I Need MySpace

So for reasons totally within my control, I had to finally create a MySpace page. I am somewhat at odds with this development.

Before ya'll go hating on me, let me say that it is largely for my own good that I have resisted—not (much) out of judgment. I basically worried I would turn into an obsessed freak about the whole ordeal.

Currently, we're at about a Level 3 Freak Out, but the gauge is slowly rising. I am at grips with the fact that for someone who's only been registered for 24 hours, having 20 friends is pretty good. Right? Isn't it? Right, guys? That's pretty good, huh?

Okay, deep breath.

But, my pretties, what if in 2009 I still only have 20 friends? (Not that I don't lurve the 20 of you very, very much because I do. Please don't leave my MySpace page naked, please! Think of the children!)

See, on here, I'm fairly anonymous, so if you don't know me in the blog world, that's okay with me. I like who I like, and I presume you like me or you wouldn't be here right now.

But in Deep MySpace 9, it's a whole other dog-eat-dog universe, where there are, like, actual figures and stats of how many people love you and how much. Plus, you know, people could probably find a lot more pictures of my boobs by trolling around MySpace.

(Not really, Dad. Heh, it's a little joke I have with them. Don't worry. I'm pretty sure there aren't any sex tapes floating around out there, unlike others who will not be mentioned.)

However, I am in a strange creative flux where I've got some music stuff that people seem to like but I still only get up the courage to do open mike nights or bust out the geetar in front of real, live human beans about once a milliennia, usually thanks to the sacrifice of a bottle or so of Beam. I don't want anymore innocent whiskey to suffer for my art.

I put together a "real" Web site a few months, but it's a bit more static than it should be and everyone always said, "Why didn't you just use MySpace?"

So in this in-between time while I'm not quite locked behind closet doors but not quite ready for the stage, MySpace is my venue.

The interesting and inevitable outcome has been "running" into folks I haven't seen in years on the old MySpace highway. Like the kid whose shin broke my toe.

And a kid I sat next to in Algebra class in ninth grade who heard me sing "I wish I was an Oscar Meyer wiener, that is what I truly want to be…" in front of the class after Coach Something-or-Other/Algebra teacher devised that particular punishment for my tardiness. You remember that, T?

Side story: Years later, when I was a bridesmaid in my lovely Kirstin's wedding, Coach Something-or-Other and his wife were the photographers. Coach left that high school shortly after I moved away. He did, in fact, remember making me sing that song, and was not the least bit sorry.

I made the mistake of giving him my contact info at the reception (white wine, you devil, you) and he spent six weeks trying to sign me up for some pyramid scheme.

Anyhoo, just goes to show that you never know WHO you're going to run into, and now with this MySpace dealy, I am more poised for the nutjobs than ever. None so far, though.

Wait. What if I'm the nutjob? Oh God. I'm that creepy MySpace girl who no one wants to "friend." I think we've hit Level 4 Freak Out. Someone get me a paper bag. With a 40 in it.

In the Comments section, in the Halloween spirit, tell me about something scary you've done lately.

Odds and Ends

Leaving the grocery store, I saw a kid in a green, four-door Civic drive by as he was pumping some Nickelback song, wearing his Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt, and his bumper sticker read "I am not normal."

All I could think was, "Yes, dude, you are."

Fittingly enough, I was just having a convo with my new blog buddy, J. over at Now Where'd I Put My Drink? about what would be rebellious these days, anyhow. Surely not piercings or tattoos or green hair.

I guess if this kid really was unusual, his bumper sticker would read: I am normal. That would be weird.

In the comments section, tell me what is truly weird about you. I like Brussels sprouts. A lot.

It's Like They're Inside My Head

Looking for a recipe to celebrate a lovely grilling day, I ran across a winner for grilled roast. At the end of the culinary directive:

Carve roast into slices and serve with a side dish that compliments beef ... like pork.

Indeed.

In the comments section, tell me what you're grilling these days.

A Senior Moment

I've been trying to organize my photos lately and I stumbled across some long-forgotten gems. My favorite set has come from my senior pictures, which were taken exactly 10 years ago. Dear Lord.

I had some unique visions for my senior pictures, and I was certain that no professional photographer would let me express my angst-ridden adolescent self as I needed, so I asked one of my sister's cool college friends who fancied herself a photog to help me out.

What I ended up with was a strange, yet endearing collection that wasn't anywhere near professional quality, though I never did regret passing up the chance to stand next to a giant "98" with one leg propped up on a step ladder, fist tucked neatly under my chin.

