The B stands for Barriers

It seems a little bit appropriate that I begin my New Year's Resolution to start blogging more regularly about my life as a late bloomer begins on January 8.  I mean, to start it on January 1 would be on time, and as most of my friends will tell you, I'm not on time to anything, including my own life, so why start now with my New Year's Resolutions?


I should probably point out that I'm somewhat of a different person than when I started this blog.  You wouldn't know that because (a) my readers actually don't exist. I have no followers, I post so infrequently that people forget I have this, and I don't ever mention or push it simply because I fear the reaction if my family ran across it and read it word for word.  They love me and all, but some entries may push their limits (good thing they don't know that I keep journals). And (b) I haven't written in this for two years. TWO YEARS-- where does the time go?  Well, I'll tell you.  It goes in to Netflix, the Real Housewives of [every city there is a RH franchise], the gym, work, travel for work, travel for fun, wine (now), vodka, whiskey (soon), Grndr window shopping, Scruff window shopping, telling my cat how much I love her, and occasionally, sleep.  That's where all the time goes.  It's sad really, a talent wasted... like when you see an incredibly hot accountant.


There's no need to get into how I'm different than my previous entries.  That will become evident as I blog more -- and, yes, my commitment to you, my nonexistent reader, is that I will write more about my life and adventures for your nonexistent eyes to read, your nonexistent mind to ponder and your nonexistent heart to absorb.  As old friends do, we'll just pick up in the now and move forward.


And, moving forward is exactly what I'm doing.  A week from today, there should be a For Sale sign out in my yard. That's when the gun will finally fire, and the race will be on. The finish line: New York City.


Now, you probably had one of two reactions to that.  You either thought, "Oh, that's great!  I'm so excited for you.  I know you've wanted that for so long." OR you rolled your eyes.  I don't blame you for either, but I thank you for one.


Truth be known, I've already pre-written an entry on people's reactions to my move. While I haven't made an official statement (because, you know, I'm basically a Kardashian and my people are clamoring), I've told enough people to see a pattern.  Tune in next week. I'm saving that for a future entry.  I can't use all my material in the first one of the year (although I could have in 2014 since I only made one entry, but I digress). 


Did you notice I said a week from today there "should" be a For Sale sign in my yard? Word choice is everything. There should be a For Sale sign in my yard because that was my plan, that was my hope.  Instead, in my front yard right now is there:

The city of Dallas, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that now, after I've spent the past 20 years mustering up the courage to make the move I've always dreamed of and after 8 years of living on this street, that NOW would be the perfect time to rework the drainage system or sewer lines or whatever involves massive cement structures, huge pipes and huge trucks that dig up things.  My street is in chaos, and it only appears to be getting worse before it gets better.


While I haven't met with my Realtor yet, I can only imagine the word "wait" will come out of his mouth.  And, I get it.  It seems to be the right thing to do. They always say that when selling a house, curb appeal is huge and when you have no curb, that becomes a bit more challenging.


But, I hate it. I'm angry. I want out. I want a new chapter. I need to meet and see new people. I need to meet and see a new me. And, in my head, those things were a month and a half away.  End of February, and my whole life was getting a reboot.


Instead, with this construction, who knows when that will happen. Construction is notoriously slow -- Rome wasn't built in a day, after all. It usually manageable... except when it's right outside of the house that you want more nothing more than to leave. It feels as though I'm being punished, as if I'm grounded. "And where do you think you're going, Chad?  New York City? Oh (chuckle). Not so fast, young man...."


Or worse, I'm seeing a dark room with a cigar haze hovering above a poker table.  The players are all older men (white, of course, it's Texas) with cowboy hats.  Some have mustaches, some full beards, all large, expensive cowboy hats. The sound of chips being tossed on to the pile in the center of the table is the only noise that interrupts the following exchange between these thick Southern, deep gravely voices:

"What are we gonna do about this Peterson situation?"


"What's that little queer up to now?"

"He wants out."


"Thought he did that back in 2003."


"No. Out. Like out of Dallas."

"Out of Dallas? Where does he think he's going?"

"New York City."


[All] "New York City??"


"Don't they got enough queers up there?"


"Apparently there's room for one more."


"Well, not this one. We gotta keep him here. Besides, what makes him think that he can go and live there and experience new things and meet new people and learn about himself all while living in a city that brings him energy and ideas and creativity and life? Peterson's a born and bred Texan. He a'stayin' here."


