123Valerie Strikes Again

Bat Medicine

2010-01-04T11:31:00.004-05:00

I have been so inspired these past months – inspired by those who are living out their dreams, those who are shifting their focus, those who are downsizing and those who are thinking big.

Slowly, but surely, I have begun to let myself day dream and play and imagine. Right now, I am heartily enjoying making things, making up stories and songs, and even making some mistakes.

With so much on my Want To Do list, I think it's time to give this pink, little place a sloppy goodbye kiss, a nice smack on the bottom for luck and skip away in a trail of sincere thanks while I search for the next something that delights me. I hope you're inspired to make some new discoveries, too.

The Missing Piece

2009-11-27T12:34:00.002-05:00

"Something's different about you, Val."

"Must be the haircut," I said, sheepishly. But the truth is, something has changed.

My family met up in Northern Kentucky for the holiday, bringing together an unlikely cast of characters all bonded by that peculiar connection of marriage and, thus, "family." And, whether they be Pentecostal or Pagan, farmers or financiers, young or old, each commented that something is different about me as we talked with plates of ham, turkey and green bean casserole before us.

And that something isn't even me. It is the love from a man I wanted here to introduce to my extensive acquired family, proudly, sure that he could show them everything I love about him and more. The love from a man I wanted here to goof with the kids, to give them piggy back rides and play "Giant" with tiny broccoli pieces and Barbie clothes. The love from a man I wanted here who leaves me sweet notes and brings flowers to remedy bad days.

But that man was stuck at home, the Thanksgiving holiday sandwiched between two of a restaurant's busiest days of the year, cooking for strangers when I wanted him to be eating with family. He made the best of it, spending his day off putting up Christmas decorations at my place, entertaining the dog and dinner out with his folks.

"Plenty of leftover spaghetti and meatballs here when you get back," he told me.

"Trade you for Nan's cranberry and cabbage Jell-O salad," I offered.

"Tell you what," he said, "I'll consent to putting up your Michael Bolton Christmas ornament if you promise not to bring any of that home."

We struck a deal and hung up the phone, both of us sad because of the distance, both of us surprised that in a matter of a few shorts months we have come to rely upon and appreciate each other for the morale support, perspective, humor and a much-needed embrace after a long day.

I am so thankful for my beautiful, wonderful, mad-cap family and for the chance to have everyone together in one place, if even for a short time. For my parents who have given me the wings to fly and a safe place to land. For my sisters, who give me so many reasons to laugh and permission to cry. For my Nan, who has kind words, wonderful ideals and size 4 shoes. For my aunts, who have hearts of gold and brass balls. For my niece, who starts the day eager to find out what it holds. For my nephews, who understand the meaning of friendship and adventure. For all of them and more.

But, for the first time ever, this year I felt we were incomplete, that someone was missing. It was him. And it scares the shit out of me.

In the Comments section, tell me what your favorite holiday leftover is. Hard to believe, but it's not Nan's cranberry and cabbage Jell-O salad. I did, however, wrap up the remainder of her chipped beef and cheddar ball, as well as a couple of pieces of her make-you-swoon caramel turtle cake.

What Do You Want Me To Do? Spit Nickels?

2009-10-08T13:03:00.005-05:00

Dudes. I have become that girl. The one who forsakes all of her friends for some guy.

Well, not real-life friends. I see and talk to them a lot. But my Internet friends. I dropped ya'll like it was hot. Because you are hot.

But, he is hotter -- and he cooks me food, tells me I'm beautiful and finds it endearing that I've been wearing the same jeans for a week straight. I can't say the same for any of you. So, unless you want to pick up the slack and make me a sandwich or something, he's probably going to continue getting the lion's share of my attention.

But I have been keeping up with what's new in your worlds, honest I have. I still read your blogs religiously, so don't you worry about that. In fact, you all have much more interesting things happening than I do. Sock puppeteering. Encouraging children to hit one another. Making the bed. Cool stuff.

Suffice to say that, with me, all the important things are good. Family. Friends. Finances. Flip flops. Flamingos. Fort Lauderdale. Ficus Tree. Oh, sorry – I started playing a game of Scattergories with myself.

Back to the matter at hand. I'm good. My hair is also good, what's left of it, anyway.

My what big eyes you have! I look very 'curious' here, don't I? Yes, out of the 20 or so I took, I thought this was the best one. Not a very good photo day, I'm afraid.

Whee! I love it. In fact, my new beau, who I had chatted with a few times before whilst wearing my "other" hair, said it was my new hair (or lack thereof, I guess), that solidified his crush on me. He'd been mulling it over for a few weeks, I guess. So ladies, it's really true what TV tells you: A new hairdo can change your life.

Speaking of someone with beautiful hair, Neko Case almost got into my sister's minivan. You know how it is. She was in town for a show, and also apparently visiting with some friends who were driving her around in another sweet minivan. They were leaving a restaurant and Neko, thinking she had found her friends' car, tried to open to door while my sister watched from afar. Then Neko's friends realized what was happening and called her back. Kind of anti-climactic but, oh, Neko – like I needed another reason to adore you.

In other celebrity news, Megan Jane almost accidentally ran over Anne Lamott and I had another Scott Savol sighting in which he may, or may not have, been cruising in a sweet ride himself – Buicks offer both comfort and performance, so good for him.

That seems like a good place to end, lest I overwhelm you with the excitement of my life.

In the Comments Section, tell me your new favorite music crush. I need some new tunes.

Hall and Oates of Shame

2009-08-04T22:56:00.003-05:00

I just downloaded some Hall & Oates tunes to my music thingy. I'll thank you kindly to hold your judgments.

Excepting bad music, all's good here, though minor annoyances abound: I am still jet lagged beyond belief, dog training sucks dog water, and I am in desperate need of a good haircut. But, I am happy to report that all of the big stuff is fine. Health, wealth, well being, etc.

Vegas was grand, thanks for asking. I am a blessed, blessed woman when it comes to friends. Oh, I'm gonna get all Misteeeh eyed thinking about it, so enough of that emotional hoo-ha.

We made fun of Carrot Top. We played Sexy Black Jack and it was everything we hoped it could be. We danced to cover bands. We ate fried foods. We hiked in a desert canyon in 110 degree heat. And I ran into a random co-worker at an In-and-Out Burger.

It's good to shake it up now and again, but I think that going forward, I have to put a three-day limit on my Vegas excursions. I mean, I managed to come home with my bank account and dignity in tact, but my nerves were all sorts of sizzled from the sun and crowds and Carrot Top's mush plastered all over God's Astro-Turfed Green Earth. Vegas is my kind of town, but only for a little while.

It's good to be home. Go ahead and laugh, but I missed Cleveland. Also, Megan Jane might have set me up with a fine young Irishman who is visiting Cleveland this weekend. Like, for real Irish. So, that may have something to do with my excitement at being back. That and Dollar Dog night the Jake.

In the Comments section, tell me about a place you love, either home or abroad.

Good 'News' In These Parts

2009-07-16T09:38:00.009-05:00

So, a new dog found me:

Meet Teeny. The Dodge Dog and I were out walking along when she just bumbled up to us and was like, "Hey, guys. I'm gonna hang out with you, if that's cool."

I said, "Oh, no dog. You go on now. Get." And then I noticed she had a shoelace tied around her neck, for crying out loud, and so I asked her, "Where you came from -- that wasn't a very nice place, was it?"

And she got real quiet and blinked at me. I gave in. "All right, dog. You can come with us tonight, but I'm taking you to the shelter tomorrow, deal?"

"OK," she said. "You won't even notice I'm here."

Well, tomorrow came and went. Suffice to say that Cleveland is terribly anti-Pit bull. The no-kill shelters aren't allowed to take them and the other places said, "Well, sure, we'll take her, but she's going down."

"Wait! Why? She's such a good dog!"

"Well, you can keep her, but you'll need insurance, a muzzle, a six-foot fence, and no longer than a three-foot chain to walk her."

"Not a leash? A chain?"

"A chain. See, we really don't want Pit bulls in our city."

Hell's bells, kids. I need the muzzle more than she does. So, I fretted and I researched and I called rescue organizations like For the Love of Pits. And in the meantime, Teeny and Dodger came to love each other, alternately romping and spooning.

He tolerates her sitting on his head, and she lets him chew her tail. It seems to work for them.

So, from the We Totally Saw This Coming Files, I decided to keep her, fully aware of how biased people are toward the breed. I have relied on my PR training so much in these past days, trying to dispel any myths or stereotypes we hear from people on our walks.

"Oh, those dogs are mean! Is it gonna attack me?"

"She'll kill you with kisses," I say. "Come over here and say hi to her." And by the end of it, they're enlightened and Teeny is reveling in the attention. Suffice to say we're both happy with the outcome.

So, a new dog (my lone complaint is that she eats the crotches out of my underwear, a la Murphy, but I needed some new ones anyway, so it all works out). And a new place, though I'm literally just down the street from where I was, so I can walk my laundry over to my sister's house like a real adult. I'll spare you the Moving-Is-A-Gigantic-Pain-In-The-Ass rants, but let me say that this particular move was a real doozie.

Oh, and a new 'do. I chopped off my hair and I'm back to red. It looks good and feels better.

And, lastly, I ditched the boy so I am also newly single. It also feels better.

So, to balance out all of this newness, also on the docket is a trip to Vegas at the end of the month with dear old friends Megan Jane and Camie. I haven't seen Camie in nigh 20 years, so this is going to be fun on so many levels! Pictures (possibly mug shots) to follow.

So, yeah, a full, new summer thus far. Sorry I've been such a turd when it comes to keeping up with you kids -- I figure that's what the winter is for, right? I'll settle in, hibernate for a few months and catch up on your archives.

I have fallen in love with a new favorite band The Be Good Tanyas. In the Comments section, tell me what's new with you.

What a Ball!

2009-06-15T11:15:00.006-05:00

It was a real yes-siree-good-ole-American kind of weekend, complete with hot dogs and baseball.

The boy and I went to the Indians/Cardinals game Friday and enjoyed the win (and some vertigo) from the cheap seats.

And yesterday, my sister and I took my nephew to a farm-team game with the Lake County Captains and the Lakewood Blueclaws, which, believe it or not, was a far more exciting time than the pro game.

First of all, a player got ejected for yelling at the ball. Seriously. The ball landed on the third base foul line, and the guy literally got down on all fours in the dust and started blowing on the ball and yelling at it, a la Happy Gilmore. Apparently the ump didn't find it nearly as amusing as I did.

Then a player broke a bat on a hit, and wood went flying everywhere (that's what she said).

Then a player got knocked out after colliding with another player.

And then I had chili cheese fries.

Plus, they let the kids run the bases after the game, which was all sorts of cute. The day got an A+.

This weekend took me back to when I was growing up and played softball. While I was no Shin-Soo "Coo Coo a Choo" Choo, I did enjoy running around and hitting things.

Here are some low-quality pictures of pictures of my first year playing (my scanner is schizo); though they're a bit fuzzy, I think it's the last documentation of my real hair color. I was about eight or so.

"Moose" wasn't my nickname (fortunately) -- the local Moose lodge sponsored us. I still have the shirt, which is into its second decade. Now, though, the only one that can fit into it is the dog, though he does so begrudgingly and only with the aid of peanut butter cookies.

"If I had thumbs, I would cut you for this."

In the Comments section, tell me what your favorite relics from your childhood are and/or if you like to dress up your dog.

It's Only Natural

2009-06-11T10:55:00.004-05:00

The boy and I hit up Cleveland's Museum of Natural History last night, which is open until 10 on Wednesdays AND for only $5 per person -- holla!

I love that kind of junk -- fossils and soil samples and gem stones and such. Oh God, the gem stones! So, so lovely and such crazy names! Zoilite. Andamooka opal. Kornerupine. Grossularite. Bixbite. Potch. All of them lovely despite their silly names.

Know what else is lovely? Jewelry by the muy, muy talented and clever WendyB. I'm eyeing some of these very tasteful cuff links for the boy's upcoming birthday. I think they would actually be more for my amusement, but as they say, tis better to give than receive.

We'll see, though. To buy birthday gifts for his future birthday assumes that I'll keep him around until then. He's definitely a strong contender, but my track record with stick-to-it-iveness isn't the shiniest, I admit. And sadly, I'm not sure my Dad could really rock those cuff links, so I have to be really sure, WendyB.

But, if we make it through about six more weeks or so, he'll either get those cufflinks or a weekend at Cedar Point. Woo hoo! America's Roller Coast!

I know Ohio gets a bad rep, but, honestly, I rather like it here. I mean, we got coasters, culture, nightlife, dinosaur bones, music, an Iron Chef, and the Duct Tape Festival. What else do you need?

In the Comments section, tell me what you like about Cleveland.

What a Waste

2009-06-04T07:38:00.001-05:00

Hey Innernet Friends, I have a query for you. Any ideas about green solutions for dog poop?

I already use bio-degradable bags for walks (yes, I do the doo, as it were. So should you. People who don't clean up after their dogs are worse than people who don't return their grocery carts to the corrals, and you know how much I detest those people).

But, I feel like there's a way to make it even more eco-friendly. All thoughts appreciated.

In the Comments section, aside from the obvious advice, tell me what kind of people are worse than dog owners who don't clean up after their pets.

Weather Permitting

2009-06-01T08:58:00.003-05:00

I've become preoccupied with the weather lately. Historically, I was the kind of person who just stuck my head out of the window and adjusted plans and outerwear to the conditions.

These days, I check the hourly advisories and pour over the extended 10-day forecast like it contains the meaning of life. Strange.

Well, maybe not. I've hit a kind of a stride. I guess you could call it a rut if you were feeling less generous but at least I can count on the weather to change.

Fortunately, the new boy is proving to be a comfortable match for where my head's at right now. He's a good apple. Sorry for the vagueness. I told Megan Jane I'm going to give it the "appropriate" space and energy to develop, and I've had to learn the hard way that blabbing the minutia to the Interwebnets isn't necessarily appropriate.

I should probably savor this quiet, since I've got an impending move ahead. Not far -- just a few blocks from where I am now, but you know how even a small move can shake shit up.

Speaking of shaking it, we had a random celebrity sighting in our neck of the woods. We were out to dinner at a little local place and looked over to see American Idol contestant Scott Savol. I'm not a big fan of the show, but it's always nice when local somebodies can make good.

I didn't talk to him, of course, given my track record with celebrities, but our waitress did. She reported that he was very gracious and he said he was spending his time in Nashville and was just home for a visit. So, there you go. Your daily entertainment report.

In the Comments section, tell me what the weather's like where you are. Cleveland's East side is currently enjoying mild temperatures, increasing cloud cover and a 60% chance of rain.

'Shroom in My Heart

2009-05-22T13:41:00.003-05:00

I signed up for a mushroom hunt/hiking extravaganza for Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!

I am all sorts of excited. It's a six-hour trek around Cleveland's nature bits, and at the end, we get to come back to the local nature center and cook up our catches. Tres exciting.

Our 'shroom leader, Nate, said we're going to be looking primarily for morels, which is funny because I will also be trying to locate my morals this weekend. See I've met someone, and it's likely there will be some making out of the teenage variety in my near future. Don't want to jinx anything, but I will relay all of my wild adventures later.

In the Comments section, tell me what wild things you're getting into this weekend.

Busk a Move

2009-05-12T12:27:00.004-05:00

So, I've been writing songs and playing my geetar for nearly 10 years now, and you'd think it would get easier to play in front of people, but it really, really hasn't. I mean, not for nothing, I'm a minimalist guitar player, but I sing pretty well and I like writing my little story-songs, though I have a hard time putting myself out there, as the kids say.

My dear Adelka Ann has told me that it's selfish of me not to share because my voice uplifts people. Megan Jane has graciously assumed the role of publicity manager, extolling my talents from coast to coast. Kirstin said I am every bit as good as Jessica Lea Mayfield, which I still think is a bit of a hyperbole, but the thought of that made me feel squishy inside.

In short, every single one of my fambly members and friends has stood behind me in support.

And still, I get knock-kneed and freaked out at the thought of playing music in front of people. It's not that I don't think I'm talented; it's that I get worried that other people won't think I'm talented and they'll walk away shaking their heads going, "What a hack. Poor thing actually thinks she sounds good."

I know, I KNOW -- I don't understand me, either.

So, this weekend, I decided enough was enough. I packed up my ax, yanked myself by the collar and headed to downtown Cleveland. I parked my guitar case about a block away from Jacob's Field (I'll never call it Progressive Field. NEVER!) and … just played. In front of strangers. Like they do in the movies.

So random.

There's an actual name for it: busking. To busk is to do street performances, generally music, but I've seen buskers who did back flips and puppet shows, so I think there's a lot of room for interpretation.

Even though the Indians lost, people were still so nice. And they stopped to listen and nod and give me compliments and drop monies in my case. I started to realize that I was getting paid to 1) conquer my fear and 2) practice. Yawesome!

I got $22 in a little more than an hour.

But, I still felt dumb the entire time. And awkward. And worried about what people were thinking of me. Those are the things I'm working to overcome.

So, I am going to keep taking to the street stage until I do, until I haven't an ounce of fear left, until I feel confident walking into a coffee shop or tavern or farmer's market and saying, "Hey, I'd like to play music here."

Because, seriously, who wants to work in financial publishing forever?

In the Comments section, tell me what you are afraid of. I am obviously not afraid of sentences that end with a prepositional phrase.

Port of Call

2009-04-28T11:09:00.005-05:00

"Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where, and we don't know where." The Only Living Boy In New York

Here in Cleveland, we enjoyed our three days of sunshine for the year. Oh, I kid -- we actually get about 45 solidly sunny days, which is still abysmally low compared to … well, anywhere else.

But we make the most of them, like Amish teens' during their Rumspringa -- when it gets warm after so many months of sedative cold and snow, we go flipping crazy up in here. Behold:

That's right, son. Sun tea next to a giant tea cup full of herbs I just planted. What what! (Giant tea cup courtesy of Kirstin's good taste in birthday gifts.)

Eh, I think I'm growing up, my pretties. A few years back, I would've celebrated the advent of summer with a tube top and drinking so hard that when said tube top would fall down, I wouldn't even care. Now? I make tea and grow things.

I'm all right with it, the transition. I think. I mean, there's no rule I can't wear a tube top while planting things.

I guess I'm in a little bit of a crummy mood because I got some bad news. I just found out that a woman I used to volunteer with, Jude, died late last year.

A few years ago, I came across an organization that provides grocery shopping for people who can still cook and feed themselves but who have trouble getting out of the house. I signed on to be a personal shopper volunteer because it was, like, the most-perfect position for me EVER.

The agency paired me with Jude who, at the time, was suffering from edema and severe obesity. I don't recall how big she was exactly but suffice to say that upon meeting her, I immediately understood why it was difficult for her to leave the house.

The director of the agency said she'd had a revolving door with Jude, but it wasn't Jude's personality -- it's just that neither she, nor her home, smelled very pleasant. Jude's housekeeping strategy was to not do it and, best as I could tell, her bathtub doubled as a storage area for VHS tapes.

Plus, Jude eventually opened up to me that when you're a large person with limited mobility, there are certain facts of life you have to deal with, including that sometimes you can't make it to the bathroom in time.

Now, if I'm painting a sad portrait of this woman's life, let me assure you that, yes, it was. But, the reason that I visited and shopped for Jude for more than a year was that she was full of moxie. She was whip-smart and had a sassy mouth.

