Friday, August 29, 2008

I think I'm paranoid, manipulated

I admire and duly respect John McCain for dedicated service to his country. But 66 days from the election, he smells a bit of old man desperation.

First, at the conclusion of last nights Obamarama, my locals ran an “I’m John McCain, and I approve this message” televised message, congratulating Barrack on the nomination. McCain then whored out the moment adding, “…on this, an equally important day in the history of civil rights", a veiled reference to the 40-something anniversary of Dr. King’s “I have a Dream” speech. What I heard was this:

“How wonderful on a day a black man made history another black man made history by being the first black man to win a presidential nod. Way to go black man!”

Obama hasn’t run a campaign based on the color of his skin, however coffee with a good deal of cream the tone. He called upon the legacy of MLK only briefly in his Thursday speech. There are larger issues at hand, in this moment right now, where change is needed to move the country forward.

Then this morning McCain chose a relative unknown as running mate, Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin (Sarah, Plain and Tall). It’s a woman! Shazam, the Republican party is hip and cool after all! She’s a devoted wife, PTA mom of five and just 44. Heck, I bet she even bakes and wears frilly nighties for “special times”. A devout Christian, she’s celebrating 20 years of marriage today - to an Alaskan oil man no less. Her son enlisted in the U.S. Army after September 11th and will soon deploy to Iraq. How nuclear family perfect! She even wore Tina Fey specs to smart down the pretty. Sounds like the start of classic, cheesy joke; "An African American, a pretty woman, an old man and Joe Biden walk into a bar…”

Oh, and how funny and ironical the crowd sang “Happy birthday” to John McCain at the beginning of this mornings announcement? That’s like pouring a fat-bottomed girl into white pleather pants in the hopes of looking svelte. Happy 72.

I’ve rolled my eyes so much in the last 24 hours I may have sprained one.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Soda pop terrorist

Apologies to all the heartfelt speechifyin’ of a historic nature, the best quote from the DNC so far comes from lovely hippie and now Colorado resident Daryl Hannah. Sniper interviewed by the sewer rats at Fox News, when asked, “What are doing here at the Democratic National Convention?” the Goldilocked mermaid replied, “I’m not going to the convention. I refuse to enter a building named after a beverage that causes obesity and diabetes”.

You can’t get a Rum and Coke at The Pepsi Center.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Let The River Run

No matter how protected, there can come a time each month when counting the days to 26 are a bit unnerving. Hormones, being what that they are, have a sense of humor; relief comes often at the least opportune time, saying hello in a pink wave.

Welcome, old friend, the day before a wedding and green satin, belly hugging gown. Or tomorrow while you tag along to a causal “25 Year High School Reunion” dinner to mingle with boys and girls, now men and women, each with a story to update and stomach to suck in.

Oh well. Dodged that bullet through another flip of the calendar.

Period.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

The DNC is killing my social life

Five days and counting.

Soon Denver will be filthy with media (left and right), politicos, security goons and, oh yeah, loads of democrats. Welcome donkeys. When news broke the Democratic National Convention would make a summer home in Denver, I was stoked. History in the making. That yummy Anderson Cooper. The first African American presidential candidate. Hillary!

However, as the local media will do, the focus for weeks has been on the inconvenience, the added traffic, needed road closures, helicopters buzzing by (check out pal Amy’s high-rise vantage point of security runs) and being patted in the privates by men in black at every turn (okay, that doesn’t sound so bad). City dwellers are hunkering down, preparing as one would for a blizzard, stocking up on essentials and canceling social activities; they fear leaving the bosomy comfort of home and secure parking spots. ‘Burb buddies refuse to venture downtown, anywhere near major thoroughfares. Employees, fearing the crowds, delays and ticker tape, plan to work at home for the week, draining millions from city coffers in the way of lattes, parking and lunch.

Even the homeless are being shipped out to matinees daily.

Amy won’t come out to celebrate her birthday. Can’t get a girlfriend to catch the last of an outdoor summer concert series, one that requires being on the open road the day of Obama’s acceptance speech. Forget the booty call.

Better get laid by Monday, then gear up for a lonely week. Vodka? Check. Batteries? Check Check. Sex and politics, indeed.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Melts in your mouth, indeed

Do yourself a chocolatey favor, try M&M’s Premiums. I had an afternoon quickie with “Triple Chocolate”, plump layers of milk, dark and white with a purple passion veneer. Rich and sultry, I could take just one, two, three at most at one time.

Made me moan a bit like a girl doing something other than eating a chocolate candy.

