A Room of One's Own

My weekend in the cave

On Monday, I filled my cart on Amazon.com with a half a dozen books. Then I realized that I am way too impatient to wait for Amazon to deliver them. The irony is that there is no way I would be able to read six books during the delivery time for it to really matter. But yesterday I went to Barnes and Noble at lunch and filled my arms with a half dozen books. The reality that I have hundreds of books at home hit me shortly after and I put all but one back.

This weekend I am holing myself up and plowing through Sandra Cisneros' Carmelo. My love of Sandra Cisneros runs long and deep. I taught House on Mango Street my first year teaching. They actually loved it. It's hard not to love her. She is without a doubt one of the most amazing women I've never met. More so than a fiction writer, she's a poet. I keep Loose Woman, a book of her poetry, on my bedside table and I must pick that book up and read parts on a near weekly basis. I get completely lost in it.

That's my kind of book. If I can't get completely drunk and in love with the words on the page, I am just not interested. It's a complete given with certain writers and oddly, or maybe not, most come from Central or South America. I'm not sure exactly what makes them write with so much passion but I can only assume part of it must be the culture. They just feel differently. All the books I loaded up on were Hispanic authors, except one. I now have quite the reading list to get through.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I've never read One Hundred Years of Solitude. I've never finished Love in the Time of Cholera or Chronicle of a Death Foretold. All of this seems a shame. The man is beautiful. Like a Columbian Pablo Neruda and I could go on and on about my worship of Pablo Neruda.

Isabelle Allende. I had friends that taught House of Spirits. I missed that boat because I had to spend a considerable about of time teaching dead white guys. Aphrodite. A book of senses. A book of food and sex. Ummmm, yeah.

Laura Esquivel. She wrote Like Water for Chocolate, which must be one of the sexiest books and, subsequently, movies ever made. And it's all about food. I'm seeing a pattern. How can you not love a writer who has a character burn down an outdoor shower after a meal her sister makes turns her skin so hot everything around her bursts into flames? Law of Lovewas her second book and has been on my bookshelf for ten years. In the book the characters listen to Puccini arias. She includes a CD with the arias. There are also intermissions in the book for dancing. If this woman doesn't get me, I don't know who does.

The anomaly was Toni Morrison. I must have damn near every one of her books. Go ahead, ask me how many I've actually read. Unread books are like an illness running rampant in this house. The one I have read, Beloved, I loaned to my former mother in law who never returned it, which is odd because she didn't like it. Why was I not surprised? The painful part is that copy had all of my notes in it from when I had read it for a now totally abandoned Master's program. I'm neurotic in needing to have it in my house.

I have some work cut out for me and I feel like I'll be spending a lot of time holed up. I can't help it. Sometimes I feel a little lost and the only thing that can bring me back is books. It's what compels me to spend a ridiculous amount of time going through boxes and boxes of books that nearly always ends up with me sitting on the floor of my garage at 11:300 at night reading T.S. Eliot. It reminds me I'm alive and of who I am. Right now, I feel like being drunk and in love with words.

An upswing

My relationship with my house is a roller coaster. I paid too much for it. I bought it at I time I shouldn't have and for the wrong reasons. The backyard has been a disaster of irrigation repairs. I hate every major appliance in it with very specific disdain for my stove. But we've had our good days. In January, I filled this house with more love and laughter that I ever thought possible. That weekend it became a home and will be one of my fondest memories here and always. My child lives here and her laughter fills the halls, even when she's not here.

Today I found contentment and calm here. I got up early and cleaned the whole house and made a vat of marinara sauce. I lounged on my couch and read a backlog of Food & Wine about six months deep. The house was just quiet. I didn't even hold my usual Sunday morning church. After a long nap, I putzed around my house listening to Joni Mitchell and Jeff Buckley and not wanting to do much of anything else.

I settled into the couch, started reading a book on Toltec wisdom, which is amazing and exhausting all at the same time. Lit about 392 candles and I am on about hour three of Chopin. I've gone through all of the Nocturnes. I've prepped some food for tomorrow's dinner. I've not talked to a soul.

About an hour and a half ago it occurred to me that it just felt good.I saw, in a rare moment, how beautiful my house is. The candles are a substitute for the winter fireplace I've missed. The green wall of the kitchen is perfect, even as flawed as it is. I have pictures all over the house and books are in every single room, as many as I can logically put there. My bedroom has become like a sanctuary and a much happier place since I hung the pictures of downtown Savannah. Yes, the carpet needs replacing and the countertops stain way too easily and the master bath shower is way too small. But, it's mine and it's beautiful.

