Scared

In mid-July, my dad went in for another round of Botox injections. No, sillies. Not for wrinkles and smile lines but for his MS. The first round happened a few months earlier and while the improvement was minor, there was an improvement nonetheless. The doctor determined a second round of injections with a higher dosage would be brilliant. Of course he thought this. It wasn’t his body being turned into a sieve via botulism ridden needles.

“This is Paige Jennifer,” I announced as I answered the phone at my desk Monday morning.

I could tell from the panting-like sounds at the other end it was my dad. He was going through his usual motion of trying to speak the word “hi” but stalling out with the first letter. Sometimes he struggles with a word for a minute or what feels like a minute. Especially if it starts with a "hhh" sound.

“Hey dad. I’ll be right out,” I said, cutting him off so he wouldn’t have to spend any additional energy on the useless greeting.

And so I went out the backdoor and down the ramp to the parking lot where he sat in his car. This was the routine since the second round of Botox. The good news is it worked. The bad news is it worked so well that his muscles were now unable to get him from a seated position to a standing position without a hoist from someone else. Enter Paige Jennifer, stage right.

He spent a minute or so pivoting in the car seat and adjusting his feet on the pavement. He has to do that, you know. Literally take both hands and move his feet into a position that hopefully will act as a solid base for his body as he motivates to an upright stance. I leaned against the car and waited for his signal.

“Let’s do it,” he said, meaning in another minute or so he'd truly be ready for the old heave-ho.

“Gimme your hand. No, the other one. I can’t get any leverage from that angle,” I said while wrapping my left hand around his left wrist. If you looked just at our entangled arms, you might think we were playing a game of Twister.

I planted my feet in my usual shoulder-width-apart stance with one foot slightly ahead of the other. I learned how to stand for the sake of this hoisting effort a long time ago. Shoulder-width-apart is a no-brainer. Keeps you balanced. But the key is pushing one foot slightly ahead of the other. That way if my dad comes up too fast and keeps on going in a forward motion, I have a better shot at absorbing his weight and steadying him.

It took three tries to get him up that morning. One foot slipped. I didn’t pull up enough. Blah blah blah. You know why it took so many tries to get him up that morning? Because some “whatever” fuckhead with a medical degree goofed on the dosage. His response to my dad’s drastically declined condition? It’ll wear off in a few months. This is so not the answer someone struggling to remain independent wants to hear.

And so life goes on. I’ve noticed my dad's been withdrawn since the Botox shots. I can tell he’s starting to question if this change to his existence is more permanent than the doctor has led him to believe. On a long car ride back from an appointment the other day, I brought it up to my dad.

“Listen. I’m going to say something and I don’t want you to respond until I’m done. I don’t know what it’s like to live in your body. And God willing, I never will. Anyway, I’ve noticed you haven’t had the same zippiness as of late. Mom noticed it too but we all know how well she delivers a legitimate concern. I told her that maybe it’s because you’re struggling with this sudden mobility adjustment. An unexpected one at that. I mean, it’s like hanging from a rope over a never ending cliff and slowly being let down when all of a sudden you drop twenty feet. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, PJ. I know what you mean. And I think you’re right. I’ve been plodding along at the same pace for a long time now and this, well, this current decline makes me…..”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. I knew what it made him feel because it made me feel it too.

He's A Little Bit Selfish And She's A Little Bit Psycho *

Throughout my many years of interacting with both genders, I’ve been able to conclude one very simple principle about males and females:

Men are inherently selfish.

Women are inherently psycho.

The question is to what degree and how well does each individual manage the unsightly behavior. Now before you go off defending your gender or worse yet yourself, think about it for a moment. Take a good few minutes to reflect back on things.

It was exactly one year ago today that I was on the phone pleading with Ex to agree to spend the upcoming holiday weekend in New York City. More specifically, to agree to sit courtside at Arthur Ashe Stadium, watching some good tennis under a starry sky. We’d spent the previous Labor Day in Manhattan so I figured this discussion would easily go in my favor. After all, I was merely asking him to sacrifice all of three hours doing something I wanted to do. The remaining forty-eight hours were all his.

“I don’t want to go to New York,” Ex said in response to my suggestion.

“We went last year, per your insistence. Remember?”

“Well, I don’t want to go this year. And I definitely don’t want to watch tennis.”

“This isn’t ‘tennis’ but the USOpen. Have you ever been to the USOpen?”

