Transmissions and Transitions

This week my car AND my uterus required immediate attention. And so I got to thinking about the similarities and stresses involved with getting an indicator light on BOTH in the same week. I took a day off to take care of them--even though going to the mechanic and the OBGYN on the same day--is pretty much every gal's nightmare. It had to be done.

Let's take them one at a time. (And in order of least uncomfortable to write and/or read about.) First up--engine #1. I love my car--I don't have kids or pets--this is it. I'm a BMW woman. I love to drive fast. I take care of this car--wash it, watch where I park it, etc. I got already got one indicator light earlier this month--$500 for some pumps and hoses. So when this second indicator light came on blaring "service engine soon" I thought--okay, must need regular maintenance? I'll take it in next month--it was just in. I popped out the book with my maintenance records and as I paged through the car manual, I read that that light didn't mean "regular maintenance." It means--get yer expensive German car to the doctor quick--something is rotten in Dusseldorf. So I did.

When I went to pick up my baby at the mechanic's--I was trying to think positively. Or I was in total denial. I thought it was probably something like a gasket or whatever those control arm bushing things are. (See while I love to drive BMW's I know nothing about what makes them go vroom-vroom.) But as I walked up to Louis the mechanic,  it was as though everything suddenly switched to slow-mo. I heard him say "Looks like you're gonna need a new transmission"--but I thought if I keep smiling and don't get upset maybe he'll rephrase that with better news.

I said (with a smile) "Yeah, but it only has 76 thousand miles on it!" He ignored the smile--which by now had turned into a psychotic-looking smile with glazed-over eyes. "It could go out in two days, two months, or a year. My advice--sell it. Don't hit the pedal too hard so you don't get another check engine light and sell it."  I'm sorry? What did you just say? Is there any other way to drive a BMW--than to pound the
0-to-60-in-3-seconds-pedal to the floor? Sell it? Huh?

So there it was. My baby--named "Sterling Silver" by my little niece (she names my exes and my cars) was DOA. Or at least--not long for my world. I drove little Sterling home. Even rubbed it's dash--asking it to be good for me as we rode along at 24 mph. I came home and sat in a daze at how unbelievably crappy my luck has been lately. Financially--I really can't afford this right now. But really...WHAT ELSE???

An hour later, as I waited in the exam room for the new doctor (always searching for a new OB aren't we?) I thought about my car. I can't sell it knowing it's got a bad gut--I have a conscience. I still owe on it--more than it's worth anyway. I still love the car and have put so much into it? (door opens) GREAT. Time to get MY engine checked.

New doctor is nice. I'm always a little weirded out by male gynos--I ditched the last one (see previous post) who seemed ultra nervous and stood in the corner 5 feet from my vagina after the exam. But I may have hit the male OB jackpot on this one. HE'S GAY. I love that in the first few minutes of the exam he mentioned his "partner" and the two children they adopted from China. Both me and my uterus relaxed. No risk of the rogue perv male gyno.

But then the conversation turned to..."So let's talk about what we're going to do about those fibroids?" An earlier test revealed my barren womb wasn't entirely barren--it was giving birth to blobs. I give the poor thing an A for effort--for trying to do what it's supposed to do: not be empty. "I think you need to go on birth control pills until you go through menopause." I heard him saying this--but again--I had that same weird, hollow smile on my face as I did earlier in the day waiting for him to offer another option. Really? The pill? Leave it to my life to require birth control pills, when there's absolutely no birthing of any kind to control. Nor any pre-birthing action. Nada. Hollow hormones at work.

I walked out of there with my little prescription in hand. And my still-tagged BMW key in hand. Wondering if I should just drive the car and my problem uterus off a cliff? Or--lease a Mustang and slut it up? I came home and rounded out this day of intestinal upheaval by immediately going to Google. The news wasn't good. Yes it's possible for a BMW with only 77K on it to need a new transmission. I'm one of seven percent of BMW owners surveyed who fit that classification. You really can't make this shit or those odds up. That--and the search results revealed a rebuilt transmission will be a GM engine and cost 4K. Wow. Maybe taking some extra hormones will do me some good to balance out the fits of road rage I'm going to be experiencing in the near future as I drive my AstroBeemer?

When I Googled that--(hormones, not road rage) I was immediately faced with a laundry list of side effects--and for someone 48--including blood clots, bloating and acne. I stared at my computer screen, thinking the odds are slim those will happen to me--but then I remember the BMW survey--and the "slim odds" you'll need a new transmission at only 77K. So what do I do? I can't afford to fix it. Or buy a new one. I don't want blood clots. Or a rebuilt anything! And BTW--why is life so cruel--really, more acne? I didn't even use the damn thing? Can't I just cruise through menopause? Pedal to the metal? I'd happily take a uterus rebuilt by GM. Seriously. Those suckers come with a 6 year warranty--that'll take me into my 50's!

Looking under the hood is a good thing. If you know what's wrong--you can find solutions and fix it. I turned off the computer. I'll get a second opinion on the car--and my girlie parts. I popped the first pill--a little sad I don't have my committed boyfriend to have some committed fun with. (you knew that was coming.) And while I"m pretty sure I experienced about ten of the top 20 side effects that night--I'm trying to be fearless. I'm trying to let go. I'm trying to trust. Maybe it'll be good for me? Besides we're all driving on borrowed time. Right?

Therapy from Seat 5B

Are you a good flyer? If you are--I bet you're the type that hates it when someone nervous sits next to you and wants to talk the entire flight, huh? Well just pray you never have to sit next to me. Last weekend I traveled to Arizona for a contract gig. And no, I don't like to fly--but I especially don't like to fly when it's for a job. I can see risking your life for a lovely vacation--but for a daytime talk show? Not so much. But the economy being what it is--I'll do whatever it takes to pay for my used BMW. Including hurling my body through the sky in a tin can “driven” by someone I don't know.

I wish I could be like you. I get really worked up when I fly. Say what you want about not being in control—but I did know someone from college killed in a commercial plane crash. (rationalization) I"m not scared of terrorists either. But rather, the disgruntled mechanic who skips a step to get home to watch the Raiders. Regardless-- I have all my little rituals that I'm sure will keep me safe before, during and after the flight—which consists of the following + alcohol: 1. Aisle seat on the wing 2. tap the plane fuselage 3 times when I walk through the door and say "Fly good little plane" (I'm sure it listens) 3. I have to make eye contact with the pilot--even better if I can say hello (maybe he won't crash if he knows there's precious cargo back here?) 4. Once I'm seated I open up my little bag that goes on every flight with me. In it is a rosary a friend brought from Jerusalem , my Nana's angel pin and an affirmation for flying a friend gave me. I read the affirmation. I breathe. And I hold on to the bag (thereby holding on to the rosary for dear life!) And still the clenching, the gripping, eyes closed, tearing up commences.

This time however, as I went through my weirdness, a nice older woman sitting next to me saw my anxiety as the plane prepared for take off. She said "don't like to fly huh?" I said "Can you tell?" As the plane took off and my eyes started to well up (yes, it's uncontrollable) she said "Here hold my hand!" I needed a grandma's hand, so I took it. And it helped. A little. Once we're in the air, I'm usually okay--after the drink cart comes out, of course.

I offered to buy the nice lady who held my hand a glass of wine, but she refused. Said she was saving it for her visit to see her high school BFF. We did begin a lovely conversation that made the flight go by very quickly. She's 79. She's Portuguese. Her husband died last year. And she likes TV. (We got on that last topic after she asked me why I was flying to Phoenix .) "Oh I like those landscaping shows--especially the one with that cute man who walks up to people in the home depot and surprises them?" I smiled and said "I made that show." Her eyes lit up. "You did?!!" Suddenly she had a new BFF. And I liked it.

As we chatted, I realized this was one helluva strong woman. She told me how she lives alone on a mountain. Her husband died last year but “I wear a ready-alert 911 monitor around my neck. I accidentally hit it once and those cute firemen were there in a flash!” Before her husband died, she told me of how his leg had to be amputated. And how she had to fish him out of the pond when the ride-upon lawn mower he liked to ride-upon rolled into the water. Our conversation then turned to relationships. You had to know someone her age would toss out the “Are you married?” question. I told her "no" and how I had moved to the area for what I thought was going to eventually be a marriage. Lila—that’s her name, in case you were wondering—Lila told me about her daughter. Who is getting a divorce. “Relationships are hard. But you’re such a sweet, nice girl, I know you will meet someone again. Who wouldn’t want someone like you? You're part Portuguese and you listened to me ramble this whole trip!”

