Wednesday, April 22, 2009

We're moving!

I'll probably leave this site up since it doesn't cost anything but the rest of my thoughts are moving over to Boodoggy of course an homage to the beautiful black lab who is also my profile picture. She had has made me laugh in the last two days as people have mistaken her for a boy because she insists on lifting her leg to pee and trying to mark poles like a boy. I don't get it. Can dogs have gender identity issues? Come join us (read: me) at Serendipitous Freelance Writer. It has already proved to be a fortuitous move as I logged in a few hours after creating it to find I had a follower. From the UK no less. She had discovered me by accident as she was logging off. Pretty neat, eh? I was also pleased to 'meet' Lodo and read a bit of his two blogs. Any guy who loves black lab mixes is all right with me. What are the odds? There is magic in happenstance.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Dancing Video

Oh the humanity

I know I'm not perfect but I do tend to be a word snob. I cringe when I read a profile that substitutes the word 'diversity' for 'adversity' as this college educated guy did but he seemed nice so I gave him my number. He had not received the memo instructing men not to tell a girl that you are talking to for the first time that you owe your ex-girlfriend money. It might be a good idea to never mention this unless you are about to be on Judge Judy. It is also a bad idea to talk at length about your ex as it invariably reveals more about you than her. I think that was in the same memo. The first conversation is rarely the right one to go deep, to talk about your abusive father or the death of your mother, to question a person's alcohol consumption and socializing habits, to talk about marriage at all. Too much information out of context is simply overwhelming. He seemed like a nice guy who was well rounded and while he didn't sweep me off my feet, I really thought we might have some stuff in common. This is why people are never hired from a resume. But at the end of the two hours I'll never get back, he said he hoped to hear from me and I didn't have the heart to tell him that I didn't feel the same way. He even told me that if I wasn't interested, I needed to tell him but I just couldn't. Is that bad?

A parting shot. It is also poor form to call a girl twice in the space of 20 minutes. If she's not picking up, it is not a good time. Seriously, were you raised by wolves?

Friday, April 17, 2009

Odds and Ends

I just read this book that spoke my heart on many things. I feel I can't yet do it justice but it made me want to have a long talk with a good friend. But I'm not quite ready for that either. I'm not sure what I would say and I'm not sure what I want her to know.

Match continues to thicken my skin and occasionally heighten my despair. A couple of friends have noted that match might be more of a hook-up place. I'm not so much a hook-up girl and I'm sure that comes across in my profile. Perhaps that's why Batman tried to give me an intimate massage on the front steps of the Art Museum on a busy Sunday afternoon. Another story for another time.

So I decided to try e-harmony again last night. The results of that were near laughable. Before I could even finish my profile, 4 guys had rejected me. I was so confused and kind of amused. I imagined a queue of guys walking up to my profile like it was a window and rapidly making up excuses about leaving the iron plugged in, the stove on, suddenly ill relatives, and ex-girlfriends that they planned to propose to that very evening. Glancing over their profiles, which are a far cry from the exhaustive e-harmony profile I filled out 8+ years ago, I wasn't missing much but still. It was so fast it was like these 4 random guys were buzzing in to answer a Jeopardy question. It was sitcom worthy. Tina Fey, are you there? This would totally happen to Liz.

I felt better tonight when I decided to subscribe and thus could see the pictures of these wouldn't-be suitors. Dodged a bullet. Several bullets. One guy was nice looking but in a frat boy way that didn't surprise me that I wasn't his type. Guys who list exercise as one of their top interests aren't usually falling over themselves to get to me, nor I to them.

Going back to the book, I felt like I needed to be alone for a weekend away from my home, responsibilities, and people I know. Then I would break the book back open, write down every statement that resonated with me and test it, weigh, tug at the thread and see what I unravelled. It's far to much work for a weekend, it is a lifetime of work but it would be interesting and potentially life changing to think about my relationship with God, what I assume about his nature, how that shapes how I move about in this world.

Outside of the book, I'm beginning to see something I never saw before in all of my relationships. I thought I had mastered my father. I understand him better than I ever have, recognize and no longer recoil from being more like him than any of the other kids. What I'm starting to realize is my reluctance to communicate disappointment, preference, or anything of substance with others is directly related to how I dealt with him growing up. My reluctance to depend on anyone or have anyone expect anything of me, my desire to anticipate what people want me to do before they can ask, and my shame when I think I have disappointed them, my inability or reluctance to communicate about that disappointment. My inclination to walk away rather than deal with their unmet expectations, even if I've never bothered to find out what they are.

It's all a bit much.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Just a tiny pity party

One person has visited the site in the last week. Strangely enough, they were from Australia. Not sure how they found me but they didn't stay long. This is my dilemma. I don't think this site is very compelling (and by extension, neither am I). Nothing that makes you want to stay a little longer if you happen to stop by. Something you can stand to miss. Kind of like a store you shop at twice a year. If it went out of business, you would briefly mourn that it wasn't there anymore but there wasn't anything there you couldn't get anywhere else. I kind of feel that way about match too. I'm missing that intangible quality--the best thing about me might be that I'm not as boring as I initially seem. That's not exactly compelling. I have intrinsic value as a living being, as we all do, but that doesn't mean that anyone would want to date me or read anything I write. I think that is a hard but necessary pill to swallow and digest. I want to be special, I think everyone does and everyone is. But I want to be extra-special and not everyone is extra-special. Being designated extra-special is a fickle and often arbitrary thing but to again marvel the phenom of Britney Spears as a "singer" she does have some sort of quality which allows her to stand out among all the other average looking, mediocre-voiced wannabes. That is what makes her extra-special. The more respectable marvel of extra-specialness is Tina Fey. She's worked the salt mines of her craft long before we even knew she existed. She is willfully non-glamorous and I'd like to think she recognizes quite sincerely that she's fortunate. Fortunate to have found her audience, fortunate to have the right combination of people around her to execute her vision, fortunate to have the support and time to build her audience, damn fortunate for the randomness of Sarah Palin's placement on the Republican ticket. I'm happy that opportunity met her preparation because when someone like her succeeds, someone who is quite ordinarily special, it keeps a tiny flame of hope alight for me. Although it is VERY unlikely anything will ever come of this random writing thing, perhaps, perhaps, something will. I've read some pretty crappy things in print. Maybe someday, some of my crap will be printed and bound for posterity. Maybe I should work on being even more crappy so that people will read me simply to be incredulous that someone thought trees should be felled to get my words out to more people. Fame through notoriety. Kind of like the Paris Hilton of writing. The kind of writing that makes you want to put down what you're doing to find someone and show them just how bad it is and how knocked over you are that it made it to press and has the nerve to have a price printed on it. Not fit for wiping bad. Though to be fair, I've never read a book fit for wiping. No matter how bad the prose, the paper is simply unsuitable for any kind of sanitary bathroom use. Not to mention the plumbing problems you invite with trying to flush that kind of paper. Book paper is really only suitable as worst-case, emergency side of the road wiping. Glad we got that cleared up.

So in conclusion, the dog is waiting for me to walk her, I just got invited to dinner with a neighbor, and I'm boring and my writing sucks. Yep, I think I covered all the bases.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

What I've learned from Match so far

I've moved quite beyond the 30 contacts I vowed I would make before spitefully ending my membership even though I would get no money back. I've moved beyond another strange encounter with Batman on whom my bluntness is wasted. I have even moved beyond the disappointing results of my first completed determination of 2009 to ask a guy out. I've changed my profile many times, I've written many, many guys. To borrow an analogy from a previous post, I've moved from the shore to the water but I'm still pulling up sneakers, tires, and assorted non-fish material.

When I first started reading profiles and came across a funny, well written, clever profile, my heart would do a mini-swoon, delighted that such men even existed. I reflexively considered them one in a million and that they would naturally see that we were compatible after reading my witty and well composed profile. A couple of months later, I realize that male literacy rates were higher than I first estimated and the lack of interest from clever-turn-of-phrase guy is no longer as disappointing. They are everywhere. They grow their own vegetables and love to cook. They write short stories and do lead vocals in a local band. They are funny writers, they travel, they love to read, they help the disadvantaged. Some of them may be lying, but instead of resigning myself to imagining how many kids Batman and I might have together and figuring the odds against any of them being even remotely normal, I'm taking solace in the abundance of men that I am attracted to and hoping that sometime between now and August, someone I'm interested in will actually feel the same way about me.

What is good from all this, at least today, is that the rejection is starting to lose its sting. I saw CCO tonight while I was out walking and we let the dogs visit, made minor small talk and parted ways. No mention of the e-mail, nothing to suggest that we have even had contact outside of our random chance encounters. Ignoring the elephant, that is a way of addressing it, yes. I could have said something but I'm just not that quick on the take and was simply pleased that I was dressed nicer than the last time he saw me. He didn't say anything either so we parted satisfied that the dogs are at least making progress in their relationship.

The other thing I'm starting to realize is that I'm a very conservative (read: boring) dresser. I don't do cleavage. The few things I have that do show cleavage, I tug at all day and vow never to wear again. I'm fairly well endowed so I've always been consumed with keeping the girls under control, not tossing them around in people's faces. I envy anyone who doesn't have to consider military-grade support in dress decisions. I really didn't think to make sure I had a profile picture that made it clear that boobs were included with the witty banter and wry humor they would get in a date with yours truly. Then I combed through my photos and I only have one photo, which I hate immensely both for the cleavage, which was near obscene, and my horrible hair. It one of the least flattering pictures on file. Anywhere. Worse than mile-high teased middle school bangs. Ick.

