I keep waiting for him to say "kidding..."

OK, so I'm trying to develop a schedule to check Match.com. Because, after all, I did (accidentally) pay for this additional 3 months so I should be making the best of it, right? (shut up. Seriously. No kidding, stop the laughing. Too mean. Way to mean...) I just kind of forget I should be paying attention to it, and it's not like there's much happening to remind me to check in. So I need to make sure I'm paying attention, because there's an argument to be made that at any time a possible Mr. Right could pop on to the site, feel unnoticed and pop right back off. All while I'm not checking because I'm watching people playing Human Tetris on YouTube.

So I'm checking.

Now see, I've been there often enough, and the cast of characters changes seldom enough, that I really only need to skim the surface and look for new faces.

Today there was a new face, and his newness gave me the hopes! He was not only new, but with faceness too! A non-invisible, non-vampire (what is the story there -- they have no reflections, so do they show on film? Anyone? Anyone?), non-cameraless new guy who could be my special someone. Oh a flutter! A twitter! A swoon and preen and preeky-eekle, click on him quick!

At this time I learn an important lesson: don't swoon or preen or preekle until you read the profile. Because seriously, I get it: the dude likes sex. I GET IT.

The only thing Mr. Manly Man could do to drive home the point more (sorry, couldn’t resist) would be to have his primary picture be of his rock-hard schwangadoodle aiming due-north! It’s weird enough that his pictures include a long shot of his bare legs (are we saying “look how hot my legs are!”? No, we are not.) and also a shot of him posing in front of your gym. Because “look, I’m all rock hard. ALL rock hard.” (“see, I’m making another sexual reference there. With the rock. And the hard. And hey, want to have some sex?”)

But just in case his subtle, not-too-obvious, not at all smacking you in the face pictures weren’t really coming across, here are some items he thought fit to include in his profile:

“My perfect match is just as comfortable in a little black dress as she is in running tights. She will share bio rythms first and possibly fluids later. She is educated and independent but down to earth. She is high energy and has a little freak in her.”

Translation: “I’m all about the body. Yours, mine – it don’t matter. But you will need to be all model-lookin’ and also be in to things that I could later include in my monthly (so far fictional) letters to Penthouse. If you are a hot pizza delivery girl, a hot copy machine repair girl or a hot Jehova’s Witness that would be a super bonus… Oh, and read or do math or something.”

"I like endorfins. I get them by running for a couple of hours usually, but other aerobic activities with the right partner are more fun."

Translation: "Did I mention that I work out? Did you see the pictures of me being gymmish? Gymful? Gymtastic? I really don't think I can stress enough how sexy I think it must be that I'm a worker-outer. Also, and I want to be very, very clear here: sex is excellent and hot and I don't get to have it very often, so maybe we could mostly send dirty emails to each other and then skip the first date and just have some sex. Or I could pick up some low-fat yogurt or fat-free chips. (How do you feel about anal leakage?) Don't forget that I'm hot and that sex burns calories!"

"Favorite things: Hard bodies and soft hearts."

Translation: "I hope that you're a loving person. Loving sex, that is! (did you get that I am really horny? REALLY, TREMENDOUSLY horny!)"

I feel both very self-confident and also very self-controlled right now. And also right now I don't miss sex at ALL. I sure hope he finds that inhibition-free, size 2 aerobics instructor real soon. Don't give up, Mr. Manly Man -- she's out there!

Check me, I'm Ginger Friggin' Rogers!

Because I think I'll meet some guys there. That's why. (can't breathe. Laughing. too. hard...)

No, I can't REALLY make a direct argument for my decision to sign up for tap dancing class being "on mission." Well, I can SORT OF make an argument. It goes something like this:

1: I'm currently a chunky girl who is also so much out of shape
2: As we all know, chunky girls (people) don't deserve wove.
3: Tap dancing could un-chunk me a bit
4: If I were less chunky I could maybe deserve some wovin'.
5: And then I'd have to come up with something else to write about. (well crap.)

...ok, so let's forget the item number 5. But the other four -- they work, right?

