Jean-Pierre

I was on the phone with Ozma's brother, Jack, last night, and he mentioned his friend Jean-Pierre. Although they've been friends for years, and I could've run across Jean-Pierre at any time, I never have.

Jack has so many Jean-Pierre stories that I could write a best-seller based on them alone. But the problem is that the way Jack tells them, they're hysterical. I don't know if I could do them justice. Perhaps I should simply finance his taping the stories, instead. Part of it is the wickedly funny French accent which Jack is able to do. You'll simply have to imagine it, I'm afraid. Think Inspector Clouseau.

Jean-Pierre prides himself on being a ladies' man. I should add that apparently his friends agree with this, but they still laugh about him. He's a good looking guy, very personable, who goes through women like a cold-sufferer goes through KleenEx.

When Jack first met him, Jean-Pierre's accent was much thicker and he was still struggling with the english language. Despite that, Jack was surprised to find that Jean-Pierre could pick up women anywhere. One of the earliest memories Jack has of Jean-Pierre was a shopping trip to Wal-Mart.

As Jack and Jean-Pierre were browsing, a drop-dead gorgeous blond wandered by. Jean-Pierre was somehow able to pull her into a conversation and soon she said, blushingly, "Here's my number. Do you want to get together sometime?"

"Surely!" said Jean-Pierre enthusiastically. "Do you whant to come up to mah plaize?"

The blond cooled off considerably after that. Later Jean-Pierre asked Jack "What? What deed I do? What es zee prooblem?"

"You might not want to ask a girl to come to your place right away," Jack said drily. "Try getting to know her first."

Apparently Jack's advice fell on deaf ears. And there are enough women who are willing to be arm-candy. Jean-Pierre will never be short on supply.

Bucs Fans Won't Get Searched: Yet

In an interesting column today, Sue Carlton points out that a recent ruling by a local judge is a victory for freedom and the Constitution. Bucs fans will not have to submit to a patdown to get into the stadium.

I have mixed feelings about this. It's not like we're going about, minding our own business, with the understanding that we'd be possibly submitted to sudden and random searches anywhere we go. No. Attending a Bucs event is to pay money to get in to see a privately-owned football team. That football team should be allowed to demand security measures, even if the city commission or the public at large doesn't agree.

I believe that every business should be able to put reasonable restrictions on their clientelle: No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service.

It's logical to assume that there could be a potential terrorist event in the stadium. It's logical to want to screen people who enter it. And if a nightclub can choose who can enter their premises, why is it wrong for a football team? If a customer doesn't like it, they don't have to attend!

On the other hand, the stadium is technically a public place. Do we wish to allow ourselves to be subject to searches in a public place? Any public place? Parks? Beaches? The interstate?

There is an appeal already in process. It will be interesting to see how a higher court will rule.

Mel Gibson: Racist

By now almost everyone has heard of Mel Gibson's vicious anti-semitic statements and opinions which have been repeated all over the world. He's now in rehab; not because he wants to, I'm sure, but because it's "the thing to do" when you get caught abusing a substance.

As we know, when he was stopped by the cops for drunk driving, Mel went off on a drunken tirade against "fucking Jews"; accused Jews of being responsible for all the wars in the world; and asked the arresting officer if he was Jewish.

Since then, Mel has offered up an apology, saying that he said things that he didn't believe while he was drunk.

Sure! That's it! It's the alcohol talking! Not.

Look, we all know that alcohol brings out the inner beast. When we've drunk too much, the thing that has only been lurking behind our eyes is emboldened enough to come out. For some of us, that thing is merely a pussycat. For others, it can be a monster.

Which one of us would start spouting anti-semitic rhetoric if we were drunk? It's not natural to spout off about something that we don't believe. For instance, if I got drunk tonight, you wouldn't hear me saying that Pamela Anderson is a virtuous woman. Well, actually I suppose you might, if I was feeling sufficiently sarcastic and her name came up. But Mel started spouting this stuff with no provocation, and there wasn't a hint of sarcasm or any other angle he can come up with to excuse this behavior away.