Huh. My eyes started to well up again. For the sweet sentiment, for the guy who gave that up--but also for the announcement “flight attendants prepare for landing.” I helped Lila get her bag down from the overhead compartment. I walked with her off the plane—wanting to make sure her friend was there to pick her up. But she said she had to stop and use the restroom-- and I had to get to my hotel and download questions I had to ask the “Minister on Meth” tomorrow. We said goodbye and I thanked her for getting me through the flight. An airport porter drove up on a little cart and asked if I wanted a lift to the baggage area. I said “no thank you, but there’s a delightful older woman in a blue coat --coming out of that bathroom in a few minutes, who could sure use a lift.”

I headed out and hailed a cab. My driver was an interesting Sikh gentleman who had to get directions himself, to the hotel I was staying in. We had an interesting conversation as I tried to steal a few glimpses of Arizona whizzing by. Preet, that’s his name—“with two E’s”, believes American women dress too sexy. “You wear your bra straps showing. Why do you do that? And you wonder why men want to rape you?” At this point—I’m wondering if my bra straps are showing, or if I’ll ever make it to the hotel. “How old are you?” he asks. I tell him that’s something American women don’t like to talk about if they’re old enough to show their bra straps. He laughed. We started talking about travel. (safe) Apparently Preet has been around the world—and not just on layovers b/w Mumbai and Phoenix. He and his brothers are quite famous Indian singers who have performed in Japan and Canada . He said he’d give me the link to his website. (of course, after I told him I was in AZ for a TV show) I asked him to sing for me, but he wouldn’t. We arrived at my hotel—45 minutes later—and just in time. Because at this point, he told me his age and asked me if I wanted to “maybe go out with him because his wife was staying in India?”

So far, it’s been an interesting trip. And to think, I almost said no because of my flight phobia! This IS the one thing I enjoy about traveling—the people you meet. So fear of flying be damned—I’m having a good old time. Maybe I’ll get my crew to take a picture of me standing next to a big cactus!?

The shoot the next day was okay. Long, but okay. As I mentioned, the topic-du-jour was “Minister on Meth.” It’s not easy to talk to people you don’t know and get them to spew their inner-most secrets under lights, in front of a camera, in a perfect complete sentence. But I do it. And I think I’m good at it because I care about people. And it shows. The Methister’s daughter got upset when I interviewed her and started crying. I told her to stop. Breathe. Take some water. At some point, I thought it was cruel to keep asking her to try and answer the same questions that were clearly upsetting her. As we wrapped up, I wished them luck on their road to recovery and said that somehow, this will be helping other people with addictions. Hopefully. Then I yelled out to the Meth family as I ran to the truck—“Say a prayer for me Pastor Brian! I don’t like to fly!” (figured I deserved that extra request—I didn't push their daughter to get the complete answers--even though it may mean no more shoots like this for Lynn.)
When I got to the airport with only twenty minutes to spare—I ran to the ticket counter—only to find out they gave away my seat. “You can’t do that the Dr. Blank Show already paid for my ticket?!!” They didn’t care. “Go to the gate and maybe they can get you on standby.” This is something a scardey cat flyer does NOT want to hear. It means—packed flight. Which typically adds to my freak-out. When I got there, they were asking if people would give up their ticket—“You can have a first class flight out tomorrow and we’ll put you in a hotel!” I thought, well that’s not a bad deal--and it won't be crowded! There’s a young man also waiting to get on tonight who told me he was trying to get to his Uncle’s funeral in the morning. “I’ll do it—if you can give my ticket to him—and take my bag off the plane?” “Oh sorry mam, you checked your bag at ticket counter. We can’t take it off.” BUT YOU GAVE AWAY MY TICKET!!!

At that point, I told the young man—"I’m sorry. I don’t even have a toothbrush." and walked down the jet way. I got the last seat. Almost too angry to be afraid—and too rushed to do my pre-flight rituals—I snapped at the flight attendant who welcomed me “I sure hope your flight crew is more organized than your ticketing crew.” She later brought me a big, free glass of wine “from first class, for your troubles.” Stuck in the middle again—I started to show “weenie flyer” signs as we hit some turbulence. The woman next to me this time around said “Nothing to be afraid of. Just some air.” We started chatting. She just came from Alabama —been flying all day—visiting her sister.

I told her about my ordeal at the ticket counter. And she told me about her day. Two flights and still a two hour drive with her husband once we land. She said her husband doesn't like to fly either. But that's not why he's not with her. Seems her son got a bad infection and ended up in intensive care. After five years in Iraq, he gets some weird, strange illness that almost kills him--at home. I didn't get dinner--because of the long shoot--so I opted for one of those ten buck "snack trays" of old crackers and older cheese. May (that's her name) told me she always travels with food. Especially since she started the chemo. WHAT? "But it's my last round this week--so I'm gonna party!"

What am I complaining about--almost missing my flight? Here's a woman who just did a year of chemo for breast cancer, with her only child in the hospital--smiling and talking and happy to be in the air or ANYWHERE for that matter. I asked her if she had a nice visit with her sister. She said she did. "It could have been for a better reason but--hey--at least we got to go shopping together!" I pushed a little further--like the good interviewer that I am--"I had to bury my mother."

I didn't feel the big drop the plane just took when we hit a little turbulence. May went on to tell me about her mother who became an alcoholic when her father died. She cared for her for many years--until she couldn't do it anymore--and shipped her out to her sister's neck of the woods. "I didn't get to see her. I talked to her though." In that moment, I thought of my own mom. And the similarities the two strong women I met mid-air have with her.

My mom is the strongest, most caring person I know. She cares for my sick dad with a smile on her face--always putting herself last on the list. But she's strong. She got her thyroid removed and was back home making dad sandwiches the next day. She listens to all four of her daughters cry about men, jobs, kids, dogs--and juggles them all while growing tomatoes and paying the bills and managing diabetes. I hope my mom gets to travel someday--like these two ladies. And I hope someone sitting next to her will talk to her and listen to her amazing life stories. I know for sure--she'll hold your hand.

This time I waited. I walked with May to the baggage floor--and lifted her suitcase off the carousel. We said goodbye--and as I waited for my bag--I called my mom to tell her I got home okay. It went to voicemail. I'm pretty sure she was talking to someone else. Caring for them, instead of going to bed. This week is her 70th birthday. And I can't wait to celebrate with her.

As I walked to my car--proud of the crazy journey I just made--proud that I flew--that I said yes to this adventure and had some extra money for the month--I saw May on the phone--probably to her husband. As I passed her I heard her say into the phone "Well how do I know what terminal I'm in?"  I turned and yelled back: "You're in A! Terminal A!"  I like to help people. I like to talk to people. I think I get that from my mom. For years I've believe I got my witty TV talents from my Dad...but I'm now beginning to believe it's all from my mom. I hope so.
Oh wait--almost forgot the title of my blog...the moment you've all been waiting for...the "you can't make this shit up moment?"  I get to my car. Even remembered where I parked. I put the key in the engine--CHECK ENGINE LIGHT. All $1,000 I made on that shoot promptly went into the old, used BMW the very next day. Maybe flying is safer?

Moon Over My-Hammy

WARNING: this is a long one. But I needed to write it out. So all 2 of you reading this should grab a drink.

It's a full moon this week. Even more exciting--a harvest moon. It's gorgeous. But I think a little more devious than your average orb. Because my life turned into a weird, bizarre world this week--and it can only be that uber-lunar pull that's shifted my universe so severely. Either that--or I really have some shitty karma built up. Here--I'll let you be the judge:

Day 1- You are what you wear. I had a job interview for a big gig I REALLY wanted. My City. Good Salary. Totally creative. World travel. I was so excited to go talk to these guys--and I knew I had a good shot at it. I thought the interview with the first person went well. But when they brought me in to see #2--the first thing she said even before hello was, "Banana Republic 2003!" I thought--okay--"Old Navy 1999 to you too!?" I had no idea what she was referring to--until she said it again--only this time added--"Your coat! I did the marketing for that coat--Banana Republic 2003!" I looked down at my cute teal coat and thought--oh--my coat--2003--yikes, its old. I really didn't remember when I bought it.


