Sunday, May 31, 2009
That sentence brings a giggle. “Help” seems more apropos to clearly dire situations, say clinging to a wooden plank in the middle of the ocean or gazing into the jaws of a grizzly breaking hibernation and jonesing for a chewy snack.
The trouble with asking for help is when. Addiction and problematic behavior sometimes look an awful lot like simply overdoing it, having a bit too much fun. Filling a lonely hole. Having spent the weekend over-indulging however, I worry. How can one be spectacularly special if relying on outward stimulus?
Friday night, instead of meeting the ladies and bet-I-could-stir-some-interest-with-the-drummer for dancing, I dived into half a bag of Lay’s Potato chips and the tabloids (Jon & Kate are everywhere). The next afternoon, instead of dropping more than fashionably late into a potluck, I swallowed the alone and a heaping bowl of shrimp ceviche and nearly entire sack of tortilla chips. The craving for carbs tells me I need something, that blast and kick from empty fuel, a familiar crunchy hug.
Odd the scale this morning shows none of the abuse.
Worse than a possible eating issue is the fact that over doing isn’t going to keep me in the one size-smaller, side-zip black stovepipe pants I finally found and that give me great pleasure. I can tell you the stock at Macy’s at any given moment. A smaller frame and clothes that finally fit, and fit well, is a serious temptation (and motivation, damn conundrum).
Ah, boys (can’t call them men). When something organic, calorie-and-guilt-free feels so good and satiating in large, girthy doses, how can that be bad? Perhaps when one is greedy, needy even. Like the chips, I want one more and text messages pant for a casual visit. The worst I’ve sent? “I need a refill of you.” Even I wouldn’t answer that booty call.
Boys plus booze merely elevates the desire for both and I like my cocktails. Red wine, super chilly white. Vodka and Tangueray. I’d consider a step into twelve, just to check in on myself (and more mornings lately leave the head knocking and body longing to sweat out a fifth in the steam room). But then I couldn’t indulge period, I’d be bound not to. And the summer drinks are coming out.
On the upside, I’m also addicted to spinning and yoga, sunscreen, taking supplements and vitamins, a clean house, being kind to animals, mostly optimal nutrition (can’t remember the last Twinkie, doughnut, corn dog, Coke, Pepsi, Cheeto or Dorito or any of the “to” snack family I’ve had), good hygiene, overall general kindness and apathy and ability to stake emotional vampires.
Like John Lennon sang, maybe I just need help getting my feet back on the ground. My life has changed in oh so many ways, some not entirely for the best, and I could use a genuine shoulder to lean against, to curl up into, to sit beside or nudge playfully.
Won’t you please, please help me?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Brooke Shields revealed she lost her virginity somewhat late (by current standards) at the age of 22. She's been roundly chastised by the puritanical panty patrol for adding body image issues kept her from opening that great divide sooner, something she regrets.
Amen sister and hallelujah.
Where does virgin wool come from? The shy sheep.
I also blossomed and deflowered (our lady business comes down to gardening and bushes, doesn't it?) late; it took years past 22 to pit that cherry. I was fully aware as a child and teen, fantasizing about boys and kissing. Touching where it felt nice. But as the chubby toddler grew into a fat young girl straddling obese teenager (until years of “starvation dieting,” what the clinics now call an eating disorder) I never matured sexually. I feared showing my body, more afraid than your average girl. My parents ridiculed me, allowed cruel comments and punished instead of providing healthy foods and alternatives. I wasn’t worthy of love and attention when fat. Why on earth would a boy want to kiss me, hold my hand, touch me?
I’m still a fleshy girl, curvy with a belly and a round ass. But I adore having sex, crave it, truly wonder at what my body can do, how it responds and changes to touch and tongue and the heat of bare skin against it. What changed in the woman was the thinking, embracing and caressing what covers bones right now, regardless of pounds still to lose or areas more soft than hard. Someone comes to mind who was less appreciative. Our first and only time together, he slapped my ass and thigh in a manner more judgmental than playful. I was naked and sitting facing him and felt ugly and vulnerable and wholly exposed in that split second.
He was the first man I slept with and I still had a lot to learn. Not just the clinical but that what makes someone “good” in bed is confidence and abandon, talking, telling, letting go. Diving right in. That chemistry pulls us to what we desire, in many shapes and forms. That hiding oneself is punishment, physically and emotionally
I want to take a shower together and not strategically cover. I’ll get there. I have nothing to hide, really.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Day three of a long weekend, downpours continuing, I vowed to make the most of a holiday clock ticking down. “I’m doing this!” I shouted to no one in particular. “I TOO will have a MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND!”
