Remote Controlled Expectations

There's a great scene from the movie Singles where Kyra Sedgwick's character gives her garage door opener to this guy she's fallen for, who not surprisingly, ends up being a complete dick and she therefore loses said garage door opener (which of course symbolizes a plethora of sentiments much greater than the worthless piece of plastic itself). As she purchases yet another replacement to fill the remote shaped hole in her heart, she swears aloud that she'll never lose it again.

I lost my garage door opener not long ago. Off it went. I had a feeling it wasn't coming back. I didn't cry over the sad-looking little box that left my life that day, but over the hope that that little button holds each time it is pushed. No matter how tough any man or woman might pretend to be, the truth remains, no one really wants to be alone. The extra remote somehow represents the extra space in your life, not just in your garage.

As some things never change, I still somehow end up at Home Depot just about every other day. I found myself perusing that section a few times. Get yourself a new one and just don't ever lose it again. Then I thought, that's no way to be. It would be a pretty sad existence to never take risks just because of one, or two, or...ten bad experiences. But, chances to be taken or not, I still left the store without my Liftrex Super replacement.

I came home today and picked up my mail and inside a padded envelope I saw an object whose color could only be described as garage-door-opener gray. Out of the envelope, it fell into my hand and for a moment I was sad to see there was no note. Not even a scribble to say something like, "Hi, not long ago I used to kiss you a hundred times a day and now we don't even speak, how are you?"

But even so, I had the hope back in my hands. What's so awesome about this though, is I will forever attribute the loss of that stupid fucking remote to what finally inspired me to do things I'd been wanting to do for years. Things I kept saying I'd do next week or next month and then turned into years, without accomplishment. This August, I will travel to another country. By myself. And this Wednesday, I begin my lessons with my Spanish tutor. FINALLY. And so I thank you, former apple of my eye, for saying all those sweet things and for every one of those kisses...and then for being a giant asshole to me. You have inspired and motivated me more than I ever would have imagined. And getting my remote back is a reminder that, although at times it may seem like it, hope is not lost. Perhaps misused and mislaid and misjudged sometimes, but definitely not lost.

And so the dance resumed...

...with his glances from across the room, despite my preoccupation with diversions. His hand then on the small of my back, a heavy whisper in my ear. Its all so familiar but still perilously beckoning. My only other option was to run. A purely wicked dichotomy, because it could only bear the resemblance of catastrophe, regardless of the choice I was to make.


But so the world would not be, without tragedy lurking in the shadows of anything worthwhile. And how easy it is to forget its potential ravages at that one moment. That split second when choice simply ceases to exist and your heart begins to beat so fast you cannot find your breath. And as soon as you do, it is stolen from you just the same. But, oh what a kiss.

God bless the art of coquetry

I declare, wholeheartedly, I love men who flirt. And completely unabashed flirting at that. It is amazing how one seemingly trivial action is capable of making me feel unquestionably feminine and unmistakably pretty. There is something to be said about the confidence in a man who will hold my hand in his and play with my hair, in a room full of people, although we've barely just met. It is an art form.

One...

One love
We get to share it
Leaves you baby if you
Don't care for it

U2 "One"



Simple, simple lyrics. Yet, I found myself choked up tonight at the U2 show. Twice. I'm not a concert cryer, nor am I one of those crazed fans who screams bloody murder and then faints right there in the middle of a moshpit. I do, however, enjoy any music that evokes some emotion and manages to replace my everyday skin with those fantastic, tingly little goosebumps. I know Jade, it's chicken skin ;)

Tonight, I shed actual tears. I'm not sure where they came from really...I wasn't even in a particularly sad or emotional mood. I may have been embarrassed (even if slightly) from my blubbering if it hadn't been for one thing, I happened to look over at the 40-something year old man next to me at the very moment he was wiping a tear from his cheek.

I Do. Or do I?

