Burn all fears this brief night...

I am going to a Summer Solstice party this evening. Sometimes at Summer Solstice parties, things are burned (like wreaths or prayer flags) as symbols for rebirth and renewal. Out of all of the clothes I've donated away in the past year, I saved one pair of fat pants for such an occasion. With much joy, I am going to put them in the fire and watch them burn. I think it will help me say goodbye to that girl and start learning how to be this one.

"We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey."
~Kenji Miyazawa

The best mirror is an old friend...

MK and me, getting our Happy Hour on.

*She's known me the best and the longest of all of my friends (since our first year of college), and loves me anyway.
*She can make me laugh even when I'm too sad to think anything is funny.
*She's the first person I call when something good happens.
*I trust her like I trust no-one else.
*She makes me feel like I'm a teenager (in a good way).
*The photo isn't blurry because we went all Blanche DuBois and asked for the fuzzy lens. It's blurry because I think I forgot to turn on the autofocus before asking a handsome man to take our photo.
*My top says "Rock & Roll or DIE."
*No, I did not just make her spit out her gum into my hand.
*Yes, I might have accidentally been copping a feel.

Judge me if you must...

But I finally got sucked in to the screaming wasteland that is MySpace. First, my friend Charlie signed up, and since he's what I use to measure Cool, it got me thinking. Then my friend MK has her MySpace page for work and kept telling me about this musician or that musician and how I should check them out on her links. Except you can't see all of the page unless you have your own MySpace account. So over the din of the voices in my head screaming, "if all of your friends jumped off a CLIFF, then you would TOO??" I signed up for my own account. It even has photos of ME and stuff about ME and people who are friends with ME.

I know people - smart people - who think MySpace is the beginning of the end of civilization as we know it and by signing up, I am forever damned. However, in the world of MySpace, Debbie Harry, Kathy Griffin, and Lady Sovereign are my BFFs along with my real BFFs like MK, Charlie, and Joan Jett. The siren song was just too strong and I am weak. If you hate MySpace, forgive me. But if you have a MySpace page, I have one question: Will u be my friend?

Outing myself as an Indoor Girl...

I've been known to exaggerate for comic effect. But often I don't have to. For example, when I wrote last year about how much I hate the heat because I'm so pale...

I give you my legs ("Exhibit A").

Now, I give you my leg next to coworker Julie's leg ("Exhibit B"). She hasn't even started working on her "base tan" yet.

I do not want to be tan. I like being pale. I've never understood the draw of tanning beds or - worse - baking on the beach. I don't like self-tanner either. In my world (the one in my imagination, also known as "My Happy Place"), only farmhands have tans. And I'm not a farmhand.

So there it is, out in the open. I'm wearing skirts or dresses at least five days a week this summer and if anyone has a problem with that they can bite my pasty white ankles.

The party people scream “Oui oui c’est vrai!”

Heure de L'aperitif Nombre Deux was at The Map Room for "Working Women's Wednesday." I dragged Erin along this time, thinking it would take some of the pressure off since she's always entertaining. What I didn't consider is, with her being a redhead, MK being a redhead, and being a redhead myself meant that the first Hour of Happy would consist of people dropping by the table to make "The Redhead Table" and "Three Redheads" jokes. No, we're not sisters (other than having red hair, we look nothing alike). Yes, we all have crazy Irish genes. No, we won't "prove that it's real." I understand that it's a recessive gene and red hair isn't exactly prevalent, but damn. Now I'm thinking about going blonde again.

The second hour mostly involved drinking stories, which I loved because MK has known me for about 15 years and can rattle off a list of my most embarrassing drunken incidents without provocation. Even the ones I'd forgotten about. Let's just say I ran off to the little girls' room every time my name came up, which was often enough to make everyone assume that either I have the tiniest bladder in the world or I have another kind of problem (except that I didn't return talkative and wild-eyed). But I really have to thank MK for omitting the one about the 1994 Ramones show and my ex-boyfriend, the Incident at the Farm during the Joan Osbourne show, the Five Dollars the Hard Way story that involved Fred from Cowboy Mouth, and anything remotely related to this.

I got a little nervous because Erin took out her little notebook less than 10 minutes after we got there and I thought she was making lists of why she hated me for roping her into my Happy Hour discovery mission, but she assured me that she was only taking notes in order to blackmail me later.

