Tuesday, June 30, 2009
I hope my Aunt's not sick. I wouldn't know.
So...I called the man I always call. He has decided he is my "back up" man. He likes the role because he says, "there is so much room for improvement".
I had a great time. As usual, it ended on a questionable note. His 80 year old father called while we were having dinner. He put me on the phone.
I fell in love with the irascible old codger. I asked what he wanted, "Two scotch's and two women" he said.
He advised his son was a "con-man and to watch out".
Be still my beating heart.
There is something about laying-it-on-the-line. I like older men. After all, I'm in love with "Hedgie"? Maybe I just like smart DIRTY old men.
So...I ate ALL the prosciutto from the salad I never made. Then I went to a little market.
This nice man who flirts with me, told me I looked "great". Huh? I had NO make-up on, baggy grey sweat pants with stains on them. I hadn't bothered comb my hair.
I don't go to his shop much because he won't let me go. He keeps talking...talking and talking...I get caught in the force field of his gaze. He said he's been walking the stairs in Corona Del Mar Beach every morning hoping to run into me. He remembers everything.
I knew. Right then and there. He loves me.
I've known him for years. He's starting to bald. He has brown skin and green eyes. He's from another country. His eyes are kind. He owns a small business.
I could do worse. I feel like getting married. I'll sign a pre-nup. I don't want anything. I just want to sleep in the arms of someone who loves me.
How did the man-ass kicker come to this?
Who knows? Does it really matter?
All I can say is on the precipace of 50, a woman can grow up. At least I know what I want now...it's a relief.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFMC1N3L3n4 I love this song, with some re-writes. When she says, "Do the best that I can", insert, "Kick you in the ass". It just makes the song better.
Monday, June 29, 2009
My place is so small and kitchen so inadequate...
I turned a perfectly good bowl of Bolognese into Manicotti. This way I could introduce two (2) extra pounds of cheese. (My blood cholesterol felt like it was dipping below 300, I was feeling faint.)
Let's call him; "Mystery Man". He did a few tasks around the house. To repay him I am going to clog his arteries.
Arugula Salad with sizzled prosciutto, Gorgonzola and red onion
Test salad with lettuce from the garden. The last time I tried that lettuce it tasted like chicken manure.) What does chicken manure taste like, you ask?
Shit, I forgot dessert. ah. What should I make for dessert?
There had better BE dessert or I know whose gonna be ON the menu.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
As a small girl taking weekly classical piano lessons, I played classical pieces by Chopin, Mendelssohn, Liszt, Bach and Schumann. I heard alternate arrangements in my head. I didn't know how to attempt their expression.
Occasionally, I would create modern versions of a theme and play for hours, loving the new, what I now understand to be smooth jazz, version of something that began in classical form.
When I was 12 years old my piano instructor announced to my mother, "she has outgrown me". He suggested a more advanced instructor.
Then something happened. We moved to the other side of the country - South Carolina. Perhaps it was the uncertainty, the fact we knew no one and the town was not known for the classical musicians or instructors that inhabited it.
After 3 months with a new instructor (she had me playing a juvenile rendition of Blue Danube...to a metronome no less) my interest ended. This was, in part, due to the humiliation of it all. I mean, Jesus, I'd been playing rather advanced classical pieces and now this old broad/heathen had me on a Metronome? A METRONOME? Are you fucking kidding me?
I didn't need a metronome. I needed greater, more challenging pieces. My ability to interpret music and take some liberty regarding "timing" was part of the art, love and reverence for the beauty of Ravel or Chopin. Sometimes I would become so enraptured by the astounding gorgeousness of what I was playing...I had to stop. The more talented my playing became the more I had to stop. I wasn't a craftsman, I was an appreciator. I belonged in the audience, even of my own playing.
I'm not saying I was that good. I'm just saying I was that "moved".
Ten's of years later I sat at the piano again. My father had unexpectedly died. I introduced myself to the "Death March". The classical composers did not let me down. They knew exactly how I felt.
By this time my technique was non-existent. I could not get through an entire piece. I could manage the first two pages, at best. I played them over...and over...and over again until the neighbours called the police.
I don't play anymore. Oddly, when I broke my finger the first thought that flooded my mind was, will this impare my ability to play the piano? Huh?
Like a faithful friend, the piano sits and waits for me. I'm getting old, I think I have arthritis in one of my fingers. At this point I can only manage a phrase or two of the music that reminds of important things.
