Stairmaster

Stairmaster works out at the gym attached to my building. The gym has floor to ceiling windows facing the alley I walk through to work every day. When I first moved here, I started waving at Stairmaster when I walked by in the morning. I don't know why I did it, perhaps because Stairmaster is INTENSE. He is always going to town on the Stairmaster and simultaneously lifting at least 30 pound dumbbells. Intense. Maybe I wanted to see if he would wave back, lose balance, knock himself unconscious with one of the weights, I don't know. He always acknowledged my wave without missing a beat on his relentless climb to nowhere.

A few weeks ago, I met Stairmaster on land and honestly didn't recognize him at first. I was running late for a meeting so I was not engaged in the conversation the way I should have been but it was long enough that I learned he lived in the condo complex and something about a boat that he's always on--that's the part where I was not really listening or engaged. So I rushed away and felt bad for doing so but I did make it on time to my meeting on two wheels with smoking tires.

Since we met, Stairmaster has taken it up a notch and is now blowing me kisses. Earlier this week, he came out to make quick small talk while I was walking by and told me I looked nice. Yesterday, he made the kiss face without blowing it, which to me is a little more construction guy aggressive than a playful blown kiss. WTF is that? I'm not sure where all this is going but I'm now walking the long way to work to avoid walking past the gym because I'm not quite sure what one does when a guy makes that face at you. My smile and wave seems inadequate. I feel like he's inviting me to make out with him through the glass.

I'm pretty sure that he's at least 15 years older than me because a: older men are my key demographic and b: there are way too many much younger, better dressed girls walking around this city that he would/could be chasing if he were younger. Regardless of his age, he needs to just ask me out. I'm tired of not being able to walk by the gym without feeling like I have to look for him just so he can semi freak me out with his suggestive lip gestures. I feel 12 years old when he does that. I just want to say 'ewwwww!' and run away.

(un)Important Things, aka almost everything I blog about

Many thanks to the lovely Afternoon Tea Break for tagging the blog. I'm grateful for the mention. She has been the harbinger of good fortune so I am hopeful for a little good karma her way as she finds her way to a more fulfilling career.

Here are the 3 rules:

A. Mention the person who tagged you.

See above.

B. List six unimportant things that make you happy.

1. Feeling fresh; legs shaved, hair done, happy with my clothing, and at a perfect temperature (that might have been all 5 and then some)

2. Laughing

3. Watching my dog walk. There is carefree joy in her gait.

4. Seltzer water and practically anything else that fizzes. In my early 20's I had a troubling proclivity towards eating Alka Seltzer tablets as snacks. I started receiving them as gifts from friends. Even typing about Alka Seltzer makes my mouth water. Yes boys, I am still single. Will wonders never cease?

5. Peanut Butter Panic ice cream by Blue Bunny. Really stinkin' good.

C. Tag six blogs, state the rules and notify them with a comment on their blog.

1. Good Grace

2. Burnside Writers Blog

3. Jayme Kohler; Writer. Cyclist. Marine

4. Adventures in Post-Nuptial Life

5. for me, for you

Plan B

So I got a call from Olive Garden (OG), one of my friends here. She's Italian, hence the name, which I think is perfect for reasons that I may explain later. Or not. She invited me out to a movie playing at some theater a few blocks away. It was a movie that has been out for ages so it was only three dollars. Neither of us had been to this place before but it turns out, it's some kind of bar and yours truly had no ID. I looked at the guy who I easily had a decade on asking for my ID and I told him I did not have one. He was resolute that I had to have a state issued ID back up the gray hair creeping in at my temples and the fact that even in my 20's I have never been mistaken for someone in my 20's--in my 30's, don't even get me started. I can't tell you how many times I've been in a conversation with someone in their (late) 40's who thinks we are contemporaries. No this young man letting toddlers in with fake id's wasn't going to let me pull a fast one on him and jeopardize his growth opportunities in what was sure to be a challenging career barely looking at id's all across the dive bars of Philadelphia. What-the-fuck-ever.

I had walked 7 blocks in wedges to have this likely well intentioned but absolutely no common sense dude turn me away. My friend, who was waiting for other friends couldn't go back with me. I was not going to walk back to the house to retrieve my ID and return so we parted ways and I began to walk back home. Two blocks later, I got a text message from OG. The movie had been cancelled. Technical difficulties that I swear had nothing to do with me. When OG called me earlier that night to invite me to this laughable evening, I was napping. It was lovely because I've been suffering with a bout of insomnia and it was great to lie down and actually feel tired. When she called, I reflexively considered everything I would rather do than leave my house on a school night; take a shower, eat some yogurt, and read Watership Down; take a shower, eat something random for dinner, browse match and e-harmony to rekindle my thoughts of despair, blog a bit, you know, all the greatest hits. I would have rather stayed home but I felt I needed to say yes for a change. I've been back for an hour now. I'm all showered up, sitting in the bed, Watership Down within arm's reach, tapping away here.

