Faces

http://cnn.netscape.cnn.com/ns/news/story.jsp?idq=/ff/story/0002%2F20050216%2F1258083512.htm&photoid=20050213MAN02D&ewp=ewp_news_0205__pill_faces

I love face research. I do it a lot. Not like this.

Its funny when the face recognition researcher forgets faces. The truth comes out

My feet

“Jesus walks. God show me the way cause the devil tryin break me down. Jesus walks with me. The only thing that I pray is that my feet don’t fail me now.”

I just had a craving for Karaoke. In Miami. With old friends and new friends. It’d be sexy. And I’d sing “New York State of Mind.” The crowd would go wild.

I could lament my current state. And bitch about phone calls, but I deserve what I’ve got coming to me. Fear is teaching me a lesson. Since I was afraid to call for at least a month. No more. If I owe you or anyone you can think of a phone call, I’ll put them on my list. Never again.

One of my colleagues told me today that for V-Day, her boyfriend is moving to Miami. She’s one of the lucky ones. ‘B’ told me last night, “That which makes us exceptional also makes us lonely.” Errr something like that. I could weave my way around that topic, but what can I say that doesn’t sound like whining. Whining is not my intent. And so, I shall leave that for better days.

I am such a single woman bachelor style. My fridge has wine, OJ, cream cheese, (these are the only edible items) and then the rest is filled with items that could walk to the dumpster. My bed is, as such beds should be deemed, a ‘good sex bed’ (as opposed to ‘bad sex bed’ which would consist of leopard sheets) and my pjs don’t win no points on comfortable. I’m in search of the fuzzy slippers of life (that’s the ‘woman’ part of ‘swbs’). I worked out tonight. I did hills on the treadmill as a result of my latest afternoon pleasure: 3-5pm nap/Dr.Phil/nap/Oprah/nap. So I could eat donut holes tonight. I’ve realized that whomever lives above me gets laid every night. Apparently I’m slow on the uptake cause I just assumed people were like my sister and moved their furniture around a few times a week. Wronggg. At Publix tonight, I realized that I have a grocery store buddy. I remember seeing him there the other night. Maybe I should consider normal grocery shopping behavior. I like using journals for my research notes and I’ve contemplated keeping a journal. Last night I thought it should be about my day, but that would be trite and depressing. School. Food. Shower. Workout. Food. Work. (in some order) Tonight I think about ‘B’’s journal project….keeping track of your distracter thoughts, which could just be dangerous. I’ve run into this before…it’s a very cool cognitive experiment to do…but there are limitations. For example, if you’re trying to remember to keep track of your distracter thoughts, are you priming the distracters to come up? I thought about it because I was off the distracter radar in PJ class today. Surprising I know.

Redhead chastised me for complaining about complication. Mea culpa. I don’t want easy (otherwise cowboys wouldn’t be in my future), I’ve never chosen easy (can we say, “honors thesis”), I’ll never have easy (can we see a pattern here). But I would like to wade through complications with someone else, at least for a while. The muck can be a little daunting and lets be honest, not many people think swamp hair is sexy.

“Now that you’re right here let me whisper in your ear. Now that you’re listening let me tell you how I feel”

VDay

The creator of Valentine's Day should be drawn, quartered, and shot.

Anyone who wishes a single woman a Happy VDay at 730 in the morning when she first wakes up should be heavily chastised.

As of 1215, the best pass I've had all day came from a duck. He walked up to me, looked deeply into my eyes for a few minutes and then turned around and shook his tail feathers at me. He did this twice before I decided to save myself and move from where I was sitting.

