Trouble with recipes...

This is terrible... I should keep the recipe, but it's impossible... Here it is, you make heads or tails of it....

Cookies and Valencia Cream Ice Cream:

2 cups cream, infused with the zest of 2 oranges

3 cups milk,

1/2 cup sugar

1 tablespoon vanilla

juice of 1 1/2 orange

1 cup orange caramel sauce ( reduce orange juice and sugar to a sauce consistency )

2 cups chopped chocolate biscotti bits ( Erika's recipe )

1 shot espresso

1/4 cup water

Mix espresso and Hot water, pour over chopped biscotti. Cool. Cool infused cream, add orange juice. Mix caramel sauce, vanilla, sugar into milk, combine with cream, mix well. Churn until frozen in ice cream maker. At the end, sprinkle with tons of soaked biscotti and let churn in. Biscotti should have a cake-like consistency before being added. If not, add more espresso.

An Email to Patricia....Thought I'd Share...

I'm having one of those weeks... thank you for the laughs.

Cooking is my.... well, my salvation and my perdition... If I don't cook, I don't breathe... but it's an art too, you know? It's not the science of the same exact plate every single day to me... it's a means of expression... if I can dream the combination and make it happen... and sometimes I don't get to do that as often as I'd like.

It's high-pressure and high-heat and there's a little sado-masochism in it, really, you have to like the ability to give and take real violence... because somewhere there's this golden moment like tonight when I took the crumbled bits from last week's chocolate biscotti that I saved for no good reason and start dreaming about Valencia mochas I drank seven years ago... and end up with the best ice cream ever.

It's a temporary pleasure, because ice cream is not a work of art that will be hung on the wall for a hundred years to come, nor a statue that will adorn a courtyard until it is worn away by time... it will be gone in a week and I will be forced to create some new sensation from other old crumbs... and that's a challenge I can and will rise to.

That's my melodramatic monologue for the evening. How're you? Glad to be home? Enjoying your long lunches? I hope so. Is the tour guide thing gonna pan out? Or is it Portland?

Have fun. (Everyone in New Orleans always says "Be safe." so I make it a point to say, "Have fun". Because the two are not always the same.... and one may have to take priority over the other...)

-amelia

Apparently, Boys Are Complicated

I don't understand boys. I know they are supposed to be simply motivated, but really, it gets more complex after that... I know that they are taught all the things that I think boys are taught... all those complexes about sex that I know they have... but it's the screwy logic that happens somewhere that I don't get...
For example...(you knew there was a reason for this diatribe, didn't you?) I've been seeing Dennis as we all know... and things got weird for a bit there. You see, he's been acting like I'm his girlfriend. Which has been creeping me out, to which I responded by hanging on to Matt and not telling Dennis. Neither of them has any idea that the other one exists, or worse yet, that I've seen someone else naked in the last several months. They both know the possibility exists, but not the reality. Trust me, it's better this way. I've been down this road more than once, and so long as they've both agreed to the deal, they don't need any more information. And, they have agreed to it. Neither of them are, of course, seeing anyone else. Boys never are, they just say "let's see other people" in case by some miracle they manage to get someone else to sleep with them... it doesn't usually happen.

So I had a few drinks and I did something stupid. Namely, I told the boy that I really like that I really like him. Precisely what I told him is that he makes me feel as though he has his hand on that one special spot on my back that makes every woman feel like following when a man is inclined to lead. Now, I meant that as a high compliment. In context, we'd been arguing, and I was trying to explain that I would find it very easy to forgive him if I was only given the opportunity to do so. I, of course, was forgetting that Dennis does not really know me. He does not know my history, he does not know my bone-chilling terror of commitment, he does not know a lot of things about me. I mean, I never used the phrase "i really like you" because that's so goddamn high school. I never used that bigger L-word either. And I did not mean to imply ANY L-word.

Please remember that we've been seeing eachother, what is it now, 2 weeks? And most of that has been spent naked. The talking we've done has mostly centered around bitching about work and how long it's going to take to get eachother naked again. And good food. So not a lot of, hi, I'm slutty and you're sexy... wanna do it all night and then forget eachother's names in the morning? Nope. So when I told him the above, he took it.... well, he didn't take it the way I meant it. I think he took it as a compliment, but he also took it as fishing for the big C-word. And I, as we all know, was not looking to become anyone's G-word. This is how set I am against these things... I don't even like using the words.... So he freaked out and told me something along the lines of maybe we should never have slept together, we should just be friends.... used an odd phrasing.... said i "wasn't the kind of person" he could see himself having a "romantic relationship" with.... I don't think that was very complimentary at all.... Continued to say he really likes me, doesn't usually sleep with girls at the beginning, thinks it was a bad idea, thinks I'm "cool people" or some such nonsense....