I got into a long discussion about marriage today. Well, not just marriage, but partnership. These days it seems marriage can potentially be an entirely independent and unrelated action from the actual union of two people anyway. But in an attempt to try and understand why humans do what we do, we asked ourselves how and why people get together. A boatload of questions came about, but not many answers. Not many definitive ones anyway:

Is it natural for humans to want to find that one special person and ‘settle down’ as they say? Or is it the ideology of marriage that has brainwashed us into thinking that we do? If marriage just didn’t exist, would we still act the same way toward relationships? Would we even get into relationships? Are we walking around sizing everyone up to fit into that one slot whether or not there is an exchange of vows? Does the desire for children factor in here anywhere and change anything? Statistically speaking, if we’re meant to pair up with just one person, is it possible for everyone to find their partner in their lifetime? Does the probability of settling down with one person get higher or lower or stay the same the longer you are single? Are over half of marriages ending in divorce now because people are being fed an unrealistic view of what it should be? Are we having undue pressure put on us to get married because that is what is considered the standard? Why are people not getting married as young as they used to? Marriage was created by humans, will it ever be dismissed by humans? Is it even realistic to assume that we are wired to be monogamous?

Phew, I need a drink.

Not Bitching (for once)

There’s something to be said about going off and just bitching about the things that bother you sometimes. And I mean BITCHING, only the way a woman can. There’s probably a reason the term was originally associated with women in the first place, we’re quite simply really, really good at it. And it’s no secret that I’ve bitched lately about men and their shortcomings (pun fully intended).

 I feel a lot better.

 And I think the universe heard me complaining. And now, since I am a huge advocate of keeping things fair and balanced, I must now give credit where credit is due.

Big ups to the man who has caused me to wear an especially satisfied smile on my face lately and brought the spring back into my step. As well as helping me remember that there are things worth shaving my legs for. I don’t know where he came from or how he learned the things he knows, but I certainly wouldn’t mind finding out. I’m actually not so sure he’s human to be honest. Some of his abilities are not of this earth.

Some time ago I made out with him…in a 7-Eleven freezer. I would hardly think cases of Budweiser and 2 percent milk to be alluring, but when he spun me around and kissed me in the vapor of our visibly cold breath, I knew I stumbled upon something interesting. And although it would be quite some time before I really knew what I was in for, I got a sneaking feeling that this one had some tricks up his sleeve. These tricks, my friends….are not for kids.

Looking back at my past, I accidentally noticed something, although I’ve never had a “type”, seems in recent years there were a string of guys who weren’t the burliest of chaps. The I’m-a-lover-not-a-fighter types, which is all great and good. I like to think that anyone I choose to spend time with is an exceptional person, for the simple fact that I am extremely selective about my free time and whom I spend it with. But I have to say, I’ve missed a few things over the years. Like guys who own (and know how to operate) tools, like saws and drills and stuff. A tool belt is an added bonus, even if I ask him to put it on just for fun! Or the guy who can pick up those big jugs of water without turning purple before toppling under its weight and cracking a rib. Speaking of picking things up…there’s something refreshing about a guy who can pick me up (and let’s say…just for the hell of it…carry me into the bedroom) with the same ease as say, carrying a bag of feathers. Okay, a hundred and five pound bag of feathers, but whatever.

Moreover, there’s something fantastic and strangely comforting in knowing that if someone fucks with you, he’s not even going to hesitate in taking the necessary steps to introduce his fist to the person's face (only if absolutely necessary, of course). I mean, not that he’d go looking for bar brawls or anything, but he ain’t running away from a little danger when another’s respect has been compromised.
But it’s not just about size and strength, there’s also something very attractive about a man who makes an experience of taking you clothes off, one piece at a time…in the living room. And especially appealing when he actually takes the time to check out the ensemble you just bought (after all, that is at least part of the reason you bought it, you kinda thought someone might be taking a peek pretty soon). There’s something enticing about a man who isn’t afraid to make the first move and even if you say no, he’s aware that it just means no until next time. And until next time he will wait. And when next time comes, he will be equally disarming and kiss you wildly…(and change your water jug for you too).

As always, out of respect for the privacy of others, I never mention any names but, with a big smile I say thanks to my new friend for all the spooning...and the forking.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em

I’m exhausted but cannot sleep, why this happens I will never understand…so I find myself in front of my computer. Back in the day I would have found myself holding my journal in my lap. The journal that I painstakingly kept…long hand. It’s so much easier to type. I seem to have this love/hate relationship with technology…

…exemplified by my personal anti text messaging campaign lately. I loved it at first for so many reasons. A great little novelty and a reason to spend all too much money on a new cell phone which boasts easier access to texting (which has now become its own verb), the quiver of excitement from hearing the special ring tone you’ve set for your special incoming texts. The wonder of what that little message might tell you that spoken words could not. But then, I began to despise it. I started to think that communication in this form would deteriorate our one on one, face to face experience. It seemed like an easy, almost cowardly, way out of having to really speak to someone. I decided to put myself on hiatus from texting.

