Home.

Whenever I go home I usually get talked into going out. Not that I mind going out. Just in my hometown I do. For lots of reasons. But since there are two ladies with whom I attach the word best, I make an exception. You would think by now that they would have stopped asking since they know how I feel, but they don’t stop, and so I oblige. I’m out with my girls, trying to enjoy the festivities for the most part or at least appear as though I am. We’re in this small club that has had about three different names, each time as an effort to “classy” it up, when time seems to revert back to the days of my early twenties. Against the wall is an ex of an ex. The one he couldn’t get over enough to allow us to be. The one who left him, then tried to get back with him while he was trying to get back with me. Irony in full swing. Across the room is the other’s ex-boyfriend’s best friend, whom I’ve known since the Spring Break days. And near the bar, his cousin, whom I adore, but had to give up with the break-up. The “these friends come with me, those with you” deal. They lived together while we dated and still is one of my favorite people. We chat it up. Then there is the tap on my shoulder of a man who always used to vie for my attention. Still a nice guy. Still asking to take me out. All of them, stuffed in this small, too-brightly lit club that if I blinked, was life six years ago, familiar faces and slightly forgotten memories. A reminder of a young loves, young losses, a reminder of why I left, and why I stay gone.

Seriously, why?

Okay, those who know me know I can't stand cold weather. I think snow's pretty, but I can't stand not being able to feel my limbs. And I really don't understand why someone would CHOOSE to live in a place that was colder than a FREEZER. Really. Don't get it.

Happy Holidays to you too, LA

I was out of town this weekend for the wedding of my lovely sister. Which was a beautiful and small affair, but perfectly matched the two people being wed. The only thing to mar this festive occasion didn’t happen in my hometown at all, but in the ever obnoxious traffic of LA. Knowing I had to make the drive to LAX, I left a whopping four hours early. One of my good friends must have had a sixth sense, because she says, “you should probably leave earlier”. And she was right. I spent the next two and a half hours (yes, you read right) going about 20mph. At one point I actually thought to myself, is it really possible I might miss my flight?!?! I finally made it with only twenty minutes until I boarded, seriously questioning why I liked LA so much. Then, as I arrive at my car last night, which has spent the last three days in the airport parking lot, I find a little holiday surprise from the City of Los Angeles. A citation. For not having a front plate (which is ludicrous to begin with seeing as the California DMV only issued me ONE plate). So these (there is no better word) assholes spent the weekend walking around the airport parking lot, finding reasons to cite cars so that they could make their quota. Niiiicce. Great thing to do before the holiday. I would have rather them asked for a damn donation. And whose pathetic job is it to walk around the airport parking lot? I’m writing a complaint to these bastards, not that I believe justice will prevail, but because I’m pissed. Anyways, slightly annoyed and really thinking about moving back to NYC. At least then I don’t have to drive.

5:30PM workouts

I actually made it this time. And as my reward it seems the gym was having a dodge ball contest where buff men ran around throwing and dodging (hence the name) balls for the glory of winning, coincidently for the entire time I was there. Ah, yes, yes afternoon workouts are for me. :)

7am workouts

Technically I did wake up at 7am. After a night of lying on a heating pad and finally succumbing to taking a sleeping/pain reliever pill to ease the pain in my neck that was turning into the pain in my temples, 7am looked a whole lot like 6am this morning. And I’m beginning to realize that my enthusiasm the night before does not translate anytime before 8am. So I’m thinking I just might be an afternoon work out person after all. I’m trying again. This time at 5:30…pm.

6am workouts

I got it in my head that I would start working out again. Like I got it in my head last week to eat healthy (which ended badly after the Cinnabon). My body is starting to reject my lethargic lifestyle by making every muscle ache. And since I haven’t felt much like working out after work since it’s all dark and cold (okay, I realize I work out in a gym, but I have to go out in the dark and cold to get there), maybe, just maybe I’d work out better if I got up in the morning and went! Filled with the enthusiasm so many of us have as we begin our spanking new goals (think how you feel January 1st) I set my alarm for 6am…

Technically I did wake up at 6am. I looked at my alarm, thought to myself why in the world would anyone ever wake up this early, and went back to sleep. Tomorrow I’m trying again. Just at 7am.

