Numerology

I believe in a lot of hogwash, but numerology isn't one of them. Every time someone offers to "numerologe" me, I politely say no. However, some people don't take no for an answer and do it anyway.

My numerology (i.e. "Life Path") number is six. I am nothing like what a "six" is supposed to be. One of the main attributes of that is that I'm supposedly a nurturer. Well, ask anyone who knows me and they would say "PJammy? A nurturer? You've got to be kidding me!" Then they would qualify the statement: "Well, she's a good pet mom, but um, I can't see her mothering anything other than an animal."

The description goes on to say that the number six signifies great responsibility and indicates that one is the main caretaker in the family. Again, a big no go for me.

Supposedly I'm also idealistic and a humanatarian. It's also my main role to serve others. Um, wrong again.

Anyway, for years I did not believe in numerology and then it dawned on me...I was actually supposed to be born on a different date. (I refused to come out of the womb, so I was taken by C-section). "Ah HA!" I said. And I figured out what my real numerology number was supposed to be, based on my original birthdate.

Guess what? It's still a six. My theory was blown to hell, and so was any potential for me to believe in numerology.

No wonder I don't gamble...I just don't "get" numbers!

Nothing But Toes

Today, I was perusing Craig's List looking at available pets. I have been toying with the idea of getting a dog for the longest time...but even though it's a dog I'm after, I often find myself looking at the cats.

In sorting through the list and passing by entry after entry for pits and lizards, I saw this little gem "POLYDACTYL KITTENS." When I saw there was an image attached, I clicked the link and saw the MOST adorable little multi-toed kitten. I just wanted to grab its little feet and kiss 'em.

I am SO tempted to call...but I keep saying "They're probably gone. The listing is three days old. What am I going to do with another cat anyway?"

Oh yes. That's right. I'm gonna kiss its little toes all day long. That's what I'll do with another cat!

Crushed

As I may have mentioned, I've been laid off. Technically, I will more than likely be kept on the payroll through August 29th. However, for all intents and purposes, I no longer have a job.

I've been applying fast and furiously for any opening in the local area that I am even remotely qualified for. In the six months since I've been applying, I've only been called in for two interviews. Strangely, those two interviews were almost back-to-back.

I heard back from the first one about a week ago: Thank you for taking the time to interview with us for the position, but we found someone with stronger credentials to fill the position. That's okay, I thought, I still have one more on the table.

As of one hour ago, I no longer have that option on the table. Yes, I received the dreaded "thank you, but no thank you" letter. I'm afraid I am now in panic mode. Six months of applying, only two bites...and no job offer.

I'm on the verge of tears...this is the worst time to be looking for a job. Why oh why did I buy a place? If I had not, I could have moved for a job. Now I'm stuck...and could potentially lose my house if I don't get a job soon.

I have never been this scared for my future before in my life.

Memorial Day Weekend

Ahhh, sweet mother of holiday weekends! Memorial Day. Three days to rest, relax, and recover. However, my veteran status doesn't allow me to forget what the weekend is really about: honoring those who fought for our country.

In the 80's, I was stationed at Fort Drum, NY - a little (then) reserve post right outside of Watertown. The folks in the neighboring towns were very patriotic. And so, every year Fort Drum was asked to provide soldiers for the memorial service held in town.

My very first year, I was called to be on the Color Guard. I was supposed to feel honored to be chosen; after all, only the "best" were sent to represent Ft. Drum. Instead, I was pissed. I had just had CQ the weekend before, and now I was going to lose another weekend because I had duty. It just wasn't fair!

The four of us "chosen" ones spent time after hours practicing. And again I was pissed. I could be having fun with my friends, but NOOooooo, I had to hang out with these three lumps and practice our moves.

Finally, Memorial Day came. We had to wear our Class A uniforms, so of course we were inspected before we went. We passed. Then we were driven to a cemetery. We were too far away to hear the speech that was given. On cue, we marched in and did the 21-Gun Salute. In less than 30 minutes, the whole ceremony was over.

