For all those who read and responded to that last post… thanks, I guess. It honestly wasn’t a plea for commiseration. It was just a pouring-out of what has been bouncing around in my head to try and sort it. And believe me, it was a very shallow pouring-out. There’s still a lot in there and it is definitely not sorted.

Of course, what’s in there is all stuff on which I should NOT be focusing. The important things keep getting crowded out by the frustrations and emotions and other nonsense that I seem to be having more and more trouble controlling. It is to sigh.

This is not to say I don’t have good days. Last week had several good days.

I’m not sure if it was Monday or Tuesday. Monday, I think. I was invited out for some fun (and food and drink) at the Public House. The first of my personal Cosima sightings.

Wednesday was fun, being around nice people, singing, laughing. Cosima took this photo at the combined Suicide Lounge Rehearsal/Ritual Seasonal Burning of Meat.

Thursday was also fun, hitting the Taste and Toast of the Tower. (Or whatever it’s called.) Wandering down the block, sweating, sampling wine, eating cheese and various other foodstuffs, sniffing tiny cigar samples that I will never smoke (anyone want a cappuccino mini-cigar? It smells REALLY good…), impromptu shopping and purchasing of a silk dress to wear on the spot, and ending up with a PERFECTLY CRAFTED mojito and camaraderie at Veni Vidi Vici. And here’s a couple Cosima sightings of that evening.

Friday found me having dinner with the podling, her dad, and his parents. I enjoyed the chance to visit, and of course, I always enjoyed his cooking, so that was lovely. After dinner I left to meet a lovely woman to see the Elemental Dance thingy at Severance. This, too, was very enjoyable, and some of those dancers gave performances that were far beyond their years. I’m so glad I went. After, we adjourned to Veni’s again, though this time they were out of mint, so no perfect drink for a sweltering, sultry night for Joy. The alternative lemon drop was nice, but I’m no fan of overtly sweet drinks. The conversation, however, was wonderful. She’s a lovely woman and a lovely friend, and I’m so glad I’ve made her acquaintance.

Saturday. Partying wit da girls. zx3gurl is getting married soon, and so her last weeks of freedom had to be commemorated with the traditional bachelorette shindig. We wore corsages that each had a tiny penis with a wee pearl peeking out of the tip. It was strangely mesmerizing to fiddle with the little plastic appendages to alternately make them show, or not show, the pearly suprise. (Ingenious craftiness by one of my favorite bartender girls, who, incidentally, was wearing THE hottest red Marilyn-style floaty hem dress I have EVER seen. She was freaking GORGEOUS!) I imbibed from a penis-shaped straw. I artfully took my sparkly clothes off for the bride-to-be AND taught her how to remove her gloves in an interesting fashion.

(Photos courtesy of Tracy Olsen Photography)

(And PLEASE don’t look at the pictures too closely. I had not been home all day, spending the majority of it trying to get my car repaired. I had 5 minutes to grab my stuff, spritz some perfume on my sweaty self and high-tail it over to the party. Less than glamorous hair and makeup. And I’m chubby. I do not like it.)
I wore a button that designated me the “TEASE” of the group. (I am not one, by the way. - unless you count the entertainment aspect of my newest dance interest, but that doesn’t count on a personal level - If I indicate interest, I mean it. If you’re unsure if I’ve indicated interest, then I clearly have not.) It was NOT an evening of refinement. It was, however, an evening of fun and frolic. Wonderful people, fabulous dinner at Rousseau, drinks and funk at Landmark (I was sorry to leave the VERY ENJOYABLE funkaliciousness, but the party was moving on), a pedi-cab ride to Starline brought us to some trancey driving beat music and dancing… and finding myself dancing with a 22 year old naval weapons tech. (WTF?! Dude, I could be your mama. Don’t stand… don’t stand… don’t stand - or dance- so close to me.) Bride-to-be made me proud, imbibing liberally, but remaining upright and vibrant throughout the night. She was game to wear the veil decorated with LED flashing penises… penii? hm. Yes, and the enormous LED flashing diamond ring. These cheez factors combined with her gorgeous red sequined top made her shiny and HOT… in the good way. Not many girls can be covered in genitalia, in public, and still carry themselves with dignity and grace. Not only did she accomplish that, but she did it with sass. We had fun, and finally staggered back to her domicile somewhere around 1:30 am. The party started at 7 pm. Not bad. Not bad at all. But I HAVE filled my quota of penis-related jokes and innuendo for the month.

