Monday, August 31, 2009

Part 1

The moon was not quite full. I remember because I had thought that it would be more perfect if it was. Then I scolded myself for somehow finding the negative in an otherwise perfect moment.

It was humid, thick, but not nearly as bad as years past.

We sat on the edge of the stone bench. I was careful to balance my feet on toe tops so my thighs would not squish against the concrete, making that unsightly dimpled effect that reminded me no matter how much I ran, I would never be a little girl.

I was wearing a plain white tank top and denim shorts, much bigger than the last time I put them on. They were nearly a decade old and terribly out of fashion but they were the only pair of shorts I owned, having abandoned them in recent years in favor of capri pants and board shorts that covered more of my birthmarks, ugly brown softball size pools of self-hatred and disgust.

Thankfully, it was too hot to care and besides, it was nothing he hadn't seen before.

We sat on the stone bench. I rocked side to side, my sit bones beginning to hurt. We were careful not to touch. There had been thousands of moments just like this one, with him, with others. Sitting in stillness, in silence, hovering in the place just before touch.

It was the moment I longed for and dreaded in equal parts. It was the top of the roller coaster, no where to go but down.

I talked to myself. In my head, I held lengthy boisterous conversations. I relaxed into the voices of my imagination knowing if I could sit with them a little longer than I wouldn't have to speak to him. Speaking would only speed the decent and this hovering moment of possibility would be forced to choose a direction. So for a brief respite, the voices in my mind were able to keep each other at bay and I sat and stared into the distance, into nowhere in particular, praying I would not have to go first.

We sat as crowds past and the sun set and the lights of the city rose up before us to kiss the stars. We sat and waited and on the occasion when our flesh brushed together in casual passing, the spot on the small of my back, the one my mother had always feared I might defile with a tattoo began to seize and ache and quiver.

I know there were words exchanged, pleasantries, idle conversation but they never permeated my heart. They just rolled from my lips, from his lips, down to the grass on the path made by beads of sweat succumbing to the denseness of the day.

When it was time to go, when the hours could no longer be justified and leaving seemed to be the only appropriate thing to do, we rose and stood eye to eye. I went to offer a deliberate embrace, warm but distant. Instead he took my right hand into his left and placed his other on the small of my back, right where the ache lived, and I could swear for a moment that he could feel it quiver.

We danced. Silently. Under the not quite full moon. Without music and without concern that we were being watched by a steady stream of passersby.

It was the end. I knew the moment we stopped dancing it would be the end. It should have been the end. I wish it would have been the end.

It would have been perfect. But it was never going to be perfect, even in its ending. I would hold on longer than I ever should and this moment would be diluted in a sea of anger and bitterness and resentment. I would all but forget this, our not quite perfect, not quite final goodbye.

Until today, when there was nothing left to feel but a fondness for simple memories and a grateful melancholy in knowing each bittersweet goodbye is just another fresh start, waiting patiently to begin.

Late night chicken

I should be sleeping.

It is 2 in the morning and I have to work tomorrow. I should be sleeping but I am not.

I should at least be staring at my dust covered ceiling fan, making seizure inducing shadows on the brick wall above my bed, counting the rotations till my eyes forget that my brain isn’t yet tired. But I don’t.

I surf the internet. I check my facebook page for the zillionth time, I shop online for things I cannot afford, I half-watch episodes of Dexter on, I google stalk.

I am not ready to surrender to the beginning of Monday and I occupy myself to avoid considering the opportunity my family friendly weekend has presented.

It seems the universe is trying to find me a date and I am hell bent to blow the universe off.

Why is it that when you just don’t give a shit, when the thought of dating is about as appetizing as a grilled chicken wrap after hours upon hours of biting into slimy camera ready chicken and smiling every time the director says, “let’s get a shot of you chewing from another angle,” that matchmakers and matches start appearing around every turn.

I woke up far too late to take full advantage of my day off but mustered up the energy for the farmer’s market. I was there, minding my own business, when the men selling me my zucchinis and funky star-looking squash things, started interrogating me on my love life.

“I bet you need a big guy,” said the one with the ZZ Top beard. “How tall are you? 5’10”? 5’11”?

“And some change,” I said, in what has become my standard response.

The two elderly gentleman quizzed me on my preferences and physical requirements and I obliged because they were charming, in a creepy leprechaun-y sort of way and because I had just spent the last of my cash and I was betting I could score some free veggies.

I did, in fact, but they didn’t want me to walk away with just a handful of vegetables I would have no idea how to cook. They wanted to find me a man.

“What about *Guy*?” said the bald one. (His name wasn’t actually Guy but I figure it is best to protect the identity of my potential future husband until I actually meet him.)
“Oh yeah!! He would be perfect. You’d like him. His is a big guy. He owns ---(fill in the name of hipster downtown restaurant)! And I bet he could handle you!”

“You have to go and tell him Thane sent you.”

“Um, sure.” I was a little disturbed at being pimped out these toothless Woodstock relics, but they were so giddy I hated to spoil their fun. So they rattled on like a bunch of old chickens or my grandmother and her sisters when they get together to see who can cackle loudest.

There wasn’t a chance in hell that I would actually go stalk a complete stranger at his place of business and tell him that some random old men said we would be perfect together – at least… not again… but I was amused by the possibilities and empowered by the fact that if I wanted to, I could.

Later, a gorgeous, funny, smart, accomplished, did I mention gorgeous man asked me on a date. I never ceased to be shocked when attractive men hit on me, a residual insecurity of chubby adolescence and awkward post-adolescence that I doubt I will ever escape.

I was flattered and I said yes but as I lay here counting the minutes until I am running late for work, I am sorting out my excuse to bail.

There are plenty of reasons why not (luckily, none of them seem to be the old stand by of ‘you’re not good enough’) but mainly, I just can’t make myself be that interested. It is nice in theory but the thought of actually shaving my legs and spritzing perfume behind my ears is just not as appealing as it used to be.

I am rejecting the idea that I am officially in a drought. I talk a big enough game that no one would believe that but I think that maybe my faux man fast has completely taken over my animal instinct and plain common sense, which is screaming to jump at a great thing.

I don’t know maybe the universe is serving up plate after plate of the tastiest poultry this side of the Mississippi, but it’s still chicken and I am just not that hungry.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

That is not to go on the blog

"That is not to go in the blog."

I have been hearing this a lot lately and I am beginning to doubt my friends belief in my integrity and my belief in my judgement, discretion or tact.

"Sometimes it borders on slander," V said tonight, as I hovered over my disgustingly pink drink, playing with it rather than actually ingesting it. Ouch.

"Maybe I should just kill it."

"No," V said. "It is an outlet for your creativity. Sometimes it is good to write thing to get them off your chest."

"If I was just looking for catharsis I would just keep a journal." Most likely one of those fat pink ones with the cheap gold combination lock.

