Thursday, May 27, 2004
riddle me this..
...what is the fascination with my hair?
I'm not talking about my personal fascination with my hair. That's perfectly explicable: I think my hair is one of my best features and I'm completely and totally vain. It's that whole "Goddess" thing I like to subscribe to (see URL).
I just wonder why so many of the people I've known over the years have had such a vested interest in the appearance of my hair. For example:
1) Back in high school BestFriend practically gasped in horror when my mid-back length locks were cut into a cute little longish bob that brushed just below my shoulders. Her thick dark hair is exceptionally curly, with a tendency to grow out instead of down, and she once confessed to living vicariously through my hair. Funny thing is, I always wanted at least a little bit of her curliness, since my hair was straighter than straight. (It’s a little less so these days, but not by much.)
2) Once, after my second boyfriend accidentally trapped my long-again hair under his elbow while in bed. After I yelped and said, “My hair is way too long,” he stared at me, a determined, serious look on his face, and told me, “Don’t you dare cut it.”
3) My last boyfriend was always trying to convince me to cut my once-more-mid-back length hair into a cute little bob that would be about chin length. “It’ll be easier, won’t take as long to dry, won’t get in your way and I’ll be able to see your beautiful face better.” After blushing and smiling shyly, I told him that I would lose styling versatility, which was something I was unwilling to give up. Oddly enough, the two years after our breakup saw my hair getting shorter and shorter, until it ended up – you guessed it - just below my chin.
4) A few years ago I told Boychik that I was considering trying a new hairstyle. His response? “Don’t get bangs.” This from a man that, as a rule, has never had an opinion on anything about my physical appearance. I think I had told him earlier in the day that I wore bangs of some sort for my entire life, up until 1999.
5) Both ModelGirl and BabySis have told me how much they love my currently long hair (not quite mid-back, but pretty close), how romantic it looks, and shook their heads when I mentioned I was thinking about getting it cut.
6) A few weeks ago, after I had said, for probably the second or third time in his presence, that my hair is currently too long and is in desperate need of a cut, CuteNerdBoy looked at me with all seriousness, and said, “Don’t cut it too short!” Perhaps he was remembering my previous DL picture.
7) And as recently as a few days ago, after the redhead entry, I received a comment from my harem master imploring me to “stay red, please!”
It’s just all so funny, really, how emphatic people are when I mention I need a haircut. I’m only looking to have it shoulder length again – it’s not as if I going to get it shaved off. And it’ll always grow back, usually fairly quickly. Of that I have no doubt.
Although, maybe I should give the Rosie O’Donnell look a try…
I'm not talking about my personal fascination with my hair. That's perfectly explicable: I think my hair is one of my best features and I'm completely and totally vain. It's that whole "Goddess" thing I like to subscribe to (see URL).
I just wonder why so many of the people I've known over the years have had such a vested interest in the appearance of my hair. For example:
1) Back in high school BestFriend practically gasped in horror when my mid-back length locks were cut into a cute little longish bob that brushed just below my shoulders. Her thick dark hair is exceptionally curly, with a tendency to grow out instead of down, and she once confessed to living vicariously through my hair. Funny thing is, I always wanted at least a little bit of her curliness, since my hair was straighter than straight. (It’s a little less so these days, but not by much.)
2) Once, after my second boyfriend accidentally trapped my long-again hair under his elbow while in bed. After I yelped and said, “My hair is way too long,” he stared at me, a determined, serious look on his face, and told me, “Don’t you dare cut it.”
3) My last boyfriend was always trying to convince me to cut my once-more-mid-back length hair into a cute little bob that would be about chin length. “It’ll be easier, won’t take as long to dry, won’t get in your way and I’ll be able to see your beautiful face better.” After blushing and smiling shyly, I told him that I would lose styling versatility, which was something I was unwilling to give up. Oddly enough, the two years after our breakup saw my hair getting shorter and shorter, until it ended up – you guessed it - just below my chin.
4) A few years ago I told Boychik that I was considering trying a new hairstyle. His response? “Don’t get bangs.” This from a man that, as a rule, has never had an opinion on anything about my physical appearance. I think I had told him earlier in the day that I wore bangs of some sort for my entire life, up until 1999.
5) Both ModelGirl and BabySis have told me how much they love my currently long hair (not quite mid-back, but pretty close), how romantic it looks, and shook their heads when I mentioned I was thinking about getting it cut.
6) A few weeks ago, after I had said, for probably the second or third time in his presence, that my hair is currently too long and is in desperate need of a cut, CuteNerdBoy looked at me with all seriousness, and said, “Don’t cut it too short!” Perhaps he was remembering my previous DL picture.
7) And as recently as a few days ago, after the redhead entry, I received a comment from my harem master imploring me to “stay red, please!”
It’s just all so funny, really, how emphatic people are when I mention I need a haircut. I’m only looking to have it shoulder length again – it’s not as if I going to get it shaved off. And it’ll always grow back, usually fairly quickly. Of that I have no doubt.
Although, maybe I should give the Rosie O’Donnell look a try…
banishing ghosts...
I've been writing a fair amount lately, both here and in my little notebooks, which is great. I love it when I'm inspired to write, write, write! But I'm noticing that a healthy percentage of what I'm writing are scenes from my past. A couple have made their ways here (for instance, recollections of the loss of my virginity and my teen-aged book-fueled hermitiness), others stay on the increasingly filled pages of my notebook.
So I wonder, why? Why am I moved to write about my past so often? It concerns me a little, because it almost feels as if I'm living there, in my past, when the words appear on the pages, bringing back the emotions that I felt the first time I lived through those experiences - both pleasant and unpleasant.
As I think about it, I realize that, though I've always tried to live in the present and look to the future, my mind has always been more than a little preoccupied with the past. I've pretty much always known this, but I've tried not to acknowledge it, for fear of giving this fact a solidity that would be difficult to move around, or through.
And then, as I read and re-read my words, working them, mulling them over, I realize that my recent memory inspired writing is coming about in an effort to release those hazy ghosts that have chained me to my past, ghosts whose remembrances seem as real - or more real - than my present at times. Ghosts that are part of what has kept me from living my life as fully as I would like. By giving weight and mass to those ghosts, moving past them would actually be easier, not harder, because isn't it much easier to keep something substantial behind me, as opposed to something wispy that could move back and forth in the blink of an eye?
So I write about the past, work to banish those ghosts, turn them into nothing more than occasionally visited memories so that I can live in the present I feel I deserve and embrace a bright, beautiful future.
Boy, I have a lot of writing to do!
So I wonder, why? Why am I moved to write about my past so often? It concerns me a little, because it almost feels as if I'm living there, in my past, when the words appear on the pages, bringing back the emotions that I felt the first time I lived through those experiences - both pleasant and unpleasant.
As I think about it, I realize that, though I've always tried to live in the present and look to the future, my mind has always been more than a little preoccupied with the past. I've pretty much always known this, but I've tried not to acknowledge it, for fear of giving this fact a solidity that would be difficult to move around, or through.
And then, as I read and re-read my words, working them, mulling them over, I realize that my recent memory inspired writing is coming about in an effort to release those hazy ghosts that have chained me to my past, ghosts whose remembrances seem as real - or more real - than my present at times. Ghosts that are part of what has kept me from living my life as fully as I would like. By giving weight and mass to those ghosts, moving past them would actually be easier, not harder, because isn't it much easier to keep something substantial behind me, as opposed to something wispy that could move back and forth in the blink of an eye?
So I write about the past, work to banish those ghosts, turn them into nothing more than occasionally visited memories so that I can live in the present I feel I deserve and embrace a bright, beautiful future.
Boy, I have a lot of writing to do!
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
gentle sadness...
I can't stop.
I can't stop listening.
I can't stop listening to this song.
It arrived in my e-mail this morning from a mailing list that I belong to, a mailing list that has gifted me with several musical gems. It wasn't until I checked my e-mail tonight, after writing group and coffee/conversation with Sarriah and updating the 'blog that I opened the e-mail, downloaded the song, and set it to play while I stepped lightly, sprightly, amongst my usual internet haunts. After Fruit Tree finished I played it again. And again. And yet again. Finally I put it on repeat, sat and listened to the music and the lyrics, read the sad story of Nick Drake's life in the e-mail. I know I am probably one of the last people to "discover" him, but still I am finding myself in love due to this one song.
I'm still listening to the mature voice of the then-19 year old artist, melancholic and beautiful, heart-wrenching arrangements of guitar and violins and - I think - woodwinds perfectly complementing the deeply gentle loneliness of the lyrics, of the voice.
I feel I may never stop listening...
I can't stop listening.
I can't stop listening to this song.
It arrived in my e-mail this morning from a mailing list that I belong to, a mailing list that has gifted me with several musical gems. It wasn't until I checked my e-mail tonight, after writing group and coffee/conversation with Sarriah and updating the 'blog that I opened the e-mail, downloaded the song, and set it to play while I stepped lightly, sprightly, amongst my usual internet haunts. After Fruit Tree finished I played it again. And again. And yet again. Finally I put it on repeat, sat and listened to the music and the lyrics, read the sad story of Nick Drake's life in the e-mail. I know I am probably one of the last people to "discover" him, but still I am finding myself in love due to this one song.
I'm still listening to the mature voice of the then-19 year old artist, melancholic and beautiful, heart-wrenching arrangements of guitar and violins and - I think - woodwinds perfectly complementing the deeply gentle loneliness of the lyrics, of the voice.
I feel I may never stop listening...
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
it is a puzzlement...
I’m a redhead?
I’m a redhead.
At least right now I am. And I have been for a few months. Since I had my hair dyed professionally for the first time back in February, I’ve been called a redhead several times. And I just can’t get used to it. I forget that there are people – the people with whom I work – who have never known me as the brunette I have always been, have always considered myself to be, even though I’ve tended to self-dye my hair some shade of red an average of once a year, some colors more vibrant than others. Not because I think I should be a redhead, or I’m terrified of the gray hairs that are slowly making themselves known, but because I just like to have a change of pace and I look much better as a redhead than a blonde. My natural hair color is actually a lovely dark brown, shot through with red (and the ever-spreading gray), so my mind automatically says, “Brunette,” when I think of my hair.
And I think, “Well, technically, since my hair is mostly dark red at this moment in time (if one ignores the brunette roots that are becoming increasingly more obvious), I guess I am a redhead.”
I love having red hair. I really do. Especially when it glints auburn or copper or magenta in the bright sunshine. But how can I reconcile the confusion in my mind when my sales reps, or the reps of my work’s sister company, say things like, “Uh oh, watch out, Carol’s another fiery redhead!”?
I tend to laugh and respond, light sarcasm dripping from my words, “Oh, yeah, this is my real hair color.”
So do let my hair grow out, go back to my natural brunette, the color I’ve always identified with, so that my outside matches my perception of self? Do I stay a redhead, loving molten fire that shimmers and glistens from my scalp?
It is a conundrum.
I’m a redhead.
At least right now I am. And I have been for a few months. Since I had my hair dyed professionally for the first time back in February, I’ve been called a redhead several times. And I just can’t get used to it. I forget that there are people – the people with whom I work – who have never known me as the brunette I have always been, have always considered myself to be, even though I’ve tended to self-dye my hair some shade of red an average of once a year, some colors more vibrant than others. Not because I think I should be a redhead, or I’m terrified of the gray hairs that are slowly making themselves known, but because I just like to have a change of pace and I look much better as a redhead than a blonde. My natural hair color is actually a lovely dark brown, shot through with red (and the ever-spreading gray), so my mind automatically says, “Brunette,” when I think of my hair.
And I think, “Well, technically, since my hair is mostly dark red at this moment in time (if one ignores the brunette roots that are becoming increasingly more obvious), I guess I am a redhead.”
I love having red hair. I really do. Especially when it glints auburn or copper or magenta in the bright sunshine. But how can I reconcile the confusion in my mind when my sales reps, or the reps of my work’s sister company, say things like, “Uh oh, watch out, Carol’s another fiery redhead!”?
I tend to laugh and respond, light sarcasm dripping from my words, “Oh, yeah, this is my real hair color.”