Sunday. Rest. Relaxation. Laundry. A little homework. Not nearly enough house cleaning. Then an evening outing with lecram for spaghetti and meatballs, an oddly refreshing but too sweet cranberry/peach shcnapps/vodka thingy, and a chance meeting with one of the previous night’s partygoers still suffering through the aftereffects. We had a nice visit. I mostly ate and listened. It was good.

So there was my week. I honestly don’t consider myself a social butterfly. But it seems I do keep busy in fits and starts. I have weeks where I see no one and do nothing. By choice. And weeks where I’m never home and the laundry piles up and the dishes litter the sink and counter.

Which brings me to this. A while back I picked up a little book called

It’s a light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek explanation of what makes a girl a bombshell. (At least I hope it’s light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek. I HOPE no one takes such nonsense so seriously that they waste time soberly researching such a thing…) And it took me all of 30 minutes to an hour to read from cover to cover. It’s not deep literature.

I’m starting to think I may be a bombshell. Granted, I’m no Marilyn Monroe (who I have never aspired to emulate). I’m not even like one of my heroines… Ann-Margret. No… in looks, I don’t qualify. I’m a little too old and a little too round in places that roundness isn’t a good idea. But I might qualify in other areas. Such as…

In the list of things a bombshell can get away with that ordinary women can’t, I qualify on about half.

“Having no domestic prowess - She doesn’t mastermind the home; she lounges in it. She beautifies in it. She orders in.”

Hallelujah. I am justified.

“Never paying - For drinks. Dinner. Or anything.”

This I don’t do on purpose. I even try to pay. People stop me. Who am I to rob them of the opportunity to be generous and kind?

“Showing up late, but not as late as divas - She tries to be on time, she really does. But heels break, puppies slow her down and she can’t resist picking up the phone if it rings when she’s running out the door. Not stopping to talk to an elderly neighbor is unthinkable.”

I don’t have elderly neighbors, but if I did, I certainly would NOT be rude to them. It has to do with being ridiculously respectful of others (well, of those who deserve respect, that is).

“Reckless attire - A Bombshell is innocently inappropriate. She will go braless or wear stilettos and tight sweaters to office meetings. Seamed stockings and fishnets are also acceptable as are “rocks” for day, always strategically positioned.”

I’m not quite THAT bad. I never go braless. That would be tragedy, but I do wear 4 inch heels daily, tight sweaters are preferred to baggy ones, and I adore seamed stockings and fishnets. Granted, I don’t wear them ALL the time, but I can tell you that when I get a job, it will HAVE to be with people who aren’t too ridiculously conservative. With today’s fashions, on me, most v-necklines are cleavage city, and I refuse to wear high necks. They make me look fatter and older than I already am. Or… I will work at Starbucks, or somewhere similar.

“Petty crimes - Not returning engagement rings (when she calls it off) or jewelry and couture gowns borrowed for public appearances.”

I’m more along the lines of not returning borrowed DVDs or CDs or books… I would never call off an engagement, because I would never accept one unless I meant it. As for borrowed couture gowns and jewelry… I wish! I might not want to relinquish one once I had it in my soft little paws.

This book also contains quotes from famous bombshells. A couple of my favorites:

“I find that I regret nothing. There are three words I have never said, and never will. The are, “I am sorry.” - Dolores Del Rio

I generally try to avoid regret, myself. I HAVE said I’m sorry, but I do try to avoid it if I can. And it’s usually not because I truly have regret, but because I wish to assure someone else that I feel badly for having upset or disappointed them, which is NOT the same thing as real regret.

“I am not difficult. I am definite.” - Hedy Lamarr

Yeah.

Apparently I sit like a bombshell, too.

“Bombshells don’t sit exactly. They perch, curl, curve, and occasionally fling their legs up over the arm of the chair or back of the sofa. This also goes for seats on airplanes, cars and trains.”

Mostly, I lounge. But I have been known to curl and/or fling my legs over the arm of a chair. It’s a natural position for me… draped. And I find it’s genetic. The podling does this as well.

I’ll leave out most references to the chapter on bombshell underpinnings, except to say that yes, stockings win out over pantyhose/tights every time. I made the decision to eschew the little egg with the wrinkled up nylon years ago for truly practical reasons. Pantyhose are uncomfortable, sweaty in all the worst places, and make strange silhouettes. I’d rather go bare-legged, but if leg covering is required, I will generally resort to garters and stockings. For far too long, I was relegated to thick tights in cold weather, but I have now found a delightful NON pantyhose/tights alternative. THICK, HEAVY stockings. Hooray Sock-Dreams!

