Bootcamp and Bibles and Bangs! Oh my!

I am now the proud owner of 5 Barry’s Bootcamp Hollywood Fat Blaster DVD’s©, 1 Code Red Emergency Fat Blasting DVD, an inflatable fat blasting weight bench/exercise ball, 2 fat blasting resistance bands, 1 fat blaster work out calendar, a fat blaster tape measure, a nifty fat blaster spiral progress journal, and a (crappy) fat blaster plastic foot pump that inflates said weight bench/exercise ball in the same amount of time that it would take me to blow up a Macy’s Day Parade float with nothing but my lungs and a straw. (Never mind that the inflatable weight bench/exercise ball is no longer inflatable because Bijou attacked it like it was the dog next door wrapped in bacon. I’ll bet the farm that Barry will send me another if I order the butt blaster DVD.)

I wish I could say that I was the owner of Barry’s Fat Blaster kit because my mama bought it for me at Costco and mailed it to me without my permission. Unfortunately, however, I am privy to this little “secret of the stars,” because I forgot the first step of Shopaholics Anonymous – “Admitting I am powerless over Infomercials (and QVC) (and HSN).” Normally, I do not even let the TV pause on said channels but on one particularly horrendous Saturday, I was too lazy (i.e. hungover) to dig the remote out of the couch so I could change the channel. Instead, I became hypnotized by Barry and his army of Barbie soldiers wearing skimpy spandex outfits on national TV without shame or embarrassment. An hour and a half and a box of cheez-it’s later, I was drafted up to Barry’s battalion. I refused to even entertain the possibility that after 30 days of Barry’s intense bootcamp sessions and his easy diet tips (and 3 easy payments of $14.95) that I wouldn’t have the body of Jessica Alba. There was no turning back. I hopped online and ordered that kit like it was on the menu at Sonic.

Now that the Fat Blasting kit actually is in my possession, I’m slowly coming out of my infomercial euphoria. I’m wondering how 6 DVD’s still wrapped in cellophane and a giant pile of deflated rubber wet with dog slobber are going to do anymore for me than my $60 a month gym membership and Publix frequent shopper card can do. However, it has not ended up in the closet with the chocolate fountain, Gazelle, and aero garden so I guess we can say the jury is still out. I’ll be sure to let you know when there is an actual verdict. For now, I’m dvr-ing everything from CSI Las Vegas to The Wonder Years and making sure to always return the remote to its proper place on the coffee table.

But hold the phone, Barry’s fat blasting arsenal is not the only new item in my life. My library now contains the Holy Bible! Now, to prevent this post from sounding like a bad tent revival testimonial, I’ll briefly state that while I’m not new to the whole Christianity thing, the path of my 20’s has not been illuminated with a Jesus lamp, or even a Jesus night light. However, I recently decided that although I adamantly take issue with many of the beliefs allegedly incorporated into Christianity (i.e. women have no right to say what happens inside their own bodies, gays are an abomination, and to hell with anyone that doesn’t believe in Jesus), I maintain an inexplicable and unshakable belief in God (even during 2005 when I claimed to be an agnostic) (I think mostly I said that because the word itself sounds hip and intellectual and like it should be on the SAT). In other words, there is no reason to throw the baby out with the bath water – I can believe in God while I figure the rest of it out. I realize that this may not sit well with some of you, and well, I guess you can shove off. Start your own blog and then you can write all about your views on religion.

Anyway, having made this new resolution about 9 months ago, I decided I was ready to start exploring the great religious abyss and agreed to join a Bible study with my friend (whom we shall call “Guru” until I obtain permission to use her real name). I believe that Guru felt that the Bible study would be particularly attractive to me because it is about a book in the Old Testament – the early part of the Bible that I find historically fascinating. Maybe I was in a joining mood and still on my infomercial high, or maybe as my new co-counsel friend would say, it was providential. Whatever the case, I told Guru I was in.

Of course then I immediately freaked out. Not only had I not placed a pinky toe inside a Bible study since 10th grade, but I didn’t even own a Bible. I was in panic – and not just a regular “oh man I put away the ice cream in the refrigerator instead of the freezer again” kind of panic, but a “hurricane is a’comin’ - time to go buy milk and bread” type of panic. Buying the Bible was not so much the problem as was figuring out how to make a brand spankin’ new Bible look old, worn, poured over, and studied in a matter of days. I immediately wondered if it was sacrilegious to run a Bible over with a car. Or perhaps I could wrap the Bible in a rubber band and oil it down like I once did with a softball glove (yeah, I’m not quite sure why I was in a softball league either). Regardless, there was NO WAY I was showing up at that Bible study with a Bible still smelling of cellophane and looking like it had been read as much as a Bible that sits in the nightstand of a hotel that rents by the hour. I mean that’s like showing up at the gym wearing bright white sneakers.