Reluctantly, I must confess I may have changed my mind. But I don’t suppose that’s such a bad thing. There is always reason to discover the good things in everything, especially when you may have just overlooked them initially. My flip flopper attitude stems from a virtual tennis match of texting I participated in recently.

In the silence of the late evening, I lay in bed thinking about my adamant new old fashioned ways, and then I hear that special ring tone. I began to imagine life when there were no telephones. Not only cell phones, but regular telephones as well. Correspondence came in the form of fancy inked letters with a melted wax seal, stamped with a family shield or monogram of some sort (all this to insure the messenger wasn’t being a snoop while on his way to his destination). The anticipation of a letter from a lover may have made the days feel like weeks, and the weeks an eternity. And just as we always appreciate the book much more than the movie because of the pictures we paint so vividly in our minds, the mere thought of her smile from his words as she reads them would stay with him long after the pen touched the paper. It seems that because everything took longer, perhaps they were appreciated more. And that wasn’t so bad.

So what does this all have to do with modern times I asked myself? I realized that if I took a step back, I might find the very qualities I’d written off, because of our hurried world, staring me right in the face. Turns out, there could be many similarities in those feather quill letters and the texts I’ve received. They were just shorter versions…and of course, I was receiving them at lightning speed. No horses or messengers or carrier pigeons. But the wonder and imagination were ever present. Dare I say there was even something romantic about talking to another without actually speaking? With the inescapable romance of a dark and stormy evening (where I was anyway) and the distance between us, I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps something I wrote may have made him smile. I vividly painted my mental picture, his face highlighted by the dim light of the LCD screen on his cell phone, nimbly pushing the corresponding numbers to form the words he was about to write.

Of course text messages are a far cry from writing a letter, but I found that I liked partaking in a form of communication that telephones seemed to have taken away long ago. And maybe this technology that I love and hate so much is bringing a bit of it back.

Bush League

They gave me a handy little locker for my shoes, but what about my inhibitions? Where am I supposed to put those?

I found myself in Koreatown a couple days ago. A friend of mine had recommended this Korean bathhouse for a massage and the loofah body scrub they offer...at quite the modest price, no less. Well, that was about the only modest thing about the place. I’ve been to a spa or two in my day. Burke Williams and the like, I also used to work for a day spa while I lived in Chicago. All of these spas seemed to run pretty much the same way, you’re handed a robe and a key, and then you’re pretty much good to go. Use whatever you like, the hot tub, sauna, pool, steam showers, all of which are primarily occupied by entirely naked women. When it comes time for your service, however, whether it be a massage, salt scrub, mud mask, etc…I'm accustomed to being whisked away to a quiet, Zen-like room…just me and the masseur.

NOT so in Koreaville. Aside from being the only white girl in a room full of some of the hottest Asian women I’ve ever seen, they were way less modest than any chick I’ve ever witnessed prancing around in the women’s lounge at an Americanized spa. I swear some of them would get out of the hot tub and grab their folded up towel and just walk with it right in their hand. It was slightly intimidating, I won't even try to pretend otherwise. They've got some great genes -- those bitches. The 70’s bush on the other hand was unlike any I've ever witnessed live. I know, I know. I swear I wasn’t staring, but it was hard not to notice. I am all for rolling with the old school triangle, it’s vintage, it’s retro, it’s in, that’s cool. But trimming the length is a must! I mean no disrespect at all, I was a total bush leaguer in there (no pun intended), they were all damn hot, over-sized muffs or not.