I'd be lying if I said that was the driving force behind this decision. Really it's just this: I love to watch people tap dance. I love how it feels walking around in tap shoes. That click, click, click sounds cool, no matter what you're doing. You don't have to be really tappity-tapping. You can be trotting through the kitchen, or washing the toilet (gotta be somewhere w/out carpets of course) but that tippy-tappy sound is cool! (oh, and in case the people who own the tap shoes store read this blog, I was never actually cleaning the toilet while wearing the shoes. If the kitties tell you otherwise they're just being troublemakers. And, therefore, kitties.)

Tapping around in tap shoes is like playing pool or shuffling cards or ???. You don't have to be good at it to enjoy that satisfying rush when you make the right noise. (hmmm. Mayhaps I should add "or sex" to that list?) You can spend an hour slamming a white ball into all sorts of other balls and never once go into a pocket, and yet enjoy that sound each dang time. I know you can do this. I have often done this! (It's funny, but I can't seem to make this whole paragraph stop sounding dirty. I'm trying!)

But still I'm very excited about the first class, this Wednesday. I'll dress in my normal workout gear -- crappy sweat pants, crappy sports bra, awesome Atom.com t-shirt -- and I'll know not at all what I'm doing. But I'll make all the right noises!

Again: dirty.

THAT Guy. But not THAT guy.

The Guy I'm looking for is everywhere in this damn town. He's not this one specific guy -- I've not quite yet begun my fabulous hobby as dude-enthusiast/stalker. (Still waiting for my night goggles and tazer/net grenade gun to arrive.) He's all these guys that you see out in the world that strikes the "mmm. like that." chord. The Guy you see walking down the street or in his yard or somewhere who is, just for that moment in time, exhibiting something that makes him irresistible. I’m talking like:

The Guy sitting at a coffee shop outside table, reading the paper and enjoying the nice weather on a sunny Saturday morning. He's saying "yeah, I'm relaxed. I can take the time to enjoy a cuppa joe and some news o' the day." plus he's lookin' smarty-smart! Ooh! A reader!

The Guy sitting in his car in the lane next to mine, and he's SINGIN' HIS HEART OUT! Singing with the radio, just lettin' it rip! Plus bonus: same radio station that I'm listening to. This is a guy who gives not el crappo de uno about what anyone else thinks of him. He wants to sing? He’s gonna sing! "Embarrassed" is not a color in his paint box, let alone "shy." Add to that the stellar taste in music and we're talking dude-gold!

The Guy at the gas station who overheard someone in line saying they were short a buck for the gas they'd already pumped, and who beat me to the punch as he pulled buckage from his pocket to help out. Generous, empathetic, plus also FAST! I mean I was really goin' for it and his cash was on the counter before I had my money clip free of my trusty denim stronghold! (um, dirty?)


I also see The Guy I don't want everywhere I look. He's even easier to identify because OH MY GOD! He's the guy where you see him, you shudder, and then you want to find the parent responsible for raising such an OhMyGodity. Find them and greet them with a firm-but-classic "What the hell were you thinking?!?!" plus bonus whack upside the head. Who am I talking about? Oh, you SO know! Frinstances:

The Guy who, as he tromps past you down the sidewalk, all sweaty and bleah, fires a nose-rocket. A jet-propelled booger. A super-sonic snot-shot. Right at your feet! He’s so very, very classy and also super-sexy that I might swoon, except that I don't want to faint into his booger puddle.

The Guy standing on an average street corner (not the problem) with more then average tummy (still not actually the problem) who helpfully lifts up his shirt (not necessarily problem, unless followed by...) and gives his belly a long, enthusiastic scritch, scritch, scraaaaatch, scratch, scratch. Oooh, it feels so good -- you can see it on his face. His big, oblivious-to-the-grossness-of-watching-someone-tummy-scratch face! (shudder, shudder, SHUH-DDERR!!)

The Guy sitting in his un-muffled muscle car (because someone told some guy once that what really impresses the chicks is if your care is louder then a speeding train. Hot!) in the left-turn lane, waiting for the person in the car in front of him to make that heart-stopping leap between oncoming cars to complete their turn. The Guy who (in an effort to be helpful and encourage a safe and smooth transition for everyone involved) kindly lays on the horn while simultaneously (because he’s a multi-tasker) screaming 6 or 4 skillion nasty and also foul-mouthed suggestions about what they could do with their head/brains/ass and/or genitalia, since they’re obviously too stupid to come up with these ideas on their own. Or make a left turn. But you have to feel for This Guy, because he’s probably late to get home and kick his dog or kid or wife.

