To Russia, With Love

My apartment complex is filled with characters. I have made bonded with neighbors sharing stories about what we see in confines of The Newport Village Apartments.

Today at the pool, I encountered a new neighbor who moved in yesterday.

I dropped of my belongings in the chair prior to crossing the street to buy my requisite Diet Coke. I returned to discover a girl sitting one chaise away. Bear in mind there was no one else at the pool.

What I first noted was her outfit. She donned black polyester pants with red flowers, which were either silk screened or painted on, coordinated with a purple short sleeve T-Shirt, a brown dress jacket and white tennis shoes. Complete by sunglasses with gold circles on the side.

“Hi.” She says very happily.

“Hi.” I politely respond,

“Nice day?’ She asks.

“Very” The subtext being please quit talking to me, as I abhor small talk.

“I’m Russia.”

Wait, did she say her name or tell me she is Russian? If she is telling me her nationality that is really odd. I’ll go with she introduced herself.

“Russia (pause) I’m Alyssa.”

After a little more painful small talk, I check my cell phone. All the while observing my recent friend Russia, whom I might introduce to Robert, with her bag of takeout and a 7-UP in a kozy that she puts a lid on following every swallow.

After about a half an hour of me sitting in my bikini and her sitting in the aforementioned attire with her jacket wrapped around her head, she declares, “It’s really hot out.”

“Yes.” My subtext being you silly girl you are wearing warm fabrics of colors that attract the sun…of course you are steamy.

“Would you like a Whopper?” She offers.

“A what?”

“A Whooper.” She picks up of what I had assumed to be take-out. “I bought three but could only eat two and I would hate for it to go to waste.”
Internal Dialogue: You brought three Whoppers? Who in their right mind does that? Russia, what are you thinking. Heart Attack?

Eventually my new friend moves to the other side of the pool, the shady side. Where she rests in her heat-attracting ensemble wrapped up in her jacket.

Here at Newport Village, I observe some, for lack of a better word, interesting things. People who enter the pool to spend 10 minutes in the Hot Tub in the middle of the day, people who come in and sit idly at umbrellaed tables in the shade for a few minutes, people who wander though with no apparent purpose. Russia, and Robert, might be the oddest
.

When recanting my day to my mom, she inquired if Robert the “Not Man” was at the pool. I said no but I have a new friend, she offered me a Whopper as she bought three and could only eat two. My mom, with disdain in her voice, asked, “Who in their right mind buys three Whoppers?”

Well-said Mom. My point exactly.

Russia, darling, we have so little in common. You apparently enjoy it in the shade while I savor the sun.

A Means to an End?

For years, I was a creature of habit. I woke up at the same time, drank coffee, walked the same route to work, came home and took a bath to unwind, watched a little TV or chatted on the phone, went to bed then did the whole routine the next day. But now I am exploring what happens when one’s routine is abruptly interrupted. Particularly what happens to me when my routine is abruptly interrupted?

The first thing to alter was my relationship to time. When working, my spare time was fleeting and precious. I had to cram as much as possible into a finite period. I would wake up every Sunday nervous, and knowing, that I was not going to get done everything that had to get finished (cleaning, laundry and errands) as well as everything that I wanted to get accomplished (pool/beach, reading, catching up on the Television and just plain resting). I carefully planned my time off to maximize my agenda. The first few days of not working, I would wake up frenzied to complete everything. Like, each day was Sunday and I had one day to organize my life and restore myself. I am still not certain if that mechanism does not kick in at least once a day. However if I don’t get the laundry done today, I will have time tomorrow. I find tremendous tranquility being able to entirely enjoy the task in which I am engaged without worrying about getting to the next thing.

With the absence of concern about checking things off my list, my mind got quiet and calm. For the first time in as long as I remember I am able to be with my thoughts. I can lay by the pool sans headphones or a book and just enjoy the experience of the sun. Opposed to fretting about what needed to be done next.

What became evident to me was how much of my life was structured in order to do something or to produce a result. I took a quick bath in the morning so I could drink my coffee, I walked so I could get to work and stay fit, and I took a longer bath at night in order to relax at the end of a long day. I laid by the pool so I could get the required rest and a nice healthy tan, I burnt candles so my apartment would smell nice, I did laundry in order to have clean clothes to wear to work. My habits were never about the experience of something but always a means to an end.

What happens to there is no end?

Well, you shift your context.

Move from scarcity to abundance.

I find myself doing things for the sake of doing them. As I write I am burning five candles.

I am by no means saying a means to an end and producing results is bad thing. However, many people cannot feel cared for or relaxed when the context is getting to the next thing. Thinking about it, doing so occurs as an oxymoron.

In being truly nurtured and rested, I am remembering who I am all over again. I have completed my crisis of confidence and I am recalling the powerful, confident, vibrant, sexy and beautiful woman I am.

Nurturing begets nurturing. I will be writing more about it as it is very much on my mind. What do you do to care for yourself? What is the context you hold your free time?

Stay tuned for how this fits in with my discovery to be feminine....

The Bartender Who Did Not Know Her Job

Overall, I have been impressed with the quality of customer service in Southern California.

Last week, I met a friend to watch the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim play the Detroit Tigers at a Sports Bar. Upon sitting, I inquired, “Do you have any specials?” No. “What do you have on draft?” The female bartender responds, “We only have bottles.” Oh, so I ask the next natural question, “What do you have in bottles?” What one would expect here is for her to rattle off their pathetic list of Macro Brewed options or provide me with them in written form.

That didn’t happen.

Her response was, “We have most everything.”

First all, they only carried 10 beers. I have been to places that serve up to 500. So no you don’t have “most everything.” Clearly this bartender is not employed due to her knowledge about drafts. Maybe she is more of a mixologist.

