Wait, you mean I have to KEEP working on this?

Warning: probably off-mission?

So I'm reading one of the other blogs that I read (because I read somewhere a good way to get folks to read your blogs is to read and comment on their blogs and so I read other blogs in the hope that they'll blog about something on which I can comment, thereby dazzling them with my razor wit and luring them here. And if you're someone I've lured, WELCOME! Now, where was I? Oh yeah, reading one of the other blogs that I read...) and it was asking all of these questions about what folks like in a blog. Most of them washed over me like a light rain that I don't have an opinion on.

But she asked if folks like "About Me" sections, and even more specifically if they like "100 things lists." And me, I did what only made sense to do in response. I went "whatever..." and ignored the idea, until I foolishly took a peek at the replies that she got and everyone was all "I love About Me!!" and "I even MORE Love the list thingie that we all know about and that only total goobers would be unfamiliar with!!!"

Well crap.

When I set this thing up the focus was two-fold:

1) Will this even FLY?
2) How to do this when I'm being super-secret?

But over the last (doing the math in my head, talk amongst yourselves...) Holy Crap, 6 months? Over the last 6 months things have evolved to the point that I THINK I could come up with a list of 100 or so things about me that won't cross the "secrety goodness" line. But that's where you guys come into play. Is there anything that folks specifically want to know about the force of foolish nature that is Femtastic?

I mean obviously I'm not telling who, where or what I am. (what I am? what the hell would that mean I wonder?) But things like "favorite ice cream flavor?" (Peppermint Stick is SEASONAL???) or "best place you ever danced drunk?" (don't know what the place was called anymore, but had the best Jaegermeister smoothies and the coolest bathroom floor I'd ever felt!) I'll work on this over the weekend, so send me your preferences, questions, curiosities, etc., and I'll add them to the list whenever possible. Thanks folks!

Shows what I know!

No, I haven't forgotten about all of you out there with your very special guesses. How many guys rejected my wink? I know you've been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I'm sorry that I've been... what, holding up the other shoe? Is that the right phrase? Anyway, I'm sorry I left that hanging for so long. But hey, how 'bout that suspense, eh? Gripping!

OK, so when last we saw our heroine (pssst -- that's me!) she'd jumped in with both fee- er eyelids... eyelids?... she'd jumped in and did a whole pile of winking. Seriously, I winked so much my eyelids cramped up. (note: both eyelids cramped, for I can wink with either eye. And yes, I added that to my profile.) So, how many rejected?

Get this: NONE! Not a single dude hit the "I don't THINK so" button. (I'm not actually sure there's such a button, but there's probably something like it. Maybe a "it's not you, it's me" button?) I will totally admit that I'm surprised. I really saw some other kind of result from all the winky-winking and here I stand all corrected. (and yes, you're correct that I'm not standing. But "I sit corrected" just sounds weird.)

Of course they haven't responded back either. And what the hell is that? I mean, what kind of a person would not reply to another person's wink? What kind of heartless, thoughtless, Lame-a-licious person would let a wink go un-counter-winked?

(me.)

So I have all these winks just sitting out there, twiddling their wink-thumbs and trying not to feel akward. I wish I could send them a reassuring email. "Dear my wink," it would start, "I know it can feel very strange being a wink out there, alone in the world. Never forget that you were winked with the best of intentions and if some guy out there doesn't appreciate you as the clever, sassy wink that you are, well it's just their loss!" And then a warm, winky hug.

And, as ever, once I hear back from someone I'll be sure to let you guys all know.

Better to have loved and lost, supposedly...

So every once in a while I see a meme that is intriguing, but I can't really bend it to fit the mission, and we all know the mission is SO important, right? Also I figure if I can make it fit the mission I can avoid feeling goofy about doing a meme, because I still judge me for them. Even when they're tasty. They're like the blog equivalent of a Hostess Cup Cake. And I LOVE Hostess Cup Cakes!

Anyway, I find them and I send them to my friend Risky who 1) loves lists. She does, and she'll be the first to tell you so (in fact, I'll bet she could make you an awesome list of reasons why she loves lists), and 2) rocks the memes. They're really made for her and her bloggy-ness. But sometimes I get to do them too, and this is one of those times.

The original meme was "Seven Songs I’m Listening To At The Moment." That's cool enough, but doesn't match the mission. HOWEVER, I recently completed a mix to share at our Ladies Day which I called "Love Goes BOOM." It's a collection (volume 1 of many, I fear) of un-love songs. Songs about bad love, love gone bad, "you don't love me anymore and therefore you suck" songs, and things like that.

So for this blog the meme has been modified:

Seven Non-Love Songs I’m Listening To At The Moment -- the Unlikely In Love Soundtrack:
1) I will Survive, by Cake. (the original song is a classic, but too dated for my mix. So imagine my joy when I found this cover out there! If you've not heard it you must, must, must...)
2) Song for the Dumped, by Ben Folds Five. (there are few break-up songs that capture the true feeling of that event like this one, covering the most important parts: pay me the money you owe me and give me back my black T-shirt, bitch!)
3) You're Breaking My Heart, by Harry Nilsson. (It's an amazingly upbeat song for one with the chorus "You're breaking my heart, you're tearing it apart, so F*ck You!" A real pick-me-upper! Plus you get to see people scramble for the volume knob when they play it for the first time...)
4) The Apology, by Maia Sharp. (First a plug: if you don't know her music you must seek it out. She ROCKS. And this song was one of the first I ever loved of hers. It's from the perspective of a woman who knows her man is stepping out, so if you've ever been two-timed this is your tune, ladies.)
5) Gravel, by Ani DiFranco. (For everyone who's ever loved and hated someone simultaneously. Sure, we're crazy for doing it! But at least someone out there has put our crazy to music.)
6) Nothin' on Me, by Shawn Colvin. (I love this song for it's eternal "you can't touch me!" vibe. It's a great song for when you're coming out the other side of craptastic love.)
7) Love Stinks, by J. Geils Band. (Seriously, did any of you think I'd miss this one? My ANTHEM? I'm seriously considering ending every volume of Love Goes BOOM! with this song.)

Now that you've got the start of your anti-love soundtracks, share with me the other songs I absolutely have to use in subsequent volumes. Because I must tell you, as I was making this CD I had the constent, nagging feeling that there were a ton of songs that I was just plain missing. (also if anyone would like the entire song list (all 20 tunes) from Love Goes BOOM, Vol. 1, just email me and I'll send it along.)

I'm winking, I'm winking!

So Saturday night I'm hanging w/ The Queen and Princess Stinkbutt, and Queen asks (all nonchelantly) "So whatever happened with that guy that winked at you? You know, after you winked back?"

And I, also nonchelantly, tried my best to crawl all the way into her couch rather than admit the truth, which is ever-so-sadly this: I forgot to go and wink back.

I just forgot! I'd decided to wink back, based on all the good advice I got here, and I was all go for winking, I promise. But as Queen oh-so-eloquently put it, I'm just not properly motivated. Or at least I wasn't by Quasinatra. And I honestly and for truly just forgot.

How did I remember that I'd forgotten? Well I went to Yenta.com last week and decided I was gonna go on a winking spree! A Pepsi-fueled, throw-sanity-to-the-wind winking fit! I winked at no less then 5 different guys, and discovered some extra limitations I'd not realized I had. For instance:

• No picture? I probably won't wink. No picture and you describe yourself as "bald"? I definitely won't wink. It's not that I'm anti-bald, because people, there are some FOINE bald dudes out there! (Hello, John Locke? Hello Cap'n Piccard? Anyone? Anyone? I'm just sayin'!) But if I can't see how you're rockin' the bald then I'm not that brave.
• You have children? I'm not opposed to that. You have 3 kids, and they all live at home? Hmm, well it's still possible but I admit I'm nervous. Your headline is (I kid you not) "Looking for a new mother for 3 great kids"? Have you considered the "new mom" aisle at Wal-Mart? Oh crazy, crazy, CRAZY man?
• Know what? There is no level of handsome that will get me to drive 2 hours for a date. 20-30 minutes maybe, if I'm properly motivated, but I'm not blowing a tank of gas and a quarter my waking day just getting to some guy.
  

But beyond little red flags such as these (or mostly just these) I was a winky-winkin' fool, baby! I heard the voices with their words of doubt (did he really say he was an American guy looking for an American girl? Oh come on, that guy's posing in front of a fake sunset. Iguana! That clearly says "pet iguana"!) but I listened to them not a bit. I was winkin' to the left, winkin' to the right...

But here's the secret truth: I honestly looked at this as my chance to prove a deeply held belief, which was that this is all a massive waste of time and energy. This winkapalooza all started with this thought: any guy that I would ever even consider winking at will reject me. Guaranteed.

You may see this as a sad thought. For me, once I coaxed the idea out from behind that mental bush and took a good, hard look at it, it was extremely freeing! I don't have to worry about who I make contact with, because it's never gonna go anywhere. So wink away, baby! Wink until it develops into a real-life tick! Wink like you're goddang James Bond, license to wink! WINK LIKE YOU'VE NEVER WINKED IN YOUR WINKIN' LIFE!

So I did.

This was (mostly) done 5 days ago, and now you must guess how many guys have rejected the wink from this initial winksplosion. How many do you think? Put your money where..., no wait, I mean put your mouth where... no, that's gonna go naughty. Just guess.

And I thought I'd thought this all through...

I had the day off from work today because, well, I bead. (I could go into more detail, but that will have to wait until I start my second blog, all about my arts and crafts, where people get to experience my trials and tribulations of hematite vs. aventurine. But for now what you get is "I bead.")

