all the fun of the fair...

April is quickly approaching and it's looking to be quite a fun and busy month. And I'm excited. I've got two trips out of town planned, to Las Vegas and San Francisco, and I may or may not be headed up to Fresno for a couple of days to help my mom move into her new apartment (depends on if I'm needed).

I have mixed feelings about my mom moving up north. She's excited about it, which is good, and she'll be fairly close to YoungerSis and her family, which helps my mom to get even more excited. And because she's excited, I am too.

But my mommy is moving away. Still in the state, it's true, but she won't be just over the county line any more. And that saddens me. Still, I should be happy for her and I am.

And I'm giving myself three very special birthday gifts: the San Francisco trip, opening night viewing of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which opens four days after my birthday (I watched the trailers today and I'm both hopeful and frightened) and four piercings.

Yep, I'm getting myself pierced. Don't worry, it'll all be in the ears.

I've long thought about getting additional ear piercings. Right now I have one hole in each ear. I used to have a second in my left ear, but at some point I removed the stud and forgot to put it back in, so the hole closed up. So I want to get that one re-opened, plus another hole in each earlobe. The fourth piercing will be in the upper right ear, through the cartilage, similar to what GraceD and her daughter got, though I'm planning to go to a shop that specializes in body piercing. I'm experiencing a bit of trepidation regarding the cartilage piercing, because I'm not exactly a fan of pain, but I've been wanting it for several years, so I might as well go for it. I mean, a girl only turns 39 once, right?

Besides, the pain will help to prepare me for my 40th birthday present to myself: my first tattoo...

...so, at the behest of the lovely and fabu GraceD, I will now unfurl a meme for you so beautiful, so breathtaking, you will weep when you have finished reading it. I'm tearing up just thinking about it. Enjoy!

Three Names You Go By
1) Carol
2) Carol Elaine
3) Petite Chou

Three Screennames You've Had
1) Ordinary Goddess
2) Francaise
3) Carol

Three Things about Yourself
1) I used to shut myself in my room for hours on end when I was a young teen, reading and acting out stories.
2) Acting classes in junior high and high school probably saved my life and my sanity.
3) My lasagna is very yummy.

Three Things You Don't Like About Yourself
1) My tendency towards procrastination. I was going to turn it into an artform, but maybe later.
2) Though I'm getting better, I can still be rather passive-agressive at times, even though I hate it in others.
3) I am naturally rather hirsute.

Three Parts of Your Heritage (Only three? I'm a mutt.)
1) French-Canadian
2) English
3) Native American (we suspect Iroquois, but we're not sure)

Three Things That Scare You
1) Harm to those I love
2) Being the victim of violent crime (hasn't happened, thank heavens)
3) George W. Bush

Three Parts of Your Everyday Essentials
1) Cleaning my ears (I was out of Q-tips recently and I couldn't stand it)
2) Checking my e-mail and blog stats ad nuseum
3) Writing

Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now
1) A smile
2) A nude colored push up bra
3) A "gold" and "diamond" necklace with three interlocking hearts

Three Favorite Musical Artists (Only three?)
1) Jonatha Brooke
2) Third Door Down
3) Anthony Stewart Head

Three Favorite Songs (Y'all are killing me with the "only three".)
1) Kermit the Frog, Rainbow Connection
2) Ben Folds Five, Smoke
3) Louis Armstrong, What A Wonderful World

Three Things to try in the Next 12 Months
1) Submit a story to a magazine for publication
2) Finish intermediate and advanced improv classes and get cast in an improv troupe
3) Become romantically involved with someone I could conceivably love (then again, I've been trying that for the better part of a decade - hmmm...)

Three Things You Want in a Relationship - Love is a given (I just kept Grace's answers, because that's what I want too.)
1) Humor
2) Deep companionship
3) Sex

Two Truths and a Lie
1) I waited until I was 23 before I gave away my virginity.
2) The last guy I had sex with had a penis ring (though there were no piercings) and our first time was in a closet at a rave-like party with a door that wasn't really a door.
3) I wanna be just like Dick Cheney when I grow up.

Three Things about the Opposite Sex that Appeal to You
1) Strong masculine hands
2) Strong noses (I seem to have a thing for Jewish atheist/agnostic boys)
3) Wire-rim glasses (okay, not intrinsically masculine, but I do love wire-rim glasses on a man)

Three Things You Just Can't Do
1) Whistle a merry tune on key
2) Cartwheels
3) Wrap my legs around my own neck

Three Favorite Hobbies
1) Blogging, baby!
2) Reading
3) Making mix CDs

Three Things You Want to Do Really Badly Right Now
1) Go home and nap
2) Sit naked in a mineral spring spa
3) Have sex with a certain guy friend (We're just friends, which is cool with me, but man, every time I see him - which is fairly often - I just want to do the horizontal bop with the man - oddly enough, I'm not talking about CuteNerdBoy. For once.)

Three Careers You're Considering
1) Novelist/fiction writer
2) Actress/improv troupe member
3) Interior Decorator

Three Places You Want to Go on Vacation
1) England
2) France
3) The Netherlands

Three Kid Names
1) Alaina
2) Phillip
3) James

Three Things You Want to Do before You Die
1) Get published
2) Fall madly in love with and marry a man who is perfect for me
3) Have/adopt children

Three Ways I'm Stereotypically a Boy
1) My cordless power drill makes me very happy
2) I'm a fan of Leonard Cohen (I've been told this is a guy thing)
3) Science fascinates me

Three Ways I'm Stereotypically a Girl
1) I lovelovelove clothes, jewelry, shoes and make-up
2) I tear up (and sometimes bawl like a baby) when listening to beautiful music
3) I love to bat my eyelashes at hapless men who are powerless to resist my flirtatious ways (Yes, I do live in my own little world, why do you ask?)

Three Celeb Crushes (Again with the only three?)
1) Jon Stewart
2) Anthony Stewart Head
3) Hugh Jackman

The Three Bloggers Who Must Do This Quiz (two of these folks are actually journalers, but that's okay)
1) My lovely wife Sarriah
2) The wonderfully naughty Brian
3) My fabulous almost-husband Patrick
And a Bonus Blogger: my dearest, darling SweetieSis Linda. I know we're only supposed to invite three bloggers, and originally I didn't ask her because I know she has an absurdly busy schedule (I really need to ask her to bottle some of her energy and ship it to the States), but still, I would love to read her answers. Plus it might get her to update her blog again!

Like many people, everything that's been going on with Terri Schiavo and her family has got me thinking about what I might want should such a thing happen to me. And that it's past time to draft up a living will.

I haven't put much thought into putting together a proper will, with bequeathals and the like, because I have no children and no husband. While I happen to like the possessions that I do have, none of it is exactly priceless. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure my Ikea furniture (with a few non-Ikea pieces thrown in there) and archaic electronics aren't going to skyrocket in value any time soon. Or at all. Most of my jewelry are costume pieces, the sort you'd find at Claires or Icing or on the clearance racks at Mervyns. One or two nice non-costume pieces, to be sure, but again, nothing that's going to cause catfights. Frankly, most of my family and friends have much nicer stuff than I have. Not that I envy them for their possessions (except maybe their laptops - those make me slaver with jealousy). But the truth is nothing I own is all that valuable. So sitting down to make a last will and testament isn't high on my list of things to do. Maybe I'll videotape it. Have my loved ones all gathered together in my home, then tell them to get one of the shopping carts that I'll have lined up at the front door and grab whatever they can, because it's time for Supermarket Sweep! Except with my things instead of groceries. Sorry, no gigantic Butterball turkeys or spiral cut hams.

Or, you know, sell it all and split the money equally. That works too. Everyone will be happy with $10, right? Because considering the worth of my stuff, that'll be what each person gets.