Delivery in 7 to 10 days plus postage

So I’m thinking about the fact that I’m 28 and this slight fear of my life turning into a Bridget Jones movie sets in my tummy. Being the analytical woman I am, I start turning over how I can avoid writing a sad diary of my weight and cigarettes smoked (or in my case, shoes bought). The thought enters my mind that I can’t be the only one and didn't the author of “Eat, Pray, Love” have to go all the way to Indonesia to find a man? Hmmmm, what if we imported (legally) men from other countries? Men have mail-order brides…why not a mail-order GROOM! Get some great-looking men itching to get into the states who don’t speak English from places like Italy and Puerto Rico. And teach them phrases like “Yes,” and “Whatever you’d like,” and “Of course your butt is small in all of your clothes,” and “No, she wasn’t prettier than you”. No fear single women, help is on its way! I’m writing the business plan in my head right now. I just may be a millionaire yet...Though, I admit, I’m still a Bridget Jones’ movie. I’ll wait for Darcy.

Free Botox

I’m on the way to work this morning, listening to one of the local radio stations, and the DJ comes on with one of their freebies…caller #9 gets free…Botox. Really. No joke. Some doctor is giving free Botox. I would write why I think this is so disturbing, but I feel it should be apparent. Or maybe it’s not. Which is probably even more disturbing. I think I need to just stop listening to morning media altogether. Between Brittany and Botox, it’s no wonder I can’t finish my breakfast.

My favorite city is under water!

Venice has flooded...well, more than usual this time.


Historic Center of Venice Flooded

Banking on Probability

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” That little phrase seems to have become my mantra over the last couple of months. And I’ve been try try trying again and again to become the multi-million dollar mogul/phenom that resides inside me. Um, yeah, so I can still pay for my gas, always a plus. I’ve sent so many emails to potential places that my email is riddled with spam (apparently they’re not doing that great, or they wouldn’t have to sell my address). I wanted a job, not to know how good I could do in the stocks (which we all know right now is a joke). I mean really, at this point, I’m banking on probability. I mean you CAN’T get rejected 100% of the time…can you? That seems a little absurd. Or that means I’m not that good. But that (sorry for not sounding humble) sounds absurd too. I just spent my weekend looking at the ugliest billboard known to man. (Las Vegas, Lance Burton, his large head smacked onto a red/purple background with large lime green type). I KNOW I can do better than that! So what gives? A shoddy economy? Fierce competition? Arghhhh….So, yeah, I’m try trying again. Though I think if you try try something again and again with the same result, they call that crazy…hmmm, something to think about.

Is it January 20th?

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a president-elect have to work so hard BEFORE he got inaugurated. I’m watching CNN this morning and Obama is on discussing how he will go about helping our economy recover. All this because some President before him (who will remain nameless) jacked up the country. Um, what’s he doing? Relaxing with his feet up in the oval office before he gets booted out? The thing I respect the most about Obama taking charge, the man has a plan. Thank the Lord! We could use some sense in the White House. January 20th people, January 20th.

Just because...

it makes me smile...

Please, no Brittany before breakfast.

I’ve been noticing the horrid trend of “legitimate” news shows that have turned into celebrity tell-alls around breakfast. We have a television at my job that stays tuned to CNN 24/7. And every morning like clock work, my meal is interrupted by what’s happening in celebrity news—Brittany got a haircut, oooooo. Don’t get me wrong. I like my dose of inane nonsense every once in a while (see blog below). And it can be comforting to watch TV and not have to use one brain cell. All good things. Mind you, I stay away from the news anyway since according to their dooms day reporting, the world will be ending at…watch at 10 (oh, the shameless plugs). Yeah, I figure my mom will let me know if there is a real crisis, seeing as she works for a newspaper. I digress. The problem with the celebrity news is 1) I really don’t care, 2) I don’t think anyone’s choice of hairstyle is that important to be covered by CNN and 3) I don’t think it qualifies as news. I know what I’m getting if I watch Access Hollywood. But CNN? Come on. What would I like to see on my morning news? How about something relevant or at best, interesting. Someone who uses their intelligence to better our society. A story about people who think about more than themselves...preposterous, I know.

Does my butt look big?

