still recovering from The Gick and could stand to give my poor liver a rest.

So today I decided it was time to finish some writing. Anything, just something. My fellow-writers may be familiar with this disease. Cantfinishanythingosis. It can be a fatal diagnosis - well, fatal to your chances of getting anything published, anyway. Those pesky editors are always looking for FINISHED work and not one of your half-baked ideas. Bastards.

Last weekend, I was hanging with two of my BFF's, KH and CT. We were discussing a fabulous "tell all" book idea for KH to get cracking on, when CT said "I can't wait to see which of WriterEm's books gets published first."

A couple things struck me about this comment:

1. I love CT's optimism. I've called her a Pollyanna on occasion, but she is just the sort of Pollyanna you want cheering you on. She absolutely, without a doubt believes I will publish one day. God bless her.
   
2. I have not finished a single thing (minus a flimsy short story) since I was in college. New York college. That's a freaking long time ago, if you don't know my long history with higher education.
3. It's time to start cracking.

So, I decided to turn today into a Writing Day.

First, I slept in a little. Because I think Writing Days should begin well-rested.

Then I ate some oatmeal and drank a pot of coffee. Oatmeal has lots of good fiber and is filling, so I wouldn't be distracted by frequent trips to the kitchen to peep in the refrigerator or cupboards, only to head back to the sofa with nothing in hand. The coffee, well, self-explanatory.

I worked on my current piece for about 35 minutes before I decided to check my e-mail.

There were a couple of funny e-mails from KH and our tattoo brother, MA. Which got me thinking about the last time the three of us were together back in Mobile, AL for Mardi Gras in '99. I pulled out some music I'd been introduced to during that trip - thinking it would make for excellent writing music. Then I checked 1/3 of the tattoo the three of us had gotten at Mardi Gras. I spent some time thinking if it was worth getting it redone, as the only person more drunk than I was when I got it was my tattoo artist, Lynn. I silently cursed Lynn for a few moments and reminded myself it was Writing Day.

I started rearranging my notes and outlining a chapter entitled "Dr. Jekyll, I Presume" (good title, right?) Then I got an e-mail from my dad. He's in the market for an iPod, which is cool enough that my dad wants an iPod. But even cooler that he wants one for his motorcycle. Seriously, my dad's pretty effin' cool. So, he was looking for what little insight I could offer about iPods. I gave him a call and told him the pros and cons of the Nano, iTouch and iPhone. We determined that 42 days worth of music was probably more than enough to meet his needs. I'd interrupted him putting together some shelves and I let him know I'd taken a much-needed break from my nearly 75 minutes of writing. At which point we both determined lunch might be just what we both needed. 35 minutes later, we were sitting at a local pub - him with a beer, me with more coffee and sandwiches.

An hour later, I headed back to my abode to commence with Writing Day. Except my stupid hair has this sponge-like ability to absorb any and all odors. My friends have remarked that at the bar, my hair still smells like my shampoo and aren't I lucky? This is true, right up until the moment I get home and then it smells like smoke and stale beer. Such was the case when I returned home from my pub lunch.

I quickly washed my hair and re-nestled with my laptop for more fabulous writing.

And then the phone rang. As it was KH calling from San Diego, I picked up and spent the next hour talking about a sofa that would not fit up her stairwell as well as less- and more-important topics.

Finally, I am back on the sofa getting ready to really hunker down for Writing Day, except I just don't know what to write. Except that I've pretty much failed at Writing Day and wouldn't it be great to share that failure with my family and friends who read my Blog?

Oh Writing Day, one day the poets will write of you and I and our tragic end. How I failed you and all we might have been. Hell, there's always tomorrow, right?

My Life in a Petri Dish

If you are an avid reader of my blog - you know that I've been sick recently.

(If you're not an avid reader, don't go bursting my bubble - just play along)

Anyway, a week-long battle with The Gick pretty much kicked my immune-deficient ass. But a nice dose of antibiotics helped the process along and exactly two days ago - I started feeling normal again.

That is, until today.

Today the scratchy throat started up and has been joined by its good friend, the runny nose. I am back in sickness central.

"Why do I care?" is surely something you're thinking to yourself. And it's quite possible you don't care or at least are thinking - "Jeez, take some echinacea and get over it already."

And I will, but first let me dish out some well-deserved blame. It will surely astonish you that this illness is not my fault. Not one little bit. Primarily because I've been good. I haven't been sipping out of people's martini glasses, I haven't been licking doorknobs and I even abstained from swapping spit with a fairly attractive bloke whilst hanging out with some girlfriends this weekend. I did what good girls do when they are trying to keep their germy germs to themselves.

The real culprit is this - I currently sit in a petri dish.

The Cube Farm has several blocks of offices, most with many cubicles, 12-foot ceilings and adequate ventilation. I do not live in one of those. My office, the Cube Annex, is a teeny tiny space that they have managed to cram in 10 cubicles. I can touch the ceiling with my hand extended whilst on my tippy-toes and our primary source of ventilation is a oscillating fan that has approximately a decade's worth of dust encrusted on its blades.

So, what happens is this - someone in our office gets sick. Then their icky germs spread to another person and that person uses someone else's keyboard. Then that person rolls their chair over to someone else's desk and drops off a book. Then that person chucks the book at another person (okay, that was me) and before you know it we're all sharing germs. And two days after I'm perfectly healthy, I'm back in the Annex and being coughed on by a sweet, yet evil co-worker.

I know this is the way of the world and if I took my One-a-Day vitamin with some frequency and drank my orange juice - maybe I wouldn't be in this predicament.

I guess I just thought if I were going to be aggressively attacked by viruses on a regular basis - I'd be part of some scientific experiment and getting paid some cash on the side.

As it stands, I'm just a poor bastard with a scratchy throat and runny nose. Again.

Objects in the Mirror May Appear Funnier Than They Are

I have a little secret. Not a big secret - just a little one. One I didn't really intend to share with anyone, well, ever.

Not because it will tarnish my supremely resplendent persona. I'm more of a smudged window, to tell the truth. And certainly not because I have my sites set on one day holding political office and fear some squinty reporter will dig up this revealing blog post.

Mainly, because it will make me look a little silly. And then I thought - if these suckers haven't figured that out by now - well then, god bless their clueless little hearts.

So here's the deal.

I set my alarm for 6:40 a.m. every day. I am due at work at 7:30 a.m. This would be a reasonable wake up time in order for me to shower, slap on some eyeliner and haul my heiney out the door. Maybe even manage to grab a quick cup of crappy coffee in the cafeteria before I begin my daily ritual of Office Weenie-ing.

But, I also love to wake up leisurely. That is, I do not pop out of bed, slap my hands together and burst into song. That is not, shall we say, how I roll.

So, I set my clock 35 minutes fast. This allows me 5 opportunities to bitch-slap my alarm and take my time getting up. Plus, it forces me to do simple math in a half-awake state as I attempt to ascertain the actual time and I think that just makes me a better person.

This, however, is not my secret.

The first thing I do once I turn off my alarm and actually let my feet hit the floor is limp like an old lady to the bathroom. You'd think I'd just undergone hip surgery. It's pathetic.

