Mustard.

well, tonight i'd like to discuss the various types of mustard that i have tasted in my 300 years as an alcoholic. First there was French's yellow mustard. GREAT on hotdogs (i like to blend a little relish in there, for that baseball stadium feel), also good with french fries when mixed with a little ketchup. ketchup by itself was ok when i was a kid, then my tastes matured a bit and i started to get into spicier foods. so i added a little mustard to my ketchup to offset the sweetness of the sugary tomato concoction. Second, came honey mustard. now honey mustard is one of those condiments that would make dogshit taste good. you could put honey mustard on just about anything, and people would eat it. fries, salad, chicken, dogshit... whoever thought honey and mustard would blend so perfectly together must have invented the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. third, i'd like to introduce grey poupon. what can i say. that is the best fucking mustard on this great, green earth and what IS REALLY in grey poupon?? i don't think they even list the ingredients. all they say is "made with white wine". i think they left out one of the major ingredients, like crack. i won't even touch a fry anymore without my grey poupon. i don't blame the guy in the limousine. he knew his shit. especially when it came to mustard. man, i love that stuff. but i don't buy it in the new squeeze bottle. nope. that's like drinking tott's champagne out of a plastic cup. only glass jars for me, baby. so children- what have we learned tonight about these three different types of mustard? very good! eating dogshit is ok as long as it's covered in honey mustard.

I JUST DON'T KNOW.

well, my faithful blogsters. what can i say. i just haven't been able to bring myself to post anything in the last few weeks. my job is just too stressful, demands too much of my time, as well as the dog and child. you've heard it all before. and i'm just tired. i look at my computer and look at my bed, and well, my bed is just a little more inviting. i can't resist it's lure and warmth. i fall asleep feeling guilty- i'm to blame for your lack of late night entertainment, and for the real go-getters, your midday read. my work is never done, as i just finished rinsing the excess die out of the t-shirts my old people made this afternoon in a tie-dye class. they have no idea how much i slave away just to keep them happy. and they're seldom happy.

on a lighter note, i have some good news. i got my 90 day review today from my miserable boss and in all areas, i exceeded expectations. except one- which was my interaction with the rest of the staff. in that area, i got "met" expectations. why do i have to get along with all of my co-workers? so what if i am a little abrupt?? quit acting like a dumb-ass-lazy-fuck and do your job. maybe i'm a little bitter because i don't have the power to fire anyone. the people that suck just stay and suck. and it makes my life more difficult. hence the frustration. where's my damn raise.

as for my personal life, well, i don't have time for one. no- i just exist. and do arts and crafts with old people. and shop at walgreens. i'm still on the sober wagon, and it's interesting what it's done to my attitude. i have LESS patience, i'm MORE irritable, and my tolerance for bullshit has plummeted to about zero. after a few grievances with my daughter's first grade teacher, i was sitting at the kitchen table and thought to myself that she was rude and i didn't agree with her teaching methods. so i wrote her a note that said "i think you're rude and i don't agree with your teaching methods." at the end of the week i had a meeting with the principal and told her i should have held onto private school, but i couldn't afford it. i thought there may be some light at the end of the public school tunnel, until the principal herself used the term "warm and fuzzies", in reference to the teacher's lack of "warm and fuzzies" resulting in my hatred for the hag. it has nothing to do with warm and fuzzies. she's just a bitch. jesus. for just nine thousand dollars a year, i could drop off my daughter in the morning and have peace of mind.

i gotta go to bed. i'm starting to look like a hunched-back homeless person.

and there's a lady out there named brigette who needs to call a sista.

love to you all,

new post

just letting my 2 faithful readers know that i'm still alive...having to get up at the fucking crack of dawn during the week is kicking my ass, and it has totally and utterly destroyed not only my social life, but my non-social life of mommy time after 10pm. i don't even have the energy at this moment to get you up to date on the sooooo exciting events of the last 2 weeks. drained. i'm just drained. but i swear- i have so much to say!! so check back in maybe tomorrow. who knows. i may still be alive. love to you all,

