random thoughts of a crazy cat lady

Today has been one of those muddly, weird days where I haven't quite felt myself. No reason I guess, maybe because I was sick yesterday or maybe because it's the end of the week and I'm just kind of punchy and a little cranky. I think I totally scared a friend tonight as I was completely pissy with some kind of survey boy. But, DUDE, when I need to eat, I don't have time for your little surveys. And you should pop those pimples.

So, at this point, if I haven't scared you off, congratulations! You have proven your worth at reading the frightening ramblings of a crazy cat lady with a mouth like a sailor on death row. You are a winner.

And in that vein, since you're clearly a glutton for punishment right now, I will bestow upon you the random cranky thoughts that have been swirling around my oh so frightening brain this week, well actually, in this lifetime really. But I digress.

Why do men feel the need to bathe in cologne? How do you do that? Do you hook it up to the shower head? And if that's the case, I think that is the real reason that the French word for shower is douche. And also, whoever invented that Axe shit should be shot.

The perfume stores in malls are just as hazardous as smoking. Or Agent Orange.

Muscle cars. Fancy rims. Sub woofers. Raised trucks. Mudflaps with naked hookers on them. The revving of engines and squealing of tires. WHAT is that about? Do you really think that is an effective mating dance? Has a girl really torn off all her clothes due to your ridiculously overly-accessorized vehicle? Ever? Do you think it's a matter of odds, that eventually one will give in? Trust me, that kind of girl? You don't need to spend that much money or time or dignity. Just get the whore drunk. Works every time. But wait...we all know the truth and it isn't about girls or sex or even all about your tiny penis. This is a pisisng contest between you and all the other douches with bad sideburns. But let me let you in on a little secret, boys. Are you listening? You all have small penises, at least all those other douches you're bumping antlers with do. The guys with big penises are all at home, cuddling with their boyfriends and watching Cake Boss. So, stop spraying your testosterone everywhere and take a hint.

Racists. Homophobes. Anti-whateverreligionyouaren't. Bigots. I don't get you. You don't have to like everyone else or even approve of everyone else. But I have news for you. There are lots of other people on this planet and you don't get to decide who is better or worse. No one is hurting you. Just live your life and stop wasting so much energy on hating others already.

Pirates. I love you. Moving on.

People everywhere seem to be living under the assumption that cats are easy to take care of, that they're low-maintenance. Who these people are, I have no idea, but I hear of them. They probably own dogs, lucky bastards. Cats are high maintenance. At least mine are. My cats are attached to my fucking hip. They cry in the middle of the night because they've forgotten I'm home. They eat better than I do (it's cat food not people food, but still, that shit is expensive). Don't get me started on how kitty litter runs my life. And when one decides to barf, it's like the goddamn exorcist in my house. Cats are high maintenance.

I am bad at liking my neighbors. Even if they're nice people. But once you get friendly, they're all knocking on your door and wanting to socialize. Dude, I talk to people all day and when I go home, it's quiet time. Shh. Quiet time.

Girl toy or boy toy? Now I haven't been to a fast food restaurant in years, but it will always drive me insane that these cesspools make kids get girl toys or boy toys. When I was a kid, all I wanted was that damn monster truck. Last I checked, I'm still a girl.

I want nice things, but I also like food and the ability to pay rent and bills. It's a conundrum. Plus I like to say conundrum.

Aaaaaand scene

Literal Hurl

So.

So, I awoke violently this morning at about 2:30 am feeling like my stomach was eating itself. The pain was excruciating. I can't even. So I noshed on some dry wheat pasta (because that always settles my stomach) and fell asleep out of pure exhaustion about an hour later, but still feeling queasy. Nonetheless, I still drug my ass to work today and muddled my way through a queasy haze until almost 2, when I gave up and went home. Defeated by the quease.

So I have been curled in bed since then, nibbling on crackers and watching Hulu and Watchmen (so not the movie I thought it would be! GREAT political satire!) and am still pretty queasy. What gives? What the hell is up with my belly? Is it something I ate? Couldn't be. I can't think of anything crazy or new that I ate that would make me sick. Or maybe it's stress, except what the hell do I have to be stressed about? My BIG EVENT is over, my car is in the shop, money is a little tight, but I'm managing. So what the hell? Or maybe this is latent stress? My stomach wanted to be sick 2 weeks ago and is giving in now. That makes sense. Once I calm down, then it hits. Fucking typical.

Or maybe I've caught a little bug of some kind. Ugg. I despise being sick. Besides the fact that my mother is a crazy hypochondriac who drug me to the doctor for every tiny thing and thus making me hate medicine and doctors and hospitals, I also feel weak and out of control when I'm sick. And for an admitted control freak, that's the worst feeling. It takes me out of the driver's seat of my life and puts me at the whim of whatever sick is plaguing me. And that pisses me the hell off. I like to drive, dammit. Me. So there.

I just hope that after a good night's sleep tonight, I'll feel better and can work work work tomorrow and then have a fabu time this weekend. Did you forget what this weekend is?? How dare you. You couldn't have. It's Halloween! Woohoo! I can't wait to post pictures of my costume. I am a Halloween genius. Or a Halloween goddess. Either one. Or both. Whatever.

Don't laugh. You love it.