Or so we thought.

After the ceremony, all sorts of people flocked over to us. "Thank you so much for being here," they said over and over. "We so appreciate you using your holiday to help us." We were thanked for our service. For our unselfishness. For so many things. Do I even need to mention that I felt guilty for not wanting to be there?

I was overcome with pride when I began to talk to the townspeople, many of which were veterans themselves. They treated us to doughnuts and then we were back on our way to Drum to enjoy the rest of the day, sans uniform.

In the years that followed, I ended up being tasked for that duty several more times. The only difference? I stopped complaining.

Karma

I've been thinking a lot about karma lately. I've never really believed in the concept, however many people I associate with do, and so I've come to accept some aspects of karma. For example, I believe that if someone is constantly unfriendly, underhanded, and/or unpleasant, that someone has a sort of black cloud around them that strangers can pick up on. On the other hand, people who are friendly, nurturing and/or open more than likely have sunlight surrounding them that strangers can pick up on.

But, do I believe that for every bad deed someone does, it comes back? Not really. And, I'm supposed to, being a witch and all. "The karmic power of three..." I've seen it gone ignored too many times to believe it exists. I think of it more as an innocuous scare tactic than a serious concept to grab on to.

This weekend, as I was driving home from Carson City, I tuned into a local talk radio show. The news segment announced Ted Kennedy's seizure, which led into Tammy Bruce's show. She first stated that she normally said nothing when bad things (of a health nature) happened to bad people, however confessed that she was chomping at the bit to comment on Ted Kennedy's health problem.

She talked about Mary Jo, etc...and I started to tune her out to make room for my own musings. This man, who caused the death of a young girl, got away scot free. Not only that, but he sure seems to have led a charmed life. Rich. Powerful. He has not seemed to suffer one iota for causing the death of Mary Jo Kopechne, and he received no real punishment for leaving the scene of the accident.

So where is this karma we're all supposed to be so scared of? Certainly not this brain tumor. Even so-called good people have health problems. Basically, this man who caused someone's death, not to mention all the jerky, untoward things he has done as senator, has lead a rich, full life.

While I don't wish him ill will, I find it very difficult to feel any sort of sympathy for his predicament. In fact (and Lord forgive me), I'm actually looking forward to a senate that is finally Kennedy-free. It just should not have happened this way...this is not karmic justice. It's just life.

Lucy

On March 27th, I had to make the difficult decision of having my companion of 14 years put to sleep. It was probably the hardest decision I've made as an adult - to have a creature I loved have her life taken from her.

While I have two other cats, my connection to Lucy was much different, and almost spiritual. See, years ago I was attacked. It was hard for me to live on my own right after that, so I moved in with a guy friend ("I have guns! I'll protect you!"), and lived with roommates for years after that.

When I moved back to California, I was able to afford a home of my own. However, I was a bit apprehensive to live on my own again. It was then through a series of synchronistic events that Lucy came to me. She and I moved into my home on the same day. The first week, I never saw Lucy during the day. But every night when I turned off the light to go to sleep, she would jump up on the bed and sleep by my feet.

I named her Lucy after Lucy Coe on General Hospital. (Lucy Coe used to eat and eat and eat and never gained weight...it was the same for my Lucy the first few months I had her.) It was my concern for her well-being that prevented me from being frightened to live on my own again.

Lucy was a great cat. She never jumped up on counters, damaged my furniture, or clawed me. She was always gentle, and seemed to ask permission to even sit on my lap. If I ever cried, she would just come sit in my lap until I was done. She had a very sweet spirit, and everyone who met her liked her, even people who would normally say "I don't like cats..." would end up liking Lucy.

