A Snag in the Silk

My friends are dangerous, dangerous people. Seriously. They are great and fabulous, too, but totally dangerous. Why, you ask? They plant little seed bombs in my ear that breed paranoia and force me to change or give up things I love. And that's just mean.

First, let me start by saying that none of this would have happened if flipping Starbucks didn't change their soy milk from Silk to something that tastes like ass. Yeah, you, Starbucks. The company I've been loyal to for thirteen years. The venti-soy-no-foam-lattes that I made a dedication to in my book. You think that thing wrote itself? No. I was high on Starbucks the whole time. Why? Because writing is really draining, though somehow burns no calories and actually slows your metabolism, which is such a ripoff. And soy lattes made with Silk taste like heaven. Now, they taste like monkey butt. Thanks, Starbucks.

Anyway, I was in the car with a friend bitching, obviously, about the soy ass latte I was trying to gag down when she said to me, "You know, you shouldn't be having soy in the first place. It brings on early menopause."

WTF?!?

What kind of a friend tells you that at like nine in the morning? Well, she's a good friend, actually. One of my favorites. But, totally effing dangerous. Granted, she wasn't the first friend to tell me that. I have a lot of friends who are way into holistic, alchemical shizzel that are always harping on me to give up something. I have so few vices. Really. Booze and soy and chocolate. I get antioxidants with my booze (hello, pomegranate martini), and my chocolate is 85% cocoa. Healthy. Anyway, I was stubborn about the soy. Until my friend opened her mouth.

I couldn't even finish the latte. Not only because it was vomitous but because every time I brought it up to my lips "early menopause early menopause" echoed in my ears. Farg.

Now, remember that I have super powers, and the problem with my super powers is that once something is in my head, it usually happens. Jeebus. So, I have to put the brakes and the kibosh on this. I've given up all my soy. And as a ficaken (which is a lazy vegan who occasionally eats fish or cake), soy is a huge part of my diet. This removal complicates my already complicated, inconvenient diet even more. Sigh. Okay, I still let myself have soy cheese nachos, but those are medicinal for my friend dealing with It as a show of support. That's her favorite, and since she can't have them, I do when she has chemo for some extra mojo. For her, I'll risk it. But, for the rest of the time, I've got to find a way to fall in love with almond milk or the like. Effing Starbucks.

Getting Over Him

We have a new man in our lives. It is such a good feeling. (I don't know about you, but I woke up on Wednesday morning feeling like I had the best sex ever.) We have let out a collective sigh of relief and feel excited. Renewed. Optimistic. Just like when we step into a wonderful, new relationship.

Unfortunately, we still have to get over the dork that came before.

Because there is no time for a rebound fling, I thought we would take a few of the steps from my book -- A Sassy Little Guide to Getting Over Him -- and apply them to the lame duck we have to deal with for the next few weeks. Here are the steps I think are the most appropriate:

Get Out of His Head
Do we really want to go in there in the first place? No. There's no point in trying to figure out what he was thinking...because I don't think he was. That's okay. Trying to figure out why, how or if he was thinking isn't worth the effort. What's done is done. We are moving on.

Don't Look for Answers Because There are No Answers
Answers, in this case, are kind of like those WMDs. They just aren't there. And what kind of answers would make sense to us? Sure, we want to know the whys and the hows, subject this recent history to a serious postmortem. But, leave that to the CSI team who will write the history books. We have better things to do than wallow in the past. We are moving on.

Don't Pick the Scab
We've had a rocky eight years. They left a mark. The wound is still tender. But, we need to let it get better. Put a salve on it and leave it alone. It's a long way to January. We don't want a scar. Don't pick the scab, people. The last thing we need is any sort of infection. We've got enough to deal with. Besides, we are moving on!

And, finally...

Know Your Worth
Sure, our economy might be in the crapper, but we are worth a new start. We don't have to repeat what's come before; we can decide who we want to be now and as we move forward. We can't untangle the past, but we can use it to help shape the future from what we have learned. We are worth living up to our potential. We are worth achieving our dreams. We are worth leaving the nightmare behind. We are worth coming together.

It's time to let go. We need to take the lesson from this trying, all-take, no-give relationship, learn it well, and leave the rest behind. Because the change we have hoped for is here. America, we finally landed a nice, respectable, decent guy (and, he's pretty good-looking, too). I have a feeling he was worth the wait.

De-Plan

Sunday was my first book fair. [Golf claps.] Let me tell you, book fairs, no matter how small, are a lot of work. Even if you are simply attending one, they are a pain. Still, we do them, support them, attend them and, at the end of them -- as we rub our sore feet and aching backs -- we all wonder Why?

I scrambled around at the last minute to get everything done, no so much because I'm a procrastinator (okay, some of it was), but because my life has (as previously noted) radically changed in the last two weeks, and I don't have the free time or energy I once enjoyed/took for granted. By the way, did you know Mercury is retrograde? Yeah. That puts a hitch in anyone's giddy-up. You don't have to be a follower of astrology to buy it. Trust me, it's the only thing in the stars I look out for. Look it up and welcome yourself to an Ah-HA! moment.