Now normally what I wear to a job interview really doesn't matter--just as long as I look nice and professional--maybe just a little hip or creative, right? Not today. I immediately thought--oh jeez. She thinks I'm out of style. Not fashionable. That could be a problem. You see---big job interview was with big designer company that puts little red labels on their jeans. All I could come up with in response was "I don't shop much." And then an added whimper "I don't wear it much because I was living in Sacramento and it's hot there." Didn't matter. Her interpretation : It's 7 years old. I might as well have been wearing a hoop skirt and pantaloons as far as she was concerned.

Needless to say--I doubt little red label company will be hiring me as their Director of Content. But then--I guess if they don't hire me because my wardrobe--it's not a good fit for either of us. (no fashion pun intended.)

Day two - I got bitch-slapped by a blogger: The week continued to tank along. The next day, I had a run-in with a young blogger who wrote an article about one of my clients. An article that clearly had errors and mistakes. Now, it's my job to clean up communications messes for this organization. So I contacted the blogger. I simply asked her to repost her article, because her information was wrong and it could potentially hurt innocent people. Sounds fair enough, right? Wrong.

She bitched me out. She literally pulled the "oh no you di-dn't just email me to say change your blog?'"  She asked me -- "I don't know how you have time to read my blog, aren't you supposed to be working? Maybe you should spend YOUR time writing something?!!" Whuck? When did asking for accuracy become MY problem? I've spent many years working in the media--and granted, it wasn't always "New York Times quality" stuff--(IE: Dr. Phil Show) but one thing I always strive for is accuracy. I learned in college journalism classes--check - your - facts!

I was sad to learn today,  that no longer exists OR is necessary. In this new era of fast "citizen journalism,"  a tweet can be reposted incorrectly to infinity.  And that apparently is the norm. It's why I stick to blogging about my zits and dateless pre-menopausal life. If I need to fact check--I just look in the mirror.

Day Three: What year is this? I got a Facebook message from a guy I met five years ago--a work acquaintance of my ex. "Antonio" is some Italian guy who used to live in my hometown. We had emailed a few times after that first meeting.  He knew I was in a relationship, so after that--I really didn't hear from him until now. So when I got the FB message---I groaned a teeny bit at the "wanna have coffee" invite--because I wasn't into him then and wasn't about to be now. So I didn't really think much of it. Was just going to ignore it. Until my mother called.

She said she got a strange phone call --from an Italian woman who was asking about her beautiful daughters--particularly "the one who lives in X?" (protecting the innocent aka: me) "Is she married? Because my Antonio lives near her! How old is she?"  Really? The dude who contacted me on FB got his mother to call my mother? Does that even still happen? What year is this? Suddenly 1953?

My mom replied, "She's 48." Strange Italian mama: "Oh that-sa too old for my Antonio. He wanna be a daddy." Okay. So not only do I have strange men's mothers call my mother, I'm now also too old to be with strange men--even if I wanted to. Great. My mom laughed. I started crying. Why is everything so crazy right now? My clothes are old, so I dont' get a job. My journalism style's too old, because I abhor inaccuracies. And now my ovaries are too old--for--well--pretty much everyone including Antonio.

I wanted to rip "Antonio" a new one on FB. But instead, just replied nicely, "I'm fine. Hope you are. I'm moving. Ciao." And I mean it. Ci-ao.

Day five:  Bye-bye Box. The last straw during this mad moon week, just happened. Someone informed me that my ex is somehow involved with a woman I used to be friends with. Now I know, you're thinking--so what? I'm glad you asked. This woman hurt me. Kicked me when I was down. Dumped me-- after I did so much for her, simply because she was worried she'd lose her job, when I lost mine. AND I HIRED HER. Thanks for doing all you did, but I no longer need you. It's going around.

I mentioned this in a previous blog, when I first got an inkling of this--but when I asked him about it--the ex just denied it and called her a "fan." (of his local garage band.) Stupid me. I bought it. Especially since the ex and I were trying to be friends again. (go ahead, yell.) But when I got an email today, to view a link to a video--starring this former gal pal of mine--accompanied by a soundtrack that was Mr. PP's band--I didn't quite know how to react? Except to over-react. And remind the guy that he crossed a boundary exes don't cross. You don't involve yourself with someone who hurt your ex. Didn't "I love you" mean anything? Can't loyalty survive a bad break up?

Not going into the details on this one--because it's keeping me up at night--but the minute I saw it--I took "The Box" (pls read previous blog entry on The Box) taped it up, ran to the post office and shipped it -- Return to the lying sender. Everything. Jewelry. Cards. My precious Charlie Brown books he gave me. In that moment--I didn't want any connection to the guy. Did he really find another TV producer to play with? And someone who was my friend--until she too dumped me when I couldn't do anything more for her? The two actually sound perfect for each other, to be quite honest. But it hurt. Like the day they both left me.

Day Six: I'm tired. After all the week's wildness, tonight I sat outside with a glass of wine and looked at that big harvest moon--starting to lose a little of it's fullness. I still loved it. I thought about everything that transpired this week--and wondered if there WAS some weird magical force that contributes to us all going a little haywire once a month when the moon is full? As I stared at the sky--I started to cry. For the job I didn't get at NASA this year. (I really love the moon so natural this came up again) For the weird guy who's mother called mine. For my ring I sent back. For the job I didn't get this week because I didn't wear Levi's (there I said it.) and for that break I've been waiting for-- for many moons. In that moment, I realized the week was coming to an end and I stopped crying. Like the moon--life gets full and wild and bright--and then small and quiet and sometimes dark. Life's a circle. Why would there be a saying "What comes around, goes around" if that wasn't so? I know, like the full moon, the good will be back. But this time, I'm not gonna wait for it--counting the days on the calendar. I'm going after that fullness now.

The box is gone. And hopefully so is the rest of the crap.

Oh--PS - Title: "Moon over my-hammy" is my favorite "Denny's restaurant title for ham and pancakes. Random I know. But fun to say. And eat.

A sign from above

I got dumped on last night. By a bird. And in a strange way--I think it was some kind of sign--or a cosmic crapping of sorts--as it was the perfect way to end this particular evening. I have a young friend who invited me out, just as I was about to take yet another lonely, single-girl Saturday walk in the park. Ugly shorts, baseball cap, Ipod. When she called--I stripped them all off and threw myself together. I want to meet someone new. And it's not going to happen by sitting on the couch. So when Rachel called--I jumped.

Now--I say she's my "young friend" but this woman is mature and intelligent beyond her years--which is why we enjoy each other's company. I can always teach her a few things about careers and bad life decisions--but this night--I realized this youngin' had much to teach me. Now before I go all Kung Fu master and bore you with talk about old dogs etc--understand this Grasshopper: seems I never really learned that trick of how to show a man you like him. So old dog, new dog, green dog, blue dog--it's a trick I need to learn--to find love again.

After a fun evening of pizza, street vendors and art galleries--we ended up listening to a band in a garage.  No, not a "garage band" but a band actually playing in a mechanic's garage. (I know random, but it was perfect!) As we listened to the music, my friend starts up a conversation with a man next to her, who clearly had a few too many. But she enjoyed his silliness, danced around with him, laughed, enjoyed the moment.

As I watched in complete amazement, standing next to me, was also a man. Now. I couldn't tell you what he looked like at first. I was just watching the band. But then he asked me a question. So I had to look--only I didn't really. I answered in a very sterile way without looking at him "no, I've never heard of this band before." And...that was it. The quick glance I got--I noticed he wasn't bad looking. (See? I'm not a complete loss?)

Rachel continued to chat with her new pal. And now "my guy" got into their conversation. I played it cool--okay--cold. Figured, I talked to him. That was nice. Lynn talked to a boy. Good for her. More than I've done in years. At that moment--I said to my friend--let's leave and get a glass of wine.

As we left the garage--Rachel stopped me in what appeared to be a sidewalk come-to-Oprah moment. She yelled, "What the F is wrong with you? That guy was hot!" To which I responded. "I talked to him." She went on. "He's a doctor! You could have married this guy--he was into you!" Ahem. Excuse me? Doctor? Now I thought she was making things up. "Didn't you see his t-shirt logo? UC Davis Medical School? HELLO?"

