Unsuitable Men

I've cleaned house, so to speak, and am single again. Do you have any clue how excited I am at the sound of that word? Single!!!!! Yeah! No man cluttering up my space, my time, my mind. It is just me and Dream Boyfriend now, folks, and I think the two of us can make it ALL THE WAY.

Men are messy. They give me colds, snore and smell funny. They make me feel guilty for not going to bed at the same time they do. They bore me to death with stories about work. They don't talk with me, but at me. AND, I think they really DO have coodies.

Now I can put on my most comfy pair of yoga pants and a sports bra and lounge around while the heat is way up at 75. I'm gonna watch The Penis Song from the Sweetest Thing over and over on my DVD player. IN fact, I may memorize it and sing it to myself while washing dishes. I'm gonna putz around when I get insomnia without the constant fear of waking HIM up! I'm gonna eat ice cream right out of the container and PUT IT BACK.

I'm... I'm gonna be a SLOB, and no one can stop me!

Weapons

This has been bugging me for a long, fucking time. No, it isn't about men, cocktails or sex. It is about...

...communion.

Yes, as in the holy muther' catholic church's idea of what communion means. First of all, I think the church is full of shit. They have probably intentionally been getting it wrong since the beginning to create a job market for themselves. I think Christ meant God is in you just as this bread and wine is in you when he said, "This is my body which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me."

Who needs a priest let alone the church if God is in you?

In other news, my DB is lounging sexily in the chair next to me. He, of course, agrees with everything I say while trailing a long, hot, wet line of kisses up my calf. God I love this guy.

Love in the Afternoon

Thanksgiving has come and gone- thank Whomever. My day went swimmingly, as I'm sure yours did too. After playing ref between my nephew and niece, something about my nephew calling his sister a bitch (which she is), I tried to relax with Kettle One and Diet Coke. Really, the only thing good about Thanksgiving is the alcohol. There are no presents to offset the mandatory getting together with your relatives, so alcohol is all you've got. Sadly, I'm going to be known as "The Drunk Aunt".

I can live with that. In fact, I advocate being "The Drunk Aunt". By being "The Drunk Aunt", I can demonstrate the only way to get through family gatherings.

Anyway, my pretend boyfriend is calling. I'm off to let him make google eyes at me, which has nothing to do with the search engine. Really.

Men, Life and Disinterest

Just finished The Secret Life of Eva Hathaway, by Janice Weber. Brownie sent it my way.

Once in awhile I'll read something so honest it leaves me raw and over exposed. Most of the time I don't believe I've had an honest moment once in my whole life. A second later I'm convinced I've never told a lie, but what is the difference between lying and omission? What if I've never actually said what I've thought? Believed? Felt?

I've been reading books by Virgina Satir. She is a therapist whose theory deals with communication in the family. My family's communication style is a lot like abstract art in that only the artist ever really understands their work. I watched my parents dance around the fact that they never loved each other. I watched my mother raise children she hated. I watched their life slip by them like a train rushes past a tree standing near the tracks.

They never did anything to save themselves. I want to save myself, I just don't know how.

Subject?

Had three different blog subjects floating around in my little noggin today, but alas, I did not write one of them down. Yeah, not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Have decided that I could never be in a relationship with Hot Half Naked Jogger. Specifically because I cannot jog a block without keeling over in cardiac arrest. Don’t think HHNJ would be interested in having a relationship with someone whose idea of exercise is lifting cigarette to lips and exhaling smoke circles. He’d probably scorn my idea of a healthy dinner; diet coke and a bag of low fat popcorn. Not that I ever had a chance with him to begin with, but a girl has got to dream.

Nope. I’m going to stick with the latest fad: Dream Boyfriends.

My Dream Boyfriend is disturbingly hot and broody. He is tall, protective, sexy and knows how to find and manipulate the clitoris. He is demanding in bed and out. He adores me and cannot begin to find a flaw in my physical/mental/emotional makeup. He looks good in leather pants, works out and has abs of steal. He is entertaining, Jewish and a little bit nerdy. He plays the trumpet, really, really well and kisses taste like jazz on a hot humid night. He hides gifts for me all over the apartment. He is there when I want company and is gone when I don’t. He just can't help but to love me and I walk on the ground he worships.