You know when you hear and old song it immediately transports you to elementary school or a particular day in college? It's the same for me. A phrase of Handel sends me back to the day my mother told me when her brother was diagnosed with Cancer. He played Largo over and over for hours.
When I play it, I think of him. What was he thinking, was he scared? If I play it correctly I get overwhelmed. Not by the music per se ,which is profoundly sad and heart wrenching, but by the knowledge he was in the living room as a teenager, playing the same thing. I feel connected to an event I have no connection to. Except for the fact that I love him.
It's like loving someone from whom you are separated by great distance. Maybe you talk on the phone and both gaze into the sky at the same constellation. This mutual thing, just a star in the sky, becomes a symbol, something to share when, in real life, you can't share anything.
Above is some random woman's interpretation of Bob Marley's, Waiting in Vain. I never liked Bob Marley, I could never understand his lyrics. The cool thing is when you strip away the percussion and steel drums, the integrity of the song remains. My point is, a great composition can be re-interpreted. It merely becomes beautiful, in a different way.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
2. If someone writes, "Dummies Guide to Men, Sex and Pasta" I'd like to pre-order it.
3. Pretty little song by Aria: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFMC1N3L3n4
The man (below) is back and asking for a date. His cat recently died. He's in mourning. My first reaction was, "does he dress up like a girl on weekends too?"
Then I thought, cats are aloof, occasionally affectionate and scratch....he might like me.
4. I awoke this morning tangled in my sheets. I must have completed 100 360's having had nightmares, fighting monsters, rapelling out of helicopters and punching men in the nose) ...my hand splint came off in the night. (I must have landed a punch.)
It's like taking off a pair of control top pantie hose. (Exhales)
Instinctively I looked under my pillow to see if the "Splint Fairy" left a quarter.
Friday, June 26, 2009
This called for Worcestershire Sauce. Weird.
Ryan’s Bolognese Sauce
1 1/2 cups grated carrots, 1 large red onion diced, 1/2 cup olive oil, 2 pounds ground beef, 2 tablespoons dried parsley flakes CORRECTED: OREGANO flakes, 2 tablespoons dried basil flakes, 1 6-ounce can tomato paste, 5 cloves garlic minced, 1 to 2 cups red wine, 2 tablespoons Worcestershire, salt pepper, 2-28-ounce cans whole tomatoes, 1 cup milk, Fresh Parmesan
It's meaty. Like I like my men. (giggle)
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I am propelling forward a stereotype. I have to live with that.
Since a picture is worth a thousand words they are not required. I WILL, however, point out some charming features:
1. The obvious fear behind that smile.
2. My hand. What on earth am I doing with my hand? I was trying fit in with the Devil-worshipers.
It, um, didn't work.
3. The sign behind my date reads: "No knives, no gangs". That's just plain discrimination.
4. The average age of the punk-rock gang Devil worshipers? 18.
5. The skeleton barrette. Pretty. You can't see, but it has a tiny gun glued at the wrist to complete the fashion forward accessory. Acessory to murder, I'm thinking.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Unknown Caller: You said you weren't going to write about me on your blog.
Me: That was if we were still seeing each. I didn't mention the escape clause?
UC: How could you say those things? You lied.
Me: I didn't lie.
UC: How could you be so mean? I was nothing but nice to you. I really liked you. Your a sweet girl in person. In your blog you're AWFUL. You really hurt my feelings. It's like you have an alter-ego. Do you have split-personality disorder?
Me: Ummmm, YES! That's it. I have another personality. I have no control over what that b*tch writes. I never thought you'd find the blog.
UC: I read it start to finish. Even the comments. They called me a douche bag.
Me: I don't like that word. It's so unpleasant.
UC: I know you liked me. I'm coming over.
This went on for 2 hours and 18 minutes.
If I don't reveal WHO it is, technically, I didn't "talk about him", right
Monday, June 22, 2009
You know who he is.
Friday night we painted the town red. Martini's at The Montage, dinner at Dizz's As Is. Dancing at Mozambique followed by after dinner drinks at The Quiet Woman. Then back to my house for kissing which this man is abnormally good at.
The following day he sent me this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YmAMti3NeLY
He called Saturday: "I'm giving you the Fourth of July in June" he said.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked.