There’s a chapter about handbags, and I am certainly particular about mine, though I don’t quite go for the sorts of things they mention in the book. But it IS all about style.

The same with footwear. I prefer heels. I prefer heeled boots. I prefer anything that has a sense of style to it. Flat footwear has to be spectacular in some way for me to want to put it on my feet. Elsewhere in the book it reads “You will never find her commuting in running shoes with socks over nylons. She hast too much self-esteem. To a Bombshell, a girl wearing unglamorous shoes in public is saying ‘I hate myself, this part of my life doesn’t count. I resent the shoes I am supposed to wear at work and besides, they’re not comfortable and I am not interested in men.’ ”

Well.. I’m NOT interested in men these days, but it doesn’t mean I have to look the part.

Hair: “When it comes to styling, there are two main looks. Done and undone.” Well, I guess I’m mostly undone. I prefer my hair flying around and in my face, unless I’m trying to concentrate. Then it gets pulled back. For a while.

“The Bombshell finds a sudden thunderstorm thrilling. She appreciates the spontaneity of an impromptu drenching and doesn’t mind if her white polka-dot dress turns transparent and clings to every curve.” True enough. Also, the part they mention about removing the shoes and splashing around sounds like something I’d do. Though sometimes I do it with shoes on… but not if they’re GOOD shoes.

There there’s the day-to-day bombshell lifestyle.

“The bombshell abhors routine. She is ready for anything at a moment’s notice - a movie, a trip to Istanbul, a cocktail. She knows that a phone call can change her evening. Hell, it can change her life.

There is no such thing as a typical Bombshell day. She might wake up (to the 1812 Overture; see Music, page 120), slip into her peginoir and matching mules, pull the manual typewriter from under the bed and work on her memoir for an hour, or until the phone rings.

If she feels like it, she may clean the bathroom tiles with an old toothbrush before taking a shower…”

THAT certainly sounds like me. Although pulling the manual typewriter out is, these days, replaced by sitting down at the computer and blogging.

And then the chapter about ‘The Bombshelter’. (Don’t you love that chapter title? Clever, no?) It’s all about decor and the home. I don’t exactly quite qualify here, except that I never use rooms entirely how they were intended to be used, and everything is always in flux. My dining room has no dining table. My living room has full-length mirrors. My spare bedroom is my costume room. That sort of thing.

The Bombshell diet fits me, however. I don’t diet, but I diet. I eat whatever I like, then become concerned that my calorie intake (and midsection) has gotten out of hand and make an effort to cut back. It’s less of the yo-yo/rollercoaster of dieting, and more of a hormonal flux sort of thing. But I like to eat, and when offered a good meal, I eat it. This is countered by the fact that I RARELY cook, and certainly not for myself. There’s a sort of balance there, somewhere. Isn’t there?

“The Bombshell is a liberated woman. She enjoys being a sex object and feels virtually no pressure to have culinary prowess.”

I don’t know about the sex object thing… I guess, as long as no one approaches who is not invited. But the culinary prowess thing is spot-on.

One place where I do NOT qualify as a bombshell…

“The Bombshell doesn’t like things men drink. Scotch, bourbon, especially beer unless it’s indigenous. She has an innate disdain for anything new and pretentious like cosmopolitans, and things have to be pretty bad for a Bombshell to order a Bloody Mary - too blowsy, lushy and depressed. Bombshells love to have a bottle of mineral water for the table, with gas. Bombshells also drink Coke”

Hm. I love scotch, usually the more expensive the better. Haven’t tried bourbon. I like beer, a LOT, but it has to be really good beer. I’m not interested in cosmopolitans, but I’d order a Bloody Mary. I like red, I like tomato, and I like bite. Mineral water is good, but I’d rather it not be sparkling. And I do not drink Coke. Nor do I drink Pepsi.

Ok. So mostly I qualify as a bombshell in that I don’t do housework; I don’t like to cook but I can if necessary; my refrigerator contains leftovers for meals eaten out (for breakfast the next day) and a jar of pepperoncini, a tub of olive tapenade, some juices, some Irish cheddar and some romaine hearts; I like pretty shoes; I don’t wear pantyhose; I’m particularly fond of good clothes; I actually enjoy constrictive underpinnings of the corset variety (if not laced TOO tight); I lounge in my seat, rather than sitting properly, no matter the setting; for all my world-weariness, I still have an odd naivety, innocence, and habit of being genuine that even I can’t understand or define, but it’s certainly there.

Now… if I could JUST figure out how to be pretty and curvy and not have to worry about how to pay the bills like everyone’s favorite bombshells…

And I need a haircut.

