Caterwauling

I’m on a gastrointestinal tour of a local city. I’m trying to pretend to be a tourist in a town I know like the back of my hand, and I ALMOST get away with it … until I tell the goofy asshole who’s harassing the seating host at the restaurant where I’m chowing down on a salad and ancho-bourbon boneless wings that the Starbucks to the north is WAY closer than the one to the south. Whoops.

I had some unexpected dinner companions the other night. They had a kid who was a few years old. Cute kid. Inquisitive. Sharp as a fucking tack. I made sure to only talk to adults, as it was past 8 p.m. and I just don’t “do” kids.

I was talking to his mom, who may be a couple years younger than me, but I was too polite to ask. I threw out my own age to see if she bit — she didn’t — but I was as clever about it as I could be, given the late hour. I said, with nothing but truthfulness, that dating over age 36 is a bitch because you have the “having children” discussion WAY sooner than you ever thought possible.

Shit, just get me to the next date already — I’m not ready to allocate my eggs. Besides, what if I end up like Charlotte on “Sex and the City” and all the birth control over the years was for nothing, and I couldn’t have any if I tried anyway?

The gal I met was happy to have just one child. And she lamented how she used to be the breadwinner — and how she couldn’t keep up with her career and the kid at the same time, so she had to choose. Clearly, she chose the kid.

And it’s an interesting debate that I’ve had with myself. I’ve been the breadwinner in most of my entanglements. And believe you me, I am THROUGH with working … you don’t have to ask me twice to get off the career track.

Like another good friend said, it’s time to quit being a workaholic, and work on finding and nurturing a functional relationship. We already did the “work thing” — time to work on our personal lives for a change.

But now that our friend’s life is starting to return to normal — i.e., she said it takes till the munchkin is about 3 years old for some semblance of your former life to start to return — she’s been off the career train for three years. That’s a long time. How do you jump back on?

And how do you “make do” in the interim?

It’s funny for me to even be thinking about this stuff, as I’m on holiday from the Ultra Extra Over Extended Houseguest (who keeps texting — she texted as the cat, asking where I am. Gah), and she’s damn good at driving away any urge I have to meet a guy and perpetuate this fucked-up gene pool. I mean, really — when she dies, shouldn’t I just enjoy the silence that she’s deprived me of for so long?

Anyway, I told our friend my theory, that I want to go to Paris. I want plastic surgery. And if I can throw in a kid, yay. Win. I want it all. Or I have to make choices … which likely don’t involve something that shits in a diaper.

And our friend, who is trying so hard to regain some sense of normalcy, says to me, “You can always have Paris. But your window to have a child is, unfortunately, not open for a lifetime. Just be sure that you can look back in 20 years and be OK with that decision.”

I hate voices of reason.

I’m not on the baby train just because of my advanced biological-clock age. It would need to involve the right guy, and the right financial situation for me to scale back on work … or (prayerfully) to be able to take a hiatus entirely.

I don’t know that kids are in my future. Bu I do admit that the idea of working myself into my grave is less and less appealing.

Of course, it’s all contingent upon finding the right guy. And I need to be happy with “just” him … someone I can play with and talk with and have fun with and not want to choke because he’s in my space … before I can even think about “doing it for our country.” (As apparently the Japanese are financially incentivizing their population to ensure that the pagoda’s a-rocking.)

Good lord, I’ve had such a good day on my own. Why am I typing about babies? Does all the alcohol I’ve consumed (Blue Moon drafts with orange slices) send my mind THERE? Or is it seeing all the baby carriages on the Avenue … filled with purse dogs … that makes me want to head off my boarding of the crazy train?

Or maybe is it that I want my chance to do something that isn’t soulless and insipid, like pretty much everything else that I’m known for that serves as the sole thing that defines my contribution to this world?

While I want to blog about how awesome my trip to Vancouver was, and how I am willing to give up my citizenship on the spot to go live there, I was just reading Plumcake — as I am apt to do — and was moved by a post about when hot men go for big girls.

It’s not that I consider anyone “out of my league.” I just know that, at one point in my life, my reputation certainly preceded me. And after I swore off boys for a couple of years (yes, it happened. Pause at the wonder of it all), coming back to the minefield showed me that not a lot had changed.