So I’ve found my new reality show obsession. CMT’s Dallas Cowboy’s Cheerleaders. Ooooohh, the drama. These women don’t just have to be pretty and peppy, but they also have to have 11-15% body fat! Just in case you’re wondering, 20% for a woman is normal. They actually told the few who had a gasping 20 or 22% fat that they needed to do something about it. One of the judges told a hopeful that her curly hair and long nails reminded her of a “stripper” and “don’t let people make that assumption”. And the “topping” on the Cheerleader pyramid? When they kicked a girl off because her square behind didn’t look good in their shorts! Her response, “yes ma’am, thank you ma’am.” Seriously, I can’t look away, I’m so intrigued. And just in case you’ve missed any of these episodes, you can catch them online at CMT’s website. Enjoy!

Ummm...Keyes for President?

Okay, so I'm going over my sample ballot getting ready for tomorrow's election (go Obama!), and apparently the presidential race is not just between Obama and McCain, but also between Barr, McKinney, Keyes, and Nader... Hmmm, I am dumbfounded. Who are these people? Are their names there because two candidates didn't take up enough space on the ballot? Or do they really believe they might sweep the election? I do realize I stay away from the nightly news, but good lord, six candidates? And who knew we had a Peace and Freedom party? Not me.

Save your soul. Or your dog's.

My friend Anne sent this to me. These churches are supposedly across the street from one another, but I'm pretty sure it's been photoshopped (sorry, the designer in me). Still cracks me up though. I thought I'd spread the morning cheer. :)

Home is where you lay your head.

I’ll be moving again. I’m always moving. I’ve been trying to figure out how many times exactly that’s been in the last couple years. Three. If you don’t count Costa Rica and the three different places I lived there. Or New York before that. Or my nana’s after. It all seems to collide together into a whole lot of me never being still. I’m like that. It seems the minute I was finally able to leave my hometown, I never managed to stop going from place to place. And invariably I’m always thinking about the next time. I won’t be moving back home. Well, not until I retire at least. And that’s the thing. I have my home, the home where all my family resides. And then I have my “home”, the one where I lay my head at any given moment. I’ve learned to just adapt. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever stop moving. If my “home” will ever feel like my home. If I can learn to be still. Maybe. Then I’ll just take lots of trips.

Margaritas-To-Go

Today I'm thinking I’ll pick myself up a treat around 5pm before I go back in to work. This has just become one of those 60-hour weeks. And since it’s almost the end of the week and I’d really like to not spend another 10 hours of my weekend in my place of employment, I'll be here late. I’ve been here late every single night. Yeah, so I’m thinking a little pick me up around 5 might help make the next couple of hours fly by…or at least manageable. I could pick myself up a little ice cream treat and work off a sugar high. But what I really want is a margarita. A raspberry, bottom-less glass of frozen goodness with a little salt around the rim. I’m now beginning to see the importance of a flask nicely resting beside my computer tower. So, I’m trying to figure out where to pick up said margarita. I mean, I can’t really figure out where they have margaritas-to-go. I’m guessing that wouldn’t promote safe driving…but then again who really got drunk off of one margarita…oh, wait… Hmmm, a place where they sell alcohol to go…Don’t they have liquor drive thrus? But alas, I live a little far away from the hood and corporate America (my friend tells me tales of how his corporate fridge is filled with beer for company morale.) Oh well, I guess it’s the ice cream shake…maybe they can throw a little Kahlua in it. One can only dream.

The Big Bucks

It’s funny to me how many people will doubt someone’s capabilities, based on the idea that they don’t think what that person wants is really possible. Let’s call these folks The Scoffers. I’ve encountered many of these. Usually when I say something like “When I’m a millionaire…” Then The Scoffers do what they do best and scoff. Then they usually catch a look at my very serious face and try to suck back the last seconds into their mouths as though they didn’t just say, “yeeaah” mockingly. (I just add their little menial comments toward my drive. And I’ll make sure to wave at them when I drive by in my Maserati.) Knowing both my capabilities and track record, my word is pretty golden. My friend called me “arrogant” tonight. But in a nice way. He said I looked good on paper, and that I liked that about myself. I laughed. Okay, so occasionally I can be mildly arrogant (like this blog). But in a good way. Well, maybe just a productive way for myself. Coming from him, it is a compliment, he knows me pretty well. But he also said he had a dream about me recently: I was featured in something for being the best in my business, working with famous corporations, and in a boardroom telling people what to do (lol). Oh, and I was a millionaire. Not a bad dream. Not a bad dream at all.