Anyway, I'm walking down an average street and as I approach the corner I see there's someone already there. A total stranger, right? OK, so I keep walking and the stranger smiles at me. And he waves at me. And he says "hi." to me. This dude I've already placed into the "total stranger" box.

So my brain, in the background, starts doing that inventory check that a brain does when faced with unexpected input, such as "hmm, a total stranger just greeted me warmly." Brain says "well, maybe he isn't a total stranger? Let's check the database for his face. Where would we have made light contact w/ someone so as to be recognized by this stranger..."

"could he be a client from work?" No. My bosses do work for folks who could conceivably be or become millionaires. This guy was NO millionaire. Not a work connection.

"someone I would have met at the school play for my sister's kids last night?" No. This was not a suburban parental, or even grandparental, figure. This guy would be better described as "lapsed hippy with delusions of the day" complete with leather vest, jeans, dingo boots and wavy grey hair down to his (possibly tattoo'd) rear. Ooh yeah, also a goutee (sp?) just as long and grey, and the John Lennon glasses and the optional front tooth. Not from the school play.

"maybe he's seen you on Yenta.com?"

...what? No, seriously, what!? Do you remember him from Yenta.com? Because I don't! Don't be messing with me, brain! And it was at this point that the brain explained to me something that it apparently already realized.

See, there are a good percentage (let's call them 47%) of dudes on Yenta.com who don't share their picture. They're all "want to know what I look like? Email me!" which reminds me way too much of the places where they don't have price tags because they know that if you saw the price you'd just walk away, but if they have to TELL you the price they get the chance to make the argument that the number is totally reasonable as opposed to "take it up the rear-high." In these stores if I see no price I walk away. On Yenta.com if I see no picture I figure I, too, cannot afford this guy.

But just because I can't see these guys doesn't mean they can't see me. I have a picture up there! I've posted my price tag for all the (Yenta.com) world to see! And suddenly I'm standing on an average street corner next to this old hippy dude with less-then-optimal toothery and the strong odor of patchouli (trust me, it's nasty) and the sudden realization that he may know stuff about me! That I could, at ANY time, bump into a random stranger who could turn and say "hey, you're 37 years old and have never been married and enjoy dancing and paintball." And I'd have to kill them. Right there.

I'd already had a moment where I thought I might have seen a guy from Yenta.com standing in a grocery store line. I'd already processed the "hey, I could run into someone from Yenta out in the world" idea. But it seemed like it would be fair; like we'd both give that look and maybe do the finger-by-the-nose thing from The Sting, wordlessly saying "I know where I know you from. We say nothing, but nod knowingly." I had NOT reached that next plateau of idea where in I get ambushed by some non-picture-posting asshat with my damn bio in his back pocket!

I guess what I'm saying here is this: I'm never leaving the house again. I'm going to start ordering my groceries online and shun the outside world. Because the alternative is that the next total stranger that waves at me I gutt like a damn fish.

I Call Shenanigans!

I'm sorry, maybe I'm bitter or I'm projecting my personal drawbacks on the rest of the world, but I refuse to accept that this many people exercise 3-5 times each week! It's just not realistic. It's not believable!

And YET that seems to be true of practically every single guy on Yenta.com.

Excercise? "3-5 times a week"

Diet? "Keep it healthy"

Body Type? "Slender. Athletic. Chiselled and also God-like. Want to lick me? Go ahead, lick me. I taste like strawberries!"

So then just I have to ask: are they lying? OR are they terrible, puppy-kicking, non-rewinding people? Because if they WERE all those things they claim to be -- "kind, funny, smart, generous, gives to the poor, sings with woodland critters, this close to finding a cure for cancer" -- WHY WOULD THEY HAVE TO BE DESPERATELY SEARCHING FOR LOVE? ONLINE? It just doesn't add up. (and I recently got a big old A in a college math course, so I'm uniquely confident in my math skills.)

I know this because I know some good guys. And all of the good guys that I know are involved; just about all are, in fact, officially married. We women, as a gender, don't tend to let the good ones stay available for too long. Quality men are just like simple yet comfortable black pumps on clearance -- practically impossible and therefore immediately snatched up!

So I could believe that there would be some gems out there, but according to Yenta.com there is a great big pile of perfect, fabulous, drop-dead gorgeous guys out there just desperately trying to get a date.

Oh, and also later there will be terrible flocks of monkeys come flying out of my butt. It's gonna be awesome.

a proper excuse for all this madness

I know it's been pretty list-o-rific around here lately, and I apologize for that. Here are all the ways that I'm sorry about the abundance of lists:

1) I'm just regular sorry, like when you scuff someones fancy shoes.
2) I'm more sorry because I really want you guys to like me, so imagine there's now the offer to buy you new, non-scuffed shoes? That much sorry.
3) You guys see where I'm going with this by now, right? I can stop the joke?

Anyway, the following might end up being off-mission, but I'm not sure that will be clear to me until I'm done. It's a meme that was sent out to the universe, but since I am the CENTER of the universe it automatically means that I have-to, have-to, have-to do it. Apologies to all, but I do think this one has a little depth. (at least the questions. The answers are coming from me, so we're talking bottom-of-the-bathtub-20-min.-after-your-shower deep for answers.)

The Top 5 Reasons Why I Blog:

1) Hi, my name is Femtastic and I suffer from Acute Verbosiaphya-a-a-a. This is a very little known (some would say practically imaginary) syndrome where in your mind over-produces words. Words, words, words. Oh the words! They build up as un-used phrases and sentences and paragraphs, subsequently blocking your ability to then produce sentences when needed. Imagine the heartbreak of being asked if you want fries with that, and when you open your mouth you find yourself describing your personal feelings on the resurgence of velour in our nation's department stores. FOR TWENTY MINUTES!! There is no cure right now for Acute Verbociaphya-a-a-a, but a successful treatment for me appears to be to type out these words in a public area and send them out for the universe to digest. This blog, my friends, is treatment. Therapy. An alternative to Thorazine. Pitty on the drive-thru guy.

2) Structure, thy name is blog! I have been thinking more and more that writing could be the key to my finally finding a career which does not make me hate every weekday, but before I could even think of such a thing I need to prove to myself that I can set goals and hit them. So my big goal for this blog is to try to post, on average, once every couple of days. Does this mean I actually do post every other day? Let me introduce you to my friend the weekend! (in other words, "No, but I have real good excuses!") But if by the end of March I've got 15-16 posts for the month I'll consider myself doing real good.

3) Building a community. Or something like that. (and hey, the membership roster for the Secret Bloggers Society is still wide open, people!) Honestly, an unforseen bonus to this process has been how exciting it is to me each time someone new starts coming through. (Courtney, you are so very pretty and vivacious! Never stop being you!) If I didn't start blogging for that reason it's sure one of the reasons I keep going.

4) To meet dudes! (actually if I meet dudes through this avenue it will mean two things: 1. I'm doing this totally wrong AND 2. that is the only dude that might actually be up for the challenge!) But the blog did provide me the excuse/reason/inspiration to at least try the online dating thing. Regardless of whether I make any significant connections online I can say I did it, I can say I know what all it entails and I can know if I should ever want to try it again. (or if I'd rather eat a yummy glass casserole -- or "glasserole" -- instead!)

5) Humiliation with a catharsis chaser. The cocktail of today. It helps to have somewhere to go to vent when my good friend, the Universe, feeds me a mouthful of foot (kicks me in the teeth, for anyone who is lost by my "masterful" imagery). Rejected by a guy? Write it out! Rejected by another guy? Write it out! Rejected by a whole bunch of guys? (it's coming, it's coming!) This helps me to check my response to it all and make sure I'm taking it just as seriously as I should, which would be not even a tiny bit at all, at all, at all!

So that, my loving and generous readers (and you know who you are), are the reasons why I will sit down at my computer at 12:45am on a Sunday and spend 40 minutes typilly vomitting my brain-stuff into these little forms. Because if I don't, I'll be alone, bitter and unstructured, sitting on the floor in the corner babbling. More then I already do.

And yeah, this is off-mission. Sorry about the scuffed shoes.

With Chicas like these who needs Senors?

(Do you like my south-of-the-border flair? Gracias!)

You know how sometimes you have some event or thing that you're looking forward to? And it's going to be SUPER-coolness, and you look forward to it so much that all the time between planning it and actually doing it goes by S-O-O-O-P-E-R S-L-O-O-O-W-L-Y-Y-Y-Y...? And then finally the thing comes or happens and after all of that it turns out to be only ok? Maybe not even ok?

THIS WEEKEND WAS NOTHING LIKE THAT!

This weekend was the first official "Ladies Day" of 2007. These happen just about quarterly, and on these days I get together with The Queen and Risky and we do something bigly fun and sometimes very girly, while their associated men-folk watch the kids and just generally prove what very good catches they are. This weekend it was the classic "movie and lunch," which we all know men hate. They hate movies, especially gripping thrillers about American spies and the hot young studs that catch them. (The Breach -- I give it 3 boobies up out of 4. It's my own rating system. Don't ask where the extra boobies come from -- you're better off not knowing.)

They also hate lunch. Check it out -- guys hate lunch. They're much more about breakfast. I sat there, enjoying my big old cheeseburger, onion rings and Pepsi, thinking how much the guys would have hated such a meal. Poor, poor boys.

