Hijacked in England and Nearly Killed in West Seneca

Well, May is halfway over and I’ve so far made it through unscathed. Well, almost.

My ebay account got hijacked yesterday by some guy in England who’s using it to post bogus auctions for powerboats. It’s a nightmare. It took three hours online with ebay’s livechat to sort it out, and I’m still getting emails from potential buyers now. I’m so glad I took last night off to get stuff done, because the only thing I ended up doing was sitting in front of the fucking computer, messaging with Sloan from ebay. Three hours. I hope Mr. England chokes on a banger.

Then this morning, some middle-aged, pseudo-Kenny Rogers hippie on a cell phone nearly creamed me in an intersection. Just ran the light going 50 miles an hour, yakking on the phone, never even slowed down. Had I gone through a second later, I’d be toast. Or at least my car would be (and take note, gentle reader, that I’m like 3 payments away from paying it off…so if someone were to smash it up now, I might likely go to jail for assault and possibly manslaughter). I was already feeling annoyed from my commute (which was within 5 minutes of being over, mind you), and this guy just pushed me over the edge. We came to a stop at the next intersection, and I leaned out of my car and let him have it. I mean, I went off. GODDAMN STUPID MOTHERFUCKING IDIOT, GET THE FUCK OFF THE PHONE AND WATCH WHERE THE FUCK YOU’RE GOING! RED MEANS STOP YOU ASSCLOWN! GET THE FUCK OFF THE PHONE! PUT THE FUCKING PHONE DOWN AND DRIVE YOU STUPID SHIT!

He just waved at me, probably in recognition that he knew why I was upset, but I still felt like yelling. Of course, people in the surrounding cars were looking at me like I was a raving lunatic. And I’m okay with that because, well, sometimes I am.

The Burnout Retardation Non-Entry

In honor of Friday the 13th, when nothing is supposed to make sense anyhow.

Last week I started an entry about kids, in honor of Mothers’ Day. Then I scrapped that and started writing an entry about the hell also known as dating in Buffalo. I got sidetracked and when I went back to it, I decided it was poorly worded and atrociously structured. I scrapped that one, too. All in all, I think I dumped about six would-be entries from my cache before deciding to simply write a “non-entry.”

Bottom line, folks, is that I’m just too damn exhausted lately. You know the saying, “stop the world, I want to get off!”? Well, that’s me right now. I’m tired, my brain is fried, and I can’t even put two sentences together these days. So that’s why there have been no new posts recently. I do believe I’m suffering the effects of burnout-related retardation. I hope this passes quickly.

Duh.

*drool*

Oh Shit, it's May.

It’s May. May is supposed to be a fantastic month, full of warm weather and rebirth and rejoicing! Even in Buffalo, where you can never be sure it won’t snow next week, the energy of May is felt all over. There’s Cinco de Mayo in the beginning and Memorial Day, signaling the unofficial start of summer, at the end! Thursdays in the Square starts this month! Every weekend the roads are clogged with prom and wedding limos. The flowers are blooming, the bees are buzzing, the ice cream man starts making appearances, and the car washes are mobbed.

But for me, May is cursed. I’m not superstitious, really, but May just typically sucks.

First of all, my birthday, something which I am no longer all that excited about, falls toward the end of the month. Maybe it’s the fact that it ends with me being a year older that casts the pall over the whole month, I don’t know. But May has typically been the month from hell throughout my life. It is the month in which people die, relationships dissolve, jobs are lost, crises arise, and accidents happen. Not necessarily in that order, mind you, and not all those things always occur, but throughout the years hardly a May has gone by without at least one.

Now, you all know I’m a drama queen. I am a SHAMELESS drama queen, as I have every right to be. I spent four years and tens of thousands of dollars earning this fucking theatre degree – I’m going to use it somehow. My ASM at work likes to say “One D is for drama, one D is for diva!” He’s got that right! So maybe I do create this sort of self-fulfilling prophecy about May; I expect bad things to happen, so they do. Truthfully, it wasn’t really until about thirteen years ago, when my friend Jeff was killed two weeks before my birthday, that the pattern actually dawned on me. I started thinking about it…three boyfriends had broken up with me in previous Mays. My dog died right at the end of my freshman year of college, the second week in May...and since then I’ve had more strife in May – broken bones, job losses, weird incidents, strange illnesses, altercations with neighbors, etc.