How can you NOT want this guy?

Fuck This Fucking Game

Yeah, yeah, yeah...

The Cubs lost last night and right now Farnsworth is screwing the pooch. Stupid, fucking Cubs. What else is new? The sky is up, I have insomnia and hell is hot.

Work is killing me. It is slow as fuck. What am I supposed to do? I mean, there are only so many things you can blog about before you have nothing to say. Shim is gross. Work sucks. The website will never be updated. Sex is good. Hot Half Nekkid Jogger Man should worship me as a goddess. Most men suck, and not the way I want men to suck. Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Christ. If only the Ritalin would kick in. Yeah.

I have decided to have relationships from a distance. Here is how it will work. I pick out a man to ogle, imagine myself in lewd situations with him, flirt until he asks me out and lose interest. That way I avoid the whole intimacy thing. The further away the man is, the longer the ‘relationship’ will last. Hell, if I never meet the guy, I’d probably actually sleep with him.

God. Where can I find men like this?

BM

So, I'm standing in line at Wal-Mart waiting to check out. Divided items by where I store them; freezer, fridge or cabinet, on the conveyor belt. Bored, I begin to thumb through, magazines. First of all, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy's PR team is kicking ass. They seem to be popping up on Supermarket Magazine racks much as the cast of "Friends". Secondly, I noticed Britney and Madonna got matching, diamond, Neil Lane, initial, pendants (pg. 37 of Us Weekly). There is a photo of them together, Britney on the left pointing to her 'B' and Madonna on the right in a similar pose pointing to her 'M'. The only thing I can think, as I giggle like Butt-head, is Bowel Movement.

I have issues.

Chemical Intimacy


I cut a friend's hair about once every two weeks. Trying to get as close to the skin as possible, I shave his head while he charmingly sits cracking jokes. Doing my weekly maintenance of his hair cut, I am struck with the memory of someone else. I remember A calling me over to his dorm. It was late, maybe 3:00 a.m., when he called. His deep, drunken tenor rumbled over the phone, asking me to come over and shave his goatee. How could I refuse when I'd been the one telling him he looked like Satan with it, and he needed to shave pronto. I walked through the warm September night to his dorm, where he snuck me in the back door. I followed with trepidation, wondering at the anxious knot in my stomach as I rushed upstairs behind him. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the shower room where he had set everything up and hopped up on the sink in front of the mirror.

There was a lot of history between us, and I wondered how he could trust me with the razor as he placed it in my hand. I slowly opened it and stared at the pearl handle letting my eyes wander to the metal blade gleaming in the florescent light. Grabbing my wrist, he pulled me between his legs flashing a grin so wide, I was sure I could see his molars. He asked softly, "Promise not to slit my throat?"

"You deserve it, ya' know," I answered, trying not to tremble at our proximity- failing miserably.

The grin faded. "I know."

The shaving cream was heavy and thick as I smoothed it over his face. My breathing grew unsteady when his tongue flicked out to lick his lips, narrowly missing the white, frothy substance I'd just applied. Anger, love and hate were surging through me while, with unsure hands, I gently began the process of scraping the goatee off of his face. His deep, brown eyes focused trustingly on me as a familiar heat grew between us. It had been a long time since I'd touched him. Years, to be exact, and I was tired of pretending it didn't matter. As I pulled away from his newly shaved face, he grabbed me an pulled me into a kiss. He tasted like scotch, cigars and himself. I threaded my fingers through his hair and pulled him closer.

I'd forgotten how it was between us. A furious fission that melted my reason, and my knees, ignited as his hands cradled my lower back and lowered me to the shower-room floor.

Memory is an assailant pouncing on me at an ill-timed moments. My friend cheerfully grins at me in the mirror as I finish. With shaking hands, I put away the razor and flee upstairs to wonder how many others are haunted by ghosts like mine.

