Deuces

On one of my trips to Ireland I met a boy. His name was Shane. Cute, right?  Doesn't get more leprechan than that. The boy and I met at a pub/club one night.  Some of the tourists on my bus walked me there since my sister didn't want to go out.  The club was called "The Crypt" and perhaps that should have been a fair warning to stay away.  We had been staying in Killarney and my dancing feet just didn't want to stay in. At the end of the night, instead of letting me walk home, the boy offered to drive me.  Because I was once a bit reckless and stupid, I obliged him. And anyway, he was cute.  Ya'll know how I have a thing for the exports. And we segwayed with a nightly tour around town.  He showed me the bar where he worked weekends, local eateries that had now closed for the evening, and he took me to Ross Castle.  It was spooky and magical.  I wondered if he would murder me and leave my listless body there.  Would Scotland Yard come looking for me? 

I always wanted to be a hair girl. A hair girl has fabulous hair.  It is always in place.  Are you a hair girl?  If you are, I envy you a little bit. In fulfilling my goals to clean and organize my lovely home during funemployment, I have come across a lot of pictures. In those pictures my hair is usually up.  Thrown up.  Not a whole lot of thought or effort. Infrequent curls, not enough waves, not even a good effort at flat ironing. Sometimes I want to be a hair girl.  I have friends who are hair girls.  They are known for having great hair. In truth, I hate the salon.  The sitting, pretending to be interested in Marie Claire or Vogue. I pour over fashion magazines while my head burns under that heat thingamajig and I am always worried if I move my head too much one side will bleach faster than the other. The articles usually bore me.  The smell of people with great hair cutting and coloring other people into great hair is... bothersome. And I know it is a means to a

My mom says I am a home-body, and I often fear she is right. I make great efforts, however to go out.  To do things with the people I adore, to take walks with Penny, to get on over to the gym that keeps smirking at me when I drive past it.  In fact, though, I do love my days at home, cleaning, baking, searching for ghosts of boyfriends and friends past on Facebook to see if they are just as I remember them. But once upon a time you couldn't keep me inside.  I lived for going out. I went to my first 18 and over club when I was 14.  I had my sister's I.D. and I prayed the front doorman wouldn't engage me in any conversation since my mouth was full of shiny metal braces, and my sister's teeth were a perfect pearly white. My heart was pounding for fear I would be found out, but as it were I got in, and I danced to my hearts desire with folks who were in fact 18 and over.  I thought I was pretty clever. And at 18 I was out.  Always out. Tuesday nights at Metro, We

My older sisters worked at Round Table pizza when I was a kid.  I thought it was so cool that my big sisters worked at a pizza place, and many a shift I would hang out and wait for them to get off work. But my favorite thing about them working at Round Table was the Pacman game. This week google had the Pacman game as the search engine box and a friend on Facebook said "you can play it!" and... ever the researcher I am, I played it. Later that evening Lloyd and I chatted about Pacman and he said "you know you can play it online for free, right?" That was his first mistake. His second mistake was not immediately comfiscating the computer, since, ever the researcher I am, I played it. For a long time.  I won't tell you how long- it's embarrassing. And as I played Pacman I immediately thought back to Round Table pizza- the black machine that you had to sit at, and the joystick, worn thin with years of play. But more often than not the game was

Today I turned down a great job offer... and it felt good. It felt grown-up.  I felt proud of myself for knowing that having anything less than a great feeling about something wasn't worth it for me and fortunately I have a hot and wonderful husband who doesn't mind me taking my time in the job hunt to choose something that would make me happy. The money was great.  The perks and benefits were tremendous.  It was twice what I am making on unemployment and yet, everytime I thought about it it made my palms sweat. The downside to the position was that they wanted me to relocate to the OC.  For most people this doesn't sound too tragic, but, for me, it made me sad.  Aside from the fact that I didn't think it should matter that I lived in the OC or the IE, the fact is, we can't just up and move.  We have a house.  A beautiful house.  And aside from being beautiful it is comfortable.  My cats thrive here and can hunt mice all night long.  My dog has a yard to w

When I was 19 I studied abroad in Salamanca, Spain.  These are memories from that time... I lived on Avenida Portugal.  The 7th floor of an old and beautiful building.  And much like a tract home in sunny So-Cal, all those ancient buildings looked strikingly similar.  I lived with a host family and another American student named Samantha. I remember saying goodbye to my parents at LAX and my mom cried.  My dad had a dad's face that didn't look at all concerned, but in hindsight, I imagine it was killing him inside. I wasn't at all scared for my semester-adventure.  I could not have been more excited, in fact. I overpacked for that flight.  (I have since become an amazing 'essentials-only' packer.... but on that flight from LAX to LHR (London Heathrow) I overpacked).  I had my CD player, a million CD's, books, magazines, puzzles, snacks, water (back when you were allowed to have that...) a change of clothes.... I carried my beige backpack filled with ha

My first trip to New York was Broadways shows and California clothes. My subsequent trips were trencoats, peacoats and ferry boats. My first trip was site-seeing and stars, Lady Liberty, Dancing in bars. The following trips were business, no pleasure, working, no leisure. Back then, Girlfriends and I walked slow, giggled loud.... subways, Grand Central Station, hot dog stands, Central Park, Skylines People I knew Now it's taxi cabs, Town cars, Meetings, Networking Level orange Flyer miles and "Who knows who"

TapTapTapTap TapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTap TapTapTapTapTapTapTapTap TapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTap TapTapTapTapTapTapTapTap The noise Penny's tail makes when she wags it against the couch as she pretends to slumber.  And of course I know she is faking it because the tail is tapping.  And the TapTapTapTapTapTapTapTap noise means she is happy. Eyes closed but I can hear TapTapTapTap and she might open an eye just enough to make sure I don't slip away and leave her.  When I walk through the door, she wags.  When I grab her leash, she wags.  When I say "Hello, my little copper Penny..." she wags. But my favorite wag is the wag when her tail hits the couch and I can hear TapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTapTap TapTapTapTapTapTapTapTap TapTapTapTap.

Dear Lord, Thank you for giving me the good sense of being an animal lover, a caretaker of all things adorable and fuzzy.  Thank you for giving me a husband who is the same. Dear Lord,  however, and I stress this gently, (an oxymoron, I know...) I think I have exceeded maximum capacity: physically, financially,socially of caring for animals for the time being... What I am saying, oh Dear Lord who is great,  is that, Please stop sending the neighborhood animals to my doorstep.  Please stop giving them the ability to figure out how to use the cat door that we have so cleverly installed.   Please keep the latest large, fuzzy, grey-haired strange cat out of my cats' lunch bowls and watering holes. Dear Lord,  I know I am pretty friggin' awesome, but, um, I think the neighbors will quickly become annoyed at me taking in so many animals.  I think my vet will start to wonder if I am stealing animals for my own sick rituals or something.  I am worried that I will get a stigma