My breasts don't so much as look you in the eye to greet you anymore as say "Hey, wanna hang out?" so I was surprised when a male friend recently was shocked to find out my bras are padded, underwired and lift me to within an inch of my eyeballs. Or chin. Whatever. Point is, he was surprised (and maybe a tad disappointed?) that the beautiful melons stretching out my t-shirt had been enhanced. Enhanced. He said it like it was a dirty word. I learned years ago that a girl's best friends are her chicken cutlets. My sister's second wedding? The one held a month after my engagement ended, where I held in tears on the alter while she said her vows... again...? HELL YES The Girls were enhanced that night. I needed to feel good and damn it if a little push and lift in my bra didn't do the trick. Waist cinched - breast heaving - several Cosmopolitans before we made it from the pictures into the reception ensured it was a good night... or at least, a good looking one. To me. I was drunk. I looked delectable.
So yeah, The Girls aren't as naturally social as they were some years ago. But those perky little things you see on twenty-somethings everywhere, barely concealed by cute tank tops and running bras?
Can they do this? [Editor's note: this portion of January's blog has been censured for content.] No?
I didn't think so.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Well, The Alternative is Worse
This aging stuff sucks. I'm just going to lay it out here at the top, let you know where I'm coming from. I'd like to roll the clock back about 15 years and take better advantage of the 5,478 days that have passed since I was young. I'd like to know my womb is a springy, abundant nest ripe for fertilization and that I have many years yet in which to select a worthy fertilizer. The world would still be my oyster. Time is the enemy of the aging and everybody knows it. I wish... I wish...
I wish our hair stayed whatever color we wanted it to be. Like, if we wanted it red, we squeezed our eyes closed and envisioned tomatoes, rusted car doors and copper pennies. I'd wear different colors depending on my mood, but silver or gray would likely not be in my repertoire. I'd save those colors for Halloween or stage plays when I was playing an older character. Sadly, no such luck... my hair is a golden brown, save for the dull pieces of gray that have recently started camping out on my crown. What's left of my crown, that is. It started thinning out some years ago. Were I a Franciscan monk I would be excited - keeping my head clear for God would be that much easier.
I wish our joints stayed supple and limber until we were 100. I'd walk 10 miles a day, in flip flops no less. My back wouldn't start to compress less than a mile in. That dull ache that appears until I'm off my feet would never come. I'd be such an accomplished walker, being on my feet for hours would be no feat at all.
I wish the messed up relationships early in our lives slid out of our memories like the three items on my grocery list invariably do if I don't write them down. I'd have long ago forgotten how my brother hated me, how his insecurities and God knows what else caused him to be so mean to me, having the hideous effect of making me believe no man could love me. A lifetime later and hours spent on a couch have convinced me this isn't true, but changing patterns set long ago has continued to challenge me.
And of course I'd keep my womb as springy as it probably was those 5,478 days ago. I think the reason women start getting antsy about our clock is because we know it's going to stop ticking at some point. We just aren't aware of it in our 20's. Why should we be? But start hanging out in the upper 30's, oh yes. Oh yes we hear the clock. We know it's now or never. We start perspiring at the thought of putting off a family a few more years, even if we're having fun in the now and don't have Pampers burning a hole in our shopping carts. This fertility stuff stinks, that's for sure. I wish I could just bottle it to be used at a later date. Like, a quick trip to Kmart to pick it up. Blue light special on Fertilized Wombs, aisle 5. Pick up our blue light special while you can, ladies.
I have no idea what my future holds. That's half the trouble of aging. When you're young you may not know what's coming but the possibilities are still infinite, so it's less jarring. As an old lady [Editor's note: January insisted on including this obviously self-pitying epitet despite its inaccuracy. The term 'old lady' is generally disallowed from this blog. The editorial decision to allow it here was made because January has been whining so much it was the only thing to quiet her down.]
Oh God, I really am getting pathetic.
So let's recap: Aging sucks. Natural hair dye is good. Fertility should be available in big box stores. Any questions?