"It's a surprise" he replied.
Goodie. (I love surprises.) Disneyland has fireworks. We had drinks on the balcony of a nearby restaurant. The balcony had a perfect view of the show. At first they wouldn't let us in. Nobody stops this man. Nobody. My date was the kind of man who slips a twenty ($20.00) to "whomever" and gets what he wants.
We walked to the Grand Californian for dinner at Napa Rose. I had the Seabass atop a sweet pea puree with tiny slices of newcrop potatoes and other delectable morsels. He had the filet poised on a red wine reduction that was delicious.
Seems like enough for one night, right? Wrong.
I said, "We always go to such nice places. Let's go to a dive bar".
"I know just the place" he replied. "I've driven past it for years." a
We arrived at the "Doll Hut" in Anaheim around 11:00 PM. "Oh no, I'm NOT going in there. I'm not in the mood to get shot" I demurely responded.
Kids lingered outside covered in tattoos, gigantic piercings sporting Mowhawks.
"Come on" he said. "It'll be fun." "No" I replied.
"I'll leave you in the car. Lock the door. I'll go in and make sure it's safe. If it is, I'll come back and get you." "Okay" I said.
He returned walking down the road taking off his sport coat. He pretended to be a matador with his coat suggesting he was in charge of this bull. I laughed out loud. "The people inside couldn't be nicer" he said.
There was a cover charge. "This is ridiculous" I said, "let's just go". "Come on" he said. "We'll stay for five (5) minutes". They asked for our ID's. (My date is 57 years old and I'm not far behind.)
We sat at the bar sticking out like two daffodils in the dirt. The PUNK band began to play. They were called, "Gates of Hell, or something from a Crypt.They shrieked lyrics like Satan or Marilyn Manson. Ever second word was the "F" word. (It reminded me of hanging out with my mother.)
"Charmaine, they're selling jewelry" he said. "It's wonderful".
A Gothic girl was selling it on a pool table. I picked out the skeletal remains of a hand. It also functioned as a barrette. "This looks useful" I said. "I'll take it".
You'd think that would be enough for one night, right? Wrong.
We went to 3Thirty3. It's a hang-out for Cougars. True to it's reputation it was brimming with young men. We showed the boys what a public-display-of-affection looks like. Sure enough other couples started kissing.
You'd think that would be enough for one night, right? Right. (falls into bed entering a well-deserved Coma.) Wow, what a weekend. The man is definitely NOT dull. Going out with him is like being on a Merry-Go-Round. Life flashes past in a blur. He's not like anybody.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
That means we have another guy, in addition to The King of Produce, who reads this blog.
Of course he disagrees with how he has been "characterized".
Oh and he introduced my neighbours to my blog. (Hi Shelby and Roman!!!) He said they laughed at me. But laughter IS the point of this blog. Was that supposed to hurt? (I love my neighbours.)
This is the funny part. "The Playboy" called to bust me on my comments. As with many men, he left a long, frustrating and insulting message on my cell accusing me of:
1. Being sexually repressed. (duh)
2. Basically lying about him (I never lie.)
3. Having no friends and being an unmarried loser with no money (dude, some things are obvious.)
4. Only caring about what my minuscule blog audience thinks.
5. I forgot. Around the fifth insult my mind went blank.
This is not a biography. I haven't been hired to write the truth. This is about me. My perceptions. If I'm wrong, so what? It's not like the New York Times is going to pick up the story.
He was so proud for interceding with the neighbours to spin the story of our few dates before I did.
I had no plans to say a word.
Not to the neighbours. It wasn't that big a deal.
He said I was weird, scary and bizarre (based on my blog). That I act tough and tear apart men but in reality I'm just a scared little wimp.
My response is...So? What's your point?
Friday, June 19, 2009
I went from really liking him to dreading seeing him again. Then I awoke this morning to a message from 10:00 PM last night saying he was coming over. (Of COURSE he didn't.) But the mere MENTION of such an absurdity is getting him kicked to the curb today. He has no idea.