So, here I am (sporting my micro-mini triangle) getting into the hot tub. No big deal I can handle those miniscule moments of nudity amongst strangers. But now comes time for my massage. This lovely Korean woman comes over to me and I believe she is calling me over for my "appointment" but I have entirely no clue what she is saying to me, so I just got up and followed her. We walked into a room that I had noticed upon my arrival. There appeared to be a massage table directly in front of the doorway, and I thought to myself, ‘what an odd place to put the table…right in front of the door??!!’ As I made my way through the entrance, trying to avert my eyes from the overgrown muffin that was lying on that table, an alarming reality set in. There were 7 more tables in this giant shower-like room, and they were all occupied by naked women, except for the one designated for me. I had a couple of choices here. I pictured myself sprinting to my car, barefoot, white robe flailing crazily behind me from my adrenalin-induced speed. 'Screw my wallet, I’ll get new credit cards...I wonder if they're gonna charge me for this robe.'

“Face down!”
“Huh?” I mumbled when I realized I was still standing very close to the only visible doorway (read: exit).
“Face down!” She smiled as she tapped her hand onto the table. Yep, this time I understood exactly what she said.

My next move surprised even me. I smiled a smile from ear to ear and dropped my robe right there on the floor. Me, chicken? Hah!! I did, however, FEEL like a chicken…a chicken getting prepped for the deep fryer. I was being cleaned, slathered and tenderized. I was even garnished with something that resembled a cucumber salad.

I never knew the meaning of the word liberating until that day. Every nook and cranny was exposed to a room full of ladies, not to mention the woman who didn’t miss a beat while she flipped and patted and kneaded (all the while maintaining her entire routine wearing only a matching bra and panties. Black. Lace. I'm not kidding).

Americans are funny about our junk. We are a painfully yet hypocritically modest society in so many ways. God forbid we see a nipple on television and women have to fight for the right to provide their child vital sustenance in public. But Britney Spears (pre K-Fed) grinding under gallons of pouring water for her audience of 9 year olds who want to be just like her is totally acceptable. Funny, I say.

I have to say, another excellent feature of this hard core smack down I stumbled into was the fact that they didn’t have to be all pseudo proper and fakey respectful out of fear that you would sue them for coming within three inches of your business. It was more like, “You’re in my hood now, you pale American, your laws are no good here.” And probably thinking all the while that my triangle was just too darn small.

It was brilliant. I highly recommend it.

Family History

Family's History
I’m home in good old democratic voting (this year anyway) Michigan. It snowed the first night I was here, big beautiful snowflakes, the kind that look like feathers. A story came back to me from when I was a kid about the angels having a pillow fight. I like that one. Well, they were still going at it this morning when I got up. The ground looked just like the down comforter I was wrapped up in. What a wonderfully descriptive name, who thought of that one? Comforter. It keeps you warm, it protects you when you’re scared, it always wants to hang around you. If only they would make one in human form. You could choose his thread count (style) and his filling (smarts) and his size (well, you know). You could just go to the store and pick him out right there, and he would be conveniently zipped up in a plastic bag (with air holes of course) and labeled with one of those convenient little round stickers. Like Funny, Smart or Romantic…rather than just Twin, Full or Queen. Oh well. Anyhow, I didn’t want to get up, but I had snow angels on my mind. I wrapped the comforter around me a little bit tighter and slid out of bed. I planned on running outside, dropping the blanket at the door and making a snow angel in my pajamas...just to freak my mom out. All I needed were my boots, so I put them on and opened the door. Sam, my mom’s dog stood at my feet with his ball in his mouth. I took it and threw it into the yard and said, “Go get it!” Whoever said dogs can’t talk doesn’t know anything. He said, “Are you crazy? It’s fucking cold out there!” I swear. And he was right. I turned around and went back inside. Watching the snow from inside was perfect. Perfectly warm. I decided I’d go play in the snow later, at least after breakfast. My mom asked me how I wanted my eggs. I only eat them scrambled. I might need to come home more often.

Later on in the day, my mom and I went for dinner, just her and me. I was thinking about my grandmother and the state that she is currently in. And by state I don’t mean one of the 48 contiguous, I mean her state of mind. She is losing it. That Alzheimer's is one sly thief. I guess as far as geographical states go, it might be fair to say that technically she’s no longer a citizen of this one, or any other for that matter anymore. Hell…she’s not even on this planet anymore. Just a few months back she actually saw aliens. She described the space ship to me, and the people…or should I say “people” she saw come out of it. They were skinny and were wearing the same clothes, like a uniform. She didn’t mention anything about oversized heads and hairless bodies, I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. She saw them right outside the window of the bedroom I’m sleeping in while I’m here. Might be an interesting couple of days. I’ll be checking for implants in my neck or buttocks, or wherever they put them, I’m not really sure.

