*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.

Common Denominator

Situations, relationships, people, places, things – basically all your nouns – they change. They change every day. Sometimes you notice. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you make a choice for change, and sometimes change happens without your consent.

What I find interesting is how often it isn’t “change” at all; but rather a rerun of your life in syndication. Déjà vu, you wonder?

No. It’s just vous.

Since obviously there’s nothing crazy about you, think of that one crazy friend, ex-girlfriend, co-worker, sister, neighbor – whatever, the Crazy Girl. We all know one. Her business manager may be a psychic? She has an excuse or reason for everything bad that happens in her life and it’s all external. Someone else is responsible for her current state. She’s just trying to do the best, most right thing and she keeps getting punished for it.

*eyeroll*

Crazy Girl’s life is a dull collection of repeated “errors in judgment” which can certainly be twisted about in order to place the blame soundly on someone else. Sadly, but inevitably, the willing world can see the many iterations of the same behavior… and Crazy Girl is always in the big ole middle of it. She created it or assisted it, and was probably looking for a different outcome every time. Definition of insanity, right?

For all of the relationships, bad fashion decisions, and lost drunken weekends, there’s a common denominator. Only one person was there every time. In Crazy Girl’s life, it’s her. In your life, it’s you. That’s right. You’re your own common denominator.

I like to blame my occasionally less than stellar decision-making on the multitude of voices in my head – which at least one of whom believes is totally valid. However, when I look in the mirror, it’s just me. Since I’m not afraid to own my life, actions, or decisions it’s easier to tell the world to “piss off” if need be; apologize when I’ve actually done something hurtful (as opposed to those things I didn’t do but that are nonetheless a very real part of someone else’s imagination), and get a decent night’s sleep.

Stop pushing your retrospectively embarrassing decisions or misdeeds off on everyone else. You did it. You get to own it. If you don’t like your behavior – change it. If you don’t like my behavior, have the balls to say that to me and stop acting like a spoiled little bitch. No one is ruining your happiness but you.

[sidebar: wow… vicious. But I’ll own it. I’ll also share that after I typed it I realized it didn’t come from my usual hypothetical place, but instead was actually directed somewhere… somewhere male. Perhaps I should get off this healthy living thing to ensure I don’t see so clearly... Waiter!]

Embrace yourself before you run out of people who will. Remind yourself that not everything that happens around you is about you. Never forget that you are the only common denominator in your life, so choose your environs carefully.

“And acceptance is the answer to all of my problems today…”

Stag Nation

So in my previous post I eluded to death and the contents of my nightstand. This got me thinking about all the stuff we keep. Stuff we know we might maybe shouldn’t hold onto for posterity, and yet 15 years later, there it is, staring up at you from the bottom of a box you just pulled from your parents attic, or under your bed, or wherever you’re hiding the stuff about your past from the people in your present.

Interestingly enough, it’s been my experience that the really good stuff about people can be found in the boxes scrawled with “school” using Sharpee marker in the unmistakable male scratch.

I don’t care what anyone says about women keeping stuff, y’all men are so much worse. See, we keep everything. Romantic stuff, fun afternoon at the beach with our girlfriends stuff, first college schedule, pictures of everything and every one. Mostly we’re just holding onto lovely memories; stories for the winter of our lives. It’s a lot to sort through if you don’t know your way around, so it’s somewhat more difficult to find the “good stuff.” And of course, by “good” I mean incriminating.

But men! The stuff you keep seems to scream, “all I want in this life is to be in college again!” I get it. I do. Those were great times for all of us. But here’s the thing: You. Cannot. Live. There. Anymore. Your Stag-Nation citizenship was revoked when you left campus. You can’t just sit here reminiscing; hopelessly grappling for your glory days. Whether you’re 25, 35, or 45 you’ve got to face the facts. You’re officially accountable for your actions. Grow up. Move on.

Here are a few helpful hints for you Penis Owners who insist you cannot part with whatever it is that keeps you tied to the 22-year-old version of yourself:

If you’re single and trying to stay that way, it is absolutely unnecessary for you to do anything except continue on your merry way and prepare to die alone. You may want to look into Alumni citizenship to Stag Nation. I believe you only have to produce proof of strip club membership and your "magazine" subscriptions. And though there is no need to continue reading, I would suggest a brief perusal of the last two paragraphs here for the sake of propriety.

If you’re single but trying not to be, hire a maid. No, not the kind in the black fishnet stockings, though I’m sure she’d do a lovely job on your pipes. I mean a real cleaning lady: the kind that will de-gross your bathroom and scrub the unidentified sticky stuff out of your refrigerator. Ask her to pack your athletic trophies in a box and mark it “Mom’s House.” Deliver it on your next laundry day.

You seriously still have a beer bong? I… I… I… yeah. There are no words unless they are “Return to Frat House” with no return address.

I promise you that, as long as you have a pulse and a need, the raunchy text message you elicited from your ex last weekend is not the last bit of sexting you’ll ever experience. Delete it. It will only get you in trouble. Go ahead. We’ll wait…

As for your gentlemen’s magazines: women who don’t know about them, don’t mind that you have them. Should you discover that your extensive collection puts off the woman in your life, you’ve a decision to make. If you’re not going to leave them out on the coffee table or in the bathroom magazine rack for all to admire, you should consider getting rid of them altogether, or moving them to your gym locker with your squash racket. The other option is so obvious I’m embarrassed to type it. *deep breath* Get rid of her.

Finally, take the time to make a list and, if necessary, a treasure map or diagram outlining where all of the embarrassing bits of your life are located in your house, apartment, office – wherever you keep these things. Give said list, associated graphic documentation, all necessary keys, and disposal instructions to a trusted friend… for just in case. You do not want grief-stricken Granny opening a closet door only to be taken out by precariously piled bawdy videos of you and your girlfriend. Is that the conversation you want overheard at your wake?

To everyone I say this: Just keep your stuff, whether it’s sentimental or you plan to “use” it at a later date, in one easy to retrieve albeit concealed place with access for immediate disposal, if required. This really is for your own good, and the good of any relationship you may have with someone besides yourself.