The Groove Is Back

I miss writing, so I'm starting again with 20 things about me:

1. I taught myself how to tie my own shoes at three years old. I was such the over-achiever back then but not so much anymore.

2. When I was nine years old, I won a front-end alignment from the radio station by answering a trivia question about local history. I didn’t even know what a front-end alignment was.

3. I made a blind man flinch several times in the passenger seat of my 1975 Toyota Corona while taking mountain road curves on two wheels. That's when I realized I needed to become a better driver.

4. I had a 7"x4" tumor removed from my leg and walked with a cane for seven months afterwards. The handle of the cane was a detailed sculpture of a dog's head carved from soapstone.

5. I painted fire hydrants for a whole summer.

6. I sneeze like your grandpa.

7. I was recently moved to tears by an episode of What Not To Wear on TLC.

8. I do not enjoy fireworks at all.

9. I think I have cancer at least once a week. Different kinds.

10. I never broke any bones as a kid and have broken way too many as an adult, leg and arm among them.

11. Once I went to the hospital with freak stomach pain and was diagnosed with a distended colon. That basically means I was packed full of shit.

12. I fell in front of this chick running up a flight of stairs and totally blew her image of me. I know because she told my friend.

13. I once rode horses through the woods off the coast of Alaska.

14. I got so pissed at my friend John playing X-Men on Playstation that I threw a controller at him and stormed out. Just to press my buttons, when I checked my email later that evening, there was a link to an anger management website from him.

15. I got stuck floating down a river for nine hours at night in a styrofoam sailboat that my friend's dad got from the KOOL cigarettes catalog in the 1960s. I nearly froze to death.

16. I just remembered I had some grape Big League Chew gum in my purse and am gonna chew some right now.

17. I got a full scholarship to college.

18. The best part about having kids would be naming them and dressing them. Therefore I have decided that childbearing is not in anyone's best interest. Instead I should opt for a My Buddy.

19. I live with a fem-bot.

20. I want to be rolled up and smoked when I die.

~ the lady love

What If?

What if I told you that it was jealousy that might make me to start writing again? Or that sneezing sometimes made my nipples hard. Or that the cinema is my new drug, replacing fat bags with films at ten bucks a pop.

What if I told you that I pretended to like In The Bedroom more than I actually did and that I’m not making that same mistake with No Country for Old Men just because I’m supposed to. It is leading the pack in Oscar nods this year ya know... But some movies just move. Way. Too. Slow.

For.

My.

Taste.


To put it in the words of one Cher Horowitz, as if.

~ the lady love

I Tried. I Failed.

Been sitting here trying to post, and it's just not happening. Somebody recently told me that I needed to start posting again, so I'm trying. But I'm failing. It's agony, honestly. Can I really be that empty?

Or maybe I'm just really that full.

On a side note, do yourself a big favor and check this out. Click play.

~ the lady

Starfucker

Haha. I took a stroll back through my blog trying to find "it" again. That is, my ability to write like I used to, which is funny because I've spent every day for the past 7 months writing professionally so you'd think it'd be easy for me to pick up right where I left off. Not so. Blogging made me a much better writer in my professional life, but the reverse hasn't proved to be true.

Anyway, as I perused the annals, I was surprised to see that I had a good number of half-posts still in the cooker. Maybe 10 of them, just sitting there in draft form waiting to be finished (which reminds me of myself).

Anyway, I don't know exactly what caused me to start this one and never finish it, but I got a good laugh from it. So in lieu of an actual new post, I give you this:

From December 23, 2005

Starfucker

Starfuckers buuuuug me. Starfucking takes the shape of many forms and usually reveals something very important about a person if you pay attention enough to see it. I myelf am an observer, so I do. In all instances that I have discerned a person's starfucker qualities, starfucking can be distilled down to one thing: self esteem - or lack thereof. And it's usually women who are the starfuckers.

Proximity and accessibility to a star(s) is mandatory for one to be a bonafide starfucker. Otherwise, one is just a wannabe-starfucker. Meaning they would if they could but they can't. Nope.

Starfucking has many layers. Really astute starfuckers can actually spot a potential star, which is a crowning achievement for a starfucker. When celebrity strikes, it matters not that the starfucking came pre-stardom. Popping a proverbial celebrity cherry gives starfuckers similar satisfaction to what they glean from starfucking a star in his prime.

Even better, starfuck him (or her) again later and know that, even as a star, you can still starfuck them. You see, starfuckers aren't exclusively looking for conquests or notches on the belt. They want impact. Staying power. To be desired. Appreciated. Remembered. Recognized. Somebody with both a name and a face that will be remembered by the star after months - even years - of thousands of other fleeting names and faces. Starfuckers want a star's personal email address.

Not all starfuckers readily brag, either. A good many starfuckers are actually much more discreet and covert than to brag outright, managing to drop an appropriately timed name or story, which lends credibility to a starfucker. See, starfuckers don't want to be perceived as starfuckers. In fact, starfuckers tend to scoff at the likes of groupies and obsessive fans and even other starfuckers because starfuckers themselves want to think they are more than just starfuckers.

-----

Wtf? I don't know where I was headed with that, but I really wish I'd finished because I'd like to know where I'd end up. Oh well.

~ the lady

Junk

I got a new car. It's a fully-loaded, sweet little ride. I've been lusting after this car for five years since I drove one, and now I finally got it. Yay for me.



Next, I am addicted to the Maroon 5 song Makes Me Wonder, which I actually felt guilty about until I read this about their album: "Sometimes it's O.K.--even important--to put aside your reluctance to embrace artists who make teenage girls scream."

~ the lady

Save Internet Radio

The recent ruling by the Copyright Royalty Board to increase webcasters' royalty rates between 300 and 1200 percent over the next 5 years jeopardizes the industry and threatens to homogenize Internet radio.

Artists, listeners, and Webcasters, have joined the Save Internet Radio coalition to help save Internet radio. The coalition believes strongly in compensating artists, but Internet radio as we know it will not survive under the new royalties.

The website has a lot of good info including a facts/myths section.

Check it out:
Save Internet Radio

Is that a table tent in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Bang, Bang

Atlanta is one of those cities where many neighborhoods are simultaneously nice and ghetto. I live in one such neighborhood. But Sunday night when I heard a nearby "bang, bang", I got a little rattled - more so than usual. With the recent murder of my neighbor coupled with my weekend viewings of Blood Diamond and The Departed, I guess I was a bit gun-shy, so to speak.

My roommate and I were just finishing up a movie late Sunday evening when the two shots sounded off. I muted the tv and tentatively peeked out the window, looking and listening intently. Heather began to poke fun at me - asking me if I wanted to go outside on the porch and smoke a cigarette. Laughter (on her part) ensued. She egged me on, giving me hell for being such a wuss. Bitch.

Next thing we know, a subsequent "bang, bang, bang" rang out - even closer than the first two shots. Heather, who was sitting in the chair by the window - hit the deck running to the back of house while she ducked to dodge flyaway bullets. I followed suit, though my leg was not happy about my attempt to run.

Her husband was in the back in their bedroom watching the Super Bowl. We explained what was going on, but then he told us that the game had just ended, so it had to be fireworks going off.

Ummm, yeah. Fireworks. That's what we thought. Fireworks.

The good news is that I've not let Heather live down the moment she sprang from her chair and took off running. I'm still laughing at that sight.

~ the lady

Say Hallo, Cookie

Next week I am finishing up a three-month contract with a client. Gotta say I'm not terribly disappointed about it, either. After this lengthy stint, I'm worried that I may be too far gone to ever be able to return to the corporate world full time. Over the past several years, I've grown to be excessivly anti-establishment. I have zero patience for bureaucracy, not to mention that my growing civil obedience "take[s] Thoreau to a whole new level" according to my friend over Google Chat. Heh. I did, however, get solace from a bumper sticker the other day that said, "Well behaved women seldom make history." Heh heh.

Anyway, I don't necessarily think this is misbehaving, but it's damn funny. Yesterday morning, as I stood in the kitchen at work twirling a banana in my hand and waiting for my bagel to toast, I grew bored. So, for my own amusement, I lifted the banana to my ear and intoned "ring, ring."

"Hallo?" I spoke into the banana, "Yes, just a minute please..." Then I turned to the woman next to me, tapped her on the shoulder, and gestured to pass the banana to her: "Here, it's for you."

You know, she actually started to take it. Heh heh heh.

~ the lady

Too Close for Comfort

The neighbor who lived three doors down from us was murdered. I heard gun shots.

~ the lady

The Short List

1) I'm addicted to instant oatmeal. Original flavor. Add a pat of butter and a packet of Splenda and I'm in heaven.

2) I can't decide if the president of the company I am currently contracting with is a) devoid of personality or b)is just really a prick or c) is a prick who is devoid of personality.

3) I despise the term African American. Just because the color of one's skin is black or brown and his or her ancestors were indigenous to Africa does not necessarily make them a) African or b) American. I know plenty of black folks who really are Africans living in the United States though they are not American citizens, and likewise, I know plenty of black folks who are neither African nor American but are tagged as "African Americans" based on something as superficial as the pigmentation of their skin. Coincidentally, I've known more people that are "white" who technically are "African Americans" - that is, African emigrants who are now American citizens - and I'm talking blonde-haired-blue-eyed white people who were actually born and raised in the motherland.

Political correctness is such a joke.

4) Dear god, please give me the strength to stop indulging certain annoying people before I lose control and scream, "Shut the fuck up, cry baby!" I swear I'm not a masochist. Sometimes I'm just too nice.

~ the lady

Blog This!

This series of self portraits by Noah Kalina made my day.

He also has another website called Noah Kalina Everyday where he posts a photo of himself that he takes, well, every day.

~ the lady

Road Rage

Here's a novel idea: checking your blind spot. In the past two days, I've almost died twice on the interstate from jerk-offs pulling in front of me without checking their blindspots. I'm talking big, dramatic incidents that have my tires smoking, my car fish-tailing, and me being forced off to the side of the road with my heart nearly pounding out of my chest.

~ the lady

Once More, With Feeling

A great thing happened the other night. Just, really, great.

I was hanging out with Amy and Dan at their house. And usually when I hang out with them at their place, we end up breaking into song. I recall one night a few months ago when we somehow ended up singing '70s and '80s karaoke in their living room by way of their digital cable - just the three of us, sitting around and laughing and singing together. So it wasn't unusual the other night when Dan grabbed his guitar and announced they should do "Easy Like Sunday Morning" for me while Amy accompanied him on the piano. So they did, and I just listened and enjoyed their rendition because my voice was on the blink due to bronchitis.

After they finished the song, Amy casually started playing around on the piano - playing something soft and pretty that aroused my curiosity, so I said, "That's really nice. Really pretty. What is it?" She said it was just something she'd been working on. "Really?" I asked, "Cool. I wanna hear more." She said okay, disappeared to her room momentarily, and returned with a sheet of paper. She resumed her place at the keyboard and began to play.

"I really like that. I could see writing a song to that." Then she said, "Well let me tell you some of the words I've got so far."

"Really? You mean you're actually writing a song with words and all? Wow. Cool."

After a nice intro, Amy began to sing, "I touch the fire and it freezes me..."

I immediately burst into laughter. "Oh my god! That's hilarious." See, I recognized the song instantly from the musical episode "Once More, With Feeling" from season five of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. "Man, you really had me going there for a second. I thought you were actually writing a song. That's awesome, though."

She didn't respond but kept her attention focused on the music.

Dan was sitting next to me. I turned to him and explained why I was so amused. "See, this is a song from an episode... blah blah blah..."

He nodded with a sudden sense of understanding. "Yeeeaaah, okay. I remember seeing that." Then, all of a sudden and completely unexpectedly, Dan began to sing along.

Huh? What? What in the world was going on here? I've known Dan for a good long while - many years, in fact. I had no idea that he was familiar enough with Buffy to launch into song like that, and trust me, that's something I was certain I would have known about him. I was so confused, and I sat there dumbfounded trying to put together the pieces of this developing puzzle.

Next thing I knew, Dan arose from the couch and wandered over next to Amy at the piano while he continued to sing. And they didn't just sing - they sang harmonies and different parts. It was so strange because it was oddly similar to the way the singing occurred in the episode itself. See, in the episode, the whole town was under the spell of this demon, and no one was immune to his wily ways. Everyone uncontrollably sang all the dialogue. For a second I even had a dream-like feeling that I was in my own version of the episode. Ha!

They pressed on through the end of the song, and by the time it had ended - amidst my amusement and confusion and enjoyment - I had come to the conclusion that they had been practicing this little number. There was just no possible way that this incident was as spontaneous as it had appeared to be. When they finished, I exclaimed, "You guys have been practicing this, haven't you?!"

They laughed with joy and excitement. They told me they came up with the idea the weekend I broke my leg. They thought it just plain sucked for me, so they wanted to do something to make me happy. They had been practicing steadily for a month - learning the music, the words, the harmonies, the parts. They had even told people about their plan. So when Dan learned that I was coming over, he covertly asked Amy, "Do you think we're ready? Do you think we can pull it off? We have to do it. Who knows? It might be months before the three of us were in this situation again."

So they did it. Apparently, they discussed potential scenarios to make it happen in a way to that seemed natural, and they were thrilled with how organically the moment came together. They couldn't have wanted their scheme to go more seamlessly than it did. Amy even said she knew I was hooked as soon as I asked her what it was that she was playing. "Yes!" she thought.

Afterwards, we sat together and laughed. We recounted the scenario and the thoughts that were going through each of our heads as the event played out. And we smiled a lot. I was so pleased and touched that they would do this for me, they were giddy about my reactions from start to finish, and they were happy with themselves for pulling it off.

Once more with feeling wasn't necessary this time, though. They did it with enough feeling the first time to keep me in grins all week long.

~ the lady

Epitaph

Burris recently asked, "What would you like as your epitaph?"

After some thought (and it didn't take much thought), I came up with this:

She Loved. A Lot.

Yeah. That's it.

~ the lady

Giving Myself the Ick

I'm not typically a jealous person, but today I am writhe with jealousy over the stupidest things. I'm frothing at the mouth over the pretty girl and accolades heaped upon her in a recent portrait series I viewed (as well as the lovely portraits themselves). And despite laughing until my cheeks hurt during a session of reminiscing, I was secretly jealous of the all the clever pranks a co-worker had pulled on other people around the office.

Are you kidding me, man? Pictures and pranks? What the hell is wrong with me? I've reverted to being a 13 year-old girl.

Nothing is more unbecoming than jealousy in my opinion, and I'm a little disgusted with myself right now.

~ definitely not the lady

Not So Guilty Pleasure

Don't discount the talent of one Justin Timberlake based on his boy-band background, his popularity on MTV, or his over-exposure on commercial radio. The boy's got mojo.

I first gave him a listen when this girl I was digging on surprised me by being really into him. I laughed at first in disbelief, much like some ignorant folk used to do (and still do) to me upon the mention of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. So before passing judgment on his music, I thought I should at least listen to it first. Well, that was probably three years ago, and coincidentally, his first solo CD is still in regular rotation in my car (in fact, I think it’s in my disc player right now). It’s got some kickin’ tracks save for a few sappy ballads that force my hand to the ‘skip’ button.

He recently released a new album and I had yet to give it a go – until today. I previewed the 12 songs on Amazon.com just a few minutes ago, and folks, I’m heading directly to the music store as soon as I get off work.

~ the lady

Bored Now

I've been disappointed in the quality of my posts lately. I've been wanting to get back to my old ways, for certain, but instead I've been blogged down with spotty, abbreviated posts (like this one) about the basic state of my existance. Not very interesting for a writer like myself. Mainly, though, my internet access has been limited and unfortunately public ever since I crushed my laptop, so I haven't had the ideal time and space to do my writing thing for real. And tonight is no exception.

~ the lady

It's Hard Out Here for a Gimp

Introducing my Hustle & Flow-inspired theme song, "It's Hard Out Here for a Gimp"...

you know it's hard out here for a gimp
when I'm tryin' to get a cast for this limp
but with the money that I make as a temp
I'd do better as a ho with a pimp

----

This is how I spend my nights laying in bed as I fall asleep - thinking up this stuff. Lovely.

~ the lady

People In Glass Crack Houses

There was a nasty rumor circulating a few months ago among a small group of people (okay, two people who unsuccessfully tried to make it a larger group) that I am a drug addict, which is entirely NOT TRUE, and if I spend too much time thinking about it, I can get really pissed. Nevertheless, it just occurred to me the irony that, even after breaking my leg, I have yet to medicate for pain (excepting the Aleve I took twice). For a drug addict, I'm not doing a very good job at being a drug addict.

Coincidentally, the second question out of most people's mouth - after first asking how I broke my leg - is if I have good pain pills. When I reply that I'm not taking any painkillers, do you know how many people have asked me if they could have my prescription? A lot.

Folks, we are a pill nation, not to mention a bunch of fucking hypocrites. Especially those two people I mentioned earlier. The irony there? The laundry list of THC, DUIs, MAOIs, SSRIs, and various IUPACs and other acronyms between the two of them could account for a small village of people.

So, whatever your DOC, just remember one thing: people in glass crack houses shouldn't throw crack rocks.

~ the lady

Break Dem Bones

I broke my left leg. I've got a 2nd degree sprain in my right ankle. I am, for all intents and purposes, disabled. Uh-huh.

I've learned a lot about our disgraceful healthcare system through this whole ordeal. See, I don't have health insurance, nor am I on welfare. So, in the eyes of our fine healthcare professionals, I don't exist and neither does my broken leg because, well, healthcare is nothing more than a business, my friends.

I've got so much to say on this topic, so look for an elaborate discourse on the subject soon.

In the meantime, I should be getting a cast on Wednesday, so I hope that going without one for five days won't mean more damage to my leg. Unfortunately no greedy doctor will see me until I can pay for all of it upfront, and I don't get paid until Wednesday. So until then, I wait...

In the meantime, for your viewing pleasure I've included my x-ray. I actually felt and heard it snap. Eeeek.

More On That Bank of Assholes

Got an email from Grace consoling me on my Bank of America fiasco. She sent me a link to this story by her friend Rob. Folks, to a "T" this is what happened to me. Exactly.

Oh yeah, and for more BOA evil-doing, check out this story about a guy who got arrested for fraud at a BOA despite not committing fraud. Grace sent me this link, too, because she's a Clark Howard groupie.

The Evil That Is Bank of America

Evil. Evil. Evil.

I'm headed straight from work to the bank to close my accounts that I've had for 7 years. Bank of America will fuck you any way they possibly can to earn a buck. Seriously.

There was an incident a couple years ago when a vendor mistakenly processed the same transaction multiple times, which overdrew my account by several hundred dollars. After the vendor PROMPTLY credited the money back to my account, Bank of America refused to refund their overdraft charges despite the fact that it clearly was not a banking error on my part. Sure, I understood that it wasn't Bank of America's fault, either, but Bank of America was plenty happy to let me get completely screwed in the process by being caught in the middle. Fortunately, after many attempts, I finally reached a compassionate soul at the Bank who saw the absurdity of the situation and did the right thing by reversing the charges. He was the Sidi Hamet to my Captain James Riley.

Then, this weekend, I very accidentally overdrew my checking account by $0.71. Yet somehow Bank of America conveniently rearranged the order in which transactions posted to my account despite the fact that I keep a daily eye on my account through their online banking system. Next thing I know, they've deducted an extra $140 in overdraft fees.

Huh? How is that even possible? So I call them up, and they are confusing and completely unhelpful. They are soulless thieves who are no better than the thug who busts my car window or breaks into my house looking for money, jewelry and electronics.

I hate them. I really, really do. Fuckers.

Atlanta's Only European Boutique-Style Hotel

Grace took this one inside my room:

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

~ the lady

I'm Not Dead Yet

I'm alive. Living in a hotel. Sold everything I owned except for what would fit in my car. (Okay, so I kept all my art as well, which is stored at a friend's place.) Don't freak out. I want it this way. Remember this post?

Got a contract with a new client through December, and now of course my phone is blowing up from tons of calls about work. It only took getting work to get work. Go figure. I just had to sell off my life, sleep on a pal's couch, then move into a hotel and eat bread for a week.

I'm good, though.

~ the lady slummin'

Ode To Smokey Joe

Long time no post. I don't even know where to begin, so I guess I won't. I'll just make a list:

1) I'm homeless in 11 days.

2) I'm jobless and penniless (which has nothing to do with number 1, for the record) - every freelancer's worst fear.

3) I've had four flat tires in the past week. Four.

4) I was scaling a wall last Thursday when a rock slipped out from under my foot and I took a nasty tumble that left me scraped up, bruised, and limping. The limp, by the way, only lasted a day.

5) I'm torn between two men who I don't think really want me anyway except for the times when I think they do. It's weird, though, how I don't really seem to care either way. I'm not sure what my apathy means. Could it mean that my fire has burned out? Or could it be just part of growing older - that fewer and fewer things ignite a spark? Or, as much as I hate to become a cliche, maybe I've just been burned one too many times. In any case, it's undoubtedly a loss of a certain innocence.

6) I heard some untrue gossip about myself, but whatever.

Despite what a loser I sound like, I'm actually in good spirits. Nothing can keep a good bitch down. I have the occasional moment when I feel scared about the future - like last night - but I'm strangely calm about this voodoo being worked on me. At this point, it's almost laughable.

Thank the lawd for the good folk who've got my back. Like Smokey Joe. Not to discount the benevolence and friendship of a few choice people in my life, but there's nothing like a stranger who swoops in and restores my faith in humanity.

I didn't ask for Smokey Joe's help. I didn't even really need his help. In fact, I refused his help, but he wouldn't not help me. He turned 69 years old on that day, and as he put it, he was "raised in the wrong time in the right way." The right way indeed.

Thank you, Smokey Joe. You're a good man.

~ the lady

she sleeps (finally)

A Gay Area Becomes A Gray Area

One thing in the past you could pretty much always count on was gay men being... well... gay. But something's changed. I've noticed a strange phenom in the past year and a half. I've got a couple token gay men as friends, and on a few occasions over the years, I've found myself at gay bars with them. Not my top choice of places to hang out since I'm not a gay man, but ya know, I always have a good time.

As I was saying, in years past the one thing I could count on was to never be cruised in boy bar. Makes sense, right? I am a chick after all. But things have changed. I don't know if it's desperation and any warm body will do, or if it's alcohol consumption blurring the lines, or even if it's gay men being more open to the idea of being with a woman, but every single time I go to gay town I get hit on these days. Huh?

Now, I'm not talking about being playfully flirted with. I'm talking "hey baby, let's get it on." For real. Last summer, I had a man in a gay bar beg me to let him take me into the bathroom and "at least suck my tits" after I turned down his invitation to go home with him. Another instance I had a guy stalk me while proffering explicit sex acts despite having told him to piss off several times. Finally I had to completely shut him down after he followed me out to the sidewalk as I waited curb-side for my cab. I could go on, but I think you get my point.

Then last night it happened again. What the fuck? While meeting up with a friend at a gay establishment before heading off to our final destination, a gay man approached me and told me he was buying me a shot. Okay, fine by me. So we chatted for a few minutes. It was his birthday, and he was out celebrating. Next thing I know, he's telling me that he wants to take me home and do sex-type things with me. When I responded, "Ummmm, but you're gay," he said, "I've eaten at the Y plenty of times, and I'm very, very oral. I could make a meal out of that (as he nodded towards my crotch)." I shit you not. So I politely told him he should probably find a nice boy to take home with him instead.

I gotta tell you, folks, I am reeeally confused.

--------

Next post: A talk about the savage insomnia I've been battling for six full weeks now. It's been brutal, and now I've got to go and try to sleep. Yeah right.

~ the lady

Who Would You Die For?

