Thursday, May 1, 7 PM, Katz Deli, 205 East Houston Street, see all info here.
Meanwhile, Doc's given us a location for dinner on Thursday night, thank goodness. More about that above.
"She amd her husband Jim had been fighting all morning, one of those perfect terrorist bombings only a married couple of a dozen odd years could pull off. They had masterminded the thing, blowing to smitereens whatever conjugal peace had been in place for the last few weeks, both of them left bleeding and battered by 10:30 am. At least she had some place to go that morning. She'd pulled herself together, dressing very quickly in her best wool suit, dousing her wounds with perfume, wrapping herself in a Hermes silk scarf, as if such bandaging would speed heeling."
I saved the story, half finished that morning under the title "September 10, 2001" as I often do when I'm just starting a new story. I didn't look at it for nearly a month -- you can imagine why. My family and I were shaken at that time, but suffered no direct losses. Thank God.
I didn't even remember writing it. Then one day, I was looking through my writing on my hard drive and came across it, began to read it and nearly fell off my chair.
Why am I mentioning it? Well, I have a strong sense of intuition. A friend pointed out I've been writing in the past few days about disasters. I hadn't even noticed. So here's what I think. I feel something's cooking. And I feel like we can all do a good job of being AWARE and VIGILANT in the next few days. We can do the excellent job of trusting our intuition just like the flight attendant did on the shoe bomber flight. I don't mean to freak you out. I just feel something and I know it's a good time for us all to be aware and connected and help one another out. I hope I'm completely wrong.
Of course, the shoes I'd packed were flats. A lot has changed in my life since I packed that suitcase. If I really plan on surviving, I'm going to replace my flats with really sexy stilleto heels in my emergency sack. Just think, how many women will have really sexy high heels in their emergency backpacks? Almost none. So right off, this means you have a rare, extremely attractive barter item, or perhaps you might need the shoes to dress up in and ask for favors. One must never rule this type of thing out. In fact, Sketchers makes high heel sneakers that are perfect for civilian defense. I need to get some. And as for undies, I packed some of my least sexy? What was I thinking?!
Don't ask. Just messing with your mind. Getting ready to leave Harvard next week, so I'm putting the jaws of life to the old cranium. Hear it, oh yes, racheting open, like an observatory dome beginning to bust at the seams, looking for some vast dark night sky. Telescope peeping into the heavens ... what was that streak of light ... Halley's What?
But all things considered, it's now becoming the top requested treatment in a lot of spas and one magazine I read had a blow-by-blow description of the many variations on how women can have others spread on the goop that turns them tan. Some places spray you with it like an Earl Scheib car job. Other joints give you long rather torturous salt and lemon exfoliating body scrubs first and then apply the stuff. It takes about 2 hours and costs everything from $25 to $300, depending on the spa.
So all those cute tan girls at the beach are using self-tanners, many not done by "self" but others and all wearing SPF 48 and underneath the paint job, they' re white as ghosts.
I was looking at some fat, drab housewives picking up laundry at the dry cleaner and I was thinking, "Yep, why bother, right?" When your slogging through seven months of winter in your L.L. Bean boots or hidden away in your house, the chances of you being bikini-ready by May, well, they are slim to none.
I lived in an area right above downtown LA called Silver Lake, next to Los Feliz. When we moved from 14th Street and 2nd Avenue in New York to LA and moved into this neighborhood, I thought it was amazingly tropical and beautiful and beachy ... and it was compared to New York, I guess ... but in some ways it's very urban and for most Los Angelenos is considered a rather "downtown" location -- not beach-like at all. But this was all before I really started to learn about the beaches in LA and it looked so gorgeous to me to see mountains out the window of our little place and there was a big blue reservoir right there we used to walk around at night, just dreaming of what would happen to us in LA. Anyway it was a fun and lovely time, full of opportunity, and I was always coming up with these weird adventure ideas.
