Hear Ye, Hear Ye!!!

I don't wanna ever even look sideways at any man who says, "I wanna...(insert some perfectly doable thing that this particular man will somehow find impossible, after many protestations of course)".

Uh huh.

Think about it. There is a difference between someone who says, "I want to...", "I will...." or "I'd like to..." Somehow people who use those declaratives actually do a few of the things that swirl around in their heads.

But the I Wannas? Not so much. Somehow, planning becomes an impossible task; making allowances for the thing that they "wanna do", a grave inconvenience. For them, I find actually thinking, planning and acting accordingly for their want, hurts their minuscule minds. Or perhaps they think that simply wanting something is enough. Or just voicing the want is sufficient.

However, they obviously aren't taking into account someone like me. When I hear, "I wanna..." I expect you to do some shit to make whatever happen - whether it be painting a room, fixing the car or getting that ever elusive degree. I mean, are they saying that shit to make me think they're big thinkers? Or do they hope that whoever happens to be standing around when they make their pronouncement will find them big thinkers or exciting personalities? I'm the first one to tell you that voicing an intention is the first step to making it happen, but please, actually have the intention behind the words.

So, I want this: from this moment on, only men who will do something positive and loving. And have the intent behind the wish.

Pass it on.


The L Word is Back and Trace is Scared

"Girl, did you know that lesbians look like us - or maybe we look like lesbians? They're wearing make up and everything! All dressed up."

So said Trace this morning, telling me about her adventure at a premiere party for Showtime's The L Word. I used to be a big L Word fan, but it got all weird, so I marginally follow it now. Haven't watched the premiere from last night yet.

"I know Trace. That's why my mom keeps telling you to wear makeup. People think we're lesbians."

"They do, huh? Oh my gawd girl. Here I am, living with Diana all these years.... People think we're a couple and won't admit it."

"Yup." head nodding.

"But Diana's not even my type, if I were a lesbian... I would never be with her.... I'd be with a president of a company or something...."

"Uh huh girl, you sure would."

"There's so many of them... What do I know, I hang with cute gay guys..."

"Well, think of it this way, the more lesbians, the more men for us."

"Yeah. Who knew?"

Everybody but Trace, I'm afraid.

Books I Added to My Library


Fione Man of the Month

Barry Pepper

I think I first noticed him in The Green Mile. He's been in loads since, mostly confusing folks - as he looks a tad like a young, better looking Gary Busey. But Busey he's not. Most recently, he was in Seven Pounds as Wil Smith's best friend married to a BW. You know how much I love that! Yup, he's a cutie.
Put him in more stuff, quick! SAG strike or no!



Am I the only person under 41 who is not on Facebook? One of my oldest and dearest friends, we were roommates in Israel, called and told me that there's been a bit of a reunion from our group mates on Facebook. Loads of us are on there.

Except me.

Well, technically, I just deactivated the darn thing cause I thought it was boring. And don't tell me that was just because I didn't have any friends.

But, today, I got an email from one of my schoolmates and I'm impressed. She found the blog on her own. So....

Perhaps I'm not as anonymous as I thought. And maybe I shouldn't be.

Facebook here I come?

Can a MySpace page be far behind?


Vision of 2009

If my life were a reality show, and you were watching, quite frankly, you'd be bored out of your fucking mind. We talked about that as we assembled our vision boards this afternoon. You know, get a few women together, give them some alcohol and good food and the conversation ensues. The good conversation that is. We sat at Best Friend's loft, cutting out images of the life we envision for ourselves, talking about life. Talking about men. Talking about what the hell we think ya'll want; talking about all the shit we've done wrong, about all the shit we know we're still going to do (if he can't ask for your time at least three days in advance ladies, politely say, "not tonight," please). We talked about weight. About children. About money.

Oh, did we talk about money.

Who has it. Who should. Who doesn't.

Mostly, the who doesn't was us.

We talked about self help books (a list of the past thirty years found in one of the magazines). Sad part? I was the lone participant who'd read 80 percent of the books.

"Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus"? Me. "The Road Less Traveled", "The Rules", "The Secret", "He's Just Not That Into You"?

Yup and more. Can't even remember them all. But I've read 'em. What does that say about me? Read all the popular self help books and I'm still a mess. Sheesh.

Okay, I'm not really a mess, but it looks good on a computer screen. But I am alone. I am without my life partner. I am facing the hardships of today alone.

Well, I'm with this shot of tequila. That's not exactly alone, now is it?

Oh god, I'm starting to sound like a functional alcoholic. But I know I'm not one. But I can wonder as I watch the new season of The Bachelor. Can ABC please find different looking women? God, all these women look alike. What is up with that? And this guy -- whatever his name is (can't be that dreamy, can't remember the dude's name), has a three year old son. I have a four year old son, and let me tell you, I'd be hard pressed to expose him to the rigors and crazies of network television, no matter how much the audience is shrinking. I don't know whether to throw up or just go to sleep.

And dream.

Lately I have been easily forgetting Mr. Casablanca. That ship has sailed. I am ready to move on, I tell myself. And then, sitting there, sipping wine, finished with my very optimistic and specific vision board, I see his face. As I talk about the reintroduction of the gentleman, I feel his presence. I remember my yearning and my hunger. I remember my broken heart. And then I forget myself - the span of my hips and the curve of my belly; I forget that I am free of makeup but full of dreams. He's just not that into me. I must confess.

Should I join Match.com? Should I try harder? Smile quicker? Hold that stare?


And I should continue to dream and shelf this weird ass obsession with The Bachelor. That's Hollywood but I'm actually in Hollywood. I am real; they are hoping for something that probably isn't. And never could be.

Welcome passion. Welcome high life. Welcome love.

It's 2009 and I'm ready.