I was watching an episode of Firefly earlier tonight. Arguably my favorite. War Stories, it's called. And I realized the reason why I think Joss Whedon is a genius. And since I'm not a hyperbolist, I don't mean 'genius' as it is mundanely used (like Kate Hudson referring to Cameron Crowe as a genius at least twice during her Academy Award acceptance speech). I mean it in the real way.

The point is, besides being funny, original, and well-written with interesting storylines and thoughtful character development, he and his people truly understand and deftly portray the the subtle nuances of interpersonal relationships. And it's flawless the way he expertly weaves it all together while posing scenarios that test and reveal the morality and integrity of each character's fundamental humanness. Oh yeah, and it's entertaining as hell. I mean, come on, they're space pirates.

Among a bevy of moral dilemmas posed in this particular episode, one situation had me asking myself what I'd do if it were me. See, one of the characters had to choose who got to live between two of her crew members being held and tortured by a gangster - choose between her husband or her long-time military compadre (also the ship's captain).

So I asked myself if I had no other options and had to choose any one person out of the rest of the world to live or die, whose life would I save? I immediately narrowed it down to two, but then I'd have to pick between them. Which one would it be?

Well, it would depend on the situation, of course, but the one I chose tonight is the one who's not whole yet. The one who's still figuring things out but I know is immensely good. And that means I'd sacrifice the other one - also immensely good, loving, merciful, and tender. But one's got the peace that the other one doesn't - that most everyone I know doesn't. And I swear to god I actually started crying, right there in front of my tv, by myself, in my living room.

There are other people I would die for, I'm sure. And for a second I wondered if anyone would choose me. Then I remembered something that had drifted away from me to the back of my memory.

It had to have been 10 years ago, but a good friend of mine had graduated from college. It was summer time, and I was staying with my parents for a while during my break from school. My friend had a job interview in the smallish town where I was raised, so her boyfriend escorted her an hour and a half from the city to her interview where she would be tied up for several hours. So, we arranged for him and me to hang out that evening while she did her thing.

I had spent time with him before when she and I were roommates with three other girls at 110 S. Blanche. We all lived together in a dilapidated but charming house in the town's ghetto. The house was tucked away on two acres in a holler bordered by miles of woods. There was a spring house and a bamboo forest on the land, and the house itself was old and slipshod, and just very... odd. We always had guests at the house, so naturally he was among them. He was sigificantly older - a real man in his forties to be exact - and he lived in the city. He would come up sometimes on the weekends. He was very interesting and earthy and artistic, and he had big hands and liked to dance. Anyway, yeah, so I'd spent some time with him but never one-on-one, so I never really got to know him well.

After he dropped her off at her interview, he picked me up at my parents' house, and we attended a local show choir performance. Afterwards, we drove to Chattanooga's pedestrian bridge and walked over the Tennessee River in downtown. And we talked. Then we stopped by the house of some artist friends of his. They took us to some dive jazz club where we had drinks and listened to these old guys play some mean jazz.

On our drive back home, we got into a discussion. I'm not even sure how it came up, but he told me somthing. He told me that his girlfriend - my good friend - said to him once that she would die for me. He told me he found her comment to speak strongly about my character, and it made him curious about me. I don't even remember how I responded upon hearing that, but I remember feeling deeply moved. I remember how powerful to me that sentiment was - and still is today.

My friend and I are still very close. I never told her about that talk with him, but I've never forgotten it, either. Even if it's not the case today, it was the case for at least that one moment in time. And knowing that - knowing for a split second that she could care about me so much to make such a claim - inspires me to be the kind of person worthy of it.

I'm far from perfect. Yeah, I know, hard to believe, right? (I'm smirking as I write.) I make mistakes and have my struggles. Sometimes I do or say the wrong thing. Yet, despite my shortcomings, I believe in being the kind of person who would die for someone. And being the kind of person that someone would die for.

~ the lady

Change of Address

A total of three of you have found me at my new home on the web, but it was a move I had to make.

Though I have somewhat of a protected identity which allows me to speak more candidly on this blog, a large part of my previous readership was comprised of folks who knew me personally. A few of those readers I had shared my blog address at my discretion, and the rest of them, well, I'm not exactly sure how they discovered my page. In some cases, I'd even run into someone on the street - perhaps someone who I hadn't even talked to or seen in a year or longer - and they'd tell me they'd been reading it.

The thing is, if you knew me personally, then you'd also know that I'm very candid in real life anyway. It's part of my charm, or so I've been told. As unsettling as it was at times to discover a friend or acquaintance had been reading my blog, I didn't really mind so much. The hard part was making the decision to relocate my page and leaving behind my anonymous readers who don't know me and who may have a hard time finding me again. With that said, I didn't make it terribly hard to find me again.

Nevertheless, some events unfolded this past week that prompted me to curb access to my page. I parted ways with a couple people who'd been part of my life for a very long time, so in keeping with that, I did not feel like they should be entitled to have access to me even through my blog. So that's why I moved it.

As to what exactly happened with those people, well, let's just say that my threshold for bullshit and drama is practically nil at this point in my life, and those relationships weren't worth repairing. Fact is, if someone wants to villainize me based on half-truths (or un-truths) without proper evaluation or stopping to think for one second about who I really am or the person they've always known me to be, then so be it. I'm not going to plead my case or try to prove otherwise. I shouldn't have to. I'm content knowing the truth about myself.

Sure, there was a very brief period where I felt misunderstood, misrepresented, and even betrayed, but it lasted only a matter of hours before I realized that this incident told me more about them and not the other way around, which made it incredibly easy for me to let these relationships go.

Regarding my obvious absence from my blog, well that is just a coincidence. I just haven't been inspired to write lately. But things are good. So good, in fact, that it's almost creepy. It's not that everything is going perfectly, but rather, that I am taking the day's obstacles in stride. Coming off two of the toughest years in my entire life, it affirms for me how much I really have healed from the multiple traumas that had nearly shit-kicked the life out of me. It feels good. Really good.

~ the lady

Don't Tell Me What To Do

It's true. I don't like to be told what to do. You could say that I'm somewhat anti-authority, although "anti-authority" might be a bit of a misnomer since I've never been rebellious when it comes to, say, a supervisor in a professional capacity. I never defied my parents, either. But, in general, I don't abide stupid rules or people who tell me what I can or can't do or should or shouldn't do. In fact, it usually has the exact opposite effect. I become extremely resistant. And the more pressure that is put on me, the less likely I am to do what you want me to do. It might just land me in the slammer some day, because if you haven't noticed, there are a lot of stupid rules.

If you want me to do something for you, then just ask me nicely. I'll most likely oblige you. If you want me to do something that you think is in my best interest or "just because", it's probably best to just keep your mouth shut unless I ask you for your support or opinion.

Unless, of course, you're slung up in bed with me. Then I might not mind so much if you tell me what to do.

~ the lady love

Breathing Room

This past weekend I undertook a massive re-organization project of stuff that's been piling up for the past couple years and that, likewise, I've been pushing aside for a couple years now. I've slowly dealt with it 'til it was whittled down to the confines of my room, but my room for the past four months has served as nothing more than a place to crash and a vault for all this... shit. And what I realized is how much I was being hindered by the maelstrom otherwise known as my room.

There's a whole list of legitimate reasons why it grew so out of control. Whatever. There's always reasons, right? So the real issue at hand was tackling the heap that was beginning to resemble the clay mountain Roy built in his home in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Ironically, I'm typically a very tidy person, and as long as no one peaked behind door number three, you'd still think it were the case. But in classic form, the steeper the mountain got, the more I avoided climbing it.

I'm not exactly sure what inspired me to dive into it with fervor this weekend, but I did - until it was all done. Now I'm luxuriating in my cozy space as if it were Inara's shuttle.

Interestingly, as I sifted and sorted my way through the clutter, 80% of it was stuff that I'd been lugging around for two or three years that I neither wanted nor needed, and I wondered why it was exactly that I'd held onto it for so long. Sure, a good deal of it was stuff I'd tossed aside with the intention of dealing with later until later became now, but some of it was stuff I hadn't touched or used or even thought about in years. And true, there was also the obligatory notion that some of it was gifted to me by my mother or whomever else, so I just couldn't get rid of it. You know what I mean. But what about all the other stuff? All that stuff that just took up space and created disorder in my life? How could I let it get to this point? I guess I'm human.

Coincidentally, I'm not even a packrat. I usually like to keep my possessions to a minimum (art is the only exception). I really don't even have a lot of shit. Like Ani Difranco, I value my portability. Yet here I was toting around boxes of junk that truly oppressed me and prevented me from living the kind of full life that I want to live.

The good news is that it's done now, and that's what's really important. But I guess if I take anything away from my experiences over the past two years, then it's this: I will never again allow myself to be distracted from taking care of myself. It only makes life a lot tougher later on. And at some point we're all gonna have to deal with ourselves - whether we like it or not.

~ the lady liberated

Thoughts & Stuff

The neighbor boys have taken to coming over every night. I'm trying to figure out how to remedy this situation. They're young, 20-year-old college boys. Somehow I need to break the news to them that this is not a dormitory, and by the time you get to be my age, you don't want folks just giving a knock and climbing through the window at will. I've got to tell them it's not an open window policy. They're actually alright, though. At first I wasn't so sure. A decade sure makes a big difference. Nevertheless, I've yet to address the situation. I'm still waiting to see if it takes care of itself, and if doesn't, I'm in the process of determining how to handle it with grace and tact. It's only become a pattern in the past five days, so it hasn't become intolerable. I've just got to put a stop to it before it does.

I've recently been listening to David Gray's "Sail Away", Los Lonely Boys' "Senorita", and Charles & Eddie's "Would I Lie to You" like they're the only three songs that exist in the world. Three great songs for three very different reasons. "Would I Lie to You" has been one of my sure-fire "happy" songs for 15 years.

I've officially declared myself a Joss Whedon groupie. Laugh if you want, but I'm a devout "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" fan. For years, nobody had better disturb me between the hours of 8:00 and 9:00 p.m. on Tuesday nights. Sure, at first I scoffed at it, believing it to be some teeny-bopper WB show. Then I lived with someone who watched the show, and after a few episodes I realized that I was so very wrong about it. Turns out, it happened to be the best show I've ever seen on t.v. Now I question the worthiness, taste, and intelligence of anyone who doesn't grasp the brilliance of the show. I'm not going to pretend that, at times, it didn't have its shortcomings. There were some pretty bad episodes on occasion ("Beer Bad" anyone?), and occasionally some bad acting. For example, I could never quite embrace the Tara character because I thought the role was poorly acted. I even found Season Six to be sub-par in comparison to the rest of the series. Even still, the show was solid.

Then there's Firely. That's when Joss Whedon really sealed the deal for me as King of the World. Having vaguely known that the series existed, I never had the opportunity to watch it. It was in a weak time slot, and I thought the promotion of the series was severely lacking. Not surprisingly, the show was cancelled after the first season.

Then Serenity came out at the box office last year (the movie based on the series that had been cancelled after one season). I saw it. I adored it. Then I bought it. After two more viewings of the movie, I ordered the "Firefly" television series on DVD from amazon.com. Needless to say, I've spent the last few days watching episode after episode. Relentlessly. And I could go on and on about it, but I'll just sum it up by saying that I am in no way a sci-fi fan, but I love this show. Maybe I'll save the reasons why for another post. Anyway, yeah, Joss Whedon is ruler of the universe.

For lack of a better transition here, I'll just jump right to the point. I'm comtemplating a big life change: a move to Chattanooga to be near my family. I'm still not wholly committed to the move, but I've been giving it some serious thought the past few months and am becoming more sold on the idea. My family is elated. They've been trying to get me to move back since I moved away 13 years ago. And I think I just might be ready to do it.

Wow. I never thought I'd say that. But you know what? As I get older, I am starting to really understand how invaluable the relationship with my parents and sister is. To have the kind of love and support they give me is proving to be much more elusive than I ever believed it to be. Perhaps because I had it all my life, I never quite realized just how special and rare it is. I guess I just thought that that's how life was. Turns out, it's not. People don't treat each other with near the unconditional love and acceptance that my family shares. I am lucky.

Okay, my roommate just got home and has decided in my behalf that it's time for me to stop blogging for tonight. I guess I'll oblige him. And go beat him at some dice. It's my duty, I suppose.

Peace out, players.

~ the lady loverly

I Am Such A Fool

Yep. I did something painfully stupid, and I knew better. God, did I know better.

~ll

It's A Tough Life

Where I Come From

My mother is crazy, but in a good way. Sure, she drives me nuts sometimes just like mothers do, but I'm lucky to have a cool one. I was talking to my dad on the phone today, and he asked me if my sister had told me what my mother had done.

"No," I told him, "what'd she do this time?" I asked. It's hard telling. I've known the woman to do such random things as suddenly exclaiming, "Stop the car!" on a leisurely Sunday afternoon drive through the country so that she could fulfill the urge to run full-speed across an inviting field. Stuff like that.

So this time, she was telling my sister that she wished she could wash the car naked. It was so hot, and she was annoyed to have to wear clothes. My sister apparantly said, "I dare you. You wouldn't do it. I dare you!"

A short time passed, and my sister walked down to the basement where the garage door was open. She caught a glimpse of my mother's bare shoulder and spun around. There stood my mother fully naked in the driveway washing the car. Mind you, they live in a neighborhood with, well, neighbors.

"Mother!" my sister exclaimed. "What if Alan (the immediate next door neighbor) sees you? Please, put some clothes on! You're embarrassing me!"

My mother simply told her, "I don't care," as she proceeded to jump around the driveway in the buff so her breasts bounced around. Seriously.

That's not the only time I've known her to do something insane like that. When I was a senior in high school, our small town was hit by a legitimate blizzard. I know. Unusual for Georgia. Nonetheless, we were buried in 24 inches of snow and lost electricity, so we took our perishables to the patio and nestled them in the snow. I'm not sure whose crazy idea it was or how it even came up, but one of us dared my mother to strip down to her birthday suit and dive from the back door into the snow-covered patio.

And so she did.

~ the lady love

To You

This will be the last you know of me. And you really are a prick. I didn't think so before. But now? Now I really do. Like I don't even exist. Thanks.

Before, I mostly just felt sorry for you after we stopped talking - felt sorry for you being so detached from love, connectedness, and emotion, because it was so apparent that your detachment was nothing more than fear. Well, fear and lots and lots of practice at becoming a stone.

Shame on me for thinking that I could fill that empty space with light and love. Shame on me, for there is a difference between emptiness and nothingness, and you can't fill a shell wrapped around nothingness. And shame on me for playing the fool to lip service.

O, but poor, poor you! You've been done wrong before. Now everyone who comes after will pay the price.

Unlike you, I will not let the fact that you seduced me into laying down a healthy amount of caring before shitting all over it keep me from believing in the good in people.

Unlike you, I will not be beaten down and lose sight of my humanness - my ability to feel - just because some transgressor stole another shard of my innocence.

Unlike you, I will not become a zombie, carrying out a series of daily motions and calling it living. A constant cycle of wake, train, work, train, crappy tv, and sleep that keeps you from risking potential suffering that comes with really being alive.

Unlike you, I will not exist on fantasies alone, occasionally pulling someone else into them and telling myself that I'm keeping it real. Coincidentally, it reminds me of Giovanni Ribisi's character in I Love Your Work and his make-believe Christina Ricci. If only she could've been a real life dream girl.

Unlike you, I will not be trapped in the asylum of my own mind where the only gratification is deprivation. It's no more or no better than being trapped in a real institution, rocking away in a chair with the word "crazy" carved in its arm.

Go ahead and tell yourself that you're not so bad. That I was warned. Keep falling on that sword. Sleep easy at night knowing that you did it for my own good, as you rub yourself raw lying face down with it trapped between you and your mattress.

~ the lady love

On The Topic Of Breeding

I visited my sister this weekend. She birthed a baby recently. His name is Micah. Being with them made me think a lot. I learned something, too - three-month olds cannot sit up on their own. Found that out the hard way. Yeah.

Anyway, I've never really thought that I wanted children - pretty much since I was about 13. And people always give me the whole "oh, you'll change your mind" spiel, which I always acknowledge the slight possibility that, sure, I might change my mind someday, but not likely. It's the only reason I haven't had my tubes tied yet. Fact is, the most compelling thing for me about having a child would be naming it and dressing it. Seriously.

Then this weekend I had that feeling of being wowed by motherhood. It makes me admire and respect my sister so, sooo much, and I completely fall in love with that kid with every smile and coo. It made me contemplate for a quick minute that, if I wanted it, I could have it so easily. I could give life, steward it, give love, have that exclusive relationship between a parent and a child, etc. Man, that would be incredible.

But then the reality of it hits me. I do not have what it takes to be a mother. When you have a child, your life - in every action - becomes about taking care of them. (I know, I'm so very deep. Aren't you glad you have me to enlighten you with such profound thoughts?) Anyway, it's just not something I want to do, and I for damn sure wouldn't go it alone. I can't even imagine how difficult it would be to be a single mother. Sure, it might be selfish of me, but who cares? There's no mandate that I have to procreate, and at least I recognize this fact before I spit one out. I also don't feel like being childless will keep me from having a full life experience.

Then it occurred to me: I'm not entirely anti-kid. Should the right person come along, I just might be up for doing the family thing - but with one stipulation, of course. I couldn't be the primary caregiver. I'd have to have myself a Mr. Mom, and I'd be fine with a man who wanted to fulfill that role. I just can't (or won't), but I do feel very strongly about the primary caregiver of my hypothetical child being raised by myself and my partner. I know folks gotta do what they gotta do to provide for their families, but for me, it's how it'd have to be. Call me old-fashioned.

So yeah, I'll probably be a spinster when I grow up, and when I'm old, everyone can gossip about what must've been wrong with me to end up an old maid. Oh well. Such is life. But I'm okay with it.

~ the lady love

Dropped Like I'm Hot

I've spent the past few months getting to know someone. He initiated it, and while I wasn't looking to introduce anyone new into my life, I found myself interested in this new person. He was intelligent, funny, engaging, sexy, compelling, and attentive. I was honest and upfront about where I was in my life and about my experiences and fragility, and each time that I expressed to him something that I figured would send him running for the hills, he surprised me with tenderness, understanding, and tenacity.

We both recongized this burgeoning relationship as friendship but, at the same time, acknowledged that there may be possibly something more between us yet to be discovered/determined. We were taking things slow and getting to know each other. Neither of us was in a place to make it something more serious. And though not immediately yet admittedly quickly, our interaction certainly became more than platonic.

Over the past three and half months, I gave this person more of my time and attention than anyone else in my life. I do not regret the decision to devote so much of my time to him. I chose to do so of my own volition. Quite simply, I enjoyed our time together and the joy he brought to my life.

Then, a few weeks ago, I needed to understand some things about our relationship to put things in perspective for myself. What started out as what I thought a benign question turned into several days of tense conversation that eventually fragmented and, apparently eroded, our seemingly genuine relationship. Turns out, it wasn't so benign after all.

Perhaps I could've gone about things differently (better); perhaps he could've responded differently (better). Regardless, it doesn't matter who was right or wrong or that either of us were either right or wrong. Eventually, I did come to understand where he was coming from, though in the end, I was accused of being controlling and not being a "friend" by confessing to having certain doubts that motivated my method of inquiry (asking a question without providing context), which was a misguided, hurtful, and humorously ironic thing to say. For the record, "controlling" is one thing I can confidently say that I am not.

The heartbreaker is that now I've been dropped like I'm hot by someone who was important to me and to whom I thought I was important. So yeah, I'm sad about it. I guess I'll be clumped in with all the other assholes of the world for some reason unknown to me. But I think my biggest disappointment stems from the fact that he put a great deal of emphasis on how poor of friends people really are and how much he valued real, sincere friendship.

The thing is, true friends work through disagreements, miscommunications, and tough times. And I thought that's what we were. I thought that, while our relationship may change in certain ways after that dialogue, it didn't mean that the time we shared together would be a complete and total loss or that we would cease to share ourselves with each other.

I guess I thought wrong. Despite my efforts for a continuum of our friendship, it appears that I've been written off, and I'm not sure why, nor has he offered me any meaningful explanation as to why, a particularly baffling point since he was adamant that I discuss my thoughts/feelings that pertained to him. So here I am - a little confused but also relieved that I know now rather than 6 months or a year later.

Life is full of lessons. And, when it comes to people, I am amazed at how much I continue to learn. Each time I start getting to know someone new, especially when it's more than just platonic, I fool myself into thinking that if I'm honest and communicative I can prevent such breakdowns similar to what recently occurred. So at this point, all I can do is reflect and ask myself what I learned this time around.

So what is it that I've learned?

1) Take note when someone doesn't have meaningful friendships to speak of. (Obviously, this is subjective. Some circumstances dictate certain situations). It is more likely a reflection on them as opposed to the shittiness of the human race.

2) On a related note, consider what it means when a full-fledged argument arises out of something truly trivial. It's probably indicative of bigger interpersonal issues.

3) Proceed cautiously with anyone who speaks frequently about how badly people suck and how selfish they are. Anyone who talks a great deal about selfishness among other people is unlikely to recognize his own acts and aptitude of selfish behavior.

4) Heed it as a warning when someone expresses having issues with trust yet indicts you for admitting to any distrust, no matter how specific your scope of distrust may be.

5) Accept any compliment or notion of regard to be pertinent in the present tense only. They may very well be null and void outside the exact moment they are uttered.

6) When someone seems to lose interest in you (degrees accepted) or you perceive a shift in the way someone engages you, don't try to rationlize possible reasons or tell yourself that it is your imagination. Take it for what it is unless otherwise advised (and only when the advisement is unsolicited) and trust your instincts.

7) It is definitely possible for a person to be logical to a flaw. It is important that someone demonstrate a healthy balance of emotion and logic.

8) Be wary of anyone who wants/expects you to share your thoughts, feelings, and opinions but doesn't reciprocate to a comparable extent.

9) Under no circumstances think that you are special or that someone views you as special or that what you share is unique.

10) (A) Never ignore the red flags no matter how insignificant they may seem, especially in comparison to everything else you think you know about someone. More importantly, if you don't do (A), then do not delude yourself into thinking that (B) if you address the issues that raise the red flags that you have resolved anything.

11) Never project your own willingness to share onto someone else. Just because you are willing to talk about your own thoughts and feelings by no means dictates that you will receive the same openness back (this is a biggie for me and one that I have to keep re-learning).

12) Do not assume that just because you share your experiences, insecurities, or fears that someone will take this information into consideration when it comes to their words and actions towards you. In fact, be prepared to hear in the end that "I never intended for this to be anything..." despite everything you could point out that would indicate otherwise. I'm not saying that things/feelings can't change. They can and do, but that statement has made me well up with tears more than once over the years because it has made me question my own sense of sanity and reality, especially when I know with surety that I provided multiple opportunities for this sentiment to be expressed. Going forward, I will just come to expect it.

And finally,

13) I think I really am a lesbian.


~ the lady love

You Can Call Me Up, And We Can Get Down

One of my *things* is making mixed CDs. I can make the hell out of a music mix. It's an art form to me. So tonight, J & I were hanging out, and he was about to put on some tunes. "Hold that thought," I told him, as I darted to my room to scan my mixed CD wallet. I came across one simply entitled "Mmmm". I knew it had to be good with a name like "Mmmm", but I had absolutely zero recollection of what was on it. It was almost like opening Christmas presents as a kid - I couldn't wait to see what gem was in store for us next.

Man. My night just got made.

