Friday, May 30, 2008

The Week in Review

The good news, I continue to drop weight.
The bad news, I’m out (or in?) growing clothes faster than I can remove tags and wear them.
The good news, Macy’s has an awesome return policy.

The good news, I feel stamina and upper body strength increasing.
The bad news, an hour of cardio kick boxing still makes every muscle in the mid-third-section of my body ache for two days.
The good news, see above.

The good news, the phone call to my past was returned.
The good news, his voice makes a sound I feel I’ve known since birth.
The good news, I still care about him a great deal.
The good news, I can make an emotional rather than just physical connection to a man. We’re like “brother and sister” he said.
The bad news, I still care about him a great deal.
The bad news, I over-romanticized him. In my mind he was the one.

The good news, the new Mrs. is happy, no coming down from the joy.
The bad news, none.

The good news, FLA niece’s second pregnancy is coming along.
The bad news, she’s in FLA. I’m in CO.
The good news, we talk everyday on the phone.

The good news, I'm excited about possibly adopting a retired greyhound.
The bad news, most are not "cat safe".
The good news, the term "cafe safe" makes me giggle.
The bad news, I have cats.

The good news, I'm focused and excited about my work and my writing.
The bad news, because casual flings are no longer a distraction.
The good news, I actually crave (and desire and, perhaps, deserve) emotional instead of purely physical connections to men. Who knew?
The bad news, I’m learning to crawl when it comes to creating emotional rather than physical connections to men.
The good news, I’m going to try.
The bad news, writing about sex is almost as fun as having sex.
The good news, almost.

The good news, it’s Friday again.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Beautiful Girl

What a load of crap.

"Why pretty isn’t (always) sexy."

I've been to the bar, on the dating scene, in the car repair and at the gym long enough to call bullshit. Just last night, working out with the after work crowd, the rail thin, deeply tan blonde with a bottom most men could cup in one large palm (barely contained in shorts equivalent to Vicky Secret panties), breasts wider than the span of her rib cage bouncing sprightly on the elliptical in front of me earned stares from the hot men, the average men, the unsightly men, the young men, the old men. Dumbfounded stares as each wandered by. Yet the beautiful girl in the room, pale, scrubbed skin, chestnut hair, classic Dresden features and legs so long they appeared gangly as she kicked them forward with each extended step, earned nary a passing glance. It’s the "bottled" image; qualities we've been weaned to believe represent what’s sexy.

Absolutely, confidence is key. But we’re physical beings and, despite the rhetoric, little trumps sexy on initial contact. The somewhat fuzzy, can’t really make out the face but tits quite clear blog photo, when posted to a personals ad online, results in many more responses than me straight on and covered up. Men become smitten by words, humor, empathy and how snugly and comfortably I fit in my own skin, tits included. But sometimes, I too just want my drinks bought and my ass pinched.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

All things considered

Yes, I cringed at the flat images reflecting back in the digital screen of my stomach in a celery green satin fitted dress.

No, I didn't dance (by sheer timing and bad luck missed the traditional group sway), or hit on a cute groomsman, cuter yet in a tux.

Yes, the scent of romance and cloud of youth (given the average age of the bridal party – sans mine – came in at 24ish), too much champagne, estrangement and empty house awaiting set me sobbing after. Knew it would. It's hard out here for a pimp.

No, I didn't keep the casual first dinner date/hook up (depending on the definition) we'd planned that night. I was a bit too drunk, my ego and esteem a bit too bruised and emotions running too amuck.

Yes, he called, even went to the restaurant in the hopes I would have too because, in his words, "even a chance at dinner with you was worth driving for."

No, I wasn't expecting a polite phone call from still distant family this morning thanking me for the help.

Yes, I let the machine picked it up.

No response to the teary, pining message left on the cell phone of my past Friday night.

Yes, I regret making it.

No, no, it really was a lovely day overall.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

It's a nice day to start again

A big white dress hangs 10 feet away. I've been entrusted with it for the next 48 hours. Every so often I unzip the comically long garment bag for an extended peek inside, stiff layers of satin and flowery bundles of encrusted jewels shining back. I’m tired, having stayed up until 2 a.m. putting the finishing touches on wedding favors. The living room is dark and a bit musky from afternoon rain and it feels like a family moment experienced solo. I imagine out-of-town guests gathered for the festivities, staying over, sleeping on beds and in bags, eating up Entenmann's and coffee for breakfast. My Dad is sadly absent.

