Sunday, May 31, 2009
Another date for Monday night (I forgot about) texted to cancel.
So I agreed to Monday.
Then I realized I am having dinner with my neighbours on Monday. So it's cancel, cancel. Already I'm running out of steam. Things fizzle in a flash people.
If you're a dingbat, is it wise to date another dingbat? Maybe the Universe is protecting me from this accomplished Playboy. You know I don't have the skills to deal with that! He already broke my my hand. What next? I could lose my whole head?
I'm just a simple country girl plowing the radish fields in my gigham dress and pigtails. I'm hitting the triangle calling "Pa" to dinner as we speak.
Sure, I can dress up the exterior with the acumen of a drag queen but, hell, it's just an "act".
Do I hear music? Time for another performance...
Saturday, May 30, 2009
The King of Produce (reaper) called yesterday. (Hi King! wanna buy some produce?) I'll have fennel, strawberries and eggplant in 90 days, not to mention radishes, carrots, leeks and heirloom tomatos.
So far, The Gardener (sower) hasn't done anything wrong. I mean except break my finger and try to ravage me. he opens doors, says "yes dear", calls every day and is taking me for Sushi tomorrow. (i cancelled my fourth date with the artist tonight. i was feeling sick. I don't seem to be able to tolerate this pain medication.) The Gardener promised to bring a bouquet of flowers for "the patient" and bring supplies to re-tape my splint.
With the cancer scare, i'm alone at a crossroad. It's a lonely place.
The Gardener takes charge. I like it. Maybe he's a playboy just looking for fun. I'll discern his intenions on date number two. i'm gonna flat out ask what his intentions are and flat out reveal mine. No more wasting time.
The Gardener left his shoes and clothes on my deck.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
he made rows for the crops. i dropped in carrot, leek and radish seeds. within 10 minutes he was putting his arms around me asking for kisses. i was covered from head to toe with soft soil peppered with miracle grow and compost (which is 15 % chicken manure). he told me i smelled good.
after hours of planting seedlings of heirloom tomato's, fennel and eggplant i nurtured the crops by lovingly watering them (he did it). we retired to my living room for an ice cold beer. he wanted to watch "the game".
i don't have the sports channel. (whatever that is)
"if you're gonna be my girlfriend", he said, "you're going to have to get cable".
"if you want to watch sports you're gonna have to go home:" i replied.
my neighbours arrived to admire our progress. they invited him for dinner (he's their friend). he took me to dinner instead. he opened the passenger door to his convertible 2009 black Porsche Carerra. but i don't like men in convertible Porsche's. i have zero tolerance for playboys and told him so. "would it make a difference it had a hard top?" he said.
after dinner we plopped on my couch. he tried to kiss me. i don't kiss on the first date. (yea, that rule flew out the window). playboys have "skills".
you may have noticed my current failure to capitilize. you need a left hand to depress the shift key. in blocking one of his advances i heard a "crack".
(this only happens when you don't have medical insurance.) the second doc showed me the x-ray. the broken finger was not the problem. she called it a "cyst" but i knew better. she called the radiologist to ask if he thought it was malignant. she made an appointment for me to meet a specialist hours later.
In the ensuing hours i reflected on my life. i thought of a certain someone, i visualized talking to him to keep my mind off what i knew was coming.
before you raise an eyebrow at the gardener's use of force...it turns out i have a tumour. it displaced 90% of the area making the remaining shell of bone fragile.
Monday, May 25, 2009
After The King of Produce failed to call within a couple of days, my mother (despite having fallen for him) was done. I summoned a replacement.
My mudder liked him. "He's so easy" she said. "He doesn't put on an act".
We walked to the beach. The walk culminated at our favorite rock formation. At the top there is a divet. We sit as waves crash around us. He asked me if I was going to marry him. (I should take more men to the "magic" rock.)
Sunday, May 24, 2009
I've cancelled three (3) dates. I'm waiting for my mother to leave to re-schedule. I can't risk another "sales pitch" during which she details why a man should marry me, now.
My favorite part of my mom's "sales pitch" is; "Did you know Charmaine was a Ballerina? She was in the Nutcracker."
She fails to mention I single-handedly ruined an otherwise flawless production of The Nutcracker produced by the Charleston Ballet Company. At the end of a piece all the dancers leaped off stage to stage left. I went to stage right. There was a discernible "gasp" from the audience.
I'm attending a dinner party on Monday. I hope "The Gardener" will be there. Did I mention "The Gardener" is handsome, prosperous and humble? When he asked about my availability I retorted I had been layed off and was "on vacation". He replied he has been on vacation since 2005. "What are you, independently wealthy" I joked. "Na" he said. "I just got lucky".
You should have seen how cute he was peering up my steps, looking through the railings one by one... trying to find me. I was a sweaty mess in grey sweat pants that were too short and hanging down at the butt.
My mother. See why I can't introduce her until AFTER the wedding?
Saturday, May 23, 2009
He amused us driving a small boat throughout Newport Harbor (the largest recreational harbor on the West Coast). In no time my mother and The King were laughing uncontrollably. He was blowing her kisses -- it was ridiculous.