I liked to laugh it off and joke that big girls give the best head because we’re always so damn hungry. And I sold sex toys at some point in the middle of all this (ironically, during my “dry spell”), so there has always an expectation of theatrics to accompany that period of my life. Which, hey, I don’t say no to much. But that’s more about an active imagination of my own than having formidable opponents!

I’ve also been (not purposely) working on a correlation between income level and prowess. Not necessarily enthusiasm — that runs the gamut. Usually with men, though, you can count on that part to be pretty high. Whether they have millions in the bank or they just got laid (ha!) off from Wall Street, though, some try way harder than others.

Or maybe it’s me. Maybe some of them don’t have to try as hard. They simply just don’t need a flashlight and a Trip-Tik. They don’t have to rip the copy of “War and Peace” out of your hands because you didn’t feel the need to pick it up in the first place!

I feel like I don’t try as hard anymore. Which is kind of where Plumcake’s article starts to go — that we as women of size (oh, let’s face it, I will always call it my Pudgy Pork Roast Ass, even when it gets down to a lean cut of meat) tend to be suspicious when the Abercrombie-model-candidate tries to pick us up.

Like, either you’ve heard we’re easy (we are — er, well, we CAN be, depending on our needs), or you lost a bet with your buddies. Which is it?

(Since you know to expect TMI when you read this blog, my needs tend to vary with frequency. Have it more, want it more. On hiatus? I can extend that out indefinitely. Except now that I’m approaching my sexual peak, like HELL I’m hitting that summit with just my Purple Peter Eater and other various accessories, kthx.)

So, yeah, when someone who, like, runs when he’s not being chased — or otherwise is more buff than my car after I drop $50 at the auto spa — sure I have to look around and wonder where the Candid Camera is. But again, it’s not that I don’t feel worthy. On the contrary, I guess I assume he’s frosted a thousand cupcakes in his day and why should I be his next, uh, Hostess?

And in that, I wonder — I think those who are “size-ists” are absolutely unfair in overlooking a group of people where they might just find the happiness that seems to continually evade them. I also apply this to women who rave that size DOES matter … till I find out otherwise. And I always do. (Don’t ask!)

But does that mean I’m guilty of reverse discrimination here — that I’m always seeking the ulterior motive … or that I’m quick to dismiss someone just because I think they’d drop me for the cheerleader chick at the other end of the bar … or, worse, that people would look at us walking down the street and wonder how the hell I got HIM?

I’m not saying I’m looking for someone who looks like me. Quite the contrary — I want to be challenged to be my best. To look my best. To, uh, perform the theatrics quite willingly.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m looking for someone who melts me. Who touches my skin and every single nerve ending feels like it’s erupted in flames. I guess I’ve felt that before and, while it may not necessarily be a measure of love and hearts and all that fuzzy-wuzzy crap, it definitely does indicate a level of compatibility that, frankly, I’m unwilling to live without when I do finally succumb to co-habitation or left-hand-jewelry-collecting and that sort of thing.

So, I’m all about hot men. Hell, at this stage of my life, I probably shouldn’t rule out women, either, as I always say I need a wife more than I need a husband. But it’s all about instinct, too.

Do they touch me and my skin erupts in flames or goose bumps? If yes, go to question 2. Do they stimulate my brain?

Sub-question 2A: Does that happen because their penis is so big, it tickles my brain, or 2B: They can form a coherent thought … with proper grammar? If 2A, take them home. If 2B, take them home and tie them up (and ravage them) and don’t let them get away.

That sort of thing.

So, tall or short, slight or buff, dark or light, this or that … or even the other thing — I don’t care. I’m just looking for some magic. And if Hottie McHotster enters my space and I feel anything resembling annoyance, discomfort or boredom, I would gladly encourage him to keep walking. But if not, I don’t care a thing about what the rest of the world says — I’m going to turn on the charm that I save for special occasions, and see what happens.

And maybe I’ll find a better way than a treadmill to burn off those excessive calories I’m storing in said Pudgy Pork Roast Ass … and it won’t be to get/keep a man!

Broad Street, Philly

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

So my beloved L and I made reservations at Lola last night.

And although DaDa will always be “our” place, Lola is a very close second in our eyes.

Of course, anywhere that we can order cheese for every course is A-OK by us!

She said there was something different about me last night. I was relaxed in a way I simply haven’t been during the six months she’s been in town.