The stress of the situation immobilized me until the Sunday morning before the Bible study when I awoke in such frenzy that I accidentally flung Bijou off the bed and then realized that Bible stores probably aren’t open on Sundays. Dang. Oh but lo and behold, after a quick google, I discovered that Barnes & Nobles definitely carries the number one selling book in the world and it is definitely open on Sundays. 2 hours later I sat Indian style (which I can do authentically because I am 1/16 Cherokee) in the “Religion & Spiritual” section of B&N amidst a sea of Bibles humming “the B-I-B-L-E, yes that’s the book for me.” Who knew that there were some many Bible varietals? I mean there were women’s Bibles, men Bibles, study Bibles, pet owner’s Bibles (yes I was tempted), large print Bibles, pocket Bibles, Catholic Bibles, new believers Bibles, and one Bible even came with wall posters and stickers (I had to put it back twice). At first I contemplated a serious looking King James Bible but then decided at this stage of the game, I’d better let someone else interpret for me. Then I turned to a cotton candy pink Bible, but rationalized that since I wasn’t a 13 year old girl with a perm and an airbrushed license plate that said “Misty,” that I’d better leave it on the shelf. I ultimately decided on a New International Version study Bible with a British tan and caramel (faux) crocodile cover and pages with gold leaf edges. (I’ll get my name engraved later). I also picked up some Bible highlighters, Old and New Testament index tabs, and an all-purpose book mark/magnifier. (Like a boy scout, I’m always prepared.) And as my mama informed me, my $80 Bible is so pretty that fellow Bible studiers will think I cherish it and wrap it in parchment paper every night to maintain its pristine and reverent condition. (I’m going to highlight some random passages for good measure).

*Note – I also now sport some serious bangs but they don’t really warrant the emphasis of a full mention in the post. I really just needed a third thing to round out the title.

The San Francisco Treat

So I come to you tonight wearing my shame face (and pajama pants and ratty tank top). Maybe I should draft a boilerplate apology paragraph and paste it at the beginning of every post. However, I certainly don’t want to commence each post with an apology. I mean that would kinda be like dating a jackass – you start off every date with him apologizing for something he did so you can get into the actual date and enjoy yourself. And dear readers, I am no jackass and I don’t want you to look back at your time on this blog with bitter regret. I’ll start posting more regularly. So keep visiting and subscribing. I vow to never promise to take you to Olive Garden and then not show up or call.

Part of the reason why this post came slower than Christmas is because I went on a mini break to San Francisco. And when you are going to be out of the office on a Friday, everyone likes to make you pay during the prior four days. (Yeah, I think that’s fuzzy math too.)

Because I had such a wretched work week, I paid the $49.99 to upgrade my coach seat to business class. Lest you call me a princess, I’ll explain that a business class seat on Airtran is basically a coach seat on Delta with a free bottomless glass of wine and snack options other than pretzels (still a few levels below air travel nirvana).

Plus, the flight ended up being painful anyway because the stewardess/flight attendant/terribly dressed person that is supposed to quash riots when the tomato juice runs out was cranky. It isn’t my fault she didn’t listen when I told her to bring those single serving wine bottles Noah’s Ark style (that’s in two’s for you those of you who missed out on vacation Bible school). And how was I to know that my purse strap was sticking out in the aisle creating a booby trap for her and her wheelie cart causing her to spill hot coffee on herself? There was no need for her to take her polyester-wedgie-induced frustration out on me (refusing to look and see if there were more pita puffs was just mean and spiteful).

To add salt to the wound, the guy next to me was reading a book about grief and mortality, and kept looking at me like he wanted to talk. No sir. That convo is going nowhere good. Did he think I looked like I knew how to deal with grief and mortality? I was doped up on Dramamine, downing “free” glasses of wine, and reading OK Magazine (I had already read all the US Weekly’s on the stand). I think he got the hint when I passed out with my mouth open murmuring about how John Mayer is a prick.

The silver lining to this cloud is that once I touched down in San Fran, everything was sweeter than Mrs. Butterworth. San Francisco is quite possibly the hippest city on the planet. Even people’s dogs are hip. (A mutt at the music festival rolled over and showed me the “peace, love & scraps on the floor” tattoo on his belly.) Despite myself, I bought two newsboy hats, moccasins, and a pair of bright red thrift store sunglasses (which now unfortunately belong to a cute guy I met). I drank coffee and walked Union St. with Steph, my friend and roommate from law school (I blame the hats on her). My childhood friend Melissa and her rocker husband, Brent, took me to the Mission where I asked an Italian chef to make us gnocchi with meat ragu even though it wasn’t on the menu (it was delish and followed by tiramisu on the house). We listened to great live music in Golden Gate Park and sat on blankets in some other park watching the dogs run. We talked about life and our jobs and how you can’t put a price tag on being happy. I even ate falafel. And yeah, we drank from sunup to sundown. (I plead the 5th on whether we did anything else.) But I have to admit that the highlight of the trip occurred when I saw the Seven Sisters in Alamos Square (aka the townhouses from the opening credits of Full House).

Just like a pudding cup, the weekend ended with me wanting more. I almost cried when I got off the redeye here in Atlanta, felt the 5 a.m. 90 degree humidity smack me in the face, and saw that chubby woman wearing confederate flag shorts.