I could spend a lot more time like this. No TV, no voices, no expectations, no to-do list. I have a long way to finding peace here, but it's coming.

More absolute embarrassment for me

I am a social networking site whore. It's true. It started out small and now it has completely snowballed into a near addiction level. It's not my fault. I have been completely suckered by peer pressure. One is a very nice, very professional networking site called LinkedIn. You post your resume, can make introductions, look for jobs, recommend people. There is nothing frilly about it. You're there for work.

I had gotten a connection request for LinkedIn. While on the site I see this little thing where I can import my contacts from my email account and see who is on LinkedIn and who isn't and I can either invite them to connect or invite them to join the site.

I happily go about my skippy little way clicking the names of people that I see are on LinkedIn that I might was to add as a connection. After unclicking the undesirables (don't look at me like that. Most of them are undesirable because THEY hate ME) I go over and hit "send request." Excellent. Oh, not so much.

I get the confirmation notice at the top of the page. It says, "Thank you! We've sent your 374 invitations!" Do what?!?!? You huh?!?! 374?!?! Oh no. No. No. What did I do? What the hell did I just do? My heart immediately starts racing. I am in a complete panic mainly because I have no earthly idea what I did or how I did it. None.

I'm too afraid of hitting the back button to see what I did for fear that I might do it again. The only thing worse than sending an accidental piece of communication to someone is sending it twice. My God. So I'm sitting at my desk at work cursing under my breath, "Shit shit shit shit fucking shit." I had unclicked the undesirables who were part of LinkedIn but I missed the tab that sends invite to JOIN if they're not a member already. I send invites to everyone in my email contacts that I had ever sent an email to in the entire life of my email. Every single god damn one. 374 people.

Oh. My. God. Now I am really panicking as there are a good number of people I have no interest in connecting with at all. None. Those are the people I hate. There are the people that I emailed once for one reason and that was it. I had emailed 150 Phoenix area Realtors last year to push the Junior League cookbook. They have no idea who I am. At all. None. And vice versa. Yeah, they all got invitations.

So now I'm going through and trying to do some damage control. If some of these folks have no idea who I am, I want it to stay that way. I go into Operation Make It Look Like Damn Virus Did It. I find out that, though there is no way I can get the email out of their email boxes, I can cancel the invite so they CAN'T be connected with me. Spiffy. I also hide my profile so they can't see who  the hell the schmuck who sent them this lovely item is. Have I mentioned what a huge jackass I feel like? And that I'm still cursing under my breath?

Canceling the invite is a manual process in which I now have to go through the list of 374 people and click on each invite and cancel it. Then the humiliation really sets in. Besides the 150 Realtors I don't know from Adam's house cat, I manage to send this to my ex-husband, the guy who bought my patio table on Craigslist, an author who basically lives off the land in the Mohave Desert, at least two ex-boyfriends, one of which I would rather stick a knitting needle in my eye and twist it slowly than be connected to in any way, ladies from the Junior League that truly hate my guts, a few council members from a city I no longer live in, a girl who sold me fraudulent concert tickets, the county sheriff...

It is taking me forever. I am honestly contemplating having my assistant log in and help me. She already knows what happened because of the vast amount of obscenities emanating from my office. She is laughing at me. Bad. She has no fear of me doing her midyear review very soon and is letting it rip. She shouts at me, "How do you manage to do these things? Repeatedly?" I have no idea. I am just that stupid.

While I'm doing this, people are accepting the invitations! Great. Now I'm connected to people on a professional networking site that I had no intention of ever speaking to again. Brilliant. Now I'm trying to figure out how I could "unconnect" with them with making it seem obvious. Can I just delete them and go about my merry way? I'm not sure. I'm sure it would send an email to them that says, "We're sorry. Vanessa actually thinks you are a total asswipe and really wants nothing to do with you. Regrets!" I'm sure at this point that is the standard message. The only option I have is to hide under my desk until this whole thing blows over and it's safe to go into public. Going into public, however, just opens me up to a whole world of face to face humiliation. I'm screwed.

I love delusional people!