SCUPPERNONG

SOOOOOOO..... i'm giving up drinking. it's day #4. haven't gotten the shakes yet, but i've certainly shed a few wet ones. tears, that is. funny though- i'm not sure whether it's from my break-up with beer, or just plain ol' depression. i'm not making any major commitments, but i'm going to go as long as i can. maybe a month if i'm lucky. i'm my own experiment. i'm curious to see how alcohol effects my life- my moods, my sadness, my happiness, my money, my relationship with my dog....

after day #2, i went to my first party. i thought my friends would be supportive and cheer me on, being that this decision could only be seen as a positive one. i was wrong as a motherfucker. "WHAT? YOU DUMB ASS! ARE YOU SERIOUS? I BOUGHT YOU THIS FUCKING BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE! CAN'T YOU START THIS THING TOMORROW? IT'S MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY! THIS BEER IS IMPORTED! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS SHIT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! GO JOIN A MONASTERY YOU SOBER BITCH!"

i love my friends. i do. and i asked some of my sober friends how to let go of the drunk ones who don't support you. the answers varied. my backlash is yet to be seen.

but my biggest problem right now is the alcoholic obligations i have made BEFORE my decision to nix the drink. i have some really cool neighbors who brew their own beer. and it's a pretty big deal when a batch is finished- i'm there with a quickness to receive a big bottle of the latest batch. it's an exciting time. when rawboy lived here, we always drank it together and discussed it's unique flavors, placing our careful and fair judgement. now i not only have ONE bottle of delicious neighborly brew, but TWO! and the second one is their ANNIVERSARY brew! the one i've been waiting for! we've ALL been waiting for! 13 years of fucking marriage SHOULD be celebrated- by the neighbors, by their neighbors, and ME! we will all guzzle in unison and the world will be a better place, and the long marriage will suddenly make sense, and it would all be worth it in the end- for the anniversary brew. i can hear it fermenting now from my kitchen...."Drink me now, and you, too, will have a happy 13 year marriage..."

i sent rawboy a lame text message inviting him over to share the beer. i mean hey, it's tradition. so he accepts the offer, meeting at the end of the week, in a 2 second phone conversation- very rawboy. and then, a few days later, i decide to quit. quit the beer, the wine, the espresso flavored vodka. and i cancelled my beer date with rawboy. it's all for the best. but i haven't told you about the SCUPPERNONG...

as some of my dedicated blogsters know, i now work with seniors. most of them are near the end, or at least they appear to be, and so they deserve a little wine every now and then. right? so i organized a little "wine tasting" for my old people, and it was a big success. they come out of their rooms for food, bingo, and wine. well, my favorite couple was there, and mentioned that if i were to have a wine tasting on VIRGINIA wines, then i would have to have a wine known as SCUPPERNONG. apparently, it's the only true virginia wine, and dates back to like 1200 b.c.
so i promised my couple i'd have this sacred wine at our next tasting.

well, once again, if you're a faithful dyvacreem reader, then you'd remember my blog "Til Death Do Us Part." tina, half of my couple, took sick and went into the hospital. walter, her husband, left too, and they are no longer with me. tina got moved to a rehabilitation center, where she now lives. the day walter came back to get the rest of her things, he took me to the side and handed me a bottle of SCUPPERNONG virginia wine. they never made it to the next wine tasting, and he wanted me to have it. so no, i'm not letting go of my scuppernong wine. it may never be opened, maybe one day it will. but this one's sentimental.

and there it is. if you love me- i mean really, really love me, you'll give a little more support than "fuck you" or "good luck". geez, i know some real assholes... but anyway, i do idolize a few of my friends, and brigette, you're one of 'em. thanks for your awesome self. i'll be in touch.

soberly yours(for now),

richmond chainsaw massacre

I WANT A CHAINSAW.