So do let my hair grow out, go back to my natural brunette, the color I’ve always identified with, so that my outside matches my perception of self? Do I stay a redhead, loving molten fire that shimmers and glistens from my scalp?
It is a conundrum.
story time (part 2) ...
Part 1 is here...
Love Seat
So it was hardly surprising when they next met, they strayed back at her apartment after an evening of film and dinner. Jazz played on the stereo and the meeting of minds on her loveseat turned into a fevered meeting of lips, of flesh. Impassioned, yet still impossibly tender, they took their time, savoring one another’s feel and scent and taste.
They found themselves with nude torsos. She sat on the loveseat, looking down at him as he kneeled between her legs. His strong, gentle fingers caressed her breasts as he took her right nipple in his warm mouth, teasing it with his talented tongue. Back and forth he moved, giving each nipple equal time until shudders ran through her. She realized that he had helped her achieve another best, another first: the first time she climaxed from sensual attentions paid only to her breasts. Though small, the shudders were definitely orgasmic in nature. Wonder blended with, enhanced her climax, for she never knew such a thing was possible. She silently thanked him for his talent.
She pulled him upwards and kissed him with an intensified fervor. He slid back onto the loveseat beside her, never breaking contact. They remained clothed from the waist down, but still they thrilled to the feeling of skin pressing, brushing against skin in the cool night air. Of its own volition her hand found the outline of his penis through his pants, hard and –- of a most respectable size.
He moaned against her lips, enjoying her attentions for a few moments, then he, however reluctantly, pushed her away.
to be continued…
Love Seat
So it was hardly surprising when they next met, they strayed back at her apartment after an evening of film and dinner. Jazz played on the stereo and the meeting of minds on her loveseat turned into a fevered meeting of lips, of flesh. Impassioned, yet still impossibly tender, they took their time, savoring one another’s feel and scent and taste.
They found themselves with nude torsos. She sat on the loveseat, looking down at him as he kneeled between her legs. His strong, gentle fingers caressed her breasts as he took her right nipple in his warm mouth, teasing it with his talented tongue. Back and forth he moved, giving each nipple equal time until shudders ran through her. She realized that he had helped her achieve another best, another first: the first time she climaxed from sensual attentions paid only to her breasts. Though small, the shudders were definitely orgasmic in nature. Wonder blended with, enhanced her climax, for she never knew such a thing was possible. She silently thanked him for his talent.
She pulled him upwards and kissed him with an intensified fervor. He slid back onto the loveseat beside her, never breaking contact. They remained clothed from the waist down, but still they thrilled to the feeling of skin pressing, brushing against skin in the cool night air. Of its own volition her hand found the outline of his penis through his pants, hard and –- of a most respectable size.
He moaned against her lips, enjoying her attentions for a few moments, then he, however reluctantly, pushed her away.
to be continued…
Labels: story time
Monday, May 24, 2004
fashion news...
As my astute readers may have deduced by now, I love clothes. Not fashion, so much, as many fashions are about as practical for normal, everyday people as a home electrolysis system is for Robin Williams (and frequently not as attractive), but I do love me some clothes. As a consequence, I know a little bit about clothing.
So I'm going to let y'all in on a little secret that seems to have eluded both fashion designers and the clothes-buying public for more years than I care to think about:
Capri pants are ugly.
There. I've said it. And because it's something I feel strongly about, I'll say it again: capri pants - and its cousins, the clamdigger and petal pusher - are not only ugly, they are hideous. Much like the commercially available Hummer, they have absolutely no reason to exist. Except, possibly, to make the consumer look rather stupid.
Granted, there are many things out there that are not practical and have no reason to exist. But at least ambient orbs and kaleidoscopes and Mercedes SL Electric Cars for kids are cool to look at.
(I take it back. That Mercedes SL Electric Car? Is stupid. Do kids really need to learn how to drive like their probably self-entitled parents at such a young age? Isn't that what the teen years are for?)
Look, I know that a number of you are, most likely, avid capri fans. Many of my friends wear them. You think they're girly and flirty and cute. But they're not. They're the Peter Pan of fashion - they either won't grow up or don't know what they want to be when they grow up. They flatter absolutely no one and very few women can even come close to looking almost decent. Instead, capris look idiotic.
I know that sounds harsh, and I'm sorry. But sometimes the truth is harsh. I'm not saying I'm immune to stupid fashion choices. I worked the stirrup pants and stretch pants a little past their expiration date (which should have been 2 days). And the whole "blazer/shorts suit" look was one that I heartily embraced (professional woman on top, fun casual girl on the bottom - whee!). And I have no doubt that many of my current fashion loves will cause me to cringe at some point in the future - the raison d'etre of most fashion is to make people wonder what the hell they were thinking in their youth.
But capris? Are just wrong on so many levels. Doesn't matter if they're high end or midrange. All cropped pants are fugly. Especially when paired with spike heels. Fugly and beyond stupid. End of story.
BTW, it seems I'm not the only person to think so.
And while we're at it, how about those pants so low-waisted I feel as if I can perform a pelvic exam just by looking at the woman?
Then again, maybe we won't go there. *shudder*
So I'm going to let y'all in on a little secret that seems to have eluded both fashion designers and the clothes-buying public for more years than I care to think about:
Capri pants are ugly.
There. I've said it. And because it's something I feel strongly about, I'll say it again: capri pants - and its cousins, the clamdigger and petal pusher - are not only ugly, they are hideous. Much like the commercially available Hummer, they have absolutely no reason to exist. Except, possibly, to make the consumer look rather stupid.
Granted, there are many things out there that are not practical and have no reason to exist. But at least ambient orbs and kaleidoscopes and Mercedes SL Electric Cars for kids are cool to look at.
(I take it back. That Mercedes SL Electric Car? Is stupid. Do kids really need to learn how to drive like their probably self-entitled parents at such a young age? Isn't that what the teen years are for?)
Look, I know that a number of you are, most likely, avid capri fans. Many of my friends wear them. You think they're girly and flirty and cute. But they're not. They're the Peter Pan of fashion - they either won't grow up or don't know what they want to be when they grow up. They flatter absolutely no one and very few women can even come close to looking almost decent. Instead, capris look idiotic.
I know that sounds harsh, and I'm sorry. But sometimes the truth is harsh. I'm not saying I'm immune to stupid fashion choices. I worked the stirrup pants and stretch pants a little past their expiration date (which should have been 2 days). And the whole "blazer/shorts suit" look was one that I heartily embraced (professional woman on top, fun casual girl on the bottom - whee!). And I have no doubt that many of my current fashion loves will cause me to cringe at some point in the future - the raison d'etre of most fashion is to make people wonder what the hell they were thinking in their youth.
But capris? Are just wrong on so many levels. Doesn't matter if they're high end or midrange. All cropped pants are fugly. Especially when paired with spike heels. Fugly and beyond stupid. End of story.
BTW, it seems I'm not the only person to think so.
And while we're at it, how about those pants so low-waisted I feel as if I can perform a pelvic exam just by looking at the woman?
Then again, maybe we won't go there. *shudder*
dream a little dream of me...
I know there's not much in the 'blogging/journaling world that's more boring than reading about dreams, but this morning, in between my serial snooze-button slaps, I had a dream that, quite frankly, was hardly exciting, but that I find interesting.
CuteNerdBoy and I arrived early at a theatre for an evening of play watching but it turned out that the ushers hadn't shown up, so we were asked to help out. In return we could watch the play for free. Naturally we said yes, because neither of us is an idiot, and we've both worked in theatre enough to know what to do as ushers. And somehow the people working the play knew that, though we had never been to that theatre before and knew no one there.
Apparently we were so early that not only had no one yet arrived, but no one was due to arrive for more than a few minutes. So we walked into the audience seating, which was supposed to be a tiny space but looked exactly like my old community theatre in Thousand Oaks, which seats over 100. As we started going through the audience, picking up programs and candy wrappers that had been left from a previous performance, I realized that we were at Kymm's theatre and that she was scheduled to show up that night. So I got all excited about possibly meeting the Mighty Kymm and hurried over to tell CuteNerdBoy, who I knew probably didn't know who she was but would nonetheless be excited for me.
And then the alarm went off and I woke up.
I'm trying to decipher the dream. Thing is, the only times I ever remember my dreams are either when I've been snoozing, like this morning, or when something about the dream is so disturbing that it wakes me up.
So this is what I think it means: 1) I'm bummed I didn't get a chance to bug Kymm while she was out here in L.A., because then maybe I could have arranged to meet her for lunch, even though she doesn't know me and we've only exchanged a few e-mails; and 2) both CuteNerdBoy and I need to get back into theatre, because I really do love it and I didn't audition at all last year (I tend to audition during the summer months - don't know why) and I think it would be exceptionally cool if CuteNerdBoy returned to acting (if that's what he wants) because I've enojoyed his work in the few things that I've seen him in (his ogling of Christina Applegate in Married with Children is legendary - okay, maybe not, but it should be *nyah!*). And we acted together in that high school play *mumble, mumble* years ago.
I think it sucks, though, that I still didn't get to meet Kymm, not even in my dreams...
CuteNerdBoy and I arrived early at a theatre for an evening of play watching but it turned out that the ushers hadn't shown up, so we were asked to help out. In return we could watch the play for free. Naturally we said yes, because neither of us is an idiot, and we've both worked in theatre enough to know what to do as ushers. And somehow the people working the play knew that, though we had never been to that theatre before and knew no one there.
Apparently we were so early that not only had no one yet arrived, but no one was due to arrive for more than a few minutes. So we walked into the audience seating, which was supposed to be a tiny space but looked exactly like my old community theatre in Thousand Oaks, which seats over 100. As we started going through the audience, picking up programs and candy wrappers that had been left from a previous performance, I realized that we were at Kymm's theatre and that she was scheduled to show up that night. So I got all excited about possibly meeting the Mighty Kymm and hurried over to tell CuteNerdBoy, who I knew probably didn't know who she was but would nonetheless be excited for me.
And then the alarm went off and I woke up.
I'm trying to decipher the dream. Thing is, the only times I ever remember my dreams are either when I've been snoozing, like this morning, or when something about the dream is so disturbing that it wakes me up.
So this is what I think it means: 1) I'm bummed I didn't get a chance to bug Kymm while she was out here in L.A., because then maybe I could have arranged to meet her for lunch, even though she doesn't know me and we've only exchanged a few e-mails; and 2) both CuteNerdBoy and I need to get back into theatre, because I really do love it and I didn't audition at all last year (I tend to audition during the summer months - don't know why) and I think it would be exceptionally cool if CuteNerdBoy returned to acting (if that's what he wants) because I've enojoyed his work in the few things that I've seen him in (his ogling of Christina Applegate in Married with Children is legendary - okay, maybe not, but it should be *nyah!*). And we acted together in that high school play *mumble, mumble* years ago.
I think it sucks, though, that I still didn't get to meet Kymm, not even in my dreams...
Sunday, May 23, 2004
quiet week...
This will be a nice week, I think. Unlike last week, I have nothing planned except for the writing group on Tuesday night. Not that I'd turn down a friend if she or he came up with something to do, but it is nice to have a quiet week ahead. Hell, I don't even have anything planned for Memorial Day weekend. Which is also okay, since this weekend has been tiring, with ModelGirl's baby shower yesterday and the Renaissance Pleasure Faire today.
(Oh, how my nipples were struggling to escape from my favored bodice - I kept them tamed, but cleavage, huzzah!! I also ran into the costumed Summer'85Boy and the non-costumed PythonMan there, which was cool. It's a good thing I'd already seen The Feathered Codpiece of Summer'85Boy at his Halloween party - elsewise I daresay I would have been slightly shocked.)
I mean, it's been a lot of fun, but restful is nice too. Though I think I would definitely be amenable to a day trip somewhere.
To make things a little busier I actually took work home this weekend. Not something I would normally do, but there was a quick PowerPoint presentation that had to be finished by the end of the workday tomorrow and I knew I would not be able to complete it and get feedback from the VP by 5pm on Monday. Plus, to be honest, I didn't work quite as hard on Friday as perhaps I should have. So there's a bit of guilt involved.