Behold, the 123Valerie of 1997. Braces a-go-go. (Please forgive my scanning and non-existent editing skillz.)
My Mom actually made this fuzzy dress thing when she was 17, so I thought it would be a nice tribute to her. I still have it actually, as well as delusions dreams of wearing it again.




Okay, this was and will forever be my favorite prom dress. I bought it for $4 and it made me feel like a million bucks. I got to wear this lovely frock to three proms that year. Is it wrong that I kinda hope my socially sad cousin can't find anyone else to go to his prom and he has to ask me? Don't answer that.



If you haven't quite grasped my skewed fashion sense yet, here's one that should drive it home. There was a three-year period where bibbed overalls were the pinnacle of my style expression. I would be lying if I said they still didn't hold a special place in my heart.


I think I misunderstood and heard "safari" pictures, not senior pictures. Raawwwwr!




Oh, hot pink. How I love thee. Look at how small my boobs were! Look how small my everything was!

Okay, that is more than enough sharing for the evening. Now go vote for my friend Scott.


In the comments section, tell me where I can find a link to your senior photo. C'mon, man (or woman) up. Hot cha cha!

Build Up Some Karmic Points

Hi, my pretties. So, I have awesome friends. They do important things like teach people and write and sculpt and dance and manage projects and make jewelry and blow glass and fly planes and put up with me.

How would you like to help a very good friend of mine help other people? It'd be a nice double warm fuzzy, right?

Well, my homeslice Scott, who was my neighbor in grade school, is in a contest to win $10K in seed money to develop an application that uses Facebook to link Peace Corp volunteers everywhere with Facebookies who could donate their time, talents, stuff and money to help Peace Corp projects around the world.

If you can spare one minute to help him and a whole bunch of others by registering and voting here for his "Adopt a Peace Corp project through Facebook" idea, that would be awesome.

Think about it: You're a Facebook champ who's got, like, a ton of extra pipes that you don't know what to do with. And there's a Peace Corp project in Bolombo that needs a ton of pipes for a clean drinking water endeavor.

Scott's application enables you to get your pipes to sweet, thirsty, little African babies. AND it could find other folks like you with resources to help transport the pipes to the Bolomboian babies, so on and so forth. It's a beautiful thing.

Karma will shine down on you, and you'll be further rewarded when I post my senior pictures here later on tonight. Yes! All my lurve to those of you who already have!

In the Comments section, tell me that you went and voted for Scott.

Naked As a Jaybird

Hi, my pretties. I'm over at The Stache today. Sans clothing. Come on up and see me sometime.

In the Comments section, tell me your favorite place to be naked.

Gotta Dance

I've been making a conscious effort to be, well, more conscious of my true desires lately, and I've noticed that I often just want to dance.

I mean, not like ballroom dance, but when I'm at the grocery store, and I hear some BeeGees, sometimes I just want to bebop a little. So, I made a decision that when I want to dance, I dance.

Sometimes people back away slowly while I'm nodding my head and doing my little bumbling hula moves in the produce section. (I never said I was a good dancer, my pretties.) But sometimes, people see me in my mini-groove and they join in. I like that.

I usually get the happy feet when I'm at the gym, too. I get some looks, but I figure I'm burning a few more calories, right? Right.

This move to listen to what I want, regardless of how it looks to others, has had other repercussions than the boogie woogie. I had my first guitar lesson in nearly six years last week. Eeeeek.

I'm excited to learn from my teacher, Towson. He has the longest thumbnail I have ever seen, and for a 23-year-old beautiful, urban man with a head full of dreads who is likely very gay, he seemed sincere when he told me he was excited to help me develop my bluegrass techniques.

I got another heap of encouragement in the form of an e-mail from a pilot with whom I used to work and hadn't spoken with in at least five years, Paul. He got hold of some of my songs from a mutual friend and wrote to tell me how much he loved it ("It's stuff I would actually listen to."). Moreover, he was happy and proud that I was putting my music out there so I wouldn't regret not pursuing it, which I know seems funny to many of you who still haven't heard any of my stuff.

My music makes me feel very vulnerable, like anything else that I'm not entirely convinced I am good at. In that vein, the thought of playing basketball or of baking a cake frightens me because, sweet heaven above, what if I try it and fail and people realize I'm not good at everything? Oh, we humans are funny.

But, Paul was always one of my favorites and he said he remembered when I first got the guitar and was amazed at how far I'd come. Paul is probably the epitome of many women's fantasies: he's a rock star pilot, who manages to play with two bands when he's not soaring through the clouds.