Mel Gibson is a racist. Disney/ABC just announced that they are cancelling his upcoming Holocaust miniseries. I think it's a wise move. It's time to get someone else in there to replace Mel. Someone with a better reputation. I suggest Pamela Anderson.

Movies: Lady in the Water, Miami Vice, Monster House

I saw Lady in the Water last week. I agree with a fellow blogger who wrote that it was a marvellous movie, geared toward intellectuals and dreamers more than the common crowd, and I am still wondering how so many movie critics panned it. Perhaps it simply wasn't sexy enough for them.

I saw Miami Vice over the weekend. Apparently others did too, since it took in $25.2 million. It sucked.

As the movie opened, the first thing I thought was "Wow! Hollywood's trying to bring back white trash hair!" Colin Farrell, who plays Sonny, was sporting the same 'do we see in trailer parks across the nation: down to the shoulders, slicked back into a gooey, spackled mess with hair gel. He also has grown out a mustache worthy of any white supremacist. Could someone else have pulled this look off? Maybe... But Colin Farrell sure couldn't!

Eventually he was placed with an unbelievable love interest. There was no chemistry between the characters, and her sudden transformation from ruthless business woman to a bashful sex kitten is simply silly.

I think there is more time devoted to boring sex scenes between the different characters than there is time devoted to the plot. Sure, sex is great! Sex sells! So then do something worthy of 9 1/2 Weeks! I was yawning in my popcorn.

The plot is also the basic drug plot. For me, that is the most boring theme anyone could work with. It's worse than mafia plotlines! Well, no, it couldn't be worse. But it sure wasn't good! The guy I was with wanted to see it for the fantastic cars. Those lasted for the first 5 minutes, and after that, nothing else impressive rolled across the screen.

Miami Vice is hardly memorable. If you want to go see a great movie, and you don't want to try Lady in the Water, go see Monster House. It's not just for kids, and you'll lose yourself in the movie. For some of us, that's the only reason we go.

So Hezbollah Wants Peace?

Hezbollah is crying uncle. I am not surprised. It's like the neighborhood bully who finally is getting the snot beaten out of him by a kid that he always thought he could pick on. Funny how they didn't want peace until they're losing.

"You start it, *I* finish it," my parents always warned me. That seems to be Israel's attitude right now. I wonder what they'll do? Will they take the high road and let the bully up off the pavement, or will they finish teaching him the manners that he's needed to be taught all these years?

The world awaits with baited breath.

"The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing." - Albert Einstein

Panhandling Perfected

The ex-boyfriend has been checking in with me periodically. He's been "clean" for about 2 weeks now, and although he continues to struggle with the addiction every day, he claims he's making headway.

Now, before you panic, let me say again that I am strong, there is no trust left, there is no chance of his moving back in with me, or of my helping him financially. However, I also had 6 years with this man, and I know him well. In the past, he's been my best friend. I don't throw people away. I do what I have to do to stay sane, however. That means that I do keep him at a necessary distance.

Anyway, my ex has a marvellous marketing background. He's engaging and winsome. Yup! All the makings of a great con artist (which he is). In his program, he mixes with people from all walks of life: doctors, lawyers, or derelicts. When they come to this place, they've all hit rock bottom.

One of the men in the program is a panhandler. He would stand at street corners with a handmade sign begging for money, saying he was out of work. One day he asked my ex what he was doing wrong. My ex said "If you want to really make some money, you need to change a few things. First, get rid of the fake leg brace and get something smaller. Clean yourself up a little bit, and use a razor. Just make sure that you scrape the razor up a bit so that you don't look entirely clean shaven. Most importantly, get a new sign and write "Need money for booze".

The panhandler did exactly as he was told. The next day he made three times what he normally made in a day.

See? It always pays to hire a marketing consultant.

Sexual Harassment at Tastee Twistee

I was reading about this topic in Deb's blog recently. I have experienced more than my share in the workplace, but I've never chosen to prosecute. (Life is short, time is sweet, and besides - there's no real money in it. Hey! I'm noble, but I'm not so noble that I have to clear the way for all my sisters out there. You're on your own. I'll support whatever you do, including kneecapping the jerk.)