do you have to fill out an application to buy a chainsaw? is there a 5 day waiting period? a background check? JESUS! you can buy a fucking chainsaw at HOME DEPOT!
my daddy bought me an electric hedge trimmer today. i went crazy with that fucking thing. it started with the hedges- nice, even, round stupid bushes. then the branches growing against the house. then the big bush in the backyard that keeps attacking me. then i just couldn't stop. i wanted to cut through the fence. i wanted to slice my dog's head off. i wanted to throw it at my bitch of a neighbor as she peddled her tall ass into her driveway from a long, nice bike ride. skinny bitch. i trimmed the trash can. i trimmed the gutters. YES, THE VIBRATION!! HAHAHAHHEEEEEHAAAHG! my whole yard looks like it's joining the fucking military. pounds and pounds of foliage gone. i feel refreshed. i feel new and clean. i think i'll shave my bikini line with it. i want an upgrade. i want a chainsaw. no more trees. for ANYONE!

i'm going to bed.

uuuhhhhh....

today is saturday. i worked all day. then i went to the dog park. there was one other dog there. the other dog humped my dog's neck. i guess our dogs had fun. then i went home. i didn't even drink a beer or a glass of cheap white wine. i'm sleeping late on sunday. i may go to lunch. i may cut the grass. i may shoot up. not sure yet. i like the sound of thunderstorms. and gas prices will be way up on sunday. some oil thing in the ocean screwed up today. well, goodnight.

yours,

whatever

so i feel like i need to say something before i go to bed tonight. i don't know what exactly, but something. i met two awesome chicks today. they live in d.c. and i was there for work. hopefully we'll keep in touch. i danced with a ballroom dance instructor and the cutest little old man with parkinson's. i was visiting an assisted living center there and i joined in on the ballroom dance activity. a large group of elders showed up to participate, and they just loved to dance to the music. the instructor even danced with the wheelchair residents, twirling them around on the floor. oh, the little things....

i think i've figured out why i have such a bad case of the lonliness blues. i was talking with an old friend tonight about relationships and why we can't seem to make them work, and why or how they end. he said that it was hard for him to get over his ex because everything they had together was still there. i mean, she's the one that moved out and made a new start- a new apartment, new furniture, new shit, whatever. he stayed- stayed in the house and everyday he saw all the things that they had together, did together, the memories of spaces and places where they sat together, talked together. you know what i mean. all those things are still here, in my house to remind me, too. and when i sit down at the table, the couch, the front porch- i'm always reminded, and get mad for missing him. i'd like to be over it, and i'd like to move on without any thoughts of him. but it is hard, and denying that is a big fat lie. yes, he was an asshole. but it's his presence i miss- the companionship. the routine. anyway, tell me to get over it again.

ok, i swear i'm going to bed. i'll dream about the wonderful world of work tomorrow and punching the 8 hour clock. sweet dreams, my bloggy readers.

LONELY

aaahhhrrrggggg. i'm feeling very lonely tonight. maybe it's the rain. all day i've just wanted to sleep and all night i've just wanted to cry. it's the end of my period. maybe that's it. rawboy said we only argued when i was on my period. i disagreed. the fights may have been worse, but we argued alot. i think. but what's alot when you live together? how much are you supposed to argue? what's normal? geez. i'm pretty pathetic right now. tired as i am, i must sit here and tell my two readers how sad i feel and that i'm really in need of some company. i seem to somehow take on the problems of the world, with my dad expressing to me his regrets after his wife died and how much he misses her. The old ladies at work tell me how shitty their husbands were and how hard it was being young and married with children in those days. How they used to do so much, and now they do so little. I'm responsible for making their last days exciting, and it's just too much. I don't want it. I want a deserted island, a hut, and an amazing view. Peace and quiet. No responsibility. When did i start using capital letters?

I call on the spirit of Sade to put me to sleep tonight. And a few sips of Port.

I'll be in touch, and i promise i'll feel better next time.

Yours,

oh, and will somebody please tell me why we all aren't working for our fucking SELVES?? is there really any other way to live???
maybe i just wanna sleep late.

how come none of you ever tell me to shut the fuck up? or quit whining? or get over it? i think i need new friends.

Who am I?

Before you bloggers read on, I hope you are all sitting down. This is serious. Hell has officially frozen over. Be warned.

I own a juicer. And it's easier to use than Rawboy's. It's easy to clean. It's white. It's quiet. It's quick. It's spectacular.

Carrot juice, hear me roar. I'm going to juice everything in the fucking house, even the dog. The neighbors will call the cops. The streets will be blocked off. Child services will come. I'll be on national news as the crazy juicer lady.

