I Wanna Be A Cow

It’s been a while since I last invited Boytoy over to play. I paused him back in early June, feigning an interest in someone else. In reality, I’d simply lost interest in him. Sure, our last rendezvous did result in plenty of moanful moments but it also represented the first time he’d slipped up on the presentation factor. I totally understand getting comfortable with someone but I draw the line with smelly feet, a mouth that tastes like an ashtray and, well, at the risk of over share, a bum in need of slightly better washing. Let’s just say the entire tryst left a bad taste in my mouth, literally.

My first almost relapse with Boytoy was back in August. For some reason, those long days hammering and caulking in Beaumont gave me the urge to, um, get down and dirty. Then I started thinking about it. As I stood in baggage claim of Terminal D waiting for Continental to deliver my duffle, I pondered un-pausing Boytoy. As the thoughts filled my head, my face scrunched into that icky expression usually reserved for four year olds when they’re told to eat their brussel sprouts. I grabbed my bag and decided to keep the pause button in place.

Inviting Boytoy back into the folds of my routine would take away time I could use for other productive things. Like my writing or finding a man I’d actually want to be seen in public with. On the flip side, being with Boytoy again wouldn’t impact my number. I mean, he’s a repeat offender so he only counts once, right? I know. I could have been an accountant at Enron with my math skills. Throw a girl a bone. Or more specifically, a boner. Decisions, decisions.

No! Stop it! His butt tasted like, well, butt the last time around. I went and got a $70 Brazilian and he couldn’t even shower before coming over? Plus, there’s that adorable baseball guy. The one from last week. Yeah, I’m back doing the online dating thing. eHarmony to be exact. Nothing less and nothing more. One gloomy and sneezy Saturday night, I sat curled up on the sofa with a box of tissues and a bruised ego and somehow convinced myself to give that website a try. I’m blaming it all on Tylenol Cold. But I'm on a tangent. eHarmony and the men I've met from there are another story for another post.

So seriously now, I totally agree with that theory about a cow and the milk and why buy it if you can get it for free. Makes sense. Completely. But sometimes milk is all I want. Or perhaps I should say I'm okay with being just milk instead of the whole cow, because we all know the metaphor only applies to women. Why is it so despicable to be milk? Nah. Scratch that. I ultimately wanna be a cow.

So now I've sworn off casual sex, even with repeat offenders. At least that's where I'm hanging my hat today. I don't know. Maybe sex isn't supposed to involve so much thought. We are technically animals, you know. Do you think dogs congregate at the park and discuss whether they're going to put out on a second date? Do you think they even have dates? No. It's all so silly. The male dog sees a bitch he wants to mount, his little retractable penis comes out to play and he goes to town humping whatever he wants. Sadly, sometimes it's my leg. And for the time being, that along with some Duracell sponsored moments is just about all of the play this horny cow is getting.

Going For It

It was a random afternoon in mid-July and the last day Allison and I would spend in Mallorca before traveling on to Sintra. I was cutting across the sand to the hotel with a shopping bag containing some recently purchased pearls in my right hand and a quickly melting ice-cream cone in my left. Tucked under the shade of an umbrella next to the beachside café was Allison. I headed over to her table and pulled up a seat.

“I’ve been doing some thinking,” she said as she closed her book, pensively placed it down on the table and shifted her positioning in the plastic chair. Everything about her screamed serious, which made me nervous.

“Uh huh” I replied, curling the end with a minor question mark.

“I think you need to just go for it.”

“I’m sorry?” I asked, unsure what she was specifically talking about.

“As a writer. I’ve been thinking about this a lot today. You’ve come a long way with your writing this past year. And you’ve clearly amassed an audience. I mean, doesn’t it say something that people who are no longer part of your true life continue to read your blog?”

“Never really thought about it that way,” I said as I sat there digesting the last part of her statement.