She was from upstate New York, a point she liked to make often. "They can't fool me; I'm from upstate, OK?"

Jude loved to debate politics and, whenever I came to her with a story about a no-good boy or a professor who was giving me guff, she always had the perfect retort. I get the sense, though, that she was someone who spent a lifetime thinking about the things she should have said but didn't.

After I'd been shopping for her about six months, she told me that she'd looked up an old boyfriend on the Internet and contacted him. It'd been 30 years, she said. Now he was working at the statehouse or something -- a rising politician.

"There's nothing worse," she said. "I can't believe I used to love him."

She told me that he was surprised to hear from her, but his reply e-mail was pleasant enough.

"I ought to send him a fake picture of a beautiful woman just because," she told me.

That deflated my heart -- I'm sure I'm murmured something about how she was lovely in her own way. At least I hope I did.

In any case, I had to part ways with Jude when I moved to Maryland, but she sent me e-cards every now and again. In one, she told me she'd been approved for gastric bypass and was looking forward to becoming who she was meant to be. I was thrilled for her.

Then I got a change of address card -- she was making a fresh, clean start, she said. New digs. I was overjoyed.

And then … nothing. I assumed she had settled into her happy, new life. I was so majorly bummed to learn she had actually settled into death. So, yes, the sunshine has definitely left me today.

Well, that's not quite true -- this news has me thinking about how I spend my time. And where I spend my time. My dear boss recently quit and took a position that brought her to the beach, and I think a similar change of scenery would do wonders for me. I'm thinking I might summer in Portland, Maine -- any closet Portland readers out there?

In a completely unrelated note, the sunshine spurred me to cover Billy Ocean's When the Going Gets Tough. I told ya'll the heat makes us crazy.

In the Comments section, tell me where you'd like to summer and/or if you're a Portland peep.

Chow Time

2009-04-24T11:37:00.002-05:00

I accidentally ate dog food today.

See, I often put dog kibble in my jacket pockets when I walk the dogs as rewards for nice doggie behavior.

This morning, I was hungry and threw a few smoked almonds into my pocket, which I totally thought was empty ... I guess you can see where this is going.

It tasted like a beef-flavored crouton -- wasn't half bad, actually.

In the Comments section, tell me what's in your pocket.

Fantasy Island

2009-04-16T12:00:00.002-05:00

Has this ever happened to you?

Maybe you're a single gal and you stumble upon the blog of a funny, intelligent, attractive blogger and spend a good two hours scouring his archives and THEN, 847 posts in, he finally mentions his wife and it crushes you because your fantasy of a whirlwind romance with said handsome blogger has suddenly crashed and burned?

No? Me either. My life is totally balanced.

In the Comments section, tell me about the best part of your day so far.

Playing Ketchup

2009-04-14T21:25:00.003-05:00

He found me in the cured meats section. I'd spent seven minutes lusting after some real bacon before finally settling for the 25-calorie-a-slice turkey bacon with the suspect coloring.

"Hey," he said, "I don't have enough money for this sausage. Can you help me out?"

Ohhhh. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I don't have any cash on me" and I didn't. Then I walked away.

I meandered around the grocery, collecting a coconut, some dried thyme, tahini, frozen Brussels sprouts and a couple of lemons. You know, the basics. Then I took my place in line and who did I see?

"Hey," he said, "I don't have enough money for these potatoes. Can you help me out?"

"Again, I don't have any cash … … but I guess you can put them on my tab," I said.

"OK. Thanks, miss," he said, and plunked down his sack of taters. His dilated pupils pulsed under the fluorescent lights as he talked.

I was just about ready to swipe my card when he showed up again with a bottle of ketchup.

"Mmm?" he said, holding up the bottle of name brand catsup by way of permission. I don't even buy name-brand catsup!!

Le sigh.

"Fine. That's it, though."

So, I bought a strange, desperate man with big pupils a sack of potatoes and a bottle of ketchup. I'm thankful I'm in a position to easily afford it. Why, then, do I feel so guilty that I had the security guard walk me a good part of the way home?

In the Comment section, tell me what you would ask a stranger to buy you at the grocery store if you were desperate and hungry. Myself? I'd go for apples, bread and a big hunk of cheese.

Did Not. Did Too. Did Not.

2009-04-14T08:40:00.003-05:00

Weird.

About a year ago, I met a boy from the Internet and we went on a date. Just a simple dinner. It was nice. On a scale of 1 to 10, I'd give him a strong 7. We had an innocent good-night kiss and plans were made to see each other again. And then he stood me up twice in a row, so I shrugged my shoulders and chalked it up to asshattery.

Well, he sent me an e-mail yesterday to the effect of "I'm sorry. I got really busy and then I lost my phone with all of my numbers and then I didn't hear from you and then I was attacked by killer bees ..."

It felt a little like that scene in Dude, Where's My Car? with the Chinese lady: "And then ... and then ... and THEN!"

He finished the note with: "I thought you were really attractive and I'd love to hang out again. I had such a good time building that campfire with you."

… ?

Campfire?

Now, I'm a gal who LOVES campfires. I would have remembered a date like that. Obviously, dude was hopped up on goofballs and had me confused with someone else he impolitely stood up.

So, I told him so.

"I'm afraid you've got me mixed up with someone else. I don't recall a campfire. What I do remember is that you stood me up twice, and didn't return my last call, so I'm sure you'll understand why I'm not interested in seeing you again. On the up side, maybe you can reconnect with the other girl."

OK, finite. Have a nice life, bozo.

But, oh no -- not this peach. "I'm not confused. I remember you. And I remember having sex."

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa? That's a bold statement, muchacho.

So, I wrote back: "Well, there are two possibilities here: One, you have DEFINITELY got the wrong girl because we didn't have sex. Or, two, we had sex and I thought it was so awful that I literally have blocked it out of my memory. Take your pick."

Funny, I haven't heard back from him.

In the Comments section, tell me about your experience with mistaken identity.

Top Secret

2009-04-03T13:27:00.004-05:00

OK, so it's been proven to me time and again that all of the cool kids are using Tumblr, but given that I only relatively recently set up a MySpace page, it seems unlikely that I'll migrate. Still, I'm not above stealing genius ideas.

Many of the Tumblr kids are posting secret messages to the bloggers they follow. I, for one, think this is a wonderful idea because there are things that I feel about many of you that I could never, or would never, leave in your comments section. Believe it or not, I spend a lot of my day thinking about you.

So, here are some secret messages.

I don't think you give yourself enough credit. You make the world a much nicer place.
Seriously, you really bum me out. Like, a lot. Still, I can't not look to see what messes you've made for yourself this time or the latest attempt for sympathy. Thanks for making me feel better about my life.
I think you are one of the most magnificent human beans I've ever had the pleasure to come across. You seem almost magical.
What in THE HELL are you doing with him?
You can't fool me; you're not happy.
I crave your approval.
There isn't one single aspect of your life that I'd like to have.
I like to believe that one day we will fall in love.
You do such amazing stuff! Sometimes I can't read every day because it reminds me of all of the things I'm not doing.
It's so old. Just quit it already.
I hope you find what you're looking for. I really, really do. In the meantime, it's mildly entertaining to read about your attempts at trying to find it.
You never fail to brighten my day. It makes me oh-so-happy when I see tiny bits of myself in you.

In the Comments section, leave a secret message for a blogger you follow.

At the Core

2009-04-01T10:03:00.003-05:00

Apple core, Baltimore, who's your friend?

My Mom used to say that rhyme all the time in a sing-song voice, but she never could accurately explain what it meant.

"It's, you know, just something we said as kids. Like on the playground."

"Yeah, but was it, like, a game? Did you skip or hopscotch to it? Did you say when someone was eating an apple? It's so random--would you just spit it out Tourette's style whenever you felt like it?"

"I guess so," she said. "It doesn't really mean anything"

I don't like things that don't have meaning. In my world everything has meaning. Of course, I'm also kind of hyper-sensitive. Well, I guess you can't be "kind of" hypersensitive, so, yes, I am hyper-sensitive.

This is what my apple cores look like because I have superior paring knife skillz.

For instance, Old High School Boyfriend Chad commented that I changed the part in my hair after I sent him a recent picture of the "new" blonde I took on. (It's much more "blonde" than the strawberry blonde I recently tried to pass off as blonde. Apologies for the ruse. Pictures soon.)

And instead of letting it go, I says to myself, "Self, boys don't notice stuff like that unless …"

But then I jerked my wandering heart back and gave myself a stern talking to because I am NOT going to go there. I've spent the better part of a decade pining away for him when he's rebuffed me at every opportunity since I moved away from him when I was 17 and we broke up by default.

But because I can't ever let it go, I think at the core of his stand-offishness is insecurity. Maybe wishy-washy is a better phrase to describe him because he's always glad to see me, and he calls and e-mails me unprovoked. But then, when we get an opportunity to rekindle things--nothing. Zip.

I learned my lesson with him after the first time I made a move--he just wasn't, well, comfortable. So, when we're together, we sit there with the sexual tension looming between us.

He told me once during our teenage courtship that he was scared of me. Not, like, oh-my-God-she's-going-to-kill-me, but he said I was "just so much" followed by, "I mean, I like it, but … I don't know what to do with it."

Of course, what 17-year-old boy does know what to do with a sexually charged girl, but it was deeper than that. Still, I didn't even ask him to elaborate because I knew what he meant. It's been suggested that I can come on a little strong at times.

I guess it's the curse of all superior women--it takes a very strong man (or, ya know, other woman for the lesbian set) to match you. Even at a young age, I realized that I didn't quite act like the other girls--a bit more brazen, a bit more independent, just a bit more.

(Incidentally, Valerie means "strong." Go figure.)

I know it's 2009 but it's been my experience that a lot of men are still put off by an intelligent, capable, sexually-aware woman. I mean, not that Old High School Boyfriend Chad would want me to "know my role" or anything, but I do think that he's spent the bulk of his relationships with mousy little girls and just doesn't know what to do with me.

For those of you playing at home, I am decidedly NOT a mousy little girl. (Thought I am littler now thanks to my trainer, Patty, but I don't think I could be mousy if I tried … Wait, I'm going to try and be mousy right quick.)

[scrunches up nose and in the tiniest voice says "Whatever you want to do. I have no opinion."]

Blach. That was gross. Nope. Mousy is not happening.

And I'm trying to resign myself to the fact that a relationship with High School Boyfriend Chad probably isn't ever happening, either. That's tough for me to admit, but them's the facts. It's one thing for a 17-year-old boy to be afraid of me; it's a whole other story for a 30-year-old man to be intimidated.

I guess asking him to buck up would be about as successful as if he asked me buck down. Well, a leopard can't change her spots, but she can change her dreams.

My friend Allison is having superior success with manifesting financial abundance, so I'm going to take a cue from her. I'm imagining what it's like to be in love with a strong, secure, sexy, caring, considerate, independent, kind, goal-oriented, intelligent, funny, honest, supportive guy who doesn't snore and thinks I'm the cat's pajamas. Oooh, this is fun!

In the Comments section, tell me who YOU think is the cat's pajamas. My answer is all of you, natch. And also Ray Lamontagne. I bet he wouldn't be put off by me.

Let There Be Light

2009-03-27T09:34:00.003-05:00

Today is my birthday, marking 29 years on this beautiful planet. Still, birthdays always bring me down a little bit, which my astrologer says is to be expected: “Beware of any day that is celebrated with candles; the candles are used to offset the darkness that most of us feel.”

On the very upside, though, my wonderful step-Mom sent me a new outfit, and it fell right off me. Well, not right off, but I was able to easily take the pants off without unbuttoning them, which could come in handy, I suppose.

Especially if one were to, say, meet a married German guy in a cheesy hotel bar during a business trip and go back to his room and get to know him better, though not totally, but enough to know that, yes, European men have a whole different concept of what constitutes as underwear. *

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

So, to celebrate pulling my pants down and a pretty great set of 29 years, I’m going to keep preparing for another 29 amazing years. A kick-ass workout, a leafy green salad, a run with the Dodger dog, a little songwriting and a hot bath are in the cards tonight.

Total Snoozeville, I admit, but there’s a lot to be said for getting to bed on time so I can get to Saturday’s farmers’ market early and flirt with the homemade salsa guy (both of them so spicy!).

You know, this whole physical transformation for me -- from the hair, to the fitness, to trying to remain more conscious of the “vibe” I’m putting out to people -- was born out of frustration, frustration that people I thought mattered were failing to see my true qualities. (Why, hello, self-absorbed Aries nature! Nice to meet y... wait, let's focus on me some more.)

I started this endeavor thinking that -- right, wrong or indifferent -- being my “best” self in every sense of the word would allow me more options, that I could be the one deciding when someone wasn’t up to my standards, and not the other way around.

I wish I could say that I’ve shaken that external motivation, but the fact is, it’s only been reinforced now that I’m turning heads again and ex-boyfriends are sending “Hey, you look great. We should get together” messages.

I just find it hard to believe that 15 stupid pounds and some hair color can make THAT much difference, so I have to assume that maybe my inner beauty has also improved, too.

Or maybe I just think too highly of people and we are that superficial.

Nah. I have enough awesome people in my life to disprove that theory, the very same people I often forget to tell how much they mean to me. It seems to me the key to having a happy birthday is not to dwell on who’s missing from the “party” but who’s already there.

Welp, I’ve got plenty of birthday love to go around, so let’s all light a candle and make a wish today. Oh, and stop by The Maiden Metallurgist, who is my Birthday Twin, with good tidings!

In the Comments section, tell me what your wish is. I don't believe in superstitions, so I’ll share mine: a true and comfortable love. That shouldn’t be so hard, right?

*Not proud of it, mind you, but I’ve found that at the very least, every bad judgment call makes a pretty good story.

A Monkey’s Uncle

2009-03-26T14:44:00.001-05:00

My Uncle A told me the other day he uses ‘human urine’ to keep the deer out of his garden.

“Yeah, I just go out there at night when the neighbors are asleep and mark the perimeter. Don’t have no trouble with the deer.”

This sort of absurd practicality and disregard for social convention sums up Uncle A pretty squarely.

I should explain that he is the archetypal crazy uncle. He’s a recluse who never left the nest of the family home and he’s extraordinarily Luddite. He still uses a rotary phone and a hand-wringing washing machine. He’s never used a credit card. But, of course, as the quintessential bachelor he’s succumbed to a flat-screen TV, which is shockingly out of place next to his woodstove.

“Not a plasma. You catch the glare. Just your run-of-the-mill HD TV,” which is hooked up to an antennae that Uncle A affixed to the roof in 1963, the same one he can be seen scrambling up a ladder to adjust when the cloud cover is high.

He is very thrifty, which is why he’d never pay for cable. He darns his own socks, he’s got a (very organized) collection of empty jars and bottles that he’ll never use, and he’s the only man I’ve ever seen excited about triple coupons. Not surprisingly, he informed us that, at any given time, he likes to keep between $3,000 and $4,000 in cash on his person.

“The tractor dealer gives me a better rate when I pay cash” was his answer to our anxious protests.

Lest you think Uncle A was a turn of the century child, let me tell you he’s only 64, just a few years older than me old Da. But there is a sibling rivalry between them (at least in Uncle A’s mind) that has existed since the advent of time.

Maybe it’s because my Dad has had enough love affairs, job changes and general life experiences for the both of them but my Uncle A has felt it necessary to stake out the one area where he reigns over my Dad: memories.

His few extra years on this planet have granted him the only key to the family history, and each visit I’ll hear, ”Now, your father won’t remember this, but …” and Uncle A will spin some tale of family gossip that my father couldn’t possibly remember, even if, say, it involved my father’s wedding(s).

He’s a bizarre, but kind man. We suspect that living all those years under the controlling thumb of my judgmental grand-dad, as well as a case of undiagnosed Asperger’s or high-functioning autism, explains it.

He’s basically a gentle soul, but he has frenetic impulses and a complusive need for order; he stacked and re-stacked his 10-foot woodpile four times because he couldn’t “get the wood to lay right.”

His house has been completely unchanged since the late ‘80s, since my grand-dad died. A family photo taken in the kitchen this Christmas might be mistaken for the one we took in 1988, if it weren’t for the change in the subjects.

The funny thing is, Uncle A wasn’t always so … strange. I mean, he was born a little odd, to be sure, but my Dad tells us that he used to race stock cars and pal around with “the guys.” He took girls out for drinks after work.

Uncle A told me about a night when he and a lady friend ended up at a go-go club. He asked the girl to dance and, after trying to Watusi or the Twist or whatever it was they did back then, he succumbed to the music. He told his dancing date, “You can do what you want do; I’m gonna follow the go-go dancer” and he began flailing his arms. (This has, as you might imagine, become a favorite family quote, especially when trying to decide on the banal, like whether to have chicken or spaghetti for dinner.)

Soon after that night, Uncle A took ballroom dancing lessons on a whim, and it turned out he was a natural. He toured on the semi-pro circuit for a while, and even fell in love with a fellow dancer, who later broke his heart.

So, Uncle A’s had “normal” episodes, which doesn’t help explain the fraught, lonely man I saw last week.

The one who asked me to sew a hem on the chair cover (the same one from 1971), and then patiently collected the bits of discarded string in an old pill bottle just “in case” I wanted to reuse them for something. The one who talked baby-talk to my dog, but returned my “I love you” with a quick “Yep, OK.” The one whose arms hung at his side when I hugged him, but then ran after my car to tell me to be careful.

It doesn’t explain it at all, which makes me wonder when he crossed that line? The line that divides possibility from resignation. I guess more immediately, as someone who is an isolationist and independent to a fault, I wonder what I can do to ensure that I vnever cross that line.

I know how Uncle A would answer that question: You can do what you want to do; I’m gonna follow the go-go dancer.

In the Comments section, tell me if you have an Uncle A type person in your life.

Sensei-tional

2009-03-19T14:13:00.003-05:00

I take my nephew to a free karate class at the Sunbeam School on Thursdays so my sister can go to jazzercise, which is an entertaining thought in itself, but the class is a whole mess of fun -- and I just watch.

It's a motley collection of 6 to 9 year-olds and one very colorful sensei, Mr. Johnson. Sensei Johnson is a great-grandfather so you "can't get no stuff" on him, as he likes to tell the kids. He's, maybe, 70 and has a shiny, black, bald head and very alive grey goatee.

He also has a little toe. I mean, we all have little toes, but his little toe is littler and it's crooked. The toe is positioned sideways so that when you look at the foot head-on, you actually see the side of the little toe and not the tip.

It's fascinating, and, as you might imagine, kids sometimes ask about his little toe. His response is an order for 10 pushups on their knuckles and then he makes them leave the room. They are forever banished.

Sensei runs a tight ship. I've seen him smack a few of the kidders in the back of the head with a clear "pop," which is unsettling but it does have the desired effect. He's fond of telling them that corporal punishment isn't illegal and that he's allowed -- and ready -- to beat their "bunnies." That's what he calls their butts.

"Sit back on your bunnies, chil'ren."

He makes the kids take off their shoes and bow before entering the room, and then they all meditate for a few minutes. You could tell me that you've seen something cuter than a six-year-old in a lotus position, but I wouldn't believe you.

And then the real fun begins.

Now, I live in a suburb of Cleveland, but we're close enough that if you go a few blocks south, you could find any kind of trouble you wanted. I suspect that Sensei found a lot of trouble in his day.