Second of all, she could not be bothered to inform me what my choices, as a paying customer, were. I had to guess. Does she realize she works for tips?

I would understand if the bar was busy but it wasn’t. I would forgive if I was absent-mindedly looking at the selection that was right in front of me but it wasn’t. I would appreciate if I were a frequent customer who asked the question every time I patronized the establishment but guess what…I wasn’t.

I worked as a Café Manager at Barnes and Noble and know how annoying it can be to answer the same question all day long. I think the types of bagels we carried are forever ingrained in my mind. (Plain, Everything, Cinnamon Raisin, Veggie, Sesame Seed, Poppy Seed, and Asiago Cheese). However, I’d answer because they were customers and my job (as in what I got paid to do) was to serve them. Doing anything else would be odd.

Back to the bartender. What does she think her occupation is if not to serve people such as me? She wasn’t wearing a low cut shirt therefore, one can assume, she wasn’t relying on her chest to obtain her tips. She seemed to spend some time flirting with owner or manager. Maybe that is her accountability? I did not stick around to figure it out. I went in to watch the Tigers’ game not to play 20 questions and be annoyed by the bartenders guessing game.

Can anyone tell me what the bartender’s job was? What are your thoughts on how to handle bad customer service? And for those who do or have worked in customer service. What are were your pet peeves? And why do people tolerate bad service?

Take Me Out to the Ball Park

I love going to baseball games. I especially enjoy Detroit Tigers’ games. So I ascended to heaven on Wednesday Night when I attended the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim versus the Detroit Tigers sitting in the Diamond Club which provides a view of the game better than any TV airing. The well-played game included the drama of Johnny Damon being ejected from the game, a come from behind victory and “Fat Ass” Cabrera hitting a HR.

Sitting where I was, decked out in my Tigers’ Hat, I knew it was possible I could make my mom proud and get shown on TV. Therefore, when the Tigers’ scored their first run of the game, I rose to cheer. Said action inspired the wrath a few teenage girls and a hopefully drunk young punk.

I have thick skin and can handle a good ribbing about my team. My sister is a St. Louis Cardinals fan and a good friend cheers for the White Sox. If you want to tell me how the Tigers resemble the Latino Boy Band Menudo fine. “Fat Ass” Cabrera’s mishap with alcohol during the playoffs was beyond dumb. Bullpen issues? Yes. A little trash talking can be fun. These characters crossed the line into what one describes as, “Poor Sportsmanship.” Admittedly, no AJ/Michael Barrett moment; however, I was left suppressed and somewhat scared.

One of my gifts is being charming and chatty. After said incident occurred I went to enjoy a cigarette. On the way out the section monitor says, “You must have enjoyed that inning, your team scored.” To which I responded, “Yes and can you believe these snot nosed teenagers gave me crap about it?” Apparently trash talking is frowned upon in The Diamond Club and cause to be kicked out of the Big A. “No, No I don’t want them to be removed from the stadium.” Upon returning to my seat, the twits are getting a talking to about being respectful. By the section manager. Not their parents who are sitting next to them.

Thinking back to when I was that age, I don’t imagine I had the guts to be that offensive to an adult whom I did not know. I am pretty damn sure my mom and dad would not sit idly by without corrective action.

I retrospect the whole think makes me kinda sad. You know those are the “mean girls.”

Sadly, the interaction with the Big A staff only made matters worse. Apparently these brats did not comprehend the phrase, “or you will be asked to leave.” Problems compounded by the hopefully intoxicated idiot, Big A staff called security about our section.

A few weeks ago, I declared in a Facebook Status Update, “Angles Fans are really cool.” I am amending that to say that Angles Fans in the cheap seats are really cool.

Sitting in the Diamond Club is something everyone should do at least once in a lifetime. If you recall my blog, “Unfill becomes Refill with Ease,” service in this section is distinct. “Refreshment Servers” roam the section taking your orders, which are brought to you by a runner. Every other seat supplies a menu of obtainable offerings and the servers are prepared to take credit cards. However, I suspect that people rarely tip the staff as he thanked me four times (on two different occasions) after I gave him a dollar.

All in all, it was an entertaining game on and off the field. A special shout out to Christine Sifre for taking me!

So, Angles fans…bring it on and defend your kind. Sports fans alike what is your most memorable crowd interaction? And does anyone want to prove me wrong about the fans being cool in the expensive seats?

The Anti Cougar

Last week I met an old friend for lunch. When talk turned to my boyfriend, who is 19 years my senior, the first question was, “Do you need to use the little blue pill?”

I have consistently dated men older than me. Maybe by a year or two however usually closer to a decade or more. Hence the concept of being a Cougar occurs as foreign to me. By no means am I belittling the older woman/younger man dynamic if it works for you. What irks me is that Cougars are celebrated in society while the older man/younger woman pairing raises questions.

If a man dates a woman 8 or more years his senior he is a stud. When a woman sees an older man she is a gold digger who’s sex life relies on pharmaceutical help. Rarely do you hear the term “trophy husband” but it’s feminine equivalent is commonplace.

People applauded Demi when she married Ashton but questioned Catherine’s motives and sanity when she wed Michael Douglas. When the ladies get together for cocktails they give one another a, “You Go Girl” when sharing about younger boyfriends while referring to the men their age dating the same aged woman as a letch or among a midlife crisis.

On the show COUGARTOWN the character if Grayson is constantly criticized for dating younger vacuous women. The stereotype being that we who enjoy the company of older men are idiots who only serve a purpose when we are on out backs. Or scheming sluts stealing single mates from woman of substance. How many plots involve a youthful siren seducing someone’s spouse versus some young stud stealing some middle-aged wife?

Consider that older men and younger woman can be compatible. Just as the opposite can be true. Perhaps, we should stop evaluating relationships and allow people be content with whomever they choose.