I wish our hair stayed whatever color we wanted it to be. Like, if we wanted it red, we squeezed our eyes closed and envisioned tomatoes, rusted car doors and copper pennies. I'd wear different colors depending on my mood, but silver or gray would likely not be in my repertoire. I'd save those colors for Halloween or stage plays when I was playing an older character. Sadly, no such luck... my hair is a golden brown, save for the dull pieces of gray that have recently started camping out on my crown. What's left of my crown, that is. It started thinning out some years ago. Were I a Franciscan monk I would be excited - keeping my head clear for God would be that much easier.
I wish our joints stayed supple and limber until we were 100. I'd walk 10 miles a day, in flip flops no less. My back wouldn't start to compress less than a mile in. That dull ache that appears until I'm off my feet would never come. I'd be such an accomplished walker, being on my feet for hours would be no feat at all.
I wish the messed up relationships early in our lives slid out of our memories like the three items on my grocery list invariably do if I don't write them down. I'd have long ago forgotten how my brother hated me, how his insecurities and God knows what else caused him to be so mean to me, having the hideous effect of making me believe no man could love me. A lifetime later and hours spent on a couch have convinced me this isn't true, but changing patterns set long ago has continued to challenge me.
And of course I'd keep my womb as springy as it probably was those 5,478 days ago. I think the reason women start getting antsy about our clock is because we know it's going to stop ticking at some point. We just aren't aware of it in our 20's. Why should we be? But start hanging out in the upper 30's, oh yes. Oh yes we hear the clock. We know it's now or never. We start perspiring at the thought of putting off a family a few more years, even if we're having fun in the now and don't have Pampers burning a hole in our shopping carts. This fertility stuff stinks, that's for sure. I wish I could just bottle it to be used at a later date. Like, a quick trip to Kmart to pick it up. Blue light special on Fertilized Wombs, aisle 5. Pick up our blue light special while you can, ladies.
I have no idea what my future holds. That's half the trouble of aging. When you're young you may not know what's coming but the possibilities are still infinite, so it's less jarring. As an old lady [Editor's note: January insisted on including this obviously self-pitying epitet despite its inaccuracy. The term 'old lady' is generally disallowed from this blog. The editorial decision to allow it here was made because January has been whining so much it was the only thing to quiet her down.]
Oh God, I really am getting pathetic.
So let's recap: Aging sucks. Natural hair dye is good. Fertility should be available in big box stores. Any questions?
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Les Fridays
It's Friday night. The neighbor starts texting me. We go back and forth for about 10 minutes during which time he says he's home watching TV. Then he invites me to come watch TV with him and I tell him I will in a little while after I [insert excuse]. I do my [insert activity], then walk the two doors down to his apartment and plop down on the loveseat, perpendicular to the couch where he plants himself. We pick a movie, he tries several times to get me to sit on the couch with him (I stay on the loveseat), and we begin watching.
About three minutes into the movie he begins touching me, extending his arm awkwardly to my knee/lap, stroking it. I place my hand somewhere between his hand and my crotch - because invariably, his stroking hand will start roaming north. His damn roving hand distracts me from the movie and I, exasperated, finally say something bordering between blunt and cute along the lines of "Get your hand off me you idiot, and JUST STOP TOUCHING ME" only it comes out more like "Your hand is distracting me; I can't enjoy the film! Tee hee hee."
I throw the tee hees in there to try and soften the blow.
It works, for about three minutes. Then he starts again with the hand on my knee/lap.
Somewhere around the three-quarter mark in the film, he asks me how my feet are. I lie and say they're fine. He picks one up and starts massaging it, kneading it expertly as only a former masseur can do. He's a former masseur. I am butter in his hands.
He gets up to retrieve some lotion and at this point the foot rub becomes orgasmic. And by orgasmic I mean, were anything other than clitoral stimulation capable of bringing me to orgasm, this would be it. Well, this a few other things I'll not go into here. In any case - you get the point: Best. Foot Rub. Ever.
The film hasn't even ended when he starts asking me for a bisou. Just one, he says. Just a little bisou, come on, come on. Give me a bisou. I tell him "Knock it off jerk, I'm trying to watch a movie here. Can you not freaking keep trying to kiss me?" only it comes out something like "Philippe, non! Je ne veux pas t'embrasser. Regardons le film... tee hee hee."
