Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Existentialism: A Menopausal Stoner preliminary discussion

Existentialism, as a philosophy, came into my life in tenth grade at Spring High School outside of Houston, Texas. We didn't spend much time on it. I can't remember reading anything on the subject, although I'm sure we must have since it was English class.

A tenth grade moment I will never forget came when my buddy Greg and I were smoking weed in his garage while his parents were out. We were having a fine time passing a reefer between us when the garage door unexpectedly started to open. Fortunately automatic garage door openers had been invented by then, so his parents were still in their brown station wagon. In a frantic attempt to cover our activities, Greg jumped up, cranked on the lawn mower and began driving it in circles around the empty garage. He only pushing the lawn mower when his parents got out of the car to ask, "What the hell are you doing?"

The beauty of these kinds of moments is that parents always generally so stunned by their children's stupidity that the idea we're on drugs doesn't come up for another week or two. That may be why I figured I should go ahead and give up pretending I don't know Velvet smokes weed. No drastic covert measures to over up the activity. I have had to reprimand him for leaving paraphernalia on the coffee table since it compromises my position of plausible deniability.

But we were discussing existentialism in philosophical terms like Being and Nothingness.

The way I understood existentialism in tenth grade is that Life itself has no inherent meaning, whether or not there is a God is irrelevant, and we may as well have a good time as long as we're stuck here. More importantly, though, is the idea that if anyone - human or alien life form - in the future looks back on your time, you better have done something to prove you exist or you were never here at all.

Let's assume that since Jean-Paul Sartre and all them wrote volumes on the topic, there is a lot more involved in Existentialism than my limited understanding. Nevertheless, this understanding has guided me through most of my life, especially the Have a Good Time part. It goes hand in hand with my idea of ethics:

Party on, Dudes. Be Excellent to Each Other.

Note George Carlin in the still from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure (above). Since he's grave yard dead, he's a perfect example of Existentialism. The other day I was reading an interview with George Carlin in Psychology Today. He mentions that Richard Dawkins, the biologist who writes on science, God, etc., referenced him for a chapter heading. Carlin says, "When you're a drop out and the culture accepts you and begins to quote you and teach your stuff in class and text books . . . there's a little feather in my cap" (PT, Oct 2008).

No doubt about it: George Carlin existed.

I'm not saying that we all have to exist as visibly as George Carlin, or any other famous person, in order to prove we were here. I felt safe as soon as I signed in to vote for the first time because my signature was in that gigantic book. From that moment on, I felt free to have a hell of a good time.

The point is that we all have to decide what constitutes "existence" for ourselves. It's kind of like Freud saying a person can't be happy without meaningful work and meaningful relationships. Each individual may have different definitions of Meaning for him/herself, but if someone is focused purely on his/her own financial and personal gain, they suck in my opinion.

We should all be working to make the world a better place. Granted we may have different ideas on what a better place is. Like John McCain thinks it would be a better place if there were troops in Iraq until we "win" which sounded remarkably like Richard Nixon talking during the Vietnam war. Did anyone else notice just how much he sounded like Richard Nixon? Same shit different day - if we don't win in Iraq, there will be Taliban everywhere. Just like if we don't win in Vietnam, there will be communists all over the place. Has anyone forgotten that Henry Kissinger was up to his ass in Vietnam and now John McCain is calling him an advisor and a friend?

But I digress. I'm thinking it's a good time to read The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvior. I haven't read anything of hers, and it's likely she was even smarter that Sartre just like Zelda was, according to some biographers, more talented than F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Patricia and The Narcissists

Allow me to say again that the reason certain aspects of my little life have a place in Blogland is that if something is going on with me, tons of other people are going through/have been through the same shit. As it happened, that realization was one of the great lessons of going to the University of Texas at Austin with 48,000 other students. Sad but true: You are never unique.