So I told him....whoa... slow down that train.... Uhh... I was trying to pay you a compliment.... a high compliment, really. That I find your company immensely pleasurable and you give me a particular pleasant feeling... and that you're easy to forgive when you're naked. I would really like to Keep sleeping together, if it's all the same to you... in fact, I'm free tomorrow. I'm not actually trying to marry you, as I'm afraid of the WORD, and can't handle it in a phrase without a negative, let alone a sentence. I barely know you, and while I'm greatly enjoying getting to know you, especially certain parts of you, I did not sleep with you immediately in an attempt to trap you into anything, and I am, in fact, well aware of the difference between Lust and that other L-word.... I realize that not all girls are like me, and hope, given that you don't know me very well either, that you can take my word for it when I say that I'm definitely not trying to be your girlfriend.

That went over well. So well in fact that he seems to have immediately forgotten the entire conversation.

That's what bothers me.

It's the things that don't add up.... it's not just that he treats me well, he does, but they all do or I toss them to the curb immediately.... it's the little possessive jabs, it's the comments that imply a future.... that's what I'm not used to. I cornered him on one today... I had a houseguest over the weekend and he asked me if this houseguest was "anyone I should be worried about?" Why should he worry about my houseguests?? Why should he worry about anyone I choose to spend my time with when I'm not with him? I asked him, and he mumbled something, and when asked again, said that he just wanted to know if it was OK to leave marks on me. He sounded jealous. I've been around a lot of jealous, and that was jealous. That was possessive. I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday and god knows I wasn't a virgin when I met him.... I'm not making this shit up, either. I'm an intelligent person and an excellent judge of character. Stop laughing, I am, I just don't always follow my own judgement. So, my question is, if I'm not "the kind of person" he could have a "romantic relationship" with, why is he acting like we already are?? I was perfectly clear about the fact that he's free to see other people, and that sleeping with him immediately was exactly my style... it's not a big leap to realize that I've done that before, and will do it again. Why is he acting so possessive? Why is he acting like we already are in a "relationship" (apparently I can handle the word better in quotes... especially if I keep telling myself that relationship just means interconnection of two people and not any inseverable ties) ??

I mean, seriously, he immediately forgot about the whole conversation. Immediately. Twenty minutes later it's "so i'll make dinner for us....i'll call you when I wake up and you can come over." like the whole thing never happened. I have a sneaking suspicion that one of us is lying to him/herself.... and I'm not sure which. Am I lying when I call myself free? Or is he? Or am I simply going ever crazier? If I am, he's driving me to it.
We are still sleeping together... and he did make me dinner. And I got my massage. And we even talked a little bit and took a nap. But he still does boyfriend things... not casual sex things.... and they bug me. A lot. But my eyes are closing of their own volition now, so it's time to take my nap..... arrivederci...

And Maybe I'm not the only one. I say, Never Trust Anyone.

Always the one that has to drag her down... maybe you'll get what you want this time around...
The trick is to keep breathing... The trick is to keep breahting.
I won't be the one that's going to let you down, Maybe you'll get what you want this time around..
The trick is to keep breathing ... The Trick is to keep breathing..

And still you call me complicated... somehow you lay the blame on me.
And still you call me codependent... somehow you lay the blame on me.
And still you call me contemplative...somehow you lay the blame on me.
somehow you lay the blame on me...

Some body get me out of here, I'm tearing at myself.
I've gotta make a point these days to extricate myself.
Some body get me out of here, I'm tearing at myself.
Nobody gives a damn about me, or anybody else.