So without further adieu:

1. Who Is He (And What Is He To You) - Bill Withers
2. Talk Show Host - Radiohead
3. Right Here's The Spot - Basement Jaxx featuring Meshell Ndegeocello
4. The Seed 2.0 - The Roots & Cody Chesnutt
5. I Wanna Make It Wit Chu - Desert Sessions Vol 9 & 10 (Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age, PJ Harvey, Twiggy Ramirez of Marilyn Manson, & Dean Ween of Ween)
6. Everybody Got Their Something - Nikka Costa
7. Whipping Boy - Ben Harper
8. Could You Be Loved - Bob Marley
9. You Got Me - The Roots feat. Erykah Badu
10. Overcome - Tricky feat. Martina Topley Bird
11. Subcutaneous Phat - Desert Sessions Vol. 9 & 10 (ditto)
12. I Need A Man - PJ Harvey
13. Where Is The What If The What Is In Why? - Moloko

Damn. I'm good.

~ the lady love

Whew

What do you think it means if you are relieved by something more than you are disappointed? Seriously. I'm asking. Anyone?

I'm not entirely sure that I'm happy about the reason I've come up with as to why I am relieved rather than disappointed, but I'm certainly okay with it.

~ the lady love

Thanks, I Needed That

Wow. I just received a big compliment.

My roommate and I just arrived back home tonight at the same time from being out. He related a story to me about his night, which led us to talk about people and how fucked up they are/act, in particular when it comes to romance/dating/relationships/sex... whatever you wanna call it.

Then he says, "See, that's why I'm so glad I have you, because you are not fucked up. You are actually sane."

Doesn't sound like a big deal, I know, but when I learn a little more everyday just how disposable I actually am to people, it kinda blew me away to hear him say that, especially since I think the exact same thing about him.

When you live with someone, you really get to know them in a way that most people will never get to know them. And what I've learned about J in our time living together is that he has great character and integrity, and because I live with him, I know it's not just a visage of these qualities.

So yeah, that comment coming from him was affirming to me, especially since he knows me, too.

~ the lady love

Junior High Strikes Again

I'm having conflict in my very own home. And it's with my roommate's cat. His cat is pretty, poofy, soft, and a total snob. I want to love on him and pet him, but whenever I approach him he ducks and darts away. The thing is, he's not one of those scared-y cats, so I'm starting to take it personally. Then, sometimes, he'll come up to me and love on me - lets me stroke him and pick him up and squeeze him - and I feel so accepted and special, like he's finally decided to like me. Then 15 minutes later, he's over me again, and back to snubbing and taunting me.

I told J today that his cat was like that pretty, popular cheerleader with the long, silky blonde hair wearing her Guess jeans and carrying her Esprit purse. You want her to like you but you just don't exist to her. You're a second-class citizen, because instead of a Coca-Cola shirt, you've got a Pepsi shirt (I wish I were kidding). You're just not quite good enough.

Then sometimes, just sometimes, she says "hi" to you. She actually has a friendly conversation with you while she stuffs her pom-poms in her locker that is next to yours as she carefully orchestrates leaving a few pom-pom strands hanging out so that, when she closes the door to her locker, everyone who passes by will know just whose locker it is.

So you think, "Wow. She does know who I am. She does like me." But then the next time you're walking down the hall in your knock-off Keds and say hi to her, she doesn't even notice you. Because, once again, you don't exist.

That's my roommate's cat. The little bitch that he is. And I try to just let it go. I mean, he's a cat for god's sake, but instead I'm sitting here writing a whole post about how a cat makes me feel "othered" - like I'm 13 years old again.

Yes, I'm 31 years old, and I'm that pathetic. Go ahead and laugh.

~ the lady love

Two Words

Oprah bugs.

Four Times Harder

Part 1

Oh oh my my my
My man's up all night
Works me till I moan
Drives me out of my mind

Why it's so hard
Must be made out of cold steel
Why it's so hard
He's a man running my wheel

Just keep me burning
Just keeps me yearning
Put my whole body on fire
Burning whole body desire

Why it's so hard
Yeah taking me over
Why it's so hard
My cold steel soldier

Harder
Harder
Harder

Oh oh make me beg
Eats meat in my bed
Works me till I'm done
Mad dog can sure hunt

Why it's so hard
Must be made out of cold steel
Why it's so hard
C'mon Daddy drive my wheel

Harder
Harder
Harder

Why it's so hard
Money made out of cold steel
Why it's so hard
He's a turning my wheel

Harder
Harder
Harder
Yeah

(PJ Harvey)

-----

Part 2

Why'd you have to go and mess up something so fucking cool by making it harder than it had to be? I think you might even be kinda manipulative, but I hope I'm wrong.

-----

Part 3

I just watched the cats give each other a tongue bath. It was very homoerotic. I think I even heard one of them mew "harder".

-----

Part 4

One of my best buddies just migrated to Atlanta from DC after finishing up law school. Today at lunch she said two hilarious things. The first was that in 13 years she had never known me to be wrong about anything. Sweet of her to say how ever misguided it may have been. I laughed hard.

The second was that DC is full of people who were their class presidents and that everybody there drives like they are "The Shit". I laughed harder.


~ the lady love

Out of the Dark, Into the Light

I started to call this post "After the Rain", but all I kept hearing was that song by Nelson. Ahhh, Nelson. I saw the twins twice in concert. Hey, cut me some slack. I was fifteen.

Anyhoo, the last couple days - or you could even say weeks (or year and a half for that matter) - I've had the shit kicked out of me. So much so that I was milling through my past to figure out what I could've possibly done to deserve such karmic retribution. I came up with one, but perhaps that's just me being extremely critical and hard on myself. So I've come up with another reason: negativity breeds negativity.

I don't believe in much, but one thing I do believe in is energy. One of the reasons I believe I lead a (fairly) charmed life is by keeping things positive, but sometimes it's hard to just roll with punches when I keep getting beat down. And the more I get mired down in the bullshit, the more I notice that bullshit is slung in my direction. I feel like I keep getting up on my knees and before I can stand all the way up, I get knocked back down. Til today.

Today things got set right. So I'm gonna ride this wave, and keep it flowing. I'm going to take this opportunity to fix some things that need fixin', and set the positive energy back in motion.

Yeah, maybe it sounds a litte hokey and new-agey, but it works for me. So that's what I'm gonna do. Good thoughts and energy are always welcome, too, so if you've got any to spare, send some my way.

I'll start by sending some good energy your way: check out this gorgeous stuff by Sheila.

~ the lady love

Will There Be A Round Two?

My blog turned one year old today. I don't know if that should really matter, but I kinda like the idea of mile markers. See, the thing about mile markers is too many people let the mile markers dicate them: the way you should behave, what you should own and not own, how successful you should be professionally and personally, and the list goes on.

That's all fine if that's the way you choose to live. But I think, too many times, people don't even think about the fact that they even have a choice. Either they lose sight of the option altogether or they have never stopped to ask the question, "Why should I be/do/have anything by a certain age (read: time)."

I choose to not live by those mile markers. Instead, I just use them for what they are: measurements. It's not a bad idea to have a tangible gauge. It helps me to recognize patterns and keeps me from repeating mistakes.

So none of this "I should be married", "I should have kids", "I should be more successful", "I should" "I should" "I should" for me. Fuck that. No, I shouldn't, especially if it's not what I want. For me, it's more like, "Hey dumbass, how long are you gonna waste time on X" or "I want to work towards this in the next year" or "I really need to take care of this. It's been two years."

As for my blog, what does a year mean to me? It means that when I look back at the things I want my life to be about, I am actually doing it and have been for a year. Sometimes it's easy for me to not think of my blog as "writing", like if I say, "I really want to write more." And I just realized that I'm actually do it. Who cares if it's some measley and commonplace internet self publishing. I'm doing it.

Sure, it's all over place. Unfocused. Self indulgent. It's me. And now I'm finally getting around to my original intent of a post:

I watched a documentary on child pageants a few years ago. This one trashy Florida woman used her kid as a barbie doll. Poor kid's gonna be really fucked up. Aside from that I found something hilarious that I've never forgotten.

The woman takes her kid to Alabama to these two flaming queens' estate where they run a business training girls to win beauty pageants. They had three little winners of their own, kinda like their testimonals. Anyway, when the woman pulls up to their place, she just creams herself - the shallow, shallow, lustful hag that she is. And her measure of their wealth and success was captured in this one statement:

"Oh my god. This is soooo nice. Look, not one pine tree."

I didn't even know there was anything wrong with pine trees.

~the lady love

Self Indulgent Reminiscing

Man, I've had some good times in my life. I was thinking about some of them tonight, and it made me smile. Like I think about back in my younger years when I drove this old 1975 Toyota Corona. It had a CB Radio and a loud speaker attached to the front center beneath the bumper. Then my friend Billy made me this mixed tape and one of the musical interludes was this random crazy circus-sounding music. So I'd load up my car with people and we'd drive around at 5 - 10 mph waving at people with the circus music broadcasting - like we were in a parade. We'd make frequent stops and yell out the windows at the make believe shriners to keep it moving. And sometimes, we'd even toss candy at the parade-goers on the sidewalks. Ahhh, good times.

We used to go camping a lot. John's Mountain was 30 minutes up the way. One summer night, a group of us went up in the middle of the week for a quick one-nighter. Later in the evening we did our camping ritual of relaxing around the fire, taking tokes and drinking liquor. Chelle drank half a bottle of Blue Raspberry Mad Dog (hey man, we were in college) and had to spend some time slumped over in the woods. When she came back, she was feeling the need to put something in her belly, and the chick sitting next to her was munching on Teddy Grahams, so asked if she could have some. She put a couple in her mouth, started chewing, and a strange look came over her face right before she confusedly said, "These taste like sand." I still today laugh at that.

The next morning, all the girls were quite hungover and feeling queazy, and I was driving them back in my old car. Apparently, I used to drive like a bat out of hell (don't anymore), but I knew the roads well - all the curves and hills, etc. - and drove them like I knew them well while the girls moaned in the back seat as they swayed back and forth in tandem with the car's motion.

I realized later just exactly how frightening my fast driving on those back roads was when my blind friend Tony and I made an afternoon trip up to John's Mountain to play in the water. On the way back, with his seeing-eye dog Quint sitting between his legs on the floorboard in the front seat, Tony kept jumping and flinching as we took those curves on two wheels. I think I slowed down after that. Nothing like a blind man to show you the error in your ways. Raymond Carver's Cathedral, anyone?

There was that time at midnight in the park in downtown Rome where the three rivers met. We got busted for - gasp! - drugs. Chelle, Amy, Rebecca, and I had decided to walk to the top of 100-year old cemetary next to the park (it was one of the seven hills in the town that gave it its name), and when we arrived back at the park and chilled in the gazebo for a minute, Amy decided she wanted a cigarette, so she walked back to Chelle's car where she'd left them. At the same time, Chelle walked out of sight down to the edge of the river. Halfway to the car, Amy spotted three cop cars around Chelle's car, so she turned back to grab me and Becca. The three of us approached the car when the cops asked us where we'd been. "We took a walk to the top of Myrtle Hill," we told them. "At midnight?" they asked. "Don't you know how dangerous it is down here? There are all sorts of homos down here at night." Yeah, they actually said that.

Then they set up the scene for us. One of the cops was patrolling the park when he spotted Chelle's car. He looked around the park but saw no one. He peered into the car and saw girls' bags sitting on the seats, so out of concern and thinking some girl had gotten snatched up, they entered the unlocked car to look for identification. "Miss James, would you like to tell your friends what we found in your bag?" In a meek and tentative voice, Amy said, "Marijuana." (Ironically, it was the first bag Amy had ever purchased).

They asked us where "Miss Parks" was - the owner of the car. "We don't know," we told them, "She walked down by the river a few minutes ago." What kind of friends are you, they asked, to let your friend walk off by herself like that? Then they accused us of hiding her, but we told them we weren't. So they kept me and Becca and took Amy with them to look for her. As they started to walk off, Chelle comes walking up the hill and in a cheerful voice goes, "Hey guys! What's going on?" The cops recap the situation to her, and they tell her in her bag they found a hookah, surgical clips to hold roaches, a vile of roaches, a bag of pot, a pipe, and rolling papers. Then they asked Chelle what all the empty cigarette boxes were in her car for. "Are they to hold your marijuana cigarettes," they asked? Confusedly, she told them no, that she just hadn't cleaned out her car. Next, one of the cops picked up one random box, opened it up, turned it over in his hand, and half a joint fell out. I shit you not.

Coincidentally, I used to bitch at Chelle for always carrying that shit around with her. "It's going to get you in trouble," I would say to her, always being the voice of reason.

They took my backpack off my shoulder and searched it, but of course, found nothing in it. Duh. "Told you so," I told them. So then they lectured us, took all our illegal stuff, and sent us on our way. That was a close call.

One month later, it was Chelle's birthday, so another group of seven at us drove over to Alabama to Little River Canyon for some fun in the sun. We hiked down a rocky, steep path with a cooler of beer to a spot that had an impressive cliff and waterfall. There was a rope swing rigged up that you could jump off the cliff and into the water.

After nearly two hours, out of nowhere appears a park ranger. He tells us that he's been up on the mountain watching us for 45 minutes through binoculars (yeah, I bet he was). Then he tells us that we're in a dry county, and we've got a cooler of beer. That's illegal.

"You girls don't have anything else illegal do you, like drugs or firearms?" We didn't, but he searched all our stuff anyway. Then he arrests us. We go to the station and sit around a table as they file police reports on everyone except me and Karah because we weren't drinking. Hey, look, I'm a good girl, what can I say? Then one of the girls started crying, and a couple more follow suit, begging them not to do anything to them.

The cops tell us they'll make a deal with us. If the two girls who weren't drinking (me and Karah) agree to do a weekend of community service in the national park with the five other girls, they wouldn't file reports against them. Karah was headed back to Maryland for the summer, so that left me to step up for my girls. So I did.

A couple weeks later, we head up to the National Park on Memorial Day weekend to carry out our community service. First assignment from Ranger Rick: set up our camp and walked the grounds and pick up litter. Two hours later, he came and picked us up and took us to the lodge. Chelle and Amy got kitchen duty while the rest of us had to clean rooms at the lodge. That's where we met Phyllis, the lead maid who supervised us. She had an Indian lover named White Cloud, and we took smoke breaks with her after every two rooms we cleaned.

After a couple hours, Chelle and Amy finished up kitchen duty and joined us. Still today they talk about walking up to the lodge and seeing the hilarious sight of me with a doo-rag on my head, a towel tucked in the band of my shorts, and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth as I pushed a cart of cleaning supplies. Funny thing about the lodge, too - they had matches with the slogan "Alabama - state of surprises!" so our motto for the trip became, "Surprise, girls! Dry county!"

After a couple more hours, we finished cleaning the lodge. It was only 4:00, but Ranger Rick told us we were done for the day, so go enjoy ourselves. So we did. We went back to the scene of the original crime and swam and sunbathed. In the evening, we headed back to our camp and cooked dinner over the fire. As the hour grew nigh, we thought how we sure would like to have some cocktails, but hey, we were in a dry county. That didn't stop us. We decided to make a 30 minute drive back to Georgia to the liquor store. On the way back, we realized that it may not be the wisest thing to get busted drinking in a dry county at our camp when that's exactly why we there doing community service in the first place, so we decided to get shitfaced in the car on the way back (except for the driver, of course) and dispose of the evidence before we got back. So that's what we did.

And it was fun.

~ the lady love

Horny Midgets Everywhere Grab Your Keys and Head to the Nearest Playground

A five-foot tall Nebraska man convicted on two counts of sexual assault against a child is too short for prison according to a Nebraska judge. The judge said that prison would not be a safe place for the tiny perv, so instead he got 10 years probation. WTF?

Yep. I saw it just moments ago on a news report to which my roommate J-Town responds, "You know all the little midget perps are like 'SWEEEEET!' as he threw an Aresenio-style arm pump in the air.

Is anyone else as confused as I am?

~ ll

I'm Sorry I'm Not Available To Take Your Love Right Now

yesterday i saw
the iron curtain
around your heart

making me cry
making me wonder
bringing me down
but making me love you

making me sad
making me sorry and
a little afraid
but making me love you

yeah

(Over the Rhine)


Spurred by a couple out-of-the-blue phone calls from former flames and the dusting of silt leftover from a faded broken heart, I had a thought. Not a new one for me but one that I finally have the right words for, or one word rather. Availability.

When I was in my early twenties, I had a 5 year relationship that, while certainly had its imperfections, was also sort of... perfect. And when I say perfect, I don't mean formulaic (read: storybook), but rather, unfettered. The three middle years we spent long distance, but it didn't matter. We saw each other when we could. Sometimes it was weekly; sometimes it was three months, but it never changed our love, devotion or loyalty to each other. Sure, the longer spans were harder because we missed each other, but having someone's love like that, I felt contented. I never even had the urge to stray, nor did she.

But that's not what even made it so... ideal. What made it ideal was how available we were to one another. We occasionally talked about the what-ifs of forever, but we both knew forever is a really long time, so how could we even begin to know the people we would become in the next 5, 10 or 20 years? Even still, while we were in it together - in love, that is - we were available to each other. Unfettered from the emotional baggage, bitterness, broken hearts, skepticism and insecurities that come from years of - and I use this word tentatively - relationships with unavailable people.

One thing I've never been able to understand is that if most people want love, then why is it so hard to have it with someone? But then I realized that it really comes down to one thing: availability. Of course, that is if the other basic ingredients are there - things like attraction and compatability.

So many people are not available. Their trust has been broken by someone in the past: a friend, a lover, or a parent, or they've never truly experienced love: from a friend, a lover, or a parent. And as much as they want love, they can't shed their self protective barriers that would allow them to experience real love. Out of fear. Out of hurt. Out of ignorance.

But to actually have love, you have to be available to give and receive it. I've experienced some really great people in my life. Tender ones. Compassionate ones. Even loving ones. But when it comes to being accessible on a level that makes them vulnerable to me, they're unavailable. Their emotional baggage, bitterness, broken hearts, skepticism and insecurities are too present in their hearts and minds to let their past fall away.

And that's why Jenny was so lovely. We weren't scared of loving each other. We were available - emotionally, mentally, and physically - to share ourselves with each other. We didn't promise each other forever; we didn't have to. The only thing we promised was to never betray each other's trust. Sure, when we broke up, it wasn't all puppies, rainbows, and flowers, but among the tears and sadness and loss, we knew that our lives were leading us in different directions. Breaking up was the right thing to do.

Since then, I've experienced some really great people. Tender ones. Compassionate ones. Even loving ones. But also unavailable ones. You often hear people say you can't help who you fall in love with. The heart wants what it wants. I don't believe that. See, I think that we make a choice as to whether or not we make ourselves available to give and receive love. And if you aren't open to it, chances are it's not going to happen, and if you are too open to it, you could fall for somebody who never really wanted your love in the first place.

I started this post with the song Iron Curtain because of something I've learned from the unavailable people in my life after Jenny. When I see the iron curtain around someone's heart, it may make me cry, make me wonder, bring me down, make me sad, make me sorry, and a little afraid, but it doesn't make me love them, not anymore, at least. Yeah. Because that's when you hurt yourself - when you try to love someone who is not available to receive it - someone with an iron curtain around their heart.

So the next time I make myself available to give and receive love, it's going to be to someone who is available to give and receive it back. Isn't that what being "in love" is about - being "in" something with somebody who is in it with you?

I was in love once, and I may never be in it again. And to anyone whose outgoing message says, "I'm sorry I'm not available to take your love right now," I'll leave this message: what I really want is someone who's available to pick up the phone. My love won't be waiting on the line for long.

~ the lady love

Cracked Out Mofo

I'm at a client's office today working. I mistakenly left my wallet at home (hence no dinero), and I didn't bring my lunch since I underestimated the amount of time I was going to be here today. So around the time I was about to become a mega-bitch from reaching my food-critical point, I decided to fill my belly with hot cocoa - a staple in the kitchen here. Two hot cocoas later, I'm jacked up on caffeine and sugar like a fucking crack whore.

I'm dangerous, I tell you. Dangerous. Ironically, the only thing keeping me mellow is the repeat button and The Be Good Tanya's song "Junkie Song".

~ the lady cracked out

Precious Thing

If you love me, sing with me.

~ ll

Living In Sin: Loud Love

Sometimes I wonder how my photos get chosen to accompany some of the things that get written out there. A good example: One of my self portraits was used in the following piece:

Living In Sin: Loud Love

I must look like I'm miserable, like I'm trying to sleep but can't because I'm distracted by the sound of the porno that's being filmed within earshot.

Coincidentally, my former roommate Jen (note the name of the person in the Q & A) apparently used to hear me doing the nasty as well, though I was conscious about not being noisy and asked her on several occasions if I had disturbed her. She adamantly told me "no" every time. I was trying to be a conscientious and thoughtful friend and roommate.

After nearly a year of sweet lovin' ended, she told me one night that she had a confession to make. She had bitched to a friend or two about how I was always having sex and she was tired of hearing it, but she also admitted that it was mainly because she was jealous that she wasn't getting laid.

At first I was embarrassed and felt bad, but then I told her that I wasn't going to apologize. As many times as I had asked her, it was her own fault if she couldn't tell me the truth. I gave her the opportunity more than once to tell me if my bedroom activities were disruptive or if she could even hear us at all.

Then it occured to me: this whole time I had thought I was having private, intimate moments with my lover. As it turns out, they weren't so private after all, and that kinda pissed me off.

Bygones. But people, if I can be honest with you or even broach a subject that could embarrass me, why can't you be honest with me? Is that too much to ask? I mean, really, is it? I just don't get why honesty and communication is so fucking hard.

~ the lady love

My Mess of Thoughts Bundled On Your Screen

What the fuck up with the miracle water they sell on late-night tv? I mean, dude. Seriously. But it got me to thinking - scratching time around my chin - about people and how we are. Theoretically, I could sit here the rest of my life and spout off about this topic, but for the sake of actually be able to post this fucker, I'm gonna attempt an abridged stream-of-consiousness.

So here's the thing that got me going: the testimonials. I mean, here are these people who are feverishly proclaiming how this shit changed their lives: gave them fortune/got them out of debt, healed uncurable diseases, whatever. Is it bullshit? Sure, they could be actors, but something about them speaks to a genuineness that you just can't fake. And if that's the case, they're real people who actually believe that this miracle water changed their lives.

So did it? Did it really changes their lives and fix their problems? If it weren't true (at least temporarily), it sure doesn't seem like they'd so passionately and so readily talk about all the great shit that has happened to them since they got their mail-order miracle water.

It made me laugh at first in disbelief, then I had to remind myself that I am an educated and logical person, so the way I think is different than the way a lot of people think. So does that really make my way of thinking right or better? Why is logic or a more developed ability to reason superior to being emotional or reactionary?

The thing that got me at first about the miracle water pitch is how much it reminded me of tele-evangelists. I saw an America Undercover documentary once that suggested that, quite simply, the success of tele-evangelism is a result of mass hypnosis much in the same vein as Hitler used. Now before anyone gets their panties in a bunch, all I'm comparing here is application of mass hypnosis.

There are supposedly three types of people. Those who are highly susceptible to the power of suggestion, those moderate folks who are doubtful but can be swayed once they have enough evidence to convince them, and finally, those who are least resistant to suggestibility. I tend to think that you could even say these three categories are akin to progressive levels of the emotional and logical.

So in the case of tele-evangalists or the miracle water pitch, they capture the first group easily and then gain the confidence of the second group by using the first group to make their case. So when you've got someone testifying to the effects of the miracle water or you see a group of a hundred people falling over when Benny Hinn waves his hands, it allays the doubt in the moderate minds of the second group and converts them to believers.

