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

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. 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.



~ 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

Ode To The Old Fourth Ward

So long, Old Fourth Ward.

I'll miss you crack corner Shell station, and you, too, Murder 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

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." 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

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 a 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!

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

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 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 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 kid 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 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, it 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 jerks (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

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

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).

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?" 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

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, the live version of "Madelaine Mary" rocks so much.

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

~ 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

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
Untitled

~ the lady love

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

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 I was doing with this program, but they were confident in my ability to figure it 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 difficult 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

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 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. Clearly, 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.")

Next thing I know and the very last thing I expected, I'm in the middle of SexFest2005. It was really great sex, but our sex was always hot. Coincidentally, this encounter was one day shy of a year since our last go-around 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 until 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, 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 enjoy in this place. For living in city of substantial size, I always seem to run into someone I know everywhere I go - even in the most random or obscure places.

A perfect example: a recent Friday night I took myself out to dinner. I've been in retreat-mode as of late, so I wanted to be by myself (as much as I could while being in public). I happened upon a quaint little Italian restaurant called DaVinci's tucked behind a Cuban place on Ponce de Leon. Perfect.

I walked into the dimly lit eatery to be received by a bartendar stationed behind an understated bar with a scanty five bar stools. Two patrons claimed the lone high-top table in the place. I asked for a menu and promptly ordered a bourbon on the rocks. Yes. This is exactly what I was looking for.

While I was gazing at the menu for a ridiculously long time, I heard a voice boom in my direction, "Don't I know you?"

Looking up, I said, "You're Dave, right?" He was one of the two patrons in the place besides myself.

"I sure am, and you're Love. How's it going?"

I'll save you from the formalities of the hey-how-ya-doin' banter, but unbelievable! Here I thought I was safe. I didn't have to be me. Wrong. Dave proceeded to engage me in resistant conversation throughout my entire meal. It turned out alright, though.

At the same time, I can't help but relish the fact that I've built myself a small town here. Atlanta is a decent place to be. There's a lot of good stuff here. Sure, it's stained by its own brand of bullshit, but what city isn't?

I don't know what it is I want to run away from. Maybe it's just myself that I can't escape. I think mostly, though, I just want to escape the me that everybody else thinks that I am - the person who carries the conversation or always has something funny or witty or entertaining to say. But that's not always me. And you know what? That's okay.

~ the lady love

If you live in Atlanta...

... and happen upon this here little blog, come to Eddie's Attic this Thursday, Oct. 27 for some killer live music from Kitty Snyder and Telegram. (Click to hear music samples)

~ the lady love

I dig this song.

I can listen to this song over and over again. I especially like when it kicks in real good. I was a lucky enough girl for these guys to play at my 30th birthday party.

~ the lady love

Burning Down The What?

Wednesday night/Thursday morning, I was awakened at 3:45 a.m. by the smell of smoke. The first thing that ran through my head was, "Fuck. The building is on fire." I laid there for a second thinking about a plan of action. First, I decided that if I couldn't get out my door, I would climb into my loft and out the window onto the roof and work my around to the back side of the building where I could jump to the ground and still survive. (I've watched too much Alias).

Second, I thought about the things I should try to save: my cat, my camera, my computer, and my coat. (Curious alliteration here, eh?).

Third, I thought I oughtta check to make sure the smoke/fire wasn't coming from my place first. Oh yeah, and I should probably put some clothes on.

I got up, took a gander, and determined that it was definitely coming from somewhere else. Good. If the building goes up in flames, I didn't want to be the cause of setting it ablaze. I promptly got dressed, walked to my door and felt to see if it was hot. It was cold. As I walked through the halls towards the front door of the building, I could hear fire truck sirens screaming outside. I flung open the front door to see five fire engines lined up along my street in front of my building as well as a bevy of po-lice. Smoke filled the air, and I watched the firemen run into the building next door. I waited and watched for just a few minutes in true gawker style, then one by one the fire trucks and cops pulled away 'til they were all gone. I was sufficiently confused.

Where was the fire? The driver of a car that got trapped between the blocked off intersections on either end of my block told me, "They couldn't find the fire. It's not here. It's somewhere else."

Okey-dokey.

I don't know which incident is more bizarre: this one here or the one from a few weeks ago. I was awakened at 1:30 a.m. by what I thought was an aircraft (helicopter) about to crash into my apartment. Instead, it just circled right past my window with a beam spotlight on for probably 20 minutes. I was rather annoyed as I had had a difficult time falling to sleep that night and was subjected to the obnoxious sound of a loud helicopter hanging out right above my head for what seemed like an eternity.