This, however, is not my secret.

I turn on the light and squint like a police officer just pointed a flashlight in my eyes at a checkpoint. Once my eyes adjust I do something quite ridiculous.

I look in the mirror and smile. Not just a little half-grin, a full-on Cheshire Cat shit-eating grin grin. In fact, I pull my face real close to the mirror (not to get a better look at my Medusa-like hairdo, but because without my contacts I can't hardly see my own self) and I grin even wider. I open my eyes real wide-like and occasionally even stick out my tongue. I stand there and smile until I laugh at myself.

It's not always a full-throated laugh. I'm definitely not rolling around on the ground, because while I think I'm moderately amusing on occasion - the moment is marked with a certain amount of tragedy (did I mention the Medusa-like hair?)

But I smile, let out a quick chuckle and go about the business of making myself look like I didn't just walk out of a scene from "Zombie Hos II".

This is my secret.

The question now is - why the hell would I share that with you? I only have one inkling of an idea and it is this - I think it is important to laugh at yourself. I think it's important to make sure you smile and giggle at least once a day. I think the best way to improve the way you look - isn't by running a comb through your unruly locks - it's by lightening your heart and spirit.

I'm a dumb ass goofball and there are way worse things to be. But let me toss out a double-dog dare. Tomorrow when you wake up and wipe the boogers from your eyes - smile some goofball smile at yourself in the mirror.

I dare you not to laugh.

Sick as a Dog Day

I’m sick. I hate being sick. Not that people enjoy being sick, but still.

There are a few things about being sick that are particularly irksome.

1. I’m weak and vulnerable like a 3-day old kitten. And yes, almost anything can make me cry. Especially if someone is nice to me – whoa, watch the waterworks then! Or if something is even moderately frustrating. Like, oh, say all your teaspoons are in the dishwasher and you’re trying to eat some yogurt. So you grab a tablespoon, but the spoon won’t fit through the wee opening of the yogurt container. And you think “Who makes yogurt containers this fucking tiny? Does everyone in the world hate me?” And then the pressure that is built up behind your ears starts throbbing and you think, “All I want is some fucking yogurt.”

And then the tears.

2. Everyone annoys you. Everyone is stupid and bugging you. The next door neighbor who just hauled a new piece of furniture up the three flights of stairs and caught the bottom on each step. At 4 o’clock in the afternoon for Chrissakes, like people aren’t taking drug-induced naps at that hour! Or the e-mail alert that dings with lovely messages from friends and family and the occasional head-hunter right in the middle of a Cameron Crowe marathon. It’s been years since I’ve seen Singles – can’t I just watch Campbell Scott in peace?

3. The Cashier at Walgreens. Most days I’m able to take my local Walgreens Cashier in stride. She’s a sweet lady, but she has never honed the intricacies of cashiering. These are things I figured out when I was 17-years-old working at a local grocery store.

While it’s nice to be quick on the keys or scanner (we didn’t have scanners in my day) and it helps to have memorized each and every produce code – the real key to being an awesome cashier is your ability to filter any and all commentary. Your main superpower is the ability to ignore what you have just rung up, stifle any sniggering and withhold judgement until the customer has left the store.

For example: If you ring up some French bread, bottle of wine, cheese and a box of condoms – it’s not appropriate to say “Wow, big night planned?” Similarly, ringing up Theraflu, ginger ale, cough drops and Chapstick and saying “Someone feeling under the weather?” It’s like – no, dumbass, I’m just trying to get you to think that someone is feeling under the weather to get some god-damned sympathy. Or was it the pale and pasty face (regardless of the pounds of make up I put on this morning) that gave me away? Oh crap, was that a welling of tears?

Anyway, I’m not a good sick person. In fact, when I’m sick, I’m actually a bad person. So all in all it’s probably best that the gick forces me to sit wrapped up like a mummy in comfy blankets on my couch all by my lonesome rather to inflict my evilness on the world.

So until I’m feeling well again, it’s probably best you leave me to my Puffs Plus and Vanilla Sky.

Art Is What You Can Get Away With

A friend recently shared the above sentiment with me and I have let it simmer in my little artist's wanna-be heart since then.

There are so many things I wish I could do and they are usually supplemented with "Talent notwithstanding, I'd be a..."

Where do I begin?

Ballet Dancer: It could be the addiction to teen-angst movies like Center Stage and Save the Last Dance and the slightly off-putting love affair that began with my sister's life-size poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov, but I've always loved the idea of donning some pink tights and a black leotard and pirouetting my way across stage. We'll pretend it's weak ankles that keep me from Swan Lake and not a fear of being lifted or my propensity for dizziness when turning in circles.

Sculptor or Potter: I love the idea creating beautiful hand-crafted pottery or artful pieces made of metal. And haven't I taken courses at local artists studios. But much to my dismay the outer limits lives of artists are cemented in one disturbing foundation - math. You'd be surprised how much measuring and arithmetic is involved in art. Stupid art.

Photographer: I hang out with some pretty awesome photographers. In fact, I was raised by some pretty good photographers. And while I can boast being Photo Editor of my high school newspaper - that was primarily because I was willing to spend a week of my summer vacation at MSU to tinker around with other geeky shutterbugs. And I was able to take an occasional "cool" photo. But then you see people who consistently take beautiful shots and you think "I am such a poser". For now, I'll have to settle for the occasional "cool" photo and some decent photo editing skills (see photo above).

Musician: This is a big one for me. "Talent notwithstanding" I'd chuck the Cube Farm and make my living as a singer/songwriter. And don't think for a second I haven't given it a go. I've taken guitar lessons and aside from the nasty callouses I was able to procure, the ability to make my left hand do one thing while the right did something completely different was beyond me. I've dabbled in some singing, but mostly of the harmonizing with the car radio variety. Sure, I'm the lead vocalist of a band called Two-faced Mary, but it wouldn't take you more than 3.2 seconds to figure out why we call it "vocalist" and not "singer". I've tried hanging out with singers and musicians to see if any of their ridiculous talent would rub off on me, but so far - no luck.

I suppose I should be happy that I can string a few words together in a way that is not all-together unpleasant, but that doesn't keep my heart from longing for a more "lead in the school play" talent. 'Til then, I'll just keep trying to get away with what I can.

Honesty Really Is The Best Policy

There are scant few things I know for sure. But here's one:

Always tell people when they have a boogie hanging from their nose.

Even if they are a co-worker, even if they are a stranger. Even, if you feel a little awkward and embarrassed. Because your awkwardness and embarrassment is nothing compared to what theirs will be if left to their own devices.

A simple "I think you have a little..." in conjunction with a quick brushing of your nose will do just fine.

Feel free to practice on me.

'Cause if I find myself with a booger at the end of the day and my bastard friends didn't tell me, well, I'll have a few less birthdays to remember is all I'm saying.

Like Liberace on the Keys

Back in the day, my grandmother preached to me the importance of being able to type. When I was younger I didn’t get it, but as my grandmother was a formidable woman – I listened to her and paid attention in typing class. Let me tell you, this was not an easy thing, as I had an insane crush on the guy who sat next to me. I have trouble remembering his name, but he was a soccer player (oh, they were all soccer players for me back then.)

