The Morning After

This morning started off shakey.  I woke up a tad wobbly, my brain still foggy and the room tilting ever so.  I felt like I was still drunk.  I struggled to clear out the cobwebs in my brain and remembered I didn't drink at all last night, but the night was a late one and clearly my brain has no chance of clarity when I stay up clear past my bedtime.  Getting old isn't for the faint of heart.

I spent last evening out with a man I know.  We have a good mutual friend and I actually knew him many years ago when we all lived in the same city on the other coast.  He's tall, broad, warm, kind and a real thinker - someone I easily relate with.  Plus I could get lost in his eyes.  We reconnected recently over our shared love of French and now see each other weekly at a French conversation group.  I know, how damn cliche can I get?  Well how's this: I wore a scarf around my neck last night in a sign of solidarity with my soul country.  Vive La France!

Anyway, after the group we sat talking for hours and eventually left the restaurant and headed to another one closer to home for a late-night bite.  But for the relocation during the evening, the night was like many others between us.  We talk for hours, saying good-bye when we're ready to fall asleep on the spot.  Last night though, something was bothering him and he didn't want to discuss it, but talked around it enough that I think I know what's going on: his ex-girlfriend is pregnant.  They broke up a couple of months ago.  And you know what I think about this?  That the gods of love are yet again dicking with me, as this will be the third time in the last year that this has happened to a guy I was getting close with!  THE THIRD.  What does that make me, the goddess of fertility-past?  Like, Hang out with January, she'll impregnate your old lover just with a wink of her eye!  Or Got fertility problems?  Break up!  Try a little January this April.  You'll be parents by November!  Seriously.  And what's with these other ladies getting back with the man I've decided I might like to impregnate me one day?

I am over it.

Someone get me some sperm, stat.  Kindly attach a really eligible man to it please.  Turkey baster optional.

Metrosexuals Need Not Apply

I like men to be men.  While there is a certain something to be said for non-fugly toenails and unchewed fingertips, leave the mani-pedis to me, fellas.  Get yourself outside and work up a sweat chopping wood.  Come back in, shower off and come lay those big man paws on me while you plant one on my mouth.  Unless you missed my opening sentence above, in which case take your shiny little fingertips and use them to open that door over there.  Enjoy your trip back to Metroville while I relax with the Brawny man.

[Editor's Note: When Googling "The Brawny Man," do not search past the third section of images... the further you go, the more suspect the images become. Apparently "brawny" translates to "homosexual weight-lifter" in some Eastern European languages.]

Lost Nugget From the Vault

[Editor's Note:  This little nugget was hidden among old posts, written in January 2010 and apparently never published.  Imagine that.  Reading it proves that old saying is true: the more things change, the more some people stay the exact special same.]

In the past two days I have been asked on two and possibly very soon three dates. What's my secret? A new dress? A make-up make-over? A list of new come-on lines I've been trying out?

No. Pheremones. Aunt Flo may be a bitch but Lord, does she bring the boys with her!

The Write Stuff

I've spoken a few times recently with writers, people just like me with whom I happened to get into a conversation.  Bloggers.  But people blogging for a living, like, at an established website or freelancing successfully.  And I've thought to myself, really?  What do they have that I don't have?  I mean, aside from a paycheck that says "Professional Writer."  They have more discipline than I do, that's what.

"Write every day."  That is the one universal piece of advice I get.  Write every day, whether you want to or not.  You will get better and it will better flow from you.  I know this is true!  The very same thing can be said of art or athletics or music: practice every day, even a little, and the results compound over time.  Yet I remain an irregular writer, perhaps a lazy one.  I write when I have a fire in my belly, something absolutely burning inside me to get out!  And I tap away on the keyboard, each digit pressing a key like a high note in a symphony, perfectly in tune with the other keys.  I may write good songs... but where is my concerto?  Where is my Ninth Symphony?  Can't I make a joyful ode?

 

I am reminded that Beethoven was 53 or 54 by the time he completed the Ninth, and he'd been playing music since he was a very small child.  He was, what, thirteen when he was first published?  Shoot, by those measures I'm a genius!  What with the internet in all its practical glory, I am already published!  And I've not even been writing this blog for two years.

Wow, I'm feeling better about this writing thing.  Clearly a submission to The Atlantic is in order.