My husband and I were recently married, but then I got transferred for my job out there really quickly and to make the move easier, we moved in with an old friend -- he was a cinematographer going to AFI (American Film Institute) and so we had this great apartment with me, my husband and our friend Kev. You have to know the personalities to appreciate this crazy menage a trois (which it wasn't btw), so let me take a stab at that. I'm half hyper crazy zany risk-loving in the extreme and as some folks have noted, one of the most extroverted people in the world. My husband is a counter-weigh of Asian American good sense, patience, understanding, thoughtfulness. Kev, who's a doll, is frankly a worry-wart about everything and rather downbeat about what can happen to a person in the world. Reminds me of Eyore a little. He's a terrific cinematographer, cameraman and writer too.
So I was always coming up with these brilliant ideas (okay, it's very I LOVE LUCY, I know) sans Ethel. And one night, I read in a guide book that a really excellent AUTHENTIC Mexican restaurant was on Sunset Boulevard fairly near where we lived. Of course, anyone who knows anything knows that LA is the quintessential CAR town, but Halley decided --- no, no, no -- none of these adventures would be really fun unless we WALKED instead of drove.
Of course, I managed to talk these poor guys into this expedition and off we marched on a hot night down Sunset Boulevard. If you ever go anywhere with me, you'll note that my map skills leave a lot to be desired. What was supposed to be fairly close by ... well, let's say it was about an hour and a half away. Not only that but it was hot as hell. And not only that, but it was through an area that went from fair to dangerous very quickly. I could read the message my husband and Kev shot back and forth to one another as the streets got more and more gutsy ... "Oh great, we've got this cute blond leading us down the street and those nice guys with the knives and guns might want to take her with them, but we get to save her since we're the menfolk here. Oh, shit!" Now there was much checking by both guys with me on the EXACT address of this joint. And of course, I'm not good with numbers and did that girl thing, "Don't worry, it' probably right up there." Well, it wasn't, but finally we got there.
And I don't know what the guide books definition of "authentic" Mexican food was, but this place, even I had to admit, was a total dump. A total dump I'd just dragged us through hell and heat and danger and a waste of nearly two hours to reach. There was not one white person in the joint. So, I suppose that was the "authentic" part. It was getting dark now, which made the walk BACK even more frightening for my two colleagues. We ordered some food. .
Next to us, there was a rowdy table of Mexican guys in cowboy hats and they were making a lot of noise, drinking a lot of beer and flirting with me. Both my husband and Kev were giving me dagger looks, like "do NOT talk to these guys." It was beginning to look like some bad B movie where they would have to have a fist fight to save my honor if it got any hotter.
The waitress brought us our food, which was very unappetizing and the two guys looked at me like, "Could this get any worse? Who's great idea was this?" Just as I gave one more cheerleader speech, "Hey, guys, dig in! It can't be that bad." and we sit, the three of us with forks poised mid-air, not quite ready to dig in. Suddenly, we turn and see one of the Mexican rowdy guys, who's obviously had too much beer, trying to get to the men's room past our table,. Well, he doesn't quite make it and vomits all over my huband's and Kev's shoes.
Of course, me being the blonde that way too often escapes unharmed, I was spared. And having orchestrated the disastrous evening, even I felt sorry the guy hadn't aimed for my shoes.
Well, if we weren't finding the food appetizing before, the odor of fresh vomit hardly enhanced our dining experience. There was a moment ... palpable to be sure ... when we suddenly realized, these other drunk guys were heading for us and that it was important to be totally OKAY with their friend's vomit on our shoes. And I think both my husband and Kev got up and gestured like "cool, no problem" and then we threw money down for the dinner we would never eat and got out of there fast. I was not asked to plan any more outings for a quite a while, nor did I offer.
Go, shoo fly, beat it. Yes, go away, just go, get lost. Silly stuff about spanking and panties. Beat it buster. Here's your hat, what's your hurry. Sigh-o-nara. Adieu. Arrivaderci (spelling?) Cheerio. Get outta here.
WWJD? When faced with hard situations, sometimes you don't have the strength of will to just say "no." When the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, let these 100% cotton panties do the talking for you, "What Would Jesus Do?" These words will put a damper on a young man's ardor faster than a bedroom full of stuffed animals.