* I veered a little away from my “rules” blog. So just for sake of sticking to my former motif, let’s add a few rules to this one: How to become a millionaire. Rule 1: Believe it. Rule 2: Work like hell to get there. Rule 3: Ask someone who knows.

The Chameleon

I was talking to a friend who told me that she could tell the ethnicity of the person I was talking to before her by the way I sounded at the beginning of a conversation. I laughed. She was right. I’m not really sure when I started to do it, but I do it all the time. I replicate the intonation and pattern of speech of the person I’m talking to. Which means if I’m around my Mexican family and friends (or Taco Bell, lol), I sound like a Mexican. With my friends back home it takes on a relaxed slang vibe. And in the professional world, I could be the CEO. I do it unconsciously. I guess in business, it’d be great diplomacy. So I fit, walking around Spanish Harlem, teaching middle schoolers in the Bronx, attending some caviar serving function at the Waldorf Astoria, or a penthouse dinner on Central Park West and 76th. I organically meld with all of them. My counselor called me a chameleon. Maybe it’s because no one can really figure out what I am (Greek, French, Persian, Russian, Brazilian, Spanish, Puerto Rican, German, etc. etc.) that I don’t completely stick out too much of anywhere. Or maybe it’s the fact that I rarely feel out of place wherever I am. I just adapt and go with it. I don’t change into a different person (or I might have joined the CIA). I just refine my mannerisms and dialect (though now I’m thinking I might be a good CIA candidate). Then who am I when I’m not blending into the world around me? Good question. The most authentic...me in my room thinking and not saying a word.

That man is amazing.

Phelps. Eight races. Eight gold medals. 'Nough said.

I love Michael Phelps.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit over the top. But I sure do have a crush on the man. So, I’m watching Olympic swimming last night. If you haven’t heard, Michael Phelps, the Olympic swimmer is trying to pick up eight gold medals this year. And so far he’s doing pretty well. Five events. Five medals. All gold. And the last Olympics he picked up six, taunted by some other athlete who said he would never win all eight. So there was the challenge. Now the race itself although incredibly impressive, was not the part that had me enamored. It was the moments right afterward. The moment when he found out he won. He didn’t scream and shout. He took it in with this look of focus on his face, or really in his eyes. A look of determination. With more races to go, he seemed to say, “I’m not done”. That motivation, that focus, that drive, now that was impressive. That’s a man who came to play. Who can't love a man for that?

The measure of a man.

“The measure of a man's real character is what he would do if he knew he would never be found out.” Thomas Babington Macaulay

I love this quote for the particularly true nature of it. So, the quick and dirty, Edwards cheats on his wife who’s in remission from cancer (just as an aside, I don’t really think there’s any good time he could have done it, but I’m figuring this is the whole “insult to injury”). First he doesn’t admit it. Then he admits it. And now he’s “ashamed”. Oh good lord please. I find it disgusting that few men or women don’t understand the sanctity of marriage. Maybe it’s just the vocabulary. My advice. Look sanctity up. And then if you think you can't live that way, don’t get married. And I would love to stop hearing about people’s remorse after they get caught. Because we all know damn well there was no remorse going on when they were humping that other person. And what, did they shed a tear afterward feeling so “ashamed”? Yeah, I bet. If you don’t think monogamy is for you, move to a polygamist country, get yourself a harem and live happily with your five wives and nine children. Or be a Mormon in one of those cults. You have options. But hanging your head because you’re a pathetic crook who got caught is not a good look. I’d like to believe that there are men and women who have enough strength of character to live their lives with some virtue. Not based on whether they get found out (and they always do). A world where people lived with integrity. Such an interesting and profound concept. Sad, isn't it?

Week/Rule One: If it’s broke, you better fix it.