But I digress, as I was tippy-typing away on a real typewriter (no keyboards for us in those days) and continuously being barked at by my typing teacher (also my basketball coach) – I considered my grandmother’s advice. Maybe she had antiquated views on the types of professions that women could have. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that women could be doctors, lawyers or professional wrestlers these days – that not every woman was destined for a steno pad.

But since I wanted to be a journalist, I figured that typing was a decent skill to possess, so I got an obligatory A- in Typing and moved on.

It wasn’t until today, nearly 20 years later, that I realized her obsession with typing. It wasn’t about pushing me towards a skill set that would snag me a particular job – it was about keeping me out of OTHER types of jobs.

I mention this because today I picked up my first pair of steel-toed boots.

I work in a factory environment, and while I reside happily in the land of office weenies, there are many opportunities to wear shoes that will withstand being run over by a forklift.

And while I don’t mind a hard day’s work or getting my hands dirty (let us talk one day of my stint as a corn detassler or my foray as a hotel maid) I am finally able to understand what my ol’ grams was up to with her badgering.

See, my grandmother wasn’t trying to saddle me with a life as a secretary – she was trying to keep me out of lives that included a hairnet, an apron, and most definitely the steel-toed shoes.

It's okay, Grandma – I’ve still got 60 words per minute in me. Don't worry about the assembly line just yet.

Peeping Thelma

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned once or twice or twelve times my abhorrence of working out. Aside from the sweaty and stinky parts of the work-out itself there are the other parts that aren't altogether enjoyable.

Like the locker room.

Now, I go to a pretty nice gym. That wasn't always the case. My friend, KB, and I have had our share or questionable gym memberships. Whoever was tauting a Buy 1, Get 1 or other deal of the century. But those gyms almost always go out of business and generally have stinkier than usual locker rooms.

But I'm a grown-ass woman now and can afford a slightly higher caliber of health club (not the top tier like my dad goes to, but then he's just a little more devoted to his workouts than I am). So, I go to the second nicest gym in town and it suits me pretty well.

It helps that it's connected to a hospital and I have to worry less about looking hot for the muscle heads and worry more about running over a geriatric on the indoor track.

Sorry, I digress...

Anyway, the locker rooms are pretty swell, in my opinion. And sure it still has the lingering aroma of chlorine, dirty laundry and Fritos - but it's a locker room - so I cut it some slack.

I remember going through middle school gym class and the anxiety of all the girls about changing clothes in front of one another. Everyone stood approximately 2 inches from their locker and changed from their Jordache jeans to their Nike sweats in 3.4 seconds. By the time I'd gotten to high school, I'd already dealt with basketball, softball and track and was used to the locker room scene.

As we get older, we come to realize that they are just bodies. And when you're standing around the locker room changing, no one is looking at you. Sure, occasionally you run into the woman who walks from the shower stall to her locker in nothing but a pair of flip-flops, but they are few and far between. And that is how you deal with dropping trow in front of a bunch of strangers.

That theory was tested today.

Sundays are a hard day to determine when to hit the gym. Normally, I try to bypass kiddie swim lessons and senior aerobics, because the locker room turns into either a scene from Kids Who Eat Too Much Sugar or Old Ladies Who Don't Know How Loud They Talk Without Their Hearing Aids In. I made a bad call today and hit a pretty busy post-aquatics class time. The older ladies where just toweling off, as I tried to find a locker and a wee bit of bench space to change and hit the treadmill.

I had successfully gotten my yoga pants on and was swapping my regular bra for my sports bar when two ladies descended on my locker culdesac. They were gabbing, but I didn't take much notice until I heard in a much louder voice - "Excuse me, is that a fish swimming up your back?"

Oh crap, some poor woman's blood sugar must have dropped and she was now speaking gibberish. I am a self-purported "bad in a crisis" girl, although in reality - people always look to me for direction when things are hairy. I looked over my shoulder, as I was still in-between boob coverage. And this lady in a bathing suit was looking right at me.

"The tattoo, on your back, is that a fish swimming?"

Note: Yes, I have tattoos on my back. No, none of them are a fish swimming.

"Oh, no," I responded, "It's a Celtic symbol." I hurried along my wiggling into the ol' sports bra.

Then her friend piped in, "What did you say? What kind of symbol?"

Me, still half-naked, "Celtic. An Irish symbol." My elbow gets caught up in the arm hole of the bra and begins to look like I'm playing with a Stretch Armstrong.

"Oh, yes, not a fish at all. So, what's it mean?"

Me, one twin hanging out, "Uh, inner soul to outer life."

"Oh, that's lovely. I have a tattoo too. Betcha can't see it."

Oh, please. Oh, please - do not make me look.

"It's my eyebrows! You couldn't even tell, could you?!"

And then the two chatted on about tattoo eyebrows and eyeliner and I managed to finish dressing myself.

Aside from my lack of grace-under-pressure, I have to say I was most disturbed by the idea that I was not invisible in the locker room. The idea that no one was looking at whether or not my underwear matched my bra, or if my hair was a mess or if I, in fact, had fish swimming up my back was a fallacy.

The anonymity of the locker room is gone. And now, in addition to making sure I look un-winded on the treadmill when I'm next to Joe Cutie, I also have to make sure I'm appropriately covered up before Peeping Thelma gets a gander at any of my other tattoos.

The truth is: None of us is alone. At least not in the locker room.

Recovery

It's a sad, sad day.

My local crack den closed its doors forever.

I'm not afraid to admit I have certain vices. Who among is without sin, I say. And sure, it makes me a little jumpy and leaves me with an occasional case of the shakes, but still I just can't seem to get through the day without a hit.

I've tried living clean before. And the old adage - "never quit being a quitter" is nice when you're trying to talk your teenager out of a nasty nicotine habit. But I'm a lifelong junkie. I've been getting a fix every day since I was 20-years-old. It seems unlikely that this old companion of mine that started in Hartford, Connecticut and has traveled with me to New York City and back to my hometown of Kalamazoo, Michigan - is something I'm ever gonna get clear of. It belongs to me and I to it.

And I never expected to find the same quality when I moved back to the Midwest. I kinda thought I'd be able to get off the juice - start fresh, clean out the system. Funny thing is - your vices find you. The things that make you itch aren't bound by geographical location. They are inside you. Inside you every day.

So yesterday morning when I went to the door of my neighborhood crack den and found no one inside, no one serving up the sauce - I began to think it might be time to try quitting again. If I'm ready to be without it. If I know how to wake up in a world that doesn't include my companion. If...

So I'll walk away, for now at least, and imagine the strength to say goodbye old friend -

"Goodbye, Starbucks. My constant companion. My truest friend. My one and only love."

Chico Loco

I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I’ve up and gone a little Boy Crazy. Seriously, I’m Lindsey Lohan on diet pills crazy. I’ve turned into a hormonal wreck of a woman, all because I lack a steady boyfriend.

