In the Air

There seems to be something in the air, maybe in the water. Something like love, something like split-aparts reuniting, something stirring around that reminds us that we are not meant to go through this life alone. In the last couple of weeks I have heard news of so many people becoming engaged or at last finding a potential mate. Just this last week I was overjoyed to learn that my elder son, Michael, will be marrying Liz when they have both completed school. Congratulations to them as well as the half-dozen other couples embarking on the matrimonial ship. I truly am happy for them, love is a blessing that touches every aspect of life, rendering the good things that much better and the sucky things more tolerable. The flip side of that goodwill, I must admit, is more than a little envy sneaking in around the edges. I'm heartened yet cynical. I feel like I'm living in the uneventful eye while the hurricane of love dances around me. Cupid's arrows fly in a nearby flurry and here I am, clad in Kevlar. And this little news item just in, the one big love of my life recently got married. I'm stunned. All the old heartbroken, bruised up pain has resurfaced like it never left. I'm surprised by this sudden rush of feeling for someone I had no real possibility of reconciling with. Maybe this is just that last vestige of hope dying hard. There's anger lurking around in there, too. Why does he get to be happy with someone else when he so brutally abandoned me? I risked nearly everything in my quiet, safe life to love him, and he disposed of me like nothing significant had ever passed between us. How can it possibly be fair that he's found love again and I'm alone? And the answer is, it isn't fair. And I may never be generous enough to be able to wish him well. I don't like that I feel this way, but I do, and I accept it without dwelling on it. On another note, last night I heard that whacky Elizabeth is engaged. Let's hope that the third time around is the charm for her. My trodden-on yet resilient heart still believes that love will show up on my doorstep once again. Most likely when I least suspect it. How could I possibly not believe when it seems to be in the air all around me.

But Who's Counting...

I've been doing this for three years! It's my blog birthday! Thanks to those of you who read regularly, even more thanks to those who post (love ya, Ed!), no thanks at all to the evil agents of spam! Let's try now to compose a sentence that does not require an exclamation point at the end. There. I feel so much better. If anyone is counting, this is my 462nd post. I'm not counting so it's a good thing that Blogger is doing that for me. And on an antisocial note, I have discovered that the iPod is a handy device for listening to music and other interesting downloads. The antisocial part is when you leave your earbuds in even if the gadget they are attached to has run out of juice or may not even be turned on! Thereby allowing you to ignore those people nearby who annoy you. As long as we're observing anniversaries, it's also been a year since I opened up a facebook account. This is a social networking site where I have now amassed sixty-two friends. Which makes me more social than I thought I was. Which leads me to ponder, am I a living oxymoron if I wear earbuds while facebooking? While we're pondering, let's have cake.

Maidenform 7969

Sometimes I don't know whether to be offended or fascinated. Or amused. Or just plain baffled. This is an actual magazine ad in Maidenform's I dreamed I was... series. I happen to remember with greater clarity the Mad Magazine send-up of this ad campaign. Picture the woman to the right in track star garb rather than her cowgirl get-up, crossing the finish line first with the caption I dreamed I was way out in front in my Maidenform bra! If floozy lawbreaking cowgirl is your little fantasy, go on ahead and switch back. Maidenform's I dream campaign contained many other images of women, in firefighter wear, at the circus, turning the tide of opinion on a jury, even a Cleopatra type on a barge. All without the constraints of clothing on their upper torso, just clad in their trusty Maidenform. The first in this series ran as a half page magazine ad in September of 1949 and continued for over twenty years. Contemplating the era in which these images appeared in print, meaning that they ran concurrently with news footage of women burning their bras in support (sorry) of feminism, seems to be the ultimate of ironies of this past century. I must confess that I am a fan of a certain Maidenform bra, style 7969. It fits like it was designed just for me and I own it in a number of colors. Sigh, if only they had style names like they did back in the 50's and 60's. Chansonette. Arabesque. Counterpoint. Overture. Varietta. I've never had a dream about 7969, but I might if it bore a more interesting name. One thing's for sure, they may have had fancy names but you won't find me wearing one of those pointy, unnatural looking contraptions. I'll take the less stylish sounding numerical moniker that has a more natural, feminine curve to its design. Which makes me wonder if the same designers are responsible for those pointy toed women's shoes. I smell a conspiracy of discomfort and cruelty!

