Oops, hang on a sec… Dropped my lathe on my foot there, buddy. Ouch. Horizontal axis rotating tools are surely a danger! Ask Lukey. I bet he knows…

There are bits and pieces and portions and parts of my life that I’ve not yet written down here on my “digital journal.” Years and months and ages of pages of me are omitted. No, not because of any lesser significance. Merely because I’m older now, more prone to the release of several measures of youth. Measures that I need to recall, but measures that goeth before my fall. I fell alot, y’all. And took prisoners along my descent. It’s just that I’m so far removed from that era, I forget so easily. I just don’t recognize that Dee anymore. But still-it behooves me to recall, if nothing more than a method by which to keep myself firmly planted in the garden of sense and rooted in the land of justice. Here we go kiddies…

Barb. 1995. What an eff-fest THAT was. I was a carbon-copy of a fiasco, those days.

Then came (anonymous). I saw her at the ball field and there/then was the beginning of my undoing. Schemed, planned, cavorted and manipulated my way to a first date. I tripped and fell into her without once looking ahead. Without ever looking back. Down the rabbit hole, Alice.

It’s been more than a decade since I’ve really put my mind to analysis about those days. But as I press and prod my brain to recall, it all comes readily back to my frontal lobe.

This is another one of those: ‘to be continued posts.’

Bummer. But I’m really weary this week.

I’m feeling beat down a bit and I very much miss my girl in Pa.

Nevertheless, I’ll continue this story. Probably tomorrow, since I have an entire glorious day to enjoy football and my narcissistic self. I have much to say on this very topic. No, silly. Not narcissism, Deeiscoolism!

See y’all then.

Ok, so I didn’t quite fit myself or my words into the aforementioned timetable. I must have needed to sleep because I missed a couple of other engagements too. Oh well. C’est la vie. The story WILL get told. (Without any persuasion from any peanut gallery attendees, either. Ahem!) No worries, I don’t often look backward with disdain. Only “aha” moments and life lessons. Except for that one time during a thunderstorm…

Yeah.

My head, like my bed is empty right now. I’m afraid that I must have let go of my, ‘WOW.’

I used to have game, y’all. Really I did. Not so much today, it’s come to the skids.

My weight that has gained, caused romance to wane. It sucks but it’s true, us women pursue…

…We want so much to look like this girl or that. We peer into mirrors and think that we’re fat.

Women are gifted, but I forget this at times. I get trapped by the notion, and the;  “size two”  head crimes.

I’m going so soon, to the land of Ohio. The girls haven’t seen me since I was sooo fly-o.

It’s all good. I’ve warned all my ladies. It’s my humor they seek, or so they’ve told all my maties.

Not such a pirate these days of dog summer, but I’m getting back on my track so it’s not such a bummer.

I’ll chuckle and snicker and make light of the scale, but inside I’ll fret over my mirror’s inner whale.

My bed lies still empty-I guess it’s ok. I doubt that I’d want you beside me today.

I’d roll over to find that you’re still not here. I’ll snuggle instead with my overweight fear.

My bed, like my head, is empty this night. But my faith in Slim-Fast makes everything allright.

G’night all you ladies who harbor self doubt. I’ll take your false mirrors and toss ’em about.

Erkel wants some fucking notoriety.

Shocking? Oh no, not all. Soooo predictable.

Why? Like it matters what I say or don’t say here?
Guess to her, it does.
She’s a self-absorbed, insecure, girly-girl.

Which is EXACTLY why we’ll never rendezvous.
Way too needy, way too whiny and definitely way too princess-ish.

My throne ain’t no where big enough for the both of us.

She’s hot enough, sure. But I’d spend way too many life-tokens chasing her down.

And I need all the tokens I can hoard in order to rope the future ex Mrs. One-Night-Stand-Fortin.

Comprende?

Maybe I’ll catch up with you one day in the CVS hair care products aisle. You’ll no doubt be looking for the bigger and badder brush and I’ll no doubt be smirking.

Is lesboscope a word? Hell no!

But it’s what I call the feeling I get when socializing with my peeps. Under the lesboscope.

Take last weekend, for example.
Me and some friends had been planning to meet up at a neutral location. Neutral because it’s a gay hot-spot and there would be a mixed crowd in attendance. Mixed in the sense of straight and gay people.
I’m assuming that the significant others of the wives had less of an issue with them going out to a perceived innocuous building complete with men who have no interest in girls. But what do I know? I’ll never have a husband to ask and I’m not a husband.

It would be the first time that I’d seen my pal in months. I wanted to go for that reason and because I like those bank girls. They’re all rather amusing in the way they interact with each other. And they’re comic relief for my days without hilarity. I love to laugh. Especially at the goofy antics of others. Gives me a break, for once.

