The Man Fast TAKES MANHATTAN

Leaving on a Jet Plane

2011-08-13T11:10:00.001-05:00

So tomorrow I may or may not be leaving for an international escapade with Fancy. I haven't decided yet. It is all way too much.

The great thing about Fancy is that he doesn't pretend things are anything other than what they are. I don't envision sightseeing is on his mind and the only wining and dining he has planned involves room service.

I don't get on planes with relative strangers, particularly without a clear itinerary and specified destination. I don't even know what to pack or how long he plans this little adventure to be.

On one hand I want to just go with it and see what happens on the other I really like my kidneys in tact and this seems like the beginning of the kind of film where they quickly take their leave.

I am pretty sure decisions need to be made but then again I don't know how this works. I fly coach and by tickets on Expedia or Southwest. I am very very out of my league.

Mercury Rising

2011-08-05T14:38:00.001-05:00

Last night Michelle and I met for dinner after class. I was all a fluster. My hypothesis was that during my performance piece in the park I had somehow allowed bed bugs to hitch a ride in my bag and they were now infiltrating my apartment causing the intolerable itching that was taking over my entire body. Michelle said that was highly unlikely and suggested that maybe I was having some sort of reaction to soap or detergent or maybe stress was to blame for the raised skin on the tips of my fingers.

Whatever the cause, something was off and had been for days. I need to get my shit together. This morning I realized that it was August. August 5th, mind you, and I had completely forgotten to pay my rent. I ran to the post office and deposited a envelope covered in twice the required postage and containing a check for the next three months of rent just to make sure my bases were covered.

I am a mess. Michelle said the cause was in the stars - or the planets rather - something about Mercury rising (I put very little stock in horiscopalogical platitudes but Michelle swears by it so I figure it is due a little credence).

No I think my complete and total disarray stems from having spent the last month wrapped up in boy business and my brain, which I spent the last few months going on and on about, has turned to much. I feel discombobulated. I am not sure if I am coming or going and I need to hit the reset button.

The great thing about my first semester in grad school was that I was so busy trying to get my arms around everything that I didn't have time to freak out about silly things like relationships or the future.

And really, isn't that what all this boy obsessing was really about? Focusing on them so I didn't have to focus on the fact that the next few months will determine the next six years of my life and I am not even fully convinced I have it in me to stay in one place for six years. As terrified as I am about the thought if having to leave New York, a city with which I am just now entering into the ooey gooey honey moon phase, I am just as scared about committing to her for the long haul or the longish hall in my commitment-a-phobic mind.

My relationship with this city is so much like all of my other relationships it is hard to imagine not fucking it up, not getting terrified at the 'realness' of it all and running for the hills of I don't know where (hell, the next zip code might not even have hills).

I am just want an idea of what the future is going to look like, where I am going to be, who I am going to be. I know that is asking a lot and I know that in truth, the universe doesn't really work that way. But I am impatient and scared and really, really itchy and Mercury rising or not, something needs to change.

Wedding Doubt

2011-07-29T14:39:00.000-05:00

My good friend called me in drunken distress last night, filled with doubt about her impending nuptials.

"Write about this," she said through muffled sobs. Out of love for her I won't write what she said but I will say that the worry she expressed seemed to be emblematic of so many of the conversations I have been having with my girl friends as of late. Frustrations of not being able to understand their partners, confusions over why seemingly great guys were suddenly and mysteriously becoming emotionally unavailable, doubts on whether or not to commit to relationships with major communication barriers.

I have no answers. I don't get it. And in all fairness, I at this moment am probably not the right person for these friends to be confiding in. My view of the world and relationships is a little skewed at the moment.

My mom called me and in typical mom fashion approached my current conundrum with dismissive rationality. "Listen," she said in a tone that I know indicates that she has reached her fill of a given topic and desires to bolt the lid on once and for all, "my friend posted this quote on her Facebook page and I really think you need to take it to heart. It is from Mark Twain [a Missourian favorite] and it says, 'You should never make someone a priority who allows you to be an option.' I think you need to remember that next time around."

I wanted to refute the statement by saying that I wasn't sure that was the case for these most recent trials but after a few more seconds of examination I determined she was probably right.

And you know what, that might just be the truth for all of the women in my life. I went through a mental checklist of all the friends I had and all the struggles they seemed to be facing in their current romantic relationships and I couldn't find one situation where this platitude didn't apply.

Now I am not trying to make a generalization that women make men priorities and men take women for granted. Hell half of my struggling girlfriends are lesbians. Rather, I think that is just a sign of a relationship in turmoil, when one party places the other front and center while they are relegated to the side lines.

There has to be give and take in relationships. Sometimes other priorities will win out and that is just the nature of our busy society but that is no excuse not to make the people around you know they are special, considered and loved.

Fancy

2011-07-25T14:55:00.041-05:00

“Maybe too much is what you need. Did you ever think about that?”

My mother has a tendency of speaking truth at the least palatable of moments. I was sitting in the park pretending to do work, over-analyzing whether or not I should accept a new gentleman's offer to buy me a ticket to D.C. for the day so we could have brunch in the nation's capitol. Brunch. Yeah right. I am sure brunch is exactly what he had on his mind when he made the invitation.

“You are doing it again. Stop. Thinking.” I know this is probably my most serious character flaw but telling me to stop thinking is like telling a quadriplegic to go for a jog - the request is ridiculous and a little bit cruel. If I could stop I would. If I could be different, I wouldn’t be a 29 year old with chronic insomnia and the beginnings of serious crows feet. I can say I will quit but we all know it is bullshit. There is a reason I am an artist and a writer and a student...and single. I have a lot of brain space to put to use.

To be fair, my relationship with Fancy started off in a way that warranted worry. And yes, I named him "Fancy". The name wasn't wholly original but it was fitting and the best I could come up with under the circumstances.

I met Fancy at a party a few days after I returned to New York. I should preface this tale by saying that things were just starting with the boy who would eventually dump me on my birthday which made the events of that evening feel even more complicated, and confusing and terribly, terribly guilt inducing.

The party had been a straight-up former frat boy free for all, filled with friends of my friend's boyfriend. I gravitated to what few women were in attendance but the crowd of testosterone volleyed for attention. Between tales of Hollywood movie deals and summer homes in the Hamptons I would look up and see Fancy, leaning back, taking it all in and waiting for someone to catch his eye.

I didn't need to speak to him to have him a pretty damn good idea of his m.o. He looked like every guy I went to high school with - immaculately groomed, in a perfectly pressed polo and $300 jeans, forever aware of the room around him, waiting to be adored. He was gorgeous and he knew it. That type of guy always did.

I smiled politely as he approached. I always find this moment just before the conversation the most amusing. There is a split second to guess what the line might be, if this introduction will go well or if it will just be added to the endless list of awkward unmemorable occasions.

This being said, I don't actually remember his opening line - I feel like it had something to do with the bottle opener. I forget because, in truth, what happened next left such an impression everything else faded away.

He was a resume guy. You know the kind that gives you about enough time to utter your first name before he starts reciting off his accolades. I always wondered why 'that' guy didn't just have miniature copies of his resume laminated and tucked in his wallet for occasions like this, you know, so he wouldn't have to be bothered to speak - he could just wait for the panties to drop to the floor.

And it was easy to understand why he thought they would; high society upbringing, ivy league ed, international start-up companies and a corner office on Wall Street proper, not to mention having penned several books, one of which showcased a foreword by a former president.

Like I said, Fancy.

Despite what I am sure he believed was a stellar performance of Mr. Fancy's hit parade, I could tell he was left confused. He had been expecting me to swoon and when I didn't he looked as though his world may have come unhinged. I don't mean to give myself too much credit. I couldn't have been the first woman in his history to remain unimpressed as he uttered the sweet sweet words, Simon and Schuster, Bill Clinton, condo on the upper west side but I am sure we were few and far between.

And thus what could have been a passing conversation with just another orifice for Fancy became a challenge he couldn't resist.

I was not naive enough to assume that his interest would linger once he received some sort of validation so imagine my surprise when even after the evening turned into a cloudy version of "Eyes Wide Shut" Fancy would persist.

The next morning I sent him a text, "Did you seriously just Facebook me?"

Fancy brought out the bitch in me. 'That' guy always did. Somehow I thought sneaking out of the (and I quote) "black tie optional" pseudo sex club he had tricked me into patronizing and catching a cab to Korea Town with his good friend to stuff our faces before passing out in his suite at the W would have been enough to make Fancy lose interest. Plus he had gotten the validation he was looking for at the the club, (drunken stupidity makes it possible to look over the most blaring character traits and give in to what my mother would agree were really really bad life choices) but Fancy wanted to prove he wasn't 'that' guy, which was what I called him most of that evening.

"Do these lines really work for you? I am sorry I am not amazed enough for you. God you are so that guy."

The bitchier I was the more intrigued Fancy appeared to be.

For weeks he would send random text messages from whatever city he happened to be vacationing in and ask about my day. Photos from Aspen over the Forth of July, messages from San Francisco and finally a series of invitations, which ironically began right after my birthday.

"Why don't you come to DC for brunch? I'd be happy to buy your ticket." Or some butchered text version of that. Then there was Philly, Austin, Boston and so on. Every time I explained that a) I am a poor college student not exactly available for flights of fancy and if I was I would need more than 4 hours to prepare.

He eventually made his way back to the city but invitations were more of the same, last minute and romanticized.

Seriously, who invites a girl to meet up for afternoon tea?? Dude wasn't even British.

I would counter his offers with something a little more practical, usually involving 24 hours notice but that never seemed to fly. When my last attempt to meet up at a mutually convenient time (notice the key word mutually) was rebuffed, I finally said enough. This was the shit that drove women to madness and I just couldn't take anymore. I didn't need one more game player hovering in my universe.

"You know what, I am good," I told him, "How about this, if you are ever really around (instead of some hypothetical rendezvous in a city requiring plane fare) and you legitimately want to hang out - in a way that calls for an actual invitation of one person to another in a form a little more personal than a text message, you let me know. I would be happy to join you. Otherwise, I think I am good. Take care and safe travels."

The next day, I saw Fancy for the first time in a month. I don't like to think of my text as an ultimatum but he certainly got the call to action.

He took me to dinner at a bistro on Park Avenue and we talked about art and politics and our families. I told him my theory about the resume cards. He found it amusing. I asked if there was ever anyone who called him on what I could only describe in the moment as cockiness. He said no. Then he amended the statement with his sister. I decided immediatly that I liked her.

After the first round of Pellegrino and before we ordered wine I told him to come clean. Seriously who asks a girl to Paris or afternoon tea?