Love the oxymoron. A day weekend.
Every year, the city plays host to a foot race of massive proportions, the Bolder Boulder. I drove over the hill into town just as the black sky opened wide, requiring the ridiculously high setting of the wiper blades and maneuvering around string after string of runners, the race just finished. Like a flooded ant farm.
After crafty navigating down alleys and side streets (went to college in Boulder and know all the tricks and trades), I arrived at the Pearl Street Mall. The four block brick and cobblestone pedestrian mall was thick with locals and holiday visitors; good to see folks out even in the rain, salvaging something of the day. First stop Tea and Cakes where I ordered the chocolate bacon cupcake. Sounds none-too-palatable at first, but the cake was fluffy maple, the shiny icing a seriously deep chocolate, like a swirl of milk and dark, and with crispy bacon crumbled on top. Heav-en-ly. And the shop, familiar and welcoming, the warm bear hug that always defined Boulder to me.
Water seeping into my wedges aside, the day was going to be okay. Hip, small town artsy and umbrella chic. My town.
The metaphysical store, the tarot reader. Told myself I’d stop for a reading after lunch. I always hope the Death card appears since it merely represents change and a spoonful of that would go down nicely right about now. Past the Peppercorn, ground zero for the gourmand, chocked full of cooking accoutrement (some looks torturous, a bit nipple clampey).
The rain started to let up a little at The Boulder Bookstore, a three-story marvel where amazing local and national authors visit often. Tried for a ticket and chance in line to hear Dave Sedaris read there last year; folks were packed high in the store, most of the reading heard over intercom. They like Dave in this town.
Soon noticed how little eye contact was happening. Usually the mall is a place of noise and music and street buskers. It was feeling different, the hug more a one-armer than full-on, pulling into the crotch variety I'm used to.
Five blocks in, toes filthy wet from failure to navigate one puddle too many, I found lunch at a tiny, tiny hole in the wall serving french fries and toppings. I ordered up a small “Naked with Friends” (what else), a basket of half-baked/half-fried spuds and four dipping sauces. Libra that I am, couldn’t make four so I asked the 6’4 if-he-was-an-inch lumbering and completely uninterested boy behind the counter to choose his favorites. I don’t know that he looked in my eye, or up for that matter, once. Oh yes he did, when the small container of rather bland ranch (my homemade version is much tangier) spilled down the side of my white trench raincoat almost immediately after he asked if I’d like lids. Good thing it wasn’t one of the three red-hued varieties.
The fries were good, thick cut, crispy and not oily at all, but the sauces…meh. The service…blech. The vibe between tiny tables…not only was the hug gone, I’d have welcomed a titty twister just for the company.
Boulder has always leaned a bit left of center. Hippies in Abercrombie tees alongside a middle age man driving a Lotus. But it always felt friendly, and now it just felt like I didn’t belong.
And the fashion is bad.
The boys in Boulder are still more gorgeous than any found anywhere else. I say “boys” because most that land on my radar are a good ten years younger. But I now know why, came to me in an epiphanous cougar moment. They’re single. And luckily for a girl playing the field and out behind the bleachers, they are less concerned with the “where is this going” conversation.
After my quick, quiet lunch I poked into a vintage shop, the LP record cellar where I got the stink eye from a typically pretentious clerk, but mostly I just wanted to go. Two hours and the chemical reaction barely sparked. Sadly.
And seriously, the fashion is bad.
So farewell my love, at least for now. My desire moves to Denver, Highland, Cap Hill. Someday I may return, perhaps when the sun shines and we see each other with fresh faces and rosy cheeks.
I will miss you.
But I’ll miss the bacon cupcake more.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
I do none of it. Just not an outdoorsy girl, never have been. I absolutely appreciate the beauty and majesty of this state and enjoy a ride into the hills, ending with a cocktail, not sleeping on the ground. Went camping once. Once. Stock show? Nope. Skiing? Never been.
They’re so gonna kick me out.