It just shows that it’s not just about finding a Guy, it’s about finding The Guy. And not The Other Guy.

Only real requirement: be a woman. Check and check!

Last night I went back for my second experience w/ the Woman's Group. Now, did you guys notice just how funky that reads? It's not me, right? The Woman's Group. ooooOOOOhhhh! Yeah, this thing definitely needs a nickname. We're going to call it the Babe Brigade! No, how about Uterus Union! Oh, I know: The Estrogen Experience! (woah, that last one sounds like a name for an all-female Pink Floyd cover band and lazer light show!) OK, so the name needs a little thinking. For this post we'll just call it the WG, so you'll know what the heck I'm talking about without me having to type out the Woman's Group each time. And therefore feel goofy.

ANYWAY, the meeting for me started off a wee pinch rough because I was late. Something that folks should get used to when they know me. I'm not someone who can make "punctual" a high priority, because I always miss-gauge how long it will take me to do something. And so, when I got there the building in which the meetings happen (a cool, futuristic looking office building made of black metal and dark glass which is kind of the Deathstar of office buildings in our small hamlet) was all locked up! They were up there, on the 4th floor, having a lovely meeting of like minds and I was like minded and wanted to meet, but I could not get there.

But I remembered what the rule was: if you're late, call! So I called the magic number that I thought was key and it rang, and rang, and rang... ring... ring... aaaaaand message. Dang. Message, which means one of three things:

1) I've mis-remembered what number to call if I'm late.
2) The person who's number this is decided not to come to tonight's meeting.
3) Turns out they hate me, so they see I'm calling and they all gather around the cell phone and say things like "oh ugh, not her -- let's not answer! Tee hee, giggle and twitter, aren't we a fabulous flashback to insecure highschool!" and then they talk about fashion and boys and fashion and thank their lucky stars that I'm always, always late.

In case it was reason #1 I was lucky that where I work is 2 buildings down from the Deathstar, so I walked down, turned on the computer and logged on and all the other copious amounts of security crap involved in just using the computer, and I went to their website and checked the number on the website aaaaaaaand... it's the same one that I called before. Sigh.

So I walked back to the Deathstar to see if anyone was standing by the door wondering where oh where had I gone, since they'd come a-runnin' all the way down the stairs (because the sense of urgency of wanting me to join their meeting made the elevator too, too slow!) just for me. Finding the door still locked I called the magic number again -- message -- and again -- message -- and again, and seriously would someone be on the other end of this line? If I squint can I see up to the meeting room? Are they staring and pointing and laughing? I made one last try (I'd not been leaving messages beyond the first one, by the way -- didn't want to seem desperate. HA!!) and was going to leave message #2 to say "hey, nevermind. I'm heading out and I'll try again next week." and low and behold there was life on the other end!

Turns out it was option #4: "I had totally forgotten you were coming tonight and had turned my phone on vibrate." I didn't feel at all like a doofus with all the calling. And I'm sure the 16 calls listed on her phone made me seem very confident and self-assure. They'll probably vote me queen of WG next.

But once I made it into the building things went much more smoothly. There were some familiar faces and some new ones and everyone was, once again, cool and cashz (how the hell do you spell "cashz" like short for casual?!?! clearly a word never meant to be put down in letters.) and excellent. Certainly if I were judging these evenings just on the people there I'd be sold on coming for always and for true!

But what I noticed is that the topics once again focused ever so much on relationship stuff. Last time it was "intimate relationships" and this time it was "communication." Not that these things are exclusively for romantic relationships, but they tend to lend themselves to those situations, especially in the WG. I just feel kind of like a fraud or like I'm wasting their time since these things don't much apply to me. I can't really spit out brilliant contributions since I am neither involved in these, nor do I have much in the way of experience to draw from. That would be like getting parenting advice from George Clooney. (which I'd do, just to have a reason to sit and watch his lips move. Sure hope I didn't just type that out loud...)

Yeah, I'd about decided that this might not be the right place for me when someone mentioned that they were talking to Habitat for Humanity about doing a project there. And someone else (or gosh, was it maybe even the same lady?) then mentioned that they'd like to do something about finances or budgets, etc., as a topic for a future month. Now we're talking! Maybe, I realized, I'm just starting during a month where the focus is oh-so much on "how to get your guy to make you as happy as does your dog!", but that the future could hold other themes where I COULD contribute! So I'm gonna keep doing this, at least for the foreseeable future. Or until they finally find out that I'm the most single woman ever, ever, ever and suggest I find a "singlest women ever, ever, ever group." (or SWEEEG.)