"Well, Lyndsey," there is something about the way men use your name in a sentence such as this that can put you in your place with nothing much else at all, "I wanted to see you. I felt bad we hadn't been able to get together before. And I thought it would be fun."

Okay. And afternoon tea?

"I am from India, Lyndsey. I grew up in London. My parents have afternoon tea every day."

And I am an asshole.

Then we actually started to talk - a little less banter and more actual conversation. The thing I find so incredibly attractive about him (aside from the eyes and the abs and the persistent invitations to Paris) is the fact that he gets it done. He calls and says lets get together at this time or that and whether or not I can actually make it happen, he has a plan. He isn't wishy-washy, he isn't insecure, he is grown-up. And that is HOT.

In the middle of dinner we were discussing relationships and the lack of ceremony that has taken over our generation. "I don't want to revert back to out dated gender roles but there is something to said for courting," I said. "I don't know, I figure at this point I will probably just marry the next guy to bring me flowers.

A few minutes later he excused himself and entered into a hushed conversation with the maitre de who scurried behind the bar and started digging in the cabinets before pulling out a silk rose. He walked back to the table and gave it to me without ceremony or a big speech. He just smiled like he knew exactly what he was doing.

And suddenly I was weak in the knees.

The Frenchman - Part 2

2011-07-23T00:34:00.002-05:00

It is a toss up whether the Frenchman showed up at the absolute best time or the worst.

On one hand, I wasn't exactly in the right emotional state to take in his international charm. On the other, his heavy handed affections, continental affectations and puppy dog persistence made him a perfect distraction to my bruised heart and wounded ego.

When I met him we were sharing a blanket in Brooklyn Bridge Park, both of us with friends of friends of friends, watching a movie al fresco in the glow of the Manhattan skyline. I was distracted at first, half petrified of running in to the latest boy to make me consider lesbianism, half hoping I would. It wasn't until we were standing on the same subway platform waiting to go home that I really took him in.

The gapping spread of his unbuttoned burgundy dress shirt was the first thing I noticed. As a rule, European men can pull of chest hair. Americans look like cast offs from the Jersey Shore.

His name was Michel and he was in New York on holiday. In fact, he had been traveling for months and wouldn't be returning to France until the growing season in September. His family owned a vineyard in the southwest and he spent his time traveling around the world instructing sommelier and meeting with distributors. He didn't tell me all of this in our first meeting - no we had a few more days for that - but it seems to stick out now that he is gone, no doubt hiking somewhere in Chili, looking for his next great conquest.

We made mild chit-chat on the subway platform, the A/C an interminable wait. It was early and he was cute so it was decided we should get a drink.

I was not prepared. I was not prepared for the French and their sense of beauty and passion and love for art. I don't know that I have ever had such a conversion and not just with a stranger - with anyone. He made my heart hurt with the way he looked at the world and the way he spoke of our 'long moment together in time'. It was too much. I am too American and he was too... too something all together more.

When he stopped in mid-conversation, chin in palm, unafraid of the silence, taking in the world around him and losing himself exclusively in the thoughts within his own head, it was like something within my own heart snapped.

I realize the melodrama of this all but I am telling you HE WAS FRENCH; they have their own rules. I wanted so badly to pause the world for a moment so I could capture the words he was saying, pictures he was painting that I knew would fly from my memory before the sun came up again.

For the first time in months I wanted to write and not just about my petty indiscretions with the males of my life but about art and what it means to feel an overwhelming sense of joy at just being allowed to walk around and witness other people’s joy. I wanted write silly flowery poetry and for a couple of hours I felt ridiculously happy, like a scene in a movie that feels too perfect to last for more than just a two minute montage but one you wouldn’t want any other way.

That night I let him kiss me but I didn't let him walk me home. As brilliant as his poetry might have been, I wasn't ready for what that could lead to.

The next day the Frenchman sent me text messages early in the morning asking how soon he could see me. My foreign film feeling had worn off in the light of day and I couldn’t figure out if the poetics were a full time thing for him or if his English was just really terrible in a really fortunate manner.

I debated whether to see him again - some perfect things should just be left a perfect mystery - but my funk was starting to roll in again, heavier now because I had a few free hours to contemplate my wounded heart. So I decided to indulge the Frenchman with a little tragedy and arranged to meet him near the Met before taking a train to the Bronx to see an adaption of Blood Wedding in the park.

When we got lost and spent thirty minutes wandering around aimlessly, the Frenchman explained to me the the definition of “foireux” - a sort of half-baked plan, something that sounds really great in theory but turns out to be nothing much of all. I worried that this was what our evening might be.

Play or not, he assured me with a smile that just called for trouble, this night would be nothing of the kind.

On the subway, after what turned out to be an epically terrible show, he laid my palm facing up and slowly outlined the regions of France with his finger. As we walked around an unfamiliar Brooklyn neighborhood, he serenaded me with songs from his childhood. And as we sat on the patio of a local bar he did his best to explain to me what he saw as the way to treat a woman, a “real man’s” view of relationships and why I should enjoy each “beautiful long moment” with passion.

Meanwhile, I was directing his attention toward pronouncing my home state like something other that the Kathy Bates film that caused me to question the safety of the writing profession.

What can I say, I have an ooh la la threshold. Yes, it was incredibly romantic but it was all too much. The Frenchman was sexy but I couldn’t exactly envision rolling around in bed with him, laughing at an ill-timed dumb joke or the innate awkwardness of almost all things naked.

I guess I am a girl who needs just as much La Dolce Vita as Wet Hot American Summer and a guy who falls somewhere in between.

The Frenchman was obviously someone who would want to spoon or whisper sweet nothings in my ear or wake up early to watch me while I dreamed. And that just sounded gross. Even his plea to come home with me was stifling. He should have judged his audience when he told me he just wanted to come home so we could talk and he could hold me all night. I attempted to explain to him the definition of a personal bubble but the language divided seemed to great.

I walked him to the subway - okay in the general direction of the subway - and gave him a hug goodbye. I tried to pretend I didn’t see him actually pouting as I walked away. I am not sure how long he stood there - I never turned around.

If, Then

2011-07-21T22:28:00.000-05:00

There is this wonderful thing that happens when I write things down. All the anxiety I build up over analyzing a situation, any situation, gets spent looking for the perfect way to describe it. All my fear and worry and insecurity gets chewed up and spit out as fodder.

In the 10 days since my disastrous 29 birthday, I have spent far too many hours replaying the details of that evening - and the evenings that followed - wondering just when exactly my life got so strange. The truth is it has never been what could be described as normal. But whose is?

I needed my necklace. But more so I needed some sort of closure to the confusion. Emotional rectification had come swiftly but that confusion of just not fully understanding a string of events left a weight in the air.

By the time we finally met up, I had gnawed on that confusion until any taste of bitterness or anger or sadness was gone. I thought it would be harder to see him. I thought I would feel some need to act in a melodramatic fashion with the goal of making him feel bad, but I didn't.

I just wanted any unpleasantness to be over. It just felt silly and when he said he hoped we could get to a point where we were 'cool' with one another, the step seemed completely unnecessary.

It felt fine to be around him, easy even. Just because the dating thing had spiraled into disaster at record-breaking speeds, didn't mean we needed to go through the motions of pretending to get over something. At least I didn't. I had 10 days. I was good.

Who knows how friendship will work out. Perhaps I will never learn to understand his Greek and he will never get my Martian. But hell it seems worth a try. After all what's the worst that can happen.

A Birthday to Remember

2011-07-18T23:54:00.004-05:00

Life is too short not to mend quickly.

This is the lesson taught to me by my latest up and down. The difference I am guessing, between now and the way things used to be is that now I know myself. It is a lot harder to have your self-esteem demolished by a birthday dumping when life all around is pretty undeniably kick-ass.

And my self-esteem had been the issue of concern as he gave me the big heave ho.

“I hope you won't let my issues affect the way you feel about yourself.”

It was everything in my being not to say, “Go fuck yourself” but that would have been serious overkill and undeserved and frankly, beneath me. That didn't mean, however, I didn't think about it for a second.

The whole thing was baffling. How we went from zero to this in a few short weeks, how I ended up all a-twitter in the first place, and most puzzling in the moment of dumping itself - just what exactly was going on.

I am not a moron. I was aware I was getting the boot but as it was my birthday and I had single-handedly taken down a pony-keg, the words coming out of his mouth - hell, the words coming out of my mouth -weren't really registering. It was just sooooo serious and the whole time I felt as if I was having an out of body experience, watching myself engage in some ridiculous soap opera with someone who was clearly just not that into me and for why? I wanted to yell at the girl sitting on the stoop with her underwear in her hand bag, “Run, bitch run. Do not engage. This will not end well.”

And it didn't .

The reasons why are debatable and I gave it much consideration over the next 6 days.

One option was that I had dated more than enough guys who had been far too comfortable hovering for months or years at a time in the space between exclusivity and the big bad ‘boyfriend/girlfriend’ title. Perhaps the idea of one more go round with Mr. ‘Let’s Just Hang Out‘ was enough to make me run screaming into the night.

[It can be postulated that if there is to be naked time and statements have been made about this said naked time not occurring with anyone else, that it is not too far of a leap to want to move things in the direction of a relationship.

This concept seemed to land on him like greek on an alien from outer space.]

There was also the distinct possibility that as Justin Long put it, he was just not that into me. I had offered this up two days prior - on a day distinctly not my birthday - and even gave him the whole, “You can take your out free and clear,” option. Somehow comments about his aversion to people of my artistic background and comments about my previous relationship style (an immature banter bordering on playground name calling and hair pulling) hadn’t left me with a strong feeling of confidence in his interest in me and who knows, having these issues addressed might have placed a spotlight on his shakiness as well.

Finally there quite probable scenario in which I had done what I often do when man-related situations start to feel weird or difficult. I got scared and went plowing head first into some sort of definition - anything to make it feel less terrifying to be so vulnerable, anything that meant that someone else wasn’t scared so I could be. The only sick twisted comfort in this was that in a way I had orchestrated my own demise and wouldn’t have to spend months or years waiting for the other shoe to drop on something that wasn’t quite right.

At the end of the day, it really didn't matter why it didn't work. Obsessing over the cause and effect wasn’t going to change what happened and more importantly it wouldn't change either of the parties involved.

Still, a few days after my birthday I was feeling terribly low and dejected so my girlfriend sent me one of those self-help articles written for single women who date like morons. I often find this type of writing as condescending as the men who have just dumped me but this one was different. Short, sweet and spot-on - three things I try to be in my relationship tête-à-têtes and fail at almost without exception.

The article talked about knowing how to say no when you just aren't that into him, knowing when to gracefully bow out when he is just not that into you and adopting one key mantra to live by in order to find a guy that fits just right.