Not to say I've given no thought to my eventual death at the age of 120. (What? It could happen. Though if I do live that long, I would hope that I have a husband and kids and grandkids, etc. to whom I can leave all my worldly possessions. Or at least a hot Guatemalan houseboy - except straight.) I do have life insurance. Since the day I was eligible to sign up for it at my first job, back when I was an 18 year old discount department store cashier, I've had life insurance. It's not a lot of money, but it should be enough to cover any funeral expenses, with any remainder to go to my mother.

(Good thing she doesn't read this blog. I'd hate to start worrying about eating her cooking.)

I have expressed my wishes to family that all of my organs are up for grabs, if anyone, loved one or stranger, needs them. I don't think I'll have much use for them at that point. Oh, and I want to be cremated. I'm not sure where I want my final resting place to be, but if I can be used for fertilizer or compost in some open field somewhere, I'd be happy. That would definitely appeal to the la-la hippy lefty in me.

(Better yet, each of my loved ones should take a teaspoon of my ashes and wear it in a vial around the neck, to properly honor and mourn me. No? Really? Well, okay.)

So yeah, I've thought about it. And I've mentioned it to family in the past. I just haven't written it down. That shall have to be done soon.

What I haven't made clear are my wishes should I end up in a coma where I'm dependent on life support (which includes a feeding tube, in my opinion) or a persistent vegetative state, unable to have anything resembling a quality of life. That's what I really need to have written up, notarized and filed.

I've heard some people say that they'd just leave it up to their family to decide. I couldn't do that to mine. It would be torture for them to imagine what I may or may not have wanted, especially since they would be grieving. Better to get it down in black and white. Maybe with a bright blue wax seal in the corner. You know, to give a splash of color to what will probably be a dry-as-dirt legal document.

I've struggled with it over the years. I have thought about such an eventuality off and on since at least my teens. There is certainly a part of me that would want to hang on - that stubborn, optimistic, Taurean part of me that likes to dig her heels in, just in case medial science comes up with some miracle. I would hate to permanently check out of this world, this life before I've truly lived it.

But.

To be in such a state for five, ten, fifteen years? Or more? Even if there is a sliver of consciousness trapped in a body that cannot move, cannot express itself, that is only a mass of nerve impulses twitching and incoherently moaning - for me that would not be life. That would be torture. I know that I would not want to exist like that. For it would merely be existing. It would certainly not be living. Not to me.

So perhaps I say instead, give it a year. If I am not being a financial burden on my family, let me stay in a machine-supported coma or vegetative state for one year. Just in case a medical miracle comes down the pike.

The exceptions: if all that's left of my brain is a brain stem, let me go immediately. If keeping me alive for one year, or six months, or three month, is a financial burden on my family, let me go.

But if my family or my estate can afford to keep me alive, then after a year, if my doctors concur that there is no help for me, nor will there be, pull the plug. Lose the feeding tube. Let me die with dignity and peace.

(Of course, since I know I'm going to die at 120 years old whilst making sweet funky monkey love to my husband or hot Guatemalan houseboy, I don't think it'll ever come up...)

I've avoided writing about Terri Schiavo thus far. Of course I have my opinions and not surprisingly they tend to fall in line with those who believe that Congress and Bush have no right to interfere - I am highly cynical about their "concerns" in this case. Whenever I see Terri's parents my heart breaks for them, for their desperation to hang on to the hope that the daughter they once knew is still there, somewhere inside that poor woman. I feel for her husband, for choices he's felt he's had to make and the arrows currently being slung at him. There will be no winners when all is said and done.

But in the end it is not for me to judge. I do not know the participants of this tragedy. Though I have lost loved ones before their time, I've never gone through such a horrific scenario. I pray that I never have to.

Unfortunately there are other people who have been through it. Dana writes of her sister-in-law, her best friend. It's a sobering and sad story.

Tired. So tired. I just want to crawl under my desk and nap.

I had one of those interesting busy, yet quiet weekends. I had Friday off and did pretty much nothing. I even slept in! I haven't done that for ages! I had planned to get all sorts of things accomplished, but only took my bike to my neighborhood bike shop to remove a lock (I lost the key eons ago), buy a new lock and reinflate the tires. And I got some exercise by walking in my neighborhood and dancing in my living room to a couple of the songs from Celtic Woman. Oh, and a little bit of writing too. All else was vegging in front of the TV and napping. Although I'm still kicking myself for not cleaning and doing laundry, I did need that veg day.

On Saturday my fellow writing group members (Sarriah and NewYorkWriter) and I took an artist field trip, riding the Red and Gold Lines of the MetroRail. It was fun, checking out fellow riders, walking around Olvera Street. I'd never been there before and had no idea it was across the street from Union Station. Shows you how often I go exploring downtown. And it turned out that Saturday was the Blessing of the Animals, which meant that pets were everywhere. And very well behaved, for the most part. I saw one dog that was easily the size of a miniature pony. The top of his (her?) head probably came up to my shoulder and I'm not a short woman (I'm 5'6" tall). I love big dogs. The vendors were fun to look at, but I'm an inveterate shopper and it was only an extreme steeling of will (and Sarriah not wanting to stop anywhere) that kept me from spending money. Well, at Olvera Street, that is.

From there we hopped on the Gold Line and took it to the end of the line in Sierra Madre. We ended up at Sierra Madre Villa, where there are a number of Big Stores. Sarriah dipped into Best Buy while NewYorkWriter and I took a stroll around Bed, Bath and Beyond, then shuffled off to my beloved Ross, where I found the Perfect Skirt.

Black linen, fully lined, just above the knee, with a cute skinny black and white polka dot ribbon near the bottom, tied in a cute little bow. And I'm not even a bow person! I hate most bows and frilly things! But not this Perfect Bow.

I have tops and blazers that would go with this Perfect Skirt. I even have several pairs of shoes that would match like a dream. It was the sort of skirt that, just by having it in my possession, all my problems would cease to exist. The world would know absolute peace in my lifetime. Bush and his cronies would realize how very wrong they've been all this time and would step down from their Washington posts, begging for them to be taken over by highly Progressive politicians, who would then fix everything that was broken. Even more miraculous, Doctor Bean and I would be in total political agreement (*wink*).

In other words, angels sang and street urchins wept when I pulled it off the rack. Then I wept, because Ross had one size that was a little too tight and another size that was a little too big, but not the size in between, the one that would have fit me Just Right. I ended up buying the slightly too big skirt, just in case, but when I put it on this morning with the blazer I planned on wearing with it, it just hung kinda funny. And I wept again. I think I'll stop by another Ross this week and see if that one has the right size. Because if it doesn't, I will have felt that I let down Planet Earth. And I just can't have that on my conscience.

Anywho, the rest of the weekend was fine, too. Resting and returning phone calls Saturday night. YoungerSis went in for kidney surgery last week, but she's doing fine - she still has another surgery she needs, which will be next month. She's had these before and she's tough, so she'll make it through fine.

Then Sunday morning was spent at my last beginning improv class. I'll miss it, and most of my fellow students. Of course the student that I won't miss happens to be the one that's a little on the weird side (and not in a good way) who just couldn't get the hang of the class at all. The one who happened to develop a crush on me. I could tell, because he would invite me to sit on his lap. Several times. And yesterday he sat next to me while we were getting individual evaluations from the instructor and just put his arm around me, saying, "It feels like the thing to do, to get all snuggly."

Uh, yeah. Okay. Oh well, I don't have to see him anymore, thank heavens.

I was accepted to the intermediate class, but because of timing it doesn't look like I'll be able to take the next session. Perhaps the one after that, because I really would like to keep it going.