I don't disagree with my friends who insist that a good picture with face and cleavage would probably increase the traffic on my profile. I find cleavage distracting and I'm a girl. A guy, even if he claims to be an ass man or legs guy or whatever, can not NOT stare at cleavage. I'm just not sure if I'm ready to hook a fish that way. If the boob factor sways an otherwise disinterested guy my way, is it likely that true love or even true like will follow? We'll be continued.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009


Just saw a headline about fans offering Natalie Cole a new kidney. Pissed me off. Where's our f-ing kidney? I don't begrudge her long life and good health but I do begrudge a bunch of random people trying to be relevant to her because she's famous. I'd bet my right arm they can find someone who needs a kidney within a 5 mile radius of their house. I know I'm a hater but I'm just sayin, if you're anxious to unload a kidney on a stranger, our family is open and accepting donations. And for the benefit of the random passerby, which is rare here in the remix, before you wonder how I could be so haterific, and 'hey why don't you donate yours' comments, I did and wish I had another to give. So, about that kidney....


I'm tired. I'm think I'm tired because I'm always afraid and being afraid while appearing indifferent takes even more energy than just riding the wave of afraid. I'm very good at it but it still takes energy. BS has got me thinking which I appreciate, trying to identify the common themes between emotions of my formative years and my present malcontent. I feel I am skirting the edges of yet another epiphany. Not sure the newest epiphany, when it comes, will be worth anything, i.e. bring about a dramatic change in the way I move about life but I do think BS might be on to something. I've understood that my upbringing has made me who I am, it has made everyone who they are to some extent. But for all my introspection, moody self-absorbed posting, and confidence in my sometimes painful self-awareness, I think I'm finally getting a new way to consider old problems. I won't be cured of being me but I may make better decisions if I better understood the push-pull anxiety and emptiness of the jobs I've chosen and their relationship to the dynamic between my father and I growing up. I don't think it will drive me to seek a new career, rather, my hope is to approach the work with a lighter hand, heart, and mind. I love to daydream of a career in writing but a good statistician would tell you I'm more likely to work to a pensioner's age and if I'm lucky, live off my savings until life takes its natural course. I will remain famous in very small circles for things I did when I was 2, for the fender bender I had when I was 18, for 101 stupid things I've said or done in the presence of witnesses, and for several less than 101 nice things I did for friends or strangers. I'm happy I will leave this earth one day with a prominent 2 inch scar on my bicep; courtesy of the dog, a strange bump on my right thumb, suggestive of a past mangling; courtesy of a dog, a series of small burn scars on my right arm; one from a ridiculous straightening comb incident, the other from a spent M-16 shell casing, and all other manner of evidence of good stories in the roughs and tumbles of living.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Duck and Cover

So CCO wrote me back. Sent me a link to his blog which is really just an extension of his other marketing endeavors. It's nothing like this angst filled whiny one. He's a graphic designer. How neat-o. I wish my brother, who had what I think was a fledgling interest in designing some t-shirts was around so I could get the two of them together. Something tells me they would get along. Not in a 'I'm-making-plans-for-this-guy-to-be-a-part-of-my-family-way,' just because I like seeing creative people appreciate one another's work. I love CCO's designs. It is so cool to look at all these random logos and know that it came from his head. I dig creative people.

The post title was chosen because I'm tummy rumbling and gassy with fear at inviting him to give me a call if he wants to get together for a drink/coffee sometime. If I hit send, I will go from looking for him everywhere to hoping I never see him again. But one of my essentially abandoned determinations for this year was to ask a guy out. I don't think I could scream loud enough for how freaked out I am right now. It's not just because I'm afraid that he'll have a girlfriend or not be interested. It is because once I hit send my interest in him becomes real and if he's not interested, the daydream ends. Right now, I can be excited that I might see him and I can take every gesture out of context to possibly indicate mutual interest. If I actually do something about it, he doesn't get to be CCO anymore. That I'm asking a guy out over e-mail is lame enough. I could wait until the next random time I see him and see if it all comes together but I'm pretty sure I'll find a reason for it not to come together. I'll go for a walk and if I see him, I'll either give him my phone number and suggest we get coffee/drinks/hang out sometime or I will throw up on the sidewalk at our feet and my dog will once again abandon me.

I'll keep you posted. I look a hot mess today. I'll probably see him.

Grow the F@&k up

I'm cool now. I sent the e-mail. Took a walk, collected some poop, got a grip. We'll see what does or doesn't happen. I'm not even sure I like him anymore.

Oh, I totally admitted to him that I had to wikipedia Beer Pong. So there's that.

Yea, single girl staying single.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Heads up: God is doing a new thing

That's what one of my oldest friends just wrote me via the chat function on Facebook before abruptly signing off with promises to catch up soon. Apparently God's new thing is going down imminently. That phrase irritates me. I'm not sure why. Anyone else find that annoying?

PS on BS

I actually had an interesting session with BS yesterday. I spied the blue sweater in the corner, possibly shed in light of the mild weather. I might have to take a picture of the blue sweater before our time together is over. Maybe it is his Linus sweater. Anyway, what made the session interesting is that I unintentionally stumped him. I'm still delighted about it. He's puzzled because things that he thinks should be upsetting just aren't. I personally think he's stumped because he's used to dealing with white people (no offense). The caricature of black parenting has some truth in it. Sincerely believing that certain transgressions could be reasonably punishable by death, that spanking (which was straightforwardly referred to as beating) was not abuse, and that lip or attitude could certainly get you smacked or choked, was just the way things were. It wasn't done in secret with multiple trips to the emergency room, blackened eyes, broken bones, strange bruises; it was done upstairs while company was over, in the bathroom or hallway at church, in the car-a threat to take you out to the car made good. Observation of an out of control child is almost always observed with the comment, 'that child needs a good beating.' A conversation about dealing with a child like that inevitably provokes a mention of wishing that one could 'snatch' the child up. When I used to teach, I relished the challenge of a kid that didn't know discipline or beatings. They were difficult but they were also easy to shock. I loved wearing them down into accepting boundaries for acceptable behavior. I couldn't (and wouldn't) strike them but I sure could provide some immediate and non-negotiable consequences for non-compliance. I digress.

I guess what I'm getting at is that black parenting for me means that your parents nurture you in the sense that animals nurture their young. The objective is to get you safely into adulthood where you can take care of yourself. It is not to make sure you get to 'express' yourself or develop and nurture your passions. Activities are designed to keep you busy and out of trouble and work best if they are inexpensive (or free), aren't logistically complicated (i.e. picking up and dropping off) and require next to no parental commitment. The first time you complain about going to ballet is the last time you go (true story). No one is dragging you to anything even though it is generally understood that kids don't usually have the foresight to appreciate the long-term benefits of anything and will complain at least once about everything, especially when they are 5.

So against that matter-of-fact style of parenting that I think imbues me with a certain mental toughness* it was a challenge for BS because he just couldn't understand that I don't have any sadness or angst related to growing up with that kind of discipline. I don't see the links between that and my opinion of myself as not worth anything outside of what I can do for others. It's not the same set of emotions. I wasn't the kind of kid who needed much disciplining so I don't have a ton of reference material to draw from there anyway. So, I left satisfied that I had intrigued and challenged him. Yay for being interesting. We'll see what he comes up with.

*My father actually sent me off to military field training with an assurance that I would do fine because no one there could say anything worse to me than he ever had. He was absolutely right. In one of his more famous family quotes, he sent me off on a road trip with friends with the reminder that there "was nothing but death out there."


Sometimes I use the "next blog" button on the blogger page to see what random bloggers are up to. I came across a blog this morning that had a link to a blog catalogue with a subsection on blogs for women (whatever that means). For this site, it meant blogs about menopause, being lesbian and brown, being a middle aged married woman who discovers she is a lesbian, shopping, sex, and one random blog written by a guy who promises to dole out advice that will make the man your bitch. Naturally, I had to know more.

It was a poorly written blog with grammatical errors that annoy me. He didn't share anything particularly insightful or even entertaining but he's already written one book about nutrition and is working on a book based on his 'master dater' (his words) blog. If that swill is being bound and printed for consumption, I should probably at least self-publish something just because. Perhaps I'll be the Betamax to his VHS but people (who probably still didn't buy my book), would argue into antiquity that they knew I was the better of the two.

In other news, I took my dog to the groomer this morning and, I'm still incredulous about this, found out they make dog shampoo to bring out the color of dog's coats. They have one for black dogs, blond dogs, brunettes...just like the shampoo they make for people. My dog is already a shiny black coated dog but this is the only shampoo they use at this groomer so we'll see when she dries if she has salon-quality shine. I guess I could see a shampoo like that if you plan on entering a dog show but for my dog, who just turned around to bite her hindquarters and is now alternating between licking her blanket and her still damp paws, such vanity seems ridiculous. Seriously.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Seriously body, WTF?