"You can't say the wrong thing to the right person."

This was an important message I was starting to forget in all this ho-hum birthday dumping sadness. I could have bit my tongue, pretended to be okay with something that didn’t quite sit right. Some might say I should have. But that is just not me.

I am a little crazy and completely over-analytical and bordering on OCD. And yes, this tendency to feel the world fully and gnaw at conflict until it becomes raw might suck for my relationships, but it also let's me see the world like no one else and accomplish what often seems impossible.

We all have baggage. We WILL fuck up. No one is perfect but we can't spend our lives worrying we might say or do (or obsess over) the wrong thing. Eventually the right person will come along; one who likes us, warts and all, and one who is ready and open to what we have to offer.

When that guy shows up there is no saying he will completely understand our crazy or speak our alien dialect but hopefully he will be excited to try and when all else fails, he’ll know where to pick up a copy of our dictionary.

The Frenchman - Part 1

2011-07-16T17:04:00.002-05:00

I am not exactly sure how or when life turned into a Woody Allen film but somehow here we are.

I am all hurt and rejected and disillusioned with men as a whole and who stumbles into my evening’s narrative but a gorgeous Frenchman with ridiculous brown eyes and a far off gaze too painful to identify.

“No! You are not coming home with me.”

“But this is so beautiful, I do not want it to end.” Even with the smoldering and the broken english, there is no part of me that is non-American enough to resist an eye roll at this. And he is just so damn earnest. And handsome. And tempting.

But no.

“Sorry buddy.” I say with the cocky half-smirk I default to when an interaction with a man becomes far too real and I waver between feeling incredibly hot and just plain ridiculous. “This week has been a bit much and as grand of an idea as it seems, I would feel guilty in the morning.”

“What do you have to feel guilty about?” He had a point. I did get dumped on my birthday. I would be within my rights to engage in some serious revenge sex but that just didn’t feel right.

Around this time, I deflected with a joke, which is what I do when I am nervous or uncomfortable. It was something accusatory about him harboring a dozen bastard children scattered throughout his various wine-selling ports of call.

“Listen, you are adorable and French and Adorable and LEAVING - my four favorite characteristics in a man - but this just isn’t going to happen.” I tried to get him to focus on my directions toward the subway with little avail. He instead focused on my neck.

His scruff was still prickly, having yet to grow out into the quarter inch shag that consistently weakens my knees and sends my spiraling into nostalgic recollections of being young and stupid and ridiculously in love with a former band geek who hadn’t yet figured out that he was now hot. I like them best when they are still clueless - but I digress.

This was an accidental evening, tucked in shadows, strolling through alleyways, beckoned into dark doorways to listen to ridiculously romantic soliloquies made ever more nauseating by the accent.

My best-friend and I often talk about being women with whom romance is utterly wasted. We have no idea what to do with these types of affections and as such have a tendency to run head first into the arms of assholes without a romantic bone in their bodies or for that matter an ounce of empathy, sensitivity or emotional availability. We know how to pick them.

And as debonair as this frenchman seemed, I knew too much to fall for simple overtures. He was the makings of good writing or terrible life choices. But with 48 hours left in the country, I had yet to settle on one or the other.

Getting Here

2011-07-16T16:19:00.001-05:00

Something about us was never easy. I think that is why Mr. Sweet Thang and I both kept on. It was a challenge and generally speaking, in the days before I left Kansas City for the excitement of New York, we were both bored. With work, with friends, with life. But with each other there was a fight to win, a battle with which to engage. We made brilliant sparring partners and somehow, I mistook that for love.

There are only two reasons to drop the L-bomb. One, to let someone know you really care or two, to ask for some sort of validation for yourself. One would hope that the vast majority of exchanges have motivations that fall with the former but I think that it would be foolish not to consider the ulterior, more self-involved reasons behind what are often grand, yet ill-timed declarations .

During my brief visit back to the mid-west, I made sure to call him. I missed him. I missed our friendship and the thought of seeing him made me so sublimely happy, I was blind to any red flags that might have warned me to remember that we are never simple. I burst through the bar to see him, wrapped my arms around him and choice-fully ignored the icy welcome. His moods were never exactly predictable and it had been I while. I was sure he would warm up as we sat drinking beer at a bar that had offered us several memorable conversations. Instead, he became more morose and I tried my best to keep it light. I told him about the new boy I had just began seeing - the one that at the time seemed so different, so drama-free, so healthy and so gameless. I wanted to ask him about the girl I knew he was still seeing but like most things with us, for now denial seemed like a wiser choice.

We went to play pool and combined it with truth or dare - truth or pool, I called it. Not the cleverest of titles but I was on my second vodka tonic.

When he asked me if I had wanted him to ask me to stay, I told him that the thought never crossed my mind. I still can't envision a world in which he ever would.

And then he told me that he had loved me.

He went on to elucidate the ways in which it had hurt him to watch me go, never once mentioning that he had had someone waiting in the wings, someone who today holds a role front and present. When we spoke about her later he told me that she is easy, uncomplicated - yes, a little boring, but with her it is never hard. Things with us were, difficult that is.

He asked me again things I had told him many times before, things I had said with tears in my eyes and I couldn’t help but think that this inquiry was not because he genuinly wanted to understand what I felt at the time but because he needed to hear that he was loved, that I had loved him and that it had caused me pain to leave him. He needed the validation. And I had been down this road before.

He asked me these questions and I became more and more upset. I had taken the feelings I felt for him at the time and I had placed them in a cardboard box in the back of my closet to slowly disintegrate and drift away. He had mattered, I had told him before I left. I had offered the opportunity to contribute something, anything, but during all those painful conversations he had said nothing.

So there sitting on a barstool pool cue in hand, I said the one thing that felt fitting, the one thing I could to redeem my pride and wrench, me back into reality, where someone 1000 miles away was sparking something in me not worth dismissing so easily at the beaconing of the past.

I said, “Well. You missed the boat.” Not the most original or eloquent I will admit but it was what I had to work with at the time.

He missed the fucking boat. And I can’t pretend I am not glad that he did. Things worked out as the should, as the always do, but for a moment, as brief as it was that fucker sucked me back into the ugliness that made us interesting. At this point in my life I can forgo that type of interesting. I do not need to be in pain to feel alive. I need happiness and sanity and maturity and no freaking b.s. It might not be glamourous but it nice. And nice is a word that is highly underrated in an age of complication.

The Man Fast takes Manhattan

2011-07-16T15:58:00.000-05:00

A funny little thing about blogs - if you write them, people will come. If you stop, you get raging hate mail from anonymous men demanding an explanation. Your friends in far off cities start to wonder if you are alive or if you have perhaps joined the cult of robe-wearing, kool-aid-drinking, recovering hipsters who dominate the Brooklyn purview. All in all, that daily outlet that once provided fodder for others and a release for oneself ceases to exist and damn, if it isn't hard to start back up again.

My best-friend Erica has not always understood my life choices but she has always been supportive of my writing. Her support ranks in the top three most influential opinions of my life (maybe top two, sorry mom). So when she gave me shit about not writing I decided it might be a good idea to pick it up again.

I also really liked my friend Trish's suggestion that I relaunch The Man Fast under the new moniker, "The Man Fast takes Manhattan." Catchy or what?

I am not exactly sure how quickly I will be able to get caught up because it might be necessary to back-track a little and fill in the gaps from the last year. I won't bother with the messy details of the move, like the violent stomach flu that took out 35 family members, myself included, right at Christmas time, as my mom and I prepared to drive a 24-foot U-Haul through a snow storm from the safety and comfort of the mid-west to the overwhelming newness of New York or the moment I took out a car just as I turned onto my narrow Brooklyn street.

I won't divulge the boring details of my early days in Brooklyn, when life was dominated by reading endless art criticism I really didn't understand or hiding in my apartment for weeks at a time because a) I had no money b) I had no friends and c) the city was covered under feet of snow which prevented me from functionally taking part in any sort of life, even if I had one.

There was, eventually, reason to go out. I made friends with a girl I picked up in the bathroom at a bar on St. Patrick's Day and a second cousin found me on Facebook and challenged me to what felt like a months long drink-off which I lost every time. I started to find friends in my program, friends who introduced me to their friends, with the death of a drug-dealing potential suitor being the only snag in that situation. (Apparently, trying to outrun the cops in an RV full of weed while transporting the merchandise from New York to Oregon through a tiny dirt town, ended up with the driver being posthumously charged with the town's most recent grizzly murders.)

That foray into dating, aside, there have been some other notable flops. Who new calling a guy "the Asian Justin Beiber" all night was not a good idea when looking for another date?

Eventually, life in New York started to become just that, a life. Initial reservations about the city being filled with elitist neophytes clamoring to take their place in the hegemonic system that is the New York art scene, proved to be only partially true and my neighbor Lexi's invitation to her birthday party filled with interesting Brooklyn folks (not all clad in skinny jeans and Tom's) signaled the beginning of a series of new connections, new relationships with people who are characters rather than caricatures of the big bad city.

It seemed I was finding my stride and with it came the possibility of new relationships - the kind that offered rug burn and a physical release to the mental stress that was and is grad school. But like all things in my life, nothing new comes simply and it has been an interesting ride, one that in the last month has brought more ups and downs than the San Franscisco marathon. Details I will fill in here, details that have motivated me into a new chapter of the Man Fast, one that doesn't forgo dating - that would be silly in a city with so much to do - but to my mother's deep appreciation one that forgos something else, something spelled S.E.X.

The Next Chapter - Part 1

2010-06-09T11:01:00.002-05:00

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

2010-05-25T23:29:00.000-05:00

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

2010-03-16T23:27:00.002-05:00

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

2010-03-06T09:02:00.003-06:00

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

2010-03-05T09:30:00.001-06:00

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

2010-03-04T21:44:00.001-06:00

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

2010-02-25T21:00:00.002-06:00

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

2010-02-24T14:14:00.002-06:00

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

2010-02-23T14:06:00.000-06:00

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

2010-02-22T10:51:00.000-06:00

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

2010-02-17T14:48:00.002-06:00

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

2010-02-14T18:27:00.003-06:00

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

2010-02-11T16:03:00.003-06:00

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

2010-02-06T09:45:00.004-06:00

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

2010-02-05T10:41:00.002-06:00

“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

2010-02-05T09:28:00.000-06:00

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

2010-02-04T10:19:00.004-06:00

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

2010-02-03T21:34:00.001-06:00

"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.

2010-02-03T19:06:00.002-06:00

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

My mother is sooo proud.