Paul's kind words got me thinking that, you know, we really can have everything we want. We really can.

The only obstacle I'm encountering to that theory is I forgot when I exercise, my boobs are the first areas to shrink, which is a crying shame. I mean, it really is. But it seems I have more than enough to spare.

So, I'm just going to keep on sweating. And dancing. And singing. And strumming. And knowing that everything works out as it should (especially me).

In the Comments section, tell me what you want. What you really, really want. –Because I wanna, I wanna ziga zig ah.


Oh, some of you are still lovingly pissed off at me for my chubby confession and think I simply chose a bad photo of myself, which is true, but it's an accurately bad photo. But, here is one of my sisters and the kidders and me that I actually quite like. I find the Diet Coke highly ironic. Now, kindly take your love and concern and stuff it. Nuttin' but lurve.

Good Thing I Still Point With Two Fingers

Dear Valerie,

Thank you for your interest in the flight attendant position with XXXX Airlines. Your resume has been forwarded to the Inflight Recruiting department for review ...

Hmm. Just when you think you're settled. Some of you know that I spent a few years between ages 19 and 22 as a sky girl for a small regional airline, zipping around from Pittsburgh to Ottawa, from Philly to Spartanburg, SC and out to exciting locales like St. Louis.

I loved it, and more importantly, I was damn good at it. For a few years, I took college classes while I was flying, and eventually quit to return to school full time.

My professional life is currently very, very good. Very good, in fact. I was even kicking around the idea of pursuing my Master's. (Again.)

But, I went through a mini-personal identification and geography crisis a while back and sent my resume to several airlines, not really sure if I'd get any bites. Actually, not true. I knew I'd get some bites. I'm a natural gypsy, and though this will sound supercilious, I have so many talents and strengths, I often wonder where I should focus my attention.

Well, everything will work out as it should. I love having business cards, but I always did look good in polyester.

In the Comments section, tell me about a surprise you got today.

Addendum

Because I don't want 15 stupid pounds to make you decide between me or her, a twerp who doesn't have a good chicken pot pie recipe or a recommendation about how to best strip wallpaper or a favorite ELO song or a funny story about Post-It notes.

In the Comments section, tell me to go to bed already, for Christ's sake.

Oh, Are We Back On That Again?**

Okay. Gather 'round, my pretties. Confession time. This one hurts.

I was rejected by a twag who posted a Craig's List personal ad because he thought I was too chubby.

Oh God. There, I wrote it.

I don't even know how I ended up looking at the Craig's List personal ad. I have not been in the market for a personal anything as of late, but through a convoluted series of events beginning with Lorelai and blueberries, I found myself perusing the CL personals the other day.

And so I found someone who I thought sounded interesting and looked attractive and said "What the hell-o?" I sent a very clever note, if I do say so myself, along with a very cute photo.

He wrote back, "I'll be honest with you that I'm not sure we're a physical fit. It's to say nothing of you, rather more of past experience with learning my preferences. And while maybe that makes me an asshole for sending this message, I don't like to blow people off."

Oh.

I see. And I hate your guts.

Alright, but to be fair, the truth is that I could stand to lose about 10 pounds. Okay, 15 pounds.

I can hear all of my girl friends out there screaming already, "Nooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!" but ladies, it's true.

I am not huge, kids. I'm not a tub o'lard, nor do I hate myself. I have had no shortage of attractive suitors who have been quite pleased with my body, but I am not delusional. I know I would look and feel better as a smaller size.

Here is a photo of Megan Jane and I from the wedding that I wanted to include, but I didn't because I felt like I looked chubby. And I'm kind of squinty and my hair is doing something weird, but mostly the chubby-factor held me back. No point in hiding now, though. For the record, this is not the photo I sent the Craig's List twag.



At 5' 7", I weigh 151, as of this morning, which is in the upper end of all of the height/weight indices, but still within the limits of "well proportioned."

In fact, I'm one of the few people I know who thinks I look better naked than I do with clothes. I've probably already mentioned it, but I always recall the ex-boyfriend who said, "I love your body. You look like you should be reclining on a chaise lounge with a chalice and some grapes."

I also look to the comforting, if not slightly unsettling, realization that my very own Dad seems to favor fuller-figured women. I don't like to spend much time thinking about my Dad's sexual preferences, for obvious reasons I hope, but my Dad is a handsome dude who always seemed to go for ladies with a whole lot to offer, if you know what I'm saying.