It’s weird, because I, unlike many of my gender, am not a serial monogamist. I tend to hang with a boy and then take a super extended vacation from the male species in between. But over the past six months or so, all this “space” has gone and turned me Boy Crazy.

Seriously, everyone is a possibility. The long-legged manager at work, The cute waiter at my favorite breakfast place. The UPS guy. And this morning my latest victim, the poor unsuspecting Midas Man.

The Midas Man is in very real trouble. One – I’m Boy Crazy and Two – the whole mechanical inclination gene puts a man pretty high up on the Darwinian chain. Remember those cartoons where the cat or the coyote is looking at the pesky bird and is so hungry that the bird turns into a roasted chicken with steamy goodness rolling off it?

This man is beginning to look like a roasted chicken.

I know what you’re thinking – out of sight, out of mind. I mean, how often do you need to go see the Midas Man? Except that my car has recently been paid off and that means that by all laws of nature and that bastard, Murphy – my car is slowly falling to pieces. This means frequent visits to my nearest garage – managed by the Midas Man.

While you’re catching your breath, I will take this moment to reflect on my three favorite male hair archetypes.

The Baldy: The baldy is one of my favorites because he’s a man who knows how to let go. No creepy comb-over. No roadkill toupee. No pricey salves or elixirs – with which monies could be better spent on wine and dinner for me.

The Pony: This is something I get no small amount of grief about, but I am often drawn to the male ponytail. I can’t begin to explain it, because in theory – it creeps me out. But somewhere on that line I walk between Sr. Office Weenie and Hopeless Romantic, I hear the distant melody of Van Morrison “I wanna rock your gypsy soul.” I can’t explain it any better than that.

And finally…

The Salt and Pepper: Salt and Pepper is my all-time favorite manly follicle. I remember the first time I realized I was frequently leering at the men with the salt and pepper and I wondered what the big change was from the slew of Tall/Dark/Geeky that I was normally drawn too. And I realized it is because that smattering of gray hair is an indicator of manhood. And the big diff is this – I was done with boys and guys and finally interested in dating men.

One guess what the Midas Man is.

Anyway – I’m trying to keep my hormones in check and not scare my clueless Midas Man with declarations of Like. I don’t know much about him except he’s the Midas Man and he has Fridays off, so it’s probably not worth risking having to take my car to an unknown pip squeak at Lenke’s.

The point is this – I’m back on the market. I’m hungry. And I’m looking for someone to be my roasted chicken.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Did I mention I work in a place where they wear uniforms? They are a pretty gruesome ensemble that was modeled after a 1960s gas station attendant uniform.

Some people choose to don the uni. Some of them, not all of them. And not me. Why? ‘Cause I am a horrible non-team player anti-establishment type. Plus the women’s pants have pleats and tapered legs. Sorry, but I have no fervent desire to revisit my 80s wardrobe. Once was enough.

And while many praise the pros of uniforms “no laundry” and “never have to figure out what to wear” – there are those of us who take the road less taken. Especially those who work in the offices, like moi. We opt to wear company logo’d t-shirts with khakis. Or if you’re a real outsider, like me, black pants and dress shirts.

Then there are the boarder people. I think they secretly want to wear the uniform, but fear their Office Weenies-at-arms will mock and cajole. They often opt for what I consider No Man’s Land – the Lab Coat.

No, I do not work in a laboratory. I do not work with test tubes, beakers or Bunsen burners. I am a hapless fool with the periodic table and you don’t want me poking around with a thermometer. This is one of the true mysteries of the Cube Farm – how in fuckity hell did someone decide that good office dweebs wear Lab Coats?

The Lab Coat offers the company logo on one breast and your name on the other (the spitting image of the gas station attendant’s shirt), has a couple of mammoth pockets that house office junk like paper clips, pens and used Kleenex. But my main beef with the Lab Coat is two-fold.

One – it serves no purpose. It is not as if I work in an environment where I need to keep chemical mixtures or blood from spattering all over my nice work clothes. And even if this were the case, I’d be more likely to borrow one of my Dad’s old dress shirts and put it on backwards ala 1^st grade art class.

Two – it’s false advertising in my opinion. Lab Coats are meant to be worn by scientists and doctors. And those fringe folks like pharmacists and veterinarians. It is not to be worn by Office Weenies who have very little to do with curing cancer or saving lives. Okay, let’s be honest – NOTHING to do with those things. How would you feel if the kid at the drive-thru at McDonald’s was wearing a hard hat. It serves no purpose and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to frame my house. So what’s the point? Don't get my hopes up and then dash them.

Maybe there is no point. Except to say – today one of my “road less taken” friends swung by my Cube and when I looked up prepared to be annoyed by a Smocky – I met his eyes and knew he was lost. Now he’s one of them and little by little I’m losing my merry band of corporate ninjas who battle the establishment and fight for freedom from The Uniform, The Lab Coat and The Man.

I shall not go gentle into that good night, my friends.

And Along Came Deafness

It's Monday. I state this because while I like to imagine that everyone I know checks my blog with the frequency of a rabid bride-to-be checking her on-line registry - the truth is it could be days before anyone reads this.

Mondays aren't my most favorite thing in world. They aren't any worse than Sunday nights as the 60 Minutes stopwatch ticks away the last few hours of my weekend (see posting), but still, Mondays are a stinker.

I am preparing for a big weekend tailgate (yes, it may well take 5 whole days to get ready for it), swung by the store and bought pounds of flour, sugar and other baking essentials and decided to shake Monday off with a quick episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" before embarking on Bakefest 08. (Remind me to tell you some time about the brilliance that is Buffy the Vampire Slayer some time.)

Anyway - I'm trying to listen to the quippy dialogue of Buff and the gang - except I can't. Why not, you ask? Because my mother-effing neighbor has his surround sound bumpin' out the bass like he's livin' large in "da club." Except it's not "club time" - it's freaking 5:30 p.m. That's "quiet reflection time", Jackhole.

Now, I have almost dropped a couple expletives, which I am in no way against, except that - aside from the fact that my neighbor plays his tv system way too loud - he's a pretty nice guy. The reason I know this is I've called the main office, written a formal complaint and knocked on his door myself on a few occasions to ask him to turn the volume down. All that and he still smiles and says "hi" when he sees me hauling groceries up the stairs. Granted, he doesn't offer to carry them, but still.

Most days, I opt not to hammer away on his door and once again ask if he might turn down the surround sound, mainly because I look like crap when I'm hunkered down for the evening and no matter how pissed I am at him - I wouldn't subject him to that terrifying sight.

So, I take deep breaths, "accidentally" bang on the wall and run to my computer to trash the old guy next door whose bass is too loud. Because some day I imagine I'll be the old lady whose got "The Price Is Right" blaring from her condo and the poor little next-door-neighbor will curse and bang on the wall and rage about me on their blog. And to that I simply say - karma, baby.

Confession of a Secret Love Affair

For four years I've had to keep a secret. It was one of them deep-dark kinds. It was the kind that you stuff so far down in the pit of your stomach, because to come clean would open you up to the sort of ridicule you might never recover from.