Saucy Gal

2010-02-03T12:32:00.003-06:00

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

2010-02-02T20:44:00.000-06:00

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

2010-02-01T13:59:00.003-06:00

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

2010-01-31T21:07:00.001-06:00

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.”

Fake Dates

2010-01-28T21:20:00.005-06:00

When I was a sophomore in college I went on my first Fake Date. It was with a techy theatre kid named Josh, who ended up becoming one of my favorite men on the whole planet. We sat in a coffee shop and talked for over 5 hours. Josh can talk. 5 hours is nothing.

He was kind of my first not so gay gay best friend. A guy who I temporarily fell madly in love with, who I often questioned in areas larger than his sexuality and who has been with me through thick and thin.

Josh attempted to break into my apartment on an evening of drama with some random ex who now bares little memory in the shadow of Josh, my Lancelot. He brought me a copy of "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," what has become my favorite book of all time and wrote a passage in the front that I still read anytime I start to doubt the beauty of the world.

He may have been the first and he is still one of the best but there have been quite a few fake dates since then, fake dates which always trump real ones.

I am a glutton for guy friends. No offense to my girl friends but I love, love, love a good night with the men in my life, shooting the shit about lord knows what, feeling loved and safe and comfortable in my skin.

I suck at dating. They all tell me this. I turn into girly Lyndsey, who is insecure and fragile and who would never rip them a new one the way their friend does.

"I hate it!!" I screamed at V over celebratory PBRs on our first Fake Date night since his return from the south pacific. (I think I broke his heart when I told him I had hit the threshold on my love of all things PBR - just goes to show all good things must end.)

"Why can't it be like this!! I want this - I mean not this but like this with sex."

But that right there is where a great fake date always takes a nose dive into crap. Meg Ryan may not have got it at first but the sex always gets in the way.

Rule number one: Don't let them fall in love with you. Rule number two: Don't fall in love with them.

If I could go back and keep those best guy friends who got all weird when tingly feelings got in the way I would do it in a heart beat. I miss them.

"Lyn, that is the risk you have to take." I could say who said this but it wouldn't matter. All of my fake date boys who have made it through the gauntlet of dating with me and have come out the other side all say the same thing. "Don't you want to find someone to be up to you knees in wing sauce with?"

"Eww." Wait, maybe I made the wing sauce comment and they said "eww". It is hard to remember at this point.

I love friendship. I love guys. They are great. I just haven't figured out how not to be a moron when you pull the fake label off of dating.

Hmm....

2010-01-28T20:04:00.004-06:00

I should be packing. Or cleaning. Or working. Or doing one of the million things on my to-do list that I MUST accomplish before I take off for a month of sun and creativity.

I am procrastinating.

Thinking about life and love and killing time.

Do you ever think that things happen for a reason? (Cliche I know. I will pretend you are not mocking right me now.)

My high school english teacher made us do a research paper on our theories of life... destiny versus free will. He was the same man who gave me detention every day for refusing to tuck in my shirt. Clearly I had made my choice.

Sitting here, procrastinating, having collapsed on the couch after spending the better part of the hour dancing around my apartment in my underwear, philosophizing on all that has been and could be, I am not so sure.

If we wove all the little moments of life together like the quilt my grandmother made me before she died which has since been lost, all those moments of love and loss, conviction and collapse, I bet it all those might make sense.

And in the future when we choose to jump or we hesitate, maybe those moments will all make sense too.

I am seriously overworked... and obviously a little delirious and even reading this back to myself I am pretty sure that it is just a bunch of ramblings. But I am going to post it anyway - because I am exhausted and hoping someone else will regale me with their theories of life for a change.

Come on...fill me in...I'll take notes.

Journals

2010-01-26T22:13:00.005-06:00

From the days when it was easier to paste the words down than to say them out loud.

The opening line

2010-01-26T21:52:00.000-06:00

"Let's make a deal. You don't ask if what I am saying is true and I promise not to leave out one single dirty detail."

Please don't fire me

2010-01-25T18:45:00.003-06:00

There is terror and then there is finding out your boss reads your blog. Normally this news would just run a close second to finding out that your bible/gun toting grandfather figured out that you shacked up with a dirty hippie, but when you are confronted with it pre-coffee, sans Maybelline war paint, it easily catapults to number one in theline of trauma inducing realizations.

My blog is soooo not job approved. The fact that he said he liked it or rather that it "was me" didnt make me less horrified. My boss read my man-bashing ramblings and therefor must think I hate his kind. I don't I swear!!

I curse, I judge, I talk about lots of things that are not sanctioned by office politics. And as I type these very words I know that someone, somewhere who sees me in my attempt to be a grown up from the hours of 8:30 to 6 is getting a whole different perspective.

I am a little mortified. Flattered that someone was interested enough to read my ramblings but hoping to dear lord something I say in this, my place of digital catharsis, doesnt offend someone.

I am pretty sure I need to curb my use of the word fuck.

They're having a baby!

2010-01-25T18:26:00.001-06:00

I just found out that two of my best friends from college, are
pregnant. Well more specifically, she is pregnant but he's the dad.

I know this sounds crazy but I knew!

I haven't talked to them since last summer. They are the type of
amazing friends where event though we don't talk that often I know I
could drop in on them tomorrow and it would be like no time ever
passed.

They were next door neighbors in the apartment building where I spent
most of my more blurry evenings camped out on her couch. We were all
friends and when they fell in love it took me by surprise.

But it just made sense. He adores her. She is amazing. And their
wedding was just as beautiful as they are.

I love them so much and a couple of weeks ago I started thinking about
how I hadn't talked to them in a while. I was really missing then and
I just thought, I think they are going to have a baby.

It was like my first moment of psychic intuition ever, even though I
guess it isn't that psychic since she is pretty far along.

They are having a baby!!!! Oh my god we are grown ups. Well, they
are grown ups. It is just the most amazing news!

--
Lyndsey Ogle
213.804.3550
www.lyndseyogle.com

Courage

2010-01-25T01:54:00.000-06:00

I can’t sleep. I am getting ready to take off for a month to write, to write something. And I am completely freaked out, which just assures me of what many have long suspected - I truly am f-ed in the head.

I have been awarded a house on the beach for a month and the freedom to create. This is an amazing opportunity and yet I am terrified that when I get there and I flip open my laptop to resurrect this monster of a manuscript, I will have nothing.

I have spent the last hour or so scanning over old photos of Moscow, where I got over heartbreak, where I learned to be a badass, who could flip and bend and scale tall buildings in a single bound...almost.

The badassedness may have since passed, but there under grey skies and perpetual snowfall, I started to find the me I am today.

On my last night in Moscow, the Russians told me I had found my “charm” - that illusive thing that made me, me. All I needed, Natasha said, was the courage hold on to it.

“COURAGE, WOMAN!!” Do whatever you have to do to find - and keep - your courage.

My life changed that day, in the mahogany paneled office of Anatoly Smelianski.

I don’t know. Maybe that is too dramatic, too nostalgic of a time when I was sad and broken but learning to be free.

I wrote a book about that time and it feels like so long ago that when I read it, it is hard to relate. Was it really that life changing or was it just something everyone goes through and I just happened to do it in a leotard at the Moscow Art Theatre?

The girl on the page feels like a stranger.

....And then I get scared. I feel insecure and vulnerable and I close my eyes and I am right back there, houndstooth coat, red bag, teary-eyed.

It’s not the same, I know that, this is a whole other kind of freaked out but I wish that on

the moments like this, when I am worried and channeling the darker parts of my Moscow memories, that they were here, my Russians, challenging me, daring me to be brave.

V is home!!

2010-01-24T23:29:00.001-06:00

They say you don't know what you have until it's gone. Well, I might
not be that deep but I know how freaking excited I am to have my
NSGGBF home.

Like bouncing off the walls, can't wait to give him a great big hug
and interrogate him about every detail of his trip happy.

You never realize how intertwined your relationship is with someone
until you can't talk to them. My V is an awesome friend. There is a
reason why he has so many women in his life. He is who I want to tell
all my adventures to - the ones too indecent to blog about.

I have never been so excited for a Monday before. I may have made a
few new guy friends in his absence but there is only one NSGGBF.

And he is never allowed to go anywhere again without picking a big
fight with me first.

Walk the line

2010-01-24T22:22:00.003-06:00

Ok, blog. You and I have come to an impasse. I fear we may have to break-up.

The problem with our relationship is that it isn't just about you and
me. Our exploits are on display for the world to read and unfortunately we are rarely the sole personas featured in our subject matter. Rightfully so, I feel, given when we are it tends to be introspective dribble.

When our banter is good, I mean, when we enter into the really, really hot part of our relationship, it always incriminates our cohorts and gets me in trouble.

That's right blog. You got me busted.

This isn't the first time.

There have been episodes in our tumultuous past when the stories we
share about our friends, foes and the activities that engulf our lives
have come back to bite us in the ass. When the featured characters in
stories of drunken debauchery, in appropriate courting, or parental
discourse have resulted in irate voice mails, charging, "I can't
believe you wrote that!"

V called it slander. But to be fair I did call him a pansy. Wait...
maybe that was just in my mind.

Blog, you and I are a pair of catty gossipers, cackling at life with
our dentures off. And not everyone likes the joke.

And so we have reached the fork in our digital road. We have come to
the point where everything that I want to share with you get stashed
on my hard drive to protect the not so innocents.

My attempts to protect the subjects of our tales, just make readers -
and often, the subjects themselves, confused.

I suppose, if I spelled it out clearly, there would be a lot less for
them to read into and a lot less for them to speculate on.

It's like my ex used to say, "Just spit it out! Dancing around your
thoughts just makes it so much more infuriating." But then again, he
was a dick.

I can't. I just can't. Not given the current parameters of our
relationship. It feels like some kind of violation.

My girlfriend's boyfriend sat in the audience at my show and I had to
stop and persuade him that these stories were enhanced for
entertainment value. Let's hope he bought it.

So blog, we are stuck. Living somewhere between the adventures I am
sure you would like to share and the fear that I might get text
messages that make me say the truth out loud.

Lord knows I can write what I don't have the balls to say.

Let's sleep on it. Maybe in the morning we will find a way to walk that line.

Dull

2010-01-24T21:25:00.003-06:00

I went to the bookstore tonight. I flipped through dozens of book jackets - which is what I do every time the world and I cease to get along.

On the days when my mood is blah, when I am not particularly happy but I can’t figure out why, I get lost in the brief synopses of other people’s clever ideas.

Some seem insightful, some banal, but those bite-size glimmers of what might just be genius always make me feel better.

It has been one of those weekends. Not bad but not exceptional either.

Just there. Maybe faulting on the side of glum.

