New Year’s voodoo magic

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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...

So how young is too young? Just askin.

I Caved

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

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

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

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

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

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.

What the F?@%$# was I thinking?!?!?

Seriously. What the hell was I thinking?!

I have a little over a month to put together a show based on this blog - a blog that is clearly not gunning for any awards. I have to script, rehearse, film, edit, choreograph and market something that amounts to a glorified one-woman show and I have always kind of found one woman shows to be obnoxious.

It seemed like such a great idea when I booked the space...

And yet in the light of day, I kind of feel like a moron. I am not sure what I expect people to pay to hear. (And the paying part is kind of the point since the show is a fundraiser.)

I can be glib and snarky from the comfort of my living room in my sweat pants with the ripped out crotch, but on stage in front of - lets hope - seventy people I wonder what exactly it is they want to hear.

When I started thinking about doing this, I thought how fun it might be - excerpts from the blog dramatized with the flailing hand gestures that seem to accompany any good story I ever tell - like last night when the woman at the table next to us in the restaurant asked if my fizzy drink was some kind of chi-chi house cocktail. I told her it was Alkaseltzer and I liked the high when I mixed it with my beer.

These things happen all the time. Crazy interactions with strangers on the street that somehow just emphasize the fact that if you stop looking for a partner and start looking for a life, you never know what - and who - you might find.

I realize that I can sound completely full of shit. So holier than thou, in the land of dating, especially considering my youth (well, I say youth) and the monstrous mistakes I have made thus far.

Take Kansas City. I have moved to the worst city for singles in the country and I did it because I followed a guy...GASP.

Maybe that is not the full story but it was a factor. I got back from Russia and for the first time I was completely without ties. No relationships, no job, no address. And no direction.

I don't know that I ever experienced anything as scary as complete and total freedom.

My step-sister's youngest is just learning to walk and I was watching him over Thanksgiving thinking how that first step has to be the most terrifying. Everything after is a cake walk by comparison - but that first choice to pick up and plant your foot somewhere - in some direction, that is the hardest. Luckily as babies we have our instinct to guide us. We have yet to be molded into over-analytical fear-stricken robots.

So when I found out that my college boyfriend had moved to KC, I took it as a sign. I sign to make a choice towards something.

Obviously, that didn't work out - to which anyone with half a mind would say, duh - but it was the beginning of life built on choice toward rather than running away.

I think some people might disagree with me, that the choice not to date out of necessity is some kind of hiding but I think they would be wrong.

Writing and thinking about life defined from within has completely changed my perspective on partnership - because that is what relationships, all relationships have the opportunity to be.

I was about to write "should" there, as in "should be" but fuck it - what do I know? The less "shoulds" I tout the better.

But this still doesn't solve my problem of the show.

I have some great stories about blind dates gone terribly awry, nude modeling for seniors art classes, befriending an odd conglomeration of relationship misfits, and falling down - a lot.

I have some songs and musical numbers that don't involve dancing -lord knows that would require me to give everyone a refund - about love and loss and the development of cellulite.

And hopefully if all works out, I might just have some fun little video instillations the highlight it all.

Right now these are thoughts. Piles of post-it notes tacked up to my closet doors. Man, do I miss my cheap mirrored closet and large collection of dry erase markers.

I guess I need to get to work. And I hope to dear god people come.

Failure is fine but failure alone is no fun. Let's share the misery together shall we?