I am in love with Michael Phelps. Oh sure, it's the cool thing to do this year. I'm just one of a zillion women of all ages who swoon at the sight of Michael Phelps - Olympic god.

But back in a little town by the name of Athens a scant 4 years ago - it was not nearly as cool unless you were a woman who was looking forward to things like getting her braces off and the Junior Prom. 'Cause 4 years ago when my love affair began - Mikey was still a teenager. A friggin' TEENAGER! What does that make me? Some sort of Roman Polanski/Mary Kay Latourneau hybrid?

So I stuffed the feelings deep down, trying to forget. "Michael-who?" I said.

So here I sit - after a long day of Goals and Objectives update meetings at the Cube Farm, pretty sure that I've put my little obsession in its place.

And then I see an ad for Speedo.

Damn Speedo. Damn Michael Phelps. Damn stupid secret love affairs that aren't secret anymore.

Writer for Hire

I do all sorts of writing, some for the pure joy of it and some of it for cold, hard cash. I am not one of those novelist-types who prefer the angstiness of being a novelist over the capitalist-pigishness of cashing in a paycheck. Call me a pig - with a capital P.

There are days when the words come more easily than others. Pouring over 16 volumes of documentation of quality improvement projects at an area hospital and trimming that down to 150 word blurbs for an awards program isn't the stuff of dreams. Sure, I'd rather submit some witty prose for an over-priced men's clothing catalog, but I'll take what I can get.

But some requests for my writing skills are not only more difficult - they are so freaking hard I simply sit on my sofa, stare at my bookcase and try to commune with my writing heroes in hopes that they will inspire me to pull something brilliant out of my arse.

Such a request came a few weeks ago from an unlikely source. Normally, I get last-minute work plans from stressed account people or friends in the biz who are already working until midnight and aren't sure how they're gonna get that last press release done.

My most recent assignment came from my sister.

No, my sister is not an account executive, creative director or marketing whore. She's a mother. Mother to my cute-as-hell niece, Fi.

Fi is nearing a great precipice in her life, as she turns two in October. Pre-Fi, I wrote a story book for her, complete with my less-than-stellar illustrations and presented it to my sister at her baby shower. This book as been revered as my greatest writing accomplishment to date - primarily because it's one of the few things my family has read of mine and well, they're my family. I could have taken a Crayola crayon to a canvas blindfolded and they would have wept with pride.

The problem is this - I've been given creative direction from my sister as to they type of story she'd like to see this time around. Now, let me tell you - my sister knows her children's literature. If I'm looking for advice on the perfect book to give at a 5-year-old's birthday party - she's my first call. But my mission, should I choose to accept it or not, is to write not only a book FOR Fi, but ABOUT Fi.

I can't exactly explain the level of anxiety this request produces, but I'll tell you - I've resorted to pulling some nerve-soothing Enya out of the cd stacks while I attempt some story lines.

My main concern is that while I've spent some quality time with Fi - my primary observations are that she sleeps a lot (of which I am profoundly jealous), has trouble keeping food in her mouth, is addicted to the Backyardigans, has our family's wild-ass hair and believes, like a good princess, that the world revolves around her (again, how jealous am I!) My problem is that while she is still the smartest, funniest, sassiest thing I've ever met - I'm not sure how that translates into good children's lit.

My first inclination is to go straight for the crazy-ass hair angle. Except there is no other way to describe our genetically-challenged follicles than to call it "crazy-ass" - and while I am the proud owner of zero children - I'm pretty sure "crazy-ass" isn't a word you want spattered about the pages of a children's book.

I could go on and on about how much I love her ooey-gooey guts, but that starts to sound like a book more about me than her and my files are already overflowing with self-indulgent fodder about me.

So, I'm stumped.

I'm more stumped than trying to find a way for hip replacements to sound sexy. More baffled than trying to make workers compensation insurance funny.

As it stands I'm tempted to resort to old agency tactics - which tends to involve cracking into a beer and having at it. Except one day I'll wanna tell Fi about the experience of writing her two-year-long life story and I don't think I want it to include that Auntie was drunk.

I need some inspiration - something to drive me to just put my fingers on the keys and stop horsing around with my stupid blog already. You know what this assignment is in desperate need of? A nice paycheck.

Don't judge me.

The Invisible Woman

The Cube Farm has many quirks and foibles and while most of them irritate me to no end - a few of them are funny enough to make up the difference. I’ll postpone delighting you with our cost-savings measures that include unplugging our computers at night and turning off all the lights for an hour each day. I'm all for diminishing the whole carbon imprint, but when I can't see a sheet of paper I'm supposed to proofread from the hours of 12pm-1pm - you gotta wonder about the anti-effectiveness imprint.

Anyway - what cracked me up today is this. There is a boy at work who I am pretty sure has a crush on me.

The reason I'm able to Magnum P.I. my way to such a conclusion is, well, I attended grade school. The Boy is exhibiting some textbook playground behavior. And while he hasn't pushed my down and made me cry yet - some adolescent flirting has been going on. By this I mean - he ignores me.

I know what you're thinking - "Uh, loser, he's ignoring you because he doesn't care if you breathe in and out." But he's ignoring me to a level that is almost embarrassing. He's ignoring me so much that I can't help but smile and laugh as soon as he passes me.

My desk recently moved into a Cube Annex, which is just on the other side of the wall as my fellow office-weenies-at-arms. This puts me in a much different locale, which happens to be in a locale closer to The Boy. Two significant environmental factors have increased the level to which I see The Boy. 1.) The bathrooms are 1/2 way between our two desks and 2.) The crappy coffee machine is right outside the door to his office. And since I am a woman who is addicted to caffeine and because caffeinated beverages are the root cause of my need to urinate - well, I see The Boy a couple times a day at least.

It's odd that The Boy and I are not friends. We have friends in common. I often chair meetings of which he is in attendance. And now we're practically neighbors. And yet still, avoidance.

Friday, he dubiously ignored me as I addressed him by name and excused myself for reaching near him to get a 32oz. beverage cup which I then filled with diet Cherry Coke (another addiction). And today, as we passed (him on the way to the bathroom, me on the way to the coffee machine) he very carefully averted his eyes the nearly 10 yards from the time I was able to identify him as The Boy and the time we passed. Seriously, I kept my eyes up and focused the entire time, just to see if he would look at me and nothing. I may have actually begun my smirk before he passed, so sadly, he may now think I'm making fun of him. Which I guess I am, so it's a fair assumption.

I'm not 100% sure why The Boy is ignoring me, but naturally there are a few Theories:

1. He's madly in love with me and doesn't know how to tell me
2. He's madly in love with me and is afraid he'll lose his job if we date and inevitably break up
3. He's madly in love with men, has sensed my elevated perceptiveness and is afraid I'll narc him out to the boys club
4. He thinks I am a sorceress and if he looks directly at me I will cast an evil spell on him
5. He knows that I know he's a Lions fan and is too ashamed to make eye contact (little does HE know, I'm a Notre Dame fan and don't shun those who blindly bow to the alter of sketchy football teams)
6. He knows that my longest relationship lasted just over a year and he doesn't want to become the next "EDH's ex-boyfriend"
7. He thinks he is too tall to date me (little does he know this is the one thing I do like about him)
8. He's afraid that I'm the sort of woman who would irrationally buy a motorcycle (or worse yet, would ask him to ride bitch)
9. And while I doubt it with all of the Jessica Fletcher, Charlie's Angels, Magnum P.I. instincts I possess - maybe he can't stand me and would rather look at his steel-toed boots than at my face.