I have a couple great stories, including the time that I was the only female executive in a male dominated company and still was expected to perform secretarial duties. Who knew that if you had a vagina you got to take phone messages and do light typing?

Anyway, this story happened when I was about 20 years old. Yeah, it was that long ago. :P

I was a perfume model for a large department store. This means that I had to look pretty and walk around extolling the virtues of whatever Cologne Of The Day we were promoting. I was at the front of the store when an entourage came strolling in.

The obvious leader of the entourage stopped when he saw me. I mean stopped, cold. The others grouped about him. He stared at me appraisingly and spoke in Spanish to a woman who translated for him. "He says that you may be exactly what he is looking for to promote his product," said the woman to me.

I won't name the product directly, but it was new to our market. It was a type of iced dessert. Let's call it Tastee Twistee. It turned out that he wanted a spokesmodel to show up at local events, and help promote Tastee Twistee. He offered to pay me twice what I was making as a perfume model and that's all it took for me to make up my mind. Sold!

I went on a couple gigs with different employees at first. But one day the owner did a gig with me, which was unusual. However, he was active in his business and friendly with everyone, so I didn't really think twice about it. We didn't communicate much, because his English was terrible and I knew very little Spanish. But for the most part, we were able to talk about the basics.

After the gig, as we were going home, he suggested that he take me out to dinner. It was late, I was starved, and (being naive) I thought he was an exceptionally nice boss to take me to Olive Garden.

Halfway through the meal, the conversation began to take an interesting turn. He asked if I liked clothing and jewelry. Well of course I do! What girl doesn't? Let's face it, guys. You may pretend otherwise, but you wish you could adorn yourselves like we do. Admit it! That's why rap stars are so busy throwing on the bling! They've got Vagina Envy, as Freud might say. If he was really drunk, that is.

So I said yes, and we began talking about what types of jewels were on my wish list. Then he began telling me about the country he was from, where jewelry was inexpensive and emeralds were readily available. From my perspective, we're talking about "a land flowing with milk and honey", so to speak.

He also brought up the proposal that I could start "tutoring" him in English. Not really, I said! I don't know Spanish! He argued that it wasn't necessary to know Spanish, which I found to be very odd. I recommended that he learn from the employee who was his translator during the day.

That's when he began talking expansively about how most men from his country keep mistresses, and that he could provide me lavishly with clothes and jewelry and a wonderful place to live.

I was married at the time, and I suggested slyly that it might be difficult for my husband to buy into the arrangement. I also indicated (very politely, since I didn't have another ride home and I didn't want to create a scene) that I was ready to go home.

As he dropped me off that night, he said "Goot bye, dahling! I luff you!" as I sprinted for my apartment where my husband patiently waited.

The next day I called his "translator" and told her of the incident. "I find that hard to believe," she said firmly.

"Well," I replied tartly, "I'm sorry that he hasn't approached you yet. Perhaps you're not his type. However, I assure you that it happened. I will not be returning to work."

Dysfunctional Dr. Seuss

This poem was written about 8 years ago by a good friend of mine (who's agreed to let me publish it here). Another one of my silent readers is a big fan of it and says there are many fellow dysfunctionals out there, so here it is:

Dysfunctional Dr. Seuss
For grownups who aren’t

I hate my job, I hate my hair
I hate my boss, he doesn’t care!
My boyfriend’s ex is coming down,
I wish that I were out of town.
My own ex is a lunatic,
And acts so foul he makes me sick.
I’m going to court to show I’ve made
The child support I’ve already paid.
My child is told I’m going to hell,
Am I? I can no longer tell.
He’s also told I’m a bad mother,
And yet he says he wants no other.
Confusion reigns supreme in my life,
But thank god I’m no longer my ex’s wife!

(Hey! Don't blame me! I know it sucks! But I'm short on material today, because Wednesdays are deadline days. Too much work, not enough time. You know? So cut me some slack!)

What Time Would You Live In?