This little bit of journalism is really is why I love country music. You need to click hereand just read the article. It’s beautiful. No really. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

 

Okay. That was awesome, right? Now, I have never been to a Tim McGraw concert before. Despite the fact that he is so smokin’ hot that I would be enthralled watching him scrap paint off a fence, I only like a handful of his songs unlike our good buddy Marcus. This is apparently not Marcus’ rookie Tim McGraw concert going year.

 

I am so in love with this guy’s story. It’s perfect! Let’s dissect it shall we?

 

He was making his way up to his third row seat because he didn’t want to miss Indian Outlaw. This begs the question of where was he before. Shaking hands? Kissing babies? Helping granny find her seat? Oh no. I am certain he was in the beer line. My spidey sense tells me I’m correct here.

 

What happens next is absolutely exquisite. He says that when he saw Tim McGraw reach down toward him, he thought Tim was pulling him up on stage because he’s been to six shows and Tim recognized him. Yes, that’s exactly what Tim was doing because when Tim is on tour and seeing hundreds of thousands of people over several years, it’s you, Large Redneck Man Who is Still Wearing Jean Shorts*, that he is focusing on. It’s all about you big guy! Tim is so inspired by YOU that he wants YOU to come on stage and join him in singing the dumbest song he has ever recorded. Yeah. No, this guy wasn’t drunk. My favorite part is where he is so delusional he stands on a chair to get onstage easier. Brilliant.

 

We know he was not drunk because he remembers the event. I’m sorry but even as a hefty redneck man, I am certainly my ass would sober up real fast if Tim McGraw threw me across a stage and then I was pounced on by half a dozen security dudes. I’m just sayin’. And remembering does not count if you totally remember it wrong. There have been a few times (many?) that I absolutely recall after a night of drinking being downright adorable, fun, intriguing and fabulous only to find out that I wasn’t so much those things as I was a total jackass. It’s important to know the difference.

 

There is one thing to love about Marcus. He’s not a grudge holder. Oh no. He plans on going to see Tim McGraw again. It’s like he’s doing Tim a favor by not being mad at him for nearly having him pummeled. Again, only something you would see at a redneck concert. If that happened at a Kayne concert, you know damn well someone would have had a cap popped in their ass. You just can’t deny that one.

 

*Disclaimer – I didn’t have to watch the You Tube Videoof the ass beating in order to know I should describe him as such. I just intuitively knew it. The overuse of double negatives was a dead giveaway.

The meaning of life

is a bar in Pensacola and an old blue chair.

I played Jimmy Buffett's "Bama Breeze" on repeat at least a dozen or so times today. For a good 15 minutes I just sat in my office, staring out the window, playing the song over and over with a smile on my face. If I could bottle how that song makes me feel and the absolute peace and calm and quiet and happiness it gives me, I could make millions and retire to the Carribbean. And oddly, I've never stepped foot in the Florabama.

That's the meaning of life. That feeling. Sometimes you know it's happening and sometimes it takes a while to realize life happened to you. Knowing it is the secret.

It's sitting in a beach chair on Playa Las Gatas in Zihuatenejo, Mexico all by yourself watching the local fisherman deliver his morning catch to the bar owner and the radio on the boat plays Van Morrison's "And It Stoned Me."

It's King, an old black man, sitting on a bench on River St. in Savannah, Georgia making you a palmetto rose out of palm frawns.

It's driving around in a limousine, filled with Kim Taylor's big laugh, in Jackson, Mississippi, listening to Delbert McClinton and drinking Dom Perignon, too stuffed on lobster from Schimmel's to move, on the way to Hal and Mal's.

It's that moment ten miles outside of Rocky Point, with the windows rolled down, drinking your third beer, Kenny Chesney's "Old Blue Chair" on the stereo, when relaxation and the fact that your on vacation really hits you.

It's stepping off of the subway in New York City and being met by the sound of a string quartet of college age students playing Vivaldi's "Spring I Allegro."

It's waking up in the morning to a hand gently touching your face and opening your eyes and the first thing you hear that day is, "Mommy. You're so preeeeeeeetty."

It's the last mile of a ten mile run, late at night in September when the night air just starts to cool, nothing around you but the smell of creosote and Mahalia Jackson singing "Precious Lord."

It's just matter of letting it happen and knowing it's happened .

Good in theory, bad in practice

I want to like yoga. I really do. I want to be one of those yoga people. I want the cute outfits and to feel all at peace with the world. My only problem is that I hate yoga. This is a huge issue. It also has made me realize why I don’t eat sushi. I so badly want to be one of those sushi people, as well. I’m just afraid I’ll hate it and then where will I be? Shunned by the masses because I only eat cooked fish? Sounds less appealing that ingesting raw octopus.