Regardless, it's made for some excellent fodder and if it happens to be Theory 1, 2 or 6 - well, yes, it's encouraged me to dress a little snappier over the past few weeks and even test out some new perfume (not that you can smell it over the machine oil on the way to the Cube Annex). All this, so I can torment some poor, hapless Boy who had the misfortune to develop a crush on the sadistic likes of me.

Yeah, Theory 4 isn't entirely out of the realm of possibility....

Love Duo

I happen to live in a pretty cool city (and not just because the governor declared it one). I've known for quite some time that small-town city livin' is the right kind of livin' for me. There are times I think about buying a house on the same street as my sister out east, but dammit - I can't imagine leaving this cool city.

It's cool for lots of different reasons. It's got a couple colleges, houses a pretty impressive art scene, is way more hefty on the lefty side of politics - and it also offers excellent square footage for some decent nightlife.

You've got your live music, you've got your microbrews, you've got your Irish pubs, you've got a little bit of country and a little bit of rock-n-roll. And don't even get me started on the fine assortment of crappy bars.

One of the reasons I know I live in a cool city is that I have friends from out of town who tell me so. I've got out of town friends who spend so much time in my town, I'm beginning to wonder what's keeping them in a less than cool city.

Tonight some friends decided to take a little hop to some of our local establishments. We managed to put some time into a sports bar and a dive bar and then decided it would be a good time to elevate the evening at our most favoritest pizza place, which now sports an upstairs bar and is dabbling in live music.

You have to love this pizza place. The guy who runs it is sorta like Seinfeld's Soup Nazi. He takes his pizza that seriously. The first time I took my father there - his eyes glassed over as he was mesmerized by the tender care our pie received as the owner gently blotted it with about 1/2 a roll of paper towel. This man loves his pizza. He is what I call - Intense.

We decided to hit the pizza joint, because my friend CT read that there was going to be some music there - a Norwegian jazz duo, and it would be good to support Mr. Intense's new venture. CT loves jazz. And I love that about her.

I love the idea of loving jazz, but the truth is - it usually puts me into some sort of comatose state that isn't good when you're trying to keep up your half of a conversation. But hey - I'm also someone who LOVES having a good story to tell. And how great would it be on Monday to answer the standard "What did you do this weekend?" with "Oh, just went to go see this Norwegian jazz duo." So, I'll drink a Red Bull - it would definitely be worth the drowsiness.

Mr. Intense was in rare form as he served us our drinks - I may even have mentioned like he was about to have a stroke. He was sweaty and generally "clammy" looking. Nerves, I figured. Anyway, the music was quick to get started and Mr. Intense took the opportunity to introduce the dynamic duo.

I kinda felt like I was in a school assembly and the teacher was introducing the speaker, but in-between the lines really telling you that if you fucked around and embarrassed him, you were going to feel his wrath. Like I said, he's pretty effing intense.

Anyway, after we were told to be respectful of the "listening room" he'd created - the "improvisational" jazz duo got started. The drummer was kind of cute and named after one of the Hobbits, the other much older and sporting a clarinet. Still the word rang out in my ears...improvisational...what would that entail?

SSSCCCRREEEEEAAAAAAAACCHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Holy eff. My eardrums didn't actually start bleeding, but I think some brain fluid dripped out my ears.

SSSCCCRREEEEEAAAAAAAACCHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Back when I was in my early 20's and living in New York City, I often pretended to like things just to be a cool metropolitan city dweller. Those days are long over. Because I was sitting in the middle of hell.

Many of the patrons put on a good act, but my friends had a much more difficult time pretending that what we were listening too could even be classified as music.

All eyes went immediately to CT. While I know this was not her fault - I will most likely blame her when I re-tell this story.

When faced with situations like this I very rarely act with decorum. No, I laugh. But I was also fearful of Mr. Intense, so I kept most of it on the inside - which quite nearly led to some early-stage incontinence. Seriously, I don't remember the last time I nearly wet my pants from laughter.

The screeching continued, followed by some high-pitched scraping of the stick around the circumference of the snare drum. The tuneless, beatless "music" continued until we actually had to do the mature thing and excuse ourselves.

Maybe I'm just not cultured enough to appreciate the nuance of what we witnessed. All I know is that when I started playing oboe in the 8th grade I sounded just like the Norwegian chap on the clarinet and no one was looking to pay me for my talents. Dammit - I was an effin' prodigy and didn't even know it. I could have had a successful career as an improvisational jazz artist. Another dream dashed.

Anyway - I won't hold it against my cool city, because the truth is - when someone asks me what I did this weekend I will proudly reply - "I saw a Norwegian improvisational jazz duo" and I will smile, maybe laugh and quite possibly - pee my pants.

Mid-life Crisis

I am not a 55-year-old man. I am not balding or newly-divorced. No kids just shuffled off to college, no tawdry affair with someone half my age.

And yet I fear I am going through a mid-life crisis.

It did not creep up on me slowly - it hit me like a lightening bolt. I was walking along with a friend and he pointed to a spot in our parking lot. There it was. Beautiful, shiny and my favorite color.

A motorcycle.

My friend's motorcycle, to be exact. A motorcycle that he's thinking about selling, so he can upgrade. A motorcycle that practically sang out my name as we passed.

I don't know what possessed me, but we walked towards it, my friend put the key in the ignition, he showed me where the clutch was and then I gave it a little gas.

Sold!

I'm not 100% sure I'll be buying the bike. But I'm 100% sure I'll be dreaming about it tonight.

Stalking and Other Favorite Pastimes

Tonight I rushed home from work, jumped in the shower, got semi-gussed up and called my friend CT to see what time we were meeting the girls out. I love girls night out. Especially my girls.

Alas, tragedy struck because, well, I'm a dumb-ass who has had a lot on her mind lately. When I called CT, she reminded me that we were all hanging out NEXT Tuesday. I could practically hear her roll her eyes through the phone. Crap.

So there I was, all dressed up with no place to go.

So, I decided to go out anyway. No place fancy mind you, but it seemed like a waste of lip gloss to throw on the yoga pants and look all cute for the Olympics.

I decided to start at Meijer, mainly because I've been meaning to cash in my big change jar for some time now and for some reason cashing in change always feels like free money. Yes, I get that it's MY money, but it's just CHANGE. That is until you dump it into a Coinstar machine - that's when the magic happens and it becomes actual money. Imagine me 15 minutes later with $79.16 in my purse and a smile on my face.

Now that I had free money - I decided to hit my favorite store (rhymes with Smarget) where there was Clorox wipes and new gym socks ready to become new treasures. I was about to head home when I realized I was about 50 pages from finishing the third book in this series my sister has gotten me hooked on. The fourth book is out and I figured I'd pick it up at my local books and coffee place.