And what a perfect opening to share your Christian witness! Start with Revelations 3:20, "Behold I stand at the door and knock." Then remind your young man (or woman!) that "True Love Waits." End by asking your suitor to join you on your knees in the sinner's prayer.
Remember, all the angels in Heaven rejoice when another soul is brought to his knees!
As for "asking your suitor to join you on your knees"... seems fine to me to stand by your man in those pretty panties and for him to go down ... on his knees, I mean ... to pray, of course.
Don't tell anybody!
As much as I like getting spanked, I really like doing things I'm not supposed to do.
So, don't tell anybody. Also, don't tell anybody I really wrote this earlier and I'm just posting it now, so I don't actually qualify for a spanking.
Thanks to Doc for the update.
So here's the weird thing about this new decade. Everyone loses their job, everyone loses their retirement savings, everyone loses it in just about every way lately, but at least we all come back to our senses to realize ... ready ... sex is sex! I'm telling you, it's a big breakthrough for our society. We'd gotten really off track. Even people with jobs don't find them sexy anymore, because god knows you can have one today and it's gone tomorrow.
Some people feel we are awash in too much sex (I don't think so) and too much sexuality (again, I don't think so) and too much porn (with this I do agree). But it's a time of recalibrating the whole system. No, your Lexus doesn't turn me on. No, it's no turn on that you're doing a job you hate for the money. Yes, plain old you and a roll in the hay turns me on.
Bacchus, thank you for so precisely educating me on this subject. I was in serious LOL mode, I can tell you. Still, I wonder if there's a viable business model in all this. Show me the money ... seems like a lot of work for some pleasure and about as much fun as having 10 guys stuffed in a phone booth. Too close for comfort if you ask me.
The other day at work I overheard someone telling someone about The Frug and then demonstrating The Monkey! Christ! Get your retro dance steps straight. I nearly had to make a citizen's arrest. But instead muttered to myself "Forgive Them Father. For They Know Not What They Do."
Happy Easter All!
Stacy is a starving biology student. She said the reason she would take two huge cocks inside her was because "I need the money!" What a whore, but with a DAMN fine pussy.
Your basic biology major spends a lot of time in a biology lab where, if things got really dire, there are the occasional lettuce leaves (rabbit food) to scarf down or even a mouse if you were pressed for protein. And if things really when to hell in a handbasket, you could probably swill some agar mixed with a little alcohol in a petri dish and drink that. You would feel no pain at least and the agar is reputed to sustain life, at least until the end of the semester.
So forget Stacy the starving biology student -- very implausible. And then this alleged Stacy does what ... "takes two huge cocks inside her" oh, yeah, that's easy to do. And how many biology students are quick to put "two huge cocks" inside them anyway? They know from germs. Biology students have a much more finely attuned awareness and appreciation for condoms than your ... say, Poli Sci major ... so I have to say again, "No way would Stacy the not-so-starving biology student" feel the need to put two huge cocks inside her. And what is she -- a rather greedy little biology student -- that she insists on TWO cocks. Can't she share? Isn't there another biology student who could use that 2nd cock in their little lab assignment. What's with Stacy asking for two? What else does she want, two pipettes, two beekers, two microscopes, two stools? I'd give her an "F" for teamwork.
And WHY is this alleged biologist-wannabe putting these two cocks in her vagina -- and this makes, I'm telling you, NO SENSE -- the writer tells us "I need the money!" Because she needs the money?. Who, exactly, is paying for this transaction?
Let's posit for a moment that, in fact, she is a bio major who moonlights as a common whore -- a stretch of the imagination dear readers, I know, but stay with me on this. If she were propositioning guys to fuck her with huge cocks -- why on earth would any reasonable man pay to compete with another customer's huge dick for space in Stacy's cunt? It just does not make solid economic sense. Stacy is no business major. So instead of getting two guys paying to fight over what is essentially one parking place, shouldn't she reconsider the whole scenario and take them on one at a time?