In the meantime, I made a KILLER name sign!

Thanks, Dad! Thanks a bunch!

So, today is Father's Day. Me, I love my Dad. I do. Heck, many people would probably characterize me as a Daddy's Girl, in that I have many things in common w/ Dad and also I idolize him (and Mom too, but we're talking about Dad right now) far beyond any rational or reasonable expectation. What I'm saying here is that I'm a big Dad Fan.

And yet I blame him for much of my trouble w/ "finding wove." Because, you see, I grew up figuring that guys were generally like my Dad, and they are SO NOT. My Dad is extremely unique in the world of men, and while that was excellent growing up and is excellent for my Mom and all that, it really confused the guy question for me. I mean, how can you hope to find a guy just like dear old Dad when dear old Dad isn't like pretty much any other guys? For example...

My Dad doesn't do sports, except for car sports. He's not what you would call competitive, and definitely not sporty competitive. My Dad has never been one for the mean funny, or "I was just messing with him" humor or any kind of digit-pulling or arm punching. The only fight my Dad has ever been in was when a dude in his office sucker-punched him for being a damned hippy peace freak -- it was the 60's -- and my Dad didn't even punch back. Dad likes musicals and listens to James Taylor and Annie Lennox (among bunches of others.) He whistles like he's been concert-trained, saves spiders caught in the house, likes cats but not dogs (nothing evil but just not a dog person)...

Dad and I mutually love Looney Tunes cartoons, comic books, Stephen Sondheim, watching NASCAR, Lost and Boston Legal, going to the zoo, eating bagels and ice cream (but SO not at the same time!) and stand-up comedy. We mutually don't get why so many guys prefer to be crapweasels and then apologize to just not being crapweasels in the first place, or why someone would find it funny to screw with a friend (I'm talking to you, Ashton Kutcher) or necessary to punch a rival.

It's not that men like my Dad don't exist -- they do. They're my uncles and my cousins and someday my nephews. Oh, and they're off limits. (I know you already knew that, but I wanted to make sure that you knew that I know that they're off limits, ya know?) So the good news is that I've been surrounded my whole life by these tremendously cool guys who are kind of exactly what many woman say they're looking for, and the bad news is that they've spoiled me for all the crappy men who are out there looking for dates. So I say to my father thank you! And also curse you (and I shake my fist at the sky.) And thanks to my Mom for finding him in the first place. And, of course, happy Father's day.

Heart of Stone Meets Junebug the Wonder Kitty

OK, so as many of you know I lost a Granny a month+ ago. She was a good Granny -- a great one in fact. Oh heck, I'll say it: she was the very bestest Granny that ever was, and I know this because so many people for whom she wasn't actually a Granny still claimed her as their own. And when I say I lost her I don't mean "hey, has anyone seen Granny? I put her down right here to go get a pen but when I came back she wasn't here?" I mean the kind where she's mourned by folks and people find it sad and someday we'll get a container of ashes from the medical people and have to decide where she'd want to be sprinkled.

We had a little family memorial on Mother's Day weekend and at that event many people cried. Some really let those waterworks flow, and some got teary but subtley and some barely cried but if they tried to talk you could hear their voice get crackly. One of the folks in that final category was my Dad - son of Granny. My Dad is like most Dads -- he doesn't cry. Like never. I think I've heard him get crackly twice ever before, and I've known him a long time! So I make note of when his voice cracks and it cracked that day. But I didn't cry.

We had a much bigger, official memorial for her a couple of weeks ago and people came from far and wide. There were eloquent speaches and readings and people sharing memories and the crowd was packed with smiling faces that were soaked. We had this cool slideshow running on a laptop with 100 shots from throughout Granny's life which also sent people colliding from laughter to tears and back again. Dad made it through almost all of his amazing Eulogy/tribute without crackling, though his one tiny break towards the end broke down many of the tear-walls of the folks listening. The Queen set a new rule, effective immediately -- nobody else dies as long as she's pregnant! I didn't cry.