“Listen, I’m going to be ridiculously busy once I land in DC this fall but I’m totally willing to help you. I have some notes from that NYU journalism class I took and I can give you some direction and edit some pieces for submission. Really. I’m serious. That Tucker Max book you brought on this journey? It isn’t any better written than some of your work. You’re a really good storyteller and I’d love to see you succeed. I know you can.”

I’ve gotten praise for my writing over the last few months and I know that having a recurring readership is an indication of my developing literary talents. But I’ve admittedly been stuck, unsure where to go next and how exactly one gets there. I’m not quitting my day job. First of all, my being at the office means my dad is able to maintain life as a working professional. It's one of the few places where the limitations of his MS aren't as obvious and if I can help him momentarily forget that he's sick, I will. Second of all, I’ve come to enjoy indulgences like a $5 pint of luscious raspberries from Wholefoods and an I-can't-even-say-the-price-aloud-without-feeling-ill bag by Prada.

I suppose I can continue to plug away at my blog with the hope that someone of note will pick it up and catapult me into the literary stratosphere like Stephanie Klein or Tucker Max. But let’s be honest, sitting and waiting around for something to happen is usually the best way to ensure it doesn’t happen.

On the bottom of my bookshelf is a pile of paperwork and writing books I either bought over the past year or inherited from Allison. How to get an agent. How to get published. Where to send articles. How to write comedy. How to write dialogue. It all rests next to my used-but-not-used-enough set of dumbells. This weekend, I’m plucking that pile off my Ikea shelving and pouring through it all. It’s easy to stand still, teetering near the edge but comfortably remaining within the confines of the familiar. Life is all about going for it and it’s about time I did. Let's just hope I see it through better than I did that fanny lifter I bought off QVC.

Temporary Home

When I bought my condo in late 2004, the theory behind ownership was simple. Interest rates were at an all time low, my beau of the moment did mortgages and I’d spotted a mouse scurrying across the kitchen floor of the apartment I was renting. In all honesty, absent the rodent, I’d probably still be a renter. Anyway, I wanted to buy something cheap that suited my basic needs.

“How long do you think you’ll hold onto it?” Ex probed as he ran numbers on his laptop.

“If I’m here for more than five years, I’m leaping from the balcony to my death.”

“Seeing the unit's on the second floor, I'm thinking you'll survive the fall. But that's irrelevant. A 5 year ARM should be fine.”

“Let’s make it a 10 year ARM. I mean, I can always rent it out and hold onto it for the sake of an investment.”

I suppose this was hint #739 that I had some hesitation about a future with Ex. Apparently it was a mutual hesitation because at one point, he went so far as to suggest a 30 year Fixed. If only I knew then that mortgage terms were the perfect relationship litmus test. But I digress.

When I signed on the dotted line, I was almost a year into dating Ex. His job was based in DC and because of the thriving real estate market and my willingness to ultimately abandon Philadelphia, it was always assumed I’d be the one to relocate. My condo was merely a layover until I packed up and left the area for good.

With that frame of mind, my new residence existed in limbo. I redid the kitchen because it had to be done. My mom hyperventilated when she first caught a glimpse of the dilapidated culinary alcove. Other immediately pressing issues were resolved as well. I had to update the lighting in the bathroom and the filthy, royal blue, wall to wall shag had to go. Otherwise, repairs and upgrades were put on hold.

When I yanked up and carted out the carpeting, I accidentally took some of the parquet flooring underneath with it. Nothing some creative furniture placement couldn’t temporarily fix. The bi-fold doors to the linen closet required a unique finesse if you wanted them to actually remain closed. All bedroom lighting was linked to outlets that in turn were linked to a single switch that my housekeepers always flipped rendering my alarm clock blinking 12:00. Oh, and my balcony, a curious crescent shaped outdoor space, remained empty because figuring out how to fit furniture on it was tougher than one of those annoying two-trains-leave-the station math problems. Since it didn’t make sense to invest anything in a home that was going to be boxed up soon enough, I shelved the quirky but livable issues.