I use French to soften the message. I don't want to kiss, let's watch the film. But I'm not dicking around here; kissing this man is like bringing my lips in for a car wash and coming out with a Detail Supreme. My lips, teeth, tongue and the southern portion of my face get cleaned. I'm pretty sure if I do it often enough the paint's gonna come off the finish. So I try to keep it to a minimum.
The credits start rolling as he leans over again. "Give me a kiss. Give me some bisous. Come on. Let me have some. Just one. Just one bisou." By this point I'm worn down, exasperated, relaxed from the orgasmic foot rub, and just not wanting to fight anymore. But the memory of big, sloppy lips making their way all over my mouth is strong. "Philippe, tu me fais folle. Je te donne UN bisou," I say, hoping my cutesy offer of one kiss while simultaneously telling him he drives me crazy will make it quick and simple. Alas, the tactic fails me miserably and I have to tell him to stop kissing me.
I'm going to leave, I say. Good night Philippe. No, I don't want to hug you. Really, having you press your semi-erect member against me while you lick my face, ear or neck ain't doing it for me. Goodnight!!
Call me, he says. Call me.
Out I go. It's a long 10 second walk home.
I sometimes wonder if I'm living in purgatory, heaven being somewhere where French men kiss me hotly on the neck without leaving a trail of saliva, hell being a round room with no door and a big set of wet lips chasing me around and around and around. God save me.
About three minutes into the movie he begins touching me, extending his arm awkwardly to my knee/lap, stroking it. I place my hand somewhere between his hand and my crotch - because invariably, his stroking hand will start roaming north. His damn roving hand distracts me from the movie and I, exasperated, finally say something bordering between blunt and cute along the lines of "Get your hand off me you idiot, and JUST STOP TOUCHING ME" only it comes out more like "Your hand is distracting me; I can't enjoy the film! Tee hee hee."
I throw the tee hees in there to try and soften the blow.
It works, for about three minutes. Then he starts again with the hand on my knee/lap.
Somewhere around the three-quarter mark in the film, he asks me how my feet are. I lie and say they're fine. He picks one up and starts massaging it, kneading it expertly as only a former masseur can do. He's a former masseur. I am butter in his hands.
He gets up to retrieve some lotion and at this point the foot rub becomes orgasmic. And by orgasmic I mean, were anything other than clitoral stimulation capable of bringing me to orgasm, this would be it. Well, this a few other things I'll not go into here. In any case - you get the point: Best. Foot Rub. Ever.
The film hasn't even ended when he starts asking me for a bisou. Just one, he says. Just a little bisou, come on, come on. Give me a bisou. I tell him "Knock it off jerk, I'm trying to watch a movie here. Can you not freaking keep trying to kiss me?" only it comes out something like "Philippe, non! Je ne veux pas t'embrasser. Regardons le film... tee hee hee."
I use French to soften the message. I don't want to kiss, let's watch the film. But I'm not dicking around here; kissing this man is like bringing my lips in for a car wash and coming out with a Detail Supreme. My lips, teeth, tongue and the southern portion of my face get cleaned. I'm pretty sure if I do it often enough the paint's gonna come off the finish. So I try to keep it to a minimum.
The credits start rolling as he leans over again. "Give me a kiss. Give me some bisous. Come on. Let me have some. Just one. Just one bisou." By this point I'm worn down, exasperated, relaxed from the orgasmic foot rub, and just not wanting to fight anymore. But the memory of big, sloppy lips making their way all over my mouth is strong. "Philippe, tu me fais folle. Je te donne UN bisou," I say, hoping my cutesy offer of one kiss while simultaneously telling him he drives me crazy will make it quick and simple. Alas, the tactic fails me miserably and I have to tell him to stop kissing me.
I'm going to leave, I say. Good night Philippe. No, I don't want to hug you. Really, having you press your semi-erect member against me while you lick my face, ear or neck ain't doing it for me. Goodnight!!
Call me, he says. Call me.
Out I go. It's a long 10 second walk home.