This is what I get for staying up all night tearing out my hair over a worthless piece of ass. Jesus, this is why I always keep three around. You can't get too attached to any one of them because the other two will distract you. Now I'm listening to Garbage at 5am and thinking about cookie recipes and trying to avoid ironing. Not that I can afford to stay up tonight. But I've been juiced since last night. Jesus, ever since Dennis gave me that bit about trusting him in time, I've been on edge. I thought I had it under control. But here I am, fucking shaking and bruised and sore and sleep-deprived and my eyes are wide-open and my mind is going a mile a minute and all I can do is smoke and freak out.
I... I wanna fuck it all up. But I don't. I mean, God knows it's not likely, but it is possible, that this is something real. I don't often feel this way about boys, everyone knows that, especially not about boys who aren't on anti-psychotics, but I do. And I don't know where he's going with this. I don't know. And I don't know where I want to go with it. I just know that if I make a dumb statement right now like, I'm not the kind of girl you take home to mother, then maybe I'll lose something special. Maybe. Maybe it'll just be another asshole and we can have our wild ride and call it a day. Maybe he'll just go poof in the night one day and leave me wondering if I said something wrong. Maybe he'll go poof today. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know him worth a damn and god knows I'm too chicken shit to ask these things.

Years ago, back before Carl, and hell, during, I used to get confused. There's this look that boys get when they look at you sometimes... they're drunk on the idea, on the feeling. And their eyes sparkle and they smile at you like it's something real. That look used to screw me up bad. They look at you like you're the only woman in the world and the best one if there were any others.... yeah, it doesn't mean shit. I learned that lesson again and again. And I keep seeing it in my head, sometime in the middle of this morning, in his super-dark apartment, when he was staring at me and grinning and then he hugged me... hugged me of all things and made this little fuzzy noise like I was his favorite childhood teddy bear rescued from the attic in solitude. What the hell was that? I mean, sure, the sex was good and all, but a hug? And what was that look? It was dark... it's tough to tell. It's always tough to tell, but this one has had me baffled for a while now.

Boys are usually so simple. Why am I so confused? Boys are simply motivated. He did not have a cookie in his hand at the time, so the hug wasn't a thank you for bringing cookies. That I know. He had a naked, tired woman he barely knows in his hands, so why on earth would he hug me and look at me like a stuffed animal? It makes no sense. None. It's making me crazy. I couldn't sleep most of last night and apparently, I won't get to sleep at all tonight for being confused. Why am I so damn worried about it? Plenty of people hug me. Phil used to hug me and make a funny noise, but that was easy... Phil is a dirty old man and hugs were all he could get.
This is gonna drive me crazy. One of these days they'll take me away in a short bus to the funny farm in a jacket that makes Me hug me and I'll still be muttering, having pulled all my hair out, "why a hug?? Why a hug?"

I'm not used to getting treated like a stuffed animal. Especially when the person in question has known me almost a week and we've just had our second session of exceptionally wild sex. Yeah, he didn't even get a blow job, why the hug? Huh? Can you tell me that? Can you tell me what the hell is going on?? How did I pick up a skanky, macho, kinky, mouthy line cook and end up with all this warm fuzzy shit? Where the fuck did that come in? I didn't sign up for warm, fuzzy shit. If he'd belched and rolled over and passed out, I would've been perfectly comfortable. If he'd grabbed my ass and started snoring, I would've known exactly where we stood.

What the hell?? How is it that I always pick up the clingy ones? How do these guys get to be clingy? Is it even clingy? Or is it just some bizarre perversion that I don't know about? What the fuck? And second of all, where the hell has this guy been? He's got stretchers in his ears with some really nice art and nipple piercings and he says to me that he's never been with a girl who had her tongue pierced. Has he lived in a cave? They're everywhere. I know because I got mine on a lark since everyone else had one. I just kept mine longer. Because I never settled down or grew up.

And the calling my name during sex... what's up with that? I always thought, and I'm not alone on this, believe it or not, that it's bad form to do that until you're in a committed relationship. Especially not in the first week. Definitely not the first time. And yet, I've slept with three people this week and they've all done it. Even when they knew I wasn't looking for anything other than entertainment. What the hell is going on?? It kinda creeps me out when they do that. When I'm having trouble remembering their name... I'm all uhh... Rick, Dave, uhh, MATT! that's it, Matt! I'm happy with myself that I can manage to remember and here they are calling when they're all naked. And it's not that I'm paying that little attention... I'm trying to pay attention, really, to anything that might possibly matter. But we all know that most of these conversations are supposed to be idle chit-chat leading up to a point, and that point is the sex. So why are they paying so much attention?