Don't get me wrong, because I do miss Granny tons and tons. I just am not sad at her passing. Granny, she was super-old (and kudos to her for that!), she had an amazing life and at the end it all was so very terrible that her passing was a huge relief to everyone, including her. But it's more then that. It's also that I just don't cry. As a rule I just don't cry. The people who've seen me puddle up, let alone really let loose, number on 2 hands I think. It's not that I'm opposed to crying, but I just don't do it. Hence the nickname Heart of Stone. It's just one of my things. The one big exception: critters. I love me critters! Cats, dogs, rodents, bugs, reptiles, you name it and I love 'em. I'm one of these people who would have a house full of animals if it weren't for the fact that those people are pretty much always crazy. The spot in my heart that is the softest is the one for critters and the like. And so enter Junebug.

Junebug is this stray cat that adopted our office here about a week ago. She's a long-haired kitty (which normally I'm not as in to) and at least some siamese (also not my breed of preference) and her big, blue eyes are ever so slightly crossed. And she's lovely and friendly and a talker and oh so sweet that I've lost a filling and two crowns since she arrived. Once it became clear that she was someone's pet who was someone's pet no more (I can only hope that they died, because otherwise they just abandoned her and they, therefore, sucksucksucksuckSUCKsuckSUCKITYSUCKSUCK!!!) I fed her and gave her water and I've been trying to find her a home.

And I've been crying.

It just breaks my heart when these little balls of love and devotion and affection are completely abandoned by those they put their faith in! And they can't ever understand that they were just unfortunate enough to put their faith in bad people -- they just know that they're lost and nobody is loving them anymore. Even though they loved unconditionally, as only the animal kingdome really can. Every day when I get into my car and leave her sitting at the back door, watching me leave her again, it breaks my heart all over again.

Who knows, maybe this is the universe giving me something to feel about just in case there's left over Granny stuff that I'm bottling. I don't feel like I'm bottling about Granny, and I'm not a person who believes in God per se. But I like how the universe sometimes comes along and slips in things that you need because we big, dumb people all too often get in our own way. So if this is Granny giving me something to invest in so that I can do whatever other mourning I need to do that's ok with me. I know that Granny would have loved and worked for this kitty just like I am. She was classy like that too.

Anybody want a sweet kitty?

EDITED AT 3:45pm TO ADD:

Junebug has a home! A woman from an office upstairs just coaxed her into a cat carrier and took her home to love her and squeeze her and call her..., well, probably not George, but probably not Junebug either. Let's hear it for happy endings, people!!

Feeling really good about that new Yenta.com subscription...

As I promised, I took some time to look around and see if there are any new faces at Yenta.com.

There aren't.

There are some new guys, but they are of the faceless variety. However they do have some very strange ideas of how to promote their faceless selves through their words. Here, for your entertainment and enjoyment, are some tragic and baffling examples of headlines that picture-free guys are using to woo women to their faceless glory (and I've pasted them all exactly as shown in their faceless profiles):


"Why describ it, that would spoil the surprize. Call and find out" This is right up there with "taste it, then I'll tell you what it is." or "pull my finger." Anybody foolish enough to take that one step further deserves the bank-robbing rock band drummer with phantom face and "eats his own poop" breath. Who lives with his mom. And shoots his boogers. And believes the government is out to poison his toothpaste and deodorant... and now I'm showering...

"New in town and kind of bored." So let me get this straight: you're advertising both that you're friendless and also that you're unable to entertain even yourself. Man, I am so hot right now that the M&M's in my pocket are now candy-coated soup!

"Looking for an honest loyal woman who knows how to relax and enjoy life" This sounds to me like a new and fabulous way of saying "I have been screwed over by high-strung women who were lying whores. But now I'm ready to love you." It's hard to believe that this hot catch is still on the market, people.

"quiker, stronger better looking..." but not much of a speler.

"Man who is depressed wants to live again and may have more to offer than is aware of." But no pressure. Even though if you don't love me and make me feel better about myself I will probably drink a bleach/Comet/Jaegermeister cocktail. (and die, by the way.)

"Entropy is the golden rule in life for me." Truly I have no response to that. But maybe it's best that there is no picture here?

"Your mom goes to college." YOUR Mom goes to college!

"love you" Even though we haven't met and I don't trust you enough to share my face with you. Now please loan me some money and/or let me move in.

"Zen Sensualist Embracing the Body Electric" I gotcher body electric right here, baby!