I sometimes wonder if I'm living in purgatory, heaven being somewhere where French men kiss me hotly on the neck without leaving a trail of saliva, hell being a round room with no door and a big set of wet lips chasing me around and around and around. God save me.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
That Summer in Manhattan
The early days of living in New York City were by all reaches of my memory a bit magical. I lived in a large apartment with enough other young women to field a basketball team. Or given that most of us were actresses, you might better think of us as Six Characters in Search of an Author. Those were heady days. College friends filled the neighborhood and the rest of the city held friends in the making. Nights were spent drinking at a selection of choice bars, usually in the same order beginning with our local and ending far enough away that justifying cab fare at 4:00 am was easy. Life was as easy as it can be before careers and the pressure to find a mate settled in. When you're single at 23 you take it as an edict to meet as many attractive men as possible, kissing some, dancing with others, flirting with the friends of a few.
I did have a few boyfriends during that time, men that I kissed, danced with and flirted with their friends - but dated exclusively and happily. Walking through Manhattan holding hands with a man you like feels like you're playing out a scene in a movie. In fact, one summer evening I did just that...
The fellow I was dating was tall, a bit thick around the middle, very smart and also a touch arrogant. I remember when we met - it was on a July night at Midsummer Night Swing in Lincoln Center. He had been seeing a friend of mine, though she told me she wasn't crazy about him and was going to break it off. He and I laid eyes on each other and it was all over. With her blessing, we had our first date that weekend... our romance the perfect summer event. One evening we were taking a walk and ended up at Carl Schurz Park, watching the East River flow by, smelling the air get thicker in anticipation of a storm. It started to sprinkle so we started the walk home. The sprinkles turned rapidly into large drops and suddenly the sky opened up. East 89th Street turned into a shower. Warm, furious summer rain poured down on us. We tried running for a minute, but it really was hopeless. Laughing, we stopped in the middle of the road and pulled in to each other in a passionate embrace. Even remembering it these fifteen years later I am struck by the passion, the water running down our cheeks, our arms, our toes, doing nothing to cool down the heat. This was my most cinematic of personal scenes and Hollywood could do no better.
So if George Lucas was the auteur of That Summer in Manhattan, Judd Apatow would pen the sequel. Taking place fifteen years later it would find January still single and making her way through a city on a coast 3000 miles away. She would be a blogger, writing of her adventures with men and her difficulty in accepting getting older. One day she would remember the young man, her former co-star. She would Google him. And she would find that he too is now living in this city. Over time though, this formerly struggling journalist would have ascended the throne of a large publication. He would also have gotten married to a Jewish woman, converted for her, had a bris in his 30's, and changed his last name to hers. That's right, he would now go by John Wussy-Smith, the bachelor, foreskinned days of John Smith long gone. He would be as arrogant as ever (and retained his spare tire) and January, realizing she had dodged quite a bullet those fifteen years ago, would raise her glass to offer a toast to the happy couple. She would then blog about the great cinema they made that summer but not without mocking the man. Perhaps the sequel would be called I'd Have Let You Keep Your Balls.
Perhaps in the sequel January would find a partner of her own. I'd like that.
I did have a few boyfriends during that time, men that I kissed, danced with and flirted with their friends - but dated exclusively and happily. Walking through Manhattan holding hands with a man you like feels like you're playing out a scene in a movie. In fact, one summer evening I did just that...
The fellow I was dating was tall, a bit thick around the middle, very smart and also a touch arrogant. I remember when we met - it was on a July night at Midsummer Night Swing in Lincoln Center. He had been seeing a friend of mine, though she told me she wasn't crazy about him and was going to break it off. He and I laid eyes on each other and it was all over. With her blessing, we had our first date that weekend... our romance the perfect summer event. One evening we were taking a walk and ended up at Carl Schurz Park, watching the East River flow by, smelling the air get thicker in anticipation of a storm. It started to sprinkle so we started the walk home. The sprinkles turned rapidly into large drops and suddenly the sky opened up. East 89th Street turned into a shower. Warm, furious summer rain poured down on us. We tried running for a minute, but it really was hopeless. Laughing, we stopped in the middle of the road and pulled in to each other in a passionate embrace. Even remembering it these fifteen years later I am struck by the passion, the water running down our cheeks, our arms, our toes, doing nothing to cool down the heat. This was my most cinematic of personal scenes and Hollywood could do no better.
