The Next Chapter - Part 1

I was skipping down the hallway, my long purple dress sashaying back
and forth, the ends daintily grasped between my thumb and index
finger. I was grinning, not quite ear to ear but close.

"Who is he?" my co-worker asked as I pranced around her, hardly able
to contain my frivolity. I snorted.

"There is no 'he'. If there was I would be smiling so large my face
might hurt." No, the 'he' in this situation was the quickly
approaching open road. Freedom. The chance to get the hell out of
dodge and try something new.

Not that I hadn't been traveling all month. Unfortunately my
escapades of recent days had been limited to family gatherings located
firmly with in the tri-state area. It had been lovely to see my loved
ones but it seemed that everyone of blood relation had only one
interest when it came to my life. My uterus.

"You are gonna have to get artificially inseminated," my grandmother
hissed over red velvet cake at my cousin Jordan's wedding. I had been
taunted by a full table of family to join the over sugared six-year
olds clamoring to catch the bouquet. I refused to be the only woman
over three foot on the dance floor and I sure as hell wasn't going to
plow down the flower girls for some relationship good luck charm. My
family wouldn't take no for an answer. I finally succumbed to the
torturous ribbing but only because the trajectory of the bride's
impending toss was directly in line with the keg. I stood, arms
crossed, waiting for the humiliation to be over and when, as
predicted, a bouncy kindergartner with floppy ringlets nabbed the
prize, I took the opportunity to tell my grandmother that it was
probably a sign.

"You know that little girl is probably going to get married before I do."

"I am starting to think so!" bit my grandmother in a tone that came as
a complete contrast to her rosy, soft and huggable demeanor. This was
the grandma who up until this point had seemed completely ambivalent
to my single status. I think today's nuptials had completely freaked
her out because the first thing anyone said to me as we exited the
church was, "So you are the ONLY one left to marry."

Duh.

"Grandma! I am working on it."

"Well work faster because I am 76 and I don't have much time left."

"Then you had better take you vitamins," I quipped back, "Because it
is going to be a while."

This seemed to settle things for a few minutes, that is until someone
mentioned babies at which point grandma threw out the artificial
insemination comment.

"Well I hear that is what single women do who can't get married."

I feel that it is only fair to mention that I am twenty-flippin-eight.
You would think that my grandmother had already nominated me into the
spinsterhood society.

Grandpa joined in that my problem was obviously a) I needed to find a
country boy and b) I needed to be 'not so mean to men'. (He has
mentioned this before, and I am beginning to wonder if he thinks I am
some kind of dominatrix, whipping and scolding the guys I date, which
just to be clear is not true…. completely.) So I came back with the
first smart-ass remark I could think up.

"Grandpa, the men pickin's are so slim, I might have to start dating women!"

This did not go over well. Grandpa got stoic. The table got quiet and
grandma shot me an uncomfortable glance.

"Well," he finally growled, "I guess that means I would be losing
another grandchild."

Ouch. I would like to think that should I ever choose to embrace same
sex tendencies that grandpa would eventually come around. I gather
now that he wanted it firmly known that that is not the case. I
thought about telling him that if he would prefer, I could bring home
a large black man, but I thought I might have pushed my luck for one
evening. He stewed for a solid ten minutes before I grabbed his arm
across the table, told him to lighten up, that I was just kidding and
that he knew he loved me so he just needed to cut it out.

"Aww honey, you know I am from the old school." He finally sighed. I
decided to consider this an apology even though I don't think it did
anything to change his outlook on the world.

Thank god I didn't mention Obama.

The long pause

There have been a handful of relationships in my life that just ended. Well, most of them ended, in one way or another but some, some just stopped with no explanation, no teary-eyed farewell. They were just done – like Thanksgiving turkey. Being adverse to confrontation the way I am I just let they let them lye with no attempt at resuscitation.

In hindsight, the steps to relationship disintegration were clear, reasons why in an abruptly seaming fashion, someone I once viewed part of me as an extra appendage would simply cease to answer my calls or why I could not bring myself to answer the phone when some ex-something or other would call trying to regurgitate the past.

In the moment, however, it just felt done, and I did not have the means, the desire, hell the physical ability to drag it on any longer.

I haven't written a word in over two months. Not a journal entry, a poem or even a drunken stream of consciousness incorporating my need to purchase cat food for my newly acquired obese kitty. The reasons why were made up of the perfect storm of completion, limbo, insecurity and the deep resounding need to get some lovin'.

I got some angry emails. "How could you abandon your blog?!" 'Cause I was tired.

Everyday I thought about writing. Everyday it got harder to explain. Did I really need to write a mea culpa to my readers? Probably. Would anyone care or be interested when I finally found the words. Probably not.

The universal truth I have discovered in walking away from more than my fair share of somethings, is that something is most often not there when you come back.

So will I realize it is probably a little late now, I have suddenly found the urge that hasn't been with me in 70 days.

And so I am gonna break it down like this:

When looking back on the insignificant nothings that combined together to make the thought of writing about my slightly pathetic yet frequently amusing love life a vomit enduing experience, a few key moments come to mind.

First, my boss insisted on calling me the Man Faster, every time he saw me. This minor annoyance was exacerbated by returning from 28 days in paradise to find that my world and more specifically, my office seemed smaller and more suffocating than it ever had before. Nothing felt right and I wasn't exactly in the happiest of spaces.