Autumn Falling

Autumn is arriving! MMMMM! It's all brisk and blustery outside and just chilly enough for a sweater and it's supposed to be decently cool tomorrow too. I can barely contain myself, despite the havoc that all this crisp and lovely wind is wreaking on my allergies. Who cares that my sinuses fell like the 405 freeway at rush hour (sorry for those outside of So Cal. The 405 is the world's longest parking lot. 'nuf said.). Who cares that my head feels like the inside of a drum at a death metal concert. I don't! You know why? Yes you do. You do! It's autumn!!!!

And I was going to go for a jog tonight (tube topage still happening on Saturday), but opted for indoor pilates followed by a large mug of mint tea which is currently being enjoyed under the cozy cocooniness of my most cozy comforter (hot damn! I love alliteration. and that all came out on its own!). By the way, I so need a new cover for this comforter. It's all old and getting dingy and has a nail polish stain on it which I'm sure a forensic investigator will feel compelled to test one day. But it's still warm and cozy and it makes the sound of the wind in the trees outside my window that much more delicious.

Good god whoever that is I love this season. You can feel the change in the air and it makes everything feel crisp and new and hopeful. Plus I love Halloween. Last weekend a bunch of us got together for a pumpkin carving party at the Farm. And while I do admit hanging out with all the happy couples and their happy children and happy puffy-cheeked babies did make me want to carve a noose out of my pumpkin, I did have fun. And the kids couldn't have cares less about the pumpkins. They had their own elaborate and very critical and immediate games to play involving pez and a cold hot tub (yes I recognize the oxymoronic nature of that, but kids games are intricate and don't have time to ponder oxymorons.. The adults, however, had a blast and here is the final result:

Don't ya love it? I love how creepy this is even though some of those pumpkins are super goofy and cute. See the one with the big, flirty anime eyes? That one is Mo's and it's pretty much my favorite. She's like the little coquette pumpkin, the little slut of the bunch. You can see how I would like that right? She's like me. Wait. What?

And here is my pumpkin (I made a little one too, but that photo didn't turn out):

It's a star pumpkin because I'm a supastar. WATCHOUT! *sizzle*

Anywayyyyy, so I'm excited for fall and it's keeping the ever-increasing desire to move more northward at bay. But I get to go to San Fran again this December for work (woot!) and possibly Oregon for Christmas to see one of my other besty of besties Lynn. So my butt will get to see better places if only for a bit.

And in that sentiment, here is a lady I love, Missy Higgins, singing "Going North" (natch). This song is gorgeous and captures how I'm feeling perfectly.

And I'm off to explore every boundary and every door.

unless you got buns, hon

Took my pretty Lola (oh, Lola is my car) into the shop today to get her poor little hangnail fixed. Shouldn't take more than a week, they said, but the hardest part will be matching the paint. Damn me and my fancy paint! Now, it's not like I ordered a fancy custom paint job when I bought this car last year. But when I was shopping, I fell in love with this purply (BTW, do we love that purply was a real word according to spell check? um, yes!) metallic blue. It's a kicky blue that looks purple in the sun and just so totally suits me.

Here is a picture of me avec my new baby Lolo last year when I picked her up at the baby store:

God, I can't believe how big my butt had gotten! I should explain. I've always been fairly thin and I've always been fairly active. About 5 years ago, when I was working in fashion (more on that another time), I gained a little weight due to stress and living on Red Bulls (evil, evil little Red Bulls. fuckers.), but it wasn't much and I dropped it quickly after I quit. But almost 2 years ago, when I started my first ever desk job (and a job with lots of gourmet, free food), I packed it on a bit. Now don't scoff. I realize that in that picture, I am by no means obese, but I was certainly bigger than I'd ever been and I just didn't feel healthy. I didn't feel like me. Plus, dudes, there was a reason I was wearing such a blousy shirt. I was puffy, not blind.

But besides being an active-type gal with my dancing and swimming and general love of the outside, I had never sat at a desk. My first job was in retail and for 7 or so years, I spent my days running around the floor of whatever store I was running. And it got worse the more responsibility I got. But my butt always stayed fairly small. Even when I worked in a TV production company office, the desk work was balanced with running errands, delivery tapes, and fetching a million things during a shoot. Small butt again.

The smallest my butt has been since I was dancing almost full time was when I lived in Europe. My little ass couldn't help it (get it? heh). I was walking everywhere, climbing 6 or 7 flights (don't really remember) up l'escalier du mort (the death stairs) up to my apartment in a 2oo year old building. Seriously, these stairs were like the stairs in Cinderella that the mice have to carry that huge key up. Only this wasn't a cartoon and that huge key was me. AND I still had dance class too. I got tiny. My poor cousin, god love her, thought I was starving myself when she came to visit. But, dude, I couldn't help it. I was eating all right. Pasta. Pastries. Bread. Custard. Gelato. Wine. Cheese. I was in food heaven in Paris. Seriously.

Before you all start stoning me for complaining about thinness. Give me a sec. We are all different and I think that when you're that active and walking everywhere, despite your body type, you're bound to tone up. I just happen to have a thinner type, so I got really thin. I like a little booty though, so when I got home, I didn't worry that I plumped a bit. It was nice. And for almost a year after I got home, I worked in retail again, at night. And I worked as a substitute teacher in the day. Talk about on your feet. In fact, my feet literally fell off. I had to get them sown back on. They just haven't been the same since.

But that damn desk. Now, don't get me wrong, I was (and still am) overjoyed to trade in my nurse shoes (ew) to sit at a desk and make enough money to pay my rent with one job, a job I actually like and am pretty damn good at. More than happy. But my butt just didn't know what to do. It was like a child that had never watched cartoons being introduced to the Cartoon Network. I became totally sedentary. Maybe not totally, but close to. And all that good food at events and meetings just contributed. My butt had gone to the dark side.