But here's the thing: what happens when shit really does change for people? Is that bullshit? How else could you explain healing or good fortune? Well, for starters, the human mind is powerful, so it actually is possible for someone who hasn't walked in years to get up and take steps when their mind convinces them that they are cured. It's a strange phenomenon indeed and usually short-lived, however. Check in on them a week later and they're back confined to the wheelchair. But, for a moment, they actually did walk across the stage, or at least made those three steps.

I've often thought about religion much in the same way. That an inclination to believe in something that can't be grasped or measured comes from a place of emotional need. People have so much faith and believe so adamanantly that there is a higher power taking care of them. And often they actually do reap positive results. They see their lives change for the better, and they're motivated to modify their own behavior to live a more godly life. And when they don't have positive experiences, they keep on having faith, because well, the lord works in mysterious ways. And for the times when something good does happen, it's the power of the lord providing for them.

I've even thought before that projecting hope and faith outward and towards something greater than one's self - simply directing it away from yourself - alleviates a certain pressure that it's up to you and only you, thereby making people happier and more fulfilled. In a cosmic sense of feeling taken care of, you actually are taken care of, even if you're still doing the work to sustain yourself. But the lord gets the credit, and maybe that's okay. If confidence and faith in a higher power provide people the wherewithal, optimism, and motivation to not give up in life, then what's wrong with that?

I've seen it a lot, actually. It makes me wish sometimes that I could have faith. I don't disrespect it, either. My parents attribute their survival to the power and mercy of Christ.

Holy tangent, batman. I was intending to talk about logic vs. emotion. My point is, is it logical for a bottle of holy water, the touch of a self-proclaimed prophet, or even the grace of a mythical or otherworldly entity to be the answer to our problems? Of course not, because it doesn't make sense. I mean, isn't faith believing in something when there is no proof? But sometimes it does work, even if only in our own minds.

It seems to be a commonly held belief that logic is superior to emotion. But why is that really? Logic is nothing more than a science - a system of knowledge to explain the world and the phenoma of our existance. My main problem with science is that it is only a creation of the human mind. It's how we attempt to explain and comprehend. But, to me, the precision of science is confined to the ability of the human mind to identify patterns based on how the human mind processes information, but does that make it absolute? Sure it does, at least in our own minds. Or in the mind of an atheist. I guess that explains why I'm agnostic.

Of course, our reactions are shaped by our environment: what we think we're supposed to have, what is right or wrong, etc., so it follows that our emotions are a mere product of environment as well, dictating our reactions. However, the root of emotion is not, is it? The fact that we even have the ability to respond emotionally to the world around us is a natural part of us, just as the ability to develop systems of thought about the world is. So why is it that being logical is so much better than being emotional?

I often find myself trying to suppress my emotional self. I mean, who wants to be accused of being emotional? Being emotional has a negative connotation, doesn't it? Being emotional equates to being irrational. But how often do you associate a negative connotion with logic? You don't. And being a woman, I'm much easier to dismiss if I am emotional, because good god damn, I'm certainly not rational if I react from a place of feeling.

The trick is trying to find the balance. I don't want to stifle a natural part of who I am: the emotional part. I want to feel. So how is it that I can honor my emotional self yet still embrace the logic of logic? Well, I'm still not there yet - you know, figuring out the balance. But, dammit, as long as I don't cry over spilt emotion. I mean, if I got kicked in the balls, that'd be okay, because those would be logical tears: a mere manifestion and reaction to the physical pain of it all.

~ the lady love

Driven

My memory will not fail me now
And the rest is history

(Bergquist/Detweiler)

---

I know I've said it before: my memory is pretty remarkable. I used to think it was cool or that I was gifted or some shit like that, but in my old age I think it might just be my undoing. Inconsistency is one of the most aggravating (and most shared) qualities I find among other people. But if my memory weren't so damn good, I'd never even know it. And though you'd think it'd be better, what's worse is having irrefutable evidence right in front of me to remind me that, indeed, I remembered it correctly. Yet somehow it makes me feel even crazier.

I swear, people, I think it will eventually drive me over the edge.

Hmmm, maybe I'll just start fucking with reckless abandon. Nothing means anything anyway, right? And at least I'll have a good time. That is, until I come down with a case of crotch rot.

~tll

Gone Too Long

Finally, my computer has been resurrected thanks to my friend Mike. Sure, it's been longer than your standard three days in the biblical sense (Wait, how long was Lazarus down for?), but Mike is his own sort of miracle worker. Man, I don't know what I'd do without him. He's my techie saviour, besides just being an all-around good guy and friend. Fortunately, his wife Heather is just as cool, loaning her husband out to me all the time.

Last night, during our third attempt to get this bitch up and running again, Heather said, "Oh good. I was afraid it wasn't going to work." I looked at Heather and playfully said, "Come on. What you really mean is 'Is this bitch ever going to leave so I can have my husband back?'"

You'd think after my virtual sabbatical I'd have a lot to say. Nope. I guess I've lost my voice, or perhaps just my opinions.

Oooh, saying that reminded me of a line from a poem that my extended college crush wrote (not about me). An excerpt:

...

the more you come around
the more I seem to wait
to try on thoughts
and lend out shirts
and watch you listen
while I lose opinions

...

I cannot believe I remembered that. That had to be 10 years ago. But re-reading those lines just now reminds me why I had such a hard-on for him back then. I mean, that's just altogether hot. Even still to me now. The thing is, now I wouldn't be so patient or absurd to find his brooding, i.e. his inner conflict - sexy or compelling, no matter how sexy and compelling he was just for being him.

~ the lady love

The Day I Changed The World

Time just moved me into my thirty first year. Ten, no, eleven minutes ago, I officially got one year older. It's not just my day. Today is Earth Day. It's also Jack Nicholson's and Anna's (my Mini-Me) birthday. Tomorrow is someone else's day: Shakespeare's and Troy's birthday, in fact.

I am quiet tonight, not like last year. Last year was the party of a lifetime that lasted 'til daylight. I didn't want anything like that this year. Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll get to whisper "please don't stop" into someone's ear. That's the only birthday invitation I'm extending this year. It could happen. It could just as easily not happen. It's happened and not happened before. The last birthday I got to say those words was four years ago.

Last year was a mile marker, so I did it up right. This year, I'm playing it down.

I had actually forgotten several times this week that it was happening. It just hasn't been a big deal, and I've made no special plans. Yet when the clock struck midnight, all of a sudden I felt... weird. Vulnerable. A sense of expectation. Birthdays have this way of making you feel like that, which is ridiculous, I know. I'd like to think I was beyond it - you know, the sentiment that has been ingrained in us for a lifetime that somehow we're special and that this day is the one time each year when we should be celebrated. I mean, really, it's just another day. But I guess I'm not beyond it. Bummer.

Last year's celebration invitation:


~ the lady love

Coming Up Empty Handed

Is it possible that I'm out of things to say? I'm having a severe case of writer's block tonight. I've begun three posts in the last hour that have been re-routed to the garbage. Just goes to show you I can't force it or fake it. So instead, I've made a list of five things I may possibly be addicted to:

1) San Pellegrino
2) Garden of Life's Invigorating Morning Blend Aromatherapy as perfume (and I usually hate perfumes)
3) Michelle Rodriguez
4) Dice
5) Him

~ the lady love

What's The Big (Hair) Deal?

Hair. Where do I begin?

It's amazing to me how much our (my) identity is wrapped up in our (my) hair. Seriously. Probably less so for men, though I did know a heartbreaker of a guy once whose sex appeal was largely tied to his wild, curly hair. Grace and I use to joke that he was like Samson and would talk about secretly cutting it off in the middle of the night much like Delilah did. Let's see how much pussy he'd get then.

I've known a few people, Lenny Kravitz not among them, who've had dreadlocks for years and finally cut them off. Years of energy caught up in their hair hanging off their heads, and when they cut them off, they'll often talk about how alive and liberated they feel. It's almost like a rite of passage. A letting go of the past. And I can relate. Each time I get a haircut, I feel lighter and more alive.

It's on my mind at the moment because I'm feeling a desperate need to be shorn. By general western cultural standards (for some reason the term "generally accepted accounting principles" oddly keeps coming to mind), I've got good hair for a white chick - thick, shiny, soft - the kind of hair that people always enviously say they wish they had. I go through these periods where I decide to grow it out - to have that kind of hair you see most often worn by daytime soap opera actors, a signature of femininity and beauty. So after a few years of wearing it somewhat short, it hangs past my shoulders now. And you'd think that when it got long like it is now, I'd be rock 'em sock 'em. Not so - at least not to me.

Instead I feel weighed down, gross, and even moody - a sure sign to me that it's time to shed the locks. So does my dire need for a haircut justify a whole blog post dedicated to my hair? Probably not, but my hair fixation today reminded me of a story that leads me back to my original statement about how much of our (my) identity is wrapped up in our (my) hair.

When I was about 21, there was a period of time when I thought I may have a nasty form of cancer. It was a very troubling time for me - multiple biopsies and doctor visits and MRIs and such to figure out if the massive tumor in my leg was going to kill me. The good news is that it didn't kill me nor was it cancer. The bad news is that the back of my left thigh is permanently and significantly disfigured from an intensive surgery and reconstructive process. A tattoo couldn't even make this bitch of a scar pretty. I even walked with a cane for more than two months (which coincidentally made me feel completely badass). Oh well. Glad it wasn't my face.

So what the fuck does this story have to do with my hair you may wonder? When I got the call explaining the results of the MRI, a split second panic had me dropping the phone and fearing that I was going to lose my leg. When I calmed down enough to find out that they weren't going to cut off my leg, the next thought that ran through my head - I shit you not - was that I wanted to cut off my hair. Ridiculous maybe, but true. I couldn't imagine thinking about taking care of my long mane while having cancer, going through chemotherapy, being laid up in a hospital bed flat on my stomach for six weeks post-op, and then the months of recovery and attention that my leg would require.

So I directly went to my hair lady and had it chopped off - pixie-style. It was cute, sort of, but the problem was that it had the opposite of the desired effect. Instead of not thinking about my hair, I thought about it constantly. Of course, this was after I turned out to not have cancer, but nonetheless, I was more conscious and spent more time on my hair than ever before. Coincidentally, it even impacted other parts of my appearance. I often go without makeup, but when my hair was short, I wore more makeup more frequently. I was more thoughtful about wearing skirts, not wanting to look butch. And it annoyed the shit out of me that I was so vain that I cared enough to put more time and energy into any of this stuff. Instead of the standard 30 minutes it takes for me to get ready - including a shower - I was dedicating an entire hour to the daily beautification process.

The bottom line is, I was out of my hair comfort zone. Yep. That's right. I've got a hair comfort zone, and it falls right in between not too long and not too short. I get how ridiculously girly and shallow this all sounds, but actually, it's the exact opposite. When I'm in my hair comfort zone, I feel more myself and try less to project a certain type of appearance that I think I am supposed to have. And on hair-obsessed days like today, it keeps me from doing something radical and impulsive like shaving the shit off. Because then I really would become obnoxiously girly and vain, and that's just not me.

~ the lady coiffed

Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down

As I grow older, I have realized that I am less tolerant and less patient, and I want fewer ties to hold me down. Before, I never wanted to own property; now I don't even want a lease in my name. Before, there were things - like say, a set of lovely curtains or bookmaking materials - that I held onto. I thought, "I may use this again someday" or "But I love them." Now I look at my possessions and think, "What can I get rid of that I don't need?

That's why I hate shit like grocery store club cards. I mean, I get it from a marketing/business perspective. Creating customer loyalty keeps them competitive with other stores by offering a club card of their own - not to mention keeping their brand visible by positioning it on everybody's keyring. What annoys me about it is that I just want to go to the fucking grocery store, and usually that store is whichever one is in my vicinity when I think, "Oh yeah, I need stop at the store." Next thing I know I've got three different grocery store cards cluttering up my wallet. Oh well. That's life. I'm a slave to the man.

It's kind of sad for me to admit that part of feeling tied down comes from the repetitive motion of life. I clean my house on Friday and by the next Friday I have to clean it again. Every April I file taxes (or do I?) and register my car. Laundry is a constant. And every April I add a year to my age, but the day-to-day duties to live in this world are the same. The cycle of life becomes tedious, and I become bored, so I look for ways to break free from the things that require me to live by somebody else's rules: the government's, Kroger's, the landlord's, or my dirty underwear's.

It's not just things. It's people, too. I know this will sound entirely arrogant, but fuck it, it's true, so I'm just gonna say it: I'm popular. And that's nice. I think I appreciate popularity more since I spent my first 18 years feeling alienated, misunderstood, and lonely ... feeling like I just never fit in. Always being told I was such a pretty girl but never having a boyfriend. Looking back on it now, I realize that most of my discontented formative years were my own fault for heightened expectations of self and self imposed thoughts of not being good enough. Man, I could've had so much more fun had I gotten that stick out of my ass.

To have people appreciate, value, and enjoy my individuality as an adult is gratifying and affirming. On the flip side, I have found myself, from time to time, being tied to people that I really just... don't entirely enjoy or who take more than they give. It's not that I don't like them; I just don't have enough time or energy to give them. So over the past year, I've untangled myself from several of these ties as well.

Cultivating and maintaining meaningful relationships is an active and mutual endeavor, and at this point in my life, I'm operating at near capacity. So it's rare for someone new to come along who inspires me to give them my time, but sometimes they do. They breathe new life into me, and they make the mundane not feel so bothersome or tedious. They inspire me to create ties with them, not look for ways to shed them.

The most surprising thing about the new people I welcome into my life is their willingness to give as much as they take. It's not just about them, and over the years I've learned that - even with some really good people - it usually is more about them. I mean, let's face it: people are selfish. Self absorbed. Whatever. And I'll be the first to admit that I am, too. Why wouldn't I be? It's my life to live, so doesn't it make sense to, in general, think about myself first?

But there are varying degrees of selfishness. I've encountered all kinds. So when I meet someone who enjoys sharing or giving to me and wants nothing more than mutuality in return, it resonates with me because I'm not used to it. It blows me away, actually. And I've always got time for people like that, and just maybe if I'm lucky, they've got time for me.

~ the lady love

The Kiss That Missed

I was strolling back through my photo archives when I came across this shot. It was originally a toss out from the Kiss photoshoot, but I really like it now.



You came so close to kissing me
You woke me up from my long sleep
Into an even longer fall

Lyrics by Myshkin (www.MyshkinsRubyWarblers.com) from the song "King of Kankakee" from the record "Rosebud Bullets"

~ the lady love

Sometimes Other People Just Say It Better

Just finished reading my dearest Grace's latest journal entry Kindness as medicine (April 6, 2006) Such a poignant post here that I wanted to share it with you, especially since my page has been lingering in the gutter of the mind - or more precisely - the groin.

One part in particular spoke loudly to me and commanded a re-read three whole times:

"Several years ago, when the Dalai Lama was at a conference with other Buddhist teachers, a western teacher brought up the subject of self-hatred. The Dalai Lama did not know what she was talking about. The concept of self-loathing had to be explained to him by the westerners. I think it took quite a bit of explaining before he got it. And it's not like the Dalai Lama is a slow dude."

On another topic, I am currently addicted to the Dobie rub part one - Sunshine remix version of Bjork's I Miss You

Rodney P.:

I had a dream that I was missing you indeed
And if I miss you then you know that I'll be there with speed
I gotta miss the cool vibe for your mind, believe
I've never seen you but I've seen you've got the vibes I need
That's why I miss you, kind of miss you, for my mind
Only for people often miss you but I seek to find
You gotta send me an emotion on the side
To even know when all things must should be in time
Still I miss you

----

And now for something even more random, these are the right and left views from my patio:





~ the lady a.d.d.

What Does A Referral Say About You?

I've learned a lot about myself by reviewing the referral links that direct traffic to my website. Below is a list of search engine terms that bring up my website as a result. These searches were performed during the last five days:

real people having fun and creativy sex
toxocology report on xanax
rape fantasies (twice)
alyssa milano sweet ass
thai mom sex swinging
fuck the lady
fuck lady
alyssa milano tattoos
tonsillectemy price
longlasting sex
lady who likes to fuck
sex swinging lady
rape lady
naked women decals

and, of course, my favorite:
porking the lady

---

So what did I learn about myself from this list? That if I believed in hell, I'd be going there, but I'd be having some great sex while I was there - probably with Alyssa Milano.

~ the lady love

Sending The Wrong Message

So my last two posts I think perhaps sent an unintended message. Despite how things apparently sounded in my recent blog posts according to some of you, let me set the record straight. Life is fucking peachy right now. Really, it's grand.

~ the lady misundastood

Oversexed: A Definition

Main Entry: over-sexed
Pronunciation:"O-v&r-'sekst
Function: adjective
: exhibiting an excessive sexual drive or interest : the lady love

Libby (holla) was the first one to point out my oversexed likeness, circa 1994. Over the years, sure, I've noticed that perhaps I do have a heightened interest and staying power versus the average person, but I thought she was mainly just teasing me. Nope. Turns out, my moniker has officially been added to the definition.

Coincidentally, all that I can hear in my head are the lines from the Queen song Another One Bites The Dust:

Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
And another one gone
And another one gone
Another one bites the dust

It's classic, really, the way I can wear someone out even though I haven't had actual live dick in months.

~ ll

Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me

Last night I dreamt
That somebody loved me
No hope, no harm
Just another false alarm

Last night I felt
Real arms around me
No hope, no harm
Just another false alarm

Sometimes I feel lame always posting songs or lyrics to my blog, but if you only knew how much I loved it, how much it is part of me, you would be ever so forgiving of my unoriginality.

So the stereo is spinning at this very moment and just spit out Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me by The Smiths. Man, I loooove this song, especially after that long, understated intro, and then, bam, the full band strikes and Morrissey lays down his smooth vocals, and just like the song's title, it's all aptly dreamy. I think it's that very moment that gets me in my gut so that I have to replay the song three times just to relive it again and again. And the first two verses just grab hold of me and won't let go. Every time. Every. Single. Time.

~ the lady love

Does Rape Turn You On?

The topic of forced fantasies, often referred to "rape fantasies", came up in a recent conversation with a friend. I have my own ideas about forced fantasies and what they mean, which I'm sure are wholly unoriginal, so please forgive me for having done zero research on the topic.

Does the average woman really fantasize about being raped? Hell no she doesn't. That's because, in my opinion, forced fantasies aren't really tales of rape.

Rape is a touchy subject. Merriam Webster's Dictionary (and I paraphrase here) defines rape as sexual intercourse carried out forcibly and against the will of the victim.

A quick digression: It is a commonly held viewpoint that rape, in fact, has nothing to do with sex but rather domination and power. Though not entirely, I tend to disagree with this perspective. I believe rape often has a lot do with sex. Otherwise, the valid cases we refer to as "date rape" would rarely occur. Date rape, in my opinion, more likely happens because of compromised judgement rather than the offender seeking domination and power.

As I said, regardless of whether it's rape or date rape, forced fantasies aren't really about rape at all. This would imply that one wants to be taken against her will, which in the case of a rape fantasy is a non sequitur. If a woman desires to be taken forcibly, then it's not really against her will now is it?

So why would a woman fantasize about forced sex in the context of rape? While the social idealogy of female sexuality has undoubtedly evolved over the years, there is an undeniable stigma that remains attached to a promiscuous woman: whore. In the case of rape fantasies, a woman is able to explore her sexuality and carnal desires guilt-free. She can have the sexual pleasure she so desires, say when she lusts after a stranger on the street or her handy man, but her reputation and virtue remain in tact if she is taken by him. If she is taken by him as opposed to being a willing party, then she escapes being a whore.

I also believe that forced fantasies may be an extension of gender roleplay. I believe that gender roles are actually quite natural. The problem with them is that, much like religion, we've created our own institution of rules and acceptable behavior that we subscribe to. So it follows that the problem with gender ideaology is that our social constructs disregard a person's right to choose which aspects of gender they identify with and manifest in their daily lives.

I've also observed that women often have a need to be desired by a man as a form of affirmation and acceptance. I'm not trying to say that men don't. Of course men want to be desired by women. However, it's more often the case that if a guy has a girlfriend, his buddies consider her "hands off" whereas women are more likely to be competitive for a man's attention and affection, even when it's her female friend's boyfriend.

It's hard to talk about this subject without all the cases of "but but but". Yes, I get it that I'm making huge generalizations here and there are always exceptions. And I for one am actually fortunate that my girlfriends and I respect each other much more than that to stoop to boyfriend stealing. However, my entire life I've seen it all around me in female-female friendships. So why is it that women tend to have a deeper need to be desired by a man, especially when she can take it away from another woman? For starters it says a lot about female self esteem. When a woman can take a man from another woman, it consciously or subconsciously translates as "I am more desirable".

So what does this have to do with forced fantasies? Well if we look at gender roles relative to men as the pursuer/aggressor, then a man taking a woman - in fantasy land - feeds a notion for a woman of being so desireable that a man will take it from her even if she is resistant.

What's ironic to me about the socially constructed ideas of gender roles is that they sometimes stand in direct opposition to our biology. It's actually women who do the choosing. We all know this. In the framework of men "spreading their seed", it's women who are the selective ones - finding the most suitable, prime sperm donor. But I digress.

With that said, I think forced fantasies are natural. In some way, sure, they perpetuate the gender role ideaology that feminism attempts to overcome, but hey, it's just a fantasy. It could also be said that these types of fantasies are progressive, meaning that by fantasizing about sexual freesom is a step towards breaking out of prescibed gender roles in reality. The next fantasy could be one where she doesn't have to be taken by force, but she actually wants it and can acknowledge it and accept it without feeling guilty for being a whore.

I admit that I've had my own sort of forced fantasy. I had never fleshed out a scene of any sort in my head, but I actually lived out this fantasy a few months ago, though it wasn't purposeful nor was I thinking about it directly when it happened. My experience didn't really have anything to do with the gender role argument I was making, which is ironic I know, but in a sense it does have a connection. In my experience, it was the conflict of my body actually wanting it but my mind telling me to say no.

And really, that's what I think forced fantasies are all about: wanting something that you think you shouldn't want and being absolved of the responsibility by having it taken from you.

~ the lady love

Delirium of Desire

A few years ago there was this girl. I first encountered her when my mom was in town nearly three years earlier. She served our lunch, and as the years went by I never forgot her. I don't know what it was about her, but she had something I wanted.

After that day, I'd see her out sometimes. At a bar one night. Two months later playing pool. Six months later at a restaurant. I'd always think to myself, "There's that cool girl." And she was. She was fucking cool, and I had never even talked to her save for that one time, that one lunch. And even then the exchange wasn't personal.

Then one night we came face to face, and she engaged me. Dare I say even charmed me? And she asked for my number. She called the next day and asked me out. Then she stood me up. Fucked up.

True to form, I couldn't just let that happen. It was wrong. I never got her number, so a couple weeks later I decided to have brunch at her restaurant. As I approached her, she looked up at me with a suprised and fearful look on her face. I greeted her and politely asked, "Why did you ask me out if you were just going to stand me up?" Fumbling around for the words, she nervously said, "I'm sorry. I forgot." With a smirky smile I replied, "Sure you did. Well, I know you're working, so I won't keep you." I walked back to my table and finished my meal.

Shortly thereafter she came outside to my table and pulled me aside. With her head half lowered she extended an apology.

"You could have called and canceled. I waited on you. I waited on you too long. I don't mind being canceled on, but not showing up was just... not cool."

She asked me if she could have one more chance, and I asked why she thought she deserved one. She said she knew that she didn't deserve anything from me, but please, could she try to make it up to me. I don't know why I said yes. There was just something about her.

"I get off work at 10:00 tonight, and I won't wait on you again. We'll see if you show up."