Two down, one to go. I think HH #3 will be on Friday, but I'm undecided on location. Just to mix it up, I considered a biker bar, but I'm afraid I'll get my ass kicked by a biker chick for infringing on her territory. I haven't thrown a punch since I was in my early 20s and never when I was sober, so I'm not sure I could defend myself against Very Scary Hairy Sherry even if I wanted to.

Sippin' Pellegrino like it's Belvidere...

Yes, that's what I'm doing.

I miss the martinis. I think they miss me too. I hate to think of them out there, all icy and dirty olive-y and lonely without me. It's not like I haven't been to a bar since I stopped drinking a year or so ago. I've been to plenty of events and soirees for work and friends. I just haven't been out for "happy hour" by choice. What exactly is a happy hour without the cocktail anyway? What's going to make ME happy if I don't have an icy cold vodka martini or four? I aim to find out.

My goal: Three happy hours in three days. Can I do it?

One down. I went to J. Paulz on James Island to join my friend MK out on the deck for some happy hour merriment. It wasn't hard because it's a laid back kind of place and she wasn't drinking either (not that I mind; it only bothers me when I'm in a roomful of people who are so trashed they're yelling out requests for "SKYNYRD!" when there's no live band). Nice day, nice breeze, nice patio.

I didn't stop drinking because I had a problem or because I couldn't control it. I stopped drinking for health reasons and I feel about a million times better having gone for a year-plus without a single hangover. Not to mention the many lbs. gone, gone, gone. But alcohol is a social lubricant. People get chatty. It loosens us up. We're entertaining. We talk to strangers easily. We bond. Without it, I feel incredibly awkward and out of my element, like I'm 13 years old and I just know everyone hates me.

I make conversation. I eat lovely sushi. I drink my water. I even smoke a cigarette because I've been chewing nicotine gum all day and I'm on a patio and I want one because everyone else has one and I can't have a f*cking martini, so...

The verdict? I feel stupid and contagious. Next.

Random selections from This Very Moment...

What she's eating: A sangwich. Specifically, a Boar's Head oven roasted turkey sangwich with thin deli sliced swiss cheese on wheat bread with really spicy grey poupon mustard (because I am so classy).

What she's listening to: The EP I downloaded at 12:30 a.m. after seeing a promo during ATHF on Cartoon Network. It's called Chocolate Swim. "Hoodie" (Spank Rock remix) by Lady Sovereign is just darling.

What she's wearing: Black mesh skirt, strappy shoes, and favorite charcoal gray t-shirt from Express in NY (I think the only tee they make without freaking sparkles).

What she's thinking: That I might have made a mistake by saying I may or may not be ready to maybe sortof kinda start dating again, in a way. But also that my friends have every right to be shocked and/or enthusiastic about it, since I never, ever (ever!) bitch about not meeting people or the right people. I've been with the wrong person, so if the right one doesn't come along 'til I'm 80, I'm cool with that. But I did say I'm finally maybe sortof kinda over my last thing and I might say something other than "meh" when a friend tells me they met some guy I'd really like. Which is what I've been doing for the past couple of years. More on that later...you really don't want to know what else is going on in there right now.

Lunch over. Great sangwich. Installing Nicorette and getting back to editing, editing, editing.

Happy Father's Day, Mommy Dearest...

I called my mom last night to wish her a happy Father's Day, just like I do every year. And she reminded me, just like she does every year, that phone calls are not gifts.

Me: Happy Father's Day! Thanks for being such a great dad.

Mom: Where's my gift?

Me: I'm calling you.

Mom: I was thinking a gas grill, or...those other things...tools?
[she's been reading the Sunday circulars in the paper, I can tell...]

Me: Yeaaaaaahhhhhh, that's not going to happen. My electric bill was eleven hundred million dollars.

Mom: Really? Because mine was twelve hundred million.
[translation: "my house is bigger than your house."]

Me: Well, since you already have my love and devotion...
[and a hundred-dollar toothbrush for mother's day a month ago...and CASH for your birthday the month before that...]

Mom: My clothes dryer is making a funny noise. I think I need a new one.
[she likes to replace broken appliances rather than have them fixed. Same goes for her cars. The last time she traded one in I think it was because it needed an oil change.]

Me: I'm not buying you a dryer. Remember the computer I bought you that "broke" and you waited a year to tell me? Or the Netflix gift subscription for DVDs that sat on your table for two months?