All of this concern over what is and isn't appropriate and my apparent inability to tell the difference has brought to light an even larger hole in my blogosphere.

What is the point?

It should have an angle, right? If you are writing something in the hopes that someone will read it, it should say something - shouldn't it?

I don't know what I have to say.

The only truth I am fully confident in is that every original idea has already been thought and regurgitated a million times over. No brilliant conclusion I draw about my mundane existence, the trials of my lackluster love life, endless occupational schizophrenia, or debaucherous forays into the midwest social scene, fueled by the fodder of my friends and family, will ever be truly original. In fact, I suspect that my great hypotheses regularly draw a great big "DUH" from the other side of the internet universe.

And that makes me smile.

I don't know. I am gonna sleep on it.

Maybe I will let this die a slow cyber death or maybe I will rationalize my daily digital platitudes as some sort of ongoing hyperbole meant to amuse, enlighten or caution whichever unfortunate soul is bored or blood-related enough to follow along with my exploits.

In her way

If heartbreak looked a certain way, if it had to appear as an act or a moment or a scene from a indi-romance flick, mine would be sitting with me knees pressed to my chest, fully clothed in a cheap apartment bathtub with the curtain drawn and the lights off.

My mother frequently reminds me that human beings have a miraculous way of forgetting pain - a necessary skill required to desire any more children after the first one is ripped from your loins.

I am forgetting.

It hasn't been long enough but I am forgetting what heartache looks like and that makes me uneasy. I want to remember.

I want to remember the drops of tepid water splashing my big toes, curled and angry, from the height of the lime-coated showed head, occasionally tattooing my jeans, the droplet mark indecipherable on slopes of tear-speckled blue.

I need to remember. To feel grounded, to make the past feel real. To stay firmly planted in the present without the slightest desire to go back.

Forgetting is dangerous, necessary, inevitable to start anew. But I am not there yet. For now I want to hold onto the memory of that cold, deep ache. It was my version of heartache and I want to acknowledge it, remember it with a twisted fondest and then prepare to let it go, hoping it just might never visit me again.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Happy writing

One of my favorite memories of my time in Russia, was sitting in a restaurant with the Chair of my alma matter, discussing his love for life. He didn't just love his life, in a passive appreciation. He was rapturously in love - with his wife, his children, his dog, his life.

To be stirred to the soul with a passion for your current existence is something I have always yearned for and something that has forever escaped me. Perhaps it is the wanderlust, the steady churning of discontent - no, not discontent, just not-quite-content. The grass is always greener, the cup half empty. There have been moments of joy, pure exaltation and revery but not as a general attitude.

Today, wandering through the farmers market directly below my loft, breathing in the scent of funnel cake and barbeque, I realized that I am rapturously in love with my life.

In the last few months I have been rejected for my work and rejected in my relationships but I can't remember ever being this content. I don't have a current project, something to distract me, to monopolize my mind and the itch to escape and set off on a new adventure is still there but it has changed ever so slightly.

Maybe it is accepting that I might never have the American Dream and that that is okay. I have yet to pinpoint the greater being that said to live a successful life you must have 2.5 children, a mortgage and a permanent address. I know they say that is what you are supposed to want but who exactly is they? And what makes them so sure?

If I have cellulite and a big nose and the occasional unlady-like out burst, I think I'll be okay.

And if I throw it all in tomorrow and sail around the world that doesn't make me a flake. And if I settle into my job, in my horrifically ugly yellow and red office and choose to build roots, well that doesn't mean I have settled.

I don't know why I am suddenly happy. I don't know why now. This is the point where my mother yells at me to stop analyzing everything but like my father, it is just my way.

So what do I write about when I am not searching, confused and angst-filled? Is happy writing even more self-involved than the other kind?

Thursday, August 27, 2009

I finally listened to the 8 voicemails that had racked up over the last 4 days

It has been brought to my attention that I suck at the following:

Promptly returning texts.
Answering my phone.
Listening to my voicemail.
Replying to emails.
Acknowledging comments on my Facebook page.
Maintaining contact with assorted friends and family strewn all over the globe.

Essentially returning communications of any kind in a timely manner.

Really I have no excuse. I could say I try but that wouldn't be a full truth. Sometimes the massive access and multitude of communication portals just freaks me out.

This from someone blogging about her own trite existence at 11:02 pm on a Thursday.

This is where I have fallen in the quantity over quality cycle of interactions. Often my only reason for throwing a party is that I can see lots of people in a small period of time - which I admit is shitty and selfish on my part.

I want to do better I really really do. And if you are reading this and rolling your eyes, I promise to make a concerted effort to answer the phone when you call.

But not if you call when I am sitting with someone else because that is just plain rude.

My friends are dorks

Wednesday 8:04 pm - "You have new Picture Mail!"
Picture Message: "We feel incomplete... "

Character Number 1 and Number 2
(Character Number 3, operating the camera)

Wednesday 10:06 pm - "Friday, girls nite. be there or be square."
Thursday 7:45 am - "ummm....your non-response to my txt last nite has earned you a pre-8am txt."

They are almost as good at guilt as my grandmother.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

I Rock

So I just made:

- Caprese Salad with fresh basil, mozzarella, red onion and tomatoes from the farmers market
- Smashed potatoes with fat free cream cheese, garlic and dill
- Sautéed purple peppers from the farmers market
- Seared tuna with a fresh black berry glaze
- Vanilla bean ice cream covered in black berries, black berry sauce and homemade oatmeal wafer crispies.

It was all delicious and way way to much. Not bad for my first cooking experience without calling my other for directions.

Well, Crap

I am cheap. This is a widely known fact. Not in the never pick up a tab, only buy the discount toilet paper, consistently ‘forget’ a wallet type of cheap, so masterfully executed by most of my recent boyfriends.

I am cheap in the frugal, “I will be damned if I am not going to get every nickels worth of my money”, kind of way. I get every last drop out of my toothpaste container, if spend money on vacation I am going to go all out every minute of the trip and if I spend $130 bucks on an unlimited monthly yoga membership, you had better believe I am going to be there everyday.

Most of the time this cheapness has clear advantages. It is a great motivator. Recently my therapist co-pay went up and so has my standards for men. No douche-bag is worth $40 a session.

A few days ago I over-drafted my checking account. This is the first time I have ever done that and I did it in a big way. I decided to be really productive and pay all of my bill in one day. Car Insurance, student loan, cell phone, geek squad, electricity. And then I went shopping.

And then I realized that my pay check had been sitting in the bottom of my purse for almost 2 weeks.

Yep. That sucked. $250 worth of overdraft fees, $250 worth of sucky.

I worked my charms and got the bank to knock off the majority of the charges but then I had to come to grips with the fact that my crazy summer had now effected more than the size of my rear. It seriously impacted my bank account.