I've been contemplating how relationships develop sexually. Granted, I was married nearly all of my adult life, so my experience in this area is somewhat limited. But anytime I've been out with a fellow that I was interested in having more than one drink with - which is about half the time - the man was making a pass at me fairly soon. I always thought it had something to do with the knockers, but I'm wondering if there's something a woman does - like sending a psychokinetic signal - that lets a man know she's attracted to him so he will make a move. Or maybe some men take the time to know a woman first, and I was simply never involved with one of those.

I've been involved with three men (sort of four) since I started trying to get divorced. Every case was me repeating an unfortunate pattern with Emotionally Unavailable Men. Those three were all, in a word, Narcissists. As it happens, the fourth is a Recovering Narcissist who has spent some productive time in therapy over the last year or two, which is why I still speak to him. Actually, if you count Cretin Vodka's theatrical crush on me, we could number the narcissists at five.

It's not that I go for a physical type who is so attractive that I fail to notice a man's obvious character flaws. I seek out the damn flaws. Hell, one of the Narcissists had the biggest butt I ever saw on a man. His butt was so big we called him Double Wide. For sure I'm not attracted to their looks. I'm attracted to them because they are Selfish, Arrogant, Condescending Jack-Asses convinced they are Entitled to have Everything their Own Way because They Know Best and are Always Right.

For the record, Buzz Kill is not a narcissist, or even bossy, condescending, etc. He is secretive as a way of maintaining financial control, and at the time he had severe intimacy troubles because he was so cut off from his own feelings that he needed me to process his anger at his mother for him since it was too scary for him to admit he got mad at her - but he is not a narcissist. He is fully passive-aggressive, so it's like the Narcissists are an intensification of my previously established pattern.

Not surprisingly, I don't want to jump into another heartbreaking relationship. Consequently, last night I was examining the pattern in an attempt to avoid another repeat, googling for information, insight and hope. Since my search criteria included the word "narcissism," the first thing returned by Google had this blurb:

Voicelessness: Narcissism Narcissism is a misnomer. At their core narcissists don't love themselves -- in fact their self barely exists, and what part does exist is deemed worthless. All energy is devoted to inflating the self...

I quickly followed the link and found myself at Voicelessness and Emotional Survival. As someone who realized only about four years ago that she had a right to exist on the planet, the idea of voicelessness is compelling.
What interested me most on this website was an article titled, "Why Do Some People Choose One Bad Relationship After Another?"

People who have not been given "voice" in childhood have the lifelong task of repairing the "self." This is an endless construction project with major cost overruns (much like the "Big Dig" in Boston). Much of this repair work involves getting people to "hear" and experience them, for only then do they have value, "place," and a sense of importance. However, not just any audience will do. The observer and critic must be important and powerful, or else they will hold no sway in the world. Who are the most important and powerful people to a child? Parents. Who must a person pick as audience to help rebuild the self? People as powerful as parents. Who, typically, is more than willing to play the role of power broker in a relationship, doling out "voice" only insofar as it suits him/her? A narcissist, "voice hog," or otherwise oblivious and neglectful person.

I have always known the pattern had something to do with a corrective experience, but I hadn't looked at it in terms of an Existential issue. It's probably a good thing to explore the nuances of existentialism with an Artist from the South of France.

In my heart, I can feel that I'm not looking for someone to complete me. There is no "Missing Piece." I can also feel that the pattern is broken. Right now, I'm going to take some time off from Romance and Relationships - maybe even a whole week - to ponder my own Existence and Identity. The last time I took up the Identity Project, I read Sartre and Descarte and made a list of my attributes:

  1. I am a woman who wears comfortable shoes and
  2. I meet deadlines.
Hopefully this time around, I'll come up with a better list.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Of Boogie Men, Independence and Tashlich

There are boogie men in the dark sometimes.
Scary stuff, tragedies, ancient wounds, current anxieties, worries and despair, etc. They haunt an individual as she lies awake at night. To escape these Boogie Men, people create their own personal Ambiens.