I almost went outside to see what was going on, but then it occurred to me that if a police helicopter is circling my building at 1:30 a.m. with its beam spotlight on, then there was probably some crazed weapon-toter outside, so checking it out wouldn't necessarily be the smartest idea. The next day I found out that there was a transvestite prostitute on my corner holding people up a gunpoint.

There's some strange stuff that goes on right outside my door, and I don't even know about it.

~ the lady love

Five Things...

...I really like (in no particular order):

1) Ace Pear Cider
2) Eminem
3) Buffy the Vampire Slayer
4) Good Lighting
5) Lists

I Need a Shower.

Thanks to my savvy internet sleuth skills - okay, really my site traffic meter - my readership seems to be on the rise. But it's funny. All of a sudden, I'm a lot more self-conscience about wanting to say something worth reading or at least something that doesn't make me sound quite so pathetic. It's kind of ironic since the whole point behind this here little blog was to not sling contrived. Yet I find myself reading what I write lately and thinking, "I sound so pathetic", so I delete it. Either that, or I sit at my keyboard and strain from verbal constipation. So fuck it. I feel pretty pathetic right now, so why should I pretend like I don't?

1) I am depressed
2) I have never fully recovered from a broken heart last year
3) I have friends all around me yet I still feel lonely
4) I am not taking proper care of myself
5) I do not go out much anymore
6) I am directionless
7) I fantasize about walking away from my life and working in a gas station in Wyoming, and I've never even been to Wyoming
8) I'm tired of rolling with the punches
9) I feel guilty and self-indulgent whining about it when I know I could have it a lot worse. I mean, there are people in the world who don't even have the luxury of confronting their emotional selves because, by the accident of birth, their lives are about mere survival.
10) I do not feel like this all the time, but the feeling has been growing bigger lately
11) I know that it is not permanent, but it is up to me to fix it
12) I would like to experience a relationship with a man who treats me right. Maybe it would be more accurate to say a man who isn't still a little boy emotionally even though I don't even require much emotional intensity.
13) I am not joyless but there is an underlying constant heavy that I do not portray socially
14) I don't want to be a buzzkill because I'm not too fond of buzzkills myself
15) This is not me
16) But it is me
17) I've been here before
18) I've gotten out of this place before
19) In theory it's nice to not have expecations, but it is much harder in practice if you have standards (of any kind)
20) I hate television but find myself watching anyway
21) 17 out of 20 things on this list start with "I", the other two have "me" in them, and number 19 says "you", but I really mean "me". Number 21 has both "I" and "me" in it.

~ the lady love

Priceless

For some quality reading since I don't have shit to say, check this out.

A Funny Little Side Note

A friend confided to me over lunch today that he was going to smoke the ganja tonight for the first time ever. When we were parting ways, I asked him to call tomorrow and let me know how it was getting high. "Shhhh! Could you keep your voice down please?" to which I replied, "One day you're gonna get that stick all the way out of your ass."

~ the lady love

Unfortunately, for reasons beyond our control, we are no longer able to post our friend's final writings about his death. I'm sorry. I will say that he always told his friends about how evil and opportunistic his mother was, which comprised a portion of his writings. In fact, up until about a month ago at his father's funeral, he hadn't spoken to her in over a decade. He always said she was a pathological liar with a heart that was cold and black. According to him, she was also very physically abusive to him. He acknowledged that most of his longlived emotional issues stemmed from his relationship with her and the abuse she rendered.

Born (click to listen)

I was born to laugh
I learned to laugh through my tears
I was born to love
I'm gonna learn to love without fear

Pour me a glass of wine
Talk deep into the night
Who knows what we'll find

Intuition, deja vu
The holy ghost haunting you
Whatever you got
I don't mind

Put your elbows on the table
I'll listen long as I am able
There's nowhere I'd rather be

Secret fears, the supernatural
Thank God for this new laughter
Thank God the joke's on me

We've seen the landfill rainbow
We've seen the junkyard of love
Baby it's no place for you and me

I was born to laugh
I learned to laugh through my tears
I was born to love
I'm gonna learn to love without fear

~ Over the Rhine (recommended: click to hear)

Dealing in the Aftermath

I received a comment last night on my blog entries regarding my friend who recently died. The poster asked me to please remove his name from the site. In anger and a state of impulse, I used Steve's full name as a title of an entry, yet later removed it of my own volition. Nevertheless, google was turning up my site as a top result when his name was entered, and the original post with my friend's full name was showing up when you select the "cached" option. This poster was concerned about his students performing web searches and coming across my site.