A girlfriend suggested I take “ladies night” golf lessons at a club nearby. Doing so would provide a light sprinkling of skills so we could play together this summer. My initial thought, why on earth would I want to golf with all ladies? Second, I have no shoes. My footwear is mostly inappropriate to outdoor pursuits; I teeter just fine all summer in wedge sandals and the occasional flip flop; wore Steve Madden leopard ballet flats my last visit up to Red Rocks (in fairness, we’d gone primarily for Morrison Inn margaritas, the trek less planned). But I have Chucks, the staple, a classic short black and she said those would do. No collared polo shirts, however. Women should never, ever wear collared polo shirts.
This "gone fishin" weekend, got me thinking. What are my hobbies?
I like managing my household, tucking crisp and fruity smelling sheets into the bed. Lemony scrubbing. It’s work done in bits and pieces that offers instant gratification at the end of the afternoon.
I like kissing and loving, making out on the couch. Snogging and touching on all the bases like horny teenagers.
A tattered book store, coffee and several hours to browse. Heaven. Takes time to complete a book, though. I often have three or five going at once.
I shop for and prepare beautiful food, often slurped down with a belly-warming wine. A cloudy or rainy day calls for broth based soup with parmesan crisps or crunchy bread. Hot mornings make for luscious fruit salads, berries exploding when pressed against the roof of your mouth.
The gym is an obsession. Even in the midst of a thigh burning, spitting “how soon ‘til it’s over” spinning class, I feel revived, oxygenating every cell and muscle and organ. Yoga is a bendy pleasure and thrice weekly visits to the steam room a naked must.
A great movie at the theater, cool, dark and with images larger than life. Plus there’s popcorn dressed with golden topping and salt (and usually my only meal of the day). I love both an art house and the newer theaters with stadium seating and armrests that split and rise.
Best part of summer (besides the first bite of the perfect peach) are the outdoor music festivals and art walks, night and day. Can find one just about every weekend.
Don’t think me a too delicate a hothouse flower, shielding alabaster skin from the suns rays. I’m happy as steamed clams and a bucket of beers on the outdoor patio, under the umbrella and in the shade. I like a ball game, peanuts and hot dogs and no judgment of drinking in the middle of the afternoon.
I crave self-soothing grooming activities. Mani-pedi’s and long soapy soaks in the tub. Should you ever find yourself in my shower, choose from a smorgasbord of wonderfully nose-tingly scented gels and scrubs.
I do fantasize about a road trip cross-country in one of those old school Airstream trailers or an all-modern-amenities-RV-come-apartment on wheels. Camping with DVD’s and cocktails. And someone interesting to mack on.
The hobbies all come down to cocktails and kissing.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The long weekend ahead may be spent mostly solo, but I lustfully anticipate one day in it on the Pearl St. Mall in Boulder and the food shop that sells only
...wait for it...
french and faux fries (veggie sticks - it IS Boulder after all) with lip-tingling dipping sauces and maybe a cupcake at the tiny bakery that has a chocolate bacon variety and a tarot card reading and a Boulder Book Store coffee and a stop at any art gallery I find and something I don't need to collect dust or a gift for a lovely at a boutique found nowhere else and feeling the sun heat up my scalp and hoping for warm words from a good boy or dirty ones from the bad one and blisters running off hot sandals and vodka tipsy.
Until then, today I have a cat with a possible broken foot and laptops that won't cooperate and deadlines and weirdness in my woman bits and a workman in the house earlier whose B.O. lingered and too much work, too little desire for it and wanting to sip greyhounds and kiss the dirty boy some more.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Odd that I mixed his favorite drink for myself. He finished the beer.
I don't mind Tuesdays. Conditions are perfect.
Friday, May 15, 2009
There’s a couple I gaze over my laptop sitting across from each other at a table for four. Both well-dressed, older and he’s stroking her hand. His body leans forward as he looks at her, straight up on his tail bone. He’s completely engaged. They talk in low tones, his hand moving up to the fleshy part of her elbow where fingers now run in large circles. Trying to figure out their story. Perhaps a stop in a clandestine affair, stolen moments away and coffee-flavored kisses. With a little tongue. Are they potential paramours who’ve shared saucy thoughts and desires online, in a phone call or two, meeting in the flesh for the first time?
I had that meeting in this coffee shop. Just felt a smile creep right to left recalling it now. Flushed-hot cheeks, anticipation and chemical reaction. Wish that could be bottled to sniff at will.