Lonestar

"Lonestar where are you out tonight/This feeling I'm trying to fight/It's dark and I think that I would give anything/For you to shine down on me/How far you are I just don't know/The distance I'm willing to go/I pick up a stone that I cast to the sky/Hoping for some kind of sign"

I’ll admit it. I’m slightly bitter. Tomorrow is Valentines Day. Well isn’t that just ducky. I don’t even have my girls to sit around and curse the day as we revel in our goddess-ness and drink Martinis. Manhattan doesn’t seem to have the same angst as the women of Nicholas 207 and the Crew. Although, we ladies have lost some of our staunchest haters to the world of chocolate flowers and furry pink teddy bears. Damn. My sure bet is sick again. And I’m in my neurotic stage with the hopeful. Thus, no VDay for me. Fuck. Oh wait, not even that lucky.

I had a Sex and the City moment the other day. Well, if you consider walking by Bed on South Beach (where they have beds instead of tables…I believe the girls managed that up in Manhattan), then I had multiple ones. I saw the episode where the girls wonder if relationship karma comes back to haunt them. Carrie had broken up Big’s marriage, and Miranda was haunted by her poor treatment of Steve, both convinced that their past behavior was getting turned around on them. So I got to thinking, if we have to go through the lousy nodatingsuckydating phases all the time, do we ever get to the maybesortakindagooddating phases? If so, am I finally moving into the second phase. And how long is it gonna take to get there? Cause I’ve been walking a long time in my Guess flats and I’m starting to get blisters. I don’t even think my future pair of Manolo’s would last this long. And it’d be really nice to put on a pair of fuzzy slippers at this point. The band-aids are starting to get nasty.

“The most important thing I know about living is love. Nothing surpasses the benefits received by a human being who makes compassion and love the objective of his or her life. For it is only by compassion and love that anyone fulfils successfully their own life’s journey. Nothing equals love.” –Sargent Shriver

If what goes around comes around in the world of love, then I think we’ve all got really good things coming to us. Even to those of us who despise February 14th. One day we will look back on this and laugh at our despair. As we’re cuddled on the couch in our pjs and furry pink slippers. It’ll be so good.

Memo and More

Big: She can get ahold of me but I can't get ahold of her.
Aidan: That's fucked up.

In your best Megger tone…

MEMO

TO!: My Thug
From: JLM
Re/Ray: Your illegitimate hugs.

I’ve got a problem. You do not have a legitimate claim to grope me. If you’d like to stop being a bastard, you can apply to the JLM Hugging Rights Program. Check one of the following:

______ Deep Conversation _______ Dinner Date

Your application will be reviewed immediately. My personal assistant, Mimi, will contact you to set up your appointment. Should you have any questions, please call my office at 1-800-123-4567. Thank you for your interest.

End Memo.


Here’s my issue. With Miami men.
a) They believe it to be their divine right to make comments about you as you walk by them. In Spanish of course.
b) They believe in illegitimate hugging. (This commentary will address only this point)

I’m currently going 2 for 2 on the illegitimate front (one has applied for and been granted hugging rights). Granted, this is a small sample size, but I believe it to be at least descriptive of my current problem. Let’s discuss…

Either my life has lacked external validity up until this point or I’m just crazy. But male acquaintances have not hugged me, until of course I got to Miami. Problem 2 got my number and then thought he had hugging rights. “I don’t think so Annie. You want me to do things like ze sun and ze moon. Idiot.” Um. We didn’t talk. Beyond trying to figure out when the hell he was going to come see me at the FN office. And beyond my trying to figure out what the hell he was saying.

Interruption. Hi. My name is Jess and I’m a planner. I also go to bed early. Please learn to take note of that. Thanks

My Thug. Granted, we’ve had slightly more meaningful conversation but nothing near the requirements needed for hugging rights. Let’s estimate overall talk time per week. He’s usually at the gym 3 to 4 days a week….probably get in about 3 to 5 minutes of conversation per gym sighting. That means between 9 to 20 minutes a week of conversation, and that’s probably positively biased. Where the hell are the statisticians to make a correction when you need them.

Think about it. Do you hug your gym boyfriend? Stef? Bueller?

I don’t get hugs from colleagues or classmates. No hugs from professors. Nope, not even Jose, my apartment complex worker buddy. And not Cesar (not of the salad variety), the neighbor and tennis buddy.