I have a meeting which will take most of the day today. It is preoccupying my mind to such an extent that I am experiencing writers block. However, I'm also currently working on a novel and would like to ask you this question:

If you could choose any time period to live in, which one would you choose and why? Please be realistic. For instance, if you say you want to live in the Dark Ages, be fully aware that you could die of the Black Plague. (Only in the last 70+ years do we have the great advantages which we take for granted). So what's the trade-off for the era you choose? If you are willing to face the Black Plague, what is so special about that era that makes it worth living in?

Too Pushy

OK, everyone sing along with me (in the tune of "I'm Too Sexy" by Fred She Said):

I'm too pushy for my love
Too pushy for my love
Love's going to leave me
I'm too pushy for my shirt
Too pushy for my shirt
So pushy it hurts
And I'm too pushy for Milan too pushy for Milan
New York and Japan
And I'm too pushy for your party
Too pushy for your party
No way I'm disco dancing
I'm a model you know what I mean
And I do my little turn on the catwalk
Yeah on the catwalk on the catwalk yeah
I do my little turn on the catwalk
I'm too pushy for my car too pushy for my car
Too pushy by far…

I've been told that I'm doomed and will never be able to have a satisfying relationship because I'm pushy: I'm too strong-willed. The truth is, I've been told these things while I'm trying very hard to not be pushy or strong-willed. What to do about it?

First, I know that not all of my friends see and think this about me. It's perceived by people who are weaker or more unsure of themselves. However, if someone is of a weaker temperment, it isn't my wish to make them uncomfortable.

Second, I can't help who I am. There's no doubt I'm opinionated, but I try to temper it with gentleness and humor. If I were in school, I'd probably be the class clown again. If I try to sublimate that, I would be stressed, grumpy, and then I would really become strident.

One of my well-meaning friends has suggested I date European men, because they are supposedly more in-tune with themselves and accepting of intelligent, strong women. Sure thing! I'll just strap on my backpack and hit Europe, staying at hostels along the way! Or is there something I'm missing, like a European Lonely Hearts dating service? Exclusive European Dance Clubs? Nope, scratch that idea. It isn't happening.

Another friend has told me to simply be quiet when I first meet a guy. OK, great. And just how is he supposed to get to know me? Can you picture our first dinner out together?

Bachelor #1: So, Saur, tell me about yourself!

Saur: (awkwardly) Well, Bachelor #1, I ... oh look! A dinner roll. Hang on a sec! (applies butter furiously) So, how 'bout them Devil Rays?

So that idea's out the window, too.

Although this sounds appallingly Zsa Zsa Gabor, men are attracted to my looks. But once they get in the door with flowers and chocolates, and I open my mouth, the chocolates go one way and the flowers go in the other direction as the guy beats a hasty retreat. "What?" I would say to his back as he ran for the car. "What did I say this time?"

The truth is that I'm 40. I'm too old to pretend that I'm something which I'm not. If I have to be Bambi to catch a guy, then I'd prefer to become an eccentric old maid. It just sucks that there aren't a lot of other options.

Due to my wish to protect my privacy (and due to the fact that many friends and family read my blog at times) I have to be careful what I say. There have been some wonderful opportunities but I have passed on them all for now. It's not that I need time to heal from my last relationship (which was over almost eight months ago now, and he's been gone for two). It's that I don't wish to continue to repeat my mistakes.

And it's tough to find a guy that wants a girl that thinks like Elayne Boosler, even if she does come in a pretty package.

My Geography Lesson

Americans have a rotten grasp of geography. And I am living proof. It's not a gap in my knowlege: it's a gaping wound.

Jack and I were talking the other night. I am a descendant of people from Wales and related to the royal family of the Netherlands, and it came up in conversation. "Where is Holland?" asked Jack suddenly (knowing fully well that I am completely retarded when it comes to geography).

"What does Holland have to do with anything?" I asked.

"Holland is just another name for the Netherlands," he answered.

"No it isn't!" I said. I was thinking of a little girl I had known when I was very young, who had been from Holland. She was introduced to me by the same grandparents who always pounded my lineage into my head. Surely they would have told me if we were genetically related? They were so obsessive about all of our ties.

"It is!" said Jack. "Jean-Pierre's mother is from Holland. Where do you think Holland is?"