So, yes, still on my mission for focus and fulfillment. Which means figuring out where to start. Or in my case start to clean up. We all have things that are broken. That ghetto CD player that skips, or the ceiling fan that keeps making noise, or that hole in the shirt we planned on fixing. Always planning. Never fixing. It just becomes part of the junk that clutters up our room, making it all but impossible to move around. And good intentions really don’t mean anything if those good intentions never get done. You just end up with a room full of broken things…in my case—the portfolio. The portfolio that has been worked and reworked and reworked again, but still somehow comes up, as mine was described, “looking green”. Which in designer language is not a good thing. Looking green does not equal looking like the green of a million bucks. My excuse was—what if that's the place I’m at in my career right now? Excuses don't pay. Or get you a career you love. It’s got to get fixed. Which requires lots of time and patience, two wonderful things I need much, much more of. But if that’s what I have to do, then that’s what I need to be focused on. Because if reworking and fixing and changing leads to getting to the next level, then you better believe I’m going to get there. I got four months and three weeks.

Know where you are. Know where you want to go.

I would say that many of us have a problem with becoming successful. The majority has an idealized vision for their life but somehow live outside the vicinity of their dreams, as though it was a gated country club and they are not card-carrying members. For reasons of clarity, we’ll categorize. Non-successful people tend to: know where they are and are complacent, maybe not happy, but complacent. Or they know where they want to go, but don’t know where they are, hence no starting point or clear direction. They tend to wander for years like the Hebrews in the desert. Or they know where they want to go, but their actions and habits negate that desire. Even though I would describe myself as having been pretty successful, I happen to fall into category three.

Ex: I want to be rich enough to never worry about money.
However, I just spent part of my paycheck on a really cute pair of shoes…and a belt…and some jeans. I have a great wardrobe. There are only two people who I’ve met where I’ve liked their clothes almost more than mine. But more clothes, less money, more debt. You get the idea.

So where do I go wrong. Am I too focused on the here and now? What I want at this moment? Sometimes. That’s probably why I just stuffed a Twix in my mouth. But it was sooo good. Is it fear? The fear of not accomplishing what I want and then being seen as a failure? Hmmm…interesting thought. Though I would never categorize myself as a failure. I would just say I’ve had to try multiple routes to get what I want. If the first wasn’t a success, then maybe the forth, fifth or sixth would be. Persistence can get you far. So can being overly confident and not taking no. I read that in a book. I would not say I’m gripped with fear. Though there are times where I worry of loss that my focus becomes well, unfocused. Never a good thing. Is it laziness? My Mexican bloodline had me working since the age of seven, so I’ll say no to that. Or maybe I just don’t deserve it? Hmmm…another interesting thought I had to work out with my therapist. Being left by your father at the age of four will scar you. However, letting his adolescent behavior dictate your worth will scar you more. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m working on it.

Being in any of those categories affects all facets of your life. The worst being never meeting your potential. Or never outshining your potential. I have had successes. Shoot I’ve been to more countries than some people have been states and on my own. But I’m not searching for ordinary. I’d like extraordinary. Forget celebrity, I want a life that inspires.

So I’m giving myself six months to focus.

I’ve been told I shouldn’t stress myself by putting dates on when I need to achieve a goal by. But it drives me. So February 1st it is. Hmmm…on second thought, let me make that five months. January 1st just has a better ring to it. Cliché yes. But it works. Writing my list. Getting to work…an extraordinary life…what could sound better? 01/01/09

The thing about pictures

Once upon a time cameras came with film. The time before you took twenty million shots with a digital to get the picture perfect. I remember those days, mostly from having ten blurry, underexposed, dim photos come out, out of my 24 prints. I was never good at photography. I remember taking photos when all us girls would go out, the pre-club primping, drinking some fruity alcohol wine thingy someone 21 had brought along. I have lots of those. Spring break and all our new found friends and us in our Destiny’s Child inspired outfits (oh, that’s painful to admit). And then there were the pictures, the ones I took with the guy I was dating at the time. They never came out. Never. One roll of film had me posing separately with two guys I was dating/interested/trying to figure it out with. Those two photos got triple exposed with another one. Both ruined. Which ironically mimicked the ending of each of those relationships. It had me believing that somehow my camera had a clearer picture of my life than I did. Let's liken it to a heavenly sign. So of course when the first picture I ever took with my ex-boyfriend came out perfectly, along with the beginning of our relationship, I was sure that somehow it would be forever. I mean the photo came out! That never happened! Forever lasted about as long as the era of my film camera. And when it was shoved over for the spanking new digital, so was I. I don’t really believe in signs anymore. I’m leaning more toward practicality. But every once in a while, I wish for the time before the perfect digital picture. When you took the picture, crossing your fingers that it would come out right. Because nothing was better than when it did.