But to keep myself from trying to slit my wrists with a legal pad, I’ve decided not to leave my heart in San Francisco. I'm going to embrace my inner independent spirit and let the artsy schfartsy side of me roam free. There is no reason why I can’t don my newsboy hat and meander down Peachtree Street with a cup of coffee. And there are a slew of bands in East Atlanta and Little Five Points waiting to be discovered by an ex-sorority girl in leggings and flats. I can head to Piedmont Park with a blanket, a bottle of wine, my journal, and a beret if I want. I can be a San Fran hippy right here in the 30309.

Of course, I will have to be a San Fran hippy that puts on $100 face cream at night and buys handbags that are worth more than the GDP of Yemen. And I will never be one of those vegan hippies. Last time I checked, no one throws squash on a pig cooker, douses it in bbq sauce and calls it a Gourd Pickin'. But I think the fact that I don't shave my legs everyday makes up for all that. And don't tell, but I actually really like falafel.

Raise Hell Over Summer

I realized something completely disturbing the other day while I was driving home from work. For whatever reason (read: due to my obsession with celebrity gossip and chronic procrastination during the day), I worked late at the firm and it was past midnight before I drove home. I was driving from Buckhead back to Midtown with the windows rolled down when I realized that even though I didn’t have the A.C. blaring at Artic temperatures, I wasn’t sweating like a fat kid at camp. The outside air was downright pleasant – a small miracle in Atlanta. And it hit me; summer is almost over. I half expected a single yellow leaf to drop from one of the trees and float into my car – Mother Nature’s little messenger.

No, I’m not getting all sentimental about the end of summer. I’ve always been a girl that digs fall. I think it is partly because my Grandma used to do color consultations and she insisted I was an autumn despite my affinity for hot pink. I didn’t really get the whole color consultation thing at age 7 and thought it meant I looked good during autumn months rather than in autumnal colors. Plus, I’ve always been a nerd and looked forward to going back to school when I was young. (As an only child, my favorite game to play with my stuffed animals was school – of course I was the teacher. Oh, and once my grandpa gave me one of his old brief cases and you would have thought he gave me a Barbie hot wheel. I also had a poster of Sandra Day O’Connor in my room; I was an odd kid.) Anyway, I loved fall because it meant it was time to buy new school supplies. I think I fainted in Wal-Mart the day I discovered that Lisa Frank designed her own line of trapper keepers.

My realization that summer is almost over is disturbing because I hardly realized it was here. I am so old and boring; summer came and went quicker than a box of chocolates in a sorority house. How did this happen? Except for attending a bbq or two and leaving the firm early on Fridays because all the partners were out of the office and having “family time,” I hardly commemorated summer at all. I don’t think I even had a cob of corn all season. (I plan to rectify the corn horror this week). Sure, I made Bijou wear her pink summer collar with the green palm trees embroidered on it, and I went tubing down the ‘Hooch with a bag of Franzia (for you non-Georgians, “Hooch” is short for Chattahoochee, as in the river whose muddy water holds a special place in Alan Jackson’s heart), but I certainly didn’t celebrate summer like I used to.

Back in the day, before the purple ink saying “Raise Hell Over Summer” (RHOS when our hands got tired) could dry in our yearbooks, my friends and I were driving to the lake and trying to get the clerk at Seven-Eleven to sell us Bud Light and Boone’s Farm. Sometimes we’d get lucky and the clerk would hand over some libations, but usually we’d end up raiding our parents’ liquor cabinet. At my house, where the bottles were marked with a sharpie for this very reason, we could only drink clear liquors because they didn’t turn a funky color when you filled them back up with water. But it was ok because you know what’s clear? Vodka. I tended to be the mixologist of the group since I had been making and leaving “Santa” a bourbon and coke on Christmas Eve every year since I was six. From what I recall, bourbon and peach schnapps aren’t bad when mixed with iced tea, although, our booze palates probably were not very discernible back then (I mean we also drank Bartles & James and Zima).

Summer days were spent at the pool, the lake and each others’ houses. My friend Megan and I made just about every type of milkshake imaginable in the old lime green blender her parents received as a wedding present (until I left a metal spoon down in the bottom causing it to blow up all over the kitchen), and we drove hundreds of miles on country roads smoking Marlboro Ultra Lights with the windows down blaring Indigo Girls (even though the boys made fun of us and called it “lesbo music”).

When we were old enough to have summer jobs, we waited tables and worked as camp counselors but once we clocked out, there was always a party somewhere – at the boat dock, the house of the kid whose parents were out of town (including my own), or the cul-de-sac of the new neighborhood no on lived in yet (hey, I wasn't born a city girl). I’m still amazed at the ability of sixteen year old boys to collect kegs and whisky like baseball cards.

I’m not sure when it changed. No doubt my college summers were great to; I traveled Europe, interned in D.C. and lived at the beach with my best friend. But even those summers didn’t have the carefree innocence of those early country summers when the season seemed never ending. My summers since college certainly became more serious and short. Through law school I worked for the Government and law firms, and then studied for the bar (the latter being the worst summer in history causing me to seriously contemplate moving to the Bahamas and making banana leaf hats for a living).