Unfortunately, I'm also discovering that, not only would I probably make an excellent sales person, I'd probably make a darned good marketing person too. Case in point:
Now, I'm not saying I knocked out seven such PowerPoint slides in a matter of minutes, but I think 1 1/2 hours isn't all that much time to spend on something like this.
Thing is, I've always suspected that I would be good at sales and/or marketing. It's a little unsettling to discover my instincts were on target in those resepcts.
Oy.
(Oh, how my nipples were struggling to escape from my favored bodice - I kept them tamed, but cleavage, huzzah!! I also ran into the costumed Summer'85Boy and the non-costumed PythonMan there, which was cool. It's a good thing I'd already seen The Feathered Codpiece of Summer'85Boy at his Halloween party - elsewise I daresay I would have been slightly shocked.)
I mean, it's been a lot of fun, but restful is nice too. Though I think I would definitely be amenable to a day trip somewhere.
To make things a little busier I actually took work home this weekend. Not something I would normally do, but there was a quick PowerPoint presentation that had to be finished by the end of the workday tomorrow and I knew I would not be able to complete it and get feedback from the VP by 5pm on Monday. Plus, to be honest, I didn't work quite as hard on Friday as perhaps I should have. So there's a bit of guilt involved.
Unfortunately, I'm also discovering that, not only would I probably make an excellent sales person, I'd probably make a darned good marketing person too. Case in point:
Based on a finely tuned ergonomic form, the [chair name] back rotates upon a pivot point when the individual leans back, creating a responsive flex to the user’s movement – a simple weight-responsive design. This quality stacking seating system – the recipient of multiple design awards - is available in polypropylene and upholstered versions as either a side or arm chair. Options for the [chair name] include gangers, tablet arm, book rack and glides.The above description was taken from the cutsheet, with extensive reworking by myself to punch up the features of the product, yet fit the description in a very limited space.
Now, I'm not saying I knocked out seven such PowerPoint slides in a matter of minutes, but I think 1 1/2 hours isn't all that much time to spend on something like this.
Thing is, I've always suspected that I would be good at sales and/or marketing. It's a little unsettling to discover my instincts were on target in those resepcts.
Oy.
story time (part 1)...
Coffee House
They spoke easily, their flowing e-mail exchanges morphing effortlessly into hours of live conversation, full of smiles and laughter. She wondered why she had been so nervous on the way to the rendezvous, especially since she had convinced herself that they were simply two e-mail buddies finally meeting in person.
The truth was, it wasn’t their first meeting, though it had been years since they had last seen each other. Despite her conscious convictions, the whole evening had a date-like feeling to it.
As the night, and the coffee house, drew to a close, they moved outside. Her car sat in front of the coffee house, standing mute witness to the conversation that didn’t want to end. Finally she checked her watch, noting it was after midnight. She sighed sadly.
“I have to go. I have to be at work tomorrow morning by 9am.”
He nodded, then looked slightly sheepish. “You know, I have to be honest.”
Uh oh, she thought. She looked down at her shoes. How many times in the history of the world have those words heralded good things? Not many, she was willing to wager.
He continued. “I never thought I’d be attracted to a BBW. But I am attracted to you. Very much so.”
Her eyes raised to meet his, her wonder no doubt reflected in their wide dark depths. He stepped closer, moved his lips to hers, and sweetly, gently, gave her the most tantalizing, most exciting first kiss she’d ever had. It was the sort of first kiss that every girl imagined, the sort that haunted a woman’s dreams for years. She had no choice to but to respond in kind. Her arms reached up around his neck as his encircled her waist.
They stood that way for many minutes – holding one another, chatting a bit more, kissing a little longer with ever growing passion. Despite her earlier intentions, she didn’t walk through her front door until sometime after 1am, her fingers lightly touching her still tingling lips as a thrill ran through her entire body. Even more minutes passed before a satiated sleep claimed her.
to be continued…
They spoke easily, their flowing e-mail exchanges morphing effortlessly into hours of live conversation, full of smiles and laughter. She wondered why she had been so nervous on the way to the rendezvous, especially since she had convinced herself that they were simply two e-mail buddies finally meeting in person.
The truth was, it wasn’t their first meeting, though it had been years since they had last seen each other. Despite her conscious convictions, the whole evening had a date-like feeling to it.
As the night, and the coffee house, drew to a close, they moved outside. Her car sat in front of the coffee house, standing mute witness to the conversation that didn’t want to end. Finally she checked her watch, noting it was after midnight. She sighed sadly.
“I have to go. I have to be at work tomorrow morning by 9am.”
He nodded, then looked slightly sheepish. “You know, I have to be honest.”
Uh oh, she thought. She looked down at her shoes. How many times in the history of the world have those words heralded good things? Not many, she was willing to wager.
He continued. “I never thought I’d be attracted to a BBW. But I am attracted to you. Very much so.”
Her eyes raised to meet his, her wonder no doubt reflected in their wide dark depths. He stepped closer, moved his lips to hers, and sweetly, gently, gave her the most tantalizing, most exciting first kiss she’d ever had. It was the sort of first kiss that every girl imagined, the sort that haunted a woman’s dreams for years. She had no choice to but to respond in kind. Her arms reached up around his neck as his encircled her waist.
They stood that way for many minutes – holding one another, chatting a bit more, kissing a little longer with ever growing passion. Despite her earlier intentions, she didn’t walk through her front door until sometime after 1am, her fingers lightly touching her still tingling lips as a thrill ran through her entire body. Even more minutes passed before a satiated sleep claimed her.
to be continued…
Labels: story time
Saturday, May 22, 2004
musical interlude...
It's perfectly suited
This uniform grey
There are no bearings
To the day
I came down from the air
And I'll leave by boat
I'm down with your rainy town
Out on the spit
With the biggest port around
My friend is on the way
He's bringing my coat
Oh, you don't do what I want you to
But I haven't been
Through all you've been through
And we could use that
As an excuse
If that's what you choose
If that's what you choose
Well it was kinda hard
To pull away
He said "Buck up baby,
It's okay. The sunlight
On the floor will always fall."
And I meant to write it
On the plane
High above my earthly pain
But I slept right through
The flight and that was all.
Oh, you don't do what I want you to
But I haven't been
Through all you've been through
And we could use that
As an excuse
If that's what you choose
If that's what you choose
It's perfectly suited
This uniform grey
There are no bearings
To the day
I came down from the air
And I'll leave by boat
I'm down with your rainy town
In the spare room
With the biggest port around
My friend is on the way
He's bringing my coat
He's bringing my coat
Uniform Grey by Sarah Harmer (from You Were Here)
It's been a crazy busy week, both work-wise and socially: preparing for a vendor show in Anaheim; attending said vendor show with my reps and an Arnold Schwartznegger impersonator; going to the writing group after a long workday; being unofficially offered the position that I'm currently covering (my predecessor has decided to not return from maternity leave - once her paperwork is finalized mine will be started); preparing for and attending our monthly team meeting; hanging out with Sarriah and MidWestRoommate; preparing for and attending Modelgirl's baby shower today. And not as much sleep as I should have had with all of that happening.
But thus far the highlight of the week was Wednesday night. I had spent the long day with my sales reps at the aforementioned vendor show in Anaheim, starting with an early morning train ride to the Staples Center to meet NewYorkWriter, then on to the Citadel to pick up SanFernandoValleyRep (or SFVRep), then south to the Anaheim Marriott. Many hours of standing, pulling in prospective clients to have their photos taken with our Governator look-alike (the hit of the show), smiling until my face hurt and discovering - much to my chagrin - that I would probably make an excellent sales person. I was tired by the time NewYorkWriter dropped me off at my workplace, where I was scheduled to meet CuteNerdBoy at 6pm for dinner and Sarah Harmer.
So we met, went off to dinner at Hamburger Hamlet in Hollywood, had fun as usual. I was a bit flirty, but certainly nowhere near as shameless as at the RockerChick/UPSGuy party on Saturday. Indeed, there was barely any cleavage to be seen on Wednesday.
(As mentioned, I was at work earlier and even I tend to keep my cleavage reined in at work.)
Then off for a Sarah Harmer show at the Knitting Factory, which is nearly across the street from Hambuger Hamlet. It was the same place we saw Jonatha Brooke. It was a great show, despite having had our ears deadened by a "band" in the bar while waiting for the main doors to open and standing all night, through the opening act and Sarah's set. In fact, it was only because of my growing exhaustion and screamingly aching feet (and the woman screeching next to me until I moved to the other side of CuteNerdBoy) that I wasn't close to as emotionally drooping as I was at the end of Jonatha's show the previous month.
That and the fact Sarah didn't sing Capsized or You Were Here. I loved the other songs she sang, even the ones I was unfamiliar with because they're from her new album, which I have not yet gotten. But those songs fell into what CuteNerdBoy called the "play/don't play" category. As in, "I love those songs and hope she sings them, but if she does I'll be a total wreck and I don't know if I want to be a total wreck." At least, that's what it meant for me.
Anyway, it was a lovely night. It certainly tested my recent decision to behave as just CuteNerdBoy's friend (for some reason he looked even cuter than usual - maybe it was his scruffy stubble and slightly longish hair - that a look that I happen to adore on him, especially if he happens to pair it with a button-down shirt, which was not the case on Wednesday [it was New BookCrossing T-shirt night]). But despite the temptation he continues to be, the whole "just friends" thing I'm trying to embrace actually felt pretty comfortable most of the time.
Okay, maybe CuteNerdBoy doesn't "do what I want [him] to", but I think I might be okay with that.
Eventually.
Labels: musical interlude
Monday, May 17, 2004
oh, the pain...
I love to walk. So it was fabulous walking all around JPL on Saturday amongst cool space exhibits with a good friend, talking to scientific minded people, even though I - shock of shocks - wore boots that were not the best boots to wear for such a day.
(I was thinking about the evening, trying on my boots with my cool lace-up pants when Boychik showed up. Then I spaced out, forgot to grab my more comfy "Frankenstein" shoes, and ended up regretting it during the walking portion of the day.)
I love to dance. I'm no good at following the choreography of others, but I am very good at feeling the music, moving to the beat, and busting out moves that surprise even me (I found out that I actually can go pretty low - I knew I still retain a certain amount of flexibility, but I had no idea I was that limber). So dancing on Saturday night, channeling the hip-hop tunes, translating them into fairly graceful movements, was a total blast for me. (The boots were actually very good for dancing - who'd thunk?)
I should probably remember that, much as I love them, and as fabulous exercise as they are, extensive walking and intensive dancing should probably not be indulged in the same day.
My poor little thighs...
(I was thinking about the evening, trying on my boots with my cool lace-up pants when Boychik showed up. Then I spaced out, forgot to grab my more comfy "Frankenstein" shoes, and ended up regretting it during the walking portion of the day.)
I love to dance. I'm no good at following the choreography of others, but I am very good at feeling the music, moving to the beat, and busting out moves that surprise even me (I found out that I actually can go pretty low - I knew I still retain a certain amount of flexibility, but I had no idea I was that limber). So dancing on Saturday night, channeling the hip-hop tunes, translating them into fairly graceful movements, was a total blast for me. (The boots were actually very good for dancing - who'd thunk?)
I should probably remember that, much as I love them, and as fabulous exercise as they are, extensive walking and intensive dancing should probably not be indulged in the same day.
My poor little thighs...
Sunday, May 16, 2004
shameless...
Yes, I was a wee bit on the shameless side last night. But before I get to that portion of the evening, I'll recount a little more of the weekend thus far.
Friday: no Douglas Adams Celebration. *pout* I ended up being stuck at work until after 5:30pm, which means I missed all of the buses that would have gotten me to Glendale at a decent time. And by the time I was done with work I was exhausted, so the prospect of being on the bus for 1 1/2 hours was not looking appealing. Instead I called the host to let him know I wouldn't be showing up and took Sarriah up on her offer to hang out with her. NewYorkWriter was in the showroom helping me get stuff ready for a vendor show in Anaheim this Wednesday, and she lives close to Sarriah, so she was sweet enough to drop me off. Hanging out, watching Deep Space Nine and coffee near my place commenced thusly.