She did show up. We hung out. Had a few cocktails. Shot some pool. When it was time to go, she asked if I would give her a ride home. Certainly I could. When we got into my car, she stammered for a moment until she finally said, "When I saw you in the restaurant that day and you came up to me, I have never felt so ashamed in my life. I didn't know what to do. I'm sorry I stood you up. I'm sorry for not calling. I'm sorry for not calling later. I just... "

Then she handed me a crumpled up index card. "I wrote this," she said. "I have gone back and forth in my head all night about whether I should give it to you, but here. I wrote it for you."

I still have that beat up index card. It's lived in a drawer for the past three years, but I've always known exactly where it is. It read, "Once you get to know me you'll love to hate me. At least that's what they all eventually say. The look in your eyes tells me to stop and pay attention for once in my life, but my life never stops. It's constant like the pull of gravity - rarely questioned but always there. Apologies handed out at every turn like parking tickets. Can't wait 'til death - I mean rest. Same thing. Yet the power of life keeps on giving. The sanctity of people in my life is my fuel to keep on going - my own gravitational pull to my heart. Without I'm nothing."

I asked her, "So what's so bad about you?"

She hesitated for a moment then told me she was a drug dealer. She told me that's why she stood me up. She was at a party and doing a lot of business and was being completely selfish. She was aware that she was supposed to meet me but didn't call.

I don't know what it was about this moment that stirred me. Maybe it was her candid and genuine confession. She wasn't working me here. She was simply being honest. She had countenance. Perhaps it was forced by my own hand a little bit by confronting her in the restaurant, but here she was sitting in my car. An alcoholic and cocaine addict.

"Do you want to spend the night with me?" I asked. "Yes, I do," she said. So we went back to my house. We stood in my kitchen and I poured us both a shot of whiskey. Then I grabbed her head, pulled her to me and kissed her. It was good. Very good.

I took her upstairs to my bedroom. I kissed her up against the closet doors for a while then we climbed into bed, and she did things to me. She made it happen for me.

She left the next morning to go to work and asked me to come see her for brunch. "I don't think so," I told her. I didn't go to brunch. I went to sleep.

She called me that evening. She seemed strange, fumbling her words a bit like she wanted to tell me something.

"Whatever it is you're trying to say, go ahead and just say it," I said. That's when she told me she had a girlfriend. They were moving to Michigan together the next month.

"Okay," I said. "I would have preferred to have known that before we slept together, but okay."

She seemed really confused, and I was strangely confused myself. Why didn't all this bother me more? The fact that she stood me up. Or that she was a drug dealer. Or that she had a girlfriend. To this day I still am not sure.

We became friends. The last five weeks she was in town, we spent a lot of time together. It was fun. Then she left town, and we kept in touch.

She called me late one night in October, about four months after she moved away. She told me she was in love with me. I told her that I loved her, too, because I did, but with my next breath I told her that I would never be with her. No, I would never be her girl.

One night as I lay thinking about her, I wrote something. A love poem. But I never gave it to her. It was never really hers to have anyway.

Music of the moment : Lifelong Fling


The moon blind-sided the sky again
As we grabbed loose ends of the tide and then
The slippery slide
You know I can't say when
I ever took a ride that could slap me this silly
With roiling joy
Lazy as sin
Lyin' up in heaven with my special friend
And the space he's in
It can make a girl grin
In the beginning of a lifelong fling

I wrote down a dream
Folded the note
Slipped it in the pocket of my tattered coat

I wrote down a dream
In invisible ink
It never was mine I'm beginning to think

I wrote down a dream
What more could I do
I drew myself a picture and the picture was you

I wrote myself a riddle
I said, What I wouldn't do
To give something good
To a love like you

I wrote down a dream
Folded the note
Passed it to you we stepped in our boat

Sailed 'round the world
We were hoping to find
More than the sum of all we left behind

I wrote down a dream
But what was it now
And why does it feel so distant somehow

Did I take too long
Did I get it wrong
You're still the missing line in my favorite song

~ the lady love

Farte - The Smell of a Man

So a buddy of of mine and I were hanging out recently. He came straight from work to pick me up for dinner, and when I got into the car, it smelled like M. had competely deflated in there. I said, "Duuude, have you been rippin' 'em in here?" He goes, "Um, yeah, a little bit. I tried to air it out."

"M.! You must have drilled them into the upholstery. It smells like a mixture of lingering cologne and farts in here."

The next day I got an email from M.:

Dear Ms. Love,

I would like to introduce you to the new fragrance sweeping the nation for "real" men. It is called Farte (pronounced Fart-A) Musk. It is a lovely blend of natural botanicals mixed with the natural smell of a "Man". It is light and breezy and a scent you will not soon forget. What will those French come up with next? It is an irresistible smell and drives everyone wild. You've got to get some Farte today!

Hey, I enjoyed the rub last night and the fun and games. We will have to do that again real soon. Hope you have a good day. And don't forget to place an order for Farte.

Love ya,
M.

For A Good Time Click Here

I actually laughed out loud several times when I read this post. I got my first giggle at Rum, and it just goes on from there. Oh dear god this is why I learned to read in the first place.

Read it for yourself here.

~ tll

fuck the world

ABO Incompatibility

ABO incompatibility disease afflicts newborns whose mothers are blood type O, and who have a baby with type A, B, or AB. Guess what? Little Micah has ABO Incompatibility. He's in the special care unit now and who knows for how long.

With an ABO incompatibility, a mother makes antibodies against her baby's blood type. It doesn't happen if the mother and baby have the same blood type or if the baby is type O, since in that case, there is usually nothing to make antibodies against. These antibodies, if the mother is type O, can cross the placenta and can break down the baby's red blood cells after it is born, which may require phototherapy or even blood exchange transfusion.

Good god man. Coincidentally, my sister Amy had to have an blood exchange transfusion when she was 6 days old. It wasn't ABO Incompatibility, but it was similar and the effects were identical.

I just got the news and I swear my blood pressure just shot the fuck up.

~ the lady love

porking for love

Man, my day just got made. I received an email from a girl I used to know way back when - like 10 years ago. She was a cute and funny little thing and a smashing artist. I have fond memories of Karen, but what is really funny is to find out what fond memories she has of me. So today, I received this communique from Karen:

Subject: porking for love

You know what memory springs foremost to mind for me about you? here it is. valentine's day is approaching. you and i are in the lobby of krannert center [tll: the student center at our college]. we are talking about valentine's day. we make up this hil-AR-ious idea for a valentine. it will have a picture of a pig on the front. inside it will say, "happy valentine's day. let's pork." i am sure i have thought of that every valentine's day since and even some times in between.

some time i will have to visit atlanta. then you & i & grace could get together. i'd like that. i'd laugh my ass off.

word,
karen

Now that she brings it up, it does ring a bell, but man, what a fantastic fucking way to be remembered! Also, it's great because I had forgotten how I used to be obsessed with the word "pork", especially when used as a verb. Seriously, I used to use the word "pork" as a verb as much as possible.

~ the lady love

The Story Of The Lefthanded Rake

When I was about eight or nine years old, I remember watching some documentary on pbs about how lefthanded people were X number of times more likely to be injured or killed using tools. The study asserted that, since 85% of the population was righthanded, tools were essentially made/designed for righthanded users by default, hence the increased chance of injury for lefthanded users.

Well, of course, I tried to use this new found knowledge to its greatest advantage. It just so happened to be autumn, and we had a yard with about 30 trees in it. That's right - time to rake the leaves.

I got on a soapbox about how it was dangerous for me to rake because I might get injured. So when my folks took a little trip down to the hardware store to stock up on yard supplies, they conveniently picked up a special lefthanded rake just for me.

Man, my lefthanded rake worked like a dream! I practically raked the whole yard by myself.

"How's that rake working for you, Love?" my parents would ask.

"Great!" I'd say.

Then, in college, my extended family was sitting at Thanksgiving dinner and telling funny stories of old when somebody said (my sister, I believe), "Hey, remember when you told Love you bought her a lefthanded rake?"

Everybody roared, except for me. I was so confused. I looked around perplexed and said, "What's so funny about my lefthanded rake?"

Once again, everyone roared. And that's about the time I realized that there's no such thing...

... as a lefthanded rake.

~ the lady duped

Baby Has Arrived

My sister had her baby yesterday. 16 hours of non-productive labor resulted in the most horrendous c-section ever. He did not want to come out. It took 4 people pushing and pulling to pull the little guy out. My sister is a champ. Tough as nails.

His name is Micah Benjamin. I call him gloworm.

Spent

A very dirty boy made me a very dirty girl this weekend. And all the people said...

amen.

~ the lady love

Sandy

Sandy, the waitress I was seein' lost her desire for me
I spoke with her last night
she said she won't set herself on fire for me anymore

~ the boss

A Soundtrack For Life

I love music. Certainly not all of it, but the good stuff... hell yeah. My life is set to music. Sex, definitely. Food, yes. Driving, always. Cleaning, absolutely necessary. Hanging, of course.

Sometimes when I imagine my life as a movie, I see the opening scene with me driving in my car and the Guns 'n' Roses song "Paradise City" playing. I'm not entirely sure why it's this song, but it always is. Sometimes I get a bizarre jones for a little GNR - usually in my car - and I often find myself turning up the A/C, leaning forward into the breeze to get my hair flowing real good, and singing along as I imagine myself in a music video.

So if I had a soundtrack to life, I'd have to say that Guns 'n' Roses would be on it. For sure.

~ the lady love

Jealous Not So Much, But Sometimes

Jealousy. An exclusively human characteristic and often a comdemnable one.

Yet I'll admit it. I'm jealous sometimes - usually for the most unsuspecting reasons. I'm never jealous in a relationship. Jealously in a relationship is usually a sign of feeling threatened (a.k.a. insecurity). For me, that's the most absurb time to feel jealous. Like if somebody is flirting with him (or her) when we're out, that doesn't make me jealous. Hell no. Instead, it feeds me. You want him, and he is choosing to go home with me. It's a compliment when I've got what everybody else wants. And that little glance across the bar reminds me that I'm the one that he wants and he's the want that I want. (Ooh ooh ooh, honey)

I experienced it a lot with Jenny. She was a phenomenon. Fucking drop-dead gorgeous. Unique. Interesting. Mysterious. Smart. Different. Fun. Dangerous. Pure. People would meet her and instantly fall in love with her. She was one of those types you only read about: a tomboy who was the the loveliest, most unaffected creature by no effort of her own. Had she been a beast, she would have been a beast. But no. Instead she had perfectly red lips. Long, dark eyeslashes framing striking, wolf-like blue eyes. Flawless skin and silky blond hair. Not to mention a killer body. It became a joke that everyone was in love with my girlfriend. So why would that make me jealous when she chose me over the rest of the world?

It was the same with John. It never bothered me if he was chatting it up with some girl in a bar. Isn't that why we go out: to socialize? Talk is talk, but at the end of the night, he's with me.

When it comes to matters of the heart, I'm only jealous when it's over. When I still want them and that person who is chatting them up may actually be the one that accompanies them home, and not me. That's why I always need a serious sabbatical after a breakup. I have to overcome any lingering feelings of desire to be able to be around them on an 'anything goes' basis. I don't like the way jealousy feels.

Sure, maybe it speaks to my own insecurites - that, on some level, I do derive a slight measure of self worth from the object of my desire. But is that so wrong? I've said it before, and I'll say it again: other people are our reality. So it only makes sense to me that we internalize the way people treat us as a reflection of self. I'm not saying it's right. I'm just saying that's how it is. We all do it. Otherwise, rejection wouldn't make us feel so, well, rejected.

As far as jealousy goes, that's one of the only times I would ever consider myself a jealous person. Yet this self-awareness serves me well. It prevents me from making a jackass of myself. It keeps my jealousy from rearing its ugly head and manifesting itself into words, actions or behaviors that could ultimately embarrass me. I've got the heads up, and I'm able to reign it in like a champ.

(I have no idea where this post came from.)

~ the lady green

All I Need Is Everything

I couldn't have said it better myself.

All I Need Is Everything

Slow down. Hold still.
It's not as if it's a matter of will.
Someone's circling. Someone's moving
a little lower than the angels.
And it's got nothing to do with me.
The wind blows through the trees,
but if I look for it, it won't come.
I tense up. My mind goes numb.
There's nothing harder than learning how to receive.

Calm down. Be still.
We've got plenty of time to kill.
No hand writing on the wall:
just the voice that's in us all.
And you're whispering to me,
time to get up off my hands and knees,
'cause if I beg for it, it won't come.
I find nothing but table crumbs.
My hands are empty. God I've been naive.

All I need is everything.
Inside, outside, feel new skin.
All I need is everything.
Feel the slip and the grip of grace again.

Slow down. Hold still.
It's not as if it's a matter of will.
Someone's circling. Someone's moving
a little lower than the angels.
This voice calling me to you:
it's just barely coming through.
Still, I clearly hear my name.
I've been fingering the flame
like tomorrow's martyr.
It gets harder to believe.

All I need is everything.
Inside, outside, feel new skin.
All I need is everything.
Feel the slip and the grip of grace again.

So from now till kingdom come,
taste the words on the tip of my tongue.
'Cause we can't run truth out of town,
only force it underground.
The roots grow deeper
in ways we can't conceive.

All I need is everything.
Inside, outside feel new skin.
All I need is everything.
Feel the slip and the grip of grace again.

All I need is all I need.

~ Over the Rhine

This Week's Blotter

I found Creative Loafing's Blotter this week to be choice. The Blotter is a weekly recap of bizarre crimes from Atlanta police reports.

When I used to say l lived right next door to the cop shop at my old place, I literally lived right next door. So, I particularly like the first blotter report below about the cops responding to a call about a suspected marijuana plant at a gas pump. It just reminded of the time when a boulder came through Steve's (the dead guy) window and landed on his bed, waking him at 3 a.m. Steve was pissed. He and I stood outside in the parking lot staring at some fucking nut case with an armload of rocks pacing outside the gate. We called the cops three times. It took 25 minutes for them to show up. The last time Steve called, he asked the dispatcher (who was coincidentally also in the building next door), "So all the cops and cop cars right next door are there for what? Look, man, I live right across the street. I could spit on your building I'm so close, and the guy who just tried to break into my place is standing right here. I called 20 minutes ago."

"I'm sorry, sir. Someone will be with you shortly." After another five minutes, they showed up. They asked if either of us actually saw the man throw the rock through Steve's window. Since the answer was no, they said they couldn't do anything because we didn't witness it. Steve asked, "So the fact that he's standing right here with a bunch of rocks means nothing? The guy is obviously fucking crazy."

Yep, it meant nothing, and yep, he was crazy. The cops told us after debriefing the man that he had just been released from the psych ward at Grady.

This Week's Blotter:

A MAN was at a gas station on Cleveland Avenue. He went to pump No. 7. When he looked on the ground, he saw a suspected marijuana plant sitting there. He decided to call 911 and report the plant. Police arrived and took the suspected marijuana plant to the police evidence room.

AROUND 2 A.M., an officer saw a suspicious white Toyota pickup truck on Euclid Avenue. The engine was running, but the car was parked. A man and woman were passed out inside. Five open beers were on the ground. The officer knocked on the door, trying to wake up the people. Eventually, the man woke up "in a disarray and unknowing where he was," the officer wrote. Then the officer shook the woman (the driver of the Toyota) several times. Eventually, she woke up. The officer asked for her name and if she knew where she was. The woman answered, "Hi, how are you?" The officer asked the woman to recite the alphabet. "Isn't the snow pretty?" she replied. The officer wrote, "I asked her again, and she wasn't able to complete a sentence due to getting distracted by the snow." The woman, who lives in Alpharetta, was arrested for DUI.

A WOMAN said someone broke into her rental property, a house on Beecher Street. The glass on the front door was broken, but the front door was locked. A rear window was broken and the window was wide open. Nothing was missing from the house. But somehow the woman's refrigerator was moved to the front porch. No suspects.

A WOMAN FROM COLUMBUS said she and some friends went to a nightclub on Auburn Avenue to celebrate her 22nd birthday. A friend of her friends -- a guy nicknamed Dread -- said he left his ID in the woman's car. So she gave her car keys to Dread so he could get his ID. Some time elapsed, yet Dread didn't return to the nightclub. So the woman went outside to look for her car, a 2005 silver Toyota Camry. The car was gone. The woman got a ride to Dread's house and waited for him. Around 7 a.m., Dread returned home. He tossed the car keys at the woman and said he wrecked her car, which was now at a wrecker service. Nothing further.

A NEW JERSEY MAN bid on eBay for a Porsche SUV. He won, with a bid of $48,350. He corresponded with a Jonesboro man about picking up the Porsche. (They talked only via phone and e-mail.) The New Jersey man tried to put a PayPal deposit into the Jonesboro man's bank account, but the deposit did not go through.

So the Jonesboro man told him to meet another guy at Lenox Square, in the Macy's parking lot, to get the Porsche. The New Jersey man went to Lenox Square with three cashier's checks totaling $48,350. He gave the man the checks, and took possession of the Porsche. The New Jersey man failed to notice that the vehicle identification number on this Porsche didn't match the VIN listed on the Porsche on eBay.

Next, the New Jersey man took his Porsche to a dealership on Roswell Road for a maintenance check. There, he was informed that his Porsche was a stolen car. A Roswell police detective arrived and took possession of the Porsche.

The New Jersey man tried to stop payment on his cashier's checks. He managed to get back about $29,000.

A MAN WAS FLAGGING DOWN and blocking cars at the intersection of Rockwell Street and Metropolitan Parkway. Police stopped the man, a known prostitute. The man said he was asking for money from the drivers of passing cars. The man said if drivers would give him a dollar, he would show them "some ass." The man, age 37, was arrested for soliciting rides.

AROUND 3 A.M., a man was swinging a yellow-handled iron pick. He had just broken the window of a house on North Avenue. Seeing this, a police officer approached the man. The man said he was evicted from the house a few days ago and if he couldn't have the house, nobody could. The man, age 44, was arrested for trespassing.

~ the lady love

New Digs

It's been a bitch of week. I've been going non-stop. The new place is coming together, and I'm loving the energy here. Here are a couple shots:







More to say when I have a chance to chill the fuck out. Right now my time belongs to everybody else but me.

~ the lady love

Ode To The Old Fourth Ward

So long, Old Fourth Ward.

I'll miss you crack corner Shell station, and you, too, homicide Kroger. I would be remiss to not mention all you neighborhood whores and Ponce and Boulevard jaywalkers.

I guess I'll have to find a new lullaby now to replace the familiar sound of gun shots ringing like a hundred champagne corks popping on New Year's Eve. And should I ever need to call on the fuzz for help again, maybe they'll actually be faster than a pizza delivery now that they're not right next door.

Whoooa, lady love. Slow down there just a minute. You're only moving to Cabbagetown. All hope is not lost.

~ the lady love

more blah blah blah

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that "Cult of Personality" by Living Colour is one of my favorite songs of all time. Please note: one, not the. I don't know if I could ever be so bold as to claim there to be a the. But one? Oh, definitely.

~ the lady love

Nice Rack

Alyssa Milano's tits are out of control. They make me want to suckle... or something. What about you?

~ ttl

addendum: This comment got me thinking about tits. Mine are big, and it's funny to me how people like to comment on my tits. I don't really care. Whatever. Um, yeah, they're big. Thanks for letting me know. But wouldn't it be weird if I said to a guy, "It looks like you're packin' a big dick" or perhaps even worse, a "small one".

I'm not insecure about this aspect of my body because I'm not overly top heavy or disproportionate, but I do know a chick whose tits are so big that they cause her a lot of grief. It seems that people think that, because hers are so big, they have license to touch them, grab them, have entire conversations about them, and stare at them while they are talking to her - like they're just an object and not an actual part of her body.

I am personally fascinated by tits, and I don't really know why. I love to look of them, ever since I was a little girl. I just find it amazing how different they all are - and in so many different ways. I remember as a little girl sneaking to look at pictures of naked women and wondering if that made me gay - and I was kind of freaked out about the idea of growing up to be a homo. Turns out, I am just a little gay, but it's funny that any attraction I may have to women has absolutely nothing to do with my fascination with tits.

I'll Get Back To You Whenever I Feel Like It

I try not to let my A.D.D. win, but when I work, I get distracted easily by more important things like blogging, hence the multiple posts in a matter of hours.

Anyway, if your outgoing message on your voicemail says the following, please consider changing it:

"I'll get back to you at my earliest convenience."

Man, that is one of my pet peeves. You might as well say, "I'll get back to you whenever I feel like it" because that's what it implies. I understand if you want to sound like a jerk. In that case, you should just leave it as-is.

A good outgoing voicemail is tricky because you don't have a lot of options. If you try not to be cliche, you can sound pretentious ("You know what to do..."), but I also don't need the elaborate instruction on how to leave a message after the beep. It's the new millennium people - we're all pretty well-versed in the procedure of leaving a message.

If I could, I'd just let the beep roll without any explanation. I'd still have that annoying little automated operator lady issuing clear instructions on what buttons to press to leave a message or for additional options. But because I have one line for work and play, I must have a greeting that is business professional. So I keep it simple: "This is Love. Sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message."

But never, ever would I say, "I'll get back to you at my earliest convenience." Shit... You might as well ask people to never call you again.

~ the lady love

I Cry Alone

I'm sitting at a client's office with my head phones plugged in when I Cry Alone by The Black Keys came on. You know it's the blues when you feel it like this. Listen to this sample. If you wanna be a cheap bastard and not buy the whole CD, you can download just this song (in its entirety) from iTunes for the bargain price of 99 cents. (It's okay. I'm a cheap bastard myself sometimes.)


My girl, my girl had a hold on me
So tight, so tight that I could not see
Girl, she had a hold on me, she held so tight that I could not see
My girl, my girl had a hold on me
One day, one day I let her go
It hurt, it hurt so, you'll never know
The day I had to let her go, it hurt so bad that you cannot know
One day, one day I let her go.
At night, at night I cry alone
I weap, I weap 'til the early morn'
At night, I cry alone, I weap all night, til the early morn'
At night, at night I cry alone

It Wasn't Even That Good While It Lasted (This Time Around)

I've posted a couple vague entries about making some changes in my life. The truth is, I had been seeing John again. I had backslid with him for a month in November, and after another month of no contact, he began calling me again. The day after Christmas I spoke to him on the phone for about 10 minutes, so I guess he took that as his cue that it was okay to continue calling me. He called again, catching me by surprise. I had friends in town, and he asked if he could come over. So he did. Then he stayed all night.

We saw each other off and on until last weekend. Each time, he called me(and it wasn't just about sex), and often I declined his invitation to get together, still waffling about seeing him since I knew that ultimately it wasn't good for me. In truth, I hated what we had become: superficial. The only times we had meaningful conversations were on the phone. Don't misunderstand: I'm not blaming him. In fact, it was because of me, though I did find it peculiar that, as communicative as he is, he never tried to engage me in conversation of any depth. When we were together, I could barely even look at him, and I sort of shut down. I was terrified of being close to him again, so I avoided any intellectual or emotional intimacy, but I didn't feel like I was being myself. I also couldn't bring myself to address what was going on between us in the present because I had been so beaten down that I couldn't deal with being rejected by him all over again. (Yes, I get it that these are my issues.)

I knew that I didn't like what I was doing but everything became really clear when I found myself taking a pregnancy test (negative). What the fuck was I doing? How could I have a relationship with somebody who wanted all the benefits of a relationship with me without the commitment of one? I knew I had to put an end to it for myself. If he couldn't deal with his issues that make him a commitment-phobe, then I cannot give myself to him anymore. Because it means something to me. And still does.

I had continued to see him a few more times though sex wasn't part of the equation. Then last weekend he propositioned me, and I turned him down. I told him, "I don't want to be your fuck buddy anymore."