Last year was actually pretty calm, so I’m wondering what bizarre incidents are going to go down this year. I know it sounds really morose, but I’m just going to brace for the storm and hope for the best. Maybe I should have a contest to see who can guess which tragedy is going to befall me. In the meantime I’m just going to tread lightly, watch my back, and wait impatiently for June 1st.

And has anyone noticed that this year’s May just happens to contain a Friday the 13th? Oh boy. Not that I’m superstitious. Well, okay, maybe just a little. :-)

Weather Rant aka Spreading my Buffalo Wings

It’s April 25, 2005…and it’s snowing.

Welcome to Buffalo.

Okay, I will admit it. My patience is wearing very thin these days with this place. Those who know me well know that I have tried to be a big Buffalo booster. Despite the fact that I’ve been known to speak out rather enthusiastically against the Giambra and Masiello administrations, I have extolled the cultural virtues of the area – the art, the music, the architecture, the history, traditions, and legends. While the city comes alive in the summer months with huge events like Thursdays in the Square, Allentown Art Festival, and the Taste of Buffalo (second largest “Taste” in the country, topped only by Chicago – and that’s probably only because Buffalo’s is two days and Chicago’s is a week), I have also stressed the abundance of smaller-scale urban adventures; trawling the interesting nooks and crannies of the city, exploring the little off-the-way stuff, getting one’s fingernails caked with the dirt of the uniquely Buffalo fun stuff, attending the small events buried deep within the last few pages of ArtVoice. I have stood tall and defended this place – and my decision to move back here two years ago – by pointing out these advantages, these charms, these quirks and nuances. I’m very quick to point out that this city has a world-class art gallery, filled with treasures classic and contemporary. I’ve demanded that my listener note we have higher education on what seems like every street corner – from career training to a Ph.D, there is certainly NO shortage of educational resources here. Even the public schools here are ranked some of the best in the nation.

We live 20 minutes from one of the Seven Wonders of the World – something that we all take for granted but is pretty amazing if you think about it. We grew up thinking the Falls were just another place to go when you had nothing better to do, but there are people who fly halfway around the world just to land in our backyards. We have THE best pizza (I’m a sweet-sauce, puffy-crust, burnt pepperoni kind of girl, and you just can’t get that anywhere but here), and of course, WINGS (and try as they might, nobody outside of Buffalo can ever get it right). This is the only place on earth you can get Loganberry – and on tap at that. Most bands stop here on their tours (although I’ve yet to convince Mason Jennings or Alice Peacock to make a stop here). And then there is that art-deco behemoth love of mine, Central Terminal. The list of good things about Buffalo goes on and on and on.

Of course we also have corrupt politicians, gross departmental mismanagement, and squandered resources. Thanks to the people in charge, we can’t use our libraries half the time, we have to break into public parks if we want to enjoy them, and we have to drive thirteen miles out of the way to get a stupid driver’s license renewal. We have crime. We have drugs. We have our fair share of urban blight. You can’t fly anywhere directly from here. And on top of all of this, our weather SUCKS.

Bottom line - I can’t take it any more. May is a week away, and we’re still getting winter weather advisories. This is bullshit! The first day of spring was MORE than a month ago…where the hell is it? I want my spring! My garden should be blossoming with daffodils and crocuses and hyacinths! My grass should be greening up! My maple tree out front should be budding! My heat should not be still kicking on in the middle of the day with my thermostat set at 60 god damn degrees!! I hate that, on April 25th, I have to wear my winter coat. I hate that we get like three or four “teaser” days, where the temps get up near 70, and then just when we think we’ve made it, we go back into the 30’s. Damn it! We will continue this “Sprinter” season, this vacillation between the seasons, until Memorial Day, when the threat of any more snow has been completely eliminated. As much as that sounds like a sarcastic statement, it is sadly, unfortunately, the truth. I’ve seen in snow in May, boys and girls. Stranger things have happened.