Then there was an incident in mid-March, a few days after my last post where he brought up my assault in a highly inappropriate way. I don't think he was intending to drudge up old memories but saying my life experiences were part of some greater calling just made me want to say fuck off to men, and well, the world, for a while and so I did.

We will call this the hermit phase. Lots of crying. Lots of anti-depressants. An impromptu trip to Chicago to see some of the people I love the most in the world and then all was right again…. Kind of.

See then there were the jabs. You know those sort of back-handed, well that's not fair, we'll go with sideways, yeah, sideways complements which leave you feeling like maybe your months of work had all been missing the mark? Well I kept getting lampooned with them. "Isn't your writing great! I can't wait until you write something of substance!"

Well shit.

If I hadn't been feeling a little weak in the gumption department, I probably would have said 'fuck it' to that too and come up with some quippy post about the guys I met at Skies with my girlfriend Marcella, who went on and on about what huge Creed and Nickleback fans they were. Seriously? Seriously? I always wondered if such a creature existed. But I didn't write quippy posts.

I sulked and drank too much and slept for 22 hours in a row and contemplated running away to Alaska. 'Cause I was feeling like shit and to top it all off, I wanted a freaking date!

After writing a whole book about how much I loved my solo life, I felt so very over the topic and was ready to meet a nice feller, as gramps would say, and settle in for some good, drama free lovin'. That felt a little hard to do when writing about the drama had become my bread and butter.

Plus, taking yourself out of the game means reentry is extra difficult and reentry was making me it's bitch all around.

I just felt crappy. So I didn't write. I felt chubby so I didn't try to date. And not doing either just seemed to make feel pathetic and i.e. unloveable.

Then I started to doubt my ability to tolerate Midwestern boys. There is a long story that accompanies this comment but let me skip to the punch-line where a douche bag (that I have to be nice to lest get a new source of income) refers to me and my friends as, "Hey, they aren't my friends. They are my entourage." Lovely.

See, paragraphs of pleasantness. Did anyone really want to hear all this? I haven't been full of much banter these days, except to say that I spent the better part of April joking that if I didn't get some lovin' soon I was going to get a cat – and I hate cats.

Guess what? I got a cat.

Bently, is a beast. I mean his freaking huge. He is rather apathetic to my existence. I am wearing him down though. He is gonna love me damn it, whether he likes it or not.

I can't believe that I have become one of those cat women – and trust me I have. I joke that I am going to get one of those baby slings and carry him around the City Market – I mean how creepy would that be! (No that is not actually me - but that is Bently's head.)

I got Bently on Saturday (at the Pet Expo of all places), signed up for online dating on Sunday and found out that I got into Grad School on Monday.

Enter limbo.

So like most things that I do, I decided to apply for graduate school on a whim. Not exactly a whim, I had been thinking about it for a while. It was just that this particular program, in this particular place wasn't something I event knew about until a few days before I decided to apply. Calling their admissions office had been a whim, their application deadline had passed by almost a month. When they said they would consider my application anyway, it just felt like the something I had to do. I didn't actually think I would get in, let alone with an opportunity for an assistantship that would pay my full ride.

So limbo. Waiting. Lots and lots of waiting. To find out if I got it. To decide if I am going to go. Debating what to do. Feeling unsure of who to tell. Knowing that deciding to go means leaving here, everything I have invested in this place and all the people I have come to care for.

So that's the deal. And all I can really say on the topic.

I didn't really feel like I could pick back up with writing until I knew where I was picking up but since it doesn't look like I am going to know anything for quite some time I just felt like I needed to write something, say something, before the urge passed and I got stuck without words for another month. Not exactly ground breaking stuff, or any real haha hilarity, just real life, and a couple months with a needed lack of extroverted introspection.

If it is any consolation, this weekend is the anniversary of the great big drama that launched the Man Fast, and in celebration, my original Not-so-gay-gay-best-friend is coming down from Chicago to spend the weekend with my family, consuming mass quantities of summer libations and most likely dancing like this:

Just when I thought I was over you

Obviously - I haven't been writing much lately.

I was working to get the second book all pretty, by which I mean spelling error free, and sent out to some folks out east. And when I was finished I started to think I was finished with the blog. I mean really, how long can one person write about her sad pathetic excuse for a dating life.

Answer: As long as the weird shit keeps happening.

So I am driving along today, minding my own business when out of the blue I get a random text message from someone who apparently found my blog through INK and wanted to let me know that HE found it to be amusing - spelling errors and all. He even offered to do some proof reading for me.

Now this random stranger was lucky because he caught me on a good day when I found his shameless lack of digital personal space to be amusing and ballsy instead of creepy and stalkerrific, which I was sure to let him know.

I momentarily considered google stalking him. I have a friend who can find out your shoe size and the last time you had sex just from the last four digits of your phone number. But really I didn't want to know. I'd rather live in denial about my random callers. I pretend they are all nice boys raised by nuns in Sweden instead of a bunch of hairy backed psychopaths with infant skull-sized growths protruding from their necks. Or worse, they might not be men at all.

Random stranger and I shared some interesting cyber repartee safely cloaked in the anonymity of text messages. Non-committal ballsyness. Just like I like it.

And I told him I would be taking him up on his proofing offer. Poor mom had to proof the whole book in two days. He said he retracted the offer.