I temporarily pulled my site til I figured out what I wanted to do. I kinda didn't care - it is what it is, right? That is, life and death. We all gotta figure it out some time. I never violated Steve's trust as a friend, even after his death, but am I violating it by writing my own thoughts about him and the details of the suicide? I tend to think not.

Steve was writing a 'book' on his own suicide that he'd been working on for a long time. The last time he wrote in it was in June, I believe. His birthday was in June. A couple days after his birthday he told me that he was planning on doing 'it' then - on his birthday. He wanted his suicide note published, so his "inner circle" as he called us - that is, his self-made family, has decided to publish it online. It's what he wanted, and it has a lot more details about him and his life than my three blog entries.

As far the request to remove Steve's name from my site (which I had already done long before this request was made) and the search engine cache, I wrote him the following letter:

Dear Friend,

I am sorry for your loss, too. I temporarily removed my webpage after your request to think about what I wanted to do. My webpage is now back up, although it looks like since I took it down, you don't find it on google anymore. Nonetheless, I had a very close relationship with Steve, and I strongly feel that he wouldn't care about the comments I made on my site, and I talked to his other closest friend, and he very much agreed. The bottom line is, it is the truth, and we were Steve's family.

We (what he liked to call his "inner circle" - his self-made family) have also made the decision to publish Steve's suicide note. He made it very clear that he wanted it out there for public consumption, so we are going to honor his wishes. My blog does not reveal anything that he doesn't already reveal himself. If his students come across it, so be it. It's what he wanted.

To answer your question about the cause, please take comfort in knowing that this is simply what he wanted. He had no fear of death or suicide, and he simply was not content in this life. Death and suicide were something he had wanted and thought about for many, many years. He was a dynamic, charismatic person, so it can be difficult to understand why he would take his own life. As much as he was these things, he was also very unhappy and struggled with life daily. To be honest, this was inevitable. I loved him a great deal as he loved me back, and I am sad and angry at him that he is gone, but he didn't want to be here. He just had a very different outlook on life than most of us.

I hope this helps shed some light on 'why'.

Take care,
the lady love

Acting Out

I came back home today for the first time since Sunday when I was here for only about 30 minutes - just long enough to find out if it was for real. I pulled up to my gate, and Steve's car was right there at the very front - the first thing you see when you pull in. I guess the property manager moved it there. It's the best place for it I suppose until things are figured out. It was just a jolt to my system - it had originally been moved to the parking deck next door out of sight.

As I got out of my car, I noticed a handwritten note secured under the windshield wiper on his car. I walked over and read it:

"If I or any of your neighbors parked beside you, we would block you in. Please park correctly. Others would like to park near the gate as well. Next time myself or your neighbors have agreed that we will block you in. About five of us have discussed this. Thanks for understanding." ~Alphabet Lofts

The note was signed as the name of the loft building and not by the name of the writer, which bugged the shit out of me.

I don't know if I'm being irrational, but it sent rage through me. I wrote a reply note and pinned both my note and the original note to the bulletin board in the lobby next to the mailboxes. My notes reads:

"To whomever wrote this note above and stuck it to the windshield of the Lexus parked right inside the gate:
The owner of the Lexus died on Saturday night and cannot move it. Feel free to block it in. And the next time you want to leave a note like this for a neighbor, at least have the balls to sign your own name. Thanks for understanding. ~The Lady Love, #13"

I think I know the jerk that wrote the note. She's this manipulative jerk that has pulled some other stunts around the building. I specifically know of her blackmailing another neighbor - yeah, I'm serious. Point is, if you're going to leave a nasty note like this, at least have the balls to identify yourself.

In my opinion, a more appropriate note would have been along the lines of, "Hi neighbor ~ the way your car is parked prevents other folks from being able to park around you without blocking you in. We were hoping you could park at an angle - it's the most efficient use of space for our lot. Thanks, and feel free to come talk to me about it. ~The Lady Love, #13"

I guess I'm just sensitive right now because of the personal tragedy that I'm privy to and that this 'anonymous' note (yet under the guise of "Alphabet Lofts") was written to my dead friend.

~ the lady love

I knew that Fuck would kill himself. I just didn't expect it to be Saturday night. Things had been going really well for him. On Friday night, we laughed and talked and played games and talked about him hitting his stride. I had told him before that I thought he was bipolar and perhaps even schizophrenic. He said he had considered that before.

He was a genius. A biologist with his PhD. A college professor. He was dark and negative. Paranoid. Handsome. Hilarious. Fun. Dangerous. Depressing. Exhausting. Kind. Generous. A very good friend. Dramatic. Charismatic. Creative. An artist. A pain in the ass.