Once we’ve eliminated all threats of snow, then we deal with the rain. Buckets of rain, all summer long. After having spent nine years in Chicago where the summers were excruciatingly (as in 90’s, 100’s) hot, my first summer back here was kind of nice. I would love a summer of high 70’s, low 80’s, and just a few spectacular thunderstorms to make it truly perfect. But here it will stay mostly in the 70’s, we will spend some time in the 80’s, and it will rain. Then it will rain. Then it will rain again. And then it will rain some more. And my neighbors and my customers and my co-workers will all say the same thing…“wet enough for ya?” Hardy har har. We’ll crack jokes about building arks and whatnot, and I will curse. Loudly. Then I’ll blow my nose, since I’ll still be fighting the cold I’ve had since Christmas.

Then once we’re finished having a semi-summer, we’ll head into fall, which is typically my favorite season but is much too short. The leaves will turn and fall before we know what’s happening, and the first fallen leaf is the cue: people, get ready. It’s going to start snowing soon. By Halloween we’ll have seen flurries, if not more, and by Thanksgiving we’ll have shoveled the driveway at least once. Then we’ll settle in for the winter and wait for May to arrive all over again. It’s sad. And for someone whose mental state is affected profoundly by the weather, it can be pretty damn depressing.

So when I woke up yesterday morning and saw an inch of snow on the ground, and then drove to work in wet snow this morning, I cemented my resolve. I will be leaving again – and soon. To where, I don’t know yet, and that will depend on a lot of things, like job markets and grad school applications. But it won’t be anywhere it snows into early summer. Maybe I’ll head out west or perhaps down south where snow is a remote memory for some, an abstract concept for others. Hmm, maybe a place like North Carolina where they get those freak ½-inch snowfalls and shut everything down. I can laugh at the people freaking out as I enjoy my day off.

Or I may possibly just move back to Chicago, where the weather sucks but at least I can get a direct flight to anywhere in the world. Plus, nobody ever skips over Chicago when touring, I can get a real burrito at 4:00 in the morning, and if Richard M. Daley is still running the joint, I know I’ll at least like the mayor.

Becoming Our Mothers

While I have no intentions of turning this into a weight loss blog (there is no way I could ever compete with Wendy), my membership in Weight Watchers deserves mention now and again. As of the date of this entry I’ve lost 4.4 pounds and let me tell you, it will be a joyous day on Planet Deedums when, in just a few short days, I’m finally able to slap that 5-lb magnet on my fridge! I’ll put it right next to the little pig with the conversation bubble that says “You want broccoli!”

Anyway, the reason I’m bringing it up this time is because a friend of mine just joined Weight Watchers this week, and upon announcing this news to me added, “I’ve officially become my mother. This is a new low for me.” And this made me laugh. I’m not laughing so much because I know her mother (who happens to be a terrific woman), but mainly because I’ve realized that at our age, becoming our mothers is quite possibly our greatest fear. Oh sure, we fear death on some level as we hurtle mercilessly toward middle age, we fear for our financial future, we fear the wrinkles that we fight and the gray hairs that we yank out of our heads, we fear (in my case) a lifetime of continued frustration at the hands of the opposite sex (and having our peaks wasted in the process), we fear missing the biggest sale ever at Kaufmann’s. But more than any of this, we fear becoming our mothers.

I’m noticing lately that certain things come out of my mouth that make me stop and say, “hey, who said that?” and I realize…it was my mother. I hear myself emitting words, goofy expressions, vocal inflections – all eerily identical to my mother. I call my sister and say, “Hello, this is your mother,” just to freak her out. While I’ve always been good at impressions and imitations, this is one that comes all too naturally. Too naturally for my own comfort. In fact, it’s effortless…and that totally bums me out.

Now truthfully, I don’t think I would mind becoming my mother if it meant I would just simply physically resemble her. (Well, as long as I didn’t have to recreate that giant anglofro she had in the 70’s). The woman is half my size! She goes to work and gets asked out more times in one shift than I have been asked out in the last decade. And if that weren’t bad enough, take into consideration that (a) she’s a cleaning lady and as such is wearing grubby clothes and little or no makeup when these hits take place and (b) most of the guys asking her out are young enough to date ME! She doesn’t go out with any of them (and truthfully I wouldn’t either, since my mother and I both have a die-hard rule about requiring our dates to possess full sets of teeth), but still, I can’t even get a flirtatious smile out of a guy, much less an offer for a movie and a drink…and here goes my 58-year-old mother fighting off men left and right with her toilet brush.

But really, if I could avoid becoming her and just look like her, I think I could accept that. But alas - I look like my father.