Saturday: there were issues in the morning. 1) The pants that I wanted to wear were at the dry-cleaners and they weren't quite ready when I went to pick them up at 7:30am. The cleaner rushed to finish them because I was obviously upset, though I remained in control. As I walked home from the cleaners the first time I was on the verge of tears because it looked like my fabulous nerdriffic weekend was on the verge of falling apart, between missing the Douglas Adams Celebration, the Pants Issue, and concern about getting to breakfast in La Crescenta to meet some folks before the JPL Open House. Boychik had been having car problems, so we were supposed to be picked up by a friend, but his friend hadn't been in contact and he has a history of flaking and not communicating. I got my wonderfully cool pants, but as I was finishing my morning ablutions Boychik called - his friend never called and was half an hour late, and, because the Open House means a lot to him, Boychik was going to risk driving his car (the axel boot was torn, but the grease hadn't dried out yet, so he was still okay to drive - so far) despite having had only two hours of sleep.
(BTW, I was able to wear the pants I so desperately wanted to wear - yea!)
Boychik and I made our way to the restaurant, met three people that were part of the group we were supposed to meet, but the one person that I already knew didn't show up. There was another group that looked likely that the three people hadn't approached, so we went over to ask if they were on their way to JPL. They answered in the affirmative, but they weren't part of the group we were supposed to meet. They invited us and the other three to join them anyway, so we did. We talked with the JPL fella sitting next to me and some of the other folks. They actually left about 20 minutes after we sat down, after Boychik and I had ordered, but the usual, "Hope to see you at JPL," was uttered, Boychik and I had our breakfasts (most yummy) and, as we asked for the check, we were informed that our food had been paid for by the people we had joined.
I think Boychik and I stared at each other for a few moments in disbelief, wishing they were still there so we could properly thank them, then hoping we did run into them at JPL so we could thank them properly. We never did run into them.
On to JPL we went, with its crazy parking and busing from remote lots. We walked around, checked out exhibits, spoke with a few JPL folks as Boychik took down names (Boychik may say something about me possibly flirting just a little bit with one of the JPL fellas, but that's just a vicious truth he's trying to spread). It was great geeky fun. Towards the end of the Open House we watched film clips about the launching of the Mars Rovers and difficulties that had to be overcome in creating parachute and air bags. Short as the clips were, I was right with the scientists and engineers as they waited for the rovers to land safely. Even though I knew they had, my heart still fluttered in anticipation and tears sprung to my eyes when they all cheered. And in watching the trials and failures of the landing gear, my heart just dropped. It was very affecting.
So, after the Open House, we went to the home of RockerChick and UPSGuy for a Pasta Party (that had absolutely nothing to do with UPSGuy's birthday and don't you dare think it did!). I grabbed a Guinness, a little bruschetta and chatted with RockerChick for a bit. Soon afterwards CuteNerdBoy showed up. Hugs and greetings were exchanged, pasta and drinks were gotten, and the evening was underway in earnest.
Lots of laughter, lots of conversation. CuteNerdBoy was a good boy, having only one glass of wine at the beginning of the evening, then drinking soda and water after that. Not surprisingly, I was not so good. I had five drinks over the course of the evening, and was definitely into drunk territory (though I was hardly at my drunkest - I have a pretty high tolerance to alcohol).
Though he tried to resist it, CuteNerdBoy was seduced by the siren call of the pinball machine. He, Boychik and I played many games. I won only one, and refrained from sucking utterly only a couple of times. Despite having not played Addams Family pinball for many years, CuteNerdBoy proceeded to kick the asses of both Boychik and myself.
And where did the shameless part come in? Not surprisingly, it began with the pinball machine. I started out innocently enough, just leaning close to the machine, trying to distract CuteNerdBoy with my cleavage but thinking I should maybe just rein myself in a bit. But as the alcohol flowed and, more to the point, CuteNerdBoy mentioned my efforts at distraction were working (though, as high as those points were being racked, I wondered), I leaned closer to him, closer to the machine, making sure I didn't actually block the field of play but staying within his sight. And the cleavage progressed lower and lower until there were a few moments where only careful arranging kept my nipples from making an appearance. I tried to go a little further, warning him that I could be very bad, then proceeding slip my hands around his waist. That was a distraction he didn't want, so I quickly backed off.
On top of the X-treme Cleavage Event one of the guests, who shall be referred to as MissExuberant, was asked to show the remaining guests (maybe eight or so) the moves she had learned at her hip-hop dance classes. Hip-hop music was put on and she displayed her most impressive moves, as she loves attention and is, indeed, quite exuberant. However, RockerChick refused to let her stop. She got bored with being up there all by herself, so she tried to encourage someone to join her. Everyone declined, until she told me to join her, as I was off to the side, unable to entirely keep from moving to the music. And because I'd had a few drinks and I also love attention, I agreed. I was a little reluctant, because I know I can't follow choreography and I'm uncertain about my ability to dance hip-hop, but what the hell! I was drunk.
The first move went well, but the second I couldn't quite pick up, so I stopped. But later MissExuberant and I were chatting in the living room and I started moving to the music again. Next thing I knew I was busting into some rather impressive dance moves myself.
"You can dance!" proclaimed MissExuberant.
"I know," I responded. "I'm a very good dancer, I just can't follow choreography. And I can't hip-hop dance."
"Oh yes, you can. I hate to tell you, but that was a hip-hop move you just did. You don't need any lessons from me."
She dashed over to CuteNerdBoy, who at this point was observing a pinball game. "Did you see that move she just did? Man, she's a good dancer. Carol can move!"
He nodded and laughed and answered affirmative to all of her questions and statements. Not surprisingly, that was all it took for me to start full-on dancing. And let me tell ya, this big girl can move. I accidentally knocked over someone's drink while they were trying to pass me (which stopped the dancing for a time - I tend to close my eyes when dancing or singing, so I'm not distracted, but that's not always a good thing), but otherwise the dancing was most positive, even when I slipped, fell on my ass and turned it into a dance move ("Carol's break-dancing!" cried MissExuberant).
We ended up leaving before midnight, before the "Truth or Dare" segment of the evening could start. In his van CuteNerdBoy confessed that he didn't think he would have been up for it.
Anyway, it was a great time and I was outrageously shameless towards CuteNerdBoy, even more shameless than I normally am while at a RockerChick/UPSGuy party. I don't regret it at all. I've always known that he appreciates my cleavage, so it was immensely fun letting it all hang out (as it were - okay, just most of it) and watching him enjoy it for what it was.
But I've really got to start backing off a bit, I think. Hey, if he was still able to exhibit self-control last night, with nothing more than the traditional long hug and little kisses as we parted, then there's not much more I can do. I mean, I wasn't expressly looking to seduce the man last night by putting my breasts on display. I was just going with the moment, doing what I felt like doing without putting too much thought into it, for once. Doesn't mean I wouldn't have welcomed a little sumpin'-sumpin' if CuteNerdBoy had been driven over the edge by my prominent bosoms almost constantly in his face.
Besides, at this point, the only person I seem to be driving completely crazy is myself. If I'm driving him crazy he certainly hides it well, but I don't know if I can take it much longer.
Oh, I know that if I had someone in my life, I wouldn't be so shameless, so out there. All this intense sexual, physical, romantic energy I have pent up would be directed at that one person, instead of flying scattershot or shooting directly at poor CuteNerdBoy. And since he's the guy I have feelings for, even if we're not romantically involved, he gets the brunt of it.
I know I've said this before, and I'll try my best to keep to it this time, but - friends. CuteNerdBoy and I are just good friends. That may be all we'll ever be, so I've got to start acting like that. Pure and simple.
If only it were that simple...
Friday: no Douglas Adams Celebration. *pout* I ended up being stuck at work until after 5:30pm, which means I missed all of the buses that would have gotten me to Glendale at a decent time. And by the time I was done with work I was exhausted, so the prospect of being on the bus for 1 1/2 hours was not looking appealing. Instead I called the host to let him know I wouldn't be showing up and took Sarriah up on her offer to hang out with her. NewYorkWriter was in the showroom helping me get stuff ready for a vendor show in Anaheim this Wednesday, and she lives close to Sarriah, so she was sweet enough to drop me off. Hanging out, watching Deep Space Nine and coffee near my place commenced thusly.
Saturday: there were issues in the morning. 1) The pants that I wanted to wear were at the dry-cleaners and they weren't quite ready when I went to pick them up at 7:30am. The cleaner rushed to finish them because I was obviously upset, though I remained in control. As I walked home from the cleaners the first time I was on the verge of tears because it looked like my fabulous nerdriffic weekend was on the verge of falling apart, between missing the Douglas Adams Celebration, the Pants Issue, and concern about getting to breakfast in La Crescenta to meet some folks before the JPL Open House. Boychik had been having car problems, so we were supposed to be picked up by a friend, but his friend hadn't been in contact and he has a history of flaking and not communicating. I got my wonderfully cool pants, but as I was finishing my morning ablutions Boychik called - his friend never called and was half an hour late, and, because the Open House means a lot to him, Boychik was going to risk driving his car (the axel boot was torn, but the grease hadn't dried out yet, so he was still okay to drive - so far) despite having had only two hours of sleep.
(BTW, I was able to wear the pants I so desperately wanted to wear - yea!)
Boychik and I made our way to the restaurant, met three people that were part of the group we were supposed to meet, but the one person that I already knew didn't show up. There was another group that looked likely that the three people hadn't approached, so we went over to ask if they were on their way to JPL. They answered in the affirmative, but they weren't part of the group we were supposed to meet. They invited us and the other three to join them anyway, so we did. We talked with the JPL fella sitting next to me and some of the other folks. They actually left about 20 minutes after we sat down, after Boychik and I had ordered, but the usual, "Hope to see you at JPL," was uttered, Boychik and I had our breakfasts (most yummy) and, as we asked for the check, we were informed that our food had been paid for by the people we had joined.
I think Boychik and I stared at each other for a few moments in disbelief, wishing they were still there so we could properly thank them, then hoping we did run into them at JPL so we could thank them properly. We never did run into them.
On to JPL we went, with its crazy parking and busing from remote lots. We walked around, checked out exhibits, spoke with a few JPL folks as Boychik took down names (Boychik may say something about me possibly flirting just a little bit with one of the JPL fellas, but that's just a vicious truth he's trying to spread). It was great geeky fun. Towards the end of the Open House we watched film clips about the launching of the Mars Rovers and difficulties that had to be overcome in creating parachute and air bags. Short as the clips were, I was right with the scientists and engineers as they waited for the rovers to land safely. Even though I knew they had, my heart still fluttered in anticipation and tears sprung to my eyes when they all cheered. And in watching the trials and failures of the landing gear, my heart just dropped. It was very affecting.
So, after the Open House, we went to the home of RockerChick and UPSGuy for a Pasta Party (that had absolutely nothing to do with UPSGuy's birthday and don't you dare think it did!). I grabbed a Guinness, a little bruschetta and chatted with RockerChick for a bit. Soon afterwards CuteNerdBoy showed up. Hugs and greetings were exchanged, pasta and drinks were gotten, and the evening was underway in earnest.
Lots of laughter, lots of conversation. CuteNerdBoy was a good boy, having only one glass of wine at the beginning of the evening, then drinking soda and water after that. Not surprisingly, I was not so good. I had five drinks over the course of the evening, and was definitely into drunk territory (though I was hardly at my drunkest - I have a pretty high tolerance to alcohol).
Though he tried to resist it, CuteNerdBoy was seduced by the siren call of the pinball machine. He, Boychik and I played many games. I won only one, and refrained from sucking utterly only a couple of times. Despite having not played Addams Family pinball for many years, CuteNerdBoy proceeded to kick the asses of both Boychik and myself.
And where did the shameless part come in? Not surprisingly, it began with the pinball machine. I started out innocently enough, just leaning close to the machine, trying to distract CuteNerdBoy with my cleavage but thinking I should maybe just rein myself in a bit. But as the alcohol flowed and, more to the point, CuteNerdBoy mentioned my efforts at distraction were working (though, as high as those points were being racked, I wondered), I leaned closer to him, closer to the machine, making sure I didn't actually block the field of play but staying within his sight. And the cleavage progressed lower and lower until there were a few moments where only careful arranging kept my nipples from making an appearance. I tried to go a little further, warning him that I could be very bad, then proceeding slip my hands around his waist. That was a distraction he didn't want, so I quickly backed off.