So if George Lucas was the auteur of That Summer in Manhattan, Judd Apatow would pen the sequel. Taking place fifteen years later it would find January still single and making her way through a city on a coast 3000 miles away. She would be a blogger, writing of her adventures with men and her difficulty in accepting getting older. One day she would remember the young man, her former co-star. She would Google him. And she would find that he too is now living in this city. Over time though, this formerly struggling journalist would have ascended the throne of a large publication. He would also have gotten married to a Jewish woman, converted for her, had a bris in his 30's, and changed his last name to hers. That's right, he would now go by John Wussy-Smith, the bachelor, foreskinned days of John Smith long gone. He would be as arrogant as ever (and retained his spare tire) and January, realizing she had dodged quite a bullet those fifteen years ago, would raise her glass to offer a toast to the happy couple. She would then blog about the great cinema they made that summer but not without mocking the man. Perhaps the sequel would be called I'd Have Let You Keep Your Balls.
Perhaps in the sequel January would find a partner of her own. I'd like that.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The Nose Knows
My freshman year of college there was this senior who lurked around my dorm room a lot. He was cute, all five feet of him. His sandy blond hair fell across his eyes like a curtain tucked halfway up a window. For some unknown reason, he liked me. OK, maybe it was known. Might have had something to do with my cute smile. Or my charming naivete. Or the kiss we shared over by the bathrooms during that frat party... one for the record books. The party was being held at a beach and the sounds and smells of that night are etched in my memory... the water lapping onto the shore... the aroma of dried seaweed... the crunch of the sand and broken shells under our feet... and his smell, a combination of sweat and Drakkar Noir. I remember him pressing his face into my neck while my eyes practically rolled back in my head from the intoxicating scent. At that moment I would have done anything he wanted, I was so completely aroused. Foot traffic to the loo, however, kept our embrace short and sweet.
In the years since, there has occasionally been another melange of scents equally as seductive. I'm a fool for a man who smells great. Little Known Way Into January's Pants # 14: Smell Good. Hell, we are animals, after all. Isn't that the whole evolutionary idea behind pheromones? Man smells good. Woman opens legs. Human race continues.
But sometimes I've caught wind of a guy's fragrance and been immediately turned off. What is this smell that has such a potent anti-aphrodisiacal affect? I call it Eau de Frère, or My Brother's Scent. It's something like a combination of dirty socks, methane and sweat. Nothing will bring me out of a blush-inducing haze faster than smelling my brother or any man resembling his odor. I could be as horny as a hooker at a Chippendales show yet I'd turn down Nathan Fillion if he smelled like my brother.
I might offer to shower with Nathan first. You know, just to see if I could wash off the scent. If he asked nicely.
I believe the point in all this evolutionary hoo-ha is to diversify my gene pool. I really don't care, so long as I get a great-smelling man. Great smelling and intelligent. Great smelling, intelligent, and witty. Plus kind of outgoing but not more than me. Also preferably taller than that senior at the frat party. Not too much to ask, right?
But seriously on the olfactory arousal.
In the years since, there has occasionally been another melange of scents equally as seductive. I'm a fool for a man who smells great. Little Known Way Into January's Pants # 14: Smell Good. Hell, we are animals, after all. Isn't that the whole evolutionary idea behind pheromones? Man smells good. Woman opens legs. Human race continues.
But sometimes I've caught wind of a guy's fragrance and been immediately turned off. What is this smell that has such a potent anti-aphrodisiacal affect? I call it Eau de Frère, or My Brother's Scent. It's something like a combination of dirty socks, methane and sweat. Nothing will bring me out of a blush-inducing haze faster than smelling my brother or any man resembling his odor. I could be as horny as a hooker at a Chippendales show yet I'd turn down Nathan Fillion if he smelled like my brother.
I might offer to shower with Nathan first. You know, just to see if I could wash off the scent. If he asked nicely.
I believe the point in all this evolutionary hoo-ha is to diversify my gene pool. I really don't care, so long as I get a great-smelling man. Great smelling and intelligent. Great smelling, intelligent, and witty. Plus kind of outgoing but not more than me. Also preferably taller than that senior at the frat party. Not too much to ask, right?