My own boogie men (feeling like I have to struggle to assert my right to exist on the planet because I'm fundamentally Unlovable and Not Good Enough) have been calmed by Romantic Fantasy. Specifically, I have a pattern of becoming involved with emotionally unavailable men in the search for a corrective experience. The concept, which until recently was pretty unconscious, was that if I could have an emotional impact on a dunderhead (short hand for self-absorbed, ego driven individual with no capacity for empathy) then I was finally strong enough in and of myself to overcome troubles in the past. If the Dunderhead of the moment would just Love me, then I would be Healed.

Since the Dunderhead was incapable of loving me for whatever his personal reason, I would never be healed. Doomed to repeat the pattern as surely as Sisyphus. Everyone knows that kind of strength and healing come from within - but there's something compelling about the exterior cure.

As previously mentioned, recent developments have empowered me to snuggle under my covers and relax without resorting to Romantic Fantasies about Dunderheads and exterior cures.

I'm pondering Romantic Fantasy as Ambien since it looks like something may develop with the Artist from the South of France. Most likely temporary since I'm determined to move back to Texas, but you never know how life will play out. Also most likely temporary since he's been married three times. Passionate, impulsive fellow, apparently, but I'm not so worried about that. I could use some impulsive passion these days, especially from someone who tells me I'm an amazing woman and virtually serenades me with his own compositions.

He sent me links to music he's written and uploaded onto the internet. It's lovely Electronica/Lounge Music which I've never listened to before, but that works for me because I kind of like the idea of a dalliance with someone who grew up in a tiny village between the Mediterranean and the Pyrenees, went to university in Paris, spent years as a painter in San Francisco and Venice, CA and then moved to New York - and still ponders the human soul.

As I drift off to sleep these days, not a bit afraid in the dark, I'm not dreaming of him. I'm thinking about my own self and what I want to accomplish this year. Even though I'm not Jewish, Rosh Hashanah has always seemed like New Year for me. First of all, the academic year has governed my world for my whole life. Then there is the Celtic element that starts counting the new year at Samhain (this year on Nov 7, I think).

One of my favorite traditions associated with Rosh Hashanah is Tashlich. It's when you toss bread crumbs into a river to symbolize your sins being carried away. I first adapted this tradition for my own purposes when my little family was staying in the Rebbe Mohammed McCrory's apartment because our apartment had burned up when the dish washer spontaneously combusted. We had already lived in a hotel for ten weeks while we were waiting and waiting for new windows. We were fixing to wait some more when the Rebbe went out of town for a month. We stayed at her place while she was gone then moved back into the hotel for more waiting. As soon as the windows were finally installed six weeks later, we moved home, but we couldn't afford to finish the kitchen for a couple more months during which the refrigerator was in the living room, we had no stove, and I washed dishes in the bathtub. As it happened, this episode was the beginning of the end of my marriage to Buzz Kill. But that's another story.

The pertinent point today is that the Rebbe has always been into Tashlich. I never went with her congregation down to the river, but I did start tossing pizza crumbs out the window that year and declaring myself free of the wish for The Ideal Mother. My own mom is okay - even if she is a castrating, double barrelled bitch. Some may find her intimidating, but every now and then, we should all be able to call upon that kind of strength.

This year, Tashlich falls on September 30. I'm not sure what I'll be tossing away this year - although I'll be making a vow to never ever be someone's Narcissistic Supply Source again. I understand what drove me to it: the culmination of me trying to have an impact on emotionally impervious people. Now I just have to find the phrase to whisper while the crumbs fly off on the night wind from my terrace. Being in tune with the Goddess, myself, I'll take the new moon on the 29th as an opportunity recognize and be grateful for the lesson learned - then bless it, release it and move on.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

How Many Narcissists Does it Take to Change a Lightbulb?

(a) Just one -- but he has to wait for the whole world to revolve around him.
(b) None at all -- he hires menials for work that's beneath him.