On top of the X-treme Cleavage Event one of the guests, who shall be referred to as MissExuberant, was asked to show the remaining guests (maybe eight or so) the moves she had learned at her hip-hop dance classes. Hip-hop music was put on and she displayed her most impressive moves, as she loves attention and is, indeed, quite exuberant. However, RockerChick refused to let her stop. She got bored with being up there all by herself, so she tried to encourage someone to join her. Everyone declined, until she told me to join her, as I was off to the side, unable to entirely keep from moving to the music. And because I'd had a few drinks and I also love attention, I agreed. I was a little reluctant, because I know I can't follow choreography and I'm uncertain about my ability to dance hip-hop, but what the hell! I was drunk.
The first move went well, but the second I couldn't quite pick up, so I stopped. But later MissExuberant and I were chatting in the living room and I started moving to the music again. Next thing I knew I was busting into some rather impressive dance moves myself.
"You can dance!" proclaimed MissExuberant.
"I know," I responded. "I'm a very good dancer, I just can't follow choreography. And I can't hip-hop dance."
"Oh yes, you can. I hate to tell you, but that was a hip-hop move you just did. You don't need any lessons from me."
She dashed over to CuteNerdBoy, who at this point was observing a pinball game. "Did you see that move she just did? Man, she's a good dancer. Carol can move!"
He nodded and laughed and answered affirmative to all of her questions and statements. Not surprisingly, that was all it took for me to start full-on dancing. And let me tell ya, this big girl can move. I accidentally knocked over someone's drink while they were trying to pass me (which stopped the dancing for a time - I tend to close my eyes when dancing or singing, so I'm not distracted, but that's not always a good thing), but otherwise the dancing was most positive, even when I slipped, fell on my ass and turned it into a dance move ("Carol's break-dancing!" cried MissExuberant).
We ended up leaving before midnight, before the "Truth or Dare" segment of the evening could start. In his van CuteNerdBoy confessed that he didn't think he would have been up for it.
Anyway, it was a great time and I was outrageously shameless towards CuteNerdBoy, even more shameless than I normally am while at a RockerChick/UPSGuy party. I don't regret it at all. I've always known that he appreciates my cleavage, so it was immensely fun letting it all hang out (as it were - okay, just most of it) and watching him enjoy it for what it was.
But I've really got to start backing off a bit, I think. Hey, if he was still able to exhibit self-control last night, with nothing more than the traditional long hug and little kisses as we parted, then there's not much more I can do. I mean, I wasn't expressly looking to seduce the man last night by putting my breasts on display. I was just going with the moment, doing what I felt like doing without putting too much thought into it, for once. Doesn't mean I wouldn't have welcomed a little sumpin'-sumpin' if CuteNerdBoy had been driven over the edge by my prominent bosoms almost constantly in his face.
Besides, at this point, the only person I seem to be driving completely crazy is myself. If I'm driving him crazy he certainly hides it well, but I don't know if I can take it much longer.
Oh, I know that if I had someone in my life, I wouldn't be so shameless, so out there. All this intense sexual, physical, romantic energy I have pent up would be directed at that one person, instead of flying scattershot or shooting directly at poor CuteNerdBoy. And since he's the guy I have feelings for, even if we're not romantically involved, he gets the brunt of it.
I know I've said this before, and I'll try my best to keep to it this time, but - friends. CuteNerdBoy and I are just good friends. That may be all we'll ever be, so I've got to start acting like that. Pure and simple.
If only it were that simple...
Friday, May 14, 2004
proof positive...
...that people tend to be a little harder on themselves than others will be. Or at least that I'm pretty tough about my photos.
Tuesday night, after BookCrossing, CuteNerdBoy and I had our customary post-BookCrossing dinner. I was a bit tired after two pretty stressful days at work (which are still less stressful than Lions Gate - heh), so I wasn't my usual sparkling self. Oh, I cracked jokes at the small meeting of three earlier in the evening, and there was laughter but sometimes my joke-making and conversation felt forced. And it was difficult for my brain to come up with any bon mots on its own.
Anyway. I was tired. I was not too talkative. But apparently I was feeling a little mischievous regardless. CuteNerdBoy had put his wallet on the table for some reason (I think this was after paying the check), so I decided to just grab it. And I did. Now, I wasn't going to open it or go through it or anything, though the thought had crossed my mind. After a quick, "Hey!", in retaliation, he also grabbed my lovely new wallet (b-day present from NewYorkWriter - nice and small, just the perfect size for me).
Unlike me, he had no qualms about opening my wallet. Possibly he thought I was going to root around in his billfold and he wanted to make the pre-emptive opening strike. So I opened his. I looked at a couple of his cards as he checked out my wallet.
"Pull out the bus pass," I suggested. He ooh'd and aah'd over the pretty holographic bus pass, but I told him that wasn't what I wanted him to look at. Under the bus pass he saw my brand new driver's license. I was about to mention that I didn't like the picture as much as my previous DL photos (I tend to be surprisingly photogenic in my DL photos) when he nodded and said it was a nice photo of me, or words to that effect.
I think I stared at him a little in surprise, because while it isn't a horrible photo, I don't think it's all that good, especially when I compare it to my previous DL photo. Then again, I'm so bleached out in the 1999 photo that any flaws that might exist were washed away - it's almost like soft focus. You can barely tell I have a nose. And I noticed that my face was much rounder in the '99 picture. But I guess I feel the 2004 photo just emphasizes the fact that my skin ain't that great (though that probably has more to do with the way the license is created), my hair needs a good styling and that I definitely have aged a bit in the last five years. I know I still don't look 38, but in that picture I certainly don't look to be in my late 20's, as some people have guessed.
I think I demurred, as I always do, but I guess I just need to learn to take a damn compliment already. Besides, as I told him, the new picture (and another one taken at BookCrossing on Tuesday) has convinced me that I really need a haircut, no matter how much BabySis and ModelGirl like the "romantic" look of my current long hair. Though I won't go back to the short hair of 1999. While some friends have gushed over how cute that haircut was on me, it just took way too much time to style and I don't have that kind of patience or time.
Anyway, I certainly appreciated CuteNerdBoy's comment, even if I had trouble accepting it. That, combined with his earlier surprise at the BookCrossing meeting that I hadn't been asked to recap TV shows for Television Without Pity (we were telling the other BookCrossing member about the website), served to put a nice little smile on my poor stressed out face for the rest of the evening.
Maybe I should stop being so hyper-critical about my pictures. And about my poor hair. Okay, maybe not about the hair. Though it's only been a couple of months since it was last cut, it desperately needs some styling.
But definitely about the pictures. Maybe.
(FYI, his DL picture? Brand new this year and quite cute. I think my surprise at his comment stilled my tongue. As much as it can ever be stilled.)
*************************
In my phone call with WriterBoy last weekend I told him about the horrendousness that is Van Helsing, warning him away from it as best as I could. So this week he sent me a link to fifteen minute synopsis of Van Helsing. Hee!
Tuesday night, after BookCrossing, CuteNerdBoy and I had our customary post-BookCrossing dinner. I was a bit tired after two pretty stressful days at work (which are still less stressful than Lions Gate - heh), so I wasn't my usual sparkling self. Oh, I cracked jokes at the small meeting of three earlier in the evening, and there was laughter but sometimes my joke-making and conversation felt forced. And it was difficult for my brain to come up with any bon mots on its own.
Anyway. I was tired. I was not too talkative. But apparently I was feeling a little mischievous regardless. CuteNerdBoy had put his wallet on the table for some reason (I think this was after paying the check), so I decided to just grab it. And I did. Now, I wasn't going to open it or go through it or anything, though the thought had crossed my mind. After a quick, "Hey!", in retaliation, he also grabbed my lovely new wallet (b-day present from NewYorkWriter - nice and small, just the perfect size for me).
Unlike me, he had no qualms about opening my wallet. Possibly he thought I was going to root around in his billfold and he wanted to make the pre-emptive opening strike. So I opened his. I looked at a couple of his cards as he checked out my wallet.
"Pull out the bus pass," I suggested. He ooh'd and aah'd over the pretty holographic bus pass, but I told him that wasn't what I wanted him to look at. Under the bus pass he saw my brand new driver's license. I was about to mention that I didn't like the picture as much as my previous DL photos (I tend to be surprisingly photogenic in my DL photos) when he nodded and said it was a nice photo of me, or words to that effect.
I think I stared at him a little in surprise, because while it isn't a horrible photo, I don't think it's all that good, especially when I compare it to my previous DL photo. Then again, I'm so bleached out in the 1999 photo that any flaws that might exist were washed away - it's almost like soft focus. You can barely tell I have a nose. And I noticed that my face was much rounder in the '99 picture. But I guess I feel the 2004 photo just emphasizes the fact that my skin ain't that great (though that probably has more to do with the way the license is created), my hair needs a good styling and that I definitely have aged a bit in the last five years. I know I still don't look 38, but in that picture I certainly don't look to be in my late 20's, as some people have guessed.
I think I demurred, as I always do, but I guess I just need to learn to take a damn compliment already. Besides, as I told him, the new picture (and another one taken at BookCrossing on Tuesday) has convinced me that I really need a haircut, no matter how much BabySis and ModelGirl like the "romantic" look of my current long hair. Though I won't go back to the short hair of 1999. While some friends have gushed over how cute that haircut was on me, it just took way too much time to style and I don't have that kind of patience or time.
Anyway, I certainly appreciated CuteNerdBoy's comment, even if I had trouble accepting it. That, combined with his earlier surprise at the BookCrossing meeting that I hadn't been asked to recap TV shows for Television Without Pity (we were telling the other BookCrossing member about the website), served to put a nice little smile on my poor stressed out face for the rest of the evening.
Maybe I should stop being so hyper-critical about my pictures. And about my poor hair. Okay, maybe not about the hair. Though it's only been a couple of months since it was last cut, it desperately needs some styling.
But definitely about the pictures. Maybe.
(FYI, his DL picture? Brand new this year and quite cute. I think my surprise at his comment stilled my tongue. As much as it can ever be stilled.)
In my phone call with WriterBoy last weekend I told him about the horrendousness that is Van Helsing, warning him away from it as best as I could. So this week he sent me a link to fifteen minute synopsis of Van Helsing. Hee!
Thursday, May 13, 2004
nerdriffic!
The weekend is nearly upon us and I have to admit I'm looking forward to it. Why? Because it promises to be chock full of grand nerdy fun. And oh, how I love grand nerdy fun! Not that I've had a lot of it, but I certainly love the idea of it!
On Friday night I'm attending an LAPC event in honor of Douglas Adams, in which there promises to be all sorts of froody contributions. On Saturday I was invited by two people (who don't know each other at all) to the same event: JPL's Open House. Boychik invited me last week, to which I had said yes. And then a yesterday I received an invite (as did CuteNerdBoy) from a member of our BookCrossing group, along with a group of his friends. I don't know if CuteNerdBoy can make it, but I'm trying to see if there's a way to combine both groups. I'm going to be such a happy little geek groupie, with nerds as far as the eye can see. Whee!
And immediately after the Open House is a party that RockerChick and her hubby are throwing, which happens to be not very far from JPL. I will, of course, be mesmerized by their Addams Family pinball machine, which has a strangely geeky cachet. And CuteNerdBoy will be in attendence. And again I say, "Whee!" And "WooHoo!!"
Because even I can only take so much nerdy fabulousness for one weekend, I will rest on Sunday. I'll probably need it at that point, with my poor delicate brain so full of geeky goodness.
But it will be so worth it. Neato nerdosity... *drool*
On Friday night I'm attending an LAPC event in honor of Douglas Adams, in which there promises to be all sorts of froody contributions. On Saturday I was invited by two people (who don't know each other at all) to the same event: JPL's Open House. Boychik invited me last week, to which I had said yes. And then a yesterday I received an invite (as did CuteNerdBoy) from a member of our BookCrossing group, along with a group of his friends. I don't know if CuteNerdBoy can make it, but I'm trying to see if there's a way to combine both groups. I'm going to be such a happy little geek groupie, with nerds as far as the eye can see. Whee!