Maybe, just maybe, it's New Orleans. There's a theory. All the girls I know in New Orleans are desparate, and we all know that it's easier for a girl to get laid anywhere than a boy... maybe they just haven't gotten any in a really long time and they're really really grateful that a slutty California girl like me came along. Did you know that spellcheck doesn't recognize the word slutty? Stupid spellcheck. So here I am at 5:30, having not done the ironing or the cleaning, again, and needing to go to the post office before I go to work at 2, and just fucking baffled by all this shit.

Ok, that's a good theory. That'll be my new theory. That it's New Orleans. That it is for some reason next to impossible to get laid in New Orleans and that's why the guys are being so weird. Dennis also has on his end of the weird scale the fact that he has four sisters and was in the military. That's a lot of crazy ideas about women to reconcile. But Matt was in the Navy for quite a while and all it got him was properly trained to do things like pay and take me home and flatter me and call to check on me later. And make sure to tell me about his vasectomy. I'm just full of interesting information tonight, aren't I?

This is what happens sometimes... I get stuck on the boys... they monopolize the brain, and right now I'm running through cookie recipes in my head because the next batch is Chef's choice and I'm the Chef. So I've gotta make a choice. About more than cookie ingredients. You know, he's barely said a word about chocolate. I find that interesting and probably says that chocolate is not his favorite. He has raved about snickerdoodles and pfefferneuse (now spellcheck is really angry) and things called rainbow cookies and honey balls that I guess his grandmother used to make, but almost no mention of chocolate... except of course in the dreaded opera cake. I'm not making opera cake. If I'm making opera cake, I get a 90-minute massage and dinner at Herbsaint. Period.
I already told him that while he sells his services cheap, a massage for a batch of cookies, if he wants a massage in return, he's taking me out. Of course, with our schedules... not going anywhere too special. I think he's off Thursday and Saturday this week and those are not my days off. Damn. I'm a complete idiot. And I've decided to stop freaking out and just do some cooking and some ironing and clean the bathroom like I've been meaning to for two fucking weeks now.

Right, cause Deciding to stop freaking out really works... it's like deciding to be straight or right-handed.... or to stop needing air. God damn it. Fuck this, I'm sure I'll get eleven fucking messages from him tomorrow just like I get every single day and I won't be here to pay attention to any of them, because I have to go to the post office and then to work and then Steve is coming over. That should be enough of a distraction. I hope. We're gonna watch Red Dwarf.

G'night. Maybe I'll take a nap, since Steve is coming over tonight.

I'm not due to see Dennis until Thursday. I'm sure I'll hear from him before then though. Matt will probably call too... I left him a message but I think he was asleep by then... he's old, you know. Drag brain away from boys... must drag away from boys.... argh.

Dennis is a Menace, and Rust is a four-letter word.

Boy, am I in trouble. I'm no good at trust, like I'm no good at relationships. This is a fact of life. I take calculated risks, but I almost never trust. I say, 'what can I lose here? can I afford to lose it? what are the odds I will lose it?' and if all that comes back ok, then I do it, and it looks like trust. But it's not. It's a pale imitation. Like my relationships.... there is no deep-down love, affection and real desire to spend the rest of our lives together... there is temporary comfort, refuge from the world outside. Like a heated awning in a storm, it is not salvation, you must go back out again and the storm probably won't be over.

I went to Dennis' last night. I know, I know, he called me at 3am and we all know there's one reason a body calls a person of the opposite sex at 3am. But I get over there and he wants to talk. He wants to get to know me better. He wants to tell me about his life and himself. And then, of course, comes the other stuff... But he... he watches me sleep. He stares at me with that goofy look. He listens when I talk. He holds onto me like... I don't even know what, but he wraps his arms around me and holds on tight and that makes no sense to me, it's not sexual, what is he doing? He wants to know about me.. things that won't just be relevant five minutes from now. He put my birthday in his calendar and he's already talking about Christmas. He says my name like it's... like he's glad he knows it. Not like he's happy he remembers, or like he's trying to remember through repetition, but like it's something special I gave him.

And he wants me to trust him. Like seriously trust him, not just the fall asleep with your back turned in his apartment trust, that's easy. Not even now, but "in time." In time?? You've gotta be crazy, what time? We don't have time. We're nomadic line cooks, there's no time like the present. He's planning to go to Seattle or Boston at the end of the year and I'm planning to hop a ship south by November. See? No future in it. Which, as we all know, doesn't mean I can't enjoy it while it lasts, right? Right. That is the plan. To enjoy the fact that he has an expiration date. We all know how much I like boys with expiration dates.