I thought. How did she see that? And I didn't? She continued the lesson, "You had the perfect opportunity to ask him about himself! And you didn't." What? Me ask him something? Right. Isn't that his job? My head spun in circles, flying back to the moment I met Mr.PP -- at yet another concert--five years ago. HE did all the talking. But did I make it THAT hard for him too? I mean, I did give him my phone number, so I couldn't have been that much of a flirting failure. But seriously--I don't know how to be attractive to a man who's attracted to me? Why?

Later, sitting outside a cute wine bar, Rachel and I continued to talk about it.  How can I be in the business of communications--even interview complete strangers for hours for major talk shows--but when you put me side by side with a potential mate--I clam up. Turn into Popsicle Lynn. Ice queen. It's not ego? Or attitude? It's just plain fear. Sprinkled with a heavy dusting of NO self confidence. I need to change that. I needed to be reminded by someone still fearless and young and excited about meeting EVERYONE--that it doesn't hurt to be happy around a man who's interested in you. Doesn't mean you have to take him home and cook him salmon. It's the game. The flirting game. You try me on, I try you on.

And then the young one schooled me in something I never saw coming--because I've never had someone do that for me. She said "Girl--I set it up for you! I was your wing man! I made myself look like an idiot so he would glom on to you! and he did! You blew it!" Huh? Is that what she was doing? I thought maybe she liked the guy? A wing man? I've never had someone actually HELP me seal the deal to love!??

And as I continued to tell my friend about how hard it is for me to talk to men, I don't communicate well, I'm old, my dad...blah, blah, blah...PLOP! A sign from above! Sitting outside under a building ledge, discussing the fine art of flirting--or the lack there of--a bird crapped on me. And it went everywhere. Thankfully, nowhere near my drink, my friend or my Coach purse. But still. That bird--and my friend were trying to tell me something. In that moment, we laughed--Rachel joked about getting the bird flu--and as I quietly rolled up my soiled sweater into a ball, I said--"some countries feel that's good luck. To be crapped on." And if it is--believe me I have a heaping load of karma pulling into the station soon, because I had to hose that mother off this morning.

I couldn't help but think I had two wing-men that evening. Both watching out for me--both trying to tell me to get my shit together. The doctor wanted to talk to me. I ignored him. It doesn't matter if I go out every night or walk in the park every night. Unless I lose that idea of fear that keeps me from being the fun, funny, giving person I gave to PP for 3 years--the person that Rachel sees--I'm going to turn into a large lady who keeps parakeets. (no offense to those who do.) And then I'll have plenty of opportunities to be crapped on--but it won't have anything to do with luck.

Thanks R for the lesson in how to be carefree again. I needed that. (I'll also send you my dry cleaning bill. Still cheaper than therapy.)

She's gonna blow!

I'd like to say a few words about middle-age acne. What the F---? That's really all I can say. Actually no, it's so heinous it requires more than a few words. It seems cruel to add this battle with Mt. Vesuvius on my face, to the list of other "fun" women get to experience at this age. And I'm not naturally pimple-prone, mind you. I went through puberty with barely a scar or scab on my face. Beautiful skin. I suppose that's exactly why I'm being "blessed" with the Clearasil conundrum at this point in my life? Same with being the last of my teenage pals to get my period. Looks like I'm going to be the first to go-- on this side. It's fantastic how that higher being tries to "even things out." Glorious good times.

Now, when I talk about zits--I don't mean a widespread breakout, entire crater-faced disaster every time hormones act up. I'm just talking about one. One. Strategically placed zit. And no, it's not a tiny imperfection--it's large. Big. Red. Boulder. Like the one I have right now. (right, lower chin quadrant) And no matter how much cover-up you put on it--it only looks bigger. Like trying to hide a cake baking disaster by piling on more frosting. The bump only gets bigger. And looks more obvious. Now I don't want to jinx it--but I'd almost feel more comfortable if I got more than just one. At least balance out my face. And wouldn't stick out like a sore--um--thumb isn't big enough. Anyways, it's the first thing you see when I say hello. I feel like it crosses the street before I do.

And at this age--when you get a volcano-sized blemish--you don't want to put too much of that drying medicinal crap on it, for fear it'll be too drying and add wrinkles along with the stress of the lone facial mount. So yes, you can get rid of the zit--but you're now left with a wrinkly hole that peels, cracks and contributes to the make-up flaking. Usually while you're making a presentation.

It's embarrassing because they last so long. These aren't those teenage here-today, gone tomorrow zits. And inevitably, they show up on a day when you have to meet someone important. A date. A meeting. A job interview. "Hi, I'm 40-something and I still get pimples." It's there. You can't avoid it. So do you call it out in public? Or just ignore it and hope they don't see the spot covered in six layers of Lancome? I usually choose full disclosure. Not sure why. When I was in a relationship--I'd always say "ignore the massive zit"--and point it out. Every time he'd say "I don't even see it." But he would if we made out and the makeup got sucked away. So I tell. Maybe it's easier to call out my imperfections before someone else does? (I think I need to call out Dr. Phil on that one.)

On a movie junket a while back--I had to interview Matt Damon.  As I interviewed Mr. Damon--I heard it coming out of my mouth--but couldn't believe I was calling attention to it--there. I asked my last question: "So when you wake up in the morning--do you feel like the same person now that you've won an Oscar? Like me--this morning I woke up and thought--Wow--I'm going to interview Matt Damon--but then I looked in the mirror and realized I had this giant zit on my chin." (I pointed. Yes this story had visuals.)

Chirp-Chirp. (Insert cricket sound effects here.)

He may have looked at me like "lady your five minutes are up right now." But--phew-now Matt Damon knew I had covered up a zit--it wasn't some facial deformity. I felt better. Later in the hallway--the cameraman walked by me..."You can't even see it." he said. Maybe full disclosure to movie stars and men in your life--isn't the way to go after all. Maybe calling attention to your bobbles isn't the way to go either? Considering--most aren't even noticeable?

I know I can't ask for perfection at this point in life--but the constant stream of weird things changing in my body as time marches on and steals any semblance of hotness--is stressful. Do we have to contend with hormone-induced acne as well? Seems unfair. I thought--or was told--things get easier. Had I any idea I'd still be buying Clearasil in my forties--and not for my teenage kids (which I forgot to have)--I probably would have would have kept that sample "DermaWand" I got when I produced an infomercial about an electronic zit zapper Ivana Trump sold. "Gilllls (she couldn't say girls) Try the Derma Band...(she couldn't say "wand" either)...Eet geeves you gorgeous blemish-free skin!"  Only--it looked like a vibrator you use on your face --so I tossed it when I moved. Plus--back then--I didn't need the vibrator zit zapper. Gilllls. And don't say Pro-Active. That lady was my dermatologist when I had beautiful skin. The fact that I had to produce Ivana Trump's zitfomerical, instead of my own doctor's that made her a bazzillionaire--is enough to cause--well, acne.

So what do you do? I need some interaction on this one. Just laugh? Wear a hat? Stay home from work? Cold? Hot? Squeeze it? Don't squeeze it? The fact that I'm giving pimples so much press, is most likely fact that I'm a little obsessed with how I look. I'm not really. As I write this--I sit with an inch thick green mask on my face. It's just part of that jelly roll of insecurities you've read about in previous blogs. Aging. Dating. Dumping. That and ye old lack of self confidence which often forces me to show you where I'm lacking. So next time you see me--please--say "What's that thing on your face?" Stop me from the telescoping (wrong word) pity party! I handled it once--from age 14 - 18...I can do it again. (the pimples, not the pity.) It's really just puberty in reverse. And when I get though it--just like the first phase--I'll have a big, fun, carefree time ahead of me. Free from blemishes and cramps! Only this time, I'll wearing a diaper instead of cheerleading trunks.

(sorry--way more than a few words. Shoulda stuck with What the Fxxx.)

Life's a walk in the park (Sometimes)

So this one's not so funny. But nice. Just a bunch of things that popped into my head while walking to the park. I know...can't you just take a walk in the park without going all Oprah? I must be hormonal. Cuz I'm ruminating. But not ovulating. (Just in case you were wondering.)

I like to walk to the park near my house, 2-3 times a week. And when I do, I play a little game--I try to notice "what's changed" since the last time I walked. A house painted a new color. Baby ducks! New landscaping. Home up for sale. Tonight I noticed quite a bit. But I couldn't help thinking I was noticing these things, because of where I am in life--not because they were different or new. (see? hormonal.)