I just finished looking through his 40-page suicide letter, which he began years ago. There was nothing really new there. Apparently, I had the most intimate knowledge of him. He selectively disseminated information about himself to people, and I guess he chose to tell me the most since, in the aftermath, I'm the one who has the most comprehensive view of him.

The coroner told me they wouldn't have the toxocology report for two weeks. I told her what he died from and what cocktail of drugs they would find in his system: morphine, percoset, vicadan, xanax, syroquil, marijauna, alcohol, welbutrin. I know how he did it. He used the morphine. Probably took the entire bottle. Besides, that was really all he had enough of to kill himself.

What causes me the most grief is all the calls and text messages from him. That he pulled me in at the last minute. It's hard not to question myself - feel guilty - like he reached out to me and I didn't help him. It would be a little easier to swallow if I just found out he was dead, but knowing that he asked me to come get him... I knew he would eventually commit suicide. I just wish he wouldn't have pulled me into it. He knew I couldn't come - I was working and I had a crying woman in my car that I was comforting. I couldn't drop everything I was doing to rush to him. To find out if this time he was for real.

He was for real. Bastard.

Died Last Night

My good friend (and neighbor) killed himself last night. I was photographing a wedding reception. At one point, I picked up my phone and had a missed call from him and a text message. At 10:49 he wrote, "I need your help." That could mean anything at all, and though it didn't suggest urgency, I called him. He didn't answer. I left a message saying that I was at the wedding and didn't have my phone on me. I got his message and if he called back and I didn't answer, it was because I wasn't near my phone, but I'd be checking my messages.

30 minutes later, I had another missed call from him and another text message. At 11:19 he wrote, "Drunk. Depressed. Going to bed. Call if light is on."

I had plans to sleep over at a friend's that night, so I wasn't going back home. No big deal, he was going to bed and nothing seemed terribly wrong.

At 12:26 a.m., I got another text message from him. It read, "Come get me I'm dead." I called him twice immediately but he didn't answer.

At 12:30 a.m., I got another text message that read, "sorry". I called him again. He didn't answer. I texted him, "What's going on?" No reply.

At 1:00 a.m., I texted him again and said, "Haven't heard from you. Hope ur ok." No reply.

Some time after 12:30 a.m. he overdosed on morphine and was found dead in his bed this morning.

The Lady Love Makes The News

I would first like to say that, as I write this post, the Golden Girls are on. The girls are worried about Rose being addicted to painkillers. A very important episode with a very important message: drugs just make some people more tolerable

So, I was in Creative Loafing this week. It's weird. I haven't been in the paper since I was in high school. I recently reconnected with this music journalist I know because of a professional gig. Late one night we got to talking and he asked me to be the subject of this recurring, inconsequential piece in the music section. It was all very spontaneous, and it had to be done by the next morning. I said sure. I pretty much had free range with the topic, though I ended up going with something he threw out upfront: I had to come up with five things bands should not do.

It was fun and came very naturally. I gave him my list, and he wrote a little intro profile and punctuated each of my points. The next day, I asked him to send it to me - what he turned in to be published. He told me that he never let people see the articles before they ran. From his experience, people inevitably don't like something and want to make a change. But for me, he would make an exception. Of course. Of course. I wouldn't have any gripes.

But of course. Of course. There was something I didn't like. Two little, very powerful words that I felt portrayed me as intimidating and unapproachable. "Bitingly caustic." It wouldn't have been a big deal other than the fact that I was specifically being identified as the publicity & promotions rep for a local club who is very image-conscious at the moment.

I never aked him to change it. I just couldn't do it. I already felt like one of those women who say, "Does this make my ass look big? Tell me. I promise I won't get mad." But then they get mad anyway. What can I say? I'm a cliche.

No, I couldn't. I did, however, passionately communicate my apprehension about the image being projected and why it mattered. Beyond that, if he wanted to change it, it was up to him. Graciously, he obliged me and did a little editing, though I'm sure he regretted ever making the exception for me. I basically reinforced what he already knew. Still, I was very thankful for the consideration.

The end result:

REAL LIFE TOP FIVE: THE LADY LOVE

The Lady Love is the new publicity and promotions rep at ... She sorts through tons of band press kits and promo packs daily. Here, she offers some constructive criticism and advice for hopeful - and, in some cases, hopeless - musicians.

1) Avoid John Mayer "Do not drop the John Mayer bomb. Every musician in this city has either played with him, opened for him, shared the stage with him, or sounds like him. Sorry, but it doesn't make you special."

2) Don't Be A Name Dropper "Do not drop more than 10 names of bands you've opened for in your bio. It's tacky and implies you'll never be more than an opening act."