"I want to pick ticks off of you." We have a winner! Candid, straight to the point and no nonsense. All good traits. Plus knows how to handle a wooden match, I would guess! (Oh crap, I think I need to shower again. But first -- heebie jeebie dance. Seriously. SO many heebies and also jeebies...) Can you believe that I have not yet found Twue Wove?

Can I ruin perfection? Yes I Can!

Where the hell have I been, right? Well I will TELL you where I have been! I went to the top of the world, people!

The Royal Couple and I took a road trip to the big city to catch (wait for it...)

THE POLICE LIVE IN CONCERT!

Oh it was so very, very Fantabulorousorific there are no words! (welll now there's that new one, but up until right before now there were totally no words.) We jumped in the Royalmobile, dropped off Princess Stinkbutt with the Queen Mom (The King's mom) for the night and headed hours away to the big city where big things happen and big people come to make a big noise.

Now seeing The Police live is guaranteed magic. the worst you can do with that is still better then a million other things you could do. There was no worry that the time beholding The Police would be anything less then the greatest 4 hours of history. but it was so much more then that because the entire 2 day adventure was perfect! You know how you plan some cool adventure and you think secretly to yourself "what things in this plan might go kablooey, and which would I prefer and how could I handle it and, and, and...", right? Sure, I did this. Turns out that was all for naught!

NOTHING WENT WRONG. NOTHING. N-O-T-H-I-N-G! The drive was smooth, the hotel was classic, we killed time as we'd planned to and had yummy burgers for dinner as planned and after all that we went to see the M'ing-F'ing POH-LEESE! LIVE! IN CONCERT! And we got sleep and had breakfast and drove home and that all went super-good... AND I got to take 2 days off of work. AND I got to purchase an excellent Police t-shirt. AND I got home with enough time left in the day to relax and reflect on the excellent 2 day adventure.

So then you know what I did? Oh, it's very excellent too. Once this fantabulorousorific 2-day slice of heaven was over I spent the next 2 days in a massive, stymying funk. Sat on the couch with the blues. Did not a thing because I was way too bummed to do anything. I Was SAD. And I was lame. And I was sad because I was being so very, very lame.

I'm not going to explain how it is that such a good time could become such lameness -- either you've experienced a similar lamiosity (lameness, lamestence, lameish, etc.) and you get it or you're a better person then I and you'd never, ever understand it even if I tried to explain. The good news is that a combination of The Tonys, girl's night of sushi and one dark chocolate truffle that I ate all by my gluttoness self did the trick and I'm off the couch. I'm thinking of the next cool thing I can do. I'm winking and taking pictures and figuring out what I want to be when I grow up (shut it!) and writing this mindless drivel for you, my chosen few who like me even though I've found a new level of lame that snails and weeds and toe-jam will be saddened by. Bless you for your questionable standards!

So watch this space for more stuff. And if you get the chance to see one of your most cherished bands live in concert? DO IT.

Cast of Characters

Who the heck are the other people/places and possibly (eventually) things in this blog? I will update this list as promptly as I can throughout the life of this blog. Here ya go!:

• The Englishman (or T.E. for short) - my steady guy, my special friend, the first person I've been able to fall in love with in over 13 years.  He's younger than me.  No, seriously, much younger.  Younger than that.  Even younger.  Are you getting nervous?  Then you're just about right.  But despite our age difference and the fact that he lives in the UK (oh yeah, did I mention that?  He does.  8 hour time difference.  Awesome) we're completely in love and making the best of it every single day.
• The 'Rents - my parents, who always happen to rock. No, seriously. They rock more then parents are supposed to, which has been a little funny growing up, but I've since learned to accept that my parents are too cool and will always be strangely thus. It's the cross I must bear...
• The Queen - best chum and mother to Princess Stinkbutt, who serves as both excellent sounding board and also example of how to do this life thing pretty darn well.
• The King - married to The Queen, another best chum and father to Princess Stinkbutt (anybody else feel a little uncomfortable that at this writing I've apparently never waxed poetic about my love for The King? Awkward...)
• Princess Stinkbutt - heir to the best chum throne and cute as, say, a button or possibly a teeny, tiny mouse who squeaks and drives a wind-up car or boat. Just that cute.
• (together they are The Royal Family)
• Risky - yet another best chum, plus also sister to The King and aunt to the Princess. She insists on being good at an absurd number of things. I believe next on her list of things to be good at is either flying or making gold from cheese.
• Lulu - my sweet girl kitty, all calicoish and SO bossy! She's like me in that way.
• Mr. Man - my boy kitty, coming into his kitty manhood and a BIG fan of sleeping. He's like me in that way.
• Hippyville - The funky little town where I live.
• Beautiful Dreamer - a co-worker/friend who is also online dating, but to much more success. If you define success as meeting far more men, and therefore going on very crazy-seeming dates. Which I'm thinking is how most people would define it.
• WWIT-Dude - The one serious relationship I can claim to have had. It was generally crappy and he was generally flawed in some very human ways, but this is where any and all relationship lessons I've learned came from.
• Wove.com - the first relationship website I tried. It's the kind where you create a "profile" which knows your inner you and therefore knows who/what you need in a partner and promises to find you that partner. They lied.
• Yenta.com - the second relationship website I've tried. It's more of a dating site, where you make a much simpler profile and then you wander through the aisles of possible mates and pick out ones you like. And they then ignore you. While you ignore the ones who like you, but which you're not interested in. I'm expecting Mr. Right any second now.

