Deserted Warehouse

That's where I met Mark for our "date" tonight. My friend is actually calling it a "pre-date." She said I need to go on at least three pre-dates before the real thing.

Yeah, I didn't know what she was talking about either.

See, she said there should be no meals involved. coffee is okay, one cocktail is okay, but no dinner. She had all other kinds of advice but I kinda zoned out. Told her it sounded like the new version of "The Rules," and I was just going to go with the flow.

Well, I guess Mark subscribes to her way of thinking.

I met him at the warehouse, we danced for about an hour, talked for about 10-15 minutes more, then said goodnight. No coffee, no cocktail, just goodnight.

He did hug me though, so I suppose that's not a bad sign?

I don't know now. Maybe I just got so caught up in a man actually wanting to spend time with me that I didn't realize he might just want a dance partner to practice with.

Or maybe he's shy.

He doesn't seem shy though.

Maybe he's trying to figure out if he likes me or not.

Or maybe he has to go to work early tomorrow.

Or maybe I need to just chill.

UPDATE:

So, I just found him on Classmates.com. Guess what?

He's the same age as me.

His 25th reunion? The exact same day as mine.

heh. I feel silly.

This weekend

(Before I begin, Happy Birthday to my good friend Torn. He's been on earth 42 years.)

Yesterday morning, Katrina and I took our dogs on the trail behind my house. It was early in the morning, and crossing the dry creek bed, this is what we saw:


Cool, huh?

Later in the day, the Zaca fire, which has been burning since July Fourth, flared up again. The sky was filled with smoke.

And this morning? On the car that I just had washed Friday? It looked like snow had fallen.

Don't worry, I'm not that close to the actual fire. The winds however, bring it all down the pass right to my lucky house. Not too good for my asthma either.

They are predicting to have it fully contained by Friday. That's a full month practically of fire.

Ah. Southern California in the Summertime.

He Called!

Half an hour we spent talking on the phone. I know a little bit more about him; but still don't know how old he is. I'm pretty sure he's close to my age, but I think he may be younger than me.

It's happened people. For the first time, I'm nervous about my age. Oh, I know, I could pass for 35 perhaps, on a good day, but I'm not 35. I'm 42. In about three weeks, I'll be 43. I thought all I'd have to worry about is my size; now I'm worrying about age? Argh.

So far, it hasn't come up. We are going to meet on Monday, after I download some tango music and rip it to a CD. He's got a friend with an open space, with those elevated wooden floors (used to be a gym of some sorts, now it's going to be an office space or something), so we'll meet there.

It was a good conversation. He's not all stuttery or bashful. I think I could like this guy.

Annoyed I am

So, I'm on the computer, futzing away, and my cell phone rings. I don't catch it in time. Don't recognize the number. Figure whoever it is will leave a message. She does. It's Mary, the trainer from the gym.

Oh yeah people, I'm going whole hog on this (interesting choice of metaphor, don't you think?) get back into shape thing. Last Sunday I went in to the gym and laid down $405 for five training sessions. "Mary" was supposed to call right away to set up the first appointment.

Today's Wednesday.

Anyway, she called at 10:01. I got the message at 10:02. I called back at 10:03. And, get this, "Oh Mary? She just left."

What?

Did she leave a message and then just throw the phone at the desk as she ran out the door? I mean really. And, it's not like she was on her own phone, because the number she called from was the gym's number (caller ID rocks).

I don't like starting out annoyed. Which I am. I wanted to get this going and solid before school starts, which is on the 21st of August this year (ugh). I should just go and change trainers right now. March myself down to the gym and do it.

I left a rather grumpy message on her voice mail.

Man.

The last time I signed up for a personal trainer, I got hard-core dude. He was pissed he had to deal with a goofy girl like me, and talked to me like I was a big blob. No laughter, no smiles, just boot camp. Kept telling me how I was "soft" and had to push myself. Shame might work on some folks but it just gets me angry. I know I'm overweight, but I also know I'm not going to row for the Olympic team. I just want to get in shape.

I'm going over to the fucking gym right now.

Grr.

Update:
Well, I went to the gym. Asked when Mary would be in. "Uh... I'm not sure..." was the answer. I explained how I wanted to get started with a training schedule before school started and that it seemed Mary was pretty busy. He gave me the notebook with the different trainer's schedules and openings.

Mary? Didn't have a single opening this week or next week. Nothing. Oh, it wasn't full or anything; she just wasn't taking any appointments. Perhaps that information could have been passed on to me? Just a thought? They sure wanted my money Sunday.