Give me celery, or give me death.

I'll keep you posted.

Bad Luck Me.

So.

1. Today I couldn't find a parking space.
2. My dog had diarrhea in the middle of a crowded street in the middle of a festival.
3. Some hippie guy in Jesus sandals stepped in it before I attempted to sop it up with my plastic bag.
4. I couldn't pick up diarrhea with a plastic bag.
5. I needed cash at the ATM but I forgot my PIN.
6. My olives fell out of the cart in the grocery store on my way out and spilled all over the floor.
7. My car had a flat tire in the grocery store parking lot.
8. I have to work tomorrow.
9. My tire may be flat again.
10. I have to work tomorrow.

A holistic counselor once told me that my energy was spinning backwards. I think it's just stopped spinning, or it's sitting at a bar somewhere in Tijuana.

SUNDAY

I didn't miss you til today.

I woke up late and you were supposed to be here

making noise in the kitchen

pulling out your chair

writing or reading with your tea.

I went out on my own but

it wasn't that peaceful-

In fact, it was a little

chaotic and

grey.

I went into your empty room

where I put more clutter and a

chair.

I sat in the chair where your bed

used to be and looked

around

and tried

to smell you.

There was no trace of you or

the smell of your candle

that you made for

us.

The only thing I asked you to leave was

the scent of your

room.

It echoes now and

echoes are lonely sounds

so I'm quiet in it

and so were the tears welling

in my eyes

sitting

in the chair.

I think some new

paint

will make your room better

and make me feel better but

not

on Sunday.

The Mourning

This is the final post to conclude the saga of the ex-bartender and Rawboy, a tragedy set in the semi-suburbs of an overrated town in Virginia. Yes, this is your over-the-top, dramatic, and somewhat pathetic confession of a girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders who needs no one. If I told you that Rawboy was moving out this time, you may not believe me. You wouldn't believe me because I've told you this a million times before, and he never left. But tonight is different because all of his things are packed and sitting in boxes in an apartment miles away, a perfect little oasis where Rawboy can do his thing, act like a child, express his anger, be silent, sing, cry, scream, cook, screw, grow up, throw up, mature, find himself, and regret.

Rawboy is an incredible, self-absorbed asshole.

But the reason I post tonight is because I'm mourning his last night here. Don't get me wrong- when it was bad, it was really bad. But there were also the days when we worked really well. I'm remembering a time when he took my hand and led me through the woods to listen to the trees and the water running through the creek.

During his first few weeks in the house, I got very sick and he nursed me back to health.

There was a moment when he stood there and cried over the pain of his childhood and the fear of becoming a parent. I held him and told him he'd be a great father.

In the morning, lying there silent, he played with my hair and had no idea how that made me feel.

One week he went to the Bahamas. My phone woke me one morning with a picture of the sunrise over the ocean. I never told him that I felt like I was with him as I looked at it and cried. I see it every day.

There was a time when he told me he was coming to realize what a beautiful person I was and that he loved me.

He reminds me to breathe.

So there. Maybe I'm too dramatic. Too honest. Too easy. And I'll never hear the end of it from my friends. I wear my heart on my sleeve and don't hide my emotions. I don't care what he sees, or what you see. This is all I have- besides the pill I take to help me sleep.

So tomorrow I am alone again, for the first time in 8 months. Yes, that's a record for me. This "living together" thing kicked my ass. I don't think I'm ready. Fuck, I'm just trying to breathe.

As for the future, I don't wish to continue any kind of relationship with Rawboy. Who knows. He has a lot of growing to do and it should be done in my absence. I would, however, like to see him in about 10 years. We'd run into each other in Figi, where I'll be living in a straw hut by the water, catching my own fucking fish.

Oh, and my kitchen is once again a very lonely place. I think I need a juicer.