The Death of Courtesy

I’ll preface by saying that driving during a holiday weekend is never the best of ideas. Sometimes however it is necessary. What is never necessary…the bad driver. Never. I understand that no one wants to be cooped up in a car, for I don’t know, say over 9 hours, but do you need to piss everyone else off with your inability to drive a straight line or go the speed limit or not speed up when I’m passing or not drive slower in the fast lane? I mean it’s not that hard. Shoot, put on cruise control and you’ve already accomplished one thing. But alas, this world is brimming with discourteousness. I hadn’t managed to drive 20 miles when some woman wouldn’t let me into the turn lane when she saw my blinker. She hit the gas. Yes I honked and mouthed at her something about her being rude and an idiot, but COME ON. Did those two seconds of trying to run me off the road save you anything! Or did you just seem like a bit of a jerk. Hmmm. I vote for number two. Then there was the gas station before California where the cars were lined up on the road to get in. It’s 112 degrees and this dude decides to leave his car parked at the pump AFTER he’s done and go into the store. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? And he wasn’t the only one. The car in front of my pump had left too. I don’t get it. Do they just not see the whole slew of cars waiting? Or do they really think they are more important than everyone else that it somehow is okay? Sometimes, sometimes, I think people need to be told about themselves. I don’t really know when courtesy died, but some people are having one good ol’ time at the funeral.

Don’t feel worthy? Why not have a baby.

So 17 girls got themselves pregnant over the past year in Massachusetts apparently in some pact. Ooh, the ignorance. Children are FOREVER. Not just someone cute you get to put little clothes on. Did any of them realize babies actually GROW UP? They are not some temporary fix for their feeling inadequate or unloved. They don’t just go away when you’re too tired to deal with them. You have to RAISE them. And my fear is how well is that raising going to be if they were barely raised themselves? And who decides to get pregnant off a PACT. Are you kidding? I remember being in high school and not being stupid. Have we raised our children to just follow what everyone else does without any thoughts to the implications. I mean, were they never told the whole, “If your friend jumps off a bridge…” COME ON! These little ignorant girls are now going to what??? Let their parents raise their kids when they get sick of dress up? What values will they teach these poor innocent babies who have no choice as to having an ignorant parent? What environment? Was the baby’s life given even the slightest consideration in this pact? A baby shouldn’t have to have the responsibility to make their parent feel worthy, because the parents couldn’t do it for themselves. They should just be loved. The whole thing just seems pretty damn selfish and idiotic. Makes me want to smack each of these girls up the side of their head.

Purgatory

“I feel like I’m in Purgatory.” That’s what a friend likened our “situation” to. That situation being single, in our late twenties, no kids, with careers, saving laundry for Saturday nights, cooking meals for only us which we end up eating for the next few days, staying at work late because we have nothing to go home to, and contemplating getting a cat to help fight the boredom and loneliness, but then worrying if that will only cement a future of being “the crazy cat lady”. The only thing I could do was laugh and say, “Yeah, feels like that sometimes.”

Rules of Office Etiquette: when to go to staff meetings.

How to tell the importance of a staff meeting
If they are serving:

Full out breakfast: There’s someone very important there and we’re trying to make a good impression
Bagels and Fruit: Some one less important or staff appreciation
No food: Something from HR

The better the food, the more employees lured into going, giving the appearance of great staff involvement. Less food, less people, most likely of less importance, which is why HR sometimes adds the words “mandatory” before staff meeting to make up for the absence of food.

So, first thing to ask if there is a staff meeting: will there be food? Second thing: what kind of food?

And back to social conduct. Lesson 2.