Double-Chocolate-Chip

I have found perfection, bliss, happiness; and it all comes in a three inch, round package. It is Subway's Double-Chocolate-Chip Cookie. Who knew happiness was this easy? Forget men, work, fame... All of that is meaningless next to the perfection of this cookie.

::sigh::

Back to real life. Had meeting this morning. Sat across from Shim. It was frightening. Don't know what to do with my boy/girl co-worker. Seems that Shim has gotten a case of Flesh Eating Bacteria, otherwise known as FEB. Poor thing has scars all over his/her arms and face. Shim is one of the most pathetic human beings that has ever walked the face of this planet. He/she looks like Mike Ditka with permed, chin-length hair. Shim's life is tragic with loss of family members, lack of social skills, scary physical apperance and diseases. Yes, plural, DISEASES.

I almost feel bad for him/her, but find Shim SO annoying that I cannot actually get past almost. Nope. Instead of feeling bad, sit across from Shim praying that he/she does not spread his/her bacteria infested crap to me.

Hell is gonna' be hot, my friends. Very. Hot.

Perpetual inventory, DOS based operating systems, UPS codes, product codes… It is like I’m Charlie Brown and A. is the teacher. My eyes have glazed over, of that I’m sure. And… there is drooling. Yup. Catatonic.

I’m not sure what the fuck I was thinking when I got into this relationship.

Yeah, yeah, yeah… I was thinking: Great Sex! Hot Bod!

Now I want to shoot myself in the head every time he talks. No! I mean it! This has to be how it happens. This is how someone bores you to death. And, I’m stuck. How the hell do you break up with someone who is, for all practical purposes, perfect? How do you tell them they are Mr. Wonderful, but Jesus H. Tap Dancing Christ, they are boring when they aren’t fucking you? And really, a vibrator does the job faster, cleaner and better than the other guy.

If I married him, I’d need a boy friend on the side to keep me entertained. Not for sex, for conversation.

GAH!!

I’m going to have to come to terms with the fact that there is no one out there. NO. ONE. I’m too picky. I want it all: chemistry, looks, brains, fun and good conversation. I want a genie to pop out of my next Diet Coke can and grant me the perfect man. I don’t want to settle.

Damn it, I’m not going to settle!

P.S. I'm aware that this all or nothing thinking is bad, but GOD he is boring. You'd agree with me! Honest!

Migraines Suck

Had wonderful night with Brownie- don't know what I'm going to do when my stream of unconsciousness buddy is no longer in town. There just aren't a lot of people who can keep up with my off topic transitions OR include enough off topic transitions to keep my ADD like attention span focused.

Sat outside for dinner despite the ominous, black clouds coming in from the west. And, by the power of our will alone, the large front moved south allowing us to witness the beautiful sunset over the peaks of Victoria's Secret, Anne Taylor, Williams Sonoma, J. Jill and Andrenni Vittadini. It was almost a holy moment for us shopoholics; which we consumated by sipping our pink martinis. Had wonderful time at Nick and Tony's. Cosmopolitans were yummy, the manager who was apologizing for our waiter's inability to keep everyone around us happy was also very yummy. It would seem that one of the requirements for the staff was to have piercing blue or green eyes; a very enjoyable trait for us female patrons.

Our poor waiter was having a bad night. First off, when I asked for our drink to be made in a special way, (yes, High-Maintenance) he just didn't get it. Ended up asking for a shot on the side, which added to our drinks because I didn't believe he'd get it right on his own. By the seconded round, he brought the martini shaker out and added the shot right before our very eyes. Would have been impressive if he could have gotten the lid on tight enough. Instead the precious Kettle 1 and other assorted alcohol leaked out on the table and the poor boy's hands. He finally got it together and poured us our drinks with a cute little flourish.

We ate like the Queens we are, giggled in our happy, slightly alcohol induced state, and tried to ignore the sixty something gentleman to our left that could not stop staring at us. He had that well-to-do, tanned, relaxed arrogance that most men his age and income seem to have, which is very annoying. Do believe he may have been aghast at our conversation about men and was feeling sorry for our significant others. I feel sorry for my significant other all the time, so wasn't offended. Much.