OK, so the actual day wasn't an earth-shakingly creative plan. But that's not really the point from Ladies Day. The POINT (and I'm really just doing this part for any guys that someday wander past this, looking for a blog on car parts or the WWF) is to have a thing to hang hours of chatting and talking and verbalizing and laughing and "oh my god, you snorted!"-ing off of. you can sit and do such stuff for a really long time, as long as there are at least 2 onion rings still sitting on your plate.

Risky always has the best stories about what it's like to be the only alternative lifestyle sign language interpreter at an otherwise extremely conservative, straight-laced, practically bible-icious highschool. The Queen updates us on the latest in her current pregnancy -- " days since I had to throw up!" and then we all cross our fingers and do the anti-urp prayer together. But it doesn't even matter what we're talking about.

I just think about it this way: if I were on a date right now I'd be much more uncomfortable. Maybe someday I'd feel a bond with this guy (or some other guy) one tenth of that I have with these women. But if I have to pick the way to spend my time? I'd pick movie and a meal with The Ladies over a date with the hottest guy every time!
(Note: this is an easy statement to make given the lack of guys, hot or otherwise. I will not be held to this pledge should such an actual conflict ever rise!)

Now with extra Awesome!

OK, so my Match.com profile is bringing the er..., scores of... it's really attracting...

...what's a cool way of saying "bupkus"? Anyway, you get the idea. So I was trying to figure out what to do, and over the weekend I discovered many excellent things I can add to my profile to totally bring in the dudes. Observe:

1) This girl, she got the moooooves! Oh yes, oh yes yes, I can move it-move it! The dancing on Friday, which was supposed to provide me with the tons of hy-larious and his-terical story fodder, ended up being Aw! Some! I still had many of my patented "Rock It, Baby!" Femtastic moves in the old hip pocket and I had people checking me out and coming up to me and everything! I'm choosing not to focus on the fact that the hip with the pocket full of moves was the same one I broke while boogying, or that the ones checking me out were of undeterminate gender (pretty sure they were O-shaped lesbians, but could also have been buxom dudes) OR that the one who came over to see me was the waiter! NOT the point. The point? It is that I gots me some moves!!

2) I'm really good at sports, from Tennis to Bowling, or also Pool, and especially Boxing! I've carried on some epic, thrilling tennis matches in the last 24 hours, as well as completely crushing a good friend of mine at pool. But my greatest triumph was the super-fast K.O. -- yes, that totally stands for KNOCK OUT, my peoples! -- in my first boxing match of the day! Now, is it important for me to mention that all of these sporting and gaming events took place in The King and Queen's living room? Or that they were all accomplished via high-tech high-techary? I think not. After all, I can't play baseball in real life, I can't play baseball on Wii, so I'm sure the other skills are also completely authentic. (my god, do you see the amazing color of the sky here in the land where I live? So plaidy!)

3) I'm totally going to be the next Annie Liebovitz or George Lange. I got me mad photeo-ographying skills, boyee, and can totally rock the picture-takery all up in yo' grills! Now all I need are cool business cards. (Also a celebrity clientele, a portfolio of amazing pictures, a never-ending supply of creativity and some of those fancy flashes with their own umbrellas. But I'm pretty sure that those come with the business cards.) If you don't believe me, check out Snapstastic all this week, because it will be featuring some of my fine handywork, not to mention the ridiculously photogenic families of both Risky and The Queen. (With people this stupidly attractive the trick is just get them centered in the shot and get out of their way. Everything after that is photo-gold!)

4) I'll make a fabulous mother. I know this because I didn't kill Mr. Man all weekend. Even with the waking me at 5am both weekend mornings and the chasing expensive beads all over the beading table and the whacking me in the EYE with his CLAWS one morning when I bent over to LOVE him. And right now when he's sitting in front of the monitor, chasing the cursor, making a craptastic window. And yet he still lives. So clearly I have the patience of Job. (although right now I think it has more to do with the fact that my right arm is all but dead after all the mad Wii-ing. Wii-ness. Wii-ery? Yeah, the people at Nintendo better figure that verb out quick...)

...so once I add these huge bonus points to my Yenta.com profile I'll be beating them off. WITH A STICK! You people are disgusting! (one of the things I love about you most...)

Double-checking just how old I am

So my co-worker, Beautiful Dreamer? Her current dude is very pro-dancing. And officially so am I, by the way. But somehow the dancing thing is traumatic for her, either because she hasn't really done it enough to be all cool, or because she can't get over the dancing = sex thing. And somehow that has resulted in me taking her out in order to experience "going dancing" tonight.

All of which just seems like proof that I gotta stop coming to work drunk. Bad things happen.

Anyway, in my youth I went dancing many times a week. There was a time, in fact, where there were more nights that I did go dancing then didn't. Because here was the deal:

-I was jobless
-I was cash-less
-I was pear-shaped. A BIG pear. Like Bartlett or d'anjou, ya know?
-I was hanging out with college students who's only requirement for the following morning was "decide how many classes to skip in preference of sleep." (answer? ALL of them, of course!)
-Our Bar? Free on weeknights
-Our Bar's water? Also free on weeknights

So Monday through Thursday we always had that option of heading to Our Bar to spend the entire night dancing and drinking free water. An option we often chose, because Hello? Free dancing, free water, we had no cable at home... how was there any OTHER option? Plus for me, as the only virgin in the group (in the bar, in the city, in the state, what-up, region?, check me out, nation! Hello, World!!) this was as close to the nasty as I got.

Also I enjoyed the nightly ritual I called "hey, do you know her/him?" It went like this (yes, another list. Suck it up):

-cute guy/girl comes up to me and smiles, and I smile back and get all excited and flattered -- "cuteness smiling at me? What the-?"
-cute guy/girl comes in close (to be heard over the music) and whispers in my ear (thereby giving me the neck shivers) "hey, do you know her/him?", gesturing to one of my hot friends. Hot friends that yes, I do, in fact, know.
-I nod yes, and cute guy/girl gives me a matchbook, napkin, scrap of paper with their phone number on it to give to my hot friend.
-I promise to pass it on, and once they're gone I set fire to it in the little table ashtray. And I do the evil laugh. And I smile and nod to my hot friend, because they don't know the rule of hotness: you can be hot as you want, baby, but I control the digits! (seriously, is there anyone who's not hearing the evil laugh now?)

So here I am ostensibly dabbling in the dating world (once I decide which of the many, many e-dudes who are wooing me that I should take pity on, because man am I one choice piece of property!) and I'll be showing a friend, who is already dating someone, all the ins and outs of "going dancing." I predict that I'll either be home and asleep by 11:30pm OR I'll come dragging my behind in at 2:30am w/ sore feet, sweaty armpits and pants full of digits. For Beautiful Dreamer.

A guess I'd better bring my lighter.

Trapped and cranky

OK, I must first acknowledge that this post is 100% off-mission. No mention of dudes or wove or online-hooking-up here, so I'd understand if folks skipped it. However I hope you'll take pity on me. See, I'm in a mood best described as "Pooperific" (although I think both "Grumble-tastic" and/or "potentially homicidal" might also apply) and I'm trapped here at my office desk job, or "rock the fake smile/use the phone voice/sport the uncomfy shoes-land." I can't unleash my inner tantrum here, so I'm hoping that the world out there might have some suggestions for how to "turn that frown upside down"? (and I'm really sorry that those words came out of my fingers.)

Here are the ideas that I've had so far:

• Listening to the right music. See, I put on headphones and listen to music in one ear while I'm working, so the choice of my music is all mine. I went with Beatles, but it might be a bridge too far for them?
• Stopping by websites with whimsy. So far I hit dailymonster.com, homestarrunner.com and puppetup.com.
• Grover's Health Minute. 'nuff said. (there are many fabulous Sesame Street and Muppet Show clips on YouTube and the like, but this one was the cause of one of my worst giggle-fits ever. Ever.)
• Indescriminately wiggling my butt when I think no one is looking
• Descriminately wiggling my butt when I suspect folks are looking, because I'm all about sharing.
• Kicking the chair of the receptionist when I walk through her space on the way to the cookies.
• Eating cookies.

...but believe it or not, none of these things have worked. Not even the cookies, or the cookie-route-chair-kicking! (plus now the receptionist is ticked at me, which would be worth it if my mood had improved.) Help, help, help!

You know how I feel about going off-mission, so you know this is serious. I hope there are people out there with advise to offer. Consider it a community service!

Preparing Yourself for the Future

OK, so Indigo Luna posted today her feelings of dismay over the often-uncomfortable but always unavoidable "kids grades." (and, by the way, big bleachy from probably most of us!) Her dismay comes from the idea that grades get kids used to being judged based on the priorities, values or characteristics of others. Having to "measure up." Having other people tell you what you have to do, say or be in order to measure up. Yeah, that can suck.

But I also think of it this way: school is supposed to prepare you for the future. And in the future? People judge you. They weigh you, they measure you, they hold their own, personal yardstick up in front of you and decide if you pass muster. And there, like school, you don't get to decide what things should matter to them, what things are musterific.

For instance, say that nobody can hold a candle to you when it comes to the fine art of writing with your feet -- something that would be a prized skill in places, say, without hands -- but you're in handyville, a place overflowing with fingers and thumbs and the like. And here what they want is knitters, pearlers, those who are proficient in the cats cradle!

Or maybe you're the very bestest, bar-none, at alphabet burps. And not just the english alphabet, baby. Oh no, we're talking greek, chinese, ALL the various letters! But the job you're interviewing for? They want typing. They want phone skills. They want you to be on time. All the time! They want timeliness!!