“No and I won’t like it. I don’t want to go.”

“You are so fucking selfish. This has nothing to do with what you want to do but what I want to do. If it’s important to you, we do it. If it’s important to me, it’s a negotiation. I don’t recall having any interest in schlepping to Vermont to look at orange leaves last fall. I also don’t recall having any interest in vacationing to God’s Waiting Room or as you call it, Florida. And lord knows I could care less about visiting a quarry and picking out stone for your godforsaken patio.”

Let’s just say this dialog spiraled into a you’re-selfish-no-I’m-not duel. I eventually hit my boiling point and had to cut the call short, practically hanging up on him. We did end up in New York that weekend and while he was originally grumpy about agreeing to go, Ex eventually admitted that the USOpen wasn’t so bad after all. But there was no way of hiding the fact that this interaction had been interrupted by his inner selfish beast.

As for the psycho role, I’ll own up to having my fair share of lost-her-mind activities. With age, I’ve become more capable of recognizing my psycho antics but it doesn’t mean they are any less likely to surface. Flash back to the spring of last year.

“Allison, I think Ex is cheating,” I said in a hushed tone.

“Why are you whispering and where the heck did you come up with that one?”

“Hold on, let me get my list,” I said while rifling through my notes.

“Oh sweet Jesus. A list?”

“Shut up. So listen. Here it is in no particular order. First, he’s been suddenly making a huge effort on the friendship front, going to social minglers and whatnot to meet people.”

“He has no friends, Paige. Or at least none in DC. Making an effort to accumulate some actually sounds like a good thing.”

“Second, he’s recently been claiming fatigue and adjusting his Philly visits at the last minute.”

“Well he does work in the real estate field and this just so happens to be their busiest season. Fatigue sounds legit.”

“Third, when I go onto Match and do a visitor search, there’s someone that sounds just like him but without a picture. Same name, same age, same city, same profession. Seriously, I think it’s him!”

“Okay, why are you perusing the Match profiles?”

“I don’t know but I think it’s him. The catch is I can’t confirm my suspicion unless I become a member. That’s the only way I can email this guy.”

“You know this is psycho, right? I mean, you sound like a loon.”

“Yeah, whatever. Listen, I’m signing up. I have to.”

That was it. I became a member and created a faux profile of a forty-something widow in Scarsdale. Hey, it was an undercover psycho mission. Discretion was of the utmost importance. Then I sent an email to the profile I feared was Ex and I soon enough learned it wasn’t him. I suddenly snapped back to reality and realized how silly I was behaving. But it was already too late. There was no denying that my inner psycho had reared its ugly head.

*Title to be sung to the famous Donny & Marie Osmond song, "A Little Bit Country & A Little Bit Rock N' Roll"

A Little White Lie

Once when I was younger, I hid my report card from my mom. For months. I snuck it out of the mail before she got home and buried it deep between the mattress and box spring of my twin bed. Around Christmas, she started to get suspicious and eventually I had to make it magically appear. But before doing so, I altered the grades a little. Amazing how easily you can improve your academic performance with the careful stroke of a Bic.

The point of sharing this little fib is that at an early age I along with every other human being in the world learned how to filter out the details of my life that I didn't want my parents to know. It wasn’t the actual facts I was concerned about sharing but the resulting response to said facts that had me anxious. Converting that B- in French to a B+ meant I didn’t have to be serenaded with I-could-be-in-Europe-with-the-money-I-spend-on-your-private-school, my mom's #1 hit from the eighties. The bottom line is that some things are better left unsaid. And no matter how old I get, I still live by this rule.

“What’d you do last night?” my mom innocently asked the other day.

“Had dinner with Joe and Barry,” I replied, giving her just enough information to buy the lie but not too much as to tangle myself up in a web of deceit.

“Speaking of Barry, I need his work number over at the bank. I have some money I want to flip into a CD and since he just started at Wachovia, I figured he could use the credit. Do you have his branch telephone number?”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Mother fucking shit.

“I’m not sure which location is officially his so I’ll try him on his cell and tell him to call you.” And as I hung up the phone, I sunk back into my seventh grade antics, reminding myself to forewarn Barry that I'd used him as my cover for the previous night.

Where was I, you might ask? That isn’t relevant. What is relevant is that I wasn’t interested in partaking in a dialog about it. Hence, I didn’t bother to mention it. The honest answer would have led to a sixty-three part question and I had no desire to be on the receiving end of an inquisition, half of which would be interrupted with constructive-less criticism.