So, it was not without some reservation that a few weeks back I revamped my fitness routine to once again achieve that perfect marriage of a slender figure with curves that are poppin', as the kids say.

Craig's List twag may not have kick started this development, but he certainly kicked my ass.

You know the cycle—you're all hot and working out all of the time, and then you get into a relationship and get comfy, and then you find another woman's underwear in your boyfriend's bedroom, then you're single again and go on a hot-wing and cheese steak eating spree, and then some Craig's List twag basically says you're chubby, so it's back the elliptical machine. And the damn crunches.

At brunch this past weekend, Kate from Hey Pretty, Kristin from Candy Sandwich and I had a serious conversation about jazzercise, which my sister is a huge fan of. My sister's Y actually asked her to become an instructor. I like the idea of jazzercise, but I'm not terribly coordinated, and really, there's only room for one jazzercise enthusiast in this family.

Still, I try to liven up my workout regimens, for which I am often ridiculed. I got some flak from the lifeguards this summer for taking my book into the pool to walk laps in the lanes, but it made sense to me. I love to read, I love to be in the pool; why not combine the two?

I'm sure the neighbors similarly enjoyed my spectacle yesterday with the combo of running for one song on the iPod, then dropping to do 10 push ups—the girly ones, I must admit. Those bitches are still hard.

I thought it was a brilliant plan until one of my arms fell off this morning. But, hey, I dropped 10 easy pounds.

I don't know, gang. I hate that this is even an issue for me. I wish I could just tell the Craig's List twag to bugger off, but in my heart-of-hearts, I know that we encounter people who give us important messages. Twag's was: "Don't let the couch suck you in again, and for Pete's sake, put down that hot wing."

I'm looking to fellow bloggers who have had tremendous success achieving their goals, and Spellbound is chief among them. You go, girl!

Because I can no longer reward myself with food but I am fairly broke, I allow myself to buy one new song for the iPod each time I work out. The latest purchase was Positive K's "I Gotta Man." **

Take that, Craig's List twag.

In the Comments section, give me some new songs to add to the iPod playlist.

Someone Was Going to Have to Set a Bad Example

I was telling Lorelai today that I have seasonal depression disorder, except that mine comes in the summer. The heat conflicts with my firey nature, and I feel oppressed and immovable and kind of disconnected.

So, the cooler weather is most welcome, and I feel more like myself than I have in months.

I think that has to do largely with Glynnie and Hot Sauce Flo Dad's wedding last weekend, where the sun shone, the breeze tickled the grass and people got down with they bad selves.

The lovely wedding also brought a reunion of nearly all my D.C. Sisters, a group of wild, wonderful women whose hearts and minds are always connected, thanks to the Internet.



I'm back there somewheres, trying to hide my shaking hands, next to the statuesque Brinki Dink. Glynnie asked if I could handle the music for the ceremony. I got some welcome help from her sister, D, and despite a loss of mike power, we pulled it off, though the preacher felt it necessary to tell me to "put a napkin or something" between my knees while I played. I guess that's fair. People came to see Glynnie and Flo Dad, not my hoo-diddly.


Thanks for the loverly foto, Al Bal Kung Pao.

Those of you who know me in real life understand the true challenge playing live in front of people who weren't drunk presented to my nervous system, but it's propelled me to begin guitar lessons again. Fear ain't no way to live.

Fear ain't no way to dance, either. Ooh boy, was there dancing. And something about kangaroos and eventually the crowd charging their arms forward and tossing their heads back to sing along, "Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit. He took a midnight train going anyyyyyyyyyyyyyywhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeere!" You know how it goes.






And there was firewater. And a fox. A Silver Fox, that is.



And then there were fireworks. And finally, like any good wedding, there was a fire dancer.



And then more firewater.



Note the ever classy Jim Beam from the bottle/A-Treat rootbeer chaser combo. The fuzziness of the photo reflects the mood of the celebration at that juncture. At some point in time, it seems like all of us were stumbling around half-dressed in the field for one reason or another.

Still, there was only one confirmed hook up (High-five, girl!). Not me, my pretties. You can't high-five yourself, anyway. I rocked it out in the tent with my girls, Megan Jane and Kara Beara, though I will admit to putting slipper socks on Kara. Pretty hot.

Speaking of feet, as the wedding was outside in a field, shoes went by the way side pretty quickly, giving me what Megan Jane called "corpse feet." Most people would just say they were disgustingly dirty. Like, um, this picture was taken the day after the wedding. After two showers.



