Soundtrack

This song reminds me of my dad who made me listen to this until I grew to appreciate it on my own. He would sing over lyrics so I didn't miss any of the irony.



And I can't get this one out of my head. Love the old Swedish couple clapping along when they do a sweep of the crowd.

Sold

Today I sold my house. The picture is my former backyard and it was for that view that I compromised on everything else I thought I was looking for when home shopping some seven years ago. It is an otherwise modest townhouse in a quiet cul de sac, many miles from Washington up a difficult stretch of 95. It was my dog's first home too. The hardwood I replaced the carpet with bears many scribbly claw marks and the wall in the hallway outside my old bedroom bears a light shadow from years of her body settling for the night in that spot.

What strikes me most about this sale though is how it came about. I knew I was leaving in February last year to move here and heaped coals on my head in advance for all I wasn't going to do to prepare the house for sale. When I finally left in September, I came back almost every weekend to do additional painting and repairs, finally putting it on the market for two weeks before becoming pissed at my realtor and demanding she just put it up for rent. Almost the same day, I had this fantastic renter and a mere two months after she moved in, she sent me an e-mail asking if I would be willing to sell it to her. Now for the two weeks I had the house for sale last year, I was getting feedback from my realtor about what my house wasn't. Over the years I had invested in the infrastructure of my house, replacing windows, floors, doors, heat pumps, water heaters and fixing anything that would compromise the integrity of the structure from within. All this meant my house was solid but not terribly big on the design elements. It was lovely enough but it wasn't exceptional. Do you see where I'm going here with the house as an analogy for me? I don't mean to beat a sick horse to death-that one is for you Boomka.

I was smug yesterday when the FedEx package came with the closing documents. I was thinking, 'Ha! I didn't need a slick and fancy new stove so that someone would want my house. Someone loved it and recognized the value of what I put into it.' Today thinking of the house again as an apt analogy for how I approach the world, my smugness is tempered a bit. I work on myself, I want always to be better, but I focus most of my effort inside or into accomplishments and competency and not so much on the window dressing. Just like when I was showing my house, the feedback is something along the lines of, "I really like her, she's got a lot of great features. For the price though, I think there should be new appliances and countertops. Pass or see if she will accept less."

I know I can do better with reflecting my value to the world in the way I dress. We probably all can. As much as I view this sale as validation that value can be recognized, even when it isn't vying for your attention with fancy tile work and elegant staging, I also think there is room in my life for improvement to sometimes try to look as awesome as I am. To really knock it out of the park and wear good deodorant to hide the anxiety that attention to my "staging" would bring.

But the big object lesson in this for me is realizing that after all the fretting I'd done before moving about getting the house on the market, and then getting feedback about what my house didn't have, someone came along out of nowhere and just wanted it. She wanted if even if the appraisal came back for less than I was asking. She wanted it as-is and did not ask me to change or fix a thing as a condition of sale. I can't help but hope that I'm as lucky in love.

ODB

I love old black men. They love me too. I don't know James but he approached me at the train today, asked me my name, told me I was beautiful, and wanted to get together with me. I pulled out my handy fake boyfriend but he did not care about my boyfriend Slash Thudkill (that's my fake boyfriend-I don't refer to him by name but when I think of his name, it makes me smile like he's real). If I wasn't married, I was fair game. He just kept on trying to extend our conversation and secure himself a date. I used to take that kind of thing personally and wonder what stink of desperation or non-verbal cues made this guy break into my reverie to proposition me. I know it's not that deep so I just enjoyed a random guy telling me I was beautiful and an opportunity to laugh to myself imagining what Slash Thudkill would look like if he was real.

Do The White Thing

I was walking the dog today when I passed an interracial couple pushing their gorgeous baby past in her stroller. She was black, he was white. I thought, "Where is my white guy?" I don't even know how to explain myself. I've explored the obvious themes of secret self loathing for my race and acceptance gained through being chosen by someone white. I don't know what to make of that honestly. That might be deeper than one need go when discussing attraction, I'm not trying to diagnose an illness after all. Aside from what I would describe as a natural attraction to many white guys, I think a part of me just wants what won't have me. I've turned it into a "thing." I wonder how any black woman with a white man did it, I wonder if he always dated black women or if their coupling had special circumstances. I wonder, wonder, wonder. I wonder if any of the guys I knew ever hesitated making a move because they assumed I didn't date outside my race. I had a long conversation on a road trip with a guy in college who felt it was wrong for the races to mix, mostly he said because of the children having such a hard go of it. I don't know but I'm pretty sure that's going to survive in at least the top 20 of most thinly veiled racist things I've ever heard. Wish I knew where he was now. I wonder how he feels about our President.

I've no frame of reference for dating a white guy. I know I don't want to educate him about being black as if it is a singular experience and I represent it. Nor do I want to date a white guy (or any guy) who calls me 'boo' and shows me that he's down with brown by throwing out lines from random hip hop songs. I normally don't know what they are, and it just makes it awkward for both of us. I'm annoyed that you just rapped to me and you're annoyed because I'm not black enough for you. It would just be easier to date the bus driver who tries to get my number within three block of me getting on the bus and call it a day. I don't have to explain my hair, my dad can talk about white people and black people without having to censor himself. No one will have to explain that the white boyfriend is not free to talk about how 'black' something was that anyone did, regardless of race. Everyone can just be black in one corner and white in the other. We can be friends, co-workers, neighbors but never really force ourselves to talk honestly around one another.

I do think I want a white guy to embrace me as something special and unique and to embrace my race as part of that. I've met one guy (who happens to be white) who set the standard. With him I didn't feel like a novelty, he just loved black women the way l like white men. The woman he was dating was a scary but stylish black woman. I think he liked the challenge of her. We had some measure of affection and attraction for one another but never dated. I was always very cautious when we were together to be good for the both of us. He was a shameless flirt but he was also just easy to be around, I just slipped into his company like my favorite dress. I always felt good with him. No matter what I was doing, what I was wearing, I never even thought of those things. I just liked being around him and the feeling was mutual as far as I could tell. Had I been a different woman, I think something could have happened. And if it did, there would have never been the white/black conversation because as much as he was primarily attracted to black women, he was attracted to individuals who were black, not just black women for the novelty of it.