Or maybe you're witty and dynamic and handy with a camera, not to mention un-shy and un-stoppable! But you're also thirty-(mufflednumbernoise), single, chubby, pushy and let's just call it "wordarific". And single. And single, single, single, and single. And the yardstick that the rest of the world uses to judge you doesn't have things like "dynamic" or "un-shy" on it, and things like "chubby" or "pushy" are there, but they're really low. (higher then "no hands" though -- keep it in perspective!) If I hadn't already learned how to handle the yardsticks of others this would be a big old surprise, people. But thanks to school, and to jobs, and to bars and the like? Bring it!!

International Women's Day

So according to other a bunch of other blogs (who are far more on-top of all of the extra holidays out there) today is International Women's Day! I have no idea what the traditional methods are for celebrating this day -- take a foreign woman out to lunch, learn how to say "woman" in every language possible, use some sort of foreign tampon for the day -- but I decided to use today as an excuse to test a theory.

"What if," I thought to myself, "the mistake I'm making here is looking for the right man, when the right woman might be out there just waiting for me?"* So fresh an idea was this that I convinced myself that I'd do a search for a woman on Yenta.com and I'd find her sitting right there. Some fresh-faced beauty with the eyes and the face and the other things (nudge, nudge) and she'd be all single and smiley, as chicks are sometimes likely to be, and I'd be the ultimate V-8 guy -- head-thwacking with a "what the heck was I thinking?"

So I made one small adjustment to the search on Yenta.com. I hit the button and was all a-tingle with "what ifs!"

Turns out that the types of dudes you find with my particular search parameters are very much like the types of dudettes you find. (with, of course, some significant differences that I hope-a-hope-a-hope I don't have to explain? Our Bodies, Our Selves -- pick up a copy, people!) Everyone's either younger then me (so I'm all old, eh?) or older then me (have I given up too soon?), they just about all of them have kids, they just about all of them are either in much better shape then I (so I'm all fat, eh? OK, that one I already knew...) or in much NOT better shape then I. But in all that there was nobody that spoke to me. No Mrs. Right. Here I sit, rightless again.

I admit that this was another crushing blow of reality on its own. When added to the other rejections I've received via Yenta.com (they came and went and I had nothing new to say about them so I didn't mention them here) I start to feel all sorts of blue. Where, I ask you, are my easy solutions? My quick fixes? My instant gratifications? The desire to give up sometimes gets pretty thick, y'all. (sorry, channeling Brittany for a sec.) Seriously (sorry for that too) I feel so much older then I am when I do this stuff, and I am so aware of what I look like and how loud and pushy and overwhelming and obnoxious I am when I have to worry about how others might perceive me. When I'm on my own I'm OK with me, but when I look at myself through the glasses of a perspective other I feel like rejecting me too! "Maybe," I think, "it's time to start looking for that terrorist bomb that's supposed to be more likely to blow me up."

And then I get this email from a chum who, though not that close to me, is very much like me:

"I don't know if Mom has passed the word onto you or not yet but I thought I would let you know that I've recently become engaged. He's a great guy. Lives and works in . Computer programmer. Funny and has a cute dog - Aussie Shepard. No details yet on when and where the wedding will be but we'll figure it out."

And the other thing she said to me, without her knowing it, was "don't give up hope quite yet."

So Happy International Women's Day, and Happy Wove, Thursday to one and all. Those who don't have it and could use the hope, and those who have it and have the hope to give.

*any heebies and/or jeebies experienced by anyone at this point is anyone's business but mine. Y'all will have to work that out for y'sef!

Now THAT'S a MATCH!

You don't know what I do for a living or for whom I do it. Part of the 'secret blogger' thing. But I can tell you that what I do puts me in contact periodically with people who:

a) live in other states, possibly very far away, and
b) have money. Much money. Oh hell, let's just say it: C-R-A-P-loads of money!

Normally this has nothing to do with me beyond remembering to dial an area code. And then today this dude, who happens to belong in both of the above clubs, started asking my co-worker about me. Seems he's smitten with my voice.

So this morning I'm "gosh, should I wink back at Frankie Modo?" and by the end of the day it's "Woohoo, a rich dude thinks I sound hot!" I guess it's true what they say- er, sing. What a difference a day makes.

And a rich dude w/ a thing for bossy phone voices.

You winkin' at me?

Hey, apparently I'm wink-worthy after all. (it's a phrase I just created and will be copywriting and selling it back to Yenta.com for all of their marketing needs. Admit it -- you want to be wink-worthy too. Who wouldn't?...)

This morning a fellow from Yenta.com winked at me, and so I did what you do. I took a counter-peek (which, remember, he can see that I did.) How can I say this... Let's just say that I sort of miss the pictureless Wove.com.

Actually it's not so bad. He's not Frank Sinatra (the young one with all the swooning, not the old one with the mafia homelife) but he's also not Quasi Modo -- he's pretty right-down-the-middle. (Franky Modo? (QuaSinatra?) Plus there are things that he says in his profile-deal that are interesting. Like-minded are we in some areas, like religion and movies and he claims a good sense of humor and a gregarious family. I find no red flags. He didn't check the "I enjoy smacking my woman around while listening to Opera" box (which is good, because I really don't dig Opera...)

He also doesn't do much for me. How you say - no ke-mis-tree?

So many would now say "Hey, beggars can't be choosers" and generally I'd agree that's true. But I am not a beggar here. Not to say that I could have my pick of any dude (because my rejection from Monty would certainly prove otherwise) but more to say that I'm not desperate to have a mate, ANY mate. I'm not coming from a place of "even someone I'm not that in to would be better then nobody at all."

After all, I've been with Nobody At All (or NAA) for many, many years. We've built what I think is a very solid relationship. We know eachother well, respect eachother's boundaries... I'm comfortable with Nobody. I know Nobody accepts me as me. I mean heck, I've been with Nobody At All longer then anyone else! Do I want to throw that away for someone I'm not so jazzed about? Should I or shouldn't I respond to Mr. Winky?

The big thing for me here is that ever-present question: What the heck did I sign up for this to do? (other then provide for the occasional post topic -- mission accomplished.) If I'm trying to "get out there" then it follows I should return the wink. (Or something) But is it also crappy to (for lack of a better phrase, and I can't tell you how much I wish there were a better phrase here because this one makes me sound all kinds of full of myself and I swear I'm not! I'm practically empty of myself, I really am!) "lead someone on" if I don't really think I'll be going for this?

Wow, who knew there would be so much soul searching in online dating?

I'm gonna think on this for another day. I'd love feedback. ('course I'd also love chocolate covered wishes carrying give-away money in their wishly fanny packs, so I'm cool w/ disappointment.)

Femtastic vs. the Crazies, act 1

So I'm at the store. Actually I'm leaving the store -- I've got a full cart and an empty pocket, so mission all accomplishy. I've moved the cart contents into the car, and now I'm being a good shopping citizen and taking my cart back to the little cart corral. Yes, I am the one who does that. It's me. The truth is out.

To get to the cart corral I gotta walk around this big old SUV parked in the end slot. Now you guys know the end slot, right? It's recognizable by a few things. The location at the end of the row, the close proximity to the store, the big, yellow-lined area between the row and the store that says (in parking lot language) "don't park in this area because if you do then folks who turn around the row in their big, old cars will shave off your ass. Your car ass. So don't."

But on this day someone has parked in the end space, and this someone apparently doesn't understand parking lot language. This SUV is parked almost 2 feet into this "don't park here" area and, therefore, almost 2 feet away from the other side of the space. And I'm sorry, but I am fairly gobsmacked by the craptitude of the parking job. Enough so that I stare. As I walk around the car I stare at the parking job, the wheels, the encroachment into the "don't park here" space... I stare. I don't really think about it, but I stare. I get around to the corral at the nose of the SUV and push the cart in with the rest of it's herd, and I look up.

Right into the eyes of the driver of the SUV.

Apparently she's noticed my gobsmackery. She smiles at me, and I smile back. Sort of. I give her that crooked smile that says "so, that parking job: blind or drunk?" Because come on, it was a TERRIBLE parking job, and she was still in the car so she could take a minute and fix it right then. And I head back to my car.

That's when she starts screeching out her window.

"Oh my god, is it so very terrible?!?" she screams out her driver-side window, the other side from where I was parked. (this forces her to yell VERY loud so that I can hear her on the other side of her gynormous vehicle, not to mention over her eco-guilt.) "Did I kill someone? Is it that big of a problem, are you that bothered by it? Good god, I must be a terrible, terrible person I guess, huh?!?" and on and on and on.

At first I'm gonna ignore it, but I'm so amazed that she is still going by the time I get to my car, not to mention how righteous her indignation, that I just have to come face to face with this wailing wackadoo. I wander back around the ass of her (poorly parked) gas-guzzler and as I round the corner she (get this):

1) rolls up her window AND
2) locks her door.

LOCKS HER DOOR!!! Like I'm some 11-foot tall, musclebound hunchback covered in tattoos and fresh scars! It's so funny to me that by the time I reach her door I'm already laughing. I'm laughing and she's calling out "No, no, no, no, no..." and I'm laughing even more. In hindsight I should probably feel kind of bad because if she was scared enough to lock her door and start chanting I guess I shouldn't have laughed. Anyway, the next thing I make out from her is something about "I just can't believe that you would make a comment like that!" (oh, and she apparently showed fear by YELLING because her volume was unstoppable.)

"I didn't make any comment." I corrected her (still a little bit laughing -- she locked her door!) "The only one talking is you."

"I'm just amazed at your behavior!" she adds, and I'm FLOORED.