Each of those $5 coffees ended up costing me $50 bucks. And then I started counting up all the happy hours and early morning networking breakfasts and late night desserts with girlfriends. Damn. So it is time for a break from my social life. I have been waxing and waning about my need for a little me time. Well now I have my motivation. I guess everything happens for a reason.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

I like Meagan

I have a newish friend, Meagan and I like her a lot. So much so that I am actually using her real name. This is not to say that I don't love all of my other friends that I choose to cloak in anonymity. It is just that they have all given me such great material and while I find it perfectly hilarious to post online, their future/potential boss, significant other or in-laws might not be as amused.

In fact, in the future should the aforementioned Meagan choose to do something blatantly idiotic, I will make sure to describe her as a five foot brunette with a squeaky high pitched voice - clearly nothing could be further from the truth.

But as I was saying, I like my newish friend. I like that she outwardly embodies a confidence in all of the insecurities that I try to bury deep within my psyche.

Like when we did yoga on the lawn at the Nelson last weekend. Meagan joked that she was going to beat me - she is seriously competitive and while she wasn't being serious in this particular situation, she has no problem that being part of her shtick.

(I usually just think self-involved, competitive thoughts silently to myself while grunting in downward dog, hoping to do as 'good' as the other women in the class while chiding myself for bringing ego into my zen place.)

See - baggage. We all have baggage and as I get older I have grown comfortable admitting certain aspects of my baggage. Almost a sense of pride - not because I have some particular deficiency but because I recognize it and am working on it. (You know, like my tendancy to pat myself on the back!)

But then I meet someone like Meagan and she is so different than me and I love that. I love that I can look at her strengths and my weaknesses and rather than making it a competition see an opportunity to grow from having this new person in my life.

I know that sometimes I get a little too American Beauty but these moments of self-discovery feel like what this time in life is supposed to be, not rushing to the next phase, but marinating in each new discovery so that when it is time to make life less about 'me' and more about 'us' it can be done with a richness, a debth of self-understanding and a willingness to share.

It is too freaking early

I am not a morning person. I try but alas, I hit the snooze for at least an hour before I grunt myself out of bed and stand in the shower for at least 15 minutes waiting to be revived out of my dream state. This is problematic because I am always running 15 minutes late. I tell myself I am going to get up and run but I know better. The only thing that would tear me out of my feather bed of coziness is a steaming pot of coffee.

I have been thinking about this in reference to the dating world and relationships. I have joked for quite some time that I am never getting married until I can have a house big enough so that we can each have our own wings. I have been reading a lot about city couples who have their own apartments across the hall from one another and really that doesn’t sound half bad.

This isn’t entirely out of a selfish need for personal space. This is about the well being and sanity of any future life mate I might have.

I barely function before 10 am. I drink the orange juice strait from the carton. I frequently have several electronic devices on at the same time at different volumes so that I can alternate when I get bored. I mutter obscenities at myself, my wardrobe, my food. And I fall down. A lot.

Everyone has their quirks. That is why the world of online dating amuses me so. I mean basically, people are trying to draft their own baseball card, with the stats and figures that best convey their averages so that they can swap and trade and hopefully find a suitable match. But really if people had to write the whole truth and nothing but the truth, how many first dates do you think would really happen?

We don’t want to know the whole truth, not at first, maybe not ever and if enhanced personal space can prolong the mystery just a little bit, maybe it is not such a bad idea.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Boredom beware

I once dated a guy whose mother handed me a copy of Good Housekeeping magazine and said, “You could use this.”

I once dated a guy who dumped me in the shower.

I once dated a guy who asked me to move across the country for him on our second date.

I once dated a guy who rented a sailboat for me, only to discover that I get insanely seasick and then wreck the boat requiring that we be rescued by the coast guard.

I have dated guys that said “I’ll get you next time,” “You love me more than I love you,” and guys who have called me “Dumbo.”

I have been cheated on, lied to, stole from and froze out.

I have had guys profess their undying love for me only to never speak to me again once I said lets give it a shot.

For all of this craziness, I have come to a very zen place in my feelings about the opposite sex. It helps that as many times as I have experienced shitty man situations, I have experienced great ones. I have watched my father and step-father and grand-father treat the women in their lives like queens and show the type of respect and integrity that I know the greater population of men to have. I have watched my friends and cousins become amazing husbands and fathers and remind me that good guys are still out there.

Even as of a year ago, I think I was still harboring major man hatred but these days that just seems futile. If it wasn’t for all of these crazy experiences, what would I have to write about?

So last week, when I met up with a designer that I have hired to do a project for work, I was a little freaked out when he said he followed my blog. Flattered but freaked out. And then he said, “You have a lot of man issues don’t you?”

And with the deepest exhalation of relief I have had since I don’t know when, I said, “No. Actually at the moment, I have no man issues. By choice. And that is just fine.”

I am sure that this is about the time that the man issues will start to spring up – just as I settle into my over-contentment and I welcome the challenge. Boredom beware. Boys keep things interesting.

Ten Minutes

Slivers of plastic from the synthetic picnic table were digging their way into my forehead, no doubt leaving an imprint that my limited time would be unable to erase. Beyond my closed eyelids I could hear trucks and construction equipment shoveling earth near by. I could hear the mutterings of adult conversation not intended to be shared and I could feel the high pitched screams of children, intermittently interrupted by the thumping of sneakered footsteps bounding across the cork floor of the playground. This was my favorite place to come in the afternoon, when the florescent lights and droning computer monitor, magnified by the incessant buzzing of the door bell became too much and I needed a break to reset. It has been too stick this summer to really enjoy the playground but this brief reprieve from the normal temperatures of a Missouri August made a trip to the park more of a necessity than a perk. The children playing on the jungle gym made me giggle and for a moment I wished they would all leave so I could play fairy princess off the balustrade the I had before deadlines and overdraft fees and utility bills. The days when I never imagined a world without time for play. Maybe that is why I am an artist, so I never have to give up pretend. And even if all my adventures are limited by schedule or responsibility, they are there in my imagination, waiting for a few brief moments at a picnic table on a playground, nestled in the shade of an old oak tree, for the chance to come alive.

Sunday, August 23, 2009


It is Sunday and I am exhausted. A lovely exhaustion, the result of healthy fun and sunshine, family and exercise. It was the kind of weekend I have been too busy partying to enjoy. The kind of weekend that reminded me how much I benefit from quality 'me' time.

It started earlier, on Thursday, playing with my co-workers 2 year old daughter, my good buddy Ellie. It was quasi-babysitting and full fledged fun, listening to this adorable little girl ramble about “worms live in da mud” and “birds go tweet tweet” and "go high on da blue swing." Ellie ran through the leaves and pointed out everything she could see and when we had finished getting ravaged by the mosquitoes, we went inside and Ellie began to entertain herself at her little table. Her mom told me that because they keep her so busy at school, sometimes she just needs some private time in the evenings to decompress.