Leslie and I, the only offspring of my parents, frequently rely on “don’t tell mom, but” when relaying a juicy tidbit. She doesn’t want our parents to know that she splurged the equivelant of my mortgage payment on the season’s must have designer shoes and I don’t want our parents to know that I have sex. Ever. They know I’m not a virgin but does a parent really need to know about boys and toys or worse yet my BoyToy? Exactly.

At the end of the day, I'm pretty confident my little white lies are doing no harm. And it isn’t as if those minor fibs have cost or lost anyone billions of dollars. In fact, I think I’ve made the world a better place by keeping certain things mum from my mom. Seriously, all of that worrying and brow furrowing would have surely aged her unnecessarily. Maybe she should even thank me?

Roughing It

Some of you may find this hard to believe but I have been known to rough it. And I don’t mean shopping at Walmart or staying the night at a Hampton Inn. I excitedly spent three summers of my youth living out of a backpack and sleeping under the stars. Of course camping isn’t currently on my vacation radar but I’m still sorta open to roughing it. Hey, stop laughing!

Sure Beaumont Texas in August sounds unappealing. Let’s be honest people, Beaumont Texas any month of the year sounds unappealing. Tack on manual labor and I'm envisioning life on the chain gang. But this town was badly hit by Rita last year and their local Habitat chapter was in dire need of assistance as they set out to build twenty-seven new homes. Hard to argue with a plea for help. The night before departing for Texas, I dug through my pile of to-be-donated clothes to select some summertime attire I could both wear and destroy. With my bags packed, I was off to to do some hammering.

Twelve hours after touching down in Houston and relocating to Beaumont, I was standing in a semi-circle with around forty other volunteers and the local Habitat construction team. It was barely eight in the morning and both the back and front of my t-shirt were soaked through with sweat. I hadn’t even gotten around to lifting a finger, forget a hammer. Apparently in Texas, physical activity isn’t required to perspire. I stood quietly and still so I could listen to the safety instructions.

“This here’s a blah blah nail gun. And this is a blah zay blah nail gun. That over there's a blah diddy blah nail gun. Got it? They're all for specific purposes and you gotta use ‘em right or you risk breaking the tool or worse like shootin' an eye out.”

I nervously looked around at my peers to see who else was suddenly stricken with fear. I’ve been known to injure myself with a regular old screw driver. Even have a scar on my left index finger to evidence my questionable skills. For the sake of my safety and the safety of those within a 100 yards of my nervous trigger finger, I started to rethink my presence on the worksite.

“If you wanna help put walls and a roof up, step to the left. If you wanna paint and caulk, step to the right.” All of the people hustled to the left while I remained planted firmly on the right, figuring (a) I wanted to leave Texas with both eyeballs functioning and (b) I wasn't ready to be charged with involuntary manslaughter.

I spent the first two days painting and caulking the interior of two homes scheduled to be turned over to their owners in two weeks. Every so often I’d step back and take a break from the heat and the fumes. It was during those moments that I’d also check out the progress of my efforts. There's something magical about seeing a room go from incomplete to complete. I’d stand in the doorway and start wondering who would sleep where and how they might arrange the furniture.

By the third and last day, I was tired of doing the same thing so I boldly strolled across the street to the two other homes in progress. Yes, the homes where nail guns galore were being shot so frequently you'd think you were back in the gun slinging wild west. Before I could ask what needed to be done, I was enlisted to help a few other volunteers raise trusses up to the roofline. I was working alongside a woman I hadn’t formally been introduced to, though I had indulged in some of the cookies she'd brought to the site earlier in the day.

"That chocolate chip sin you made was just the mid-morning snack this gal needed," I said as we waited for the heave-ho request from the gang up above.

"Glad you liked it. Nothing special. Anything to entice y'all to keep coming back and helping us out," she said with a chuckle and a warm smile.

“Is one of these yours?”

“That’ll be my home soon enough,” she excitedly said while pointing to one of the random concrete slabs off in the distance.

“I bet it’ll be beautiful,” I said with a smile.

“Oh it will. It will,” she said with her eyes drifting off at all the things that were yet to come.