I loved not having to explain myself to him like I was born on the planet Krypton. We could walk down the ethnic beauty isle without me having to explain the products (even the ones I didn't use) like we were at the zoo. I bought a shower cap and we didn't have a 15 minute conversation about how often I do or do not wash my hair. I've never seen a white guy or girl that interested in what the other was putting in or doing with their hair. I don't like answering questions about my hair. I feel like I'm defending it and explaining something that only applies to me to someone who assumes that they've just learned something about all black people. I've never heard white girls ask eachother how they get their hair in certain styles to the degree I've endured the same questions about my hair. I'm sorry for the rant, I definitely have an issue with the hair questions. I don't know why anyone thinks it is acceptable to ask me if my hair is real or want to touch it and remark with surprise that it is soft. It is usually innocent but it implies so much to me about your assumptions about me simply because I'm black. My point is that although he knew the score, he didn't care. It wasn't a point of discussion. At most I think he said he liked the way something smelled. Being there with me was being there with me, not an anthropological field trip. I want to be an object of affection, not an object of study.

And I could avoid all that angst by just coloring in the lines and being with a nice black man. The only guy I ever seriously dated was black and I remember being surprised that I was attracted to him, surprised even more with how hard I fell for him, and relieved that after all those years of assuming I would marry a white guy and possibly deal with people on both sides who were disappointed with the partnership, we could just be. If I didn't like his mom or she didn't like me, there would be no racial undercurrent. I wouldn't wonder if my race had anything to do with it. No hair explaining, no debunking myths about black people not being able to tan, no dealing with random comments from people who think they should register their opinion about your relationship for the record. No integration of parents who grew up during the civil rights era. Just happy brown all around.

I make my life so hard for me. I should just call Batman, set a date and start making some brown babies. The costume thing will at least be fun when the kids are little. The path of least resistance is underrated.

F-ing Homeowner's associations

The place I live now has a fenced in courtyard which is almost always in the shade with a nice breeze blowing through. I was enjoying a book and a little time with the dog this morning after our walk when one of the association people stopped by to let me know that signs would be coming soon prohibiting dogs from being in the space because they were turning it into a tot lot. They mentioned that the area had just been power washed but I made no move to leave, insulted with the implication that my dog and I were considered unclean. There really aren't a lot of kids in this part of the city and even less in our 4 buildings. I can count on one hand the number that I've actually seen. Why they get a dedicated space where there are so few spaces for anything is nakedly unfair. I've only been here 6 months and I'm 90 percent positive I know who is behind the no dogs provision of the new assosication financed playground for the 5 kids in this complex. If you want a yard, move. Don't use the association's money to build one for your kid and then tell me I can't use it.

I hate associations. I hate them because they really aren't associations, they are a handful of your neighbors who use your money to send you newsletters about being and good neighbor and telling you what colors you can paint the exterior of your house. And it's not the cool, laid-back neighbors who run associations. It's the people who have impossible gardens and homes staged like a Better Homes and Gardens or Architectural Digest crews could stop by at any moment. Whatever their issues are, the sublimate them through blocking the sale of a house until their neighbor has requested after the fact permission to put green brick edging around their rock garden (true story). It's fucking nuts and offends me deeply. I paid for my house and the land on it, why the fuck do I have to ask for permission to improve it? And how dare you come on to my porch to measure the circumference of my pots. Get a fucking life.

They consider the common areas extensions of their actual home. When I'm sitting out in the courtyard enjoying the sunshine, they walk by as if I'm in their living room. That is the cancer of associations. People use them to advance and enforce their lifestyles on the rest of the tenants. They are not content to shape only their lives, they build rules based on what personally annoys them about the people they chose to live around. It is a little slice of socialist heaven for the upwardly mobile. There are no cigarette butt holders anywhere but they recently put out a note requesting people not throw them on the ground or in the potted plants. I don't smoke but I don't know where people are supposed to safely dispose of their butts if they don't throw them on the non-flammable ground. I'm annoyed about the anti-dog nature of the tot lot but I'm probably more annoyed that we have many owners in the complex that fuel that sentiment. They let their dogs piss and crap in the common areas within the complex. It's like having your dog take a crap on your deck, it's completely inappropriate. But people who don't like dogs anyway don't think that given the volume of dogs here, if everyone were that disrespectful and irresponsible, you'd have to swim through the crap and piss in the common areas. They just look at me when I walk pass with a palpable disdain like I just took a steaming dump at their feet.

They are the people who come prepared the the association meetings with detailed agendas regarding the willow trees that they want trimmed using community funds so they can see the lake better. They are the people who suggest it would increase our sense of community if community funds were used to put no trespassing signs everywhere. Much better. Now I feel like I'm in prison. Everyone knows that ne'er do wells see no trespassing signs and remark to themselves 'Well, I was going to come in and steal the packages sitting in the mailroom but that was before they put a sign. I guess I better find somewhere else to be thieve-y.' The real issue both here and where I lived before is keeping the unwashed masses at bay and advancing some kind of sad middle class bourgeoisie agenda. Renters are practically the AntiChrist.

It's not that I don't believe in basic community standards to maintain property values and safety, I've just never seen an association actually manage that well. They govern from an assumption that left to their own devices, individuals will sit in their own filth and allow their property to become a blight. Instead of fostering a sense of community, they become arbiters of good taste and judgement and instead of talking to Debbie in 1A about how much it annoys them when she puts her boxes outside her door and leaves them there for days, the association creates a new by-law with punitive fines prohibiting boxes, shoes, umbrellas, and tacky rugs that say 'wipe your paws' from being in the hallway longer than 24 hours and then sends a newsletter to the residents to inform them of the new rule.

Pisses me off.



The picture is of a common area in my old neighborhood where an association member put this sign. She has a dog and walked it in the common area grass in front of my house every single morning but felt the common area by her house should not be used for such unseemly things. I think it is a hilarious sign but it is against the rules to post signs and such in common areas and I have a have a mind to bring it up with the association to force her to take it out. Another reason why I hate associations. Everyone becomes afflicted with Stockholm Syndrome and uses the very rules they hate to oppress their neighbors.

Okay...I'm stepping down now.

Passer-by pushes suicide jumper in south China

An excerpt (click on text to go to full article:

BEIJING – Chen Fuchao, a man heavily in debt, had been contemplating suicide on a bridge in southern China for hours when a passer-by came up, shook his hand — and pushed him off the ledge.

Seems he was fed up with the delay on the bridge because of this guy and decided to call the man's bluff. I thought the story was hilarious. The article is worth the read.

Larry Miller had a joke about a jumper who was shot off a bridge with beanbag bullets by the police. He imitates the jumper saying 'I'll jump!' and then a noise like a shot being fired and the police saying, "No. You'll fall." I tried to find a clip on youtube because I can't do the joke justice. I couldn't find it so enjoy some Mitch Hedberg instead.