She is one smart two year old and I realized that that was something I almost never allow myself to do.

When Friday finally came around, I was ready for the weekend but this time, a wild and crazy night was the furthest thing from my mind.

I went to yoga and to the ridiculous downtown market and grabbed sushi and a movie. I went home and took the longest shower possible, and even mustered the will to shave my legs, which I hadn't done in god knows how long before collapsing on my couch.

This had not been the plan and my girlfriends were less than pleased. They sent rounds of guilt-inducing text messages.

Them: You bailed! L That is unfortunate.
Me: I failed as a human being.
Them: Clearly. Not friends anymore. You can take you donation boxes and shove em!

I was momentarily tempted to give in but this tiny voice inside me said, "Sit still. Just sit still." And so I did but with an amused gratitude of knowing that I have the kind of friends who would go as far as blackmailing me with charity to get me to go out.

But I sat still. I went to bed early, slept hard and woke up at the crack of dawn to try out a new running group.

It was the perfect day to pretend to be athletic, the cool pre-fall air making it feel more like LA than the typical humid Missouri summers I remember from my youth. I quickly made friends with a group of delightful strangers who made the miles pass by with such ease I almost forgot that it had been months since I last attempted to run.

I spent the afternoon with my family, my grandparents and aunts and uncles in town for my cousin Jack's six birthday. Jack hugged me hello, thank you and goodbye. This is a huge deal. I have barely been able to get a high five in the past. We now have a date to play mouse trap again and I am pretty stoked, since setting that thing up made me realize why my parents always refused to play it with me. I feel like I now deserve an honorary engineering degree!

I rounded out the evening by making dinner with my girlfriends.

They grilled and steamed and baked. I brought the charcoal.

We sat outside enjoying the magnificent weather and munched until the point of explosion. Then we played a rousing game of scrabble. I didn’t win but I did manage to secure the record for the most dirty words played in one game.

“Are you going to deny me my ‘jiz’!?!”
“See now we have sex and romance!”

As we headed out to our cars, I exalted the advantages of this kind of good clean fun to my girlfriend. It felt so nice to relax in pjs with my girlfriends without being elbow to elbow with a room full of Ed Hardy. To have a good time without alcohol or seeing the sun come up. To be able to wake up at a decent hour – not hung over, not exhausted, go to yoga, do some shopping and then come home and relax for the rest of the afternoon without feeling obligated to be doing something productive or ‘necessary’. To be in my newly cleaned apartment with no desire to be anywhere else.

To sit still.

I have had a fantastic summer. I have played like I was in college again but I am excited for a little ‘me’ time. To whined down with the cooling weather and settle in to the stillness of fall, taking in the simple pleasures of nature and quiet, and lessons learned from two year olds.

Thursday, August 20, 2009


I just accidentally deleted the best voicemail my mother ever left me!!!!

"LYNDSEY!!!! I cannot believe you wrote that!!!! You do not need to put everything you think or I say on the internet for other people to read!"

It is so much funnier when you can hear the tone seeping out of my Mothers voice as she glowers at me through the phone, presumably jutting out her jaw to the left in the way she does only when she is truly disgusted at something I have done.

Aww it was priceless!! And endlessly amusing! And to think I was going to put the audio file up for everyone else to enjoy.

Hmm... maybe if I am lucky I will get another irate message when she reads this!

The G-Word

I have determined that there is nothing more entertaining than catching a guy in the moment when he realizes that he is utterly terrified of the G-word.

Recently, I had drinks with V and a very nice friend of his who met us down south in an attempt to set V up with one of his lady-friends.

The four of us sat around the hightop and I immediately knew I liked this girl. It was obvious that she was as close to V's friend as I am to him and it was apparent in the way that she repeatedly threw him under the bus.

I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard.

First, she brought up the girl he was seeing. "Seeing" being the operative word. I don't even know if he used it at first. He might have only admitted that they were "hanging out." It just goes to show, it doesn't matter how old someone is or how many times they have been married, relationship status is scary and no one is going to admit it easily.

Still, his good buddy persisted. "So, tell them where you were last weekend," she said.

He looked slightly nauseous and then admitted that he had spent that weekend at her parents.

"So you have been dating for months, spending every weekend with her, and now you guys are sharing a room on vacations with her parents and you can't say she is your girlfriend?" I had just met this guy and I was interrogating him - clearly I am a bitch, probably emphasized by the giant pilsners of beer.

"I can say it! She is my girlfriend!" And without realizing he made air quotes around the word "girlfriend."

It was pretty much the most quote-unquote male thing I have ever seen.

He turned a lovely shade of plum when he realized what he did and we all roared with delight.

Later, in a way that was so sly and so brilliant that I could never articulate how she did it, his good friend chucked him under again. It went something like, "Well, she is young." Tucked neatly in a passing moment of conversation.

"Wait," V said. "How old is she?"


"Wow. Umm...That's cool. It's like high school and a half!"

Later it was this poor gents turn to turn the tables and he caught me coming out of the bathroom and rather insistently suggested I get my check and depart.

He had been trying to set V and his friend up for months and it was now time for me to get out of the way. I went back to the table, gathered my things and nonchalantly gave V a squeeze.

"Have fuuuun!!" I squealed and took of without looking back.

Later I would ask V how long his friend had stayed before leaving to play matchmaker, curious if he had lingered now that at least one set of accusing eyes had departed the table. V reassured me that his friend left right after I did.

Part of me hoped that they would hit it off. Part of me knew better. V would never air quote and when he finds the right girl, there will be no fear in the G-word. He just needs to stop spending so much time with bitchy girls like me.

Man Speak

I have been talking to men a lot recently and while having conversations with the opposite sex are nothing out of the ordinary, these interactions have been more specific, more 'get to know you' oriented and slightly more uncommon.

I feel as though often these conversations are often reserved for new girlfriends or the early days of dating. Even with male friends, the conversations are different somehow, tainted with the threat of what might happen next, the biological implications of the male/female connection.

What was so eery about these conversations was not just the utter lack of sexual implications but the 'uh-huh's.

"So I was walking across the street and-"

"Uh-huh!" accompanied with obligatory head nod.

"And the dog came charging at my-"





I could only assume that this was a blatant attempt to signal that my role in the conversations was to be nothing more than a glorified audience member/ego-stroker, but they continued to engage me in conversation only to inject an "Uh-huh, MmmHmm, Yeah" into every single sentence.

Seriously. It was exhausting.

I have only encountered a handful of these creatures in my life. It is like a rare big-foot sighting or something but in ONE week I have had this happen THREE times.