Things got tense. We both felt it. Then he said, "I don't really think of you as fu.... (long pause) Nevermind. It doesn't matter anyway."

I wanted to scream, "If you don't think of me as your girlfriend and you don't think of me as your fuck buddy, then what the hell do you think?" But I didn't. I didn't say anything at all, and within 30 minutes, he left (he had to go to work).

I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't not be me anymore. I had to say the things that had been eating me up inside for months, and I was no longer scared of the rejection.

I called him the next day and invited him out to dinner, but then he cancelled (he got the flu). I waited all week and was on the verge of imploding, then he called on Friday. I told him that I was disappointed when he cancelled because I wanted to talk to him. He said he heard the disappointment in my voice and said he knew what I wanted to talk about (meaning me turning him down).

"Well, yes, but that's only part of it. You see, I hate what we have become, and I can't do this dance with you anymore. I don't feel like myself when I'm around you. I shut down, and that's not me, but it's the only way I can deal with you. I want a relationship that honors the unity of my body, mind and soul, not one that divides part of me against the rest of myself, and you cannot give that to me."

I continued, "I don't know if you quite grasp the amount of pain and hurt I've experienced because of having you in my life, so seeing you now brings up a lot of issues for me. I'm not blaming you. In fact, if anyone is to blame, I am to blame for allowing myself to be involved with you when we obviously want different things. But it became very clear to me that this is not healthy for me. I took a pregnancy test last month, and that was when I knew that I was done. If I became pregnant, I know I couldn't have an abortion. So if it were to happen, even though I don't want children, I would want to know that the person it was with was someone who would not just take responsibility for his mistake, but someone who could be with me." (I know John would be a father to a child he sired, but that is entirely different than being a family with me.)

Well, that was the crux of the conversation, It was a little more detailed and elaborate, but you get the idea. He told me that he understood, and that he wouldn't contact me again and would wait to hear from me. He also said he knew that it may be a long time... "Yes, it may be a really long time, but please respect my decision." He assured me that he would.

I was really emotional and sad at first, but I am fine now. The one thing I have to say is that shutting myself off like I did made it not hurt so bad this time around. What's really sad, though, is that John and I really did have a beautiful relationship. We were best friends, confidants and lovers for a year, and I connected with him in a way that I had never connected with anyone. I wasn't looking for it when it happened, but it did happen. In the end, I think I just thought he was more self aware and more emotionally mature than he actually was... and is. That doesn't make him a bad person - and that's what has been so hard for me all along. I know what kind of person he is. A really good one.

I must confess that part of what has been difficult for me is that I have felt like such a cliche: the girl who wanted more. One of the things that I have been working on is being a little more forgiving of myself. I remind myself that the reason I did get so attached to John was because he opened the door for my feelings of love for him and security in his feelings for me to grow through his words and actions. In fact, I also have to remind myself that I was very clear about my feelings as they developed, and he affirmed them. In the aftermath, I have played a mental game with myself that there is something wrong with wanting a relationship, but now I can say without regret that I do want love and companionship. Sure, it's too traditional to be post-modern, but that doesn't mean I expect it to be served up with all the trimmings of a fairy tale romance.

I don't believe that another person will complete me. I believe that a good relationship is one where both people are complete individuals who choose to enjoy life together. I don't believe that I have to get married to have a loving, committed, monogamous relationship. I don't believe that I have to make promises of "forever" or that those same promises have to be made to me. But I do believe in love and honesty. I do believe in giving and receiving support. I do believe that I can have a loving, committed, monogamous relationship without entirely merging my life or bank account with someone else's. I do believe that I can still have friends, a life, alone time, and independent thoughts outside of a relationship. I do believe that, while it would sure be nice to have, I just might not ever have it. And I do believe that it's okay if I don't.

When things unraveled between me and John, it was ridiculous. Coincidentally, it was also our first and only argument in the whole time we were involved. The bottom line is that he couldn't put the words behind his actions because he was terrified of them. You may wonder why the words - if indeed they were just words - were so important to me. Well, when a guy in a bar says to him, "Everybody here wants to be you because you've got the prettiest girl in the room" and he replies, "She's just my friend," it bothered me - and his response stunned me. John said that he didn't need anyone to define his relationship, to which I replied that by defining it, then people would know to respect it. I also pointed out that, by saying I was his "friend", he was defining it just as much as if he had said I was his "girlfriend". In fact, he didn't have to say anything to the guy about the nature of our relationship. We were exclusive, we were lovers, we were more than just friends, and it really bugged me that he would reduce it to something less significant than what it was. It made me feel like I was his dirty little secret somehow, even though everybody was in on the secret. That's right - it was evident to most everyone around us that there was something more between us, but as I explained to him, his lack of acknowledgement made me feel disposable. Turns out: I was.

Obviously, it didn't come down to just "the words". It was only indicative of deeper, hidden issues that peppered our relationship. I know that he loves me and cares about me, but after a year, I needed things to be more defined. I wasn't asking for a declaration for the rest of our lives. I was simply asking for him to acknowledge our relationship for what it was.

He told me that of anyone he had ever been intimate with that no one could hold a candle to me and that he didn't want to lose me, but in the end, his fears won out. I told him that I wouldn't have abandoned him. He looked at me sharp and quick and asked, "Why did you say that? Why did you say 'abandon'?" I replied, "It's obvious that you have a fear of commitment, and I believe that fear is rooted in a fear of abandonment. As long as you don't acknowledge our relationship for what it is, then you don't have it to lose." A tear fell from his eye.

A million tears have streamed down mine, but I just don't have any left. At least not for him.

I'll leave you with this: one of my favorite poems by Linford Detweiler, one of my favorite writers.

I Can't Sing

So instead
I have to wrap my arms
Around your head
And pull you to my heart
And squeeze
Just hard enough
To let you know
We could hurt each other

~ the lady love

Prick

A friend emailed this picture to me today from Halloween 2004. I borrowed that necklace from a friend because I love it and found the only appropriate occasion to wear it. Hilarious.

Camille, Love (looking a bit cross-eyed), Dan

The Thankless Little People

Well I just finished watching Hustle & Flow, and DJay's (Terrence Howard) meeting with Skinny Black (Ludacris) reminded me of some of my own experiences. Yes, folks, I am a thankless small person - you know, one of those people who knew a lot of "famous" people before they were famous and has since been forgotten.

It's a strange thing really, going from years of being acquainted and eating Thai together in seedy strip malls to blank non-recognition. I guess when you start playing arenas, all the names and faces become a blur. Funny that when I ran into you again two months ago, you greeted me with a warm embrace and kind words expressing how good it was to see me again. Wait a minute, mister, at our last encounter just six months earlier, you had completely forgotten my name and face. So which is it? You know me or you don't?

Then there was the chick who got busted with me smoking a joint behind the house at pumpkin carving party. One day after her "big" fame struck she up and gave me the complete and utter brush off as if we'd never even met. She went from extending big hugs to completely ignoring my presence. ¿Huh?

Then there's the (former?) friend who brought me back a bottle of tequila from Mexico for my birthday two years ago, then calls me a couple months ago asking me to write her bio before a Good Morning America appearance, but when I drop her an email extending congratulations on her big award win and success, she doesn't even bother to respond.

Oh yeah, I shan't forget the former rockstar roommate (whose sibling also happens to be a big Hollywood movie star) who moved back to L.A. and left me to shoulder his $250 in unpaid phone bills. He gave me zero response to a series of polite voicemails and emails trying to clear up the matter - well, until they grew impolite, but he didn't respond to those either. And to think I had cut your picture out of PEOPLE magazine for you. Ahhh, fuck ya.

See, that's the thing I just don't get about people's obsession with celebrities, because they're nothing special. They're just as big of assholes as anyone else. More people just know who they are.

~ the lady dissed

If It's So Good Then Why Does It Hurt So Bad?

Oh how I wish that doing what's right for myself didn't break my heart so bad. But I did and it does.

Let Me Die If I Want To

Tonight I got into a conversation with a couple friends about suicide when one of them told the other about losing our friend to suicide a few months ago.

A recurring comment that I hear people make is that suicide is the most selfish act a person can do. Then they expound by asking, "How could a person do that to their friends and family?" I do understand this commonly held point of view, but I have a different and - gasp! - controversial opinion on the subject. You see, I don't think suicide is any more selfish than living - or dying, as the case me be - by your own rules.

When people talk about life, happiness, and fulfillment, it's generally accepted that the ideal way to live is to make choices that lead you to your own happiness and peace. That doesn't mean that we should disregard the well-being of those around us, nor does it excuse bad, inconsiderate, and hurtful behavior. But it's your life to live, so at the end of it, do you want to have lived the way you wanted to or to have lived the way everyone else wanted and expected you to?

As I recently explained to a friend going through a divorce: life is complex, and making choices about our own paths can sometimes be even more difficult than not making waves. I for one can only hope that my friends, family, and loved ones will be forgiving, merciful, compassionate, and understanding for all the things that I have done and will inevitably do that hurts and disappoints them. The best we can do is to respect our true selves rather than to lead false lives. Integrity should be measured by how we steward the hearts, minds, and spirits of those caught in the crossfire of our self discovery.

And that's how I feel about suicide. Yes, I am angry and hurt because of it, but I've been angry and hurt by a lot of things that people do that ultimately serve their own needs over mine. So what's the difference really? Aren't we being just as selfish by expecting someone to stay around because of what it will do to us if they kill themselves?

Of course, if I have a friend who is in a such a dark place that they are contemplating suicide, then I will do whatever I can to support them and help them in their healing. But just like someone with a drug addiction, we can't make people do - or not do - anything that we want them to do. And so it goes for my friend who died back in September. If he was so unhappy in this life that the only peace he could find was to exit it, then so be it. It would have been just as selfish for me to have expected him to live in misery to spare my grief.

See, that's the thing about life: our reality is other people - in friendship, love, family, business - so it's inevitable that the action of others will impact us. The trick is trying to find a balance of pursuing our own happiness while being mindful of the investment we have in each other.

~ the lady love

Gettin' Bloggy With It

One of the things I'm most curious about when it comes to blogging is how did my scant readership come to find me? The "next blog" button perhaps? A blog search for key words that turned up my site as a result? However you found me, thanks for sticking with me. I blog for myself, indeed, but I'm sure not gonna lie and say that it wouldn't matter if no one ever dropped by here. I mean, what's the point in blogging if you don't want people to read what you write? I'd just keep a journal if that were the case.

Of course, it also makes sense because I'm a writer. It's what I do. Well, mostly. I'll pretty much do anything that anyone will pay me for. I just won't sell my morality. Then again, I'm not getting paid to tell you my innermost fucking feelings.(Freeway anyone?) Okay, maybe they're not my innermost.

I would have to say my proudest blogging personal achievement are the titles to my entries. I just took a nostalgic stroll back through my blog, and I've come up with some pretty clever headlines. I'm still beaming from "Gag Me With A Celebrity Fetus" a few days ago. That was a good one. I mean, if you can't make yourself laugh, then how can you ever expect to make anybody else laugh? The same goes for crying: If you can't make yourself cry, then how can you ever expect to make anyone else cry?

Oh, and in case anybody cares, here are some of the blogs I keep up with:

Blunderland by R80o
Roman Lily
Postmodern Courtesan
The Floodway Review
Julie Saltman
Burris
Harlem Writer

Okay, gotta roll....

~ the lady love

Shoe Freak

Okay, a bit of a mindless post here, but after an accidental five hour nap this evening, I'm wide awake in the middle of the night. The good news is that I'm awake before 10 a.m., which rarely happens, and I'll head over to a client's office around 5 a.m. to bust ass on a deadline. So here goes...

Jenny used to get very frustrated by my constant choice of inappropriate shoes. In my defense, Jenny once asked Libby which she thought about more: girls or motorcycles. Libby said "girls". Jenny chose "motorcycles". I think this anecdote says something important about Jenny: that her choice in shoes would always allow her to comfortably ride a motorcycle or hike a mountain. Therefore, her judgements about my shoes were very biased and rooted in her own shoe-making decisions.

But it is true - I didn't always make the wisest shoe selections, often choosing style over comfort or practicality. That was the old me. I was young then.

For the past four years, I've almost exclusively worn these Danskos (except mine are red, and you know red is the new black):



Cute. Comfortable. Practical. Red. They dress up and dress down with great ease. But now they're beat the hell up after four years of near-daily wear. Besides the fact they lend themselves to a heightened opportunity for the occasional ankle-twisting, they've served me well. Alas, it is now time to retire them and embrace my emerging shoe freak.

"Shoe Freak" is a bit of an exaggeration, I must say. I'm not one of those chicks who has 100 pairs of $400 high heels in her closet. Please. That kind of excess grosses me out. However, I have been on a bit of a shoe-buying binge lately and finding myself on the verge of buying shoes out of sheer lust. I've had to reign myself in more than a few times.

After borrowing these shoes from Grace last week,



and a plea to buy them from her to no avail, I had to find the closest thing to them, so I settled on these:



It wasn't pure indulgence. I needed some black heels. The ones I already had are very impractical (they're too small), which is why I borrowed hers in the first place. But then something happened. While shopping for my black t-straps, I fell prey to these:



Definitely an impulse buy but fortunately not a regrettable one. These are some seriously bitchin' boots. I never want to take them off. Now I can hike a mountain, ride a motorcycle, and look fashionable all at the same time. Take that, Jenny.

~ the lady love

Gag Me With A Celebrity Fetus

Yeah, I know, celebrities are real people, too, but they make me wanna barf sometimes. If I see one more knocked up celebrity with her arms cradled around her belly while posing on the red carpet, I swear I'm gonna blow chunks. Don't get me wrong: it's great to finally see them out there rockin' their giant bellies in all their bloated, pregnant glory, but those Hollywood folks turn it into this disgusting sort of fashion trend.

Gwen, Rachel, you guys are swell, really. I mean, good for you that Gavin filled you with his man seed and you conceived. But please stop with your faux posturing. Please. That goes for the rest of you, too. Seriously, I am seeing it way too much. I'm sure it's natural to touch your "baby bump" to some extent (yet another term that makes me wanna hurl), but I am not kidding when I say I was sickened by watching Gwen Stefani deliberately wrap her tummy in her arms repeatedly for the papparazzi, and I can't tell you how many pictures I've seen of Rachel Weisz from different events in the same types of poses. Maybe it's just me, but G.S. looks like she's got a little bit of an arched back like she's trying to pooch it out even more. Yeah, we get it. You're pregnant and you're royalty and us common folk can't wait for the spawn of your crown. Puke.



In other news, last night I dreamt that Chan Marshall (Cat Power) had been my neighbor for the past two years, and I just found out about it. So we hung, and she wasn't crazy at all. She even let me karaoke to one of her songs for her. Oh yeah, and her hair was red and she had freckles.

Also, currently spinning in the Lady's headphones: redneck rap from Bubba Sparxxx. Yeah, the three "x"s are annoying as fuck, but I gotta say, I really like Bubba. The bluegrass and hip-hop fusion really works for him.

~ the lady love

Manifesto

I am making smart, bold decisions again. I am putting an end to relationships and behaviors that do not nurture me - those that cause me to sacrifice my truest and deepest needs for fleeting, faux contentment. I am taking a stand. Making a statement. Putting up a fight for my health: mental, emotional, physical. I am taking me back.

It was intimidating at first: my execution tentative; my heart nearly pounding out of my chest. But with each word, each action, each declaration, it becomes easier, and I become stronger. I won't be beaten, and I cease to beat myself up. I forgive myself for losing sight of me and celebrate becoming myself again.

Self actualizing breeds self respect, and self respect fuels my momentem. I am bulldozing my way through the emotional clutter and making my way back home. Home is where the real me lives. I've been hiding out much too long in this tomb of doom - that dark, dank place where I had buried myself so deep that even the very memory of myself was fading away.

I am crawling out of this hole and seeing more than just a sillhouette of myself now. I am seeing me. I am being me.

It feels good to breathe again.

~ the lady love

The Great Flood, Part Two

So, the maintenance people and building manager finally showed up and figured out what the problem was. My upstairs neighbor was running water in his sink, got a phone call, left his place and forgot about the running water. Jackass.

The Great Flood

My apartment is under water though I have come to realize that it wasn't due to the rain. I'm still not sure what the problem is since nobody from the fucking management company seems to think this a priority maintenance issue. They haven't even shown up yet. However, considering I live below another apartment, it looks like it may be a plumbing problem at my upstairs neighbor's place. I shit you not, 3/4 of my place is covered in water. I mean, shit, had I known this was gonna be another Great Flood, I would've built myself a handy ark just like Noah did. Alas, there was no divine heads up here.

I sure am glad that I've never had any maintenance issues before. Funny after two years that I'm just now finding out what slumlords I have.

~ the mermaid love

Thank the Lawd...

...I am moving, and just in time, too. After two days of consistent - though not heavy - rain, my ceiling sprung a leak. It's a fucking mess. All of a sudden, the dripping sound became closer - the sound of impending doom. So close, in fact, that it demanded I hang up the phone and immediately investigate, and sure enough, the shit is pouring into my loft like it's got nothing better to do. Of course, I'm sure my slum lords won't do anything about it, as I have heard many a nightmare of the leaky roof problems plaguing the 3rd floor tenants. Seriously, a flash flood warning has been issued for the back half of my loft.

christ on crooked crutch. (Holla Tilt)

~ the lady love

Fight The Power

First, I just have say that, at the moment, The Be Good Tanyas are doing me right.

Second, I've pulled a fast one. Last night as I began to write out my rent check at the very last possible minute, I got pissed. I got pissed as hell. Those jerk-offs (my landords) cost me a lot of money in the beginning of January, so I decided that I was going to do what was necessary to recover the costs. That's when I realized that the amount of my deposit on my place was exactly $150 less than my monthly rent amount, and coincidentally, the amount that it ended up costing me to get my car back. So guess what? I'm not paying my rent this month, and they can keep the deposit, and if they give me any lip about it, they can suck it. In fact, I've made several improvements to the space - all new fixtures in the bathroom and a new ladder to the loft which replaced the deathtrap for stairs that were there before.

What are they going to do? Evict me? I don't think so, because I'll be out of there in two weeks before they could even get the eviction process started. Let 'em try to put it on my credit report; it won't matter, and more importantly, I don't care. I stand up for my principles. Call it civil disobedience. I've done it before. Just like the time I refused to pay the speeding ticket from that podunk Illinois town. I didn't deserve it, so I didn't pay it, and you know what? That was six and a half years ago and not a damn thing came of it.

Fuck you ABC Loft Company. And your little dog, too. And the horse you rode in on.

~ the lady love

Back from the Bastard Baby Shower

I'm back in town now from my sister's bastard baby shower. She's eight months pregnant, and she looks absolutely adorable, though I can say without hesitation that I am in no way envious of her.

On Saturday night I was settling up my tab at The Highlander when a guy started chatting me up. I told him I was headed out because I had to get up early the next morning for a two-hour drive to my sister's bastard baby shower when he asked me, "Is she happy about it?" I simply replied, "As much as you can be when it's a bastard."

I hate that the father of her child is a complete turd who will probably need another 20 years to grow up (they're both almost 30), but then again, she already knew how irresponsible he was, which leads me to my next point. Despite the fact that there seems to be a growing cultural sentiment that men should be held more accountable when pregnancy occurs, it still comes down to the woman, especially when a man isn't fully committed to her.

One thing that supremely annoys me is to hear men say, "Women are so emotional about sex." Well yes and no, just like men may be more or less emotional about sex, depending on the situation. Overall, though, there's no denying that women do tend to be more emotional about sex, but what's wrong with that? Isn't it just as frustrating for women that men aren't?

But let me put something into perspective. First, there are the fundamental differences - called hormones - between the sexes, which cannot be overstressed here. When women have sex, their brains produce higher levels of oxytocin, commonly known as the "attachment" hormone. Beyond that, there is something far less less clinical, in my opinion, that may explain women's tendencies to be more emotional about sex: the way we have sex.

When a woman has sex, she is inviting another person INTO her body. How much more personal can you get, especially if you are emotionally or intellectually intimate with the person you're also being physically intimate with? And a man will never, ever - in the same way - have to deal with the reality/consequence of unwanted/unplanned pregnancy the way a woman does. I'm not implying that all men don't take the possibility of pregnancy seriously. But as a woman, even if the man is supportive or involved in the decision about how to deal with the situtation, SHE is the one who has to be pregnant and ultimately has to make the decision about what to do about it. A woman is the one who has to go through nine months of pregnancy, with all the nausea, physical discomfort, and labor and birth that comes along with it. A woman ultimately is the one who has to decide whether she will have an abortion and go through the emotional and physical suffering that goes hand-in-hand with this course of action. A woman is the one who has to decide if she will give life to a child and then give it up for adoption or devote the rest of her life to a child because of the singular act of sex.

So indeed, women are more emotional about sex, but wouldn't you be?

~ the lady love

A Place To Call Home

Well, it's official. I'm moving. It all happened very quickly. I had looked at a couple places and was very unimpressed. It just made me realize how much I really love my place, especially for the price. Plus, I gotta say that I was dreading the expense of moving - deposits, application fees, utility transfer and connection fees - ugh!

Then the other night I got a call from my friend Jonathan. He told me he had a proposition for me. He was looking for a roommate and wanted me to move in with him. He told me that he had already turned a few people away and couldn't stop thinking that he wanted to live with me. Here's the kicker: he had no idea I was looking to move.

Even better, I love Jonathan's place. Love it. It's only about 5 minutes from my place and is located in Cabbagetown. The first time I went to his loft, I was admittedly jealous. I even told him that his place was the one place that I actually liked more than mine. It's also kind of similar to mine - it's a true loft. It's got high ceilings, brick walls, wood beams, a spiral staircase, and shiny, black-stained concrete floors (mine are red). And it's spacious. It's 1300 square ft. with two bedrooms and two bathrooms. It even has an incredible patio.

As much as I was thrilled to live alone when my roommate moved out in May, I have also been thinking the last month that I am kind of lonely - that I wouldn't mind living with someone again if it was the right person in the appropriate space. Turns out, Jonathan is the ideal person with absolutely the right space. My things will also easily integrate with his things, and what doesn't fit, we will put in storage (and he will be storing anything we replace with my things).

Finally, it will cost less than what I am paying now. After rent and bills, it will save me approximately $200 a month.

I am so, so relieved.

~ the lady love

Handle with Care (addendum)

After all these years, I still don't know how to gracefully tell someone who asks for my number that I don't want to give it to him.

Tonight I ran into this guy that I've met a few times before. The first time I met him was at a friend's place about a year and half ago. I was going and he was coming when he overheard me inviting my friend out with me that night. He said he'd like to go out that night, too, and asked where I was going, implying that he'd like to go out with me. I simply replied, "I'm going to MJQ" as a way to acknowledge his question while cleverly deflecting his implication. Sure, I'd be happy to run into him and be friendly, which is why I responded at all, but I wasn't interested in making plans with him. He actually came to the club that night with a couple friends. We chatted for a minute and it was cool.

Then a few months ago, I ran into him again. We recognized each other, were happy to see each other, exchanged a few words, and went on our ways. Then I bumped into him tonight. Again with the recognition and acknowledgement, the casual and ritualistic exchange of pleasantries, and then he said, "Hey, I'd really like to hang out with you some time." I didn't really respond, and before I knew it, he asked, "Can I get your number?"

After a slight pause I tentatively said, "Uhhh, okay." So I gave him my digits.

As I was talking on the phone with Chelle Belle tonight, I got another call ringing in. Most often I don't answer my call waiting as I think it's a bit rude unless it's a necessary call to take, but I didn't recognize the number, which piqued my curiousity. My dumb ass had completely forgotten about giving dude my number just two hours earlier.