So, I went to an Afro-Brazilian dance class, and nearly passed out (actually, it was pretty fun, and one thing I can do is shake my booty), and afterwards talked to Jose, the sales director who was the one who got me started on all this in the first place. "Oh yeah, we'll get you hooked up with someone else. Yeah, you need to get started this week. Oh, I hear you."

Uh huh.

Someone is supposed to call me.

I'm not holding my breath.

The Dance of La-huv...

Last night was the last class of the dance course. The new one starts up in a couple of weeks, and I’ll be there. Quite a different tune than the one I was singing a few weeks ago, eh?

Anyway, this time I got there early. I wasn’t going to be shut out again. I watched the advanced class twirl around the floor, and wondered if I’d ever glide like that. Mark (not his name, but what I’ll be calling him for the time being) came in and sat next to me. We started chatting, and he couldn’t remember my name. He thought it was Tricia, which is the name of the woman who got me to go in the first place. Oi. Oh well, it’s been two weeks.

So, the class starts, we go into each other’s arms and he asks, “Were you here last week?”

What, he didn’t even notice me last week? Double oi. I said I had been, and he was relieved. See, this week was review, and I think he was worried I wouldn’t know what to do at all. We start to Tango, and things are going well. We break for new instructions and wouldn’t you know it? Another woman snakes her way over to him when the class couples up again.

I end up with Chad, a slightly autistic, but good dancer who sweats. A lot. He has no problem telling me how I’m holding my arm incorrectly and my steps are too small and that I’m not moving smoothly enough. It doesn’t bother me though, because I just want to get better, and he’s not the one I’m trying to impress anyway. Mark and I smile at each other across the room.

Another break, a new combination, and back to couples again. Mark appears in front of me almost immediately, and away we go.

Now, I have to tell you all, what with the extra fruit and veggies I’ve been eating this week? Major gas. Not really a problem; I live alone. But, the whole time I’m at class, spinning around and trying to put my feet in the right place, I’m fighting the need to fart. Oh man, I could just picture it, ending before it was begun, all because I was trying to eat right.

But, I contained it. I’m stronger than I knew.

However, we did learn a new spin. One in which the man just basically stands there, and the woman has to spin around and end up close to the man, with her back to him, his right hand on her waist, her hand on his.

Nerves. I hadn’t had a beer or cocktail this time beforehand, I like this guy, and I’m fighting gas. I kept spinning properly, but ending up too far in front of him. He said I was too far away for him, and to remember “The Tango is the dance of … you know… seduction?” He said it in a funny fake, pepe le pew accent, and I knew right then that I did like him. "You've got to get a bit closer."

And then on my next spin? Slammed into him. Knocked him backwards with my big ass.

“Well, maybe not that close,” is all he said.

Gales of laughter from both of us. I’m sure I was scarlet. Mortified I was. Mortified. He was blushing too, but we both just kept laughing and trying to dance.

Where are the movies about this? Aren’t I, by this point in my life, supposed to be smooth? Calm? Cool?

None of those I was.

But.

It didn’t matter. I asked him if he was going to the next run of classes, he said yes, and then said,

“You know, I have access to a wooden floor. If you’d like to… if you give me your number… I could call you…. If you’d like to practice sometime.”

Squeeee!

But that was on the inside. On the outside? I said sure, gave him the digits, and he walked me to my car.

Oh the small joys of possibility.

Guess who asked for my number tonight?

Time

So, I'm trying to get back on the exercise routine.

Five days in Vegas and then the four days at the institute (where the only free time was between 6 am and 8 am... time I spent sleeping, showering, and getting coffee), eating more than I normally do, and exercising... well, not at all... and more weight has crept back on.

Last summer at this time I was down about 40 pounds; I've put back on 15. Why is it so frickin' hard to lose weight and so easy to gain it back?

Anyway, because it's summer, and because I have pretty much nothing to do, I'm trying to move more. You know, make it a habit now, so that when school starts up again, I'll already be in the groove?

Two hours walking on the beach on Thursday, then a total veg out on Friday. Oh, I went wine tasting with a friend, so I exercised my left arm up and down a bit. Saturday I went to a "hip hop" aerobics class, and nearly died. I actually stepped on myself. I did burn some calories though. Then to the Farmer's Market, to which I haven't been in a long time. I love it there. The fresh fruit and veggies and flowers, and all the weird Jojoba oil salespeople and the odd musicians scattered all over. I got grapes, tomatoes, nectarines and strawberries, all for six bucks.