3) Don't Get A "Heart" On "Please, please, please do not ever say during a performance, 'This next song comes straight from the heart.' It's tired. 'This next song comes straight from the groin would be better - or at least funnier.'"

4) Stay At Least Semi-Sober "Don't get so drunk on stage that you can't play your own music. It's a bad sign when your fans start asking the venue for their money back."

5) It Shouldn't Matter If There Are 3 or 3000 "Don't get pissy if only three people come to your show. Having a bad attitude on stage due to 'low voter turnout' will only alienate the three paying fans you actually do, or did, have."

---

That's all folks.

~ the lady love

Charmed But Near Dead

I received a message from a reader this past weekend who told me, "You haven't posted in your blog in over a week! I'm going through withdrawal."

Then, I got a note from a fellow Flickrite who said, "Hey, i don't mean to add any undue pressure or anything, but there are some of us out here who always look forward to seeing your new photos. So i think you should post something soon. Is that rude? I don't mean to be rude."

People, you do flatter me so. Wow. But please be patient with me. Seriously, I am drowning in work right now. I feel like I'm chained to my apartment and computer. Nothing would make me happier than to have the time to write and take pictures.

Don't give up on me. I haven't given up on you.

~ the lady love

Brokedown but at least my hair looks good

This past weekend I broke down alongside the interstate. My passenger side rear tire blew. It was a hot afternoon, so I picked a really good day to wear a sweatshirt.

I've probably had five flats this year. But this time, I had no spare tire. The last flat I had was when my donut blew while I was driving to the tire store to replace a flat tire. Go figure. Yeah, the rim was bent on the donut, so they wanted to charge me $300 to replace it. I said no. If I break down with a flat, it will cost me less to get my car towed than to pay that absurd amount of money for a donut. I'll go to the junkyard and pay $15 for a spare from a wrecked car. Just give me the rubber from my old tire, and I'll keep it in my trunk.

Well, that was nine months ago and I never made it to the junkyard, but I did make an instant little adventure for myself when I got that flat tire on Sunday.

At first I forgot. I pulled off to the side of the highway and went about my way to changing the tire. I popped the trunk and - Oh Shit! - I don't have a spare.

I had to make a call. With 30 minutes to bide until my rescue, I decided to make myself useful. I jacked my car up with a creaky jack and put two big scratches on my car while doing it. That's okay; the war wounds will give it character I told myself. I jacked the thing all the way up before I realized I hadn't broken the lug nuts, so I cranked her back down. To break the lug nuts, I had to climb up and balance myself on the wrench and give it a few bounces with my entire body weight, so I'm lucky I didn't break my ankles or my neck given my tendencies toward falling. I jacked it back up and pulled my tire off just as my official help arrived. I tossed the flat tire and the spare rubber from my trunk into the truck bed, and we made our way up to the first service station off the next exit. For $15 bucks they put the spare rubber on and balanced it. All in all, it could have been a lot worse, but I think I'll be locating myself a real, functional spare tire asap for future breakdowns.

While I was stranded alongside the interstate fixing my tire, I had a few people pull off to see if I needed help. The first was a single, older white woman, perhaps in her late 50s. We chatted for a minute, and she went on her way. The second was three hispanic men, who got out of their car and asked if I needed help. I said thank you very much for stopping, but I was fine and had somebody on the way. They left. The third was a black couple. The man got out of the car and walked up. He said they were driving down the other side of the interstate when they saw me. That means they got off at an exit and turned around to come back up the other side of the interstate - just to help me. Wow, I said. Thank you so much but here's my help pulling up now. Thank you again. Thank you.

Thank you to these people who thought I might be in need and stopped to help. All of you. But in the 30 minutes I was standing on the side of the interstate, tell me, where were my white brothers? I just found it somewhat ironic that the only help that was not extended to me was from a caucasian male, but how many of them do you think passed me? Just wondering.

I may have been broken down, but at least my hair looked good. It's getting so long. I figured the length softens me up a bit, you know, from my otherwise hardened look. Haha.

After my breakdown, later that night with a foxy hairdo:

When Lady Love Became Your Majesty
So, I called my phone company today to increase my minutes plan. I've been going over my minutes every month, especially since I became the publicist for a local music venue, so I needed to upgrade. When I called in I was in quite a playful mood, and the service rep started out with "Thank you for calling t-mobile. How can I put a smile on your face today?" I started laughing and replied, "Well, I guess just asking worked, eh?" She asked if she may call me by my first name and I said, "Well, what else would you call me?" She replied that would call me whatever I wanted her to call me. I said, "How about 'your majesty'? Will you call me 'your majesty'?" She said sure and proceeded to call me "your majesty" throughout the rest of the call. Now that's what I call service.

~the lady love