Brother Bear

Today is my baby brother's 30th birthday. He's on his way to a music festival or something. I'm glad that he knows how to celebrate his birthday. Happy birthday, Brother Bear. You are a wonder. I love you.

And now for something completely different

Right now I'm soundly buzzed. It is a good feeling. I'm glad that Prohibition didn't last though the backspace key is seeing some increased use tonight. I've also had some Tylenol so I'm sure that is making an otherwise normal buzz extra punchy. I had a feeling about our resident hot guy--I forget now what blog name I've given him, that he would be the type I could bump into at our local pub and that I needed to get my ass in there so I could talk to him more. So tonight when OG called and felt like a loser for not being at the shore (I'm new to this area so I'm amused by this whole 'shore' phenomenon where the east coast corridor north of Baltimore all of a sudden begins to act like a migratory bird every weekend), I suggested we go to the pub. It is my favorite place to go alone and I bring all of my out of town friends there. It's not really OG's kind of place or at least it doesn't seem to be the kind of place I think OG goes to on a regular basis. No one is there to be seen, they are just there for good food, drink, and maybe some conversation with the stranger on the stool next to you. I've met some good folks there and keep trying to get myself there at least once a week because I always leave glad that I came.

Well he was there and I could kick myself. I didn't invite him over to sit with us and didn't even acknowledge him until he walked past us on his way out and he either didn't hear me or didn't understand why I was talking to him because my face is not burned into his memory the way that his is into mine. Either way, I biffed it. He probably didn't recognize me because it wasn't 1 am and I didn't look homeless.

It was probably better that way as I felt it had the potential to get very Mutual of Omaha with OG and I both vying for his attention. It would have probably deteriorated quickly and he would have felt uncomfortable like one of us was going to mount him imminently. Actually, he would have only got that vibe from OG, I'm the first one to back off in that kind of situation. I would never make it on a reality dating show. I was glad when he left because we could stop talking about things we hoped he would overhear. I HATE that conversation. I hate all contrived girl conversations where you know you are attempting to talk more to the room around you than the people you are actually talking to. I suck at those conversations and I just want to tell the table to take their voice down a few notches, stop twirling and tossing your hair, and try asking me about my day instead of talking about bra shopping or all the guys you've been dating. We might as well have bare red asses pointing at the guys we want to come over and ask for our number. Of course that probably works better than my trademark pretend the person isn't even there technique so I probably shouldn't make fun of the red ass women.

OG is beautiful. She's sassy and outspoken and just enough crazy to keep it interesting for guys. But it's spring and rapidly moving into summer and everyone is hooked up with someone but her (and me). And it is bumming her out. So if I do with resident hot guy what I did with cute guy with dog (who I am totally over, thanks in part to my actually asking him out), which is force the moment to its crisis and see if he wants to hang out sometime, I think OG will be pissed. But more bummed than pissed because when women get in the funk that OG is in, it seems that every other woman has something a man wants but you. She'll assume resident hot guy is going to the bar with me because of my legs or because I have a dog, or because of anything that she can't compete with that she thinks I have over her. Women don't really have a "bros before hoes" policy. It's always kind of personal on some level. If he chose her over me (assuming he chose either of us), I would do the same thing.

Why can't life be like a romantic comedy at least some of the time?

Heretical thoughts on suicide

Note: I wrote this several weeks ago and have been holding back on posting it because I worried it would upset some people, most likely those who have been personally touched by suicide. To you, I apologize if this offends. I was also concerned that those of us armed with our degree in talk show psychology from Dr. Phil University would be concerned about me. Though I inherited honestly the melancholy and empathy that inspires macabre posts like this, I hail from a line of long-living miserable people, talking often about and sometimes wishing aloud for death but refusing to give anyone the satisfaction.
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I was thinking of one of my favorite dead guys, David Foster Wallace (DFW) and an article in the Rolling Stone not long after his death going over his life and his last days. The article quoted something he wrote long before his death about suicide where he suggested that by the time a person kills themselves, they had already killed themselves where it counts. He stated that suicide was just being orderly, in essence, finishing the job.

I have been thinking about the stigma of suicide and tonight can not figure out why it is such a bad thing. The movie ends the same no matter how long it lasts. If I suck at living, am pretty entrenched in all the ways that make me suck at living, if life is going to be fear, unrequited longing, boredom, inadequacy, then why is it a bad thing to quit? Any one would tell you to quit a relationship or job like that. If I were talking about a guy, I would be counseled about how you can not change people yet life is different? Even if you suck at it, you are supposed to stick it out. Even though it ends the same no matter what. Even if you suck the joy from other’s lives by polarizing the room with your defeatist energy. Even then. Even though no one gets out alive.

Do I think any teenager is in a position to judge whether they are going to suck at life? Absolutely not. There is not a horrible or oppressive circumstance in a teenager’s life that can give them the perspective of adulthood. Suicide makes more sense in your mid/late-30’s and beyond. By then, you generally have a sense of self and you have actual history, not just a series of firsts (job, apartment, significant other, car) and you are no longer obsessed with the mechanics of adulthood. Your tastes refine. If you are still getting smashed every weekend you now like going somewhere where there are NOT a bunch of barely legal 21 year olds enamoured with their first legal alcohol and drunkenly talking about The Hills. You have opinions about stuff that come from actual experience. You start to get a sense that it probably does not get better from here, the world is not an endless vista of opportunity. If you have not had children or found that special someone, it is less and less likely to work out in your favor. Whatever job you are doing, even if you hate it, you are likely to be doing until you can retire. Like your body, life starts to lose flexibility and elasticity. The effort and resources required to 180 life are more than most can muster. You are not going to be a mixed martial artist, an even moderately famous writer/actress/singer/dancer, or Olympic swimmer. Sure everyone can cite examples of people who have done just that long beyond their 20’s and 30’s but part of the reason we celebrate them is because their accomplishments defy the odds. Yep, I just pissed on everyone's cornflakes, including mine.

But I'm not really talking about circumstantial suicide borne of regrets and misspent youth, or evasion from consequences after committing a crime or indiscretion. Nor am I talking about country music song suicide, triggered by heartbreak, loss of job, or any of the other classic country song themes of sorrow. I am talking about a history of psychic pain beyond and often in spite of your circumstances. A feeling deep down that you do not have it in you to be carefree, you can not be medicated there, you can not be psychoanalyzed there. Even faith falls short. You started fighting it in your teens and have been fighting most of your adult life just to function somewhere close to normal. Everyone wants better for you but no one knows what you need (neither do you, by the way) and you are pretty sure now that no one has what you need.