Puttin' it out there and takin' it away, now if that doesn't sound like a man I don't know what does.

Florida Gone

I knew Florida would be a transformative experience and the women who run the organization that brought me there assured me it might take a while for it to set in. And while the full impact is surely yet to come, the immediate revelations slammed into me Friday quite harder than I expected.

Yeah, the whole fast thing feels over. Big deal. That won't impact the existence of this blog. It might change it some, but like V said,"Just because I would date a 23 year old, doesn't mean a 23 year old will date me." Congress is still out on if my decision will be ratified.

The thing that is getting me, that is really kicking me in the ass, is that for 28 days for 24 hours a day, I got to be an artist. I got to say, "I am a writer and a performer and a myriad of other things," and I didn't have to qualify the statement. And it was validated by people who applauded my work, were enthusiastic to hear more, and seemed grateful to the point of embarrassing me to have us there.

They made us soup, people.

For 28 days, I got to write my own ticket in life. I got to choose the projects that were inspiring me at that moment and only for the sake of teaching a class or doing a radio interview or getting to a massage appointment, did I have to wake up to the sound of an alarm clock. I woke up at the same time I do anyway but for once it was because the sea air was beckoning and I had pages yearning to get out of my head.

It was a beautiful way to live a life. And I know that that can't last forever but coming back and trying to squeeze my artistry in at the end of the day, when I am exhausted and physically drained from nine hours under florescent lights, that is challenging. It is no wonder that the first book sat in a drawer for the better part of the last two years.

There was a momentum gained at sea. There were parties filled with snowbirds who liked to pose naked for calendars - yeah I will let you take a minute to process the visual of that one - there were parties with art lovers and artists alike, there were dinner readings of the work we created, and a group of NICE ladies that took care of us on our stay. Part of me wished I had written mire about the experience, and there are not books strewn here and there around my un-unpacked apartment that tell the tales of some of the experiences but for most of the time I was to busy writing to write. And that was a great new problem to have.

The book is pretty much completed. The essence is there. All the foul expletives are tucked carefully in place. All the nicknames created to protect the innocent and the guilty. I need to clean it up. Obviously someone else will need to fix all my spelling mistakes, although I am not sure who that is going to be since none of my friends or family featured in the book are allowed to read it until if and when it is shared with the general public. I would like them to like me just a little bit longer.

So I am not sure what is next. The trip didn't make me desperate to get the hell out of KC like I thought it might - though it feels so much smaller on my return. I didn't make me want to run, from my life, my friends, my apartment - well maybe the last one - to someplace a little more glamorous. It didn't make me loath my job like I worried it might, but it did make me want to take a sledge hammer to the florescent lights that make me exhausted and blur my sense of reality. No, I came back and realized I like my job. I work with good people who are fun and smart and inspiring. It just made me a little sad to see them again, as some, many even, have found their life's passion and it made me miss the twenty 28 days I got to spend fully enraptured in mine.

For 28 days I got to be an artist. Just an artist. And for 28 days I got to feel like the truest form of me. It was indescribable.

Freaking Hot

If you would like to know where every gorgeous man in Kansas City is hiding, I can now tell you that they are pouring out buckets of sweat in the Bikram yoga studio on 39th and Southwest Trafficway.

If I could have stripped down to my birthday suit I would have. As it was, I was wearing a tank top and short shorts and I thought I was going to die. I couldn't care less that I was surrounded by half naked men that looked like they came straight off of an Ambercrombie ad. It was hot as hell and I needed as much flesh exposed as possible, even if that flesh had lost much of its tone in recent months. Had it not been my first class I might have given serious pause to doing it in my thong.

I was familiar with Bikram, but just the poses not the heat. I prefer my yoga experience to be one that works my mind and spirit as well as my ass but for $29, I signed up for a month of 105 degree yoga led by a drill instructor screaming into a headset in a way that conjured up memories of Jazzercise with my aunt as a kid.

"Lock your knees! Lock your knees!" she would scream into the head set, sweat pouring down her face as she stood on a giant wood block at the front of the room. Isn't locking your knees a bad thing I would think silently to myself while trying to push through the dizzyness and nauseousness and the tiny black spots that were appearing in my vision. I know that that is an end result but never in my many years of yoga have I ever heard anyone actually advocate such a position as it can easily do damage if performed incorrectly and in this case could end in me toppling over unconscious.

I am fairly sure I have never sweat that much in my life and I could tell it would take at least a month to get use to the heat so that I could relax into the positions that were once easy and have been lost from extended time sitting hunched over at a desk.

It was hard not to stare at the ass of the man in front of me. Staring at someone's ass was inevitable and really it was a choice between his and the ass of the woman in her mid-fifties standing right in front of me who was wearing a pair of sweatpants that had been cut into shorts, which were slowly changing from heather to charcoal, starting at her ass crack and spreading outward. So if you think about it, I really had no choice. And the more he started to sweat, the more I couldn't turn away. It was this horrible vision of what could be such a lovely sight made more painful by the fact the he caught me staring and made eye contact several times in the mirror. I wanted to mouth, "I am sorry but what to you want me to fix my gaze on!" That was the other thing the woman in the head set kept barking. "Don't close your eyes! Don't close your eyes! And I want to see smiling faces, people."