 

I went to a new yoga class at the gym at lunch today. It was the longest hour of my entire life. It looked something like this:

 

10:58 – Excellent, I am early. Is Mr. Clean the yoga teacher? Please don’t play that chanting music, mmmm’kay?

 

11:05 – Okay, full room. Most everyone is older than me. I’m doing pretty well. I know it’s only the first five minutes but I am certain I can kick everyone’s ass at this. Wait. Is yoga even a competitive sport?

 

11:12 – Thank you Mr. Clean for your exemplary skills in selecting suitable yoga music and not subjecting me to chanting music. However, I will be forwarding you a memo with a list of songs that I can’t hear without feeling the need to sing along. My desire to belt out “Levon” is distracting me. Don’t you know he was born a pauper to a pawn on a Christmas Day when the New York Times said God was dead?

 

11:14 – “Levon” not withstanding I simply cannot balance on one of anything. Feet, hands, knees, you name it. My mind and body don’t function correctly as individual entities. You want me to try getting them to do what I want together? Sure. I’m starting to dislike you, Mr. Clean.

 

11:22 – Oh my God. Only 22 minutes have passed. Will this never end? I loathe yoga. Parts of me are twitching that I do not want twitching unless I’m sequestered away with a member of the opposite sex. Are we listening to John Mayer? John Mayer… Opposite sex…. John Mayer…. Shit, I’m falling over.

 

11:26 – Can I just sit in Child Pose for the next 34 minutes? I swear, I’ll bring a note from my mom for the next class. I wonder how noticeable it would be if I went to the bathroom and never came back. It worked on a date once. It could work here.

 

11:38 – How often do they clean these mats? Why didn’t I bring my own? Something in here smells like feet.

 

11:43 – Alright, look little girl to the right of me. I get it. You can bend in half way better than I can. It’s because you’re short. Okay? There I said it. I didn’t want to have to get nasty but you’re showing off and I don’t appreciate it. I can’t help it if God made me long limbed. There is a hell of a lot more distance between my midsection and the floor than for you. Stop making me feel inferior you little bitch! God.

 

11:51 – Tree Pose. Great. Brilliant. I am certain that if you gave a flamingo a really significant amount of cocaine it would look exactly as I do now. Can we just end this?

 

11:58 – Excellent. The lie in Corpse Pose part of the afternoon. I like this part. I am really good at pretending to be dead. I should have thought of this earlier. It’s much easier to act like you’ve died rather than to pull off faking a collapsed lung effectively.

 

Mr. Clean gives us the typical yoga speech about sharing your practice with those around you. Sadly, I don’t think he realizes that I’m only here to try and firm up my ass and not to increase my level of social engagement. I’ll keep that to myself. I high tailed it out of the room before anyone could see my face in real light and someday recognize me as the Girl for Fell Over All the Time During Yoga Class. That would be embarrassing. Accurate, but embarrassing.

 

Next week: Vanessa tries the New York City Ballet Workout. Oh yeah. Good times are ahead.

 

How I continue to be a jackass

Really, it's easy. I just act as I normally would.

My friend Sebastian is back in town after over a year of being overseas. This is great news. I am very excited about him being back stateside. Sebastian rocks. He gets me.

Let me tell you how my world works. In my world, when people leave the country for prolonged periods of time, they arrive home and own a phone. I assume it is the same phone with which they left. Also in my world, the phone is connected to the same exact number as when they were previously in the Untied States.  This means that when I send them a text message alluding to good times had when I put their stapler in Jell-o, they will get it and chuckle. It seems I am wrong in all of these assumptions and now there is yet another person out therein the world laughing at me, albeit anonymously.

Sometimes, I am so smart I scare myself. Insert eye roll here.

It's like I was out of the country or something

Okay, so I was...

I just spend a good few days in Mexico. Yes, again. It's odd how completely out of touch I feel with the rest of the world by being gone for several days. I got home not that long ago and have been doing the reality check in.

The good: I just checked my stocks. I bought a "green" stock a month ago and snatched up 41 shares at about $30 a share. It went up $7 a share just today. It has gone up $13 since I bought it, or 43%. I've made a happy little chunk of change. I kind of feel like I rock. I guess I have a hunch when it comes to turbine engines.