So I'm sick again. Temp an even 100 degrees, throat feels like someone punched it from inside but all other systems ok. No cough, no runny nose, just achy, feverish throat punch. The scene at the back of my throat has progressed from red and angry to somewhat whitish but I'm not sure yet if that isn't because of the large bowl of vanilla frozen yogurt I ate in a futile attempt to soothe the throat punch. All the websites suggest strep so I will try to get an appointment tomorrow, miss yet another day of work, and try to figure out what the hell my body needs me to do to stay healthy for one whole month. I have been so sick since I moved here. I've been a regular Calamity Jane, twisting ankles, throwing up at friend's houses... One bright spot that would restore my faith in pretty much everything if it was repeated at our wedding was that I had another encounter with cute guy with dog, hereafter referred to as CCO (perhaps there will be reason to explain that later). Because I felt like crap, because I walked the dog late, and because as soon as I walked the dog, I headed straight back out to buy ice cream, I ran into CCO on my way home. I was dressed in two coats with two hoods and I'm sure resembled the unibomber. I didn't even see CCO but he said hi and I got to see him for the very first time without a hat or beard. He's pretty stinkin' cute in the dark. I'm not sure if he noticed I was ridiculously overdressed for the fairly mild conditions. He was on his way to play drums in his band and I said I was interested in hearing them play. He was clearly in a hurry so we had an awkward moment where people would normally exchange phone numbers and I said aloud 'I don't know how we do this.' He gave me his card, explaining it was his side business and told me to e-mail him to say hi and he would get back in touch. So yay on all that had to line up for that to happen, including my nth infection.

But wait for it, you know I court strange like no other, his side business is designing Beer Pong tables. I'm so lame, I actually had to wikipedia Beer Pong. I will never tell him that. I was afraid looking at his card that it had something to do with bongs so I was relieved that it was just a drinking game. So from the website, it looks to be a big deal and has been going on for years so that is kind of neat but certainly unconventional. I'm curious what his main business is if this is his side business. We shall see. Light a candle for me somewhere. Light two. One for health. Once for CCO.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

An explanation

I was in line at the store this evening, clutching 3 winter coats and sweating, eyes bloodshot and focused on the next available register when this young tall thin Indian guy with long hair, hippy clothing but holding a suit started talking to me. He was so friendly, I'm still wondering about him and need an explanation for his friendliness. Weird...

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Batman; how not to let down a superhero

Passive-aggressive avoidance--man, I could write a book of vignettes on how to pull this off with panache. Batman, who no doubt suspects me of being one of those girls who play games, called me several times trying to find out if I was up to hanging out with him decked out in his Batman inspired regalia. I couldn't simply pick up the phone and say no, I had to wait for him to leave increasingly annoyed messages, and waited until the next to last minute to call and give my regrets, getting quickly off the phone to take a fake nap. I'm hoping he'll be done with me now, disgusted and annoyed so that I don't have the untidy task of avoiding him or worse yet, telling him I'm not interested. I suspect we have not heard the last from Batman, but a girl can hope.

Working myself out of tight spaces

I spend a lot of time wishing. Creating with my imagination scenarios where I can see myself from the outside, looking like a million bucks, and beaming comfortably in my element. I make up fortunes on the spot; if the dog pees twice in one of the next three woodchip piles, I will meet my husband this year; if the elevator goes up without stopping, I will have a great day; if, if. I'm childlike enough to be excited when the elevator goes up without stopping but pragmatic enough to forget it happened or didn't happen as the day unfolds. I know that magic will seem possible for anyone if it ever happens for me and I do believe that something unknowable and intangible makes Britney Spears a star and that handsome and ridiculously talented guitar player I listened to in a 40-seat venue, known only in the smallest circles. A line from the David Foster Wallace book of essays comes to mind; "...people tend to be extremely similar in their vulgar and prurient and dumb interests and wildly different in their refined and aesthetic and noble interests."

I missed yoga this week because my tummy made me nervous and I was just wiped. I missed it not only as an opportunity to capitalize on the weight loss an intestinal virus will bring but as a opportunity to hear positive messages and reminders about dwelling in the present. It is physically impossible to be anywhere else yet my mind pulls me back and forth and that creates a figurative hour glass in my life, all processes hung up and stalled trying to reconcile the incompatible programs that are running. A shutdown is almost always the only way to get going again. It's so disruptive to keep shutting down just to get started again. I was thinking about and dreading work, thinking about all the other things I'd rather be doing and I realized, if I didn't have to leave the house at all, I probably wouldn't. Work isn't keeping me from having some fabulous life, it just doesn't add much to what is already a poorly developed life. I don't like having plans, I don't like having demands on my time. I like to wake up and decide what I'm going to do that day and wait to want to do something before doing it. The problem is that 90% of adult life falls outside of these parameters. What I'm essentially looking for is childhood.

When I'm not bending space and time, thinking on what I wish I'd done and what I should do tomorrow, I have been dwelling in this piece. I haven't found all the words I have for this but I think about this concept of love as a punch clock, love as doing time, the relationship between love, passion, and guilt both in how it relates to my relationships with others and in how it relates with my relationship to myself. I look at what I know of the love between some people I know and it is so perplexing to me, I think it either is not real or that I might be from another planet. I understand that it is not for me to understand or aspire to anyway, it is theirs and theirs alone. I know I shouldn't use their relationships, the innards of which are unknown to me, as a measure or goal for mine. I'm most fascinated though, with how they love themselves. How they punch the clock for themselves, taking care, but not out of vanity or selfishness. Maybe it doesn't run that deep, perhaps I'm stretching the analogy too far but there are some of us who are never doing enough, working hard to deserve something we can never earn, and there are those who seem to understand grace and love intrinsically, know they don't deserve it, that they can never earn it, and simply dwell in it. BS should be helping me with this, I think but I'm not sure our relationship will extend past this Friday's planned session. It is not his work to do anyway. It is mine.

Friday, March 20, 2009

A series I would have rather skipped

Right now my torso is gurgling and rumbling with lingering resentment over the abrupt disruption of the circle of life that keeps our digestive track healthy and productive. I'm not sure if the troops are still fighting or if this bloated discomfort is a rally but I am quite ready for it to be over so I can venture into public spaces with confidence that I won't have to leave abruptly for reasons best left to the imagination. What I regarded as found time upon the last minute cancellation of my planned trip, my body took as a cue to break down. A funny moment from the onset of symptoms was the clearing of the room of animals when I started throwing up. I was staying with a friend and 2/3 of the dogs in the house had taken up in my room for the night. Until I started hurling. They cleared out promptly. It kind of hurt my feelings and honestly, I think damaged their reputations of providing comfort to the the sick. I know who's got my back and it's not a certain black lab whose vomit I'd been removing from my rug for a week before I got sick.

But before all that I made time to go into work for a day that pushes my 'f@%k-you' meter closer to seeking a new job to be frustrated with and spent entirely too much money on a underwhelming vacuum cleaner. Batman called while I was away and it turns out he's found an excuse to dress up in one of his costumes for a superhero costume thing-y at a local university. He told me he doesn't expect me to dress up but doesn't plan to go or dress up unless I come with him. I did not commit to walking around a university campus alongside Batman (who plans to dress as The Riddler) so that he can get $2 off of admission and take advantage of an opportunity to wear one of his costumes on some day other than 31 October. Dear God.

You all are probably convinced I'm a jerk but Batman has this other weird 'Johnson has lost his marbles' kind of vibe that coupled with his quirkiness makes me want to handle this carefully. He reported today that he finally snapped and freaked out on a couple of his students and that he hasn't been picked on since. I hear something like that I see myself blinded by a camera light making cliche comments about Batman seeming like a nice quiet guy while everyone else tries to make sense of the carnage. He seems like a delicate soul. I don't know. We'll see.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Magic moments

The story of how a thing came to be is often more magical than the thing they are or become. I'm thinking specifically of the story of how my dog and I came to be and all that had to come together for her to be in that shelter at that time, to resemble a dog that I had loved in the past, and to plainly solicit us to take her home (she literally picked up some random collar in the cage and tossed it at us twice while flat out staring at my sister and me). I like the story because she chose us. When considering a dog, I had it in my mind that I would get a beagle. I considered it a sign that my then next door neighbors had two beagles. But fate clearly had other plans for me. What has followed from that wonderful fated moment, especially this last week, is far from magical. There are some decidedly un-magical things about managing relationships following the supernatural that brings and binds two beings together. There are many things that would be markedly easier to accomplish without one another and time apart is usually refreshing. Still, I've built a life around 65 pounds of fur and flesh and I really wouldn't have it any other way.

I wonder if that is how married people feel.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Shits and giggles

Forgive me, faint of heart for the crudeness of the last few posts. When last we left our heros, non-food objects and general anal retentiveness threatened health and humor. Looming deadlines and pending travel added to the stress. I am happy to report that movement has occurred for all of us and serindipity continued in the postponement of our travel plans. It truly is the little things.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Freudian shits

So the dog has a blockage in her lower colon. Something non-food. Ironically, so do I. Literally and figuratively, I feel like I have a stick in my ass. Her rhythm is off, my rhythm is off. I was counting on this week to get stuff done and now it is Friday. There is a phantom smell of dog vomit coming from somewhere I can not find. I've been tired all week but now I can not sleep. I need to cancel my appointment with BS tomorrow afternoon because I simply do not have the time. An hour of this evening was spent dodging the crap of other dogs, walking every patch of grass within a mile of our house, frustrated nearly to the point of whimpering that she just would not or could not poop. I was already unhealthily consumed with her bowel habits, now I'm literally walking on my tiptoes and holding my breath hoping that she is winding up to deliver the goods. Not sure what that says about me. Pretty sure I don't want to figure it out.