I get hugs from men who I’ve had in depth conversations with (read: good friends or at least some discussion of the merits of Mill or philosophy behind our grad school choice). I also get them at the bar after he’s bought me a drink and would like to take me back to his apartment. Or if we’ve been on a date. Those are acceptable. But you don’t get to grope me if you’re my gym boyfriend. Especially when you're realllly sweaty. Sorry. Exchanging heat byproducts is not on my list of things to do. Not unless you plan on seeing me in some other situation, preferably one where I’m not wearing spandex.

I just can’t believe that this is commonplace. Am I crazy?

And I know what you’re thinking. Just don’t hug him! But…

I'm jist a fool when lights are low/ I cain't be prissy and quaint / I ain't the type that can faint / How c'n I be whut I ain't? / I cain't say no!

I have issues, I know. But he’s soooooo sexxxxy. He’s within my geriatric range. Has a job (I could get Tiffany’s..mwhaha. And he wouldn’t be a compromise for the jewels). He’s got two dogs and likes the Raiders. It’s too delicious but bad for my health.

I’m willing to compromise. Not myself of course. But we could work out some kind of a deal I’m sure. I’m just currently out of negotiation skills. Help.

WARNING!

Handsome, older, [sweaty], [hug-prone] businessmen are bad for my health.

The Surgeon General really should put a warning label on them.

Abuse and Neglect

I’ve been neglectful. I’ve also been sore. Manhattan has been sore. Manhattan has also been attentive.

Last night in my attempt to busy myself with nothingness, I worked on the computer. Manhattan, in her attempt to obtain my affections, sat by my computer, rested her paws on the keyboard, and every chance she got, crawled into my lap. Every chance I got, I moved her paws and gingerly placed her on the floor. In my attempt to satiate my emptiness, I made a frozen dinner lasagna and sat on the couch to eat it. Manhattan, in her attempt to obtain my affections, refrained from trying to eat it and instead threw herself against my side and curled up against me. In my attempt to fulfill my sense of failure, I got up to run errands. Manhattan, in her attempt to express her frustration, gave me a pained look. It said, “I can’t believe you are leaving me. I love you.”

Hi. My name is Jess and I am a bad mom.
(resoundingly) Hi Jess!

I realized that someone who loved me was making every attempt to be a good little girl. Despite the fact that I had her declawed and spayed. And made her spend an entire day in her carrier, on a plane, against her will. The day after she came home. Manhattan was there, desperately trying to get me to realize that she was making every effort to be as close to me as possible. And I was running away. To things I had to do. Eventually. But did I have to get up and run out into the world that had no desire to curl up next to me? It’s crazy to have something that depends on you for everything and loves you and takes care of you more than she does herself. She makes herself crazy with her love for me. I do too. But it scares me and so I run. Almost two weeks ago now, I asked if we ever stopped (for all intensive purposes) running. Cause I was sick of the idea that I’d be running or turning or spinning or leaving again. And yet I was doing it last night.

Sometimes it is hard to tell if the world is doing the spinning or if you are. And it’s even worse when you don’t know what you should do and when to let go. What are we holding on to? Sometimes it’s my stomach. (I get kinda sick on wheels) Sometimes it’s my head. (I might lose my brain cells) Sometimes it’s my heart. (Cause it likes to run off) Sometimes it’s my breast. (Yep. That’s what hurts) Sometimes it’s my thoughts. (There’s a reason I self-monitor, people!) Sometimes it’s the ground. (I need to be on it) And sometimes it’s the air. (I shouldn’t be gripping to anything)

We’ve got good stuff people. We’ve also got good people. They are good to hold on to when you’re feeling a little dizzy. It’s even good when you’re both a little dizzy. Or drunk. Walking back from the Greenleafe one sunday night. Four legs, no matter how wobbly they are, must be better than two. I have six. That’s gotta be good.