"How we gonna do that? He's got plans in place. He's spent a shit load of money fixing up that house of his. He's giving most of his possessions away. Chad is on the fast track outta town."


"Not if that track is broken."

"What choo talkin' about, Willis?"

"Road work, fellas.  We suddenly have to do a lot of road work to that ole Channel Drive.  That boy ain't gonna go nowhere."


[All evil cowboys laugh with evil, smoking-damaged laughs and cheers shot glasses before shooting Jack Daniel Honey Whiskey (I'm going for a product placement deal).]


OK, it probably didn't happen even close to that. Being the martyr and victim comes naturally to me. But, not this time. I won't let it. It did get me down today, in a big way. It feels like a huge set back and is extremely discouraging. My plans have been interrupted. But they aren't stopped. I'll move to Plan B... The B stands for Barriers. 


I've overcome so much to make this decision. Financial concerns, naysayers, excuses, my comfort zone, insecurities, fears... I've found my way around them all to get me on this path. I'm not going to let a concrete barrier stop me. I can't lift it. I can't stop it. I can't speed it up. But, I can be sure it doesn't stop me.


I'm moving to New York as soon as I can, and this obstacle in my way may slow me down, but it will not stop me. It may not happen as soon as I like, but few things in my life have.  Everything has happened later than I wanted it to, so this shouldn't be any different.

And, I know I can say, "Everything happens for a reason." Someday, I may be sitting on the porch of my summer house in the Hamptons with my gorgeous, successful, loving, caring, kind, generous, sensitive husband drinking cocktails with our friends, and think, "Wow, I would have never met him if I had moved in February." while the screen fades to "And They Lived Happily Ever After."


But, instead, right now, I'm sitting on my couch having just finished a bottle of wine, and I'm giving the city of Dallas the bird.

The Best Year Ever

Across the table from me sits an extremely attractive man. Young man, I should say. I mean, he drove himself here and could legally buy a bottle of wine, so it's not creepy or anything, but he's obviously younger than I am. At this point of my life, the majority of people are, actually. He's working diligently on his small black laptop as I sit across the table from him typing in a concentrated effort on mine. I'm attempting to look busy, enthralled and utterly dedicated to the business before me when in actuality, I'm trying to see who he decides to lift his head to look at in the coffee line behind me. Girls? Guys? Both? If guys, are they short, fair skinned, slightly balding from the back?

Truth be known, I came here to work on a script. Other people's new year's resolutions typically involve spending more time at the gym or giving more money to the poor. Mine, year after year, is to finish a script. By the end of the year, most people have gained weight and spent that money on selfish indulgences, and I have spent hours-- no, days of my life watching reality television and ending up creatively barren. Reality television is the entertainment version of deep fried Reese's peanut butter cups and has the worth of buying Ishtar on VHS. (Six of you who were alive in the '80s may have understood that last bit. If you did, we are now officially best friends.)

My Facebook newsfeed has been littered in the last two days with people declaring that 2013 was a horrible year… "Good riddance." "So glad this year is over!" "See you later 2013. Don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya," they seem to all be saying.

I hate to go against the majority, but 2013 was actually one of the best years of my life. I made a bold move and switched jobs, leading to a new depth in my career where I'm discovering creative challenges to overcome and meeting great people. It's provided me a fresh start and new energy and independence I hadn't anticipated. Additionally, despite some cruddy sniffles and coughs I have right now, I've been in great health all year. Let's face it: I look better at 39 and three/fourths than I have my whole life. This was also the year I finally made it to London and fell in love with a new (well, new to me), wonderful great city-- like New York but with a classy accent. Then, I was able to cap off the year with a lead role in a heartfelt, challenging play where I was proud of the production and my work in it-- reminding me of gifts with which I've been blessed and the additional joy of sharing them with others. Plus, through it all, I'm still able at any time to call my parents and ask advice, complain about being under the weather (as I am today) or just to hear their voices.

Plus, the one real Resolution I made last year, I was able to keep. That was: not to fall for anyone… not to care. You can see my last entry on the blog to read all about it. (Sadly, this was about the only writing I did; the entry from a year ago). Per my goal, I achieved emotional neutrality in the dating world, and I'm proud of it. I weened myself from all the little things that kept the Meg Ryan in me alive. 11:11 was just another minute, the one before 11:12, not a time to make a wish. Stars were just planets far, far away, and candles on top of a cake were just decoration. I trained myself to stop all the other the little things I would do or say to myself to help keep romantic hope on the respirator. I unplugged the machine, and the hopeless romantic in me flatlined. Time of death: 11:59 p.m., December 31, 2013.