Anyway, during dinner I began to ask questions about my family. Having had a conversation about families just a few nights before in LA, I guess it prompted me to wonder again about mine. And since I’ve already lost one parent, I’m really starting to realize how much of your history you lose when your parents go. I mean, unless you record your history, which aside from pictures or a few home videos, most people don’t do, your parents are really the link to those days past. I’ve always known that my grandmother lost her parents at a young age. Her mom when she was six and her dad when she was about ten. So, how much could she have been told by age ten? But I learned something new tonight, my grandmother’s mother was orphaned at fourteen, so she’d also lost out on some of her own family history. Throw in the fact that while my grandparents were growing up, a war was brewing and now they had to leave even more of their own history behind and get the hell outta dodge. It’s such a sad story through and through, that there’s a part of me that doesn’t even want to know. But there’s another part that, of course, longs to know everything. What they were like and the fact that I might be like or look just like one of them. I need to find out more of my family’s history, before my family is history.

It's funny how different the world is now. So much of the present, which in the course of 24 hours becomes history, is recorded these days. And you can sit down and watch just about all of it at any given time. (I wonder when President Bush's War - Season 1 and 2 will be out on dvd.)

If ever I have children, I will encourage them to write. I would give anything to be able to sit down and read any notes my grandmother may have scribbled. Having kept a journal myself since 6th grade, I've come to appreciate the documented history of my life that I own. Although much of it in those early years was 'he said...and then I said....and then she's like...i hate her...but he's so cute...I love him'. Ah, it'll be worth at the very least a hearty chuckle someday.

Well, it’s getting late…about the time that strange things start to happen. Maybe I’ll go look for some aliens outside my window. Maybe they know something. They’ve got to, they have a round thing that they can get to fly (she said it was round and it made a noise, almost like a plane and that’s what prompted her to look out the window). Maybe they know about the history…maybe they know where my grandmother’s mind has gone…maybe they know if I’ll ever find a comforter and what his name will be. Oh Christ, the wind just blew so hard I freaked myself out. I’m going to hide under the only comforter I've got right now...good enough.

Be careful what you wish for

Been on my soapbox lately about technology and how I sometimes wish we didn't have cell phones so our world could go at a less hurried and frantic pace. Well, I believe I just got what I deserved.

I couldn't have asked for a better day Friday. Having just seen Wilco on Thursday night and feeling refreshed and revived again for a number of reasons, it was a perfect day. In addition to this beautiful day, an entirely unexpected surprise at 4pm…tickets for Wilco's show that night...what kind of lottery did I just win?

I went with the same friend and we were amped to say the least. For Thursday’s show we were running so late that I completely forgot to grab my bowl before I walked out the door. I promised myself I wouldn’t forget it tonight. In the lobby of the Wiltern I let out a Homer sized, "Doh!" and decided I’m obviously doing too many drugs and it’s causing me to forget things…like bringing my drugs. Oh well...thems the breaks. We bought ourselves a couple of beers and settled in for another night of Tweedy and friends. Not one minute into their first song, an angel from heaven, disguised as the guy sitting next to us, passes us a joint. Could lightning really strike twice? The concert was even better than the night before...my night was perfect. Nothing could possibly spoil it.

I sat in my chair, transfixed and happily high. I decided to send a friend a text, but decided that I first needed a sip of my beer (which was sitting on the floor at my feet). Note: they don't give you the bottle at the Wiltern, they pour it into a big plastic cup. As I brought the cup up off the ground, my beer exploded. The cup is in my hand, I never dropped it, it is not cracked, but my shoes and pants are soaked. I stare at the cup that I was still holding and I am utterly perplexed as to how this happened. My friend looks over at me and whispers, "Did you drop your beer?" Almost sarcastically, I showed him that I was holding the cup in my hand, so NO, obviously I didn't drop it! I didn't knock it into anything; I didn't tilt it over, what the f....!?? It was almost as if something kamikaze’d its way into my malt beverage out of nowhere, I may have even looked up to the heavens above me for a possible explanation. And then, with a marijuana induced delayed reaction, I saw something that looked very familiar floating in my beer. My cell phone.