"Hello?"

"May I speak to Love?" I instantly realized who it was. Shit. I wasn't prepared.

"This is Love."

"Hello? Hello?" He was obviously having technical difficulties and couldn't hear me. After a moment, I just clicked back over. Then he rang in again, but this time I didn't answer, nor did he leave a message.

So how is it that you gently tell someone that you are entirely uninterested? Now that I've given him my number, I want to acknowledge him. I think it's shitty to dodge a guy after extending an invitation, in effect, for him to call by giving him your number.

I don't know why I'm not interested. He's attractive, friendly, and obviously interested, but I'm just not. At all.

I tend to be a pretty direct person. I typically don't have a problem telling it like it is, but situations like these are a little different, perhaps because rejection just plain sucks. I guess I'm just going to have to suck it up and tell him what I should have said the first time when he said he wanted to hang out and asked for my number. That is, "Thank you, but I don't really have time for new friends right now," which is absolutely true. I don't have the time or energy for anyone new in my life right now, especially someone who I probably wouldn't want to make time for even if I was available.

It's just tough. It's tough to tell someone that you are simply not interested in knowing them better, but I think it's the respectable thing to do. I think I'd be more disappointed in myself if I just kept ignoring him long enough for him to get the hint, because I certainly don't like to be ignored.

Maybe I'm just being too sensitive. Men are probably better than women are at being rejected by a person who they are not invested in, most likely because they're well-practiced at it since our culture still largely abides the gender rules of engagement; i.e., men still do most of the asking. It's also likely that a man who is confident enough to so easily ask for a number probably understands that to get women you have to risk rejection.

Even still, rejection just plain sucks, and I admire people who have the confidence to ask me out. I've too often and too easily been told that I am especially intimidating, which I truly don't understand, but whatever. As a result, I often find myself having to put the ball into play. Fortunately, when I do, I have good enough reason to suspect I won't be rejected, so rejection of this sort isn't something I've ever had to really deal with. Nonetheless, I still fear it, so it's nice to have someone risk it for me.

Kind of a tangent here, but the topic of me being intimidating raises some interesting questions in my mind. Mainly, why? Sure, I know that I am a self assured person, but I've always been told that confidence in a woman is attractive, yet I get the feeling that this is the exact reason that people find me intimidating. I guess I just don't understand what exactly it is that I project that is intimidating. I look people in the eye, I listen to them, I ask them questions, I'm easy to talk to. In fact, I think I am quite welcoming and put people at ease. Perhaps it is my quick and sharp wit? (I'm not going to sugarcoat it. I know I have it.) I even had a guy tell me once that I made him nervous because I had the ability to shred him. But that's exactly what I don't get: why would anyone think I would shred them, even if I could?

Okay, rambling here and over-analyzing myself. Sometimes I just wish I could step outside myself and see me the way other people do, because I think we have very different perceptions.

What's a girl to do?

~ the lady love

Bummer.

16 Horsepower has called it quits. Tear.

~ the lady love

Tooting My Horn

So, something really fucking cool happened today. I've been consulting with a big design firm going on two years now. In fact, they comprise the bulk of my business. Anyway, today the chick who heads up Creative Services told me that I needed to raise my rate. Yes indeed. My client actually told me to charge them MORE. She told me that I was way too cheap and that I should raise my rate from $50 to $65/hour.

It's true that $50 is pretty marginal comparatively speaking, but I cut them a discount from my regular rate of $75/hour because of the consistency and bulk of work they give me. She said no matter - that $65 was still a bargain for my services! Wow. Big fucking compliment. She simply said, "Love, everyone here loves working with you and you do a wonderful job. There has never been one complaint. In fact, just the opposite. People are always singing your praises and reccommending you to other Project Managers. No one would bat an eye for you to go up $15."

Then I proceeded to pick up two more projects with them in addition to the ongoing project I've got with them through March.

She really knows how to make a girl feel special.

~ the lady love

Inked

Ahhh, body art.

My friend Sam likes to say I'm whimsical. (He also likes to send me random text messages, like last Sunday morning, that say shit like, "Do you think about me when you masturbate?" Ummm, no.) Anyway, this tattoo is a good case in point. I never wanted a tattoo, but then I saw a documentary on TLC about these women who'd had mastectomies, which is apparently quite emotionally traumatic for women in terms of their self identity/femininity. As a form of therapy and emotional healing, they tattooed their chests as a way to own it and turn their disfigurement into something beautiful.

Six years ago I was in a car accident that broke my arm very badly and crushed part of my bone. Now I've got a large plate and a whole mess of screws in my arm holding it together and a big ugly scar lingering like a lipstick stain on a wine glass. After seeing the documentary, I urgently decided to get a piece to overlay the scar left over from my surgery. I'm not really vain enough that the scar bothered me. In fact, I think scars are kinda cool, but nonetheless, I thought "why not make it beautiful?".

This tattoo is called an Oonagh Knot (a Celtic love knot). In Celtic mythology, Oonagh was queen of the fairies - a goddess. Oonagh's beauty was so great that it left mortals who looked upon her in a state of amazement. And as legend goes, wherever she went she was accompanied by streams of sunbeams and moonbeams and surrounded by colors of the rainbow which reflected out the jewelry that she wore. This was a piece of jewelry that she wore around her neck. I just had the artist create a bracelet for my arm.

It was my first tattoo, which always surprises people because it's on my forearm. I guess the typical m/o is for people to start out with a discreet and hidden location and build up to the more obvious places - like one's arm. But for me, I don't really see the point in having a tattoo if it can't be seen.

The second one I got was on the back of my neck, which bugs the crap out of me because I can't see it. I like to enjoy my own body art, so lesson learned: make sure any new ink is visible to me. I've got a couple more in the pipeline. I'd really like to have the female figure from dali's painting of the female figure with head of flowers, 1937 tattooed on my leg.

The most pressing piece I want/have to get is the word "every". I read an article in Newsweek about a writer in Brooklyn, NY, named Shelley Jackson who is publishing her next short story, called "Skin", word by word in the form of tattoos on peoples' bodies. I wrote Shelley and told her why I would like to be a "word" in her story and she accepted me as part of her project. I've had my word for a year now but still haven't gotten it inked. I've been having a hard time deciding where exactly to put it, but I think I've finally decided to put it on the underside of my wrist. Now it's just a matter of picking an artist and getting it done.

I'll probably have a woman tattoo me. I've had both men and women tattoo me and there is a certain connection I seek with someone who is putting permanent art on my body. It was there with Collette when she did my Oonagh Knot but I felt a real disconnect with the guy who did my second one. Maybe it was just that artist imparticular, but I'm not so sure. I think it may just have to be a woman after all.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, I don't regret it.

~ the lady love

P.S. Check out Bobby Yang. (Let the page load for about 15 seconds, and a sample will automatically start). He's this local Atlanta rock-n-roll style violinist who is completely badass. If that doesn't work, then listen to this (the first link is more entertaining though!) Trust me on this, it's killer stuff. His CD is available for purchase at bobby yang dot com

Anyway, I just got his CD after seeing a show at a local music club and was blown away by his renditions of Billie Jean (Michael Jackson), Fascination Street (The Cure), Kashmir (Led Zeppelin), Creep (Radiohead), I Love Rock-n-Roll (Joan Jett), Sweet Child O' Mine (Guns N Roses), and Purple Rain (Prince).

Hey You D.C. Bitches...

...are you sure you didn't steal my polaroids? Perhaps they're lost in the vortex otherwise known as my loft. Wait a minute. My loft has never been otherwise known as a vortex. Come clean, you bitches. Your Bill Clinton "deny. deny. deny." tactics can only work for so long. Or until I find my polaroids.

~ the lady love

Kiss My Ass

I'm on the hunt now for new digs. I'm not going to rush myself, but I can't even begin to say how much it really bothers me that management would so easily dismiss me. One of the reasons why I live in small places is so I have a real since of personal service, investment and community. After three days, $150, too much time and a huge hassle, I got my car back. Coincidentally, management (in their true shitty slack form) has still not given me parking decals, which I was told I would have Monday morning. Now this makes two times I have requested parking tags.

Anyway, I'm checking out another loft project that's literally one block over from my current location and actually even more centrally located to the places I frequent. The quicker I can redirect who's getting my money, the happier I'll be.

After my followup (see previous post), I received another email from Joan. Below is the rest of the correspondence. Notice that she failed to address any of my comments in her last email, most likely because she didn't have a good argument for them. I also find it ironic that she said "lessen any hassle" and called me a "valued tenant". Somehow I don't see evidence of either of those things.

----

Love:

Although I understand your frustration, our policy is there to protect our Residents and to lessen any hassle. I would hate to loose a valued Resident; however, I understand that you must do what feels right to you. Although I hope you reconsider, if you should decide to leave us, please provide Marshall and/or this office with thirty days written notice. Best of luck to you.

Joan


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Joan:

It's unbelievable that you would so easily dispose of a model tenant over what would seem to be a small amount to ABC Lofts but which has been a huge burden to me. I have always paid rent on time and in two years have never even submitted any maintenance requests or complaints. It really is just absolutely astonishing.

I wasn't making idle threats, either. I know that I will resent every time I make out my rent check to a company that has demonstrated that it doesn't care whether I stay or go.

~ the lady love

Hang In There, Champ

2006 was off to a good start until yesterday. I walked out to my car on on my way to meet Grace for a dinner to find my car ... not there. I tooled around the lot perhaps thinking I parked it somewhere else, but no, it was gone. A neighbor was outside so I asked him, "You didn't happen to see anything strange like somebody stealing cars did ya?" He informed me that the boss lady from the loft company came over and had a bunch of cars towed - mine among them - for not displaying parking hangtags. Indeed, I didn't have a parking decal displayed, but I've lived in this building for two years, and parking has never been enforced.

To boot, I went down to the towing place this afternoon to recover my car, and they wouldn't give it back to me. Despite presenting a mound of paperwork showing ownership of the car as well as a social security card and original birth certificate, they still wouldn't return it because I had no picture I.D. I lost my wallet some time ago with my license in it, and then lost my passport in a park. So yeah, I don't have picture I.D. (I guess the one good thing coming out of this ordeal is it's forcing me to replace my license).

I was very upset, so I fired off the following communique to the property manager. As a tenant for two years who has always paid my rent on time and never submitted any maintenance requests or complaints, I felt that the least the management company could do was cover the cost of impounding my car, especially when management has been far less than satisfactory. In fact, within the past year, they've had four on-site building managers, only one of whom was worth a shit (who coincidentally didn't last long because of the headaches caused by a sub-par managment company.) I shit you not, one of the building managers was even a crackhead.

---

Dear Joan,

Yesterday evening I came out of my apartment on my way to a meeting to find my car missing. I asked a neighbor outside if he happened to see anything strange, and he informed me that many cars had been towed earlier in the day. After many attempts to get in touch with someone at the management company in order to locate my car (there is no contact number for towing in the resident parking), I finally reached the building manager today who gave me a phone number for the towing company.

The cost to recover my car is $105, plus a significant amount of time that I have spent trying to locate my car and rearranging my schedule last night and today. I feel like this has been such a violation of my personal space and property as a resident of ABC Lofts, not to mention a financial burden, and I think it is ABC's responsibility to cover the cost of impounding my car for a number of reasons:

1) After two years of living at ABC, parking/towing has never been enforced inside the gate. On a very limited and sporadic basis, it has been enforced on the outside in the visitor parking area (maybe twice in two years?). I think that if parking decals were to suddenly be enforced inside the gate after several years of no enforcement, there should have been some notification to tenants clearly stating that any resident car not displaying a hangtag would be removed on a specified date.

2) There is no number for towing on the inside of the gate, which I believe is a legal issue. Apparently, there is a phone number in the visitor parking area according to Marshall (the building manager), but as a resident, I park inside.

3) The inside gate is controlled access by remote control. Only tenants have remote controls, which signifies legitimate access to parking.

4) ABC has my license plate number on file, which I assume was to determine which cars belong to residents and are legally
parked.

5) A letter on Nov. 18 was sent to ABC residents stating that it is crucial for GUESTS in the outside parking lot to display a guest parking tag, but no mention was made to interior resident parking.

6) I recall another letter sent in the summer (August perhaps?) while Chuck was the resident manager that mentioned guest parking was going to be enforced. *IMPORTANT* - I actually contacted Chuck and told him I didn't have parking tags (Out of town guests last year accidentally left with my parking tags in their cars). I asked him if it was okay if I put a note in my guest's windshield saying she was a guest of #13 at ABC Lofts to prevent towing. He informed me that that would be fine and that he also knew my car. So, in fact, I did inform management that I didn't have parking decals.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,
the lady love
#13, ABC Lofts

----

Her reply:

Love:

It is posted on the property and at the gate that parking is by parking permit only. Additionally, several notices have been sent from this office regarding parking permits being displayed.

Parking has been enforced inside the gate for several months now. You have been fortunate not to have been towed until this point.

Without the parking permit being visible we have no way of separating a resident's car from any other person. Although your car was parked in the gate, four of the five cars towed were not resident cars, but cars of guest that were parked in the gate preventing residents from parking at their own home. It is unfortunate that your car was towed and that you are a resident. However, the parking permit policy was put into place so that we could provide all residents of ABC with proper parking. This is a benefit for our residents that we are trying to protect.

We will not be covering any of the cost for impounding your car. We have made every effort to warn our residents and protect their rights.

Joan B. Hollowell
ABC Lofts

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My followup response:

Joan,

I must disagree with you that every effort was made to address this issue with residents. Had I thought for one second that my car was at risk of being towed, I would have promptly contacted the new Building Manager to obtain parking decals. I would like to see a copy of a notice other than the one sent on Nov. 18, which addressed Guest Parking only.

As stated in my email below, I did, in fact, contact Chuck in the summer and informed him that I did not have parking decals. I have spoken to other residents who agree that they knew nothing of any notices other than the guest parking issue referred to in the Nov. 18 letter. There used to be a very diligent effort from management to communicate concerns to tenants and this seems to have fallen by the wayside in recent months. All on-site building managers were familiar with the tenants and their cars in the past because we were also neighbors. This is not Marshall's fault but rather a feeble attempt by ABC Lofts to band-aid an ongoing resident management problem by hiring on off-site manager.

In addition, after a serious hassle attempting to retrieve my car, A-Tow has yet to release my car to me.

I am hugely offended by ABC's lack of concern for my troubles given my model tenancy, and I will directly be turning in an official vacate notice. So, thanks a lot.

~ Love

----

I don't really want to move - I love my space here - but I will be resentful every month that I make out my rent check to them unless they throw me a bone here. I'm waiting to hear back. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Am I being unreasonable here? If so, please tell me.


~ the lady love

Long Live the Quickie

Okay, so I found a german website with a photo I took with my cameraphone of my former roommate's butt cleavage. Using my handy translator, I learned the article is about "quickies". I'm not sure how the photo correlates to "quickies", but it's funny nonetheless. To see the page, click here. Below is the translation.

---

Quickie's are a very controversial topic with women. Until now. Despite the fact that quickies have always existed, women have always wanted something more, right?

It's not purely for the quick satisfaction of men. No. One must "earn" the Sex. Play. Delay the desire. For hours on and off to the orgasmic finale. And then, immediately a few more strokes to the conclusion.

And then this! 68 percent of the women wish for more spontaneity with sex. No long buildup or planning. No. The more spontaneously one brings them to the orgasm, the better the thrill. Yet, one still should understand women. But the only thing left to be said: "Long Live the Quickie."

---

Okey dokey.

~ the lady love

Two Random Thoughts

1) This morning I broke into song with Kokomo by the Beach Boys, and I did it with fervor. Then I had a hearty laugh at myself. Ah, good times. Good times.

2) While a lovely state, whenever I think of or hear about Virginia, the first thing that comes to mind is either a grocery cart, a mattress, or a Big Wheel in a ditch. O' Appalachia, how I love thee!

~ the lady love

Start with Her. What Do You Have to Lose?

So I found my picture on an Israeli website. Since I don't speak hebrew, I bought a hebrew-to-english translator. Turns out, it's a website for queers and the article is teaching/encouraging women to approach other women. I got a big kick out of it! Here's the link to the page: Ask Her, "Do You Have A Light?" and below is a loose translation (be forwarned: some parts make absolutely no sense).

Oh yeah, the caption under my photo is "Start with Her. What Do You Have to Lose?" Fucking hilarious.

-----

Start with her. Ask her, do you have a light? She can always refuse you, and you will be sorry that she does not swallow you. On the other hand, if you do not try, you will not know.

We will suppose after all the searches, from exit of someone that finds a beauty bainih. What do now? The answer, of course, is " to start with her ", but it is really not that simple.

The method of the beginning changes from girl to girl, but one thing always should remain: Courage. A great deal of courage. I do not know no girl that will be sure by herself the more there will be, that unafraid from postponement. All of us we were name, and our majority not really able to deal.

Then even so, how do you start? If this is someone you already know and see her every so often in the events of the community, wait until the communal event comes. It does not change if it's a party, evening of discussion, or plays, approach her and try to develop very light conversation. If she smiles and engages you, there is a chance that she is interested and then you can request her phone number. In the accidental the most much that will succeed to enlist, in order that maybe will be met once. You will not say "will be met to skim", unless you want to there will be clear and transparent. If you want to leave this open to the conversation, in order if it will come, the postponement will be able to exempt all the interest in the lightness as if not really tried to start with her, but just were interested in the social contact, will tell simple that you want to meet.

By the way, to develop very light conversation sounds maybe easy in the theory, but when you approach someone that you like, striking up conversation may not be that simple. There is bots'it amazing one, that is convinced that the insular kio mine demarcates a century, because when I stands close to her, I really is not able to formulate a sentence, trusted and trusted not to mention something aintilignti or nimble. Not much to do in the situations like these, unless you consolidate you subjects to the conversation even before that you access her, or indoctrinate several judicial key are sophisticated or funny that will help you to capture her heart. The more you want her more, it will be harder.

If this someone that you do not know at all and you simply saw her, everything depends on the situation. If you saw her in the evening of perusal or in the intimate party at companies, you can approach her and endeavour to develop very light conversation. If you saw her at the party or in the bar, places in which more hard to develop conversation, my advice is to simply approach her, with predisposed tag by hand and in it your phone number, to say hello and to ask forthrightly if you can give her your number. Repressions that kidnapped when I used this strategy were from the most detractor and the hurt that I experienced in the lives.

One time I approached someone. She was pretty, she was rigorous, she was hyphenated companies. I crossed 20 the meters that isolated between us in the suitable heart to her with the tag by hand and asked if it's possible to give her my phone number. She reviewed me from above/up/upward down in the duration that seems like eternity, and then said, " for what?". The land not fairy and swallowed me, much to my regret, and I remember this as one of the experiences that forge that I experienced my waters. The truth is that it also doesn't have to be deplorable. Once I gave my telephone to a pretty girl that I saw in the rose Johnson.

She said thank you and smiled, but did not call. Maybe she lost the telephone. Maybe she is trampled on the way home. Maybe, not get accepted on the mind how much that it sounds, she simply there was uninterested. Things like these happen, and you must receive also rejection as an inseparable part of the process.

~ the lady lesbionic

I'm back...

...for a minute. I've begun a couple other entries - one on starfuckers - but they got really involved, so they're hanging out as drafts; waiting around for endings.

I'm happy to say goodbye to 2005. It was a tough year. I'm fixing myself. Yay.

Two times tonight I was complimented with the word "ass". First, an acquaintence announced that I was a "badass motherfucker". I thought that was kinda funny and also cool but I hope not too butch. Then I got an email from a long-time friend that ended with "I think you kick ass". I'll take it.

~ll

Two Day Old Wet Face

Man, I don't know if I'm just hormonal or what, but the past two days I've been a tear factory. Mind you, I'm not much of a crybaby. Well, at least not now. As a kid I was hyper-sensitive, and even the slightest questionable glance could ignite tears. But not now. No. I got over that a long time ago.

It started yesteday at a client's office. I was listening to Richard's iTunes playlist that he was sharing over the network. This song came on that really struck a chord, and I'll be damned if I didn't tear up. I couldn't quite place it, but I knew I recognized it. I burned a copy to disc and popped it in the cd player on my drive home. I then proceeded to blubber the entire way home (with intermittent laughter at my own silliness). Then it occurred to me that this was the song that literally ended the series Six Feet Under. Hey man, it was a poignant episode. Yeah, I'm a dumbass.

What kept the tears flowing were the repeated lyrics "be my friend/hold me/wrap me up/unfold me/I am small/I am needy/warm me up/and breathe me" because lately I've actually been feeling pretty needy, wanting somebody to swoop in and wrap me up and love me. Yeah, I know. It's not something that single, independent women in their thirties are supposed to admit, but fuck it. It's the truth. Sometimes it just feels good to fall asleep and wake up with somebody who loves you - not that I have much experience with it.

By the time I got home I had overcome my sobfest and regained by composure. Then this morning, I woke up to my mom calling me. The conversation turned ugly quickly, most likely because I was a little out of it and grumpy and didn't react well to what she was saying. She asked me why I didn't call her back this weekend like I said I was going to, and I didn't have an answer, let alone a good one. Then she commented on the fact that we haven't talked a lot lately and that I don't seem to want to spend any time with the family. And finally, she said that she doesn't know anything about me or my life because I've been keeping myself at a distance. She noted that something wasn't "right" with me.

I roared, "I don't do anything but work and sleep. There's nothing to know! Leave me alone!"

Not the most rational response, I know, and it didn't get any better. We spoke again later in the day right before I was about to go into a meeting with a client, and fuck if I didn't start squalling again, so I went into my meeting red-faced and puffy-eyed (fortunately it was a long-time client so all that mattered was how I acted and not how I looked).

Later in the afternoon I found myself alone and bawling again, quivering chin and all. This time there was not catalyst, so I don't know what the fuck is up with me. I've definitely had my ups and downs this year - lonliness, rejection, heartbreak, death, financial woes, depression - but I can usually keep it together. With all the down times, I've had plenty of up times, too.

Yeah, I definitely think I am hormonal.

~ the lady love

vacant reflection

Mostly I post photos to my, well, photoblog, but it seemed aptly timed given my recent entry I Can't Paint. Funny how life goes.

I had conceptualized This pomegranate mouth. Sweet fecund forbidden. a week or so ago and tried two other times to get it right. vacant reflection was just serendipity. The creativy worked in reverse this time. The image commanded to be conceptualized; to be named.

~ the lady love

sweet fecund forbidden

This pomegranate mouth. Sweet fecund forbidden.

Updated...

...righthand column. Added contact info and new music spinning at the lady's love lounge. Very important stuff.

Check out this one by Fischerspooner (requires windows media player)

Just Downloaded

Man, iTunes can spoil the hell out of of a girl. I got a hankering for Peter Murphy's "Cuts You Up" and within seconds I had downloaded a live version from the Alive Just for Love album. Such a good song.

Speaking of live albums, Bonnie Prince Billy's (Will Oldham) latest album (Nov 2005) is a live one called Summer in the Southeast. I gotta say that, when it comes to live albums, I'm pretty indifferent. I mean, a live show is one thing, but a live album? Typically they don't do a whole lot for me, in large part due to the fact that the studio version is usually better; cleaner. Plus, part of the thrill of a live performance is being there live yourself, right? However, BPB's record is quite impressive and only motivates me that much more to see him live. His music is pretty mellow - even the more upbeat ones - but duuuuude, when I heard the live version of "Madelaine Mary" on this record, I got moist as a snack cake it rocked so much.

Also currently spinning at the Lady's Love Lounge: Zap Mama.