Well, that was over a year ago and I have since claimed my ass back for all that is good and holy (BAHAHAHA! like, I know what holy means. HAH!). I still enjoy the free food, just in moderation, and I've found a work-exercise balance. As I've said on here before, I've bounced around dance classes and I also like to jog and do pilates and sometimes yoga. It's a good balanced life and my butt is smaller on some days and bigger on others. Like normal people.

Next Saturday though, Internet, is Halloween, and I am wearing...wait for it....a tube top! I don't want to reveal my costume yet, but here's a hint: I am going as a real live person. A person in 1999. And I am going for authenticity here and that means I have to pull off a tube top. And that means my ass is working out every day this week. Every day. Every. Damn. Day. I am going for cute over frightening so this is crucial. I think it'll be okay. I just need to maintain the healthy eating and keep on exercising. I'll be hot stuff, just you wait and see.

So I realize that I started this post about my car and then drove way off in another direction. Oh well. Too bad. You didn't really want to read a whole post about my car, right? You'd rather read about my ass. See, this is how close we are getting, Internet. I just know how to anticipate your needs. Soon we'll be finishing each other's sentences. And that won't be creepy or pathetic at all.

Oh, also, Internet, I'll be changing the mastheads almost monthly now. But if you want to see the old ones, I'll upload them to my flickr feed which you can always find below.

Love Retard

Well, where do I start? I had a great time reconnecting with Mo last night and catching up on the gossip and filling her in on my busy life. I really missed her. You know, there are lots of people in my life, but there is nothing like curling up on the couch with another girl and just letting the conversation take you where it will. Sometimes it really surprises me, how moments like that pull honesty out of the depths.

She is in a relationship with a super terrific guy. I really hope these two go the distance because they are both 20 kinds of special and I love to see them happy, even when I'm throwing up in my mouth a little bit at their gushy antics. I mean really.

But, naturally, the topic of love always turns back to perpetually love-disabled me. I know my friends want love for me. I know. But you can't always change the hand you were dealt. Seriously, reality and therapy and self-analyzing aside, I have a true disability in the love department. I am physically incapable of attracting the right kind of person necessary to have a healthy relationship. Or maybe that's not even fair. Maybe I am actually physically incapable of having a healthy relationship. Maybe. Lord knows I don't like to share my shit. I think I missed that lesson in preschool where you learn to share. I always thought, dude, I'd share more if they didn't always mess up my shit. I like my things, and in adulthood, my space, like I like it. Sorry, dudes. I never said I'm not neurotic. I think I even tattooed that on my forehead. But, you know what, let's be honest for a second. None of my relationships have ever truly ended because of my neuroses. Well, at least I don't think so. Maybe when I was hearing, "I cheated," or "I think babies are fungus," what they were really saying was that they couldn't live with fluffy pillows and a symmetrical room. Damn. I should have known.

Okay, seriously though, I know a good chunk of the problem is who I'm picking. It's not their faults I'm picking them and expecting them to be relationship material. If they want to be douches, that's their right. Who am I to thwart their destinies? Now, in my defense, I never did try to change anyone. I think that's a road best left deserted. Instead, I just refused to see these guys for what they were: wrong for me. And sometimes said blindness wasn't completely my fault; sometimes they put on a good act. And I don't blame them. I'm hot. I'd lie to get a piece of this too. But the fact remains that if I expect to ever have the kind of relationship I want, the healthy kind, where people treat each other nicely and don't sleep with other people and want nice things like pretty houses and babies, then I have to fix my picker.

In that effort, I have worked up a dream guy. Now, I realize this is an exercise meant for a pre-teen with Tiger Beat posters on her wall and Clearasil on her dresser, but tough titties. I did all that when I was 13, sure, but my dream guy back then was a cross between Christian Slater (a la Heathers), Johnny Depp (a la 21 Jump Street) and Batman. What can I say? My type was a bit, well, my subsequent love life for the next 15 years makes perfect sense, doesn't it. SO, I'm starting over.

For the sake of the dream guy scenario, I'll allow myself specifics, but I'm really not as picky as I sound. I typically like to say that I don't have a type, that I'm attracted to all sorts, but hell, that's not worked so well thus far. These specifics serve as a trope for the real, human guy I'd like to meet. Plus, it's more fun for the game. So let's press on. Dream Guy. Dream Guy is smart, damn smart. The smart really doesn't need to be in a certain area, but he has to like to read (and not just magazines either. those don't count.). Well educated is a definite must. But also must have some street smarts, like to travel, thinks well on his feet, that kind of thing.

I really don't care about his job, except to say that gainful employment is always attractive. But, for the game, I'll give Dream Guy a job that serves as a metaphor for the kind of guy I think he is. He's maybe a civil rights attorney or something like that, mostly he has to care about the state of the world and want to do something about it. He would have to be liberal of course. He needs to appreciate creativity. If he's not inclined to art or music or the arts, he must appreciate them or at least understand how I can spend a day wandering through installation art. Dream Guy doesn't cheat and while he wouldn't push me to move too quickly, he would ultimately be overcome with my awesomeness and couldn't bear the thought of being with anyone else (Dream Guy might be a tad dramatic). He not only doesn't think that babies/children aren't some kind of fungus, but he actually likes them, would like to make/buy some at some point.