I am starting to doubt my ability to converse with the opposite sex. They aren't attracted to me - no big. They aren't interested in what I have to say- cool. In situations like this I always find myself monitoring my tendency to babble anyway, making sure I ask plenty of questions to allow them to postulate at length about whatever topic titillates them. But what I don't understand is why they continued to talk to me. To engage in conversation, when they can just as easily walk away. Only to "Uh-huh'!! And so many times! It is just unheard of and the crazy part is that these guys are actually really cool or at least that is what I always believed.

We have interacted in the past but never in such a sit-down, one on one manner.

And so I am once again reminded that I really, really don't understand boys and don't know that I currently have the energy to try.


So I was on the phone with my Dad tonight, getting updated on the fantastic trip he and my step-mom just took to the Northwest.

Dad said that he has come up with a new theory on life. This is not surprising. My father is always has some new mantra or theme song.

"I think I could be a professional vacationer. My new plan is to make sure that at the end of my life I don't regret anything. I don't want to regret passing up an opportunity."

"Dad, that is pretty much how I have lived my whole life."

"Um...yeah, Lyndsey. I think everybody knows that."

"Well, now I just have to figure out what is next. I karaoked. I got a tattoo, jumped out of an airplane and wrapped that nasty snake around my neck. I think I am running out of things I fear."

"I don't know - how about dating a decent guy?"

Touche, Father. Touche.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Ladies Who Lunch

I snuck out of the office this afternoon for a gluttonous lunch of Mongolian Barbeque with two of my girlfriends.

“I feel like since no one wants to see me get naked, maybe I should throw myself back out there.” I said, bemoaning my rejected residency application.

“The dating world?” said the tall one.


“You should. It would be fun!" said the not-so-tall.

“That’s what I was thinking. But I hate dating. I am just too lazy.”

“You just want to skip ahead to the next part? Or you just want them at your beck and call?” - Short pants

“Neither. None of it. I think maybe I am just to content being alone.”

“That is a good thing then. So don’t date.” - Long pants

“But it is a good excuse to see movies and stuff.”

“But you can see movies with us.” - Small fry

“When? You two are always preoccupied with your plethora of slightly unavailable man-whores.”

“True.” - Less small fry

“You should do Match. Then you could blog about it.”

Hmmm... So I looked and was a little befuddled when I realized I knew people on there - like more than just facebook friends kind of knowing.

KC isn't like LA. Everyone knows everyone and so I suppose it was bound to happen but it is a little disconcerting to see real live prospects come to life in the virtual world. It is just a little too freaky.

But then again, it could be such great material. (I am terrible!!!)

We'll See...

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

That Mommy...She's a smart one

I just got off the phone with my Mom. I shared with her the details of the lengthy official rejection letter I found in my mailbox today. Oh! It somehow stings a little more when it shows up in a page and half length form! While I appreciate the thoroughness of the rejection, it was on par with getting dumped – once the words “We’re over” have been uttered I really don’t need to drag out the agony.

This is not agony. I am just being melodramatic. I guess I am a bit more bummed than I thought I would be. Anyway, my mom and I chatted and she said not to give up. I thought she was just doing that maternal, non-specific 'tomorrow will be better' pep-talk but she said, “You have a really great idea and you will find a place for it.”

I think that might have been the nicest thing she has ever said about my work. Of course she raves about what I do but she is my mom - she doesn’t have a choice. This made me feel like she really got what I was trying to say with the piece – she doesn’t always get my work – and she had an invested interest in seeing it come to fruition.

It all still sucks. I am still bummed. I see some serious pouting in my future but is just the beginning for this piece and like all things I have ever really loved it is going to take a little bit of suffering before the real beauty of it all will see the light.

Say goodbye Mr. Post-it

I wonder how many of my stories have been gobbled up by my apartment building's washing machine. How many random post-its and receipts and ticket stubs stashed in back pockets have been dissolved away waiting for me to get to a computer to flush them out. I have become a conic scribbler, covering anything and everything I can get my hands on. I don't want to miss out on a moment but I don't want to forget either and I almost always forget - I am running on limited hard drive space. I would like to say the good ones always rise to the surface of my short term memory but anyone who has read this blog knows that isn't necessarily true.

All of this to say, I have decided to twit or tweet or whatever the hell it is called. I am kind of dreading it and I have no idea what I am doing but I figure it might be a better alternative to trying to paste together illegible napkin scraps scattered throughout my mess apartment. So check out the tweet things and if it doesn't get explained in a blog ask me what the hell, "he looked like the doomed zebra on animal planet" meant because I can assure you it will most likely be a damn good story.

I waver

I am wavering. I am alright but I am wavering. My strength. My gumption. My get up and go. It has been weakened and I am wavering. This moment of self-doubt, this overwhelming sense of impervious gravitational shut-down, I wish I could bottle it. I would sell it to the federal government to be used in the crime on terror.

This wavering is part of a process that I know as well as I know my own limbs. It happens with every ending. Every time a project is complete or another one fails to start. Actors call it the post-show mourning. It is my mind’s inability to sit still.

So I buckle. Briefly. In the face of another fork in the road. I know that there will be another project, another goal, another vehicle for forward momentum but for know I must battle all of my fear and insecurity and self-doubt – the little voice inside my head that says, “You aren’t good enough. Your success was a fluke and from here on out there’s gonna be nothin’.”

In a day or two I will beat the crap out of that voice and leave it dead like those annoying house flies that invade my apartment from their feasting ground in the dumpsters behind the Chinese grocery positioned just below my third floor windows.

But for now I waver and I pout and my boss gives her mothering, “Are you alright?”

I assure her I am fine. It will be over in no time.

One out of seven can't be that bad

I had a professor in college who was without a doubt a genius - she was also totally off a rocker, She always had her skirt tucked into her pantyhose. Lipstick on her teeth. Stacks and stacks of papers strewn across her desk, on her floor, teetering on the window sills.

There are days when I look in the mirror & I think to myself - Oh dear dear god I am turning into Katherine. This is not all bad. She is by far the most amazing acting coach I have ever known...but my house and my car and and my person are just a mess. I say I don’t have the time - this is true. I say I am exhausted - also true. But really, it is just that if I had to rank my priorities, clearly my house is sooo far down on the list these days that I end up hurtling over my bicycle with deflated tires, scanners, printers and underused computer equipment just trying to get to the bathroom.

Work, work, work and researching and applying for new opportunities to work, has pretty much taken over my life. Well, that and the active social life which has me rockin' the beer gut.

It is just that I am a glutton. I know this to be true because I am also Catholic & as a Catholic I have had the seven deadlies drilled into my head from an early age.

Also because as a kid my parents recounted the movie “Seven” detail by detail over the dinner table while eating spaghetti. I never did watch the movie “Seven” and it took years before I could stomach spaghetti again.

So I am a glutton and not just in the Brad Pitt, Kevin Spacey version of the term. I am a glutton for life, for experiences. I want to take in as much as possible and this sometimes gets me in trouble. For one reason, there are not enough hours in the day to take advantage of all life’s possibilities and secondly, there are always too many great options happening at once. I don’t know how people spend so much time being bored. There is always something new to learn or experience or absorb.

