Guess what?
I saw on CNN the other day where you can order these dna kits online. They send you a swab for your spit and you send it back along with some cashola and depending on the amount you want to spend they’ll tell you all sorts of cool things about your genetic makeup.

I’m so stoked!

I get to actually find out my nationality? Holy crap. How huge is that? Geez. I’m so giddy that I just sounded like Rachael Freakin’ Ray.
I’m gonna do it, y’all.
I’m gonna send for the kit.
Who wants to know what country I should be promoting?
I do! I do!

To be so totally continued…

After I return from Hornby Island, that is.

(Wow. What if I’m like, Swahili or Shoshonee or Swedish, perhaps?)
Any guesses from my peanut gallery?

You’d think I’d stop writing about my hurts, wouldn’t you?
They seem so repetitive in my blog…

But yeah, I have yet another tale of woe that I must add to the thesaurus of this life Dee-able.

Dork-o’s outta here. Bitten by the love bug. A pest, in my opinion, but what do I know?
Bugs are bugs and people are people and girl on girl love is intense and emotional.

I’m gonna miss her. I’m gonna be lost and sad for a while indeterminable.
Despite my ribbing and jokes.

But like Lu says, be happy for her and just know that I’m gonna fill up the Dork-o void with someone else.
I hope it happens soon. I HATE to be sad.

We all wish her happiness and joy.
But I’m still thinking about myself, as always. And the emptiness I’m already starting to feel.

I’ll get on. I’ll get over. It’s the way this life was created.

But if the recipient on the Pennsylvania end screws her over?
I won’t be playing Mrs. Nice Guy for long.

There are some girls’ hearts you just can’t fuck with in MY world.

How do you go from allies to enemies in 4.5 minutes?

Here’s how…

(more…)

Answer it, quick.

2:38 was the last thing the window showed to me.
Two hours and thirty-eight minutes of one half a sec’.
She does that to me all the time. Makes my time go by in a wink and a blink and a nod.
Then she’s gone. Again. I wanna run so fast to catch up…but there’s no catching her.

She leaves me so she can carry on with her stuff. Her life and needs and wants and lists and weeds and mulch.
The stuff that matters the most to life itself.
God, I love that about her.

She carries on and carries everything on her own. Without me.
Cover your eyes and squish up your face when you read that I RELY on HER.
No really.
I do.
I rely on her strength that betrays her stature and her wisdom that disguises itself in her youth.
Her sense and joy and laughter fill me up with the substance of living this life.

I love her laugh.
I love it when I get to be the cause of it.
It makes me happy. So happy that I could skip down the street.
(I often skip at work just to prove to my staff that one cannot be sad or mean while skipping. Yes, I am an idiot.)
I skip inside my body every time I hear her, though.

I’d be skipping now if I weren’t typing this shit down.

We’ve missed alot of time, me and her.
But we’re getting it back two hours and thirty-eight minutes at a time.

And for that, I’ll answer my house phone any time, baby. But just for you.

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?