I don't want to lock Dream Guy into a physical appearance, but for the sake of the fantasy, let's picture this guy (for the record, if you've never watched Chuck, you should):

Get the picture? Equal parts nerd and rock, slightly rumply but dresses up nicely. Oh and for the sake of the fantasy, let's say that Dream Guy isn't younger than me and is no more than 10 years older than me. And naturally, he'd have to be funny, like rolling on the floor, snorting, soda coming out of my noise laughing funny. Naturally. I mean, I'm fucking highlarious, so he'd have to keep up of course. Of course.

I'm out of ideas. What else? What am I missing for Dream Guy? Lay it on me!

kiss me

I rarely post twice in one day, but I was awaked just now by a most delicious dream which I just had to capture. For the record, this dream wasn't about anyone I've ever written about on here. Enjoy:


I dreamt I kissed you
in a dark corner of a loud night
filled with cigarette smoke and debauchery
I dreamt you came in close
inches from me and the air between us is palpable
and the cacophony of life around us dissipates
until all there is is you and me
and our breath and space between our mouths
and all I can think about is the skin on your face
how it’s surprisingly soft and yet scratchy
and those few moments before a kiss
are excruciatingly exhilarating
as we dance that dance of teasing and desire
I dreamt you kissed me
with such gentle passion and fire
that I can taste your need
and all I hear is your breath
and I all smell is your scent
and all I taste is your mouth
it is bitter and sweet and nothing has tasted better
I dreamt I kissed you
and I was seventeen again, girlish and dreamy
and all I've ever needed was one real kiss
that steals my breath-

Shiny Happy People

Da dada DUM *drum roll* I have a day off tomorrow!!! A DAY OFF!! Like, it's  a Wednesday. And I don't have to work. And I can catch up on life. Do you understand how fantastic this is, Internet? Let's all take a moment and do the happy dance.


And here's some happy music to dance to:

*HAPPY DANCE*

Okay, do we all feel happy now? I certainly do. I am so excited for my day off. Considering that my last day off (Sunday) was spent recovering in bed with Hulu (I heart you, Hulu!) from my BIG EVENT, I am in great need for a real day off to get stuff done. I can finally take my poor car in for an estimate (yup, her bumper is still hanging on like a hangnail), do laundry and clean my house, write thank you notes, download my photos from last weekend, and maybe even catch up on some reading or even...*gasp*...wait for it...gardening! The options are endless and I am more stoked than a queen at Fashion Week.

And it gets better. I know you don't think it's possible, but you'd be wrong, Internet. It does. On Thursday I finally get some girly time with Mo! It feels like weeks since I've seen her and I haven't even gotten to hear how her first half-marathon went and she hasn't heard about Hot Bartender. Well, I'm sure she's read about him here, but believe you me, I plan on telling her much better details than I would disclose with you, Internet. I mean, don't be offended, but you and I just don't know each other that well yet.  What do you expect? These kinds of relationships take time. Anyway,  back to Mo and myself, this is very unlike us, so needless to say, we are long overdue for some much needed gossip. I'm really not sure how we made it this long, actually. I need my gossip. It's like a fix. Wait, let me go amend my crack post and add gossip to my list of cracks.

And then...I get to see my very favorite aunt on Saturday!! She's just moved down here to the south of Caleefornia from San Francisco and I'm going to spend some quality time with her at her new house. I love this woman. Next to my other favorite aunt who passed away when I was much younger, this awesome lady is one of my very favorite people. She is fun and generous and a really great female role model, the kind I really didn't have growing up with my harpy, I mean my mom. This woman met my friends and I in Paris when I was living there and we tromped around the city of lights and drank wine and ate too much cheese. She and I went to Hawaii together last year and she got me drunk on mai tais. She took one of my other cousins to Italy this last year where I hear they ate gelato every single day (ALL-ways a good idea in my experience). On a scale from one to awesome, I'd say she's super awesome! And I am completely excited to stay with her this weekend.

All in all, I'd say things are looking up. Now if only I had Hot Bartender's phone number. Or even his real name, for that matter. That could be a teensy hitch.

she works hard for the money

*WHEW* My BIG EVENT is oh vee ee are! (that spells over, in case you were having trouble deciphering) Yes, the weekend-long event is over and it went very well for the most part. Friday evening was my baby, a big chi chi event that we put on every year and I get to be in charge of it. Now, many people help with many details and I want to go on record saying that I couldn't do any of it without the help of so many people. A lot of these people go unrecognized, but I recognize them. They make my job possible.

And this evening? This is honestly my most stressful but absolutely favorite night of the year. And without giving away what it is because I'm still trepidatious to talk about my job in detail, I'll just say a few things. I love this because it makes people happy. We recognize 11 amazing people and I love putting together all of the crazy details, the seating chart, slideshows, decorations, catering, entertainment, logistics, presentations, etc, etc.

You know why? Because I am totally and completely selfish. When I see the these people and their families with those smiles, I know they feel appreciated and that makes it all worth it. They are a part of a much bigger entity than me, but I get to be the person who puts it all together, who gets to know them so personally as I make the preparations, and makes their evening special. It makes all the planning and details completely worth it. And that makes me feel great. And, if I may brag for a moment here, I've received nothing but compliments. And that of course also makes me feel great. But not just because it's good to hear something you've put together is "incandescent," (which someone actually said!), but also because I know that means they had a good time, enjoyed themselves and the environment, and that means my job is well done.