I do not have daddy issues. I am a strong independent woman who has a partner who encourages me to be ever more self-reliant. Are there generational differences? Yes. Are they insurmountable? No.

Though my relationship has been rocky at times, I am blessed to have someone in my life who is my hero, my champion and listens to me as bigger than I know myself to be. Who understands and supports me. Who cares about my happiness and would do anything for me. That is not a function of age but of genuine friendship and love.

I will assert to him I am more than just arm candy. I supply something in the relationship that is not a function of age but my unique personality, intelligence and talents.

A wise friend once said, “The only two people who know what is going on a relationship are the people who are in it.” So let’s make a deal. I won’t evaluate you and you don’t judge me.

I sense this is a topic about which many readers will have an opinion. I am curious to hear from you. What do you think about Cougars? Younger woman? What’s the biggest age difference you’ve ever had in your relationships?



http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=cougar

Angry Allen the "Not Man" and Slutty Sara

I have an update on Sara the Cheap Red Wine Girl. Recall from that blog “Introducing the Free Drink Hunter,” I declared that she had made her way to Angry Allen and began flirting with him. Both the manager and I warned Allen but he fell for what she was selling. So the half English half Pakistani left with Sara Leggy Blond in a cab and returned her place. Upon arriving, she suggests they have a few more drinks so they stumble to a nearby comedy club somewhere in Irvine. They consume a coupla cocktails when Angry Allen goes to the bathroom. He returns to discover Sara completely passed out at the table. As this spoils his plan he attempts to wake her but she is COMATOSED. So he abandons her in the comedy club unconscious and does not bother to tell anyone, like…the wait staff. He justifies not escorting her home, as he did not know where she lived.

Angry Allen exits the unknown and unnamed comedy club with no cash and completely clueless about his location so he begins to walk. Lucky, he is drunk and lost in Irvine--one of the safest cities in America. Doubly lucky, a friend calls him on his cell, cause he apparently forgot he owned one and they are handy in such situations. To bottom line it, Angry Allen figures out his location and his buddy, after obtaining permission from his girlfriend, rescues him.

At least they took a cab.

Angry Allen reveals behavior of a “Not Man.” In recanting the tale to my boyfriend who is 100 percent Man, I state a Man would never leave a women passed out in a bar as a Man desires taking care of women and making sure they are safe. Mike takes it a step back and claims a Man would never have left the bar with her. I agree with him. Angry Allen is akin to a frat boy taking advantage of inebriated college girls.

Back to leaving her in the bar. Granted he did not know where she lived but I think, and let me know if you disagree, in moments like this it is permissible to dig through her purse and locate her Drivers License or ID which supplies her address.

What Man abandons a passed out woman in a public place? What kinda of Man goes somewhere and does not know where he is? Name a Man who proudly recants the story to anyone who would listen. Angry Allen, you could not get lucky and you are a “Not Man.”

Onto Slutty Sara. Many people have a regretful drinking story; I once passed out in a lawn chair at the party. The difference being I was partying with people I trusted; who took care of me. Sara Short Skirt, you went to a bar with a man you barely knew and left with a stranger. I know this is a family blog but I gotta ask, am I the only one who sees how fucked up this is? You are lucky to be alive. Sara Stripper Shoes, you claim that your alleged 8-year-old child is the most important thing in the world. Well, stupid cunt, you cannot be a good mom if you are dead! If you want to get sloppy drunk indulge with people you know and trust. You are a Lifetime Movie or are a Law and Order SVU waiting to happen.

I am so interested in what you think about Sara Flirts for Drinks and Angry Allen. What is the dumbest thing you ever did while drunk?

Time Isn't the Reason

Time is like money. You can never have enough and obtaining more never fixes your problems. For years, I employed working 70-80 hours a week as my excuse not to exercise. I walked to work and if I wasn’t working so much I would go to the fitness facility in apartment complex or use those hand weights that decorate the space on the floor next to my TV. I am not laboring as much and, big surprise, I am not working out either. Worse yet, I am not strolling to my job so I am less physically active. This has sparked a domino effect of thoughts.

One, I worked in highly structured, quite rigid environment so I created my apartment as the space for nurturing myself. In my limited downtime, the less amount of energy exerted the better. For the past month my undertaking has been resting, relaxing and regrouping. I go to bed when I am tired and I wake up when my body decides it has had enough sleep. In the beginning I required 12-14 hours or slumber; however, now it is about 8-9. I eat when I get hungry and I find myself eating less food. In short, I listen to my body. Never once has my body told me to go to the fitness facility and pick up those free weights. In my current context, the less energy exerted the better, that would not occur as something to do.

Second, since 2007 I have walked to work, or wherever, whenever possible as a preferred method to get from point A to point B. I have completed two Avon Walks for Breast Cancer. I have not produced a perspective for walking when there is nowhere to go. The thought of an aimless stroll seems foreign.

Every morning I lie to myself, “Today I will go for a walk or a bike ride.” And the day goes by then next thing I know it is 5:00. “Where did the time go? Wow, did I waste another day. Oh I don’t wanna go now. I’ll do it tomorrow.” And the next day plays out just like the day before. In the end, I mentally lambasted myself for being unmotivated.

After three weeks of this, my vanity thrashed my lethargy. Realistically, I am 35 years old and weight gain in the face of slothfulness seemed inevitable. As I inspected my body in the mirror, my context shifted. I am a vital young woman who needs to maintain herself. Exercise is more imperative than a pedicure, cut and color, or eyebrow wax. It is time for me to have the body of my dreams. I will have best figure yet by the time I turn 36 in August.

So yesterday, I laced up my sneakers and explored my neighborhood. I walked for three miles and viewed all sorts of cool places to check out in the future. I even tested a new sandwich shop. I came home and picked up those free weights and must have gotten inspired because the next thing I knew I was squatting and crunching. Moreover, last evening I went out and purchased new walking shoes and arm weights.