Of course I miss her. I light a candle for her every Thursday night, but last night was different because I saw her again. It was during class, and we were all instructed to pull a crystal from a velvet bag. I pulled out a quartz crystal. After we all had a crystal in our hands, our instructor walked us through a meditation in which we were to merge with the crystal and see what the crystal had to show us. The meditation was supposed to take us through several stages...hearing and/or listening to the stone, "merging" with the stone, and then have the stone show us what could be done with it (healing, enchantment, etc.).

The instructor told me I might have trouble with the exercise, as I do have a bit of trouble meditating and faring forth. So, I was quite surprised when I connected with the stone almost immediately after the meditation begin. I felt the crystal throb in my hand, and then I saw nothing but white in my mind. Through the light came Lucy...but just her face. The only difference was she was white in the meditation, but it was definitely her...her little pink nose, outlined in black, her outlined eyes...but she was asleep. Still asleep. Eyes closed. Just like the last time I saw her.

I felt the tears start to trickle down my face. The stone would not allow me do the other parts of the meditation...it did not speak to me, would not let me know what it was used for, etc. So, for the duration of the meditation, Lucy's face was in my mind, and the tears just would not stop.
As my instructor brought us out of the meditation, he immediately said "PJammy, are you alright? I think you should go first." I told him what I saw, and how the crystal would not let me go through the other parts of the meditation. He said "Interesting...see, the stone you have there was a gift to me. The person who gave it to me called it a 'memoriam stone' because it is enchanted to show the Holder people who have passed over."

He went on to say that was why the stone would not let me go any further... that it's only purpose was to allow me to spend time with a loved one. In my case, my loved one was my cat.

I still lit a candle for Lucy last night...even though I am now sure she's passed over and is doing well.

That Old Black Magic

Last year, my friend and I took a walk around the Sparks Marina. I was bemoaning the fact that most of the local pagan groups were either unwelcoming, cliquey, bitchy, or a more toxic combination of the above. I joking said "I should start my own group and call it The Black Hat Society!"

My friend didn't laugh. She said "Yes, Peej, you should. Do it. I'll help." And so that night in the Sparks Marina, we ironed out a brief outline of what we'd like the group to be.

Eight months later, the group is going strong. Our first meeting was in January, and while it hasn't grown in leaps in bounds as far as members, the ones that have joined us are committed and regular. Last night was our very first social gathering. By social, I mean we didn't have a planned topic of discussion, and we broke out of the Border's habit to meet somewhere else. That "somewhere else" was Vintage, a wine shop that I love. It was wine tasting night, so all three of us ordered the tasting, and were treated to a most delicious array of cheese, bread and fruit.

At some point last night when we were laughing about something someone said, I stepped out of myself for a minute and took a look at the ladies I sat with. This, I thought, was what I wanted all along. A true connection with women of like mind and spirit.

Oh sure, we talked about magic. A bunch of witches gathered together are bound to talk about magic. But, it was a casual kind of talking...and we also talked about our relationships (or lack therof), of earthquakes, of wine (we love wine!), and of how glad we all are that we were able to connect. We even talked about our next social gathering...perhaps a bar-b-que or a night at The Chocolate Bar. Who knows? The calendar is ripe for the picking.

What I do know is that I am ever so thankful that my friend encouraged me to get off my assets and start this group. The rest has nothing to do with me...but with the wonderful blessing received by all of us when we are together. The magic of friendship is some powerful magic, indeed.

Voices Carry

Dating online can be disappointing, exciting, or just plain surprising. When you first see someone online, you only have so much to go on. You kind of - well maybe - know what the person looks like (depending on the quality and truthfulness to the pictures posted). And, after a few chatroom and/or email exchanges, you kind of have an idea of how the person thinks, communicates, etc. But the voice...ah, the voice is always up to the imagination.

That is, until the phone call or the first meeting, which ever comes first.

Recently, I had a few exchanges that have been rather surprising. The first was a guy who emailed me (back when I was able to get away with hiding that precious address in my profile). He and I exchanged several interesting emails, and then we talked on the phone. Ahhhh...his voice. It was deep and tinged with amusement. I almost fell in love with him just from his voice.

