April: Check!

Last day of the month.

I know I've been lackadaisical about posting, and sadly, this one doesn't actually count. I just want to follow up on a request so that I'm not thought rude.

Earlier this month I asked in *crickets* for y'all to send me your thoughts and ideas for blog topics... because yes, I'm that lazy.
And the email came...

I was indeed surprised by how many people would like to hear more from Jimmy Sprinkles! Good news on that front. It's nearly summer so he should be donning his ginny shirt, gold chains, and packin' heat soon. After all, Jimmy does love a good yard party!
 
As for the rest, yes - I read them all. And yes, some of y'all are not right in the head... no disrespect intended. I asked myself why some of y'all aren't writing these yourself. There was some really funny stuff in there! In an effort not to disappoint when I don't use your idea, you should know that I don't write about actual s e x. It's not that I'm in any way opposed! I have some stuff to say about that! It's that my Google AdSense then sends all these "undesireable" links to my page. So other than those ideas, I've added quite a few of yours to my ongoing "blog thoughts and ideas" for further mulling and marinating. *dips olive in martini*
 
I'm thinking about replacing March Madness soon with something of a more "girly" nature... maybe... if I'm that brave... we'll see.
 
So that's it. April goes out with a bar-be-que! Many and sincere thanks to all of you for the piles and piles of email. It's nice to know you're out there. xoxo

Quelle Surprise!

It’s a well-known fact amongst my friends that I do not like to be surprised.

I’ve said many times it’s because I’m always wearing the wrong shoes. Some people think that’s my way of deflecting attention; others wonder how it’s possible that with upwards of 70 pair of shoes, I could possibly be caught in the “wrong” ones. Coincidence? Perhaps. Nonetheless, statistically proven.

When I got engaged the first time, I was wearing hiking boots. The second time: Sketchers, little boy’s size 3. I was the unexpected guest of honor at a party a couple of years ago… in clogs. Clogs! I might as well been wearing flip-flops or Crocs! The list goes on and on.

There’s just one other little thing about surprises…

I’m a bit of a control freak. No, I’m definitely not all-crazy-gotta-be-in-the-middle-of-everything. In fact, I’d much rather not be in the middle of anything! However, when I’m involved with an occasion of importance, I want it done right. This means that I’ll do it all myself, or request the assistance of a very small group of “like-minded” people to help. Admittedly, I’m just now learning how to ask for help with anything… and it still doesn’t sit right… Even so, I’m trying to let go and trust the other freaks like me who refuse to let anything get fucked up and appreciate the importance of sticking to a plan.

I was watching something on the T.V. over the weekend and that commercial for eHarmony came on. You know the one where the personality traits fade in and out while we watch two well-paid actors talk about how lucky they are to have filled out that questionnaire? Well, up pops the word “spontaneous.” I frowned then said out loud and with full conviction to no one but the dogs, “I’m spontaneous!” Followed by, “No I’m not. I used to be…”

I continued my conversation with the dogs as I meandered to the kitchen. “I like a plan. It doesn’t have to be concrete, but I certainly need a general schedule of events. There’s nothing wrong with that! It’s totally normal and grown-up. After all, I can’t be whisked off to another country if I don’t have my passport with me! And I can’t very well sashay into a 5-star restaurant in shredded Levi’s."

"I’m sure I don’t understand what the whole surprise thing is all about anyway. Just makes people look awkward and feel uncomfortable…” The puppies wagged their tails in total agreement. Or for cheese. Tough call.

Now, I confess that I do love to surprise other people. But that’s totally different... because I’m thoughtful and I’d never make someone look like an ass in public. For instance, if I were throwing a surprise party, I would subtly ensure that the guest of honor was aware that “party clothes” would be a good idea for whatever pretense being used to get to the event, if that were necessary. I would not let a girlfriend show up in sweats and flip-flops, or a boy-friend roll up in sneakers and ratty jeans.