I think I might be loosing touch with reality just a little bit. Writing has skewed my view of the world, of people. I have lost the ability to tell the difference between the good times and the bad because all I see is plot points and story lines.

Everyone and every moment summed up like a cliff noted book jacket.

I am on this endless quest to be intrigued with life and I am too easily bored.

Last night I went to this charity event. It seemed that everyone I was with had caught the malaise. It wasn’t a bad time, just not noteworthy.

I had really thought it would be and I suppose I was a little disappointed when it wasn’t. It was fine but nothing to write home about.

My mind is tired. I think so much - too, too much - and I have a hard time excepting that an uneventful night can be just that, just not all that special.

I look for ways to give it value, make it something. I really have to stop. Sometimes a dull storyline is just that.

It doesn’t all have to be dramatic and exciting....right?

God that just sounds dull.

Sue

2010-01-23T19:12:00.000-06:00

Last night I met a woman named Sue at a wine tasting with the girls
(more about that to come). Sue was a sexy woman hitting her stride at
60 and she was on a date with Dick.

Somewhere between sampling Malbecs and Malbec blends, the subject of
my my blog and various dating exploits came into conversation.

"Oh honey," she said, "It's not just an issue at your age. Let me tell
you about this internet date I went on...."

Sue had gone out with a man in his late 60s who was recovering from
prostate cancer. Within in minutes of their first date he had informed
her about his condition. She did not want to be callous but was a
little off-put tone of his admission.

"Just so you know I am 75%." he assured her.

"I couldn't help but wonder, did 75% mean 3 out of 4 times or did it
mean..." With that Sue crooked her finger and raised her left eyebrow
to the sky.
"I felt for him but..." she grimaced.

"That was awfully presumptuous of him, don't you think." one of my
friends chimed in.

We roared.

Dick tried to come back into the room at the sound of all the
laughter, but Sue just shoo-fly-ed him away again. She would do this
repeatedly throughout our conversation and each time I liked her more.

I told her I just had to have her number. I was smitten.

Girl talk knows no age limit and with the proper quantity of vino, new
friends can be found just about anywhere.

Inked out retrospective

2010-01-20T20:36:00.001-06:00

This afternoon, I had a phone interview with Sarah Benson from the KC Star/Ink Magazine. She was interviewing me for part of their Valentine's Day issue.

It wasn't until I got off the phone with her that I realized that I had never been interviewed about my work before and that I had absolutely no idea what I said.

I rambled though, I know that much.

Ask a girl who has been dumped in the shower, cyber stalked by mad men and propositioned by a pachoulli wearing Jermey Piven and she is gonna give you some stories.

My only worry is about the one's that weren't told.

Sarah asked me why I moved to KC and I tried to give her the short version without too much skirting of the issue. She also asked me if I ever worry about people reading my blog.

Now I wonder if I lied when I told her no.

I don't care, not really, that is kind of the point. But if there is one person I would rather not read this it might be him- you know, the impetus for midwest relocation.

As strange as it sounds I worry that it would come across as mean. Shit didn't work out - C'est la vie. I can actually say that without it being bullshit. But I have got to say, if someone started a blog called The Chick Fast after we broke up, I would be seriously wounded.

I would freak out, wondering, "Was I so awful, that I caused him to swear off my entire sex?!?"

Obviously, if he read it he would see that that isn't really the point, but still.

I realize that it is completely narcassistic and self-involved to be having such thoughts - I mean, I doubt that I cross the pages of his mind, let alone his computer screen with any real regularity, but when Sarah asked me about how I ended up here and how it all turned out (duh) I couldn't help feeling slightly apprehensive that he might read my response on the pages of some magazine and that it might come across as bitter, or overwrought or even, well, considered.

The beauty of letting go is that all that stuff goes with it. Unless of course a reporter asks you about it and then you have to dive it due thought in order to formulate a response that sounds neither flippant or like new age crap.

I am a little scared, and I hope I don't come off as a completely self-involved shrew.

Sarah wouldn't do that to me....right?

--
Lyndsey Ogle
213.804.3550
www.lyndseyogle.com

Bus O Blood

2010-01-19T20:06:00.000-06:00

I cannot stand to be told how to feel. It makes me irate. I dislike it so much I could almost say I hate it. But I won't. I don't like to hate things.

We all do it. I know I have. We 'should' each other.

"You shouldn't feel like that." "You should let it go."

In my family there are no shoulds. There are demands.

"Don't say that!" "Don't think that." "Don't feel that way." Comments typically made in regard to my self-deprecation.

It is enough to make a person want to swallow their feelings but, unfortunately, I am heart on the sleeve kind of gal.

Tonight, I went with a friend - who shall remain nameless as I have yet to determine his clever pseudonym - to donate blood for the Haitian relief effort.

Why I thought this was a good idea I am not so sure but I felt like there was no way to say no to those images, even though every time I get blood drawn it is a minor disaster. When I was in the hospital I swore I may have driven the nurse in training to give up her profession after her attempts to load my i.v. sent me screaming from the pain.

My veins don't take to kindly to being poked.

It didn't end up working. The veins said no. They didn't care about the wait or the good intention. One nurse said something I interpreted as having jello blood. Another said she probably went straight through the vein.

It was fine. I felt a little guilty but it was fine.

But then someone on the bus-o-blood said something and I just wanted to cry. It had nothing to do with donating or the tiny compartment, which even on my best day would give me an anxiety attack.

It was an innocent, meaningless directive and without time or reason I was immediately transported back to the fifth grade, having just been sent to Sister Jackie's office for using the word 'bitch'. I felt so worthless in my metaphoric plaid skirt.

If I told you the words or the whys you might just tell me I shouldn't have felt that way. But I did and all I wanted to do was get out of that damn bus.

Wanda Sikes does a pit about being gay and how basically you are a dumb-ass if you think it is a choice. I feel that way about feelings.

Sometimes you just feel the way you do - despite the shoulds. I think my therapist would agree with me, conditionally, except to say that the manifestation of those feelings is where we have to do the work.

It felt icky and sometimes, for reasons that would be far too difficult to explain to someone not living inside my head, I feel like that, like crap. We all must. Sometimes.

But I rebound quickly, when given enough air and space and room to breathe. And in a moment or few, I felt better. The lower lip of the incarcerated fifth grader inside of me was still quivering but it would recover. She'll come around in her own time.

I cried

2010-01-18T19:25:00.003-06:00

I haven't cried in a while. Not the good hard kind of cry that cleans the system, the cry that I enjoy for the solitary reason that it makes me feel alive.

I bawled tonight. I finished watching "Julie and Julia" and I just bawled. It touched me in a way that nothing else in a while has.

It wasn't because it was superb film making - it was decent enough, I thuroughly enjoyed the movie but it was the love.

I don't think we get enough examples of rich deep love, the love of people who still adore each other after decades of marriage, or who stand by each other through the rough times.

We watch stories of conflict - conflict, after all is entertaining, but to watch a story where a husband deeply loves his wife and she him, well that just made me cry.

Sometimes I feel like I am over all of this, the fast, the 'me' time. I think that having someone to share my life with might not be so bad.

I watch people who love each other, just as they are, and I think, that, that is what life is about.

I cried a lot tonight, in a way I haven't in quite sometime. It felt good. It felt like the end of something, though what that is I am not quite sure.

I miss V

2010-01-17T17:50:00.001-06:00

He needs to home now. Our pinata got stolen and our foursome is meeting for drinks this week - but without him our foursome is a threesome and that sounds a lot less dirty.

Crew's got Talent

2010-01-15T12:07:00.000-06:00

When I was in LA, I played on a softball team with guys who made porn. They had their own company. This wasn't too surprising since I did live in the Valley and you could throw a rock and hit a low grade porn star. I would frequently find myself at the gym next to one of these women on a stairclimber wondering how it was aerodynamically possible for them to stay upright on the machine with breasts the size of basketballs.

During this time I also hung out with some of my girlfriends at a bar called Sardo's. It was a karoke joint that once a week held "industry" night. The first time we went on a Tuesday we were more than a little confused when a man sauntered over to ask my friend to ask if she was crew or talent.

We hadn't realized what industry "industry night was referring to.

Tonight as I raced around the gallery, hauling chairs and barking out orders to my oh so wonderful friends, I had a flashback to that conversation.

Talent's got it easy. Show up, do your thing, get the praise, leave. Crew, that is where the work is. And no, I am not talking about porn anymore.

The show tonight was a blast and I hope it continues to be for the next two performances. It was a ton of work but it never would have been possible without my amazing friends: Kira, Helena, Vi, Kerry, Nathan, Trish, Marcella, Chris, Tony, Mommy, Scott, and so many other wonderful people.

It takes a lot of people to get a one person show off the ground and I really appreciate all they did!

Ahh! Me as Dalton Trumbo

2010-01-11T23:17:00.003-06:00

Finally.

It has been a crazy week and weekend and for the first time in what feels like weeks instead of days I have had time to sit, in my favorite spot (the tub), with my Mac propped up on a table next to me (not smart, I know) and write about my day.

Preparing for the show has been more consuming than I thought, not just in time but in brain power. I have no energy left to feel glib.

But I am feeling good right now, Dasani in hand, thrilled to have the most supportive family and friends in the world. Counting down the days till not so sunny Florida and some time to do just this - be alone with my thoughts and my muse and hopefully come up with something great.

We'll see.

Until then I will just say that my friend Kira kicks ass. She is probably cooler than you and I am sorry about that but if you come to my show you will see why.

My mommy is the bestest

2010-01-10T23:26:00.000-06:00

My mom has made multiple mentions in the last few months that I don't write about her in my blog that much.

Admittedly this is true, but I haven't had much to say. That sounds bad. What I mean is there is no drama there, no real story or hook.

All I could really say was that I didn't think she liked my blog that much but I have explored that topic before (and with new fervor in the live version).

I think part of the problem is that we haven't had much time to bond. We are both busy - and happy - and without a real catastrophe or heap of drama there hasn't been a ton to discuss.

"How are you?" "Great." "How are you?" "Great."

A good problem to have but I think we were both aching for a little mother - daughter time.

On Friday, I had a mild panic attack. Not a real, full out, blast from the past type attack but a 'oh shit' even if I have time to do everything I need to in the next week - which I don't - I don't know that my brain will survive it. Melt down seemed eminent and I wanted to curl up and hide. I wanted my mommy.

I sent her a text around one o'clock saying, "Do you want to come up and help your only child for the weekend." She immediatly agreed. She is a damn good mommy.

When she called on Saturday morning in the middle of my frazzled technical conundrum, I wondered if close proximaty to another human being was really such a good idea.

I tend to turn into a hermit crab when I am working. But mom came. And she had a focused plan of attack, an agenda to accomplish what I am not so sure.