Mom: I use the DVD/video thingy you got me last year all the time.

Me: Yeah, to watch Jeff EFFING Foxworthy! That's an abomination.
[and Blue Collar TV, which she probably wouldn't find so funny if she'd ever actually worked a blue collar job...]

Mom: So back to my gift...

Me: I'll take you out to dinner next week. Indian?
[I'm expecting to haggle, so I start low]

Mom: So what I hear you saying is...

Me: PUHLEEEAASE, not the shrink voice.

Mom: Nevermind, I have to go. Your sister's calling. She probably has a present for me. Loveyoubye.
[Click]

Me: [to dial tone] I got another tattoo while I was in NYC, by the way. Yesterday I went to the 10th anniversary of a sex shop. And sometimes when you're talking about your grandson, I pretend to listen. Love you too!

In all seriousness, my mom was a great parent, role model, mom, dad, breadwinner, educator, and therapist (for a living, not for me). Now she's a great friend (and amazing grandma to my sisters' offspring) and I wouldn't trade her for all the Joan Crawfords in the world.

Keepin' it surreal...

Since I have a tendency to become reclusive, I have a standing contract with myself to Get Out More, and also to Start Doing More Stuff. One of the rules is: spend one weekend hiding out and the following weekend I have to accept at least one invitation to Do Something Fun. Since I spent last weekend perfecting my recipe for baked chicken fingers and catching up on my Netflix rentals, and my Something Fun for this weekend broke its clavicle and won't be touring, I promised that I would RSVP "yes" to the first thing someone asked me to do.

So last night I got a phone call from my BFF MK, also known as radio jock extraordinaire Morgen in the Morning , inviting me to spend an afternoon with her while she does a remote at a shop that sells adult media, novelties, and, um, "marital aids." First, it's not one of those places like the one that had the icky movie booths and trenchcoat-wearing patrons that closed down a while back. Second, I've had "wind-up hopping penis" on my shopping list for about a year now. Third, it isn't my maiden voyage to one of those places. And fourth, MK and I make each other laugh until we're sick. So I'm going. Now what to wear...what to wear...she already nixed my "Harlot" t-shirt, but the last time I joined her for a remote she made me wear a santa hat, so it's clear that I'm going to have to put some thought into an ensemble.

Before I venture forth, a quick warning label review:
* For external use only.
* Do not insert in ear canal.
* This product is not intended for the prevention of pregnancy or sexually transmitted diseases.
* The slight tingle lets you know it's working.
* Do not use while sleeping or unconscious.

I'm not the kind of girl who gives up just like that...

One: Blondie tour canceled, so no show on Sunday. MK/Morgen and I are two both sad girls.

Two: Deborah Harry is still a rock-freaking-legend and I'll line up for tickets if they reschedule (especially if they come without "The New Cars," even though I wouldn't wish a broken clavicle on anyone, even Elliot Easton).

Three: Deb (because I know if we'd met you'd be all like, "call me Deb"), I realize the ticket sales weren't stellar even though the show should have sold out on Blondie's rock cred alone, and that's mostly because Charleston wouldn't know good music if it slapped it on the ass and called it Daddy, but if you ever want to get out of the NYC, my guest room is yours. I’ll stock the fridge with Amstel Light and good cheese, you’ll tell me stories about the good old days at CBGBs and I’ll admire your latest Marc Jacobs ensemble. You’ll tell me about the time you punched Sid Vicious in the neck and how Andy Warhol begged you to be in all of his art films. I’ll pluck out “Dreaming” on my guitar (beng, bleng, bleng, dreamin', dreamin' is free...) and show you pictures of when I was platinum blonde. Happy almost 61st birthday, Goddess of the Punk Rock. You’re my she-ro.

Where there's smoke...

When the band took a break, he sat down next to me at the bar. Without saying a word he picked up my chrome Zippo lighter and started doing tricks with it, flicking it open and lighting it with one hand. I asked if he was trying to impress me.

He looked down and I thought I'd embarrassed him, until he looked up again (he was the first person I'd met whose eyes actually twinkled) and said, "am I?"

"Not really." Actually, he was pretty dexterous.

"Yeah? You try it then."

I told him I only knew one trick.

“Do it,” he said, and handed me the Zippo.

I turned in my chair, crossed my legs high so my knee was level with the bar, flipped the lighter open with two fingers, and struck the flame by running it fast up my thigh.