Death Do Us Part

Good evening, my nocturnal blogsters. If you have a better memory than mine, (and I bet my life you do) then you know that I work with seniors- very old seniors- at an assisted living center. Although I'm not supposed to have favorites, I must admit I've gotten quite attached to a selected few. Some of them are real assholes, and don't make the favorite list... SO, I spend the majority of my time with my couples- I like to call them MY couples, because they live in my building and treat me like family. Couples are rare in an assisted living center, because by the age of 80, most of them are widowed and have been for years. The women far out number the men, which leads me to believe that we just live longer. Period. A home full of 80 year old ladies. Joy.

I dedicate this post to my couples tonight, because one of my favorite couples isn't doing so well. Tina, 1/2 of my couple, may die within the next few days. Walter, her husband, is sitting by her side in a hospital, and he'll never leave her, not even for a moment. They have been married for 58 years. They are, and always were, very much in love.

Walter is in pretty good shape for his age. He wears a cell phone on his belt, and knocks 20 years off his life with his "Vanz" slip on shoes. He lives in his house of 36 years, but arrives at the center in the early morning to have breakfast with Tina, and stays until very late at night, making sure she has everything that she needs. They were always quick to participate in my daily activities, even if they were occupied or tired. They like me and don't want to let me down. They are two perfect angels, meant to be, and even burdened with what was, is, and will be, they still possess genuine, kind, caring souls.

I saw them every day, and the last time I saw Tina, she was walking with her physical therapist. They sat down so she could take a short rest, and I told her she had had a busy day and should go take a nap. She looked fine otherwise, and I had no idea it may be the last time I would see her there. I found out today that she went into the hospital, and my heart sank at the thought of Walter, sitting there by her side, alone. So I went to see them. I called first, and Walter answered. He was alone, and said she wasn't doing well. He asked if I would bring the 4th of July picture that I had taken of her. He said it was a good picture. I brought that picture and lots of others he had probably forgotten about or didn't know I had. I put my 3 favorite ones in a frame, 2 in which they were sitting together, smiles on their faces. When I arrived, I sat down next to Walter and as soon as I looked at him, I cried. I think he cried a little too. He said it was ok, several times. But it wasn't. He was trying to be strong, even in the sterile room that his wife may never leave. He thanked me several times for the pictures and for the balloons I brought to brighten the room. In my card to Tina, I wrote that she inspired me to find love and that things wouldn't be the same without her. She couldn't open her eyes and she could barely speak, but she did manage to say my name, and the word "thirsty." Walter held a small cup of tea with a straw to her mouth and helped her to drink. She managed the word "sweet", referring to the tea, so he walked over to a counter where he had saved a few packets of sugar and blended one in. He returned to Tina and by her side, held the cup and straw for her again. Til death do us part. It was the most beautiful moment. I said goodbye to Walter in a way that wasn't final, with just the tiniest bit of hope in my eyes, behind the tears. I always knew I'd get attached to my residents, and it was my only concern going in. If she doesn't pull through, this may be my first death, and I hope if I stay in this field, my last will feel the same.

For Wilmotine.

Time.

Who sings that song, "Time keeps on slippin...into the future?" Was it Britney Spears? Pink Floyd? I've been thinking alot lately about time, and how fucking fast it goes by. Now, I know there have been many times when it seemed to creep as slow as the line in the Golden Corral on a Sunday, but for the most part, it flies by and before we know it, we have kids who don't know who Maddonna is. Now that I work with old people at the end of their lives, I have grown a much greater appreciation for life and time. I can't help but think about myself sitting in a wheelchair in an assisted living center, if my kids can afford it, withering away with 100 other old people who feel like today could be the last day of their lives. One day I'll go into detail about my experiences there, and the stories I've been told. Again, I am tired and my uncomfortable bed is seducing me into it. But I needed to get this off my old, wrinkly chest. Thanks for reading.

p.s. I'm also addicted to dark beer, black coffee, and good,dark company.

Yours,

ADDICTION

BRIGETTE PUGH SAID...
I had one of those far away moments the other day. One minute I was putting stuff in a bag for the kids' swim play date and the next moment I was wondering how I managed to get myself responsible for two more people? The space between the present and when I used to get paid a dollar and hour to babysit evaporated. Some days I wish I could take the dollar and go home.

For those of you who do not read my COMMENTS, this was a comment to my post "Far Away", left by my faithful friend. I thought it was a good read, and worthy of a post on the front page.