I cannot remember the last time I have worked as hard as we did this weekend. From 2-2 and 8-11 we talked about little but the show.

It was so much fun! It felt like a true team effort. Mom even posed for leg shot (I keep telling her she could do leg modeling but she isn't biting). It reminded me of trying to put puzzles together as a kid.

I kept saying over and over again how glad and thankful I was that she was there although it didn't feel like I could say it enough. It was the type of effusive gushing that is typically reserved for getting the staring role or making a big play or having one of those "hands down, the best night of my life" nights.

I had my mommy. For 48 hours, it was team us, and we kicked ass.

I was sad she had to go.

Countdown to The Man Fast

2010-01-05T13:22:00.000-06:00

Now is the time I start begging. Looking for pimps on every corner.

The show is less than 10 days away. The script is funny… I think and I think I enjoyed creating the video images just a little too much.

There will be a piñata on site to direct traffic and I am told the bartender will be a male model.

All in all, I think it should be a damn good time. Come. Bring friends. I'll buy you a drink afterward, hell, maybe during depending on how nervous I am.

Just don't get lost – if you see this thing on the street you know you are in the right place.

And I am sticking my tongue out too!

2010-01-04T17:35:00.001-06:00

V left me.

I am pouting. He has gone and left me alone on a Monday night. How dare he? Is Thailand really so much cooler than me????

Okay, it probably is, but the thought of two months without not-so-gay-gay-best-friend chat, PBR and waffle fries makes me a little dismayed. Who else can I snort in front of or berate for being too damn nice?

I told him I was going to have to find a new guy to date, get dumped by, become best-friends with, get into huge fights with only to not speak to for weeks at a time and make up in a disgustingly sappy manner that makes all of our other friends sick. And I told him I was going to do this all while he was gone.

I am in desperate need of a substitute- substitute man in my life.

That will show him for going off to explore far off lands! So there. (And yes, I really did just stomp my foot.)

28B

2010-01-02T11:08:00.001-06:00

The hair dying needs to stop. I realize I am bingeing. It is like discovering the wonders of $7.99 box dye has opened up a whole world of indecisive mania.

After 15 years of professionally dyed $200 blondness I have discovered an entirely new antidote to boredom or regimen.

People are starting to make comments. My organization’s executive director stops by almost daily to see what color it will be.

The shades have not varied that much, at least not into the realm of audacious purples or greens, but I, like my hair, have grown to loath consistency.

The only tolerable constant is change. With February a mere eye blink away, I am bracing myself for change and all that this month of landmarks will bring, ones for which I fear even Loreal box 28B can not prepare me.

My show is written. Now I just need to figure out how to get people in the seats. I have a slew of work related projects to prepare for while I am away and several arts proposals to get out if I hope to have opportunities to perform when I return.

Even more flummoxing is not knowing what the trip will hold or the affect it will have on my return.

I fear it might make Kansas City feel like my old blonde hair, attractive, safe but mundane. After 28 days of Box 30 Cinnamon bliss, will regular life ever feel the same?

Coffee, Country and Closure

2010-01-01T11:05:00.000-06:00

A year ago, on New Year’s I sent out my regular massed “Happy New Year’s” text message.

My ex-boyfriend, who I had not spoken to in months, was a recipient.

So we can blame it on the text message - the one last horrah, the one last shot to give it a go.

This morning as I sat curled up on my coach nursing a pot of coffee, not from a hang over as I was exceedingly well behaved on New Years but from chronic sleep deprivation, I could not help but reflect on last year and feel really lucky for how badly that turned out.

I don’t mean to sound like a bad country song but sometimes that man upstairs really has a better plan than you do.

I may have had a bad break-up, which signaled the final end of what seemed like an endless on again off again mess but I also got my freedom. This time instead of breaking up and hurting and waiting for another round to launch, I didn’t feel anything. Not really, not like before. Not hurt or anger or ill-will but just peace. I had discovered that mythical state of closure.

I can’t help but think about that closure this morning and of all the great things that came out of that break-up. It was like relationship swag, a parting gift for the road. Hasta la vesta drama and hello great new friends, a new outlook on relationships and a whole new angle to write about.

I think maybe I drank the happiness cool-aid as the ball dropped, because when I finally pealed myself off the coach to pick up my girl-friend and drive her to her car, which she had stashed a few blocks from his home last night, I stopped to send him a silent thank you, not for the time we spent together, that he knew, but for letting me go.

This year, who knows, I might just take a little break from the fast - it is starting to feel like it is time - and I know that none of my future romantic happiness, which will find me when it is good and ready, would be the same if it was not for all of the trials that came before.

So I am thankful. And ready to stop listening to quite so much country music.

New Year’s voodoo magic

2009-12-31T10:38:00.000-06:00

As a kid I was rather superstitious. Not like ghosts and curses, though I’d be damned if I engaged in a Wiji board or played Bloody Mary. I tended to look at the world through signs which would be there to indicate whether it was to be a good day or just an excuse for me to stay buried beneath my blankets.

According to this logic, 2009 should have sucked. There were break-ups of both the romantic and friend variety, career rejections and disappointments, shootings, lay-offs and tragedy, not to mention a regularity to my life, which at any other time would directly equate to monotony and angst.

If I was watching the signs, I would have taken spending five hours on the morning of New Year’s eve as a sign that 2009 should be damned and 2010 didn’t look much better.

Luckily, I don’t see the signs anymore and despite how many Facebook comments I read about 2009 being the worst year ever, and I realize that for many it was, I just can’t help but feel truly blessed when I reflect on my good fortune.

It has been the best year of my life. I feel like beaming, despite the exhaustion and the cold and the ridiculous duress of the gregarious stranger who tried and tried to extricate my car from the snow, only to be sent flying on the ice from a lack of traction after he worked up a shower’s worth of sweat, which flowed from his brow into his eyes as he meekly apologized that he did not think there was anything more he could do to help.

My friend Meagan and I have been talking a lot about PTC or present time consciousness. I think it is a term she picked up at some life coaching seminar. I think it just equates to being in the here and now. I told her that in 2009 I kicked the shit out of my goals. I had written them down and crossed them off, but I didn’t dwell in the future, as has been my tendency, instead reveling in the here and now. For that reason I don’t feel like I can take total credit for being a goal completing bad-ass. The universe played its part.

Okay, maybe part of me still is a little superstitious. Maybe it has just been a shift in the way I access that all that voodoo. No more looking for signs on why the world is out to get me. Instead I am putting my hopes and dreams for the future out into the universe and working hard to be open into the opportunities of life as they present themselves, taking stock in the fact that the signs from the universe are not in the annoying obstacles of life, like a car being beached on a block of ice but in the strangers that are willing to come from nowhere in an attempt to help you out.

I hope 2010 offers us all the opportunity to find our perspective and those moments that show us how blessed we really are.

The anatomy of a crush

2009-12-30T11:33:00.001-06:00

“So you didn’t finish telling me about the crush,” V said while downing the great last meal - buffalo chicken wings, waffle fries and PBR, our last weekly ritual before two months without my NSGGBF.

“Oh, I am over it.”

“But it just started last night and you were all up in arms about it.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t crush that often and when I do it is usually very short lived.”

“The life span of a fruit fly?”

I would have said that of a lighting bug locked in a mason jar without air or escape but that is just me and maybe that says too much.

It is true though that crushing has really never been my thing, not in the traditional sense. Typically I get an idea about someone, vet them through my mental gauntlet and by the end of their thirty second run in my brain they are decapitated.

I suppose it is not as gory as it sounds but it is as rigorous. As quickly as I can become intrigued by someone I can find a reason to get un-intrigued. I realize this is sick and something I should probably address with my therapist if my work ever changes back our insurances to something that would make it affordable.

I ponder, my hamster doing a fifty yard dash on the wheel in my brain, “Would they fit in with my family, could I have a conversation with them about art, have they ever voted for a Bush?”

There are far more shallow lines of questioning like could I ever see myself attacking a plate of Buffalo wings in front of this person or making the type of perverse jokes that makes V say, “This is why you are a way better friend than you are a girlfriend.”

This goes on as long as it needs to, which sometimes is no longer than it takes a pretty blue-eyed boy to ask me how tall I am.

If on the rare occasion someone makes it through this mental scouring, then it is just a waiting game. I sleep on it. See if it is there in the morning. I figure if it is, then I will be forced to deal with it and dealing will most likely require a palette of make-up and wax for more of my body than should be legal. Luckily, it doesn’t get that far too often.

On this occasion it lasted a whole 48 hours. V was disturbed. I was unimpressed.

Crushing is one of those things in life that just doesn’t happen that often. It requires a certain level of anonymity, of mystery. Not like being friends with someone and slowly developing feelings, at least not in my definition. It just pops up out of no where like a chemical reaction. I fear I have to know people a little better to even notice they are alive - something I suppose I should also discuss with my shrink.

It was entertaining, however, despite being short lived. I can’t remember the last time I had an actual crush...high school, I think. It was a fun ride, one that has left me cheering, “Again, again!”

Holidays Survived

2009-12-28T23:19:00.002-06:00

All in all, the holidays had little to no fall out. No tears were shed. Damage to my vehicle was minimal. In an unprecedented occurrence, a six day stay with the family did not involve a single hang-over and bed times were, on average, no later than 11:00p.m. central standard time.

I was slightly delusional from the constant influx of Alka-Seltzer into my system but I suppose that was better for me that some other self-medicating options.

I was worried the break would be too short. It was just long enough. I even made it to church - kind of.

I did manage to get one slightly inappropriate Christmas gift and one that only appeared to be inappropriate at first glance, though it turned out to be innocent and addictive.

I ate too much and worked too much for a vacation but the two somehow evened each other out. Many movies were watched and books on CD listened to.

There were lots of hugs, though there is always room for more of those.

The holidays came and went without much brew-ha-ha, which was just fine by me. There will be plenty of that in the coming month.

I will be glad to usher in the new year, thankful for all the blessings I had in this one.

Now I am sleepy, tucked in my bed, without any sugar plums dancing in my head, ready to settle in for a long, "the holidays are over", nap.

Country Girl

2009-12-22T09:57:00.001-06:00

You know that expression, "You can take a girl out of the country but you can't take the country out of the girl." Well, I get that it isn't supposed to be literal but I am beginning to think that the breadth of the metaphor spreads wider than I originally believed.

Growing up I spent a lot of time with my grandparents on their farm. I was the consummate city girl, afraid to get dirt, afraid to climb trees and yet there I was about as rough and tumble as I ever could be.

I still remember chasing frogs with my cousins and capturing them in a two gallon paint tub. I definitely didn't touch the frogs but I went along for the ride.