First--let's back up the walk a bit. Walk backwards?Because this is what put me in the mood for the "noodle walk." Before hitting the pavement--I went and met a man for a drink. Call it a date if you want. I didn't. Just a nice man from work who asked me out to have a drink. I don't know if I'm attracted to this nice man. But I do know--He's nice, (said that) and I'm intrigued. Seems he had a bad divorce. Has a lovely young daughter. Was in a relationship with a younger woman. And now--says he's "under construction" when it comes to relationships. I love that. The fact that a man is strong enough to say--"hey--I'm learning. I"m building. I'm trying to make myself better when it comes to loving." That takes guts. And an openness I love. We all should be hammering away at that one.

Walking, walking. A house has new scaffolding up. It's under construction too. I laughed at my friend's comment. "Hard hat required." The scaffolding wasn't there Sunday. So this is something new. The house looked perfectly good to me a couple days ago. But looks are deceiving. This I know for sure.  I like walking at this time in the evening. So many couples going for a 7pm stroll after dinner. Tonight it made me smile, instead of the usual lonely, hate you're a couple and I'm not, feeling.

Walking. This time past my old office. Which sits across from the park. I used to love walking to work. Mostly because of the park and the insane shape I was in. But also because of the job. Executive Producer of some pretty fun cable TV shows. I looked up at the window of my office as I walked by. I used to stare out at that tree--often look at the people walking the park. Now I was one of them. I loved that job. I loved how in charge I was. Tonight--I wasn't. Not really. I could see myself in that office--barking out orders and laughing. My Ipod hit a song that was oddly and appropriately timed-- a song by Natalie Merchant--right as my eyes welled up. "But don't cry,  you know the tears will do no good so dry your eyes..." I hate my current job. But she's right. Does no good. (The title of that song is "The Sweet Life"...I thought I had one-- working in that office.)

I thought the sweet life was also the relationship I was in. Earlier this week--I talked to Mr. PP. I know. Again--say what you want. I think we have these moments where we get a flash of what was, and pine away for it. At least I do. And so we talk. Or text. Anyway, we talked about "needing someone." I believe we all need someone--to some degree. We can't exist alone. I look around in the park--and people are together. A big, giant party yelled out as someone opened a gift. "oooooh!!" They have each other. I asked the ex--don't you want someone to help you? Someone to lean on and help share the hard stuff? He blurted out--"No. I don't need anyone. I don't want anyone to help me."

Wow. That keeps floating around my noodle. How much someone hurt him to make him feel that way. (And it wasn't me!) I kept walking. A man fell on the sidewalk ahead. Two people stopped to help him up. They stayed to make sure he was okay. I cared. I stopped to make sure he was fine--even from across the street. He needed someone in that moment. See? We need each other. It's fine to go "jogging" alone, but at some point...

The nice gentleman I had drinks with earlier tonight told me he always hooks up with women who need him too much. He said his upbringing forces him to be there too much. What is that? Guilt? Co-dependency? Maleness? I thought Mr. PP was there for me. I thought he liked that? Maybe I needed him too much. But then--I thought he needed me--to help heal the crap from his divorce. I was wrong. Really wrong. Or just really narcissistic? (me or him?) Doesn't matter now.

That experience aside, I still believe someone will need me. Someday. Because I need someone. A lot of someones. We are a community. What you do--effects others. You can't walk on this planet (or in the park)--and not effect someone else?!! If you don't know need--how do you know care? As I continued my walk--on the way back--I ran into a firetruck and ambulance pulled up to a  house I love on the corner. I stopped. Because I always wave at the elderly woman who lives there. My heart sunk. She's always out on the sidewalk--walking her Jack Russell terrier, tied to her walker. When I go by and I see her, I wave. She waves back every time.  I"m not sure if she thinks I'm someone else--or maybe--hopefully--she's just happy someone notices her. We all need someone to notice us. We need each other. Tonight I hope she has someone, by her side. If the fire truck was there for her.

Walk's over. I'm back home. Glad I went on my park exploration--of what's new--and what's not. Every time I take that walk, I feel better. It's a chance to explore nature--and my thoughts. I guess if P doesn't want to be needed, then I don't want him. I hope he gets his confidence back--and learns to accept help--rather than fighting it off because it makes him feel in control. I'm sure losing a wife--is a sort of out of control that's not easy to come back from. But I sure tried.

Maybe he's under construction too? He had the roof fall in on him...so it's a long and expensive renovation. Me? I've got the blueprints. I patched up the holes in the drywall.  Maybe just a paint job. Maybe a total re-do? Stay tuned. Oh--and next time you go for a walk--see what you can see. (inside and out!)

Press 1 to Pee, Press 2 to...

Yes, I'm going there. And only because this has been bugging me for days and I think I need your input. I promise, this will be quick. Unlike the actual moment which seemed to go on forever. This week--I went into the ladies room at my "McDonald's" job. Big public restroom with multiple stalls. I never strategically pick a stall, however I've noticed a pattern with some at this place. Regardless--as I sat down to relieve myself--I heard a woman's voice in the stall next to me--TALKING ON HER CELL PHONE.

Now I"m sorry. But a bathroom is a room with one purpose. Okay maybe two--uh, if you count fixing your hair. And at work--it's really a fast in/out do your business room right? Apparently not here. As I sat there--I realized I recognized the voice on the cell phone. Great--A woman I manage. So I listened. And sat. I listened. And...COULDN'T PEE. I felt like if I did--I'd be heard on her cell phone conversation. NOT that I knew the person on the other end--and not that I cared if she cared (clearly she didn't since her friend was on the pot too) But still--suddenly my bladder got very shy.

So--and here's the part I"m obsessing over--I said "Gretchen? Are you on your cell phone?!!" Silence. From all the stalls. Not even a courtesy flush to hide my strange inquisition. Finally I gave up. Washed up. And left. Quickly, so no one could see who was the culprit to call out the caller. The rest of the day, I felt bad. I avoided Gretchen. Why? I don't know. So help me please. What would you have done? Keep quiet? Ignore it? Whistle? But seriously--IS NOTHING SACRED from the cell? Good lord--what if I had to do #2? (sorry)

I felt compelled--and a bit scared--that maybe I was the outsider who DOESN'T talk on her cell phone in the restroom--so I emailed Gretchen. "I hope I didn't embarrass you in the ladies room...just surprised to hear someone talking in there." God. I made it worse didn't I? She emailed back--"not to worry--someone died and I was counseling a friend." (While she was peeing mind you.) AHHHHHHH. That makes it better. I should have peed. Or farted loudly as they cried about a death.

I think I'm working in a place where everyone feels so comfortable--it's like they forget they're not at home. You know--sometimes people talk in the theater because they forget they're not sitting in front of their Blu-ray player on their couch? There's even a dedicated stall in this work toilet room for "Long termers"--complete with newspapers and magazines. It's the stall at the very end. And is always booked with someone wearing sensible shoes.

I'm trying to learn from this work experience. Try the end stall. Be an empathetic manager. These people are good people--Work just isn't #1 on the list--neither, apparently is urinating.  I suppose it's a good lesson to learn. But I"m getting nervous. I haven't been finding anything in my field of television--and I"m scared I'm going to have to be a spokesperson for the rest of my life. And start wearing sensible state worker shoes? I almost cried this week, when a talk show I contract for contacted me and asked "Are you on board for Season 9?" I yelled out loud in my office--"GOD BLESS DR. PHIL!" Let me go interview crazy people who are addicted to talking on their cell phones in public restrooms...just don't make me manage them anymore.

Sadly, this job would have been perfect for the relationship with Mr.--sorry--PP. Leave at 5. No homework. No worries. My stressful TV gig kinda put too much stress on the guy gig too. I've thought about that a lot since the bathroom situation...would it be easier to find another dude right now--than find another job? Maybe. I sort of miss being in love. That feeling for schwa, takes your mind off the little things. Like this bizzaro-world bathroom and the creatures that inhabit it. Thanks Gretchen. Your gonna force me into online dating aren't you? (Insert toilet flush here)

The Head Cheerleader's a Lesbo

It's what's floating around my noodle these past few days. The fear that's what they'll think. "They" being the entire Class of 1980. You see, this week is my 30th high school reunion. And while I've done some pretty darn groovie things in my life since we graduated--seems these parties only boil down to who you're married to, what size you are, and how big your house is. I went to the 10, the 15 and the 20. But I'm having a little bit of trouble committing to the 30. Maybe because I feel I have nothing new to report.