"Chil'ren, we're going to practice getting out of a chokehold. I want all you girls to pay close attention because one day when some big man got you by the throat, you'll know what to do."

Oh, my.

"Now, you may think that if someone comes up behind you and stuffs a gun in your back because they are messed up on drugs, the best thing is to kick them in their privates. You would be wrong. You kick them in the shins! And then you run like hell."

My sister and I have discussed the possible negative ramifications of his "colorful" way of teaching, but so far all Sam seems to have gleaned is that it's fun to kick and punch, so we keep going back. Besides, I caught him meditating the other day, so I think the good is outweighing the bad.

But I have to admit, part of me supports his continued attendance because I'm just so darn curious about that toe.

In the Comments section, tell me about a colorful person in your life.

Buyable Thoughts

2009-03-05T14:06:00.003-05:00

I get really nervous when I have to ring doorbells.

Even if I'm standing on the threshold of a dear relative's or friend's house, I still hold my breath, anxious with worries of what will happen when they answer. Or worse, if they don't answer.

As you might imagine, I was terrible at Girl Scout cookie sales.

But, my little affliction has given me an empathy for all of those souls who find themselves on my doorstep, namely solicitors of crap and Jehova's Witnesses. Both are selling something, and I am unable to turn them away without at least listening to their shcpeil (schpeel? shcpeel? schpeal?).

Sometimes, though, they have just what I need.

This past Saturday morning, two very dapper gentlemen came to the door. They had their little bibles and they had their little sacks of tracts. I opened the door, resigned to their speech.

"Hello. I'm sorry I can't open the screen door—the dog. He's not always friendly."

"Oh, that's all right. We can spread God's love through the screen," said Dapper Gentleman No. 1. "May we share a bible thought with you?"

"Sure. Lay it on me."

"All right. This is coming from Matthew Chapter 6, verse 25." He flipped around for a bit, cleared his throat and said:

"'This is why I tell you: Do not be worried about the food and drink you need in order to stay alive, or about clothes for your body. After all, isn't life worth more than food? Look at the birds: They do not plant seeds, gather a harvest and put it in barns; yet your Father in heaven takes care of them! Are you worth much more than birds? Can any of you live a bit longer by worrying about it?'" (This is from the Catholic bible, so ya'lls' versions might be a lil' bit different.)

"Miss, do you know why it is that most of us experience anxiety?" No. 1 asked me.

First of all, I like it when people call me "miss." Second, I like it when I have the right answer. I told him that it's because we fail to live in the present and spend most of our time worrying about what has been or what will be.

"Very good! Very good. You've got it down. Do you see that bird on the tree? Do you think he worries about what he's going to eat or where he's going to sleep?"

"No, I don't. He doesn't even seem overly concerned with where he poops, given the neighbor's car."

"That's right. He doesn't worry because he knows he's taken care of by God's love. And in that way, you and I are taken care of, as well. We need not worry. We need not be anxious."

Now, say what you want about religious zealots and what not, but the dog, who usually bares teeth at any stranger who even uses the sidewalk, sat there and listened to the bible thought with me, quiet as a church mouse. If I didn't know better, I'd of thought these Dapper Gentlemen were made of bacon, the way he was so quietly transfixed on them.

I thanked both gents sincerely for the reminder that worry is worthless, and I was rewarded with a copy of The Watch Tower and a promise that they'd return again with another bible thought.

Now, I'm not a bible thumper, and quite honestly, I'm generally uncomfortable with the idea of religious passion. It embarrasses me. I've also had my ins and outs with organized religion over the years, but there's something so very comforting about knowing that it's all taken care of, you know? That's a just a wonderful message to share.

So, be the bird today. Don't let worries about future material matters weigh you down. Just keep flying.

Oh, Lord. That was bad. I am sorry for the sappy wrap-up. I'm gonna have to go to confession for that one.

In the Comments section, tell me if you think these gentlemen were made of bacon.

Pun for the Road

2009-02-16T11:01:00.005-05:00

So, my brake lights seem to no longer work. I replaced both bulbs, and nada. Nothing. Zip. Zilch.

I'm taking the underlying symbolism as a good sign: There's no stopping me.

But in the world of Reality, the Department of Transportation frowns heavily on non-functioning brake lights, so I shall remedy this. Fixing things seems to be the reigning theme these days.

It's cool. There's a season for everything. I was just telling Adelka Ann how I feel like I'm in a preparation phase. I have no idea for what I'm preparing but, again, it's cool. The map will unfold sooner or later.

But in the meantime, making an appointment with a mechanic is rarely enjoyable, unless the name of your mechanic's business is The Lusty Wrench. Then you know you're in for a good time.

No, really. I mean, I love a good pun for sure and for certain, but I'm looking forward to meeting these people, largely because of this excerpt from the LW's Web site:

"Since we don't rely on bullshit, we welcome questions."

You gotta love a business person who uses profanity on his Web site. You've got to.

Plus, the mechanics (technicians?) all have their pictures posted and one looks hot. Bonus. I'm drawn toward men who work with their hands; I would gladly date a blue-collar guy given that most of the "intellectuals" I've known over the years have had the emotional IQs of gnats.

That's an unfair stereotype, I know. I apologize to all of you emotionally-solvent smarty pantses* out there. I would be stoked if you could prove me wrong.

Oh, hell. I didn't mean to go down this rail. Let's get back on track here with a totally random recipe for roasted chick peas. The personal trainer (PT) has given my old eating habits the heave-ho, so I've been trying to find healthy snacks to replace the 'tato skins and pork rinds I normally gravitate toward.

So, my dear Al Bal gave me this idea.

Preheat the oven to 450.

Open a can of chick peas (garbanzo beans), drain and spread them on a cookie sheet.

Drizzle with olive oil (about 2 tablespoons), sprinkle with salt, pepper, garlic powder and cayenne pepper. (You can add any spices you like, really. Go crazy.)

Place in oven for approximately 20 minutes, turning the beans once or twice, until they are roasted.

You can make the little buggers as crunchy or as soft as you'd like. I like mine a little crunchy. These will keep for a few days in a covered container (I don't refrigerate because they get soggy).

And there you have a healthy snack.

In the Comments section, tell your ideas for healthy snacks.

*Not saying that blue-collar guys and gals aren't smarty pantses.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

2009-02-12T11:13:00.004-05:00

"No!!!"

"Yes, I really want to be blonde."

"No!!!! You have such pretty red hair!"

"I know," I said, "But, I've had pretty red hair for more than a decade. C'mon, you can do this. Dig deep--it's within you to color my hair."

As I cajoled the stylist, my ambitions went from platinum to a nice strawberry blonde. About 90 minutes and enough chemicals to reignite the Cuyahoga River later, I emerged with this:

Sorry for the crappy cell phone pics again!

Voila!

It is … blondish. But very nice, if I do say so myself. And very different. It's swingy and chic and grown-up--the low-grade cell phone pics don't do it justice. Cori, my stylist, is a genius.

The funny thing is, Cori was right: I don't think it's the color that needed updating—just me. I don't know. Well, I feel like a different person now that I've "lightened up" and "straightened out."

I've oft said that Love Monkey and I are blogging soul mates. If you don't already follow her, well, then you are sorely missing out on some good stuff.

But, one of her most recent offering is about being a redhead and learning to love it, despite what other people think. How many of us have come to love a part of ourselves that previously caused us abjection? (My hand's up.)

Not to hit on the obvious, but I think of my rack, which caused me great consternation early on, not to mention my off-kilter outlook. I used to wring my hands because I didn't see things the way others did. Now, I am very, very grateful.

I don't know, kids. I've just really been hearing a repeating loop in my (newly-blondish) head: If not now, when?

So, I did another thing that I hope will alleviate something that's been weighing on me for some time – I signed on with a personal trainer. I ~~sold a kidney~~ bit the bullet and ponyed up the fee. I'm fighting the urge to call the move ridiculous because it's not—you can't put a price on self esteem.

Oh, and I'm not drinking these days. I haven't for quite some time, actually. I've hesitated to share that with you, my pretties. I don't know why. But, there it is. I've gotta say, on the whole, it's working for me.

Megan Jane shared something with me that one of her professors said that has really touched us both:

"No growth can be made with out great loss. I cried when I wrote that."

So true, no? It's a sad and accurate statement, but I don't know that I've learned a whole heck of a lot from the "gifts" that life has given—it's always been the losses.

At this point, I've "lost" the late-night boozy antics (all-right, the mid-morning ones, too), I've lost some of the darkness in (on) my head and I hope to lose a little bit (just a little bit) of the actual me. But, I'm gaining a lot. Mostly credit card debt thus far, but I'm hopeful.

Yes, the Stones had it right: You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes and pay out a lot of money, you just might just find, you get what you need.

Actually, I'm going to amend that: You CAN always get what you want, but sometimes you have to temporarily settle for what you need.

There, that feels better.

In the Comments section, tell me what you want most right now.

Blonde Ambition

2009-02-09T16:37:00.002-05:00

I've been a redhead now longer than I wore my natural color, and I think a change is in order.

(I do this when I realize that bigger life changes are necessary but I'm either uncertain of what they are or scared shitless -- or both -- so instead I change my hair. Just play along with me that this simply a surface thing.)

I love the vibrancy of red, but as Megan Jane recently pointed out maybe (in solely my case, not all of you other gingers out there) it's projecting a tendency toward recklessness for which I no longer want to be known.

I suppose no one wants to be known as reckless, but for a long time, I didn't really mind it. Now I do. Now I want to be less of a wreck.

I know the stereotypes about blondes might seem to counter the centered, focused persona I want to embody, but I'm drawn to the literal and figurative idea of lightening up. And, since I've been damn near every other color under the sun but blonde, it's time to explore uncharted territory.

So much of my life seems to no longer fit, like every day I'm waking up and putting on someone else's clothes. I might be covered up and warm, but it just doesn't feel right.

My boss reads (or at least knows of) this here blog, so I feel obliged to say: No, I'm not quitting my job or even entertaining the idea. While I'm glad to be able to say that we have very open discussions about the many, many, many, many drawbacks of our work, it's everything else that feels off.

Well, I made an appointment at the salon for tomorrow night because if I can't indentify the bigger changes that are necessary, at least I can update my 'do.

In the Comments section, tell me if you think blondes have more fun.

If You Can't Take the Heat

2009-02-04T14:35:00.006-05:00

My sister, Susie, was cleaning out her kitchen and graciously offered a bunch of her culinary offal, which we gladly accepted. I was super stoked to go through the box, finding mini casserole dishes, paring knives, muffin tins and a pregnancy test.

?!

Well, how about that.

It was new—still in the box, thank God, but it's hardly what I'd consider standard kitchen equipment, unless …

She has ONE hot kitchen.

Spicing it up, fo sho.

Don't get me wrong—I'm grateful for the castoffs. Especially now that I'm the proud owner of a matching twin-set of fondue cookbooks. A fonduo, if you will. Yes! Grab a skewer.

But then my other sister, Maryannie, pointed out that maybe, because it wasn't 1972, we didn't really need dueling fondue cookbooks. Quite honestly, though, I was tickled to have a back-up copy, considering all of the risks associated with fondue parties, what with the open fire and the hot oil and melted chocolate.

But illustrations like that are starting to help me realize that maybe my thinking is just a hair different than most folks'. For instance, you all remember the pink, fuzzy coat, yes?

While I fully admit it's a generally ridiculous article of clothing, I've taken to walking the dogs in it because:

A. It's warm.

B. It's been about -5 degrees up here with feets and feets of snow falling daily.

C. What exactly IS the right occasion for such an item?

So, I was tooling along the lane, walking by a local antique store, when the owner of said store stepped out into the arctic cold to flag me down and say, "I don't mean this unkindly, but you look like a Dr. Seuss character in that coat. I think it's fabulous!"

Why, thank you Very Gay Sir. I know who's getting the first invite to my next fondue party.

In the Comments section, tell me if you like fondue cookery.

Hey, Wait a Second ...

2009-01-23T14:58:00.003-05:00

Blondie isn't a BBW. And her name is Jenny, as in Jenny's Diet Blog, aka an advertisement for weight loss products.

Apparently, if the story is to be believed, she lost 25 pounds, thus magically removing her from BBW category. So, my argument, I guess, is moot, though ya'll brought up some good points about her "beefy" arms.

Why am I feeling slightly betrayed by Jenny's pandering to both the sides? And why do I keep encountering her everywhere I travel on the Innertubes? Strange.

In the Comments section, tell me why Jenny keeps popping up in my life. Thanks.

I'm a Big Girl Now?

2009-01-22T16:15:00.006-05:00

Allow me to drag out ye olde soapbox and I will try not to break it as I climb atop. Harumpff.

So, as someone who is safely within the Surgeon General's height/weight guidelines though admittedly tipped a bit toward the higher end (mostly because of my boobs), I have oft struggled with the idea that if I just lost 10 pounds, life will be perfect and beautiful and filled with puppies.

Now, logically, I know that 10 extra pounds isn't going to keep me from finding fortune and fame, nor will it keep "the one" from falling madly for me -- and if it does, then that person isn't "the one" but rather "the No. 1 dripweed."

I just made up that word, dripweed. Making up words is what got me in the state, actually. I was updating my MySpace status. Yes, I still use MySpace. And I still update my status. I never said I was cool.

Anyhoo, at the time I was feeling kind of blechy, merrrgh and a little bit flurby.

And then I wondered if "flurby" was actually a word. And, yea, the Urban Dictionary reported that it is; it means overweight, chubby, etc.

Fine and good—considering I had beef jerky and tater tots for breakfast, that felt appropriate. What got my attention and my goat, though, was this accompanying ad on the Urban Dictionary site:

Big girls need love, too, no doubt, but I would hardly classify this woman as a Big Beautiful Woman.

I would put her build more toward the average mark. Or did I miss something? Is everyone above a size 6 a BBW now? Should I just pack it in and align myself with Chubby Chasers because I've got curves?

Again, harumpff.

Has anyone seen Last Chance Harvey yet? It's a new rom-com with Dustin Hoffman and the lovely Emma Thompson. But, oh, what an uproar the world let loose when they saw Emma Thompson's size in the film (which, by the way, was enjoyable in a dopey kind of way. Your mom would probably love it):

Whoa! Watch out! She's huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge.

Whatever, world. You're dumb.

Welp, I may have an extra 10 pounds, but ain't nobody ever kicked me out of bed for eating crackers.

In the Comments section, tell me if you think Blondie above is a BBW. Please, consider that if you give me any reason to amp up my neurosis about this, I'm going to have to cut out tater tots once and for all. And I lub the tots. A lot.

Teachable Moments

2009-01-08T08:01:00.005-05:00

I know, I know. I've been gone awhile. Let's see, where to start?

I have simultaneously developed a sweet tooth and dropped 10 pounds.

Oh, and this weekend, I'm taking a knitting class right before I'm having dinner with a bunch of nuns. I'm also eagerly awaiting a sprout from some avocado seeds in punch cups, but I still haven't gotten a new camera, so you'll have to settle for a crappy cell-phone picture.

Grow on with your bad selves.

Yeah, it's wild in Ohio.

There's a wonderful little coffee shop a few blocks over from the house. Among other fine offerings, including an invitation to "bring your own wine," it has a coconut tea called Coconut Breeze, which I always saw on the chalkboard menu and thought, "Oh, God. That sounds just awful. Barf."

But, I got some by accident the other day and it seems that Coconut Breeze is really quite magnificent.

I ordered a medium English breakfast and somehow ended up with Coconut Breeze at the pick-up counter. Unawares of the mix up, I added my Splenda and cream as per usual, and found a pleasant surprise.

As with all "accidents," it wasn't really an accident. I credit Coconut Breeze with opening up a whole bunch of new horizons for me.

See, I figured if my perceptions were wrong about something as a benign and inconsequential as tea, what else have I been wrong about?

Turns out: quite a lot. A whole big crap load of things. Some of them big, some of them little.

For instance, I am a good dancer (not the awkward, drunken flailing kind but, like, actual dancing.) And, I've realized a microwave is not a necessity. I really don't find cockiness and condensation to be attractive qualities. And also, I don't have all of the answers.

And that's been kind of freeing, you know? To have my entire world turned upside down by a cup of tea.

But, there's at least one thing about which I've been proven correct time and time again: All dogs like their butts scratched.

I wonder why that is.

In the Comments section, tell me about your favorite hot beverage and/or if you know a dog who might prove me wrong.

The State of the Reunion

2008-11-04T21:47:00.010-05:00

At least 10-15 times a day, I think to myself, "Val, you should be taking notes for your novel. This is surreal."

And then at least 11-15 times a day, I think to myself a little hazily, "Now, what was it I wanted to remember to write down?"

Have you ever been in that place? So much going on and yet ... nothing at all. Not a whiff has changed, at least on a topical level. Maybe, though, the change is fundamental, like the magma flowing and churning below an ever-steady, calm crust of earth.

Speaking of red-hot, flaming things, I have a bit of a confession that I might as well tell you, my pretties -- I'm thinking of transforming my red locks to a strawberry blonde. My vermillion hair, well, it's starting to feel like a gimmick. I mean, I adore it and it adores my skin tone and eye color and blah, blee, blah, bloo.

But...

It may, or may not be (or may) that my impending 10-year high school reunion is coming up in a matter of weeks. I'm blessed tho, kittens, because all of the people from that particular high school with whom I wished to keep up, I have. And the rest, I trust, will be pleasant surprises. Or, at least, my boob dress will be a pleasant surprise to them and, thus, we will all be happy with my boobs.

I don't know. I hope so. I'm pretty sure, anyway.

I'd be lying if I said I weren't a bit nervous. I am.

We all want to be our best selves, don't we? And it's easy to be your best self when you're surrounded by friends and fambly who love you. But when you have to tangle with that kid from study hall whom you asked out and who told you no, and then you have to see him 10 years later when maybe a lot of things in your life are less-than-settled ... well, that's no fun.

But if redheads are tempestuous, and blondes have more fun, then, Good Lawd, ya'll better be on the lookout for Hurricane Valerie to hit Northeastern Ohio soon.

Yes, a change of haircolor seems like a good plan in the midst of all of this adult angst.

Tell me, boys, what's the male equivelent? This whole freak out about seeing people from the past. Do you all shave lightening bolts into your chest hair? Or get highlights? Rent hookers? Or buy new cars?

I could use some guidance because I am at once in love with the idea of connecting with people from my fairly distant past that I accidentally missed the first time around -- and also scared shiny.

In the Comments Section, tell me about your high school reunion and/or something you did recently that scared you shiny.

Thank Your Lucky Stars

2008-10-08T11:38:00.003-05:00

This is truly one of the most horrifying things I have ever read.

Please help if you can. Thanks to P for bringing this to my attention. Her blog is generally sheer delight, so if you don't revel in her already, get to it.

In the Comments section, tell me you were able to help out.

La Papa

2008-09-24T15:09:00.003-05:00

aHave you had that moment yet where you realize your parents realize that you're an adult?

It only took me 28 years.

My Dad and I were talking about the current economic hullabaloo. I was sorta trotting along with his reasoning, lulling somewhere between concession and resignation, when suddenly I countered one of my Dad's arguments with some economic data and the kind of logic that only a super-adult person might possess -- it doesn't matter what it was; it's boring.