Sleepy Blogging = Forget to Title...

Hey there. It's me. I know I don't look familiar because it's been SO LONG since we've been together. Would that I had a tremendous and also excellent excuse too, but the best I could do was "my cat was being super-annoying so I took a nap instead."

I have such dedication to my craft.

So tonight I went to this woman's group meeting. I'd been hearing about this group of women from a recently acquired new friend (I ordered her from this fabulous discount friends website. Shipping free!) and I'd toyed with the idea of checking it out. Tonight I stopped toying!

I'd kind of created this mental image of what this would be like which I realize now was far too informed by television: A big conference room of powerful looking women in power suits talking on iPhones and Blackberries and movering and shakering all over the place! (No, my new friend never said any of this stuff. I think the entire fantasy bloomed from the fact that some of the women in this group have helped on this other blogging project and it made them seem all diverse and professional. And diverse and professional just automatically translates to power suits and iPhones. I was also surprised that none of them were being played by Heather Locklear.)

I get there and it's this very cool conference room with this very cool view of this VERY cool sunset. And in the conference room are about 7 women all in similar age ranges to me (mid twenties to late thirties, but I'm just guessing and if any of those women ever find this website I want to go on record that I SUCK at guessing ages! You all looked 29 and virginal! Unless you'd rather have looked 32 and worldly! I can go either way!) and dressed like me -- cool and comfy. None of the suits worn had powers beyond ultimate snuggliness. So now I'm feeling like maybe I could mesh w/ these folks.

The topic at hand, as luck would have it, was "intimate relationships" and I rocked my being wise and eloquent. I threw out some of the following deep concepts:

"you're totally right, right up until it turns out you're wrong."

"A relationship w/out intimacy is like exposing a role of film -- don't mourn the pictures, because you never had them."

"pull my finger."

...that last one I might have heard somewhere else. But one thing's for sure -- I was trying to be as awesome and together and wise and generous (with my copious wisdom) as I could possibly be.

Never mind that I haven't had an intimate relationship with a dude (other then relatives and charming homos whom I love but gave up on romantically when they married that other dude) in over 10 years.
Never mind that I've been so celebate in the last decade that the entire area has closed up and is scheduled to be torn down so as to put in a Starbucks.
Never mind that up until a few weeks ago I thought I'd lost even the power to be crushy on someone.
Let's just focus on how wise is me.

So I felt a little bit dishonest, but I rationalized it thusly: nobody ever asked me "what's your love life been like?" and if they had asked I would have told them the whole skinny. Heck, it's so much fun watching people's eyes slingshot out of their faces when they hear about my sex life (or sex lack-of-life) that I can't resist telling. I tell strangers on the bus -- a bunch of women sitting around talking about intimate relationships is almost too easy. And yet they did not ask and I did not tell.

I'm gonna go back the next possible Tuesday and try this woman's group again. It was fun, they were cool and I have Tuesdays free, so what's not to like? I have this funny idea that I'll keep going and making a name for myself by sounding all smartsy and such, and then weeks down the road someone will finally, finally ask and I'll spill my figurative guts. And right after that they'll spill my physical guts. So I gotta make the in between smartsy really count!