"Um," I said intelligently, "Near Germany?"

"Argh!" said Jack, or something equally gutteral. "OK, if I'm right, what do I get? No wait, scratch that. I'm pretty sure that I'm right and that's terrifying."

"Whoa, bud! Don't get ahead of yourself! You are so wrong. C'mon! Let's go check it out online," I said assertively. I pulled him into the study and cleared the paperwork from the extra chair next to me. "Sit down!" I commanded, dramatically motioning him into the chair. I googled maps of the Netherlands. "See?" I said triumphantly. "Holland isn't even near the Netherlands!"

"You're doing something wrong," he said. "Try putting in Holland and Netherlands maps." I did, and came up with maps showing that Holland and Netherland were somehow intertwined. When I went to the Wikipedia reference, it turned out that Holland is a province in the Netherlands, just as Florida is a part of the United States. So, I wasn't entirely wrong, but I sure as heck wasn't right, either. Jack retired to the couch, triumphant.

I need a remedial course in geography.

My Dad's Surprise Party

My family has two "birthday weeks": One in July, one in October. Being as this is the July one, we are partying like you wouldn't believe (all this is taking a toll on me, since my neck still isn't fully healed). Last night was my Dad's surprise party.

SaurKid and I got there just on time. Mom and Dad were due in another half hour. We were immediately swamped by family and friends we hadn't seen for a long time and, to our surprise, the crowd rapidly grew until it was standing room only. There were over 100 people there by the time Dad and Mom arrived.

The room was set up with at least 10 long tables, and a head table at the front. By the head table was a continual slide projection showing our family as we grew up and my father grew progressively balder. SaurKid watched it for a while as I murmered whispered in his ear. Finally he whispered back "I just realized something! There's a good chance I'll go bald, isn't there?"

"Since baldness is a hereditary trait passed through the female line, I'd have to say it's possible," I admitted. He grimaced.

The woman who had organized the party came by to tell everyone to take our places. SaurKid and I looked about for a place to sit, when she informed us that we were expected to sit at the head table. Good grief! SaurKid was nonplussed and all I could think about was the casual top and jeans I was wearing. Never the less, we took our places. About 90 people stared back at us. Thankfully, they turned out the lights and covered the slide projector. The room hushed. Mom and Dad had just been sighted.

"I hope this doesn't give grandpa another heart attack!" SaurKid muttered. Dad's best friend (and cardiologist) echoed him from a nearby table.

Within moments, they walked into the darkened room. The lights flashed on, and everyone yelled "surprise!" Dad gave the crowd a slow grin, and then began circling the room until the master of ceremonies demanded he take his seat up front. Mom simply looked startled. She later admitted to me that she had no idea that so many people were going to show!

After we sampled the buffet and visited with many of the people who were there, we settled back for the guest speakers who spoke of Dad in times and stories past. Some were hysterical, some poignant, but all were lovingly retold. Being as my father is quite famous in certain circles, there were many stories to go around.

The first speaker began, "When I first got the call to do this, I was on the road and my cellphone reception wasn't clear. I heard his name mentioned, and the date, and something about speaking here tonight. Well... given his age and his current state of health, I figured that he had just passed on and I was expected to give the eulogy! Since I haven't had the time to revise my notes..." (here he produced a stack of 3x5 cards and flipped dramatically through them) "...I will merely modify what I've prepared." He cleared his throat. "Dearly beloved..." he intoned.

It deteriorated rapidly from there.

After the speakers had done as much damage as possible, the gifts were passed around. By far, the best and most spectactular gift was a massive tarantula which was the size of a large seat cushion. Being a quirky scientist, Dad was very appreciative. I expect to see it hanging from the ceiling in his study when I go over to their house the next time.

It was yet another day of love and laughter, and a celebration of one more milestone which has been passed in our family. May there be many more to come.

The 5-Star Restaurant

Mom and Dad took me to a 5-star restaurant yesterday, to celebrate our birthdays (my father and I are only 2 days apart and Mom is next week).