It's a good thing I had a Plan B.

Nothing to report

The weekend was sunny and grand. Had a good visit from an old friend who makes me feel positively sunny and optimistic by contrast. I think also she is a tiny window in to how I must sound to people when I attack myself. It's pretty frustrating. We had a good time though. She is the comfortable clothing I wouldn't dare wear outside but feel most myself in. She's very easy to be around and do things with. I never worry she's doing something she doesn't want to do on my account. It was a nice weekend of eating, shopping, talking, and rest. Her visit forced me to clean the bathroom and pick up around the house. It was good that she came. She also had a possible publishing lead that I need to follow through on. Right now though, I want to follow through on a nap and need to follow through on walking the dog in this semi-oppressive unseasonably warm weather. Needs and wants..if only there were a way to walk the dog while taking a nap....

Call me crazy

Sometimes I ask myself random questions. Wonder what would happen if I threw this bag of dog crap in to the open window of that passing car. That would be hilarious. They would be SO surprised I'll bet they won't even think to stop the car. What if the poop exploded on impact? Boy, would they be mad. The looks on their faces would be priceless.

I would of course run away but what about the next time they see a black girl with a black dog? Will they be obsessed with revenge, keeping their own sack of crap at the ready in the passenger seat, pelting innocent people and setting off a huge retaliatory wave of crap fueled duels?

Is it weird that after this post, I sometimes kind of want an opportunity to thwart a would-be attacker with a forceful crap smack to the face? In addition to the satisfaction of a job well done, I always feel a little bad ass carrying poop, like so-and-so doesn't even know what's coming if he/she decides to mess with this black woman. I know, so sad.

In other (actual) news, I just read the World Health Organization (WHO? Exactly), issued a statement that essentially said that "we want to warn the world that we can't say for sure whether or not the swine flu could cause a pandemic." The best part of the article noted WHO could issue travel advisories, trade restrictions, and border closings, none of which would be binding. None of which would be binding? Wow. Way to be relevant WHO.

Hater: part deux

I just read something about Obama pledging protections for credit card users. I find this at odds with his call for personal responsibility. I am tired of credit card companies being demonized and consumers being canonized. When you buy something with a credit card, you are using someone else's money to pay for what you buy. You are agreeing to pay them back when the bill comes. When you don't, it is theft. Everyone else acted in good faith, you received goods and/or services, your credit card company gave the retailer money and even charged them a transaction fee for the privilege of doing business with you through them. If you know you don't have the money and won't have it when the bill comes, you are knowingly defrauding people.

I can't speak to how and why these things happen. Many of the stories behind the debt are heart wrenching tales of accident/injury/illness exacerbated by a loss of income and a struggle to maintain the life they have built. Many are also just irresponsible spending and a failure to manage their income and expenditure ratio. But I really disagree with what appears to be an economy driven pandering to take care of people who aren't taking care of themselves. I don't believe that is the federal government's job. Kudos to Ben Feller, AP for at least noting: "The president made no mention of the responsibility of consumers to keep themselves from getting overextended."

Serendipity Baby!

So I sought early this evening to give the blog a new look, import all the stuff from the old one, and come up with a new name. I owe the new title to Gary, a guy I 'met' when I was a freshman in college over internet relay chat, or IRC as the cool kids called it. I won't digress too much about how back in the day, you had to know something about computers to connect with people across the globe, that it was all telnet and unix shell command prompt action from college campus servers. It makes it sound harder than it actually was. I only bring it up because it makes me sound smart.

Gary had several 'handles' throughout our long virtual friendship but my favorite was Serendipitous Freelance Hacker. I had a mad crush on Gary even though I never knew what he looked like. I talked to him off and on for 12+ years and never met him. I have never been so passionate about politics that I thought I could lose a friend over it but Gary felt differently. After an exceptionally abusive and long volley of e-mails long before our last election, mostly attacking my apathy because I was honest about how I felt about politics in general, Gary and I dropped contact. Haven't talked to him since but when searching for inspiration on the next evolution of my blogging life, his old handle inspired me.

After weeks of zero visitors, someone stumbled onto my blog and left some lovely comments and suggestions. If that's not serendipity, I don't know what is. I also had a new and unexpected visitor on the old blog who also left a comment. All in all, quite well done fortunate chance!

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 they 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?

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.

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.

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 see....to be continued.

Hater

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....

Fear

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.