I haven't even brought him here yet. We've only been seeing eachother a week and you know me, we wasted no time finding the bed. But I get messages from him all day every day. Little jokes and things he's thinking about and so on.... and it's well, it's unsettling when you put it all together because I don't want a relationship. I don't want to commit. I don't want to settle down, I don't want to go back to Seattle and I don't want to freeze to death in Boston and I just want someone I can have a little fun with and then kiss good-bye when I hop a ship. This doesn't seem like that. But I'm enjoying it an awful lot. An Awful Lot. Like can't stop grinning lot. Like I don't mind the bruises and the sore muscles and the fact that my brain cells have flown the coop.

I'm putting off "The Conversation." We haven't talked about what we want in this sense or where it's going or not going, or other people or anything like that. We've both tap-danced carefully around the subject and right now I don't feel prepared to handle that conversation so I think that I will continue to avoid it. I know what I want in a general sense, but I really like him and he really likes me and if I'm smart I'll give it a chance. I know this... If I'm smart, I'll give it a chance. The question is, Am I that smart? Or will I say something to him on Thursday night about how we should see other people? Or will I ask if he is? Will I ask him where he thinks this is going and watch him turn around and ask me to answer the same question first and thereby color his answer with my jaded and terrified inability to commit? Will I say something stupid and ruin it? Probably. So maybe it's best to keep my fool mouth shut, or at least occupied.

I couldn't sleep most of the night. I kept thinking about what he said about trusting him and my heart was going a mile a minute and I was flipping out. I kept trying to lay there and calm down and go to sleep. It wasn't working. I don't know. Maybe I want it to work out. I mean, he's not on any medication. Nor does he appear to need any, and you know that I don't usually go for guys that aren't under a psychiatrist's care. That's a sign of stability, right? And he's got a brain, and he uses it. He's got goals and plans and stuff... his own apartment, with no roommates, mom's not footing the bill, nothing. He went to culinary school, he even seems to be a good cook. He's smart and competent and did I mention good-looking?

Better yet, he already knew to wear Drakkar. All men should. I like them better, I'm nicer to them, they just should, all the time. Most women know that, but most men have to be told. He already knew. I love that smell. Most women do.

Argh. Ok, I'm getting up. I'm doing laundry if it kills me. Which, with the strength in my legs currently being so minimal, it just might. If you find me dead next to my laundry basket near the washing machine, still grinning and covered in bruises, you'll know what happened. Let them all down gently and don't invite them to the same funeral. You may have to hold quite a number of services for all my exes, but the lack of fights and general insanity will probably be worth it. Too many lunatics trying to hump one casket is generally unsettling and it would interrupt my mother's drama festival. You may want to hire a fake mother to look sad and less unbalanced. I'd recommend it.

Ok, I'm really gonna get up this time. Lucky you, you have no lag time today.

Jumping Hoops, and how to make boys do it for cookies..

Ok, so I've decided to go back to whoring it up, painting the town black and blue and such.... and it's going rather well, really.
So there's Steve. He's geeky, but he'll follow me anywhere and we all know I like the ego rubbed as well as other parts. Actually, I'm thinking of setting him up with my friend Jodi, but it has to be approached delicately, best to do it when he's in an agreeing mood.
And there's Dennis. I like Dennis a lot. Which says volumes about him. He's despicably like me. Which says that my ego has gotten so big it's approaching narcissism... in fact, he's so much like me that last night he pulled something that I've pulled a million times and it pissed me off soooo much. He ditched me. No second "date" a couple days later.... he's fighting the addiction and I know what he's doing because I've done it myself a few (million) times. I'm, of course, furious. I don't like to be turned down. It dents the ego and that's a bad move. Now let's see if he knows the rest of the game and will make it up to me properly.
He's a line cook, and we all know that one shouldn't date line cooks because by and large they have one brain and they keep it locked away in sweaty pants in desparate need of circulation. But he's really, really cute. And we get along on so many things... like the need to wander from state to state. And he has uses. Some of them even involve him wearing pants. Really. Not many, granted, but some of them... I swear.
Tonight I'm going out with Matt. Matt is older and distinctly clean-cut. Now he's been warned, fairly, that I am younger and the polar opposite of clean-cut, but he says that's what he's looking for.... we shall see. This of course, is a perfect excuse to be on my very worst behavior. We're going out late to play pool and drink. So I will wear something that will distract him from the pool table and make him put all my many many drinks on his tab. That's the plan. We'll see how he handles it. Should be entertaining.... it's my sociology experiment for the week.
And then tomorrow, John is taking me to the wine bar around the corner. I expect I will be tired and less vivacious than usual. I plan to wear something low-key and try to maintain a conversation.. some wine should help with that. And in case you're wondering, NOT THAT JOHN, hell no. He can rot in Nevada for all I care. I'm usually not this venemous about my exes, but I can't help it, it's like kicking a puppy dog and it forgets five seconds later and comes running after you again... it gets frustrating.