Because I work from home, I generally can be found in yoga pants and stretchy shirts, so Mom reminded me that I was expected to dress up. I know! I know! Don't you think I remember all the times we went to the opera and we were the only ones in pantyhose and furs, Mom? (Note: we weren't wearing only pantyhose and furs, I must add. I have to protect Mom's reputation). I soon put their fears to rest. They were suitably impressed when they picked me up.

Outside the restaurant was a sign which read "Happy Birthday, Saur!" Being a complete cheeseball, I had to stop and snap a photo of it with my camera before we could go any further. Mom and Dad took my childish behavior with good grace. 40 years old and still as unsophisticated as a 20 year old: There should be a cautionary tale in there somewhere.

It appeared the restaurant had been opened solely for us. We were seated, and introduced to the chef, and the experience of a seven course meal began.

Our first course included two tiny, savory appetizers; one of raw, minced spicy tuna and one of tiny little grape tomatoes sauteed in butter and drizzled lightly with a spiced sauce.

The second course included three wonderful soups; maize, butternut, and sorrel mushrooms. This was followed by a Meyer lemon sorbet to cleanse the pallet.

The fourth course was a salad which included very fresh goat cheese. Not so fresh that they brought the goat to the table, mind you, but I think I heard it bleating out back.

The fifth course was the main course; a solitary prawn, displayed with it's claw reaching out toward us helplessly. I commented on it before I saw the chef behind us. He took it in good grace, and explained that the prawns were shown that way so that the customer knew it was a true prawn and not simply a shrimp. Once I tasted it, I really didn't care if it was a sea slug. It was fabulous! It was accompanied by a delectable filet of bison.

The cheese course consisted of little tasty balls of cheese formed about a solitary red grape and rolled in chopped nuts. We were allocated three each, and that was exactly the right amount.

The dessert course included a large spoonful of freshly made cheesecake icecream, three select imported chocolates, and a puff pastry oozing with a compote of fresh fruit poached in wine.

We were very grateful that the portions were as small as they were. Even so, we left stuffed!

When we arrived back home, I thanked them again for a wonderful meal and an enjoyable time. Our conversation had been as interesting as it always is. Dad walked me to the door. He is 70, I am 40, but he is still a gentleman and my father, and I am still his little girl.

I am very blessed.

My "Surprise" Party

Ozma was a little miffed as we left the party last night. "You knew!" she said accusatorily.

"Of course I did!" I answered. I had told her that on Sunday.

"Someone told you!" she declared. There was no way she would believe otherwise.

Poor Ozma. It sucks to have a friend with a great memory, who also listens carefully to everyone and files it all away for later reference. Because the honest truth was, no one told me. I'm just trained to listen and I put the pieces together. And you know what? It was a good thing that I knew it was coming. I've had wayyyyy too many surprises lately and it would have added additional stress, even though she meant well.

Michelle and Hubby were there, along with my Mexican Family which includes Ozma and her daughter (Kitten), Ozma's sister Carmen and her hubby (Sam), Jack, their brother Dan, their cousin Steve, and Mom & Dad. We had drinks, snacks, a birthday cake, love and laughter.

Kitten got me the yellow sign above, and handed me a card with a lei wrapped around it. When I opened the card, it read "The lei is so that you can tell everyone that you might be 40 but you can still get laid. :)" Ohhhhh, so it's like that, is it? Thanks, Kitten. You brat!

Ozma and her parents got me a lovely pamper-me gift. Carmen and Sam got me a nice little set of perfumes. Dan got me balloons and cake (brimming with enough candles to set the restaurant on fire) and it took me two deep breaths to blow the darned things out! Everyone else contributed with their presence and love.

I wore my lei all night.

News Flash!

Last night I met up with Chris, Carrie and Carrie's sister. We had a ball! I don't think I've laughed so hard in years. As Chris said later, we've never seen 3 hours fly by that fast! But I can't say any more. What happens in Dunedin stays in Dunedin. ;o)

Well, OK, there's one more thing I can say: There are people who would've given their right arm to have been there. They would've had enough material in three hours to write a novel. I was going to write more about the entire experience, but I think it needs to wait for another time, when I can get the others involved in the post.