Of course, as all things Pamela, that was not to be. We met in person, and he didn't really look like his photos. (Not his fault; he's one of those guys that photographs well, but reality is a bit, well, harsher.) But I didn't mind, because he had THE VOICE. I could listen to him all day. All night. However, truth be told, he couldn't listen to me, so he ditched me.

Okay...I brushed myself off and went on to the next guy.

The next guy seemed intelligent and well-spoken. He knew how to spell (bonus!). He also knew how to write. He was even, yes, funny. So of course I said yes when he asked me out for wine.

His voice was...ah...disappointing? I imagined him with a melodious voice. Maybe not deep...but deepish. Instead, he has the voice of, well, something I can't pinpoint. It's a bit breathy and nasaly. But, in a strange turn of events, I actually grew to like his voice. It seemed almost comforting in its strangeness. I found myself wanting more of that voice.

Again, as with all things Pamela, that one appears to have faded off in the distance. And so imagine my surprise when I received a whispered message in the chat room yesterday, with ten precious digits attached. Should I?

Of course I should! And so I did.

Ahhh...the voice was deep and comforting and slightly surprised and slightly amused all at the same time. The sound of this guy's voice was like a melody my heart could dance to.

I could get very used to a voice like that!

Spanks for the Memories

This quarter's issue of Bitch magazine has an interesting article in it about DD (domestic discipline). Actually, the article is mostly about spanking and the women and men who like it.
I haven't finished reading the article, so it is probably a bit early to weigh in on it. However, one thing that stood out in the part I already read is that spanking seems (at least for the couples interviewed for the article) to help alleviate tension. Say that a woman is overly sensitive. Or ranting and raving. Or just put a dent in the family car. The guy simply puts her over his knee, spanks her a while, and the tension and anger just melts away.

Now, as a big fan of movies from the 30's and 40's, I'm no stranger to this concept. In fact, for the longest time I thought most husbands probably spanked their wives behind closed doors. Imagine my surprise when the feminists I knew said "Piepa, your crazy! This is not at all acceptable!"

And so began my split persona: the public part of me that agreed with my crazy, feminist friends, and the private side of me that just wanted a good spanking.

At this point, a few of you reading this are tempted to IM me, email me, or post a reply that goes a little something like this: "I'll give you a good spanking!" And I'm sure you could. But that's not what I want from you. Unless, of course, you are good looking, smell delicious, and have all your teeth, then please spank away. Seriously though, folks, please refrain from writing me such things, because I will not respond.

In mulling this concept over, I find it to have merit. A good spanking can sober someone up. It can release tension. And, it can help two people reconnect in a healthy way.

Now don't go thinking that I'm for domestic violence - I'm not. Domestic violence is QUITE different than DD. Discipline is given lovingly, carefully and respectfully. DV is quite the opposite, and is abusive, degrading, and dangerous and should be dealt with by the authorities.

That said, I wouldn't mind going back to a place in time where spanking wasn't taboo. I think a good spanking now and again could make the world a better place, one butt cheek at a time.

Ten Truths About PJammy

I just saw an article titled "Ten Truths About Tom Cruise." However, because I don't care about Tom Cruise, I've never cared about Tom Cruise, and I will never care about Tom Cruise, I decided not to click on the link.

I do, however, care about me, so here's Ten Truths about Moi that you won't find circulating around on the Internet (at least not yet!):

1) The last time I ever jumped on a couch, I was five years old. My mom yelled, my dad spanked, and I was grounded for a week. So Oprah, have no fear...when you call (and you will), I won't be jumping up on your couch. I just know you'll have my mom hidden somewhere, and my dad will have the paddle.

2) I like cats, and I'm not crazy. Well, at least not certifiably so.

3) I'm afraid of Scientologists...but that's just because my Hare Krishna friends planted strange ideas in my head about them. I'm sure they're just fine people, despite the mind control.