And this gets me to problem number 3 - my inability to sit still. For me boredom becomes depressing.

I try not to resist it. My yoga teacher says to embrace the yin in my yin/yang. Or is it the yang? I can’t remember. Maybe that is my problem.

Regardless I try to embrace my stillness but I am not very good at it.

A week after my last show I was freaking out. I made an appointment with my therapist, my business counselor, my bank advisor and my gynecologist just to make sure I was on the right track.

They all told me the same thing - to calm down and enjoy the down time. Well, that and “Lyndsey, for the 100th time, you DO NOT have an STD! The ‘S’ part is kind of a requirement for that to be possible!”

Yes, I am gluttonous. I am anxious to grow and learn.

And now as I look into the immediate and undefined, unstructured future, I am TERRIFIED to sit still because it might catapult me from my seat on the happiness train just as my butt was starting to go numb.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Deal Breaker

A few weeks ago I stood in front of a magnificent mural with an adorable man digesting the meaning of life and art.

"This is why am going to be 50 and alone with cats." I said.

"Um, what." I think that statement was odd enough to rip him out of whatever escapist fantasy he had transported him away for the minutes I stared intently at the canvas.

I tried to explain my sarcastic comment to him but I don't think he fully understood what I meant when I said that I could be fine with a guy who didn't get art as long as they were interested in it or at least interested in why I do.

You see for me, it is not enough for a guy to be interesting. He has to be interested in more than but including himself. In the world. In the future. In the past in the here and now, which in this case was an art gallery far away from sports and cars and beer bongs.

We use the expression to be interested so flippantly.

Interest - to be interested - it has such rich connotations when we look past the surface to the broader scope of human existence.

It isn't enough for someone to like me, to find me attractive or nice. A nice girl is just surface. 'Nice' is just surface I want to know ore about what makes people tick and I expect - perhaps wrongly - for others to want to do the same.

When I was a kid and guests would sit round our dinner table, my father would always pose the question, "If you had to choose between world peace or music, which would you choose?"

For me, there is only one right answer and this, this of all things is my deal-breaker.

So bring on your short, atheist, mama-lovin', co-dependent, man-whores. But give them a perspective. Give them curiosity and make them interested enough to give a damn. Everything else is negotiable.


Friday, August 14, 2009

Ah, the sweet, sweet taste of Disappointment

So, I didn't get it. And I am bummed. But not depressed or bereft or sobbin' in my Cheerios. I am disappointed.

And while I can't stand the weight of disappointment, and vehemently feel that is should be an emotion reserved for the parents of teenage children, I suppose it could be worse.

My friend Elaina got it. Her work is incredible (check it out here) and I am super proud of her.

Maybe next time.

Forgiveness and my sore ass

Tonight I learned a lesson in forgiveness. Don't worry I am not going to get all biblical. This is a straight up shallow exploration of the concept.

Shocking. I know.

So I was in yoga class tonight having recently rededicated myself to the practice (well at least $130 worth of dedication) after a two year absence. In LA yoga was a big part of my life. I was a regular ol' yogi.

Actually, when I first moved there, I was so poor that my girlfriend and I traveled within a hour -trafficless- radius, going studio to studio, trying out all of the free sample classes just so that we didn't have to pay. We managed to take class a minimum of 3 nights a week for a year and a half before we ever had to pay. It was how I learned to traverse the giant ameba that was LA like a true native.

Tonight as I silently muttered obscenities to myself while straining to relax (?!?!?) into warrior two, I deeply resented my two year sabbatical.

In Russia, it wasn't necessary. Daily ballet and movement classes with crazy ex-primas and crazier Droznine proteges were enough. When I got back I spent so much time traveling it wasn't possible and when I finally made my way to KC my new found man agitation called for something a little more aggressive - boxing. Then business and desk jobs and rehearsals and lots and lots of beer happened and now I am back looking for my zen.

But here is the deal IT JUST KEEPS PISSNG ME OFF! And my yoga nazi was not making it any better because while she is a great teacher, yoga instructors have always freaked me out. You would expect them to be ethereal and new age-y but they are like muted terriers, all calm and sweet until you say something to unnerve them and then those feisty little f-ers will tear your shins off.

I blame my movement teacher in college. While other kids were taking Calculus 500, I was getting reamed out by a used-to-be hippie with a hair petting fetish for my inability to perfect 'shape flow.' Seven years later, I still don't have a clue what I was supposed to have been doing other than waving my arms around and swaying side to side.

Or when Larrisa Barissana, the 90 year old commie ballerina would scream, "Lee-SAYYY!!! SEEET DOWN!" as I attempted to lower my gargantuan ass into plie.

So I am movement inept but yoga! - yoga was something I could do. FINALLY! After years of struggle, a form of athleticism I could get down with. Where else do you get to end class with a nap!? And I liked how it made my body feel. I liked that I sweated. And I liked that I felt challenged.

And now it is gone. All the hard work, years of conditioning, gone. I am back to where I started only now I am older, chubbier and stiffer from a life behind a computer.

So tonight I exercised forgiveness with my mind and my body. Moving with the rhythm of my breath, accepting that there is an arduous journey in front of me if I would like to find the joy my body and mind found before.

And that is okay.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Blog Bonding

Today my boss and I bonded over blogging. This was a big step and I suppose if my boss ever read this it might jeopardize whatever progress I perceived us to have made (let alone my job security) but I am betting on a lack of readership and moving forward.

So as I was saying, we bonded. Our relationship has been tenuous, airing on the side of uncomfortable.

You know how dogs sniff each others rears when they first meet each other as a way of trying to figure each other out? Well, I have always had the sense that my boss got a whiff of me before I even pulled into the parking lot and while whatever I wear might not have been completely offensive, it certainly wasn't a pleasant experience either.

I am a pain in the ass, type A, demanding and stubborn as hell. I also genuinely believe I am good at what I do and care passionately for our cause.

This has always been the defining stronghold as I navigated the treacherous waters (God - cliche much!!!, Oh, hell it is true) of employment - a true admiration for the dedication of our fearless leaders.

The great thing about life is that it is always full of surprises - (Seriously, I am hitting this out of the cliche ballpark. Yep, there I go again!) Anyway, just when you think you have a situation figured out, a seemingly impossible perception shift can take place.

My Dad always called it an attitude adjustment, as in "You'd better be gettin' yourself an attitude adjustment or I'll be adjusting it for you!"

So I have been attempting what I would argue is less of an attitude adjustment and more the aforementioned shift in perspective, a subtle but distinct difference.

And I will welcome it in all forms of workplace bonding, whether it be over blogging or sneaking out of a meeting to steal the last of the M&M's.