So here’s a well-worn bit of etiquette to put into practice: if you know a surprise is coming, treat it like the secret it is! A soon-to-be bride does not want her proposal ruined by you. A party should not be revealed because you need to prove you’re “in the know.” A runaway vacation will be less thrilling if you’re dropping hints, making innuendo, or insinuating that you’re privy to a clandestine event! You want to be an important part of something? Make sure your friend is wearing the right shoes.

Pride and Dignity

My girlfriend Marti recently posed the following question:
“With no holes barred, serious or funny… what’s the one thing you’d never want to go a day without? You can only pick one thing, and it cannot be a person.”

*thinks*
*taps fingernail incessantly on mouse *
*thinks*

Hours passed while I contemplated this. I’m a fairly simple creature, crazy hair aside. There are very few things in my life that are indispensable.

*sighs*

Okay….
Coffee? Too obvious.
Vodka? We don’t put that sort of thing into The Universe.
The joy that is my job? *choke* Ha! Not doing that with a straight face.

I returned to Marti’s page to see what other people were saying. It was a little bit like cheating, but then, I didn’t have any ideas of my own so I figured, what’s the harm?

Diet Mountain Dew; toilet paper; laughter (*eyeroll*); cell phone… and then, jackpot! There it was, in all caps: “MY SELF-RESPECT!!!” with yes, three exclamation points.

*snicker*
Seriously? Who thinks like that?

As far as I’m concerned, as long as you can live with your actions, it’s really no one else’s business how you go about it, as long as you’re not hurting anybody. Yes, I think we should all treat ourselves well, be forgiving of our shortcomings, and lead balanced lives – but I’m not your mother. Drink yourself stupid, smoke yourself unconscious; eat your way into a stupor; turn on your red light and call yourself Roxanne for all I care. If you can live with it; I can live with it… or choose not to and remove myself.

How many times have you heard someone snarl, “Where’s her self-respect?” at a person they already talk shit about? Like we need one more way for blowhards to belittle the actions of people they don’t value in the first place. And who’s in charge of the self-respect yardstick anyway? I imagine hookers have self-respect based on their skill-set. What makes theirs different from anyone else’s? Where is the panel of judges here, and what are the criteria?

No one can take something like self-respect away from you! You can certainly give it away… but take it? It’s not a car, an empty cocktail glass, or your virginity. We make our own choices – even when it feels like we don’t have one. You’re not allowed to blame someone else if you throw yourself under the bus. Choosing to stay on the sidewalk, now that’s self-respect!

Returning to the original question, and with everyone else’s answers in mind, I crafted my response… sort of:

Q:
“With no holes barred, serious or funny… what’s the one thing you’d never want to go a day without? You can only pick one thing, and it cannot be a person.”

A:
“I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s not my self-respect, because apparently that’s been sitting at the bar alongside my pride and my dignity for some years now.”

Don’t judge. At least I know where mine are!

*crickets*

I know.
I've been terribly quiet as of late.
Which is weird.

I'd offer up an excuse for why there's been so little to read, if I had one. But I don't. In the past it's been pure laziness. And for awhile in what? March? I just didn't have anything of merit to say. It's like there was nothing but a dial tone in my head where words and voices used to be.

How about you help a girl out. Fuel my fire, as it were. Email me YOUR ideas, rants, topics for musing. Ah ha! Not that easy, eh!

Looking forward to hearing from you!
PeaceOutCat2@aol.com

To Everything There is a Season

This gives me a case of The Anxiety every year… packing away the piles of winter-wear in order to take a good hard look at my summer wardrobe.

*groan*

My first serious error in judgment was going into this “un-lubricated.” Spring and summer-wear is no joke after a long hibernation period, and though mentally prepared for the horror of trying shorts on legs so pale they’re virtually transparent, I was not prepared for the not-so-subtle southern direction my form seems to be taking.

Time to regroup.