Forwards are pretty much one of the most obnoxious things I can find in my mailbox. Because they are normally (1) not relevant to me, (2) not funny, or (3) have some threat of imminent danger that if I refuse to forward it along (which obviously the person who sent it to me believed) my day, week, life may end in peril. Yeah. So I get another wonderful forward that reads “Delete if we’re not friends”. Delete. I am friends with the person who sent it. She also riddles my email with obnoxious forwards all the time and I am still friends with her. Though I have on a couple of occasions thought of deleting her and blocking her address when 20 presents have awaited me in my mailbox. The thing that gets me the most about this whole forwards crap is I sent a real message to her about a week ago and haven’t heard back. Yet I’ve probably received at least ten damn forwards from her within that amount of time. Now, I ask you, whose not treating who like a friend? Yes, some forwards can be funny. Most are not. Though it does crack me up when she sends me some forward of half naked people and the next one is religious. But I digress. And I’m not opposed to a sweet, cute, relevant, or hilariously funny forward every once in awhile, where the sender actually thought I would enjoy it, not just every one in their address book. But good lord, at least say hello if you’re going to load my inbox with things I’ll either have to check and delete or at this point, just delete. So, Lesson 2. Use discretion when sending forwards if you would like to keep your friends.

Do vows count if your fingers are crossed?

I find it alarming how many times I’ve been hit on by married men. It’s happened often enough that you might start to question why people get married in the first place. There was the man who asked me out to breakfast after we got off the same flight. I was on my way to a job interview. His left ring finger suspiciously blinged with gold. I declined. Then there was the time I found out half way through dinner. We had met when I was out dancing. He was attractive, a Secret Service Agent (which I didn’t believe until he gave me his card), but his “situation” was complicated. So, we go out to eat. Small chat, blah blah blah… he’s moving here… something about his wife. They’re separated. Something doesn’t sound right. I pause. “Separated separated or separated by distance?” Chuckle. By distance. Uh, not so complicated. He was married. His wife was just in another state. The best (or worst) part though was when he said what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. I didn’t actually believe people used that line, but sadly, I’m mistaken. When the check came I offered my half. He declined saying he was happy to take me out on a date. Date? No, this is not a date. Are you going to tell your wife you took someone out on a date? We're just hanging out, that’s all this was. Yeah, so that was the end of that. Attractive, employed, and an ass. Lovely. So, it makes me wonder why anyone gets married to begin with. I mean if you love to date, just date, but good lord, don’t marry someone and still date! What sense is that? Did you just ask the priest to skip over the formalities and hurry to the “I do’s”? Seriously. It makes me sick.

The Newly Updated Rules of Social Conduct. Lesson 1.

Alrighty ya’ll, a recent experience of mine seems to show that really, some people just don’t know how to act. Like saying hello. It’s so simple that apparently it can be simply over looked. I say hello to you. You say hello to me. Easy. A glance and semi-smile/slight head nod is not a hello. It does not qualify therefore it doesn’t count. I would have even been fine with hello’s one-syllable counterpart “hi”, but apparently some days even that is a stretch. Or the “we’ve had conversations before but I will just pretend that after all of those I really don’t know you” casual walk-by. Are we serious here people? Nod. Smile. Don’t walk past me looking at the floor as though I’ve got some piece of food lingering on my cheek from lunch. (And if I do, PLEASE say something.) I realize that there is part of the population is a little socially inept, but not as many that just have bad manners. What ever happened to the hello, excuse me, thank you, how are you’s??? Yes, you may really not care how I am doing, but let’s just pretend for a moment that you are not the only person who exists in this world. Call me crazy. And for some it may mean some practice. Here’s how to get started. Lesson one: someone says hello, say it back.

All the Things My Mother Knows

So, I’ve decided that everything my mother said about dating was pretty much on:

“Why is he picking you up so late? He didn’t have time before 10pm?”
“Friday and Saturday should be date nights. If he’s not hanging out with you, who’s he hanging out with?”
“You shouldn’t be going out separately. He should be taking you out with him.”