But, yeah, I gave me ol' da the smartypants smackdown, I surely did.

And I saw a light in his eyes (the same greenish-grayish eyes that I have) that seemed to say, "How in the hell did you know that?"

And mine gleamed back, "Because I am adult now who knows these things. Scary, isn't it?"

We both got quiet, freaked out for a second, and then I said something that helped restore a sense of normalcy: "Oooh, I feel like cheese dogs and tater tots for dinner."

Then the moment was over, and we were both glad.

I'm the kid, he's the adult—that's the way it should be, I think. In fact, a lot of days I wish it were still OK to crawl up on his lap, him reading his Stephen King novel and I reading my Amelia Bedelia book, both of us silent in other worlds but still connected.

Now we talk about retirement accounts and plants that will tolerate the shade and how many miles you can go between oil changes. We fill up our time with so much conversation that we never get a chance to connect.

But, I tell you what, there is one great generational leveler: We both ate the shit out of some tater tots.

In the Comments section, tell me what your favorite frozen potato product is.

So Fresh and So Clean

2008-09-23T20:47:00.004-05:00

When I was 16, we found out our cleaning lady was stealing from me.

This was shocking for several reasons, chief among them was that my family had a cleaning lady. See, I grew up anywhere from at the poverty line to middle class, depending upon the year.

At that time we were, apparently, in the middle class. The cleaning lady was my step-Mom's idea. My Dad went along with it because, well, he had no choice. Still, he was unhappy with her excessive use of the Mop 'N Glo:

"I just bought a bottle last week! What's she do? Drink it?"

Her name was Dorothy, I think, and she came once a week on Tuesdays. I went to high school with her granddaughter – at least that's what Dorothy said. In a school with a couple hundred kids, I didn't know who her granddaughter was. Maybe I shouldn't have told Dorothy that.

In any case, I was working as a cashier at the Bi-Lo grocery store (along with my then-boyfriend Chad, ex-boyfriend Baby James, Baby James' current 23-year-old girlfriend Stephanie who bought us all wine coolers, and an assortment of polite young Vietnamese men all named Vang). I brought home roughly $119-$132 a week. High rolla!

No one taught me how to budget money, a lesson that's come back to bite me in the butt since then. But at the time, I employed a very scientific process of depositing $100 from my paycheck into my bank account and "living" off of the extra for the week, meaning I typically had about $24 in cash on me – and I always knew exactly how much I kept in my coffer (aka underpants drawer).

So, it was with great distress when, one Tuesday evening, I went to check my stash and found only $11 where $17 should have been.

I looked high and Bi-Lo for it. No where. I asked my parents if they "happened" to take it. No go.

We were all stumped. It was decided I was under the influence of wily teenage hormones and had no idea what I was talking about.

Then, the next Tuesday evening, I went to check my stash and found only $27 where $31 should have lived. Curiouser and curiouser. It seemed that the thief was making change from her takings. Strange.

My parents eventually put 10 and 9 together, and left a "bait" of $19 out for Dorothy. When they came home to $16, it was clear what needed to be done.

When Dorothy left, head low, so did my family's dreams of opulence. We couldn't even hire a proper cleaning lady, for Pete's sake.

So, we retreated solidly to a comfortable middle-class life that my folks upheld for years … until my Dad and Step-Mom dissented a few years ago to *boldly* buy a Rumba for the dog hair.

And I say good for them. My parents work hard. Very hard. In fact, I suspect their assets could afford them an existence far, far above the middle-class life that they lead.

But they stay grounded. In fact, their latest "thing" is Dave Ramsey's Total Money Makeover. They compete with each other (with love, of course!) to see who can spend the least money during the week. For a hot minute, I thought my parents were taking debt advice from an English chef with an attitude, but I had my reality TV mixed up.

Put down that Mop 'N Glo, you stupid wanker!

No surprise that my Dad is winning the spend-thrift challange, though my Step-Mom has way cuter clothes.

Kids, I've been thinking about this because there are some crazy financial times coming. I make no bones about the fact that I still don't budget money – but I certainly know how to at this point. I hope you do, too.

And even if you aren't up to budgeting, whatever you do, don't hire a cleaning lady right now.

In the Comments section, tell me about something that someone stole from you.

Kidding Around

2008-09-11T13:08:00.006-05:00

I wish I could be a selfless person but the fact is that I am not. I am totally wrapped up in my own head and that even means when it comes to the Sept. 11 tragedy. The anniversary of this day always spurs me to think about the BIG LIFE THINGS I still want to do and my hopes that I get the chance.

Recently, I thwarted the idea that my biological clock had started a-tickin'. Well, let me tell you, kids, I believe I was in denial. Or lying. Or both.

(Side note: I think I just came up with a new phrase for biological yearning: wovaries. Woe+ovaries. Geddit?)

In any case, I've been thinking of love and marriage and kids and front-loading washing machines a lot lately. Not, like, crazy, "I gots to pop out some babies pronto." But, for the first time in my life, I'm starting to notice (and believe) that I would make a very good mother.

Wipe that smirk off your face, buster.

(See there? I'm a natural. Now get your hands out of your pants. That's not polite.)

No, really. I mean, I can apply Band-Aids, don't mind puke, know a zillion different ways to sneak vegetables into meals and have 300 different uses for pipe cleaners (and 298 of them are kid friendly).

I also have infinite reserves of patience, which, sadly, up to this point has been largely wasted on unworthy boyish men who have no desire to understand the advantages of moving outside of their parent's house.

I reneged on this statute for a while but I am proclaiming, once and for all (again), if you live at home and are NOT taking care of an ill parent or performing otherwise necessary duties, I cannot date you. More importantly, I cannot have sex with you when your mother is down the hall. It. Just. Doesn't. Work. For. Me. (If you know what I mean.)

I think part of a parent's job is kicking your kids the hell out when it's time. In fact, I was considering kicking out a particular little kid the other day.

My nephew, Sam, was busy with one spindly finger up his nose, when he cavalierly asked, "Aunt Beans, why don't you ever get out of your PJs or look pretty?"

Do you know how humiliating it is to have a five-year-old criticize your dressing and hygiene habits as he's standing there fishing for boogers in full Batman costume (complete with wings and a mask) while sporting a chocolate pudding mustache?

No, you probably do not. But that's probably because, unlike me, you don't work from home, a place where showering and changing clothes makes about as much sense as dating the past couple of guys I've rendezvoused with, which is to say none at all.

Who do I have to impress? The mail carrier?

Besides, we do a fair amount of swimming, which is just as good bathing in my book.

See?!? I would make a great mom.

In the Comments section, tell me why you would be/are a great parent.

I Got It Bad. You Don't Know How Bad I Got It.

2008-08-21T21:10:00.008-05:00

I have nothing of note to say but since that doesn't necessarily stop my fellow bloggers, anchors aweigh!

It's hot here in the land of Cleve. The dogs are all disjointed, and I don't mean that scandalously. We’re just panting, flopped out on the floor, waiting for things to improve.

I've got friends who are dealing with—in no particular order—(possibly) deadly mold, too much Swiss chard, business plans run a-ground, drunken lounge girls, allergies, girlfriends who've been hit by cars, finding real jobs, tiny hatch backs, impending weddings, making babies, crazy exes, sick dads, staph infections, heavy breathing, other peoples' mistakes and cross-continental plane rides far away from their sweet loves.

A few of my peeps are even dealing with several of those items all at the same time!

Me? Well, I just have to tackle a mountain of dishes. Kind of puts it all in perspective, doesn't it? At least I've got Dawn (wink!) on my side.

In the Comments Section, tell me how are ya'll doing out there in Computer World.

Clamming Up

2008-07-30T15:26:00.006-05:00

Hey, ya'll! What's the haps? Where you been all my life?

It's been pretty quiet round these parts, but my beloved Woodrow spurred me to let ya'll know that I'm alive and kickin' it.

And then Sturdy Girl, one of my favs and muses, said, "Hey, where the hell are you?" But she said it much more eloquently, which is one of the qualities I truly admire in her (in addition to being a redhead and a generally bodacious woman).

So, I am here to report it's been a summer full of everything and nothing.

All of my freckles came out to play, I'm eating a lot of fresh basil, I went wedding dress shopping (not for me, thankyouverymuch) and we just had our family reunion, which means one thing to my brood: Steamed clams.

Well, two things, actually: Steamed clams and Miller High Life.

No one is sure where the clams first came from; no one really cares. They're kind of like my Cousin Lenny—one day they just showed up and things haven't been the same for anyone since. The clams are delicious and chewy and best enjoyed with melted butter and the Lake Erie breezes.

So, that's what's been rockin' in the Heart of Rock N' Roll: bivalve mollusks.

Oh, and just trying to make light of the impending sense I'm running out of time that beats ceaselessly and strong within me. The usual.

I'm not sure what the actual deadline pertains to but I can hear an incessant ticking in my heart. And no, kids, I don't think it's that biological doodad, though I have truly, truly, truly enjoyed being around the smaller variety of humans lately.

God, they are clever, aren't they? Or maybe just the variety that my family produces are especially clever, but I could watch them all day long, like little tiny real-life movies. We grow 'em up right. Must be all of the pirogies.

Still, I can say with 98.3% assurance that it's not my need to mommy someone that's got me constantly feeling like I've left the house forgetting something, only to arrive at the grocery store without my pants on. (That only happened twice, but it's not something you soon forget.)

For some reason, to help me figure it out, I have adopted the odd strategy of shutting out friends (sorry, guys—love you all. Mean it) and opening up (and I mean wiiiiiiiiiiiide open) to strangers.

You name it: blind dates, the little punk bagging my groceries (with reusable cloth bags), the nice neighbor down the street who walks his dog at the same time I do—they've all befallen my desperate and awkward conversations lately.

I guess I'm searching for a new connection. Or even an old connection made new. Oh, hell. I don't know. I'd settle for a rousing game of Connect Four at this point.

Funny then, isn't it, that I've been so hesitant to write about all of my adventures and reconnect with all of you lovely Internet people?

In the Comments section, tell me your general feelings about clamming—both in terms of culinary uses and (non)communication techniques.

Proof

2008-06-09T09:21:00.005-05:00

I got to see my parents this weekend and my Step-Mother, suddenly struck by my figure as we lounged poolside, confirmed what I have oft expressed here on this very page:

"My God, Val, you have a beautiful bustline. You must have gotten it from me."

I love my family.

In the Comments section, tell me what you love about your family.

I Went Back to Ohio ...

2008-05-23T09:47:00.006-05:00

So, you know all of those jokes about hillbillies with goats and chickens walking around their houses?

Yeah, my family is single-handedly working to keep those stories perpetuated. There are chickens in my sister’s living room. Real, live ones.

Um. So.

It's pretty clear that something is a-foot* (chicken foot) and my assistance is needed, so I went back to Ohio for a bit to chill with the family.

I know it's been quiet in these parts lately, anyway; there have been a lot of moving pieces to wrangle.

I'm not saying I’ve got all of the pieces corralled, but I'm pretty handy with a rope (you know what I'm talking about, Hilary. Hot cha cha!), so I'm certain we'll get everything figured out. Thank God we've got some shine brewing in the shed.

To all my D.C. peeps, I'll be in and out (that's what he said) of the area every couple of weeks, and to my Ohio cats, specifically in the Northeast region, let's totally keep it retro and meet up for pancakes. How's Tuesday look for you?

In the Comments section, tell me if you'd like to meet up for pancakes.

*The chicks, which were hatched from eggs in an incubator, were actually my nephew's project for the local homeschooling science fair. He won a ribbon and free bird flu vaccination from CVS. Score!

They're now going to my other sister's farm which has a chicken coop -- an entire house just for chickens. Crazy.

I may or may not kidding about the shine, though.

The Duke of Kent

2008-05-06T09:58:00.010-05:00

Kent State University is known for two things, both of which are equally dark: black squirrels and the May 4, 1970, shootings that left four students dead, 13 physically wounded and countless others with emotional scars.

I'm a Kent State alum (2005, baby) and while the shootings are a significant part of the school's history, this was the first year I attended the commemoration ceremonies. And I am slightly ashamed to write it was largely because of a boy.

You see, there's a boy I managed to meet despite a torrent of cross movements in both of our lives. After meeting and learning that we share a passion for bacon and amazing sex, we realized that we would both be in Ohio -- a state in which neither of us lives (yet) -- at the very same time. Fate, people. You got to give it up to fate.

So, the boy and I met up in Kent, Ohio, which is a city totally synonymous with romance. I mean lookit--how hawt is that?

The boy's people are activists from way back and his ties to the original hippie set are deep and strong. The May 4 commemoration is a BIG DEAL to him and those whom he holds near and dear, and I was glad to be there with him and be a part of it.

It was lovely and inspiring, particularly the midnight candle-light peace march around campus and the all-night vigil that the group holds. Several speakers, including a particularly resonating discourse from former U.N. weapons inspector Scott Ritter, delivered messages of hope and action.

It was truly moving and in the vein of all successful commemorations, it left me remembering those who I've lost and what I can do to make the world a better place for those who are still here.

But, I didn't get any pictures of that stuff. Nope. My attention was focused on the kid who played Reese on Malcolm in the Middle who was also attending the ceremonies. Because I am a dumb American.

OK, wait for it ... wait for it ... here he his getting up. That's his bum on the left.

Here he is walking by! Wizard!

Lord. In the Comments section, tell me where you've been lately. I miss you.

A Royal Flush

2008-04-24T10:21:00.003-05:00

Hey kidders,

I'm sitting on the throne over at Burt Reynolds' Mustache today talking about all sorts of crap. Come on over, and can you bring some TP?

In the Comments section, tell me again why it's not prudent for a 28-year-old woman to run away and join the circus.

Such a Hot Head

2008-04-17T15:17:00.002-05:00

Alzheimer's is a terrible, debilitating disease and I don't mean to make light of its effects. But if you're anything like my fambly members, you make wildly inappropriate jokes and laugh about things that your long-suffering 90-year-old Grandmother said because of her addled brain.

My Grandma went about a year where the only words she would utter over and over and over again were, "Dear Lord, please stop the sizzling in my head. Dear Lord, please stop the sizzling in my head."

Oh, we used to laugh over that one. Not to her face or anything. We're tasteless, not cruel.

But today? Well, it's not so funny. I'm actually starting to understand what she may have meant. This life seems to have two speeds lately:

Captain Insane-O Does the Warp-Speed Dance
Captain Insane-O Does the Warp-Speed Dance after 16 Red-Bull and Vodkas

Dear Lord, please stop the sizzling in my head.

In the Comments section, tell me what you'd rather be doing.

Because I Couldn't Let You Think I Was All About Cold Beans Over the Weekend

2008-04-10T21:24:00.012-05:00

You kids know that I revere my friends and family to Oth degree (a step above the "Nth" degree, my pretties). That doubles when my beloved friends take compelling pictures of me.

I call this "Allison's genius at capturing Val in front of a laundr-o-mat in Pennsylvania."

And maybe when no one is listening, in a tiny whisper voice, I call it "Ow, my hair's on fire."

But Allison's genius, not my off-brand of humor, is really what shines through.

I love this picture because it's definitely (and defiantly) me. It's the passionate, lil' bit crazy me that I don't like for people to know about. And yet, here it is captured on film and on display for the entire bloggy world to devour.

Yum!

So, Allison's got some more amazing ones that will be appearing at my MySpace page near you. But, in the meantime, if you want to check out much more of her compelling work, click here to adore and lurve her. And hire her.

In the Comments section, link to your favorite picture of yourself! Yes! Beautiful people!

Do the Best You Can

2008-04-08T21:02:00.009-05:00

Today, I ate beans out of a can like a hobo.

Further, I forgot to put on deodorant this morning, so I kind of smelled like a hobo, too.

But I bucked the trend a bit because it wasn't pork and beans, rather cannellini beans. Still, I don't think Martha Stewart would give me any points for that, and I can only imagine what my co-workers thought.

(Sidenote: The pun is not lost on me: a can of cannellinis. Man, I love a good pun.)

Generally, I prefer to eat cannellini beans in a salad of spinach, red onion, tuna and a simple vinaigrette of balsamic vinegar, light olive oil, salt and pepper.

I also like cannelinis' shape because it looks like they're smiling and I want to know my food is enjoying itself. But probably more importantly, their creamy texture plays well with the earthiness of fresh spinach and acquiesces to the zingy balsamic vinegar.

But I left all of that fun stuff in my kerchief knapsack when I hopped from the train, so I made do with this.

By the way, has anyone seen my old brown dog anywhere?

In the Comments section, tell me what's your favorite thing to do with cannellini beans or, you know, legumes of any sort. It's pea season, I hear!

Inquiring Minds Want to Know

2008-04-07T21:49:00.007-05:00

I don't know if you know it, but I'm kind of hot shit.

I have one specific, patented* 123V pick-up move that has earned me the right to say that. I pretend I'm a reporter and tell (historically) guys that I need to ask them a few questions for a piece on which I'm working (women don't tend to fall for the bullshit).

There's nothing better than abusing journalistic freedom to ask a dude anything and everything I want.

"So, what's your take on foreplay? How important is knowing that your woman is satisfied to you?"

"Of what are you most afraid?"

"Tell me the worst thing you've ever done."

While this tactic has worked well to help me weed out guys in the past, I used this strategy to its greatest success circa 2003 when there was a musician whom I wanted to get to know. Suffice it to say that I got to know him really well.

He wasn't circumcised.

When he inquired later about the status of my article, I truthfully said that the publication I claimed to represent wasn't sure if it was able to run the piece. Of course it wasn't sure; it didn't know I was operating out in the field on its behalf.

Sneaky? Yes. Deceitful? Oh, hell yes. Worth it? You betta believe it.

Do you think a dude has ever regretted lying to a woman about how much money he makes, how much he "loves" her or how he can help her further her career?

I don't think so, either.

In the Comments section, tell me the best pick-up line you ever ran.

*just waiting on the paperwork to finalize

Nursing Old Wounds

2008-04-06T23:21:00.009-05:00

When I was 15, I volunteered at a local nursing home. We had to take Carolina back roads to get there, and my Dad capitalized on the opportunity by trying to teach me how to drive in our cobalt blue '93 Ford Taurus.

While driving was exhilarating, what I remember most was being happy to finally get to the nursing home. I suppose my Dad would say the same.

I didn't do anything at the nursing home, really—just talked to the folks, or rather listened to them talk. About their kids, parakeets, husbands, gardens, Pat Sajak—whatever and whoever was on their minds.

Though enjoyable in its way, as non-essential as my post seemed during the six or so months that I did it, the value really came back to me when my own Mama went into to a nursing home eight years later.

Even though she was a good 20 years younger than the youngest of the nursing home set, I found that the only thing any of the folks there, my Mama included, wanted was for someone to listen to them. To stories about their kids, their parakeets, their husbands, their gardens, Alex Trebek—whatever and whoever was on their minds.

I was really fortunate that I was just down the road from my Mama's nursing home during those months and that she eventually decided she wanted to go home nine months later. Some people never leave.

I don't even like to think about how weird my experience was as a 23-year-old who had to visit her mother in a nursing home, because I can't even imagine how weird it was to be a 55-year-old woman whose 23-year-old daughter was visiting her in a nursing home. It's all relative.