In Praise of Julia

This is actress Dixie Carter as her character from Designing Women, Julia Sugarbaker. When I grow up, I want to be Julia Sugarbaker. Hey, you've got to have goals, and for a lazy Saturday morning, this is pretty lofty.

WTF?

Precisely! This little gem appeared in the comments section of not only one of my blog posts, but in every single one back to the beginning three years ago! All four hundred fifty-eight of them! What makes it so very unthinkable, is that I have been spammed by one of my fellow Blogspotters. Come to think of it, rendering the notion actually thinkable, being a member of Blogspot actually makes it easier to spam. An inside job. I have reported the incident and probably shouldn't give the miserable bastard further exposure, but, anyone know what it means?

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January 18, 2010 8:14 AM

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Plotting the Impractical

As of gathering the items from the snail-mailbox across the street yesterday evening, I am the recipient of a very generous gift. A very, very funny card from sister Pamela and a check. With clear instructions to spend the funds on something impractical. This prompted a phone call of an hour and a half in duration wherein we solved all of the ongoing problems of the world. Succintcly, this is the solution, if you're being a miserable little shit, I shall ignore you until you're behaving like a decent human being. Then we can talk. Until that time, I will certainly not allow you to spoil my day or my good mood. If you might think this is a simplistic approach, my thinking is that if it works on toddlers, pets, and difficult students, on a larger scale it ought to work just as well. And so, on to bigger things! Today I am devoting to plotting the impractical! Thank you, Miss Pamela, for pushing me out of my practical and pragmatic box. This is going to be so much fun. And as we know from Dr. Seuss, these things are fun, and fun is good.

The Process Continues

I quietly left my chair once the lights were out. I prefer, you see, to experience emotional meltdown moments in private, if at all possible. This one took me by surprise, though, I didn't see it coming. On Wednesdays at work we have these ususally mercifully brief meetings directly following lunch. They involve a topic relative to our lab's services or a safety topic. Sometimes these presentations are well thought out and interesting. Sometimes those responsible for presenting scramble to put something together at the last minute and it shows. Today was a safety meeting illustrating the dangers of inattentive driving. Relative to our jobs, it was said, because the higher-ups are in the process of forming a company policy involving cell phone use in company vehicles. A fifteen minute video was to be shown. That was when I exited. Personally, I don't need a reminder of how devastating and tragic the consequences of inattentive driving can be. A mere eight months ago my very dear brother was killed in a head-on collision when another driver was distracted, probably by cell phone use. I peeked back into the lunchroom about halfway through the video, seeing a still photo with a name under it, then interview footage of a family survivor, probably talking about their personal loss. At that moment I knew I had made the right decision when my gut instinct told me to leave. I'm not sure how many people at work are aware of the circumstances of my brother's death, no one asked me about my absence from the meeting this afternoon. After eight months, I'm getting used to the idea that I'll never see Cullen again, and the sting of that realization has mellowed some. When I walk through the family room, I greet his photo and the canister containing his ashes. It feels comfortable and familiar to have him here. I'm just not ready to watch others who have lost a loved one in a similar way parade their grief for the camera, even if it's for a good cause. It feels too much like it's me up there on the screen. I don't know when I'll be able to be more public on this subject. Maybe when a quick exit for a private meltdown doesn't feel necessary.