Now summer seems to be a season that only kids enjoy and well, maybe people with kids (if you call taking 3 toddlers to the beach with 14 bags, an umbrella, 3 coolers, 7 floats, water wings, and a boogie board, enjoyment). The only reason that I, a single working adult, even know that it’s summer is because it’s so hot my knees sweat and sometimes my waitress isn’t old enough to serve me booze.

I just started to get tan and into a summer swing when I got stuck behind a school bus. And tonight, it took me twice as long to run into the Publix down the street to buy Smart Water and Cinnamon Toast Crunch (breakfast and dinner of champions) because I share it with all of Georgia Tech’s returning population (but it was entertaining to see frat guys realizing that dude, steak is way more expensive than hot dogs). Summer came and disappeared like a fart in the wind.

I think this is a dang shame. So tonight, just for the fun of it, I bought some peach ice cream and enjoyed a cup (ok, a bowl) on my balcony. I even blared a little Indigo Girls while mentally daring my neighbors to complain. And even though the ice cream was no Oreo-chocolate-peanut butter-banana milkshake, I started to sing loud enough for the people on the sidewalk to hear, and for just a minute, I felt like I was raising hell over summer.

Chinese Take Out & USA Pride

Unfortunately some of my clients are getting a bit needy and I’ve had to focus my time on the ole’ day job rather than this little electronic diary. Even more unfortunate, numerous factors prevent me from discussing the juicy details of my job. First, there is the attorney client privilege…blah blah blah…; however, I mainly worry about Short White Men & Cranky Unmarried Women LLP discovering the libelous posts and suing my fired hiny. I mean even the cast of 90210 The New Class can figure out who would win that battle. Long story short, you’ll have to buy a round of Patron shots to hear about my thrilling day in juvenile court with my shirt on backwards, or how I can’t stand the fact that people ask what’s in my candy jar even though it’s a clear, glass vase.

But, I don’t have to work tonight and I, like the majority of Americans, sit on my couch watching the Olympics, eating Chinese take out, and switching to Family Guy during the commercials (unless they are the ones with the Morgan Freeman voice-over – those almost motivate me enough to get up and get a napkin to wipe the duck sauce off my face – almost). Go USA!

While Lenzak pushes himself to Navy Seal limits to prove that a 32 year old American can swim faster than a pansy, trash-talking Frenchmen, I further indent my bum into my favorite couch cushion and challenge myself to finish an entire carton of lo mien before the gymnastics start. (After I realized that my calf is the same size as the waist of that mini Asian who is so small that her leotard is saggy, I decided there would be no eating during gymnastics.)

If I were really filled with the Olympic spirit, I would host my own veritable 400 IM and eat a piece of pizza, followed by a wanton, French fries, and conclude with German Chocolate cake. I suppose this also could be performed in relay fashion and I could train a team consisting of my college best friends who revere food as much as I do. (We have our Homecoming eating schedule determined and plan to dominate the Vermonster at Ben & Jerry’s on Franklin St.) It is a modern wonder that anyone in this group managed to land a husband and that the rest of us still occasionally make out with hot boys.

However, since most of my old college girls live in North Carolina and all the wantons are gone, olympic food relays are not in the picture. Instead, I settle for chasing Bijou around the coffee table after she snatches the fortune cookie. This ends in me taking her to the ground like a gay man on anyone who changes the channel from men’s swimming. With expert skill, I pry open her mouth and dig out the paper fortune. I watch as she sassily chomps on the cookie pieces and smirk because I wasn’t even going after the cookie. (But then I realize I’m smirking about outsmarting a dog so I stop smirking). I stand up; dust the carpet off my knees, and check to make sure all of my digits are still in tact. Kristy: 1; Bijou: 0. Guess we know who gets the Gold tonight.

I settle back into my cushion just as Phelps adds another gold necklace to his collection and some tiny American girl dominates the uneven bars. I open the fortune: “Your road to glory will be rocky, but fulfilling.” Amen, Fortune Cookie Gods. Amen.

Why I'm Single (Installment 2)

Ok, so I realized last night sometime after I gave myself a cramp on the treadmill (running at a tough 0% incline) but before I almost finished a bottle of Nobilo (those New Zealand peeps really do know how to churn out a good bottle of sauvignon blanc), that the article upon which I’m basing my analysis (see, Installment 1) has almost 40 reasons why one might be single. I haven’t done that much self-analysis since... well... yesterday when I talked to Katie, Joel, Karen, Ginny, and Rebecca (turns out using fake names takes too much creativity) about why co-counsel will not have drinks with me. However, for the sake of saving you the agony of reading my take on all 40 reasons, and because I’m already over this little mini-series (um, maybe I should revisit Article Reason #2), we’re going to pretend like this is 11th grade AP English and I’m going to give y’all the book report version (i.e. I’m going to pick out the reasons I think are funny and talk about them in an authoritative sounding way).

Article Reason #11), My Reason #6) Because You are Obsessed with Your Pet:

Hmm, we may have hit a nerve with this one. But “obsessed” might be a little overkill.

I am not ashamed of the fact that I love Bijou as though she were my illegitimate love child with that hot male actor that ends up with Katherine Heigl in 27 Dresses (oh ok, or Zac Efron). And sure, I stay home from work when her poo doesn’t look right in the morning, refuse to board her when I go out of town, and let her sleep in the bed… on the side with access to the alarm clock… bunching up all the covers… with all the pillows, but I am not obsessed with her.