If they had been playing "I Must Be High" while all this went down, I would have surely lost it.

Lesson learned. No more tempting fate...it seems she's conspired to teach me a lesson. I already miss my text messages.

(You'd think there'd be a lesson here about drugs, but...nope)

One more blog about boys

I find lately that I would much rather make out with a guy than, to put it bluntly, get laid. I’m just bored, I think, with the idea of sex. I could get laid any night of the week if I wanted to (primarily because it's not hard to find a guy who would refuse sex). The problem is he most likely wouldn't be someone I cared to talk to the next day, or ever again for that matter. There just aren’t that many people out there that I want to share my pink places with. If it's about ‘getting off’, I have the means to do so, and honestly, probably better than anyone could ever do. But of course, you can't cuddle with a vibrator, so we all know that those little battery-operated over achievers are not the answer to the Mars-Venus dilemma.

Sex, for me, is not an affirmation of beauty or sexiness or desirable-ness. I mean, from a physiological perspective, men want to have sex...to insure their place in the kingdom. Animal instinct is to keep your species alive. Males, being an integral part in that structure, instinctively rise to the occasion (pun intended). It really has little to do with whether I wore my black lacey panties or those really cute pink ones with the ruffle. (Seriously, how many times has a girl put on her hottest unmentionables and had them end up on the floor…still inside her sweater?) You could be wearing a potato sack, he won’t care. Sorry, he might care, but it’s not going to stop him from having sex with you. I’m not denying that men are attracted to women for more reasons than just some instinctual motivation, but there is definitely a different frame of mind between the X and Y chromosomes when things start to get sweaty.

Not to be misunderstood, I sincerely and genuinely enjoy the act…immensely. I’m not shy or insecure about it. But I guess because my instinct isn't driving me to fornicate with as many breathing men as possible, I’m longing for things that seem to be more difficult to find. I was presented with one of those “Which would you rather?” questions the other day. I had to choose one quality that was really important to me. And the choice became this: forgettable sex with a guy who made me laugh every day or amazing sex with a guy who had a horrible sense of humor (all other qualities in these make-believe men were exactly the same). I picked comedy.



Anyone know any good jokes?

Do You Woo, Who?

I used to think that holding the door open for a girl and walking her home made him a gentleman. And by him, I mean that guy. The one we are convinced we’re going to find, the one who just gets it. But I’ve realized, while those chivalrous deeds are lovely and appreciated by women universally; they aren’t at the very top of the list (where I once put them) of things a man can do to truly be a gentleman. Don’t get me wrong, those things should always be done without question, but there’s a little more than chivalry that defines a man. This gentleman I speak of is no storybook hero, either. He’s not perfect and he doesn’t like to go shoe shopping with you. He belches and wears the same clothes for a week (there’s something about his scent that makes you crazy about him). He forgets to brush his teeth and complains when he’s sick. But, he makes you feel like the only girl in the world.

The latter statement is what I’ve come to realize makes a truly outstanding man. He likes you and he lets you know it. He holds your hand in public. He asks you out on a date. Properly. And the date by no means need be proper, just the manner in which he asked. Has this tradition just faded away and no one told me? Lately, it seems I run into these guys who flirt for about 34 seconds and…well, that’s it. At this point, I would probably think it was me…and they simply decided they weren’t interested. But then it happens all over again, 34 more seconds suggesting their interest, but this time throw in his expectation that you’ll be waking up at his place in the morning. What is happening?

I’ve always loved the word ‘woo’ and it would be great if boys re-learned how to do it. Maybe they should teach it in school, kind of like sex education. It would be the prerequisite class, promoted as the you-need-this-class-before-you-even-have-to-worry-about-sex-education class. To say I’d like to be ‘courted’ suggests that I should be wearing a corset and holding a parasol. The word is pretty dated. Is there a new word to indicate this desire from a new era of old fashioned girls? And by the way, I’d like to clear up some confusion. I’m not sure how it happens, but somehow ‘old fashioned’ gets misinterpreted as ‘prude’ in the air between her lips and his ears. There is a world of difference.