I am committing to exercising every other day and I cannot wait to test those new shoes tomorrow. I invite those of you who interact with me to hold me accountable.

Most people have some area of life they believe they would impact if they only had more time. What is yours?

Meet the Free Drink Hunter!

Yesterday, bored with my own thoughts I decide to observe some reality drama at the dive bar in my neighborhood. Having been there a handful of times, with a cliental of characters, I am certain it will entertain.

I walk into The Huddle and find a seat at the end of the bar, leering next to me is Warner, an old Austrian man who puts his receding hair in a ponytail. It appears that he has consumed one too many well drinks at the Happy Hour which takes place from 2-5. Avoiding conversation with him, I scan the bar to the pool table where I spot a tall blonde in her mid twenties wearing a black dress that barely covers her butt cheeks. She is over dressed for the neighborhood dive bar. Attached to her is a man who, from one look, I assume she is only with him because he has money. He has out kicked his coverage. At the very least he could remove his Bluetoothe while he grabs her ass.

I ask the bartender, “What is that about?” pointing to the couple. She confirms he, Jeff, is rich. The bar back pipes in that he thinks she is a hooker. I continue to observe them becoming concerned that he is going to nibble her to death in the bar.

Wait, she comes to the bar for a refill on her drink. What kind of glass is that? It’s narrow like a Champaign Flute. Do they even sell that at The Huddle? I hope not. Maybe she brought her own? No it’s too short. Is that…can’t be…yep, looks like red wine in the smallest wine glass ever.

Back to the bartender, “Is she drinking…red wine?” She nods yes. “What kinda red do you have?” She responds, “Not good.” Who is their right mind would order wine in a dive bar? Unless you want to wake up with the Battle of Stalingrad being fought in your head, you should avoid low-cost red wine. It promises a hangover and makes you look cheap. It speaks volumes.

Oh wait Jeff comes by and they step outside. They must be leaving. Looks like my fun is going bye bye. No, she’s back. But he’s not. With all that nibbling and canoodling you would think they were going home together but according to the bartended Jeff had to go home to his girlfriend.

Stranded and scholarship revoked, the leggy blond steals a seat between two middle-aged gentlemen. Hmm…oh, she is looking for another sponsor. I proceed to watch Sara, I later learn her name when she works her way to Angry Allen sitting next to me, flirt with every man in the bar. After hearing her ask two different men, “Do you like my shoes?” I notice she is wearing red stripper pumps with her lace, fairly classy for a barley ass covering, dress.

Too obvious and desperate, Sara is unsuccessful in getting her free drink. In fact, a man buys me a drink just to show her I am more skillful at getting free drinks than her without even trying.

I do not object to accepting, or even angling for, drinks from men. It can be a very fun game. My former roommate and I knew we had are mojo working and integrity in if we were bought at least one free drink a night. Sara’s shoddy execution offends me. It serves as a humiliation to women everywhere. Case in point, I received a free drink for making fun of her.

What do you think of Sara? Of free drinks?

Happy Hour or Happy Day?

Last night, for the first time since 2001, I attended Happy Hour. I remember my preceding Happy Hour pleasantly. We parked ourselves on the patio of the Kona Grill at Fashion Square Mall in Scottsdale, Arizona. This award winning Happy Hour offered specials including deals on Bud Light, selected martinis, sake bombers, frozen drinks and $1.99 Ladies’ Margaritas. I cannot say for sure but we might have stayed for the reverse Happy Hour that took place Monday-Thursday from 9-11 p.m. 10 p.m. to midnight Friday and Saturday.

I still remember sake bombs, making friends a guy in a mullet so we could share an outdoor table, and picking on a guy wearing a bright blue Ralph Lauren Polo T-Shirt and a white coral necklace. I know that we started early and stayed until way after dark to be driven home by Amy’s now husband, Todd. And, at some point in the evening I drunk dialed my mom.

So how can I not have been back to a Happy Hour in the better part of a decade? See, I lived in a Chicago, a town where St. Patrick’s Day is a month long event. However, we did not have Happy Hours. In fact, they are illegal. The Happy Hour Law, which was passed by the Illinois General Assembly in 1989, “is designed to eliminate the over-consumption of alcoholic liquor and to eliminate promotions that encourage over-consumption. ”


According to the State of Illinois Website activities prohibited by the Happy Hour Law include the following:
1. Serving two or more drinks to one person for consumption by that person.
2. Serving an unlimited amount of drinks during a set period of time for a fixed price.
3. Reducing prices of drinks during a specified period during the day or to a specified group of individuals.
4. Increasing the volume of alcoholic liquor contained in a without proportionately increasing the price regularly charged for that drink on that given day.
5. Encouraging or permitting games or contests which involve drinking alcoholic liquor or awarding drinks as prizes.
6. Advertising, in any way, any practice prohibited by the Happy Hour Law.
7. Serving traditionally “individual” drinks in carafes, pitchers, etc., is considered by the Commission to be a violation of Happy Hour.
Further information on liquor license laws can be found by visiting the Illinois Liquor Control Commission website: www.state.il.us/lcc

The inadvertent consequence of the law is, in the effort of not “reducing prices of drinks during a specific period during the day,” bar and restaurant owners design drink specials lasting from open to close. So instead of promoting people to drink a lot of alcohol in a short period of time due to price reductions, people are welcome to drink as much as they want all day long should they choose. Happy Hour can become Happy Day.

I will let the irony speak for itself.

Upon moving to California, for my job, I worked well past Happy Hour’s last call. So yesterday we met at Ztejas in South Coast Plaza where we drank, we joked, we laughed and I experienced being sophisticated and social. I indulged my first Happy Hour in over 9 years.