Now, if my mama were single, we most definitely could cite this as the reason. Her two pups, Bella and Bonny Button, may or may not have an entire wardrobe. Actually, wardrobe, really doesn’t give it justice; Bella and Bonny have an actual rack with hangers in addition to their Rubber Maid storage bin that can’t fit through a door frame. There are so many matching outfits and hair ribbons for the two of them that they do not have to repeat an outfit now through Obama’s inauguration. Of course there are special holiday edition outfits as well. Nary a 4th of July, Valentine’s Day, Veteran’s Day or Arbor Day goes by without Bella and Bonny sporting commemorative dress (the army fatigue is cute, but the yamakas are just silly; we aren't even Jewish).

As long as I have my mama as a compass, I will never steer in the direction of pet obsessed. See ya later Reason #11/6). Onward soldiers.

Article Reason #23), My Reason #7) Because You Work Till All Hours:

Since I am a lawyer, some of you will guess that this is the main reason why I’m single. And God love your hearts; this means you also think I’m a hard-working attorney and that my personality and looks have no bearing whatsoever on the dismal fact that I do not have a sparkly boulder on my left ring finger. Most likely, you are also my parents.

However, being the honest Abe that I am, I’m going to politely disagree. Let’s not got into the ugly details of this issue, because, well, I’d like to keep my mortgage/shoe/handbag/wine/gourmet food/vacation/US Weekly-buying job. But, HELLO - I HAVE A BLOG. How busy could I be? Clearly I have enough time to strut my stuff and let a man buy me dinner and booze a couple nights a week.

Article Reason #36, My Reason #8) Beacause You’re too Picky:

Here is another perfect example of why the article is completely non-applicable to me. No way I’m picky. I’m not a huge fan of my food touching (yes I’m the girl who dirties 15 plates at a buffet) but if my cheesecake accidently touches the big pile of chocolate mousse plopped on the other side of the plate, I’ll eat them both anyway, in addition to the trio of mini key lime tartlets they contaminated during their merge. And just last Friday, I ate a Bugle chip that had been sitting in spilled beer at the creepy Asian karaoke place in Doraville (no, I’m not proud of this moment but feel that it is a great example of me being the opposite of picky).

Nor am I picky about guys. Anyone who is privy to my string of ex-boyfriends knows that I operate on the principle that everyone deserves a shot. Everyone that is except the 298 e-harmony trolls I closed out, the 2 friends my neighbor tried to set me up with, and that guy at Starbucks who still carries a chain wallet (those things died with Kurt Cobain, buddy). I mean, a girl has to have some criteria or she’s just desperate - a clear violation of reason #1).

I feel like I’m leaving the door wide open. I want a good looking guy that is intelligent, funny (but not goofy funny), sweet (but not a door mat), polite, aggressive (except when it comes to giving me what I want), determined, social (but not loud or fake), spiritual (but not a righteous Bible-beater type), passionate (but not a horn ball), romantic (but not cheesy mushy), successful, generous, and not cheap. Oh and I would prefer that he didn’t wear short-sleeved button-downs, tapered jeans, cargo shorts, any type of sandals other than flip flops, excessive hair gel, or ridiculous man jewelry.

Picky schmicky.

Article Reason #38), My Reason #9) Because You’re a Homebody:

I could totally agree with this one if it weren’t for one little exception - I’m a closet homebody (not to be confused with homeboy, which is a different post entirely). There is nothing I like more than putting on my fat pants (i.e. the ridiculously large lounge gauchos I stole from an ex that make me feel what Meredith Gray must feel when she puts on a pair of scrubs made for a normal-sized person), opening a bottle of wine, ordering take out, and watching a Law & Order: SVU marathon (TNT has been picking some really good ones lately). And after a hard day of work, I will pretty much pre-sale my first born to anyone who is willing to walk Bijou so I can slide into said fat pants and flop onto the couch 10 minutes faster.

But here’s the thing, my tendency to be a homebody is kinda like the hole in the ozone; you have a strong feeling that it’s a fact and may even do things to prevent it from happening to a greater degree, but no one actually can prove it. I set foot outside my condo and socialize with the good people of Atlanta (and other states when i have enough Airtran points) just enough to keep people from knowing that I’m a total homebody. Sure my closest friends, old roommates, and the bakery clerks at Publix know this about me, but I like to think I’ve kept this tendency otherwise hidden.

Just last weekend I fought a summer associate for the remote to the karaoke machine and convinced multiple partners to partake in Irish Car Bomb races (yes, races, plural), before sneaking off and telling a cab driver that I would pay him $40 to drive me home and stop by the ATM on the way (a total of 2.3 miles). (Yes, Joel, I realize this is like paying a waiter $40 to bring an $8 burger all the way to your table.) Then, I went out the very next night to a cook-out for married people. My social life is alive and kicking, my friends. It is no more the reason why I am single than lack of fluoride in their water is why British people have wacky teeth (we all know that's genetic).