Luscious.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

No sugar tonight in my coffee

“I’ll have a grande iced coffee, sweetened with two pumps caramel, one pump Chai, room for cream.”

That’s not coffee, that’s desert. A sugary, milky desert, crème brulee in liquid form. It’s no wonder Americans are fat and getting fatter. The amount of empty calories consumed in a quick Starbucks, Caribou or local mud house run are astronomical.

And when it comes to Joe, I'm a superfreak.

If studied in a chemical lab, science may determine I'm composed of approximately 10% coffee, the rest bone and muscle and fat. I love coffee. A hot and steamy mug to burn off a morning hangover, foamy latte with a whisper of nutmeg or the sweaty grip of an iced coffee in summer. But I want coffee, no macchiato-with-whip-cherry-on-top. Toppings on coffee? Toppings piled so high they require a specially engineered dome lid? The latte is my “fancy” and always with soy milk. Often it’s a meal, grabbed and consumed while running errands of after the gym, a late morning belly filler and breakfast replacement. Iced coffee I splash with cream, turning it a light mocha color, sort of the brown to toffee Beyonce sports via airbrushing in those controversial new L’Oreal ads.

Sometimes it’s best to leave things be.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

We are the champions, my friends

I have the Olympic fever.

Every two years I think casually, “Ehh…the Olympics. Means Conan will be on very, very late.” Then I find myself excited to catch a glimpse of the 400 meter men’s relay, live from Beijing (truth told, I stop and watch whenever the men are swimming. Goodness, they have nice shoulders).

Last night, between eating away at yet another corporate deadline and leftover Chinese and catching up on blog reading, women’s team gymnastics played in the background. By the end of the evening, as I slid into bed around midnight, the U.S. team earned a silver medal. Why is it when a team or athlete earns anything less than gold the press diminish the achievement? Guess they go for “good TV” or the "better read."

My goal going into college was to come out a music writer, or a writer of non fiction, and that meant acceptance and training at the CU Boulder School of Journalism. As someone who financed school 100%, attending classes and working retail nearly full time, I had little room for error, little wiggle room. Had to get 'er done. Once accepted in the school (not a simple task; at that time for every 200 applicants the school took in perhaps 20 or 30) you had to select an area of study – Advertising, Broadcast Journalism, something to do with the electronics shenanigans that made it all happen and Public Relations. I was Broadcast Journalism, thirsting for libel law, better copy writing skills, how to work the AP Wires and what made a good story great. I went to school, however, in the heyday of the tabloid press where style often won over substance. I’d barely make it to class in rolled cuff sweats and last nights makeup, only to sit with perfectly air brushed girls dressed in skirts…and heels. Stepford sorority sister and fluffy local weather girl rolled in one. Some boys already had the newscaster tan or sports writer drinking issues. I began to dislike how and what I was being taught, the obtrusive JonBenét debacle). After a passionate talk with the Dean, I completed my degree with a split major in Broadcast Journalism and Public Relations, minor in history.

Which brings me to last night and U.S. women’s gymnastics team captain Alicia Sacramone. She fell while mounting the balance beam and ended up butt down on her final floor routine. It was one small misstep (of many, team wide) that put a gold medal out of reach but delivered the silver. Post event in a live interview, the NBC commentator, a women, went for the emotional jugular, each question more leading and pointed than the last, the kind of questions you ask passive-aggressively during an argument to gauge a reaction. Sacramone chewed her lower lip, face slowly blushing to amber, swallowing deeply, trying to convey strength in a moment of personal disappointment, rightfully proud of her team’s accomplishment and beating herself up a bit. The interviewer stayed insistent, bemoaning the mistakes instead of celebrating any success, a bit like a hovering mother disappointed in her child's performance. A punch to the gut would have got it over with more quickly.

Move to an interview with the full team, girls rallying around their leader and showing true grace, encouraging watchers to realize “We WON a silver” while Sacramone stood behind the tiny pack, most of the lower half of her face blocked. With each prodding and prying, “She really let you guys down, huh?” question, her eyes darted upward and around the emptying stadium, as if wishing she could transport herself out of the situation and go have a good, long cry.

"No one else made mistakes, so it's kind of my fault," Sacramone said, still trying to blink back the tears from her red-rimmed eyes. "I think everybody knows you always have good days and bad days. I just wish today was a good day."

Still, at the end of it, not an entirely bad one.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Stay With Me

It’s odd how the smell of another lingers on you the next day. Even after shower and shampoo, it’s olfactory memory. He smelled musky and earthy, a bit like a wild mushroom. I liked it.