Today, another two hour walk with Charlie; this time from my house to Starbucks. Probably about 6 miles total, but I'm not sure. He's passed out now next to me, and I don't think I have to worry about his not getting enough exercise.

Oh yeah, then there's the ballroom dance class tomorrow. You wouldn't think it would be much of a workout, but it is. You try holding your arm up in the air for an hour at a time.

Tomorrow's the last day of the class. There'll be another class starting up soon probably; but I have to talk to strawberry blond guy, or I'll lose my chance. I got to class late last week, and he was already paired up with someone else. Then he skeedaddled out of there before I could say anything witty to him.

My coupled up friends (pretty much all my friends) have this idea that I have this full, busy social life. I don't. I' m just trying to fill up all the damn time I have by myself. Charlie is great, but come on; I'm not having any kind of meaningful conversation with him. Most days anyway.

Hope you're having a good weekend.

Fourteen Friday

I forgot to do Thirteen Thursday, so I thought I'd make up for it today.


Fourteen Things About Vegas:



1. Torn and I have been going to Vegas together for several years. We've gone with my mother, his mother, his father and much of the time, by ourselves. I think we've been going for at least 15 years.


2. During the last few years, we have almost a routine. We stop at the same rest stop and take a picture:The one above is from 2005, below, from a few weeks ago.

3. Vegas is like no other place in the world. There's always something that makes us laugh and laugh.

Notice that after you go up to the top of the Stratosphere, you can get a "snack" of Nachos, a bag of chips and a soft drink. Since when is that a snack, and why would you need chips if you already have Nachos?

4. At the Rio, there is a wine bar... I think it's called The Cellar, but every time I go to Vegas, I go there. It's gotten more expensive over the years.


Three guesses whose charming digit that is.

5. Torn isn't the only person I've gone to Vegas with. My 39th birthday was spent in a Cabana by the Rio pool with a bunch of girlfriends. We then went to dinner at a great Indian place, and then off to a ritzy club my sister got us into with one of her many contacts.

6. Most of my friends don't like Vegas as much as I do. It's cheap, it's fun, and it's like a little fantasy world for me. There's always the chance of winning (like I did last year), and no one expects anything of you. No responsibilities. Drinking, sitting out by the pool, playing games, what's there not to like?

7. Pooping in Vegas though. That's never fun. For some reason I always get all blocked up. "Paste Poo" is the name Torn came up with for it. My sister laughed and laughed when she heard me refer to it as that. "You name your poo?!" I guess it is pretty funny. We always (I always) bring the flushable wet wipes now. Also, lots of water. I'm always dehydrated there whether it's the winter or the summer.

8. There is a direct flight to Vegas from Santa Barbara, but I've not taken it in a long time. It's only about 45 minutes from airport to airport, but then there's the line for the taxi, and all that airport hassle. Driving takes about 5 hours.

9. Except, I've not driven directly in the last 10 years or so. I used to drive to Long Beach to pick up Torn, and the last few years I've driven to Santa Ana to pick him up. Adds another 3 hours or so to the drive. Kindof a drag.

10. This year, I became addicted to Vanilla Iced Coffees from McDonalds whist in Vegas. We drank far too much cheap red wine one night, and the next day we were both rotten with hangovers. Torn and I were taking turns getting the coffee each day from Seattle's Best at the next hotel over, and it was my turn. Ugh. In the most pitiful voice he could muster, Torn pointed out that there was a McDonald's next to the coffee shop, and could I please get him a sausage McMuffin? As everyone knows, that is the absolute hangover cure. Problem was, I made a new year's resolution not to eat at McDonald's for a year. I broke my resolution with both the aforementioned Vanilla Iced Coffee, and a McGriddle. Then of course I had to go back the next day and get another! Crack I tell you. There's crack in McDonald's food. Luckily, the MickyD's here doesn't have the coffee drink, so I've been able to stay away.

11. I bring flip flops to wear in Vegas just because it annoys Torn.

12. I'm the one who says "You can't win big if you don't bet big." Just as we were getting ready to leave, I said I was going to cash in my voucher ($20), and then meet Torn upstairs. As I was walking to the cashier's cage, I saw the "Coyote Moon" machine beckoning to me. I put in my 20 bucks and started punching buttons. I went down to 69 cents, and figured that was it. But no. I won a little, and a little more, and then... I thought, "What the heck" and pushed the MAX BET button (this was a penny machine though, so the max bet was about $2.50), and blam! I won 82 bucks! Whoo hoo! It's the reason why I went home without losing all my money.