Next table over is a girl who looks familiar. No, a woman. My shy eavesdropping tells me the gentleman in a powder blue dress shirt and blonde in a similar hued fitted jacket are financial advisers…no, realtors. The conversation eases into familiarity, talk of bathing dogs and college graduation. Then they speak about it.
She always has to talk about it to some extent doesn’t she?
I thought it was her from a picture in a magazine. A recent picture, a “Where are they now?” montage. I knew it was her when she said she attended the 10-year ceremony in April, said it may be the last, maybe until 20, time to move on from remembrance. She was shot at Columbine and survived. I even know her name, first and last. I know her mother, long-depressed, walked into a Denver pawn shop soon after, asked to see a gun and when the clerk turned away loaded one bullet from her purse into it then shot through her head.
I’m intrigued by the mind of a killer, the why, all the details. Reading a new book, a very good one, that delves further into what motivated them (if anyone can determine those things that breathe only within ones head and heart, speculation really).
Now sitting feet from me is this vibrant woman - she must be in her mid-to-late twenties now, yes? - poised, straight up and solid in a wheelchair, a result of those minds. It’s awkward to know so much about a person you don’t know, odder yet to want to soak up more. She doesn’t seem to notice the old hippie who haunts this place with nosey skills as defined as my own give a long look back on his way out.
She’s not just the news story, or chapters in a book. She has a warm, throaty laugh and releases it often.
It sounds alive.
Interesting things happen at the coffee shop.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Good, bad, easy or ugly. Available, indeed.
I waft on desire, mistress of my domain. Enjoy the ride you could say. But there remain men in my stratosphere I would drop panty for at nothing more than a, “Yeah, you wanna?” Some men are long standing fantasy, built up in my mind because they won't be tempted by cuckold and wiles.
One can have pretty much any woman he wants and (by all accounts) has. Despite best efforts, he hasn't had me. Talent is sexy, draws me like a moth to a halogen bulb right before a grand puff and rancid potato-and-burnt-cheese smelling smoke. I could have seen him Friday night, planned to. But my clothes felt too tight and my ego too tongue-tied to make a cool re-appearance and I wanted to be better looking for him than I am right now. Maybe I just wasn't up for being rejected. Again.
Slap in the sense, I deserve it.
I happily scamp when beckoned with a hand slap on the thigh and a “Here girl!!” But nobody wants what’s hot and ready on the plate. The mouth waters for soufflé, ordered 45 minutes in advance, the anticipated taste elevating the pleasure. Note to self: soufflé not fast food.
I checked in with a work buddy recently. I always considered him the cutest boy in puppet land and harbored a crush for years. Dave Grohl-looking but with a cleaner edge and less gum chewing. A couple years back I pulled together the courage to ask him out. Well, “asked out” in the guise of “want to meet up with me at the company holiday thing, maybe, sorta huh?” Said he would have loved to, except he was home on leave with a new wife and baby, the second coming just about 9 months and a day after the first. He sounded (in my ear) somewhat disappointed. He never knew. The boy I always thought out of reach I could have touched after all. I never knew or, more to the point, believed it.
Few weeks ago, with round after round of layoffs and in a completely innocent fashion I assure you, I checked back in with him. He’s still employed, married happily and asked how I was. Asked if I was my “usual amazing self.”
The available, genuine opportunities you walk or walked past - pushed along by the hand of self-doubt and fear in your back - are on the dessert table too. Hard to swallow that.
Friday, May 8, 2009
While pregnant and anticipating a girl at last, my Mom wanted to name me Jill. Dad however, after catching a drive in flick featuring an actress whose last name I’ve never known, insisted on Jocelyn (the name on my birth certificate). Mom lost and I won. J-I-L-L. Four sad little letters, no spice, no sauce. And when “Charlie’s Angels” hit in the 70’s I'd have been the fat duckling saddled with the same moniker as hot, blonde and toothy Jill Munroe.
I hated my name in grade school. There you want to fit in, be a Jill, and a regal name stood out like the kid who smelled of pee. Dad oddly nicknamed me Jodie (not much of a save, thanks to “Family Affair") and it stuck. Then Dad returned to Jocelyn and only he called me that the rest of his life.
Years back, I worked retail a short time with a wisp of a hippie girl who found herself unexpectedly pregnant. She told me sweetly if the baby was a girl she was naming her Jocelyn; a boy, Jodie. Never forgot that. She lost the baby soon after. Funny how we touch people in passing, and vice versa.