"I'm sorry," I stammer out, "you're amazed at my behavior?" She stops short when I say "I'm sorry" -- probably thinks I'm actually gonna apologize for something -- but when I get the question out she just nodds and verifies that I'm not confused. And so I honestly reply to her "Well that's the most hilarious thing I've ever heard of in my life. Seriously, just hilarious. Truly hysterical!" and that was the sentiment I kept repeating as I headed back to my little car. (And the laughing was pretty bad at this point.)

As I back out of my space what is crazy lady doing?

She's re-parking her car.

Now seriously, what dude could wrangle this force of absurd nature? What dude?

I'm multi-faceted -- I can COPY people too!

Can you believe we (and when I say we I mean mostly me, but in that royal way) have been indulging in this silliness for over 5 months? Really! And so I decided to add something new to the process, by way of stealing from one of the great trail-blazers in blogging, Dooce.com. You see, I check out her blog regularly and one of my favorite parts is the daily photograph. (I'm especially excited whenever the picture is of that most fabulous of puppies, Mr. Chuck!) And it occurred to me, what is the internet if not a fabulous source of ideas you can steal and use for your own?

So as of today, 3/1/07, I'm going to attempt to post a photograph every day. This is also a form of homage to a project started over at Indigo Luna called "Daily Devotions" (except that I'm not so artsy, but more snappy, shoot-from-the-hippy) and if I can keep it going I might even try to get creative with it eventually.

Plus today I will attempt to get back to that Wove, Thursday thing (I fell off the wagon, hurting my emotion-bone at the same time and haven't been able to return to it quite since) and I'll try to do both with one stone.

So folks, I bring you Snapstastic! And also, Happy Wove, Thursday everyone.

Seemed like a good idea at the time...

So Mir over at Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda had posted something the other day bemoaning many things about some American Idol candidate who, I guess, was inappropriately smug and judgemental (what, an american princess judging others? No!) and got spanked with the irony paddle when some pictures surfaced of her being not quite so godly. (or cleanly either, apparently!) And Mir's point, more than anything, was "people, tell your kids not to let anyone take pictures of them doing the dirty stuff we do!" And she's TOTALLY right.

I just wish she'd been blogging (or that blogs had even existed, let alone the robust internet of today, or camera phones, or so many things) when I was making my ill-advised video about 11+ years ago. Gulp.

(hi, Mom!)

You've heard me mention WWIT-dude (What Was I Thinking?-dude) already. It's clear that he was a bad choice in the long run. However, when we first met he was many very cool things, especially to me. First you must understand who I was at the time:

-a tender 24 years old.
-living away from where I consider to be home, and supposedly independent
-working and living somewhere that made me feel pretty lame
-A VIRGIN.

yes, folks, I was the original 40-year old virgin (except that I was 24 and less hairy then Steve Carrell) and I was the last one o' them that I knew. That anyone I knew knew. And he was a good looking, virile, studly guy. Who looked back.

It was 4th of July, the night I fell into all of this drama, stuff straight out of primetime television with street thugs (honest to goodness thugs!) and tough talk (stuff that would have been written without g's and using many aposterphes, like "dude, don't be buggin'!") and cute dudes who's health I was having actual concern for. And at the end of the night I'd been kissed and there was something ultimately unfortunate hatching: love. Of a sort.

OK, jump forward a year and we're "celebrating" a one-year anniversary. (I say "celebrating" because most of our celebrations featured him losing his cool and his temper and his ability to not yell, be insulting and generally freak me out. Good times...) WWIT-dude lived in another state about 3.5 hours away and so all of our time together was spent in these intense little pockets. Foolishly I thought that was exciting and thrilling and stuff, rather than seeing that it was false and absurd and stuff. One of the things that became more intense when done in little bursts was "the nasty." "Knockin' boots." "Makin' the beast w/ two backs." S. followed by E. Capped off with a big, ol' X.

(I'm not kidding, my Mom is now, or will some time soon, be reading this. Everybody wave.)

So back to the anniversary. WWIT-dude makes some kind of veiled request for something to help him get through the times when we were apart (also called "weekdays"). Now, did the filters in the brain that are supposed to protect you fire up and say "gosh, that's sweet honey, but I'm not really crazy about doing dirty stuff (sorry Mom) on film. How about I buy you some anonymous porn instead?"

Well of course not. If they had then what would I be writing about now? Come on, people, keep up!

No, instead my mind went to all those Harlequin Romance books my sister (my super-smart, over-achieving sister, mind you!) used to read, or the hot and steamy flicks with the Demi Moores and the Sharon Stones and all. Curse you, Sharon Stones! I shake my fists at you, you Demi Moores! Oh how you clouded my normally-sound judgement!

In short order a video camera was acquired and a tape shot. It was just me and it was probably really hard to see what the hell was happening, what with the artsy lighting I used. Today we call them "candles." And then I made a copy (for technical reasons, not aesthetic ones, I assure you) and gave it to WWIT-dude. And in all of this I don't remember ever wondering if it was a good idea. I was so dang new to being a sex-having person, I couldn't really think beyond that fact! It was all "really? you actually look at me in that way? Wow! What, exactly, is wrong with you? (not that I want it to be fixed, but more that I want to be able to recognize it in others...)"

(Mom, if it helps at all it was all done with utmost concern to good hygiene. Clean sheets and everything.)

And keep in mind that back then the only real concern one would have had was either that the dude would show his buddies, which didn't seem likely given how over-the-top jealous WWIT-dude was of ANYBODY, or that someday one would become famous and the tape would surface. I wasn't really worried about famous. We didn't have these easy and convenient opportunities for run-of-the-mill douchebags to take a picture or video and shoot it out over the web for "just 'cause." like we do today. Today is a much different place with much different scary things. I would really (really, REALLY, reallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreally for REALS) like to believe that today I'd stop and think about all the ways that such a folly could become a cl*ster-f*ck and think better of it. And maybe even have anonymous porn on hand to distract -- "look at the naked boobies! Here, fetch!"

Me, I was exceptionally lucky. When, at last, the day came for me to realize what madness that relationship was and call it all off WWIT-dude destroyed the video tape in a fit of anger and in the hopes that I'd feel bad about it and change my mind. (in his head this logic track arrived at Sanity Station, as opposed to most of us who see that thought train in a massive heap of twisted metal at the bottom of Crazybeans Gulch.) I even thought enough to destroy the original right before moving back to my hometown, so there are no scary surprises waiting out there. But again, only because I was exceptionally lucky.

Now I just gotta get famous.

Birth of a Euphamism...

So yesterday you met Beautiful Dreamer, she who blazed the online dating trail for me. And by that I mean that it would never, ever have occurred to me try this in any way, shape or form if I hadn't had a chance to watch her do it a little. Not because she made it look fun -- she made it look crazy -- but because she made it look manageable. Even if the way she managed it scared the crap out of me!

Anyway, B.D. continued to try various avenues and found a few Mr. Maybes, some Senior Possible and the odd "Nonononononono!" Then she did something way, far, far away from what I would do: she decided to pursue only dudes who are very in to being religious. Through that avenue she found somebody who matches her quite nicely. It's been a couple of months and they're having much fun, and I'm very pleased both that she may have found the catch she's been casting for (but without that fishy smell) and also that she survived all the previous fishing until she landed him!

But here's the thing: this fellow takes many things very seriously (as is his right!) and one such thing is S-E-X. Now in general I'm in favor of giving sex a certain amount of gravity -- I think there are plenty of people out there treating it with the same regard as flossing (or maybe less regard!) However he lost me with this: he told B.D. that when he does finally have sex with someone again (having been divorced in the last couple of years) it would essentially mean that he considers himself married to this person.

Yeah, I don't get it either. I know this: it doesn't mean he won't "do it" until marriage, nor does it mean that he'll give you a ring if you let him go there, or that there will be a really big party to celebrate right after you're finished. All I'm sure of is that it's a very big, serious deal for him. Somehow important like marriage is important. And a sign of a level of commitment or something. I'm a little confused as to which comes first: the commitment or the act. Is he saying "well if we ever have sex I'll end up feeling super-duper committed to you, just so's ya know." or is it more "you ain't gettin' none o' this foine divorcee booty until I think I could lock in the deal, baby!"

I also know this: it's an excellent new euphamism for sex. Each morning after B.D. has had a successful date (which, for a nice change of pace, often takes place in a populated location with witnesses and pepper spray!) I get to ask her "so, did you guys "get married" last night?" So much more classy then my previous, which was "So, Baum-chikka-bow-bow last night?"

Also it makes me seem romantic when I say "I hope some day to get married," while all I really mean is I hope some day to baum-chikka-bow-bow at least once more before I croak.

Beautiful Dreamer, la da da dee....

So there's this chick where I work -- we'll call her Beautiful Dreamer -- and she actually did all this online dating stuff for quite a while before I started. She's so very much different from I, though not in good/bad ways. Just in different ones.