I'll be the first to say-- a hell of a lot has transpired in the past ten years--including a guy that I had hoped to bring to some kind of reunion. But as far as this crowd's concerned? Nada new. See, all that stuff the past ten years-- ended the same as they saw me last: single. So while I know they're not saying it...they're thinking it. She's never married. Our head cheerleader clearly is a lesbian. Doesn't matter that I look better than most of them--I don't have a ring and never bring a guy. Les and Bo. So...no go. Just don't feel like explaining. Besides--I don't quite know why I"m not married?

I stay in touch with the friends from high school that I want to see. Why do I need to see people who have chosen NOT to stay in my life? And at the same time--if I wanted to see them--I would have. (I hope you got that--if not, go back, please try again.) Yesterday I received a lovely thank you note from a friend who recently spent a weekend here. I also got three phone calls from old friends who always check in on me--we always catch up. All three made me feel so blessed and loved. I have -- and have always had--amazing friends. And I know that's a reflection on the kind of friend that I am. (See? Not a total debbie downer loss.)

I fear though, that lately the term "friend" means less than it used to. It's tossed around so much. I wish FaceBook had picked a different word for someone who chooses to read all the crap you write about yourself. Maybe "Lurking Pals" would have been a better choice? But not Friends. If you have kids--please teach them what a true "friend" is. It requires so much more effort--than a simple e-thumbs up. No one can possibly have 1,885 real friends.

After the second phone call from my friend who now lives in Houston--I started to think about Mr.PP--and how important it's been to me, that we remain friends. But for the first time--I asked myself--WHY? Sure, because when we were together--we were inseparable and had fun together--we were friends. But since he decided he wanted out, of the relationship and the friendship--why would I give him the benefit--no the honor--of being my friend?

Friends call you on your birthday. He didn't. Friends email you when you lose your job. He didn't. And when you're humiliated in the local paper by a crazy woman you used to manage--a friend writes a letter to the editor and says "your paper spreads lies." He didn't. (But his friend did.) I've spoken to him a few times recently. And I hear the words coming out of my mouth. "I want us to be friends." But what does that mean? Go have a sandwich now and then? Get together for a drink? (We don't.) Don't ban me from your Facebook profile? Or send my emails directly to the spam folder? (He does.) Can he possibly be the type of friend I call a FRIEND?

I have plenty of friends. So I think, maybe, I want him as the friend he used to be. And that can't happen. I miss him, so I convinced myself any part of him in my life is better than none? So "let's be friends!" Nope. Sitting on my lawn chair, drinking a beer and reading "Eat, Pray, Love" for the 50th time, I finally admitted to myself..."find someone else to play with." I know what a friend is. And what they do. And I'm confident I'm that kind of friend to all of mine. I would have been to Mr. PP too--even post breakup--because I am open and forgiving and hopeful...but not hopeful enough to think he'll call to say hi when he meets another potential lesbian head cheerleader.

Now I see there are two types of friends......the ones who take vacation time to come visit you (and then write you a note to say how much fun it was) and the ones who just don't want you to hate them. So they can feel better about themselves. For dumping you. And the ones that are mere acquaintances--from  high school--or that great big digital yearbook called FB. Real friendship requires work. My true friends aren't going to the reunion...and they all know the head cheerleader isn't a lesbian. They also all know I had my heart broken and that's why I'm not married and they're happy to allow me to take all the time I need to crawl out the hole and meet a new friend and that I WILL get married.

Maybe by the 40 year reunion. We'll see. If I want a reunion--I just have to pick up the phone. But if I go to that one--I'm bound and determined to bring a date and a ring. And then let them say what they want. By then, they won't be able to see whether it's woman or a man anyway. And I"ll still look better than most of them, no matter what team I bat for.

My Life in Mayonnaise

Mayonnaise is my favorite term for describing stuff that is just blah. Not much zing. Not bad, but not good. You put it on your sandwich so it's not dry, but there's really no taste. I've used the term to describe men, sex, jobs...and today.

At the risk of turning off my two followers who actually read this thing--I will try not to make this all about the hernia. Again. But I had to go to another --yes-- another doctor in the ongoing saga of "name the alien in Lynn's stomach". Today's wheel of fortune doc actually provided some pretty good blog fodder, which always excites me. Not unlike the Gynecologist I went to a couple weeks ago who stood in the corner of the room after examining me. He actually talked to me about my uterus from 4 feet across the room. (Was it my vagina that scared him or the fact that I ripped him a new one for making me sit in a paper dress alone in an exam room for 40 minutes?) Regardless--today takes the cake. Literally. Lots of cake, and cookies,
Ho-Ho's, you name it.

So it seems like the time has come to cut open my gut and see what it is. But I'm not sure this dude I saw today will be the one to do it. I was referred to a surgeon by my primary care dufus of a doctor who reminds me every time "We're the same age!" (Why this is important to my overall health, I'm not sure.) When I walked into the surgeon's office, I saw several large people--okay--obese people-- sitting in large double-seater chairs. I thought, well he's gonna look at my tummy, maybe they all have tummy issues? They do. Or they will. Seems this surgeon's claim to fame is surgically placing rubber bands around people's stomach in an effort to slim down fast ala Carnie Wilson. As I sat there and read People Magazine's "Beautiful Body" issue (Huh? Here?) I felt strangely good about myself. And my thighs.

They called me in to the room where I sat and waited for "rubberband man" to examine me--and lo and behold--I quickly realized, you can hear every single word coming out of the patient in the next room!  I nearly fell off the table. "Well I love mayonnaise. I just can't give up mayonnaise. And Peanut butter." Doc: "try Greek yogurt instead." Hopeful woman "What's that? Does it smell like Mayonnaise? I'm trying. I just have certain vices--things I need to eat. What else is good?"

At this point--the room is getting warm--and I"m thinking maybe it's time to escape? "Nuts?" the doctor asked her? I almost answered "why yes, I think I am for sitting here." (just so they could hear me) Patient X whom I saw in the waiting room, clearly post-rubber band said in closing "Well just 90 more pounds and then I can get the plastic surgery right? Get all this skin off?!! Then I'll be a skinny 130!" They laugh together.

So by now--I'm thinking--wow. Really, really wrong doctor to touch me and my mystery alien. Some wanna-be Hollywood plastic fat doctor in Sacramento. I stood up and opened the door of the exam room to leave--only he was standing there reading my chart. "Uh, Hi. Uh, it's really hot in here, I needed some air." (lie) I sat back on the table. Thankfully the fat-sucker was followed by a cute young intern who also got to see my bare tummy as I got two, count-em, two shots of Novocaine, so the not-cute doc could poke and prod without me screaming. At that moment--I wish I only had to have a rubber band put around something. At least you know what fat is and how to fix it. And I wish the cute intern could do it.

So I left the strange office with a nummby--I mean a numb tummy-- thinking I should either go home and do 5,600 crunches because nothing would hurt--OR go to a bar, get liquored up and insult someone's girlfriend. A punch in the stomach probably would have felt good. Something to wake me up from the mayonnaise day I was having. It's finally time to move on from this town and the life I thought I was making here with the guy and the job. And now that I realize this--I'm slave to a health plan.

Later that evening, I was chatting with a TV pal---telling him how I don't think I can get hired and I'm not connected anymore...when he  interrupted me and said "You need to get out of there Lynn--you're turning into a head case. And of all the women I know, YOU have never been a head case." MUSTARD! That's what I needed. Some spicy mustard. More like wasabi actually. In fact--his words hit me so hard not even the Novocaine would have protected me from that kick in the gut. And it's exactly what I needed. Trust the surgeon--find out what it is--quit your safe job and move on outta here. Before Mayonnaise starts to taste really, really good. Or I start washing my hair in it.

Bristol's a lucky girl

I guess. I mean, she got a second chance with her guy right? Seems that whole "how to trap a man" thing really worked out well for her. I apparently hung out with the wrong crowd in high school. Getting pregnant to get a diamond ring wasn't part of our future plans. But If I had known then, what I know now? Maybe it would have been better time spent --chatting about that--instead of what to wear to grad night.

I tend to pick men that don't want second chances. Ever. And booty calls don't count as second chances, BTW. So what does this mean? Was the first time with me just soooo bad, that nothing's gonna bring that sucka back? Or am I picking closed-minded poopy-heads who aren't open enough to look at things from a different perspective? Learn how to do and think differently. And most importantly--Forgive?