I've thought about names of my kids, imaginary as they are. For a girl or boy top is Lux after the late Lux Interior and a female character in The Virgin Suicides. Or Sydney for a girl, shortened to Syd. Either hip creative cuteness or lesbian in the making. Other girl names are Beatles inspired - Sadie and Astrid. But I’ve already bestowed those to furry companions, the kind that poop in a box.
Kash premieres this year on the boy list. Hells yeah. Should I solo adopt or go the turkey baster route, meet my son Kash Kash. I’d slip an Elvis into middle slot in a hunka hunka burnin' heartbeat. Boys need strong names, no Les or Willy. John Cusack got it right in The Sure Thing.
Gib: You're gonna name the kid Elliot? No, you can't name the kid Elliot. Elliot is a fat kid with glasses who eats paste. You're not gonna name the kid Elliot. You gotta give him a real name. Give him a name. Like Nick.
Gib: Yeah, Nick! Nick's a real name. Nick's your buddy. Nick's the kind of guy you can trust, the kind of guy you can drink a beer with, the kind of guy who doesn't mind if you puke in his car, Nick!
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Has it really been 19 years?
August 1985 to May 1990. Five years, not bad for a self-supported ride. Working full time, taking night classes on a Visa card with a $500 limit when the financial aid stretched thin. Changing work clothes into campus gear in fast food bathrooms or the front seat of my 1978 Dodge Colt (more often than not running late class-to-class dressed like Molly Ringwald circa Pretty in Pink - walking in tube skirts, hard and sweaty on the thighs). Growing years certainly. Difficult years, of course. Times when I gave it my all and others when did what I could to slide by to the next semester, the next credit hour. Still in touch with some friends, fewer than one would imagine, but a commuter-working campus life didn’t leave much time for extracurriculars.
Besides quitting smoking, it’s the best thing I ever did for myself.
There’s a moment in the grad experience when one wonders, “Will I walk?” Graduation ceremonies are pompous and overblown at best, long-winded and stuffy hot at worse. But there’s something about the tradition that beckons. I walked in both the full class ceremony and smaller event at the School of Journalism. That was the better of the two; there your name was called special, to thunderous family whoops and you walked across the stage to shake hands and accept your diploma…cover (the real thing was mailed months later after library, parking and other fees were confirmed paid in full).
Graduation I remember with a mix of accomplishment, relief and sadness. We’d lost our oldest brother and first-born son barely three months earlier and my (at that time) close knit family was suffering deep wounds and surface hornet stings. Dad flew to Colorado for the ceremony, he paid to bring my niece and her Mom from NE. Mom and two remaining brothers, nieces and a nephew, friends all here to watch, to partake. To have cake. I caught each adult warily glancing over shoulders those few days, looking for the darkness to catch us again when we slipped into celebration, wondering if it was okay. Think we needed forward movement, to feel it and have it somehow represented by something.
My Dad, riot master that he was, had been traveling a good deal that year, mostly close to the PA homestead and a few states over. He loved racing in NC, fishing trips. He’d traveled so much that spring he’d printed up “tour” T-shirts.
Joey Kash ’90. TAC.
TAC, The Adventure Continues. He brought a dozen or so of the navy tees with him to the party. In pictures I’m surrounded by them, cult-like. It’s an awesome memory.
A gift that day was a pastel-toned shadowbox containing a religious prayer. The poem is “Footprints” and bestill my black, uninitiated, pagan heart, it still hangs in my bedroom, a reminder of a day when time walked ahead even though we stayed stuck a while longer. My now oldest brother gave it to me.
I miss him too.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The guitar players rescheduled CD release party is Friday, and I’ve strapped myself in for “Rapid Fire Romance” Saturday (speed dating - never been, at a jazz club downtown, buffet and cocktails and men 25 – 50. How could I go wrong?) And the rumbling pimple on the bridge of my nose is attempting a violent escape. No slow dig like a prisoner with a spoon scooping through layers of dirt and rock, but a full bore frontal assault, swift and dirty.
It’s crouching directly in the center of my noise. And the color? Given my blue-eyed-freckly-fair skin tone reflects more shell pink than olive or chamois, the red hot rounder glows as if on a switch.
On the up side, the gig Friday will be dark. Guesses of my age almost always come up 5-to-10 years less; the pimple may return me to late twenties. Maybe I’ll meet a nice dermatologist.