Vodka #1:
First, throw a sheet over the obviously distorted image reflecting a panty-clad person I’ve never seen before, here or in a dark bar. That task completed, I began the truly notable trek through 2 closets and 7 drawers of summer clothes.

[sidebar: to those of you who gasped at the thought of that much space being consumed by what is in essence casual-wear, bear in mind that I am/was from Houston. Necessities. Not gratuitous fun-wear.]

Soooo, let’s call it an hour later:

Vodka #2:
To the untrained eye, I imagine it might look as though a bomb exploded clothing into every corner of my 3rd floor. In truth, very difficult decisions are afoot: trash it, donate it, cut the price tag off of it, or keep it. My girlfriend Jenny has been up my ass since I bought my house to perform this little chore if for no other reason than out of a sense of decency. Hmm, wonder if she’d like a vodka…

Vodka #3:
Stroke of pure genius! I should develop a "support" garment… something along the lines of a full body Spanx apparatus… plus a girdle... with extra rubber banding in the middle... and a ¾-length sleeve to disguise my arms. And chin support. I wonder if there's a way to lift my ass off the back of my thighs while keeping it safely secured inside my waistband.

Then it hit me…the sudden realization that there’s no real way to fight Father Time. What! How can this be?

*pass the vodka*

I mean, I eat right; I work out every day; I generally keep my alcohol consumption to one type per day, I rarely drink beer anymore; and I can certainly blame my sibling’s mother for the shitty gene pool. Honestly, what else can be done this side of “the knife?” This isn't fair. This isn't fair at all!

Bearing in mind that every aspect of my life should be considered a cautionary tale and never emulated, I feel obligated to share the results of this recent discovery and research in an effort to stave off any surprise, and possibly your downward spiral into the murky waters of anti-depressants.

Brace yourself.

You should know that, eventually, you’re not going to be able to locate those once prominent abdominal muscles. The skin around your thighs is going to start to sag, and while inspecting your new gray hairs you'll discover that one ear is conspicuously larger than the other. This will all come to you while staring into the mirror from the toilet wondering if you're really done peeing, or if you just think you are... In due time your eyebrows will either become bushy feather dusters, or fall out altogether, leaving gaping holes to be filled with eyebrow pencil like the old woman at the Walgreen’s check out. There will be jowls. And most likely bat-wings – those stubborn flaps you once called triceps. You may have seen the last of your feet.

Kindly remove the stink-eye. That ends my public service announcement.

Returning to my newly pared down summer wardrobe, I’ve decided that the answer here is dresses. Lots and lots of patterned dresses that will both distract and give the illusion that I’m still exactly as I was last year! And by “last year” I mean when I was 24…

*giggle*

Everybody Talk Talk

Yes. The rumors are true.

And?

And… if I’ve learned nothing else in this life it’s that someone else’s story is not mine to tell.

I live in “Horse Country.” That’s what the locals call it in an effort to make it sound more glamorous than it is. As far as I’m concerned you can call it Utopia, it’s still just a giant vortex of bored gossip where flip-flops are considered appropriate party footwear. I am unquestionably a Big City Girl, so you can imagine the profound effect this has had on my lifestyle… not to mention my wardrobe and my psyche…

Admittedly, Big City living can be somewhat like Small Town living, but with actual options. In a city filled with millions of people, you create several small towns of your own. You have your circle of immediate friends, your peripherals, the bars and restaurants you frequent, your health club, your workplace. Whether they overlap occasionally, or the sides touch regularly, they’re still very separate. This inspires a sense of anonymity; thus people are prone to just mind their own lives instead of interjecting themselves into the lives of others.

And you have more choices for take-away meals, which is nice.

In a Small Town there is absolutely no sense of privacy and very little to do after the beer store closes. This is a dangerous combination. A powder keg next to an open flame, I tell you!

In an effort to protect other City Girls from the horror of adapting to forced country living unprepared, I thought perhaps I’d just provide a bit more insight on what to expect.