Back to reality and my own uncertain moods and words, I'd like to say this: I'm a bit tipsy and a bit angry, and don't honestly know how to approach this at this very moment, without coming across as a complete schizophrenic psychopath. (So I'll do it anyway.)

Addiction. Whathafuck?

What are we truly addicted to? Yes, I'm including all of you assholes as well. No one's excluded, no one's left out. Me first.

I'm addicted to...chocolate, bread, cheese, unsweetened iced tea, my cell phone, my make-up, the occasional fried food, and my couch. And music- I like music.

So. I guess 8 out of 9 are not so healthy. But hey- I never was, and never said I would be, at the age of well, thirty-something. But my addictions are weighing heavy on me this evening, and I feel they should be addressed. GOD, I'm so disgustingly honest.

So honest, that I must say I'm too tired to finish this post. Hopefully I'll remember next time what I was trying to say. So sorry, my sorry friends.

Love be to all,

Far Away

OK, bloggers. This may very well be the most serious post you'll read from me- or maybe not- who knows.

As you know, Rawboy is moving out. I swear. Although I prematurely went through my mourning phase over the whole ordeal, I am now at peace with the situation and am looking forward to his absence. I want to reclaim my house and myself. I no longer want to share groceries or moments or space. The remainder of his journey has absolutely nothing to do with ME. So good-bye, Rawboy. You made for a great story.

On a dimmer note, I am feeling very far away. Tonight, especially, as I lay in bed and fantasize about the past, thoughts of old lovers and happier times pass through my mind like fast clouds. I thought about where I was then and where I'm at now. And I feel very far away. I don't know how else to explain it. Just far away.

So after a very pathetic orgasm, the tears start to crawl down my cheeks and into my ears, and maybe God sees the sadness in my face, and maybe not. I just want that miscellaneous pill to kick in so I can fall asleep.

My new job is kicking my ass, but in a good way. I love my job. "Activities Director" for these people has somehow morphed into hairstyler, ass-wiper, wheelchair pusher, feed me-clothe me, counselor, and mediator, among other things. I'm finding that they need me much more for their daily routine than they need me for random activities. And that's ok. Being there for them makes me happy and gives me a hell of alot more purpose than serving a steak or mixing a drink. Now I just need more time in the day. I'm tired. I need gas money. And where's my social life.

Okaaaaay, pill...what the hell?

So next month it's back to living alone, talking to myself, and scrounging for mortgage money. I guess I'll get to know my dog a little better, as well as my couch. I am a part of a large population of strong single women, and all I can say is- I've made it this far. Trust me- I shouldn't have.

Brigette, if you're out there... you're a kick-ass chick. If I were a guy,(or gay), I'd want you for myself. Hang in there. And thank you for always saving me.

And Rawboy, thank you for tonight's pina colada. (He added frozen organic bananas!)

Much love to you all-

"LOVE" (as told by Osho, the latest author)

Well, dear bloggettes- it seems there has been another explosion in Loveland. Rawboy and I have been debating the topic of LOVE for several days now, and Rawboy's the winner. Because if he wasn't, well then, Rawboy would be wrong. And he's never wrong...

Early in our friendship/relationship/courtship/thingy, Rawboy expressed to me that he wanted a serious relationship with TWO women, me being one of them, and wanted to know how I felt about it. If any of you know anything about me at all, then you can assume my response: You're a fucking idiot and get out of my life. But after reading book after book about the "true" meaning of life and all of it's secrets, Rawboy has come to the conclusion that multiple partners who share each other on a regular basis is a natural, common occurence in this world. I would expect this kind of reasoning from an inexperienced, horny, young man. Or from an older man who mistakes wisdom for lack of respect towards women.

Hmmmmm... lack of respect...I see a pattern here.

After the "absolutely not- you're a fucking idiot" rebuttle to this obsurd request, Rawboy temporarily gave up on the notion and things went back to normal- until the explosion the other day. After several days of intimacy, Rawboy expresses his love for me like so: "I love you like a sister." Yes bloggers, sit back, and take it all in. I know I didn't. I didn't need the time.