Next objective, to locate one not at a mall! Any suggestions? What are you favorite Happy Hour memories?

Viva the Green Bean Casserole

I enjoy watching the amusing show The Marriage Ref. Wedded couples willing to reveal inane battles with America (and perhaps beyond), while celebrities roast them and their problems, is water cooler fodder like no other. However this week’s show crossed a line that, in my mind, should never be crossed. They dissed my darling holiday side dish, Green Bean Casserole.

The basis of the marital argument is the wife has been making green bean casserole for ten years and her husband refuses to even try it. In this household it is not just a holiday side dish rather an everyday meal, yes everyday meal, she prepares for her family due to the fact that they are trying to, “do things more healthy.” Nothing says healthy like canned, perhaps frozen, green beans baked in Cream of Mushroom soup topped French's® French Fried Onions. What were they eating before? The husband does not like the look of the dish and hence misses out on yummy goodness.

To his defense, when he inquires what the chunks are his wife’s response is, “it’s meat...some kinda a pork or chicken or something.” I would not eat anything prepared by a cook who did not know the ingredients of her meals or that Cream of Mushroom Soup contains no meat. Really?

To further offend, the panel consisting of Tracy Morgan, Kathy Griffin and Nathan Lane misses to boat of the real humor of the above mentioned.

Adding insult, none of the group, including Kathy Griffin who is the only one who has tasted Green Bean Casserole, defends it as a mouth-watering holiday staple. Tracey Morgan declares, “My taste buds go on sight, if it don’t look good I ain’t eatin it. That looks like it gotta an eyeball in it. I wouldn’t eat that if Nathan Lane cooked it for me!” Oh, Tracy you do not know what you are missing! Nathan Lane, “No I wouldn’t want eat that, but in all seriousness, I don’t know if you’ve heard of there things called cookbooks and, perhaps, there’s there is something else that he might like.” Well, I am informing you this is a real recipe found on the Campbell's® website (see link below) When asked if any one has ever had Green Bean Casserole, Kathy Griffin pipes in, “it’s awful.”

Never once did they ask “Just the Facts Ma’am” Natalie Morales how the rest of America feels about the favored dish. I am curious to know how many people look froward to Thanksgiving and Christmas so they can indulge. Never once did they inquire about the health value (which there is none). No they just sat there uninformed and talked smack.

A few years ago I am dating a pompass man who hosting Thanksgiving dinner at his house, purchases all the side dishes from Charlie Trotter’s To Go. I, admist his protest, make Green Bean Casserole. As we are looking at the feast, one of his equally as egotistical friends, kisses me on the cheek from bring that dish.

People love the Green Bean Casserole!



http://www.campbellskitchen.com/RecipeDetail.aspx?recipeId=24099

http://charlietrotters.com/togo/

Introducing the "Not Man"

Today, while lying by my pool I met Robert. I know within minutes his destiny is to be the subject of today’s blog. The first thing that strikes me about him was his lack of mental clarity. I fully invoke my right to recycle Robert in future blogs because the more I think about it the more Robert serves as an example of a “Not Man.

I am fortunate enough to be in a relationship with a Man which allows me the ability to distinguish the “Not Man,” who is separate and not as recognizable as the metro sexual. Think of the annoying Frat Boy who graduated from college 10 years ago and still does keg stands and you acquire a sense of the “Not Man.”

On this perfect So Cal day; I am alone at the pool, when Robert enters the gates and sits in the chaise right next to me. Wearing a gray t-shirt, black nylon running pants with white stripes, white ankle sports socks and brown leather Teva Sandals that he could not be bothered to Velcro shut, he looks like a tool. Accessorized with large white-rimmed designer sunglasses and the baseball hat he isn’t wearing because his has styled his gray hair into a fauxhawk. Bigger tool. Not Sexy.

He says hi and to be polite I reply hi back. He introduces himself and I return the nicety. He then asks, “how you doing?” “Fine and you.” Which is when Robert, within a minute of our conversation complains, “I wish I could get more hours at work. My hours have been cut and I am digging into my savings to pay rent. I just don’t see it getting any better. The economy you know.” Now I begin to think I am dealing with a “Not Man.” A man fundamentally wants a woman to think he can provide for her, supply safety and be strong. A Man would not reveal such details to a women he just met at the pool (or a bar or church). Too much information, Robert.

Willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, I inquire what he does for a living. I know lots of people who have really great careers where the hours have been cut. Robert stocks shelves at mini marts. He proceeds to tell me how it seems like all the jobs are taken by foreigners and goes on to state he should probably get a second job but he’s too lazy. Now I know I talking to a “Not Man” as he would rather spend his savings than do what it takes to provide for himself. A Man wants to feed his village, Robert is quite content to either only eat berries or devour the dear the real hunter shot.

I won’t bore you with the whole conversation but the highlight (pun intended) is his comment on my hair. He doesn’t say I like your color, he pronounces, “I should get blond streaks like yours.” Instantly, I imagine the gray fauxhawk with beached tips. I really have no idea why he offers this information and really wish he hadn’t. Now I take out my phone to surf Facebook. He notifies he isn’t going to be out for long he “just wants to catch some rays.” And he has someone waiting in his apartment for him.

He takes of the shirt. I won’t say much about his physique other than ask the question, “Do they make training bras for man boobs?” And please appreciate he puts the shirt around his head to protect his gray hair.

After 45 Minutes of, “catching some rays,” he returns to whomever he has waiting in his apartment.

I wrote about Men being Men but to know what is looks like when a Man is being a Man you have to be able to recognize the “Not Man.” Robert provides the perfect example. To all the “Not Men” of the world please be men.

Am I being too harsh on “Not Man” Robert? Women, what do you think? Men, pipe in with other “Not Man” qualities and characteristics of being a Man.

Connecting from Facebook?