As Mercury Retro/Murphy's Law would have it, poor Kinko's screwed up my banner twice. First, the S wasn't capitalized in the book title. The second time they did it in the wrong pink. End result: Two banners for the price of one. They are nice at Kinko's.

Side note: My booth only cost $60. I spent quadruple that on "supplies". I over-hostess everything.

In spite of my efforts, I went to bed rather late on Friday night. Yes, it was a Friday night and one is supposed to break curfew on a Friday night, but I am in desperate need of sleep. The plan was to watch the debate, give myself a pedi and hit the hay at a respectable hour because Saturday morning I'd be up early to do Sunday's laundry and run the aforementioned errands. When the alarm goes off five hours after your head hits the pillow, it's going to make for a very long day.

I fought the urge to nap that afternoon by going to Starbucks. Yes, my eleven months of Starbuck-sobriety ended this week (you may want to buy their stock again). I am no longer caffeine-free. Wednesday, I broke. Thursday, I went in again. Saturday, it was strictly medicinal so I could finish everything and stick with the early-to-bed plan for sure this time.

Let's just say God's been laughing at me lately. A lot.

Now, when a man calls you from the middle of a Long Island wedding in the midst of a demi-existential crisis, you take the call. After the call, you might even send a reminder text that you are going to bed extra early because the alarm is set for six. After a text or two more, you feel it is appropriate to confirm that pumpkin hour has arrived and sleep is imminent. You kind of think that's that. But, thirty minutes later, when The Clash rocks out from your 'Berry, you kind of wonder WTF? Because you are a caring individual, you answer. It's noted this will be a short call. An hour later, however, you are really wondering WTF is up with the both of you? He can't tell time and you think dozing while he carries the conversation counts as half-sleep points. Finally, you end the call when the math skills kick in and you realize that the alarm is going to go off in four hours. At this point, you know you are totally screwed.

I had this idea to vlog some of the book fair. Whip out the Flip, just for giggles, starting with the early morning wake up call. Surely, there would be some humor to be had. Instead, I hit the snooze button in my sleep, as I've been known to do, and woke up an hour late. Fugme. That meant a power shower, turbo blowdry, extra spackle on the dark circles and no pit-stop at Starbucks. It was all I could do to manage my wheelie-milk-crate-thing and floral arrangement. The camera would have surely been a casualty. Trust me, all that you missed was my hair going from a slightly attractive style considering the unfortunate-for-me cut into something truly tragic, which I had to wear all day, including during a stock interview for a local cable access channel. Sigh. I have got to learn how to politely say no.

After the end of a truly long day at the end of a terribly short weekend, I was supposed to have dinner with my friend/colleague. He and I both admitted to being tired but so didn't want to flake on each other that we danced around the subject for a good five minutes under the guise of "deciding" where to dine. Finally, we were able to pull the plug. I've never been so happy to have a last minute cancellation in my life. I adore my friend, enjoy spending time with him, but wanted nothing more than my ass in yoga pants, feet up on the sofa with dinner in my belly and Dexter and Trueblood on my TV. I didn't even have the energy to crack open a Guinness. I had to save that for plucking out my contacts, de-spackling my face and flossing. Tonight, I will make it to bed before midnight. I don't care who calls.

Goal!

I'm not an overly ambitious individual. But I am goal oriented. The goals tend to be personal, not things which would compete against anyone else. There is no scoreboard. No tick marks, no notches on lipstick cases or anywhere else. But there are lists. Some are physically noted, others are mental. Either way, I find them a powerful tool.

I remember years ago when I went freelance -- right at the time the economy took it's first nose-dive; it was 2000, and who knew what we were in for. Being the type who leaps then looks, I found myself without a parachute. "Man, six months ago, we would've hired anyone who knew where to put a comma," one ad guy told me when I mentioned I was looking for copy writing work. When the writing gigs I was told would come were moved to the back-burner, then taken off the cooker entirely, I took truly odd jobs, most of them free of writing. I took what business savvy I had and organized small businesses and individual offices. It was far from my goal, but filled time and came with a check.

To say I was broke was an understatement. I thought I had dropped twenty-grand from my annual income. At the end of the year, I found out I had more than cut it in half. As hard and scary as that was, it was also liberating. I would cash the weekly check from my Long Beach job at a bank near the Target. I'd walk over to the red bull's-eye and spend ten dollars on flowers as a treat to myself and my backyard. I had a lovely garden that year. And that simple act brought me a great deal of joy.

I also wrote out a list of things I really wanted: New sofa; leather coat; leather pants (remember, this was 2000 and those were a vital part of fashion); and a trip to Ireland topped the list. Outside of making it to the Emerald Isle, I achieved every goal, in cash. I had to be patient, look for deals, would only accept perfection. It was a pleasure and slight source of pride to draw a line through an item on that list. And, while I don't center my life on material goods, I learned what it was to really appreciate what I earned, the work that went into it, and how to use it wisely...more or less (don't pick on my pants).