And Sunday afternoon I bused out to Ventura County for Easter dinner with Mom, BabySis and her family at BabySis' place. That was fun and low-key. BabySis is about five months pregnant right now with their second child (a girl - yea!) and is definitely showing. She's so cute! Then BSHubby took me home. I walked through the door a little after 10pm, returned a phone call to a composer friend of mine (he's working on a New Agey piece for a client which he played for me - so pretty, even if he's not much of a New Age-type person), futzed around on the computer a bit, then went to sleep at about 1:30am. And got out of bed at 6:30 this morning.

Yeah, I'm thinking a nap would be a really good idea right about now.

(BTW, for those of you who celebrated Easter, I hope it was a good one. For those of you who didn't, a most happy, if belated, non-religious weekend to you. As for me, I guess I celebrate Easter because I choose to spend it with my family and they celebrate it, but since I haven't self-identified as Christian in many a year, it does feel a bit weird. But that's a whole other blog entry...)

A man in my shoes runs a light
and all the papers lied tonight
but falling over you
is the news of the day
Angels fall like rain
And love - is all of heaven away

Inside you the times moves
and she don't fade
The ghost in you
She don't fade
Inside you the time moves
and she don't fade

A race is on
I'm on your side
And here in you
my engines die
I'm in a mood for you
Or running away
Stars come down in you
and love - you can't give it away

Inside you the times moves
and she don't fade
The ghost in you
She don't fade
Inside you the time moves
and she don't fade

Don't you go
it makes no sense
when all your talk
and supermen
just take away the time
and get in the way
Ain't it just like rain
And love - is only heaven away

Inside you the times moves
and she don't fade
The ghost in you
She don't fade
Inside you the time moves
and she don't fade

The Ghost in You by The Psychedelic Furs (from Mirror Moves)

While I've heard this song before, yesterday was the first time I'd actually listened to it (Chris Naze had an excerpt that intrigued me) and it brought to mind several of my friends, as well as myself, on occasion. Chris is right - it is the best heartache song ever.

BTW, before I receive concerned comments and e-mails, I'm not saying this is me right now. I'm fine. Just brought up a few buried memories and made me think of friends who have felt the same way. A slight emotional dip, perhaps, but that's all.

Labels: musical interlude

You Are Bold And Brave

But daring? Not usually? You tend to like to make calculated risks. So while you may not be base jumping any time soon... You are up for whatever's new and (a little) exciting!

You Are 50% Normal (Somewhat Normal)

While some of your behavior is quite normal... Other things you do are downright strange You've got a little of your freak going on But you mostly keep your weirdness to yourself

Warning: rather longish (for this format) short story ahead. Enjoy!

Again. Yet again. At least this one admits readily to his attraction to you. You don't have to decipher signals and signs and tell him point blank you'd love to seduce him for him to admit an attraction.

No, this one says to you that he would love to take you to Lake Arrowhead for a weekend, get a little cabin, play in the snow (whatever that may involve). That he would enjoy spending time with you, perhaps even love you as much as he is able. But the chances are you wouldn't like it much if he wanted to do the same with other women. Because this isn't the different world he wishes it were. If it were a different world he could be with you and with other women and no one would get hurt. Or if this were that different world, he could be very happy with just you.

This is the only world there is, you tell him. He nods and agrees and says unfortunately people get hurt in this world. And he doesn't want to hurt you. Or anyone else. Because he's just looking for a casual relationship and none of the women he's dated in the last several years - since his ex-girlfriend of many years left, left the state - have been able to handle such a relationship. Or have measured up to the ghost of the ex that he says he's still in love with. The woman that he's still friends with. The ex that has someone new.

So he says he really isn't in the dating scene, that he's willing to wait until he finds the right woman, the next woman he might want to spend the next twenty years of his life with, perhaps even marry, because it seems to him that women aren't capable of a casual relationship.

You disagree with him, tell him you're capable, because you've had a couple in the past. That there is a trick to it, that the woman just needs to be with someone who is attractive enough for her to sleep with, but should ideally drive her murderously crazy in one respect so that she knows too much time spent with said guy would be too stressful. As you tell him this - and he interrupts with innuendo that clearly isn't helping you - you wonder if it would be possible to be that casual relationship for him. Because it's been a year since you last had sex and you're mighty horny. And he looks so good, so handsome, sitting across the lunch table from you.

The first time you saw him you couldn't take your eyes off him during the several hours you were both in that large room, filled with over one hundred people. You spoke to him briefly later in the day, as the meeting attendees had split into brainstorming groups and he happened to lead yours and took e-mail addresses. He figured out what your mish-mash of letters stood for and smiled and you were impressed by his perspicacity. Several months later, when you saw him again at another meeting, you spoke to him briefly a couple of times near the beginning of the day, then, when the long election meeting was over, with most of the crowd gone, you found the courage to walk up to him and congratulate him for being elected. He shook your hand and held it while you talked about why you were there. He encouraged you to check out another meeting the next day and you agreed, all the while looking into his dark eyes, feeling a heart-pounding thrill not even the last person you loved gave you even though you had frequently wanted to jump his bones.

The subsequent meetings, with frequent exchanged glances and occasional swapped grins. The rare phone calls where just listening to his voice got your nipples hard and your underwear wet. Surely you could just spend a weekend or two in bed, pleasuring each other with no strings attached.

But you know yourself too well, know that it's not just a strong physical attraction. That you admire his passion and compassion, appreciate his humor, enjoy the way you can talk to each other and the way he keeps you on your toes. He can match you joke for joke, quip for quip, and you like the challenge. He's better at debating than you are, which you also like, and has a memory for detail (if not always names) and an agile mind that excites you. And he knows when to stop and think, that life isn't always about the quick, easy and perfect answer. You admire that about him as well.

Thing is, he thinks highly of you too. He's told you so. He thinks you're beautiful and interesting and intelligent and nice. You're such a nice person. And that you seem much more of a New Yorker than a person from Los Angeles. The ultimate compliment from a New York boy.

And you know, much as you would like to just fuck like bunnies for as long as you both can stand it, your emotions will just get in the way. You'll be hurt again and you don't know if you can take it. Not so soon after the last time. You tell him, while you can and have done casual before - which he doesn't believe - and are sorely tempted, you know this time you couldn't do it. Not with him.

He nods and understands, shifts in the booth from his former half-reclining position to leaning forward on the table. You joke with him about how, when reclining, he appeared to be just taking in your words in sort of a "Uh huh" manner. He cocks his head to the side with a slight knitting of the eyebrows, then slides out of the booth, stands up and moves over to your side of the lunch table, slipping in next to you. You're looking up at him but still leaning forward on the table. He reaches his left hand over and strokes the back of your neck. Your eyes close. He continues to stroke the back of your neck, you head dropping forward, enjoying the attention, relaxing just a little bit, wanting to lean back against him, into the crook of his arm.

"I'm not going to lean back, I'm not going to lean back," you silently chant, a mantra meant to keep you on the straight and narrow.

It doesn't work. How can it work when he takes his free right hand and places it against your right shoulder, gently but firmly pressing you back in the booth? Against him. Nestling you in the crook of his arm, where you wanted to be anyway.

You don't resist. You can't resist. You can't resist when his hand moves up into you hair and he caresses your scalp. You can't resist when his other hand runs along the side of your neck and your jaw. Your head tilts back, your eyes still closed, and you feel his lips brush your eyelids. You melt further into him. Your breath catches and again he graces your eyelids with feather light touches of his mouth.

His face moves away and you open your eyes, look into his, smiling and dark. He looks back at you, into your own dark eyes, his face so close, so close, closer still. And he kisses your lips.

Inevitable really, this long, deep, slow, gentle kiss that you return right there in Greenblatts, facing the front door so that anyone who walks in can see you and him and that sweet lengthy kiss.