I think the older I get, the more my country roots start to infuse my city girl sensibilities. I am no longer afraid to get dirty, I might rank fishing amongst my favorite new past times and there might be nothing more peaceful than hiking along a gravel road at sunset, listening to the sounds of cicadas and the wind blowing off the corn fields.

Spending time in the country has always held deeper meaning for me. In retrospect, I didn't spend as much time with my grandparents as I would have liked and while we might hold seriously diverging political views gramps and I can always bond over the topic of love.

Grandpa has been trying to convince me that I need a country boy for I don't know how long. More specifically he has told me I need to find me a man who will go out and catch me a fish and bring it home for me to clean and cook up in a pan. I am pretty sure I told him something like, "Grandpa the chances of me cooking anything are pretty slim and if a man brings a fish into my home, he can clean it his own damn self."

I often wonder how much of what he says my grandfather actually believes and how much of it is just to drive me crazy. The only area I never doubt his sincerity is when he talks about my grandmother.

Both my dad and step-father are pretty doting husbands but never in my life have I known anyone who loves their wife as much as my grandfather. It is hard to recount every time he told me how lucky he was or how amazing she is or how she is the beautiful young girl he married all those 50+ years ago. He still flirts with her and occasionally pinches her on the ass, which I must say is the most hilarious thing I have ever seen.

A couple of years ago, before I left for Russia, I took a special trip to go visit them. We went to a sheep festival – because what else would you do on a scorching hot August afternoon.

I was hoping that grandpa might have some advice for me, in my latest relationship debacle, advice a little more hardy than, "You need to find a man with dirt under his finger nails."

I turned on my video camera as grandpa sat down with a vanilla ice cream cone and probed, "Okay gramps, Whadda ya got?"

He pondered this a moment and then said, "Aww honey, I don't know. I just hope you can find someone as good as Mama, cause after all she is the best."

Again my apologies

2009-12-21T10:18:00.000-06:00

Seriously. It is difficult enough to lead a full and productive life without wearing yourself into the ground, let alone trying to find time to write about it.

I really appreciate that people read my blog. It would be pretty self-indulgent just to write it for myself and I forget that I have a certain level of obligation to get stuff up in a timely manner.

My friends and family, however, keep me reminding me of this.

"It has been 11 days since a new piece on the man fast. Sad face."

Damn those task masters.

I promise I have not abandoned the blogosphere. I just haven't been parked in front of my computer much lately.

Actually, I have been writing even more than usual on content for The Man Fast. It is just that the content has been for my show, The Man Fast, which will be held January 15-17 in the Crossroads. I guess I could post the musings here but then how could I encourage people to traipse out in the cold of mid-January to see me perform it live?

Not a neck

2009-12-20T12:59:00.001-06:00

My dad buys maps of every city I live in so I can call him if I get lost and need directions. My step-father bought me an ice scrapper and stashed it in my car. My god-father sat with me in the emergency room while I screamed from my reaction to the morphine. My grandpa will always be the man who rescued me from a tree when I got caught on a branch and was hanging by my underwear. My uncle called me every day during my stay at our family's cabin to make sure I was alive and our country neighbor came over in the middle of the night when I got the flue on the fireplace stuck and filled the house with smoke.

Some women have daddy issues and for a while I guess I thought I did too. But I have come to realize how very lucky and how very spoiled I have been by the father figures in my life.

The bar has been set high. I have been well taken care of and well loved.

These men, in addition to all my cousins and friends have made me a real champion of the opposite sex. Sure I may bash the ones who cyber stalk me or booty call me at two a.m. or never ever seem to learn tact, but really I have got to say, guys are pretty great. Different, mind-boggling, but great.

I think sometimes guys get a raw deal. It isn't an us against them situation. It is easy to just say "guys suck" every time one screws us over. But then I feel guilty. Maybe it is a Catholic thing, but I can't cast off the whole lot just cause of a few run-ins with Mr. Wrong.

This weekend I sang in my cousins wedding with two other great men in my life, young men, my cousins. I was so glad I had that opportunity to perform with them and share music, something has always played a large role in my family's life.

It was beautiful and a wonderful celebration of two people I love very much.

The only part of the wedding I didn't thoroughly enjoy was the sermon by the minister. It was the whole, "He is the head of the household. You are the submissive 'helper' thing." I guess he tried to rationalize it, misquoting Moonstruck (it is actually My Big Fat Greek Wedding, I think) "The man is the head of the house, but the woman... the woman is the neck and she can turn the head any way she wants."

I come from a family of strong-minded loud-mouthed women. Submissive really isn't in our DNA. The very suggestion of it tends to make some blood boil.

I could actually feel seething coming from my hippie cousin behind me and my godmother to my left. It was hard to swallow and no matter how many good intentioned men try to make that passage of the bible work for me, it is never going to happen.

Luckily, I feel like I have grown up in a family of men who get that, who understand what I believe the whole "head of household" thing to mean – men who take care of their families, love their wives and respect their communities. Men who tape car keys into my gas tank so I don't lock myself out of my car – which I did today leaving the hotel after the wedding today, with the car running.

They don't expect me to be a "helper to her husband". They have raised me to do fine on my own. Even I know how to dial a locksmith.

They are great men. Like my god father who leaned over to my cousin Maggie during the wedding and said, "Don't listen to him," they remind me everyday how many great men are out there and one day I might find one that won't mind marrying a head instead of a neck.

Just don't expect to hear that passage at my wedding.

Best Moment Ever

2009-12-18T13:14:00.000-06:00

I made my cousin a CD of his performance and played it for him on our drive to the wedding.

He said he had never heard himself before.

We listened to those three songs for an hour.

It was the best ride ever.

Hope for the Holidays

2009-12-18T13:12:00.000-06:00

Last night, a group of incredibly talented artists donated their time to participate in a fundraiser I put together for DeLaSalle Education Center.

I named the event Hope for the Holidays because that was really what it was supposed to be about, not the amount of money raised, which was nice enough to be a special surprise to some unsuspecting staff members, or the size of the audience, who though small was quite enthusiastic!

I just wanted to do something nice.

"Nice" The Midwest really has the market cornered on "Nice".

About a year and a half ago I moved to Kansas City. I had been traveling around for the better part of a year, without zip code, without direction. When I wound up back in the Midwest, I was shocked to find a city where people say hi to you on the street, where people offer assistance without agenda, where the faces of strangers were filled with kindness rather than cynicism.

Still I was lost. In October of 2007, I began working for DeLaSalle Education Center, near 39^th and Troost. After several years in the movie business, working for a non-profit was an adjustment. Still there are days when I find the culture of fundraising challenging, but almost instantly, however, I fell in love with our student, even from my cozy corner in the Development Department.

I worry about the students and the staff that works so hard to help them, particularly this year, in light of so many issues that have made the environment on the streets and in the lives of our young people even more tenuous.

I wanted to do something nice. I get these itches from time to time and I just have to do something, create something, more because it makes me feel like I have contributed to the world than out of true altruistic motives.

And I had recently met a couple of guys who wanted to give back too. The gallery owner offered us space and assistance, a unique take on the world and a few good laughs, and a dare-I-say unique Sangria recipe.

With one short facebook blast I was, with little effort, able to persuade some great local talent to perform. And they were amazing. And the stuck around until the very end, supporting each other and supporting me and DeLaSalle.

Despite what I got out of it, it wasn't supposed to be about me. I always feel a little weird promoting myself at shows I produce and so I wasn't going to perform but my aunt and uncle were running late and so I went on.

See, my cousin came up from Columbia to perform with a friend of his. He always plays music at our family functions and he is really, really talented. He had never performed for an audience before but for some reason when I asked him at Thanksgiving if he wanted to play in the show he said yes right away.

It was the best part of the whole night and I couldn't let my aunt and uncle miss it. He looked a little nervous but he did a fantastic job. A natural – a state I have had to spend the better part of my life trying to get to.

A recorded the whole thing and made CDs for him and his buddy. I hope they will continue performing.

I get these itches every now and again, feelings like I have to make something happen. I never know the why or when but the results are always amazing, even when they are collosall failures.

In one night I got to support my students and my colleagues, enjoy some amazing art and music, and watch someone that I have always believed in share his talent with a little bit bigger piece of the world than who had known it before.

It was a great night. And now I need a nap.

Diego? Dorita?

2009-12-18T00:06:00.000-06:00

My friends bought me a pinata for my event. Why? I have no idea.

But they said I needed one in my life. And then they said it looked like me. It too had a "badankadunk".

Then I was told that it is really a boy pinata. And now it is riding around in my friends car making photo ops all over the city. I am not sure which part of this is most distressing.

For the record, my ass is not that big...yet.

Holiday Feast

2009-12-15T19:45:00.000-06:00

The day Martha Stewart went to jail was one of the most hopeful in my young life. A little Shadenfreude, I know, but with Martha in the slammer the world was left with room for another domestic goddess.

Now I never claimed to have interest in all that Martha could do. You won’t hear me saying, “It’s a good thing” over a pile of dirty dishes or laundry but I have always been quite crafty and taken pride in being the consummate hostess - a trait I acquired from my mother.

So when it come time to plan the holiday get together with the girls, I insisted on hosting the event, mainly so I could use my Christmas dishes that my mother gave me, which I have shlepped all across this great country only to use once.

I had chargers and tapered candles around my center piece, a table runner and a five course meal, which I described in artfully decorated menus, which I accidentally left sitting on my desk at work.

Truthfully there is a reason why women like me have a hard time being comfortable with a simple potluck and it is not just the OCD. It is the need for praise and validation. For someone to gush over the homemade christmas ornaments filled with perfectly even numbers of red and silver gems.

During the holiday season, it is easy to feel lonely, to be overwhelmed by the pressures to give and do and be the best. To fret over not living out the story of a Christmas made-for-TV movie.

But in my crowded apartment, with my friends, who also seemed worn from the season, I found my little piece of peace, listening to them lament over work and life and family, hugging them, watching them wipe away their tears, trusting them enough to let them into my not so perfect world and hoping they will like me just the same.

In the end I put far too much Cayan in the shrimp and my gravy boat didn't match and Trish brought out the not so fancy wine glasses, for which I chastised her immediately. Martha would have been disgusted at my paper napkins but I bet we had more fun than she did knitting that damn poncho and I can't wait to do it again ... in another year.

The Jury is Deadlocked

2009-12-12T16:38:00.001-06:00

A few days ago I posted a simple question, "How young is too young?" You would have thought I opened up the world's greatest political debate.

I had responses coming in from all directions. Comments on my blog, text messages from my friends, vehement instructions from my mother and a few good jokes from my dad.