He leaned over and said, “I knew I was playing with fire.”

I still miss that Zippo.

Making my outside match my inside...

The other thing I did while I was in New York: had myself inked with the blue star tattoo I've been dreaming about (literally). I've been alternately referring to it as "my 50-pound tattoo" and "my fearless tattoo."

The finished product with the artist, Keith, at the tattoo studio in the Village. He let Aleigh come in the back with me and take pictures, even though there were signs saying that no one was allowed in the back unless getting inked.

I'm a happy girl.

"The day they decided that Sneetches are Sneetches
And no kind of Sneetch is the best on the beaches.
That day, all the Sneetches forgot about stars
And whether they had one, or not, upon thars."
~Dr. Suess

Proving that I can still get my New York on...

Finally catching up on sleep and work after four days in NYC. This photo was taken in the window of our hotel on our last day there, I think.

Mornings are a bit of a blur. Aleigh can attest to the fact that I'm not a morning person. I'm a lot more fun after a venti iced nonfat latte or two. And evenings, during which I reverted to giggly high school slumber party Kelly (except for sneaking the boys in after midnight).

Some highlights: Brunch at the Morgan Library & Museum with the amazing Janice Taylor, shopping at H&M (I'd never been and I could LIVE there), staying at 70 Park Avenue (I could live there too), getting my eyebrows done right before we got on the subway at Rockefeller Plaza (I made Aleigh go first), sushi in the Village, walking and walking and walking, browsing the Sam Flax store in Chelsea for over 2 hours, more walking, gigantic TJ-freaking-Maxx (Aleigh's mecca!), more walking and new Merrells (it was that or go barefoot), a MediaBistro workshop and meeting talented and funny NYC writers, saying "that's what I love about New York" about a billion times, conquering my fear of flying without alcoholic beverages or ripping up a seat cushion with my teeth, and having Miss Kitty greet me upon my arrival with the longest meeeeoooooow ever. There are a few other things that I'll share later (I know...I'm such a blog-tease).

And that's what I love about New York.

She's baaaack....

And she can't wait to tell all about her wonderful and amazing trip to NYC and how much fun she had and the people she met and the cool things she found and bought and did and saw. But she's trying to catch up on what she missed in the office for the past two days so it will have to wait because she gets paid to do her job and not to blog. And she promises to stop referring to herself in the third person before the next post.

Microfamous on the outside, tasty on the inside...

I found the Sloganizer through Joan at Walk This Way and have been having way too much fun with it ever since. I should be packing so I can cram seven changes of clothes and four pairs of shoes into a carry-on, but instead I'm typing dirty words into a slogan generator and giggling about what comes up.

So, lovely ladies and handsome gentlemen, I am off to the Land of Manhattan with my favorite gal pal writer, Miss Nobody Aleigh. Try not to miss me too much, but if you do get bored while I'm gone, I have two words for you: Eat Me.

Brought to you by the letter “F” and the scary monsters under my bed…

I once made an "Encyclopedia of Fear" in which I listed everything I was afraid of, in alphabetical order, with drawings and an index. Great project for kids, right? I actually stole the idea from one of my nieces’ school projects — when I was 30.

In honor of my upcoming trip to NYC (fear of flying is the one I promised myself I would overcome this year), the “F” page from my Fear Encyclopedia:

Failure. Everyone will find out I’m not really as smart/talented/amusing as they think I am and that I’ve been faking it all this time.

Father. He taught me everything I ever need to know about being afraid before I was 10 (see also “Rage-a-holics”)

Feelings. Many past and current self-destructive habits are the direct result of trying to create a barrier between me and my own emotions. (see also “Weakness”)

Flying. I flew occasionally despite my fear for a long time. I was scheduled to fly to NYC on September 13, 2001. My flight was canceled. And that was that. (see also “Planes”)

Food. If I could take a pill three times a day and never have to think about calories, carbs, or chocolate again, I’d do it. (see also “Love/Hate Relationships")

Fragments. I used to date a writer who thought he was Hemingway reincarnated. Maybe he was, but he followed the pattern so authentically that no-one will ever know. (see also “Sentence Fragments”)

Frogs. I won’t leave the house if one is on the sidewalk. I don’t swim in pools at night unless someone has done a frog check first. However, I am not afraid of snakes. (see also "Ranidaphobia")