Hey, Pizza Face!

For a while I went through a period where it seemed the older I got, the younger I looked, but then somewhere around 31 or 32, I started showing my age. Wrinkles. Sagging eyelids. Funky skin tone. The inevitable descent of my jowls (thanks to my mom’s side). Pores so big you could drive a truck through them, that sort of thing. All the usual signs of aging, compounded by years of horrific eating habits, harsh climates, excess makeup, and cigarette smoke (my own and that of just about everyone I’ve ever lived with). Although I still live in a harsh climate, something that isn’t going to change for a while, I’ve gotten rid of the smoke (I’ll be quit for 6 months next week, yay me), I don’t wear foundation anymore, and I’ve started eating better - I just started Weight Watchers, and I drink enough water on a daily basis to float a small armada.

So then, would someone PLEASE explain why my face looks like it belongs inside a Papa John’s box? Look, when I said I wanted to look younger, I did NOT mean I wanted to look like a greasy, hormone-laden 16-year-old. That actually might not be SO bad, but I look like a greasy, hormone-laden 16-year-old with WRINKLES. I thought that when you started getting wrinkles, you stopped getting zits. I now have more of both than I’ve ever had in my whole life!

This is beyond the “oh, no, I have a pimple!” mini-crises of my yesteryears. This is serious acne. On my forehead is an archipelago of zits, all different shapes and sizes in all different stages of development. There’s a small cluster camping out on my right cheek. There’s a colony forming on the side of my nose. For every one that clears up, two more rise to the surface. Most of them are relatively normal-sized, as pimples go, but now and then I get a monster. I recently had one directly between my eyes that was so big I could see out of it. Right now I’m sporting a volcanic growth on the side of my chin that has its own zip code. Or would that be a ZIT code? *ba-dum-CRASH!*

Anyway, I really never had this problem when I was younger. I would get a pimple, maybe two, usually at the most inopportune times, leading to drastic measures to execute their removal on occasion - like the time I burned a dime-sized hole in the middle of my forehead with Compound-W two nights before the prom. (Hey, come on, it was worth a try…I figured if it could remove a wart in three days, then surely it would remove a zit overnight)! But most times I’d get a pimple, I’d lament my cruel fate, dab on the Clearasil, and away I’d go.

So what is an aging thirty-something to do these days? I’m in constant battle, armed with little experience in the world of blemish-fighting. I go to the store and am overwhelmed by the number of cleansers, toners, scrubs, masks, moisturizers, astringents, anti-wrinkle this, oxygen-boosting that, pro-vitamins, alpha-hydroxy, beta-byproxy, free-radical-blockers, and so on and so on. My shower is now littered with half-empty (yes, I’m a pessimist) tubes of various cleansers and scrubs, the back of the toilet cluttered with lotions and potions, all claiming various miracles. I even ordered that stuff off the infomercial on television, you know, the stuff hawked over the years by such peaches-and-creamy-complected celebs as Vanessa L. Williams, Judith Light, Valerie Bertinelli, Britney Spears, and Jessica Simpson. I thought, “hey, this stuff works for everyone – young, old, white, black, models, actresses, rock-star wives, pop-stars, has-beens, wanna-bes, tabloid mega-fodder…surely it will work for ME!” Well, it didn’t. In fact it made the situation worse. Turns out I’ve got some sensitivity to the active ingredient and after two days I looked like someone had set my face on fire and put it out with a rake. Not exactly what I was going for there. So much for that idea.

So for now I just walk around with my hand in front of my face a lot, avoid talking to nice-looking guys, and complain to my girlfriends while pointing at the offending face invaders. I’ll blame it on stress and hormones, two things I can do little about at the moment. Then maybe once I get through this phase I’ll begin my war on the wrinkles.

Oh Look! Another Schiavo Blog!

Terri Schiavo is dead. After 13 days without food or water, the shell has finally expired. Thank God. Thank God for having the mercy, finally, to put her out of misery. That’s not to mention putting those of us who have endured the media circus out of ours. Unfortunately I don’t think we’ve heard the last of it, but at least Terri has some peace.

Right now Terri’s having a grand old party up there in Heaven with a lot of people, I would imagine; her grandparents, aunts, uncles, her childhood pets, perhaps a friend or two. I bet she’s mighty pissed at her parents, though. I know I would be.