And immediately after the Open House is a party that RockerChick and her hubby are throwing, which happens to be not very far from JPL. I will, of course, be mesmerized by their Addams Family pinball machine, which has a strangely geeky cachet. And CuteNerdBoy will be in attendence. And again I say, "Whee!" And "WooHoo!!"
Because even I can only take so much nerdy fabulousness for one weekend, I will rest on Sunday. I'll probably need it at that point, with my poor delicate brain so full of geeky goodness.
But it will be so worth it. Neato nerdosity... *drool*
Monday, May 10, 2004
not there, too!
Last night, after getting home from all the Mother's Day excitement, I decided to watch a little bit of my Angel tape. There were still a few syndicated episodes from the week I hadn't seen, plus the WB Wednesday episode. I thought, "Hey, I'll watch the WB episode tonight."
So I pop in the tape, fast forward it to the correct episode, and sit down with a couple of cookies and some iced tea. Kind of an uneven episode, but okay. Or so I thought.
I won't give away any plot points here (and I'm sure that some of what I'm about to write will make no sense to those of you that don't watch Angel), but I will say that, about halfway through the episode, when Angel and Spike are in Rome, the scene fades up on a lovely young lady, skimpily dressed with truly stunning cleavage. This young lady is supposed to be the CEO of Wolfram and Hart's Rome offices. Standing next to this tall, high-heeled beauty, his head at roughly the same level as her most bounteous funbags (okay, maybe he's a bit taller than that - but not by much), lighting her cigarette, is a man I'd been hoping that I wouldn't see again:
StalkerGuy.
I swear I jumped a couple of feet when I saw him on my TV. I mean, he's a working actor. He had been when I knew him and, evidently, he still is. I just didn't expect him to pop up on pretty much the only show I watch with any regularity. And considering he stopped by a couple of weeks ago when I was in the shower, which I only knew because he left a message behind wishing me a happy birthday and leaving his name and number, well, I was a tiny bit weirded out.
At my party last week I mentioned to CuteNerdBoy about StalkerGuy's little note on my screen door. His response? "You know, Carol, there's this thing called a restraining order. They're not that hard to get." But because I haven't yet told StalkerGuy that I'm aware of his intermittent stalking ways and that I'm not too crazy about it, I feel like stepping up to the restraining order level might be jumping the gun.
So now I'm pondering my options: 1) calling him and tell him no more; 2) being a bit of a coward by e-mailing him to tell him to knock it off (I found his e-mail address recently); 3)Sarriah's idea of having someone totally not me (preferably a guy) calling him and saying there's no Carol there - unless StalkerGuy is seriously watching my place, which, for some reason, I kinda doubt, he doesn't know if I still live there or not. My inclination is the e-mail option, because it reduces the confrontation factor, but is up front about my thoughts. Still, not letting him know that I actually still live there appeals to me as well.
I'm thinking I need to do this pretty darned quickly, too.
BTW, if y'all saw who I'm talking about on Angel and thought, "Carol, what the hell were you thinking, sleeping with him?" (that was Sarriah's reaction), I reiterate - it was one time and I was depressed. Sure, he's got that nerd thing going, but I certainly don't think he's a cute nerd.
So yeah, I've wondered the same thing. Especially now.
So I pop in the tape, fast forward it to the correct episode, and sit down with a couple of cookies and some iced tea. Kind of an uneven episode, but okay. Or so I thought.
I won't give away any plot points here (and I'm sure that some of what I'm about to write will make no sense to those of you that don't watch Angel), but I will say that, about halfway through the episode, when Angel and Spike are in Rome, the scene fades up on a lovely young lady, skimpily dressed with truly stunning cleavage. This young lady is supposed to be the CEO of Wolfram and Hart's Rome offices. Standing next to this tall, high-heeled beauty, his head at roughly the same level as her most bounteous funbags (okay, maybe he's a bit taller than that - but not by much), lighting her cigarette, is a man I'd been hoping that I wouldn't see again:
StalkerGuy.
I swear I jumped a couple of feet when I saw him on my TV. I mean, he's a working actor. He had been when I knew him and, evidently, he still is. I just didn't expect him to pop up on pretty much the only show I watch with any regularity. And considering he stopped by a couple of weeks ago when I was in the shower, which I only knew because he left a message behind wishing me a happy birthday and leaving his name and number, well, I was a tiny bit weirded out.
At my party last week I mentioned to CuteNerdBoy about StalkerGuy's little note on my screen door. His response? "You know, Carol, there's this thing called a restraining order. They're not that hard to get." But because I haven't yet told StalkerGuy that I'm aware of his intermittent stalking ways and that I'm not too crazy about it, I feel like stepping up to the restraining order level might be jumping the gun.
So now I'm pondering my options: 1) calling him and tell him no more; 2) being a bit of a coward by e-mailing him to tell him to knock it off (I found his e-mail address recently); 3)Sarriah's idea of having someone totally not me (preferably a guy) calling him and saying there's no Carol there - unless StalkerGuy is seriously watching my place, which, for some reason, I kinda doubt, he doesn't know if I still live there or not. My inclination is the e-mail option, because it reduces the confrontation factor, but is up front about my thoughts. Still, not letting him know that I actually still live there appeals to me as well.
I'm thinking I need to do this pretty darned quickly, too.
BTW, if y'all saw who I'm talking about on Angel and thought, "Carol, what the hell were you thinking, sleeping with him?" (that was Sarriah's reaction), I reiterate - it was one time and I was depressed. Sure, he's got that nerd thing going, but I certainly don't think he's a cute nerd.
So yeah, I've wondered the same thing. Especially now.
buh bye...
Thought I'd let y'all know that, due to work and computer problems today, I am currently in search of my mind. Case in point - an e-mail to one of the sales reps:
*************************
BTW, absolutely fabulous news can be found over at Pamie's site. Go check it out. No, really. Move your ass on over there and squeal and weep for joy like a little bitty girl, just like I did.
Yeah, I'm talkin' to you men, too. After all, a real man's not afraid to squeal and do that teen-age girly sceram and weep for joy like a little bitty girl over people they don't really know. They're all secure in their masculinity, ya know. And damn if that ain't sexy...
*low, sultry voice* Squeal for me, darlin'. You know I love it...
*throaty growl*
Whee!!!!!
Hey there, hi there, ho there, Johnny m'boyo!If any of y'all find my mind, could ya drop me a note? Thanks much!
Ya want quote forms? Ya got quote forms! Knock yourself out!
Whee!!
(Yes, my mind - she is gone...)
BTW, absolutely fabulous news can be found over at Pamie's site. Go check it out. No, really. Move your ass on over there and squeal and weep for joy like a little bitty girl, just like I did.
Yeah, I'm talkin' to you men, too. After all, a real man's not afraid to squeal and do that teen-age girly sceram and weep for joy like a little bitty girl over people they don't really know. They're all secure in their masculinity, ya know. And damn if that ain't sexy...
*low, sultry voice* Squeal for me, darlin'. You know I love it...
*throaty growl*
Whee!!!!!
Sunday, May 09, 2004
poetry corner...
I don't consider myself a poet. I've written poetry, sure. I've even written a few songs. But, to be honest, most of my poetry and songs kinda suck. Some of them? More than kinda suck. They blow.
But there are a few that I rather like. Oddly enough, the ones that I like are ones that I consider songs because I heard music in my head while I wrote them and I still hear the same music in my head when I read them.
Are they any good? I think so. Heaven knows I could be wrong about that. It's not like I'm the most objective person when it comes to my writing.
So I thought I'd share one with y'all tonight. It's a song that I wrote about a number of years ago, one that's been rattling around in my brain of late. I hope you like it. And if you don't, please refrain from throwing rotten fruit. I mean, I don't think it's my best writing ever, but it doesn't totally suck or blow.
But there are a few that I rather like. Oddly enough, the ones that I like are ones that I consider songs because I heard music in my head while I wrote them and I still hear the same music in my head when I read them.
Are they any good? I think so. Heaven knows I could be wrong about that. It's not like I'm the most objective person when it comes to my writing.
So I thought I'd share one with y'all tonight. It's a song that I wrote about a number of years ago, one that's been rattling around in my brain of late. I hope you like it. And if you don't, please refrain from throwing rotten fruit. I mean, I don't think it's my best writing ever, but it doesn't totally suck or blow.
SLOW
Slow, slow, slow
You said go slow, my dear
Fast, fast, fast
I want to go fast, my dear
I want to touch your face
Stroke your hair
Kiss your lips, my dear
I want to feel your warmth
Your skin beneath
My fingertips, my dear
Each night I lie awake
Thinking about what
We almost were, my dear
And I hear your voice
Whisper in my ear
Take things slow, my dear
We must go slow, my dear
And I know you're right
Oh I know you're right
But remembering
Your hot kisses
Tortures me, my dear
Your sweet dark eyes
In my mind
Tortures me, my dear
And your gentle fingers
Stroking my skin
Tortures me, my dear
So hold me, just hold me
'Cause you told me, go slow
For you I will
Go slow, my dear
My sweet, sweet dear
Slow, slow, slow, slow
But not too slow, my dear
My sweet, sweet dear
i've got to stop...
...listening to so much music.
Okay, not really, because I really do need music. Oh G-d, how I need music. But damned if it doesn't confuse my poor lil' mind sometimes.
So yesterday, in the midst of errand-running and writing, slight cleaning and watching Angel episodes and keyboard lessons, not to mention chatting on the phone for long periods of time with Sarriah, Boychik, BabySis and WriterBoy (yea! It's been awhile, but it was nice to talk to him again - the poor man has a lot going on right now. I hope it lightens up a bit soon. Not just because it would be nice to hang out with him again [though it certainly would], but mainly for his own sake. Constant stress just isn't a good thing.), I also listened to Another Disc #13.
Actually I've been listening to it almost non-stop since last Sunday. There are a few songs that I've fallen in love with. But as I listened to one of the songs yesterday I thought, "Hey, maybe this will be the song I sing during the Moulin Rouge singing contest." I keep changing my mind as to the song I want to sing, wondering if I want to go the sexy, smoldering route (which will go with my costume) or the sincere, emotionally affecting route. The song I heard yesterday struck an emotional chord and is one that is in my limited singing range.
(I'm not saying what the song is because occasionally CuteNerdBoy reads my 'blog and I'd rather the song that I ultimately choose be a surprise, since he will be present.)
So what did I do? I printed the lyrics off the internet, popped the CD in the stereo, and sang along as if I were actually performing in front of an audience, stapler in hand using it like a microphone. At one point I actually rehearsed using my feather boa, which will be part of my costume. Because a girl's got to know if all the elements will work together, ya know. And I rehearsed for easily 30-45 minutes.
I still don't know if I'll use that song. It actually works with my voice, surprisingly enough. And once I learn it a little better I know what to do with it to make it sound even better. But sometimes I think the sexy, smoldering route might still be the way to go.
I wonder, do real singers and musicians experience these same dilemmas? Probably. And it's probably even more confusing, because they're usually choosing material they've created themselves and how can they show favoritism like that with their own creations. It would be like choosing a favorite amongst their children.
Or maybe not. Eh, I'm over thinking things again. And I've got stuff to take care of before I head out to hang out with family for Mother's Day. So off I go!
A terrific day to everyone, and a happy Mother's Day to all of you mothers out there!
Okay, not really, because I really do need music. Oh G-d, how I need music. But damned if it doesn't confuse my poor lil' mind sometimes.
So yesterday, in the midst of errand-running and writing, slight cleaning and watching Angel episodes and keyboard lessons, not to mention chatting on the phone for long periods of time with Sarriah, Boychik, BabySis and WriterBoy (yea! It's been awhile, but it was nice to talk to him again - the poor man has a lot going on right now. I hope it lightens up a bit soon. Not just because it would be nice to hang out with him again [though it certainly would], but mainly for his own sake. Constant stress just isn't a good thing.), I also listened to Another Disc #13.