Is it so bad then that someone like that decides that they have had quite enough? The reluctant optimist in me wishes DFW had just stayed curled up in a little ball for as long as he needed until they found something that worked. To say he could become profoundly overcome with depression doesn't quite do his suffering justice for me, but he was also kind, wickedly smart, and really really funny. If I had loved him, I think I would often be angry with him for giving up and I would feel bad that I wasn't enough to live for. I'd like to think that they would have found something eventually that would have worked for him, even if that thing was just time. Our brains do change as we age, maybe he would have become more resilient. But it seems he did not think he would get better and perhaps wanted to save everyone the trouble and pain of watching him suffer.

Is that so bad?

I feel I can’t end this post without making it clear that;

a: I’m not suicidal. I'm probably several standard deviations left of normal but even as I despair, I hope. I don’t even want to hope and I hope. Even if my life turns out to be a bad movie (something probably directed by Michael Bay), my curiosity won’t let me leave without seeing how it ends. Even after seeing what happened to the cat.

b: I’m not suggesting you or anyone else should kill themselves. I’m not offering absolution for those who made that choice. It simply occurred to me that perhaps people who take their own lives are sometimes doing the best thing they know to do. When I think of what little I know of DFW, he had every reason to live but it was just too painful, he had lost hope it would ever be better, and he was tired. I’m saddened and sometimes frightened by his choice.

c: If I graduate from life having only found someone to share it with, I think it will be more than enough. For this, I’ll remain curious until I’m relieved of curiosity for all things.

Thought Scrabble

This last bout with illness, I discovered a new remedy for chapped noses. Neosporin. I put it on my nose at night for the past few nights and it worked like a champ. Feels much better than lotion or vaseline and it really works. My nose is chap free and I have literally gone through two entire 112 count boxes of Kleenex in the past 4 days.

I need an eyebrow wax/shaping yesterday. I'm starting to resemble all of our favorite stars in the late 80's early 90's when nostalgia for cave dwelling days defined the brows of the people we emulated. Of course when I finally discovered eyebrow shaping I trusted the judgement of a woman who secretly hated me and what followed was the great eyebrow famine of 1999-2001. Fortunately I had a passport picture taken during this period so one can always remember. I can't believe I thought the change was subtle.

A favorite quote that comes to mind at this time of the month: Never trust anything that bleeds for 7 days and doesn't die.

And in other ladies news, there is a new tampon beyond super-plus. Now there is Ultra. I know, freakin' amazing. I'm not sure if it will change anyone's life (except mine) but it is interesting to me to think about tampon companies working on the next "big thing." With real scientists and everything. And yet every box I open still warns me about Toxic Shock Syndrome.

I often find myself watching back to back episodes of What Not To Wear on Friday nights and then going out on Saturday morning and realizing that like me, most people get dressed only so they won't be naked. My goal is to get to work without being arrested or making people sick in the street. If I didn't know her better, I would suspect my best friend's goal in getting me a box set of the show for Christmas was to encourage me to consider more than the laws against public nudity in my fashion choices. But I know she just got it for me because she knows I like the show. I'm sure of it. Really.

Rinse Repeat

I left work early today knowing that I was useless to complete the tasks before me in any expedient way. It was the kind of day where I couldn't think of a single thing I could write up and finish before the end of the day. My head just didn't work. I feel that way many days, today being different only because I am still bearing the vestiges of this cold and therefore had an acceptable excuse to leave. I take out an advance on tomorrow's motivation every day, telling myself the next day will be different. And I disappoint myself almost every day too because tomorrow is unlikely to be different if I repeat what I did today. The math isn't hard, it's the application of the math that's kicking my butt.

Marbles rolling overhead

The fever seems to have passed, the annoying sniffles having evolved to a more achy feverish head cold. My immune system probably caught wind of my snarky swine-flu comments. I like to take things personally and assume some sort of malice on the part of my body when I get sick. So after a day of mostly sleeping, I am predictably up and curious about what occasionally sounds like a game of marbles being played overhead. I hear them hit, bounce, and roll. I can't figure out what it might be. Auditory hallucinations?

I had all sorts of posts trapped in my head but with the chills and such couldn't get myself to posting and now I'm afraid, they are gone. It is funny with writing, words fall into place in my head before they get here but if I don't write it down, no matter how hard I try to remember later, it is almost always gone. I had wanted to post on Friday what stirred in me after an encounter with a homeless man who calls me "Mommy" and confessed his drug and alcohol condition to me because he "likes me." His birthday is June 26th, he'll be 41 this year, he sometimes stays at his aunt's house, and was on his way to get some (more) alcohol. Then there was the terribly awkward conversation I had with my sister when she asked me to co-sign for her apartment and I had to tell her no. Later that day she text messages me to tell me she had some out of this world credit score (over 800) and the apartment complex wasn't even going to require a deposit. This from a girl who has managed to overdraw her account at least three times as a result of debit card use at various drive-through take out windows. I've come the the conclusion that she must have paid her bill (cell phone) on time, and because she doesn't have any student loans or car payments (i.e. no liabilities) her score is awesome. I don't know. I'm just trying to make sense of it all but happy to be off the hook. Co-signing is how you end up on judge shows. The series of text messages leading to the phone call were achingly transparent; "What is a guarantor?" "Does that mean co-sign?" Then the phone rang. Ah, family.

*Cough* *Cough*

It's 1 am. This nose turned faucet announced the invaders early this morning by waking me out of sound sleep to sneeze. It was the weirdest thing to me. I think that was a first and I do hope it will the last time I am pulled from my slumber by a violent sneeze. I blew my nose and convinced it was a sign that I DID need an air purifier, went immediately back to sleep. As the day progressed, it became increasingly apparent that it was actually a cold and now it is 1 am and I'm still debating whether to come to work late, or just not go at all. It's a nuisance cold right now. I can't go 2 minutes without doing my baby elephant imitation and my throat is a bit irritated but no fever/chills so I could probably come in, share the wealth a little and when I felt like I had infected enough people, go home early. A few weeks ago during the swine flu non-demic, the security folks started wearing face masks and gloves until someone complained that it was freaking every one out. I should probably stay home for the sake of everyone who might freak out if their nose started running.

Shout out Loud

I spent the evening (and missed the Season finale of 30 Rock) with a lovely but lonely guy. He was my soul magnified 300 times. I always want to try harder when I spend time with someone like that. I want to do what I can do to change whatever I am unhappy with and fight the creep of allowing life to take the joy out of living. I don't know why but Amos Lee's song seems appropriate right now. Let's have a listen.