Maybe we've just become a society of "get it right the first time or you're out" types? We're too afraid to

try, re-try and try again? In this case, maybe all that christian crap Mama Sarah dumped on her pregger teen paid off to some degree? After going on national television and basically bashing her new son-in-law to be, Levi returning the favor and Bristol on the "don't do as I did" high school virginity tour-- they've all said "I forgive you and want you back!" Now that's American. Just didn't work for me. (although I didn't bash him on national TV...yet.)

Now I know I'm making light of an insanely silly half-baked Alaskans' familial mess...but I actually said it this morning as I heard it on the news. "Wow even Bristol gets a second chance." So apparently--I'm still waiting for mine. But why? The dude has made it perfectly clear--aside from the beer *booty calls--that this is NOT going to happen. Which is why I've decided to quit my McDonald's job and pull up stakes. I realized today after a recent disasterous late night call from P (phone call not the * call) that I need to remove myself from the "land of my dreams" (yes Sacramento) so I can fully move on and heal. I've been doing a silly job I hate, to pay the bills sure, but mostly to hang on to any shred of hope that a second chance would come my way. Sad, isn't it?

And so with that--it's time to talk about the Box. Not because I told you I would, but because I feel it's time to finally get rid of it too. The Box--with a capital B--holds all the mementos from my Sacramemento relationship with Mr. PP. (In case you haven't gone back to the blogginning--"Mr. PP" is what my little niece called my ex when he dumped me. It sorta fits. She also said my new boyfriend will be called "Mr. X"--so stay tuned for when I meet my top-secret lover!)

About a year after we broke up--I decided it was time to stop finding things that reminded me of him shoved in drawers and closets around my house. So I boxed them up. I bought one of those Tupperware type boxes--and tossed in everything. It's basically a relationship in a box. A boy in a plastic bubble. Cards, letters, pictures, frames he made me, an Xmas light bulb from the time we put up lights, my Charlie Brown books and the cell phone box he wrapped my emeralds in. I was so excited to get a "cell phone"--I kept the box. For a while--the emeralds also lived in The Box--but we got back together. They are, after all, my birthstone. (Justification)

I filled it and shoved the entire thing under my bed--and really haven't looked at it much. Not too much anyway. I occasionally pull it out on holidays or as you may have recently read-- my birthday. But now, it's reached critical mass. I don't quite know what to do with it. It's contents are too precious to throw out. Everyone says "burn the letters you'll feel better." I can't. I don't want to. But I don't want to look at that stuff anymore either. And as hard as I try to ignore it--my heart knows its there, under the bed. It's gotta be bringing bad mojo to that area don't you think? Some kind of plastic voodoo that won't allow the bed to reach it's full potential until his remains have left the building? (okay that's a tad dramatic, but sure fun to write.)

I've thought about sending him the Box. Let him dispose of it all. That way I don't have to. But then he'll think it's some form of retaliation. And I"m not about punishment or retaliation. Even though I guess that's what I'm experiencing now--punishment for hanging on and trying to be friends, waiting for a second chance.

If I'm facing a move soon--I refuse to let that box come with me. I need a clean start, with only the memories in my mind. Besides, Why keep that crap? It's not like I'm going to have a daughter someday to tell stories about "the letters from the man who dumped me just in time for me to meet your father!" But maybe for my niece. She loved the guy too--but she's smart enough to crown him Mr. PP when he dumped me. In fact, even though her birthday's not in May--I'm thinking the emeralds would look really nice on  her. Lord knows I won't wear them. I'm gonna have to buy my own sparkles. You hear that Bristol? There are other ways to get a big diamond ring. And a magazine spread for that matter.

*they were always beer booty calls, b/c he could never just come out and ask for it. Instead, he'd call to see if he could stop and have a beer after band practice. Maybe Levi and Bristol have matured? I on the other hand, have regressed.

I Un-Friended My 80 Year Old Aunt

I know. You're thinking I"m a cruel Facebook bitch with no heart. How could anyone "un-friend" an 80 year old who figures out how to use social media? Let alone an 80 year old you're related to? Me. I could. I did. And I think I've caused a major family rift that could rival the reading of Grandpa's will forcing four brothers to never speak again--over bricks.

Cement aside, my dear Aunt C isn't the only relative I'm "friends" with on FB. But the only one who sits in wait for me or any of her nieces to post something on the proverbial wall. Seriously, she pounces. People think she's my mother, always on the watch of her darling daughters. Social media really becomes something more than a place to post stupid shit about your breakfast--when you're 80. It's your window on the world. I didn't know this until my real mom told me my Aunt cried about it.

Have you run into an uncomfortable Facebook friending? Maybe weirdness b/w generations? Mother watching son? Sister ratting on brother's drunk photos? Your ex friend "liking" everything your ex boyfriend posts. (oh wait, that's me) Aunt C wasn't doing any of that--she just e-drooled over her lovely nieces waaaay too much. "Oh my nieces are so beautiful and talented!" To my peers. It made me feel twelve. It should have made me feel good. But it didn't. She responded to a shout out I posted to my local friends--and that was all it took. The post that broke the camel's book-er-back.

So you're probably asking, why should I let her buttings-in bug me? Why not just ignore them? Delete them? Did I have to destroy her digital senior world? I don't really have a reason except for this: the little things bug the crap out of me lately. The teeny, tiny things are keeping me up at night. I get worked up when people park in front of my house and run through the neat pile of leaves the gardeners made. Shouldn't I shrug it off and be happy I'll get some exercise raking? I get pissy in the garage at work if someone parks too close to my car--fearful of a ding in my ten year old vehicle. Can't I trust that they won't open their door into mine and not care because--it's old? Basically my fuse is short. Or non-existent. Like when a candle wick gets coated over with wax and you can't light it? That's how short.

Every morning I try to do some meditative breathing and tell myself, this too shall pass. I have a post-it note on my computer I read every day "Let nothing perturb you, nothing frighten you. All things Pass. Patience achieves everything." That's from Mother Theresa. She had to know what she was talking about. Seriously. But I doubt she'd be very happy with me de-friending Aunt C. Patience with an 80 year old is important. But not at the top of my list right now.

So okay, it probably was a knee-jerk reaction. It wasn't about Aunt C. But I also thought I can do whatever I want with my social media persona? And she probably wouldn't notice if I dropped her? She did. And when she emailed me to see if it was a "mistake," I told her I was separating my personal life, from my professional life. Well kinda. More like separating my family life, from my personal life. And then only my dad's side. But not my cousins. And my sisters are cool. And my aunt in St. Louis who says nothing but Happy Birthday on FB. So maybe just my 80 year old aunt. I didn't want to hurt her feelings and say I hate your "I love my talented nieces!" postings because my bosses, colleagues, friends, exs and yoga teachers can read them and they embarrass me. For schwa I have confidence issues if I'm afraid of an 80 year old expressing harmless love on the Internet. Or....

I"m just tired of her.

Regardless. I'm now the bad niece. So see how that works? From good niece the world reads about, to nasty niece in the amount of time it takes to "thumbs up" someone. I've read recent postings by other family members "alluding" to the "childishness" of Facebook. Are they directed at me? Not sure.  Even so, I sort of agree. FB is turning into a large, global, digital yearbook where the world is running for homecoming queen. Been there, lost that. Family rift aside. I feel horrible. But not bad enough to make up and be "friends" again. I told her to email me. Whenever she wants. She never knew what I was doing on a daily basis before? Why can't we still be okay with Merry Xmas and Easter cannoli again? I hope I haven't done irreparable damage to my relationship with her. I just want separation between church and state and family. Is that too much to ask? (thumbs up if you agree)

Joking and hurt feelings aside, if anyone uses social media as their only way to communicate, now hear this: No matter what your age, the phone, a card, even an email is always a better bet. More personal. Private. FB is a silly place to post silly stuff you don't know what to do with during your day. The crap your husband won't listen to, the stuff your mom doesn't care about-- anything that makes you feel better about yourself--b/c you're sharing it with the anonymous friend/fan/face crowd. So Aunt C...and any other 80 year old using social media...keep writing those Xmas cards and going to church. Those are the connections that matter. Not the ones that come in 141 characters or less.

Say Yes to the Dress

It's Friday night and I'm down two episodes of "Say Yes to the Dress." You know that show? Where you watch young brides, old brides, ugly brides, fat brides try on wedding dresses? Nothing makes a non-bride feel better about being alone on a Friday night than this program. Why I'm watching episode number 2 is another topic of discussion for a later blog.