[insert moment of silence here.]

Okay, yes, I admit: I fell off the bandwagon once this year… About six months in, I weakened as anyone does when trying to learn and practice something new and against who they are wired to be. Like those who swear to lose weight, I cheated. I tasted something sweet, and it reminded me of the endorphins that come from a crush. What it also reminded me of is that we can't control what others do or think… or feel. So, after a few weeks of … well, it doesn't matter what I felt the few weeks were. However I may have labeled them, they weren't that. They were just another story -- same book, different chapter. During our last dinner (which I didn't know was our last dinner), he spoke of how he's not a romantic and how he doesn't act or think that way. Flashforward, a couple of weeks later, he was changing his relationship status on Facebook, hash tagging how he was in love and posting on Instagram pictures of sweet acts they would do for one another. Life, relationships and healing must have been so much easier in the days before social media.

But, I shook it off. When the picture I ordered of us from a concert we attended finally arrived, I threw it away… or put it in a box of old cards and pictures. I don't remember. The movies he left at my place are in a box of donations which I plan to take to Good Will… someday. Still, I remembered all the reasons why I set the goal, I rededicated myself to my New Year's Resolution for 2013, and I kept it. 

Sure, I still notice a gorgeous blonde man in a fitted v-neck sweater sitting across from me in a mega-chain coffee shop; my eyeballs still work. It's just my romantic heart that doesn't. I found the switch. I count it among my accomplishments from 2013.

And, even as great as 2013 was, this new year must be different. I must complete a script. I must stay in shape or even improve it more. I must succeed in my new career move. I must do so much more that I don't even know yet. This is the year that must be different, this is the year that really needs to leave a mark. It's a big year. 2014… and the 4 stands for 40.

All these "musts" are reasons I feel so much pressure today. These on top of everyone who seems so glad to see 2013 depart and 2014 arrive. It's caused me to suffocate under this intense weight to make 2014 the best year ever.

It's already going to be a landmark year in my life, so what will it be remembered for? I think that's what led me to a minor breakdown today… minor in comparison to a couple of others I've had in my life at least. Whether it was remains of the bottle of wine I had enjoyed the night before (yes, I said 'bottle'-- deal with it) or the Dayquil having some adverse effect on my mood, I was on the phone with my best friend Kathy when out of nowhere, I just started crying. Not a few weepy tears that come from deep thoughts; it was my first ugly cry of 2014. Check that off the list. Thankfully, as Kathy is good to do in moments of distress, she lovingly reminded me what I needed to hear.

I don't have to take on 2014 all at once. New Year's Resolutions are great, but hearing everyone say that 2014 is going to be the best year ever really was getting to be too much. What did that mean? What did I have to do? What did I have to promise myself? What did I have to promise others? What changes do I need to make? What do I have to deliver? Who do I have to be? What do I have to wear? I didn't have it in me today to answer those questions. I still don't.

Honestly, I can't say that 2014 is going to be the best year ever. 2013 was great, but I can't guarantee what I'll be writing on this day in 2015. Going into a year with positive thinking is great and I'm all for it, but life provides enough pressure and stress that I don't need to stand at the start of the journey and say, "This is the best journey ever ahead of me." I prefer not to set the bar that high.

I think that's one way I failed in my romantic life. Turns out, there's not someone waiting to meet me at the top of the Empire State Building or running to prevent me from leaving a New Year's Eve party or wanting me live with him at his winery in France. It's life.

As Kathy said, all I can do is take it a day at a time. I'll say that today will be a good day, and tomorrow, on January 2, I'll try to do the same. They all won't be great days. The best thing we can do is shoot for the law of averages. If I have more good days than bad days in 2014, then overall, it'll be a good year. The only way I can do that is take it a day at a time… and sometimes, just a few hours at a time. Somedays are challenging, some are great, but the majority are just days.

At this point, you may be sad for me. "So jaded," you may be thinking. "So cynical to the world." And, if that's what you're thinking, I'm going to say your hunch is a little off. That would be the easy answer, sure. I say these things, though, for the same reason you sing a lullaby to a baby… calming the soul so it can rest. Besides, to say that most days are just days helps make the unique and special ones stand out more. They can't all be fabulous… the same applies to people. If fabulous was the norm, nothing (or no one) would be fabulous.