If she doesn't pass something tomorrow morning, we're supposed to check in with the vet for perhaps another set of X-rays to see if the blockage has even budged and to discuss what we need to do next to break up the logjam. Surgery is a last resort option that begins to tip the benefits vs risk scale as time passes without foreign object passage. The good news is that it made it so far through her digestive tract. The bad news is that it refuses to move on. It would be funny if it weren't potentially life threatening and scarily expensive. We've spent over $300 this week and she still has a problem. I can't imagine how much money it would cost to actually fix something. They didn't even charge me for an office visit today and it was over $100. I'm scheduled to fly out on Saturday, adding a sense of urgency about this movement and a sense of anxiety about leaving her in the care of others. I can't fathom the mechanics of a dog enema but I am probably going to google it when I finish this post. Don't even get me started about work. Something has got to give. This has been a very shitty week. Pun absolutely intended.

Dog Mom

Before we get started with this post I want to acknowledge that I do understand that human children are different from dogs. But even those who have dogs and children can appreciate that the perpetual childhood of a dog can be taxing at times. With children, there is a point when they start to take themselves to the bathroom, fix themselves some basic sustenance, and manage some self-care when they are ill. They also usually learn how to get to the bathroom in time for however they are going to be sick. Not so with dogs. Even if you strategically place multiple large towels across your nearly new and terribly expensive wool rug, you will still rise to find your sick and pitiful looking dog resting on one of the towels after disgorging the contents of their stomach on to the rug. It's been a week with this throwing up thing and I finally took her to the vet yesterday. Over 200 dollars later, we came home with Pepcid. F&@king Pepcid. And she's still throwing up. Predominantly on the newer and more expensive of the two rugs in the living room. I'd bet good money that even if I switched the location of the two rugs, she would still throw up on the new one. Dogs have a sixth sense about these things. It's a hateful sixth sense but a very accurate one. So I sit here waiting for the next round of gagging so I can rub her belly calm and she can wait until I leave for work to desecrate our living space.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Batman, glitter shirts, and theme suspenders

Batman was a lovely man, a grown-up Urkel, if you will. Theme suspenders. Check. Theme tie. Check. Black and white wing tips. Check. Very large retro glasses. Check. He was right out of central casting. He mentioned at some point having shopped for glitter shirts when he was going to clubs. He’s the guy in the club with the glitter shirt ladies, and he is rock-in’ it. He knows he looks good too. Glitter shirt. Christ. I was inwardly wincing at the sheet music tie and suspenders. I would have blushed the entire night with embarrassment if he had showed up in a glitter shirt.

He was entirely too nice of a guy for me to mock and far too earnest to go out with again. Still it was nice to feel my power. It was nice to be sure a guy liked me. I definitely had hand. I knew before we went out that I was unlikely to be attracted to him but I still wanted him to be into me. Had he been underwhelmed by all that is me, I might have considered impaling myself on one of the beer taps. I would have taken an unnecessary vow of celibacy and completely given up.

I’ve been thinking about the date today because I can. In this space, I’ve documented my fixations with Mr. Coffee, IBC, and now cute guy with dog (more on him later) and none of these guys were/are ever into me. On paper, Batman is great; music teacher, loves all kinds of music, plays guitar (one of my Achilles’ heel), and he’s into me as is. A little too into me for what little he knows but into me nonetheless. I wrote a friend recently who was giving me unsolicited dating advice telling her first to please stop. More importantly, I told her that I recognized that I have questionable taste in men. I don’t think there is anything wrong with anyone I’ve liked necessarily. It’s just that I can and routinely do pick the least interested/available man in any room to become fixated with. I told her that until there is some shift in me that allows me to like people who like me instead of being drawn to guys who aren't interested or just like having someone into them without returning the favor, I think things are going to be about the same as they ever have been.

6 more guys to be rejected by on match until that expensive and ego-deflating experiment is over.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Some things are cool just because you get to say you're doing them

Example: I've got a date tomorrow. It doesn't matter that it's not with someone I'm really all that excited about seeing. It's just nice to be able to tell people I'm doing it. Makes me sound desirable.

Example: (off camera question: What did you do this weekend?) Oh, I went to stay with some friends at their family cabin in West Virginia (okay maybe the WV part doesn't sound as cool and honestly, as a person of color, most similarly hued folks-including my parents-questioned my judgement in being out in the middle of nowhere in WV. But it still sounded cool and I think they were secretly impressed).

Example: We went shooting last night after work. (I mean, how bad ass is that? p.s. I'm a pretty decent shot--among people who don't do a lot of shooting)

Example: (off camera question: What did you do for Valentines Day?) We had a girls night out; went to see a movie, had pizza, then when to a desert place. (It was fun but I called it a night early. I had a screaming headache and had my fill of estrogen laced conversations seeking/giving advice about dating and guys in general).

With just a few more data points, the uninformed would plot out something that looked like a fun single girl having a fun single life with all her friends and dates and weekend trips and miss all the dead air in between when I sat in one of my two chairs surrounded by general chaos and (today) carrot colored dog vomit on my throw rugs. The delta between the data points and real life is wide and deep.

In other news, it turns out Batman was an apt moniker for my would-be boyfriend. He's really into Batman. It amuses and troubles me equally. Not because I have anything against Batman or comics; I do not hide my own love of cartoons and know that I'm pretty much a nerd. But I'm a cool nerd.

I know, even I laughed.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Batman returns

I got another e-mail from Batman...I suppose I should just answer it. There is probably something wrong with me that I consider the upside of this eventual meeting is that it will be blog worthy. I'm sure of it.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Low Self Esteem: self fulfilling since 1 BC

A few things I hate about me:

1. That I'm keen on the relationship status of artists that I like and am a little bummed when they are married or in committed relationships. That is absolutely ridiculous. I don't talk to guys I actually see everyday. I can't figure out what kind of f*@^ked up chemistry allows me to actively lament my lost shot at an even modestly famous celebrity. If they could weaponize estrogen...

2. This list seemed like a good idea at the time...

In other news, a co-worker of mine that would be easily hate-able if not so affable was enjoying more professional good fortune and made a comment about how much he loved his job and couldn't imagine how people who hate their job, who struggle to get out of bed and drag themselves in everyday, do it. It was all I could do not to pipe up and tell him how we manage. The man is a study in the adage of success coming when you do something that you love. But it would shortchange him to not highlight his professional acumen and political astuteness. There is also something I catch from time to time that suggests that he can affably tell you to f@%k yourself. Something hard and selfish.

In still other news, I was pleased that BS had kept things fresh between us by not wearing a blue sweater on our third session. I did however, leave the session thinking that either a: BS and I probably won't last past another session or b: BS and I probably won't last another session and therapy may not be necessary or even helpful. I thought this would be challenging and instead I kind of feel like I'm running our sessions. I find myself thinking of bringing an outline or agenda and it has so far ended up just using him as my accountability buddy. I told him during our last session that I was kind of embarrassed that we were using his time and expertise to do that kind of stuff. We spent 20 minutes setting up a goal for tackling my room of shame in 15 minute increments. WTF? In his defense, he sorta brought up the 'why' in the 'what' of the things I do in our last session and I blocked that shot. But I expect him to challenge me, I'm not the doctor, I have no idea what works. He wouldn't be my chore-buddy if I had any idea what works. I left last Friday feeling like a fraud. I don't need help, at least that kind of help. I need to get off my ass and stop making excuses for not living the life I want. And it seems BS can't help with that or help me unlock the motivation to do so.

I think I understand why I do what I do, I think I have stellar insight many of the random events, non-events, and circumstance that have shaped who I am. I think I can nail with pinpoint accuracy what my hang-ups are with men. I'm pretty sure I know why I keep ending up jobs I don't like too. I know that few things are less attractive than low self-esteem. I annoy myself with that but I still reflexively don't like myself. Mostly (I think) because no man I ever wanted, wanted to be with me. I also understand that I have questionable taste in men. I have epiphanies and revelations on a regular basis. I'd be very surprised if BS said something that surprised me. Is that the most arrogant I've ever been in public? Possibly. The point is, no matter the reason(s) why, I still have to do something about it. So I'm a little ambivalent about exploring the nooks and crannies of how the stupid guy in 7th grade who said I was ugly carries forward into today.

Earlier this evening, I was thinking of the move here and remembering how enchanting it all felt, how I filled with hope whenever the skyline came into view. I was confident that I was here for a reason, and that my husband was here. Random people bought me dinner, everyone was super nice, and I was charmed by the city and excited about my work. And now I'm over it. I really don't have much patience or staying power. I hope one day they sell Ritalin OTC. I would be mad focused. It would be awesome. I think it's horrible but I totally get the moms who do meth. It's hard to do it all--it's physically impossible. But if you don't need sleep, you can get so much more done and with a pep that honestly rarely happens naturally in the body. And bonus, it keeps you skinny too!

I digress. The point is, in the Alchemist, at the beginning of each major step in the protagonists' journey, the universe is audibly saying 'yes.' Things fall into place, you are confident you are where you should be. But then the honeymoon is over and you wonder at times if you missed an exit or perhaps misinterpreted the universe. There is a crappy confusing lull as the universe has you treading water until the next current. So basically, I'm either where I'm supposed to be and this just sucks, or like Gob in Arrested Development, "I've made a huge mistake."

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Yoga and the path of least resistance

Dear. God. A few months ago I wrote a flowery and breathless piece about the joy of yoga. I wrote about how I loved my body when doing yoga, how it was rest for my restless mind, and how light and beautiful I felt when I left. Since then, I've attended a few more classes, all yoga 101 classes and thought perhaps I was languishing in them and needed to take it up a notch. So I went to Vinyasa Flow, which sounded like a good way to ease into the the big kids class. I don't recall the last time I so seriously misjudged something. If yoga 101 is freshman level, the class I went to tonight is the first draft of your doctoral thesis.