The bad: I left my air conditioning on the whole time I was gone. I hate when I do that. It's like opening a window and watching money blow out. Of course, this is softened by my fabulous ability to pick emerging stocks.

Niether of the Roberto Cavalli dresses I bought last week have shown up at my home. I was hoping for a welcome home gift.

The ugly: I'm interested to see what has transpired with a certain young man, we'll call him, say, Micah. The night before I left for Mexico, he had decided to show his proverbial ass. Subsequently, I felt the need to hand it to him. Hard. He is a complete ass. I told him he should take the days while I'm gone to determine some kind of way to prove to me he's NOT a complete asshole. We'll see what happens.

Vacations seem like a good idea until you get home and realize exactly how much shit you have to do...

I am a jackass of epic proportions

Today, I took embarrassing myself to a whole new level.

Last night I wrote what I thought was a pithy little blog post for our local newspaper's online edition. They, like complete fools, give me creative liberty to write about whatever I want in whatever manner I see fit. I could write my whole blog in haiku if I want. They don't edit at all.

I proofread the damn thing about 14 times and hit submit. All was well until about 1:45pm today when I get an email from the editor. I had mentioned supporting something wholeheartedly. The email reads:

"Unfortunate typo in your blog.

'It's a practive I support WHOREheartedly.'"

I gasped. I drew all of the air out of my body and shot back a reply of only two words in all caps: OH SHIT!

This is bad news. Very bad news! I immediately rush right over to the website to change this as fast as I can, praying Robert is messing with me. He would do that, he has an evil streak for sure. I log in, click the edit button, fit it all up and I exhale for the first time since opening that stupid email.

Just to be sure I'm safe I double check the content in a view setting. Yep. It's changed. When I re-read the first paragraph, and whole new kind of irony hits me. I supported something WHOREheartedly in a blog on "above and beyond" services the new W hotel will provide. Great. I've used hotel and whore in the same paragraph.

Oh and it gets better. I realize what exactly I am supporting. The original paragraph ran as such:

"I am the first to admit I am all for decadence. I highly encourage it. It's a practice I support WHOREheartedly."

Excellent. At least I appear to be a decadent whore. I'm a whore who feasts on steak and lobster. I'm a fancy whore.

Then I head back to the main page for the section. I gasp. Again. Guess whose blog they decided to feature right at the top of the list smack dab in the middle of the page? Oh yes. They did. All day today this little gem (the snippet was so kind as to cut off right after my typo) ran with my name and a lovely picture of me next to it.

This is certainly worse than the time that the same editor decided to run my post about the FBR Open being a meat market in print with the headline of "Mating As a Sport." Today makes it the second time in 18 months that I have had to call up my mother and tell her, "Mom, regardless of what is written in the paper, I am not a whore."

I must have asked God to smite me

I have quit my job every month for the last six months. It's becoming a habit and quit a hard one to break. Each month I look forward to creating new and interesting ways to inform them I am leaving. This month, I may just send a postcard from Mexico saying I've sold all my worldly belongings and am now selling nuclear holocaust proof baked goods on the beach.

A few weeks ago I sent out my resume to 35 of the most well connected people I could think of and begged them to forward it on. I got a great email back from a friend I knew before I quit the Junior League. I trust Molly. She was forwarding it on to a recruiter. A few days later this delightful woman calls me, just as Molly says she would. As this lady recruits mainly for sales, she wanted to get me to someone who might better be able to help me.

I get a call from Jeff, another recruiter. I am excited as hell thinking, "Wow. I'm talking to one of those people that makes things happen!" I am poised and confident and answer all questions without sounding like an 8th grade cheerleader on crack. He asks me my salary requirements and I tell him. He sets an appointment to meet with me the next week. I am beyond thrilled and certain this will land me into a very nice job with a prominent company willing to give me at least a 10% raise. I'm picturing buying a round of cocktails for all my friends to celebrate. Really, could life be any better?

About a week later I get about as dressed up as I can, including the ass kicking Marc Jacobs peep toe four inch heels. I am so ready. I drive my happy ass out to Tempe to meet Jeff, my new best friend. He asked me to come early to our 2 o'clock as there is some questionaire I need to do online. No problem. My old company did that to make sure people were a match for their job. I've been done that road. I rock standardized tests.