A very special thank you to Chris for sponsoring the whole thing!

---

Carmen Electra and Dave Navarro are divorcing. I know, I know, this comes as a great shock to all of you. Apparently Carmen must've noticed the same thing *I* did: Hubby drooling over the different starlets he encounters. He was so obvious, he was probably leaving puddles all about, which is very inconvenient and could lead to all kinds of "slip n' fall" lawsuits. He was a walking liability.

Hezbollah vs. Israel: All I can say is "Go Israel!" I have no sympathy for the bad guys. And yes, Virginia, there still are bad guys. I just hope it doesn't escalate. Obviously this whole situation is a little unnerving for everyone in the international community right now. However, fellow blogger Barbara (an attorney in California) feels comfortable enough to be heading over there on vacation right now. My prayers go with her.

Homeowner's Insurance: I am one of the lucky ones still insured by Citizens (the state fund). But I have many friends who are riding out this hurricane season without any insurance whatsoever. Michelle's hubby recently informed me that my parents are considering dropping their hurricane coverage and simply doing what they can to "batten down the hatches" and hope for the best. He also told me that this is common for anyone with property on the beaches where (if they can get coverage at all) it is prohibitively expensive.

Florida is in the midst of an insurance crisis, and somehow no one knows what to do about it. This is shocking, when you realize that most of our elected officials are actually supposed to be both competant and representative of us. So, apparently we're all a bunch of weenies.

The Big 4-0

I'm turning 40 this week. I am not looking forward to it. Last week I handed Zen Buddhist the phone. "Ozma wants you to call her. It's about my surprise birthday party next Tuesday. Tell her if you can go, but don't bother to confirm or deny it to me. I know," I said. Ozma is The Queen of Surprise Parties and All Tremble in Her Path.

I'm also going out for dinner and drinks with Chris (of the Sweet N' Saur blog) tonight and my parents are taking me to a 5-star restaurant on Wednesday. All this support is equivalent to a funeral wake. I am experiencing the death of my thirties.

Terrazzo was apparently invented by Satan himself, along with lima beans and hairnets. The stain didn't take, and I will need to do something else. As I meticulously painted the floor yesterday, Ozma sat nearby, mooning over her ex-boyfriend. By the time it was over, we were both so depressed that I was sawing at my wrists with a spackling knife. As I told Ozma's brother (Jack) later, some day I want my tombstone to read "It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time." This seems to be the Theme of My Life. Obviously it's time for Plan B. I'll let you know when I've figured out exactly what Plan B is.


As you recall, I got the ex-boyfriend help from a drug treatment program through my church. He had promised he'd never go to the 9 o'clock service so that I could attend in peace. However, yesterday he was there. He approached me and we spoke pleasantly for a couple minutes. "This is what I screwed up and lost," he told a man that was with him. He always knows what to say, or so he believes. Truth can be charming, but he never overdoses on it.

Initially, I was polite and allowed them to sit with me. Although I tried to stay through the service, I realized I couldn't handle it any longer. You see, I can't worship in peace next to someone that I would prefer to mutilate. I whispered to him that I was leaving, and he left, too. On my way to the parking lot, he called out for me to wait. I did, and he walked me to my car.

I continued to be courteous until he attempted to kiss me. That's when I pushed him away and told him firmly that it was completely unacceptable as I wiped my mouth on my arm and spit in an unladylike way (picture Elmer Fudd after Bugs has kissed him). I also told him that although I wished him well, I would no longer attend that church. I will be going elsewhere from now on. This is a complication that I don't need.

I could hear my wallet moving around restlessly, however. I knew she wanted to get back into his pants. The slut!

The Bathroom

Today I start on my son's bathroom. There's a lot of work to be done. I'll be taking before and after pictures of the floor. It's terrazzo, which is a concrete treatment that's not done anymore. The problem with terrazzo is that it turns colors and can be a nuisance to upkeep. You can either strip and refinish it or do what I'm going to try; staining it in a lovely fawn/beige and finishing it with a glossy topcoat. I'll let you know how successful I am! Have a wonderful weekend!