And hopefully even after writing this I will still have a job in which to do said bonding.


Question- How is it possible that your computer can bite the dust, taking with it all of your music except the crap downloaded in the wee hours of the morning when drunk downloading seemed like a better alternative to drunk dialing? I am left with nothing but Miley, Brittany and Pussy Cat Dolls. Seriously, I am in hell.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Found under my windshield

I am not saying where. Let your mind go where it may....

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The Separation

Me and Mr. Treadmill have been on a break from our relationship this summer. Well even longer actually, since my credit cards were stolen last spring and I was too lazy to walk the two blocks to my gym to change my auto-payment information.

We have been on a break because I have been too busy and too happy to find time to spend with him in the demand, exhausting, endorphin increasing, sweat producing, angry beeping 40 minutes a day that he requires of me.

Our relationship is not all bad. Sometimes I really look forward to spending time with him. I sing out loud to the dismay of everyone around me and practically skip to the sound of Miley or Brittany or whatever poptartlet is blaring through my ear buds.

But so many days I dread seeing him. Our relationship is so much work and I feel like I do nothing but give and give and he just takes. (Well, to be fair, what he has taken is the pounds off my backside and he happily returned them in our separation agreement.)

I don't want to go back to him. I really don't. But I have realized this morning looking at my chub - chub which I have actually been okay with because it is happy chub not depressed chub - that although sometimes he makes me want to cry and I cheat on him regularly, our relationship is one I can't live without.

I think it is time for me to go back and grovel at his feet.

Sunday, August 9, 2009


I am freaking out. I find out within 24 hours if I got a residency I really, really want. I don’t like wanting things. It always works out better if you assume that it won’t happen and then you are pleasantly surprised. Low expectations and what not. Ugg. I know I am going to be super disappointed if it doesn’t work out and I hate that. Well, I don’t hate it but I really, really dislike it. I don’t believe in hate. My mom wouldn’t let me use that word as a kid. I write about that a lot and I don’t know who could blame me. I mean, how many 5 year olds do you know walking around proclaiming, “I despise that immensely!” while throwing a hissy-fit.

But let’s just say for a second I did hate things, there would be more than a few things I would put on the list.

Like whistling. I can’t stand it when people whistle. It freaks me out. I feel like only crazy people whistle.

And when people talk to me through the bathroom stall. Don’t do that! It is private time. You can wait a second. I will talk you when we are finished. Eww.

Ethnic slurs. The word ‘retarded’. Guys asking me, “So how tall are you?” Apathy. People screaming at their kids in public.

Getting my hopes up. Letting people down. Feeling guilty because I feel disappointed and my inability to let things go.

I don’t hate these things but I sure don’t like them. You could say I despise them immensely.

Sex and Suburbia

“So, he said he wants to make it a weekly thing. Movie, pizza and partner sex. I mean partner stretching, partner stretching!”

“I took the red eye out to the conference, got no sleep, and then stayed up the next night until five in the morning talking with an amazing man from New York – who happens to be married.”

“He said ‘You want to DATE me!’ and I just got out of the car and went home. Maybe I should have at least got some before I turned him down.”

“It turned out to be the most boring date ever. ‘So… (gaping pause)…what do you do for fun? So… (gaping pause)… what kind of music do you listen to?’ I left and ended up spending the evening with someone I would much rather be who but who isn’t actually available.”

It is another sticky afternoon and I have just collapsed into a booth in the back of DeBronx Pizza somewhere in –GASP! – Kansas with three of my new favorite friends.

“This is like Sex and Suburbia,” my girlfriend muttered. “Four women heading out for a night on the town at the glamorous local Applebee’s.” And while I would never let it get that desperate, I suppose the truth isn’t too far off.

As we waited for our pizza to arrive and noshed on only slightly more nutritious salads it became necessary to reflect on our resemblance to the fab four.

This is nothing special. It is practically a requirement that when groups of women get together they assign each other to those Manolo wearing archetypes. I still haven’t figured out how I got called out as Samantha – so not even right! But it as I sat there listening my three blond, fabulous, smart, beautiful girlfriends bitch about boys and jobs and sore muscles and scheduling conflicts I realized that we really did have a lot in common with that group of women. Maybe not the fabulous lifestyles or the closet sent down from the gods but that special unique bond that only comes from becoming close with a group of women.

I feel very lucky to have all of the friends that I do. I would say that I have more than my fair share and often I feel neglectful of these relationships because there is simply not enough hours in the day to dedicate to them all. Even if I did nothing but spend time with friends, I don’t think I would be able focus on them all the way I want to.

This day was special. Different in the group dynamic. It is been a while since I have been a part of a straight up posse and while this is a new formation, it is a great group to be in. I am pretty sure that that is why shows like Sex and the City have always had such a following. We all long to be a part of something, to be needed, and while the romance and adventure is exciting, there is something even more compelling about finding soul mates in the group of women with whom you share your trials, your tears and all your dangerous temptations. We have a great time. Probably better that we should. And I can’t wait for the next recap…hopefully someplace a little less suburban and a little closer to my state line.


So I managed to do it. I jumped out of a plane. 10,000 feet in 6 or so minutes. It was pretty intense. I wanted to write about it right after the fact but I was so ill it took me 48 hours to wrap my brain around what happened and to calm my insides from the worst case of motion sickness I have ever had.

I have lots of picture and video of the landing. This makes me happy.

I am also thrilled to be alive and that it all went down (literally) without incident even though all signs pointed to disaster.

Trish made a playlist to listen to as we drove the hour and twenty minutes to the airport. We sang along to “Follow You Down” and “Another One Bites the Dust.”

We got lost and had to call the airport for directions. The guy on the phone yelled at me for not having printed out the map – I had no idea there was a map. We put the corrected address into Garmin (She had confused Osage Street with Orange Street – silly Trish) and followed its directions until we pulled up to the address in question – a funeral home.

The plane that took us up was a 1952 Cessna 182 (I think that is what the guy said). It was a 4-seater. There were 5 of us. I curled up in a ball with my head practically resting in the crouch of the super cute pilot who just happens to be my neighbor, praying I wouldn’t have a claustrophobic panic attack on the 20 minute assent.

Really, I wasn’t to scared about the jump. This picture of Trish proves that she wasn’t quite so secure. I was feeling pretty good as we tumbled out of the plane and did summersaults through the air. I immediately forced myself into the arc possession that they had shown us in the whole five minutes of training that we had and waited for the man strapped to my back to hit me on the shoulder to let me know I could let go of my harness and let my arms free as we plummeted in freefall to our demise. It never came. I waited and waited for the tap on my shoulder, for fifteen seconds that felt like an eternity. I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t feel him behind me and after what felt like the point of know return I determined that something must have gone terribly wrong and that I was going to die. The ground was rising up as the clouds rushed past me dragging my cheeks behind my ears like a Saturday morning cartoon character. I tried to calm down. I was hoping I wouldn’t give myself a heart attack before I slammed into the earth.