I was so glad I left very early as I could not find the place. This part of Tempe is outside my bubble. Generally, anything south of the 60 and east of the 10 is like no man's land. It's not a bad part of town, I've just been ignoring it for the last 28 years and I'm okay with that. Adding to my confusion is that I cannot seem to find a corporate building anywhere. I finally find the right turn in. I am in a fucking strip mall.

This cannot be right. And, why are there no other cars in the parking lot and Holy Christ on a cracker, there is a tire store next door. I am walking to meet a recruiter and all I can smell is Goodyear. I meet Sandy, who will lead me through the questionaire. This office is about the size of a strip mall unit, I wonder why, and has not been decorated since the first Bush Administration and I don't mean W. The reception area in the same size as my walk in closet. Sandy takes up a good part of it. I notice that all the award on the wall are from 1990 something. I am beginning to wonder what they have been doing in this millienium.

To my left are two computers in the same type cubby that I worked at as a contributor for my college paper. Small and brown with a hutch. This is not boding well. She shows me how to get set up. Before I start the "session" she asks if I'd like water. Thanks you for noticing it's 105 degrees. She comes back and hands me not a bottle of water but a small plastic Sparklets cup half filled with water. Oh thanks. That will be oh-so-refreshing. By now I have come to a horrific realization. I am filling out a job application. Jeff is no more a recruiter that I'm Lady shagging Godiva.

After finishing, I sit in a chair literally wedged into a spot between one of the computers and Sandy's desk. It is so close to Sandy, I can almost guess what she had for lunch. I am enjoying a second round of the three tablespoons of water they give you. Shortly, a lady in very ill fitting clothes comes out to explain to me Jeff is in the middle of something and she'll be helping me. Great. It's like getting the backup QB for the Jets in your Fantasy Football draft as a first pick. Terri is one of those women whose front mystifies me. She is built so that her breasts and her stomach come out to the same point in front of her and I can't tell where one starts and the other ends. It's just a large mass. Perhaps she tucks her breasts into her waistline? Her skirt is too tight at the waist so it is clearly digging into her breasts/stomach combo. She walks past me and leads me into a room where we'll be talking.

This room looks like a room that a very unhappy employee left in a great hurry. It is drab of and nearly devoid of anything officelike save a wood veneer desk and two old chairs. She is reviewing my resume with an odd look on her face and asks me, "What are you doing now?"

"I'm doing what it says there marked under Present," I tell her and smile as sweetly as I can trying not to release the snark rising up in me.

She nods, "I see. So there's no urgency?" Thank God, no.

We talk a little more and she asks what I make. I tell her. She then reels back in her chair. She takes a good long look at me. "How are you making that much money?"

What the hell? I couldn't tell if she was astonished that I might be capable of pulling in that kind of money or if she was asking me in order to get tips so she may do the same. Part of me really wanted to look her straight in the face and say, "Blowjobs."

It turns out, Terri, informs me, that they don't recruit at my level. Yeah, really? I hadn't noticed. I have now just wasted an hour and a half of my life and I still have to walk out through wafting Eau de Michelin and get into a 150 degree car.

I got in the door at work and it was like Dorothy coming back to Kansas. I hugged the receptionist. It smelled pretty in the office. There were windows. I feel slightly more thankful now. But I am still quitting and leaving their sorry asses first chance I get!

A man selling his wares

So there I am today about 3:30 in the afternoon. Happily sitting by my pool reading a magazine. I happen to go inside for a beer and hear a knock at the door. Now, I know my friend Shari is coming by to get a piece of furniture I have been storing for her in my garage. I go to get the door thinking it's her. Well, it's not.

At my door is Morgan. I am as surprised to see him there as he is to see a bikini clad woman answer the door. He immediately tells me that he just talked to my neighbors who bought some of his wares. He is selling a product called Orange Titan. I gather this by the spray bottle labeled as such in his hand. At first I could not tell it was a cleaning solution as he sprayed it on his shirt. I was puzzled until I realized he was showing me that it does not stain or bleach clothes. I almost feel the need to inform my new buddy here that he should slow down, I've had two beers.

Then, he takes a quick look at my front porch and drops to his hands and knees and starts scrubing the grout in between my brick. With a toothbrush like object. This would not have been odd if our time spent together had totalled more than 43 seconds. Seeing that he is not impressing me, he then asks what is hardest in my house to clean. Well, gee, Morgan, I hadn't given it much thought. But hell, I've had a beer or two and suddenly it occurs to me that I could take this opportunity to pretend like I was the star of an informercial. So I retort, "Why Morgan, that would be my stainless steel refridgerator! I can't seem to get those pesky hard water stains off." So in comes Morgan and his spray bottle of miracles.