For instance, she really dove in head-first to the shopping idea of Yenta.com. She winked her little fingers off, and got into these massive email back-and-forths and epic phone calls with the various dudes she found to pursue. She had dates, many dates. And she was always, without fail, unendingly enthusiastic about every part of the process. And where as I saw danger and concern and threats, she always took these total stranger-men at face value. On everything. I found that simultaneously sweet and flabber-boggling. For example:

She finds a guy she likes, based on emails and phone calls, and suddenly they both find that they're available for a date. But only if they take immediate action -- date! Now! Go! So she does the following:

• Has him pick her up at her house. Which requires giving him her address. "Here," she says to this guy whom she has never met and who could be a cowboy, but could be an axe murderer, "come see where I spend my alone time, with nobody to know if I were to be murdered all axe-style."
• She doesn't tell anyone else she's going out. She's alone (ostensibly -- she has little kids, but they weren't home so for that night she's alone) and there's nobody who checks in on her to know when she's suddenly missing. No call to a friend or co-worker to say a quick "hey, I'm going on a date with this guy I don't know to location unknown for completely not known by me activities. If I'm not home by some set time I'm probably dead and I just wanted someone to know that I'd like them to play "Don't Fear the Reaper" at my funeral." My favorite part of this detail was the reason she gave for not telling anybody what she was doing: she knew everyone would tell her not to do it. Know your audience!!
• She lets him drive, and decide where they're going, and what route to get there, while she opens the bottle of wine he brought. (I'll hold on while you finish shaking your head in "what the hell is this girl thinking?"-ness...) They drive, and drive, and drive, and this girl KNOWS how to get where they were supposed to be going but never says "so, are we going to by way of Paris or something?"
• They get there and enjoy some wine, sitting in the car and admiring the view.
• OK, just in case some of view missed the significance of that part, I'm going to break it down for you: A) they enjoy some wine, often considered to be a beverage of alcoholic nature, while they admire the view at this place that B) took a really long time to reach and, therefore, will probably take about as long to return from, and they do this from C) the car, which is the only place they have to hang out, and which therefore makes the drunk driving that he's got planned later so much easier to get to.

Here, for me, is the most amazing part of the story: she didn't die! She's not chopped into tiny girl-hunks, scattered across the closest body of water to previously-mentioned lovely park, feeding tiny fishes who would have also shaken their heads! But as she cheerily regailed me with tales of what was, to her, a sweet and romantic first date with this guy, yadda, yadda, yadda, I sat there frozen in horror! I had to swallow my own tongue to keep from screaming "What the bloody, demon-infested HELL were you THINKING!?!? Are you out of your M-I-I-I-I-I-I-N-D??????" Because, you know, she was so chipper about it. And I'm apparently so paranoid.

Over time I became really good at the smiling nod and vacant stare, which seemed like the response she wanted. She really didn't like it when I threw my pesky real-life concerns out there, ruining what were such dreamy dude-moments. But trust me, there were many other stories which would send chills running up and down your sane spines.

Next: How a Euphamism is born...

Lessons? What lessons?

I had this one long-term relationship a while ago - ok, a decade ago. It was a pretty exceptionally flawed relationship in the grand scheme of things (racist, sexist, ignorant, ex-military and took great joy at abusing the trust his loved ones would put into him. And these were his high points. That plus one hell of a nice ass and extreme flexibility. If ya know what I mean...) but there were some ponies in that room of hay and horse shit.

The best, in my opinion, were the lessons learned, and one in particular: don't change who I am to fit who I think he wants me to be. I know it sounds super-obvious, and I think I thought I already knew it. But after all of the doing it anyway it seemed pretty clear I DIDN'T "know" it. I just was familiar with it. I could identify it amongst a pile of polaroids, but if you asked what it's favorite color was I'd have to guess.

Since the dark days with What-Was-I-Thinking? dude (or WWIT, as we'll call him from now on) I've really held true to that idea. With everyone. I'm sure I've chased off some just lovely people, but frankly lovely people are far too lovely to handle my particular mix of forceful-and-nutters. I'm really thinking of them!

So here's where this has anything to do with the mission. In case you've been gone, we've moved from Wove.com to Yenta.com (from a relationship website to a dating website) because on Wove nothing happened. Big Nothing. N-O-T-H... you get the idea. (I-N-G) So now we're doing the dating site and you know what's happened since I signed up almost a month ago? (well, how's your spelling? How about your memory? What did we spell most recently?...) And before anybody starts with "well maybe you should try contacting someone!" I did. I winked at someone and he winked right back. If, by wink, you mean he said "Gah!" and ran to opposite-direction-land.

But other than that ego-boosting social experiment it's been quiet. Too quiet. In war movies it would be right before the enemy attacks. Right before the killer attacks in the slasher film. Right before the lesbian kissing scene in porn. And it's lead to a big lack of writing ideas.

So I could go out there and just start winking at anybody who even remotely fits the profile (age, smoking and drinking, location) and see what happens. But I'm really having a hard time doing that (and here's where I tie it all together, and I thank you for your patience, and I do it all without showing the characters with frogs raining from the sky!) BECAUSE by doing that I feel like I paint myself with the brush of the desperation. How do I wink at a guy I'm not interested in unless I'm just so desperate to make a connection that I no longer care if they're a good fit? And that's not me. It's me being what the websites and some of my friends and society generically want me to be. A costume I look goofy in.

So I'm not sure what my next move should be. But the one thing you can still be sure of is that once I DO know what I'm doing I'll let you know.

Math and Science, part 2 - Science

OK, so those of you following along in your textbooks know that yesterday we covered the math. And for once it was math that applies to your life! No elaborate formulas required!

Today we're covering the science part, and again we have chosen not to assert my personal scientific theory ("The amount of tummy shown in a man's Yenta.com profile picture(s) is directionally proportional to how high they rate the importance of their match being a H-O-T-T-Y!") due to lack of actual data to support it. Instead we will cover something that hit the news media on Wednesday, which is this:

Romantic Love = You be very much crazy nutjob sanity go bye-bye. (of course this is scientific jargon.)

According to this article and some others covering the exact same info, being in romantic love, and the high that goes with it, is pretty much just overdosing on dopamine. It hits the same parts of the brain that can be ping-ponged by your being un-sane or non-rational, as well as taking drugs. Get that? Passion, drugs, crazy -- all the same fun ride for the brain!

Every different article that covered this new scientific discovery touched on different aspects, finding what they thought was the most important, amazing, earth-shattering conclusion from the idea. Here's the one that occurred to me: this makes me the most sane person I know. Now how's THAT for scary?

I also enjoy the idea that if you find yourself falling in love your two best options may be either a 12-step program (Hi, my name is Femtastic and I'm in love. Pass the coffee and cigarettes) or therapy (Tell me about your mother -- did she also have bouts of in-love-ness? How does that make you feel? No, I didn't mean you should feel yourself - please stop that.) So the next time you feel a case of the loves coming on just bop over to your doctor and ask for a wee bottle of lithium. Just until it passes.

OK, homework for next time: what's the craziest thing you ever did for or because of love?

Math and Science, Part 1 - Math

By now you guys know that I was born with an over-abundance of opinion and thinkyness. Many have tried to perscribe treatments to cure me of this overage, but so far I've been totally resistant to all cures. The result, as you so well know, is that I talk out of my ass constantly, railing on and on about things that I think or feel.

But what works even better, have found I, is things called facts! Knowledge supported by this stuff they call data, which has much more credibility (apparently) then just "because I said so and shut up, you!" Now, getting bonafide data for the kind of crap I've been writing about is not easy. Seriously not. But all of the sudden a holiday like Valentines Day comes along and reports and studies come dropping from the sky!00

Today we're covering some math knowledge: according to a study done recently by my tiny local newspaper it turns out that the lack of mateness that I'm experiencing here is totally not my fault. It's just a matter of the math. My city has more than it's fair share of unwed womens!

The study says that there are 60% unmarried women in my town (even the town is innocent enough to need protecting, so I'll just call it Hippyville), compared to the national average of 48%. They had many reasons why this would be:

• we're a college town and ejamacated womens don't tend to need mens to care and feed them quite as much, so they don't get quite so married.
• we've got a higher-than-normal lesbian population (hmmm, maybe I am being too picky?...) and though LORD KNOWS the lesbians would love to be part of the married population, we all know that such a thing would cause an end to the world as we know it, as well as a serious down-turn in the sale of women's razors, a run on sales of CDs by KD Lang, Melissa Etheridge and the Indigo Girls and plagues of locusts.
• We liberated lady-types don't always marry those we hook up with, so many of these women may be in long-time, committed relationships that just don't happen to include licenses, blood tests, salad shooters and gravy boats. (toot, toot!)

But for me I'm just focusing on the numbers. Especially these numbers:

"There are 7,000 more unmarried women then unmarried men in the city of Hippyville..."

Dude.

So I guess I need to start finding these 6,999 other non-married women (or, as I shall now call them, NMWs) and talk them into marrying those I don't want (also known as the population of Wove.com and possibly Yenta.com) or into moving away. Hey, I hear things are nice in AnywhereButHereburg!

Tomorrow: the science.

T-t-t-t-tangents...

Sometimes you eat the bear, and sometimes the bear eats you. (now see, in my head that sounded all profound and deep. but in writing? Just dirty. sigh.) Yes, ladies and..., well pretty much just ladies, things are all sorts of familiar now! I'm wrapped up in that most well-worn of beach towels: rejection. In less than 24 hours Monty sent word my presence was not required.

I know what you're saying now. "24 hours? Well hell, you could have told this 2 days ago!" You're right. And I started to a bunch of times, but each time this same thing happened. Everything came out all bitter and hissy. See, this is what put out my fire to pursue this kind of stuff in the past. I got danged tired of the rejection, and even more tired of the nasty little bitch I become in the face of it.

(Woah, this is becoming another very real and bitter post. Allow me to break things up with a random tangent, shall I?)

Tangent: tomorrow (today already for some folks) is that most commercial of holidays, Valentines Day. This year I think it's being brought to us by Target, Coke and the letter P. This holiday is one that really separates the boys from the men, I say. Or more accurately the single boys from the dating men, and same goes for the ladies. If you're doing the wove thing when this day wheels around it's all about "do something or don't? If I do something am I just pandering to society's insistance that I choose today to be romantic? If I do nothing am I being an ass-hat?" Here's your answer, dating/mating world: yes. Yes, yes, a thousand chocolates over yes! You are pandering, you're letting the rest of the world dictate your romantic schedule and you're a complete and utter bastard if you don't. So suck it up, buy a single wed wose or a teddy bear holding a box of inedible chalk talking hearts or those truly classy silk boxers with the big, red lips all over them and get to it!