My niece Colette and I are separated by one day and 21 years yet she has double the wisdom, empathy and pragmatic approach to life than I did at her age. She'll be amazing at 40. She’s the sole girlfriend I share every vent and all the details with. She mirrors me in frightening ways, with one exception; she's found love and is willing to trust and be happy.

Part of me dreads the next two days. I'll see the family I chose to walk away from. Couldn’t stay for any more hurt. Couldn’t remain invisible any longer. Couldn’t deal with any more anger. Yet I have the feeling I’ll cry, alone in my car, on the way home. I have the feeling the buttons are still there to destroy me a little, eat away at the confidence and self-love instilled in the past five months.

Beginnings and old wounds. The flow of champagne and tears. Love and indifference. Came home from rehearsal dinner and left a teary message for the only boy (I think, I don't know) I loved. Felt right. He won't call back.

I hope it rains to wash away the back luck.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Goin' Out Of My Head

During a buckled down work morning - on deadline once again – I received a request from a peer. Checking the company directory, her picture popped up and I was stopped by a sunny, pretty face. “Kimberlee”, even the name spelled cute. My full, given name is not cute. It reads more like that of a Slavic princess, the kind of girl whose beauty is measured by the wide span of her back. A man told me recently the name “Jodie” fits me – fresh and young and lively. I like that. Growing up a “Jodie”, however, I always felt like a boy, or worse yet a frumpy and plain girl. Why couldn’t I be a Leah or a Brooke?

The initial reaction to pretty or handsome is odd and curious and often times unrealistic. I immediately thought my colleague so fortunate. Blonde hair (the real blonde, a mixed hue of cornflower and straw), high cheekbones, engaging smile enhanced with a shine of coral gloss and beautifully sculpted chin. Funny, she actually looks very much like my very best girl friend in high school. Her e-mail address indicates she resides in or near West Palm Beach. Of course, living the sunny Gidget lifestyle, girls in bikinis and boys doin' the twist.

I don’t know her, never talked to her, but envied this girl from a small profile picture, created an entire persona and lifestyle around a few pixels. We do it all the time. I created a story about the MILF at the gym, two-tone, blonde on black long extensions, fake boobs, overly tanned to a shade resembling purplish red. Too much makeup, too long false nails. Trying hard to hang on to an outdated look yet considered by most men “hot” all the same. And I disliked her immediately. Worse yet, I disliked myself in comparison.

I wonder if men look at other men and find insecurities in themselves. I usually like who I am a great deal. Try to be kind to myself, remain mostly positive and, yes, drink too much and sometimes behave in a manner I regret in the morning. Worry too much about being judged. Someone told me recently, “I admire the way you're living…of wanting to be real, not settling for someone else's idea of behavior. I think you are living, or trying to live, by a higher standard.” Have to remind myself of that when I feel hollow or unworthy. To quote Andie Walsh, nee Molly Ringwald circa Pretty in Pink, “That’s a beautiful theory.”

It’s all a package, the candy coated shell down to the nougat center. I got an e-mail yesterday from a boy I’d met out Friday night. By pure chance, he’d come across a personals ad I’d placed in Denver’s Craigslist. He wrote, “I came across that ad and said, ‘Hey I know that girl!’. It is definitely a small world. I'm totally shocked to see you in there. You should have no problem finding a guy.”

“Finding a guy”, that term reads so funny. Reminds me of the best line in “Forrest Gump”; Lt. Dan asks Forrest if he’s found God to which he replies, “I didn't know I was supposed to be looking for him, sir.“ How do people “find” each other? Get past the initial moment, see farther than the beauty (or the average), the body (or the belly), past the quirks and down into the charm and get into someone’s head. Often feels like my mind and body are enveloped in a protective armor, well maybe more so a chicken wire fence. You can poke your fingers through the holes but never fully grasp the real me.

I have no guy. I have no one really pursuing me for something genuine. I have no date to my niece’s wedding in two weeks.

Some days I feel only the fat rolls.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

I'm With The Band

Forget Hil and ‘Bama. The high-profile, power position to pursue resides squarely in the talented heads, hands and oft overworked laps of musicians. Whether a small time act booking gigs at the Holiday Inn, regional favorites with a regular following or touring headliner, the good far outweighs the “take this job and shove it”. Since college and working publicity for local bands, to a short-time marketing gig with an independent label, I’ve amassed hours watching, working with, coddling and canoodling artists of various talents and timbres, the majority of them men, all earning a living soley on musical talent. Forgive the testosterone leanings; I’ve no doubt perks reign supreme for the ladies, just ask a Go-Go. Can you say the same about your 9-to-5?