Your lips part and you look at each other again. You map out his face with your fingertips as his fingers take a trip across your hair and your neck and your jaw. He takes a moment to taste your fingers every time they venture near his mouth. It's almost a game - stroke his nose, caress his cheeks, travel near his lips and watch them part and his tongue dart out. Swirl the pads of your fingers around his ear, move them to his strong chin, once again near his lips. Open and dart. You do this a few times, your focus on those lips and that tongue, then you glance up, your eyes lock again and he moves in for another kiss, just as sweet and tender and tantalizing as before.

This time your hand grazes his hair, your sensitive fingers running through the short dark wavy locks. So soft. So soft you're almost miffed because why isn't your hair that soft? But you don't think about that until later. How can you? All higher thought functions have fled, leaving you drowning in his smell and his touch and his taste.

Again, after the brevity of eternity, you part and you look at one another. Four dark eyes searching, studying. Despite the softness in his eyes, their deep intensity, you know that he has not changed his mind about you and him. Thought returns and you wonder aloud why life has to be so complicated. He tenderly replies that he doesn't know. He moves his head, his breath lightly skipping across your ear, threatening to drive away thought again as he whispers, "I just wanted to prove to you that I wasn't being distant."

You nod and say nothing, unsure about what to say, and he leans his head back slightly so that he can look at you again. And you know that he didn't sit next to you with the intention of kissing you, that it just happened, the natural outcome of being so near one another. You see no regret in his eyes, just that soft intensity that you fall into.

You stay that way, his arm still around you, one hand still lightly resting on your hair while you study his other hand, liking the look and the feel of it - not a large hand, but still strong and manly. You know how gentle it can be. You talk about various subjects, including astrology and stories with psychics. Somehow logic comes up and he says that he had been trying to think about your relationship logically, but for once he decided to go with the flow. And you think to yourself, "Relationship? Huh?" Later you wish you had responded, "Be careful about using the word 'relationship' around women who are attracted to you," but for now you just let it go.

So you sit for a while longer, enjoying just the nearness of him, thinking how wonderful and needed just cuddling is, how you could happily sit like that indefinitely, how sometimes it's better than sex. Who knows how long you would have stayed like that, chatting and cuddling for all the world to see? If the waitress had not apologetically interrupted you, needing to close out the check so that she could go home, perhaps you would have sat there well into the evening. Perhaps not.

He pulls away, using the hand that had previously been stroking your hair to burrow into his pocket and pull out his wallet. Because you have a fear of appearing to assume men will always pay for you, you ask if he'd like some cash for the check. He waves your offer away, as you suspected he might, but at least you didn't take him paying for granted.

You still remain seated next to each other for a while longer, talking about who remembers what, no longer touching as you were, and you miss it. Funny how quickly the body grows accustomed to touch, only to feel bereft when that touch is gone, even if the touch is brand new. But his knee is still lightly pressed against yours and you enjoy that little bit left.

Eventually you both look at the time. You swear you'd been there for hours, but in truth perhaps an hour and a half had passed since you sat down. Still, you both have places to be and realize it really is time to get going. So you do.

He asks if he can take you somewhere, to the subway station perhaps, then as you say sure he asks where you live. You tell him the area and he says, "I should drive you home. I should really drive you home."

"You're sure?" you ask.

"Yeah. I'll take you home." You thank him and he says no problem - after all, the places where he had to go for his errands are closed now (you apologize for keeping him and he says not to worry) and he doesn't live too far from you.

Soon enough you're driving over the hill, still talking. Somehow you don't run out of things to say. About politics - which is pretty much a gimme, considering how you met - his music that is issuing from his stereo after you expressed an interest in it (you realize there's an excellent reason he's a professional composer - he's really, really very good) and strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff.

He turns on the radio briefly, news reports on NPR telling of political issues that anger the both of you, though he turns the station away for a moment so that he doesn't get too furious. Then he flips back and you hear about something being pulled by the current administration that truly infuriates you, something that speaks to your childhood experiences as a family on a limited income provided to your father by the government. You rant and rail, relating the reason behind your fury, ending with, "Support the troops, my ass. He doesn't give a shit." Then you take a deep breath, splay your fingers in front of you, and tell yourself aloud to calm down.

He repeats your words. "Calm down, it's okay." You look at him and smile and nod, then he reaches over and strokes the back of your head. Instantly your eyes close and you lean back into his hand, your back arching like cat, then straightening up, chest out, shoulders back. You think it'll just be a few strokes, to placate you, but he caresses your hair for at least a minute, if not longer, and like the earlier kissing and caressing and cuddling, you don't want it to end.

It does end, of course, and you take a deep breath, look at him, smile yet again and say, "I don't know if I've quite calmed down yet." He returns your smile and says nothing, looking out over the road.

The rest of the all too short ride passes uneventfully enough, except for the stretch Hummer you pass when he accidentally gets on the freeway - he has to go in that direction to get your home anyway, so it doesn't matter much. You both see the Hummer monstrosity at the same time and make noises of disgust and scorn. An evil grin spreads across his handsome face and he rolls down his window and pulls up alongside the thing. As he passes it slowly (the piece of ostentatious, environment destroying crap is huge - the only way to pass it is slowly), his arm snakes out and he raises his hand. You can't see what he's doing with his hand, but knowing as you do that he's not afraid of confrontation and that he can be rather "in-your-face" at times, you have a pretty good idea.

Part of you thinks it's a little on the juvenile side, especially for a man at least ten years your senior, but a larger part of you loves it, finds it funny and salutes him for doing what you would love to do, and so you giggle.

The Hummer's windows are shaded, so you have no idea if there is anyone in the abomination to even see his salute to their idiocy and crassness. As you finally pass the driver you notice that he is looking straight ahead. A little disappointing, perhaps, that his actions may have had no impact, but oh well.

Soon enough you're off the freeway, listening to one of his compositions, a lovely song done in a traditional Greek fashion. He tells you the story behind the song - it was written for a play - and you love the sound of it, the Greek words which he loosely translates for you, lovely in Greek and even more lovely in English (no, he doesn't speak Greek, but he wrote the words in English and had them translated for the play). You give him the remaining directions to your place. Less than five minutes later he pulls up in front of your building. You smile at each other, say your goodbyes and see yas as you stifle the urge to reach over and kiss his cheek. Or his lips. Because you both know that you should try to maintain your distance, much as you may not want to.

Instead you gather your belongings, open the car door and get out, shutting the door behind you. You walk off to your apartment and he drives off to go home. You spare a glance at his retreating red taillights, knowing you'll see him again because of your mutual meetings. Hell, you'll see him in less than a week. And though you swear to yourself that you're strong, you're not going to travel the same road with him that you've traveled with others, the same road you traveled fairly recently, you still wonder what the next chapter of your story will be. Because this story isn't over. Not by a long shot.

Labels: story time

...Doctor Bean and I agree on a political issue.

More specifically, the recent interpretation of the McCain-Feingold bill by the FEC which says that links on blogs to political candidate sites may be construed as contributions to said candidates, with possible fines to the owners of said blogs for expressing their freedom of speech.

I'm hoping that this is all being overblown, but when I think about it my gut just clenches up and I fear that it's not. Even if it never gets back to me, it's still an attempt to stifle free speech. I will never be for stifling free speech. It's what this country was built on. It's in the Constitution, for G-d's sake.

So I'm joining the The McCain-Feingold Insurrection and signing the Online Coalition petition. Because this, my friends, is a non-partisan issue if ever I've seen one.

So many people make fun of those of us TV viewers that are channel hoppers. As if there is something wrong with someone who has no patience for commercials. But sometimes channel hopping will bear incredibly succulent fruit.