From How to Recognize a Narcissist
by Joanna M. Ashmun

Admittedly, there is a certain irony in pondering narcissism on a blog that is - almost exclusively - all about me. Narcissists generally believe their lives are infinitely more interesting, entertaining and filled with accomplishment than other people's when, in reality, their lives are pretty much like the lives of most everyone.

My life isn't all that different from anyone else's either. The difference between me and a narcissist is that human connections are established via the blog medium. When I read Kitty's blog, for example, and discover she went through a more extreme version of what I went through with an old boyfriend with her Ex, I get some wisdom from Kitty. Kitty lives across the ocean, and we're never likely to meet each other; but we're connected. Same with Comrade Kevin, The Great Triad and Gail of Know your "It's.", as well dissed and some others who comment regularly - not only on this blog but on Kitty' and Gail's and so on and so on and so on.

The connection between us is virtual, but it's a connection nevertheless. It's cool to find something in common with people who may never come out of blogland. That we all seem to be the kind of people who wrestle with our souls is what differentiates us from narcissists who are caught up in love/hate relationships with themselves.

In blogland, we search for other bloggers and establish connections of one kind or another. It may be that a certain egocentricity causes us to think we have enough to say to even start a blog. It also may be that there is something inside of us that needs to be voiced, and when given voice, those thoughts and feelings evoke something in the readers you never even expected to have. I certainly never expected to have living, breathing readers. Again, that's a human connection coming to life in the blogoshere.

There's a song we sing at the school where I teach. It's titled We all Sing with the Same Voice and originally comes from Sesame Street - which proves again that what's important to little kids is really important to us all.

My hair is black and red
My hair is yellow
My eyes are brown and green and blue
My name is Jack and Fred
My name's Amanda Sue
I'm called Kareem Abdul
My name is you

I live in southern France
I'm from a Texas ranch
I come from Mecca and Peru
I live across the street
In the mountains, on a beach
I come from everywhere
And my name is you

We all sing with the same voice
The same song, the same voice
We all sing with the same voice
And we sing in harmony

Sometimes I get mad and mean
Sometimes I feel happy
And when I want to cry, I do
When I'm by myself at night I hold my teddy tight
Until the morning light
My name is you

It goes on, but you get the point. I'm pretty sure that Narcissists don't.

Other Narcissist Posts:
Speaking as a Narcissistic Supply Source
Patricia and the Narcissist, Part II or Why I Obsessed on an Asshole
Patricia and the Narcissists

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Mother and Hurricane Ike

My parents, along with 2,000,000 other families, will be without power for at least two weeks. I can tell my mother is extremely distressed by this news and by the fact that every swimming pool that isn't already covered in water is going to turn into a massive mosquito breeding ground. The mosquitoes were bad in Houston before the hurricane, but they are going to suck big time now - and that's literally. Mosquito bites may not sound like a serious problem - but wait until people start getting Yellow Fever or Malaria or Encephalitis.

Anyway I can tell Mother is under extreme duress because when I was reading her the article about Sarah Palin in the NYTimes - which talked about how SP hired all her high school girlfriends to major state jobs and how SP had an assistant call a blogger to say "stop blogging right now!" - Mother cut me off. She said, "All this is very interesting, Patricia, and I thank you for keeping me informed about the real world, but we're in a mild state of panic here."

If mother is in a mild state of panic, we can all conclude everyone else is hysterical and will coming to Mother's house by happy hour looking for advice. So on top of all her own shit, mother has to have company. There will be Libertarians in the Living Room, unless it's so hot they sit in the front yard in lawn chairs. Can't sit in the back yard because of everyone's pools and the dang mosquitoes. Being Texas, someone in the government will certainly suspend the DDT ban and blast the joint. I still think I got my incurable auto-immune disease, Morphea Scleroderma, from running behind the DDT truck in Beaumont - but that's another story.
The good news is that there is no way the Libertarians can blame Hurricane Ike on Zionist Jews. The bad news is that the Evangelicals will all declare God is punishing the awful people next door and complain because their own property suffered in the process. The Preachers will remind them of the trials of Job; they'll all feel righteous and start hate mongering in the name of the Lord again.