The lithe instructor started the class with something he would do if he were just "coming in off the street." A handstand. I thought for sure he was kidding until I saw everyone doing one and staying that way for at least a minute or two. I just kind of assumed some semblance of downward facing dog and occasionally lifted one of my legs halfheartedly like I was considering a handstand. I thought then that maybe I should quietly roll up my mat and leave. A class that starts with a handstand is not likely to become more accessible to out of shape non yogis like yours truly. But I stayed. And it was kind of brutal. They did stuff that I can't even describe and really didn't think was possible for anyone who wasn't Madonna or a breakdancer. I sweat heavily and spent many quality breaths in child's pose wondering how close to 7:15 we were. Did I mention that Vinyasa Flow is also an hour and a half? One of my ears became slightly plugged with sweat, my clothing was soaked, and while Simon made a point to talk to other folks 'on the path' after class who occasionally sought respite in child's pose, he said nothing to me. I'm sure he does not expect to see me again. I don't know if he's right or not. I do know that I will be at yoga 101 on Saturday morning with a renewed appreciation for all things basic.

In my basic classes, there is an emphasis on form, on finding the edge of your resistance and not forcing yourself past it, instead breathing and waiting for your body to yield, to give you an invitation to the next edge. Because of that solid foundation, I'll be very sore tomorrow and Friday but I'm pretty sure I didn't hurt myself, straining to meet the class where they were instead of acknowledging and accepting where I was. I was frustrated, I wanted to be able to put my head next to the outside of my ankle and then balance my weight on the palms of my hands while I extended both legs but bad things would have happened, perhaps to everyone in the class, if I had pushed the issue.

So even though this evening was awkward, sweaty, and I feel I looked like Jack Black doing yoga, it was also a handy object lesson in striking the balance between forcing it and resting in what is. Some things should be forced, sometimes yielding to the flow is disastrous. It is easier to forgo basic hygiene, it is easier to protect your pride or feelings by refusing to allow anyone to reject you, it is easier to let things be and hope the universe delivers something yummy. It is the path of least resistance. My body will never issue me an invitation to do a handstand right off the street or any other time if I don't practice, don't seek to improve my form, my balance, my strength. Perhaps tonight wasn't just an impossible number of downward facing dogs and planks. Perhaps it was a situation that forced me, for my own good to seek balance in the challenge of growth within my very real limitations. Perhaps boundaries is a kinder word and I can accept that some of them are actually walls and may come down during the life long improvement project that is me. But I won't get there going with the flow.

Friday, February 20, 2009


Had my second session today with Mr. BS. He was again wearing a blue sweater. So there you have it, the name stays. That he again wore a blue sweater amused me greatly. If he's wearing it again next week, well, I'll probably have to say something about it. To him. He flutters his eyes rapidly when he talks at times. It reminds me of the arm of disk drive rapidly reading across the disk. I think also that he had a sleepy moment and I think I'll have to ask him next time if he ever gets bored of hearing the same things over and over again. For my part, I did try to stay away from the 'I think I don't love myself because I didn't get enough stuffed animals growing up' kind of discussions though he did try to go there. I told him that we could spend a lot of time there and what I really needed was some quick wins, some action I could be accountable to him for that would put some pressure on me to actually keep commitments to myself. I know he wants to explore why I can't keep commitments to myself and don't like making them to others. That may be interesting to discuss at some point but it doesn't get the laundry done or get me to the gym. I'm not sure where this is going but I like that we both agree that we can use therapy as a tool to create some measure of accountability; first to him and then to me once/if some momentum is built for good habits I'd like to have in my life.

A part of me feels good because I feel like I'm always trying to be better than I am. I'm trying. To borrow a gag-inducing total quality management (TQM) term, I'm in a continuous improvement phase. A tiny part of me wonders if it will ever be okay to just be.

We shall see.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Missing the original

This is a night when I miss the old blog. It is much colder, much, much colder tonight than it was this morning. The wind is fierce and gusting. Guy number 16, 17, and 18 have ignored my correspondence and my neighbor is out on her second date with a guy she met on the same site. He contacted her first. My gut resembles what I fancy the first trimester of pregnancy would look like and I'm very blah. I feel like most women, that I could be more attractive if I lost twenty pounds (at least) but fifty pounds ago, I wasn't dating so I can't blame that on the lack of interest or response to my interest. I am so completely over this and so annoyed with myself for setting myself up for this kind of consistent rejection. I know I'm not every one's cup of tea, I'm just stunned and disappointed it is as bad virtually as it is in person. I really thought at least 1 of the 18 guys would at least say hello back. I've just removed all pictures of me from my profile. If traffic picks up, or someone writes, it will be telling. Not the sort of telling that is healthy but telling nonetheless. It's not like I don't know that confidence is attractive. I just don't have any (in that area-give me a gun or something to proof read and I will dazzle and amaze you). And for guys like Batman, the Groucho Marx quotation applies: I wouldn't want to be a member of any club that would have me. I swear I don't let on that I'm a total boob in my profile. I'm light and funny and witty. Really.

Moving on... The original site is gone. Archival efforts have not worked well. I reached out to a fellow Apple user and they agreed I might be SOL. If I want it on the web, I may have to cut and paste each entry into a new post. That's probably not going to happen. If men had hormone shifts every month, they would have long ago annihilated us all. So at least there's that.

post script to men (in general): I'm going to be awesome. I will do something great, be something great, and you will recognize there was value there all along. I don't do it for you or your approval, I do it in spite of a lack of both. To prove to myself that I have value even if you don't value me.

God, hormones are powerful. A possible future alternative energy source?

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

One more thing from

I swear this is from a profile:

dumb idiot likes boobs...
I am a breathing person looking for the same, as stated before boobs are preferrable. As we will have some to do when we occasionsionally bore each other, i can lose track and stare at nipple

Married girls, I know sometimes you probably look at the back of your husband's head and want to smack it. Hard. But if you're overall happier with your choice of mate than not, then commiserate with me on my bemused despair with what remains out there to chose from.

No drama

An open letter to the men on

Dear Guys,

For the love of all that is holy, please, please, please, PLEASE resist the temptation to make a statement letting girls with "drama" or "games" know they need not apply for a hot date with yours truly. What you really mean is, "please don't be my ex-girlfriend." No girl knows wtf you are talking about when you request no drama, and statements like that serve only to highlight you as possible douche. No girl I've ever talked to finds statements like that attractive. Same advice stands for guys letting all the psycho girls know that they need not apply. Oh, and definitely do not chose a screen name incorporating any of those themes, e.g., nopsycho123, nomoredrama... It makes you seem gay.

I have to write 13 more of you before I can officially give up. If just one of you could at least reply to my message, that would be super. Thanks.

lookingformyboo looking for me...

You can fairly accuse me of being dramatic about many things but I think this fairly serves as an example of why I have the attitude I do about dating, virtual or otherwise.

From: lookingformyboo1 (
To: me (
Date received: February 8, 2009
Subject: You are an angel

Hello Sunshine.. what a pretty!Why would a beautiful lady like you be on here on around you must be so blind that they couldn't catch the pretty fish in your society..the way you stole my attention was out of burglary..I am Nicholas some people calls me nickie,I am an Hydro Electrical Engineer, I am originally from the US,my dad is from Wiscosine and my mom is from france.,i grew up in Avignon france,but i relocated to the states where i have to run my career,I am new to this site,And i signed up here to see if i could find someone that is humble,friendly,kind,passionate and caring,I lost my wife In a car crash..her car came into contact with a truck carrying fertilizer...i feel like crying each time this comes into my head...its so hard..i taught the world was over,maybe i should end my life..this happened at the year 2005...And since then i have remained single and i hope you know how it means to be lonely..I taught i could go on with loneliness..i later found out that loneliness is a decease,and i can find true love again more than i had,its a believe..i really need someone to share my happiness with,someone i will kiss and say there is no more pain..someone i can hold and plan the future with...So i decide to set up a profile on here. so that i can find someone who is honest,kind,understanding and friendly,Someone who is going to love me truly and believe that my son is part of the package of the relationship,But i am so lucky cos your profile happens to be the first profile i went through and i was so impressed with what i read on it and i am so much interested in getting to know you ,So i decided to write you to let you know how i feel and to know if we are both in the same wave length.Cos i think you might be a God sent to me.I am a father of a son...when you want to email or write me a reply..i want you to send it to my email is my email address..
Hope to hear from you.


Saturday, February 14, 2009

The long goodbye

I know I’m dragging this out like the ridiculously long goodbyes we used be be able to have in airports, waving, smiling, and blowing kisses until we disappeared down the jet way and then resuming a wordless miming ritual of the same upon taking our seat at the window, even though we really couldn’t see each other. Yes, this blog is going away; yes, I will miss this black space and white font; yes, I will miss Teresa on this blog. But I hope letting this go will make room for something good. The membership expires tomorrow, so this will likely be the last post.