But before the showering had commenced, though, we all woke up with the beautiful October sun in our faces in a green, Pennsylvania field, with the trains for company. Some of us, however, promptly went back to sleep, even despite the trains.

In fact, with Hannah Banana riding shotgun with me on the way back to Maryland, the conversation for the entire four-hour car ride consisted of this, after I stopped at a convenience store:

Hannah Banana: Can you get me some Cheddar Fries?

Me: Sure.

That was it. We were pretty beat.

There are way more pictures and way more memories, but due to a technical malfunction at home (we do not have the Internet, we have the Internut) and a trying to recall everything through a haze of Jim Beam, both will have to come out to play at a later date.

But, you know what you need to do right now? Go hug your Momma. It would have been my Mom's birthday today, and, kids, I'll be honest with an H, I am not I'm not above soliciting Interwebby hugs because I am not lurving today all that much.

But I lurve you. And I lurve that Glynnie and Hot Sauce Flo Dad are a Mr. and Mrs. And I lurve fall. And lettuce. And buying new music from iTunes. And spicy mustard. And a weekend full of friends. And feeling hopeful again, finally.

In the Comments section, tell me what you lurve.

Life Lessons

How many times will it take before I learn that cooking hash browns topless is a bad idea?

In the Comments section, tell the worst idea you've had lately.

Sugar, Sugar. Aw, Honey, Honey

I intended to go to bed early last night with my healing crystal (which is really a beautiful crystal and not some weird synonym for a vibrator. This is not the path I wanted to take, but to be honest, I'm not a big fan of the machines in the boudoir--not knocking, mind you, just not all that into it. Point, where did you go?)

... but I was compelled to stay up and dick around on the Internet.

So, in exchange for the lost sleep, I found a total deja vu experience.

Another ex-boyfriend story. Sue me. I'm feeling nostalgic.

I was 15 when I fell for Michael. He was a crafty mix of jock/artist/raver kid (c'mon, it was 1995. Cut me some slack, please. You know ya'll had Jean Co's--Jinco's to the initiated. Shurt up).

I adored Michael, and he adored me and Michael's ex-girlfriend, Brandy, didn't like either of us very much. Okay, she loved Michael and thought I was a skanky hoe. (Virgin till I was 19, kids. Technically, anyway. Again, no judgment. Just sayin'.)

Hullo again, Point: As "the nice girl," I had no natural enemies, except Brandy. All through the year-and-a-half of high school we attended together, hoo boy, she hated me. Even after Michael and I broke up (some silly thing where he misunderstood "getting a ride home from Brad" as "getting a ride from Brad." Oh, adolescent drama. How stupid were we?).

Then, junior year, I moved away. Then I moved back when I was 18 and somehow thought attending cosmotology school was a good idea.

On the first day, who should I see but Brandy? She sneered at me for a hot minute, then I said, "Hey, that was, like, two years ago. Forever. Let's be friends."

And Brandy said, "Well, yeah, I am dating this super hot guy now, so, okay." The "feud" was finito, and Brandy and I rolled perms together and did French braids and even pedicures in tandem.

But, alas, I simply was not very good at being a cosmotologist. I turned my Dad's hair green. Literally. So, life goes on. After 900 hours of practical training, I said goodbye to Brandy and the girls at Hairstylist Academy in Statesville, NC.

So, here we are, eight years later, and I'm staying up past my bed time to dick around on the computer. And I run across Brandy's professional hair styling Web site, and she looks great, and the site looks great, and everyone's great.

Then--THEN--I check out her "gallery" of makeovers, and who do I see but my good friend and old roommate, Bridgett, looking way hotter than should be legal, thanks to Brandy's scissors.

It was too much for me. Serendipity done did me in. Except that I don't know what the message is. Then I got wicked deja vu talking to my roommate, whose name is also my Mom's name, with the same unique spelling.

To protect the innocent, I won't reveal her name, but suffice to say, it would be like meeting two Mikes who spelled their name "Myke." It just doesn't happen.

So, now it is well after midnight, and I need to get to bed, except that I'm all ramped up with no one else awake to figure out these life-altering coincidences. Or, maybe not. I don't know.

All I had for dinner was popcorn, so my blood sugar might just be low.

In the Comments section, tell me what happens when your blood sugar is low.

This One Goes Out to the One(s) I Love

I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar. That much is true.