During her life, my Mama touched people: quite literally as a talented massage therapist and emotionally as someone who cared about the hearts and lives of her clients. Hearing her clients' stories at her funeral made my grieving heart sing. The song was low and sad and wavering, but still.

More than her dying, it hurt recalling the months and years of watching my Mama give up on life.

I wish I had a point here. I don't.

I'm mostly just feeling sorry and sad for myself on this rainy April night. Missing my Mama. Worried about my sister. Concerned that my niece and nephews may someday be in the same position. Trying to figure out the best way to make sure that none of us ever has to worry about this sort of thing again.

Thank goodness it's spring.

In the Comments section, tell me about what you're worried.

The Big D'Oh

2008-04-03T23:33:00.005-05:00

My great-Aunt E and I celebrate the same birthday, March 27.

Aunt E's got me by, like, 32 years but she's cool as shit, which is why I can't understand how she could beget a goober like her son, my Cousin Bruce. (He's my step-cousin, really, but it's impolite to not claim blood relations for the stupid ones.)

I called to wish Aunt E a happy B-day on our day, especially because she's going in for some major surgery soon. Anyhoo, Cousin Bruce picked up the phone first. Damn.

"Hey, Val. Yeah, Mom's here. She can't wait to talk to you. So, guess what? The "O" in the Hollywood sign burnt out, and I was supposed to drive the replacement out to Cali but they needed 24 feet on the trailer and my rig is only 20 feet. Fuck! Oh, and I'm buying you a gun for Christmas."

Hey, my pretties, I love me some truckers. Lookin' down ain't what this is about.

But Cousin Bruce lost his CDL license more than a few years ago due to some dranking and mouthing off to coppers, um, six times in a two-year period. After his truck sat parked in Aunt E's driveway for several consecutive months, he finally sold his rig three years ago, so ain't no one asking him to drive nothing nowhere.

Apparently, though, Cousin Bruce can time travel. Or he was hopped up on some major goofballs that were taking him back to 2004.

I don't know. I suspect that he doesn't either.

The moral of the story? Don't call my Aunt E's house when Cousin Bruce is awake.

In the Comments section, tell me about your "Cousin Bruce." We all got one.

Meat Head and the Chicken Fandanglies

2008-04-02T07:50:00.002-05:00

It's not every day a gal gets a bag of meat in the mail … but it really should be.

God bless the great state of Oklahoma and one of its finest inhabitants, Mr. Woodrow, for sending some venison jerky to yours truly. All I can show you is the sack because I done ate up every last bit of it.

Dee.Lish.Us.

I have some jerk pork jerky marinating as we speak (or read and write) to return in kind, but it's going to be tough to beat his meat.

Heh.

W also provided me with directions, and thank goodness, because it's been quite a while since I've had any meat in my hands. Take that as you will, but I almost let my friend Al Bal set me up with someone who's described as "kind of a crack head, but he'd be a lot of fun."

I admit, I gave it a legitimate thought but I'm getting too old to be doing shiz like that any more. I am officially 28 years of age.

Thank you all for the birthday wishes; I got some amazing bleu cheese from Lorelai and a wonderful gift from the Pennsylvania judicial system when it dropped some charges against me on account of my being a "nice person." I swear to Joe. I can't make this stuff up.

This is not the time nor place to go into it—but according to a very reputable anonymous source with a great rack, not only is it OK to send thank-you notes to cops who arrest you in a kindly manner, it's also a darn good idea.

In the Comments section, tell me what you like about Pennsylvania.

'Scuse Me, Your 'Stache is Showing

2008-03-24T09:08:00.002-05:00

Hiya, my pretties.

I'm hanging with Burt today over here. Come play and see what scabies is all about.

In the Comments section, tell me if you've ever had scabies.

So Kool

2008-03-23T09:48:00.006-05:00

Today, only after completing a trip to the grocery store and to Big Lots for a new jigsaw puzzle (high rolla!) did I realize that I had done my errands sporting a Kool-Aid mustache.

I took some (but not much) comfort in the fact that it wasn't actually Kool-Aid, but cranberry juice. I am, after all, going to be 28 years old on March 27, and Kool-Aid is for dumb kids.

My astrologer says that we need to be careful of any holiday that celebrates with candles; the candles are necessary to illuminate the darkness the occasion will likely bring.

I don't feel sad or upset another year's gone by; good things are ahead, of that I'm certain.

But, I am upset that not one single person had the decency to tell me that my face was painted in a permanent, scarlet grin. Bitches.

In the Comments section, tell me if you like jigsaw puzzles. I find them immensely calming and helpful for keeping romance and social invitations at bay.

Bean There, Done That

2008-03-13T08:58:00.004-05:00

If you should ever find that you've accidentally spilled some broth from 16-bean soup on the floor of your car and think, "Meh, I'll just leave it. It's only broth from bean soup," well, friend, I hope you'll let me talk you out of that decision.

Wow. There's some stank in those little legumes.

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

Don't Spitzer Into the Wind

2008-03-12T22:20:00.008-05:00

I feel like the wizened, yet senile, community elder who spouts off stories out of context just because she can, but here goes: Did I ever tell you about the time I served pasta to Air Supply?

Oh, I did?

How about my worst heartbreak?

You heard about that too, huh?

What about my boobs? Have I covered the amazingness of my boobs?

Shit. I'm running out of material.

I guess I'll take a dance move from Woodrow and ask ya'll what you want to know about. In meantime, I need your help:

What in the hell are these things?

I've been spending a lot of time out in the woods lately, trying to find myself, talking on my cell phone to Megan Jane and communing with nature, as it were. And every day, I see these creepy things poking out of the ground, mocking me. All twisty and turvy and speckled.

Help a sister out because they're giving me nightmares. In-exchange for your assistance, I'll share a little-known-fact about my-self.

Peep this: I don't really-know how to properly use hyphens. My-Pretties, I write for a living and I don't understand the laws regarding hyphens. Sometimes I put-them-in. Some-times, I don't. I mostly just guess.

It's a blow to my writer's-ego to be so deeply-in-the-dark about this. For the longest time, I've simply just nodded my head knowingly when someone said, "You're missing a hyphen."

My response was, "Yes, well, I can see why traditionally a hyphen might have been used. I suppose I'll just concede to the anachronistic punctuation rules this time," all the while simply trying to make sense of the murky grammarian code.

But, I tell you what: I'm first-class when it comes to semi-colons. (Now, I know a hyphen belonged there, right? ... Right?)

My boobs are also first class. Did I mention that?

In the Comments section, give me a hard and fast hyphen rule. Or just give me a hard and fast ... oh, never mind.

Is It Any Wonder?

2008-02-28T00:01:00.002-05:00

So, hey, things are going well (if not stupidly busy) and I'm feeling pretty good about myself these days. Let's eff that up to the maxx by reviewing my Top 5 most embarrassing moments. Why not?

5. That time when I was with Ryan and I asked him, "Is it in yet?" It was … maybe this belongs on Ryan's list, actually.

4. When I was 12 and acting as my sister Maryann's bride's maid, I fainted during the wedding. Everyone saw my underpants, and the best man had to carry me out.

3. In second grade, I told a kid named A.J. that I liked him. And he said, "Baby, I'm too good for you." Wow. Second fucking grade.

2. I spent my 21st birthday in Burlington, VT, on an overnight. The first officer of the crew with whom I was flying went with me to a little tavern down town, where I eventually passed out on the table at 4:00 in the afternoon. We were subsequently kicked out.

So, First Officer and I stumbled back to the hotel and did what any one would do: We slept together. The next morning, I woke up and did the short walk of shame to my room and passed the captain on my way there.

"Um, hey. We were out late."

"Yeah, I heard you. I mean, I really heard you."

OH. GOD.

1. When I was 13, I discovered my Dad's Penthouse by accident and was immediately enthralled. One day, when he was dropping me off at school, my Dad stopped the car about a block from the building and said, "You have no business going through my things. I don't want you reading any of my magazines."

OH. MY. GOD.

Let the self loathing commence.

So obvious: In the Comments section, share your most embarrassing moment. I'll give you a hug.

Weird Val Yankovic

2008-02-21T23:21:00.008-05:00

Note: I've had several e-mails asking, "Is this about me?"

The answer is, "Yeah, probably," but that doesn't mean I wrote it with you in mind. If you're feeling moved or are uncomfortable with any of the statements I made here, then it might be a right good time to take a gander a ye olde life. Nurtin' but lurve.

When I signed on, all I really wanted to write is that "people are weird."

Not in a serial-killer, pedophiliac or I-love-scrunchies-and-wear-cat-sweatshirts kind of way—just in a sadly amusing, shake-your-head sense.

But then I didn't want to be vague and "mysterious," especially since ya'll came over to say hi, so I was trying to figure out what exactly prompted me to think this and, further, move me to write it down, especially after weeks of ~~drunken stupor~~ silence.

Well, I guess there are some folks lately who not only aren't doing what they want to do, including perhaps myself, but who aren't doing what they need to do to take care of themselves. I think that's weird. Like, a lot weird. A lot. A LOT.

Weird, I say. (Write.)

While being selfish is a fault, I think being selfless is a fault, too.

I know because I was that selfless girl for many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many years.

Many of them.

I gave up food, sleep, tranquility, dreams, money, love, happiness, goals, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, self respect, honesty and peace, all for the sake of others. Or so I thought.

I mean, yeah--at the moment, that person probably enjoyed the shot of love and generosity I gave them. But I needed the feeling of superiority and being free from phantom guilt a hell of a lot more.

And I know the recipients of my sacrifices never stayed up nights worrying about me, while I, on the other hand, lost countless hours of sleep and more than a few pounds on their behalves.

(Which, I know seems odd now to those of you who know and love my kickin' curves, but not so long ago, this 5' 7" frame carried a mere 98 pounds. I'm now 150, and my boobs and I are looking damn good, if I do say so myself, so you do the scary, sad math.)

Anyhoo, trouble is, all that "sacrifice" ever got me was a lot of bad memories and some etchy-sketchy credit card debt. Boo, hiss.

Overlooking my own needs never once made me as content as saying, "I'm sure there's a way we can compromise so we all get what we want." Never. Not once. Not one, single time.

People who have reached a safe place in their lives appreciate and thrive on compromise. Everyone gives, everyone gets.

People who could probably benefit from some meditation and quiet time either give and give and give and give and give, or take and take and take and take and take. I'm no Dr. Drew, kids, but this is why I gravitate toward folks who keep an even keel and keep it reals.

It doesn't mean that I don't lose my head and my heart and my focus sometimes. The Good Lord and all of his poker buddies know I do. It just means that I'm able to right the teeter-totter fairly quickly when I do get off balance.

Or, at least if I can't right it, I can recognize the injustice and yell, "It's not right! I don't want any more cherry bumps! Get me off of this ride!"

So, yeah. People are weird, but I'm right there with them, I suppose. And I wouldn't have it any other way right now.

But, I don't have a flipping clue how to make any of the situations better, and that sucks.

In the Comments section, tell me what your favorite thing on the playground was. I was a monkey bars kind of gal.

Affirmative

2008-02-20T08:05:00.003-05:00

Hey, my pretties. I know some of yins were ready to send out the search par-tay for me, but I've just been trapped in my own head for a bit.

I wish I could say I was finding some peace and in quiet in here, but my head's louder than a bowling alley these days, with all of my expectations and ideals set up like a neat row of pins, only to be knocked down and scattered about by the bowling ball of life. Funny how a strike can feel like a strike out.

To try and counteract my general mopieness, I've had all of my affirmations clanging around up there. If you're not familiar, affirmations are simply mantras you repeat over and over and over and over and over and over again to try and bring about some peace and prosperity. Kind of like a homemade chant.

A few of my favorites lately have been:

"My life is full of blessings and opportunities."
"I have an abundance of all I need."
"I love cheese."

It gets a little loud in there sometimes.

There's another one I use a lot. "I am taken care of."

See, I have a perpetual fear of abandonment. It's probably not anything those who know me would think of straight away, but I doubt any are really surprised to read this, either.

It's not a piercing, shrieking fear; rather, the quiet droning type—like being able to hear the neighbor's TV. Even if you can't always make out the words, you still know the TV is on and you can feel its energy seeping through the walls.

This fear of being left alone tends to exert itself in my life as supreme, childish independence. Sometimes, the best thing I can do is remind myself that I don't have to do it on my own.

But, lately, I've accidentally been mixing up my own mantra. What should come out as, "I'm taken care of," is coming out as, "I'm taking care of …" Three little letters that completely change the meaning.

I noticed my alteration yesterday evening when I laid down to pray before bed. I was running through my list of people and world stuff and then I got to myself. I asked for the strength and patience to accomplish all that I need to accomplish right now (it runs the gamut from "save the world" to "clean out the refrigerator"} and then I was overwhelmed with anxiety.

So, I started with my affirmations to calm myself the fuck down.

"I am taken care of."

"I am taken care of."

"I am takin care of."

"I am taking care of …"

"Oh, fuck. That's not right."

I think the answer is to get out of my head. Because with the cosmic bowling jam, all of the affirmations clamoring around and the small snippet of Nazareth's "Son of a Bitch" that's on a constant loop, a body can't think straight in there.

So, here I am. Back again and more out of my head than ever.

In the Comments section, tell me if you have an affirmation or a mantra.

Fit to Be Tied

2008-01-31T08:44:00.000-05:00

Hey my pretties, guess what? The lovely CamiK has got my heart pounding faster.

Yeah, you wish. Okay, maybe I wish.

No, see what had happened was … CamiK shared about her history of heart-related issues and told us all of these scary facts about heart disease and women, and, well, since Tuesday was the two-year anniversary of my Mom's passing and, crap, my sister called last night to tell me my grandma (my Mom's Mom) died yesterday, I guess I'm a little more concerned about death than usual.

The end of January is quickly getting a reputation in my book as the Season of Death, however my Grandma's passing was actually quite a blessing.

She was 90-years-old and lived most of that time very unhappily, except at the end when she was in an Alzheimer's web, which seemed to place her back at about four-years-old. She enjoyed coloring a lot.

So, it's sad, but not entirely, except that we've had too many other untimely deaths in my family as of late -- babies and kids, and I think everyone is weary of coming together for another funeral. Perhaps it's my familial duty to get married, just so's everyone can enjoy a party for once?

Meh. Maybe I'll just have a barbecue.

I was writing the other day that someone's death can make us much more aware of our own quality of life, and then, whoosh, CamiK presents this idea of, "Hey, laydeez, get off the couch and exercise so you don't die."

I have my bouts of being a Workout Winner, but Cami's is a brilliant plan, really: Give fellow bloggers a badge if they promise to exercise three times a week in February.

There's not much I wouldn't do for a badge. In fact, I bet some of those things would qualify as exercise.

In the Comments section, tell me what you should be doing to improve the quality of your life and then, hey, go do it.

The Heart Has Its Reasons, But It Don't Mean They're Good

2008-01-25T08:53:00.000-05:00

It's not often that things in my professional life intersect with my love life, but there's a lot of planetary influence lately, so things are a bit shaken up.

I used a title for a short piece this morning, The Resistance Roller Coaster, which just fits my heart like a T-shirt right now. I mean, if my heart wore T-shirts, this "resistance roller coaster" idea would be the perfect white, v-neck.

Enough bad analogies: I have a crush that I am struggling to talk myself out of. I am trying diligently (and, thus far, unsuccessfully) to resist.

Edited for clarity: I'm not crushing on anyone AT work--I was just inspired by the title of an article for work. This is probably why I should not write blog posts at 8 a.m.

It's one of those crushes that sort of sneaks up on you. It is equal parts bad idea and intrigue, which is probably why it is such a bad idea—the mystery. Oh, we do like The Drama, don't we?

See, there are miles and mystery and music and mire between us, and while both of us are good people who connect on all of the important levels, I'm wondering how we'd fare if the miles, mystery, music and mire weren't there to protect us.

Guess what I'm saying is, if I had to spend any extended time with this cat, I'd probably wallop him for multiple transgressions. I might be more attracted to "what could be," rather than "what is." I believe they call that "being a woman."

Still, while I'm not sure we'd make it in the real world, the hours he and I spend together in my head are delicious.

Currently, back on planet Earth, we're in the swapping-music-and-daily-antedotes phase. If my calculations are correct, we'll move into the uber-complimentary phase, followed by the hey-what-are-you-doing-this-weekend phase, which should hit about next Friday, I think.

Le sigh.

I could probably overcome this with a little diversionary effort. Anyone else want to throw their T-shirt into the ring to become my new crush? I'm only slightly obsessive, and I make really good lasagna.

In the Comments section, tell me who you're crushing on these days. Bonus points if it's me.

This Week's Schedule

2008-01-24T14:42:00.000-05:00

Hi, my pretties. A few things of which to take note:

Yesterday was Lorelai's birthday. Woot!

Today is my day to sit on the mustache. Come sit a spell with me.

Tomorrow is Friday.

This concludes our community bulletin.

In the Comments section, tell me what's going on with you.

Sometimes, I Just Can't Come Up with a Witty Title

2008-01-22T23:49:00.000-05:00

As a general rule, I try not to wage war on inanimate objects. I largely prefer, instead, to take my rage and misguided anger out on innocent people whom I care about.

This time, however, I'm calling out my nemesis directly: Stock market, you can kiss my dupka.

("Dupka" is largely understood everywhere in Eastern Europe as "butt." I guess that takes some of the sting out of it, but I'm all about sharing information.)

Alright. I know some of you are a right bit confused.

Why, after disappearing for a couple of weeks, would I only call you when I needed bail money and then rage about the Dow Jones Industrial Average?

While many of you may find it surprising, the relative productivity of my day is based upon the general activity of the major financial indices (and also how many times Grant Miller and Pistols at Dawn post. Let's be real, here.)

And, if you haven't heard, the economy is bumbling about like that drunk guy at the bar.

Sometimes he appears to be alright—a regular dude with some interesting, if illogical, things to say, who maybe touches your boobs a bit too often. Then, sometimes on "bad days," he is burfing next to the jukebox, hoping no one will notice the stench of homelessness and fiscal despair. But always, he goes to sleep alone, confused, and smelling of bearded, teacherly Ben Bernanke.

For now, this kind of stuff is all immensely important to my everyday, professional life.

I guess the moral of this story is that, because the market's so unpredictable, I've been really busy. Stupid busy. Oh, and I can't really pay you back for the bail money, either. My bad.

Here—I'll make it up to you. Please enjoy some wonderful pictures of my friend Scott's going away party, below. (He's moving to Argentina to make the world a better place.)

I'm in there somewhere, but most importantly is that you understand just how beautiful my friends are.

123Valerie, the Original Brokekid Scotty, and Megan Jane

This picture of Scotty and T-Bone has "Facebook" written all over it--not quite "MySpace" quality, though--we'd need a few more body shots.

Upon seeing this picture, T-Bone asked, "Does she practice these faces in the mirror every night?" To which I replied, "She doesn't have to." All he could say was, "Mmmhmm." Lovely, lovely Megan Jane.

I adore this picture because Kristin looks curious and lovely (true to form) and Scotty looks hungry (also true to form).

Quite possibly the most exquisite almost-couple the World has given us.

The enchanting Tinzicle and Scotty McDuff. Like snowflakes, these are two very unique and lovely creatures.

So, here I was saving Sean P.K. from some angry frat boys with pool cues. I'm just pretty awesome like that.