I have news for Stacy. If she thinks the "starving biology student" schtick is going to work with customers, she's wrong. At some point these guys are going to wonder about her credentials as a biologist -- she certainly is not impressive in her knowledge of the female anatomy.
And now to add insult to injury (possibly), the writer ends with this inscrutable, unsupported, highly unlikely claim, "What a whore, but with a DAMN fine pussy." Well, I can tell you right off, any biology major moonlighting as a common whore, having two guys sticking two huge cocks in her vagina all night is not going to meet the morning light with a DAMN fine pussy. And besides, she'll find she didn't get much of her bio homework done either.
This may mean I've come down with SARS -- Sessum's Acute Ranting Syndrome -- where certain people do more than 30 posts in a single day. It's a frightening disease, except in the hands of a master like Jeneane Sessums. The rest of us untrained professionals should not attempt it.
Anyway, she's got an interesting post today referring to Danielle Crittenden in the LA Times talking about writing serial fiction on the web and selling a book out of it. I've actually sold one of my stories "Melting The Mint" to Penthouse after posting it to my site. Cool, eh? And like the author she mentions, there's something incredible in publishing on a Monday and getting reader feedback on a Tuesday. No writer has ever had such an interactive medium as that. In fact blogging does remind me much more of stand-up comedy in that respect than any other form of published writing.
And I did tell you I would report on what I've been eating. Thing is, when my son's not here I don't eat a whole helluva lot. I'm just busy doing other things and don't think about it. So this morning before church I ate ... a can of Kirkland (Costco brand) Slim-Fast which they call something else, which is a little more watered down than the regular Chocolate Milk flavor Slim-Fast and I ate it just so I would eat something, because often I don't eat anything and suddenly notice I'm starving at 4:00. So I drank a glass of skimmed milk, drank a Kirkland Chocolate Milk Slim-Fast, drank some seltzer water, didn't eat anything, then took a Dannon Coffee Yogurt with me to church and ate that there in the back room where they'd already set up the Coffee Hour food. I came back here and ate a Bagel Sandwich I got at Dunkin Donuts -- egg, bacon, cheese on a poppyseed bagel toasted -- and an iced-coffee (decaf, milk no sugar) and I also bought but haven't eaten 2 Berry Berry Bagels. I'm not big on sweets but completely nuts for carbs. I could eat my way through a bread bakery -- you can keep the cookies, cakes, pies for the most part. I made my son an Easter Basket of no food, only toys, kites, little cars, gift card to Toys R Us. I knew all the other relatives would completely drown him in candy.
And after trying not to eat any chocolate or candy this holiday, I broke down and ate a few pieces of Cadbury Roses chocolates I brought back from London in February. Couldn't resist. Also, I am addicted (and will admit it here) to VANILLA DIET COKE and blame Denise Howell of Bag and Baggage for that, as she wrote about it last year a bunch and I got hooked on the idea, even before getting hooked on the drink.
At church I ate some cherry tomatoes and celery with dip, and Trisscuits and no wine no wafer today. Oh, yes, also ate a bunch of Garlic Matzos which I'm wild for. They make crumbs all over the place though.
I've been writing each piece ad hoc, as they came to me, but now, I'm heading for the last exit on the highway here, so I'll be planning them a little more carefully, and expect to be done soon. Stick around for the jokes folks. We're almost done.
But first, a little piece that will give all you late comers some context on what the heck I'm trying to do here with "How to Become an Alpha Male in 18 Easy Lessons." It's taken me nearly 14 lessons to figure it out myself.