13. Sometimes I look good in Las Vegas:

And sometimes I don't:

14. Every time I leave, I start thinking about the next time I can go back.

Why?

Guess how much the cute little "hang-it-all" costs. No really, guess.

Now double that.

A few years ago, my girlfriends and I were on a garage sale kick. We'd scour the ads on Friday, make our plan, get together early for coffee, and set out. Now we're having our own garage sales, but that's another story.

One lovely Saturday, we decided to hit the chichi (I thought it was spelled "chi chi" but no, no space) town of Montecito. You know, where Oprah and assorted other rich people live?

Now, there are basically two kinds of people who have garage sales. Those who want to make a little cash on stuff they're going to give to Goodwill anyway, and those who have no clue. Those who have no clue don't understand that it doesn't matter how much he or she paid for it, because it's used now. Used items are not worth as much as new items. Most of the time anyway. I hope you aren't selling your grandmother's Chesterfield at a garage sale.

Anyway, we went to a house that was obviously being renovated. There were all kinds of building materials, and tools and things like a kitchen sink for sale. One of the items was the above coat rack.

Even though it's for children, I love colorful things. I thought it was cute, but there was no price tag on it. I asked the guy and his response?

Are you ready for this?

Seventy-five dollars!

Can you believe it? I nearly had an asthma attack. For a wire and wooden ball coat rack? He said it was a "Blahdiblah" and was new, never used. Silly, provincial me, I'd never heard of the "Blahdiblah" brand, and laughed. Said "No thank you," and went on my merry way.

Imagine my surprise this morning, thumbing through my Domino magazine (which is a lame magazine, btw, which replaced Budget Living, which was a great magazine that went belly-up several months ago now), and seeing it on the pages. No price was listed, just this website, highbrowfurniture.com, which is a really pretentious name for an on-line store, in my opinion.

So everyone, now knowing how much the guy asked for it at the garage sale, and knowing it is sold at a place with a name that really should be just "Costsadamnlot.com" have you adjusted your price guess?

That little hanger thingee, which looks like something sold at Ikea, retails at... One-hundred and fiftydollars.

Some people have just too much money to throw around.

Note: No matter how many times I go back and try to add spaces between my paragraphs, blogger won't let me. Of course, it let me once, at the beginning, but now, no way. It looks right in my draft, but then on the blog itself? The spaces disappear. No idea why.)

Weirdness this morning

So, the sky is looking very orange and strange right now; the Zaca Fire is raging away. It started on July 4th, and isn't expected to be contained for at least another week. A fine coating of ash is on everything... even inside my house. Up at the Institute last week, we were only 10 miles from it, but even here, it's a bit nerve-wracking.

Also, I'm not sure what was causing it, but there were 4-5 big sonic boom type vibrations this morning. I don't live too far from Vandenburg air force base, so every once in a while we'll get them, but there's been nothing in the sky I've seen so far today. Charlie and the birds outside have gone wacko each time it's happened, and I just want to know what it is.

Lastly, remember the pictures I took yesterday? Well good thing I did. I can at least document there was something there. After going out this morning to check out the heavens, I looked down at my sad little tomato plant, and this is what I saw:

That's right. I have one hopeful little tomato, and some rotten critter stole it! I looked all over for perhaps as least the remnants of it, but nothing. We have rabbits and skunks and squirrels and rats, but none of those are really big enough to haul away the whole tomato, right? A raccoon could have done it, but I've not seen one in the 4 years I've lived here.

Gah.

Ah, summer, the time of fresh-from-the-garden vegetables. Really, is there anything like a just picked tomato, warmed from the sun?

These gorgeous plants are my neighbor's tomatoes. She planted them about a week before I planted mine. This year I only planted one though, because I was overwhelmed last year.


I'm thinking perhaps I misjudged.

If you look closely, you'll see a tiny baby tomato trying to grow next to the big one, but that's going to be it for my harvest.

What did I do wrong? I have no idea. That pot is about 6 feet away from the lush plants on my neighbor's patio.

The corks are a kind of mulch. Keeps the water in and the buggy critters out.

So many things to write about

You know how sometimes there's so much to do that you can't get started on anything? That's how I feel right now.

Vegas, then a visit from my buddy from New York, then the four-day institute I went to... I have oodles of stuff to say, but can't get started.

I've been off-line for a while.

Let me just state though, Chunks is my current hero for her shaving-her-head-for-a-good-cause and posting the pictures of it. My hair is super short, but I don't know if I could actually walk around completely shorn.

I'll gather my thoughts. Take some photos. Then I'll "hold forth" as my mother has put it.