And with that, we got back to the business at hand. We worked together as a team, sitting down only for random breaks to beat the heat. All but the patio roof was completely framed when quitting time rolled around. I was dirty, sweaty and smelly but no matter how badly I needed a shower I couldn't motivate to depart. Over the course of those three days, I came to know folks I'd otherwise never meet. There was Dawn who motivated 14 people from Ohio to spend precious vacation days helping out in Beaumont. There was Patrick and Lois and Matthew and Jim from the local Habitat who welcomed me and my limited skills with open arms. And there were families who one day would live in the homes being built. It wasn't about what you knew, where you came from or how much money you had in the bank. All that mattered those days was getting the job done, and we did.


PS: This recent experience was nothing shy of amazing. So much so that I'm trying to plan a few more volunteer days at the Beaumont site in November. But as badly as Beaumont needs help, Slidell Louisiana needs more. The impact of Katrina to this town was tremendous and their local Habitat has set out to build 100 homes over the course of one year. It's an ambitious goal and the success relies heavily on volunteers. Please consider heading to Slidell and helping them out. Heck, if you want company, count me in.

Naked

It was honest conversation between two complete strangers who just happened to cross paths and end up sitting side by side, sipping lycheetinis and swapping stories. It was Sunday night and I was uninhibited. Sure, I was trying to sit with solid posture and I’d randomly remember to suck in my stomach but all of this had more to do with me being me, not me worrying about him seeing the real me. There was no agenda beyond ending the weekend on a nice note.

“I don’t get it,” he said with a pensive pause. “Really, why are you single? I mean, you’re a catch.”

“I’m not sure,” I fibbed.

“Well I plan on figuring it out. Can I tell you my honest opinion when I do?” he asked as he threw back the last remnants of his cocktail before returning the empty martini glass to the bar. I lifted my drink to toast his offer, confident he'd fail at his efforts or better yet forget his assignment altogether.

Over the next three hours, we passed time talking tall tales while enjoying a few more drinks. I told him about my recent travels to Texas during our round of Belvedere and Tonic. He told me about his two brothers over a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Sometimes I noticed him just staring at me in wonderment, his gaze penetrating my flesh. It was at these moments that I suddenly felt naked and vulnerable. Like he could look into my eyes and see my cellulite and my soft stomach. I’d look away and toss out a sentence that had nothing to do with anything simply to redirect his attention.

A few blocks down and a few blocks over, we found ourselves grabbing the last two stools at the back bar at Monk’s. My seat was pressed up tight against the wall and his was pressed up tight against mine. By the second round, the clock ticked toward midnight and we were winding everything down. The bar had emptied out a bit but we hadn’t necessarily shifted to allow for additional space between us. Then he pushed his stool back and pivoted around so that we were face to face. He leaned forward, resting his open palms on top of my legs, the thin layer of my skirt being the only separation between his skin and mine. I could feel my personal space shrinking, or maybe not shrinking but including more than just me.

“Stop it,” he instructed.

“I’m sorry?” I replied with a nervous chuckle.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

My throat tightened a little. I wasn’t sure what he was about to say but I was suddenly feeling naked all over again. He moved his hands from my legs to my waist and I suddenly remembered I wasn’t sucking my stomach in. So I did. It’s an uncontrollable reflex, the same way my leg bounces when the doctor takes that little hammer thing and taps just below the knee cap.

“What is that? Did you just suck in your stomach? Do you think you’re fat?” he asked incredulously.

I answered his questions with silence because I couldn’t get my mouth to formulate that simple three letter word starting with Y and ending with S. I looked away and pulled myself back tighter against the wall hoping I just might disappear into the wood paneling.

“How can you not see it? You’re beautiful and smart and outgoing and vivacious and sexy. Any man would be lucky to have you. Look at me.”

It took a few seconds, which felt more like a few minutes, before I could turn my head back and look him again in the eyes.

“Stop selling yourself short,” he instructed. “That’s why you’re single. And it’s stupid. In fact, it’s ridiculous. You aren’t fat. No man is settling by being with you just because you aren't rail thin. And if he can’t see the whole of you, he doesn’t fucking deserve you.”

“I know,” I replied, hoping that by agreeing with him he'd stop talking.

“No you don’t. You don’t know,” he said, lifting his hands from my waist and now placing them at that curve right where my head meets my neck. He leaned closer in and repeated himself, his warm breath carrying his words through the stale air. “You’re beautiful. You’re smart. You’re sexy. Any man would be lucky to have you.”

I wanted to push free from his grasp. I wanted to hop off the barstool and make a run for the door, for the street, for the car, for the safeness of my bedroom back in the suburbs. But I didn’t. I stayed right where I was. Naked. And listened to a relative stranger tell me what I already knew but didn’t always believe.