Anyhow, it's time to go to work. Wish me luck in all my endeavors. Hope Dennis wises up, I like him naked. A lot. And if he doesn't behave, he won't be naked any time soon. Depressing. Argh. Very, very frustrated!!!


Addendum: Matt is great fun. He's asleep now. Dennis would like to see me Thursday. I've told him maybe, if I'm not busy sleeping. I am angry about it, and he ought to know what angers me so that he doesn't do it again. I hope he listens well. Please God, let him listen well. I think we may need to have the "I'm not one of those clingy girls" talk... explain that it's a good plan to come when I say, because I may stop saying at any time. I mean, I like him a lot. But I 'm not going to drop my life plans or anything, or drop all the other men in my life... so it's good to enjoy what you've got while you've got it. That's what I plan on doing...

Your lag time tooday is approximately 24 hours.

Amazing Spanish Houseguest Lottery Winnings

I won the houseguest lottery. In my trusting and open nature, I invited a man I'd never met before to stay on my couch, sight unseen. I like strangers. Sometimes they become friends. Sometimes there just interesting landmarks in life. Occasionally, they suck. This is the lottery of life, and just like the state lottery, you can't win if you don't play. So this man arrives, tired, confused, and stashed in the production office by my well-meaning friends at the front door. I am immediately happy with my decision.
The poor guy was stuck in there like some sort of criminal... here he's been wandering around all day with the biggest backpack imaginable, and his english is not very good and their accents aren't helping... I took him straight home. He wouldn't let me pay for the cab.
We sat up talking, in Spanish, until 5 am. Encantada a encontrarte does not even begin to cover it. It is the first time in a long time that I can say enchanted is the perfect word. And he comes with a two-day expiration date, which is when he leaves for San Antonio. We all know I love men with expiration dates. Absolutely adorable... blue eyes, short blondish hair, great big arm muscles with sexy little tattoo. I've never been so inclined to send a thank you note to my Spanish teacher. And fascinating and lively and so interesting. I loved talking to him. I wish my Spanish was better. And you know what? In the morning, after a little small talk, he went off on his own. He had places to go and things to see. It was great. The second night, we went out to the F and M and were dancing a little and drinking a little and had a great time. I was so happy, all day, that I was going to get off work and he was coming home with me. That it was already guaranteed, he was coming home with me. I wanted to take him to Tipitina's, but they didn't have a show. Asi es la vida, no? I want to know why spell check recognizes some of the spanish words that are not cognates and not others.
I realize, now that he's gone and I'm depressed for his absence, that I need more people like that in my life. Now I just have to find out where I can find them. They have to be somewhere. It's not just that he was so damn good-looking... it's also that he was so... I guess the best word is engaging. I genuinely enjoyed his presence. Pero ahora, que voy a hacer? I'm still thinking in Spanish.
But I think I found a German tutor!! Yippee!! Apparently, Jodi's roommate, the geeky, ugly, lazy, cheap pain-in-her-ass, is FROM Germany. Didn't move here until puberty and still has close family there. She thinks he'll definitely be willing to help me learn in exchange for cookies. And, better yet, he doesn't speak Spanish so he'll notice when I subconsciously insert the Spanish word for the German one I don't know. Of course, I may not be here much longer. I've grown tired of waiting. It looks like Emi isn't coming in November after all. So I've put in an application with a west coast cruise line. Six weeks on, 2-3 weeks off. I can definitely handle that. They do Alaska cruises as well as Japan, Vietnam, Panama, Mexico and the South Pacific. And of course, by maritime law, they provide health insurance and housing. Well, housing on the boat... off the boat is your own responsibility, which is why they pay so well. I've also asked for a substantial raise. Here's hoping they call.
At this rate, I can't afford to go to Wisconsin next month. I can't afford to go to Mexico in November and I'm tired of it. It's time to give myself a promotion by changing the field. And there's no use waiting around for some magical money tree to shake loose. I'm not happy here and if it only takes 6 weeks in Alaska on a boat to make enough money to leave this place, I'm there. Meanwhile, I may have to pursue other avenues of entertainment and try harder to import boys as the locals are largely uninteresting and uninterested. The skirt seemed to help though. Maybe more skirts?? I dunno. I'm tired of this bullshit. I'm so used to being relentlessly pursued, and I'm seeing a foreboding trend amongst my female friends... they're all single and growing desparate... this cannot be tolerated.
I refuse to beg for attention. I should be the center of the universe. Period. It shouldn't have to be requested, demanded, or enforced, it should just be granted. When I'm in the room, the fucking sun, the galaxy, everything revolves around me. That is how it is. If I'm not in the room, whatever. I don't care. Don't pick up anything and bring it home to me; otherwise, I don't care. But I will not vie for attention, I will not work for it. I might dress for it, but I won't ask and I won't insist and I'll be damned if I'll beg. It is their job to beg for MY attention, and I won't reverse that pecking order for anyone. It is imperative that it remains. I will gladly leave town, but I will not lower these standards. Not negotiable. Can you tell that part of my brain is still translating to Spanish? I can. It's kind of like a lag time.... between the brain and the mouth. Doesn't help that my internet connection just crapped out, possibly for the night. It's refusing to behave, despite several dirty looks.
What's a girl to do? I have two options: 1) Stay broke and keep trying to import interesting men or 2) leave town and have more money and possibly, but not definitely, have better men.
But I haven't had this bad a dry spell since I left Seattle... where I couldn't get laid to save my life... largely because I didn't have the patience after a while to sit and talk. They all honestly wanted to get to know me better and I wanted something else and then maybe I'll let you talk after.... I told one guy flat out, "I did not wear this skirt to show off my personality." He was offended. I don't know how. I was disappointed and offended, disheartened and insulted. Overall, depressing. That was a long time ago and I'd like to forget it, not re-live it, thanks so much. Definitely need a change. I can go or they can come, but it's easier for me to go. I can control that a lot better.
Shit, it's 5 am. Good night.