To wit: thanks to my channel hopping nature, right now I am listening to a marvelous concert - Celtic Woman. Five very talented women - four singers and a violinist, just blowing my mind and my heart. The singers all have achingly gorgeous voices. The types of voices that make my own voice ache for not possessing such purity of tone and breadth of range. Envy wars with pure enjoyment, but the enjoyment wins out, as it must, as it always will when presented with such stunning musical beauty.

Now the violinist playing and my heart is breaking in two. Considering that my favorite musical instrument is the violin, I think it is time to go and surrender myself completely.

Last week I bemoaned my lack of hate mail. Part of me wondered if my loyal readers (all five of you - okay, maybe there are ten now) would leap into action, firing off missives dripping with vitriol, melting the plastic from my monitor and cracking its display tube (or whatever the hell that thing is called).

Instead I received sweet comments and e-mails about how I'm just not acerbic or obnoxious enough to inspire such hatred. Or readers said that they're just not capable of dissing me. Very lovely and very appreciated, to be sure, but not quite what I'd anticipated. Perhaps I should have been clearer.

However, one of my readers intuited my wishes and provided me with a stellar example of hate mail. So much so that I was moved to ask him to marry me. Wonder of wonders, he accepted! Unfortunately wedding negotiations fell apart when we tried to determine whether he would wear white or if it would be me (I suspect neither of us is entirely eligible to wear white sans irony). The fact that I had to read about his decision to be Just Friends on his journal stung a bit, but I understand and appreciate his desire to keep the cat fighting to a minimum. Just as well, I suppose. I don't know how I'd explain to my mother that the chances of us having children would be small, seeing as I'm a straight woman living in Los Angeles and he's a cute gay fella living in Boston. She's having a hard enough time understanding that Sarriah, who is also straight, is my wife.

Anywho, I present to you the hate mail that made me weep for joy. Thank you, my dearest Patrick. Thank you.

Carol, quit your bitching. Good gods, you're annoying. The fact that
you haven't gotten hate mail says more about your dullish writing style than it does about you as a person (though who would want to know you as a person after reading your blog is a mystery to me).

Whatever troglodyte you're trying to dredge up from the brackish backlands of blogging to give you the negative attention you think you deserve would most likely be even closer to illiterate than you, so I suppose it would be a good match. Perhaps, when you receive the harsh words you seem to be aching for so desperately, you can request this person send you a picture, or meet him for lunch. Then you can fill your blog with pathetic, mooney-eyed love letters to your stalker/critic and eventually the "ordinarygoddess" will become "justanothertrainwreck" as you marry the poor figpucker and wonder where your sad, sad life went wrong.

(Okay, I can't go on any further...is this hateful enough for you?
You know I like to please you!)

Love ya,

Patrick

It's as if he knows the deepest crevices of my soul...

A few days ago I wrote about the week o' Sondheim music being forwarded by my music mailing list. After MailingListFella sent his first song of the week (Agony - a funny, funny ditty from Into the Woods) I e-mailed him thanking him for the song and for the week of Sondheim. I mentioned in my e-mail that Into the Woods is one of my top five favorite Sondheim musicals, possibly number four or five, though the music from Evening Primrose was beautiful enough to break my heart, which would make it rise in the ranks pretty quickly.

The next day I received a response from him, thanking me for my comments and asking for my mailing address, if I didn't mind, as he might have a surprise for me. My insatiable curiosity piqued, I gave it to him, but also telling him no surprises were necessary, but that I appreciated the thought.

Yesterday, after arriving home, I checked my mail. And there was a small package from him. I felt it - as I always do because it's almost like Christmas when I get unexpected fun stuff - and it felt CD-ish, so I opened it. It looked CD-ish too, but as I read the label I squealed like a little girl. Then I jumped up and down and rushed around the apartment a little. Then I squealed some more.

It was a surprise indeed. Because it was a DVD copy of the original television production of Evening Primrose from Stage 67 on ABC back in 1966, starring Anthony Perkins.

Wow.

This is something that is all but impossible to get hold of. It's not on DVD anywhere. It's not on commercially available video. I have no idea how he got it, except he's been in entertainment for a very long time and has connections.

However he got it, I am very, very grateful. Between that and the lovely Kevin Gilbert CDs given to me by Chuck after the party in Pomona - which I'm also enjoying very much - I'm stunned anew by the sweetness and generosity of people. I know to some it may not be much, but with new family drama a-brewing (which I may even write about, once I can process it enough not to freak me the hell out), it means a lot to me. For that, I am most grateful.

Sometimes I freaking love people, ya know?

I've been at this journaling/blogging thing for a little while, but somehow I have managed to avoid receiving the one thing that shows an online writer has arrived: hate mail. Even Brian has received hate mail and his blog is less than a week old.

Maybe I'm just not controversial enough. Maybe even when I'm ranting about politics, expressing in no uncertain terms my dislike, nay, my extreme hatred of the current political environment - maybe even then I just come off as a sweet lil' putty tat (albeit one with claws). Or maybe the sorts of illiterate fuckwits that enjoy sending a bit of hate mail to random strangers just don't stroll across my thresh-hold.

Whatever the reason, I don't seem to inspire unreasoning bile in others. Which, on the whole, is a good thing. It means people aren't going to walk up to me and punch me in the face, which, you know, I think is pretty positive. I don't like being punched in the face. I've had it happen before. It hurts.

Still, when I read John Scalzi's reposting of How To Send Me Hate Mail, I think that, once again, I've missed out on something that is an intrinsic part of writing on the internet.

Because, who wouldn't want to be called a Homonecropetapyrobestiphiliac? That's some brilliant shit right there. And I don't care if you hate me for thinking so.

I've mentioned before my long-time, deep abiding love for the work of Stephen Sondheim. How all I have to do is put nearly any Sondheim show CD in the stereo, turn it on and fall into the words and the music as they lift me into an entirely different realm of beauty and pain and humor in a way no other composer's work can do to me.

Well, next week is his 75th birthday and to celebrate the gentleman who runs the music mailing list to which I belong is sending out a different Sondheim song each day this week, highlighting a different aspect of the strengths of the composer's music.

Yesterday he highlighted Sondheim's ability to wrench the soul with stunning melodies and simple, exquisite lyrics. He excerpted two songs from the Tony-award winning, yet seemingly underappreciated show Passion: Loving You and No One Has Ever Loved Me. I'm listening to the medley now and feeling my heart swell with the music, the notes and instruments and voices carrying me above myself as that too-tender organ is twisted and tossed about.

And I'm very happy I'm in a stronger place right now. Because if I had listened to this a year ago, or six months ago, it would have devastated me.

GIORGIO
(spoken) Fosca, you have to face the truth.
Please.
You have to give me up.

FOSCA
(sung) Loving you
Is not a choice,
It's who I am.

Loving you
Is not a choice
And not much reason
To rejoice.

But it gives me purpose,
Gives me voice,
To say to the world:

This is why I live.
You are why I live.

Loving you
Is why I do
The things I do.

Loving you
Is not in my control.

But loving you
I have a goal.
For what's left of my life...

I will live,
And I would die
For you.
-- LOVING YOU

GIORGIO
(spoken) The letter from Clara...

FOSCA
(spoken) Yes?

GIORGIO
(spoken) It's over. Finished.

FOSCA
(spoken) I'm sorry.

GIORGIO
(spoken) Sorry? I would have thought that you would be pleased.

FOSCA
(spoken) I don't wish to see you sad.

GIORGIO
(spoken) I feel so much... but I'm not really sad.

FOSCA
(spoken) I thought you loved Clara.

GIORGIO
(spoken) I did love Clara. I did. But...

(sung) No one has ever loved me
As deeply as you.
No one has truly loved me
As you have, Fosca.