I managed to make a fair attempt at almost every pose except for the ones involving back bends. The second my neck went back and my eyes strained for the walls behind me I was sure I was going to vomit. So I chose to abstain from those poses for my first go round.

When I left the studio and felt the rush of cold air overtake my body I thought I might weep for joy, the kind of weeping reserved for the big O. In the locker room all the other women asked me how I liked the class; the instructor had also chose to point me out as the newbie to the entire class before we began, assuring me that should I pass-out or vomit, no one would judge me. Thanks. I told the other women drenched in sweat, that it was a lot like a first date. Mildly nerve racking before I began, overall rather nauseating, slightly painful at points, with the occasional moment of thinking I would rather jab my eyes out than stay one more minute but all in all not enough to let me make a verdict on whether I was really into it or not. So I guess I am going to have to go through it all again to see if the pay off is worth the pain.

I am going back tomorrow for round two.

Felon

Freshman year of high school I was sitting in Algebra class flanked by four girls who were at the time the most popular fourteen year olds around. I hate math. Much is known about this. And stuck in Coach I-forget-his-name’s class, I was completely bored.

I wasn't friends with these girls. In fact, I was down right terrified of them. The hierarchical system that was high school was particularly challenging for a social late bloomer such as myself. I spent too much of my time swimming around in my own head wishing I could be anywhere in the world other than St. Charles, Missouri. Some place a little more glamorous, more metropolitan, and less inundated with suburbanites obsessed with Dave Matthews.

Maybe that was the problem; I never got his appeal.

Regardless I was sitting there and these girls, who all happened to be freshman cheerleaders and who all happened to be dating senior football players, were discussing the rapturous natures of their relationships. At that point I made an entirely undramatic, and entirely unequivocal decision. I would immediately begin dating a senior football player.

There was no romance in my decision, or rationale for that matter, since for a person who could barely keep her loud mouth shut, I was utterly terrified of the opposite sex.

It was pure pragmatism.

I was bored and needed something to discuss while the man in front of the class with protruding nose hair, mid-section and ass crack, made homoerotic advances towards his JV players.

So I would commence dating. It was as simple as that.

Within a few weeks I was dating a guy who subsequently told me that he wanted to name his first son Felon because he had so many and I continued to date him through freshman year and even when he went off to college where a rousing relationship with a beer bong forced us to call it quits. The girls in my math class stopped dating there senior boyfriends one week later. I was still bored.

Hindsight being what it is, I don’t think I can really consider what we did dating. I hid from him in the halls, too freaked out to talk to his friends and on the weekends, and I mean every freaking weekend, we went to dinner at Applebee’s and a movie. Oh suburbia.

But this is not the point of my story.

Felon Boy was my introduction to the dating world and like so many of the decisions I have made towards my relationships since then, my decision to date was made - I hate to say this - arbitrarily.

“Okay. Today I am going to date.”

A little over six months, I woke up with another enlightened decision, most likely made while having nightmares about David Hassellhoff, (who is a douche by the way, not that we didn’t know that, but I feel as though I must personally attest to this and to his inability to drive, as he tries to mow down pedestrians in Burbank, but I digress) and I decided that I was done with dating. At least for a little while.

My last weekend in Florida, I woke up with that same feeling of awareness. I had made a decision unbeknownst to myself, and this phase, this fast, it just felt over.

Maybe it was because I finished my second book, an unexpected gift of my beach-side sabbatical. Maybe it was because I achieved what I hoped to accomplish in it all - an exploration of self-contentment, as illusive as it may be. Who knows why it felt over but somehow it just did.

Now just because it felt over to me, doesn’t mean the universe is going to agree with me, so until further notice, I think it will just be life as usual. And now that I am not busy writing, maybe I will have time to write.

We’ll see. I am not sure what phase is next but I am pretty excited for whatever is on the horizon. Let’s just hope it is not a guy named Misdemeanor.

Brain Hurts

When I was in Russia I had a regular problem of artist overload. I would hide in my room and listen to David Sedaris on This American Life online. I would read whatever artless smut I could get my hands on, anything to have a few seconds to get out of my head. We artists, we are a heady bunch, constantly thinking, debating, speculating on life. It never ceases to amaze me that some artists don't ever seem to tire of all that introspection.

The challenge with trying to crank out a book about love and relationships in a month is that it requires a whole lot of deep thinking. And this isn't even that kind of book. This is a book that makes fun of my inability to engage in a civilized conversation without swear words, my complete and utter lack of filter and tendency to self-destruct every time a decent guy enters my life. It is just this side of porn. I kid Mom, promise...sort of.

My brain hurts. I am tired. I just want to be done with this damn thing and yet, I cannot handle marathon evenings of beers and musical debates with my other comrades in arms. I do not have enough brain cells left. And seriously, do I strike you as a girl who knows shit about Zepplin?

So back to work I go. Editing, tightening up, killing sections, adding more. Next time I get a bright idea to try to write a book in a month, someone hand me a beer and point me towards some reality tv.

Going Home

Part of going away for the month was a test to see if it could satisfy my growing sense of wanderlust and while I am not sure if it did that, I can say that I am really really excited to go back to Kansas City. I miss my friends and my family and even work - although a month without florescent lights has proved how much happier of a girl I would be if I could take those things out.

I can't wait to see my girls and V and hope to dear god that they will be my friends a little while longer because who knows if that will be the case if and when the book comes out.