4) I have a baby. Her name is Suri. She's got fringe on top. I can't say anything more than that, or I'll have to go in for more auditing.

5) I once shot a duck. After it fell over, I shot another. After that one fell over, I shot another. Then I got an ugly stuffed animal from a toothless carny with a really bad mullet.

6) I used to think "pocket pool" was some sort of cool hand-held game. Oh wait. It is, isn't it?

7) I stripped. Once. That's right, once. It was enough. Getting that wallpaper stripped off the bedroom walls was one of the hardest things I've ever done!

8) I used to be a pole dancer. That's right. Me. Yep, a pole dancer. See, I used to roller skate in the neighborhood, head for the slight incline, and roll right down towards the light pole. I'd put my arm out and swing around and around the pole. It probably looked more like Square Dancing than Pole Dancing, but hey, it was fun!

9) I have never stolen anything in my life. Except for some guy's heart. It's still in my freezer. Shhhh...don't tell the cops.

10) I complete me.

A Toast To Me

For two days, I've had an awful migraine. Boo hoo, poor me. Well, that's right, dammit, poor me, indeed. You see, I had my Tuesday all planned. I had a chiro appointment at 5 p.m., and a massage scheduled with a co-worker (long story) at 5:30. I thought after all that pampering, I was going to go home, pour myself a generous glass of wine, and watch a movie on DVD.

No such luck. First off, the migraine started. The chiro took care of it...for a little while. And then it came back with a vengence. The massage helped, but not for long. This migraine was determined; it would not be stopped.

After 36 hours, my migraine finally went away around 8:00 p.m. last night. So, what did I do to celebrate? Have a nice heatlhy glass of water? Nope. I broke into my bottle of Smirnoff's Grand Cosmopolitan and poured myself a glass.

Ahhhh...it was everything I'd hoped it would be and more.

So, a toast...to my migraine. May it rest in peace.

Where has all the time gone?

I can't believe it's been over a month since my last post. Then again, I can. March definitely came in like a lion - early in the month, I learned that my beloved cat, Lucy, was very sick.

After several visits and several HUNDRED dollars, one of the vets thought she probably had small cell lymphoma. It was either that, or her IBD had gotten way out of control. Either way, the treatment was the same: chemotherapy.

Lucy did not do well with the chemo. She started having seizures several times a day. After the chemo treatment was over, she went downhill quickly. It became clear that I needed to make a decision, and so I did - painfully and regrettably I had to say good-bye to my companion of 14 years.

I still have trouble believing she is gone. Lucy was such a quiet, gentle force in my life. Today marks one month since her death. Tonight I hope to light a candle next to her cremains in remembrance of her friendship and gentle spirit.

Lucy, thanks for the memories. You will always be in my heart.

Prison Break

The dogs I dog-slash-housesit for have obviously been watching too much Prison Break while I'm on the computer.

The rule of the house is: if the dogs don't pee when they're let out for their last visit to the great outdoors before bedime, then they are crated. So, the other night I let them both out around 9:30 p.m., and commanded them to "pee!" They looked at me. They licked their haunches. Spencer rolled on my feet. Benny ran back to the side door.

"Benny," I called. "Go pee!" He came back and sat in front of me. Spencer rolled around on his back, and started rubbin his eyes with his paws. As if on cue, they ran to the side door and started barking for me to join them.

As fifteen peeless minutes had passed, I decided to let them back in. I gave them their night time snack, and said "Crate." They both ran in, and I started to zip the door closed.

Dang. No luck.

I tried the other side, and had a little more luck. I couldn't zip the whole thing, but as there was only about one and a half inches not zipped, I figured I was safe.

Around 4 a.m., I started to stir. I kind of needed to get up, but I didn't want to get up. So, I tossed and turned and then I heard this weird sound coming from the crate. "Why, it sounds like the crate is being unzipped," I thought. As soon as that thought cleared my head, the two dogs jumped on the bed and started rolling around. Then Benny ran downstairs, and Spencer curled up next to my face.