After dinner, made our way through different shops before they closed until we ended up at the mother ship: Barnes and Noble. Yes, the staff there is evil. Yes, the staff there is snotty, but they have Starbucks! It is worth putting up with mean 'ole people to get an icy, creamy frap! That is what I keep telling myself anyway.

Well, had wonderful evening. Now must fight off migraine and head to the local grocery store where I'll glare at the small children and old people who seem to be there only to block the aisles and slow me down.

The Father, The Son and The Holy Bartender

I miss the bar from home the most.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not an alcoholic. It isn't the getting drunk part of the bar that I miss. No, I miss the green carpet, the lines of clean, clear glasses, the shiny bottles with colorful labels, the mirror behind the bartender I can see everyone in, the hammered copper bar top counter and the tall stools that allow me to swing my feet aimlessly while sipping whatever concoction ordered. I miss the order, the familiarity and the indifference... It reminds me of church, without all the pomp and circumstance of getting up early for mass.

Bar nuts seem like communion wafers; I don't want more than one and they both taste awful. The bartender, of course, acts as priest filling my tiny shot glasses with absolution. The cocktail waitress, positioned with head bowed studying her order intently, acts as an acolyte between brass bars. It lacks the image of our saviour crucified, but there are more than enough people acting the martyr in the crowd to make up for that noticeable difference.

Drama

Am a Drama Queen. Don't know when or how it happened, but it did.

Who am I kidding, learned it at my mother's knee. Come from long line of Drama Queens; just have been fibbing to self. It did not skip a generation as I had hoped. Looking through journal proves that. Might have to learn to embrace the DQ in me and move on. ::shudders:: That or more therapy. LOTS more.

Anyway, A. is forcing my hand with the whole "letting him in" deal. He over heard my Ma' on the answering machine inviting me and whomever I'm currently seeing home for Easter. Easter is not on my list of required holiday visits, but wants to meet my family. He thinks he wants to anyway, poor, dear man.

My family. God. If I take him out there, he'll begin to understand just how messed up I am (cannot fake sanity when with those people). And if I don't, he has already indicated how frustrated he is with my "no information routine". After all, HE took me to another STATE to meet his family. Suddenly, I'm kind of wondering if he is more serious than I thought. He did take me to meet his family.

Damn, I didn't think of that. Why the hell didn't I think of that?

SEE! Drama!
-Moiré

The Truth?

Whenever she told the truth, everyone thought she was lying. Being unbelieveable was cramping her style, so for several years she tried to play on her strength of not being believable by sincerely fibbing in hopes that people would think she was lying and believe the opposite of what she said. The tragic flaw to this process was: She couldn't lie.

In all truth, she could lie but she did it badly- so she never did. Her life was marked by a series of miscommunications followed by epic confusion.

AND, no one ever believed her whether she was telling the truth or not, although she always did.

It became so bad she found it necessary to stop talking altogether. Instead of speech, she began communicating with a series of nods, facial expressions and shrugs...

Yes, it is true. She took up the practice of Mime.

To her surprise, over a period of years her reputation of being a liar dissipated and she rose like a phoenix to positions of great power without ever saying a word.

Shoe Shopping

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was hot, it was cold. It was fun, it was...

un-fun?

It was a weird day. It all started off with a trip to DSW to look for black, lace-up, leather, calf-high boots. Ya' know, kind of a military look going on? Anyway, thought there might be a sale on winter stuff. Was very wrong. There are not winter stuff sales going on because, winter stuff sales are over. After a decade or two of shopping, should have remembered that such sales are over by end of January. Was forced to buy black calfskin sandals that show off painted toes. Was then forced to paint toes, of course picked a vampy red. Was then forced NOT to wear sandals, as it was 32 out this morning. Damn Illinois.

Miss summer. Miss bare-back shirts that let hair swish gently against back. For all of you short-hair chicks out there, you are really missing out. There is something sensual about having long hair move along skin, something sensual and very summer.
::sigh::

Am clearly a summer kind of girl. Like walking, heat, humidity, the fog in the early morning just before sunrise, cute sandals and iced coffee.

Ready to be rid of icky winter,

Moire