When Mother won't discuss politics, you know it's trouble. They had phone service yesterday, but today they don't. The cell can be charged in the car. Luckily, both my brother and my father have fancy gadgets that allow them to connect to the internet via satelite and car batteries. It won't be long until my mother is reading Mahablog, Wonkette and The Burnt Orange Report in the drive way.

Fortunately, my parents live far enough inland so there was no flooding in their area. When you get pictures from hurricanes, you always see people looking at their destroyed homes - a concrete life in ruins. People get very attached to their stuff - and sometimes they have no money to start over. When half of New Orleans came to Houston after Katrina, Mother was angry because many people were critical of the hurricane refugees for not going about their business with a smile. Like they weren't shell shocked by having Life as We Know It completely washed away. Most people ignore the Shell Shock factor or, if they do recognize it they'll blame the victim for not having enough gumption to Look on the Bright Side and Count their Blessings.

The publicity and the news focuses on people and property, sometimes pets. They rarely show all the dead livestock floating around in the flood waters, bloated and stinking. They forget that water moccasins and swamp rats are swimming around in the water too. I'm not saying that people and their destroyed lives aren't - I'm saying it's worse than it looks in the photos.

Mother says everything on Bolivar peninsula is gone. When we were kids and our family lived in Galveston for a couple of years, we loved to ride the ferry between Galveston and Bolivar. We did it just for fun, but that ferry was the connection to the road to our grandparents in Beaumont. My sister was recently in Houston with her kids, and they went down to Galveston just to ride the ferry. It's much nicer now since there are many more environmental safeguards around the Houston Ship Channel and around off shore drilling - so the dolphins returned to the bay and would skip along beside the ferry. Whatever else happens in Galveston and Bolivar, the ferry will soon be running again and the dolphins will be there - I hope.

Granny the Ho had a house in Bolivar years ago. It got washed away in Hurricane Carla. Thank G*d her pink bathtub was still attached to the plumbing pipes because that's how she was able to find her lot. My mother, me and Vampie the Pekingese near Granny's beach house in Bolivar in August of 1960.

Imagine a pink bath tub flying in the air like a flag 10 feet off the ground. That was Granny, for sure. As you can see, back in those days, there wasn't much on Bolivar. There wasn't much of a town on Galveston either, but we still liked it when we lived there in 1966. We were especially intrigued by the notorious Balinese Ballroom, forever memorialized in the ZZ Top song. When searching for this photo, I discovered the Balinese was for sale. Bad timing.

My brother was born in Galveston, and now he's flying over the area taking pictures with the helicopter pilot he worked with during Katrina. **Side Note** My brother was part of the Dallas Morning News team that won a Pulitzer Prize for their work on Katrina. We're very proud of him. I would link to his work, but my secret identity would surely be compromised.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

McCain Palin

I know that the Sarah Palin issue is very important, but for the moment this is all I have to say:

Saturday, September 6, 2008

The Saga of The Wall Street Rock Star

The Wall Street Rock Star has changed his name and contacted me again. If somebody recognizes this man, I wish they'd tell me who the hell he really is:

His new name is Shakitking. Like Shake It Don't Bake It. I keep thinking it's Shataking like, "then he squatted down and Shat out a King." Perhaps posting the fellow's information on the blog is cruel and unusual treatment. After all, the man is minding his own business just trying to get laid. Sadly, the arrogance of the man is such that I just can't help it. Log onto Plenty of Fish and do a user search for Shakitking and you can see for yourself. Actually, I think you can do a Google search for Shakitking and get a link to his profile. I'd provide the link myself, but even I feel guilty about some things.