Speaking of fabulous, remember the beautiful guy from across the table? He packed up a long time ago and left without any exchange of names or numbers or glances, for that matter… disappearing into the sea of beautiful people of Dallas. The saddest part is that I skipped ahead to write this part while he was packing up. As I've been prone to do in the past, once again, I wrote the end of the story at the very same time I had a chance to change it, before it was really even over.

 That said, I guess since I more or less successfully accomplished one resolution last year, this year I'll take on two. (1) Finish a script from beginning to end, and (2) let the end of the script be the only ending I write. From now on, I'll allow time, fate and God write the ending of the other stories of my life. Chances are, they'll be better than anything that I could create.

The Final Countdown

It’s New Year’s Eve. As I write this, Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin are on TV prepping the world for the ball drop in Times Square. (If you know me and my usual interest in current events, this is the only time I actually watch CNN.) As I look at the crowds celebrating and the clock ticking down, I realize this countdown is a little different because with the entrance of 2013, I know something will be exiting.

I’ve never been one for resolutions. I’m still not. However, looking ahead into the fast approaching year, I’m deciding to not just make a resolution; I’m deciding to make things different. Mainly, I’m changing one thing, one major approach I’ve had to life that moving forward will not be the same.

Basically, to quote a song, I’m through with love.

A few things to prevent the immediate eye rolls…

I’m not bitter. This isn’t associated from an experience with a recent guy or a breakup.

I’m not drunk. Well, yet.

I’m not angry. I feel calm and collected about the decision.

I’m just done.

If anything should be alarming about this, it is how level headed and unemotional I am about the whole thing. I’ve said something similar before, claimed I was putting up the white flag and giving up. I would eventually, however, find a charming and handsome man to capture my attention and my heart’s affection, and I would take down the flag and fall for him. Over and over again.

This time, I can tell it’s different. I’m determined.

I’m not going to let it happen again. And, I know my weak spots. It’s the small things that feed this 13 year old girl inside me who develops a crush based on a mere glance and gets crushed at an unreturned text or screened phone call. It’s foolish to admit, but I’m not going to do the little things. I’m not going to put my pillows firmly beside me and pretend it’s someone who cares. I’m not going to place my thumb between my ring and middle fingers to make me feel like someone is holding my hand. I’m not going to base any more 11:11 wishes on a potential relationship. I’m not going to watch romantic comedies and cry because I think or hope someone would ever run through an airport to stop my plane to tell me how much they are in love with me.

I’ve just realized I’ve been putting my life on hold and waiting to do things for something that may never happen and someone who may not exist. I’ve had a dessert wine in my house for 6 years that I’ve been waiting to use for a ‘special occasion.’ I’ve never considered going to London, Paris or other dream destinations in the world until I had someone’s hand to hold. I sleep on one side of my bed just to get used to having someone else on the other side.

Rizzo was right. I’ve been doing one of the worst things. “I could stay home every night. Wait around for Mr. Right. Take cold showers every day, and throw my life away on a dream that won’t come true.”

I’ve been waiting for someone to come along. I’ve been hoping that it’ll happen. I’ve been wishing that there’ll be a change brought about by the entrance of someone who actually gets me. And, I’m done waiting and hoping and wishing.

And, honestly, I’m fine with it. I see the ‘gays that have gone before me.’ There are older gentlemen I know who are successful, respectable, honorable men and – wait for it – single. They may have chosen to be that way; they may not have. But, I feel that at some point in their lives, they realized that’s just how it is. And, they continued to live. That’s the decision I’m making this New Years.

I’m not saying that it will NEVER happen. I’m just saying that this year, I’m not going to hope that it does. I’m not going to ask anyone out on a date first. I’m not going to let myself feel anything for anyone. No crushes. No flirting. No Facebook profile stalking. Zombies seem to be a big fad in movies and TV right now, and that’s the look I’m going for on the inside. I’m not going to dive head first into the pool of love because I’ve always done so in the shallow end.

Instead, in 2013, I’m going to live my life. I’m going to sleep in the middle of the bed, all pillows apart from the one under my head gone. I’m going to plan a trip to London by myself. I’m going to drink that dessert wine. I’m going do all those things and more because I realize that I could be waiting forever to do and experience them.

As I type this, in NYC, the final minute of 2012 is ticking away. The ball is descending. When it stops, my new outlook begins.

Bittersweet, just like every New Years.