Oh, did I mention the hot bartender? Hot. Bartender. I definitely wedged some impromptu flirting into the evening where I could. And he kept me in supply of soda, one glass of wine, then water. Did I mention that he was hot? Hot. Really hot. I'm not gonna lie, after the last month, it made me feel like Giselle to be checked out by Hot Bartender. Oh baby.

Saturday was a blur of events and running around and HEAT (ohmigod, Southern California! What the hail is up with the heat? IT IS OCTOBER! Get colder already!Damn.) and people and talking and even laughter. There were only a few minor glitches, nothing I'd even call snafus even. It all went as smoothly as it could and as that's unusual for a big weekend like this, I'd say I'm very pleased. Saturday morning, though, I woke up at 5 am (I set my alarm for 6) because I couldn't breathe out of either nostril and head felt like it was going to implode. I guess that cold I had been fighting off decided to kick in right then. So I drug my sorry ass out of bed early, started an epsom salts bath (for my achy feet from wearing heels on Friday. See: chi chi event above) and inhaled the steam until I could breathe. So, I got a whole hour's less sleep than I wanted to start my big day, but I didn't really feel it until Saturday night.

Saturday night. What a night. We had a party planned. All the details set. Deejay, food, twinkle lights, banners, candles, bar, Hot Bartender (woot! more on this in a sec), and then nothing. A bunch of people had made reservations, but the crowd was meager. Meager. Who knows what happened, but it became SUCH a long night and I was SO tired. And there were a few fun moments. I got to see my friend Lena for a bit that I hadn't seen in a couple years. A friend's husband told a gaggle of young people that I was the hottest girl he'd ever seen (sorry, K! that was awkward for both of us!), and one lonely drunk bastard got plastered, danced alone like a male Elaine all night while people he didn't know videotaped him (poor bastard is probably ALL over YouTube right now), fell and ripped up his hand (which I patched up with my personal first aid kit. sometimes I hate that I'm a fireman's daughter). Poor guy. I felt bad for him. But, security made sure he wasn't driving and got him a cab to his hotel.

Oh, and Hot Bartender. THAT was a pleasant surprise. And I still flirted, but without my cute outfit (and I'm sure after working in the heat ALL day, I looked super attractive), I suddenly got shy and nervous. What was my deal? Who knows. But I totally wussed out and didn't make any kind of moves. He seemed interested though. The party was so slow, he stood with me and talked between making drinks. And did I mention that he's hot? Hot. And I know, bartender. Cliche. But he seemed nice. And we weren't at a seedy bar, he was with the catering company. Am I just hard up? Rebounding? I don't think so. I think I was attracted to Hot Bartender and I couldn't man up enough to make a move because it was scary.

Oh well. C'est la vie. What's a girl to do?

Anyway, I told myself that I wasn't going to do a damn thing today and so far I've been pretty damn successful. I've gotten out of bed for shower and food and I even made myself refrain from chores or cleaning of any kind (except cleaning myself). I just laid in bed all day watching Hulu and Netflix and generally being kind to myself. After this month and then this weekend, I needed to day to detox and do nada. And I haven't felt sick today, just exhausted, so that's a good sign. Back to work tomorrow so I'm glad I didn't make the most of today. Doing nothing is much more fun sometimes.

Ba Da Da

So I am two days away from the BIG EVENT I keep talking about. I'll be going Friday from 8 in the am to 10 pm-ish and Saturday from 7:30 am-ish to 12:30ish Sunday morning. (I think "ish" makes everything funnier). Needless to say, I'm still sucking down vitamins and I'm all stocked on tylenol cold just in case. The great thing about these events is the free food (which can be a detriment if you go crazy) and the free caffeine. I will be so uber caffeinated ALL weekend long, I probably won't even notice if something goes wrong. Maybe I'll speed up so fast that everything else will be slow-mo. That should be a trip to remember.

Really though, while I'm super swamped with preparations (in fact, I am mid-work right now, trying to complete a seating chart), the freight train is going with or without me. So, I'm way past the stressed stage and just trying to stay on the train. Now comes the fun part, just stay calm, have fun, and stay caffeinated. That's the trick. I just have to make sure all the final details are set, all the supplies ready to go, and plaster a smile on face only 6 and a half years in braces could make. Kachow!

Posting will be pretty nonexistent for a while (unless I suffer some insomnia over the next few nights), so if you get bored, you could always watch one of my favorite TV shows like Glee or Fringe or Arrested Development.

Or you could watch one of my favorite artists sing a song that makes me smile in my heart and then, when you have sufficiently fallen in love with Ingrid, go watch the Way I Am video. It's pure magic.

Crack House

I have the worst luck of anyone. Ever. In the history of luck. In the history of history. Let's recap. Last year at this time I was driving around a rental car because some dumb broad pulled out in front of me and totaled my car. Lovely. And I was sick, like death hungover. I only mention last year's events because October is the biggest time of year for my job and it seems that the universe refuses to let my life be manageable at all so that I can manage my work. No, instead, October has become a vortex of mishaps so that my mind literally hangs on the brink.

In the last 4 weeks, I have been dumped by a douche over the phone, my wallet was stolen, and just last Thursday, I clipped a low pole with my bumper and popped the damn thing out. It was completely my own stupid ass fault, but it still sucks monkey ass. And while it looks bad, I'm pretty sure it's drive-able, maybe not over 60 mph, but it's working okay so far. I mean, it's got to. I can't afford to fix her. So I just pray that the damn thing doesn't fall off.