(Update 1: I couldn't wait. I did it at 5:00 AM.) His retort was that he called just to make sure we were on for today. I said, "Well that's not what you said in your message. It sounded like a juvenile attempt at a booty call and even when I was juvenile, that was never my scene. Good luck, Bye." Ahh. I feel better. (Update 2: He's calling. The message: He accused me of not comprehending his "joke". Then he said the REAL reason he called last night was to ask me for a ride to pick up his Porsche this morning. I want to respond:
1. Not only are you NOT getting a ride, you're not getting "a ride".
2. Where are these "friends" you hang out with instead of me? Can't they give you a ride?
3. Are you gay? ( I just like to say that.)
So with renewed vigor I introduce a small sample of current contenders:
The legitimate professional surfer/tri-athlete is back. I was too shy to meet originally. He had too many pics of his flat out amazing physique (remember?). He has since, taken them down. He is funny and witty on the phone. I never called him back. This time I might. He's charming.
The Naval officer. He's about as entertaining as a wet dish rag. But his honor, integrity and bravery is compelling.This guy pretends to be some kind of producer. Obviously not succesful by the state of his kitchen. But I don't care. He's funny. He thinks I' m funny. I think he's cute. Sorry, too young.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Huh? You thought I dumped him for yelling at that woman? (I wanted to yell at her too).
He called yesterday for a ride to the Porsche dealership. I wouldn't cuz I looked like crap. He sounded really hurt.
Then I cancelled our date for today, partly out of guilt. I lied with epic cowardice (via text message). This may be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I say; "I hate playboys "then sabotage a relationship just because I define a man as such. I don't know if he's a playboy. He just fits the mold...black Porsche, cute at hell, boyish charm with octopus hands.
Here's the reason. Because he doesn't kiss me good-bye before he leaves and the last time we went to lunch he didn't hold my hand. I'm a hard grader.
But the second we got home he tried to rip my clothes off.
Things are moving too fast. He hasn't sent me flowers. I think we all know what that means.
He's a nice guy, very handsome, athletic, comes over in a flash to fix anything. He doesn't need to work. Every girls dream, right?
When it's right...things just fall into place?
Not with me. I'm more complicated then a three (3) dollar bill.
Fyi: Happy Bloomsday!!!
Bloomsday is a commemoration observed on 16 June in Dublin to celebrate the life of Irish writer James Joyce and relive the events in his novel Ulysses. The name derives from Leopold Bloom, the protagonist of Ulysses. 16 June was the date of Joyce's first outing with his wife-to-be, Nora Barnacle.
Monday, June 15, 2009
I do. His name is Chris. That's him in the background. He doesn't need to be the center of attention...like some people we know....er. He’s the guy who lives in Denver. We went to college together. I told you about him, he has a hip-hop radio show.
I was feeling depressed today. Everything is going wrong in my life. I’m at an all-time low. Then he called.
He directed me to some STUPID website. The radio station calls people and plays pre-recorded audio from George Bush, Al Pacino, Judge Judy, Dr. Phil, etc. aThey call regular people and play the recordings. The recipients respond without understanding it is staged. Eventually they get so pissed off they swear like crazy.
They begin as you or I might... rather then hang up they eventually threaten to kill (or do unspeakable things to) the “pretend” caller. They say things like, "If you call me again Mother Fucker I'll find you and Fucking kill you. I actually cleaned up that language. Even when the pretend caller is Richard Simmons saying "Hi, my name is Cheryl. I'm your daughter.
I laughed so hard I accidentally spit on my monitor. .
This song is for him:
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
This gentle giant remains a hero among the people of Hawaii. That’s him playing the Ukulele. (You have to learn to play if you are raised there.) The intent is to keep the indigenous culture alive despite modernization. (But the Ukulele came from Portugal.)
The potato didn’t come from Ireland either. Life is so confusing.
He was massively obese and kind. Still, I find him enormously attractive. Throughout his life he promoted Hawaiian rights and Independence. Like my grandfather with the IRA...he was equally effective.
Hey man, I’m not dating. I have to talk about something.
Kindness in whatever form it arrives is breathtaking. You can’t help but sense it in him.
Like him, people I run into still talk about their “dead dad”. It’s weird. I never hear them speak with angst about a dead mother. The more distant father...haunts us.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The playboy (a.k.a. Gardener) is calling. (There he goes again...third call this morning.) But I'm sick of his Prada shirts, Versace shoes and Rolex...yawn. "I've driven a Porsche Carerra since I was 16" he says. He drove so fast it made me scream. I punched him in the arm and demanded "Let me OUT of this car IMMEDIATELY".