Actually I've been listening to it almost non-stop since last Sunday. There are a few songs that I've fallen in love with. But as I listened to one of the songs yesterday I thought, "Hey, maybe this will be the song I sing during the Moulin Rouge singing contest." I keep changing my mind as to the song I want to sing, wondering if I want to go the sexy, smoldering route (which will go with my costume) or the sincere, emotionally affecting route. The song I heard yesterday struck an emotional chord and is one that is in my limited singing range.
(I'm not saying what the song is because occasionally CuteNerdBoy reads my 'blog and I'd rather the song that I ultimately choose be a surprise, since he will be present.)
So what did I do? I printed the lyrics off the internet, popped the CD in the stereo, and sang along as if I were actually performing in front of an audience, stapler in hand using it like a microphone. At one point I actually rehearsed using my feather boa, which will be part of my costume. Because a girl's got to know if all the elements will work together, ya know. And I rehearsed for easily 30-45 minutes.
I still don't know if I'll use that song. It actually works with my voice, surprisingly enough. And once I learn it a little better I know what to do with it to make it sound even better. But sometimes I think the sexy, smoldering route might still be the way to go.
I wonder, do real singers and musicians experience these same dilemmas? Probably. And it's probably even more confusing, because they're usually choosing material they've created themselves and how can they show favoritism like that with their own creations. It would be like choosing a favorite amongst their children.
Or maybe not. Eh, I'm over thinking things again. And I've got stuff to take care of before I head out to hang out with family for Mother's Day. So off I go!
A terrific day to everyone, and a happy Mother's Day to all of you mothers out there!
Saturday, May 08, 2004
musical interlude (and more)...
when i heard about the coming dayCapsized by Sarah Harmer (from You Were Here)
wish i could wake up from the dream
in it i see a family photograph
and there you are, tucked in the scene
and there's a jealous net inside my chest
there's a hurt, a sadness there
maybe i'd tell you all about it
if i thought you'd care
heavy heart gets lighter by his side
but there are thoughts i wish i'd heard
if they ask you how i'm holding up
say i'm holding out for the words
what's the sense in being so sensitive?
can i trade this thin skin for a shell?
there are some things i've got no feeling about
but there are some things i can tell
heavy heart get lighter by yourself
it's been so long since you capsized
and you've been lying out there in the sun
has it begun?
has it begun?
heavy heart, have you heard?
i could use the words
Like a fair amount of the songs that find their ways onto my mix CDs, Capsized initially brought to mind thoughts of CuteNerdBoy and the hopes that the still slightly bruised sections of my heart would, soon, feel healed, whole again. But as I listened to the mix CD again - and again and again - I realized that its inclusion on the playlist, its emotional connection to me, wasn't related to my frequently jumbled feelings for that lovely, occasionally maddening man.
No, as the words echoed in my ears and played around in my head, there flashed before my mental retinas a non-existent image of my family from nine or ten years ago. And in that image, tucked in the corner, with his arm around me, a bright smile on his handsome face and happiness flashing in his blue eyes, was my long-ago ex, FG. I remembered my recent reaction to discovering his marriage, then my more extreme reaction, some months later, to discovering the identity of his wife. The shakiness, the heart palpitations, the shortness of breath. All for a man I no longer loved or wanted.
But if I no longer loved him, if I no longer wanted him, then why was I so shaken when I found out about his wife? Why did I sit at my desk at my last temp job, unable to continue working, unable to concentrate on anything except for that photo in that trade paper and his last name attached to the first name of my former friend? Had I been fooling myself all these years? Had I convinced myself that he was a past I no longer wanted in my present, when possibly the opposite was true? And was that the reason that I've been unable to find any kind of romantic relationship, let alone the sort of relationship that I want in my life?
I listened to the music again and again, allowed it to wrap around my heart, and realized the truth. It was a truth that I had certainly known for many years, one that I had never hidden from myself, but one that I had been reluctant to seriously consider:
I've never forgiven him for leaving me.
The three of us sat at the outside table in the cooling night air, laughing and having dinner and pulling cards to give us insight into our most compelling life questions. Boychik and Sarriah were grilling me about the best way to phrase my question. "No mention of the word 'future'!" Boychik cautioned.Therein lies the issue. How can I forgive an ex who proved to be a coward in the end? And why would I ever forgive my father, a man whose sickness, whose unwillingness to accept responsibility, lack of remorse and complete dishonesty tore my family apart? And who may be a danger to others?
Sarriah nodded. "If you act as if it's in the future, then that's where it will always be. Act as if you have it now and it'll become your present." I still didn't know how to phrase my question, but I was a little bit closer. We hashed it over a bit more until finally Boychik took the cards - his dream cards, a birthday present from me - and asked, "What does Carol need to do to make herself ready for a relationship?" He tried to cut the cards, but they caught on the table and one card practically leapt out. The text under the drawing of a heart read, "Forgiveness."
Boychik picked up the cards, made a motion as if he were going to try again, but Sarriah and I looked at each other. I stopped him, took the card, and considered it long and hard.
"Boy, that card pretty much leapt out, didn't it?" queried Boychik. I nodded.
"You need to forgive, Carol. Not just FG, but, much as I hate to say it, your father, too," said Sarriah. I glanced up at her, my hands feeling warm and dry and tingly curled around the card.
"I know, but I don't know how. I'm still angry and hurt and I don't think FG deserves forgiveness. So how can I forgive? And how can I ever forgive my father? He deserves it even less."
To me, forgiveness has always meant that I understood the reason a person did what he did, could see his side of it and, possibly, see where I might do the same thing, were I in the same circumstances. People fuck up. It's just part of human nature. And sometimes those fuck-ups are understandable and worthy of forgiveness. And while I'm closer to understanding FG's actions than my father's, to this day I still have trouble understanding why he couldn't just tell me that he was unhappy.
Were I to forgive FG and my father, then I suppose there's a part of me that would feel as if I were condoning what they've done, that I'm acting as if the pain they caused really didn't matter in the end, when it's been a big part of shaping who I am at this moment in time, whoever that is. And there have been other actions by a few other men over the 38 years of my life which could be seen as unforgivable. Should I forgive them for what they've done to me, the damage they've inflicted? How can I ever let go of that anger and pain?
But.
If I don't, if I let the hurt and fury churn away at me, chipping away at my heart and my soul, then how could I have room in my life for the loving relationship I so dearly want? Will there be a heart and soul left to accept the love when it's finally offered?
I've been trying so hard to tell my "heavy heart get lighter by yourself" for so long, because it really has been "so long since you capsized and you've been lying out there in the sun." How much longer can my heart bear the harsh, unrelenting sun of my Taurean stubbornness, my anger, my pain? And how tired am I of thinking, "what's the sense in being so sensitive? can i trade this thin skin for a shell?"
A few evenings ago, on the night of the full moon in Scorpio, with a total lunar eclipse in the offing, I played some Enya on the stereo. I sat nude in front of my alter, performing what I like to call candlework. Anointing my candles with oil essence, burning incense, a beautiful egg-shaped white quartz stone sitting between the black and white candles. And, as midnight struck, I lit the candles and imagined being enveloped and penetrated by a bright cleansing white light. Words spilled forth from my mouth, beseeching the hurt and anger and all perceptions of betrayal to leave me, to make room for true forgiveness, so that I might have wonder and light and joy and love and all the positive energies that I desired in my life.
Yes, it seems strange to some people that I might do such a trippy la-la New-Agey thing, but while there is a hearty skeptic that resides in me, I also honestly believe in at least the psychological effects that such a ceremony might have. And I admit I honestly believe that all things in the universe are connected, all people and elements and energies are part of one another and, as long as I don't perform manipulative candlework, my efforts will bear fruit.
Maybe I'll learn how to finally forgive. FG will fade from the mental picture, the jealous net around my heart will finally lift and I'll be truly open to love again.
Hey, anything's possible, right?
Labels: musical interlude
oh dear...
For my birthday present, Sarriah took me to see Van Helsing last night. Because it's just the sort of movie that would be right up my alley. Vampires! Richard Roxburgh! Oh, and that Hugh Jackman guy. I had a couple of reservations about the movie, mainly the presence of werewolves and Frankenstein's Creature, but I thought it could probably still be good despite that, if handled correctly. I had really, really wanted to see it.
So we tried to organize a group outing, but in the end it was Sarriah, CuteNerdBoy and myself attending a 10pm show in Sherman Oaks. Sarriah and I had been warned by another that the movie was bad. Gloriously bad. But I thought, "Hey, Hugh and Richard can redeem it, surely!" Because I'm a cock-eyed optimist that way. And I'd purposely kept my blinders up with this movie, because I didn't want to know anything prior to watching it that would ruin it for me.
Wouldn't have mattered. The movie itself did a fine job of ruining it for me.
I won't go into details. I can't. Van Helsing is so mind-numbingly, oxygen-suckingly bad that nothing I say could do it justice. Not even Hugh's prettily manly Van Helsing nor Richard's so-far-from-subtle-the cousins-to-the-trees-that-comprised-the-sets-are-terrified Dracula could not begin to think about redeeming it. David Wenham played the requisite slightly bumbling, supposedly comedic sidekick as well as he could, and Kate Beckinsale (whom I've never really paid attention to - it's only by looking at IMDb that I know I've seen two of her films before) worked pretty hard in the now-stereotypical tough, kick-ass yet tender possible love interest (would have been nice if she and Hugh had actual chemistry onscreen).
But nothing anyone onscreen could have done would have been able to save the movie from its horrific writing and directing. CuteNerdBoy and I were frequently muttering asides to one another during the movie, with Sarriah contributing a few bon mots. Now, people who talk in theaters whilst a movie is playing happen to be one of my biggest pet peeves. So the fact that we needed to MST3K it after paying hard earned money for the ticket (well, he paid for himself - I was happy it was a birthday present from Sarriah), well, I think you can deduce what it is I'm trying to say here. As CuteNerdBoy said, "Hugh is going to have to come up with something really good to make up for this."
I will say this though: it's been a long time since I've laughed so hard at a movie in the theaters.
So we tried to organize a group outing, but in the end it was Sarriah, CuteNerdBoy and myself attending a 10pm show in Sherman Oaks. Sarriah and I had been warned by another that the movie was bad. Gloriously bad. But I thought, "Hey, Hugh and Richard can redeem it, surely!" Because I'm a cock-eyed optimist that way. And I'd purposely kept my blinders up with this movie, because I didn't want to know anything prior to watching it that would ruin it for me.
Wouldn't have mattered. The movie itself did a fine job of ruining it for me.
I won't go into details. I can't. Van Helsing is so mind-numbingly, oxygen-suckingly bad that nothing I say could do it justice. Not even Hugh's prettily manly Van Helsing nor Richard's so-far-from-subtle-the cousins-to-the-trees-that-comprised-the-sets-are-terrified Dracula could not begin to think about redeeming it. David Wenham played the requisite slightly bumbling, supposedly comedic sidekick as well as he could, and Kate Beckinsale (whom I've never really paid attention to - it's only by looking at IMDb that I know I've seen two of her films before) worked pretty hard in the now-stereotypical tough, kick-ass yet tender possible love interest (would have been nice if she and Hugh had actual chemistry onscreen).
But nothing anyone onscreen could have done would have been able to save the movie from its horrific writing and directing. CuteNerdBoy and I were frequently muttering asides to one another during the movie, with Sarriah contributing a few bon mots. Now, people who talk in theaters whilst a movie is playing happen to be one of my biggest pet peeves. So the fact that we needed to MST3K it after paying hard earned money for the ticket (well, he paid for himself - I was happy it was a birthday present from Sarriah), well, I think you can deduce what it is I'm trying to say here. As CuteNerdBoy said, "Hugh is going to have to come up with something really good to make up for this."
I will say this though: it's been a long time since I've laughed so hard at a movie in the theaters.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
quizzzzz...
It's been awhile since I've posted a quiz link, but here's one that's perfect for this week: Which Friend are you?
I'm Chandler - yea!
Ya know, I haven't watched the show regularly since its second season - catching only a few episodes here and there - and I may not watch the finale tomorrow night, so maybe now's not the time to be all gettin' on the bandwagon. But I've always liked and identified with Chandler best, so I'm happy.
I'm Chandler - yea!