I told Spencer I was going to get some parental controls put on the TV, and went back to sleep.

Bookin' Boomers

Two months ago, I saw a posting on Craig's List from a woman who was interested in starting a book club. She wanted it to be a women's book club, and hoped to arouse the interest of "boomers."

I answered her post, and long story short, we had our first meeting last night at Borders. When I first met Rita I was impressed. She was nice, warm and very organized. We talked for a while, and she mentioned that one woman was coming with her husband, but only because they came into town together as he had an eye appointment earlier.

I expected that while we wimmin folk met, the husband would wander around the store, or go buy a coffee, or whatever it is that men do while their wimmin folk are engaged. But no...when the couple arrived, he plopped himself down and made himself comfortable.

When we were all there, Rita handed out a list for us to fill out with our pertinent contact information. When Howard's wife passed the list to him to sign, I noticed Rita looked alarmed.
When we started discussing possible book choices, it was clear that Howard thought he was part of the group. He suggested types of books he wanted to read. At some point, I thought that perhaps I had misread the posting; perhaps the group was to be a mixed group.

In general, this couple was annoying. They are well to do, and made it known. "We have a nice place at 'the Lake.'" All of a sudden, everything was "the Lake" this and "the Lake" that. The wife stated that they had gotten into house swapping, because they loved to travel and since they lived at "the Lake," they had a desirable place to swap.

Then she complained about some guy who swapped a one bedroom apartment for their tony lakeside property. "He sure cleaned up in the deal," she said.

When we discussed when our meetings should be scheduled, we suggested meeting the last Wednesday of the month, as it seemed to work for everyone already. "Oh no" the annoying couple replied. "We travel at the end of the month...every month."

When one lady asked about how a book club worked (as she hadn't been in one before), Annoying Wife started saying "Well, we've always done it like this..." When Rita suggested some ways we could run ours, Annoying Wife said "But I've never done it like that before."

Rita wants the group to be part activity group and part book club. Her proposed plan is to read and discuss a book one month, and take the next month off to go to a wine tasting or out to dinner or other such activity as a group. Annoying Wife said "Well, before we do any activities, we need to bond as a group first." I chimed in, "The best way to get to know people is at an activity where conversation isn't relegated to book discussion."

After the meeting finally ended, I thanked Rita for organizing the meeting, and then quickly drove home to check out the posting. I was right; the group was intended to be women only.
I wrote Rita and asked if Howard was going to be part of the group. "It's kind of awkward, I would think, if the group is intended just for women to say 'Hey Howard, unless you are prepared to wear a dress and go through menopause, I think you need to find something else to do on the third Wednesday of every month...'"

I haven't heard back...but I'm at least hoping that if Howard intends to be part of the group, that he at least dress the part.

Eat Me

Yesterday was a co-worker's birthday. She has helped me swim successfully through the world of data, and so I wanted to get her something special.

But what?

She loves Bath and Body Works, but since everyone knows that, they tend to buy her loads. Plus, she told me she spent about $100 at the last Bath & Body Works sale...so I'm sure she needs nothing in that department.

Hmmm...

I put on my thinking cap (and it sure looked good on me!), and soon I had an idea: I'd get her a brownie from Claim Jumper.We talk about the infamous brownies all the time. How big they are. How delicious. Filled with nuts and chocolate...ummmm.... (after all, what woman in her right mind doesn't like nuts....oh, and chocolate?)

As yesterday was her day off, I had time. I gunned it to Claim Jumper after work, and bought a brownie. Then I gunned it to Michael's and bought some pretty ribbon (and while there, I met a man who used to be a woman...but more on that at a later time). Then I gunned it to Safeway for munchies (all that gunning left me hungry) and a birthday card.

I was set.

