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.

Dlo 2.0

Prepare yourself: the following information is going to shock you.  You may want to take a seat.

My parents are now both on Facebook.  We have achieved Dlo 2.0.

At first they were tentative... My father reluctantly joined; he didn't want too much of his personal time to be sucked into the computer.  I think he may actually believe his computer monitor has metaphysical properties that might one day actually suck him in if and when he exceeds his allotted web-cruising time.  My mother joined months ago, but didn't do much with her account at first.  Now all that has changed, with the rise of the geriatric population on Facebook.  Both Mom and Dad have found many friends, former classmates and co-workers to connect with.  My mom seems to really like it.  I mean, she likes it a lot.  As in, Likes everything on it.  My mom clicks "Like" to every post she reads, from what I can tell.  At first I thought to mention proper web etiquette and suggest that perhaps Liking everything wasn't exactly an efficient or honest use of the button.  But I resisted, and in fact her perennial Liking has grown on me.  After 38 years of trying to please my mother, I have finally gotten it right.  She Likes everything I do!

Thank you, Facebook.  Here's to the aiding of family relations.  I Like!

A Tragedy in Two Lips

Imagine the perfect evening... a fine-mannered waiter crossing your private dining room, silver tray, glasses and wine in hand... and as he approaches your table, he trips on his shoelace and there goes the 1945 Chateau Mouton Rothschild, splattered all over the beautiful marble floors. So close. Could have been a great evening! Alas, some things are just never gonna be.

Like a bad kisser becoming a good one. Ain't gonna happen.

My neighbor Philippe thinks it could happen. I think at 40 years old, there's a snowball's chance in Satan's pizza oven he'll ever be more than an insipid tongue-prodder. I know what you're thinking. "Teach him! You can show him how to be a good kisser. It's such a small thing." After all, he is lovely. He's kind, fun to hang out with and easy on the eyes. But that's where it stops - once my lips have been penetrated by his tongue, the cold reality that this man doesn't have a clue what he's doing and likely would jab me like a jackhammer were we to turn our vertical flirtation into a horizontal event hits me like a big, frozen icicle. He can't kiss for beans. I'm turned off immediately. I don't find the bulge growing in his pants to be anything more than an annoyance and I want out of there tout suite.

May some other woman conquer this insurmountable challenge. These lips have better places to explore.

It Puts the Lotion on Its Skin

I know you remember that line. From Silence of the Lambs - remember? Buffalo Bill has his latest victim in the pit and he's lowered a bucket with lotion for her to run all over her soon to be filleted plus-sized body. Ick, gives me the willies just thinking about it! Alas it's all I can think about with the peculiarities of a former friend. Or should I say, future former friend. He's not taking the break-up very well and I'm running all kinds of scenarios through my head... like, I'm Ronald Regan and he's John Hinckley and everything's moving in slow motion while Secret Service men knock me to the ground, shouting "Gun!"

This particular friend came from a bible study this particular heathen used to attend. He was always odd but well-intended, and while awkward and possessing poor social skills, once he got over his discomfort around you (God forbid he be around people) he could be funny and caring. He did have a lot of anger - it would bubble up on occasion, always carefully, tightly contained. It was like you could see the steam coming out but he never let the lid off the pot. I think in my naivete I figured some good old fashion friendship and support would help him. He became a movie buddy. We'd connect every so often and go to a screening together. And once, when he had no place to stay before his next apartment came up, he crashed with me for a couple of weeks.

Some kind of scandal arose at the bible study a few months back surrounding him and his seeming refusal to accept the end of friendship with a young woman at the study (are we seeing a pattern emerge here?) and he eventually was asked to leave it. By that time I had felt the flames of eternal hellfire licking at my heels too frequently to continue with the study, lest I infect my more Christian brethren with my sinful ways, so I never caught all of the drama. But I did hear from him that he was asked not to attend. I heard it every time we talked. Every time he called, whether we spoke or he left me a voicemail, the message started off something like this "Yeah, so I got some interesting stuff to tell you..." As in, I've got more angry gossip stuff to spread all over you and drag you down into my self-angry hellhole with me, bwaa ha haa.

The other day I ran into his former roommate and we chatted about the study drama and our mutual friend.  Former roommate confided in me that my future former friend is a (closeted) transvestite, something the roommate stumbled upon by accident. Closeted, for sure. You think I'm a sinning heathen? Slap a woman's dress on a Christian man and you've got one FastPass to Hell, coming right up! So he's a transvestite. Rock on, baby! Do your thing. Be the most beautiful woman you can be, hairy legs and all. But to hide it from me - to be secretive and deny that you're doing it, even when I, a very open-minded and trustworthy friend shared deeply personal stories with you... that doesn't sit comfortably with me. And then I thought about his anger, the rage I often sensed was just below the surface, and I started getting freaked out. Anger, awkward social interactions, secretive, deeply rooted issues... more than I can handle in a "friend" who will not address or admit to his rage. He's got a timer just ticking away inside and given my new found understanding of the depth of his issues, I just thought... Not me. You're not making an all-weather wrap out of me, 'Bill. I'm out.

Finally the other day came the voicemail from him I knew would arrive one day, the angry, I-don't-know-why-you're-blowing-me-off message, with the end tag "If I don't hear from you I won't call again" ...followed by an email today saying "Just want to make sure you got my phone message? If not, call me. If so, you can just ignore this email."

I don't want to engage him any further. How do you tell the rational truth to an irrational person? "You have a lot of anger issues and I'm concerned everything that's been building since you were a boy in a very abusive home is going to come up one day soon and explode. You'd benefit from professional psychological help. What do you say?" Yeah. And then he hands you the bottle and tells you to start spreading the lotion.