I am skeptical. My fridge looks like hammered shit. Nothing works on that damn thing. Now Morgan has dropped to the floor once again and is cleaning my fridge. Let me just say that if anyone ever comes to your house and starts cleaning random shit, let them do it. Do not look a gift horse in the mouth, people. lo and goddamn behold. My freakin' fridge is sparkling. I'm quite floored and almost want to stop him and just tell him enough, I'll buy the shit. Then, only then, does he spray this miracle elixir on my grout in my kitchen. Then he breaks out the toothbrush, scrubs and wipes it clean. HOLY SHIT! I had no idea my grout was this color. At all. It's lovely!

At this point my doorbell rings again. I excuse myself and go to answer, secretly praying it is someone with a vacuum cleaner demonstration because that would make me so happy. It's Shari. I grab her and pull her to the kitchen screaming, "Look at what this guy just did to my floor!" She is very confused because, oh yeah, I'm in my swim suit. I was so moonpied at the cleaning of my fridge that I never bothered to put on a coverup. She comes in, gasps, and now she too gets the infomercial sale.

Morgan is now really happy because he has a full audience. He kicks it into high gear. He takes the spray bottle and sprays the solution into...his...mouth. His mouth! This was to demostrate how safe it is for pets and kids. Wow. That right there is a testimony when you are willing to digest the product you are selling. Big props. I'm sold, I am buying it. I am laying down the $125 for three gallons of this stuff. And, of course, you mix it at a 15:1 dilution so this stash will last me until 2029. I'm strangely giddy in a way that only a few beers, intense sun and cleaning fumes could bring forth.

He fills out the sales slip and reminds us of his name. "Morgan. Like the Captain." And then he strikes the Captain Morgan pose. This is too much. Just as I think it cannot get any better, he tells me that he can take the $125 in cash, check, or chicken wings, "mild, medium, hot, teriyaki, whatever you want to make." And he dead pans it. Nails it. I am dying at this point. I have never had this much fun buying cleaning solution in my whole life.

This has been a win for everyone today. Morgan made a great sale to a lady in a bikini on Memorial Day. I am way too excited to see what this does to my shower. Shari got to laugh at me quite heartily. Yes, when I look back on my fondest memory of Memorial Day 2008 it will be of cleaning solution.

Dave, Part Deux

Yes, folks. I have been dumped. Again. In email. Again. I really hate men. I hate them all.

This was yet anouther case of Vanessa finding a guy that seems, for all intensive purposes, just delightful. Wonderful really. This one started out as a far cry from the last one. He called. He texted. He emailed. He actually saw me during the week. He appeared not freaked by and even inviting of letting me crash at his house. Today, he dumps me. Why? Oh, because things are moving too fast.

What is it with men? Why do they all seem to think that women want to settle down tomorrow? Why can they not just let life be ad take things as they are for what they are. Nothing more, nothing less. And what ever happen to common courtesy and talking to some in person when you end a relationship? Why must they all be cowards?

I'm not just mad. I have a damned rage about this. I just talked to my best friend Barbara who met him earlier in the month. She agreed. I was not reading into things that were not there. He cleared made it appear as though he just adored me. I didn't walk down that path on my own. He took my hand and led me right down it. He walked me way out and just turned right on back when I wasn't looking.

I am just done. I am too tired and too old for this shit. Enough already.

I never thought it would happen to me.

I just watched an entire episode of Sandra Lee's Semi-Homemade Cooking. I vowed that I would never do that but I have clearly moved into the Food Network portion of my sick day. Once the show came on, I was like a deer in the headlights. I just couldn't stop staring.

She is like an 8th grade cheerleader. She had Reggie, who was runner up on The Next Food Network Star, and is totally gay. Sandra Lee and a big black gay guy. I was fully amused. I mean, she was bouncing around. Literally. The amount of pet names being thrown around was more sweetening than the sweet potato pie with pecan topping. Wow.