~ the lady love

Two Things

1) Donald Rumsfeld is such a dick, but that's okay because he's so much smarter than the rest of us. We're on a need-to-know basis.

2) I want these shoes real bad, but they are so last year that I haven't a clue where to find them. Grace?



~ the lady love

Holy Crap, Batman...

...I look exactly like my mother. I took this picture of her over Thanksgiving and was just now looking at it for the first time. I compared it to my mug shot and realized I am my mother's daughter.

Her (Mother)


Me (Daughter)

Tannenbaum

My first christmas tree. I got festive this year. Battery-operated electric light. Hell yeah.

Tannenbaum 2005

Actually, I lied. It's my second christmas tree. My first one was 9 years ago. Jenny (from the Alphabet Book series and, at one time, the love of my life) and I cut down a 7 ft. cedar tree on our college campus, strapped it to the top of her 1977 brown Chrysler Cordoba (which she turned into a semi-convertible by hacksawing the roof off - I shit you not), and took it back to the charming third story apartment I was renting downtown. We decorated the tree with ornaments made out of various metal scraps that Jenny had collected from the junkyard, stationed it in a 5-gallon bucket anchored by large rocks, and dressed it with a bed-sheet-turned-makeshift christmas tree skirt.

I remember one time this really dumb chick came over to my apartment with a friend of mine while the tree was up. The dumb chick sat on my couch, gazed at my tree, cocked her head to the side and asked, "Sooo was that, like, just a plant you had?"

I really didn't know how to respond. At first I thought she might be kidding untill I realized she wasn't. So I said, "Ummmm, no... it's a tree."

~ the lady love

No More Drinking, Drugs, Smoking or Bad Eating for Me

I just got my ass kicked. Bad news from my girl Karah, my sweet-voiced holistic, vegan, pagan, hard-bodied former roommate and temptress. At 30 years old, she had a heart attack. She had some sort of viral heart infection that arose from chronic tonsillitis, which resulted in a tonsillectemy right after a 2-day stint in the hospital for post-heart-attack observation. Fucked. Up. As Grace put it when I called to tell her about our dear sick friend, "Great. I didn't think we'd have to start dealing with this kind of crap for another 15 - 20 years."

Seriously.

Grace and I live in Atlanta, and Karah lives in Seattle along with Rachelle, who is also our old roommate. The four of us once shared a magical dump of a house together in the ghetto otherwise known as 110 S. Blanche. We lived there with our other friend Karen - our fifth roommate - who had a sexy, brooding brother that the rest of us passed around like a joint at Woodstock. It was a swell time.

Being on the other side of the country makes me feel helpless that I can't be there for my sister love. I just talked to Rachelle and commanded her to go see Karah and take care of her for the rest of us.

I think I'm being paranoid, but I keep thinking I'm feeling chest pains.

~ the lady love

Lady Love Sounds Off

The Good Wife article got me thinking about the feminist movement. I am very much a feminist. Feminism by definition is about the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes. I don't know how you could be a woman and not be a feminist, but I think the feminist movement as we know it often has a negative connotation that is not necessarily unwarranted. I don't think the feminist movement as it has evolved since the 1970s wholly serves women (note the word wholly). The movement tends to portray the idea that women can have it all and too often ignores an important message that with choice comes sacrifice. Likewise, I also think that it displaces responsiblity for one's choices and actions.

I hold certain beliefs that many would consider anti-feminist. I remember in a women's studies/literature class in college, I often found my opinions igniting heated debates with my professor and classmates. Then three years ago, I read Camille Paglia's Sex, Art and American Culture and was relieved to find my ideas validated. Shortly thereafter, I discovered that Ms. Paglia is often hailed as a feminist antichrist. Ha!

So how exactly is it that I believe feminism has let women down? By teaching us that we can have everything we want (if we want it): children, full time careers, husbands, independence... anything and everything our little hearts desire. Likewise, it tells us that we are equally entitled to the same rewards, professional advancement, etc., because our sex excepts us from being held to the same standards. To me, this logic is flawed. When we make a choice, aren't we also not choosing something else? And wouldn't true equality - not just the benefits - only exist if there was an even playing field?

Professionally speaking, is a man, a childless woman, and a mother entitled to the same professional advancement and compensation? Maybe. Maybe not. Obviously, performance is a key, but if the man and the childless woman outperform the woman with children because they work 10-12 hours a day, should there be any special consideration for the woman with children because she is a mother and can only put in 8 hours a day? In my opinion, absolutely not. Personal lifestyle choices do make for special treatment or allowances. Isn't it just as possible that a childless woman is sacrificing motherhood or a man is sacrificing time with his family because they make their careers priority?

I remember watching the movie G.I. Jane the first time. The most compelling thing about this movie for me was the Demi Moore's character insisted upon being held to the same standard as the other Navy SEALS in training. I have absolutely no problem with women serving in the military or even the special forces, but when it comes to special ops like the SEALS, should the standards be lowered to accommodate women? I don't think so. Sure, I understand that there are physiological difference between men and women that in some cases, like basic military service, should be accommodated, but aren't the higher standards of the SEALS in place to ensure the quality and integrity of this highly specialized group rather than a sexist, exclusionary tactic?

Demi Moore's character succeeded and achieved SEAL status, but it wasn't without sacrifice. She shaved her head (because her hair kept getting in the way). She physically transformed her body to such a degree that her performance paralleled the men's. And as a result of losing so much body fat, she ceased to menstruate.

My point is, if women want equality, then we should be held to the same standards as men. This does not mean, however, that we shouldn't recognize, respect, and celebrate the differences between men and women.

That's not the only way that the feminist movement has let women down. Women's lib has somehow erroneously freed us from taking responsibility for ourselves. Of course, rape and sexual harrassment are atrocious, but when is it criminal? Is it rape or just poor judgement when a girl goes upstairs by herself at a frat party with a drunk guy and takes off her clothes and gives him head and then he fucks her despite the fact that she says no to penetration? A typical feminist answer would be date rape. No means no, right? But shouldn't the girl be accountable for her own actions that may have precipitated the final act? Who is to say there was a clear understanding of what "no" meant? Could it be possible that under the circumstances the lines had been blurred between yes and no?

By no means am I saying that rape is a woman's own fault, but I think feminism has taught us that we can do whatever we want without any consequences. And when a woman's subjective lines have been crossed, then she's been victimized - no questions asked.

I recently told a close friend about my encounter with John. She was quite disturbed when I intimated how the incident turned sexual and expressed her concern that a line had been crossed. Indeed, I have had some reflective moments where I have acknowledged a certain level of physical force that bordered on questionable. But did he violate me? Yes and no. He didn't stop when I asked him to, but as I explained to my friend, I never once tried to leave. My pleas of "no", while genuine, were also born out of emotional confliction, not out of fear that he was going to hurt me or rape me. I was there willingly. I went to his room. I sat on the bed, and when he began to touch me, I didn't leave. And then I stayed for the next three hours.

Sexual harrassment is even harder to define. Girls have adopted the notion that they should be able to dress provocatively but a man dare not comment on her exposed cleavage. It's okay to flirt and to play the coquette, but a man is crossing the line when her behavior elicits sexual commentary from him. Of course, it's only not okay when she doesn't want it.

Also, is it sexual harrassment, especially when verbal, if a woman doesn't establish her boundaries? I don't think so. Sexual harrassment claims are only legitimate in my eyes when a woman has clearly expressed that a man's behavior towards her is inappropriate. Yet, Anita Hill became the Rosa Parks of feminism when she accused Clarence Thomas of sexual harrassment (coincidentally another topic that Ms. Paglia has been very outspoken about).

Was Anita Hill sexually harrassed by Clarence Thomas? I don't doubt that he said and did the things she claimed, but were her claims of "harrassment" justified if she didn't stand up for herself? To my knowledge, she never reported it or pursued any action to stop the alleged harrassment. And was there really any recourse 10 years later when she finally had the balls to speak up and acknowledge that she didn't like the things he said to her?

I guess what I am trying to say is that, despite the progress that feminism has afforded women, feminism as we know it today attempts to create a caveat that makes women the perpetual victim when it's convenient for them. But it's a delusion to think that equality of the sexes means a life free of consequences or compromise.

~ the lady love

The Good Wife

I wouldn't have done very well had I been born before my time, unless of course I had been born a man. Check out this artice from Good Housekeeping circa 1955... (the underlines do not belong to me)

The Good Wife's Guide

Whoa.

~ the lady love

I Can't Paint

I remember once when I was eight, a kid brought a pencil drawing to school that her cousin (who shares my name) had done. I don't remember specifically what the drawing was, but I remember that it was quite astonishing. All the other kids couldn't stop gushing about it and kept paying compliments to me for my wonderful drawing. I repeatedly said that I didn't do it to all the kids dishing the accolades, until finally I got caught up in the misdirected praise and just started saying "thank you" as if it were my own. Of course, I was soon found out and made a fool of. The owner of the drawing set them all straight by telling them that her cousin by the same name was the actual artist. That was the last time I took credit for somebody else's work. I was so painfully emabarrassed that even still today if I work on a collaborative project, I am sure to only take credit for my personal contribution.

I've always been an admirer of art, but more importantly, I've always wanted to create it. I've always craved the self gratification of manifesting my ideas into something more tangible, and with equal relish, the affirmation and validation that comes from other people appreciating my art.

A few years ago I unsuccessfully tried my hand at painting. I had beautiful visions in my mind that sadly would not translate to the canvas. My skills were grossly deficient. So instead I take pictures. Not being able to make it happen by my own hand does not limit me from actualizing my artistic vision.

As a photographer, my creativity gets stunted at times, and I just stop producing anything (likewise, it happens in my writing as well). I find myself caught up in some sort of inner conflict about art. To me, a true artist is one who creates versus one who regurgitates. It's kind of like the difference between Britney Spears and PJ Harvey (among a bevy of other differences, of course). While both may have a natural talent for music, one is a performer and the other is a true artist.

That's how I feel as a photographer. Sure, I can take a pretty picture of a church, but what gives me a real sense of accomplishment and pride is when my photography is more conceptual. When it's art. More often than not, my photography is not art. Sure, it's nicely framed and composed and captured from a unique perspective, but it's not what I really want it to be.

Lately I've been creatively stagnant. I haven't shot anything in a couple months now. I keep wondering when the inspiration will resurface. In the meantime, I appease myself by looking back at the images I've created in the past year and remind myself that it will come back to me when I am ready. Here's how I remind myself:

The Alphabet Book Series
Lonesome Cowgirl
Dancing Barefoot (ode to Patti Smith)
Broken Heart
Kiss
Untitled

~ the lady love

Big Loser

That's me. I've not done shit the past few days except lay around on my ass and watch television. Like right now. I woke up at 3:00 pm today and have since been watching the Surreal Life on VH1. In my defense, it's the season with Janice Dickinson and the abhorrent horse-toothed Omarosa. My favorite part so far has been when Janice tells Omarosa to "go eat a bag of raw fuck, bitch." Watching these two go at it is fascinatingly twisted, so much so that I can't help but look - kinda like watching somebody with a severe case of Tourette's in Piedmont Park.

Ooooh - it's time for the Dirty Laundry episode. Gotta run. (Yes, I realize that I should be embarrassed.)

~ the lady lazy

I Am In Love...

...with the movie Crash. I cried A Lot. Both times. I do not typically watch movies twice in a row, nor do I typically cry at movies. Seriously, it's one the best things I've seen in a really long time. I actually tried to go see it a few months ago in the theater but only sat through the first 5 minutes. The projector was so rickety that the clanking sound coming from it was interfering with the whole movie watching experience, so I had to ask for my money back.

I love it. I love it. I love it.

~ the lady loves it

I Have This Thing

My mother asked me a couple months ago, "Do you have to say everything that's in your head?" She's really not uptight, but I guess that, for most people, topics of discussion are usually gauged for audience appropriateness. (Yes, appropriateness is appropriate. I looked it up - just in case.) She was just startled by my story over dinner about a neighbor walking in on me while I was spending some "quality time with myself".

(He accidentally picked up my keys when he left, and when he came back to exchange them for his keys nearly an hour later, his own self absorption deluded him into (not) thinking that it was okay to just let himself in.)

Obviously, I am aware that I sometimes say things that other people normally wouldn't. But I don't do it for any shock value whatsoever, and in most cases, my comments or anecdotes are born out of pure relevancy. In fact, I am often surprised when I perceive any level of shock reaction, but I also understand it. People just aren't accustomed to discussing stigmatic topics, especially - gasp - when they're personal ones. That's not to say that I don't exercise any discretion; i.e., professional settings, children, consequences, etc., at times, all encourage some self censorship. However, I won't abide ungenuine interaction.

I don't know how to be any different. Sometimes I'll even tell myself that I'm not going to say whatever for whatever reason. Doesn't work. I still do. And if I am asked a question, I give a real answer if there is one, though not necessarily the one I'm supposed to give. You know, the one that doesn't require any further consideration. The one that fills up the silence gap but doesn't cultivate camaraderie. The one that has lost all its meaning in a very Gertrude Stein kind of way (Getrude Stein, however tedious in her experimental writing, is compelling to me for tackling the epistemology of language.)

For example (coincidentally involving my mother again): after a sabbatical from sex, I got quite the workout one night. I was crippled from sore muscles for two days. After hearing a legitimate moan and explanation that my body was aching, my mother asked me why I was so sore and I replied, "from fucking." She hung up the phone on me, and when I called her back 10 times, she wouldn't answer. I finally left her a message that said, "If you don't want real answers from me, then don't bother asking me questions.")

In a way, my honesty is a measure of how I am living my life. If I can't say what I really mean, then I'm not being true to myself. Likewise, if I can't be honest, then what I am doing wrong that I'm ashamed to admit openly? Mind you, I fully believe in tact and consideration when it comes to other people's feelings, but only when it's personal to them. Otherwise if I offend, it's not really my issue.

That said, there are things that I've started to write about here that I've retracted, and it really bugs me. Some are more personal and controversial than others, but some simply reveal my own weaknesses. Truth is, I get my ass kicked all the time (not literally), and not always having the courage to admit it makes me feel like a fraud. Sure, I'm willing to act like I'm a badass by saying I kicked a guy to the curb, but I fail to mention that it's because I'm so vulnerable to this man that I'll give him everything he wants from me and disregard what I really want.

You know, shit like that. Shit that reveals the stupid girl I really am.

Proud Moments

I just made my friend Pedro dry heave over the phone. Yep, I think this definitely falls into the category of one the finer points of my day. I've never had a bad enough day that making somebody gag over the phone couldn't bring me joy. I've got one word for you, my friends, and that word is abscess.

~ the lady grody

Bad Day

really. bad. day.

lady cramps. major sleep deprivation. deadlines. thankless clients. those cocksuckers known as comcast. a weird body problem that almost landed me in the emergency room. an impending emergency room visit tomorrow (yes, it will still be an emergency tomorrow).

i'm spent. i wish i could blog full time.

Over Again

It's over again. I knew this fling we were having wouldn't last long. It couldn't. He is toxic for me, evidenced by the fact that I exercise very poor judgement when it comes to him. I got some really good sex out of the deal though and the depression fucked right out of me, though.

I've never really said what happened with him, and honestly, I am not interested in dedicating any more of my time or energy to him by telling the story now. Don't get me wrong. I made my fair share of mistakes, occasionally ignoring some blood red flags. In the end, though, the breakdown came more from his end, I believe.

I got reminded this past weekend of just how bad he is for me and realized that there was no way in hell I was going to repeat a cycle of any kind.

Bye Bye Johnny Boy.

~ the lady love

Today's Playlist

I'm working at a client's office today. It's a challenging project (and by challenging I mean pain in the ass). I'm doing page layouts for an institutional signing manual in ADOBE ILLUSTRATOR. What's wrong with this picture?

1) You just don't do manuals in Illustrator for oh so many reasons. You do them in Quark or InDesign.

2) I do not know how to use Illustrator.

Hey man, I told the client I didn't know what the eff to do with this program, but they were confident in my ability to figure the shit out. Okey dokey. Surprisingly, I'm doing pretty well. I know enough about so many other programs that I kinda get it, but it's still a bitch of a program. ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGH. Plus, did I mention that you just don't do this kind of work using this program? Yeah, I thought so.

My saving grace: I'm plugged in to a mellow mix of delicious music (yes, I do rock out sometimes, too, but today is chill).

Current playlist:

1) Lifelong Fling - Over the Rhine
2) Essence - Lucinda Williams
3) Speaking Confidentially - Cowboy Junkies
4) Precious Thing - Telegram
5) I Cry Alone - The Black Keys
6) I'm gonna Crawl - Led Zeppelin
7) It's A Man's World - James Brown
8) The Thrill Is Gone - Aretha Franklin
9) Malt Liquor - Hope for a Golden Summer
10) Woman King - Iron & Wine
11) Sunday (the day before my birthday) - Moby
12) No Me Llores Mas - Marc Ribot & Los Cubanos Postizos
13) Sandpaper Kisses - Martina Topley Bird
14) Feelin' Good - Nine Simone (Joe Claussell Remix from the Verve Remixed album)
15) Riding - Bonnie "Prince" Billy
16) Burn that Broken Bed - Calexico and Iron & Wine
17) Let's Dance - M. Ward
18) I Will (No Man's Land) - Radiohead
19) Mil Besos - Nanci Griffith
20) I Don't Want to be That Man - Ollabelle
21) He Lays in the Reins - Calexico and Iron & Wine
22) Firefly - Over the Rhine
23) No More My Lawd - Ollabelle
24) In the Name of the Father - U2
25) Bang Bang - Nancy Sinatra
26) Grandma's Hands - Bill Withers
27) Before Today - Everything But The Girl
28) La Belle Et Le Bad Boy - MC Solaar
29) Pulse - Ani Difranco

I rather think I have damn good taste in music.

Peace Out,
the lady love

It's Good To Be Loved

I've got some right killer friends. Grace is one of them. She saved my ass tonight in a big way. I am a very lucky girl.

~ the lady love

I Look So Very Indie Rock

Writer's Block

(obligatory self portrait dedicated to R80o)

This One Slays Me

Posting songs to this here little blog is becoming pattern behavior, but music is really important to me. This one is from another lovely local band called Hope for a Golden Summer (who I fondly refer to as Hope for a Golden Shower). I've had a love affair with the song Malt Liquor for a few years now. My favorite part comes about halfway through the song when she sings, "Some days I wear black and the next day baby blue..." It gets me every time.

~ the lady love

Enlightenment

There is nothing to figure out.

~ the lady love

I Don't Like Being in Love

Grace sent this to me. She said it reminded her of me.


I Don't Like Being in Love

Not like this. Not tonight,
a white stone. When you're 36
and seething like sixteen
next to the telephone,
and you don't know where.
And worse - with whom?

I don't care for this fruit. This
Mexican love hidden in the boot.
This knotted braid. Birthcord buried
beneath the knuckle of the heart.

Cat at the window scratching at
the windswept moon.
Scurrying along, scurrying along.
Trees rattling. Screen
doors banging raspy.

Brain a world of swirling
fish. Oh, not like this.
Not this.

~ Sancra Cisneros

Dirty Little Secret

This thing I'm doing with him is beginning to feel like my dirty little secret. We've seen each other three times in the past week, but I don't really want anybody to know we're hanging out again. So I turn off my phone or ignore my calls, I dodge questions from him about social engagements...

I've got to figure out what I'm doing here soon.

~ the lady love

See What's Become of Me

Thursday night I dragged my ass out to see Telegram and meet up with Phillip, and man, am I glad that I did. Great, great show. The boys really rocked it out. Afterwards, I headed over to the Highlander for a couple games of pool, then back to Trista's house for a minute.

On my way home, my phone rang. I recognized the number as that of The One Who Broke My Heart despite having deleted his number out of my phonebook 10 months ago. Uncharacteristically, I answered the phone thinking that there was something wrong for him to be calling at 2am on a Thursday night.

"Hello?"

"Love, it's John. Look, I know I'm not your most favorite person right now, but I need your help. Please."

"What's up?"

"I've had a couple drinks and started my drive home and realized that I've had one too many to be driving. Can I please come over?"

"No, I don't want you at my place, but pull over and I'll come pick you up and take you home. Take your keys out of your ignition. I'll be there in a minute."

"Thank you so much. Thank you."

I picked him up and took him home. I guess my mistake was going inside, but we were talking and the conversation was honest and amiable. He couldn't believe I had deleted his number (I told him I had): "That's so permanent. If I delete a number, then it's like I'm deleting the person from my life. I thought we were different than that."

(Yeah, and I thought "I love you" meant "I love you" and "you give me everything I want and need" meant "you give me everything I want and need." Turns out "everything I want and need" excludes new pussy. Hey, I'm only one woman. Go fucking figure.)

Next thing I know and the very last thing I expected, I'm in the middle of SexFest2005. It was really great (and longlasting) sex, but our sex was always hot. Coincidentally, this encounter was one day shy of a year since our last romp and, essentially, the end of our year-long affair.

I'm feeling pretty emotionally solid, which is a bit surprising considering I never healed wholly from the staggering heartbreak he caused me. I guess I created a barrier between my mind, body and soul that night, though indeed it would be nice to have a relationship that honors the unity of these things instead of dividing part of me against the rest of myself. On the flip side, the realistic/practical/experienced side of me doesn't believe there can be unity between body, mind and soul when it comes to sex and men. Either I have to compartmentalize or I set myself up for disappointment.

John actually said to me the other night that he wanted to "make love" to me all night and all through the next day - that he could stay like "this" forever. How much he missed me. How much he wanted me. How sexy he thought I was. How much he wanted to go down on me. How often he thought about it. How much he wanted me to have pleasure ("I want to make you come a million times before I do" or "Just relax and enjoy this - don't worry about me"). How much he loved to be inside me. How much he "loved sharing this with me - sharing each other".

If I believed or took to heart anything he said that night, then I would be a mess right now. But I'm not a mess right now because I shut myself off from my emotions. I knew tomorrow would be different and that what he was saying was fleeting.

Legitimately, I tried to resist. I told him "no" over and over and pushed him away from me and off me and repeatedly pulled his hand out of my pants. But then he tore down my pants, saying he wanted to "taste me til I came" and I said "no, no, no". Then he flipped me over and pried apart my legs because he is bigger and stronger than me, and I couldn't help but give in to the pleasure of it all. My heart and mind were saying no, but my body was saying yes.

When he called me last night (at least he called), as expected I could sense a complete and utter detachment in his voice like he felt nothing of the sort he expressed just 12 hours before. That switch had unsurprisingly been turned right back off. But this time, only my tired body has to heal and not my broken heart.

~ the lady love

Seen Around Town

I almost took flight from Atlanta three years ago for Seattle. I literally had all the arrangements made - all but having the moving truck packed. A friend tearfully begged me on his knees to stay an extra year and move in with him. I conceded easily. We found a lovely bungalow in Candler Park that felt very adult-like, and we lived there for a year. After our year was up, we decided to live separately again, and we both moved into different lofts in Midtown. Another year passed. I stayed put, and my friend moved to Fort Lauderdale, leaving me behind, which I found somewhat ironic.

Almost another year has zipped by now, and I'm wondering if and when I will ever leave this city.

To be fair, I didn't stay exclusively for my friend. He just made it easy. In fact, the planned move was part of a series of life changes I had made: I exited a 5-year long relationship that had run its course, I quit my job and began freelancing, and I started taking better care of myself the way I should. By the time the move came 'round, I was quite happy with my life. I didn't need to run away to the other side of the country.

One of the most difficult parts of making the decision to move, then and now, is the thought of abandoning the network of family and friends that I've built here and starting over again from scratch. Yet, at times, it's the exact reason why I want to leave. There is an undeniable appeal that comes with the type of anonymity that I can no longer en