Supposedly this is the Year of Self-Redefinition. So says the sage who predicts the theme of the year at precisely 12:01 am New Year’s Day. (I don’t know about this guy… I’m still a little pissed about the prediction for 2007. It turned out to be ALL too true. The Year of Letting Go was the all-time worst year of my life.)

Here we are, half through this Year of Self-Redefinition, and I’m still not… well, anything. Really.

Granted, I am more and more certain of who I am NOT. I suppose that should be at least a little helpful. Still, who and what I am, and where I’m going, not to mention where I am now? Clueless.

For example, I know that the thing that I have been spending all this time going to classes to learn, while still interesting to me, is NOT the thing I wish to do several hours a day for the rest of my natural life. (Which is how long I’ll have to work, given that I’ve managed to get such a late start on the whole “planning for the future” process.)

Ok, so I know what I do NOT want to do. And I will hopefully soon have a piece of paper that says I learned a bunch of things toward being able to do what I don’t want to do.

Hm. So what do I want to do? What do I know how to do? What AM I going to do? I need to figure that out, or soon I will be doing whatever it is while living in my car.

I’d rather not redefine in that way.

In other ways, I can’t help but be clearly redefined, but I didn’t actually manage that all by myself. I am no longer defined as a married woman. I am now a divorced woman. I have to say, I really don’t care for that distinction. (Then again, I wasn’t really all that fired up about the distinction of being a “married woman” either.) Not that there’s anything inherently WRONG with being a divorced woman. Except… personally. It is a personal failure. No matter how I look at it, that’s all I can see. Failure to understand, or put up with things that drove me nuts. Failure to be able to conform into person I was expected to be. Failure to look ahead and see how I would grow and he would grow and how that growing wasn’t in the same direction. Failure to realize that the life I wanted and needed isn’t the one he wanted and needed. Failure. My failure. His failure? Our failure.

Was it a mistake?

How could I possibly think it was a mistake? There were so many good years. We produced such an amazing kid.

I’m still left wondering why we could have failed one another so horribly.

Then there’s the OTHER one. I was certain of that, too. I knew, without doubt, without a question anywhere in my soul that I was loved by someone who truly cared for, understood, and desired me. What is funny… or tragic… or comically tragic… is I reached that conclusion, I truly trusted and believed, completely, finally, deliriously happily, and within 2 weeks of that internal capitulation to what I had been told and pressed to believe… I was abandoned so completely, so cruelly, so callously, that even I - the person who abhors the very idea of taking one’s own life - considered that very final, very silly, alternative to continuing to live a life enduring an unending betrayal, living on without the one perfect match to my temperament, personality, and desires.

Can I view THAT affair of the heart as a mistake?

I have learned so much about myself that I might never have known. I have experienced and understood things that might never have even crossed my mind. It’s true that I can’t help but wonder if I might not have been better off remaining unaware and oblivious. Knowing something is possible, and knowing I will never find its like again is far worse than naivety.

But it has certainly caused some redefinition. I’m no longer sure of myself and my decisions. I don’t know that the things of which I am SO certain, of which I have such conviction and faith, are really true, or real, or good, or right. I just can’t know anymore. I don’t know that the wonder of a moment, or a span of time, or the giving in to a feeling is worth the emptiness once it is gone. And I certainly no longer believe that anything lasts. I used to believe that was possible. Now I know that nothing EVER lasts, no matter how much another person promises to “make it work”. They never are up to the task, no matter how much I give up to please them.

How and where did I fail when I gave everything, every part of my heart, mind, body and soul? Does that really mean that I am JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH? And honestly… HOW could anyone deliberately fail ME? That’s just an insane thing to think about. I deserve, at least, the ATTEMPT at not failing. Yet, there it is, right in front of my nose, someone deliberately CHOSE to fail me. It’s one thing if it’s inadvertant inability, it’s quite another to choose to fail.

Chalk it up to my more than healthy ego. (And blame it on my astrological sign if you must.) I know what I’m worth, and I know what I deserve, and nothing and no one will ever convince me otherwise. I’m much more forgiving of the person who tries and fails than I am of the person who fails without even making an effort.

I’m not really thrilled with the idea of my Year of Self-Redefinition meaning that I’m now someone so unsure of anything that I’m perpetually undecided, cynical and disbelieving.

But it does sort of look that way.

I don’t WANT to be that chick. I just AM that chick. My choices and the (in my opinion, BAD) choices of others have brought me to where I am now.

Oh… but Joy, dear, don’t give up hope.