It's me and Z Baby--funnily enough, he was moving into Small Town Ohio, just as I was leaving--and here we are, nearly 15 years later, enjoying some canned Miller Lights and The Weepies together. Well, maybe not here, but later that night.

Oh, my Lord. If my friends were any prettier, I'd have to wear shades. Seriously. This is what people who are beautiful on the inside AND the outside look like. Don't stare too deeply--you'll burn your retinas.

In the Comments section, wish Scott good things as he aims to make our world a better place, and, then, point me toward links and pictures that show just how beautiful your friends are.

Reaching for the Stars

2008-01-10T10:27:00.002-05:00

I thought I saw Edward Norton, best loved for his poignant and touching performance in Fight Club, at the gym last night.

I immediately went into my “celebrity sighting” mode, which is to say: head down, sweaty palms, clenched jaw and ceasing to breathe.

One of my many irrational fears is meeting celebrities (the list also includes getting eaten by an escalator, looking into dark mirrors, and realizing I’m making out with a half-brother or sister because my Dad had a secret family that he failed to tell us about).

It wasn’t Edward Norton, thank goodness (I asked the guy on the eliptical next to me). I didn’t peg him for a Stair Master kind of guy, anyway. But, this got me thinking about some of my other celebrity encounters.

Jeremy Miller, July 1987: You know him best as “Ben” from Growing Pains. He was one of the guest judges for the All American Soap Box Derby, and some old guy who was trying to woo my mother got us tickets sitting right behind the judges’ table. I stared at the back of his head for the better part of 90 minutes.

G. Love and Special Sauce, October 1997: Ah, yes. G. Love and Special Sauce front man, G. Love, is a handsome fellow with saucy rhymes, a particularly attractive combo to the likes of a 17-year-old 123Valerie. My friend Neil agreed to go to Cleveland (the Odeon for anyone who cares) to see him with me, only on the condition that he could get stoned out of his gourd. Fair enough.

Once there, I found the Odeon was offering a backstage meet-n-greet for only $20. $20! I gladly paid my fee, went back, flashed my metallic smile and gave the man a hug. Then I asked what his dog’s name was. I’m sure it made sense at the time.

Air Supply, August 2004: I’m actually rather proud of this one. Click here to read about another of my romps with Hot Australians.

And that, kids, is the extent of my brush with celebrity. It’s probably just as well because I seem to lack the savior faire to interact with anyone who has even a modicum of fame.

In fact, I’ve been instructed by my lawyers not to talk about what happened when I saw Charlotte’s beloved weather anchor, Larry Sprinkle, at the Harris Teeter.

All I cay say is that the forecast is calling for a 100% chance of a restraining order.

In the Comments section, tell me about your favorite celebrity encounter.

It’s Getting Hot In Here

2008-01-08T10:51:00.000-05:00

It’s been a trying couple of days in 123V Land on many levels, but most relevant to you (and it really is about you, my pretties), my laptop did the technological equivalent of shoving a dozen BW3’s Blazin Wings into its dome at once, and its head exploded.

Or maybe its fan just stopped working and it overheated.

Either way, before I sent my official help request to our IT guys, I made a call on the Bat Line to one of my favorites.

“Dude, my laptop died. You guys are going to have to do some serious work. Um, but first … I need you to erase my Web site history. Oh, no reason. I’ve certainly not been looking at porn.”

And so began the saga of a week fraught with techno glitches which left me disconnected from the Intertubes and, thus, very productive.

For no good reason, just because I haven’t told this story here yet and it may be a while until I can post again, and also because I remembered it after spending some time with Bonnie and Kirstin over Christmas at our old haunt, Joe’s, in Canton, Ohio, please to enjoy: 123Valerie and the Hot Australian.

So, round about June 2006, Bonita and Kirstin were visiting me in D.C. from Ohio. I was still living with Roommate Jeremy at the time.

We went out and saw Hot Australian Guy (HAG) on the Metro into the city.

We drank a lot.

Then we saw hot Australian guy and hot friends on the Metro home from the bar. Thusly, we invited hotties back to our place for after hours and lots of alcohol. [Sidenote: We later deduced these guys were probably about 19 years old, but I swear, officer, they had the accents of 30-year-old hot Australians.]

HAG asked if we had boyfriends. Bonnie said no. Kirstin said she had a husband. I said I had a roommate for whom I was working out feelings.

Drinking ensued. I told HAG the whole Jeremy story to which he says, "What's wrong with this asshole? How could he not want you? You're beautiful and smart and funny and you have beautiful tits and you have the voice of an angel. What an asshole." [Sidenote: It should really come as no surprise that at this point, I had innocently taken my shirt off. I was in my own home. That’s what being ‘Merican is about.]

Thank you, HAG.

We were all piled in my bed (six of us, if memory serves) having an innocent sing-along at 5 in the morning when Roommate Jeremy came home with his ex-girlfriend.

HAG made some snide comments about Jeremy preferring his ex to me and, most importantly, what an absolute asshole he was for wearing an orange shirt. Right-o.

Roommate Jeremy was, understandably, pissed that a) there was company at 5 a.m. b) the company was hot and shirtless c) hot, shirtless company was piled in my bed. Whatever.

The sing along ended and HAG got increasingly agitated that Roommate Jeremy is
in bed with his ex and not me. Then, Kirstin and I made the dire mistake of going to the bathroom, and HAG sent Bonnie in "to check on us."

HAG proceeded to bust in on Roommate Jeremy and his ex in bed and provoked a fight to avenge my honor. The Ex shrieked and we all came running out the bathroom, Three Stooges like, and tried to pull the guys apart. It took three women and a couple of misplaced punches before we got them separated.

HAG repeatedly called Roommate Jeremy’s ex slightly amusing insults like “dirty mole” and Kirstin jumped in to yell at Jeremy, "This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been such a pig!" Which is true. You go, girl.

Bloodied lips and death threats later, Kirstin and Bonnie took HAG & Company home while I tried to calm down Roommate Jeremy and his ex.

The ex, understandably confused, asked Roommate Jeremy why some stranger was insulting her and why my friends hate him.

He lied and told her that I was delusional and had been throwing myself at him for some time and that I couldn’t get it through my head that nothing would ever happen with us.

Oof. Liar, liar pants on fire.

But, in probably one of the lowest moments of my life, I backed him up. I didn’t let on to the ex that anything happened between us, but said, instead, that the HAG felt bad for me and was trying to stick up for me. Or some such bullshit. Oh, stupid girl.

Finally, at around 7 a.m., everybody conked out. I was a nervous wreck until Roommate Jeremy woke up at 5 p.m. the next day.

The ex went home, and I put everything on the table and said, "Roommate Jeremy, a perfect stranger recognizes that you were a bastard to me, and was moved to violence about it. Every single one of my friends things I'm ridiculous for even caring about you. No one thinks that you're good enough for me. What the hell? You lied to your ex and made me look like the asshole. There are so many things I hate about you. Why did you have to invest so much time and energy to get me into bed if it was just sex?"

His response: "Well, I think you read into things too much." Obviously. "Oh, and I knew you'd stick up for me. I was just trying to save face with the ex--there was already enough drama."

Bastard. So, the next night, I made out with a hot guy in Megan Jane’s backyard, and I have never felt better. Except for maybe the bug bites.

The End.

In the Comments section, tell me about your favorite Hot Australian.

Grease

2008-01-02T22:47:00.001-05:00

I must have rocketed past the time/space continuum because here it is, the second day of our Lord's year 2008, and I'm still stuck on Christmas.

Stay with me, though. I think you'll appreciate this.

As noted earlier, I spent some time in small-town Ohio, where Megan Jane and I are from. We went to a local watering hole that, naturally, used to be the town's ice cream parlor, also equally revered for its waffle fries. Naturally.

Now, it's just a place to get cheap drinks and cheap girls, but during the evening, we got some priceless photos. If a picture is worth a thousand words then, my pretties, I am a gazillionaire.

Meet my new friend. I never actually got his first name, but we called him simply and beautifully, Victor Mustachio. It's been a long, long time since I've seen anyone brave the long permed hair with bangs, probably circa 1987. Too long, if you ask me.

He is the lead singer and brightest star of a kick-ass (no, really) classic rock cover band. I don't want to tell you the whole name in case Victor Mustachio googles the band and sees me and—boom—I have a stalker. No, thank you. I can't handle all of that lovin'. But I will tell you that the word "grease" is in their name. That's really all that you need to know.

But speaking of stalking, it took a little finesse getting this close to such a wild animal.

We started from afar.

And moved ever closer, our bodies propelled by the heat and motion of a bitchin' cover of Layla.

He's on to us! Quick, turn on the charm! Megan and I tag teamed him, gave him the old razzle dazzle, and love blossomed in Ohio. He sang a song for me, but neither Megan Jane nor I can remember what it was. It must have debilitated all of my neural processes with its loveliness because I am sure it had nothing to do with Jim Beam.

The only thing left to do was start a massage train.

Yeah, seriously. But amid the back rubs and kneading, something went horribly wrong. Victor Mustachio must have gotten hold of some peyote backstage.

After a while, he and his tambourine just got ... a ... little ... bit ... slower ... than everyone else. He looked, and probably felt, like this:

Every once in a while, he'd sit down on his stool, nod off and jerk awake when a particularly nasty riff came about.

"Oh, he's seeing The Rattler. Ssssssss," Megan Jane sagely said. He was, indeed, seeing The Rattler. He felt the bite of the good stuff. The sasparilla. The hot dog heaven.

But I tell you, his music was like a bee sting--you almost didn't know that it had gotten inside of you until you felt the pain after he left. Damn.

Victor said the next stop up the road was Burlington, Vermont, so all you New England ladies, let me tell you something right now: If you see this fine thing coming your way, give him the love, respect and deep conditioner he deserves.

Well into the next day, Megan Jane and I still couldn't recall the song he sang for me, so we pulled in the help of her brother who wasn't actually there -- surprisingly to no avail.

In the Comments section, tell me what song you think Victor Mustachio sang for me. The winner gets the hand towel soaked with his sweat that I stole when he was passed out.

2008: Salad Dressings Better Watch Out

2007-12-30T23:43:00.000-05:00

Behold: The Underpants Kid, my darling nephew, Sam.

Honestly, I don't know where he learns this kind of stuff.

I don't know what is more amusing: the fact that I took this picture at all or that I tried on several pair of underpants to see which photographed the best. The thongs just looked like I had on a headband.

So, alright, New Year's Eve is upon us and I suspect a lot of other folks will be putting, if not underpants, then perhaps lampshades or silly hats on their heads, and good for them.

I try to keep a low profile on New Year's, and this year shouldn't be any different. So far, the plans include board games and some jalapeno poppers. Whoo.

Since I've already blown my resolution to wear more side ponytails in 2008, thanks to the hair cut, and I mastered this year's resolution to become more comfortable cooking big hunks of meat (best pulled pork ever—just sayin'), I'm without a watermark to determine how resolute I will ultimately be next year.

Maybe I will try to learn how to tie knots or be more adventurous in my choice of salad dressing. Always with the bleu cheese. There's got to be more to life.

Speaking of blue, I was walking out of my favorite grocery store, and I saw a few paradoxically bright pennies gleaming in this cesspool of a fountain, and I thought how desperate these people must have been to try out their wishes here. And I wondered if the Fountain Fairies would even think to come by for these penny wishes, given that the fountain was so obviously not in service this time of year.

It made me sad. And then I started thinking about the folks who pin all of their hopes and dreams for the entire year on the outcome of New Year's Eve and whether or not they get to kiss someone.

I am always looking for signs and I am perpetually superstitious, but even I know what a bunch of bunk that is. Your happiness does not lie in making out with random strangers.

Well, I guess that's not always true. Still, I'm not going to go out of my way to try and lock lips with anything except a jalapeno popper. Spicy!

I bid you a Happy New Year and beyond, my pretties.

In the Comments section, tell me who or what you're going to be making out with when the ball drops.

Keeping It Real on the Lurve Tip

2007-12-27T23:08:00.002-05:00

So, I stumbled onto a radical idea today while I was eating some peanuts.

What if you treated everyone you encountered like a member of your family and, further, told them that you loved them? I mean, everyone--and really, sincerely meant it. The lady at the dry cleaners, that C-you-next-Tuesday who is mean to the lunch delivery guy at work, your neighbors--everyone.

One of my favorite success coaches and hypnotherapists, Michael Neill, brought this little gem to me, and I especially liked the article because he admits how nutty the idea sounds.

As a strong proponent of astrology, crystal healing, affirmations and dancing in fields without your clothes on, as well as maintaining a professional career and paying my taxes, I'm frequently trying to reconcile my worldly self with the crunchy granola 123Valerie within. It ain't easy, so I appreciate it when spiritual and intuitive leaders nod to the realities of life.

Look, I know people think I'm crazy already. Their loss. But wouldn't people really think I was crazy -- and possibly get violent -- if I randomly told them I loved them?

That's exactly what Michael Neill said, too. He was freaked the fook out (thanks Franki Baby) that people were going to feel weird and awkward and punch him in the face.

But you know what? They didn't. They said, "Thank you for connecting with me." And "Thank you for making me feel special."

And "Thanks. That's kind of weird, but thanks anyway, man."

Look, kids, I'm coming off a week of straight love. I felt so much love, I thought I was going to burst, and I ain't just talking about my water bra. (Kidding, you know I don't need one of those). But, between my fambly and my friends and lovely strangers indulging in the Christmas spirit, love abounded.

Don't worry--the pictures of underpants (as well as actual underpants, Krok) are coming. But, sometimes I just can't do the smart-ass crap, and I have to be honest and say: I love you.

I LOVE you fellow bloggers. I LOVE you friends who stop by and read, even though I've probably already told you the story 16 times. I LOVE all of you lurkers who find a piece of yourselves here, and you'll never hear me trying to pressure you to comment -- take what you need. And even if this is your first time here, I LOVE you, too.

Some of you bloggers have been victims of my own love attacks already and, alright, maybe I'm a little out there because, goddamnit: YES, I want to make a connection with you. That's what we're all here for, isn't it? To make sure we all feel a little less alone in the world and a little more appreciated and supported?

Oh? It's not? Just literary masturbation, you say? Well, I'll be.

In the Comments section, tell me who you said "I love you" to today. And if you haven't yet, get ta steppin' on that biz-nasty.

****Hey Gang, I found the original article, below.****

ON LOVING PEOPLE
==================

"It is not the threat of death, illness, hardship, or poverty
that crushes the human spirit; it is the fear of being alone and
unloved in the universe."
-Anthony Welsh

Yesterday afternoon, my son and I were pulling into the car park
of our local basketball courts when we spotted a white car
heading towards us at some speed. As the car grew closer, we
could see that the driver's head was turned around, and despite
some pretty impressive honking on my part, she didn't turn back
to face us until after her car piled into the front end of
ours.

After checking that my son was alright, I pulled our car into a
parking space and began to walk over to where the woman had
stopped her car. On the way, I somehow had time to reflect on a
practice I began about five years ago...

At the time, I was training to be able to deliver a wonderful
program called "What One Person Can Do" (you can visit
www.oneperson.net to learn more).

The instructor told us that beyond understanding and practicing
the basic content, the prerequisite for delivering the program
was simple. All we needed to be able to do was to love every
human being on the planet, regardless of what mood we were in,
what our day had been like, or what that person was up to (or
had been up to) in the world. When I asked for clarification
about what exactly constituted "loving" someone, he said "simply
treat each person that you come across as if they were a loved
and appreciated member of your family".

To make matters worse (to my way of thinking at the time), he
actually wanted us to be willing to TELL people that we loved
them, even if they didn't have the same last name as us or we
hadn't spent a lot of time with them.

The obstacles and objections to engaging in this process came
into my mind so quickly that it took me awhile to get from a
general feeling of "bleagh!" to the specific thoughts that I
could either accept or reject about what loving people and
expressing that love might mean. When the dust had settled,
here were the key ideas before my mind:

================================================================
"If you can love everybody, doesn't that make the love you have
for your partner or children less special?"
================================================================

When I first began exploring this one, it seemed to stand up -
after all, if loving someone was just a choice, what difference
would it make if I was with my wife and kids or someone
else's?

However, once I began consulting my experience instead of my
thinking, it became obvious that the reason I was with my family
(as opposed to someone else's) wasn't just because I loved
them, but it was because I enjoyed their company and wanted to
share my life with them. Loving someone doesn't mean you have
to spend all your time with them - it's just a choice about how
you want to be with them while you're with them.

===============================================================
"Won't it make people uncomfortable if I tell them that I love
them when I don't really know them?"
===============================================================

This thought really hooked me in, and I convinced myself for a
time that "it wasn't a kind thing to do" and therefore was
inconsistent with the aim of treating all people with loving
kindness. After a time, I realized that far from being nobly
motivated, the person whose discomfort I was most concerned with
was actually my own.

I decided to put this to the test in a business course I was
leading in the UK. Towards the end of the second day, I went
up to each of the delegates on the program and one by one,
looked into their eyes, found the loving feeling inside my heart
for them, and told them that I loved them.

They were, on the whole, horrified. Or so I thought.

Yet over the next few weeks and months, I heard from nearly
every one of them how touched they had been when they "got" that
I meant it, or the difference it made in their lives when they
turned around and told someone in their life that they loved
them.

One man on the course, who had expressed his discomfort and
displeasure in no uncertain terms on the feedback forms,
e-mailed me almost a year later to share how that incident and
some of the other ideas and techniques we had explored on the
course had let to a complete transformation in the way he lived
his life and ran his business.

Does this mean telling people you love them (and meaning it)
will always lead to a positive life change?

I have no way of knowing. But it has happened so many times for
myself, my students and clients that I would call it a pretty
good bet with an extremely limited downside.

========================================================
"What about bin Laden? You want me to love bin Laden?"
========================================================

I addressed this one in "Feel Happy Now!" like this...

"Asking ourselves to love bin Laden, Hitler or any other world
leader who espouses hatred, particularly hatred of those things
we hold dear, is equivalent to asking a novice pianist to play
a Rachmaninoff concerto. Blindfolded. With one hand.

You learn to play the piano by practicing scales. And you learn
to choose love by practicing compassionate understanding - by
recognizing the us in 'them' and the 'them' in us.

The first time I really understood this was when I heard the
story of Marge Knuuti, a nurse and teacher who decided to
volunteer to work in Mother Teresa's Home for the Dying in
Calcutta.

After many hours spent on old train tracks and bumpy roads in
the heat of the Indian summer, she arrived exhausted, wanting
nothing more than to jump into a cold shower and collapse into a
cool bed.

Instead, she was greeted by the scene of dozens of people
queuing up outside in the hope of being given the right to die
with dignity and compassion. Her tiredness fell away and she
reached out to a man whose legs had been crushed in the street
and whose life was clearly ebbing away. As she looked into his
eyes brimming with love and compassion, he repeatedly said to
her the word 'Namaste'.

Many hours later, she asked one of the other volunteers what the
word 'Namaste' meant. She was told it was a Sanskrit word
meaning:

'I honor the place in you where the entire universe resides. I
honor the place in you of love, of truth, of peace, and of
light. And when you are in that place in you and I am in that
place in me, there is only one of us.'"

By the time I reached this woman's car to get her insurance
details, I was back in a place of loving kindness. I could see
her innocence, even as my brain raged against her poor driving
habits and my body shivered in shock. We exchanged details,
wished each other a merry Christmas, and went on our way.