It feels like time for a new beginning, a new chapter, although I am not sure what it might be. For now I think I will look for something a little closer to home and try to accept that home is just what the snow covered city might be.

Kids

Part of my time here in Seaside was to be spent teaching at a local elementary school. Because of the demand of trying to crank out a new book in one month and the hectic schedule of the Florida school getting ready for testing we decided to do it in one day. Six acting classes back to back with groups of 15 to 50 at a time.

It was an exhausting day but so so much fun. I forgot how much I loved working with kids. I tried to do different activities with every class, playing off of what I thought their needs and strengths might be. Some classes worked on activities that involved focus and concentration, others played games that challenged them to step outside of their comfort zone and willingness to look foolish.

They seemed to really enjoy it and was so touched when they wanted my address to send me thank you notes.

For seven hours I got to play and be silly and get out of my head. I love writing. I love the freedom it gives me to think creatively without getting out of my bed but there is something to be said for throwing on some track pants and rolling around on the floor acting like a kid.

It made the whole world better.

For now there is rain

Yesterday was one of the hardest days I have had in a very long time. I didn’t feel like I could write about it but I am starting to see that I probably won’t feel better until I do.

Fending off unwanted advances from men is never fun. Fending off unwanted advances by men you consider to be friends is heartbreaking.

I cried for hours yesterday, feeling betrayed and violated and worthless, like the friendship I had to offer was so easy to discard at a chance to try for some easy ass.

I experienced an assault in college that I rarely write or talk about. It isn’t because I am embarrassed or damaged. It is just that it has been done. I got through it. I survived. I came out the other side a stronger and more resilient woman.

I wrote a piece about it that I performed in Los Angeles. When the show was over so was my need to explore this part of my life for my art. I didn’t want to become a Lifetime movie of the week. (And to be fair that was the way but I felt, not a judgement against people who continue to share their stories throughout their lives. It was my feeling not a universal truth.)

I believe that trauma is something we live through not something that defines us. I am a strong woman not just because of one incident but because of a lifetime of experiences and a choice to work on myself. It didn’t define me. No one person or one situation cements who we are. We get to grow and change. That is why life is worth living.

Still from this experience and so many others I am very sensitive to my personal boundaries. It is my right. Unfortunately over the years I have repeatedly found myself in compromising situations that make that scared little voice inside of me ask, “What is wrong with me? Why does this keep happening to me?”

I let myself be my truest most authentic self with my friends and those I love and time after time that gift has been violated. I don’t mean for it to sound as severe as all that but there is a reason why I am guarded with who I let be my friend because on a night when two people are sitting across a dinner table from each other, in no way exchanging any sort of sexual signal, there is a guy who takes this as an opportunity to make a move.

Married men, bosses, colleagues and men in positions of power who in ordinary circumstances could be deemed good men, catch me off guard and try, sometimes demanding, I give them a part of myself that they don’t deserve. It is the most horrible feeling in the entire world. Did you care so little about me that you were willing to treat me like your own personal sexual vending machine? Why would you put me in a position where I have to tell you no and explain to you very inappropriate that is? And the worst part of all is that when the night is over so is our friendship, at least as it was, because never again will I let myself be vulnerable around someone I don’t trust and the moves that these men have seemed to think were innocent enough destroy all trust.

“Is it me?” I cried on my cottage steps to my good friend who happens to be a man and happens to be married and who, if this kind stuff keeps happening would fall into the category of fantastic people I can’t be friends with because I am so scared that on a moment when I am not paying attention, they will try to stick their tongues down my throat. Sometimes I fear I bring this on myself but as quickly as I think that, I get irate. A girl who wears a pretty dress and smiles and laughs doesn’t deserved to be raped just because she is friendly. “What do I do, hide and be stand offish and never let myself care about people because they might think it gives them an “in” to my pants?” I deeply resent when people say that being effusive and loving life means I am flirting. You want me to be a bitch who is cold and doesn’t talk to anyone. Fine we can arrange that.

I feel like I am being punished for something that I didn’t even do. Hoovering a plate of food is not me saying, “Come on sailor.” It is not a complement and if it was a one time instance I suppose I could find away to write it off stupid drunken behavior, someone taking the frivolity a step too far, but this shit has happened my entire life.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I have great men in my life who bring me cupcakes and let me cry, I would probably believe all men are dirt bags. But I don’t. And I am not even angry at the friend who demanded I give it up and tried to guilt me when I said no. I am just disgusted at the situation and for today, I am disgusted at life. It is raining outside. More like a torrential downpour and for now that is how I feel. But it is okay. Soon there will be sun.

More than I paid for

The chick who gave me my massage yesterday used my head as a shelf for her boobs. I feel as though that is all I have to say about that.

Happy Valentines Day

I love Valentine's Day.

I don't care that it gets a bad rap from the singles community. Oh boo hoo. No one to canoodle on the day that celebrates romance? Who Cares! There no reason why in can't be a day to just celebrate love, in all its forms. And right now, after a 20 mile bike ride along the beach and champagne brunch with the best eggs benedict I have ever had, I am loving life.

Some people call Valentine's Day a Hallmark Holiday and rebel against being told that on one specific day a year, they are supposed to show the man or woman in their life how much they care. We should do that everyday right? Right. But what's wrong with having one day a year that celebrates the amazing yet mind-boggling emotion that is love. We have holidays that celebrate medieval traditions, pagan rites and dead presidents. Shouldn't love get its due?