I’m just not very social anymore. Whether it’s because I’ve given up and let go those days of bar-flying or not, I just can’t find my niche in a crowd. I like to stay home and get to bed on time. There’s no baby-momma-drama, ever.
No fights or arguments with my spider, either. She doesn’t ask where I’ve been or whom I saw or interrogate me in the least.
It feels comfy to me, this way of being. Like a zid-zid or lambie sheets or (Insert your comfort item here).

But my sister convinced me that I should go out and have fun on that night.

I decided at 10:00 pm, not to. It was storming, I was sleepy and honestly didn’t feel like driving. Being scrutinized by girls and lost in the drag bar amid the smoke and noise and alcohol? Nope, no thanks.

Then my phone rang. 11:00 pm. It was this new pal of mine who asked where the Hell I was.
(Groan) I HATE having integrity and honor to my word sometimes. Especially when it matters less to others and more to me.

I did go. Obviously, or else the story woulda ended above.

It wasn’t 10 minutes into my evening before my pal’s new g/f was chattin’ me up. She asked me to hold her drink as she bought a couple of liquid libations in the shape of a test tube. She hands one off to me. I think it’s cuz she wants me to hold BOTH of her drinks, so I comply. Then I go to hand ’em back off to her so that my pals don’t think I’ve suddenly plummeted off the edge into that dark abyss of double-fisted drink slamming.
She says, “No, that’s for you.”
I say, “No, it really isn’t. I’m driving.”

That encounter began an evening of chaos. By 12:30 there had already been 3 strangers who approached another friend and claimed to know that, because of my presence, so-and-so was jealous and had thusly dumped my pal.

If there had been a camera present, you’d have seen my eyes roll back in my head.

It was awkward all the way around for me.
I left shortly after with my head spinning from ideas and thoughts. Thoughts about lesboscopes.
Why do women in their 40’s still participate in this petty-assed behaviour?
Did they not get their fill in their 20’s?
I sure as Hell did.

And why can’t a group of women/men all hang out together without this one getting jealous or that one feeling ignored? Why?
I’ve been down that jealous road. Yup, sure have. The difference is, I grew up.
These folks haven’t. They’re STILL acting and hence living, like 20 year olds.

Not my bag, not my cup o’ tea.
I’m almost 41 now and I embrace my drama free, albeit somewhat scarce, existence.

After I arrived home, I greeted my spider and lay my head down on my pillow. I was happy. Contented.
I felt relieved to understand that I’m not part of that crew anymore. I’ve been gifted the 3D glasses that allow me to have a 20x view at life under the lesboscope.

I gave thanks on the very same night that my pal was driving home in angst.
And what a relief it was.

I have enough shit to worry about already.

Like, when’s dinner and where?

Hey Erkel!
Get your ass back to work instead of wasting company resources.
Maybe go to the bathroom and practice giving the toilet a lap dance?
Lord knows, you need the practice.

Ever been to South Beach?

I’ve been there twice for (alleged) pleasure this year.
The first was for the Food and Wine festival.
The tickets to view all things Alton had me thrilled.
And I did draw pleasure from that excursion.
Went with my friend AB, who was near and dear.

We planned to go back to South Beach.
This time for a festival called Aquagirl.
I bought my ticket, hers was a gift from an old flame.
SoBe it. Ha. Pun intended.
Off we go…

Me driving for 6 hours with my failing a/c.
She texting and yakking to her girlfriend of 3 weeks.

The weekend was about being a good samaritan. I get that now.
I assisted with a couple of intoxicated women, one destitute Colombian and one crazy friend.

The first night was fine. I had a good time helping my pal help her friend.
We ate breakfast at 8am after an all-nighter with no sleep.
She helped me figure out a problem I was having with a staff member and she fed me Cuban toast and eggs.
The sure-fire cure for whatever ails me.

But then the weekend plummeted and spiraled out of control.
My dear friend decided to choose the new and exciting over the old and familiar.
That’s when all broke loose out of Hell.

She split. Sayanara. Hasta la vista. Ciao. Au revoir.
Left. No word. No notice. No kiss my ass. No fuck you.

Oh the joys of friendships.

Now?

Well she still hasn’t phoned to see if I’m dead. It’s been a week, but who’s counting?

Wait. I must tell you that she DID send me a couple of email forwards.
You know, the kind I can rarely open due to my dial-up predicament?
Yeah. Forwards. Large attachments and such.
I asked her to remove me from that list.

Her response?

She asked me to remove her from her life due to my ignorance.
Wow. My ignorance.

I guess she’s right.
I must be ignorant to think my friends wouldn’t trash a 7 year friendship over a 3 week tryst.
Do I have to remind her that it took 2 years of her pleas just to get me to talk to her again?
And talk to her, I did. Because we all forgive eventually.