I’ll attempt reconnaissance, but working the nugget requires precise care. Overdue it and I create a living thing. The key is to reduce size and swelling and hopefully dismantle with steady hands. I had a stepfather at one time who treated my acne flair ups with the membrane skin of a raw egg, covered in a whipped blend of the white and covered overnight with plaster cast to cure, I suppose, into meringue. A sister-in-law offered an old “model trick." Crush half a Bayer aspirin, mix the dust with Neosporin, apply and cover with Band-Aid (again overnight). I find a layer of fine mineral makeup – the good stuff, the original – works better than most home remedies. With over the counter zingy treatments, a shot to the face of the white cream and I burn, literally peel.
What we cannot contain, we camouflage. Bought a sparkly new eye shadow yesterday, “True Gold” (the loose powders, only way to go girls). Not so glittery to squeal JonBenét, but just enough shimmer to pop against my now darker red hair and heavy bangs, finished with a hint of peach brushed to cheek apples and a smear of light apricot or cherry red gloss.
I’m going in. Godspeed.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Rough night, rough few days.
I actually cried myself to sleep last night. Dumb. Always thought that was an overly feminine tool found in women's erotica or chick movies. Didn't even take time to wash my face or change out of my clothes from the gym - socks included, and I never sleep in socks. Just exhausted physically and emotionally. Spiritually maybe. Work, lust, relationships. The faults in me. There's something that needs a scrubbing or a squeeze to hold in the good and let out the bad. I'll get on that, add an extra yoga class or two.
When I’m disappointed, which isn’t often, it sprouts from disingenuous situations or scenarios; when another believes me not open to or worthy of their truth. Because sometimes the sky clears of morning rain and the sun comes out and plans change. Simple as that.
My favorite word is "believe." Perfectly and succinctly hugged in the center of a word that demands a trusting heart is "lie." I find it funny and ironic and pure and humanizing. You get that, you get me. Simple as that.
But now, back to work.
Soon I’ll have time to pull my chin up from the keyboard and sniff out more wonderful adventures. Going to look behind every corner.
I just want to go out and play.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
“Got called into work :(“
Starting to convince myself there are no men with the time to fuck me.
Still an otherwise lovely Sunday. Changed out of the cute little black sleeveless sundress that shows a comical amount of cleavage, so much so an areola makes an occasional peep, into a more subtle frock and headed out. Breathed in. Since the paramour calle…excuse me, texted…so late I’d missed my regular Sunday yoga class and girl crush instructor. She teaches family yoga right after, though, a class of mostly Mom’s and Dad’s and the juice of their loins. The peanuts were cute, admittedly, and the vibe different from a regular class. I was inspired by youth and building strength and a dose of my own loin disappointment to attempt - and finally achieve - crow. For a few seconds at least, before crashing left shoulder first into the mat (no doubt an azure blue spot is now forming) then to the Natasha Richardson soft spot past the temple and above the ear. It hurt, actually rang a bit.
Hands up, anyone care to kiss and make it better?
Dressed and sprinkled out of the locker room, headed out for a coffee and the mother ship, Macys, where I purchased a piece of lingerie I’d been eyeing. Gorgeous retro 40’s inspired, black lace with boning, a ruched slip that hugs the body with five, small hot pink bows; one in the cleavage, two at the top of the thighs in front and two behind. I like how I look in it.
Hands up, anyone care for a preview?
Also picked up a thin summer dress for a possible, last minute jaunt to FLA and a gift for a goddess. Last stop, the phone store where I finally updated my Flintstone flip, circa 2005. Didn’t add internet access; I’m pervasive enough online. A writer alone at a laptop more often than not, I find myself tearing into e-mail (three accounts) and Facebook like a monkey on a cupcake. Last thing I need is the ability to do that while out with the real people. Serious, read a damn book, crack the spine and smell the pages, fuck Kindle. Buy a drink, don’t send one. Give a friend a poke, the naked kind. Chat with the one next to you in the theater awaiting the start of the show, tapping at the coffee shop, with feet in the mani-pedi tub.
Hands up, anyone need a call? Loads of long distance.
A stop by the market, a second (maybe third) fresh and frosty greyhound and supper of buttery seafood eaten with slippery fingers (finally seared the scallops just right) and corn on the cob.
Hands up, anyone for a proper tucking in and forehead peck?