Ya know, I haven't watched the show regularly since its second season - catching only a few episodes here and there - and I may not watch the finale tomorrow night, so maybe now's not the time to be all gettin' on the bandwagon. But I've always liked and identified with Chandler best, so I'm happy.
keep passing the open windows...
Since the advent of regular busing in my life, I've been reading a whole hell of a lot. It's one of the few things that public transportation definitely has over driving. The really nice thing is that I've been venturing out of my comfort genres of mysteries and thrillers and vampire books. I've even been reading what might be called "literary fiction". Me! Being all literate and shit! And really, really liking it! Whee! Some of the books might possibly termed "classics". *gasp*
So while sitting at the bus stop at Santa Monica and La Cienega this morning I read the last few paragraphs of The Hotel New Hampshire. It's the first time I've read anything by John Irving and I have to say: What the hell took me so long? I do believe I shall be checking out more of his books. Damn CuteNerdBoy for his confident and accurate prediction that I'd enjoy the book and, most likely, the author. I think that boy is really getting to know my reading tastes. Am I becoming predictable or what?
I also have to state that I may have to stop reading on public transportation. Reading heart-breakingly beautiful passages, such as the final ones in The Hotel New Hampshire, is a sure-fire way to bring tears to my eyes. And I just don't want to be crying on the bus.
Sorrow floats, indeed. And I promise to keep passing open windows.
So while sitting at the bus stop at Santa Monica and La Cienega this morning I read the last few paragraphs of The Hotel New Hampshire. It's the first time I've read anything by John Irving and I have to say: What the hell took me so long? I do believe I shall be checking out more of his books. Damn CuteNerdBoy for his confident and accurate prediction that I'd enjoy the book and, most likely, the author. I think that boy is really getting to know my reading tastes. Am I becoming predictable or what?
I also have to state that I may have to stop reading on public transportation. Reading heart-breakingly beautiful passages, such as the final ones in The Hotel New Hampshire, is a sure-fire way to bring tears to my eyes. And I just don't want to be crying on the bus.
Sorrow floats, indeed. And I promise to keep passing open windows.
Monday, May 03, 2004
party report...
I had planned on doing some cleaning on Thursday and Friday evenings, but exhaustion on Thursday evening and lack of energy on Friday nixed those plans. So what did I do instead? I was out of bed at 4:30am Saturday morning, had a quick breakfast of toast, soy yogurt and English Breakfast tea, then started with the cleaning. And I didn't stop moving until sometime after the majority of my guests had arrived. And even then I had trouble sitting still. It's the innate Taurean hostess in me, the need to make sure that everyone has what they need. It's that same need that makes me buy too much food and drinks, especially on a horribly hot night when most people just don't feel like eating. I'll be eating lasagna and chili for at least a week. But I shouldn't say anything. I barely ate and I had eaten very little all day.
Somehow I managed to fit in car rental and cleaning and laundry and taking my cat Edison to be shaved and food shopping and cooking into the day, not to mention getting myself clean and presentable. And as ModelGirl and SurferBoy walked in first, ModelGirl marveling at the cleanliness of my place, I knew that the apartment was presentable enough. Thank G-d.
Eventually a total of eight people showed up. Not a large group, but not a tiny one either. Everyone seemed to have fun, talking and, for those who hadn't previously met, getting to know one another. Sarriah wasn't there, because she was out of town, but most of my closest local friends showed up, as well as a couple of good acquaintances. And all but one of them have been mentioned in this 'blog before: ModelGirl and hubby SurferBoy, Boychik, RockerChick and hubby UPSGuy, NewYorkWriter, plus someone I've known off and on over the years through RockerChick - Schmobie (I may be misspelling that, but it is her actual nickname).
And, of course, CuteNerdBoy. He popped in while I was fixing saffron rice in the kitchen, handed me a birthday gift (three CDs - see under "Hearing" to the right), and gave me a big hug and the usual little kiss. I introduced him to NewYorkWriter (I think RockerChick had already introduced him to the folks in the living room).
The evening was a fun one for me, watching everyone chatting and laughing. I had a little more to drink than perhaps I should have on an empty stomach, with light drunkenness visiting me far earlier than it normally would, but I didn't really care. Because I didn't have to drive and I was having fun. Even when RockerChick nearly succeeded in spraying whipped cream down the back of my jeans (thank G-d I have quick reflexes and have remained flexible over the years). Even when I crawled on my stomach after Edison, wanting to cut off some hanging fur that the groomer had left on when he freaked out about having his ass groomed. I realized, though not as quickly as I should have, that I was a little too tipsy to be wielding scissors. Usually I'm much smarter that, even drunk, but at least I had already put down the scissors before I crawled into the hallway after Edison, with CuteNerdBoy calling after me, "She's crawling, with scissors!"
"I already put them down!" I called back.
(I succeeded the next day, when I was infinitely more sober - now he looks like a cute lil' lion. He still needs a little more grooming, but not much.
I tried to step back, to allow the talk to flow normally, but at the same time I was Birthday Girl, Queen Bee, comfortable to be completely myself in the company I kept, knowing I could be as silly and loopy and drunk as I wanted to be and that none would think I was trying to upstage anyone, as is sometimes a concern of mine. Hell, I think I kept them heartily amused, which I always enjoy doing.
I do feel as if I monopolized CuteNerdBoy a little bit. Certainly not my intention, but that would have probably been my inclination anyway, I'm forced to admit, and being drunk, I was even more inclined to do so. And while he's seen me tipsy before, I think Saturday night was the first time he'd seen me drunk. At least I'm a friendly, amusing drunk. Which is good, since I get drunk only about three or four times a year, and really drunk maybe twice a year. At least I should enjoy it when it happens, right?
But it's really about perception, I guess. NewYorkWriter, who's heard a bit about CuteNerdBoy, said that I was obviously entranced by him while RockerChick said she thought I was just being my usual flirty self. Then again, RockerChick has seen me tipsy before whereas NewYorkWriter (a member of my writing group and the woman who got me the position at CommercialFurnitureCompany) has only ever seen me completely sober (I was still merely tipsy when she left). Which one is closer to the truth, I wonder? I think it's probably a combo of the two.
CuteNerdBoy and Boychik were the last ones to leave and, when Boychik declared he was leaving, CuteNerdBoy stated it was time for him to be heading home as well, even though it was barely midnight, which I found a little interesting. Boychik left, CuteNerdBoy and I shared a long, lovely hug and the now-standard tiny kisses, then off he went.
I retained enough presence of mind to put away all the food, then I changed into a little white lace nightshirt I love to sleep in, curled up on my bed with my New Orleans feather boa which I had been playing with before Boychik and CuteNerdBoy left (don't know why I curled up with the boa - I think because in my drunken state I just loved the soft feel of the feathers against my skin) and promptly fell asleep.
I woke up the next morning earlier than I had wanted to, but I had to return my rental car at 8am, so I had no choice. I ended up napping a couple of times during the day, with desultory party cleaning, Angel watching, keyboard self-lessons, and walking a total of four miles (one mile home from the rental car place and a little over three miles at sunset) fit in there. And maybe a little too much to eat, making up for my lack of food the previous day, perhaps.
A good weekend, all told. Fun and lots of goofiness. Oh, how I adore goofiness. With a bit of wistfulness thrown in there as well, as is always the case with CuteNerdBoy. Fun, goofiness and wistfulness. What an interesting feeling combo that is. *shrug*
This whole week is going to be busy again, but it's more a social busyness than a cleaning busyness. I have no problem with that.
*takes deep breath, dives into the week*
Somehow I managed to fit in car rental and cleaning and laundry and taking my cat Edison to be shaved and food shopping and cooking into the day, not to mention getting myself clean and presentable. And as ModelGirl and SurferBoy walked in first, ModelGirl marveling at the cleanliness of my place, I knew that the apartment was presentable enough. Thank G-d.
Eventually a total of eight people showed up. Not a large group, but not a tiny one either. Everyone seemed to have fun, talking and, for those who hadn't previously met, getting to know one another. Sarriah wasn't there, because she was out of town, but most of my closest local friends showed up, as well as a couple of good acquaintances. And all but one of them have been mentioned in this 'blog before: ModelGirl and hubby SurferBoy, Boychik, RockerChick and hubby UPSGuy, NewYorkWriter, plus someone I've known off and on over the years through RockerChick - Schmobie (I may be misspelling that, but it is her actual nickname).
And, of course, CuteNerdBoy. He popped in while I was fixing saffron rice in the kitchen, handed me a birthday gift (three CDs - see under "Hearing" to the right), and gave me a big hug and the usual little kiss. I introduced him to NewYorkWriter (I think RockerChick had already introduced him to the folks in the living room).
The evening was a fun one for me, watching everyone chatting and laughing. I had a little more to drink than perhaps I should have on an empty stomach, with light drunkenness visiting me far earlier than it normally would, but I didn't really care. Because I didn't have to drive and I was having fun. Even when RockerChick nearly succeeded in spraying whipped cream down the back of my jeans (thank G-d I have quick reflexes and have remained flexible over the years). Even when I crawled on my stomach after Edison, wanting to cut off some hanging fur that the groomer had left on when he freaked out about having his ass groomed. I realized, though not as quickly as I should have, that I was a little too tipsy to be wielding scissors. Usually I'm much smarter that, even drunk, but at least I had already put down the scissors before I crawled into the hallway after Edison, with CuteNerdBoy calling after me, "She's crawling, with scissors!"
"I already put them down!" I called back.
(I succeeded the next day, when I was infinitely more sober - now he looks like a cute lil' lion. He still needs a little more grooming, but not much.
I tried to step back, to allow the talk to flow normally, but at the same time I was Birthday Girl, Queen Bee, comfortable to be completely myself in the company I kept, knowing I could be as silly and loopy and drunk as I wanted to be and that none would think I was trying to upstage anyone, as is sometimes a concern of mine. Hell, I think I kept them heartily amused, which I always enjoy doing.
I do feel as if I monopolized CuteNerdBoy a little bit. Certainly not my intention, but that would have probably been my inclination anyway, I'm forced to admit, and being drunk, I was even more inclined to do so. And while he's seen me tipsy before, I think Saturday night was the first time he'd seen me drunk. At least I'm a friendly, amusing drunk. Which is good, since I get drunk only about three or four times a year, and really drunk maybe twice a year. At least I should enjoy it when it happens, right?
But it's really about perception, I guess. NewYorkWriter, who's heard a bit about CuteNerdBoy, said that I was obviously entranced by him while RockerChick said she thought I was just being my usual flirty self. Then again, RockerChick has seen me tipsy before whereas NewYorkWriter (a member of my writing group and the woman who got me the position at CommercialFurnitureCompany) has only ever seen me completely sober (I was still merely tipsy when she left). Which one is closer to the truth, I wonder? I think it's probably a combo of the two.
CuteNerdBoy and Boychik were the last ones to leave and, when Boychik declared he was leaving, CuteNerdBoy stated it was time for him to be heading home as well, even though it was barely midnight, which I found a little interesting. Boychik left, CuteNerdBoy and I shared a long, lovely hug and the now-standard tiny kisses, then off he went.
I retained enough presence of mind to put away all the food, then I changed into a little white lace nightshirt I love to sleep in, curled up on my bed with my New Orleans feather boa which I had been playing with before Boychik and CuteNerdBoy left (don't know why I curled up with the boa - I think because in my drunken state I just loved the soft feel of the feathers against my skin) and promptly fell asleep.
I woke up the next morning earlier than I had wanted to, but I had to return my rental car at 8am, so I had no choice. I ended up napping a couple of times during the day, with desultory party cleaning, Angel watching, keyboard self-lessons, and walking a total of four miles (one mile home from the rental car place and a little over three miles at sunset) fit in there. And maybe a little too much to eat, making up for my lack of food the previous day, perhaps.
A good weekend, all told. Fun and lots of goofiness. Oh, how I adore goofiness. With a bit of wistfulness thrown in there as well, as is always the case with CuteNerdBoy. Fun, goofiness and wistfulness. What an interesting feeling combo that is. *shrug*
This whole week is going to be busy again, but it's more a social busyness than a cleaning busyness. I have no problem with that.
*takes deep breath, dives into the week*
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