I had my first appointment with a mental health professional since the $125 and 50 minutes I’ll never get back incident with Dr. Awesome. I was 30 minutes late for the most ridiculous reason. I got to the building with time to spare but forgot the phone number, suite number, and the actual name of the doctor I was seeing so I rode the elevator in a 13 story building for 25 minutes walking into random offices asking if any of them were expecting me. The young man at the information desk in the building might as well have been vase or a hat for all the assistance he was able to provide. While riding the elevator, afraid that my stopping at every floor and wandering about was going to eventually provoke the attention of security professionals, I scanned my cell phone for dialed numbers trying to remember when I had made the appointment so I could figure out which number to call. 22 minutes into this ordeal, I picked the right number from my cell phone, they told me where they were, and I finally ended up breathlessly in the office of the man with the blue sweater.*

His sweater was probably cashmere though I base that only on his trouser jeans. Older men who wear trouser jeans, probably also wear cashmere when they wear cerulean blue sweaters. A refined and monied casual. He was left-handed which shouldn’t matter at all except that I feel a third graders kind of kinship with fellow south paws. I want to talk about scissors and ladles and other confounding prejudices of the right with a civil rights fervor. He was amused (I think) that I had been to two previous therapists only once and that I simply called Dr. Awesome crazy. He did not invite me elaborate on that assertion. He seemed to bemusedly accept that based on my track record, he may never see me again even if I made a big show of making a follow-up appointment. In our brief 25 minutes together, we got more out of the way than I did with the previous two folks put together so I’m hopeful that the third time is the charm. We shall see.

Perhaps the end of this black and white, often melancholy blog is the beginning of an adjustment in my psyche, moving from the contrast of a dark space with many points of light to a lighter space with dark elements for contrast. You know, working the balance of my insides so that whichever of the yin and yang is black, doesn’t suck in all the light.

*I’m tempted to give him a moniker of BS because of that sweater but we’ll wait for session two to see if I can come up with something that doesn’t have a pejorative connotation.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

I'm kind of a big deal-but not on

Well...gotta say that I'm kind of feeling like my ego has been hockey checked hard. The dudes are not feeling me on match. It's got me thinking a lot more than I should. I've done almost every version of dating site before but I've never posted pictures. Guys still wrote me and I even met a couple over the years. This time, I figured I would dive in and put it out there and posted several pictures. I've received a holla from Batman, and a scam letter from an english illiterate (perhaps quite articulate in another language) person pretending to be a widowed white guy with the screen name lookingformyboo. I will probably post the full text of his ridiculous e-mail on the blog in the coming days. A slight detour; I like a progressive white guy as much as the next woman of color but it makes me cringe when I see screen names like whitechocolate or lookingformyboo. Using street language does not make you 'down' and on some level is kind of offensive. Another subject for another day. The second thing that irritates me about white guys on match are the ones who chose every single race, including the enigmatic 'other' category except black women. Ouch. I'm telling you, asian guys and black women have got to get better PR people. We are floundering out there.

And lest anyone feel compelled to encourage me to communicate with guys I like instead of waiting for someone to communicate with me, I'm 0/13 for responses to e-mails I've sent to guys. Really. I'm clearly batting out of my league here and should have grabbed Batman while the gettin was good. So, in this massive, worldwide, countless members rejection, I have earned at least 30 days of whining about the wasteland that is my would-be love life. In addition to the sting of being the sole rejected race on many guys profiles (including the ones match sends to me--I've totally blasted them for that), it hurts that when I had a profile with no picture, I had more guys interested in me than with a picture. Is there any good way to interpret that?

Yea, I didn't think so either.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Johns Hopkins surgeons remove donated kidney through vagina; Proof that men are still in charge

This story was running on all the major news networks a few days ago. Doctors at Johns Hopkins performed a living donor nephrectomy (removal) through the donor's vagina. They hope it will encourage others to donate because it reduces scarring and recovery time. I feel especially entitled to an opinion on this story because I have donated a kidney, at Johns Hopkins, Dr. Montgomery was my mother's surgeon, and I have a vagina*.

This is a parlor trick to me. When they start exploring how to remove organs through a man's scrotum, then I'll sit up and pay attention. I have the same scars that the woman in the article has with the exception of a nicely healed six inch scar where no one would ever see, even if I had the body or complete lack of shame to wear a bikini. I only donated two years ago and it annoys me that any time has been spent perfecting this procedure when we still haven't figured out how to deal with the kind of rejection that ultimately put my mother right back on dialysis. I understand that recovery time can be an issue if you absolutely had to get back to work and you worked somewhere you needed to be able to lift 25 pounds right away but c'mon, you just donated a kidney. Even if you don't have a six inch scar, you still have everything else going on--why leap back on to the UPS truck? I know that times are hard but seriously, you just gave away an f-ing organ. They still cut you open, even if the holes were smaller.

I'm not sure what the obstacles are to donation, living or dead, but I know of all the things that kept me up at night or snuck up on me as a quick stab of panic during a mind idle, recovery time was not among them. I actually had grand plans for post-surgery and had I not caught the stomach flu right after I came home, I probably would have done them. Everyone is different but I have a hard time imaging a clamor among female would-be donors insisting that doctors find another use for their vagina as a portal. I'd love for them to use that ingenuity to figure out how to quickly dissipate the gas they use to inflate your abdomen that leaves you intensely uncomfortable for a few days after the surgery.

Not to mention the serious ick factor introduced into the entire donation process. People are naturally curious and I've found they want to know the mechanics of the surgery. They have been removing diseased kidneys and gall bladders through the vagina for some time apparently but that is stuff people are throwing away, it's not working and needs to leave the body. Perhaps it will be used for science but it will not end up in someone else. I understand we've all taken that trip, but I would not want to have 'birthed' anything headed for someone else's insides. It seems rude. It would be a horrible story and never suitable for mixed company. Had we done it that way, I would still be wondering if it contributed to the rejection and host of other problems she had in the two years after the surgery. And honestly, I don't need doctors up in my business any more than necessary. That anyone would think that the line would be queueing out the door with women wanting to donate their organs now that they can literally deliver the gift of life is evidence to me that men still run the show. Get cracking on that intra-scrotal removal and I'll be impressed.

*Sorry Brosef, I know that made you throw up in your mouth a little

Sunday, February 1, 2009


I believe in karma. I have no idea what faith or spiritual construct that comes from. I do know that the bible covers the subject of karma in its own way (as you sow, so shall ye reap), so I don’t feel traitorous toward my faith to say I believe in karma. But I digress.

Petty and passive aggressive person that I am, I did indeed turn off the water to the toilet and even staged the toilet to imply technical difficulties, leaving a plunger (that I have not had to use even once since I moved here) balanced on the lid of the bathroom trash can. I was pretty pleased with myself.

I came home that evening to find Skid Mark undeterred by my elaborate set up. I realize now that I should have flushed the toilet after turning off the water to the tank so SM would not have a full tank to release when he finished desecrating my bathroom. I made a mental note of it should I find a small and petty need for that kind of information again. For now though, I just really needed for SM to stop using my home as his personal rest stop. So I wrote his boss that evening, talking about this and that and at the end of the e-mail, I mentioned that I was having issues with my toilet and would appreciate it not being used when I’m not home. Perhaps she knew the ‘issues’ were mental health ones and entirely mine vice the toilet but whatever. She didn’t acknowledge that part of my message in her reply and I worried she wouldn’t pass the word to SM.

The next morning, getting ready for work, I was trying to figure out if I should leave SM some note about the toilet, purchase a child lock for the toilet, turn the water off again, or just take my chances and leave an un-booby trapped toilet available for his exploitation. I was doing all this thinking where much of the worlds morning thinking is done and wouldn’t you know that when I flushed, I got the slow choppy flush of a stopped up toilet. Now I had a real toilet problem. When I left for work that morning, the plunger balanced on the trash can had actually seen combat. Karma...

ps. SM did not use my bathroom that day but I’m suspending celebration until/if a trend evolves.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

An open letter to Skid Mark

Dear Skid Mark,

I know you and your esteemed colleagues have been coming in and out of my house for a few months now and probably can't recall finding it in any condition that suggests that I am particularly obsessed with cleanliness and orderliness. I imagine you infer from the tiny mountain of used tissues, static mess of the second bedroom of cast-offs, and general lack of order that you couldn't do much worse and would be surprised if I even noticed your dusty footprints, position of the leash you put away when you leave, or a faint smell sneaking past my stuffed nostrils that is suggestive of perfume used as an air freshener.

But I do notice, S.M., I do notice. I notice the lid down on the toilet once again. I think back to the faint perfume I smelled when I walked in this evening and I think, 'oh God, do I even want to look?' But I have to look, because I have only one toilet and I need to use it. And then I see you have upped the ante. Before I could only imagine what you were doing in my bathroom. Now I know. A second flush would have left me blissfully ignorant to the extent of your defilement but for reasons I can't possibly relate to, you chose not only to forgo the second flush but also noticeably fondled the Obama issue Rolling Stone. And S.M., wtf? Did you wrap your fist in toilet paper? I just put that roll on yesterday. You may think because I don't pick up the tiny Santa hat that my dog ripped off her Christmas toy 2 weeks ago that I'm so filthy and messy I would be oblivious to your activity but S.M., I've got plans for you. I'm going to turn off the water to the toilet, you're going to desecrate my bathroom, not be able to flush it, and be shamed from ever using it again. Sure, it will cost me one throat-closing day of stench (probably mixed in with my perfume) when I come home to whatever you couldn't flush down, but I think you'll see the danger you court when choosing private spaces to defile.

It is on.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Nice Nasty

Toilet  Pictures, Images and Photosphoto by ctjac @

Nice Nasty is a term that essentially means that you think your poop doesn't stink. Or there is some incongruity between the things you turn your nose up at and the things you do. For example, most girls don't sit on public toilet seats, and perhaps not any seats that aren't their own. I don't have that problem (anymore). For one, I'm not as fit and my knees don't tolerate squatting like they used to but really the turning point for me was my deployment in Kuwait. For a place I didn't spend all that much time relative to other places I've lived and worked, it changed me. On base, the bathrooms were trailers and the toilets so delicate that no feminine products of any type could be flushed. The trailers had both toilets and showers and were not air conditioned so you can probably try but trust me, your imagination could not conjure the smell. One of my favorite memories is of one of the girls remarking, "You can't get that smell in (insert wherever she was from)!"