I would call it a movie review, but it's not

I just watched Catch and Release, and I think it merits a note on grief, sex, comfort and rebounds. Now, as you, dear reader, may or not know, the premise of the movie is that her fiancee died on his bachelor party trip and she moves in with his best friends for comfort and affordability. Well, she finds out a lot of things about him she didn't know and falls for one of them. I'm trying to spoil it as little as possible.

Here's the valuable fact about pain: When in pain, we seek comfort. We seek relief of that pain, even if the relief is temporary. In fact, as many of us know, "rebounding" or getting right back into a relationship at the painful terminus of another can often be disastrous... similarly, people who seem to elicit a feeling you want to call "love" in times of great stress can often turn out to be impossible to live with in the day to day of things. The great monotony wears down the exciting to the everyday and you can't remember what you were so crazy about nor figure out where it went. Here is where my "peculiar" approach to relationships wins out... I don't keep them long enough to get worn out in the day to day. Well, except John, and we all know I don't miss him.

What I'm trying to say is, if you're hurting really, really badly, the kind of grief that no amount of booze can fix, the kind that no sympathy or prayers can give you peace from, the kind that would make you take a million sleeping pills if you weren't terrified of the dreams, the kind that makes you want the world to go away, you will seek comfort, you will seek relief, in any form, however brief. And physical intimacy is a comfort, it is a relief. At its most base, it is a distraction. A distraction you'd Thank God for in this case. Any time away from that pain. Any time you can pretend it didn't happen... like that moment when you first wake up, before the reality of cold, harsh daylight seeps in, when you've forgotten the tragedy ever occurs and you reach for the person you love, the person you're sure was there a moment ago, the moment before you remember that they're not, that they never will be there again, ever. That's the best moment of the day. Sex works the same way... for a moment, you're somewhere else, and you're not hurting and you're not thinking, and it's ok, and then.... you come crashing back down to earth and reality and the tragedy hits you like it's brand-new, like a sucker punch. Anyone who can comfort you in these times of great need, who can understand your need for distraction, your need for relief, your need to forget for at least a moment, and above all, your need for silence and your need to talk... that person will elicit very strong feelings. You will, of course, greatly appreciate their help in your coming to terms with things, their aid to your recovery, because without them you may not have made it to recovery at all. You'll get all the warm fuzzies appropriate to feel when someone is so generous, so kind, and so understanding of your needs, even if they're only incidentally understanding, kind, and generous. Perhaps you've just found yourself a brooder... someone who's naturally silent and somnolent and physically attentive. Quite likely, this person would make you crazy in the everyday of things... "What do you want for dinner, honey?" "...." "What're you thinking?" "...."
I say this from experience. In times of pain, I have turned to men with the personality of rocks because they understood what I told them to do and I didn't have to tell them some things, they just reacted on instinct. When a drunk girl is hysterical, grief-stricken and wearing a short skirt and climbs into your arms and tells you to shut up and hold her, well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure things out. In fact, a rocket scientist would probably over-analyze the situation and try to come to a solution and I'd probably get frustrated knowing damn well there is no solution, just a temporary relief from the painful healing process.
