Tardy By Nature

“I’m always running behind the time, just like this train….”
-Joni Mitchell



I was born ON my due date. Exactly on time. And, as my mother likes to point out, it was the first and only time I wasn't late for something.

I am one of those people who is perpetually and chronically late. It doesn’t matter where I’m going – I’m always late. Ever have one of those teachers in high school, maybe college, who used to say, “Honestly, some of you would be late to your own funeral!”?

*raises hand*

Well, yeah. That would be me.

Sometimes it’s because I oversleep. Sometimes it’s because I get up too early and get involved with projects that keep me occupied until well after I should be out the door. Other times it’s because I forget how idiotic the drivers are in Buffalo and how easy it is to get stuck behind some clueless assclown going 50 in the left lane on the Thruway. Sometimes it’s a matter of not really wanting to be where I’m going, so I procrastinate in a sort of passive-aggressive display of personal protest. Most of the time it’s a matter of me simply not having my shit together.

Sometimes I’m late just because I’m running late. Sometimes I start out on time but then the imaginary “Anti-Destination League” steps in and gets some guy to crash his car on the Scajaquada Expressway, or makes my dog throw up right as I’m walking out the door, or tricks me into putting on clashing shades of pink that I don’t notice until I’m out in the sunlight. There are times I think I was just born missing the part of the brain that is wired to manage time, and that my sense of space-time continuum is just screwed up. But I like to think I just march to my own beat, and, well, sometimes my metronome isn’t calibrated properly.

Most of the people in my life have gotten used to this. My mom likes to say I operate on “Deedee Time.” If my family wants me someplace at 10:00, they will tell me to be there at 9:30, because they know I’ll show up somewhere between 9:40 and 9:50. Most of my friends have learned to make “-ish” a part of their regular scheduling vocabulary with me. Every boyfriend I’ve ever had has either let it drive him nuts or has learned to live with it. Truthfully, it’s not worth fighting about, it’s not worth getting upset over. I’ve tried to fix it, I really have. I’ve tried every trick I can to be on time for stuff, and it just doesn’t happen.

Now, I’m not usually THAT late – usually only about 5 or 10 minutes, give or take a few. I try really hard not to be late for things that I will disrupt with my tardiness, such as movies, classes, or meetings, and I always err on the side of early when catching a flight. But in most situations I would be considered “fashionably late.”

I guess some people just have better fashion sense than others. :-)



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Just as an interesting aside here, I got fired from my day job yesterday (even though my last day was supposed to be August 12th, I guess they just couldn't stand me that much). After the axe fell, I went and got most of my waist-length hair cut off to just above my shoulders. I feel refreshed and liberated, for real!

But anyway, today's horoscope:

Give yourself a break. A brief one, anyway, because if anyone deserves some downtime, it's you. You've been trying to get away from it all -- or perhaps from 'them' all -- for some time now, but your fans (AKA your family and friends) haven't been willing to let it happen. It's time for you to take matters into your own hands and let them all know only one thing: That you'll go where you want to, when you want to. It's called personal freedom, and you insist upon it.

Who says these things aren't dead on sometimes?

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A New Low in Dating!

I do believe I’ve done it all now. Last week, my friend Sally and I went to “Eight-Minute Dating.” You may have heard it referred to as “speed dating,” or perhaps some other inane term, but basically it’s all the same thing – a crock. It’s a meat market disguised as a “safe and fun way to meet other singles in your area!” Yeah. As Sally would say, “uh, not so much.”

You spend eight minutes with eight different members of the opposite sex, and by date #8 you feel like a robot stuck on auto-best-behavior. “Hi, my name is blah blah blah! (*fake smile*) I grew up in bleh bleh bleh, I moved away to blah blah blah, got my degree in bleh bleh bleh, moved to blah blah blah, I’m 34, I have no children, I have one dog, one cat, I do not smoke, I drink on occasion (*slamming back the second martini of the evening*), bleh bleh bleh, I love music, art, literature, architecture, and I have a great sense of humor.”

That last one, as true as it might be, sounds like a lie by the time you get to the end and begin to resemble Ben Stein.

So here you are, eyes glazed over, mouth dry and running on autopilot, cheeks cramped from all the fake smiling, and at the end the only thing you’ve really gotten for your money is some crummy cheese cubes and veggies with dip. You still remain disenchanted with the opposite sex, you still had to buy your own drinks, and you still go home alone.