He refers to me as "his girlfriend" after three dates. His last girlfriend was 23. I advised this made him an idiot. He said I was jealous explaining, "a man gets away with what he can".
Still, there were moments. (I know he's lonely and misguided. ) One day we were discussing the global economy. A look crossed his face. "Talking politics with you is so sexy" he said. He grabbed me. "Slow down. Why don't you pace yourself already?" I said. "Because I'm over 45" he responded.
One day we were driving down the street here in Corona Del Mar. The roads are narrow. There are unwritten driving laws in these parts. He correctly pulled to the side waiting for a woman to proceed so we could pass. We waited...she wouldn't move. Soon several cars were behind us. Still, she would not move. (Obviously not a local.) He blew up, got out of the car and walked to hers calling her an unspeakable name, flailing his arms and yelling.
A man mowing his lawn stopped to watch...waiting to intervene. I made apologetic sign language signals to the woman followed by charade gestures that communicated..."I know he's an ass, but back up so we can all get past." When she failed to respond, I confess, I got a little mad too.
She rolled down the window, "Are you going to yell at me in front of my kid? I'm a lawyer you know" she said. He replied, "Okay, give me your business card bitch". "I don't really practise law anymore" She said.
I felt humiliation and anger at the same time.
After 10 minutes in the street I told him to make a gesture to back up (he did after I told him she was calling the police). Then she moved. (I live here, I know the rules. She should have moved...trust me.) Still...
I could have excused the power stuggle if he handn't used the C word.
There are the usual cast of characters asking for dates.
No one interests me.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
How do I get this off my hand?
Monday, June 8, 2009
He is the best friend of MY best friend's husband. We are "third wheels".
We attend their family events. My friend's little boy calls me "Auntie Charmaine" and Rick is "Uncle Rick". Sometimes the lad calls me to thank me for something stupid, like hiding Easter Eggs for him. It's so cute. I save his messages. When I arrive at their home he leaps into my arms. The same way my nephews and niece do. Except Aiden. He's too big for that. He hugs me then lifts me into the air.
When Rick emails me, it freaks me out. His name is Richard Peterson... my dad's name.
I think I'm getting emails from beyond the grave each time. They don't have email in heaven, do they?
Rick called Mohammad (the cabbie who has my cell phone in Los Angeles who has been courteously answering my incoming calls). Rick paid Mohammed $60.00 to drive my cell to his house. Mohammad gave Rick a 50% discount to return my phone. (And you thought Muslims were bad?) Rick told me not to worry about the 60 bucks, it's on him. a
That's what a man does. He takes care of business, without being asked.
I'm so lucky. I have a small handful of terrific friends. I have a great sister, brother-in-law, nephews and Chris, my wonderful friend in Denver. I have a best friend, Linda, who is trying to save my soul and did I mention my neighbours? I have one, Dan, that just comes over when I'm not home and paints my house, gives me new garbage cans and repaves my walkway. Isn't that crazy?
Real men. Someone is reminding me what they look like. Thank God, Allah or whoever.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
No more dating!! These bastards are trying to kill me.
I'm responsible for giving them the opportunity.
I don't know when I turned this dangerous corner. But I did it. It's my crime. Let's blame it on "these hard economic times". The leaders of the "free world" blame everything on that. Why not me?
Sadly, I don't see a "bail out" in my future.
See below? These are radish sprouts from Charmaine's Farm. They are so damn cute in their simplistic beauty.
Below are sunflowers. I got them for the little boy who lives next door. It's his job to water them, yep...I do it. Behind his mothers back, we secretly planted 30 sunflowers all over her front yard. They're the 10ft high variety. (Hee hee) The child is five. We giggle secure in the fact our secret is flat out hilarious. I remember my first sunflower. As I watched it grow...it was like magic. I'm so lucky. I get to see this little boy's eyes light up when he confronts the 10 foot tall sunflower. ( I told him if he watered it, it would grow as tall as he would be when he got older.)
This is my lettuce, basil, eggplant and cilantro. I haven't even shown you my tomatos.
Evil Surfer Dude told me I did not have a green thumb. Don't worry, I'll never see him again.
The only one that MIGHT get a second chance is convertible black Porsche man. The one who helped plant my farm then broke my finger. It wasn't his fault. It was the underlying tumour. The thing I liked most was that the little boy who lives next door ADORED him...crawled over him like a Jungle Gym.
Men are irresistable when children adore them.