Starting around Wednesday (before the bumper incident), I started feeling like a cold was approaching. Remember the flu shot incident? I earned the right to not get sick, dammit! I should not and cannot get sick. I don't have time to get sick. I paid $15 and a paralyzed arm and upset stomach to not get sick. Nope. Not gonna happen this year. Noppety nope. But, I my throat was sore and my glands felt swollen. Not good. On the up side, I think I'll blame feeling sick on the bumper. It's a good enough rationalization as any right?

So in the effort to not get sick in the next week, I have made a new best friend. Internet, meet EmergenC. My new friend is wonderful. She is always available (yes, it's a SHE), she makes me feel fantastic, and she tastes great. Yes, I taste this friend. I prefer the Acai berry flavor (no, not because of Oprah) in apple juice. And this friend is my new "crack." Now, I say new very loosely lest the cops search my home for crack. I have never done crack. I don't even know what crack looks like. I wouldn't even know how to take crack. If it involves needles, I'm out right now. I say crack with a loving reference to addiction. We all have our addictions and I think that if we cut out that nasty word and just call it crack, the world would be a better place. We'd all feel much better about ourselves, I'm sure of it.

Some people gamble. I, personally, don't like to gamble. I'd rather put my money in a cash register and take home shoes. I win every time, guaranteed. Some girls (and boys for that matter. we're equal opportunity addicts here) eat their feelings. Never been a problem for me. When I'm upset, I can't eat. I tend to eat when I'm happy, so happiness may be a problem for my waistline in the long run. I'll just eat that bridge when I get to it. Some people drink. I personally can't hold my liquor, which you know if you've been reading these posts. A couple drinks and I am done. Yay for me.

I've certainly indulged in my fair share of cracks. I like FaceCrack, also known as Facebook. I like to shop my feelings. Remember the shoes? Mmm, works every time. Not just shoes either. I could buy post-its and feel better. But, that's unfair. I have an unhealthy love of post-its. They make my world so organized and bright and happy. My whole filing system at work is based on my post-its. Nonetheless, small purchase or large, shopping is a fine upper. Indeed. But right now, my crack is EmergenC. And I do not give a cat's ass on a rat that it is quite possible to overdose with vitamins. I know that. I am fully aware of the risks. But do you know the risks of me getting sick before or during any point next weekend? DO YOU? This is the biggest weekend of the year for me and it is imperative that I not get sick. So I am sucking down this vitamin elixir like gin and juice. Not that I even know what gin and juice tastes like, or even what the "juice" is, but it sounds so hard core, right? Holla! I only have 6 more days to get through and I will do what it takes to stave off the plague, goddammit!

And you know, despite the crack and the wallet and the bumper and the douche, I'm not upset. Maybe it's mania. Maybe it's just all the vitamin C coursing through my veins. My very happy veins. Maybe my brain is just protecting itself, like a survival mechanism. All I can feel is something akin to delirium. It's funny, right? I mean, who lives like this? Who else does all this shit happen to? All I can do is laugh, somewhat maniacally. Maybe I've just completely lost it. I've succumbed to my crazy cat lady destiny. I have two cats. I'm hopelessly single. All I needed was the crazy. Check! Now I just need an old house and some overalls and big hats to garden in. I am on my way to Crazy Cat Lady Land.

Lonely Pathetic Woman Inhales Too Much Baby

Mmmm baby smell. Wait, let me back up. I'm sure I've lost all the guys by this point anyway. I have a long history of saying the word baby just so I can see men's asses, running as fast as they can, as if their shoes are on fire, leaving tracks like Back to the Future. Works like a charm. Except it sucks.

I just got home from a co-worker's baby shower. And I went to the shower a little punchy anyway. It has been one of those frazzly, stressy days where I spend every minute running from a meeting, to a meeting, watching the clock because my meeting is running over and I'm late for another meeting, and finding 10 minutes to shove a burrito down my gullet. God bless Mexico for inventing burritos. And whomever invented sour cream should go straight to heaven. I hate days like today. While each individual meeting has a purpose, the whole of the day leaves me feeling quite helpless. I can physically feel the emails piling up. The work that's not getting done just taunting me and my lack of ability to do anything about it.

So, punchy. I got to the shower a half an hour late because of a meeting, a meeting that went over an hour and so I was late for a phone meeting. Needless to say the phone meeting didn't happen. And I simultaneously love and loathe these things. Let me just for a minute or an hour tell you what I love. I love the baby clothes, the cute, soft little blankets wrapped around the tiniest socks ever invented. It's all so cuddly and precious and goddamn fucking adorable. Ohmygod! And then the baby. The baby. The BA-BY! That baby, like all babies, is just the most perfect little ball of perfection. Little toes and little mouth and little cheeks. I just want to gnaw on those cheeks. Those little cream puff cheeks. Gah! And do not get me going on baby smell. Baby. Smell. I could just inhale the top of a baby's head until the day I die. In fact, that's probably what will kill me. Overdose of baby smell. I can see the headline now: Lonely Pathetic Woman Inhales Too Much Baby. Yup, that's how I'll die. Good good in hell I love the smell of babies. That smell makes me want to stuff an infant into my uterus, curl that little smelly angel under a wing and sing Disney songs. In other words, baby smell makes me a mad woman. You've probably already gathered that, but this is a very real affliction. There is a chemical reason that women my age go batshit when they smell the top of a baby's head. It's so they'll start popping out offspring like pez.