Off base, it was like a toilet-themed video game where you had to first find one, and then decide if you were going to use it, and then try to figure out the mechanics on not peeing on your clothing while squatting and trying not to touch anything. Then, if there was a flush, you had to figure out what direction the water was going to come from so you didn't get sprayed across your feet or pant hem with questionable water with notes of whatever was contained in the extra water all over the rest of the floor. Going to a western establishment wasn't a sure thing either. In the big mall there, I went stall to stall, finding all the seats wet and decided finally to just go in one and clean it up. A woman who turned out to be an attendant, burst in on me and handed me a fist full of toilet paper. I used all the paper to clean the seat, sat down and then discovered that there was no toilet paper, not even a holder because native women used the hose behind the toilet to cleanse, hence the line of stalls with wet seats. Lovely.

There are a lot more bathroom related horrors from my time in Kuwait and other locales but Kuwait is when I finally conceded that I wash my ass every day and so long as the toilet seat appears clean and is dry, I should be able to use it without the quad workout. I don't like warm seats or walking in on the remnants of a big job but I'm otherwise pretty easy going. I don't need the tissue seat unless I'm testing to ensure the seat is dry if I can't quite discern if it's dry (it so sucks to be wrong about that). There are still squat worthy places but they are now the exception instead of the rule and I'm generally less spastic about the asses I don't know than the ones I do.

Which brings me to the inspiration for this post. My dog walker has been using my toilet and it flat out freaks me out. I have to bleach the seat before I'll use it and I feel kind of violated and a little pissed. I don't want to touch anything in my bathroom and I imagine her reading my Obama issue Rolling Stone and petting my dog while she drops a deuce. It freaks me out. It is not cool to know exactly who the other asses belong to that you share seats with. I can stroll into a public toilet, choose an empty stall and for the next 2 minutes, pretend that I'm the only one who uses it. Not so when you come home, notice the bathroom door slightly off, the seat down, and the toilet paper moved. WHAT DID SHE DO IN THERE? WHY IS THE SEAT DOWN? DID IT NEED TO BE CONTAINED? HOW MUCH PAPER DID SHE USE? HOLY CRAP, THAT'S A LOT! AHHHHH! JESUS CHRIST, WHY?! DID SHE WASH HER HANDS? DID SHE USE MY HAND TOWEL?

Now mind you, my house is near intervention cluttered bordering on filthy, but I just want to light a match and walk away. I don't even want to walk on the bathroom floor.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Nice Nasty.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

You're Invited

wedding Pictures, Images and Photos image by crae013 at

Every girl imagines her wedding day and I’m no different. I don’t imagine my hair or dress, I don’t even imagine the groom in any substantive way. I just imagine how I feel and I imagine all of you. I imagine dancing with my brother and sister to something goofy and uniquely jamming in our family, like Super Bon Bon by Soul Coughing. I imagine my mother dancing with my relatives and me to Work That by Mary J. Blige. I imagine my father sitting out all the dances and watching us with a smile, the smile I know from all the dances I sat out before this dance. I imagine him saying something he means well but is actually pretty horrible during our dance like, “He seems like a good guy. Remember that marriage can be even lonelier than being single.” I imagine feeling free; I don’t see my wedding as a subdued sophisticated and lovely affair. I see it as a tremendous celebration. A great party and great event to celebrate. After all the Jimmy’s, Mr. Coffee’s, Maybe’s, IBC’s and God knows who else, it would finally be right. It would be good and he would be good and if that isn’t a reason to have a big party, I don’t know what is. The man I can imagine having this party with is someone who thinks it would be funny to interupt our wedding march and break into dance to DMX’s Up in Here and then return to a stately walk down the aisle like nothing ever happened. I’ve floated the aisle march idea by my mom who never objects to anything, but strongly objects to this so it would never happen but he’d have to think it would be funny if we could do it.

I guess I have this feeling that the man I marry would love me in a way that I could finally relax into being me, all of me, silly me, in public. My wedding day would be my coming out ceremony. Like What-Not-To-Wear in that revelatory moment when the person realizes it was the clothes all along and not them that needed to change. Ironically, learning that something could complement them as they are, something could bring out the very best of them and even soften their harsher features and lumpy bits, does end up changing the only thing that needed changing, the way they saw and treated themselves. But they needed first for someone else to help them see reality and then introduce them to the possibilities. If some ensemble of clothing, hair, and makeup could change the way I see my body and my face, is it wrong to hope that there is a person out there for me (and I for him) that could have an even more positive and profound impact? If he exists for me, you all are not going to want to miss this party. It is going to be off. the. hook. Fo shizzle.*

*Brosef, you had better stop gagging right this minute. I’m serious. You beat-box in the shower. Don't judge me.

Monday, January 19, 2009

In over my head

I finally called my own bluff and bought David Foster Wallace's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. Wow. I feel like I'm at one of those places where your meal is free if you can successfully finish an Oprah wagon portion size of meat. His essays are heavily referential of other authors that I've either never heard of or never read, and full of words that I've never seen in print before. It is reading something like his book that makes me feel like that the university I graduated from should not have been accredited. How could I have never read Balzac? Do most people just pick that up after college as a bathroom read? Or have I just picked up a book that was not written for me-it is not supposed to be accessible to me, it was written for a class of intellectuals who have the reading list of books I've never heard of and use words like bisensuous and mythopia (which my spell checker insists are not words) in everyday discourse. It is dense and chewy and requires much more attention than I anticipated. I'm a little bummed that my foundation in philosophy and the works of great thinkers and writers of old puts a sentence like "And lets not even talk about Balzac" out of reach for my full appreciation for the hearty in-the-know ironic belly laugh that DFW's true contemporaries can have. But I'm working through his essays with the intention of going back over them again with a highlighter and dictionary to see if I can incorporate "synecdochic" into my everyday lexicon because everyone loves a girl that uses big words. Joking aside, I love learning new words because a well chosen word absolutely nails it, paints the picture I'm trying to create with both nuance and economy.

As dense and meaty as his essays are, my farm raised brain is able to appreciate the gist of his argument on television (the current essay I'm reading) and how it provides both community and isolation from other human beings and experience. His sense of humor shows throughout and though jokes about Balzac sail well over my head, not all the humor escapes me. Ha, Ha, that Balzac. What a kidder...

Sunday, January 18, 2009

4 degrees

I swear I've spent enough time in the cold these last 7 years of dog companionship that I could feel the difference between 18 degrees earlier in the evening and the 22 degrees it is now when I took the dog out for one last potty break for the evening. Nothing anyone needed to know. I just felt like sharing.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Odds and Ends

Absolutely love this post from Emily. Emily's post is about drugs or it's about how people employ them to turn themselves out and see if there's something inside they would rather be. She writes so beautifully about the rosy lens of retrospect and how we concentrate on the parts that make us feel still like a part of something, like belonging, and not on the thing we tried to numb, quiet, or cover with all that crazy fun.

It makes me think of many things. It reminded me of high school and to a lesser extent college when group hanging out was still the norm, no one went to bars alone, and people were still figuring out what they were going to be in front of everyone else. It makes me think of how old I sound when I tell a freshly quarter century old IBC that his thirties will come like a thief in the night and he will finally start to look and feel a little different than he did in his twenties. Just a little bit, just enough to remind him that time is not static. He'll be reminded like I am when I see Debbie Gibson or the dude from ColorMeBad (3 words, Celebrity Fit Club--seriously), that youth is truly fleeting.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

OMG, I need this

Anti-Love Drug May Be Ticket to Bliss

Science is awesome. It's like prozac, birth control, and man emotions in one handy potion, but better. I want this as soon as it comes out.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009


My brother recommends this site (his post is on the right), but he neglected to provide a link. You can click on the title of this post or just click here. Amusing stuff. Not as laugh out loud funny as I thought it would be but pretty darn funny. I want to create something people love like that. I know we are not far from a f-u penguin book.

Monday, January 12, 2009


I was reading a story this morning on the toilet from Chicken Soup for the Soul at Work. It's not really my kind of book but it seemed weird to take the cereal box in to read instead so there you have it. I read a story about Jerry who was always in a great mood. He would say things like "If I were doing any better, I'd be twins!" I have no idea what the hell that means but I'm going to guess that Jerry was doing good enough for two. Whatever Jerry. So Jerry makes a pretty rookie mistake at work one night and leaves the back door open. Some dudes come in to rob him at gunpoint and Jerry, abandons cheer for abject terror and shakes so much opening the safe, the robbers get pissed and shoot him. Jerry is fortunately rushed to the hospital pretty quickly after but is in pretty bad condition. The faces of the doctors and nurses aren't exactly conveying 'everything is going to be okay,' so Jerry, quick thinker that he is, decides to break up the funeral with a joke. When they ask him if he has any allergies, he says yes. They all stop and look at him waiting for him to provide an answer to the obvious follow-up question, 'what', and he tells them...wait for it.... He tells them he's allergic to bullets. Ha! That Jerry, delaying critical medical care to pull a zinger! He then lets the staff know that he intends to live so they should operate on him as if he's alive, not dead. Jerry believes that life is about choices and more importantly on how you chose to interpret and respond to the things that happen around and to you. Jerry credits that attitude with his survival.