When is comes to social networking, I am a late bloomer. I resisted Facebook until 2008, I never understood MySpace and I found Friendster, which I did join, to be lame. This partnered with the fact that I had not had internet at home for over a year and long work hours, I am just now understanding what I hear people refer to as a Facebook addiction. True, I was an passionate poster but now the brand new world of Chat is available to me.

For a long time, I firmly believed electronic communication was not a real interaction and best used for exchange of information. I never understood people who made internet friends. Facebook and MySpace were tools used by Annie, the 22-year-old marketing assistant. But Facebook Chat and my newly created blog have me questioning my long held beliefs.

Most notably I have been chatting with people that I have not seen in over 15 years. People I went to High School with, friends from church youth group. Most of whom, if we bumped into each other we would most likely say an awkward hello and maybe, BIG MAYBE, casually chat for a minute of two and go onto to talk to those people whom we have remained close with through the years. Moreover, with some of these people I am finding out more about them than I knew when I “knew” them. And they know more about me than they may have ever wanted to. Is it safer to be vulnerable with someone from the comfort of you home when the person you are chatting with is thousands of miles away? And if that is the case what is the impact of face-to-face relationships? I am not sure it is a good thing. However, I am not sure it is a bad thing.

Facebook connects me with people whom I otherwise would have no contact such as my Sixth Grade teacher, my Sunday school teacher, my former babysitter and neighbor. And by connect I do not mean a friend request was accepted and that was that. Messages are exchanged and information given. And in relating with them I learn more about them and remember long forgotten quips from my past. I discover them and me.

Likewise, in my blog I openly reveal delicate and private details of my life. Most likely would not expose myself otherwise. (Because I have ADD and would forget or doing so might cause a panic attack) Rightly or wrongly, it works for me to share myself in written communication.

Human Beings crave being interconnected. Facebook and AD/OC allow me to deeply connect with more people. I think these are good adjuncts to real human contact as it allows me to, possibly, impact more people. If you are telling me things on Facebook Chat that you would never tell you loved ones you might have a problem. If you are sharing yourself to be related to me, that works.

Is it a good thing? Is it a bad thing? Either way it is what is so…

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Yesterday, I asserted that a pathway to peace is clarity of mind. Moreover, I implied that it is also a means to magic and miracles. Today I am going to slightly expand on that inference.

When your mind is muddled with arguments with “how bout?” “what if?” “the last time it went this way what is to say that won’t happen again?” or “it can never happen.” You all those statements to dictate you life. You give those negative notions influence they do not warrant. In doing a mental house keeping you toss those thoughts in the trash. With that, you rid any obstructions from fulfilling on your intention or purpose. What could you accomplish in your life if your actions were not dictated by your pessimistic beliefs?

For most of my life, I KNOW I am one of the ugliest girls on the planet. To me this is THE truth. Therefore, I walk around rejection waiting to happen because who is going to want to date one of the ugliest girls on the planet. Guess what, I get rejected….A LOT. At age 29, I am willing to consider I might not be that unattractive. I date. I am named TODAY’S CHICAGO WOMEN Top 50 Savvy Singles….and date more. Clarity of mind and a shift of context alters my life.

What we think becomes true for us yet that does not necessarily mean it is accurate. I am NOT the one of the ugliest girl on the planet but for me it was once a reality.

When one achieves clarity of mind they are no longer limited by what they know to be true. A clean slate and an empty psyche exist. When one’s brain is blank they can invent an intention or idea. When I toss out my negative self-image, I create being a Savvy Single. Who I become for myself alters when given that title. I am now a super sexy, feminine force with which to be reckoned with!

To quote Napoleon Hill in Think and Grow Rich, “Success comes to those who are SUCCESS CONSCIOUS…Failure comes to those who indifferently allow themselves to become FAILURE CONSCIOUS.”

Which are you?

A Pathway to Peace is Clarity

June 2000, while driving from Chicago to Michigan for my baby sister Rachel’s High School Graduation I achieve a moment of mental clarity. I am going to get a job in Commercial Theater in Chicago by Labor Day. My path became as obvious to me as I94 to US31. There, on the wide-open road in Southern Michigan, I knew what I wanted to do. I call this a moment of mental clarity as my choice did not result from a reaction to fix or improve a circumstance (I didn’t hate my job which paid well). I didn’t have an “how bouts,” “what ifs,” or “It’ll never happens.” My mind was empty and I was able to create an intention. August 28, 2000 I started a job with one of the Commercial Theater companies in Chicago (of which there are only a handful).

In my life, I experience times of pure magic and miracles and then are times that well aren’t. Each and every of the afore mentioned is correlates to my psyche being clear.

It begins with a housecleaning of the mind. In her book YOU AN HEAL YOUR LIFE, Louise L. Hay summarizes it as:

If you want to clean a room thoroughly, you will pick and examine everything in it. Some things you will look at with love, and you will dust them or polish them to give them new beauty. Some things you will see that need refinishing or repair, you will make a note to do that. Some things will never serve you again and it is time to let those things go. Old magazines and newspapers and dirty paper plates can be dropped into the wastebasket, very calmly. There is no need to get angry in order to clean a room

It is the same thing when we are cleaning our mental house. There is no need to get angry just because some of the beliefs in it are ready to be tossed out. Let them go as easily as you would scrape bits of food in the trash after a meal. Would you really dig into yesterday’s garbage to make tonight’s meal? Do you dig into old mental garbage to create tomorrow’s experiences?

If your brain is cluttered you cannot experience lucidity.

Ways to perform a mental housecleaning are as varied as the ways to scrub you actual house. For some it is worship and prayer, for some it is confession, for some it is journaling, for some it is physical activity, for some it is communication, for some it is meditation, for some it is affirmations, for some it is visualization and so on and so on.