See, I’ve made it clear to my family that they are not, under any circumstances, to keep me alive by artificial means. Maybe I’ll put it in writing, but I don’t really think I need to, since everyone in my family pretty much feels the same way. None of us want to be kept alive or to keep each other alive if it involves permanent confinement to mechanics, tubes, or wires. Maybe it’s because we’re vain or proud and have a problem with someone else feeding us or wiping our asses. Maybe it’s because we’re all chatterboxes and live in fear of not being able to talk. Maybe we’re cheap and don’t want to spend the money on all that hospital/hospice/home health/nursing home care on someone who can’t appreciate it. Maybe we don’t really like each other very much and are looking for any excuse to bump each other off. But seriously, maybe it’s because we have a security about death, security in our faith that helps us understand that the body is a vessel, leased from God, within which our souls reside – and when God decides it’s time to terminate the lease, there is no clause for renewal.

I’m not talking about paralysis or amputation or disfigurement. I’m not saying that if I should suddenly lose the ability to walk that I should be shot and sent to the glue factory, or if I lose my sight I want to be guided off the nearest cliff. What I mean is that if I cease to be me, if I am nothing but an incoherent body in a bed, my involuntary functions being artificially performed by external means, then I have no business taking up space. And who is anybody to tell me I have to stay like that?

Oh wait a second – those are the same people that can tell me whether or not I may reproduce and can tell my gay friends that their commitments to their partners aren’t “real.” Sorry, I forgot. *rolls eyes*

But I digress.

The battle continues now with what to do with Terri’s remains. Michael, the husband, wants the autopsy done one way. The parents want it another way. Both want to prove that they were right; Michael wants to remove the vilification branded upon him, the parents want to prove that her death was wrongful. The husband wants to cremate her. The parents want to bury her. For the love of God, please, someone make it STOP! Enough already! We DON'T CARE ANYMORE!

And now, as if I didn’t already dislike the Schindlers enough, we find out that they have authorized a conservative direct-mailing firm to sell a list of names of all the kind (albeit foolish) folks who sent them money during the years of their legal battle. These people can now brace for a steady stream of junk mail, solicitations, and propaganda from every right-wing nutbag group out there. Of all the underhanded, selfish things to do…what in the HELL is wrong with you, Bob and Mary Schindler?! First you keep your daughter alive, bleeding your own bank account, then you bleed the system, and then you accept financial help from strangers for your court case to continue bleeding Medicaid for all it is worth, then you lose your case, your daughter dies the merciful, peaceful death you denied her for over a decade, and now you are SELLING YOUR SUPPORTERS’ NAMES TO A MAILING LIST?!?!?! And who wants to take bets that these media whores appear on the cover of “People” magazine within a month? They probably already have interviews lined up with supermarket rags and talk show hosts from here to next century. And I haven’t even touched on the fact that the Schindlers were willing pawns in a frightening, convoluted effort by the Moral Majority to take over the country. *shudders*

So Terri’s dead, but the battle for her "legacy" continues. At least until the Pope dies.

Canine Senility is Leading to My Own Insanity

My dog is going senile. She’s a semi-large breed (half Great Dane, half Doberman/Shepard mix - yeah, rather large), and she’ll be 13 in May. It might not sound that old, but for a larger breed, it’s ancient. To compare it people-wise, if she were a Chihuahua she’d still be in her 60’s, taking swimming lessons at the senior center and playing bridge every Friday with the girls, going to Bingo every week and having her blue hair done at a regular salon. But she’s a big dog, which means she’s more like the slow-moving terror of the nursing home; the sneaky late-80-something old lady with Alzheimer’s who stinks and is always causing trouble, stealing and messing things up whether she means to or not. She’s the one the beauty students try to pawn off on each other when they visit, because nobody really wants to touch that smelly old thing. But despite the fact that she’s smelly and slow and destructive, she’s still sweet and lovable in a pitiful kind of way.