When you're hurt, you take pain killers. When the pain killers wear off, you feel the pain again. Most doctors prescribe enough of them that you won't notice the pain until whatever hurt is completely healed. We cannot so completely medicate grief, but we make our attempts. I'm sure that at some point in your life, like mine, you've complained of a pain somewhere and some idiot offered to hurt another part of your body so that you wouldn't notice the original complaint.... distraction. We distract, we self-medicate, we comfort ourselves. It is right, it is natural, and it is ok. Just don't mistake the pain killers for anti-depressants. Well, don't mistake the pain killers for a better life. People die that way. The same goes for sex as a pain killer... don't mistake it for love. You don't love the Vicodin, you don't love the Percocet, you don't love Steve and you don't love James. They are pain killers. Valuable distinction. But easily missed.

There is a delay...

Between my brain and my mouth, between my brain and my fingers especially, and between my typing and it appearing on your screen. Currently, it's about 16 hours. My internet connection blows. What can I say? I'm a lazy, inconsiderate bitch. I type in TextEdit, and eventually when the connection works and I get around to it, I paste it in here and I post it. At which point you can read it. Tada...

So I adopted some Army boys. You know me, support our troops...one at a time. I found Any Soldier where they send mail to people who don't get any mail. Everyone should get mail. Apparently, it is actually illegal just to write "Any Soldier" on the package... but if you send it to one of the Any Soldier volunteers, and put their name on the package, they will give it to someone who needs mail. Whatever. So it said they wanted movies, books and candy. I have movies, books and candy. Stuck it in a box and mailed it to Iraq. Should get there sometime this month. Maybe. If ever. But, here's the interesting part... there are so many things you can't send! Now, me, being a modern woman, and friends with a lot of people who consider themselves "troops" I would think that what they Really want is booze, porn and sausages. Apparently hot sauce is popular too. But you can't send booze, porn and sausages!!! Fucking tragic... poor men are going out there and might die for our stupid, idiotic country and supportive folks like me can't even send them some whiskey and penthouse to make it feel better for a while. I would send it too. I mean, if you haven't seen your wife in two years... you get a little frustrated. Men whose jobs involve guns don't need to be frustrated.
There's a lot of thunder outside. There's been a fair amount of it since yesterday but it doesn't seem to be doing much. Apparently, in other places it is more serious. Their thunder is followed by lightening and flash flooding. Ours is just mumbling about politics and religion. Trying to get someone to listen to it's point of view, I'm sure.
So I found Jessie! She called me last night. Finally. And is supposed to call me again today. We'll see. She was surprised to find that I haven't changed a bit. I, personally, did not expect me to change because I rather like me the way I am. She is in Oklahoma, like we thought. And she's working because when I called her back she was in the 'middle of shift change,' Other than that I don't know much. We're going to call Sarah soon. I told her, I can put people on three-way from here and it doesn't cost me any more than it regularly costs to call sarah which is next to nothing. I should do that with you, Melissa, if you'd ever stay up past 10.
Now, it's raining. Which means the mailman won't show up until long after I'm gone. Pooh. I like the mailman. Well, I should clarify, I don't actually give a shit about the man himself, I like Mail. I'm always expecting mail these days and it's wonderful.
I just got a note from Karissa in Tahoe and pictures of her baby. Which is great because it gives me Karissa's address and it has her baby's name... which I always forget because she just calls her Baby half the time. She says, "yeah, me and Baby are going to the doctor tomorrow" Not me and Perla, me and baby... how'm I supposed to remember if she doesn't use it??