When you’re the new girl in a Small Town, you will experience the phenomenon of being immediately Loved or Shunned for no apparent reason. Rest assured, there is a reason and it’s based on absolutely nothing more than what can be seen. This can be a little unnerving, but let it go. Ulterior motives are in play and it’s not really about you.

Should you find yourself in the position of being “Loved” by people you don’t know, acknowledge it for exactly what it is: an effort to collect all available information so They can decide whether or not you’re a threat to their little world. You know, lock up the Husbands and institute a curfew for anything with a penis.

If you’re Shunned, might I suggest staying that way and getting a hobby. I promise you that even the civic committees and organizations are never thrilled to see someone with those new-fangled, modern ideas show up to help.

Their Decision and Your Position in the “grand” hierarchy of Small Town is based on your look, your presence, and whether or not you innately possess the capacity to slip effortlessly down to a personal low of stereotyping, criticizing, abusing those of whom you’re jealous, and can employ unimaginative methods for ruining the lives of others.

Needless to say, I didn’t fare so well. I failed Busybody; I couldn’t master Ruination; and sadly I was completely inept when it came to actually giving a rat’s ass about what people did with their lives if I wasn’t directly and specifically involved.

I’ve pontificated on this topic before and people probably wonder why I don’t just collect my belongings, and head to a place where I can reclaim my privacy and a sense of civility. *sighs* Honestly, I wonder the same thing. Apparently my work here isn’t done because The Universe isn’t letting me have any part of reclaiming my life. When that day comes, I’m sure a number of the locals will relish the opportunity to help me pack.

In the meantime, might I suggest choosing your gossip wisely? You’d be surprised what people “know.”

A Brief Follow-Up

*crickets*
I'm blocked.
I can't come up with a thing to write. Well, that's not altogether true... I haven't been able to write anything appropriate to post. I know, I know. That goes against the very principle of this blog. I suppose I could...

OK. Here's something that's been on my mind. If you read "Common Denominator" (March 29) and “got it,” I applaud you. I received a lot of email and posts that completely missed the point of what I was trying to say – which is quite obviously my own fault. Apparently I was too delicate. Now I'm going to break it down:

Common Denominator is not about “someone else” or “Crazy Girl.” It’s solely about being the only constant in your own life – for good or bad. It’s about not blaming other people for your decisions or the unpleasant things that “happen” to you. You were there. You made the decision, choice, leap of faith. If you were ultimately wrong for having done it, don’t blame the person you did it to. Step up and quit acting like a little pussy. If you can’t own your actions, perhaps you should be thinking them through better before you just run off all willy-nilly trying to get attention, get laid, or be a part of something.

Let’s look at how this works with boy/girl relationships since that’s easy. Girl likes boy. Boy just wants to hook-up with Girl. Boy buys dinner and drinks a couple of times. Girl interprets this as a relationship. Now, maybe it is, maybe it’s not. Maybe it turns into something and maybe it doesn’t. Boy is holding the reins because Girl refuses to accept she may be “one of those girls” even though her history clearly delineates this as an ongoing predicament. After Boy is satisfied that he’s gotten all he’s interested in out of the situation, Boy quits calling Girl and she blames Boy’s roommate/friend/ex-girlfriend/new girlfriend/mother.

Truth: Girl just isn’t interesting enough; is too clingy; or just lousy in the rack.
Truth: Boy is a big jerk because he wouldn’t own it and just tell her the truth.

Just to be absolutely clear. This is bigger than just piddly boy/girl freak shows. This spans the width and breadth of ALL relationships. The point of Common Denominator is this: if you don’t like something about your life, blame yourself. Don’t blame me or your upbringing or the Federal government. If you don’t want to accept that your attitude or issue is your problem then might I suggest that you collect your pail and your shovel and get out of the sandbox until you learn how to play well with others.

Huh. Apparently I had something to say about that!

Really, Martha?

I resent Martha Stewart.