My Comment

I know this is dangerous. As I sit at my laptop penning this post, I can just feel the onslaught of crap I’ll get for what I’m about to write. But wait… This is my blog. Not yours. Consider yourself lucky I even allow you the opportunity to voice your opinions. You know who you are. Maybe you didn't know this but there’s a magic Delete Comment button only I have access to (insert evil going-to-destroy-the-world laugh here).

Let’s get something straight. I love having an audience. I adore the comments that people post in response to my ramblings because they allow me to know when I’ve been successful. Maybe it’s the topic or maybe it’s because of my ability to write (gasp). Either way, a comment of any sort means I struck a cord.

But when the audience goes and assumes I am the devil reincarnate simply based on what I write about, I start to wonder what the deal is. So I’m going to share a few things with you right now:

(1) I suppose having a turnstile installed at my condo to register the number of men I service in a twenty-four hour period is a little whorish. Point taken.

(2) My voice is my voice and I’m not shutting up because of something someone has to say about it. Ever. If you don’t like what you read, feel free to never load my page again. Funny thing is we both know that won’t happen.

(3) Signing a comment as “Someone’s Parent” is humorous. I mean, I don’t write for children so I’m guessing you use it to identify yourself as a good person or at least better than me, because we all know how high I set that bar. But really, it's as if you believe that reproducing is representative of an improved moral standard. Just out of curiosity, do you align yourself with Welfare Moms and women who use drugs while pregnant?

(4) This is a two parter. First, posting a comment anonymously makes it really hard to keep everyone straight. Perhaps using something ambigous but specific as a signature would be helpful. Second, posting a comment anonymously makes you the biggest pussy in the world. Please do the rest of us a favor and grow a set.

(5) Speaking of a set, why is it that men are the ones who so brazenly provide unproductive criticism about me on my blog? Not my writing. Not the topic. Me. I’m curious though believe I have some version of an understanding (see part two of #4).

(6) All together now: Never assume because it makes an ASS of U and ME (though really only you).

(7) People, this blog is simply a collection of thoughts and a stepping stone on my path as a writer. I’m merely perfecting my voice and in doing so I've opted to write about things that I think are entertaining. Case in point: I could sense that the summary of my European jaunt was a dud so I spared you the third installment. The bottom line is I never set out to corrupt young innocent children nor is it my intention to become the next poster child for the Christian Right.

(8) Take your anger and please redirect it toward more relevant worldly issues like our soldiers getting killed in Iraq and the world turning into a sauna. Or maybe get up off your ass and go hammer away your anger like I did last week. Yeah, in between trash talking all of those innocent men that I just misunderstood and whoring my way around town, I managed to find time to volunteer. Actually, for not one, not two, but three organizations. Top that.

Wow. I feel better. Been wanting to say that for a while now. Okay. Now excuse me while I get back to more important things like luring innocent children into my car, forcing them to read my entire blog and then selling them on the black market to wannabe parents. Oh, and I have to stop by my pimp's house and deliver his cut of last night's record breaking earnings.

Wax On, Wax Off

It was Friday evening and I had two tasks to accomplish but only enough time for one. The first option was to work out. It had been over a week since my feet had last strolled on my treadmill, the human equivalent of a gerbil wheel. Plus, there were arm exercises and crunches to do. But I scrapped it all for option number two, a self-performed bikini wax. Yes, ripping my hair from down there was more appealing than working out.

I got down to business and set up shop. This was only my second go at the self waxing effort. I knew there was a routine to it all but my efforts were stilted the way a child first learning to read might move his lips to the sounds of the words. My mind spoke the action as I completed the task.

Set out Hefty for work station.

Plug in wax warmer.

Cut up fabric strips.

Strip down to nothing.

Wax on.

Wax off (gasp).

My first go at waxing was, well, interesting. I followed Allison’s strict instructions to take my time and do small sections. I worked my way in and while I missed some patches here and there, I was pleased with my efforts. Sure, the unbreathable nature of a plastic trash bag left my bum moist at the most inopportune times but all in all I was doing a pretty darn good job.