Best Morning EVER

I don't normally blog before I go to work but this morning, I just had to share. I woke up this morning with one of those classic stiff necks but I didn't want to take anything for it because I didn't want to be sleepy before I had even begun the day in earnest. While I was walking to the kitchen to warm my neck wrap, my non-boot foot was bothering me and I took off my shoe to have a look and somehow ninja kicked the air bladder button off my boot. I found the button and successfully reattached it and made my way back to the kitchen to get my coffee started and throw my neck wrap in the microwave. I grabbed a dish towel to put under the wrap so it didn't smell like whatever I last nuked in the microwave and 2 minutes later....



Yep, I nearly burned my house down. Again. Seems the decorative snowflakes on my dish towel are flammable. It was smoldering when I opened the door and about to flame. I just took a Tylenol. I think I'm going to need it today.

p.s. I changed the title of this post because something bothered me about the hyperbole of 'worst morning ever' and sarcasm feels better. And the day did improve. The weather is fabulous.

Yep, I'm going to have some babies

I think Lodo is right, springtime does make us want to breed. I saw some grandparents with their grandchild on the way home from work today and I was overcome with Hallmark schmaltzy feelings about the circle of life and such. I wanted to give my parents the joy of seeing a piece of me young again. This Mother's Day my mom said she wished she had appreciated us more when we were little and how much she sometimes wants to be able to scoop us up again. We're both having trouble with the concept of me in my mid-30's and with my brother soon joining me on this side of that decade and my sister whose diapers I changed, sending me text messages with the f-bomb scattered throughout, I can imagine her wonder and sorrow for our fleeting childhood. Shoot, I look at my dog's graying muzzle and sometimes find myself equally incredulous and depressed that so much time has passed. I want to shrink her into a puppy, cuddle her and start all over again.

While I was positive that I wanted to have kids in my 20's, as I inched closer to 30, I became more ambivalent. Not because I stopped liking kids but because I thought I should start preparing mentally for not having children. I know I do not want to be a single mother. I don't even like being a single caretaker to a dog. Sure there's a chance 'he' wouldn't have been home when I fell last Sunday but at some point he would be and there would be an alternative to me having to Frankenboot it around three times a day to walk the dog. But I had a plan (insert Universe laughter here). I would have fun running around collecting good stories for the kids and grandkids in my early 20's, meet "the" guy in my mid-late 20's, marry around then and then have a few years to ourselves before having children. Then I grew predictably bitter/sad as my hope evaporated and decided it was probably for the best. I didn't think I could put up with a teenage version of me again anyway. Now, I'm hopeful that I won't have to toil at this life alone but I appreciate that I will miss what I have now should that ever come along. And today, a beautiful cool spring day, air heavy with the smell of whatever blooms at night and make my eyes water, I wanted kids more than I wanted to enjoy the untethered life without them or anyone else.

But I'm still not returning Batman's call.

Batman; why you should never date a superhero

I returned from my walk this evening to see my message light blinking. I figured it was another one of those messages about my car warranty expiring but instead it was Batman. Just when you think it's over...a superhero never dies. He just waits for his prequel. His message acknowledged that it had been over a month since we last talked and I thought it was pretty obvious after the weirdness of the last time we went out there was not even enough friendship material to sustain contact. Batman was my shot at doing the opposite of what I would normally do, to go out with someone I didn't think I would feel a connection with. I know I have a tendency to skip to the end and I wanted to challenge myself to be more open and more willing to try things even I didn't think they would work out. My instinct about my attraction to Batman was right on. I did plainly tell him that I had no romantic interest in him and he responded in a mature reasonable way that he understood there were no guarantees when you go out with a person that there will be a spark and that he would be in touch. Weeks later, he called to see if I was available to hang out and I said yes, thinking we were on the same page with regard to romance. Not so much.

Even though I made a point to pay for my half of everything, I still ended up getting an awkward and unsolicited massage while we sat outside at the Art Museum. He told me that my skin looked like peanut butter and that he had not forgotten that thunderstorms were one of my turn-ons. I'm not even sure how thunderstorms came up but after his comment about my skin, I do recall a discussion about how much we both like peanut butter and how I even have two jars at the house, such is my commitment to not running out of it.

Awkward teenage moves aside, we also did not have anything in common. I was singing along to some music he was playing in the car. He's a music teacher and it has been my experience that some people who are really into music really don't appreciate listening to other people sing along. My brother is one of those people but mostly just because he's mean. His favorite way to get me to shut up was to ask me who the artist was of the song I was singing and when I replied (Oh, it's Weezer), he would say, "Exactly." Touche! So instead of asking Batman if it was irritating him that I couldn't help singing along with Simon and Garfunkel's Mrs. Robinson (who can?), I told him how my brother discouraged me from singing along just like I just told you. He didn't get it. He thought first that my brother didn't like Simon and Garfunkel, then he thought I didn't like them, then we just kind of dropped it because we just weren't getting there from here.

He also said one wildly inappropriate thing while we were going through the museum that just floored me. We were approaching a section and before we arrived he mentioned there was a painting coming up where it looked like someone was receiving "oral pleasure" (his words and that was already bad enough). We get to the painting and it is a depiction of the Virgin Mary's ascent to heaven. I shit you not. So, yea... I'm not hung up on the Virgin Mary but that observation should have been made with his 'inside voice'. The voice no one else can hear.

I'm not sure which of my signals were mixed, the part where I literally said that I had no romantic interest, or the part where I reinforced the non-date nature of our outing by paying for stuff. I think with superheros, my agreement to go out with him at all was enough. I think he was confident I would be no match for his smooth moves and charm. The massage ended as awkwardly as it started and I felt like it was a good time to go home. I did not hear from him again until today. I do not understand. The only plausible explanation (to me) is now that we've actually committed to this being spring (the weather has been very schizophrenic), perhaps everyone is looking for someone to breed with.

A question

Today was an interesting one full of karmic mystery. I called my mother as all of us who could did today and we talked for a bit. Mother's Day found her reflective and wishing she had been a better mother to us which broke my heart more than a little. Perhaps more on that another time but for the record, she's a great person and a wonderful mother.

I decided to celebrate the day by going shopping for dresses (boot uniforms) and shoes for my left feet that evened out my boot gait a little bit. Shopping is mere blocks away but I decided to take public transportation there and back to stay off my feet. On the bus on the way home, a guy extended his hand to help me from my seat at our stop and we walked the same way down the street. Naturally he asked about the boot, we had a pleasant conversation and then two randomly strange things happened.