Love makes the world go round. At least that is what I learned in bible camp. And even if I am not cuddling with someone this year, it doesn't mean that I never will. In the meantime why not love love. Congratuate our friends, smile at others' happiness and take stock of how lucky we singles really are.

Today I rode a bike just because I wanted to. I had brunch by myself and met half a dozen smiling strangers who engaged me in authentic conversation about life, love and the ever elusive sun. I spent this Valentine's Day all on my own. And I wouldn't have had it any other way.

True American

For the record it is truly possible to offend anyone, any where, for any reason.

Case in point, I was sitting in a bar on Tuesday, having just endured hands down the worst ballet of my entire life. I was with two of the other artists here on residency and we were shooting the shit about god knows what.

Somehow the topic of mommy issues came up. I love talking with guys about men and mommy issues. You use the expression and women know exactly what you are talking about. Sometimes it takes men a second. While most are in stanch denial that such a thing exists, others have this moment of reckoning when the little light bulb goes off above their heads and they cheer, "That is what my wife has been complaining about!" It is hilarious.

This evening was a particularly great conversation because not only did my fellow artist recognize the existence of mommy issues but they were postulating on all of the different versions and causes. After my second Red Stripe they had deduced that it all comes down to birth order. These guys have a couple of years on me so they were really getting into bestowing their fatherly wisdom.

"You don't want to date a baby of the family because obviously nothing you do will be as good as their mother." Creepy and yet so true. At this point the bartender, the owner and the guy sitting with his laptop at the bar got in on the conversation. I was greatly outnumbered and therefor had to up my game.

"Well, the oldest is just as bad," I said. "Nobody is gonna top a mothers first born." They greatly disagreed with this. Apparently all oldest sons.

"No, you want an oldest," they all agreed, "Particularly if he is the oldest of brothers. Because after the other sons come along the first one is completely forgotten about."

"What about middle sons?" I asked. This was getting good.

"They are the worst!!" "Never date a middle son!"

"Is that because they are all deprived of their mother's attention and therefor seeking to make up for it by being giant man whores?" I asked.

That did it.

"Man Whore? Man Whore? What is a man whore?" railed the guy with the laptop. "Have you ever heard of a man whore?" he asked the owner and the bartender.

"Sure," said the owner, "I was a man whore."

This went on for twenty minutes. The laptop guy and the bartender aghast because they had never heard of such a thing and were not really convinced that it was even an appropriate condemnation. They went on and on, asking me to describe in detail what defines a man whore and if there is such a thing can there also be a man slut and if so what is the difference.

These are the type of conversations I get sucked into when it is just me and a bunch of middle aged men.

Finally, the straw that broke it was when someone mentioned Davy Crockett. I am not sure why or in what context he was mentioned but it only felt right to throw him into the mix.

"I bet Davy Crockett was a man whore," I said lightly.

You would have thought I threw out an ethnic slur. The bartender got silent and the owner turned on his heels and left.

"You can't say that about Davy Crockett," said laptop man, "He was a TRUE American."

I am glad I didn't make a joke about the coonskin cap.

The F-Bomb Trouble

Wow. Stirring up the drama. All the way from Florida.

I get these google alerts, 'cause I am a shallow twit who wants to see every time her name is listed in print, and I got one today from the Midtown Miscreant, who made a little mention of my F-bomb in INK in an article he wrote about the failings of our local news.

Truth is, I couldn't agree with him more and more importantly either could my mother.

"She could have left the F-word out."

"Mom, she could have left a lot out; I am pretty sure that was one of the many times I said 'Now don't actually print this but...' Lesson learned."

I document at nauseam the dialogues and ramblings of parents and cohorts. I do my best to represent them accurately in time and place but I am realizing perhaps I don't consider the depth to which they might be read out of context.

An hour long rap session with a reporter who made me comfortable enough to chat like she was one of the girls proved this to me. You switch some sentences around and I can sound like an even bigger dumb ass than I already am, my concern with which about sent my ex-boyfriend/friend into an epileptic seizure from excessive laughter.

"The irony here is so thick."

I do wax philosophic about dating dilemmas. That is my thing. Look at the title. But in the great big light of day I try to maintain a certain level of professionalism, which at this point is all but shot to hell and not because of some article. I suppose the least I could do is extend the same courtesy to those I write about.

Hmm....but how???

Girl Crush Lust

“If you want to fuck me don’t call me dude.” That was all she had to say for me to know I was in love. Hmmm... maybe not love. Lust. Girl crush lust.

She reminded me of those girls in junior high who were so much cooler than I could ever be. Not the vapid petty ones but the ones with natural good looks and raiser sharp tongues that made the boys slightly nervous yet too intrigued to stay away.

This girl is freaking cool. Like straight out of every girls dream list for a BFF, cool. I think it helps that she reminds me a lot of Natasha, my movement instructor from Russia who was hands down the hottest woman I have ever known. Like Jessica Rabbit meets Laura Croft meets Drew Barrymorre. All kinds of sexy, fun, cool, playful and dangerous rolled up into one.

Our mutual girlfriend had a game night the Friday before I left and I had a chance to chat with my friend crush in depth. I am not making this up - she animates crime scenes. How freaking cool is that?? She is like BONES come to life.