I got home and was greeted by my two very vocal kitties. “We hear you brought home a brownie,” they meowed. “Yeah, but it’s not for you. It’s for Lany, so keep your little tuna-flavored yaps shut.”

I squirreled it away, and went about my business. Every once in awhile I would hear a muffled voice saying “Eat me.” At first, I looked around the house to see if I could find the culprit. The only thing I found was a quarter, a cat nip toy and a pair of nylons that Purrscilla stole from me.
“Eat me.” The voice became louder and more incessant. “EAT ME!”

Finally, I couldn’t stand it any more, and my search for the source became ramped up. Then I found it…the brownie from Claim Jumper. “Eat me,” it said. “You know you want to!”

And yes, I did want to. Terribly so. However, my desire to give the brownie to Lany was stronger than my desire to eat it, so I pulled out the ribbon, cut off a yard, and wrapped up the brownie tightly. Sure enough, my ribbon muzzle worked. “Omphgeatohme” was all I heard for the rest of the night, until finally the brownie tired of talking through its brightly-colored hand-made muzzle.

I slept soundly last night, behind the safety of a closed door and ear plugs…just in case the brownie loosened itself from its hand-made muzzle long enough to convince me to take a girl-sized bite from that big old nut-covered brownie…

The Other V-Day

I suppose Valentine's Day is a good day for someone like Jane Fonda to go on a national morning show to promote The Vagina Monologues. And, I suppose it's also a good day for an aging political activist like herself to spew the C-word on national TV. And by "C-word" I don't mean "cat."

Ah...Vagina Monologues and the C-word...my two least favorite things in the world. Together. On stage. With Jane Fonda...how delightful.

What? How could the Vagina Monologues be one of my least favorite things? Well, maybe because I'm a girl...What? you ask... how can you be a girl and NOT like the Vagina Monologues? Simply for this reason: I think it's an overrated production, and the chronic use of vulgar words in the production does not make it cool.

Oh yes. I saw it. A few years ago, a feminist friend of mine said "PJammy, you have to go see this play! It's the bee's knees!" And, not wanting to seem uncool or against the feminist movement, I said "Sure, sign me up." I went along...and I think I was supposed to be like the other feminist clones in the audience and cheer on the repeated use of the word "C*nt" and "vagina," but I kept quiet. I did not think the chronic use of the "C" word "took back the word" and made it any different. It's still the same old word with the same old vulgar meaning, and watching Eve Ensler utter it repeatedly did not magically change it into something Proud and Bold and Wonderful.

Neither did the repeated use of the "V" word. Yes, I know what I've got "down there." Yes, I know the technical name. However, I do not get any great feeling of liberation or satisfaction shouting it at the top of my lungs. "Vagina! VAGINA!" See? Nothing. I get more satisfaction at shouting the word "Fuck!" at the top of my lungs in the car after some nimrod cuts me off than I do in a roomful of feminists shouting out the V-word.

The thing is, I know I'm supposed to like it. It's not cool for me to admit that I don't. Oh sure, there were a few touching monologues. Overall, though, The Monologues did not speak to me, or give me permission to relish my vagina, or teach me anything new.

I will say this, though: Jane Fonda taught me something new. She taught me that it's kind of gross for an old lady, no matter how made up and plastic she might be, to utter obscenities on TV. Meredith Viera, please note: when I'm old and you interview me on your morning show after my rousing production called "The Penis Chronicals," the only "c-word" out of my mouth will be cat.

Cupid

When my brother and I were little tykes, Cupid used to come visit us on Valentine's Eve. We were SO excited, we could barely sleep. We did think it strange that Cupid never visited any of the other children in the neighborhood. My mom said it was simply because they didn't believe.

Believe we did, so every Valentine's Day, the first thing we did was bound out of bed, kneel to the floor, and lift up our bedspread. See, Cupid always left our gifts underneath the bed. Additionally, because Cupid was small and did not have a big old sack like Santa Claus, he couldn't carry too much...so he normally only left us two presents each. The presents were never that big...but always something fun.

