Sunday, May 31, 2009

Losing my Mojo?

The gardener re-scheduled for Monday night. Hmm...

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

Some men reap some men sow

Charmaine's Farm

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

I finally got my big break!

"the gardener" helped me plant (did it all) my vegetable garden. he was so excited. (his family owns farms.)
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 turns out i have a tumour. it displaced 90% of the area making the remaining shell of bone fragile.

the funny thing is in visiting each doc i had to explain the circumstances under which the break occurred over and over. i began,"it was a gardening accident".
"what were doing? holding a shovel and then you fell? "um, no, not really " i said. "did you twist it when you were plowing? "no..i was...i mean i...okay okay! i was wrestling with a man to prevent him from kissing me".
my options were to remove the tumour now, wait for three months with a flaccid flopping boneless finger (I'd have considered this if it was closer to Halloween.) or wait three months for the bone to heal followed by surgery to remove the tumour. they will take bone from my hip to replace the missing bone in my finger.
i'm not afraid of pain. i am, however, afraid of becoming a statistic. one of those single women who ends up on the streets because she can't afford her medical bills.
good bone living under a bridge? bad bone living in a house? i can't decide.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Memorial Day, Mothers and Men

Today was the last day of my mother's visit.

She is funny, misguided, irreverent and bizarrely friendly. She managed to meet every one of my neighbours. I deposited her with my cousin Kim who is one of the most gracious women I've ever met.
Her house is warm and filled with love despite it's opulence. (That's no easy trick. I know, I'm surrounded by them.) Such places are often cold monuments to new found affluence and succeed at nothing more then self-congratulation. Kim is different. She has depth.
I've spent decades barricading my life from my extended family. I had my reasons.
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.

Please take your Valium now, you're gonna need it.

I let Evil Surfer Dude come over. After months of Charmaine deprivation he arrived with white roses. "You know what white roses mean;" I said. "They mean you love me." He said, "no it's just cuz the yellow ones looked dead."

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

Two and a Half Men

Let's take another look at the artist, shall we?

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

Meeting Mom

The King of Produce agreed to entertain my irascible foul-mouthed mother last Thursday afternoon. He KNEW she would like him as most old broads, likely, do. The man is charming, if not completely disingenuous, to a fault.

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 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

My Family, Frankly, Rocks

I don't know why I never saw it.

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.

Note to God

(Click below and turn up the volume.)

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

Dinner Tonight

I’m having dinner with an Austrian. I don’t really like Austrian men.

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.

Hello? (Crickets)

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Mr. Wrong

You know me...I kick men in the ass. It's my role.

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

Retirement from Dating

I was about to announce my retirement from dating. I reviewed the pictures of the date I was about to cancel.
I changed my mind.
Saturday night. He's driving from L.A. to meet me at Bandara, a local restaurant. He's bringing a bottle of Cakebread Chardonnay.
My kind of guy is clever, witty, funny and confident. This man is none of the above. He's a soulful artist. But I'll let him buy me dinner.
I am, after all, a very kind and generous woman.
He is incredibly handsome. I've never gone for those types. Mr. Personality is more my speed.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Fall in Love with Me and I'll Sue You.

This is Clark Kent. He's from L.A. We're going out Saturday. He's cute, sadly he sounds like "Alvin" from the Chipmunks.
He's an artist. Oh and... jumping with glee, he KNOWS of the company, Mark z ware, I started with my friend...uh x-friend, Patrick. He was so impressed he could hardly speak.

My friend, uh x-friend, and a programmer and I started the company. Our main product was called "FlightCheck". It is a pre-press software tool that helps prepare digital files for print.

We started the company in my friends apartment. I was the only employee.
I took the company from zero to several million in sales in less then a year. A call would come in, I would say, "please hold while I transfer you to customer service" and run into the guest bedroom, pick up the phone. The "beta testing department" was in the master bedroom. The "sales department" was in the kitchen. For "technical support" I'd put you on hold then pick up again.
I would disguise my voice. It was hilarious. One day Patrick came home from work. Witnessing my antics he literally fell on the floor laughing. Then he joined in. We were running around to the different "departments" running into each other until tears were streaming down our faces.