I looked down on the ground and found $25 dollars. It was just sitting there on a windy day on the sidewalk. I only saw it because it was on a paper bag that had been run over or stepped on until it was flat and I was trying not to step on it. I have never found that much money. It was so totally random. I looked around, asked my new stranger friend from the bus what I should do, looked around and concluded there was no good way to get the money back to whomever had dropped it and that was that. I still feel bad for the person who dropped it.

Then we get to random dude's alleged street and he asks me if I have an e-mail address because he would like to say 'hi' sometime. Then he takes out his PHONE to get my e-mail address. WTF? He asked me if I was on Facebook as well but never attempted to give me his number or ask for mine. Maybe that's how kids do it these days. If he's under 25, I'm going to laugh myself silly. Since then, I've entertained paranoid thoughts about being part of Dateline special on honesty and this seemingly random guy actually tossed down the $25 and asked for my e-mail address so they could send me the release form before I'm on TV.

So my question is: 1. What would you have done re: the serendipitous money find? and 2. Has a guy ever asked for your e-mail instead of an actual phone number?

p.s. I haven't heard from him. In my paranoid fantasy world it is because they are continuing this social experiment and will contact participants at the conclusion so no one spoils their results by wearing a sandwich board on 3rd Street (which I would do) warning folks not to pick up money off the street because they are in no way actually that lucky and they are also being filmed.

Das Boot: Day 3

When I went to basic training, they couldn't stress foot care enough. Every cadet had 8 kinds of moleskin, a pedicure kit that rivaled a salon, and sock technology normally reserved for astronauts. Keep your nails clipped straight across, change your socks at least daily, keep your feet clean and above all, KEEP YOUR FEET DRY. Wet feet closed up in black boots during an August in Texas was the devil's workbench. Even when we slept outside forgoing all other manner of hygiene, boots came off for a least a few hours to air out and allow for a sock change.

This morning fresh from our 9th straight day of rain, I walked the dog in the dewy morning grass and went on to work where my boss laughed at me every time he looked at me with a cute shoe on one foot and an enormous Franken-boot on the other. He couldn't help himself ("it's just so HUGE!"). I stomped around all day and walked the dog again in the evening finally taking off this bitch of a boot for my half hour of freedom. When I lifted my leg to remove today's sock, I thought 'something wicked this way went.' When I actually removed the sock, a soggy, sharp smelling foot presented. Without being too terribly graphic, the friction, moisture, last nights careful moisturizing, and synthetic sock had done the equivalent of a long soak, saran wrap, and aggressive pumice scrub to the ball of my foot. This is day three. The boot is going to be a bloody biohazard at week six. They'll have to burn it. On the plus side, my right foot is really soft and smooth.

Tonight I got back to basics. I let my foot dry completely before putting on the sock, powdered my feet and will take care in the morning if I get dew-soaked toes, to actually change out the socks. I'm not convinced I need this boot. I don't want to use it anymore. It's weird and awkward in strange ways. Like going to the toilet. My legs aren't even and my shin doesn't bend so I land unevenly on the seat (great visual, right?). Why can't I just use an ace bandage? I walked to the hospital the day they gave me this infernal boot. It was a slow walk but isn't this overkill? I seriously entertain thoughts that perhaps the doctor was just punishing me for irritating him. I'm not sure what I did, he was in the room with a me about 2 minutes and though my X-rays were on the computer screen, never consulted them in my presence. I would have at least liked to see the break but it was all over so quickly it was like trying to catch my breath in a bracing wind. My feet have already started to atrophy into a perfect L and I know it's going to hurt like a mo-fo in June when I start trying to walk on it like a normal person. In some ways that will be worse. At least with the boot, my funny walk makes sense. Sans boot, I'm back to going out of my way to not be mistaken for homeless. Maybe that's when I'll wear the dress.

So, I got the dress...

And I both never want to take it off and never want to wear it out. I want to put it on for my friends and then take it off and put on sweatpants to go outside. I don't ever want to sweat in it, get food on it, or wash it. I feel so good in the dress, I want to go out on a first date, a blind date even, just so I can enter the room looking fabulous and have the guy think 'awesome, she's not ugly.' (I know that's what you're thinking. We're thinking the same thing).

But what I've got on deck for tonight is walking the dog, figuring out what to eat for dinner, figuring out where X-Men Origins is playing because I am a nerd and I have to see that movie, and possibly a marathon of 30 Rock courtesy of Netflix. Maybe I'll do all of that in this dress, looking fabulous for no one in particular.

p.s. You like how I'm rockin' that boot? The dress rocks so hard, it makes the boot look like it's on purpose.

Stairmaster; the saga continues

Stairmaster popped out of the gym this morning to say hello and lift weights in front of me. WTF? He did a set of lifts, had a little chitty chat with yours truly and then headed back inside. He was wearing bike shorts and as he was lifting and straining, the front of his bike shorts reminded me of the 'frontspiece' from the costume Buster had to wear on Arrested Development. Ewww. I hope that's not what he was trying to show off. Maybe I was supposed to be looking at his arms but dude when you are wearing bike shorts and lifting a ton of weights outside in front of a girl like the wheel hasn't been invented yet, she's apt to cast her eyes downward out of embarrassment and catch a glance of your "silhouette."

Weirdness all the way around with men today. I must be ovulating.

Hooky

Last night was predictably awkward with me and the big black boot in bed together and this morning I thought, 'You know, you've been a trooper. You've been walking around town on a broken ankle that your dog just sniffed like it was carrion and you haven't taken a single day off work for it.' I have a horrible tendency to want someone to endorse decisions like taking a day off work or buying a cute dress that isn't on sale so I don't feel guilty but today, I just called in and told them I would not be in today. No explanation. I have over six weeks of vacation and near that much in sick leave, there is no reason for me to keep putting my self last.

So I got started on my day. I indulged in a cab to finally get my hair cut (I had been on my way to do this Sunday when I chose a stunt fall over the haircut) but rode the bus back from my appointment. On the bus, I could swear I was molested by a middle aged Indian man who had his elbow in my breast. It was weird. I was leaning as far away from him as I could and he kept his arms crossed and legs wide so that he was touching me no matter what. I even suggested we switch seats so he could get out at his stop without having to step over me and he resettled with his elbow firmly in my breast. Maybe it was just a difference in our cultural norms regarding personal space but something about it was weird to me. He looked back at me when he got off the bus in a strange way...ewww.