I lived that way for two years. A very long, very hard two years. Then I landed regular gigs, steady clients and was finally paid a living rate. The simple goal of paying everything on time (rent, student loans, insurance and car payment were always on time; credit cards, nearly on time; utilities were paid on the color-coded system in that lean period...when they got to yellow, pink or red, the payment was called in), turned to more personal aspirations. Five years after writing it on the first list, I made it to Ireland. Then, I finally got a new computer (I tend to get one every eight years) and went wireless. Modern technology. And then I set about my biggest goal: Finish the novel.

I gave up two years of my life for this goal. Not intentionally. Once I started, I found I couldn't stop writing. The novel was interrupted by the Guide (that pink thing to your left). It was interrupted again when interest in an ancient script of mine was piqued and required a rewrite to get it into modern times. Then the novel was finally finished, sent out and a revision requested. That revision was interrupted when the script needed to be revamped. Then another script itched to be written. Now, I'm about to start my third script (that would make three in a year), outlining my second novel and slowly revising the first.

I'm not telling you all this as boasting. Gag. There's really nothing here to brag about. I'm merely noting how one little goal can spiral into more and more and more than you anticipated. Of course now the goal (and the big job) is getting it all out there. Baby steps are being made, but I am finally focusing on my aspirations with the intensity that I should...nearly eight years after the fact. The whole point of going freelance was to make my living as a writer. It took me a long time to finally get the nerve up to do just that. I hope you won't wait that long to reach for your goal(s). There's no point in putting it off. The excuses we can come up with (and, believe me, I had mine...namely rent and color-coded accounting), don't really add up to anything but procrastination, and that's such a waste of time.

Go on. Write the list. Take the leap. My only advice would be to pack a parachute. It's the wiser way to jump.

Young at Heart

The funny thing about growing older as a woman is that we will do just about anything to not age. We will inject ourselves with unnatural things, have surgeries, apply chemicals to our face so we can peel off a piece of time. At the very least, we will spend a little too much on lotions, potions, serums and creams to do battle on a daily basis, or gag down fistfuls of vitamins that might serve as a remedy. No longer being a spring chicken myself, I get it. I'm a slave to sunscreen and appreciate a good peptide as much as the next girl. But, in spite of what the magazines are writing about, the one thing that truly keeps us young is men. Well, that's more than one thing, actually (pardon the pun). But there's nothing that will take a woman back in time, and to a perpetual teenage state, like trying to figure out a man. It's uncanny.

Since I kind of wrote the book on getting over a guy, I tend to field my share of relationship questions. I don't mind. They can be some pretty fascinating conversations. Especially the "Why Do You Think He Hasn't Called?" topic. It's amazing the amount of time women will waste on that subject. The precision of the analysis that goes into it. The predictions of doom (which can easily be self-fulfilled). Granted, it's always a curious moment when the man who's always called like clockwork suddenly goes MIA, but we all know that all men do this at one time or another. As one friend says, though, knowing is the booby prize. When that call doesn't come, it will freak more than a few of us out.

I have been going back and forth with one friend for two days on the subject. And, of course, right after one such convo, he called. (I know this because she emailed me after.) But then I got another concerned message from her because he didn't call the following day. What's worse, he didn't respond to a text she sent him. And he always responds to her texts. And she's, like, going away for, like, four days, leaving early the next morning, and he knows this. So why hasn't he called?

Who cares?

I mean, I care that my friend is upset by this (and, for the record, she does realize she's being just a tad irrational), but who cares why he hasn't called? He just hasn't. That's it. If there wasn't a fight or an issue or some other "cause" for the call to be skipped, the guy is just doing a guy thing. Who cares? And, besides, they just talked the day before. For over an hour. Criminy. Even I don't always want to talk that much.

There is one little distinction I would like to make, though: If a man says he's going call and then doesn't, that's going to make a little tickmark in my brain. I'm the kind that keeps a mental note of people who do what they say they will and those who don't. I do that with everyone, though. To me, it's a gauge of character. But, if it was just assumed that he would call and then knickers get twisted because he doesn't, that's simply self-created drama, and a sure sign that someone needs to get out and see friends more, or at least take up a new hobby.

Ironically, it's not like anyone has to be sitting by the phone to feel the angst of the missing man call. Today, our cells are perpetually attached, bombarding us not only with calls but texts and emails...or not. Perhaps that's what makes the missed communication sting a little more. It's so in your face. It's not like you have that one disappointing moment when you walk in the door and find your voicemail empty. No. You know the whole time that phone didn't ring with the call you were jonesing for. Bummer. Still, who cares? I would think by now we'd be beyond that stage and could simply blow something that silly off without a second thought. Then again, it's nice to know that, in some ways, youth never leaves us. It's really only a missed phone call away.