Not this time.
This time I’m gonna be smart and realize that if a chance for a facade arises in my friends, they’ll screw me.
And not in a good way, either.

Remember this AB, you were the one who trashed it.
The second time’s a charm, no?

No more charms for this idiot.

I had an interesting discussion with my friend yesterday.
Nothing new, really. We have the same conversation often. Me vs. her. Her ideas regarding the love of her lives. And mine.
Yup. I said lives. Because I believe we’ve been here before.
Alas, this isn’t an entry about reincarnation, though.
I’m anti-girlfriend. She’s not. She’s pro-ho.
Ha. I’m being sarcastic. She doesn’t REALLY refer to women in that vernacular.
I do.
But hey, you’ve been here before, so you already know that I’m a crude ass.
“Dee,” she asks, “Don’t you want to fall in love?”
I’m a smart woman, yet I still doubt the true weight of that question.
How the fuck would I know? What does that mean?
Does it mean that I’m outrageously jealous of any encroachment on my perceived property? Does it mean that I’d not put my hands in a passionate way on another? Does it mean that I’d force co-habitation and U-Haul rentals?
That’s what it DID mean. I thought that relationships meant that I’d have to live and love and touch and dream and walk and fall and trip and adore and be saddled with only ONE woman.
Does that sound appetizing to you?
I’d much rather have a ho to row than a row to hoe.
Wouldn’t you? Maybe not.
I failed each and every time I tried to seriously partner-up.
Until about 6 years ago.
I’d had it with freakin’ relationships. I just couldn’t do them right. I’d been slapped and kicked and pushed and plummeted over the edge.
A light finally lit up over my pea brain. Oh, to have 20/20 foresight.
Dee, I said. You don’t want a relationship, do you? Do you really want to fu** the same woman for the rest of your life? HELL NO!
Do you want to eat the same pizza every damn day for all eternity?
Nope. I don’t.
Here’s what I want: Many different experiences with many different people. Not to say that I myself, am a promiscuous ho. I’m not. Hey, I have standards, somewhere. I think. Ha. There’s not been a romantic visitor to my house for almost a whole year! AND, not just ‘cuz my laundry is in the living room, either.
I leave a lot. My suitcase barely has time to cool before I’m off again. Not simply because of my past, but because it’s my job. I gotta go. It’ll be my future, too.
I don’t want to miss anyone. Not you, not him, not her, not it.
I wanna be missed. It feels better, safer.
I don’t want a relationship with anyone other than my sister, my nieces, my friends, my co-workers, my family of choice, some dogs, cats, spiders and various other creatures. I don’t want any girl to pack up her tooth brush and an overnight bag Hell-bent on my house. Can’t do it.
Don’t want it.
Why?
Ask Ana. She’ll try to convince you that there’s: “Someone meant for you out there.”
But don’t listen. The: “Someone out there for me, is me.”
I can’t do serious with girls. I don’t even wanna try.
It’s not in my genes. Either I’ll do this or you’ll do that and we’ll be miserable.
So please, please all you dreaming people, please, please stop trying to sway me over to your side of your opinions. I don’t share your convictions. And that’s OK.
I know better now. I know my strengths. I know my weaknesses.
I love women. They’re so hot and yummy. But I’ll take y’all one at a time and leave you the same way.
One
At
A
Time.

Tonight, as I was driving home, an SUV needed to get over. I let him. He waved. I waved back. Not all in Florida drive in reverse. Beeotch. I gave a shout-out to ya.

Yeah, kinda like Oreos, but better.
Got my annual shave today. Nope, not at the dog groomers as some might suggest. It was at my friendly neighborhood hair salon. Yuk. The words “hair salon” make me cringe and think of high heels and red lipstick. NOT that there’s anything wrong with that…just…not me. I walk in, and am instantly enamored by the estrogen compounds. Dizzy, even. (‘Cept for that one girl with the kitty tattoo maybe. Ha.)
Anyway, I digress. Back to the hair. Delilah stole my mojo today. I get home and finally look in the mirror. Holy shit! I’m friggin’ bald! Ok, not bald, but definitely lighter on the top. I’m certain that if just two more blondes had approached the spinny-chair, they could’ve talked me into a mohawk. Girls are like that. They’re fascinating, tantilizing, soft and yummy. I love girls. Wouldn’t wanna be here without ’em. And to you, the girls whom are sweeping this and shampooing that, I say thanks.
Especially to that one. You know, Jessica, who needs to stand up more. You’re still a cutie, despite your persuasions to the xy side of the petrie dish. You gals make my day. If only once in 365.
See y’all next year, when the knots in my hair get the best of me.