The rest of the day was molestation free. I went to a local cafe that I love. It's a neighborhood place but it attracts out-of-towners as well. It's right down the street from Starbucks but I really can't see Starbucks being a threat to a place like this with its unique second hand furniture, eclectic music (v.s. the smooth jazz hell playing at many chain stores), and familiar staff wearing their own clothes and no corporate smocks or aprons. They know I usually have a small coffee or iced tea, they know me well enough to ask about the boot, and I see one of the girls at yoga (when I go). Love it. Today they left the doors open while the rain poured outside and I had a generous slice of still warm almond rum cake while I did some work using their free WiFi. Then I finally got myself into one of the many boutiques on my street. Predictably, much of the stuff was XS, M (actually small), L (actually medium). I've got kind of a va-va-voom figure so much of the stuff was laughably small or obscenely, read-the-label-on-my-underwear, tight. But one dress was fabulous on me. Just fabulous. It was on 'sale' for $110. It is a simple dress, cotton jersey type fabric, but the cut is super flattering on me and the color is awesome. But $110 awesome? I put it back on the hangar, carried it around in the store with me and ultimately decided to sleep on it.

And look it up on-line. :-)

p.s. I don't hate Starbucks or other chain stores. They just don't have the soul of a place like the neighborhood bars and cafes.
p.p.s. Photo courtesy of http://www.thefind.com/apparel/browse-splendid-dress. Just imagine it in grape--awesome.

Ugh

So the ankle is actually fractured/chipped. Just lovely. The photo above is yours truly sporting the Robocop inspired boot that's so popular with the youths these days. I have to sleep with this boot and only get a half hour a day out of it to shower. Sitting in the bed with my pillowcase covered boot, I'm seriously inclined toward a second opinion on the read of my x-rays. I had a cast on this very foot long ago and while I'm happy that I won't have to rediscover my calf after 6 weeks, gross and seriously needing an exfoliating scrub, it's harder living with the boot because I know I can take it off. After just a day, taking it off to take a shower felt so good, it was like a conjugal visit.

I'm positive I broke/chipped the ankle in December, though the doctor thinks the previous nasty sprain just set the stage for this break by weakening everything supporting the ankle. When I fell in December, I felt and heard something so horrible in my ankle, it made me nauseous. I also had much more difficulty walking than I did after Sunday's fall. My theory is that my home remedy was okay enough to get me walking okay but not good enough to completely set the bone so it could heal. This time around, though it hurt plenty, I didn't want to throw up in the street and I figured I would at least check to ensure I hadn't snapped any tendons or ligaments. I guess this is going to be my problem ankle....better start taking my calcium now.

Crush

There's a new guy in the building. Blandly handsome and nice, likes dogs, and hopefully also likes girls (one can never assume, especially here in Philly). Every single time I've seen him, including the first time I met him, I have been several degrees left of my normal blandness, near awful. So much so, I'm not sure he would recognize me looking normal, never mind on-purpose hot. I haven't thought much of him since I first met him at 2 am looking like what someone would look like at 2 am when they don't expect to run into anyone. I'm not even sure I had a bra on and I definitely need a bra. Always. And my hair.... But he likes dogs and my dog felt like visiting so we chatted for a bit.

I haven't seen him in weeks but ran into him last night coming in wearing a tux. Very Bruce Wayne (BW will be his blog moniker). Tonight I saw him again but this time I was with OG. He held the door for us and we just smiled like Cheshire cats. When we knew he was in the elevator OG started gushing about how cute he was and how he definitely wasn't gay. Her validation of his desirability was all it took for him to move from random cute guy to mini-crush. In my 'things-I-would-do-if-I-knew-I-had-one-week-to-live' list, I would simply pop upstairs knock on his door and invite him out for a drink. If he didn't want to, cool beans.

What I find psychologically interesting is that I've got two guys interested in me from the dating sites and I find myself wanting to remain available for the guy in apartment 8G who doesn't even know I exist. Baffling. Not really baffling in the sense that I'm completely in the dark about the experiential and personality issues lurking in that response, just baffling that it is so automatic, I have to manually override it. The mind digs deep troughs...

Bitches

Sometimes hanging out with women just wears me out. Especially when they are loud, profane women. When the night has been brought to us by the word 'fuck' used in almost every possible way. Never mind the couple behind us having a quiet dinner, no one has to strain to hear our table wax eloquent for 20 minutes about bumping into an old boyfriend on the elevator or hear us posturing about how he had better not (fucking) call you and how (fuckin') over him you are. Or the stalker from a dating site. If I were a single guy, there is no way I would approach our table. Our server didn't even stay long enough for me to ask him for salt. If it were a group of attractive guys standing around talking louder than they needed to hear each other about girls that annoyed them, I'd either be intimidated, completely turned off, or both. I need to start venturing out alone again. I have met some neat people that way. No one I dated but I'm happier knowing they're in the world.

Some other odds and ends from this Cinco de Mayo; drunk people, especially girls who tan 3 shades darker than me, wearing platform spike heels (it's hard to imagine the combo but trust me, that's what they were) who don't break their ankles on the cobblestones even though they are completely ripped, make me jealous. Not two days earlier, I couldn't manage to remain upright completely sober in comfortable shoes, and they are clumsily navigating the cobblestone street to get to their limo to have sex (reportedly) without falling or even seriously stumbling. Ridiculous.

It feels crowded in here

I write because I love words, love stringing them together into sentences, love playing with them to convey information or emotion. I care how things sound, how they feel. If I weren't blogging, I would be writing anyway, truly. I wrote long letters to myself (and ex-boyfriends that I never sent) long before I wrote them to you. I also project those motives on to the other folks in this community of amateur bloggers. When I read a post like this or write one like this, this, or this, I am comforted how much alike we all are. Putting aside all the social commentary on why we increasingly document our lives and share our thoughts in these sorts of mediums (my quick two cents: The scale and reach of our ability to connect is the thing that has changed, not our basic need/desire to share our lives with one another), we speak because we want to be heard, because we want to communicate. Because we want to know if anyone else sees the world the same way we do, if anyone else cringes when they here Delilah's show on the radio with her saccharine voice and crappy song choices (the Peter Cetera/Journey/Jefferson Starship/Gloria Estefan(Don't want to lose you now) song library is not the answer to every song request, Delilah). Because we kind of want to know if we're more than just regular special, we want to know if the world thinks we're extra special, not just witty, exceptionally witty, not just talented, here's a new career in writing talented. Most of us hope to be discovered and/or have a great following. Most of us also know that none of that will make anything better. Recognition is wonderful and make no mistake, I want it, but I know there simply isn't enough adoration and acclaim to fill my empty spaces. It is like any other intense pleasure, its distraction is enjoyable but brief.