Article Reason #29), My Reason #10) Because You Blog About Everything:

Ouch.

However, this blog is a recent occurrence. It doesn’t explain why the previous 14 years, I have been the Washington Redskins of dating.

I'm beginning to think that being single is my destiny. Years after my death, people will simply refer to me as the Virgin Associate, or maybe the Virgin Blogger Chick that Liked Dessert. Hell, if it was good enough for Elizabeth I, it's good enough for me. (But hold the phone. I will never get that pale.)

Why I'm Single (Installment 1)

This is a different type of post for me. But since there have been only two previous posts and this blog’s readership could fit into the trunk of a Smart Car, I doubt that my foray into comedic posts will cause any shock waves or life changes. However, hopefully, the new post will prevent my mama from buying me more self help books from Costco. Um, the clearance sticker is there for a reason. See, Cathryn Michon’s, The Grrl Genius Guide to Life: A Twelve-Step Program on How to Become a Grrl Genius, According to Me! (Now, I’m a girl who is known to miss a mean typo in an important professional email every now and then (such a shame when opposing counsel finds out that you still struggle with “hear” vs. “here”), but I’d like to think that even I would spell “girl” right when titling a book proclaiming to show the fairer sex how to realize their inner genius. Also, instead of simply referencing “me,” I’d cite to some sort of study, Harvard in general, or at least the lady in Parade magazine that always knows whether Jimmy or Harry will get to the train station first when one leaves an hour earlier driving a scooter and coming from a distance 30 meters away and the other is driving a Porsche and stuck in Atlanta-like traffic.) Note, mama, please feel free to buy me all the Costco wine, cheese, and mini egg rolls you can fit into your Texas-sized cart.

Ok, for those of you still reading (all of you now likely fit into one of Bijou’s sweaters), having completed the above disclaimer, I’ll get on with the post. I stumbled upon an online article the other day. I wish I could say that it was a link from a cnn.com article or posted on the NY Times website, leading to the conclusion that I was catching up on meaningful current events, but that would be false. I found the article on someone’s facebook page.

Yes, I will admit it, I am a facebook stalker. Even if I haven’t talked to or seen you in years, I will always know your dating status, of what or whom you are momentarily a fan, and that your favorite book is Horton Hears a Who even though you are a graduate from a top ten law school. And yes, I will judge you based upon the photos you post. Knowing that you and your buddies got drunk one night and Hayward Preston Johnson IV got his foot lodged in a toilet makes me feel better about my own drunken antics, but I doubt your boss feels the same. And I certainly don’t want to see baby Madison’s first ultrasound. Unless most of your facebook friends also happen to be OBGYN’s, no one knows what the hell is going on in that picture. For all we know, it is a satellite photo from the Sputnik program documenting UFO’s in the 1960’s; best to wait till lil’ Maddy is out of the uterus with her eyes open (and not spitting up or hanging from your teat). Oh and also, I seriously doubt that major modeling agencies are scouring facebook to discover the next Kate Moss; so, no need to post professional head shots of yourself with your lips pursed together. Then again, these helpful suggestions are coming from a girl who created an entire page for her dog and gave said dog a political affiliation. (PS, Bijou is barking for Obama and totally respects his appearance on Letterman even if he doesn’t have a family member she can befriend on dogbook.) (PPS, Bijou’s friend requests to all 24 of McCain’s pets remain unanswered.)

Anyway, the article is entitled “Why You’re Single” and, although a shameless marketing attempt to encourage single trolls in NYC to go random places, is very humorous in its own right. See, http://www.timeout.com/newyork/articles/features/2552/why-youre-single. While reading the article I contemplated my own single status (for the thousandth time that day) and the reasons behind it (other than the fact that I make up games requiring the ability to name foods that can be dipped in more than one of the following: ketchup, ranch, chocolate and/or butter). I ultimately decided to compare my own behaviors with those cited in the article. Here's the comparison:

Article Reason #1) Because You’re Desperate:

Clearly the authors of this article did not grow up in the South and do not know how to gingerly discuss a subject without making someone want to crawl under a blanket and cry. I mean I know a Southern woman that can convince a man he needs a penis enlargement without bruising his ego, and these jokers can’t come up with a better #1 reason than this?

I immediately discredit this reason for its circuitous logic. Is one single because she is desperate, or desperate because she is single? This is kind of like putting the Budweiser mug before the Clydesdale, isn’t it? This type of thinking makes my brow furrow and my eyes squint which leads to forehead crevices and crow’s feet. It also makes me want a Bud Light, so let’s move on.

But for the record, I honestly can say I am not desperate. If I were desperate, I’d still be dating that eharmony weirdo whose big life goal was to invent a massaging shower head. I’d appreciate a massaging shower head as much as the next girl, but I don’t plan on supporting a man while he tries to build one in my guest parking spot.

Article Reason #2) Because You’re Afraid of Commitment:

Now this is a much more palatable reason and one that I am known to invoke even though I know it isn’t true. I tend to get bored and restless fairly easily, but I have no problem committing. After all, I have watched all six seasons of Sex and the City in their entirety, and I didn’t leave the house for 3 days once I realized I could download episodes of Lost from itunes. And come on, I commit to a $79 room at the Holiday Inn for UNC Homecoming every year, months before football season even starts. So maybe I had to eat the cost of two tickets to the game last year, but seriously, NO ONE saw that break up coming.