Luckily, I am skilled at obtaining mental clarity myself through reflection, prayer and journaling. Sometimes my brain gets so muddled, I must seek outside input as a result of my dedication to managing my mind. I have an elite list of people I can call for a conversation with the commitment of getting clear. This Special Forces directory is comprised of people I trust to the point that I can say ANYTHING, who know the questions to ask, who are committed to me winning and fulfilling on my intention, who I will pay attention to, who provide the perfect combination of consideration and coaching (as needed), who have a keen listening to hear the unsaid, and who know if I have achieved lucidity.

Clarity of mind is achieved when one gets any obstacle from producing an intended outcome out of the way. Sometimes, it is just letting the person empty their brain. Usually, it addresses concerns or considerations (this person it this way or that, I can’t, last time it was this way, I’ve had a crappy day).

I am gifted at getting others clear. I have the Special Forces qualities mentioned above. No formula exists, it is a dance. A couple weeks ago I prepared a friend for a big meeting, for which if he didn’t have clarity of mind he might kill someone, I begin asking him the intention of the meeting. I inquire what would get in the way of his fulfilling that intention. I wait for the reply (I say nothing while he looks for it) and he tells me. One barrier, he is distrustful. I offer, in this situation, it might be good to be distrustful but not to let in run the meeting. In that moment, clarity is achieved. He has a whole new body sensation. The meeting goes well. A week later, he has an appointment with the same organization and we are not achieving lucidity. I dance in the conversation, listening to him, till I know what questions to ask. The first of which is, are you clear? No? Okay, what are you resisting about the future? Viola, that meeting also goes well.

Too many people enter meetings or interviews…even parties or dates being confused. Giving power to those impediments rather than concentrating on one’s intention can be catastrophic. The actions are then given by survival (fixing, altering a situation, hoping he or she likes you). When one achieves clearness of thought and intention they are invincible. That is when magic and miracles happen.

This is a topic mini series. I will be writing more of this topic. In the meantime, I am curious about you response to this? Does it make sense?




clar·i·ty (kl r -t )
n.
1. Clearness of appearance: the clarity of the mountain air.
2. Clearness of thought or style; lucidity: writes with clarity and perception.

A Track to Tranquility is Tablets

Late afternoon on a Monday in September 2008 I feel a dull ache in my chest. I phone a friend, a nurse, who tells me to get it checked out because it could indicate a bigger problem. Not wanting to go to the ER for a trivial reason, I hesitate. After an hour of playing should or shouldn’t, I hyperventilate. That answers that question. Off to Northwestern Memorial Hospital I go where, within 15 minutes of arriving, my blood pressure is so high I am put in a bed and informed I will be enjoying the accommodations for the night. The first nurse enters, somehow my charts is missing did I happen to know exactly what my blood pressure was? High, that is all I know. The second nurse inserts an I.V. She inserts the needle and then cannot find the thing to close it. It somehow got lost. I sit/ lay with a needle in my arm and we cannot complete the IV while blood is getting all over the place and my nurse, who must keep pressure to avoid a geyser, calls to the nursing stand for what she needs. Finally it is successfully in my arm and given the comedy of it all I do not feel pain. Luckily blood does not make me squeamish. The first nurse comes back and hands me a cup filled with pills for the blood pressure as well as something to calm me down and take off the anxiety of being in an ER. “I didn’t have any tension or anxiety until I got here,” I thought.

Oh, great to top it all off my phone just died.

The drug cocktail of beta-blockers, Xanax, and Ambien made the rest of the night not only bearable but quite Zen.

After a few tests, my General Practitioner declares I did not have anything wrong with my heart; rather, I had a full-blown panic attack. He prescribes Xanax for when it happens again. I have experienced anxiety attacks previously but this was different. I had ended up in the hospital, which, in my mind, crossed the line from neurotic to perhaps unstable. I exit the doctors’ office humiliated, mortified and certain there was something very very wrong with me. I must be careful whom I tell. People then divided to safe people and unsafe people.

Never mind the fact that a few weeks prior I had been offered a promotion and was relocating at some time TBD to California where I knew no one for what I knew was a very stressful job. Forget that I was moving out of the apartment I had lived in for 4 years and had no time to pack. Ignore that I am leaving everything and everyone I know including my family and my boyfriend. I must be crazy.

So my anxiety continues and from time to time, when I am tense or upset, I have a Panic Attack. I tell very few people. The longer it continues on the more isolated I feel which worsens my worry.

Finally this January I realize I am tired of pretending to be perfect while hiding that I always experiencing low-grade anxiety. I desire to be peaceful. So I made an appointment with my primary care physician and get some medicine. As someone very close to me said, “If it was a heart condition you would take something for it.” A track to tranquility is tablets.

I begin to educate myself. I speak with a psychologist friend who assures me that Anxiety and Panic are chemical responses induced by stress and given all the life changes and the demands of my job could be expected. She recommends, THE ANXIETY CURE by Dr. Archibald D. Hart. This book alters my outlook. First of all, Panic Anxiety is the number one mental health problem for women. He states:

Many hardworking, driven people (like you and me) don’t realize just how close they walk on the precipice of anxiety one day, out of the blue, a panic attack strikes. Herein lies the greatest danger: Because adrenaline overuse feels so exhilarating and invigorating, we don’t consider some of the things that give us an adrenaline rush to be stressful. The purpose of adrenaline is to make us feel excited during a state of emergency, so it is easy to misread that excitement as safe. We don’t realize how close we are to the edge of anxiety until we lose our footing and tumble down into the abyss of Panic.

In this sense, one’s first panic attack is really a blessing in disguise. It warns the sufferer that he or she is living to fast, too hassled, and too stressed out. Loosing tranquility happened because a person’s happy messengers are being invaded by stress hormones. While they are normally allies, these hormones become enemies in the face of danger and stress.