Things went well until I got a little arrogant. The first couple of strips had gone so well, I figured I could just go the whole way. I mean, I’d successfully managed a Brazilian many times over so it isn’t like I couldn’t tolerate the pain. Then I landed on “the spot” and things came to a sudden halt. I did my countdown – one, two, three – and gave a good effort at a rip. Nothing. Well, nothing more than extreme pain paired with major hesitation. I started to fear I’d rip my clit right off while trying to remove the hair. I tried the countdown again but this time aloud as if the spoken word would motivate me to follow through. Nothing. And there I sat with a cotton swatch of ivory fabric adhered to blue wax which was in turn adhered to my down there.

It took me an hour and a half and a bottle of Wax-Off to get that fabric loose. Even still, some wax remnants remained and for the next twenty-four hours my panties stuck to them. The result was random patches of black lint on my cleanly waxed down there. Oh, and my ass cheeks randomly got stuck together due to lingering wax. Nonetheless, I was proud of my efforts, flaws and all, though I was greatly humbled by the experience. I got back on track with planning waxing appointments so I wouldn't have to do it again.

Then my timing got messed up. Though I scheduled a wax for the Tuesday before I headed to Heehaw Texas, I was suddenly slated to be in a bathing suit the Saturday before. By the time I realized my flub, the salon was closed and I had no time to even attempt a last minute appointment. I glanced at my razor and cringed. The stubble, the growing-in itches and the razor burn all convinced me to put my wax to use. I got out my gear and got down to work.

With “the spot” issue still fresh in my mind, I kept my make-it-look-pretty eagerness to a minimum. Thirty minutes in and I was done. My down there was nice and tidy with the remaining hair shaped like a trapezoid. I got up off the Hefty, tugging it from my ass as I ascended to a standing position, and headed to the shower. I just needed to get the leftover wax off my hands, thighs and, most importantly, down there.

I’m not sure what motivated me to do what I did next. Maybe it was a sudden flash of Allison’s story about the time she spilled hot wax all over the kitchen floor and used Wesson to get it up. Maybe it was my limited desire to go through the other half of my Wax-Off only to be met with partial success of the product. Either way, I was suddenly on the floor of my tub rubbing Bertolli on my down there. I’m guessing I’ve officially lost any of my Italian male readers with that visual.

Well, I’ll be. It worked, and acted as a nice moisturizer in the process. There was not a single hint of messy wax remnants to be found and my skin was silky soft. Of course, I almost cracked my skull slipping around on the olive oil lubricated tub mat but I made it out of the shower both concussion and wax free. As I wiped the water off my skin, I took a glance at my completed work, my very own trapezoid. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Tell: 0 Don't Tell: 2

So I shared my blog with a suitor. He asked, I stumbled and then I just sent the link. Fuck it. If you can’t handle the blog me you probably can’t handle the real me. Blah, blah blah. Click, send, await reply. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Not even a response with a lame excuse to backtrack out of our pending first date. Time to update the scoreboard: Tell - 0, Don't Tell - 2. Then my phone rang.

“Paige, it’s Suitor.”

“Hey, Suitor. How’s your Friday treating you?”

“Pretty good. Just wanted to confirm tomorrow. And by the way, I read some of your blog. I liked it.” Insert short pensive pause here. “Yeah, I liked it. I think you have a really nice voice and a gentle balance between the serious and the funny. Anyway, how about I ring you tomorrow when my morning commitment comes to an end?”

Ref, I’d like to request an adjustment to the scoreboard: Tell - 1, Don't Tell - 1.

We had a first date of Starbucks and a stroll. As my Tod's sandals skimmed against the dirt path meandering alongside the Wissahickon, the one and only downside to a suitor liking my blog became apparent. There it was as bright as day - a false sense of familiarity. A comfort that he knew me even though he really didn’t, or he did but in a creepy manner like spying on me with a nanny cam. I just rolled with it, figuring the blurred line was to be expected.

Around forty-eight hours prior to our second date, I received an email from Suitor titled: A Poem. I've honestly never been a fan of poetry, with the exception of Shel Silverstein. I realize that a writer disliking any version of the written word is hypocritical but for me, poetry is like Jazz. I can fully appreciate the tremendous talent required to create it but I just don’t get it. Nonetheless, Suitor had something to share and the least I could do was read it. Click, open, read, stomach churn, swallow back pre-barf, close window. Breathe. In and out. In and out. Breathe.