And that brings me to why I hate these things. Baby Showers. It just makes me feel...lost. I can't help it if I want a baby like Charlie wanted a golden ticket. I can't help it that baby smell makes me batshit. I can't fucking help it and I can't do a damn thing about it short of investing in a turkey baster or stealing some unsuspecting infant from the grocery story (which, don't worry moms, I won't do). Maybe I can hang out in front of fire stations and hope for some unfit mother to drop one off. I've tried the Target! No luck there. I refuse to go to the WalMart on moral grounds. I mean, my dad always told me he got me at the baby store because I was the cutest one. But where is this damn baby store? I think he may have lied.

I exaggerate for effect of course. Of course. But, in truth, I do want a baby. I can't help it. It's a disease. It's called baby fever. And I am a single woman, with not much income, without much family, and absolutely no hint of a possibility of that in my future. It's just not going to happen right now or anytime soon. And I'm starting to realize that it could be a very real possibility that this just won't happen for me. Ever. And I really don't want to hear the older ladies coo like I'm a whiney child, "oh honey, you're pretty, it'll happen." blah blah blah. Like pretty has anything to do with anything. Like it has nothing to do with only attracting men who think babies are some kind of fungus. Only you can't eat them. Or smoke them. Bummer, right? What else is there in life?

More than food and partying, I tell ya.

light up the sky like a flame

My dear friend Morgan and I went to see Fame tonight. Not much of a plot, but the dance numbers were fantastic! And before you chuckle, let me explain how much the original meant to me in my childhood and subsequent twenty-some odd years. When I was a little pigtailed girl (with huge bangs) in the eighties, all I really wanted to be was a dancer (or President. Or an astronaut, depends on the day). Not just a ballerina, mind you, though if I had been cast as Clara in the Nutcracker, I would have hung the moon. No, I was going to be an all-around dancer. And this was even before I had discovered Modern/Contemporary, but I'll get to that later.

Before I get to me as a dancer, let me discuss the original Fame for a sec. I was in love with that film as a kid. And I don't remember what year it came out, maybe 86? So I was clearly too young and I'm sure it didn't have much of a plot then either, but the magic of that movie, the passion of the dancers. God, I wanted to move like that! I wanted to live forever! FAME! *whew* Got caught up in the moment for a second there. Anyway, Fame the film and the subsequent TV show has a place in my young dancer's heart.

Now, I was a busy child, with a crazy mother who had me in enough activities for six kids (Stage mom, swim mom, volunteer mom, etc. You get the picture). But there was one thing I did that I loved and that was DANCE! I started at around 5 and I took any kind of dance you can think of. Ballet. Tap. Jazz. Highland (Scottish). Hula. Maori. You name it. I loved to dance. It was the one place I felt confident. The one thing I knew without a doubt I was good at, but it was also the one thing I felt truly free doing. All of my life, I've been in my head, totally in my head, caught up in too much thinking and over analyzing and criticizing. But dance class? That, my friends, is the one place you can't think about anything BUT the steps. You have no choice. And once muscle memory kicks in, you can lose yourself dancing. You just go. Unless you've ever trained formally, I don't think words will ever truly convey that feeling. The steps just come out. Your arms just move. Your abs contract and release. And you forget everything but pure movement.

And each dance form is different of course, but the sentiment is the same. If you train, perfect your technique, flexibility, and strength, focus on memory and mimicry, and then let go of all of that and really feel the movement, it's pure magic. There's nothing else like it.

In college, and by college, I mean community college AKA the place I found my skinny poor ass after high school, I discovered Modern Dance. Not Contemporary, that came later. But, Modern. You know, Twyla Tharp, Martha Graham, Merce Cunningham, Alvin Ailey. All these greats influenced what I discovered from one of the most influential women in my life and my favorite dance teacher of all time. She taught me that dance was more than the movement, it was passion and breath and feeling and music (and technique and strength and practicing until your feet fall off and your legs are covered in bruises and your heart is going to pop out of your chest. It's fucking fantastic.). Those years I discovered that being a true dancer meant inhaling the music and the exhalation is dance. Poetic right? It is. It feels like you are living poetry in each tilt, each contraction, each leap.

And it's a well known fact that dancers fall into two categories: turners and leapers. I was a natural leaper. I think that should tell you a lot about my personality. I love nothing more than the height and rush of flying through the air. I was damn good back then. I think had I applied myself, I really could have danced professionally. But, that's not the road I took and I refuse to play the "what if" game. No one is turning back the clock. And that's okay.

I couldn't find a picture of me dancing, so this one will have to suffice. This is a dancer from the Alvin Ailey Dance Company and this just rocks my world:

But good god do I miss it! Cut to 10 years later. I've danced on and off over the years, added Salsa and Hip Hop to my repertoire, dance Contemporary in France, bounced in and out of ballet and jazz classes. But, the truth is, I'm getting old. Don't groan. Okay, yes, 29 is young is regular land. But for a dancer, I'm ancient. Professionals are becoming choreographers or are planning their teaching careers at my age. And at no point have I come close to that. So what is an aging dancer to do? Classes for people my age are a mishmash of levels and are either asinine and boring (I mean, I'd still like to be challenged, even though my legs just don't go as high as they used to) or are half-empty and get canceled. If I want a harder class, I may have to take with kids half (or more) my age and that's if I can find one which fits in my work schedule. Oh, and did I mention I live in a small town?

Just give me few more minutes of bitching please.