Now, my dad has a bit of a crush on Sandra Lee. I like to tease him about it. What kills me about it is that my dad does not cheat at all when it comes to cooking. Store bought anything just simply will not do. Yes, I know, the apple did not fall far from that tree. I think my whole opposition is that Sandra takes all the fun out of cokking by doing the cheating. I understand that many people don't have the time or inclination to do lots of prep work. I am not one of those people. To me, there is a weird zen to chopping vegetables. It's my favorite part of making anything. I'm not happy unless I get to play with knives. Why onEarth would I want to buy a bag of chopped shit? Seriously? It's unnatural.

I wish I would have started taking count of each time she mentioned cocktail time. Sandra Lee's love of the cocktail is about the only thing that makes me even like her. I hate the food she makes but I would SO have one of her cocktails. As a matter of fact, I may start a new drinking game in which I invite friends over and we make one of her cocktails and then watch her show. Everytime she says "cocktail time" or even just the word cocktail, we drink. We would be under the table by the end of the show! Let me know if you want in...

Good for you guys!

I am home sick! And, I have to say that strep throat is my new favorite illness! No joke, it's marvelous! I woke up yesterday and felt like death. I could not swallow, even tea, or talk at all. So I head to the doctor for some anitbiotics and am told I will be contagious for 2-3 days. Fabulous! Why? Because the antibiotics worked immediately and I feel much better but I have to stay home as to not be Typhoid Vanessa. Excellent.

So I am doing a little work from home. I can't get away completely can I? It's 10:20 and I'm still in bed. Currently, I am watching Regis and Kelly after having watched all three hours of the Today Show. I must say, I think I missed my calling. I would like to be Kelly Rippa. She's pretty darn snarky. I like her. And, of course she is wearing padded pushup underwear today and being completely obnoxious about it. I could so do that! Easily!

I also started a new knitting project and hope to get lots done today. It also means that I will most likely be watching a good amount of entertaining television that I would otherwise never watch. This will compell me to provide you with random and totally nonsensical postings throughout the day as to what is going on in the world of trash TV. Aren't you excited!?! Checkback often. I get bored very easily...

I guess it was time

It's been a little over a year since my friendship with someone I held very dear ended. It ended very abuptly and under troubling and confusing circumstances. As it turned out, Kate was not what she seemed. She had spun herself a web of deceit and lies, from a glossed over criminal record to the made up history of a mutual friend. What resulted was a lot of hurt and anger. I have spent over a year being too mad at Kate to even feel any shred of sadness over the loss of the friend I thought I had. I had such a hard time believing what of Kate's friendship was real to feel sad for it not being there anymore.

I forced her out of my mind and whenever somethng came up I brushed right by it. And a lot comes up. Kate and I shared many late night phone calls, emails, and a great East Coast trip including a fabulous 36 hours in Manhattan. That 36 hours made enough memories to make it seem like a week. We got on the wrong train heading to Ground Zero from Midtown and ended up in Brooklyn. We sat across from each other on the N train with the same look on our face that said, "Bitch, we are NOT supposed to be crossing the East River." We didn't say a word. We didn't have to.

Kate was drama personified. Every week was something else. Her mom. Her boyfriend. Her job. Her diabetes. Her living arrangement. Her friends. Her uterus. Her finances. But Kate could be very fun. Kate could shine when she wanted to. What has disturbed me after the shit hit the proverbial fan was how much of her was real and was what illusion?

Today is the first day I feel like I've felt any kind of sadness. I think there are other emotions in there but I'm not sure what they are. I still feel betrayed, taken advantage of, and angry. So why now? Why am I finally acknowledging it? A stupid movie. I've been sitting here just knitting and have been happy as a clam listening to my music. Joni Mitchell's Both Side Now came one. Admittedly, one of my favorite songs ever. It is also in Love Actually, which both Kate and I love. The first few lines of Love Actually are so meritous that I have nearly posted them a dozen times. I never had because Kate beat me to it on her blog and, well, I can't have that. But the song made me think of the movie, and the movie made me think of Kate and I just really gave myself a good long time to sit and think about it.

I don't think I can ever forgive Kate for what she did to all of us. To me. I was a good friend to her and I deserved so much better. She is a major contributor to the reason I find it so hard to trust people. She has made me leary of others and their intentions. Forgiveness is the greatest gift we can give another person. Second to that is the act of apology itself. Genuine apology. Those sweet words of "I was wrong and I'm sorry and I'm going to make it right." Given kindly, selflessly. For no one else's benefit than the recipient. The reciprocity of the gift of forgiveness is up to the person who was done wrong. I have never been given the choice.