Books and Coffee places are some of my favorite places. Mainly because I love books and I love coffee and the sumbitch who put the two together can have my firstborn child for doing such a nice thing for the rest of us. I perused the bargain books (nearly buying a "Learn Spanish in 30 Days" cd for $6.98 - except am I really going to learn Spanish in 30 days or is it going to sit and collect dust right next to my "Learn Italian" and "Learn Japanese" cd's? I continued on.) I finally picked up the final installment in little book drama and headed for the coffee section, as I usually grab a cup of joe and cash out at the same time.

Except today, apparently everyone on the planet needed a cup of coffee at 6 o'clock at night and there was a line from here to Indiana. I decided I'm already staying up too late with the Olympics and this crack cocaine-like addiction I've procured over these books, so I opted to head straight for the regular cashiers. And that's where I met him.

I love free money. I love perusing Smarget. I love Books and Coffee. And now - I love Phillip. Phillip is the cutest non-tv-personality boy I've seen in ages and he smiled at me and asked if I was all set. Oh was I!

I handed Phillip my book, at which point he spoke the name of the title aloud. It was then that I cringed a bit. Did I mention these habit-forming books can be found in the Young Adult section of the bookstore? Oh yeah. Phillip now thinks my reading level hovers around that of your average junior high student. Awesome.

I smiled and said, "Yeah, my damn sister."

Phillip said, "Ohh."

I could have left it at that. Let sweet, beautiful Phillip think that my sister is a sassy tween whose birthday is right around the corner and aren't I a good big sis to buy her books instead of the latest Jonas Brothers cd?

But naturally I said, "Yeah, she's gotten me hooked on these books."

Instead of rolling his eyes and sticking his finger down his throat, the angelic Phillip simply smiled and said, "Do you have a Books and Coffee membership?"

I said, "No."

Phillip said, "Could I interest you in one?" (hmmmm)

"No, thank you," I responded.

"Okay," said Phillip.

"Wow, where's the hard sell?" I asked. (This, sadly, is how I flirt. Very lamely.)

Yet still, Phillip smiled and said, "That IS my hard sell."

"Hmm. Needs some work," my answer with a wink. (yes, I also wink. I can't stop myself. I curse my grandfather for ever teaching me how to wink. People must always think I'm picking them up, whether I am or not.)

Unfortunately, I only had the one book and since Phillip has cat-like speed working the cash register, out brief interlude was just that - brief.

"Have a great night," Phillip smiled and chuckled.

"You too..." and I checked out his Books and Coffee badge, "...Phillip."

And it was over.

Except I fear, it will not be. Now my weekly trips to Books and Coffee will not follow the same routine of magazine rack, novelty books, new in paperback, biographies, spirituality, bargain books, coffee counter. No, I'm sure it will now be main checkout, information booth and aisle check for a green lanyard and a badge swinging along with one divine word - Phillip.

On considering the possibility of love...

What a brave and reckless thing we do

When we put our heart in the hands

Of another.

Some say foolish.

I might agree, except for that feeling

Of absolute certainty

When one first falls in love.

It is a moment when truths come to light,

When the lost are found,

When destiny and serendipity inexplicably

And perfectly entwine.

So who am I to say “foolish”?

What is foolishness, but to laugh in the face of the unknown?

To tread again on a path of prickly briars

And not fear its lashes?

For love holds no malice,

Just exquisite pain.

And what is a little pain?

What, even, is a tidal wave of pain –

When paired with the illogical beauty

That is love?

So let my heart break again.

I fear not the tears, nor the ache,

Nor the break.

Because in the cracks, love winds its way

Back to the source.

And a heart is born from ash.

E.D.H.

Unfunny ain't funny

I'll spare you the apologies for the lack of blogging. But I'll give you an un-prompted reason.

I just don't feel that funny.

I could wax poetic about family. I could zing you with the gaping holes in our health care system. I could tell you all why we should all live healthier, more engaged lives.

But what's funny about that?

I was beginning to think the funny had just gone by way of the dodo.

But then...

I did what I always tell other to do - I took a deep breath and I looked around.

Funny is everywhere.

It's my friend CR calling a Styrofoam-cup-turned-paint-bucket "the cat's ass".

It's my friend DC telling a co-worker we just catered in an afternoon snack of "cheeses, biscuits and crackers from foreign lands".

It's saying to my friend, CT, "Oh, wasn't he a soma lier?" and her answering "No, I don't think he was African."

It's my dad wearing a "ROCKSTAR" t-shirt.

It's the open-mic night guy saying he was gonna play some "old stuff from the 90s".

It's learning that F.U.D. stands for female urination device (would that I'd discovered that on the Pine River!)

It's teaching my niece last week... "Fi, what's a pirate say?"... "Arrrrg"

So, even in my semi-somber state. I've laughed pretty frickin' hard. Maybe that's all we can aspire to. And I'll tell you, that's not a bad aspiration.

"The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth"

I'll admit it, I've only ever read the "No Fear Shakespeare" version of A Midsummer's Night Dream. I like watching Shakespeare's plays, but have never, not once, enjoyed reading them. Methinks he doth befoul the language too much.

But he was a man who knew a thing or two about us crazy humans. And didn't he just nail it on the head with "the course of true love never did run smooth"?

I am not currently in true love. I am not even in mediocre love (although I am abnormally attached to a new pair of shoes I recently purchased). But I have been in love and I am currently in search of love again. And I'll tell you, the course TO true love never did run smooth either, Will.

The course TO true love isn't a stroll on the beach. It's more like scaling the side of a mountain without a Sherpa in sight. And now that I'm in my mid-30s, it's not getting any easier.

'Cause here's the thing - I have an inkling of what I'm looking for now. It's not like when you're in your early 20s and you're thinking - "He's hot. I'm in love." Oh no, it's more complicated than that now.

It's about personalities. It's about a sense of humor and that doesn't include telling knock-knock jokes. No, we're talking about a sense of humor that will allow the two of you to laugh when life feels like it's falling apart. Being able to see humor in your mistakes - big and small.

It's about forgiveness. Love isn't about "an eye for an eye" - it is balls out Jesus-sized forgiveness...every day.

It's about understanding the perfect amount of space. This is like super-duper scientist stuff. We're talking spatial-temporal reasoning type understanding. What's the middle ground between distance and smothering? I'll let you know when I see it.

We'll leave out the part about how he needs to be employable, into hygiene and able to drive down the street without tailgating, cursing or flipping someone off. (I don't want to sound greedy.)

And the big truth is this - it's not just that I know what I'm looking for (or what I'm not looking for). It's that, at 35, I know me.

It's been me and me for a long time now and I guess I know me as well as I know anyone. I know who I am. And without getting all "big-heady" about it - I'm a pretty cool chick. And I'm looking for a pretty cool guy. Sounds simple, but it's not.

So, I'll continue to be patient (insert fingernails tapping madly on linoleum tabletop). And I'll be comforted by those who came before me.