But seriously on the olfactory arousal.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Update From Inside the Hole
I've been avoiding this post for a week. Not to insult my blog. But opening up to anyone much less everyone has been the last thing I've wanted to do. A week ago I joined the ranks of the unemployed (optimistically referred to as the future employed but I don't have my usual abundance of optimism in stock this week so you'll understand if I'm nothing but direct as I report from the bottom of this hole). I'm at a loss. What's happening with my life? How will I pay my bills? Am I doing the right thing, pursuing a full-time job? Am I dishonoring the gifts God has given me, abandoning them (even temporarily) for security? Am I messing up?
I feel like staying in my pj's until 4:15 pm is messing up. Not showering for two days, this might be messing up. And seeking full-time employment at a financial firm, something I'm attempting to do (among other high-paying industries) when I am at heart a creative soul, well... that is probably really, really messing up. It's not like I'm doing it for fun. I got bills to pay! I'm telling myself if I get a really high-paying job I can kick out this debt in a year. But I'm wondering how much of my soul will whither during that time. I'm concurrently job hunting in the more creative fields, knowing that they don't pay as much but also that I'd enjoy those jobs more. Of course - I'd simply like to perform, to be a performer and nothing more. How I wish I had a benefactor who'd like to pay me to pursue my performance career. Someone to wipe out my debt and offer me a stipend that would cover my basic bills... Ah, yes. A sugar daddy. If only I was as comfortable sleeping with men for money as I am for thrills. Damn you, selective morals.
I've got a trip coming up next week back east to see some family. All the usual suspects will be there, God help me. I'm sort of looking forward to the change of scenery for the snark factor though. It's tough being snarky, cheeky or generally sassy-minded when you're feeling blue. And without my sass, where am I?
I already covered that. I believe the (silent) answer was I don't know.
Editor's Note: January will return with her usual chipper 'tude some time this week. For those of you wishing for a jolt of it before then, check out her posts under 'January s'Amuse', or 'Full Contact Sport (Men)'. For those of you who find this post entertaining... Get help you, you sick puppy.
I feel like staying in my pj's until 4:15 pm is messing up. Not showering for two days, this might be messing up. And seeking full-time employment at a financial firm, something I'm attempting to do (among other high-paying industries) when I am at heart a creative soul, well... that is probably really, really messing up. It's not like I'm doing it for fun. I got bills to pay! I'm telling myself if I get a really high-paying job I can kick out this debt in a year. But I'm wondering how much of my soul will whither during that time. I'm concurrently job hunting in the more creative fields, knowing that they don't pay as much but also that I'd enjoy those jobs more. Of course - I'd simply like to perform, to be a performer and nothing more. How I wish I had a benefactor who'd like to pay me to pursue my performance career. Someone to wipe out my debt and offer me a stipend that would cover my basic bills... Ah, yes. A sugar daddy. If only I was as comfortable sleeping with men for money as I am for thrills. Damn you, selective morals.
I've got a trip coming up next week back east to see some family. All the usual suspects will be there, God help me. I'm sort of looking forward to the change of scenery for the snark factor though. It's tough being snarky, cheeky or generally sassy-minded when you're feeling blue. And without my sass, where am I?
I already covered that. I believe the (silent) answer was I don't know.
Editor's Note: January will return with her usual chipper 'tude some time this week. For those of you wishing for a jolt of it before then, check out her posts under 'January s'Amuse', or 'Full Contact Sport (Men)'. For those of you who find this post entertaining... Get help you, you sick puppy.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Keep on Movin'
Oh God, it's true you should be careful what you wish for. My mind is far more powerful than I admit. The way things are looking, I ought right now to wish a tall, dark and handsome man appear at my door and take me to Cheesecake Factory for dinner. Why? Well, I've always had a think for brunets. And I love Cheesecake's Bang Bang Chicken and Shrimp. Woof! Everyone should try it at least once in his life.
I've been living alone for about ten years (save for the year my ex-fiance lived with me. I'm not counting that though. He was short). The other day I just said to a friend that I'd been really thinking about what's the most important priority in my vast collection of current priorities and the answer was: debt reduction. So not sexy, I know. But there it is. I figure I can win the lottery (I don't usually play though, so my odds aren't very good), find a sugar daddy (any takers? Anyone?), reduce my spending (sigh...) or get a better paying job. I'm seeking a better job. And lo and behold, a way to reduce spending has fallen in my lap. A friend is buying a house and she invited me to come be a roommate. The house is great, the company's lovely and the rent is cheaper. Looks like I got what I asked for, right?