It helped that I was a little drunk. That happens when you don’t eat for days. This evening marked the end of my drinking days for a while.

I sat on the couch eating up every word she said, thinking that in a past life I must have been a lesbian. Women are so cool. The joy associated with meeting new girlfriends never ceases to amaze me.

Later I was talking to V who told me that our friends were watching us engrossed in conversation, taking bets as to when we were going to jump each other.

Don't knock it boys. Girl power rocks.

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way," V said during our post-evening recap, "But she very Lyndsey-ish. Kind of ballsy and brash. Just puts it out there."

"Aww, pookie! That is the sweetest thing you have ever said!"

Seaside Adventure - Part 1

I arrived in Seaside around 10 p.m. on Monday night after being detained by the state of Texas, where I made the grave mistake of keeping my earbuds in for the duration of my lay-over. I realized once I took them out how much great fodder I was missing.

A woman in a royal blue belted moo-moo was screaming into her cell phone, "Get 'er done. I saayyed Get. 'Er. Done." and the man next to me not only looked just like Bill Clinton, he sounded like him too. All I had to do was close my eyes to hear him purring at Monica.

My friend Nathan picked me up at the airport and we made the two hour journey toward the beach stopping along the way to get a bite to eat. I hadn't eaten anything but a banana all day and was famished but managed to order without telling the waiter I was so hungry I could eat his face. I am learning restraint.

By the time we found my cottage, the community was pitch dark. We stumbled around until we found my guest house. It is a sweet little two story with white wood paneled walls and blonde wood floors. The bedroom is on the ground level, decorated in the standard Seaside Style. The upstairs is a cozy living room and kitchenette with a balcony that is nestled in the trees. It is lovely.

I have been fighting off a cold all week and after a day in airports I was starting to feel like death. All I wanted was a scalding shower but unfortunately the hot water was out until morning.

I couldn’t sleep and decided when the clock hit seven that I would get up and adventure.

It is 45 steps from my door to the beach. Life doesn’t suck.

I chased the waves off my beach for an hour and then set off to explore the town. It is quiet here in the off season - just like I like it. There are several little restaurants in the center of the town, which takes all of five minutes to cross. Seaside is one of several beach communities that line the gulf, though it is obvious in architecture and attitude when you cross from one to the next.

The weather is perfect. A light long sleeve shirt, capri pants and flip flops is all I needed.

I met Nathan around ten and we went to pick up our bicycles. We rode our beach comers to the various points of interest on our community map - swimming pools, fitness center, croquet courts.

In the evening we met the other artists at the home of Marsha, one of the Escape to Create directors. We had an intimate dinner and some interesting conversation.

I spoke with the teacher at Emerald Coast Elementary where I will be leading acting workshops with 7th graders. I will be working with 25 students at a time and am a little nervous about wrangling so many of them but since the teacher there is a retired New York City police officer, I figure I can lean into her to keep them under control.

Over the last few days I have basically spent my time attempting to write, riding my bike to the nearby lakes and having dinner with the other artists. It isn’t a hard life here in Seaside and thankfully I don’t have much drama to report.

That is it for now. The beach is calling my name.

Bucket List

This morning I got the following message from V:

“So I was thinking of you last night, which started with me thinking about my bucket list and then I moved on to yours and started thinking yours probably kicks mine's ass. So if you're looking for something to write...I wanna see your bucket list but in grocery store list format, please.”

First, let me tell you what I told V, which is I don’t believe in bucket lists.

They imply we should live one way and then cram in these other moments to make our lives feel valid. I think we should live our whole lives like an impromptu bucket list. You know, jump at the moments that stand out as life changing, not pass up on anything.

For this reason I don’t have a very lengthy bucket list. I have done a lot of what I want to do now and what I want to do tomorrow will probably change with who I am then. But since V requested and he rarely asks anything of me, here you go, in grocery list format, the things I plan to do in coming years.

• Buy a motorcycle and ride it up PCH
• Study at the ashram in Jackson Hole
• Live in Bali, Alaska and Africa (where is not decided)
• Become a certified Yoga instructor
• Work as and advocate for assault victims.
• Record a country album with lots of twang and songs about momma, guns, cheatin’ ex-boyfriends and of course, my dog (which I guess means I need to get one)
• Own a dog
• Campaign for a candidate I really believe in (I will let you know when I find one)
• See my best friend get married to a guy who loves and respects her and who will adore my god daughter
• Spend more time with my grand parents.
• See one of these freakin’ books get published
• Take my parents to Europe

That about sums it up for today. Tomorrow it might be different. But V didn’t give me specifics.

From V

"We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." - Dr. Suess

Yep. Again.

So how happy am I that that interview showcased my pervasive use of the F-word.

My mother is sooo proud.

Saucy Gal

Inspiration is a fickle beast. She comes and goes at her leisure and is quick to say F- you when you dare to presume she will come on demand. You know now that I think about it she is a lot like the men I have dated.

I am in one of the most serene places I have ever been. Nothing to do but write. And I don't want to.

I have entered into that phase in the process of editing a book when I hate absolutely everything I have created.

Call it the seven year itch for book writing. She is a good ol' gal but she's a Jackie and everywhere I look there are Marilyns tempting me to play around.

I have got subject A.D.D.