But I guess there is a point to my rambling here. First, why are we flooded with so many naked pictures of women and find so little in the way of equally lovely pictures of male anatomy? And as for heterosexual male photos, yes, there are videos with rather explicit action shots, but simple beautiful still pictures of straight men -- prove me wrong, show me that gallery. Maybe this is the real dirty little secret of alpha malehood. For all the jockeying for position and mega-aggressive sports behavior, for all the competition at work for heirarchy and position, for all the competition to get the best looking babe and even after the many times men are accused of playing "my dick is bigger than your dick" -- is it the case that most men do not want to compare their actual dick to the next guy's dick and avoid it at all costs? What gives? Do straight men feel their penises are not ready for the light of day? Do they think they don't look good? Do they feel insecure that they don't look as good as the next guy? At least in American culture, I wonder if we are ALL not a little ashamed of our genitals. I recall a gynecologist looking rather dropped-jawed at me when I asked about my labia, vagina, clitoris, "Do I look normal? Is everything down there all right?" She answered in the affirmative and quickly left the subject, but I realized in my usual way of speaking a drop dead honest statement much to everyone's shock and dismay, that many women probably feel the same way I do. Until recently you never saw a lot of naked pussies to compare yours too -- even growing up in a family of 3 sisters I wasn't looking at such things with much scrutiny once it started to really matter, say ... in my teen years. Sure we ran around half naked as young kids, but once you start to really mature and want to check out how you compared with others, those others weren't exactly available for perusal for the most part. From conversations with male friends, I know this may be more true than false. Of course, my naive fantasy of the availablility of men's penises for viewing in the men's room -- always kindof turned me on -- turns out to be completely inaccurate and I've been well informed that taking a leak is all about NOT showing your stuff. Still, can I say, thanks to a few stone hard Greek statues and a few real flesh-and-blood men I've been lucky enough to KNOW well, the male member is a beautiful thing, flaccid or erect, it's time to give it the credit it deserves.
Clicking through the gallery of penises, it's easy to start comparing them, just as men will tend to do when clicking through a gallery of naked women's lovely round bosoms. And you notice differences. Shape, texture, width, tilt and of course, size. Much has been said about the size of a penis. Looking at the gallery on this site, I couldn't help feeling like a woman about it. It IS about size -- the size of the guy's heart who happens to own that penis. It's about the size of everything attached to that penis. The size of his kindness ... and big big kindness matters. The size of the time he carves out of his life for you ... and all of us find it harder and harder to drop everything and give a nice big full morning, afternoon or evening to the ones we love. The size of his laughter. The size of his eyes. The way they look at you, across a larged-sized room. The size of his courage. And of course, the size of his car and the size of his wallet.
No, wait, I'm kidding! I'm just kidding! But I could hear you Alpha Males thinking, that's what women are really after. But it's not true. We're not trying to get your wallet out of your jeans -- we're just trying to get YOU out of your jeans. We KNOW how good you look.
Also, thanks to Like Butter for blogrolling me. I'll butter her up and blogroll her too.
I'll Thank You for Being a Friend
by Andrew Gold
Thank you for being a friend
Traveled down a road and back again
Your heart is true,
You're a pal and a confidant
I'm not ashamed to say
I hope it always will stay this way
My hat is off,
Won't you stand up and take a bow
Thank you for being a friend
And if you threw a party
Invited everyone you knew
You would see the biggest gift would be from me
And the card attached would say
Thank you for being a friend
If it's a car you lack
I'd surely buy you a Cadillac
Whatever you need
Any time of the day or night
Thank you for being a friend
And when we both get older
With walking canes and hair of gray
Have no fear even though it's hard to hear
I will stand real close and say
Thank you for being a friend
And when we die
And float away
Into the night
The milky way
You'll hear me call
As we ascend
I'll say your name
Then once again
Thank you for being a friend
The cover shows the Flintstones at home in their cave -- Fred carrying Dino who's holding a phone -- and it's attached to a computer with a happy George Jetson on the screen. The subhead says, "But most of us are still fumbling around in the information stone age."
Stop and think. Where were you and what were you doing in May 1993? I think I was living in Manhattan Beach, had just stopped working as a Senior Sales Executive for Lexis/Nexis, charging a fortune for proprietary information services. The Internet was already beginning to kick our asses and we were telling our management about it and they weren't really listening. I had just moved on to a new company, a start-up that appeared to "get it" better, or at least had better technology, and on one of my sales calls in San Jose, Brad Templeton of Clarinet and his boys had taken me into the back room on a blistering hot day, the blinds pulled down against the glaring Silicon Valley sun and showed me something called the World Wide Web. It was a good place to lose my web virginity.