You can regularly roll home at 2:00 a.m. smelling like drink without having to explain yourself to the missus.

Girls dance for you. And want you to watch.

When you do a good job, or even a bad one, there’s a round of applause.

Cocktails on the clock, no problem.

Chances are, you don’t buy a drink all night.

Very often, no ties.

The endless buffet of women. Smart girls, stupid girls, girls who climb on rocks, fat girls, skinny girls, even girls with chicken pox…

Whether you age, are average looking, lack somewhat in charm, have a Buddha belly or remain culturally stuck in an era, you get pussy galore.

You can hug and chat up all the women you like, it’s part of the job.

Friday, May 9, 2008

Mocha Chocalata ya ya

They say chocolate releases the same chemical in your brain as sex. There could be froggy trouble a' brewin' this weekend in Colorado. But, really, how much would you have to eat to get "there"?

It's the smell that gets me. I'm a creamy fan of Origin's Cocoa Therapy. First given some as a gift and found it odd. Then I tried it. Chocolaty smooth, slight scent of orange and ginger and silky on warm skin; makes you want to lick. When layered with regulation Body Shop strawberry body butter, it's a fruity-dipped snack treat.

I'm down to the last swirl in the tub and, sadly, Cocoa Therapy is getting harder to find. Literally and figuratively.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Do You Want To Know A Secret

"People kept asking if I was in therapy. I'd say, 'No, but I have a blog.'"

Male bloggers tend to write about politics, technology and money. Women are more likely to blog about their private lives using an intimate style of writing.

If you told the truth and nothing but, who'd run for the fucking hills?

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

And they called it puppy love

Sadie the feral cat has found herself a feral friend. He started coming around for the food and stayed for the company. It's sweet to watch him wait until she's done eating or perch a top the fence, defending their space. This morning they chased around a field mouse. They also bitch and moan at each other at times. Same as in most relationships, eh?

On a related note, I have a date tonight. A genuine, pick-you-up-at-eight-and-don't-be-late (well, meet at eight at the designated public place and take your own's a different era). He builds cameras for things like the Hubble telescope and has a passion for art; he designs amazing looking, intricate kaleidoscopes. He's tall and blonde. And (as far as know) not a guitar player. I'm excited. I have to behave myself and not go too far. Be a lady.

Friday, May 2, 2008

Too Much Information

Most days, I would rather write in my blog than create content for my job. But I love my job, adore and French kiss it in fact, and would do nothing to jeopardize losing it, or worse yet, becoming bad at it.

Metro State College in Denver requires students to take a “Health and Sexuality” course, complete with sweet, bespectacled, middle-aged woman demonstrating how to roll a condom on a banana (actually, they use a block of wood now; isn’t that absolutely ironical?). The class beget a funny conversation about dental dams. If you’re gonna go “there”, visit down south and stay awhile, the better choice is a partner that doesn’t require being wrapped in Saran to go to town. We also decided a sheet of Fruit Roll-Ups would be fun.

The fittest people eat. And eat often, five meals a day, maybe more, constantly stoking the belly fire for optimal metabolic rate. I start my day wanting only strong coffee with loads of soy milk. As hunger hits, the distractions come – the gym, a conference call for work, the cat threw up – and I move into the afternoon on Joe alone. Then a sensible dinner. My new personal trainer wants to bitch slap me. She may force feed oatmeal at some point soon.

I love wine. And vodka martinis, “dirty”, filthy vodka martinis. For all the working out and eating right, I can’t and won’t let go of my drink. Yes, it’s empty calories (see above), but I like how warm my belly feels with a glass of Pinot Noir in it, how touchy I get after a dirty.

I've never had anesthesia or major surgery. Knock-out juice scares me. However, I would and may have surgery to tuck my tummy (especially as I watch it respond to weight loss). Not all together for vanity, but I’m super conscious of it during sex. It’s the mostly hate in my love-hate body relationship. I have sex wearing baby dolls or slips for camouflage. Plus they’re cute, feel nice and make the tits look good.

Speaking of food (see I don’t eat, but am obsessed), there are nibbles I adore not because of the actual food “base” itself, but the delightful accompaniment. French onion soup is the best excuse to eats loads of hot bread and bubbly melted cheese. Crab legs and artichokes? Merely a butter delivery system.

I really like to flirt. And I’m good at it.

This blog title, like most, is a song, the third single released from Duran Duran's 1993 album, “Duran Duran”, popularly known as “The Wedding Album”. John was my favorite. Still is.

Back to work, my 9-to-5 lover awaits.

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