The course of true love never did run smooth? No shit, Shakespeare.

Of Mice and Men

I have, over the course of my life, acquired two fears. Neither of them is based on sound, reasonable logic. They are, in no particular order:

1. Mice
2. Men

I have no problem with mice when they are in little wire cages and running on a wheel. They are, in fact, a bit like men. If you know what they’re up to and when they’re gonna pounce, they aren’t too terrifying. This led me to wonder, what else do my two nemesis have in common?

1. They’re unpredictable. No telling when they’ll show their beady little eyes
2. They do, on occasion, hang out in your house uninvited
3. They make weird noises at night, conjuring visions of poltergeists and making one check under their bed for monsters
4. They look cute, but have been known to attack and leave you with life-threatening diseases that involve remedies including needles as long as your arm
5. Some of them would rather lurk about at home than get dressed up and go dancing
6. They leave messes for you to clean up
7. They think that chewing their fingernails and toenails is equivalent to a day at the spa
8. They do not utilize the toilet and quite possibly think you’re interested in checking out their doo-doo
9. Some don’t mind having millions of offspring, since they’re more about the breeding than the parenting
10. They make grown-ass women turn into a girly-girls of the highest order, instead of acting like rational, professional, educated women
11. They always seem to side-step the traps I carefully lay for them

Cheap Ass Bitch

Did I mention than on occasion I am what one might call a - cheap ass bitch?

In general, you will not find me in the mall shopping for clothes. Clothes are expensive. Especially when you cheap out on the generic laundry detergent and you clothes actually begin to disintegrate after 3 or 4 washings. Who can afford to spend 50 buck on a shirt that has a hole in the neck from some battery acid detergent after you've only worn it a couple times?

Anyway - I am particularly in love with this one Cheap Store. I will not share its name, as those who know me - know of which store I speak. And those who don't know me, well, you really shouldn't be judging someone you don't know, now should you?

The point, is that today is the first day of a well-deserved vacation and I thought it was appropriate to celebrate by buying some cheap ass clothes.

I dutifully traveled to the Cheap Store to see what loveliness I might find to cram into my closet.

On a side note - I usually hit the Cheap Store at 10:01am on Saturday mornings, as it's right next door to a bookstore/coffee shop and that ain't a bad way to spend a Saturday morning. So, I am not exactly used to running into actual patrons of the Cheap Store, as I show up one minute past opening and am out of there in 20 minutes flat. It's just me and the teeny tiny shopkeeper chippies and that's always worked just fine for me.

As you might guess, at 7pm on the day before a big holiday weekend - it's a little busier. Not only busier, but jam packed. Not just jam packed, but packed with people who one might not consider socialites of the highest order. In fact, I walked into some kind of bizarre milieu where everyone was loud, everyone was bumping into me and everyone was yanking their kids by the arm (the ones that actually had any idea where their kids were - hint: peeking under my dressing room door). In fact, one patron (who sadly had hit the Mad Dog 20/20 a little hard before she went clothes shopping) was actually getting the boot as I was exiting my dressing room - careful not to step on the little street urchin who had previously been staring at my potential purchase and yelling - "That's really orange!"

Even though I'd considered buying the "really" orange shirt, I left it on the return rack and exited the Cheap Store with as much haste as my flip flops would allow.

It left me feeling a little icky and remembering the adage - you are what you eat. But what if you are also where you shop? That was more than I was willing to consider and so I rushed a few stores down and popped into my books and coffee shop. I tried to melt in with the snobby books and coffee people. And while I can get snooty with the snobbiest, there is the teeniest tiniest part that is probably also just a cheap ass bitch.

Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid #3: The Dress

In a little less than two weeks I will be a bridesmaid for my baby cousin.

I imagine this will be my last time donning the dress. Even if any of my friends get married for a second or third time, I imagine it'll be a little more low-key and probably no need to get satin shoes dyed.

There are about a bajillion things I love about my cousin, but currently the thing I love most about her is that she is letting all of her bridesmaids pick out their own dresses. Her one condition - make it black.

No, I'm not kidding. That is how effing cool she is. And we all understand how freaking lucky we are - it is with great solemness that we are choosing these gowns. We don't want her to regret her magnanimous decision. Perhaps this will set a new precedent of kindness amongst brides.

A new era of no longer trying to shoehorn your friends into gowns that you have only ever seen on Size 2 models in "Modern Bride". I don't know about you, but I haven't been a Size 2 since I was floating around in amniotic fluid in my mother's uterus.

The idea itself is ridiculous. One dress that looks good on your 3,4,5 or god forbid, 6 closest friends. (Once the peels of laughter subside, read on.)

The truth is, your friend might otherwise be a reasonable woman. An engineer. A marketing executive. A woman who can go into the dressing room with you and tell you whether your ass looks big or your boobs saggy in any given outfit. But all of this rational thinking flies out the proverbial window once she’s planning the wedding.

Anyway, you are no longer her dear friend. You are her dress-up doll. You are not her soul-sister with the massive thighs or confidant with the small(ish) chest. You are Skipper to her Barbie. You now miraculously have smaller hips and a bigger chest because, well dammit, you must. She has been planning this day since age 9. She’s been clipping out dresses in bridal magazines since 18. She’s now in the position of complete and utter power over your life and you’d just better get used to it. Okay, take a deep breath – cause this next part might hurt.

It doesn’t matter what you look like on your friend’s big day. This is not about you. (Gasp!) This is entirely, 100%, without a doubt, about the bride. Okay, take another deep breath and I'll continue.

I know. I have pictures too. Me in a flowing lavender Empire-waist number that should have, by all of the laws of nature, fit like a glove, but instead clung in a most leach-like manner to every bit of cellulite on my body. Or my friend, K, who should have been a wondrous site to behold in the baby blue Vera Wang knock-off. It unfortunately was made of some polyester-blend (I'm pretty sure the original Wang was not) and could apparently not be taken in anymore in the chest (although it did leave plenty of room for Kleenex and her Maid of Honor speech. Both pages.)

The thing is, you just have to suck it up. Don’t go getting an inkling that you are going to shine like the belle of the ball. This is not the prom and you are not the Prom Queen. The big tiara goes to She-Who-Snagged-The-Boy. Get used to it.

Try to remember this: your friend is not trying to ruin your life. Somewhere in that twisted mind she truly believes you look beautiful in that dress. An angel. Leave her be, she’s in love. And the truth is - generations of bridesmaids have been getting laid no matter what sort of ghoulish gown they are wearing, so what's the big stink?

The upside is this: you will never have to wear this dress again! This is it. One day. Oh, I know both the bride and her mother will regale you with tales of shortening it into a cocktail dress or using it at next year’s New Years Eve party. Hogwash. This is $150-$300 dollars of fabric that will never see a profitable return.

Now, I have used old dresses for other occasions and even turned them into other-worldly creations, but dammit - you'll just have to wait until I finish the book. It's taken me thirty-five years to figure this shit out - did you really think I'd give all this knowledge away for free?

I'm not looking to make a million dollars - just enough to recoup the cost of those bridesmaids dresses rotting away in my closet.