Jerry is absolutely right about choices, but the twins business, that's just f-ing annoying. Jerry is choosing to annoy the hell out of everyone around him because everyone knows he's choosing at least some of the time to make yummy noises when eating a shit sandwich instead of acknowledging that it really sucks. Then the bit about being shot, that's pretty bad but again, I think Jerry is attributing just a little too much of his non-dying to his ability to crack jokes and inform the medical staff about his living/dying intentions. Peeling the onion further, maybe Jerry's determination to always be happy, always find a broad silver lining in a crap cloud and then announce it to everyone, maybe that is evidence of Jerry's inability to process other emotions. I'm just sayin...there is a reason people like Jerry annoy the hell out of most of us. It makes us feel like expressing anything other than goodwill and cheer is wrong. That the natural range of human emotion is wrong to express to the world around us. Like emotional PDA. Get a room, no one wants to see that. Don't mean to pile on Jerry but he won't see it that way anyway.

Speaking of piling on, this evening was just spectacular. I got two checks in the mail, and I finally got to meet this guy I keep running into. He has a dog and I usually see him when I have my dog so that means one of us crosses the street and that's that. We tried to let them meet; it was a lot of 'no! sit! sit! no! I'm sorry!' But tonight I decided to pick-up my dry cleaning without the dog and ran into him. I even had a little makeup on and I wasn't dressed like I was homeless or recovering from the flu. I got to learn his and his dog's name and love on his dog, so maybe he won't think I'm as big a jerk as my dog can be. Then I checked my e-mail and my renter is interested in buying my house! Because I'm not Jerry, I'm wary of what the rest of the week can hold given this banner evening. But tonight, I choose to be joyous because circumstances demand it. It's been awesome.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Procrastination aka Baby, it's cold outside

Not much going on here. Took a long walk on my busted ankle this morning and was a little sad for my dog who sat longingly staring at the dogs in the dog park. It seems so sweet and sad from across the street, looking at all the dogs running and playing. I think 'awww, she just wants to meet some new friends.' Then I remember the little white fox-like puppy from the night before and the low growls in her throat as I prevented her from "greeting" the puppy in the way she normally greets other dogs-with raised hackles and aggression that belies her otherwise angelic disposition. It's a bummer because not only is she cutting herself off from meeting other dogs, she's cutting me off from a potentially datable pool of men with a built in pretext for continued contact (our dogs playing together). Instead, I'm always dragging my dog away, front paws flaying in the air, growling and making it clear in her body posture that her intentions with the other person's dog were far from friendly. Which makes me look like a jerk and ensures the guy will cross the street next time he see me.

It has otherwise been a beyond boring Saturday. I could be at a fun bar learning how to mix my own drinks, something I'm actually interested in knowing so I can at least seem like I didn't grow up underground because I don't know how to order a mixed drink. I just woke up from a long nap, have done absolutely nothing except eat, take Tylenol, try to work out a bothersome neck kink, and sleep. I just fed the dog and am working up the will to venture out again into the cold. I made the mistake of looking at the 5-day forecast of highs that will hover near freezing and again entertained the notion of teaching the dog how to use the toilet.

I don't know what I'll do for dinner tonight. I'm tempted to revisit the Mexican place from last night. Their watermelon margaritas are so good I'm still thinking about them. I'm used to dining alone and I don't normally feel very self-conscious about it but last night the place was crowded and filled with big groups laughing, drinking, and eating. The bar didn't seem particularly inviting so I sat at a table next to one of these groups with my book, my complimentary chips, and my margarita. It was kind of pitiful. If I go back, I'll definitely sit at the bar.

Time to think more about venturing out into the cold.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009


Every night for the last few weeks around 2-3 am, my dog has startled me awake with a determined round of dog bed scratching. She paws, and paws, and paws at the tent-like material, making a terrific amount of noise. I do not understand what this new thing is all about but I am not a fan.

My beautiful brother has written a tight and insightful piece here. I like the piece though I hesitate to give America credit for trading in the souls of men.

I've been thinking about adding some additional concrete determinations about how many books I want to read this year. I've toyed with the idea of forcing some of the vegetables of literature on the list to supplement my liberal arts education and general knowledge of the world around me instead of pure pleasure reads. I looked for books by David Foster Wallace in the bookstore last weekend but did not find him. I did come across an awesome title, "Mr. Sebastian and the Negro Magician," by Daniel Wallace (no relation to the David above). The book screams, READ ME, MY TITLE F-ING ROCKS but I promised myself I would read David Foster Wallace's "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" first.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

Day 2; Love thyself as thou loveth your neighbor

*Sigh* Two days into the new year and I'm over it. If I showed myself the consideration I show my neighbors and friends, I probably wouldn't have this whiny blog. But then maybe I'm not as good a neighbor or friend as I think. I know I'm at least better to others than I am to myself so anyone reading this who has found me lacking or downright awful, trust that I save the worst stuff for myself.

I want someone to share the burden of loving me. Someone to take up the slack when I don't love myself.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Day 1: Confidence


1 a: a feeling or consciousness of one's powers or of reliance on one's circumstances


1 a: a state of mind or a manner marked by easy coolness and freedom from uncertainty, diffidence, or embarrassment. confidence stresses faith in oneself and one's powers without any suggestion of conceit or arrogance

I just got schooled by a 20 year old friend of my sisters. Let's be real, we all carry some f-ed up baggage around but some people accessorize and carry their baggage with such panache, I'm almost envious that I'm not the same kind of f-ed up. As girls are wont to do, we talked into the wee hours of the morning and I came away with a sincere appreciation for how she approached dating. She manages to be self-aware without letting it cripple her and is honest with a healthy dose of crude, at least as it concerns boys. I know I tend to take people at face value and assume they self-report with an integrity that people rarely do so it could be that it was all bs. But I believed her and she inspired me because she's just as afraid of rejection as any of us but she doesn't let that keep her from asking a guy out or making that first move. She knows she has value and I get the feeling that it's not about finding a guy that likes her, it's about finding a guy she likes. Go on, girl.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Kicking and Screaming; Hope part 2 aka 2009 Determinations

When I was in the 7th grade, I had a ridiculous crush on a guy named Eugene Summers, Gene for short. He was funny, cute, popular and not surprisingly, had a girlfriend. I liked this guy so much that I failed a very easy class because it was more important to me to pay attention to everything he was doing. I never really talked to Gene, but I did seek friendship with his girlfriend, I suppose to figure out what she was all about and see if I could identify with or imitate it. If I have children, I really, really don’t want girls, I don’t think I could stand to see my girl do that to herself. I’d raise her beyond militant.

One day, my friends decided I needed to tell Gene that I liked him. I can still see him now at the end of the hallway by his locker after school. I can still feel my girlfriends alternately tugging and pushing me down the hallway, while I stared ahead at him, struggling violently against them and loudly protesting their efforts to get me to talk to him. Even then I knew to be embarrassed by how over-the-top afraid I was to talk to him and ultimately did not talk to him at all.

I recall this story when considering this year’s determinations because of how violently I resisted doing something I actually wanted to do. I wanted to talk to Gene. I thought he was the hamster’s pantsuit, which is way better than the cat’s pajamas. But there I was, kicking and screaming, wasting both my and my friends’ energy and wasting a rare opportunity to actually talk to Gene alone.

The fear, hesitation, and spastic resistance of that episode has essentially been the story of my life. I’ve accomplished plenty on paper, I’ve been working in some capacity since I was 13, I’ve served in the armed forces, been a minority of a minority, of a minority; black, female, commissioned law enforcement officer, overcame obstacles, and held my own. However, much of it feels hollow, in part because those accomplishments were all marred by a constant fear of failure, and a lack of belief in my merit to be there. Even re-reading the mini-resume above, I’m struck by what I chose to highlight. They are evidence to me of the folly in linking any part of my self worth in the sterile accomplishments of career.

So with that, my squishy determinations for 2009 are:

-rework the vocabulary I use to define and describe myself. I’m really not as bad a friend as I tell myself and my friends that I am. I’m not as pretty as I hope to be nor as ugly as I sometimes fear I am. I am determined to be a more vigilant censor of my thought life, defining myself more by what I am, what I have, instead of what I wish I was, or what I lack.

-fake it till I make it. This one is extra squishy because I’m not yet sure how to articulate it. Part of it deals with not indulging the funks that I cycle through with the frequency and predictability of tides and instead pushing through like everything is okay since eventually, everything will be.

This doesn’t mean that in 2009, my goal is to become a robot, or that I won’t continue to wrestle with my insecurities and maladaptive habits. We are all wrestling with something, many of us with the same things, unconditional love of self and others, improvements to our physical and mental health, bucket lists... My goal with the squishy determinations is to develop a tolerance, maybe even a love, for who I am right now.

My concrete determinations, some of which are quite lofty are, in order of loftiness (least to most):

-get my house in order by Feb/Mar 2009
-take a vacation alone
-figure out how to participate in a Habitat 4 Humanity build and do it
-ask a guy out

The theme here is to challenge myself without passing judgement on who I am right now. To not drag myself kicking and screaming down the hallway towards the things I want and instead move towards them without fearing the outcome so violently that it sucks the joy out of any thing I do accomplish.

Happy New Year! A big thank you to Teresa, Uno, and Castron. I truly enjoy your patronage of my blog and your comments. I’m looking forward to meeting Uno’s Dos and Tres, her twin girls born just days before Christmas and in whatever random adventures the year holds.