"Yes" is a hard word for me. Which is maybe why I haven't had the chance to say it to that white dress and anything else lately. I've been stuck in NO mode for a while now. It's soooooo easy to say NO to everything. And I'm not sure why? No to invitations to parties. No to men who want to date me. No to help with my groceries. When I was young, I'd say yes to anything and everything. But somewhere between frat parties and forty--I lost that yes-girl. Funny thing is, while it's so easy for me to SAY no, "no thanks. No, that's okay. No I'm fine," I apparently have trouble TAKING no for an answer. (are you following me? Yes or No?) I'll tell you why. Soon.

Some would call me stubborn. I"m a Taurus, right on the cusp of Gemini--so basically I"m stubborn and crazy. But thankfully I'm only stubborn for a short period of time. I call myself the human Chinese food. I get mad, but then it's gone in an hour. (Chinese food = hungry in an hour?) Okay maybe not the best analogy, but I enjoy saying it. I fight, then I'm over it. I'm mad, then I'm over it. It passes. (like bad Chinese food--is that a better analogy?) This is sort of the way I was raised--Italian. Fight, yell, throw, cry, hug, laugh, drink, done. I never hang on to anger. It's wasted energy.

But my last boyfriend did. Does. Why is it that men hang on to that "right fight" so tight? In my mind--conflict isn't a bad thing if you acknowledge it, resolve it, learn from it, and move on. Do you fight with your significant other? Kinda hard not to. No one can see eye-to-eye on everything. Anyway that's not the example I had--the "no conflict, happy all the time" couple. My folks argued. A lot. But this week they celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. So not seeing eye-to-eye kinda worked out for them. But did it work out for me?

Are we better off now, in relationships--because if it's uncomfortable and you have moments of conflict--you can bolt? No strings attached. Just keep starting over again because that "honeymoon" phase is fight-free and safe? I'm not positive, but after reading what amounts to a land-fill full of self-help books, I think Mr. PP and I broke up when the honeymoon glow started to fade. We entered into that third year push-pull power-struggle where you really test each other. Gloves are off. So are the pretty-relationship glasses. You see everything. And you're not afraid to say "no" to this not-so-new love.

I think that's why his announcement of "O-V-E-R" shocked me so much. Sure we were arguing--but I figured that was normal--the part where we really commit, where you really show unconditional love? Drama, tears and slammed doors aside--I honestly didn't think there was anything wrong? I'd seen this before--and no one ever left!? For 50 years! Clearly there was something wrong--as I've written. I guess that's when he said "No." No more. Not again.  Seems conflict wasn't something he wanted to sign up for again--post divorce. Not right then anyway. And that's fine--but I'm betting he'll hit that same stage in his next relationship when the shiny penny starts to tarnish a bit. Just hope he figures it out by then because those self-help books are expensive. And just collect dust when you're done. I'm too afraid to throw mine out--in case it happens to me again. See--I went out on a limb and said YES to him, this new city, new jobs, new experiences. It's no wonder I'm  having trouble with the word right now.

But that was YESterday...meanwhile back on the couch...a plump New Jersey bride said "yes" to a lovely strapless number!  I've never been one of those girly girls, dreaming about the gown and veil--but I certainly never ever thought I didn't deserve one? So why haven't I said yes to a dress? Or to a man who would lead me to one? I pick men who aren't emotionally available. Available to see that conflict can be an opportunity to understand. Available to accept we're all different. I'm learning these things too.  I need to find my way back to saying yes to everything. No matter how scared I am of hurting again. Remain open. Say yes even when you don't want to. That's what the books say. You don't know where the universe will lead you if you do. If I keep saying NO--I'll never KNOW.

For now, If you allow me, I'm going to say no just one more time--to watching a third episode of this lame show. And to writing more of this entry because clearly I'm rambling...

Is there a lesson in loneliness?

I haven't been with many men. There. I said it. Think what you want. I dated a lot in high school. Goes with the "head cheerleader" territory I suppose. Not that I was one of those slut cheerleaders--even though my sweater had the word "head" stitched on it. But since then? Not so much. Perhaps I peaked too soon? Captain of the rival basketball team, Mr. Moreau and Mr. Mission is hard to top. (Again, think what you want.) I can count on one hand the number of times I've been in love. Although, I guess if you can count on more than one hand the number of times you've been in love, it probably wasn't really love now was it?

I don't think the low sperm count is due to the fact that I don't relate to men well. At least I hope not. I have had so many good male friends--still do. I'd like to think it's just logistics. I don't meet many datable men--or put myself in places to meet potential mates. I was a contract TV producer for a number of years so no break room flirting. And I kinda made it a rule not to date the audio guy. So maybe it's a numbers game? The more you meet, the more you marry? I've never been married. Got asked once in the backseat of a taxi cab (not by the driver) but I think he was joking. Or gay, because it came with conditions--separate bedrooms.

Remember when your Mom used to say, don't worry "There's someone for everyone!"??? It may have been that way when she was raised--but that just isn't true anymore. I have a scientific explanation for this shift in balance. There's not someone for everyone--because when "they" used to say that--you'd mate for life. Find a guy and get married. Once. Someone (guy) for everyone (girl). Now, with divorce being about as easy as changing your hair style, that's not the case. Everyone's on their 2nd and 3rd marriage--so--someone HAS my someone! It's all outta whack. Just not enough 1st time magic to go around if we're all gonna get 2-3 husbands or wives? Hence the large amount of baggage--or what I call leftovers. Make sense? (It does to me)

And that is absolutely why my interaction with men has pretty much slowed down, just not enough to go around. (insert laugh track)  At least that's what I tell myself when I'm sitting at home alone on a Friday night. Like last night. Whoever said "It's better to have loved and lost" isn't eating entire bags of popcorn by themselves. Don't get me wrong--I'm thankful for the lovely men I have had in my life the past X years. (sorry, some things are just too embarrassing even for a blog.) I just wish one of them woulda stuck.

Reader's Digest Version: Number one we'll just call "A Tall Drink of Water"...not because he looked like George Clooney but because he was tall. And I am not. I think this was the first man I really fell in love with. Only--because of that fact--I figured eating Chinese food together, going to the movies and having sex--meant he loved me too. I mean, there was a lot of it. (You think I'm gonna tell you which?) That involvement--I hesitate to call it a relationship--went on and off for a long time. I hate to think I wasted my child bearing years on bad chow mein waiting for a ring in a fortune cookie, but when you're in love...sadly the friendship didn't last either. Something to do with me accosting him at a fundraiser at the local convent. I'm pretty sure Sister John Marie was on my side that day, as Tall Drink came walking by hand in hand with another woman--just days after we played egg roll on his couch.

The next significant dude, wasn't really significant relationship-wise, but he was significant in my ability to move forward. A random email led to a fun frolic with an old high school football stud. We didn't see each other much because he lived out of town, but when we did, it was amazing. I don't know if it was because he knew me before all the self doubt and heartbreak that comes with being a grown-up--but he made me feel so good about myself--no, he made me feel like I could be that girl who used to cheer for him on the sidelines again--fearless, in charge and completely worthy of a football stud. (And yes, the sweater with the word "Head" stitched on it, made a middle-age appearance. In this case, how could it not?)

I think that little affair put me in the right place to fall in love again. And by place, I mean confident place. This time with Mr. PP--aka: the Wilco Boy. And that turned out to be a blessed event--for 2.5 years. Double that and we're home again. Wondering why I spend so much time alone. I've learned so many valuable lessons from all the relationships I've had--still learning them from my last. But the one I can't seem to digest is--what's the lesson in being alone? Is it to teach you how to be comfortable with yourself? To like yourself? To be more independent? I kinda thought I was. I know countless women and men who say they envy me. That they never get time to themselves. "You're lucky you don't have to answer to anybody." And some of that--I agree with. But I am getting tired of it.

So what's the answer? Why do I have such trouble meeting men? Or keeping the ones I pick? Someone told me once--"Your picker is just off."  Maybe. And that's what we'll talk about next. Father's Day is once again upon us. And I'd like to know if you ended up with a guy just like dear old dad? For now--I gotta go through my closet. I'm thinking of having the word "Head" stitched on a few things...my sweaters, coats, yoga pants...