Love without reason, love without mercy.
Love without pride or shame.
Love unconcerned
With being returned --
No wisdom, no judgment,
No caution, no blame.

No one has ever known me
As clearly as you
No one has ever shown me
What love could be like until now.

Not pretty or safe or easy,
But more than I ever knew.
Love within reason -- that isn't love.

And I've learned that from you...
-- NO ONE HAS EVER LOVED ME

Labels: musical interlude

I'm going to confess something. Something deep and dark. I would hope that y'all won't judge me negatively for this:

I've never played Dungeons and Dragons. And I've always wanted to.

I just thought it always seemed like so much fun, creating characters and going on adventures. I've known a number of gamer geeks in my day and sort of envied them for participating in what I felt I had missed out on. Once upon a time, back when I was going to Pierce College, GruvLoungeGoth had started helping me put together a character (half-elven, of course, and I think she was more warrior than princess, but I don't remember), but that was as far as I'd ever gotten.

But now I know, had I continued down that path, I would not have been a half-elven female warrior (lifted with extreme respect from Chris Naze):

I Am A: Neutral Good Gnome Bard Ranger

Alignment:
Neutral Good characters believe in the power of good above all else. They will work to make the world a better place, and will do whatever is necessary to bring that about, whether it goes for or against whatever is considered 'normal'.

Race:
Gnomes are also short, like dwarves, but much skinnier. They have no beards, and are very inclined towards technology, although they have been known to dabble in magic, too. They tend to be fun-loving and fond of jokes and humor. Some gnomes live underground, and some live in cities and villages. They are very tolerant of other races, and are generally well-liked, though occasionally considered frivolous.

Primary Class:
Bards are the entertainers. They sing, dance, and play instruments to make other people happy, and, frequently, make money. They also tend to dabble in magic a bit.

Secondary Class:
Rangers are the defenders of nature and the elements. They are in tune with the Earth, and work to keep it safe and healthy.

Find out What D&D Character You Are, courtesy of Zinious Software corporation

Well, it does sound about right, but a gnome? *sigh*

...at least I think I do.

What do I get? Why I haven't been writing here. And why I sometimes go so many days between posts.

Sometimes I have these really interesting days. Like when I worked the election last week. And I want to write it up and be positively brilliant and clever. Thing is, if I take the time to be brilliant and clever, well, it ain't gonna be written up. Because for me brilliant and clever, while definitely doable, aren't off-the-cuff. My brilliance and cleverness are carefully crafted, with every word and punctuation mark precisely placed, then edited and re-worked if need be.

So I decide I can't really continue posting until I get the day or weekend in question written out just the way I want it to appear. Which holds up the posting because most of my writing time these days is spent on my writing class or my writing group (though this last not as often as it could be) or I'm trying to think of something original for my Progressive politics meetings. Or I'm returning e-mails. And when I'm not doing that and I'm not otherwise occupied, I just want to veg because, damn it, I'm tired.

Then I feel guilty because I'm neglecting y'all, and I do think of all these interesting things about which to post, but no, I can't possibly post until I detail those fascinating days or weekends I'm still hung up on. Which is just silly.

So. Here's what I started to write about my election day experiences:

SCENE ONE

Interior - Bedroom:

(Scene fades up on dark bedroom, camera focused on an alarm clock, its 3" red digital numbers glowing "4:10". That's 4:10 am, folks, not 4:10pm. A chiming bell sound issues from the clock and a hand flies down from off-camera right to smack the top of the clock with imprecise but accurate force. The noise shuts off and the rustle of bedclothing is heard. Soon another noise rents the air - the sound of a rather loud, annoying buzzer which repeats and repeats. The camera pans right, across the bed - past the vague dark shape of a head and a lump which may be a pillow but is, in fact, a cat - to focus on a second alarm clock, its 2" red digital numbers glowing "4:13". Another hand enters the scene, this time from the left. Instead of flying through the air, it fumbles for a well-worn, but still functional button and presses hard. The repeating buzzing ceases and once again the bedclothing rustles, then silence ensues.

Repeat scene at least four times, with only the clock numbers and the position of the cat changing.

Finally the hands, rather than hitting snooze buttons, drag aside the comforter and the camera pans out to show the shadowed figure of a woman slowly sit up in bed, swing her legs to the left side of the bed and shake her hanging head to try to clear it. The alarms are still blaring and she reaches over to first shut off one and then the other.

That was exciting, wasn't it? All of that and I hadn't even gotten out of bed yet. No wonder it was taking me so freaking long. I can continue in that vein if y'all are interested, but here's the reader's digest version:

I was at the polling place down the street from my home by 6am, worked as the person who gave out the blank ballots and put the marked ballots in the Sacred Ballot Box, and pushed those lovely "I Voted" stickers. I flirted, cajoled and got all Afterschool Special ("All the cool kids are wearing them." "It's the fashion statement of the day!") to give out those stickers and, for the most part, I succeeded. I think because voters may not be used to someone being, not just pleasant, but freaking personable and friendly. Who wouldn't want a sticker?

Then again, with the low turnout, I had time to be personable. I had lots and lots of time. If someone had filmed those of us at the polling place using time lapse photography (there were two precincts at the church where we were) and played it at fast forward, viewers still would have wondered why things seemed to be so slow.

In fact, there was so much extra time that two of the people at the other precinct table were performing magic for the rest of us (and any straggling voters) and one of my fellow precinct workers (a 21 year old Jewish Republican Neo-Con $cientologist video/computer geek who works in musical theatre in West Hollywood and loves it - there's a list of of self-identifiers that boggles my mind - especially since I have serious issues with both neo-cons [sorry, Doctor Bean *mwah*] and $cientologists - boy, did this kid drink the L. Ron Hubbard KoolAid) played catch with me using a baton I made out of an empty sticker page. And later taught me how to block a punch, take down an attacker and throw a punch (he also teaches self-defense and martial arts). He was so impressed by my natural strength and my ability to immediately ground myself that he wants me to stop by where he teaches and take a few classes. I made him laugh quite a bit, so maybe it was payment for being so silly most of the day.

Then again, a long 13 hour day with little sleep, too much sugar and caffeine and not a heck of a lot to do will bring out the punchy in me. I was all business when required, but my goofy was being exceptionally goofy. Hell, at one point I actually skipped from place to place.

My other fellow precinct poll workers were interesting too. The inspector was also a Republican who was severely upset when Bush gained a second term and liked to act as Yenta, thinking that a worker from the other precinct in our polling place (one of the magicians) would be a nice guy for me to hook up with, if I were single and looking. I told her I was both, but that if he were interested he would have to come to me. I mean, he's cute enough and amusing enough, but I'm just not in the mood to be too forward right now. And the fourth member of our team was a old-school hippie atheist with similar political stances to my own - mentioning in every other sentence that she volunteers for KPFK, yes, we get it already - but an inability to remember when talking about her politics was inappropriate. I.E. voters walk in? Stop talking. That simple. Turned out we knew some of the same people in the Progressive groups, but she's busy with other peace and political groups during the times when I'm going to mine, so we shan't see much of each other after all.

We did have a bit of excitement when it appeared that someone wanted to vote twice and, but under a different name and, when we asked him to fill out a provisional ballot and sign it, he absolutely refused and walked out. I later saw him as I was walking home and I think he saw me. I ducked behind a few bushes on my way back home just in case he decided to follow me to wreak vengence for not allowing him to break federal law. He didn't try to follow me. Thank heavens.

Also an older character actor whose name I don't know but whom I have seen many, many times on TV and in film flirted back with me when I was acting as Sticker Pusher, which was fun. He's easily in his 70s or 80s, but just a fun guy.

So there it is. L.A. Election Day, March 8, 2005. Definitely an interesting day. I think I'm gonna do more of these elections. Because sometimes politics can be fun. Whee!