And then the parachute deployed and the air become silent and we hovered, no floated, no swished – I am becoming suddenly aware of my decrease vocabulary dissolved after too much reality TV – and the world became still. The man on my back chatted with me, exchanging pleasantries about what I can’t recall, I was too engrossed in the silence. The terror had lasted maybe five seconds, the thrill another 40 and the blissful silence maybe 5 minutes. When we approached the landing strip I told the man on the ground that as soon as we landed, he needed to get the hell off of me because I was going to be sick. “It’s cool,” I assured him. “I am okay with it. It was worth it. I just don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.”

We glided delicately to the earth, my backside the first thing to hit the ground. It was incredible.

I didn’t get sick. I did lay in the grass for an hour convinced the world was coming to an end but it was so worth it. I don’t know if I will ever do it again but am so glad I did. It was something I will never forget.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Jumping out of the sky

It is 5:30 in the morning and I am sitting on Trish's couch waiting for her to finish getting ready so we can leave for the airport in Butler. So we can plummet from the sky & hopefully not die.

Friday Night

“You want to date me! You want to date me!”

“Good night,” I said with a subtle eye roll as I climbed out of the passenger seat and shut the door. I didn’t turn around when I heard the sound of the automatic windows roll down and the sarcastic, jeering voice continue, “You want to date me!”

That was how I ended my Friday. It took several hours, a little bit of vomit, a whole lot of bleeding, one large snake, several crowded art galleries, lots and lots of sweaty dancing, two ransacked purses, one lost shirt and a very bizarre incestuous round of shots to get there.

And I was home by midnight.

We started the evening innocent enough. Happy Hour and then First Friday’s Art Festival for a group of stressed out friends, all working far too hard and getting paid far too little. We were belatedly celebrating our friend's birthday and she was by far the most stressed out of us all.And tiny. And tipsy.

Tipsy can turn into obliterated when you weigh five pounds but she was by far the sweetest sick drunky I have ever seen. I just wanted to put my arms around her and tell her the whole world was going to get better. That her job would start to suck less or that she would find a new one all together. That her personal life would get easier as soon as her work life got easier and that it would get easier. I just wanted to hug her but instead I held her hair back. I have never looked that sweet while being sick.

We all split up from there and that was when the night really began to get interesting. I boy I had blogged about came out with us. He is a really chill guy but I felt a little awkward having not returned his texts and then putting it out to the whole virtual universe. We had somehow all gotten separated and I was trying to find him in the crowd when I did a slam dance into the pavement right between a crowd of people and the band they were listening to.

This is not the first time I have lost control of my oversized limbs and ended up kissing concrete. There have been too many instances to count but the most memorable will always be walking around Universal Studios in Florida with my parents when I was a little kid drinking hands down the most delicious orange soda I had ever tasted before or since and tripping over my own two feet, flying through the air, covering myself in soda and tearing up my knees.

This time there was no soda but there was a slew of people all who gasped in unison with the band that abruptly stopped playing. I gingerly lifted my head, knowing that there would be hundreds of eye balls peering down at me and questioning my sobriety, which was total. I did one of those half-hearted, I am fine. “It’s all good.” I hoisted myself up and raced out of the crowd stopping only for a second to evaluate the hole in my jeans and blood on my knees.

I finally found the boy and we went looking for our friends, some art and some cheap beer. We found a snake.

Eventually our friends made it down, having safely stowed our passed out friend in her home. The four of us, including V, blogger boy and one of my girl friends, found the jam band we had been hoping to see. By this point the only light in the sky was the glow from the mosquito swarmed street lights, however, night fall had done nothing to break the heat and humidity.

We danced anyway. Hot, sweaty summer dancing. The kind that happens when the band is too loud and the air is too thick to care whether or not you look silly.

We asked the boys to hold our purses while we bounced. Blogger boy said no. My friend V said yes (of course) and stalked away. Later we found that they had ransacked them for cash to buy beer. I had never felt so proud! We deserved it being brats who make boys carry their purses. (That and I never carry cash either so there wasn’t anything to find in mine!)

When the band finished their set, we set forth to find cooler pastures. We found a table on the cramped patio at a bar down the street which, thank the lord! was positioned right in front of a giant fan. We chatted for a bit, teasing each other with the lewd trash talk that typically is part and parcel for our little group.

I am not sure how long it took to do the math on the incestuous nature of this little foursome. Ruling out the more obvious same sex couplings it seemed like all of our paths had crossed at one time or another.

I suppose it should have been awkward and uncomfortable but maybe because of the heat or the dancing or the applesauce shots that tasted like Drano, it just didn't seem like a big deal. When the other side of the table wasn't paying attention, we bounced back whispers. "Why don't you date my friend? Why don't you date my friend?"

Finally it was late enough and the reality of early morning wake up calls and work schedules forced us out of the bar and on our way. Somewhere near 20th and Grand our foursome split up into couples and blog boy offered me a lift home.

I am not even going to pretend his intentions were innocent. And am adult enough to admit I considered it, but we had spent the better part of the evening discussing life and relationships and this blog! I even showed it to him on my phone. So after all this talk of my independent spirit and how much I am enjoying my life as it is, it just didn't feel the road to go down.

I put it to him this way, if I am going to give something a whirl at this point [when I am contented doing my own thing] then I am going to want someone to put in the effort - more than just an 11:30 text message.

I don't really know what happened after that. But he was laughing and I was shaking my head and he kept saying, "You want to date me!"

If it was his attempt at being dickishly charming or just dickish, I will probably never know. But I laughed all the way home and was left with a great story to tell.

Friday, August 7, 2009


Well now I’ve done it. I have gone and stuck my foot in it. Repeatedly. Oh this inter-web-thingy is a tricky beast, always getting you in trouble and this little blog of mine was just bound to bite me in the butt eventually.

It seemed like such a perfectly pleasant Friday afternoon. I had had a great morning, attending my bazillionth networking event to finally have it payoff with significant gains for my company. My boss was pleased, I was motivated and the rest of the afternoon flew by.

Before I took off for the evening to meet some friends for a night of debauchery, I checked in to my blog site to see if I had any updates. And there they were, comments from the crowd. And one was none too happy. I suppose that was a risk I took in publishing emails but – hey, I thought they were funny. And this got me thinking, thinking about thinking about what people think about me. I have had a tendency throughout my life to put an awful lot of stock other people’s opinions. The older I am the less I worry because I have given up the need to have everyone like me. Oh, I am still rampant with insecurity and try my best to make sure that most people do but sometimes you just got to give it up.

So someone was not pleased and maybe it wasn’t very nice of me. I should probably apologize but I won’t. I am pretty sure any irate emails that get sent out into the virtual universe are fair game.