Fast forward one year. I’m officially single and suddenly my layover of a residence has become more permanent. All of the things I’d put off I now found glaring back at me with an I-told-you-so smirk. Every night for seven months, I'd glumly retire to my un-home and ponder which problem to tackle first. Being a girl, I went with the one that was more about shopping than actual repairs.

I spent this past August graphing my balcony and test driving patio furniture at Hill Company, Smith & Hawken and a few other shops before finally ordering two teak armchairs and a small side table for my outdoor space. They arrived earlier this month and I spent an entire evening screwing everything together. I promptly placed the newly constructed furniture outside hoping I'd suddenly be in love but in all honesty, it just didn’t look all that welcoming. I retreated inside, feeling like a decorating failure.

Then Leslie gave me a pep talk and convinced me warmth was found in throw pillows and soft lighting. Go figure. Twenty-four hours later, I stumbled into my condo toting three enormous shopping bags filled with stuff I’d never in a million years think to buy. Then I went to work setting it all up. I rested a collection of votives across the wall of the balcony, illuminating them one by one. Next I arranged three, tall, iron candlesticks in the corner to fill the odd space and create additional lighting. Lastly, I pulled pillows from the bag and set them out on the seating. I stepped back and observed my efforts in the flickering light of the candles around me. And then I flopped into one of the chairs, let out a sigh and smiled. So this is what home feels like. I’m still leaping to my death if I reside here after the five year mark. But for the next three or so years I have left, I’m going to really enjoy sitting on my balcony with the warm glow of the candles, a good book and a delightful glass of Pinot Gris within reach.

Jurassic Park

I gathered my things and headed for the front door of my parent’s house. I was supposed to spend Saturday night entertaining Allison in Philly but things got complicated and I got sick. So she stayed in DC and I reverted back to being a child, spending the evening with my Mommy and Daddy.

“The lock is stuck,” I yelled over my shoulder to the den where my mom was nestled into the corner of the leather sectional.

“Keep trying,” she replied, rustling the newspaper to remind me she was busy.

“Um, if I try any harder I’m scared I’ll break the key,” I said, knowing she'd respond to the threat of a non-functioning front door lock.

My mom got down to business with some curious move that was one part jiggling and two parts turning. I meanwhile relayed the story about my departure the last time I visited them. How I walked through a spider web that spanned across the two front shrubs flanking the walkway down to the curb. That when I got in the car, I decided to turn on the interior light just to make sure I didn't have a spider riding shotgun and sure enough a massive brown thing with too many legs was waltzing across my messenger bag. I remained surprisingly calm as I went around to the other side of the car, opened the door and threw everything onto the ground. I saw a brown spider scurry into the darkness which was my signal to toss everything including myself back into the safety of my vehicle. If I learned one thing from that experience it was to avoid walking through spider webs.

“You’re free to go,” my mom announced as she released the lock and opened the door.

“Goodnight. Thanks for dinner.”

“Feel better, PJ,” she said with a cheek to cheek kiss.

I walked down to the curb via the driveway, unquestionably bypassing any spiderwebs. And as I approached my car, I saw something on the roof of it. A salamander? In a Philadelphia suburb? Holy. Mother. Fucker. That thing is like four inches long and, oh fabulous, a mere nine inches from the driver side door. I reached for my cell and dialed my parents.

“I can’t leave,” I said when my mom answered the phone.

“Where are you?”

“On the curb. Staring at my car. Which is currently home to a ginormous cricket. Or at least I think it’s a cricket.”

“How many legs does it have?” she asked.

“You really think I'm close enough to count the number of legs? More importantly, when did you guys move to Jurassic Park?”

“Paige Jennifer, how many legs?”

“Four. Yeah. I’m going with four.”

“Well, it isn’t an insect. Insects always have more than four legs.”

“First of all, that is the least comforting piece of trivia you could share at this very moment. And second, those massive black ants that used to take over my childhood bedroom in the springtime had four legs.”

“No, they have six. Or is it eight?”