Now, Alex has pretty much always been stupid. In her defense, however, it’s not entirely her fault. She was actually making relatively good puppy progress until one day when she was 14 weeks old and she got hit by a car. Her leg was broken and she had to go back in the crate until it healed – six whole weeks. So everything she’d learned up to that point – her housebreaking, obedience, tricks, etc – just flew out the window during her six weeks of confinement. So when she finally did come out of the crate, she was a 5-month-old puppy starting from scratch. This might not have been such an issue, but the damn dog weighed more than 60 pounds at that point. Again, to put it in people-perspective, it was like having an infant in a fourth-grader’s body.

But I digress. Now that she’s 13 and really losing it, every day is a new (and not necessarily exciting) adventure. I never know what I’m going to wake up to. I also never know what time I’m going to wake up, because lately she’s taken to rousting me in the wee hours (no pun intended) to go out. Once she gets me out of bed and into the cold, dark night in my pajamas and whatever shoes I can stuff my feet into, whether they match or not, she stands in the yard and does…nothing. Not a thing. No poop, no pee, no sniffing, no digging, no scouting around for a place to leave her prize…nothing. She just stands there staring into space. After she does this for a minute, she looks back up at the house, sees me, and comes back up the steps and wants to go in. When I tell her, “no! You haven’t done anything yet!” and point back to the front yard, she trundles back down the steps only to stand motionless on the grass once more. After a few minutes I give up and let her back in and crawl back into my warm bed, and when I wake up a few hours later, there’s a nice, fresh pile and/or puddle waiting for me at the bottom of the basement stairs. So that has become my daily drill. Joy.

She’s reverting back to puppyhood, just like old people revert back to childhood when they go senile. This is challenging. She can’t hear, she sometimes falls down for no apparent reason (I think it’s an equilibrium thing related to her hearing loss), and she STINKS. I never expected to have to endure the puppy phase not only a second time (when she got hit by the car and had to re-learn everything), but a THIRD time now that’s she’s lost her mind. And I’m slowly losing mine as well now.

*yawn*

More on this later.

The Charm Bracelet

Several years ago, a close guy friend of mine hooked up with a new girlfriend. This girlfriend, who quickly became my friend as well, had a sterling silver charm bracelet that I just thought was the coolest thing. Not only did I love the way it looked, how the charms caught the light and reflected it as it bounced off the various dangling faces, or how it sounded, all those silver baubles clinking against each other as she raised her hand to sip her drink or drag on her cigarette, or how each little charm had a story behind it – but I loved the idea that I had met someone for whom gift ideas would never, ever run dry. The woman wore around her wrist a sterling silver testament to everything she found important, interesting, significant, symbolic, historic, or just simply, well, charming to her. She was an optometrist and had little silver eyeglasses on the bracelet. She had her initials. She had her sign. She had little silver cats, a little horse head, a cross, a USMC insignia. She had so much stuff hanging off that bracelet, with room for more, and I thought, “I have just met the easiest person to shop for in my life!” and then I looked at that bracelet again and thought, “man, I want one of those.”

That spring, while shopping a silver jewelry website for a charm for her birthday, I started eying the bracelets and the charms, and briefly entertained the notion of buying one for myself. Then I stopped and thought, “Maybe if I mention it to enough people, someone will get one for me!” It had worked with the engraved Zippo a few years earlier, so I figured it had to work for this, too. To me, it just seemed like something you don’t buy for yourself – it’s a “gifty” kind of thing. And besides, it would make shopping for me that much easier for the rest of my natural life! Stumped? Hey, just get me a charm!

So that night I told my boyfriend. Then I said something to my sister. Then I mentioned it to my mom. My own birthday was coming up, so I figured maybe someone would come up with one. My birthday came and went, no bracelet. Christmas came, and I got lots of nice stuff from my mom and my sister. My boyfriend, Warren the Anti-Santa, gave me a used, broken modem, a t-shirt I'd never be caught dead wearing in public, and a little charcoal grill we’d bought earlier that year for a July 4th picnic that never happened. No bracelet.

A week before Valentine’s Day, Warren and I broke up. He still sent flowers to my office (because he’d already ordered them and forgot to cancel, apparently), but of course there was no bracelet. Three months later my birthday rolled around. No boyfriend, no bracelet. Now, I suppose I could have used the money that my mom sent and bought one for myself, but at this point I was set on getting one as a gift. See, it was like a mission now: who was going to give me The Bracelet? Then six months later, as another Christmas rolled by without one, I started thinking that maybe it was just going to have to be me.