When all is said and done, you’re supposed to race home and log on to the 8-minute dating website and enter your matches. But what if you didn’t like anyone? Or worse yet – no one liked you?! Welcome to my reality, folks. I waited a day just for good measure, though I pretty much already knew the outcome. Big surprise that the fat, dumpy 30-something didn’t get any second dates.

Then again, the prospects were pretty bleak to start with. While the first guy was way cute, very charming, and funny in a 27-year-old cute and charming way, he was also an obvious hottie-chaser. Seven years my junior and WAY out of my league, I wasn’t even gonna try. I got the feeling while sitting there with him that he was about as comfortable with me as he would have been with his mom’s crafting club pals.

Then came a couple of nice guys on this side of thirty – appealing, except for the divorced with kids part. Next!

Number four was very nice, very handsome, very gainfully employed, but very reserved. I think I scared him. Either that or he was just mesmerized by my terrific beauty.

Number five - another guy with a kid. Next! (Sorry, my one major rule is that you can’t have any of those. Not unless they walk on all fours, are covered with fur, and eat kibble...you know, the kind that don’t talk, don’t throw tantrums, can be left alone for hours at a time, and will never stomp their foot at me and remind me that I’m not their real mother. Say what you will about my selfishness, but I can’t think of anything MORE selfish than propagating your own genes and then expecting someone else to be responsible for your spawn. But that’s another rant for another entry and another time).

Then came a couple more who were so unique and special I don’t even remember their names or what they looked like. I was too busy praying for the timer to hit 8 minutes. I’m sure they were, too.

And finally, I had my last date of the evening, and it happened to be with my coworker, whom I’d convinced to sign up for this stupid thing. We spent the entire 8 minutes talking about the office where we work. Besides the fact that we work for the same company, he’s just not my type. Nice guy, but we’d be about as good together as chocolate and onions.

So then, it's back to the drawing board, back to the wonderfully awful world of dating in Buffalo (which I swear has got to be the worst dating city on the planet) in your 30's (which is probably the worst dating age ever). For the second largest metro area in New York state, Buffalo sure isn't boasting an impressive eligible bachelor pool - unless single dads, mullets, missing teeth, and Lynyrd Skynyrd worship are your fancy. Good lord, I feel like I'm trapped sometimes inside an especially horrible episode of "Sex and the City."

So watch this space for entries to make Carrie Bradshaw proud.

Yes, They Still Do Lollapalooza.

Okay, so I’ve been gone a while, and I’m sure the masses have been gathering, waiting with baited breath and chomping at the bit for my next entry. I can hear you all tapping your feet, the rumblings of displeasure and impatience as you keep checking your computer to see if I’ve posted anew…

Well the wait is over, kids. I’m back.

But where to start? My trip to Chicago? My recent speed-dating experience? My continual and escalating confusion surrounding the male of the species? My weight? The heat? My impending huge lifestyle change from working woman to college kid? Aye. So much to say, so little time. It’s the story of my life.

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So check it out – I went to Lollapalooza! It was so freaking hot, though, I didn’t enjoy it as much as I’d hoped I would. Saturday was the “big” day. Cake played...and anyone who knows me at all knows that’s a big deal for me. They’re up there on the list of favorite bands, and one of the few of my favorites who are still actually together and touring/playing as a group. I met up with my friend Samara, who flew in from New Jersey, and her boyfriend Matt, and we had a great time. I also got to hang out with my dear friends Gus and Lynne and their baby Sofia, ran into an old employee from "the Farm," and I met some great new people and made some new friends as well. My only complaint was that I couldn’t stay longer.

Over the course of the weekend, I came to some conclusions, realizations, and affirmations:

1. I love Chicago.
2. I miss Chicago and my friends there more than I ever thought possible.
Therefore...
3. I’m moving back there when I’m done with school in three years. Whether it’s for graduate school or a job remains to be seen, but I’m going back. Forget New York, never mind San Diego, screw Atlanta. My heart belongs to that toddlin’ town.
4. Les Claypool is the coolest fucking person on the planet.
5. Perry Farrell is fugly – especially up close! (He was riding around the park in a golf cart at one point and blew past me while I waited in line for a $3 bottle of water)
6. I have nice boobs (according to a random stranger walking down Jackson Street on Saturday).
7. There is nothing quite as sad – or funny – as several hundred white people “dancing” to Digable Planets.
8. Men are a most confusing bunch of people. I swear you all make my head hurt.
9. Cake rocks.
10. I still hate the Pixies.

And there you have it.