But, ah... there's the whole packing thing. I detest packing. And by detest I mean, I would rather have my eyelashes plucked out with a scalding hot Tweezerman than pack up my home. Usually when I move into a place I stay a while. In Brooklyn it was over four years... my last home was three and a half... and this place I've only been for a bit over a year. Surely this is too soon to be pulling up my roots and heading five miles north (further into the valley for God's sake). I've only begun to nestle in here. I haven't even slept with a neighbor yet! Though in all truth I could have. And may still. But only if he gets his kissing game up to par.
In my new home I'd have a pool and a backyard... I can see myself eating breakfast on the back patio, pink laptop at hand, tweeting of the warm hues of the day's rising sun, or of how men should never wear too much cologne... you know, whatever important notes fill my mind at the top of the day. It could be monumental. Maybe the extra 15 minutes I'd need to drive to LA proper would be worth lounging at the pool and then washing my bathing suit for free instead of hoarding quarters and driving to the laundromat. I could finally start parking at meters again. I've had to hike blocks from a free parking spot to a restaurant since I couldn't spare a quarter for the meter. Do you understand what kind of freedom that would mean??
I think at this time my mind is made up: I'll hire professional packers to box up my current place and then outsource someone to unpack my things in the new place... I'll probably leave town for a few days while it goes down, maybe get my groove on down in Puerto Vallerta. Or wait, where did Stella go to get hers back? Maybe I'll go there. Actually, maybe I should go get my groove ahead of the move, and bring back my new friend to do the packing and unpacking! The possibilities are endless. I just need to start.
But first maybe I'll have a piece of chocolate. My life's about to be turned upside down. I may as well enjoy this moment while it lasts.
I've been living alone for about ten years (save for the year my ex-fiance lived with me. I'm not counting that though. He was short). The other day I just said to a friend that I'd been really thinking about what's the most important priority in my vast collection of current priorities and the answer was: debt reduction. So not sexy, I know. But there it is. I figure I can win the lottery (I don't usually play though, so my odds aren't very good), find a sugar daddy (any takers? Anyone?), reduce my spending (sigh...) or get a better paying job. I'm seeking a better job. And lo and behold, a way to reduce spending has fallen in my lap. A friend is buying a house and she invited me to come be a roommate. The house is great, the company's lovely and the rent is cheaper. Looks like I got what I asked for, right?
But, ah... there's the whole packing thing. I detest packing. And by detest I mean, I would rather have my eyelashes plucked out with a scalding hot Tweezerman than pack up my home. Usually when I move into a place I stay a while. In Brooklyn it was over four years... my last home was three and a half... and this place I've only been for a bit over a year. Surely this is too soon to be pulling up my roots and heading five miles north (further into the valley for God's sake). I've only begun to nestle in here. I haven't even slept with a neighbor yet! Though in all truth I could have. And may still. But only if he gets his kissing game up to par.
In my new home I'd have a pool and a backyard... I can see myself eating breakfast on the back patio, pink laptop at hand, tweeting of the warm hues of the day's rising sun, or of how men should never wear too much cologne... you know, whatever important notes fill my mind at the top of the day. It could be monumental. Maybe the extra 15 minutes I'd need to drive to LA proper would be worth lounging at the pool and then washing my bathing suit for free instead of hoarding quarters and driving to the laundromat. I could finally start parking at meters again. I've had to hike blocks from a free parking spot to a restaurant since I couldn't spare a quarter for the meter. Do you understand what kind of freedom that would mean??
I think at this time my mind is made up: I'll hire professional packers to box up my current place and then outsource someone to unpack my things in the new place... I'll probably leave town for a few days while it goes down, maybe get my groove on down in Puerto Vallerta. Or wait, where did Stella go to get hers back? Maybe I'll go there. Actually, maybe I should go get my groove ahead of the move, and bring back my new friend to do the packing and unpacking! The possibilities are endless. I just need to start.
But first maybe I'll have a piece of chocolate. My life's about to be turned upside down. I may as well enjoy this moment while it lasts.
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