Then she started the “sales pitch”. “Oh no”, I thought. “Not the SALES PITCH”.
My mother has been trying to sell me into sexual slavery/marriage since I was 18. The sales pitch sounds like this: “Charmaine is a very intelligent girl, did you know she used to be a ballerina? She was in the Nutcracker. When she was young her father used to say, “most people walk on the ground but Charmaine walks a foot above”. ”When we walk down the road everyone looks at her, both men and women, she is completely oblivious”.
I blacked out due to acute, rapid onset mortification.
Still, it was fun. He and I went for drinks later that night. A change had taken place. I lost power.
Something was off. Who was I kidding something was always off. Hell, this was a man that left me in restaurants.
When he hadn’t called by Saturday (today) my mother went from planning the wedding to “Fuck him”.
Then, as if on cue, The Gardener showed up. He is a single, masculine, affable man. He is a friend of my neighbor. He agreed to help her start a vegetable garden in a small patch of land we share. I accidentally ran into him, literally, as her young son chased him with a tire pump. The boy blasted The Gardener with air pockets after which he pretended to be shot. He kept dying and dying while complimenting the lad on his aim. (A single man being kind to a child...be still my beating heart.)
He walked back to my house, trying to catch my eye. He suggested we meet Tuesday so he could “supervise” ME during the planting stage.
He asked me to take his number. You know, in case I need help with “the vegetables”.
Trust me, I’m gonna need help.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
I drove to San Clemente to pick up my auld mudder. My Uncle John (psychiatrist/stand up comic) was returning from a psychiatric convention in San Francisco, In tow he had my mother and my cousin Tom. We met at my cousin Kim's house with her French husband, Francois (Vice President of Billabong) and their adorable surfer son Vanya (who was adopted from Russia). Anya was sent to boarding school.
They have a beautiful home. Kim cooked dinner in enormous kitchen while the boys prepared for a surfing trip to Baja. We laughed and LAUGHED.
My red faced, white haired 5 foot Uncle regailed us with funny stories about Ireland, his parents, Hugo Chavez and the book he gave Barack Obama. He told stories about Optimal Functioning and statistical normalcy. He advised I have no reason to expect anyone I date will ever be remotely normal.
He thought Mr.-Leave-Me-In-Restaurants was...perfectly right to do so. As long as I ran after him and say, "Go fuck yourself".
That's my family.
My Uncle (a psychiatrist) called to discuss "feasibility options" concerning the delivery of my crazy Irish mother. Discussing what is "feasible" ends in the option most inconvenient... for me.
In his Irish brogue he asked, "Is dropping your mother off for 3 days compatible with sanity?"
"Are you kidding?" I replied. "As long as you plan to give me shock treatments at the end of the week."
Or maybe we could put up a salt lick of Thorzine by the front door?
Monday, May 18, 2009
I was in Vienna for the 250th anniversary of Mozart’s birth. There were operas galore. I even jumped on a train whisking me to Prague for a production of Don Giovanni. But then again, I don’t really like Mozart’s operas. I’m an opera snob. Give me Puccini.
I was at a production of The Magic Flute at the Vienna Opera House. At halftime, I mean intermission; a group of well-dressed Austrian men practically ran over me on their way to the bar.
One man cut in front of me to order champagne for him and is overweight wife.
I was in high-heels. He practically knocked me over.
So I’m having dinner tonight with an Austrian. His wife and adorable child will be there too. Okay, so it’s not a date.
I just wish I could remember their names. Helmut and Chelsea? Hans and Morgan?
I have no idea.
Why didn’t I write it down?
PS: We had an earthquake last night. It was six (6) seconds of sheer terror, that is, if you’re a single broad living alone. I called my sister. My brother-in-law picked up. “That’s it,” he said. “You’re moving back to Denver”. “I’m picking you up next week”.
So I'm not a big fan of Mozart's Opera's BUT I love his music. Above, is the slow movement from Mozart's Concerto No. 23. (Yep, I play it...badly.) It features, my hero, Horowitz and my other hero, Carlo Maria Giulini (the conductor) who is, I dunno...GORGEOUS!!! See that orchestra? They are from La Scala Milano...the most famous opera house in the world.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
But every now and again...ok for the first time, um I mean the second, I slip up.
I got my ass kicked. Yep. I did. You must, if nothing, admire my perplexing honesty. Honesty is bravery.
"You know who" left me in ANOTHER restaurant.
I was standing there after he departed, other men circled like sharks... inching closer and closer. I could see the optimism in their eyes. "Now I'll get my chance", thought Bachelor number one. He walked up with nothing but compassion and hope while extending his hand. Tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn't see.
I rushed out the door to chase after Mr. Wrong.
I cried in the parking lot. But here's the good news: There IS good news. I'm not remotely embarrassed, although I should be.
I get to have feelings. I wasn't actually sure I had them anymore because I've been kicking so much man-ass I'd forgotten...what it feels like to actually care.
For the record, caring sucks. That is, if you have the misfortune to care for Mr. Wrong.