No, I haven't been around. Yes, I'm a bad lil' blog mama. Yes, I will no doubt be cast into the fiery pits of the deepest hell reserved for bloggers who neglect their blogs and loyal readers.

Despite the above paragraph, I'm still not really around. But I just had to drop by to express my deep and abiding love for Judge Richard Kramer of San Francisco County's trial-level Superior Court. Why? Because he has ruled that California's ban on gay marriage is unconstitutional. It almost makes me wish Judge Kramer were a woman so that I could properly express my love for him by asking him to marry me. But then I remember that I already have a wife.

What? Just because I'm a straight woman I can't have a wife or two? How wrong is that? Harumph!

Also, as reported by Jim, there's a new blogger in town: Brian of brioSphere I've met him before and I'd posit that he's got some interesting things to say. Also, I've heard a rumor that he's a good kisser, but I ain't saying where I've heard that. Because I'm a lady and ladies don't divulge their sources.

I'll try to be back soon!

I'm still around and kicking. Just not on the blog, apparently. Tomorrow night I anticipate being home (though I'll be busy researching and preparing a presentation for the Strategy meeting on Sunday), so I'll take a few minutes to post about my first time experiences. As a poll worker this past Tuesday, that is. Interesting, it was indeed.

But while a slow election day was somewhat of the good for me, duty-learning-wise, I'm still disgusted at how low the voter turnout was. Approximately 28% of registered voters stopped by the polls. Twenty-eight percent. Granted, once upon a time I would have been amongst the 72% that didn't show up, but much like many reformed smokers, I'm probably going to be obnoxious about people who don't exercise the privilege of voting.

Anywho, I'm about to run off on a rant I don't have time for, so I'll just leave you with this:

You scored as paganism. Your beliefs are most closely aligned with those of paganism, Wicca, or a similar earth-based religion. You may also follow a Native American religion. paganism 71% agnosticism 71% Buddhism 71% Islam 63% Hinduism 63% atheism 42% Satanism 42% Judaism 33% Christianity 17% Which religion is the right one for you? (new version) created with QuizFarm.com

I doubt anyone is surprised, as paganism and Buddhism are the religions that resonate deepest with me. But I do think it's funny that I'm closer to being an atheist or a Satanist than I am to being a Christian (the faith in which I was sort of raised). All hail the mighty, most evil...wait, I don't believe in evil. Never mind...

(Actually I do believe evil exists, just not due to the influence of some guy in the netherworld who is Saddam's bitch.)

Tomorrow then!

Update - 3/13/05 12:19am: Still working on the election day post - it's taking longer than I anticipated and I'm also trying to work on my Strategy presentation and put together my "monologue" for my improv class. Maybe I shouldn't taken the time to do some much needed bra shopping on Saturday after all...

My phone is fixed, my phone is fixed! Praise be to Yahweh and Yoda, my phone is fixed!

Four days with no dial tone. Four days with no home internet access (yes, I have dial-up and yes, I love living in the 20th Century). It's been unbearable. But now life can start anew.

Is is me, or is the fledgling spring air smelling especially sweet today?

There are twenty-four hours in the day. Let's subtract eight hours for sleeping (though few people I know regularly use all eight hours - including me). That leaves sixteen hours in which things can be planned. Being generous, let's figure in an hour for ablutions and another two hours for traveling to and from somewhere in Los Angeles. Which allows for thirteen hours in which events can take place. Several events could fit nicely in the space of thirteen hours. I've been known to juggle three events in that span of time and still have time for additional traveling and TV watching.

Which makes me question why the three things I really want to do on March 12th are all happening in the same four hour period (9:30am to 1:30pm).

1) Progressive Alliance meeting: I missed a meeting last night so I'd rather not miss too many more. And this one has speakers who sound pretty interesting. Plus it's in Van Nuys, which isn't too far from me and, in fact, takes only one bus to get there.

2) A writing workshop: a woman who is supposed to be an excellent writer and very good at leading writing workshops with a metaphysical bent is leading one at the place where I attended the psychic reading fair last month. Unfortunately it's all the way the hell in El Segundo at 9:30am, which means I would have to leave the house 7:30am at the earliest.

3) Kenny Club meeting: I've already begged off this one, which is a shame since the meeting venue is very close to me (I could walk there in twenty minutes). I hate to miss it because I've only attended one meeting since I was accepted to the group in November, but unfortunately this one must run a very close third to the other two.

When are the disparate elements in my life going to learn to organize things to maximize my availability? I guess they just don't understand...

Update - 6:25PM: I have, not surprisingly, opted to go with Door #1. Sorry, Doctor Bean!

I'm sick. Just a small head-cold, but enough to make it difficult to breathe without turning into a mouth-breather, which is just such a lovely look for me.

That's what happens when a girl is constantly running around. And I most definitely have been. Since I got back from Tucson I used my day off on Tuesday to make sure I was enrolled in my writing class (yes, that took nearly the entire day), had dinner with TheFirst, went back to work on Wednesday, went to a Valley Progressives meeting on Thursday night (for which I was an hour late due to traffic), went to a fun party over at Jim's place in Pomona on Friday, went to a DP/SFV election Saturday morning in North Hollywood (where grassroots progressives swept the positions - yea!), then straight to a Strategy Sub-Committee meeting in Santa Monica and had my improv class on Sunday morning.

Monday night was my writing class (praise be to GruvLoungeGoth for being so sweet to give me a ride - we happen to have classes right next to each other and with our workplaces so close to each other, I just meet him at his work and off we go!) and last night was taking Sarriah out to dinner for an early birthday night, though today is her actual birthday - yesterday was BabySis' birthday. Happy birthday to them both!

There were actually two or three other things that I had planned or thought might happen that fell through, which was probably just as well. Because I actually caught up on some of my sleep this past weekend, which was exquisitely nice. And at the party on Friday I enjoyed a little drunken kissing with one of the guests (someone I'd been in contact with previously to the party, though I met him for the first time on Friday), so that was of the good. Also of the good? A ride from the DP/SFV elections to the Strategy meeting from one of the sub-committee's co-chairs, DemDelegate (whom I may have to re-nickname, since he has said several times he's a Progressive, not a Democrat, though he is a delegate to the California Democratic Party). I asked him very prettily, with tilted head and batted eyelashes, and he agreed, though there was some joke (I think) demurring on his part.

Of course the ride meant less bus time, of which I always approve. Though I have to say, the way he drove (we were running late) there were a few times I wondered if we'd make it in one piece. I grabbed the hand-hold by my head more than a few times. Maybe that was his way of making sure I never asked him for a ride ever again. As if that would dissuade me. Ha!

One more interesting thing about the weekend. Somehow, some way, without intending to, I keep ending up sitting next to the leaders at these Progressive/Democratic meetings. I swear that is not my intent, but - this time at the Strategy meeting - I sat at one end of a table so that I might face the only two people who were seated at that point. It just made it easier. Well, a few minutes later DemDelegate - who had been prowling around the room to find an electrical outlet for his rapidly dying iBook - sat at the other end of the three-place table at which I was sitting. Which left one space between us. Which, because DemDelegate is a co-chair, meant the other co-chair (LakoffCousin) sat next to me. And he led the meeting. This meant for most of the meeting the entire group of 20+ people were also taking a peripheral gander at me. I was definitely starting to feel as if I had made the wrong decision in my seating choice, that I didn't belong in my chair, because who am I but a freaking newbie still trying to find her way?

Very strange. Yet slightly exhilarating too, in an odd way. I'm still wondering how I end up in these situations, though. I guess someone has to sit next to meeting leaders. Might as well be me.