So what's my point? Well, as I read the thoughts of another writer searching for an audience, I despaired a little. There are so many choices, so many really good writers, and other fun Internet distractions. I sometimes feel like I'm in a virtual reading bar and I'm wearing the sensible pantsuit* with no cleavage. Timeless? Sure. Interesting? No. Hire me? Yes. Date me? No. Designated Driver? Yes. Coyote Ugly? Absolutely not (dancing on tables is gross-people eat there). I digress. The point is that I despaired because everyone is competing for the same finite resource, readers. And not just any readers, engaged readers who relate to what I am writing, who recommend me to their friends, who extend the conversation further, who are entertained...

Moving on and abruptly changing the subject, I did something yesterday that I rarely do. I asked for help. The first time I sprained my ankle in December, I hobbled slowly along with the dog, jacking up the other side of my body with my awkward gait and generally looking goofy to all passersby. I was paranoid that people thought I was homeless. There are not very many persons of my complexion in the area and those hobbling along the street tend to be homeless. It has happened before. If the way people looked at me yesterday while prone in the doorway of the UPS store waiting for my friend to come help me home was any indication, I need to go shopping soon. Casual on a person of color crouched in a doorway is simply homeless chic in this area. So, I wrote my dog walker and asked if we could add an evening walk this week so I could stay off my feet a bit more. I don't know why it was so hard to ask, it's not like they are doing it for free. I pay for a 30 minute walk. This evening the dog was back at my doorstep less than 15 minutes after she left. And of course, she didn't poop. This guy is freaking lazy but I'm more annoyed with me than I am with him. I should have answered the door and then said something about how soon they were back and made it clear that it does me no good for him to come over and take her out for half the time and not even get her pooped. How the f$%k does that help me? Then we had this weird moment at the door when he seemed like he wanted to come in or something. That whole thing just annoys me...I need a freaking boyfriend. For companionship and loveliness and such, but also to walk the dog and help me when I biff it on the sidewalk outside the UPS store.



*Am I the only one who thinks of Hillary Clinton when I hear the phrase 'sensible pantsuit'?

Galvanizing focus

"She would have been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life." Flannery O'Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find

I had only one goal for today. To get a haircut. I made an appointment, headed out and promptly almost broke my ankle, AGAIN. This time at least, I didn't completely lose my footing and biff it on the cobblestones, that would have added injury to the insult for sure. So now I am medically intoxicated with Tylenol because I can not take the more effective Motrin (one of the few things I can't do as a result of kidney donation), ankle crudely wrapped with ice packs, and super excited about gingerly walking the dog later this evening. It is completely useless to do so but I can't help wishing to rewind the morning, to have taken a different way, to have not been distracted by the pet store, to have taken one of the cabs I saw driving by. I also can't help thinking about all the things I won't be doing while waiting for this sprain to heal again. No yoga, no dance class I had been waiting to take until the previous sprain got better, no unnecessary trips of any sort. I have been fearful of the cobblestone streets here since I almost broke my ankle in December walking in a straight line on a smooth surface. I didn't get to a doctor then, thinking it wasn't worth the time and co-pay to have someone tell me it wasn't broken and to do what I'm already doing (ice, elevation, Tylenol). It was slowly getting better though I still had twinges with certain movement and now we're back to square one. Woe is me. I think I'll get myself to a doctor this time. Perhaps there is something else going on. If they tell me to be more careful and send me away with an Ace bandage (for which they are sure to gouge both me and my insurance), you can bet there will be an indignant post here.

What I find with setbacks like this though is that they tend to sharpen my focus. Because it takes considerable effort to accomplish just about everything, I'm less likely to put things off because I can't just blitz through them. My mind often races with possibilities and I have a hard time sorting out which of the 20 things I am considering should I actually try to do. With this injury impacting my mobility, I can now toss salsa class for at least the next three months, reconsider all activities within a 3 block radius and get the bike ready to tool around town because it is much easier to bike than to walk.

I was thinking about God earlier and grateful that he spared me a spill on the rocks but wondering why he didn't prevent me from hurting my ankle, the same ankle, again. I started to wonder if he's figuratively pushing my nose in my own poo by literally tripping me while I walk. I wondered if he's trying to show me something that I'm defiantly not recognizing or punishing me for a decision I made. It is kind of like that inventory you run when you become violently ill. You just want to figure out what you ate so that you never eat it again. Then I realized/remembered that God doesn't make bad, he makes all things good. There will be good that comes of this awful ankle but he didn't need or want me to trip in order to bring that goodness in. God is great in making something great out of any ingredient he has to work with. I'm always hoping that he's going to make a husband out of some of my life's crap stews but I'm not sure if that meal is on the menu with this latest circumstance or at all. All I know is that this sucks, it will continue to suck until it heals again, and that I won't be taking a non-credit course on 'Dancing Like the Stars' this spring.

Time to change the ice...

p.s. I know I need a pedicure...don't hate.

p.p.s. The foot above is mine about a week post sprain from my December sprain. Not sure if I'll get the great purply mottled bruises this time around. We'll have to wait and see!

Weekend at Ava's

It's well past 2 am and I've watched disc 1 of the second Season of 30 rock. Before that I went grocery shopping and watched some folks get the jump on Cinco de Mayo leaving my complex in sombreros. Later, as I was tearing apart my store-bought rotisserie chicken for storage and feeding the dog random scraps, I thought I may have heard fireworks. My only regret is that I don't live in a place where I can see the sky because then I would have been able to confirm it was fireworks and not a street war. People who I hear stumbling in even now will probably be up and looking carelessly cute on the patio of some cafe long before I shuffle by with the dog to start my morning. I have every intention of making it to yoga tomorrow. We shall see.

A couple of random thoughts won't leave me at this late hour; my dry cleaner over sharing about her horrible herpes problem (with gestures for emphasis around the lips) and other skin condition that I didn't understand that cleared up once she moved to the U.S.. Also shared some gems about her husband's excessively sweaty feet and virulent foot fungus in Korea. She's nice but she absolutely catches me off guard almost every time I talk to her for longer than 45 seconds.

Another thought/memory tumbling around is a message OG played me today that should be turned into a drinking game. It was a guy canceling a date and he was a horrible liar. The message was easily 3 minutes long and it was like he was having a conversation with her, answering her hypothetical questions. He allegedly had a meeting at work, then it was a mandatory meeting, then it was likely a semi-emergency-contract-may-be-in-jeopardy meeting, it was bizarre and entertaining. If I drank a shot for every excuse he used, I might have to have my stomach pumped.

I'm also quite pleased to have the company of the bloggers on the right. I shall catch up this weekend, getting to their blogs and such. Afternoon Tea Break has been a total gem and I thank her and all of you for the visits and comments. It is so very nice to have you here.