He thought he humiliated me. He set me free instead AND made an ass of himself in the process. You think other people weren't watching when he left? They were watching all right. He didn't damage my reputation. He damaged his own.
You'd think I'd be hating men...but I don't. It's quite the reverse. This episode merely crystallizes how well I've been loved in the past. What's a little heartbreak after all these years?
Lastly, allow me to apologize for the "Wham" link below. Don't deprived yourself. Check out the bass player.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
We started the company in my friends apartment. I was the only employee.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
That's life. I don't have to kick every man in the ass 24/7. Okay I just did it about 30 seconds ago...don't change the subject.
My sister, Briana, says YOU prefer to identify with the impervious, invulnerable ass-kicking Charmaine as opposed to the can-get-hurt-Charmaine.
Of COURSE my 75 year old mother puts the tattoo on her chest. Where else?
Friday, May 8, 2009
1. The King left me at a restaurant. No one in the history of the WORLD ever did that to me. Despite my flaws, I'm considered quite "the catch".
Some of you kicked me in the arse after divulging "his" side. Remember, his side was a version...NOT necessarily true.
I was about to post something about missing "The Vern". As if on cue...
2. Vern's girlfriend emailed me to tell me she is pregnant.
(She asked me to remove my blog entries about him so her baby would not read negative things about his "daddy". )
Jesus. Did you know my blog was that ubiquitous? Me neither.
So the knocked-up girlfriend asked me to erase part of my life. How will she erase the fact that her kid's mother makes babies out of wedlock? Where's the delete button for THAT?
I guess I shouldn't judge.
I deleted posts about "The Vern" as requested. Me? Scar a child for life? Never.
So many people ask me to delete posts. It's funny. As if my blog is the BIBLE where all truth can be found. One friend asked me to stop referring to myself as a "whore" cuz his friends read my blog and he wants to marry me so when I say such things...it sends the "wrong message".
When I ended things with "The Vern" it tooks months to realize what I'd lost. I lost a man who truly loved me. But it wasn't meant to be.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
This is The King's version and why he left me at the restaurant:
When he went to the bathroom a couple of young guys sat at our table. When The King returned they did not leave. They were flirting with me.
I insisted on talking to the lads for a long while. The King was ready to leave. He walked over to the fire pit and waited for me to come to him, hence, giving me an "out" (a way to get away from the lads). I didn't take it. I stayed.
He tried again and moved over to a couch hoping I would come over to him. I didn't.
He says I made an intentional decision. I selected them over him. (He had bought me dinner and more then several Cakebread Chardonnays which adds up. He didn't say that. I'm saying that.)
The King was ready to go. He grabbed my purse and got the car.
He says he swung the car around to the curb. He said I demanded he get out and open my door. (I don't remember that but it could have happened. I mean, I might say that.)
After swinging around three times I refused to get in the car. He said he gave me back my purse. By that point I was standing with the young guys. He was fed up and left.
He said I could have called a cab. (I don't think I had my purse.) But that's what you get when your out all night drinking like a fish.
This balanced news coverage was brought to by the makers of Advil, my sponsor for obvious reasons. Hiccup.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I forgot to say The King was back. Down graded to “Produce Stock Boy” for reasons that will become apparent.
We went to Blue Fin for Sushi. I knew he liked me. Still, when he picked me up for dates he did not kiss me. He did not put his hand on my knee, tell me I looked nice…nothing. I'm not used to that. Later, of course, we would be making out.
Then we walked to Javier’s for Cinco De Mayo.
Everything was fine. We were kissing by then. I was aware I was doing something odd. I was talking about other men I’ve dated.
I thought I saw The Argentinean. The King followed him to the bathroom. A couple of young men started hitting on me. When the King returned the young men did not leave.
The King left for the car. I walked to the parking lot to wait. The two guys followed me. The King saw us, pulled around and sped off like a 17 year old. He was smiling.
I was nervous. There were two (2) of them and only one (1) of me.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
I went to a Bridal Shower on Saturday. My friend is 41 years old. She's been trying to get her guy to marry her for 3 years.
She met him at a wedding. Afterwards he returned home to New Mexico. She called him and asked him to meet her in Phoenix (mid way for both.) She chased him. Within a month she found a job in his home town and happily installed herself in his house. I told her not too. You think I'M stubborn? This woman makes me look like a pansy.
After three (3) years of asking him for marriage (he declined) she started planning the wedding. She booked the venue and asked him to sign the contract.
He had not asked her. But he signed.
She bought the dress, picked out the ring...you get the picture. They are getting married next month.
But here's the thing.
She's having a blushing bride wedding, white dress et. al. She is going to wear a Tiara. A TIARA? a a
I dunno. To each his own. I wouldn't want a guy I had to lasso and drag down the aisle atop a white steed dressed like a cowgirl. She's talking about children. I had to suppress to urge to say, "So you're OK with having a Mongoloid"? You're eggs are old. Did you TAKE biology in college? How can you be so irresponsible? (But that would have been a party downer.)
Women today, have we lost our dignity? Further, are men the new women?