Of course at the time, when I was dating some dude who was doing the aforementioned, I convinced myself that all those things were okay. Looking back now, I realize how much my mother was right. The problem was around the time I began to like someone, I started accepting less from them instead of more. As though if I had some sort of real expectation for them, they might disagree and leave. "Oh, you can't see me this Friday 'cause you're hanging out with your boys, oh, that's okay." "You're two hours late, but you know how traffic is on Speedway. Oh, yeah and you had to take your cousin some where. I understand." What I didn't understand was that by accepting this, I was allowing myself to be treated that way. And whomever I was dating at the time learned what I was willing to accept of them, and they met my low expectations. Ten years later I get what my mother was talking about. I've learned that I'm not okay with ANY of those scenarios. Having a high expectation shows not only your value for that person, but also for yourself. I'd like to say after all these years I've grown some real standards.

So, the bottom line, listen to your mother. She's saying it because she knows better and she knows you're worth more.

In response to #3d on the rules... what does it prove? Am I buying her heart?

Someone asked a GREAT question on facebook. What does paying for dinner prove? This is my response:

Okay, here’s the point with paying for dinner. It’s not about a free meal. I’d rather pay for a meal I eat by myself, than spend time with someone I have no interest in just because it’s on their dime. My general rule is a woman should always pay tip and be willing to contribute something. And she should always have her wallet on her.

The act shows he’s willing to invest more in you, and by invest, I mean time and attention. The reality of it is a man will not pay for a woman he doesn’t want to be bothered with. He will make sure he gives as little of himself as possible to keep her around. Not every man is like this, but from experience, many are.

I also know about dating when you’re not in a financially stable position. I’ve dated a man where we spent the night walking around our college campus and sitting on a bench talking and that was romantic. That said dates don’t have to be about spending money. If a man plans something special, that will come across whether or not he spends a dime. But as a general rule, the man who takes you to Mickey D’s and a movie and splits everything down the middle, it’s because he doesn’t think you are worth it. And that speaks volumes.

The Newly Updated Rules of Dating

OK, so the majority of us have an idea of what "dating" is. However, I think that the art of dating has somewhat degenerated from its former glory (presuming there was a former glory). After mulling over this topic with a few other "daters", I've decided to post a few rules for the dating population, to help turn around this sad, sad state of affairs.

1. Call me, don't text me. Simply, if you have two minutes to form coherent sentences on a phone, those two minutes could be spent actually asking me how my day was and hearing my voice. And if you don't like hearing my voice, that's probably the first problem.

2. There is no "hanging out". There is no "kicking it". Ask me out on a real date (explained in depth in #3) which does not consist of your couch and take out, unless you've managed to concoct a picnic and candles and were planning on making it, gasp, romantic. But really, first dates should NOT be at your place (if you have your own place).

3. Take me out on a REAL date. To clarify (since this probably NEEDS the most clarification):
a) Call me with a plan. Not, "Uh, I don't know, what do you think?" You have just lost points. Where, when. Take charge.
b) Pick me up. No, don't ask to meet me somewhere, are you kidding? Drive to my house, knock on the door (do NOT text or call me from your car), and open my door. Maybe this sounds like too much, but if you like me, it shouldn't be so hard to pull a door handle for 2 seconds of your life.
c) Take me out. It could be dinner. It could be dancing (NO, not a club). Be inventive. But go somewhere. IN PUBLIC. It's always nice to know you are not being hidden away.
d) Pay for dinner. Or whatever your "plan" happens to be. I know, I know, archaic as it sounds, and feminists everywhere are probably growling at me, but damn it, I should not have to be pulling out my wallet, and you should not be looking at me salty. It's only cute if I pay when we are both rich (i.e. think Tamia).
e) Take me home and walk me to the door. And don't look all dejected if you don't get inside the house. Take it from Janet, "Let's wait awhile".

4. Introduce me to people you care about. If you care about me and are trying to integrate me into your life, this should not be so hard. I doubt you have one friend and that just happens to be your roommate. If you like me, include me. If not, stop wasting both our valuable time.

5. The "honeymoon phase" should be the "honeymoon phase". Essentially, if you REALLY like me and are trying to win me over, shouldn't those first few months be great and happy and you not being able to get enough of hanging, talking, being around me? So, if the "honeymoon phase" is phone calls that go unanswered or days when we don't talk and that's supposed to be the BEST part of this, ummm, yeah, not so enticing.

So there are the first five to get all us "daters" started. Together, we CAN make a difference!

Enjoy, Annette