We attribute it to Philadelphia. I mean, why not, right?

Maybe it’s bigger than that. I really am relaxed about a lot of things right now. When we met, I was in a job that felt about as comfortable as shoving a grown-up size 8 foot into a baby shoe with brute force.

And turning 36 last month wasn’t a huge deal for me, but whereas other people’s biological clocks start to tick, my “my life is half over and what do I have to show for it?” station started to play on my internal clock-radio.

But what I didn’t realize as I was trying to hit “snooze” with a hammer and the song kept playing louder and louder, was that I had experienced way more than I gave myself credit for. And it took going away to see that.

I always felt kind of stunted when it came to matters of the heart. I made a good career and as good a life as I could. But I always felt that I never managed to love or be loved.

And while, one one hand, that’s life … on the other hand, it’s like how can such a reasonably intelligent individual have failed at what some of the stupidest people on earth have found?

And with just a couple of days, the vortex of confusion and self-pity in my head has calmed down considerably. I’ve realized I didn’t just “almost” have it all. I’ve had everything and then some … and perhaps I’ve had it even better than the people who claim they have it better than anyone else.

What I’ve had may have been brief, but it’s been real.

And unlike a certain boy that L used to know, I have far from peaked. He’s wasted every chance and ruined every life that he’s come across. So now he’s in search of the meaning of life in New Age hocus-pocus. (Good luck in that month-long sweat lodge visit where you’re staring at corpulent men in tiny towels. I’m sure THAT will fix your broken soul. *snort*)

It’s in talking with my friends and finding about the douchenozzles they’ve encountered that makes me doubly blessed A) to have such wonderful, worldly friends, and B) that I don’t think I’ve ever actually felt my time was wasted by anyone I’ve loved or been loved by.

So, the calmness you see might be alcohol-induced at times. But it’s mostly a general peace now that the universe hasn’t been withholding anything from me and that the best is truly yet to come … and that all I have to do is be on alert to look out for it when it comes, and be open to receiving it.

So I’m not going to blog about what happened tonight, other than champagne/pinot/mojitos at Il Bacio and dinner at Blue Fish.

I’m not going to post that I met somebody with whom I went to college, who graduated the same year I was supposed to, and the people we knew in common.

I won’t post how he still has anger toward one of my favorite, uh, lays of all time.

I won’t post how badly he begged me to come back to his hotel room last night.

I won’t post how tempted I might have been.

What a weird little night. Good in so many ways. Strange in so many others.

I will be in Baltimore again soon enough. If he wants to see me then, fine. If I blew my chance now, so be it.

My mind is elsewhere right now. Be warned, boys. Be warned.

Biggest HD TV in the world

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I’m always surprised by inquiries about my adventures, whether in the “who” is asking, or the “why.”

What’s funny is that I readily put my life “out there.” (hello again, air quotes!), so it always amazes me when people assume that they only have a fraction of the story.

And boy, do they ever!

I am one of those lone observers in the world. I used to do it for writing inspiration. But now that I only really write about the stock market … and from other people’s point of view, at that (*heavy sigh at my bygone byline days*) … I try to keep some of my observations in my head. For when I need them someday.

And the thing I observed recently is this: People will think what they will. Just as you are busy observing them, they are watching you right back. Some are subtle about it; others are obvious in their watching and wondering.

But once in a while, you find yourself being the observed … of being the one absolutely living in the moment … the one the rest of the world is — I dunno — envying?

It’s hard to explain without concrete examples. But between laughter and escape and everything in-between, coming up for air always yields some fascinating results.

I almost want to ask people what they’re thinking when they watch me (whether I’m alone or not). But I don’t have to guess too hard, I’m sure.

You wonder if they know you’re as happy as you are. Then you wonder whether they know you’re not a thing like you probably seem to them. And then you wonder whether they think you might just be fooling yourself that you’re as carefree as you’re conveying.

And then you realize you don’t give a shit either way. Because happiness — whether effortless or evolved from a series of events — is still happiness. And I ain’t above being in love with life wherever possible.

Whether it’s escape from one thing, or immersion in another or — most likely — a magical combination thereof — it’s not to be passed up when it presents itself.

And to those to whom I’ve been extra-nice these past few days, it’s not you … it’s me.