Is it just me?? Am I being unfair?? Should his words have not been a direct stab in the heart?? Well, it was- a stab in the heart, that is. A deep, twisting stab. So the debate begins- What is love? Is there one, true definition? Aren't there many degrees of love, and if so, what are they? Someone tell us, please! This definition of "love" has torn us apart and we may not get passed it. Not without one of us surrendering, anyway.

Without typing a novel on the intricasies of love and all it entails, I will tell you this- I have experienced many relationships in my day. Enough to know when love exists- when a deep, meaningful love exists, and the difference between those kinds of love and "a love you have for your sister." Maybe Rawboy feels less guilty screwing three women at one time when the love he feels does not exceed the love he has for his sister. Or maybe he just wants to screw his sister. Who knows.

But the love I have for Rawboy is something very intimate, much more involved than a brotherly love. And I'm not mad because I love him "more." I'm mad because he's an idiot. I'm mad because he doesn't have a clue. I'm mad because he says he knows what love is and how it should be expressed, when he's never felt it before. He's never been hurt by it before. His heart has never been ripped out of his tiny chest, for love, before. And I'm mad because his new, favorite book is one in which Osho, the author, describes wives and children as "restricting chains", and that "love" should be given out like orange chicken samples at a food court, to as many people(women) as possible during one's(man's) life.

I, on the other hand, like the majority of the population- and call me old fashioned-prefer the intimacy of one partner, the journey of life and love, with that partner, my rock, my inspiration, my peace, my other half. Maybe I was hoping that I'd be the one to shed some light on Rawboy's immature perceptions. But I know now that it's not my job. The world will teach him that. And I will miss him all the same, partly because he cooks for me, and partly because I invested some time in the sheltered boy that is my roommate.

Godspeed, Rawboy.
As for me- with the future in my eyes and my head held high, "Frankly, my dear- I don't give a damn."


Until next time,

Who's Having Sex in this City?

Two weeks after it's release, my friends and I finally made it to see the much talked about movie, "Sex in the City." I must admit it was definitely entertaining. The men even had some good laughs, after being reluctantly dragged to the theater with the girls. And thank JESUS for Samantha, the promiscuous character in the film, for exposing the true side of the female lust for the shlong. If it wasn't for her (very important) role, then none of us would have had the pleasure of watching her seductive neighbor, Dante, take a very revealing, mouth watering shower. I know for a fact all the women in the theater were collectively thinking one thing: DAMN. As for the tear jerking, touching moments, there were a few that almost had me pulling out the tissue. If you don't want to know what happens, then DON'T read on!

LAST CHANCE....

1. When Carrie got the call from Big that he wasn't coming. She was in her gown, minutes from the altar, surrounded by friends. Then Big says over the phone that he just couldn't do it. She drops the phone, holding her chest, gasping for breath in sheer devastation. Her performance as a stood-up bride had us all in the moment, denying the lumps in our throats.

2. When Big tries to catch her leaving the church after changing his mind. Carrie beats him with the bouquet, all the while screaming, and heads back to the limo, Big chasing after. Charlotte aggressively grabs her heart-broken friend and with a hand-halt-pointed-finger motion, screams "NO" towards Big with startling conviction and watery eyes. The moment of truth, the scene in which all women around the world reconnect and identify with the necessity of girlfriends.

We serve as protectors of our own, always there at the right moments. It was a powerful scene, and another award-winning performance in the film, I must say. We laugh, we cry, we joke, we depart. But when it must be done, when we must be there, we know it. And the true ones always follow through. I always said there was something more devastating about the death of a friend, as opposed to the death of a relative. Your friends take a part of you with them that no one else knows exists, not even your mother or father, sister or brother. All the secrets you've ever had go right along with them, all the way back to your first kiss. The part of you that a friend knows is irreplaceable. When my good friend died, a part of me did as well. After 11 years, I never fully recovered. I still visit the grave with pink roses.

Well, enough boo-hooing about Sex in the City. But I do recommend seeing it, with a few friends and some Kleenex. If you REALLY want your money's worth, go on your period. (This does not apply to straight men.)


Stay tuned for my next column in "Dear Creemy."

Yours,