“Four? Six? Eight? This is ridiculous. Can I come back in? I’ll just stay here tonight. It should be gone by the morning.”

“But the front door's locked. You saw how hard it is to maneuver. Just open and close the trunk. That'll scare it.”

“Been there. Done that. It didn’t move.”

“Do it again,” she instructed.

“Forget it," I said with a sigh. "I’m just going to enter through the backseat and crawl into the front."

“Holy crap! I can see that thing from here. You’re right. It’s huge!” my mom yelped.

“Right??? This thing is like the size of small child."

“I’m kidding. I’m back in the den watching Forty-Eight Hours,” she said with a chuckle.

“Nice. Your daughter is up against a Pterodactyl and your sprawled out in the den watching a rerun of some crappy crime show?”

“Uh huh. Hey, maybe it's a Praying Mantis. Did you know a Praying Mantis can eat a Humming Bird?”

“Enough with the science trivia. I feel like I'm in a really bad horror movie. Okay. This is getting ridiculous. I’m going in.”

“Keep me on the phone.”

“I can’t. Between me and my handbag, I don’t have a free…. OhmyGod! OhmyGod!”

“What?” she asked in a concerned tone, the newspaper crinkling under the pressure of her shifting body.

“It just took flight. That thing had the wingspan of a 747,” I said as I dashed for the door and snuck into the front seat. “I’m in. I hit my head on the way in but I'm in. And the doors are locked.”

“Well done, PJ. Get home safe and feel better.”

“Will do. Oh, and mom? Thanks for your help. Really. I could feel the love pouring through the phone, NOT.”

Tucking In

In all facets of my life, be it sheets or shirts, I'm a tucker. It started in my youth and has lasted well into adulthood. Sometimes people make fun of me for it and other times people compliment me for it. Either way, tucking is a way of life, or at least a way of my life.

When I was younger, my mother had a rule that beds had to be made each and every morning. Lazy and uninterested in the housekeeping task at hand, I set out to avoid it at all costs. An easy solution was to simply toss the comforter over the crumpled mess below. Voila! Unfortunately, it wasn't long before my mom caught onto my antics. I knew I was busted when she asked if the lump in the middle of my bed was a small child or untucked sheets. Um, small child?

The key to quickly making a bed in the morning is having little bed to make. I first tried sleeping on top of the sheets but that wasn’t very comfortable or warm when the winter nights rolled into town. My dad's one of those guys who rules the thermostat with an iron fist. He thinks setting it anywhere above 58deg is just silly. "Put on a sweatshirt," was his answer to the fact that I could see my breath while watching 90210 in the den. Anyway, the only solution was to mess up as little of the bed as possible. I eventually devised a tucking method with the foot and one side tightly tucked with the other side being a short flap, ideal for minimum disruption during entry and exit. I'm thirty-three and I still make my bed this way.

“Look at what I’m going to do,” Allison sang as she tentatively grasped the top of the sheet and blanket on the tucked in side of my bed. After arriving earlier that day to visit, we were gearing up for the official slumber party.

“Do you have to? I mean, can’t you just get in on the open side?" I said while Vanna White-ing the designated entrance. "And, listen, if you have to pee in the middle of the night, you can…..,” I went silent as I watched her yank the sheets loose, emitting only a slight gasp as the tussle of blanket and linen fell into a messy pile. It all happened in slow motion.

“That hurt, didn’t it?” she asked with a laugh.

“You have no idea,” I replied.

The other tucking I’m notorious for is clothing. Again, my mother's to blame. She's the one who taught me that where there are belt loops, the top should be tucked and the waist should be secured with a belt. Anything else is just plain old sloppy. Color me conservative but I totally agree with my mother on this. Just don't tell her I said that.

“Oh my God,” Chicken exclaimed while pointing at my waist as I sauntered down the hallway of our dorm en route to lunch.

“What?” I asked looking at my Emory sweatshirt to see if it had a stain or some other unsightly defect.