Rhet says that when I get bored, I should stop messing with people, go out to the airport, find some unattended boxes and poke them with sticks. He also says that I apparently forget that people are real, live human beings with feelings since I act like they are Extreme Sims.

There's no news besides Cindy McCain, a Barbie with a Face Lift, and Sarah Palin. That Sarah Palin makes me so aggitated I refuse to discuss her since apparently that's all Fox News and the Republican National Committee wants people to do anyway.

I do declare, though, that this round of internet dating is better than The Summer Boyfriend Reality Show.

Menopausal Stoner Review of Online Dating Sites:

  • Match - okay, but too expensive for what it is
  • Plenty of Fish - almost exactly like Match only Free
  • eHarmony - sucks and too expensive. The personality profile does give good information and it's free.
  • Perfectmatch - sucks, but if you wait about two weeks after your free registration, you can get it 65% off.
  • True - Meat Market, but you get a lot of response. Can't remember what it cost, but I know it wasn't cheap. Like $75 for three months. Also a lot of guys were overly concerned about photos. I was turned off. I did meet The Great Triad via True which counts for something. I still think it was a Fluke.
  • Ashley Madison - This site is for married people looking to hook up. Expensive for men but women can post for free. If anyone ever wants to see just how pathetic some men can be - post as a woman and watch what happens. Say you're about 43, white with an average build and looking to add a little spice to your dreary days at home all alone because your husband travels.

Plenty of Fish is filled with real people, gives you good personality tests, you can check who viewed you and IM if you feel like it. And it's free. WooHoo - That's Sims language for Fooling Around.

For my next trick, I'm going to do my best to fall for the Real Man and not his Potential. My only comfort is knowing that everyone makes the same mistakes I do.

Friday, September 5, 2008

Again, Not Surprisingly

I just responded to yet another message from the Wall Street Rock Star. He said that I was the one who started talking about sex. Here is what I said:

Your profile mentioned sex and I made a comment about that in my original correspondence. I don't have a problem with the way the conversation developed over the week. I have issues with some of the things you said, and not only in the sexy text. I was always skeptical because (1) it's entirely possible you got all the experience with women you referenced while you were married and (2) I have absolutely no reason to believe that you really closed your Plenty of Fish account because of me. You could easily have said the same thing to several women that very night.Everything I know about you I've learned via blackberry. It's an impersonal way to communicate, and can leave much room for misinterpretation. Nevertheless, I'm sticking with my instincts on this one.

It has occurred to me that he may be one of those Masters of the Universe who like to be told they are scum. I have a friend who used to make her living as a dominatrix and she made a nice bit of money off those guys. All she had to do was tell them their dicks were pathetic and stuff like that. My favorite thing she used to do involved one of those massage cushions you put behind your back in a chair:

When the guy had his pants around his ankles with a big old hard on, she'd toss one of these babies at him. I believe he had to lie down with this gadget on his wanker while she made ruthless comments about how worthless he was until he sprayed cum all over himself - which she also said was disgusting.

One night, when I was still married, she and I were having drinks and decided the only difference between a dominatrix and a pissed off, bitchy wife was the shoes. She said I'd make a great dominatrix with a little training. When I said I could never walk in those shoes, she replied, "You don't have to walk."

What if the Wall Street Rock Star, aka SensualKing (that was his name on Plenty of Fish - but his profile is gone now) is one of those guys? I always knew he was a jack ass. That's why I rattled his cage to begin with. But his profile said all this shit about how wicked smart he was and how his idea of a good time was drinks in Soho, dinner in Tribecca and a night cap in Little Italy that I couldn't resist sending a note saying that for all his big talk, it sounded like there was a hole in his soul.

Oh Well.


Here's his response:

too fucking weird

The font size in the actual message is larger. I suppose that's how your head explodes on a blackberry. Maybe he'll go onto my profile and say I'm a head case. Considering the source, I'd take it as a compliment. I'm glad I didn't go out with him.