And then there's those like moi, who have to decide if they'll shun the day (usually with much bile and self-pity), take back the day with the tried and true "hey, why don't all we single friends get together and do something!" plan or pretend that the 14th of February is no different than the 13th (like anyone's buying that.) Me? I used to celebrate with as non-romantic a movie I could find (Platoon, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, most things starring David Spade...) and eating an entire pizza by myself (using the traditional "hell, if I'm not dating anybody then there's no one to care if I gain 5 pounds in a single sitting!" rational) but that seemed like giving the day more oomph then made sense. Now I just look it as the day before the day when all those boxes of candy go on big-time sale!

So Sunday night I come home from a rollicking evening of Grammy-tastic action to an email from my very good friend, Yenta.com, assuring me that I shouldn't give up hope just because oh yeah, by the way, that dude what I winked at reacted with something along the lines of "yeesh! Are you high?" and beat feet in the away direction. I really appreciated that Yenta was there for me in that, my time of need. There with generic encouragement to get back on the e-horse and go find someone else who can reject me tomorrow! But in all honesty what I felt like doing was, in my opinion, a very reasonable and balanced reaction. It was a plan of two steps:

1. write an email apologizing to him for the mistake wink, as I had no interest in him whatsoever and that the wink was actually due to my cat messing with the computer while I was on the john -- "she winked at no less than 17 different guys while I was taking a dump. I'm so glad that you're not interested, because you couldn't be further from what I was looking for if you tried. For instance, I'm looking for a straight guy..."
2. copy his picture and paste it into all sorts of doggie-porn chat rooms under the moniker "poodle-poker"

Tangent: Dooce.com posted a link to a list of bad gift ideas from Amazon.com which I couldn't have loved more if I'd compiled it! It had not just one, but multiple creepy sex costumes included, which has me wondering what is the DEAL with sex in costumes? I know my sex experience is limited (much in the same way that the number of minorities allowed into the KKK is limited) but is there such a large population of folks who get hot and sweaty at the idea of knocking boots dressed as a 5-ft baby? Seriously? (shudder.) Also, it has really been a long time for me, because I don't remember for the life of me where the wolf urine, the tick nipper and the 4 lbs of cow crap come in. Would that be the "foreplay" I keep hearing about?

I did try to follow Yenta's advice and check for anyone new out there at whom I could wink. Apparently the pickings are sticking to their strict diet of parsley, red ants and criticism (which is the same diet that Nicole Richey is on, by the way.) In other words, they are still slim, these pickings. Am I being too selective? Perhaps. How do I tell? Based on the small amount of info I'm provided and these akward, sketchy and sometimes frightening pictures I'm not finding anyone I want to open a door to. But correct me if I'm wrong: that's what I'm supposed to do, right? I'm supposed to look for someone who interests me and make contact. It's just the first part I'm having trouble with.

Tangent: Valentines for friends - for 'em? Agin' em? What say you guys? Because I've received a ton (sorry, should have been T-U-U-U-U-H-N) of valentines cards and gifts from friends. And it's a three-part process. First there's the reaction that you show your friend: Wow, that's so nice, thank you so much! Simultaneously there's the reaction in your head: great, another box of pity candy, another lovely poem about how good a friend I am where a dirty limerick about my boobs should rightly be, another friend worried that I might finally OD on Mad Dog 20/20 and Firefly reruns because I'm unloved on Feb. 14th - how pitiful am I? And then there's the internal struggle: should I have bought something for this friend too? I figured they'd be celebrating with their spouse/main squeeze; oh crap-a-doodle, are all of my friends expecting cards from me? Am I now officially a bad friend on top of a kaka significant other? Don't get me wrong, because I know that these are truly coming from a good place. My friends are all really excellent people who are just thinking of me. But I gotta be totally honest here (thereby taking me off the hook everywhere else) and state that I'd rather skip it, thanks all the same. Spend the money on the silk boxers!

Anyway, if you look at my scorecard so far I've got Mr. Eloquent of the non-sequitor pipe pics and the "I'm stealing my own soul" self-portraits AND a big "Wow am I out of your league, sweetie" rejection from Looks-good-on-paper-but-probably-would-have-sucked-his-thumb-and-called-me-mommy-Dude. I'm pretty sure that means I'm losing. Time to start figuring out how I can cheat.

Happy Valentines Day, everybody!

to poke the bear or not to poke the bear...

OK, so I checked Yenta again today. Same lonely email ("hi, I'm not supposed to be here and my info and pictures suck. Have a nice day." Of course I'm paraphrasing.) and same list of people who've checked out my profile. But that's it.

I scanned the list again, and here's the thing. There's this one (and only one, so far) dude who looks interesting. His headline is something I'd appreciate, he likes many things that I officially like (some of them I actually DO like!) and he's not bad looking. And he's on that list of guys who looked at me, and at this point I'm on his list of chicks who've looked at him.

Now what?

My plan, because I'm already having a hard time with having invested money and time in online matchmaking, was to get myself out there and let the dudes do all the work. Let my siren call and my fascinating, scintilating (I didn't talk about poop or boogers at all!) profile and that come-hither look in my eyes be all that it took to drag them forth in droves. This was the plan. I have a plan, and when I have a plan I hate to deviate from it. From the plan. See my pretty, pretty plan?

The hard part is getting the dudes to do their part of the plan. Where, I ask you, are my droves? So far they are totally slacking on all the being dragged forth stuff. I'm having bonafide Wove.com flashbacks, and so here is my dilemma: wink or no wink?

See, Yenta has this thing called "wink" and apparently it's a way to let someone know that you're interested (beyond just the "I was looking at your profile" deal). I imagine it is the adult, web-based equivalent of "hi i like you do you like me if you do check this box if you dont then i dont either." I'm sure the next step would be e-punching them in the arm and e-running away.

But the winking is not on the plan. I've checked. So do I stray from the pretty, pretty plan? Does that make me the aggressive, pushy beotch that I'm trying to hide from the droves, at least until I've got their spare key and PIN number? Or (alternative spin that I'm trying on for size) is this a good way to find a member of the droves that would be able to handle such an aggressive, pushy beotch? After all, beotch I be one way or another, and maybe the fair thing is to give them the warning now, in the beginning?

OK, you've talked me into it, you silver-tongued devils. I've winked at the dude (we'll call him Monty.) And I'm already regretting the whole thing. You silver-tongued bastards, what the hell were you thinking? Why do I listen to you? Sigh.

I'll keep you posted. Don't I always?

the dimensions of the pickings

So I promised before a quick breakdown of what we're seeing on Yenta.com so far. The pickings, as they say. I won't lie to you: Brad Pitt is NOT looking for any E-Lovin' in my fair town. Or if he is he has used his worst possible pictures.

But on an upside, at least there ARE pictures! Yes, there are far more folks with faces on this avenue. You do a search (looking for dudes, this general area, between "can you even buy beer yet?" and "so when do you start receiving your social security checks?") and you get this list of faces staring out at you. And there are several very popular poses you'll find:

-Dude with pet -- "see, I have a softer side!"
-Dude doing hobby -- "see, I am more then just my work (despite what my damned ex-wife is always saying. Take this, beotch!)"
-Dude needed to take some pictures for Yenta.com -- his arm in the foreground; cheesy, forced smile
-Dude should have taken some pictures just for Yenta.com -- is it just me, or did this picture used to be of two people? Note the hand just being cut off the edge, and the wedding band there on.

I'm pretty baffled by the number of guys who think that 'unwashed' was the right fashion choice. Or even better, that 'shirtless' is the look to find your great love. Especially the ever-classy 'shirtless with exceptional beer belly.' SO want to introduce you to the folks!

Now here's the part that I finally figured out, and which has me over-thinking everything: when I look at someone's profile THEY GET TO KNOW ABOUT IT. There's a thing that shows you "who's viewed you." Firstly I thought "oh cool!" and was pretty amazed that the number so far was 12 people. Look at me bringing in the dudes! So I started going through the list and clicking on a few to see what they were about. Next time I went to the site there were 30 folks who'd peeked. I'm ever so very popular am I! And hey, look at that: the ones on the top of the list are the same dudes that I reviewed the last time. What are the odds? (no, I really hadn't figured it out by this point. Did I tell you that "smart" came up not even once when I was touting my qualities on the profile?)

A day or so later I go back to check the list again and wow, 45 dudes! And wow again, there are those same fellows at the top of the list and OH MY GOD THEY CAN TELL THAT I VIEWED THEM TOO! And now I'm something I didn't realize I was being, at least as far as they can see. I'm desperate or slutty or flirting or I don't know, but it just freaked me out that every time I look at someone's profile they know about it!

(Wait, it gets better, and also more ridiculous)

And now I'm afraid to click on prospective profiles because I don't want them to know I looked. Seriously! I start to click their picture and the voice in my head says "hold it, are you sure you want them to think you like them? Because you're not even sure that you like them, so do you want to give them that idea?" OR WOULD YOU RATHER SPEND THE TIME AND MONEY ON THIS SITE AND THEN PLAY HARD TO GET TO THE POINT OF BEING AN E-HERMIT!!!!