It’s not because she’s managed to make a career of staying at home baking cookies and making pillows; it’s the way she implies the rest of us should be finding time to do this, too.

When my alarm clock begins it’s annoying plea for me to pry myself out of the bed at 6AM, I rarely greet the day with love and creativity. No, the day is generally greeted with a heavy sigh and perhaps profanity as I shuffle to the kitchen to start the coffee. During the 36 minutes allotted for my morning toilette, which sadly is little more than a quick post-yoga shower and a ponytail suitable for work, I’ll try to remember which suits might be hiding in dry cleaning bags, coordinate footwear, and double check that I’m not wearing a black brassiere underneath a white blouse. Whatever. It happens.

Given the time constraint, it’s reasonable to assume that I will not be stripping the bed and replacing the sheets. If the bed is empty I’ll yank the comforter up to give the appearance of having been made. Next: gather anything that vaguely resembles wash and toss it into the laundry room, securing the door behind me in case of unexpected company later.

Back in the kitchen, I will not be whipping up a delicious breakfast of Eggs Benedict complete with a lovely sprig of fresh dill from my herb garden placed gingerly in repose upon a quick and easy hollandaise sauce. No, I’m thinking more along the lines of stale pop-tarts and half a carton of expired yogurt. Safe to say I will not be packing a well-balanced, nutritious lunch in a smartly decorated homemade lunch pail either. On a good day I’ll grab a handful of lunch money from the change jar, get the rest of the coffee into a mostly clean Thermos, push the dogs into the yard, then sprint barefooted to the car as that’s apparently where I left the shoes I wore home last night.

There are plenty of stoplights during my commute to concern myself with struggling into pantyhose, digging one shoe from beneath the seat, choking down that pop-tart, then re-applying lipstick. My linen dress will be a wrinkled mess by the time I arrive at work, and no Martha, I do not keep a portable steamer in my desk drawer.

Nine hours on the job, then out the door.

Pulling back into the driveway I attempt to avoid the trashcans, ignore that the recycling bin has been empty at the curb for two days, and make every effort not to make eye contact with the neighbors. Racing for the door with shoes in one hand and laptop in the other, I make a quick stop to pull the gardening clippers from my handbag and collect a lovely array of flowers from my perennial garden for the dinner table arrangement. Oh wait… I don’t have a perennial garden! If I did, I’d be curious to know who planted, watered, and weeded the thing.

Start the wash, head count for dinner, feed the dogs. I will not be keeping this pair of stockings with the new runner in the left leg for use next October when it’s time to get creative with Halloween costumes. They will go the way of aluminum foil scraps, cardboard inserts from the package of Handi-Wipes, laundry soap jugs and empty egg cartons. In my world there are no neatly organized, expensive plastic bins from an overpriced container ware store kept in seasonal order on shelves in the spare bedroom that serves as a “project space.” The only container I’m familiar with is the one under the sink with the removable plastic liner.

OK. Dinner. There will be no poached salmon with asparagus, next to a Caesar salad served on hand-painted dishes created using trendy ideas from a local craft store. I don’t even know if there is a local craft store. Tonight’s delicacy was prepared by the supermarket guy in charge of the chicken roasting oven, the lady who keeps a mindful eye on the salad bar, and may well be delivered on mismatched everyday ware – assuming I have time later to wash dishes. Paper plates are my friend not because they’re so useful when it comes time to make holiday decorations or ribbon bouquets, but because they give me back 15 minutes of my day.

Sure, sometimes I wish I could juggle house, career, and social obligations with the opportunity to grow my own Roma tomatoes and learn to use a hot glue gun for something other than fixing a loose skirt hem. But since the obvious impossibility of that is so great, I’m just gonna work on wrapping my head around who I am in real life – a harried mess without enough time or energy to find the perfect pastry tube, racing through the boring parts of life at breakneck speed, and looking for a laugh.

Hey, Martha? Kiss my découpaged ass.