Article Reason #3) Because You Love the Sound of Your Voice:

This one is clearly non applicable to me. I need 30 takes and 2 hours to record an out of office voicemail message and I cringe every time I have to listen to the playback. I would use robotic bitch voice 2000 if I didn’t get a chuckle out of the idea that people will start talking to me before they realize that it is a voice recording.

Whether or not I love the sound of my voice in a figurative sense may be a trickier determination. Then again, I only tell stories that other people will find entertaining and endearing. And I only loudly state my opinions when they are clearly more correct and enlightening.

Sianora reason #3.

Article Reason #4) Because You’re too Shy:

Um, no. I can talk to just about anyone, anywhere. In fact I think the lady that runs the deli in my building may be close to suggesting that we play the who-can-go-the-longest-without-talking-game next time I bebop in for my vanilla latte. My friendliness and outgoing nature are such polar opposites to shyness that shy people should hide in my purse, side-car style just to come along for the ride.

Of course this end of the spectrum is no picnic. I have personal knowledge that equity partners do not like to be hugged at new associate orientation dinners. I also know for a fact that you should always ask for your best friend’s permission before you talk about her sex life in front of her uncle.

Article Reason #5) Because You’re Too Controlling:

I don’t like to be called “controlling.” I prefer “cruise director.” And in all fairness, there are totally justifiable reasons behind my somewhat controlling behaviors. For example, I like to drive because I get motion sickness when I don’t. Plus, I tend to know the quickest routes and do not subscribe to the theory that half the fun is the journey. No, the fun is wherever we are tying to go which is why we are in a hurry to get there. Fun is not stuck behind the stinky MARTA bus, grandpa’s Buick that is taking up 2 lanes, or that work truck in the left lane going 45mph and about to lose a ladder and an orange igloo water cooler to the jaws of I-85. The journey is what we have to live through to get to the fun because no one has invented a real life Jetsons’ car. (If eharm dude had been on a quest to invent that, then there may have been a 2nd date.)

Further, my running fashion advice to those I love (i.e. my mama, my baba, my boyfriends, the concierge in my building, my BMW service advisor…) is only meant to help them present better versions of themselves to the world; it is really more charitable than controlling.

Oh and I only like to make the plans and set the agenda because I am so good at making plans and setting agendas and most people really suck at making plans and setting agendas. I bet people really appreciate my ability to make a reservation to the perfect sushi restaurant (even when they don’t eat seafood), plan a weekend trip to the beach (even though they already booked a B&B in the mountains), and generally tell them what to do with their lives (unsolicited advice sold here). Everyone needs a cruise director, except for maybe Nazis, people with OCD, and, well, cruise directors.

Reason #5? Definitely not it.

To be continued...

Old Soul Song

I’m sitting in my condo on a rainy Saturday in Atlanta. Plans of running errands, filing papers and doing laundry forgotten like the quote I heard the other day and really tried to remember. I love that it’s raining. I let the downpour bring a wave of relief now that I have an excuse other than laziness.

Because it goes with my gloomy mood, I turn on depressing music. The acoustic guitar slides down my ears like a shot of whisky – burning at first then numbing. I sit all the way through the song that Chris used to love and said reminded him of me. I imagine it still does. Good songs are unforgiving like that. I don’t cry this time.

I feel the overwhelming need to write. Realizing that I will never write a soul-wrenching piece like my friend Melissa whose words make a friend she hasn’t spoken to in years feel as though only a bottle of wine and small bistro table sit between them. Realizing that my writing will never be as humor-filled as Kassia’s whose astute observations coupled with her keen wit make her words linger in your mind for years after you’ve had the privilege of encountering them.

I write because the sadness has filled every nook and cranny of my soul and has nowhere else to go. It pours onto the page – spilt Merlot on white carpet. I write because the loneliness, so physically painful, makes saliva fill my throat. The words stare back – the non-judgmental expression of a friend that has heard it all before and knows that it is best to sit and listen.

I stare at the clock half relieved, half annoyed that I only have 13 minutes to wallow in the melancholy – the promise of more alcohol and superficial social interaction energizing but defeating. I know that the crisp mandarin vodka is the perfect partner for strange humid breath on my neck and cheek. I can already feel his heavy hand on the small of my back making me realize that my dress is damp. The hope that my smiles and laughter will be genuine is enough to get me into the shower. The knowledge that it will be temporary tells me to drink it all in because I'll want it tomorrow.

Coconut Cake

She sat at the tiny wooden table in the country store and attempted to delicately eat the hot sandwich with its cheesy filling seeping out over the sides. She wondered if her nimble fingers picking at the sandwich made her look neurotic.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed two weathered, blue collar men coming in the small mart for their lunch break - most likely locals that had been coming to the store for years, possibly since they were small boys. She thought she heard the faint jingle of a brass bell in the door frame but didn’t know if one was actually there or if her mind assumed that one would be appropriate.