MuuMuu

My ex-boyfriend called last night. He's now in a rehab program and has been clean for 3 days. I would avoid his calls, but this is my business phone and I don't recognize the number.

"What are you wearing?" he asked, seductively.

"What am I...? A MuuMuu," I snapped.

That took him aback for a moment but he tried again. "What's under the MuuMuu?" he whispered.

"Another MuuMuu," I snarled. "OK? Basically it's layers of MuuMuus, I've gained 50 pounds in a month, and I don't shave any more. Anywhere. Look, I know it's my wallet that you miss. She's looking fine, and she's in leather today."

Lana

I met Lana many years ago, when The Suncoast Resort became one of my organization's clients. For those of you who don't know this, it's advertised as the world's biggest gay resort and it's located in St. Petersburg, a neighboring town.

Due to my attempt to keep my friends and clients confidential, I need to add that the resort is no longer a client of mine (and there's no way of knowing which organization I represented at the time). Additionally, Lana moved to another state some time ago.

Lana called the other night to chat. She knows I'm a quasi-retired counselor and she wanted some objective advice. I've decided to share her story because it has a great deal in common with so many relationships, whether they're gay or straight.

Lana was in a steady relationship for over 10 years, but as with so many relationships, eventually little was left but friendship. So she struck out again, in pursuit of the Ideal Mate. She met Kim online and they began a relationship which ended in Kim's moving to the same town so that they could see each other more regularly.

Kim is in her mid thirties. Although she seemed initially perfect (who doesn't, at the beginning?) Lana is seeing red flags everywhere. "Am I nuts?" she asked. "What do you think?"

Kim is not able to be self-supportive. Her cousin has provided her with the rent for the house she's currently living in. No one else in her family wants to have much to do with her. Her ex-girlfriend claims that Kim robbed her blind when she left. And Kim is prone to wild mood swings and great insecurities. When Lana takes her anywhere, Lana is left footing the bill. Kim never offers to pay. "It's like I'm the Rich Boyfriend," complained Lana. "Am I being taken advantage of?"

Since I wasn't in professional mode, I was able to offer my opinion. "Yes!" I said. "I think you are." I also pointed out that if there was theft involved in the former relationship, there is something ugly which lies beneath the surface. That, combined with the mood swings, made me wonder if drugs were involved. But even if there weren't drugs in the equation, we are left with a selfish, needy individual who may simply be after Lana as a substitute mom.

What struck me is how universal these problems are. I have a straight friend who is going through the same situation. She finally asked her Boy Toy to step out of her life, once it was apparent that this was all he was.

In a world where there are so many people willing to drain you dry and use you up, how can you evaluate which ones are safe? The answer is, use caution. Examine everything. Never hesitate to ask questions. And, if worse comes to worst, there are always private detectives. I wish that *I* had hired one during my last relationship. But, most important of all, follow your gut instinct. Too many of us are willing to ignore the little red flags until we can make a quilt out of them.

Fallen Woman

Remember, click on the pic to view it in larger size.
My poor parents. Shortly after my breakup with my last boyfriend, my dad sat down next to me and asked for an update on what was going on. I caught him up on everything. Dad sat there in silence for a moment, and then said gently "You know, you really need a different class of friends, my dear."

ARGH! No matter how much I tried to explain to Dad that this guy was the exception and all my friends were kind, upstanding, loyal people who didn't do drugs or anything else illegal, I could see my Dad remained skeptical. Visions of his daughter whoring about in nightclubs, snorting coke and holding up banks probably pranced through his head.

Despite the fact that it remains unsaid, my parents secretly wonder what is wrong with their daughter. She's about to turn 40, has a series of failed relationships due to poor choices, although she's successful in every other area of her life. (Well, OK, I'm not a successful housekeeper, that's for sure).

And you know what, there's nothing wrong with me. Oh sure, there's something wrong with my choices so far. And I'm fully aware of that, and am trying to prevent such horrible decisions from happening in the future. But if you can't live life, make mistakes, and pick yourself up and brush yourself off and try it all over again, what is there that's left?

I'll tell you what. Sanity. That's what. :P