I'm not going to post the poem here for all the world to see, though I didn't hesitate to forward it along to people I know. I was curious what they thought and, more importantly, how they thought I should respond to this inappropriate email masquerading as creativity. There was mention of lips on my ankles. And then there was the part about playing with my nipples and pulling them erect. There's that nasty pre-barf again. Anyway, two thirds of the way through, the poem was suddenly about sailing which totally confused me. I'm sure it was meant to be a creative metaphor but it didn't work. Is his penis the sail? Is the wetness the ocean or something, well, else? At the end of the day, Suitor had simply emailed me crappy poetic pornography.

"You seem tense," he commented twenty minutes into date number two as I sipped some seltzer to stall a response.

"Yeah, still having a hard time with the poem. Just found it inappropriate?"

"I thought you'd find it sensual," he said with that glimmer in his eye, the kind usually paired with purring.

"Not so much. I mean, if it arrived the day after a night of sex, sure. But I've been pretty careful to keep flirting and sexual innuendos to a minimum. Didn't want to mislead you as I figured out my comfort level with the 23 years between us. By the way, do you recycle this poem or was it specifically for me?"

"Recycled? Well, I don't ever use the same exact poem. More of a hybrid. But yeah, I like to send poetry to women."

"Why? I mean, what's the goal?"

"It's a test. To see how she'll respond."

"Don't you think that's rather...calculated?" I said with both disbelief and disgust.

"Maybe 'test' isn't the right word."

"You picked it. Not me. And if this is your 'test' for narrowing down your female pickings, what exactly are you looking for?"

"I think a friend....with benefits. Someone with a sexual appetite who can also feel comfortable joining me to hear some live music." That glimmer in his eye was back.

"Well, my Friend-with-Benefits slot is currently occupied. In other words, not accepting applications at this time," I said while reaching for my handbag and motioning the bartender for the check.

Suitor offered to pay, hopping off his barstool and reaching into the pocket of his Daisy Duke version of men's khaki shorts. He lingered with his hand on his open wallet while watching me dig around for a twenty dollar bill. I knew he would've willingly paid if I'd backed down off the independent woman, hear me roar pedestal. And in simple mathematical terms, he should have. I'd sipped seltzer while he'd gone the way of Margaritaville. But I didn't want to owe this guy anything. Not one single thing.

Ref, disregard the previous request and let the original score hold: Tell - 0, Don't Tell - 2.

Beaumont or Bust

It was a little past midnight and Allison and I decided to check our email one last time before retiring to our room for the night. We wandered down to the marble common area and pulled two chairs up to the desktop computer the hotel made available for guests. She went first while I sat back and focused my attention on the details of the décor. A little while later, as my eyes glanced over the crown molding, she relocated to a sofa a few feet off to the side and I took over the keyboard.

“Oh my God!” I excitedly said in a hushed tone so as to limit the amount of echo.

“What?” Allison asked while looking up from the previous day’s USA Today.

“I got it! I got it! I made the Community Corps cut and I’m going on the volunteer trip!”

“That’s great!”

“……um, to Texas? Beaumont, Texas. Where the fuck is that?” I said, my tone still hushed and hovering somewhere around incredulous.

“Beats me.”

“Must be near Louisiana. Must be hot as hell. Especially in August when they’re sending us? Crap. Did I read that right?”

Allison remained silent.

Not wanting to let the obvious pitfalls of the trip overwhelm me, I fell back on an old habit of reciting the positive aloud so as to re-convince my brain it’s a good thing.

“Oh well. So I’ll sweat. But I’m so honored I made the cut! And I get to do something good for other people. It’ll be great. Yeah, it’ll be fantastic!”

Twenty-four hours later, my tune changed. While the cab bounced down the street en route to the airport, I turned to Allison and let my hesitations be known.

“This is a bad idea, right? I mean, me, the girl who still doesn't know if the Phillips Head screwdriver is the flat or the X, doing manual labor in yeehaw Texas in August which just so happens to be hurricane season?”

“Thank God you're seeing the light. Didn’t want to burst the bubble but seriously, it makes no sense.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m so honored that I made the cut," I said almost with a question mark.

“Be honored but decline the invitation. The honor's still there regardless of agreeing to participate.”

Her statement was accurate. Nonetheless, I felt like a jerk being selective about where I landed on the map for an all expense paid volunteer excursion. Snobby pairs perfectly with the latest season's Prada bag and Chloe pumps but it does not pair well with volunteerism. I decided to sit on it all for the next day or so, figuring my gut would just tell me what to do.