I hesitate to think that my geographical location has anything to do with this. I constantly hear people say things like, “It’s because you live in L.A.” Well, if everyone in L.A. is not really from L.A., then what is that saying? Is something changing in the role of boy meets girl and I’m just not adapting? Could it be technology? I fear that text messaging is inadvertently keeping us from flirting face to face, thereby causing us to simply forget how. I have to admit, texting has been an enormous icebreaker on more than one occasion. But these occasions seem to have fizzled before they even had a chance to begin and I’m starting to blame this feature on my phone. I liked it better when a boy knew I liked him because I didn’t look away when he gazed at me from across the room, not because I replied with a sideways winking smiley.

I’m a girl. I like being a girl. But I’m starting to forget what it’s like to be giddy. What it’s like to blush when someone utters the name of a boy I can’t stop thinking about. A boy who thinks about me just the same. And goes out of his way to let me know. I’d like to think that the days of time honored wooing aren’t lost to those who play what seems to be a testosterone-fueled numbers game. For as long as I can remember, men have been dubbed the hunter...I get it, it’s human nature. And maybe we’re really not meant to be with one person for the rest of our lives, a tiny part of me believes that may be true. But (trying desperately not to sound pessimistic), lately it seems almost impossible to share a few significant moments with someone let alone a lifetime.

Bitch on Wheels

I love those seemingly normal, fairly average…nothing-to-write-home-about nights that, out of nowhere, turn into a life changing experience. I was prepared to hang out with a couple of friends, drink some wine, smoke a joint and way too many cigarettes, which by the way, is an amazing evening to me in itself. I hate going out. There’s nothing ‘out’ that I feel I need to spend my time doing. Bars are annoying, actually no, it’s not the bars that are annoying, it’s the people. Or maybe it’s me and my antisocial-ness, I’ll take the blame. Whatever the reason, I don’t like going out. But who would have thought that someone who couldn’t go out, even if she wanted to, would have such an incredible impact on me on such an unexpected evening.

Nadia. She’s 64, I believe she said. She’s a cancer survivor, which before this evening I probably would have scoffed at that word…survivor. See, Nadia recently had one of her legs amputated. Me, young and arrogant, thought what kind of survival is that? You can’t walk, you’re in a wheel chair! I felt sorry for her. After hearing this woman speak to us for hours tonight, I started to feel sorry for myself! Sharp as a tack, hysterically funny and swears like a sailor. Behind every word and every story there was this silent attitude that screamed, ‘fuck cancer, what else ya got, I’ll beat that too.’ She drank with us, a self proclaimed ‘wino’. She could drink a frat boy under the table, believe me. Might be the fact that she’s Ukrainian. No attempt to take the drinking title away from the Irish, but Ukes pour vodka in their breakfast cereal. Nadia lit up her sixteenth cigarette and told us a story about how she got her dad stoned when he came to visit, it was his birthday. She was forty-something at the time and she remembered thinking her parents were ancient. She’s not much older than my mother, but she’s hipper than my mom could ever be. Hell, she’s hipper than I could ever be. She refers to it as grass, which is so incredibly awesome I can’t stand it. We didn’t smoke any with her tonight, but next time, I’m bringing her a bag.

I’ve been through some fucked up things in my life and it’s taken me a long time to learn that you have a choice, and it sounds easier said than done, but it really is simple…laugh or cry. It’s your choice. Nadia made me realize that the only thing that can break you, is you. I had only a little sample tonight of the wisdom that emanates from this amazing woman, I already can't wait until next time. Nadia’s experienced so many incredible things that I’m not sure I’ll ever get to do in my lifetime. I can only hope. She’s also been through hell and back, but she’s found the positive lessons to be learned from every one of those moments. And she claims she’s ready to do it all over again, but this time on her new scooter. I’m bringing a notebook next time.

As I drove home I found I was a little sad. I remembered her telling us she might get a prosthetic leg sometime in December. The operative word there is might. A bunch of bullshit with Medicare and money, so she’s not even sure it will happen. I thought about this as I drove through Hollywood. I couldn’t help but think about how twisted our society is sometimes. Especially here in LA, where one can see so clearly the absurd amount of money that successful actors, for instance, get paid. Money they won’t be able to spend in their lifetime, money they can’t take with them when they go. Money they get paid to play pretend. Maybe even to play an amputee in a film someday. Yes I’m sitting here complaining about how unfair the world is. And I know no one ever said that it would be. Funny thing is, I'll probably cry over it before Nadia will.