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

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 action 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 several months (which coincidentally made me feel completely badass). Oh well. Glad it wasn't my face.

So what 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 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 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 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

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 smirk 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 - this 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.

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 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.

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.

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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