The problem is most people who suffer panic attacks are frequently frightened of having another one that it invokes another incident. For example, yesterday afternoon I am relaxing in my apartment when a 7.3 earthquake rolls through my living room lasting 30 seconds. I freeze, unsure of what to do and terrified it will get worse. The telltale signs including tremors, racing heartbeat, and dizziness commence. The shaking subsides. Just breath. Breath. The symptoms will settle down. They never last long. Engage in something to divert attention. Facebook. Ok, at least find out what I should do in the event of an aftershock. Conflicting information. Do I stand in a doorway or find a triangle…or it depends on where you live and building codes. The doorway is fine in California. Still shaking, dizzy and pulse racing I turn on the TV and eat something. Enough, I cannot listen to anymore about are we ready if the big one hits. Oh, now I think I might throw up. Then everything seems to go away; until later, when inadvertently thinking about the 5% chance that there will be another 7.3 in the next three days my chest tightens. Ok, breathe again and redirect concentration to a movie. I go to bed and wake up well. I could take a Xanax but I think those should be saved for super stressful situations like flying when babies are present.

Unfill Becomes Refill with Ease

Since relocating to Southern California, I have observed many differences in the sports mentality. Last night, while attempting to get my beer one thing became crystal clear to me. In Chicago, sports venues are places where beer is readily available and games happen to take place. I went to a Bears game in negative temperatures where my beer froze but still we drank beer. A large majority of fans leave and venture to a bar after the Seventh Inning; unless one is at Sox Park where you relocate to the dugout bar in the stadium where beer is served till after the game. The largest and most annoying difference is the lack of beer vendors calling out “Beer, get your Beer.”

Folks from the Midwest you might be shocked to know that sporting venues do not have beer vendors.

And to my Southern California, in other parts of the country stadiums pay employees to walk though sections and sell beer as well other adult beverages. You don’t miss the game standing in line waiting for beer, you don’t disturb your neighbors with you frequent trips to the kiosk, and someone has a job…talk about a win win for everyone.

I lost two innings last night endeavoring to buy a beer. A 90-year-old woman was manning the first place I went, which has Stella, so after 15 minutes I went elsewhere. Oh, Corona…. your credit card machine isn’t working. ATM is down that way…oh and it is out of service. Excuse my, do you take credit cards? No, your credit card machine is broken. After, visiting for kiosks with broken machines I find a lady who’s machine is working and informs me that every other person was lying because they didn’t want to reconcile the receipts at the end of the night. Nice. I’ll take two.

Due to the smallness of this world, I knew Faith and Charity who were randomly sitting next to me at the game and they were not overly annoyed by my up and down.

Admittedly, I did poor planning and should have visited the Cash Station prior to the game, as it is a good rule of thumb to always carry enough money to be able to pay for two overpriced beers. And the beer vendors are cash only transactions but if there had been beer vendors I would have been prepared. However, I have never stood in line that long for a beer in Chicago. At Sox Park and Wrigley Field unfill becomes refill with complete ease.

Overall, I will say that people in the Midwest are much bigger sports fans. When I talk to people about this they claim, “there is so much more to do in So Cal.” Um, there is also a lot to do in Chicago such as museums, the beach, shopping and some of the best live theater in the country but people still go to games. The Cubs could be the worst team in baseball and every single game would still be sold out while every pub in the area (a neighborhood) known as Wrigleyville after the ballpark would be packed on a Tuesday in June at 2:00. This might be why the Rams left Los Angeles to move to Saint Louis—cause their drunken fans whom are buying their beer from vendors care about them.

What other differences are there between Midwest and So Cal sports fans? What is it like in other geographical areas?

I am not the Better Man...Now What?

At age 4 my family moved into our first house…a real fixer upper. To my young brain, my parents poured all of their energy into the house while ignoring me. One weekend my grandparents came over and everyone was painting not paying attention to me. Mid afternoon I exited the house, approached the step ladder my father was working on and kicked it with all my might while saying, “Daddy has poop in his pants!” To my four-year-old brain this was the worst accusation you could ever hurl.

Note I did not say/do this to my mom, grandma or grandpa.

Though, I was not aware of the cause and effect at the time…my mom and dad realized that they had not bought me any new toys in a long time and took me shopping. In short, they rewarded me for saying the meanest thing I could think of because they wanted to make me happy.

And thus an entitled princess was born.

My parents, inadvertently, taught me it is okay to be a bitch and more importantly sometimes it gets me what I didn’t even know I wanted. Through the years, I relied on this to produce results. If I was nasty enough, distressed enough, or offensive enough the people (particularly men) I am closest to would give me what I wanted. And it worked. Except when it didn’t. And when it didn’t it really didn’t. Silent treatment, break ups and domestic violence are just a few examples of it backfiring.

I now see the damage that I have done to those around me. To my mom, my sister, my dad, my past boyfriends and my current boyfriend I am sorry for those times when I have not empowered you. When I did not trust you to provide for me or make me happy without my demanding or cajoling you into it.

I am not alone. Girls/Women are trained that this is acceptable behavior. Many times, I was rewarded or at the very least indulged. Books, most written by women, tell us to act this way if you want to catch and keep a man. Look at two very successful relationship books THE RULES and WHY MEN LOVE BITCHES.

Inarguably, I can be a princess. I tried to be a rules girl and I have no trouble being a bitch. All in my attempt to be a better man and win at whatever competition in which we were participating. My inner feminist must do this to not be dominated by men. In part, my move to California was my effort to prove I was a better man. I think it is time to try something new. To stop striving to be the superior male and to be a women.

Being a woman, a scary possibility, is unfamiliar to me. An inquiry I am engaged in and terrified to not rely my prior skill set. I would like to know from you, what does it look like to be a woman? What are feminine characteristics and qualities?