My willingness to love this stranger in the midst of a
circumstance I would never have chosen may not have
earth-shattering consequences. She may never remember the
incident as anything more than a bizarre interlude in the midst
of an increasingly busy life.

There was also nothing saintly about my response. It cost me
nothing to handle it from that place in me, and I duly filed my
claim with her insurance company an hour or so later.

But I do know that it didn't contribute to the un-wellness and
unrest that can poison us from the inside even when we aim our
upset and unhappiness at the world around us.

In other words, it didn't hurt - and it may have helped.

And for that opportunity and possibility, I am truly grateful.

With love,
Michael

Of Puke and Panties: Warmest Holiday Wishes

2007-12-24T23:44:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I puked. A lot. Today, I talked my nephew into putting underpants on his head. I'll have pictures up soon. Of the underpants. Not the puking.

For now, please to enjoy The 'Stache.

Coming to a Town Near You -- Provided You Live in Kentucky, Ohio or Pennsylvania

2007-12-21T00:27:00.000-05:00

For Christmas, everyone is getting homemade beef jerky this year.

Well, not my Nan—Polygrip is no match for my barbecue jerky. But everyone else.

Wait. Not the little ones. I got them toys. Correction: I will get them toys. I hope. I haven't really started shopping yet.

I'm always one of those fools out at the 7-Eleven at noon on Christmas Eve: "Sanjay, do you think a five-year-old would like 'Mountain Pine' or 'Very Vanilla' better?"

Invariably, I go with the vanilla-scented freshener for my nephew's 12-Volt Jeep Wrangler by Fisher Price, while I choose "New Car Scent" for my other nephew's Radio Flyer.

I pick up my niece a copy of Cosmopolitan because it's never too early to start teaching young girls to hate themselves and to bring home the message that "Boys get to have fun and drive things, while you stay home and put on makeup."

Whatever the outcome, I am always reminded that putting off my Christmas shopping until the very last minute is a poor decision.

In my life, I have made many other poor decisions, not limited to but including:

1. Going home with Ryan
2. Attempting to go to cosmetology school
3. Signing the waiver for Girls Gone Wild: Miami Heat
4. Going home with Ryan again
5. Going home with Ryan's sister
6. Affixing bumper stickers to my cars

My pretties, while all of these mistakes have left me with some degree of regret, none are so sticky as my choice in bumper stickers. Well, maybe number 5.

Anyhoo, friends, the point is that I put bumper stickers on my car and, generally speaking, they are stupid.

It started innocently enough with my first car—a 1988 Nissan SX. "Go Devils!" Okay. No problem there. School spirit. Hoo rah.

My problem progressed, however, for my next automobile, a 1996 Ford Aspire I affectionately called Maggie or The Ass Pirate, depending on my mood. The first bad bumper sticker declared "Happiness is Loving a Dog." Yes, kids, I actually had that on my car.

It got worse when I joined a human rights volunteer group a year later and ended up with "Stop Hate Crimes: Honor Diversity" on the back of my Easter-egg mobile. Now, to be fair, both are good messages, but OH MY GOD, could I have been any more of a twag? I really don't think so.

So, with my next "grown up" car, a rapidly declining Oldsmobile Alero still in my possession, I decided no bumper stickers because it has a spoiler.

Even I don't understand my rationale there, but it lasted all of six months until I was at one of my favorite local dive bars, Rascal's Saloon, and it was "Wild Women Wednesday." Except, if memory serves, it was actually a Tuesday, but it's a minor detail, I suppose.

The point is, I got a free T-shirt and a bumper sticker proclaiming "Wild Women Don't Get the Blues."

Well, I'd had some drinks. Is anyone really surprised where this is going? I didn't think so. That bumper sticker was slapped on my car's ass quicker than I was slapping Ryan's sister's ass.

Not too long after, my sister coerced me into adding a Kerry/Edwards 2004 sticker, where it stayed until this very June—that is nigh three years or so AFTER the election passed. So, while the dreams of our country vanished, that Kerry/Edwards sticker remained, I am sad to say.

Until my friend, T, sent me bumper stickers advertising her glass-blowing business with the catchy tag line, "Glass Antixx: Get Blown" which is what every young professional should have on her auto. Now, T's sticker is kind of covering up the politico sticker.

Pretty much all I need is a pot leaf decal on my rear view and then I can get pulled over on suspicion anytime I want to. I guess I could use it as a way to meet guys.

Truly, I love T and her beautiful artwork, so I'm happy to bring the masses to her anyway I can. If I'm lucky, I just might see T this holiday week. As Pistols at Dawn rightfully pointed out, I am embarking on a Rust Belt Tour: Holiday Edition.

First, I'm zipping over to Kentucky to see said Nan with dentures.

Then up to Southern Ohio to spend some time with Megan Jane and her clan.

Then up to mid-Ohio for time with Bonita, Corina, Janee (accent about the e) and Kirstin.

Then up to Northern Ohio to hang with my sisters and our crazy reclusive uncle, and I hope the very preggers Kristina Hot Pants.

And then on to Pittsburgh for a good time with Al Bal and (I hope) some of my other D.C. Sisters.

And then I'm gonna circle out to the Grand Tetons.

So, this Christmas, as millions of children peek out their windows into the dark, snowy night to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus, some very lucky kidders in the Rust Belt may get a special surprise when they see a zippy Oldsmobile roar by, and they'll fall asleep with the words "Get Blown" dancing in their heads.

I hope you all get blown tonight, and every night. Happy Holidays.

In the Comments section, tell me about your bumper stickers, and let me know if you want an "official" Glass Antixx bumper sticker.

Winter sends people postcards; I will send you a bumper sticker.

Shouldering the Burden

2007-12-17T21:35:00.000-05:00

Other people have sports injuries, or God-forbid war injuries. I have drinking injuries.

When the weather turns colder, as it's apt to do in mid-December, my right shoulder always starts blazing with pain. We can thank a cat named Jason Smith for that. Actually, we can also thank a cat named Jim Beam for that.

The year was 2003. We were at the retirement party of a pilot/friend Pete, who at 60 had timed out and now had to sit on the sidelines with his Phillapina girlfriend, Ponga. Pete loved Ponga in ways that were uncomfortable and unsettling to most of us.

"I tell ya, last night Ponga and I were having sex, and I could just taste the garlic from dinner coming from her nipples."

Take a minute to think about that.

Okay, back to my drunken mishaps: I was in the cups, and Jason Smith had his back turned to me, so I did what anyone would have and got a running start to jump on his back, assuming he would catch me.

He did not.

I vaulted over him, flipped and landed on my back with a distinct "Ooof!"

(I am purposely ignoring the opening for an "on my back" joke here because I'm really not in the best light as it is, but feel free to come up with your own.)

Anyhoo, I got back up and punched Jason Smith in the tummy for missing me, because it was totally his fault. Totally.

And ever since, on cold, damp days, I wake up and start looking for the Bengay.

Damnit, I know there's a joke in there somewhere, too.

In the Comments section, tell me about your lingering injuries.

Knocking the Socks Off of Nonagenerians Everywhere

2007-12-13T11:16:00.000-05:00

So, the ex-boyfriend is seeing someone new—the "love of his life," according to a reputable source. And I am happy for him—really and truly, no bullshit. (I mean it, A.J. High-five, kid.)

I wouldn't bring it up otherwise because admitting that I did a little online snooping to learn that fact only makes me look like an ass, and the only thing worse than looking like an ass is looking like a bitter ass, so rest assured that I am a happy ass.

A little of the sting was taken away when I received an unsolicited e-mail from eHarmony last night proclaiming "We found your perfect match!"

Whoa ho! What luck!

I clicked to find a profile for Matthew, a college professor from nearby (but just far enough to sate my love of "distance") Elkins, West Virginia. Hey, not knocking—it's a beautiful state and the cost of living is dirt cheap.

I kept reading: He's liberal, witty, genuine—good, good. He likes talking and listening to music—mama likes. Correct apostrophe usage—check!

Oh, and he's 92 years old.

What the hell, eHarmony? I mean, I always knew, thanks to my astrological chart, that on the off chance I ever get married, it will be to an older man (Virgo rules my seventh house) but come on.

Geez. I mean, I know I expressed an interest in learning to knit and how to can things, and, yes, maybe one of my hobbies is quilting, and I love the smell of AspirCream, but throw me a bone here, eHarmony.

Preferably one that doesn't require Viagra or the help of a personal nurse.

In the Comments section, tell me about your favorite old person.

Do You Know Where My Pen Is?

2007-12-11T23:25:00.000-05:00

When I was younger, someone told me that you could estimate the size of a man's penis by making an "L" shape with his hand, and the distance between the thumb and forefinger would tell you how long the dong was.

I didn't understand the handiness, if you will, of this predictive tool until the early part of my second decade, but it's never failed me.

Big feet lie. Big ears lie. Heck, even big hands lie. But the distance between the thumb and forefinger—true dat.

Following that theory, if I were a dude, my penis would be five-and-three-quarter inches. Very respectable for a chick, thank you very much.

Funny, though—a six-inch-clit isn't so well received.

In the Comments section, tell me how big your hand penis is.

Editor's Note: I don't really have a six-inch clit, sadly. It was something Megan Jane said once when we were teenagers that has always stuck in my head. She probably doesn't even remember it, but it's something I carry with me (we were in Autumn's living room, Schmegs, and you were doing our usual cartoon voice screaming "She had a six-inch-clit!" I can admit here that is was several years after that I finally figured out what a "clit" was. "Ooooooohhhh. I get it ...")

That memory is like the words to that crazy round we always used to sing in sixth grade.

Witchita and the wheat fields of Kansas. Kansas City K is next to Kansas City Mo. Chicago. Crossroads of America. Tallahassee, Tuscaloosa, San Franciso, Guadalupe.

And the Winner Is: I Have No Idea

2007-12-10T22:52:00.000-05:00

Well, I can safely say that I kicked all sorts of acoustic ass.

I took the stage with no fear and minimal Jim Beam (relatively speaking, of course) and sang my heart out. Trouble is, they didn't announce who was moving to the next round, so while I'm 99.98% sure I'm advancing, I can't say for sure.

Behold: the shortest video ever and ... it's sideways.

No matter. The important part is that I did it and that Lorelai made out with a hot (HOT!) soldier boy.

I'm all for supporting our troops, if you know what I'm sayin'. And shame on you if you don't.

Thank you to all of you who came out (JennyJenny in da house!) and those of you who wanted to be there—it means a lot, it really does. I don't know where I'm going with this music business, but everything in me says I need to take steps forward, so onward ho! (How apropos.)

In other news, I got my hair did.

I've been kicking around the idea of going shorter for some time, so I walked into a salon Saturday morning and found Annakin (for reals), my very gay, Hong-Kong-ese shear prince.

"Oooooooh. I'm going to give you something fun," he said in his very sing-song voice. It is, indeed, fun. Kicky, if you will. Will you?

But now, I am tired. So, please to enjoy these exquisite photos of my new hair while I go to sleepies. I had to get all "MySpace" photo tactical maneuvers on yins--pardon me for looking like every other angsty 17-year old. 'Cept I have better hair.

I'd hate to have to kick your ass. Doesn't mean I won't do it, though.

Why yes, I did, in fact, try to make my hair match the walls. I gave up long ago on the curtains matching the drapes, though.

The angle of my dangle. Just want ya'll to know, that's a portrait of a bare-breasted woman behind me. I incorporate boobs in every facet of my life: writing, cooking, decorating, etc., etc. ad nauseum.

Don't make me come in there, what with me wearing a clip and all.

In the Comments section, tell what you're moving forward with and also what you think of my new hair.

A Shameless Self Plug

2007-12-07T15:47:00.000-05:00

I was rereading some of my old journals last night, which is always enlightening.

Aside from all of the "Oh my God, Chad is so hot" and "Oh my God, I hate my hair" entries, I found a snippet of foreshadowing from 1999:

I hate being a waitress. I think I need to become a sexy, folk chick. I guess that means I'll have to learn how to be sexy and/or play guitar.

Shortly thereafter, my folks bought me a guitar and I commenced learning the versatile G chord, as well as how to use my cleavage to its best advantage.

Still, I think it's funny that, at age 19, with no exhibited musical ability and never having sung outside of the shower, I simply decided I was going to be some saucy singer/songwriter. Sure, why not?

Well, there's one reason.

Despite what you may believe, I am inherently secretive with my thoughts and feelings, such as the thoughts and feelings one might need to share whilst writing a song. So, for many years, I did not share. Not at all. Not one tiny bit.

A lot of my nearest and dearest were surprised to learn that I even played guitar.

But I got brave a few years ago and answered an ad for a female singer/songwriter, which led to a partnership with a super talented guitar dude. But then he sort of fell for me and I was in no danger of falling back, and things went south real quick, but not before we took third in a regional singer/songwriter contest.

There was also the time I got brave and entered a local singer/songwriter contest but had no idea that it was being judged by a panel of very Christian judges. A good 103% of my songs have a nod to whiskey and at least 79% mention one-night stands. Whoops.

I walked away with fourth place out of 40 and the weirdest compliment I have received to date: "You have such a beautiful voice … You could win so many people to the Lord if you just sang the right songs."

Since then, being an adult has sort of gotten in the way of my folk-and-roll ambitions, but, while it's taken me a lot of time, I can finally admit, "Yes, I write songs that I sing," without shrieking and running away, hands flailing.

In fact, for all of you D.C. locals, I will be practicing some not shrieking and running away this Sunday, Dec. 9, around 10 p.m. at Arlington's Four Courts for an acoustic "battle" of the bands.

It's just a simple two-song set (10 minutes), with the winner securing a spot to perform at a longer set during the local St. Patty's day celebration, but to me, scaredy-cat supreme, those 10 minutes on stage have consumed my mind for weeks now.

So, come on out on Sunday to see my knees knocking and me knocking back the drinks—I'll be there to enjoy the whole showcase from 8 p.m. onward but, again, I'll be going on around 10-ish.

My dear Justin P. says real artists are never truly comfortable with their creations and will always second-guess themselves, but if you are called to be an artist, the drive to share will overpower the fear. Let's hope so, or else it's going to be a long 10 minutes up there.

In the Comments section, tell me what you have trouble sharing. Go 'head. It's okay.

Oh yeah. I'm also on MySpace and stuff.

Doing the Nude-tron Dance

2007-12-06T00:12:00.000-05:00

So, last week I showered naked at the gym. In front of people.

Yeep! I did! It's taken me a full five days to write about it!

Despite my affinity for getting naked in general and in front of friends, in particular, this is the first time I have deliberately gone sans clothes in a public setting. God save my soul, but I think it was overdue. Just sayin'.

I took a nice long sauna, followed by a mellow shower and, okay, maybe I got a little shy drying off (because no one looks hot with a towel drying all of their lady bits), but gosh dernnit, I showed my bare breasts to women who didn't know me and whom I had no desire (what-so-ever) to make out with.

That's huge.

Kind of like my boobs.

Except not really. Now that I've lost a few pounds. Which has been all in my boobs. Not fair.

In the Comments section, tell me about the last time you got naked in public or the what's unfair in your life.

Tell Me Who Your Friends Are, and I'll Tell You Who You Are (And How Much I Love Corn Nuts)

2007-12-04T22:24:00.000-05:00

This Saturday was Megan Jane's birthday. I am not a very good friend when it comes to birthdays, so I am three days late posting this and I am still making her gift, which should be ready some time in February (2010).

I have known Megan Jane since we were nine, better than 18 years. I'm looking forward to our 20-year friend anniversary like some of you look forward to tater-tot day in the cafeteria. And by "some of you," I mean me so, really, Megan Jane and I will probably be celebrating our two decades of friendship with tater tots. Clazzy.

I think the 30-year anniversary is marked by gifts of corn dogs.

Here is a picture of lovely Megan Jane and some gentleman's very curvy tongue, which I just ran across (the picture, not the tongue. Dernit):

I was just thinking of all my favorite Megan Jane-isms and "Hey, You with the dreads—come with us" always wins out. Oh, Megan Jane, you boxcar child, you.

Oh, wow: A nice segue photo of Me, Adelka Ann and Megan Jane to transition to this weekend's trip to Connect-i-cut, which was a resounding success.

I really spread my wings on this latest trip, my pretties. I tried the Chile Picante Corn Nuts; it's always fun to embrace new cultures.

Kids, say what you want about New Jersey, but that state had the only rest stop to offer fresh cut flowers:

Which is way, way better than what New York had to offer:

So, as is customary when hanging with Adelka Ann and Justin P., there was theatre, good food and dancing.

Except the theater was the most glittery production of Dickens' A Christmas Carol I have ever seen. (I didn't even know they had jazz hands in Dickens' day.)

Oh, and the food was fake (backstage props for A Christmas Carol, which amused me more than they should have, given my 27 years).

Fake. Fake. Fakity Fake meats. Goddman, they can do anything these days, can't they?

Only the dancing was real.

Adelka Ann and "Joe" breaking it down one time.

We mostly just hung at Adelka and Justin's farm. The juxtapositions of art and farming implements always make me smile.

Just four hours after I took this photo, I got waylaid by an ice storm, and I'm not talking Rob Van Winkle, kiddos. I had to extend my stay in good ole Connecticut, which was just fine by me.

But now, after an arduous drive home, I am back in the bosom of Maryland, and while it's always nice to be nestled in someone's breasts, I can't help but look forward to the holiday season, which will bring a friend World Tour of Greenup, KY; Cambridge, Canton and Cleveland, OH; and maybe (just maybe, if I've been a good girl) a stop in Pittsburgh, PA.

'Cause real playas know to hit all of the hotspots.

In the Comments section, tell me where you've been or where you're going.

Driving Reigns

2007-11-29T17:27:00.000-05:00

On the road again. Just can't wait to get on the road again.

Yes, your favorite red-headed stranger is wandering yet again. I'm on my way to Connecticut to visit my lovely Adelka Ann and Justino this weekend, kids. I have some major ants in my pants these days, which is far, far better than crabs, let me tell you.

I just feel so alive when I'm traveling, and while I enjoy any form of movement—planes and trains are just dandy—I prefer automobiles. I write my best songs when I'm on the open road and, at the risk of repeating myself, I lurve me some Corn Nuts, which I can only find at select truck stops in the Northeast part of the country.

So, that is where I will be but you, my lovelies, will be in my heart, as always. Or in my pants keeping the ants company—your choice.

In the Comments section, tell what's in your pants these days.

All the Sweetest Winds, They Blow Across the South

2007-11-27T22:38:00.001-05:00

I love me some North Carolina. It's the perfect mix of empathetic, concerned folks who are crazy--very much like your 123V, here.

Spending time there always makes me re-prioritize the important things in my life, which usually end up being: tanning, frozen yogurt and videos, because that's all the side stores in NC offer.

I could bore you with tales of my darling nephews and their antics on bumper cars, or my sweet niece who eats broccoli like it's going out of style, but I won't because they're all going to take over the world one day, and you'll get to know them through their Nobel prize acceptance speeches.

But, let's see, what's the haps, otherwise?

No meetings with the crazy ex-girlfriend; exactly one PG-rated meeting with the high school ex-boyfriend that left me wanting to slow dance to some Cyndi Lauper; and, dude, one awesome meeting with J from Drunk on the Porch.