I remember one year, Cupid left me some white tennis socks with red piping and a red pom pom on each. He also left me a small lip balm. I was afraid this meant I was too grown up and he wouldn't come the next year, but he did.

I'm not actually sure when Cupid stopped coming by the house with little gifts...and I suppose it doesn't really matter. Because even now as I face yet another flowerless, candyless Valentine's Day, I can't help but smile when I remember a mother and father who loved me enough to devise a delightful little fantasy for two children who believed.

Phil

When I woke up this morning and saw no snow on the ground, despite the local weatherman's prediction, I felt almost joyous. And then I heard the word: Phil says there will be six more weeks of winter.

Well hell.

Of course, I probably didn't need Punxsutawney Phil to tell me that. After all, storm after storm after storm should have clued me into the fact that Spring doesn't want to come early this year. I suppose she's having the time of her life on her Caribbean vacation and is in no hurry to leave her well-hung cabana boy for the dry desert wasteland that is Reno. Can't say I blame her.

But boy oh boy, am I ready for Spring. I want her to come...to bring with her warmer weather, bright sunshine and happy little daffodils. I'm so sick of the cold and the snow and the ice and the snow and the below freezing weather, and of course the snow.

I want to put away my warm woolen mittens and Harry Potter scarf. I want to pack away my snow boots and break out my gardening tools. But nooooo, Phil says I have to wait six more weeks for that to happen.

I'd cry, only my tear ducts have frozen. Guess I'll just sit in front of the heater with a cup of hot chamomile tea, and just be happy that at least LOST is back on TV. Perhaps the survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 will help keep me warm while I begin my six week countdown to spring.

Taste Test

So, even though Cupid has my heart, I decided to pay for a three-month subscription on the other well-known matchmaking site. Today, I received an email from an old geezer. It went a little something like this:

Subject: You look delicious...
...and I want to taste you.

I wrote him back: Drop the Viagra and step away from the computer and nobody will get hurt.

Then I blocked him, because Lord knows I'm not ready to be some old geezer's dinner.

On Being Hot

Last Saturday night, our company had its annual Christmas, oops, HOLIDAY party at Harrah's. Being as it was our very last one, a few of us decided to wear tiaras in honor of this very bittersweet occasion. So, donning our made-in-China tiaras on top of our festively coiffed hair, we made our way into the ballroom.

The party was...dead. I suppose it had a lot to do with the fact that it was, indeed, our last party together. That, or the fact that just weeks before we had been handed our pink slips instead of the Christmas bonus we were expecting. Either way, the few employees that bothered to show up were milling about dejectedly, while sucking on their five dollar beers.

After eating our lukewarm turkey and our watered down cranberry sauce, the Tiara Girls decided to dance. We didn't care that the DJ was the suckmeister of the airwaves. We just wanted to let off steam.

So there I was, on the dance floor with my "date," when a guy from the shipping department decided to join us. We had ourselves a jolly little threesome right there on the dance floor. All of a sudden, Shipping Boy leans over and yells in my ear "Your crown is HOT!" As if to emphasize my hotness, he waved his waist-long length hair as if it was a dancing exclamation mark. I thanked him, and continued dancing.

A few minutes later, he leaned forward again and yelled "I like dancing with two girls!" I said "Hey! Me, too!" He shook his hair again, and lurched some more on the dance floor.

When the next song started, he leaned into me again. This time he shouted "Your choker is SO HOT!" I thanked him. Then he shook his hair and did a few Elaine Bennis moves before shouting at me again. This time he said "You're so freakin' hot on the dance floor! I like the way you dance!" I thanked him again, and in reply he shook his hair like a wild man. Then all of a sudden he started to laugh, and he shouted at me again. This time he said "You know what? I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOUR FREAKIN' NAME!"

I told him that was okay...after a glass of wine, I don't even know my own freakin' name.