The year was 2003, February, I believe. I had just quit flying the friendly skies to go to school full time and I got a job at a little bistro, where the manager would dip into the extensive wine collection. His name was Theodopholous, and in an average shift, we saw him arrive drunk, sober up, suffer a hangover and get drunk all over again.

It was a pretty volatile place.

In fact, the head chef quit/got fired on my first day, but all he and I needed were the few seconds in passing to realize that we were both interested. Quite literally, he was walking out the back door with his chef jacket in hand and cursing under his breath, while I was arriving for my first shift.

We locked eyes, and it was a very sweet moment—both he and I turned back to watch each other walk away.

I got his number through another fellow waitress, and being bold and brazen, I called him. (Sorry Woodrow. That's how I roll.)

He was loving and sweet and funny and all of that good stuff. I, however, was kind of dumb and a little overwhelmed with a sick Mom and school and work … well, just generally kind of a mess.

So, after three months, I broke his heart. After he said, "I love you," I replied, "Thank you, that's so nice." Oh, 123Valerie.

Fast forward a few years. Chef somehow found it in his heart to not hate me too much, and we occasionally hung out. I was working at a new restaurant, where the manager DID NOT throw sautee pans and staplers at the staff, and I was working with a nice girl, M.

M was funny and attractive and intelligent and all of that good stuff. I heard a little "Bing!" and an idea popped in my head, atop my red curls. "I should fix M and Chef up!"

And, gang, do you know what? They got married earlier this year. They're doing great. Happy as clams.

I feel I've atoned my dumb 23-year-old ass by setting up a boy whose heart I broke with his loving wife, right?

Okay, so the other day, they popped in my head, and I checked out their MySpace pages to see what was new. You know how those things are—they make your eyeballs melt, what with all of the crazy graphics and pictures of drunk friends sticking their tongues out, leaving deep, heart-felt messages like, "Dude! Wuz up!"

I get that it's a digital popularity contest. Whatevs.

But, I was really surprised to read that M left Chef all of these sincerely, deep, heart-felt messages on his page like, "My darling husband, thank you so much for completing my life. I can't wait to spend every day of our lives together in love and bliss. Love, your loving wife."

I read that and literally scrunched up my face in confusion.

Now, here's the thing—I'm not opposed to sending sweet love notes via e-mail. I can accept that very few people keep up with actual handwritten correspondence, sadly (except for certain Nova Scotians, eh, Peter?).

But, to put those kinds of messages up on a board on a computer, when you could probably just tell your husband, oh I don't know, in person, seems really, really weird to me.

Actually, it seems a little insecure. The technologic version of peeing on your territory, like, "Ladies who see this, this is my husband, and he completes my life, and we are going to spend every day of our lives together in love and bliss. Fuck off."

Am I being over sensitive? Well, probably, yes. But can you dig what I'm saying? Would you ever leave your significant other a Hallmark card-esque cliché of love on his or her MySpace page?

Maybe I should try it before I go knocking it:

My darling pretties, you complete my life. I have known from the moment I looked into my monitor that we would be together forever. You have stood by me through the tough times, when I ranted and rambled and posted drunk. I am grateful that you never judge me when I incessantly talk about my boobs or all of the berries I find in my neighborhood. You don't mind the ghastly pink motif or my penchant for asinine bullet lists. I can't wait to spend our days together bathed in romance and to have your beautiful children as a reflection of our blog love, our blov.

Wait. Okay, scratch the kids part. But, the rest is all true. That did feel pretty good.

Okay, your turn. In the Comments section, leave me a super-cheese, warm fuzzy.

Editor's Note: Bea Arthur of TV's acclaimed "The Golden Girls" has a MySpace page. http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=231482036

She's 85. I guess I should get hopping, then.

Dramatic Much?

Okay, all. I'm sorry for the last post. I'm not erasing it, though. It's just that a sandwich and a stroll with a good friend can make all of the difference in the world.

Onward and upward.

In the Comments section, tell me what your favorite sandwich is.

What the Hell

"Ever notice that 'What the hell' is always the right decision?" ~ Marilyn Monroe

Exactly. I'm going to chuck it all and become a professional house sitter, moving from state to state at my leisure. Or a waitress in a Nova Scotia diner. Or take tickets at a movie theater in Nashville. What the hell? Why not?

Health insurance.
Bills.
That pesky gap in the resume.
Cable.
That look on my parents' faces.

Ugh. Those seem like terribly insignificant reasons on days when you wake up so very lost because everything in your life has its place except your soul.

In the Comments section, tell me what you would do if you could. Because, you can, you know.