You know that expression “hope floats”?

My retort: “So does pond scum.”

I don’t need hope. I need good results. I need what is real, and true, and good, and loving, and right, and caring. I need to see proof.

I don’t need words, or platitudes, condescending and patronizing placation.

Those things don’t make me safe. They don’t keep me warm at night. They don’t feed my belly OR my soul.

Hope doesn’t catch me when I fall. It disappoints me when I hit the ground.

Hope is about as useful as regret. (Something I also make it a point to avoid.)

I want truth. I want reality. Say what you mean, and what you know you’ll mean in two weeks, or two months, or two years. Don’t say what you think you might mean but is open to interpretation and redefinition. Don’t say what you think I should hear, or what will further your interests. If you don’t truly mean it, forever, keep your mouth shut.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
I deal in absolutes.
Hope has no place here.
I’m certainly not going to give you any hope.
I will tell you what I think, what I feel, and what I intend. I expect the same from everyone else in my life.

So… this Year of Self-Redefinition. I’m not sure if I’m redefining, or just returning to who I was years ago. For too long I’ve thrown caution to the wind and allowed myself to believe in the professed intentions of others. And I have been repeatedly disappointed.

Maybe I AM insane. After all, I’ve been trying the same thing, over and over, hoping for different results, and I’m still always hurt and surprised when I get the same old disappointment.

So maybe that’s my self-redefinition. I’m a high-functioning nut job.

It’s a normal thing to do. You have something in your hand. You need to do something else with your hand, so you just shove whatever it is in the pocket of your coat.

Then you go home, you take off your coat and put it in the closet.

Then the weather heats up and you never remove your coat from the closet until the following year.

You become acclimated to the warmer, sometimes blistering, but in the fall, generally balmy climate of the temperate zone in which you live.

Then the temperature drops dramatically and the coat comes out of its seasonal hibernation. Rather than taking its woolly, furry, warmy goodness into a cave for the winter, it comes out of its cave to wrap around you and keep you cozy.

And your hands, unaccustomed to the chill wind of January, seek refuge in those deep pockets.

You encounter a mini time capsule within each pocket. What were you doing a year ago?

Apparently you ate a caramel, for there is a wrapper, balled up and stuck that way in that deepest corner of the pocket. You also had a sore throat, given that there are a few empty lozenge wrappers and one still in the wrapper… though the wrapper is partially unwrapped and the lozenge is more than a little fuzzy with lint.

The paperclip straightened into what is now more or less a long metal pin suggests you may have needed to open a jammed cd drive… or pick a simple lock…

Inexplicably, however, you find you have a business card in your pocket. It is a business card you do not recall receiving or picking up.

This business card is bright yellow, with a simple graphic advertising a local cab company. It tells you that you can pay with a variety of credit cards by the tiny card icons up at the top right corner. The cab company’s slogan tells you how very long they have been in operation… only a decade away from a century. It bears two phone numbers… to be doubly sure you’ll call them first?

But on the back… here you find a name. Just a first name. Jim. It’s scrawled in careless cursive with a string of digits below it, two of which are hard to decipher. 595 … or is that 696? 9837?

You think that’s what it says. Maybe not. Pretty messy.

Jim.

Do you know a Jim?

And why do you have Jim’s number?

This is especially perplexing, given that you have not been in a cab in close to 20 years, nor have you had occasion to call one for anyone else. (Though it has crossed your mind a time or two.)

Is Jim a past, fleeting, love interest? Or were you one such for him, at least, that he hastily scrawled a hint of your allure which you absently slipped into a pocket without a second glance. Are you so callous and uncaring? Was he that uninteresting?

Is Jim a cab driver? Or did Jim just take a cab one fateful day, retrieving a business card to remind him of the cab company’s number in the future, should he ever need it… then lightning struck and he was faced with a hurried need to convey, in 3 short letters and 7 numbers, his momentary hope that he could do more than say hello to you.

And now you have this bright yellow card. With a name and a number. And you really don’t know who Jim was. You don’t know what Jim looks like. You don’t know what Jim does for a living, or even if Jim thought you were pretty. Maybe Jim was looking for someone to babysit his kids. Maybe Jim was a mechanic, and in some brief, “time of day” sort of exchange, you mentioned you needed someone to have a look at that odd sound you could hear under the hood of your car every so often…

Who is Jim?

And why is your memory so short that you can’t remember the events a year ago that caused you to cross Jim’s path?

WHO IS JIM?!

Alas… poor Jim… I knew him, Horatio. But I promptly forgot him.