Not Surprisingly

The Wall Street Rock Star cannot believe a little fat woman has blown him off. I've heard from him three times today as he struggles to get his head around the fact that I won't go out with him.

All I said (or wrote since he's another one of those businessmen with a blackberry who texts like crazy) is that from a few things he said during a sexy text exchange the other morning, I concluded he was egocentric and unpleasant. Now he's trying to convince me he's a GOOD person.

I knew this would happen. I'm bored of the 38 year old horn dog and I haven't even met him. There's a fellow I haven't met yet who is also originally from Texas, but he has a ranch out by Bandera and goes back and forth all the time. He's some kind of PhD Engineer. Could be a possibility. Then there is a mysterious fellow who lives on a lake some miles west of the city. Cute, articulate. And the one I'm definitely going out with Sunday who seems very nice from the two telephone conversations we've had.

Velvet is having friends over tonight. I would say that I don't know how my place got to be the party house, but I'm pretty sure it's because I think anyone who has to register for the selective service should be allowed to drink beer. Not my beer, of course, but I can hear the cans being opened at this very moment. Then there's the fact that they hot box the bathroom once I've gone to sleep so I can maintain my stance of plausible deniability.

No vomiting allowed and absolutely no more forgetting drunk girls in the bathroom. Jeez.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Amazing at it may seem

I have just declined to go out with the Wall Streeter. My heart is not in it.

Maybe I'm wrong, but the little contact I've had with him suggests he's entirely too impressed with himself. I'm also positive he fooled around on his wife. People can have their reasons for doing that, and maybe those reasons made sense at the time - but for me, there's a big fat red flag flying before I even get my nails done for the date.

I don't feel like fencing with some asshole over expensive appetizers at a trendy Tribeca restaurant. I feel like having burgers with one of my best girlfriends here in the neighborhood and not getting my nails done at all

There is a new guy anyway. We talked on the phone last night for a while; made each other laugh. He seems down to earth, as normal as anyone and has a good sense of humor. He was seeing someone for three years and their relationship fizzled out a couple of months ago, so he and I are similarly situated. We may do something simple on Sunday evening if he doesn't have his 16 year old daughter that day. His son just started college.

There's a big hole in my life because I'm sorely missing that old boyfried. I'm not sure I miss him nearly as much as I miss the man I wished he were. Either way though, I can't think about it without getting teary. I just don't feel like going out with some fool in a Rolex - unless he wears Lucchese boots.

When Velvet and I were touring Rice University in Houston, there was a kid from Austin in our group with his dad. Handsome fellow (the dad - the kid just looked like another scruffy high school guy), in a yellow button down and jeans. I didn't notice his watch, and I think he had on loafers. The point, though, is that he held open every single door for me. Actually, he not only held open the doors, he stood aside so I could get a bit ahead of him for the specific purpose of holding the door for me. After the third or fourth time, I blushed a little and said that up in New York City, men don't do that - which is why I'm moving back to Texas. He gently touched the small of my back and said something nice. He had the manners of a gentleman which is something you rarely see up here.

I want to go out with someone who isn't convinced that it's a foregone conclusion I'm going to jump into bed with him. Someone besides this Wall Street Rock Star - whatever that is.


Dissed asked which perfume I was thinking of wearing for my date with the Wall Streeter. It depends on the weather. If it's warmer, I'll definitely wear Muget du Bonheur by Caron

This fragrance is light but not too sweet and clingy like florals often are. I like to put a big drop on my finger and run it from the spot where my neck turns into my shoulder down to my cleavage. Like Coco Chanel said something like a woman should put her perfume where she wants to be kissed. Excellent advice.

If it's a bit cooler, my favorite is Musc Ravageur, a fragrance designed for Frederic Malle by Maurice Roucel. It's one of those best to spritz into the air then walk through it - but I do spray it directly into my hair.

Late to work!