So now I'm crafting an additional paragraph to add to my profile, because I feel like it's something important about me that I've not covered. It's going something like this:

"I think you could say that I'm witty and bright, and I'm most definitely a GRADE-A WACKADOO. This is your first and last warning, my friends: run as far and as fast as you can from this total nutbag now, while I don't have any real contact information for you! For no sanity has tainted this, the most BRLBRLBRLBRLBRLBR (sound of finger running over lips) of dipsy-doodles! If you take even one more step in my direction all subsequent stalking, tire slashings and voodoo dolls are on you, got it? ON. YOU."

And have a nice day. (but at least I'm clean and shirtful in all of my pictures. Most of my pictures,)

I have no response to that...

Well Yenta.com is off to a pretty good start. Not more then 48 hours after I posted all the wonderfulness that is me I had over a dozen fellows checking me out. More than that, one even sent me an email. Due to the wonders of technology this email came right to my regular email inbox, so I found it during my usually boring morning check-in. And I'll admit that my first response was to be excited! More so then I would have expected really. "Ooh, looky!" I thought to myself, "someone was already interested enough to reach out! Take that, Wove.com!" and I triumphantly opened up the email from this, my first official suitor! And I found this:

i thought i was to be of this site a couple of days ago so i dumped the information off my profile. well match did a auto renew that was not approved so i did some changes on the profile and need to put up better pictures. see ya.

.....blink. Blink. Blink.....

What do I do with this? I feel like this was not a message to make a connection, but more of an FYI. "Hey," he seems to be saying, "just in case you go looking and find my profile and wonder why there's no info and the pictures aren't very good, here's the deal." I read it like I was scoring it, like the guy that takes you out to pass the driving test for your first license. "Hmm, can't spell "off" - check. Ooh, blames the technology for his not knowing how the system worked - check. Ouch, has been here for at least a month and has yet to put up good pictures - check. Hey, would you pass me the "FAIL" stamp for this application?" Needless to say, I think I've already got an insight into why this guy is looking for a little help with his matchmaking.

To be sure I wasn't judging him unfairly based on one less-then-stellar email I did go and check out his profile. He's not for me. I mean he's not a serial killer or skinhead or anything overtly "Gah!!" like that, but there's no click. No "pow!" No "where have you been all my life!" Based on the pics that were there, all my life he's been laying pipe under houses. (He even had pictures of the pipe. And the houses. With no sign of him in the picture at all. No idea why.) And I have to wonder if he's looked at my profile, beyond my (clearly GENIUS!) headline. We don't match on much beyond the physical. And you gotta love any guy who answers the question "what do you do for fun?" with the fact that he's spending all his fun time on Yenta.com "e-mailing candidates that do not respond in general, they seem to have a lot of hang ups." Ooh, tell me more, big daddy! I love bitter, disgruntled guys who make big, sweeping generalizations about the rest of the world!

Still, I was trying to find a way to see this as a positive step that I should take. After the bust that was Wove.com I thought I should do whatever I could to make this a more productive endeavor. But the nail in the coffin for me was this phrase:

"...they make a lot of money and do not need what they are looking for..."

Yeah, see ya buddy.

As you guys already know about me, this pursuit is absolutely not one of need. I'm not searching for someone to take care of me, or support me, or solve all of my problems. I can take care of myself and do it pretty dang well. I have been supporting myself for close to 20 years, thanks. No guy will ever be able to solve all of my problems and I don't want one to. It's as my Granny said when explaining why her marriage to my grandfather didn't work out: "He wanted me to need him, and I didn't. I chose him, I loved him and I wanted him, but I didn't need him."

I'm not looking for a hero or a solution or a parachute. I'm looking for a buddy or a partner or a good foil. But until the right person comes along I'm doing just fine. I can afford to be choosy. And choosy I shall be! So I sent this first suitor (whom I will call Bitterman) one of Yenta.com's pre-crafted "no thanks" emails, saying basically that we're not a good match. (they didn't have one that said "I'm just gonna dissapoint you like all the others before me, and why would you want to go through that yet again? So just assume I'm another one of those damn self-sufficient bitches and move on. Have you considered something in a mail-order-type-deal, say from somewhere super-crappy?")

So what we know now is that Yenta.com is a faster process then Wove.com, but that the matching may be just as funky. May be. Stay tuned!

Level of slutty from 1-10:

I'm at about a 7?

(note: this post will be scattered w/ song names, showing how cool a Risky mixed CD is. I'm rockin' out to a compilation called "For the Next Disaster", shuffled of course, and it's jamtastic! Current song: "Steve McQueen")

Yenta and I had our first date last night. She asked me all sorts of questions about myself, just trying to understand who I am as a person. It was all like thisy:

Y: So, what do you like to do in your free time?

F: I enjoy making jewelry, reading Joshilyn Jackson books, making mixed CDs and crochetting.

Y: You are looking to attract a GUY, right?

F:.....I read comic books, play video games and paintball, shoot things and bake brownies. To give to other people. And I'm really easy to please in bed. And I honestly think size doesn't matter.

Y: better.

("Staple it Together", Jack Johnson)

The Queen helped me, to make sure I didn't write anything too lame, and together we filled in the stuff that I HATE to write. These long, terrible paragraphs which are supposed to tell everything about yourself. I kid you not, one asked me to write "what defines me as a person." Am I wrong to think of this as a pretty tall order? A heady concept to try to sum up in 4000 characters? Aren't there Bhuddist monks out there meditating on this kind of concept to the distration of everything else? Perhaps you'd also like me to fill y'all in on why we're here, and a little chat about the meaning of life?

("Shake Your Lovemaker" ala Cherry Poppin' Daddies)

Such a big question makes me want to answer in the simplest of ways. What defines me as a person? The Muppets and Daffy Duck; Cheddar Beer Kettle Chips and Hostess Cupcakes; dust-free kitty litter and bird poo on my car shaped like Pee Wee Herman's head. I am defined by the fact that Princess Stinkbutt cannot identify me out of a crowd. Even a crowd of 3. By the fact that there is a song running through my head at all times. ALL times. I'm defined by all the movie quotes that I can't forget and the math formulas I can't remember, and by every time I added a "Dammit!" to someone else's rant. because trust me, the rant needed the big finish. (dammit)

("Give me Novacaine" ala Green Day. Greenday? Dia Verde!)

Anyway, of all the challenging questions asked by Yenta, the one that stumped Queen and I equally was this one:
Your dating headline. (defined thusishiously: "the only chance people will have to hear your “voice”—your personality—before they decide to click for more" Essentially the one and only one thing that will wrap you all up in pretty jewel-toned w/ foil accents wrapping paper, glittery ribbon and voluminous bow. But no pressure.)

How long could it take to come up with one witty, yet not too full of oneself, but descriptive, and also to the point, and not repetitive of your details and also sure to catch the eye of your soul mate and cure cancer and create world peace and a delicious, low-carb, low-fat drink that won't rot your teeth? So much longer then I'd like to admit. We read their helpful(less) hints, including things like "don't tell them where you are because they already know that," and "don't be boring or cliched" and "do something unexpected to catch the eye." and we both agreed that they deserved a big helping of "WELL DUH!"

("Beijing" by some rockin' chick named Melissa Ferrick)

We considered movie quotes. Tell me, would you be attracted to someone who's headline was "Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles..."? How about "Do or do not. There is no try." I know that one would bring in all the single geeks in the area. And I could be their queen! We looked through some that other people were using, and I decided quickly that I would not be using the words "Playful", "Open" or "Flexible". Finally I went with this:

Daffy Duck seeks her Bugs Bunny.

If he's out there and he sees it, he'll get it. And such a guy I'd definitely consider!

("Nugget" from my friends Cake)

Coming Next: the pickings and just how thick or thin they are...

So few words, so many syllables...

Princess Stinkbutt becomes an officially 2-year old person tomorrow. Thanks to the help and support of the royal family, as well as friends a plenty and her rockin' school, the princess can, so far, do all of the following:

• body parts identification (yours or hers)
• animal noises (with special skill at quiet bear)
• Row, Row, Row any Boat you give her
• show you her handle as well as her spout
• dance, dance, dance, baby!
• allow water to touch her face both via submersion and bathtub waterfall

Things still on her highness' "to do" list:

• talk

Don't misunderstand, because she's by no means quiet. She and I probably spend the same amount of time a day making sounds via the mouth-type-face-part. But where as for me it's all about using the fanciest, bestest words I can conjure (like, for instance, conjure!) the wee pri-shizzle does it all through her own special brand of 'no-actual-words-were-harmed-or-used-during-the-creation-of-this-sentence' language-ishness. I find this pretty amazing, because I have it on pretty good authority (i.e. my own guess) that I came out of the womb talking exactly this much and this fast. I have always felt like if I couldn't talk I'd freeze up completely as a person. Petrofide Femtastic. Oh the horror.

That's why I love hanging with the princess. Princess in da house, yo! Because she reminds me over and over that one can communicate volumes, even without actual words. She encourages me to use the facial expression, the hand gestures, the rollicking hip-toss and oh the inflections, inflections, IN-FLEC-TIONS! Through this stuff she gets it done! You know from when comes she most of the dang time!

So tomorrow she and the Queen will hang for the day, and this weekend is pock-marked with "Princess Stinkbutt is 2!" celebrations, complete with cupcakes, toddlers and sing-sing-singing! There are rumors of crowns (as would only befit a chick of her royal stature) and visits from cousins who share the same awesome birthdate.

I'm just hoping she and I get a chance for a good, long talk.

Happy Wove, Thursday, y'all! Here's to showing the wove w/out the words.