There was good ink (high-five, J), great conversation and beer. Oh, and there was phenomenal pizza. I'm already looking ahead to the next meet-up where J and I can compare more small-town nuttiness.

Until then, I'm only left regretting the poor Catawba County Shriners. Oh, the Shriners--they had them a tough year.

My folks and I went to the town's "holiday parade" this weekend. Beyond the Shriners, it was pretty much just the town's police and fire squad, so we prayed to Heyzus that no one had an emergency while the cops were throwing out some Brach's hard candies to the kidders.

While my folks and I had a great time, the Shriners were having a rough go. The Go-Kart AAA had to come out several times to help the guys driving little cars, as chains were a-breaking and tires were a-blowing and little Go-Karts were a-stalling all over God's concrete.

Whoops!

Yep, just a good, ole time in Carolina, complete with big men driving tiny semi-trucks.

Even the dawgs was excited, bless they hearts.

Millie is our little "root beer barrel." She's always been kind of crotchety and mean, but those ears and stubby legs save us from getting upset with her every time.

Sadie Byrd: She has a tiny head and a tiny, tiny brain.

Yes, Mills, it IS time for goodnight. (She did this herself, I swear to Pete. She's not a terribly sociable soul.)

In the Comments section, tell me why you love your family and/or your home town.

Jive, Turkies

2007-11-21T15:56:00.002-05:00

Nothing cures you of a confused heart over an ex-girlfriend like plans to meet up with an ex-boyfriend. I don't need to meet any new people; I'm just going to keep recycling old loves.

Actually, it'll be just a friendly meeting. At least I'm pretty sure. We'll see. I don't know.

(FYI, CamiKaos, I'm meeting with the boy who inspired my song Blue Boy. Thankfully, it's not the one who inspired Blue Balls.)

Also, I have another MIRL up ahead on Monday with none other than Country Roads, so woop woop! I'll be swinging by his stomping grounds on my way home from Carolina, and I hope we can meet at a truck stop for some chicken fried steak. Stay tuned for all of the hi-jinks.

Also, if this is Saturday and you're reading, I'm sitting on the 'Stache.

Peace and turkey grease, my pretties.

In the Comments section, tell me which blogger(s) you want to meet up with.

The Fever Has Broken

2007-11-20T14:15:00.000-05:00

Okay, gang. I feel much better after reading your thoughts and enjoying some cheese and crackers and some nuts. I'm going to leave the girl who's crackers and nuts well-enough alone.

You're right. You're right. You're right.

You're right. I know.

But this sure would have been a far more interesting blog if ya'll had said I should hunt her down. Just sayin'. We're talking chicks making out on Web-cams more interesting.

So don't get mad at me if you're unhappy with future posts about origami crafts and my best gravy recipe ever--it's your own dern fault for trying to keep me safe and sane.

In the Comments section, tell me: Are you a gravy person? No judgment or wrong answers. Just curious.

A Preemptive Apology to Anyone Who Ever Dates Me

2007-11-19T23:58:00.000-05:00

I think they fired my favorite adolescent receptionist at the gym because I haven't seen her in a week. This makes me sad; she's a darling, little blonde thing that reminds me of another darling, little blonde thing I loved some years ago.

I don't know this receptionist's name, so I can't even inquire about her, but I miss our routine. She'd giggle when I came in, ask how I was, giggle again and say, "You sound like you're from England." Every time.

I get that a lot, though, actually—that whole "You don't sound like you're from here" thing.

I can tell you, kids, I'm from a suburb of Cleveland that is known for a very New Jersey-esque accent. And then, of course, when my family moved to Carolina when I was 14, I easily slipped into the sweet, Southern drawl, ya'll.

I guess the North and South in me repel in accordance with some remnant of historical conflict and what comes out of my mouth is akin to a British nanny, as a nod to the mother country where it all began. Pip pip!

This is all running through my head because I found pages from an old journal I thought was long gone, lost in one of my many, many, many moves. But they reappeared, exactly when I needed them to. They were actually from the time when I loved that darling, little blonde thing some years ago. Interestingly, she is back in some capacity, though at a very safe distance.

For now, anyway.

We were, are and forever will be, complicated. She's also got a lovely girl now, and I'm mourning my young receptionist and A.J. and not in any place for a real commitment of any kind, so it could get messy if I even let myself think about pursuing it.

(For the record, I wrote that post about her when I was smack dab in the middle of grief therapy for my Mom, and we were exploring my anger feelings at that time. You won't believe how angry I was that Frito-Lay changing its packaging--I had to delete that post. Now, I'm not condoning or excusing her actions, but it's amazing how different things look and feel just a short year later. So, here--this grain of salt is for you to take if you went back and read it.)

But I realized recently that if no one else were around to chastise or question me, I would go running right back into her arms this instant. But as it stands, she did a whole mess of damage to a lot of people whom I love, and it's not that simple. It never is, is it?

Still it's been kind of nice to revisit some of those memories, and re-reading my thoughts of everything filled in some missing pieces.

It's helped alleviate a lot of my anger that stemmed from our relationship and brought in some clarity and understanding of how she found herself on the Crazy Train and wasn't able to hop off, just speeding faster and faster and faster toward one of those tunnels the dern coyote painted on the side of a mountain and not knowing what else to do but stay on.

Weird, though, because we'll both be back in our small Carolina town for the holiday. My entire being is torn between going into full-on stalker mode to "make" a meeting happen or just letting sleeping dogs lie on a nice, comfy carpet of distance and time, safe but suffocated by my yearning heart. Seriously, my pretties, I am yearning here.

Truly, it's probably going to depend on how hot, as in attractive, I'm feeling. We girls are so weird—yes, I'm going to base a life decision on how my hair and ass look. Deal with it.

I just don't know, my pretties. Do some people come back because we're not done with them or do they re-emerge to serve as emotional watermarks and reminders so that we don't make the same mistakes again?

I sincerely feel like if I could just get once more kiss, I could walk away.

Would it be sooooo wrong if I just cornered her in the Food Lion and we made out for 10 minutes and then she went back to her girlfriend, and I went back to my family, and nobody was the wiser?

Don't answer that.

See, I know the answer. I KNOW no good can come of it. I KNOW what my course SHOULD be, which is to run away from her, but she is the first and only person who has ever made me come unhinged in my 27 years, which explains why I just can't let that ever happen with another person again. She made such a mess of things, and I let her because I loved her. I still do, truth be told. That's how it goes.

So, listen, my pretties, those of you who know me in real life and think I'm too quick to walk away from relationships, let me tell you—I understand why some of those women on Maury don't care that their Dude is the father of their sister's AND their Mom's babies and they keep screaming, "But I love him. I looooooooooove him!!!!" Oh, buddy, do I get it. Love is not rational.

But that's why I only let myself entertain the idea of doing it with her (heh). One crazy heart per life time. I can't handle any more. I don't want any more.

I made a vow that any loves after her would be as calm and gentle as a summer breeze because that episode done brought enough drama for my mama, my step-mama, my grandmama and my llama.

Yet, if it was so bad, why am I here gnashing my teeth remembering her beautiful hips that made me dizzy? And her hands, oh, those hands. And that spot near her collar bone. I really loved that spot.

Oy vey. What's the British word for "hopeless"?

In the Comments section, tell me about that person for you. Oh, and feel free to heap on the advice, here. I'm flailing.

Not Vegas, Baby

2007-11-18T20:37:00.000-05:00

Just because you add "vegas" to the end of your city's name does not make it cool. Now, Flat Coke and Flies opened my eyes to the whole "Nashvegas" designation, and I'm on board with that.

But, seriously, despite two different peoples' best attempts, "Charvegas" does not make Charlotte sound super cool, nor does "Philavegas" work for Philly.

It just doesn't jive, kids.

In other news, I'm getting a jump on my New Year's resolutions and top of the list is: Wear more side ponytails.

I wish I was making that up, but they suit my profile and the fact that the back of my head is as flat as a plate. Swear to Pete.

Also on the list: Meet more bloggers. Thanks to Hilary the Guy, Miss Laaw-yuhr and Chris, who sarcastically likes things about the universe, for braving potential awkwardness and knife fights (seriously) to meet 123V and Lorelai.

To answer your questions, yes we all got drunk and made out, then we got tattoos together. Okay, that's not true. Well, the drunk part is. But, sad to say, there was no making out, despite my best showing in my "Boob Dress." (The black one with the pink polka dots, Schmegs.)

The important part to note is that these cats are cool, and it should serve as a wonderful reminder that bloggy friendships can lead to real, live friendships, my pretties. 'Member that.

Okay, gotta jet. I'm sure there's some crappy reality show that I'm missing right now.

In the Comments section, tell me if you got to make out with anyone or show your boobs this weekend.

In the Pink

2007-11-16T13:50:00.000-05:00

Or reason #645 why I shouldn't be allowed out in public without adult supervision and a leash.

My homegirl Kate from Hey Pretty had a birthday last weekend, and we all gathered at her abode to celebrate the Scorpio lass with foods and drinks and one very fuzzy pink coat.

Teh Fuzzee Pink Cote: Ur doin it wrong

As much as I'd like to explain that I only have this coat because my mother bequeathed it to me, I ultimately made the decision to wear it out. The pink fuzzy apple doesn't fall far from the crazy tree, I guess.

To be frank, my entire day leading up to the party was full of miscalculations and questionable decisions. I think the trouble started when I decided to forego the logical decision to bring beer or wine to the party and opted instead for Jell-O shots. I mean, I did a nice key lime pie recipe, using Limey Jell-O and cream soda instead of water. Oh, and vodka. A lot of that. A lot.

Then, I zipped over to Lorelai's house so we could Metro down together. And when I got there, maybe I stepped over the tipsy line with a couple of glasses of wine and maybe I didn't. But maybe I did.

Lorelai and I were the first ones to arrive, which is always fine with me because then I can scope out the best vantage point and figure out which seat makes my boobs look the best. Strategy, people, strategy.

A gaggle of Miss Kate's friends arrived after us and the wine flowed and the conversation sparked and there was even jazz music, like real adults listen to. Nice.

And then at some point, after we'd all shared our favorite Kate memories it all went horribly, horribly wrong, as I forced the neon green Jell-O shots on poor, innocent partygoers and I made everyone (EVERYONE) try on the pink coat.

Straight Pimpin', lady!

Yes! Rock on wit your badself!

Fierce, EJ. Fierce!

That is a very secure man right there.

Now that is gorgeous! Rock it, girlfriend!

Sassy and sophisticated.

I lurve dis pink coat.

And then maybe I fell into the laps of a very nice married couple and probably stayed there for a minute or two longer than was necessary.

A rare photo of me upright that evening.

Well, now that it's Friday, I could atone for all of my social sins and fashion crimes of last weekend, but something tells me that when Lorelai and I meet up with Hilary the Guy from Pistols at Dawn and a few of his friends tonight for a bloggy smooshup, I'll probably be wearing the fuzzy pink coat yet again whilst falling into one or more laps.

Because nothing says "grown up" like pink fur and stumbling.

Yes, things are looking up. Including me.

In the Comments section, tell me about your favorite fashion statement. Or about a time when you fell into someone's lap.

Due To the Photographic Nature of This Web Site, Viewer Discretion Is Advised

2007-11-14T00:05:00.001-05:00

My deepest apologies to any of yins who stopped over and saw a giant picture of 123Valerie covered in blazing locks staring you down, all menacing like.

As some of you noted, I did finally update my profile picture, but as many of you know, to do so Blogger requires a super-complicated process where you have to post the profile picture somewheres, then hunt down a wart hog as a sacrifice to the photo gods, say a native Mandarin prayer and present your case for changing your picture before a coven of Wiccan elders who each are missing their pinky, standing on one foot.

And then you have to do that thing where you whistle with two fingers in your mouth. That's what tripped me up.

I did not mean to leave a big, scary photo of myself up. In fact, I have many, many nice photos of myself and others in a fuzzy pink coat that I had hoped to post, but I've had enough Blogger picture fun to last me until at least Friday morning.

It's all good in the hood here, busy and what-not but, seriously, where in the hoo-diddly have some of ya'll been, my pretties? I've got to clear away the cobwebs when I log on your sites. You know who you are. You better post sumpin' soon, is all I'm sayin. My brain cell isn't going to entertain itself.

In the Comments section, tell me what your latest post is about. Thanks!

2007-11-12T22:48:00.000-05:00

Save the Date

2007-11-07T01:27:00.000-05:00

In between bubble baths, trips to the gym and a viewing of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, I found myself with a schwee bit of time for a blind date.

Let me get this out front early: He was nice and it was fine, but it was the romantic equivalent of oatmeal. Still, way better than the blind date where the guy brought his mom. No way in hell to save that date.

The fact that the newest lurve encounter didn't end in bliss is okay though, kids, because I don't really think I'm ready to be dating just yet. I have a tendency to try and rush through everything, including broken hearts.

But, as my lovely homegal, Lorelai, said to me, I made myself pretty dern vulnerable in the last go 'round with love. So, I'm feeling very protective of my heart these days. Ya'll go on and Chicken Dance and Hokey Pokey without me; I'm gonna sit this one out.

That said, I have been introduced to a valuable asset for single women: Don't Date Him, Girl. Dirty Dawgs, be forewarned: If you've done somebody wrong, she's going to tell all of her friends, and then she's going to tell the Intertubes. And people will comment about it. Oh, will they comment!

I was very glad to find a sea of strangers on Don't Date Him, Girl (Phew) because both my intuition and my co-pay for the health clinic are quite high. Actually, my worst fear would be seeing my Dad on the message boards. I mean, he's a great guy—he'd never actually be on there, but this is the kind of stuff that runs through my head when I am worrying. So.

Man, I wish I had a super bad blind date story for you, my pretties, but truth is, I have a really good track record—even the guy who brought his Mom made sure she was pretty cool. She totally kicked my ass at Golden Tee and we split some jalapeno poppers.

Ultimately, when it comes to blind dates, even if it's not love at first sight, I've always enjoyed the cocktails and going home with the waitress.

In fact, I'd like to get paid to be a professional blind dater, but I believe they call that being a "call girl." Whatevs.

Just tells me the world isn't ready for the 123V brand of lovin' just yet, and it validates my delicious hermity-ness these days.

In the Comments section tell me your best cure for getting over the broken heart hump—so to speak, of course.

Rag-tagged and Bobtail

2007-11-01T23:18:00.000-05:00

I generally don't like rules, unless they specify that I get to talk about myself.

Since I've done been tagged (way better than tea bagged) by the infamous J. from Drunk on the Porch, I'd best get to it.

We gon do it. Do it. Do it, do it, do it.

A). Link to the person ~~that~~ who (Oh, God. I'm sorry. I just couldn't let this go into the blogosphere grammatically incorrect) tagged you and post the rules on your blog...
B). Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself...
C). Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs...
D). Let each person know that they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog

1. I know what a caper really is.

2. Sloth is my favorite Goonie. With that one blinky eyeball? C'mon!

3. I am closer to 30 than I am to 20, but during every bubble bath, I do this, even the ones I take at your house:

I'm practicing my "stern Kenny Rogers" right here. I SAID you gotta know when to hold 'em!.

4. I love Cleveland, Ohio, ... Ya heard me right.

5. Never the ketchup with the french fries. Never! What is wrong with you people? Why are you so afraid of mustard?

6. I talk to dead people all of the time.

7. As an intelligent, capable female with independence for days, I really wouldn't mind being a 'kept' woman.

I mean, I'd cook and volunteer a lot, of course.

In the Comments section, tell me what you'd do if you were a kept (wo)man.

Oh, and tag, babycakeses, 'cause you're all sorts of it !: Cami-to-the-Kaos, Constant Winter, Dusty Old Dust, Effortlessly Average, Flat Coke and Flies, Hey Pretty and the lovely My Reflecting Pool.

I Need MySpace

2007-10-30T22:25:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-29T09:56:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-28T11:07:00.001-05:00

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

2007-10-25T20:25:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-25T13:05:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-23T23:33:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-23T00:26:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-19T11:06:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-18T00:22:00.000-05:00

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?**

2007-10-17T15:41:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-12T14:34:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-04T10:48:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-04T00:19:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-02T17:13:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-10-01T11:54:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-01T10:01:00.000-05:00

"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.

Written in a Way that Future Employers Can't Fire Me Should They Find This

2007-09-29T22:55:00.000-05:00

I believe that for artistic and educational purposes, pornographic materials hold some merit. Okay, a lot of merit.

After the concurrent events of finding myself single and taking myself off of birth control (Hello libido! Nice to see you again. Where've you been for the past three months?}, I've had the opportunity to review more pornographic materials recently.

Because I pay (most) of my bills by editing others' writing, the grammarian in me could not overlook the following syntax oddities on sites where people post their favorite pornographic materials for others to review--people like me who enjoy the academics of it (the scholastic nature is mostly biological, but there is some anthropological value, as well).

Now, where's my red pen?:

"GIRL Lesbians!" Really? No way! Because the avalanche of boy lesbians was getting way overdone.

"slutty fat ass bitch girlfriend fucks my best friend" Aside from a dire need of commas and hyphens, the bigger concern here is "Dude, whhhhhhhhhyyy would you post this? Your fat, bitchy, slutty girlfriend cheats on you with your best friend, and your first thought is 'Hey guys, let me record this!' It don't look good for you, padre.

"fucking my MILK hard" Got MILF, bonehead?

"Huge Baabies" I guess with one hand on your wang and astigmatism, it'd be easy to mix up the "o" and "a" key. That's really not going to help his search engine optimization, though.

"2 hot girls in a 60" Even during sexual congress, a head for figures is an attractive quality.

I don't know--maybe not being able to overlook spelling and grammar mistakes on something as base as a porn site is illustrative of my whole problem.

My astrologer pointed out that everything has to get filtered through my head first. Said another way, I have a hard time just feeling things; I must interpret them and relate them and qualify them and explain them.

What causes the most problems is that I must somehow get 'rid' of these feelings, because they overwhelm me. When I feel balanced, I can expel the overflow of emotions with song-writing and journaling and poetry and even cooking. When I am not so balanced, Dr. Jim Beam is my therapist.

It's so exhausting.

"I'm sad," for me becomes, "I'm sad because the lady at the grocery store clearly is injuring her child's self-esteem when she calls him an 'idiot' and I feel helpless because I'm bound by the strictures of etiquette, which dictate that it's not appropriate for me to intervene, even though I KNOW that boy will likely grow up to harm himself and possibly others in a myriad of ways, thus ensuring that my tax dollars and emotional energy will be spent trying to 'fix' him, when all it really takes is a kind word of acknowledgement and validation. I bet his Mom is a Virgo with a Sagittarius rising who had issues with her grandfather--if she'd just try some self healing with a rose quartz and daily affirmations. I don't think I could ever have kids; I'd be so worried of messing them up. Geez, I hope I don't die alone. ... Gawd, I need a drink."

Phew.

So, I'm practicing just feeling. "I'm sad ... well, how about that."

That's harder than it sounds, my pretties. It's my nature to fix things. Further, growing up in my house, you did not survive very long with your heart on your sleeve. Feelings and dissidence were not rewarded, but being happy, agreeable and productive were.

In later years, my family has become very touchy-feely, for which I am thankful, but old habits die hard.

Speaking of: "Blonde sucking my hard duck" Aflac. AFLAC!

In the Comments section, tell me what you think your problem is. C'mon--it's a sharing circle.