Sick. As. A. Dog.

So, on Friday I drove ten hours to my mother’s house.  Ten hours spent, more or less, driving without traffic. I went by way of Pennsylvania, instead of up the Jersey Turnpike and I thank my lucky stars that I did. I arrived, bleary-eyed and coughing. The cat wailed most of the trip. If you’ve never heard a cat wail, think of being on a plane with a crying baby. Now double it. That’s how it feels for the first three hours. After that, you become pretty sure it would be preferable to stab white-hot needles in your eyes and listen to Genesis’s “Supper’s Ready” on a loop.

I stayed here at mom’s today, while everyone else gathered at Aunt Mary’s for family Christmas. One of my cousins had an organ transplant and Grandma is, well, Grandma, so it’s a no-no to go over with a case of the ickies. And I have some major ickies. My throat is sore, so I sound like a frog. (A gorgeous, forest-green, downright kissable frog, mind you.) I’m coughing like my lungs are want-to-be escapees from the Alcatraz that is my rib cage. And then there’s the sneezing and the runny nose and the general feeling that my brain isn’t quite attached to all the proper wires right now, so if I nod off while we’re talking, don’t mind…zzzzzzzzzz….Huh? Where were we?

All I want for Christmas is, for once, not to be sick for Christmas.

Two years ago, I got sick and was all doped up during the present exchange. I told everyone that I was sorry if I didn’t show the proper emotion, but I was feeling a little detached. I assured my family that I would love everything, so if it didn’t register, not to worry. I opened my first gift – socks from my mother – and burst into tears. The socks had an “M” on them. I cried for a good ten minutes about the socks.

I’m dosing myself with super-strong cough syrup and I hope that by tomorrow I’m better and that by Monday this sickness is a distant memory. It is no fun being sick at Christmas.

Finally

You know when you want to talk to someone and can never seem to? When all you want is for one phone call, one more voicemail, one chance to actually, finally, say, “Oh, this is what you sound like when you’re talking to me.”

It’s strange the way some things seem so elusive and then, when they’ve happened, seem to fade into the natural progression of things. It’s as if the Universe is saying, “Yeah, so what? Big deal. It was supposed to happen. It happened.Of course it felt good. It was supposed to feel good.”

After too many missed attempts to count, there was finally a connection. And I liked it.

Sweet dreams, indeed.

Yea for good dates

I had a good date last night. Perhaps, even, a great first date. Talk about meeting someone who totally exceeds your expectations. I thought I was going to meet someone who was sort of cute and more than a little sarcastic…and maybe not in a good way. As it turns out, he is smart, funny, and totally sweet. And talented. And nice. And someone I want to see again.

I am liking this good-first-date-leading-to-better-second-date thing. And, I’m really liking the we’re-on-a-date vibe, as opposed to the oh-so-annoying we’re-hanging-out deal. Bravo to making one’s intentions known.

And to knowing the bartender.

Done and done

So, I’m in Pittsburgh, for work. EVERYTHING in Pittsburgh closes at 6 pm. Really. I’ve been here two nights now and there is just nothing open. Even the things that are supposed to be open – like shops and restaurants. Not late, just 9 pm, that’s all I’m asking.

So, instead, I took part in a meeting here in my room to help plan our convention. Then, I ordered room service, including a piece of cheesecake and a bottle of wine. I’m halfway through the wine, now, watching “Love, Actually.”

I can’t help it – this movie always makes me cry like a baby. It’s just so happy and promising and British. And what I like so much about it is that so many of the characters really go out on a limb … their love is just theirs and they are willing to talk about it and show it and let others know it’s there, even if they don’t get it back.

And so, now, in the vein of feeling sorry for myself and sitting in Pittsburgh, I’m going to make a declaration. And all you who read this blog are my witnesses:

I. WILL. HAVE. NO. MORE. MALE. FRIENDS.

You are all crazy. Every last one of you. And I want no more of you. You’re wishy-washy and silly and you know nothing about women. Every last one of you drives me crazy with your sheer inability to actually understand anything about women, how to treat us, what we want, or even which of us you should be with.

Those of you I know and love, you’re in. Barely. New applications, sorry. No vacancies.

I am smart. I am funny. I am a caring, wonderful woman. I make people feel good. I have great legs. I will make you laugh for hours. You can tell me your deepest secrets. You like having me around. I make amazing tomato sauce. I rock a leather jacket like no other. I have an beautiful mouth. For most of you, I’m one of the closest, most valued friends you have, male or female.

WHAT. IS. THE. PROBLEM?

Now, this is not an attraction problem. I have NO trouble attracting men. I know this because, recently, I updated the List of People With Whom I’ve Had Relations. But I sit here in this woman’s no-man’s land (and don’t think the humor of that statement is lost on me) … and I realize this: The men I meet either want to be friends (because they think I’ll make them better men, or I make them laugh, or they can “talk to me like they’ve never talked to a woman,” or I’m cooler then they are [10 points if you get it], or I remind them of their sisters or whatever) OR, they want to sleep with me (sometimes once, sometimes more than once, always immediately).

And so, the questions run as follows:

1. If you want to sleep with me, why aren’t I worth wooing? Why is it only an immediate thing, not a “Gee, I want to sleep with her, I should take her to dinner/buy her a drink/knit her a sweater/find out her last name”? And the way I know it’s immediate is NOT because we’re all sleeping together right away, but because you all have no problem asking immediately. And don’t say you always do this … I’m not stupid. I see you with other women. You don’t treat them like that.

2. Why are you so stupid?

3. Why, IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY, do you want to be my friend and spend time with me and think I’m great and just leave it at that? It’s not as if all of the other girls you crazies like look like models or are even that funny or smart. You have ridiculously bad taste and I’m tired of pretending that (a) I’m happy for you, (b) you make good choices, or (c) I understand, even for one second, why you’re doing what you’re doing.

PICK. ME. STUPID.

I’m getting a tattoo tomorrow. That will make me feel better.