Things happen for a reason

My blog has been eating posts lately. I hit publish and they disappear. It has been changing fonts and adding strange links and I don't know why. I am considering switching hosts but that kind of sounds like a pain in the ass.

In the meantime I have been keeping a record of some of the blogs that I meant to post but for one reason or another, I didn't.

In one particular case, the blog ate it. I was trying to read it to V from my phone right after I hit publish and it went away. I was pretty darn annoyed but after reviewing my early morning rant through the lens of a good friend decided perhaps at the time it was best to hold off.

Maybe things happen for a reason.

Unfortunately, I rarely take advice, at least permanently and since I am no good at letting things go without a few smart ass comments, and a couple of weeks have passed leaving me to assume little damage can be done now, here you go.

The Rant:

I am a smart girl. Near perfect scores on my standardized tests confirmed it. (Except math. Let's not talk about math. I could have slept through that section and got a better score.) But in some things I am just dumb.

You know, things like life.

There was a bit of a guy incident late this weekend, only I had no idea it even happened until I got a flood of emails this morning.

I don't understand flirting. Half the time I don't even notice it. It goes right over my head. I always figure it is just two human beings interacting in normal human being conversation until I am directed otherwise. How was I supposed to know that a brief exchange is sometimes considered flirting??

Guys are dumb. Girls are dumb. This whole dating thing just confounds me!!! I am so freaking exasperated.

This, people, is WHY I don't try to date. I clearly don't understand how it works! It's like someone needs to hit me on the head with a frying pan before I even pay attention. I am going to curl under the covers and hide.

Yes, I realize I am being a big baby but in this area of my life I seriously have no idea what is going on. I am utterly confused. And dizzy. So dizzy.

I am just talkin' people. That's it. Just conversing. I have no deep agenda. I wouldn't even know where to begin.

I can't help that I have zero dar. Dar, as in gaydar, douchdar, flirtingdar (wait, that last one doesn't really work but you get the point).

I. Don't. Get. It. I will be your friend seven days till Sunday but anything else you are gonna have to spell out in subtitles. And let's face it, that will probably just freak me out.

The irony of people asking my advice on the subject, being interviewed and solicited for commentary, does not escape me. V, my best girlfriends, my boss, they all seem pretty convinced I am a moron in this are - which is true.

Why can't it all be easy?

I am ready for a sci-fi reality, of pre-determined partnerships..or maybe I am just having a drama moment and all I really need is a month at the beach.

TEXAS

My flight got canceled. I am in Texas until who knows when .... well I know when but it seems like forever. I am whiney. I just want to get to Florida so I can take large amounts of cold medicine and pass out, hopefully to feel like less death tomorrow.

I am pretty excited about the prospect of a month of unlimited writing time although it does mean that my blogging time will be limited... no internet. A good thing - no chance of getting distracted with Facebook, Hulu or Slate. But I guess that is what internet capable cell phones are for.

Alright. My 45 minutes of free wifi are about up. Stay tuned. I am sure there are coffee shops on the beach where I can indulge in caffeine bliss and post about my slightly warmer weather exploits.

V-Chat

So V had a thing with a girl when he was on the other side of the world. Well, not really but sort of....but it doesn’t matter because I am not really allowed to talk about it which is highly infuriating because he provides me with more material than I know what to do with.

Pause. Before I continue I feel the need to qualify that ‘with.’ That is one of my largest grammatical pet peeves. It is something I would, and have, written a guy off for, and yet I find myself to be ending sentences with a preposition more frequently than I would like to admit. And for that I apologize. I realize my spelling is less than stellar (Albert Einstein couldn’t spell either so I consider it a sign of intelligence) and that I tend to play fast and loose with the rules of punctuation, but for my misuse of grammar and for committing atrocities as heinous as ending sentences with ‘with’, I am deeply sorry. I will try to do better - though I can’t promise anything when wine and writing are combined.

Anyway.

I was sizing up his photos on Facebook while chatting with him online. “Is that her?” I typed.

“Yep!”

“I KNEW IT!”

“How did you know?” he was laughing at this - I know because of both the “haha” following his question and the emoticon.

“I am a girl - I just know these things. I spotted her from a mile away.”

“Well don’t go making comments about it and all. She might get mad.”

“Do you seriously think I would do that?! I am offended.”

“Of course not.

“Uh yeah - clearly you are working on us getting into a fight.”

V found this to be funny. Me, not so much.

“Do you hear “ha ha” comin’ from this side of the computer? You just got your name on the board.”

“Sorry it was me typing before thinking. Forgive me?”

“Nope...I am going to put for at least 10 minutes. Pout. Poute. Fuck me, I can’t spell!” (See, I am aware of my ineptitude.)

“Bottom lip protruding and all? Pout was correct.”

“Yes. That. Still you need to think better of me.”

“You know I do. Would it help you to know that you're the only person besides my momma that I bought something pretty for?”

“Yes. Indeed. That did help. All is forgiven. I am a slut for gifts.”

“I'll keep that in mind for future fights.” he wrote.

“Seriously, how do you think those other d-bags lasted do long.” This statement required lots of emoticons and a HAHAHAHAHHAHAH. “I make myself laugh!”

“Ouch. You just put me next to d-bags. I don’t like that place.”

“Don’t worry. You are just adjacent, not in the exact same local.”