"How young is too young?" I asked V.

"In what context?" he replied. "I have a sliding scale. I think 10 years total. My measurement is 3 years older 7 years younger."

"I think I would have to reverse that."

"Oh yea...you're a girl."

"Well you only say that so you can date toddlers, you perv."

"23 is not toddler...19 is toddler..."

"Umm… 23 thinks Uggs are still acceptable and has a sorostitute tattoo on her ass. 23 is not acceptable - not when you are 30. Whore."

"You would date a guy 7 years older right?

"Probably not."

"Damn. Well the fact that I would date a 23 year old...doesn't mean a 23 year old would date me..."

"Sure, she would. She is a slut."

"Then we wouldn't be dating... We would be extra friendly all the time."

"Yuck."

Later I asked one of my best girlfriends T, "How young is too young to date?"

"Huh?"

"For me. How young?"

"21."

"Seriously? Then when does it start to get pervy?"

"18"

"Ewww!

"18-20 is too young."

"I AM 27!!!"

"Yep. 21 would be the youngest, I think."

"Eww."

"Why?"

"I am freaking out about a 24 year old."

At which point T started to die with laughter. "That is only a few years. That is just silly."

"Seriously. 24 is too young. I fell like a pedophile."

When I told my mom the story her first reaction was, "Oh, Lyndsey! Noooo." And then my Dad ridiculed me for making a big deal over a three year difference.

All in all I am probably going to have to pass, although age is the last of the reasons why. Really it was just interesting to hear the different opinions on the topic. It makes me wonder what other great info I could probe out of prospective readers.

Here is one: How soon is too soon? I'll let you fill in the blanks.

Tier Two

2009-12-11T17:06:00.000-06:00

It is Friday night. Imagine, I have single handedly killed an IMO's pizza and I am in my pants – the stretchy ones that are reserved for special bouts of gluttony and exhaustion.

I was supposed to be attending a girls night out with a group in Kansas but when the host bailed I decided it was acceptable for me to morph into a sloth and do nothing but watch crap TV on Hulu.

Meagan disagreed. I think it is quite possible that only she could have stripped me of my pants at that moment. She bribed me by offering to drive downtown and pick me up.

We decided to go to JP's, a wine bar that gets far too much of my money and where I could have easily worn my pants under the cloak of dim amber lighting.

I opted instead to squeeze into jeans, though I thought better of it as I perched myself at the high top quite aware of the hip chub spillage.

Meagan ordered a meal far healthier than the pizza I devoured and we split a bottle of wine. Even the thought of taking a bite of her hummus made me want to gag. I had far exceeded my intake limit for the evening.

We sat there in the dark for the better part of the evening, talking about life and love – or rather the absence of it, about my poor posture and the wrongs of the health care system.

We whispered each time creepy guy waiter, lingered far too long and far too close as he poured our Malbec. I swear he serves me every time I go there and every time I leave I have expect to find a note made out of cut out letters from magazines to be shoved in my purse with an ominous threat that soon he will be coming to get me.

Meagan and I talked about the tiers of friendship.

"You're tier two – no, offense," she said.

"None taken."

It is much funnier coming from her.

I love that we share a common understanding that relationships take time to develop and become fully realized. Just because you like someone doesn't mean you are going to automatically go out and get BFFs for Life tattooed to your buttocks. Still I like her quite a bit and any woman who could get me out of my pants definitely has a shot to move past tier two.

Real Winter

2009-12-10T22:45:00.002-06:00

I have been so cranky about the cold. I lost my ice scrapper and had to use a cd case. Four men, who were supposed to be salting the street stood around laughing at me as I pranced around in my heals. I asked them if they had one I could borrow and they all shrugged and said no and continued to watch me laughing.

I wanted to tell them to help or get the hell away from me. I hadn't had my coffee yet. They were lucky I wasn't lethal.

I have been cranky but then today I remembered that for a while I lived in what felt like the coldest place on Earth. In Russia, we walked around in snow, on unsalted, ice-covered cobblestone streets in below freezing temperatures - every. single. day. And we didn't think anything of it. It just was the way it was.

So today as I walked up the five measly steps outside my office building muttering, "Balls! It is cold," my favorite unladylike expression as of late, I remembered this image and said -

"You Pansy Americanski!"

Hmm...

2009-12-10T15:23:00.000-06:00

So how young is too young? Just askin.

I Caved

2009-12-09T16:51:00.000-06:00

I had a moment of weakness. Maybe it was the cold or the long walk in the snow. Maybe it was the exhaustion and the ass pain from boxing class. Maybe it was the "White Irishman" I whipped up from a recipe on a friend's facebook page. Regardless, somewhere in the midst of IMing my friend from the bathtub, I caved.

"T, seriously, I need to go on a date. I will fly to Chicago. I need material."

"You going to date me?"

"No, my date needs a penis."

"Nice. Is there no one in KC?"

"It is like death valley here. Oh god, I think the White Irishman went to my head."

"Oww."

"Yep."

"Don't you have to get up early tomorrow? So why not men there? They can be found in interesting places."

"Married. Gay."

This transaction, my friends, is what I refer to as the dark scary place. Oh, how sad it is! Clearly I am all talk. You throw the right combination of snow, steam and cozy drinks and I am as desperate as the next gal.

The thing I think that is most sad about my moment of weakness was not that I suddenly wanted a date but that I wanted a date because I was bored and looking for writing material.

I can just hear my mother now. "LYnnnSaaaaY!"

So much for class. Not that I really overflowed with it to begin with.

My friend Amanda has a blog, although it is very hush hush. She sent me an entry once that I think kind of summed up the situation. She described her need for a man as completely circumstantial.

"I was opening a can of salsa today and finding the task to be obnoxiously more difficult than necessary…Can't a girl just have some salsa when she wants it?!?! It would be for my convenience in moments like this to have a man living in my home." Amanda talked about how she once longed for a man until it hurt. And then she, like so many of the incredible women I know, came to the conclusion that she didn't need a man. She is happy in her own skin and while she would love to find her soul mate, "I won't settle because I'm afraid to be alone, worried that I'm incomplete, or achingly lonely." My favorite part of her blog was when she said:

"So tomorrow when I have to get out of the car and pump my own gas, open my own door, and drive myself into the City, I might wish for a man to help out, but I won't need one and I won't feel sorry for myself if the white horse doesn't show up. Tomorrow I'll find my joy in who I've become and the life I've been allowed to live. If someday a man has enough courage to take me on then we'll hang Christmas lights together, argue fiercely, and make out often. Life is a gift and I am determined to live in every precious moment."

So tomorrow when I wake up with out a date planned in my immediate future, I will thank the stars for my lucky life and go living it. No need to look for material. It seems to find me wherever I go.

The Storm

2009-12-08T22:32:00.003-06:00

There was a while, and I won't define the duration of "a while" as it is far too embarrassing, that the thought of him caused me physical pain. The 'him' in this story doesn't really matter - he is not the point.

The pain, the ache, it lived with me and it was as if it was my companion. I have written at length about life after the pain but on nights like tonight,walking in the falling snow, I almost miss it.

I know that sounds a little masochistic but the ache kept me company and now, well now it is just quiet.

I am happy, as close to content as I have ever known, but sometimes it is so quiet I just want to scream and throw things just to feel the echo in my heart.

I don't miss the 'him' in this story, not really, not enough to venture down that road, but sometimes I miss the storm.

Thank you

2009-12-08T22:19:00.002-06:00

Sometimes blogging makes me want to cry. Seriously.

I check the stupid google analytics thing or I read the comments that people leave and I feel, well, loved.

Is that dumb?

There are these people I have never met, who I probably wouldn't recognize in line at the grocery store, who are encouraging my dreams and reminding me to believe in myself.

It is pretty freaking ridiculous if you think about it.

I am blessed. It is snowing. And my world, with all its flaws and imperfections is beautiful.

Let us all be this lucky.

Aww

2009-12-07T22:52:00.001-06:00

So V is sitting here bitching, "Seriously, at this point it is just for show. Just get me a frame for Christmas. Cause at this point that is all it is good for."

Change

2009-12-06T13:48:00.000-06:00

We were walking up the hill along side dark store fronts and upon a broken and uneven sidewalk that could have easily sent me falling on my face.

I leaned into him and put my hands in his coat pocket for warmth. I believe at that point I had given him back his mittens on principle. No straight man wears mittens – especially monogrammed ones.

I laced my arm through his to keep the world from spinning. The Schlitz and the Alka-Seltzer and the heat of the gallery had been too much and I had started to feel faint. I needed fresh air despite the fact that this, the first real night of winter cold, made it hard to breathe.

We trudged up the hill and I burrowed my cheek into his shoulder. This would be over soon, this acceptable intimacy, this phase of friendship that was just that – friendship - but held the added perk of being able to hold hands and hug and call each other "shmoopie".

My good friend regularly refers to life as an inevitable constant. I think that is what makes living beautiful, the change, the birth, the restoration and renewal. Knowing on days when it feels as though your heart hurts so much, that no one in the world has ever felt that kind of pain, that with each breath, each fraction of a moment, life is moving you one step closer to healing and letting go.

Nothing lasts forever but rather there is growth and there is fading away. I don't believe that one is necessarily better than the other. Our hearts just move like ocean waves, impossible to remain unmoving.

I feel so very fortunate to have had relationships throughout my life that make me believe in the quality of men and women. Somewhere along the way I became okay knowing that not all of these relationships would last forever. We change and flow from one phase of our lives to the next – one companion to the next.

The hope, I suppose, is that you find one, at the very least, that lasts a life-time but I am sure even in those cases no one party is the same at the beginning of the journey as they are at the end.

So as we walked up the hill and I clung to him for warmth, I joked that soon this would be over. Soon – god willing, he will find someone to be his pair for life and then she will have exclusive rights to his pocket. Just as it should be.

"One day you'll find a girl-friend and I won't get to cuddle with you anymore."

"Thank god. Geez, your cuddling could be cock blocking me right now."

I hate stuff

2009-12-05T21:09:00.000-06:00

I hate stuff. I have an apartment full of stuff and sometimes I wish the place would just burn to the ground so I could be free of it all I have spent thousands of dollars shipping my stuff from one side of the country to the other and really, at the end of the day, I would be just fine without any of it.

"You can't take it with you" and whatnot.

And yet, when my Christmas tree fell down last night, shattering all my childhood ornaments, I felt an undeniable need to make it right. Thank you EBAY.

Broken ornaments replaced and for one month a year I can pretend they are the same.

Stuff - to be boxed up and shoved in the back of my dusty closet, or to sit in plain sight, unneeded and unappreciated.

Just me and my stuff.