The last couple of weeks has stirred things up.

The promised post

But before I begin, could there be a more pathetic looking pet?

He started chewing on body parts after I picked him up Thursday, and yesterday he zeroed in on his left paw. Gnawing is what he was doing to it. I went to sleep with the sound of him going at it, and woke this morning at 5:30 am to the same.

So, off to the vet we go. $156 bucks later, here's the poor little guy. Two antihistamines, one anti-biotic, and a topical spray. All because my wonderdog couldn't stop worrying his foot.

Dang gum it. Of course, I'm taking him back to the boarder's tomorrow, because I'm going to The Institute for Equity in Education for the next few days up in Santa Ynez. Our school district wants all its teachers to attend it within a five-year period.

I'll let you know how it comes out, although I don't have high expectations. What's frustrating for me, is that race becomes the only topic at these types of things. Not that I'm discounting it as a factor in the "Achievement Gap" in education, but parenting and socio-economic class always seem to be left out of these discussions.

Perhaps I'm being simplistic here, but if I have one student whose parents both went to college and have middle-class or higher jobs, that student, no matter what his or her race, is going to do better (most of the time) than another student whose parents have only a high school education or less, and live below the poverty line.

Yes, the kid in the first group tends to be white, and the kid in the second group tends to be brown, but not always. Limiting a discussion like this to race isn't enough.

Gah. Perhaps I'll be pleasantly surprised.

Oh no.

I just realized after getting all serious there, talking about poop just wouldn't work.

Sorry. It'll have to wait.

Heh.

Update: I just got home from dinner with a friend, and this is what I found:

Somehow he had gotten his head out of the dreaded cone to chew off one of the tabs, and quite a bit more of the thing.

Sigh.

So, I get home and don't post?

Torn and I talked about lots of things on our Vegas jaunt (and yes Roxanne, poop was one of the items discussed), but one that did come up often was blogging.

Torn is much more disciplined than I; he writes almost every day. In turn, his blog is far more widely read than mine. He has a niche as well; he's on the list of "Best Gay Blogs." He also reads and comments on many other people's blogs, while I have only a few that I visit regularly.

He has stalkers too. So far, none that he knows of in real life, but lurkers on the blog. Anonymous posters who write weird or mean comments. Not too often, but enough. Even my friends in real life rarely, if ever read my blog.

We talked about those whose lives have been messed up simply because they voiced their opinions in writing. People who lost their jobs, lost custody of children, lost friends. There are so many ill-spirited people out there; people who don't feel good about themselves unless they are hurting others. Blogs can be fodder for these people if care isn't taken.

Torn has met quite a few fellow bloggers, I haven't. Mostly because so many of you all are in Canada, and I go there about once every 4 years. I don't know though. Is it like on-line dating? All awkward and so? Hmm...

Sometimes, it feels like a job to some of you. I've never felt that way, simply because I don't feel obligated to write. I know that if I'm gone for a while, some of the folks that read my blog will be gone when I return. Yes, I like the comments; some days I live for the comments. But still. I always have something to say. I talk too much. My friend last night (with whom I had delicious blue cheese hamburgers with Chipotle Garlic Fries) said I talked more than anyone she knew.

I know that.

What she didn't know, which I told her last night, was that whenever I go out, whenever I'm going to be with friends, I give myself a pep talk beforehand that goes something like this, "Shut up, shut up, shut up. Don't talk tonight. You are just going to be quiet for once. Shut up, shut up, shut up."

And then I get to where ever it is I'm going, and monopolize the conversation.

The thing is, for me? The blog lets me do that, monopolize the conversation. I don't feel bad about it afterwards, no one tells me that I'm not letting them get in a word edgewise, and if someone doesn't like what I say, they don't read it. All good.

I've always kept a journal or diary, starting with the mustard yellow little book with a lock in second grade. This is an extension of that. The difference is that I have made friends, through it, through my words. Since my thoughts and ideas are what I want to be noticed, it's never felt like work to me.

So thanks for reading, and thanks for commenting.

(I promise I'll write about pooping in Vegas next.)

Oh my goodness... too much to drink

We're here, and Torn thinks I'm going to the bathroom.. I ran over here to check on my online banking situation, and all is well. No, we aren't winning, but we are having a good time.

Gotta get back to the Pai Gow table; I'm doing slightly better right now, but overall, Torn is ahead. Yes, we are talking about you all; I've known him for 25 years, but still, we have different ideas of who you all are.

Can you tell I've had about 6 glasses of wine so far?

Gotta get back to the table.

Love to you all.