I wanted him stay the night, take a shower in the morning. I’m thinking he’d have chosen either the Green Apple or Strawberries and Cream shower gel.

He was too “in his head”, he said, to sleep. The ticking time bomb of the second hand a reminder of slumber slipping away. Certainly understand. I can’t sleep in an unfamiliar place; it takes time to adjust to a hotel room, a new mattress, a new person. Chances are I’d have only dozed, a strange presence and weight in a space usually reserved for one. Kind of wish I hadn’t got up for water, broken from the spoon and the cocoon of enveloping arms. I actually felt petite tucked into his chest. But then somehow I couldn’t get back in.

It was the first time in a long time I was okay with the staying. First time in a long time I knew what it must feel like when I encourage the going.

Monday, August 11, 2008

I'll take "Sex" for $200, Alex

Funny, sex as the litmus test.

Defining chocolate or shopping, a five-course meal or rock climbing “better than sex” is something of a misnomer. Rather the underlying message is, given the opportunity, I would choose sex (in some form or fashion); however, if not an option at present, look instead to the happy, heart pounding distraction.

Sex is the place marker, the definition. What fun aspires too.

I like the high from a hard physical workout. The surprise of one hot bead of sweat falling from the tip of my nose as I pound quads on a spinning bike until they burn, ready to explode in a spent, wet puddle with one more rotation of the wheel, one more turn of the tension crank, harder and harder, before the sweet release of a downhill stretch. Or pumping out mile after mile on the elliptical, back drenched, hips and torso bouncing side to side, up and down, rhythmic, slower than faster.

But better than sex? Better than flesh on flesh, bone on bone? Nahhhhh. Accept no substitute.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Serendipity

–noun 1.
1. an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident
2. good fortune; luck

A favorite word. Wanna know why? Because my eyes are open to it at all times. And it revealed itself again today.

I sleep on a 10-year old mattress. It causes my arms to evolve into sleepy tingles; rapid activity (wink wink) makes the metal canopy frame creak and moan in absurd comedy. So today I bought a beautiful cherry wood with inlay sleigh bed and expansive new mattress. Goodbye dangling toes. Can’t. Wait. To break it in. I also found a new oversize lovely for the living room, white with tan ticking, an oversized chair and ottoman. My old oversized chair and ottoman had seen better days, sprinkled in soy sauce, covered in cat fur and popped a back spring. But what to do with it? I despise the idea of dumpsters and landfills or paying Fred Sanford to cart it away. So I posted to Craigslist. Within minutes, the e-mail was chiming, the phone was ringing. It’s true, one’s trash is another’s treasure.

That’s how I met Lynn. Lynn just moved to Colorado from Oregon and is getting married this month. Her future to-have-and-to-hold lives in a bachelor pad; she's hunting for big girl furniture. I liked her immediately on the phone and didn’t feel she’d come over and nick my electronics.

The Serendipity part? I found a matching love seat, the same exact pattern, on Craigslist, just minutes from my home. $50. When Lynn got here I showed her the posting online; she’d already made phone contact and was hoping a casual drive by would earn her the seat. Can you imagine? Gave her all my extra pillows in hopes they’d find their eventual match. As we were finishing up, I asked her fiancé how they’d met. They met on eHarmony. My romantic choices run the fun gamut; fun for now, fun for a few months. Most times, going in, I know it’s not “it”. I've been thinking I want more, thinking matchmaker, matchmaker. But before I do, I should find a profile picture with less tits showing. And before I do, I have a couple of days coming with a new friend, a Denver firefighter on his way to Burning Man.

I have a new bed coming Tuesday. Can’t. Wait. To break it in.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

You know you got me burning up, baby

Sleep in 'til 10:45. The cool, high thread count sheets felt too good against bare skin, ceiling fan pulsing out a lovely breeze.

Find Sadie sleeping in a shaded corner on the roof, dark and cool under an overhang. Peel open the sliding glass patio door. It’s already 2:00-in-the-afternoon hot outside. No breeze, just dry heat clinging to surfaces, 93 degrees at 11:22 a.m. The high yesterday was 104, a record 20 straight days of highs above 90.

Someone told me recently discomfort is good for the soul, desert heat and tribal environment. The blood runs hotter, the core bubbles. It sounds tempting and sexy, a chapter in a steamy paperback romance, man bare-chested, woman nearly so.

I’ll take an icy dirty and A/C comfort. If I get adventurous, perhaps wander to the outdoor patio. It's 11:36 a.m. and 97 degrees.

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