I knew what to do. Ok, I bought a book called "How to Bring a Product to Market". Soon we had 10, 20, 30 employees. Opened a branch in Europe and still growing...

If you're a digital artist, even the term FlightCheck is legendary. Which begs the question, so why aren't you rich Charmaine?

Good question. Er, ah, I sued my partner for um love harassment. ha ha. I know, I HATE those chicks who went around suing their boss, after sleeping with him, for sexual harassment. But that wasn't me. Hell no. This was the REAL DEAL.

He was in love with me. Or so he thought, or so he said. Hell, I'd made him a millionaire.

He wouldn't leave me alone. He booked us into one (1) room for a trade show in Boston. I threw a fit. Later I ditched him during a bus tour of the city.

When we returned home he ripped the computer and phone from my office, demanded I move into HIS office declaring, "having NO computer and NO phone is NO excuse for lack of productivity". (That's professional retaliation for a broken heart.) It got worse.

He was the President, putting up the initial investment. I was just the work horse (VP of Sales.) I never signed the Partnership Agreement. Stupid. Stupid.

All I had to do was smile sweetly and I would be living in a mansion on the water. Instead I sued the bastard and won. But I lost in the long run.
My medical and gynecological records were subpoenaed, H.S., College Transcripts, former room-mates interviewed, a Private Investigator hired. Pat read my gynecological records. I still remember the first question my attorney asked, "have you ever had a abortion?" Any indiscretion would be used to silence me. I didn't have any. I was the closest thing to the Virgin Mary these guys had ever seen.
My case was so classic the Dean of Pepperdine Law School asked to tape the mediation as a learning module. (She offered 10K for the privilege). It was conducted in a gorgeous mansion overlooking the shimmering ocean in Malibu. I remember watching a pod of dophins swim by. The beauty of the surroundings belied the horror of what happening within. It was me, my attorney against a SEA of corporate attorneys seated at the other side of a long table. My lawyers leg was shaking.
The funny thing is I didn't ask for money. I didn't want money. I just wanted to do my job. Patrick made that impossible. My attorney said he took my case because of my total lack of avarice. Then he begged and begged me to ask for more, but, you know me, I don't listen to anyone.

In exchange for dignity, I traded wealth. I have never paid a higher price for anything.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Personal Message to YOU.

Some of you are freaking out because I don't appear to be myself.

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.
I'm not afraid of a little pain. Why are you?
In conclusion, don't freak out just because I "let someone in" and he hurt me. (Truly people, I barely knew him.) But as my sister says, that's progress. I never allow ANYONE in. Not an inch. I have been magnificently loved so don't get me wrong. Still, I never let my guard down. I ran the show. Despite "having everything" (the house on the water, the Jag, everything money could buy and a man that loved me) I was not happy.
In this quest for love you MUST allow yourself to be vulnerable and risk getting hurt. You can't outsmart love. He/it (whatever) knows what it's doing. Ha, as if I would go anywhere with any man who did not drag me by the hair into his cave kicking and screaming. See, I'm traditional AND modern. I like this about me.
We need levity. PIRATE TATTOO PARTY at the Peterson's. Join me, won't you?
Of COURSE my 75 year old mother puts the tattoo on her chest. Where else?

Friday, May 8, 2009

Bumpy Ride

The Week in Review

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 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

His Side of the Story

There are two (2) sides to every story.

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

King Lost his Crown

One minute you’re on a date and the next you’re hitch hiking.

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.
He left me there.
The King had my purse. I was in a parking lot with two irritating young opportunists who reminded me of rapists. I had no money, no phone, could not call a cab. I let them drive me home. I was stranded.

I was nervous. There were two (2) of them and only one (1) of me.
The King was okay with exposing me to danger.

Then he called today with the lamest apology ever and a different recollection of events. This makes it better, during his apology he breaks up with me and tells me he is not "in love" with me because leaving me stranded wasn't hurtful enough. He had to go for "The Gold".
And the Gold Medal goes to the "Produce Stock Boy". Good job! (Sound of applause.)
I could have hurt him in my sleep. I chose not to. That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is restrained other words/manhood.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Middle Aged Bride

Not me. Scared ya.

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 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?