Tonight I was supposed to go to a Valley for Democracy meeting, but I am simply not feeling up to it. Too tired and too worn down. I think I shall off myself to home (I'm at work still - my phone line at home has been down since Sunday and won't get fixed until tomorrow) and curl up under a comforter and sleep, sleep, sleep.

Because I'm pretty close to doing that right now...

I had started typing this out last week, but was interrupted and unable to come back to it until now. Exciting, no? Oh, okay.

...two weeks late.

Part of me wonders if I should even post this, since it seems a bit anti-climatic at this point. But I know there are a few people out there who have been following the whole CuteNerdBoy Saga since the inception of all the fun of the fair... and are interested in what the hell happened on the evening of Tuesday, February 8th at approximately 7:45ish PM in this cruel, crazy, mixed-up town ironically known as the City of Angels. This brutal town that will embrace you, lift you high and love you one minute, then crush you under its many Hummer wheels the next, but still you come back to it, you always come back because that little bit of love that it gave you was more intoxicating than any drug, legal or illegal, and you want to taste that love again and again, even if the Fates of Los Angeles deem that never to be so...

Uh, sorry, where was I? Oh yeah...

So. Tuesday. Right.

Despite my waffling over the previous days, I was pretty sure I was going to go to the BookCrossing meeting. Mainly because, as I previously mentioned, the timing could not be ignored. I still allowed for the fact that, as Tuesday rolled around, or as 7pm drew closer, I might not quite be up to the prospect of seeing someone I hadn't seen in over six months due to my own emotional turmoil.

As Tuesday dawned and the hours crept slowly by, I was having a pretty good - if absurdly busy - day. The work load of the day dictated that I couldn't leave until nearly 6:30pm and the horrific traffic slowed me down even more. In the end it required a combination of bus, taxi, train and again bus to get to the Eastern San Fernando Valley cafe where the meeting was held. I arrived forty-five minutes late.

As I walked in CuteNerdBoy was holding forth about something. I paused by him, just to his side as that happened to be the only way to approach the table, and the other members of the group looked up. The two regulars that were not CuteNerdBoy or myself greeted me warmly - even the member I've never been all that fond of and CuteNerdBoy turned around, surprised, and smiled that big smile of his, then stood to greet me. There was a bit of awkwardness on my part as he moved to hug me. I gave him half a hug, not wanting to seem all ClingyGirl, but he reached over to embrace me a bit more fully, as were our habits of old. It turned into an odd 3/4 hug and I wondered if the two new guys, as well as the regulars who knew us, had a sense of any uncomfortableness or strained history between this bespectacled reader and myself.

Ms. BCer, who had been sharing a bench with CuteNerdBoy, stood and offered to move to another seat, which she did immediately so that CuteNerdBoy could shift to the other end of the bench, meaning that I would take his place. Before I did so I stepped inside the cafe for coffee and turned around to find TragiComedy just in front of me in line. I didn't even see him leave his seat. Perhaps because I was too involved in overanalyzing my reaction to seeing my dear friend for the first time in half a year.

TragiComedy and I chatted for a bit while we waited on line, I ordered and retrieved my coffee and headed back to the table while he decided what type of muffin he wanted. I then slid onto the bench next to CuteNerdBoy, perhaps not so smoothly as I would have liked. I think I ended up sitting on his hand for a moment.

Soon I was chatting with the others. Ms. BCer asked me what I'd been up to since the last time I'd been there. I responded rather non-committal about work and my current improv class and my growing political activism, which caused the regulars to murmur noises of appreciation. The rest of the evening was spent talking about the usual: books and movies and life. At no point did I mention the real reason for my break from the group, citing the real-life occurrences of the reduction of my writing group from six to three members and the desire to concentrate on my writing. CuteNerdBoy was familiar with the truth and no one else need know. However I suspect that TragiComedy checks out the blog now and then (mainly because he told me so back when a group of us went to see the last Harry Potter movie last year), so I'm sure he didn't buy my explanation as the entire reason for my disappearance. And though I have no idea what - if anything - CuteNerdBoy might have said about my whereabouts, I'm pretty sure he didn't spill the beans.

During the evening's conversation there was some debate about the presence of the Ten Commandments in courtrooms. CuteNerdBoy and I, not surprisingly, came out against it while Ms. BCer, though not all for it, didn't see what the big deal was. Others seemed to hold their council. Perhaps because the three of us, especially CuteNerdBoy and I (okay, especially me), were somewhat passionate about our positions.

Around 9pm the group broke up, with Ms. BCer and the new guy still there (both of the new fellows seemed quite nice and intelligent) leaving mere minutes before CuteNerdBoy, TragiComedy and me. I gave copies of my two newest mix CDs to CuteNerdBoy as a belated birthday gift, since his birthday was the day before, along with a Rufus Wainwright DVD that I had already watched and probably wouldn't watch again, but thought he might enjoy. Turns out he already had the DVD, which I knew was a possibility, but I told him to keep it and pass it on to someone else who might enjoy it, as I didn't really know anyone else who was into Rufus Wainwright. That I knew of, anyway. Now that I think about the mix CDs, I'm hoping he's enjoying them, because they two of the saddest collections of songs I've ever put together and frankly I can't imagine that he would be eager to hear my depression and sadness of last year in musical form, especially when said emotions were triggered by my feelings for him.

After the giving of the CDs, the three of us walked out and said our good-byes when CuteNerdBoy asked if I were on foot that night. When I answered in the affirmative he offered to drive me home, since we were only a five minute drive from my house. Because not only am I not stupid but with no more buses running on that street at night I would have had to walk home. Granted, it was only about a thirty minute walk, but I was tired. And, of course, wanting to spend at least a few more minutes with CuteNerdBoy.

A part of me, though, wished I had been stronger and had turned down his offer. We were able to fill the time with conversation, but I could feel that there were things he left unsaid and I wasn't entirely sure if I wanted them said. And I wasn't as comfortable as I would have liked, wondering what was going through his mind, what thoughts he might be considering, then discarding.

In the blink of an eye and the span of forever, we arrived at my driveway. He turned to me. "Carol, does tonight mean there's a change in attitude? Or is this just a fluke?"

I gathered my belongings as I answered him. "It's a first step." I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to speak.

"That's okay, Carol. You don't have to say anything else. I understand."

As nervous as I suddenly was, I felt that he did understand. He continued, "I hope that it is. I've missed our friendship."

I didn't look at him as I answered, "Me too." I felt there was more to say, more to talk about, but I could tell that he either wanted or needed to get home, so I turned to him, looked at him then. He made no move to reach over from his seat for a hug. Being so used to ending our previous outings with a hug and a quick little kiss - though not for many months - I felt in limbo. Bereft. The evening was incomplete without that closing ritual, but I thought it best not to press the issue. Instead I smiled a tight little smile, reached over and gave his arm a little rub, then got out of his van and walked inside my apartment. I watched his headlights leave, my always too-active brain starting the process of overanalyzing the evening.

Its conclusions? Hell if I know. I do feel better about our potential renewed friendship. I really do. I won't lie to myself and say I'm 100% ready to plunge, or even slowly wade, back into the closeness we once enjoyed. I still feel something more than simple friendship for him. It's obvious that my heart lacks the ability to listen to my brain when told, "Hey, get over it and deal, you wimpy piece of bloody meat." It would seem that my heart has a mind of its own. Hell, it seems to have a skeleton and nervous system and muscle groups of its own as it leads me hither, thither and yonder into situations it's not all that prepared for.

But the repairing process is most definitely underway. I can feel it, feel the tears and the rents and the holes patching themselves up again, knitting that pumping organ into a entirely new - if still somewhat bruised - whole again.

Almost there. Almost to the point where I don't feel my love for CuteNerdBoy working its way under the scarring. I can't wait until I can take the bandages off again.