May 1993. Let's do the math ... it doesn't seem possible ... 100 years ago? Yes. 10 years ago? No way.
Or maybe it's better to call it the "Let Them Eat Cake" economy -- yes, famous last (alleged) words by Marie Antoinette when people were begging for plain bread to keep from starving and all she can say is "Qu'il mange du gateau!" Or "why don't they eat petits-fours, there are a lot of those cute little cakes hanging around my chateaux, what's the big deal?" The French kindof missed the fact that they had eradicated the middle class which is a very dangerous thing to do -- creates a lot of instability -- unless you're turned on by the guillotine.
My day goes like this ... you hear 3 more people you know well who are really good at what they do, correction, really good at what they were DOING -- are out of work and then you hear some company's earnings are 18% higher, like IBM announced today and you think, "What gives?" And then a friend points out that frightening piece from yesterday's Sunday New York Times about this generation of 50 year olds basically being decimated ... I haven't even read it because I couldn't stand one more bit of bad news. In fact, the only good news about the piece is how many people who used to be able to afford a subscription to The New York Times, are out of work, so they probably didn't read it.
So my good news is, we're coming out of this mess, but my bad news is, we may all be working at Chuck E. Cheese with an MBA and 15 years experience as a management consultant, at least for a while..
And let me add a disclaimer. Nothing like this ever really happens in any office and this is completely fictional.
… Aphrodite is a tremendous force for change. Through her flow attraction, union. fertilization, incubation and birth of new life. When this process happens on a purely physical plane between a man and woman, a baby is conceived. And the sequence is the same in all other creative processes as well: attraction, union, fertilization, incubation, a new creation. The creative product can be as abstract as an inspired union of two ideas that eventually gives birth to a new theory.
Creative work comes out of an intense and passionate involvement – almost as if with a lover, as one (the artist) interacts with the “other” to bring something new into being. … Sometimes both the creative and the romantic aspects of Aphrodite are present in the same woman. She then engages in intense relationships, moving from one to another as well as being engrossed in her creative work. Such a woman follows whatever and whoever fascinates her and may lead an unconventional life, as did the dancer Isadora Duncan and the writer George Sand.
Goddesses in Every Woman: A New Psychology of Women -- Jean Shinoda Bolen
Goddesses in Every Woman: A New Psychology of Women -- Jean Shinoda Bolen
So my hat's off to you dad. Have a great day, wherever you are. Have a cup of tea, sit back, stretch out those long legs, deal out a hand of 5-card stud, nothing wild for your 4 daughters and 1 son and make the most of it. Ante up.
Anyway, here's why I love men. They are brave. They are constantly called upon to be brave. It doesn't seem fair. They are expected to do things like kill bugs on the wall of summer cottages. They are expected to have flares in the trunks of their cars. They are expected to be strong and hold other people when they cry. They are expected to do such hard things. They are expected to get jobs and make money. Women want them to be more emotional, or SO WE SAY, but hate it when they are overly emotional. They are damned if they do and damned if they don't. Especially these days.
Been thinking a lot about all the kind things my dad did for me -- moving me in and out of dorms, apartments, jobs. Helping me buy cars. So many things and he was just a man, that's all.
I love the way they get up in the morning and shave -- how unpleasant that must be. I love the way they sweat and how it smells. I love the way they look in a tie, a nice leash you can grab and bring them up close fast when you get the urge to kiss them. I like the way you'll see a guy on the street and his tie catches the wind and flaps in his face with a little slap. I like their big hands and big feet, makes you feel safe.
I like their crazy projects -- they do a lot of projects these men. I like the way they read the paper. I love the ones who still carry cloth hankerchiefs. I like sitting next to one in a meeting, peeking at the hair on the back of his hand, then on his wrist, then on his forearm, his sleeve rolled up and then trying to imagine how hairy he is under all those clothes. I love the bald ones too, especially them, they are fearless. I love the way men get up in front of a room and make some super boring Powerpoint slides actually slightly interesting. I like the way their hair sticks straight up sometimes. I like the way they get all moony and sloppy over watching Little League on a summer evening. I like the way they drive off with the family early on a holiday weekend in a stationwagon for some silly historic trip to Sturbridge Village. I like the way they let their kids hang all over them like they are a climbing structure in the playground. I like the way they worry about their families. I like the way cherish their old ratty tee-shirts. I love men.