When I lived in Hollywood, I didn't enjoy dance classes, though they were plenty challenging and easy to find. It was extremely competitive and non-collaborative. And that just wasn't an environment I felt creative in. And yeah sure, I wasn't there to be "discovered." I didn't care about Ms. Spears' casting for a new music video. I just wanted to dance. And I saw a lot more cat fights than I did dancing, I tell you. I eventually found a home in a hip hop class that a choreographer friend taught at a gym. And even that was unnerving because the fabulously flaming hot gay men would stand around watching you. I never felt fatter. But I had fun and, I think, that is ultimately the point.

But, I think that I thought I'd have an easier time transitioning to a small town. Perhaps I'd find a studio with heart and collaboration. Right? Well, it's just not that easy. But, every place has its own challenges. And I struggle every day with how to keep dance in my life. So what is an aging dancer to do?

I really don't know.

breakable breakable breakable girls and boys

I really don't understand our society sometimes. We disinfect and cover ourselves in reflectors and pads and insulate ourselves in our homes away from the air and allergies and weather and, most horrifyingly, other humans. And okay, I am a fireman's daughter, so let's set aside basic safety for a moment and concede that I am simply making a point.

And that point is that life is for living. Do you hear me? Just in case you didn't, I'll say it again. Life. Is. For. LIVING.

I like to jog in the evening, mostly because it's cooler and I prefer to breathe in the cool air as I'm huffing along in my misery (I kid, sometimes I really enjoy myself when I don't feel like I'm gonna die right there on the sidewalk), but also because dusk is my favorite time of day. It's just plain beautiful. And what could be better than getting out into the cool dusky air with the light dimming and the silhouetted trees appearing against the orange sky? Not much, I tell ya.

But my crazy lady neighbor expressed concern yesterday at my desire to go out at this supposed perilous time of day. Apparently I could die. Or worse. And I'm sure I could. And I'm sure I could die driving to work or a satellite could fall out of the sky or terrorists could take California hostage. All sorts of things could happen to any of us at any time. And while certain wise measure just make sense, I can't get on bored with living in constant fear or even paranoia. I live my life to live and I'll take risks in order to enjoy a beautiful evening or anything else I enjoy that could be perceived as somewhat dangerous.

So, naturally, I was thinking about this as I was jogging yesterday. Last weekend, as you may have read, I had a little, well, as friend put it, a little heartshake. Not break, but I was shaken up a bit. But, I don't know if I'd even go that far. I was just somewhat bruised. And while it may have seemed that I wasn't handling it well (especially to me, I admit), I actually did handle it well. For the first time really. I have a long history of bottling up any emotion and barreling forward with "strength." I say strength within quotes because strength for fear of emotion is not true strength. But, I didn't know that then, so who can blame me? And like any bruise, it takes a while to disappear, to completely heal. But the pain subsides somewhat quickly.

However, and without going through the loooong and sordid details of my past, I did a huge uncorking of emotion last year. I let go and, for the first time, felt buried emotions I'd never dealt with and have subsequently have been the happiest I've ever been. Isn't it amazing how leaning into emotion can lead to happiness? Well, it can. Anyway, so this last weekend when the weepiness and cattiness seemed to overwhelm me, it was just real emotion swirling around that I didn't know what to do with. And it was great that I didn't know, because I just let the emotion swirl and allowed myself to dig deep and get incredibly raw and honest. And you know what happened next? I felt great. I really and truly did. I felt fucking fantastic. And so I picked my ass up and hauled myself outside and allowed myself to feel great. I leaned into that emotion too.

So what does this have to do with my original point you ask? Well, I'm glad you asked, my friend. I am glad you asked.

We can't hide from our emotions. We have to feel them, fully, even if they seem trivial or negative or misguided. Lean into them. Explore them. That is life. And when we hide from them or cork them down in the attempt to be strong, they just come back to fuck us up later. But, if we aren't so hard on ourselves and we allow feelings to take their course, strength comes naturally. And that's how I was feeling as I jogged my butt down the street yesterday evening, enjoying the cooling evening and the gorgeous sky. I felt strong. That is what life is about, Internet, when you feel like falling, just fall. Sink into that feeling. And when you can, you pick your ass back up and you enjoy every minute of this measly existence! You can never really protect yourself or your heart. You just have to jump into life and live it, dammit!

Insert brilliant segue here

So, I have been having a love affair with Ingrid Michaelson. This woman is awesome on like 275 levels. I've been wanting to share her with you, Internet, for a few days, but as it turns out, this song is song perfectly fucking suited for today's post. Please enjoy. Make all the allusions you want between the song and what I've been rambling on about. Plus, allusions is a fun word to say.

this might take a while to figure out

I am hitting a very serious case of writer's block at work. And considering that I need to churn out 3 more short pieces by the end of tomorrow, I'm very frustrated. The problem with writer's block is that the more you force it, the crappier your writing gets. Nevertheless, I'm going to go with the theory that I've used up all my creative juice and conserve it for a bit. Then maybe I'll have some stored up and can write like a madwoman tomorrow, like Hemingway hitting the sauce, or Carol on opium, or just me on green tea. Doesn't take much to get me wired. Har de har har.

I do have what I think is a good blog idea floating around in my head, but in the attempt to channel my writing skills into a venue that pays the bills, It'll have to wait.

In the meantime, this song by the Frames makes me cream. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. I could crawl up in this song and dream forever. *sigh* Sorry there's no visual, but the sound quality is so much better in this video than in the live versions.