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Oh Well

Turns out the Wall Streeter forgot which day was Thursday this week. He has tickets to the Giants season opener. It's just as well since now I can get my hair colored. I've put the horn dog off until after the weekend too.
It's probably all for the best because according to my Free Will Horoscope for the week starting tomorrow:

The governor of Minnesota has a wife who loves to go fishing. Tim Pawlenty told radio station WCCO that his wife Mary is smitten with the sport. She is genuinely driven to cast her bait into the lake in quest of the catch. "Now, if I could only get her to have sex with me," the governor added, suggesting that her passion for intimate union with him was not as pressing as her urge to fish. While I personally lean toward the position that eros is one of life's best gifts, I don't judge Mary harshly for her preference. Many people find that the most satisfying and useful way to express their libido is through some non-sexual activity. You may want to consider that possibility, at least in the coming days. It's the sublimation phase of your astrological cycle.

To me, it means what ever happens is clearly for the best and I need to slow down - just like Mustang Sally.

As it happens, we're only postponing the date until Friday night, which makes it substantially more likely that etchings could be involved. Given that the whole thing is left up to me, I can only try to follow my therapist's advice and not drink too much.

Just because it's never happened before, doesn't mean it's not possible - does it?

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Heavens to Betsy

I actually have a date with the Wall Streeter who looks like John John Kennedy.
On Thursday.
After 7:00 so I can come home and clean up from teaching preschool.

I wonder if I can lose 15 pounds by Thursday?
Oops! Too late.

The 39 year old Horn Dog attorney is hot on my tail, but he's definitely just a boy. This other one is a M-A-N, and I've been very provocative. He's seen this picture, though, so he knows what I look like.

It really is too bad a person can't lose 15 pounds in two days. Maybe I could with "Shit Yourself Thin" as per Anna Nicole Smith. The thing is that John John has closed his Plenty of Fish account, so he's trying to make it look to all the women he made dates with that he's not dating anyone but them. And there is the possibility that in real life, he looks like just another dark, tan, fit, wealthy golfer with an ex-wife taking him to the cleaners for being such a philanderer.

I tell you what: I am looking forward to hearing what this one has to say. As it happens, Velvet will be home since Buzz Kill will be out of town on business. I believe John John's primary residence is in Affluenza, NJ. He alleged that he spent Monday morning in the sun by his pool. Ergo: smooching is as far as this date is going. In the first place, there's no way I'm leaving Velvet home alone that long. Motherhood First - although being Velvet, he has already inquired into John John's potential as an "Uncle Beau." In truth, Velvet is rooting for the Man from San Antone, but that's a long term project. Secondly, I would never be on time for work if I went anywhere in NJ. I can't hardly make it on time right now, and I don't live a quarter mile away.

Dating can be exciting, but you never know when you're going out with a serial killer by accident. That's why I usually have set up a few safe calls throughout the evening with friends that I answer conspicuously. I confess there was a time during my scandalous past when, according to Rhet, if I disappeared Agatha Christie herself would have thrown up her hands in surrender. But that's in the book I'm supposed to be writing.

Jesus - what am I going to wear?
Thank goodness Rhet makes sure I have nice perfume so that even if I only have two decent outfits, I always smell nice. I'll never lose 15 pounds by Thursday if I keep eating the pasta that won't fit into the Tupperware when I'm cleaning up the kitchen. That's why smart girls chew sugarless gum when doing the dinner dishes: to prevent turning into a Human InSinkErator. Lord, I'm not going to be able to eat any snacks with the kids at school either. My BMI finally got into the Green Zone on the chart in my doctor's office so I'm no longer at risk just because my belly shakes like a bowl full of Jello when I laugh - just like Santa's in the night before Christmas.

I'm just glad to know from my reading on the internet that men are just as hung up on their bodies as women. And besides - John John probably has a squint or hair on his ears. Or just an arrogant attitude that makes me want to pour ice water in his lap . . .