Not a Groupie

One of the oddball questions I will drop when the chat around the table grows quiet is, how many guitar players must a woman sleep with in order to acheive groupie status? This usually generates, firstly, puzzled expressions, and secondly, a good hearty laugh, and, thirdly, answers as unique as the answerer. Sometimes I'm asked to further define my question. Like, does he have to be a guitar player? Could the musician in question be a drummer, bass player, frontman? Sure. Any of the above. I have heard a number of interesting replies but as yet have not received what I truly feel is the definitive answer. Maybe I'm trying to determine whether I have attained groupie-dom. Although I don't think one nearly three year involvement with one particular musician qualifies me. I do have a number of friends who are musicians, the degree of friendship ranges from briefly dated to they know me and usually stop by the table to say hello during a break. I must confess one of the things I really enjoy saying is, I'm with the band. Which gives one access and privileges not conferred on the ordinary fan. Three defining factors crop up among the men I have variously been attracted to. They are Libra musicians who reside in Rapid City. Sometimes I approach them with interest, sometimes they approach me. Sometimes they only have one or two of the defining factors. Usually we meet through mutual friends. None of them have turned out to be Mr. NPBPFM*. Which brings up the subject of insanity. You know, that premise where you try to produce different results by continually doing the same thing. My friend Steve, who is neither a musician nor a Libra, but happens to live in Rapid City, says that I am very definitely not crazy. He is a very intelligent, literal and logical type, and he says I'm just tweaking the formula. Variations on a theme. I'm finding many of the qualities that I want in a man, just not the right combination at the right time. There's no coincidence in the similarities here, experiments work that way, Steve maintains. And most of them fail time after time, until just the right balance of factors comes together, and, voila, success. Dating, it seems, is the ultimate experiment where the successful outcome is finding a suitable mate. Making me a social laboratory participant, not a groupie. Who's counting, anyway, that's what I always say.

*Mr. Not Perfect But Perfect For Me

Bow-eautiful!

Who could possibly tear into a present with such a beautiful bow gracing it's rectangular perfection? Well, me. But I couldn't untie the bow, I just slipped it off of the package. Then it only seemed natural to place the beautiful bow on the cute little lamp on the dresser in my bedroom. What was inside was even better! A lovely box of assorted teas and an adorable mug. Thanks, Colleen! I bestow upon you the title, Artful Wrapper! Or maybe BowMeistress. Bow-eautiful, that's what I have to say about that.

Half Step In-Laws

Waiting for my new glasses this evening, I overheard the following conversation:

man behind counter: hello, how can I help you?

customer: yeah, I was wondering if my glasses were in.

mbc: what was the name?

c: says name

mbc: no, I'm sorry they're not in yet, we'll call when they're ready.

c: okay, wasn't sure, my stepdaughter answered the phone and then just hung up, I thought it might be you calling.


First, I must confess that the man who entered inquiring about his glasses was someone I know, at least by name, and I'm aware of his home situation. He does not know me, and I was seated with my back toward the counter. I thought it was so odd that he referred to the girl, his wife's daughter from a previous relationship, so specifically as his stepdaughter. Not just odd, but a little sad. He and the girl's mother have been married for five years and were together for some time before that. This man is really the only father she has known, her biological father is not involved in her life. Yet in the most banal of conversations he calls her his stepdaughter rather than his daughter. Maybe it's just out of habit. Maybe he does it to make a point on a regular basis that he is not related by blood to this child that shares his home along with two younger siblings and his wife. I wonder if he clearly refers to her half siblings in a way that lets everyone know that they are indeed his biological issue. I wonder how his wife and her firstborn feel about it. Maybe it's just me reading too much into a brief, businesslike exchange of information. It seems to me that at times it is necessary to clarify your relationship to a family member when referring to them. To avoid confusion or when mentioning names isn't specific enough. But in this case, I would have thought that by now she would have earned the title of daughter, with no steps of separation.

All Hail Me!

Last evening I was out for some food and adult beverages with two of my favorite guys and a third guy who was pretty cool. The conversation took a turn toward sexual activity and I was in the middle of expressing a thought on the subject when the following exchange occurred:

Andrew: No! Nononono! I need to keep the idea of you and sex firmly separated! Like the separation of church and state!

Me: Which one am I?

Andrew: Church. Definitely church.


So. Hmmm. Welcome, one and all, to The Church of Carla the Fabulous. We are now open to accept cash donations, to confer blessings, and to offer advice and counsel in the areas of decorating, accessorizing, and all manner of conundra involving personal relationships. After all, I am a goddess. Worship me.