The men’s dusty clothes and tanned faces were the badges of a life much harder than hers and yet she found herself envying their leisurely saunter into the store. She marveled at how they approached the counter and roamed the quaint store with such ease and content. Their relaxed faces revealed a deep inner satisfaction. The men did not smile at the young girl behind the counter as a gimmick or a façade meant to convince others and themselves that they were happy – their demeanor was genuine. No sign of worry or apprehension clouded the deep furrows in their brows. They were two men on their lunch break using the precious hour to rest and gear up for the grueling afternoon that stretched out before them.

Perhaps the demons of life awaited them at home and their peaceful composure was not permanent. But she didn’t ponder the possibility because she didn’t care. At this time, during that hour, she envied them.

They boy’s voice penetrated her thoughts and she nodded slowly and deliberately as though she understood and agreed. She hadn’t listened to what he had been saying and she barely recalled hearing the words he spoke. She quickly searched her memory bank to string the words together again. Grandmother. Coconut. Cake. They were discussing their favorite desserts. He had asked her about hers and she had said coconut cake.

It wasn’t exactly true. Coconut cake wasn’t her favorite desert – she didn’t have favorites. But lately she had been craving coconut cake and she remembered enjoying it the last time she ate a piece. But the coconut cake was not permanent, it was not steadfast, not a memory from childhood that clung to her. It was merely what she desired right then – a reflection of the person she was at this moment in time. She would obsessively indulge in it for a time until she got bored with it or ate so much of it that she tired of it and it began to repulse her. She didn’t have favorites.

Coconut cake. She smiled at her ability to piece together her broken, distracted memory and he thought she was smiling at him. He smiled back, making the crows feet wrinkle up at the outer corners of his eyes. She found it odd that someone so young had such deep set lines of age and began to wonder what put them there. She saw him pouring over books as a young boy, squinting in the dark as he read them under the covers past his bed time. She pictured a life of constant laughs and smiles – smiles so frequent that they left scars of happiness. She imagined a handsome, much older man with salt and pepper hair – her mind’s decision on what his father must look like. They had the same deep, dark eyes. Honest eyes her mother would have called them. And despite herself she liked him. It was the eyes, the honest, old-man eyes.

She wondered if he knew she was starring, studying him rather than listening to what he was saying. She knew he was talking about his grandmother’s coconut cake and how much he liked it, got cravings for it. She smiled again. She was glad that she had come up with the right answer, happy that they could share coconut cake.

The happiness was almost enough to squelch the familiar fear rising up from somewhere deep inside, creeping up into her mind, reminding her that time was temporary, that this moment would not last, that the happiness was fleeting. The conversation, the warm feeling of giddiness that had momentarily washed over her, the delight in meaningful human interaction was gone before it even began. She knew better than to think the euphoria would last much longer.

After all, coconut cake wasn’t her favorite. She probably wouldn’t even like coconut cake in a few months. She imagined herself choking on the little white shards and dry-heaving at the taste of vanilla blended with coconut flavoring. She knew eventually that she wouldn’t be able to think about coconut cake without her mouth turning inside out.

She had the strong urge to push back from the table and run out the open door letting the spring breeze and dust in. But as the fear took over, she relaxed in the familiarity of the feeling. The fear told her that this wouldn’t last. He wouldn’t last. Present reality was simply the mind’s summary about a particular moment in history. And moments were constantly changing, sometimes changing history right along with them.

She could see him disintegrating from the chair in front of her. Perhaps she should reach out and cup his hand while it lay on the table next to his paper plate – a small attempt to make the moment more memorable, more stagnant. She wondered if such a gesture could make time stretch on forever and cancel out the inevitability of the future – align tomorrow with today, make them the same, blurred together without stark rises and sets of distinction. The fear scoffed at the thought. Both of her hands remained in her lap.

The fear was defeating but empowering. It reminded her that she was in control. She was the one who understood the future. She knew that one could never completely stop time by holding on to another – the other, like she, could not stop the rolling change of reality and perception anymore than one could take words back after they’d been said. They would be different people by tomorrow, perhaps by the end of the day.

The dramatic irony of the situation soothed her. She was an observer to her own life, an audience member who knew things about the characters – today, her acting self and the boy with the honest, old man eyes – didn’t know. She knew that the moment was almost over; the afternoon with the boy with the old man eyes would hang in the country store forever while the present avalanched forward.

The fear signaled it was coming. She knew. The prophetic elixir diffused the desire to run and she locked eyes with the boy and smiled. He smiled back. He didn’t know. He suggested that they should go – there was never any expectation that they would sit there forever. Already, the present changing.

She stood up in agreement. She thanked him for lunch and he put his arm around her and brought her in close. She could have nested her cheek into his body had she wanted to. But she had been comforted enough – not by the hug, but by her resignation to the fear. She knew to resign because the fear was always right. The quicker she accepted the fear’s truth, the quicker the peace came. She knew.

As they excited the store, the boy extended his left arm and let her walk through the door frame as he paused behind her. She looked out into the parking lot and saw another dusty man approaching. He caught her eyes and smiled comfortably. He knew it too.