Shortly after the new year, I met a new guy. Over the 10-month course of our relationship (which included a Valentine’s Day and a birthday), he would give me a necklace and a "promise ring" (what the fuck ever), but no charm bracelet. We broke up a month and a half before Christmas, so I knew I wasn’t getting The Bracelet from him. But there was always Mom and my sister! Alas, it didn’t happen.

I spent a good deal of time being single after that, so there was no boyfriend in the picture to fulfill my quest for The Bracelet. Then I carried on a long-distance relationship that lasted a couple of years, but he never gave me anything. Birthdays and Christmases came and went, and still my wrist remained unadorned and silent. Then last year, long-distance-guy actually asked me what I wanted for Christmas! Holy crap! This man had given me nothing over the course of our relationship. No gifts, ever. But this year he was asking! I thought, “this is my chance! I’m gettin’ The Bracelet!” I played the “oh, gee, I don’t know, let me think about it a minute” card, and then called my sister who, being the conspiratorial little imp that she is, said, “weeeelll, I could always drop him a hint if you wanted!” Later that night, she emailed him and told him about The Bracelet. She explained to him that the reason she’d never gotten me one was because it really was the sort of gift that a boyfriend should get for his girl, and not a sisterly kind of thing. Then a few days later, he asked me again for gift ideas. So I just came out with it, and said, “you know, I’ve always wanted a charm bracelet.” I thought between me and my sister there was no way he could not get me what I really wanted!

A week later, I found out he had been cheating on me for three months. Still, I sent him the gifts I’d gotten him (which in retrospect was a really dumb thing to do), and I thought maybe The Bracelet would still arrive, despite the fact that the relationship appeared to be on its way out. I thought maybe The Bracelet would be offered as a peace offering, or maybe even a break-up gift. Hey, at this point I’d take it for whatever reason!

The day the package arrived from him, I got so excited! With trembling hands, I peeled the tape off the top of the box, ripped open the flaps, and looked inside. There were two obviously hastily-wrapped gifts. In the first I found a pair of ugly gloves and a stupid-looking hat. The second gift yielded a set of windchimes. No bracelet.

The relationship became officially over on New Year’s Eve, and I’m now beginning to get back in the groove of the single life, slowly, surely, and with careful apprehension. Dating is a bitch, that’s for sure, but I’ll tell you one thing: the man I end up with is not going to be the one who has the best job, the handsomest face, the nicest body, the funniest sense of humor, the brightest future, the coolest car, the cutest smile, the sharpest wardrobe, the biggest house, the fattest wallet, or the most sexual prowess.

He’s gonna be the man who gives me that fucking bracelet.

Introductions Are Always Nice

And since they are nice, I should start this with one, right?

Right.

So, um...hi. Welcome to my blog, "As Planet Deedums Turns." My life is a soap opera, more often than not because I invite unnecessary drama and turmoil into my life. Well, it's not that I invite it in, it just seems to find me -- and my reaction to it is what makes my life such a topsy-turvy whirlwind. Add to that the fact that I am a textbook Gemini, and well, it's a recipe for one disaster after another. I'm a veritable shit-magnet at times.

But it's not all bad. If my life were boring, or if it were simply ordinary and I lacked the imagination to make it more interesting than what it is, I wouldn't have much to write about, would I?

I don't know what I'm going to write about, quite honestly. I'm single. I'm fat. I'm 33 - almost 34 - years old. I live in Buffalo. I used to live in Chicago, and it was much cooler there. Right now I work two jobs, one of which I hate and am quitting in August to go back to school full time. I struggle with identity issues. I just started seeing an expensive Jungian shrink who's supposed to be helping me figure myself out. I have a dog and a cat. I'm a hopeless and seemingly incurable "messie." I like shoes. I quit smoking in October of 2004. My boyfriend broke up with me on New Year's Eve. I'm addicted to Cherry Crush. I'm writing a book about the layer of hell known as customer service. I think way too much and analyze everything to death. I worry about stupid stuff. I'm always late. My mom likes to say I'm "one step behind the rest of the world." Thanks, mom. Really.

So you see, there's plenty of fodder for blog entries here. What I actually choose to write about depends on my mood, my meds, my schedule, and my energy level. You'll just have to check back now and then, won't you?

But hey, really - I'm glad you're here. Thanks for stopping by.