As we lingered poolside at our next destination, I informed Allison I was accepting the invitation. Sure, I’d hoped to end up on a trip to a third world country I’d want to visit but never spend my own dollars getting to. Sure, I’d hoped the manual labor aspect wouldn’t have to occur in 98 degree heat with the threat of deadly storms passing through. But at the end of the day, volunteerism isn’t about what you want. Ever. I mean you have to enjoy making the effort but it's all about giving and not taking. And there it is. I leave on Wednesday the 9th to join up with 35 other Gap, Inc. employees who were hand picked to help rebuild homes in Texas. Beaumont or bust!

Ma-Ma-Mallorca

When the plane touched down in Mallorca, Allison and I looked at each other and smiled. After three days of crummy food and dirty crowded streets, we were excited to start the next leg of our trip. The cab drove us along the coast from Palma to Magaluf. We paid the fare, which was for once fair, and headed into the hotel. A goofy looking guy checked us in and off we went. While the room was a clutter of green stained wood, cold tile flooring and yellow nappy bedspreads, the ocean view from the balcony was enough to distract anyone from the questionable decor. We dropped our bags, put on bathing suits and went down to the beach to sneak in a few hours on the sand before showering for dinner.

“This floor is filthy,” I said while lifting my foot to get a glance of the dirt I’d accumulated since kicking off my shoes.

“Don’t look in the bathroom if you're unhappy with the floor,” Allison suggested, her voice bouncing off the tiles as she washed up.

“Go ahead and tell me. I'm sitting. By the way, what do you think the likelihood is that the suspicious red stain on my bedspread is Kool Aid?”

“There’s something goopy and blue on the door. Maybe hair gel or toothpaste? Funny how those two products can look so similar. And you know that spot we thought was rust in the toilet bowl? Well, it’s gone so it must have been….I can’t even say it. And seeing neither of us has taken a shower yet, I’m guessing the hair in the tub is someone else’s.”

“You know, as I was staring out the window hoping the ocean view would offset the dirt details you were sharing, I noticed a collage of hand prints all over the glass. It's like art, with bacteria.”

The next morning, hell bent on enjoying ourselves, we headed to the pool where we snagged two chairs and sprawled out on our rented, hotel, beach towels. We settled in under the blazing sun with chilled bottled water in one hand and a good book in the other.

“Addaya eedindare, luff?”

“Oh I’m sorry. I don’t speak Spanish,” I replied to the craggled tooth gent peering child-like over his chair at my book and my boobs.

“What. Are. You. Reading. There. Love,” he annunciated with a British accent.

“Oh, The History of Love,” I replied. As the words flowed from my mouth, two more guys suddenly turned their attention in my direction. And so it began, the entanglement of two Yankees and three Brits, all on summer holiday in Mallorca.

The gents soon became our social partners in crime. Whether we were sunning poolside or sipping sangria on the hotel patio while listening to some second rate wedding singer entertain the masses, our newfound friends were there to make sure our glasses were full and our smiles were wide. Sure, I wanted to powerwash two of their mouths so as to clean the curious crud from their teeth and I constantly was asking one of them to talk with less of a Liverpool accent so I could decipher the words he was speaking, but at the end of the day they were nothing shy of gentlemanly chaps.

On their last night in Spain, we all went out together for a drink. I peeled off from the group so I could return to the room and finish reading my book. Meanwhile Allison lingered in town, furthering her flirtations with one of the Brits, the one with good teeth. I heard her come home at around four in the morning but I quickly fell back off to sleep. I awoke again at nine when there was a tap on the door. Still sporting the cute black dress she had worn the previous night, Allison fumbled to see who was knocking. There was muffled conversation and then the door closed and she fell back into bed.

“There’s sand on your neck. You had sex!” I accused.

“No!”

“So you gave him head?”

“No,” she said laughing.

“A hand job? Hello? Shall I interpret your silence as an affirmative?”

“Yeah but I eventually gave up. I mean, he'd been drinking since 9am. It was like pulling taffy.”

“Lovely. Thanks for the visual. Was that him at the door?”

“Yeah. Joked we had unfinished business. And was saying goodbye.”

“Goodbye my ass. He'll be contacting you.”

We fell into a fit of giggles before deciding we were hungry. Still covered in sand, Allison switched into other clothing while I pulled on something that wasn't pajamas. We gathered our things and headed down to the diningroom for one last Mallorca breakfast of stale croissants, greasy eggs, pink yogurt, strong coffee and watery OJ. Next stop, Portugal.