I know it's radical. But if you're looking for a job. Or looking for a life. Or looking for a wife. Or looking for a breath of air. Or looking for anything. Searching your soul. Standing in the unemployment line. Running a marathon. Just trying to make it through one more day, I'll surprise you -- but I guarantee -- there's only one thing you can bet on and that's YOU. In fact, you can't bet on anything else.
You can think -- this economy?! It's so bad, I'll never find another great job like that last one. I'll settle for something else. Well, not so fast. Try something different, bet on your own self, on your own uniqueness. Bet on it. Put your chips on that one number. Maybe it's time to look at YOU. Look at the stuff you love. Maybe you can't sell software anymore, but want to be an interior designer. No time like the present, just do it. Maybe there's a job as a paralegal but you'd rather learn to operate a crane. Bet on it, do it. Get in that crane for goodness' sake. No time like the present to bet on it. It will probably pan out, better than any other half way measure. Bet on you. Watch what happens.
1. Set up a Saturday lunch date with a girl you really are crazy for; half way through lunch reach over and take that stray blond hair off her cashmere sweater, you know the one, right above her left breast. "Just being helpful."
2. Take her shopping at Victoria's Secret;
3. Don't have a "her" to take shopping? Well, just pretend to be shopping, but ask other girls for advice;
4. A Dutch friend suggests "Give her flowers, if you work it just right, this might get her to ask you innocently if you'd like to take a nap -- always say yes";
5. A friend from Houston offers, "Write an erotic story, give it to her and see how far you get ..."
6. Anon suggests, "Kiss a woman who really isn't expecting it, then kiss her again."
7. Of course, it's fun to take your best girl shopping at a Western Wear shop.
8. And while you're trying on Western Wear, it's fun to get your favorite cowgirl a nice cowboy hat;
9. And hell, why buy your best gal a hat without getting her a pretty pair of suede chaps.
10. And if you're really having a good weekend, maybe she'd get all dressed up for you -- in just the chaps and hat -- and play ride 'em cowboy with you;
11. It is supposed to be rainy, snowy, icy, and particularly rotten weather around these parts, partner. Definately a good weekend to stay in bed, play ride 'em cowboy and if you're girl's really nice, maybe she'd tie you up with her lasso, no trick knots, but she needs to learn how to rope bulls, doesn't she?
12. And then of course, you could just go disco bowling.
It was hard to ask for the day, but I know I need it. I asked my youngest sister to meet me that day for lunch. She turned me down. So be it. Everyone grieves in their own way. Or avoids grieving, although I think there is danger there. I'll ask my other sisters and brother to spend some time with me that day.
How will I spend that day -- a full, open Wednesday -- a found day -- a day where my heart might feel heavy -- or playful like a dolphin in surf -- surely more in alignment with my dad's earthly heart -- a rollicking, crazy, let's-have-fun-and-damn-them-all heart that had a rhumba beat -- maybe I'll go to the beach -- maybe to his old stomping ground New York City, stand with my feet planted on Madison Avenue and look for his garbardine suit and nice fedora hat rushing by to a advertising man's pitch meeting.
Maybe I'll drive up to Crane Beach and not talk to anyone. Maybe I'll cry. Maybe I don't know what I'll do, but I own a lovely, full, open, day, all for me to do whatever I want.
Meanwhile, my kid's teacher gave us homework to walk in the woods like idiots calling out the name and birdcall of the rare "LOOF LIRPA" bird, until I made him spell it backwards and realize it was a goofy joke. He loved it and I loved knowing he loved it and that I'm NOT in 2nd Grade anymore.
He didn't even ask me stuff like "Where do you see yourself in five years?" or "What are your strengths and weaknesses?" or "If you were an animal, which animal would you be?"