“Maria! Sam! Oh heck, everyone get out here! Paige has her sweatshirt tucked in. Wait! Holy crap! She's gotta belt on too!"

“It just feels better,” I defensively explained. In all honesty, it was painful as hell shoving that excess sweatshirt material into my jeans. Especially seeing I'd gone and cinched the waist even tighter with a belt. But tucking-in was all I knew so I lifted my chin and went about my day confused and distraught that I'd committed a fashion faux pas.

That Steve Urkel moment of humiliation scarred me for life. I spent the next few hours regrouping, finding a solution to this newfound tucking flaw. Was I to forever part with my tucking habit? Did tucking only work with dry clean only apparel? I hemmed and hawed before settling on the most obvious solution. I tossed all sweatshirts and haven’t owned one since. Once a tucker, always a tucker.

In My Pocket

I awoke last Friday morning to gray skies and a chill in the air. It was the kind of coolness that always makes me think of summer nights on Nantucket. Where the dampness lifting off the ocean dances with the evening air and chills you to the bone. In light of the rainy forecast, I grabbed a cardigan and my red rain jacket as I dashed for the door.

After putting in a full day, I left work and headed out to meet Hope for dinner and a movie. We retrieved tickets and then started to make our way over to The Continental for something to eat. The wind blew a little or at least just enough to make me cold. I pushed my clenched hands into my coat pockets in search of additional warmth. As I buried my bare fists deeper, my left hand ran up against something. I knew it wasn’t money but I otherwise was unable to determine what exactly the neatly folded yet slightly crumpled paper could be.

Lingering on the curb, waiting for the light to turn, I plucked the unknown item from my pocket and started inspecting it. My eyes glanced over the handwriting that wasn’t mine. I soon realized that I was looking at detailed directions my friend Chicken had jotted down for me when I visited her in June. She had to work during part of my stay so I headed out to meet another friend for coffee. This was Chicken’s motherly effort to make sure I made it from point A to point B without a hitch.

"What's that?" Hope asked, peering over at the paper in my hands.

"Just directions. From a Boston trip earlier this year," I said with a smile.

Glancing at those directions brought me back to that rainy Saturday morning in June. I remember clasping the lined paper in my hand as I stepped out into the misty day and worked my way toward the coffee shop. There were landmarks like a brick wall on the left and a T station on the right, all of which were exactly where Chicken said they’d be. When I entered into the coffee shop, dropping my umbrella in the communal bucket, I neatly folded the directions up and tucked the slightly damp piece of paper away in case I needed them to return home. I hadn’t seen it since.

Standing on the Philadelphia street corner with Hope by my side, my mind did one of those cool camera tricks of pulling away so that a larger picture, a picture beyond the directions to the coffee shop, could be seen. There was the indulgent and relaxing dinner in the back room at Stella the night I landed in Boston. We sipped cocktails and glanced at passing plates piled with food as we narrowed down what we wanted to try. There was me yanking the crystal beveled knob free from the bedroom door as I headed to the bathroom. I made a silent squeal as I tried to halt the still moving door from slamming into the wall. There was lying next to Chicken in the darkness of night, giggling and talking into the wee hours of the morning. There was the crowded streets lined with Red Sox fans as we made our way to The Avalon to catch a KT Tunstall performance. And there was the pre-flight stroll through Little Italy in search of the bakery with the best Torrone. We lined up behind others, patiently waiting to retrieve the tasty confection.

The light finally turned green and Hope and I stepped off the curb and into the street. I folded the paper up, following the already present creases, and tucked it back into my pocket. Not because I’d ever again need to know how to get from Chicken’s house to the coffee shop in her town. More so because I liked the memories evoked by that scrappy piece of paper. I figured it was good for another few smiles. Especially on a rainy day when it’s sometimes hard to find that silver lining. Listen, putting your hand in your pocket and unexpectedly pulling out a twenty dollar bill is great. But finding a snippet of your past that immediately makes you smile is a heck of lot more fun.