3 Reasons I'm Against Gay Marriage

I’m not even sure if I remember how to do this, but I’m finally making another blog entry. It’s partly inspired by a comment the sweet and lovely Jessica Ross posted on my Facebook wall. It’s partly inspired by the need to leave something productive behind on this Columbus Day holiday. It’s partly inspired by a passing comment my dad made on the phone tonight about how he read a card I sent my grandmother, and it reminded him of what “gifted a writer” I am (he’s words, no mine). And, it’s partly inspired by a thought I’ve had floating around in my head for well over a year now--- and, the thought is this:

I’m against gay marriage.

There, I said it. And although the history of my Facebook status updates and my adamant boycott of a certain cow mascotted, fried chicken vendor might lead you to believe the contrary, the truth of the matter is that I’ve thought about it for quite some time, and when it comes down to it, I can’t support gay marriage.

Oh, sure, the whole ideas of the white picket fence at the house of Victoria and Kay and back yard BBQs with Doug and Bob have nice rings to them. And, yes, the hallway full of pictures of decades of a life together can make for nice images to pass as you go from room to room. In fact, I even know several couples who have made strong attempts at making same sex marriages work; they continue to prove their point to this day. But, shake off the fairy dust, and what you have isn’t something I can support.

The other day, I accidently dropped the container of powdered creamer I use for my coffee. It just fell out of my hand for no other apparent reason. I didn’t bump into anything. I wasn’t distracted. The container simply fell to the kitchen counter with a thud. Thankfully, it wasn’t breakable and didn’t spill. But, if it had broken or emptied powdered creamer all over the counter and floor, I would have had to clean it up. I live alone and in the world of those who live alone, you spill something, you break something, you clean it up. Thems are the rules for solo living.

If they approve gay marriage across the United States, I’ll have to clean up other people’s messes. If my husband happens to drop a bottle of wine, first, I’ll have to yell at him for wasting good wine. Then, I’ll have to make sure he’s not barefoot. Next, I’ll have to get out the mini broom and … and … what’s that thing that you sweep broken glass in? Well, that broom tray thingy. I’ll have to get that and clean up the shards of glass. Then, I’ll have to get the Pine-Sol and sponge mop to wipe up the wonderful red (or in the summer, white) wine that my clumsy husband spilled. And, as a wise woman once said, “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

Truth be known, I’ve got better things to do. I’ve got episodes of The Real Housewives to watch. I’ve got things to tell my husband about my day. I’ve got to hear about his. I’ve got a backrub to give him and kisses to share with him. I don’t have time to clean up messes he makes because he was careless.

That’s reason one I’m against gay marriage.

I, with increasing frequency it would seem, misplace my keys or my wallet and, on special days, both. I try to be clever and put them somewhere where I’m sure to walk by or definitely remember, but in my own cleverness, I often confuse myself and forget that repetition helps me more than creative thinking. My grandfather (my dad’s dad) passed away of Alzheimer’s, and so in those moments, as I’m looking in drawers, in pants’ pockets, or on counters for my missing keys/wallet/both, I think, “Here it is. This is the beginning of Alzheimer’s. I’m aware enough to see it now, but someday, I won’t even know that I have a car, much less keys to go it in.” But, you know, I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

If they approve gay marriage across the United States, then I’ll have to subject someone to my forgetfulness. I feel as though I annoy enough of my co-workers and friends to begin with. Why would I want to sentence someone to live with me ‘til death do us part’ and just guarantee to add one new person to this list of those I annoy on a regular basis? By doing so, I make it my husband’s job to help me remember where I last left my keys. He’s got to tell me where he found my wallet after I looked for it for an hour and a half. He’s got to remind me that we can’t go see a movie on Friday night because we already promised that we’d go get dinner with Jeff and Shane.

Truth be known, he’s got better things to do. He has to remember how we met. He has to recall where we went on our first date. He has to mark the important dates and anniversaries on our calendar so each one can be savored and celebrated (like that damn bottle of wine he broke). He needs to remember more important things than where I lost my keys.

That’s reason two I’m against gay marriage.

I know someone. He’s remarkable. He’s driven and inspiring. He downplays his intelligence, but I can tell he’s probably one of the smartest people I know. And, no one on the history of this earth has made me laugh so genuinely. He’s not the prettiest man I’ve ever met, but he’s most definitely the most beautiful. In many ways, because I met him, there’s now part of me that believes in soul mates.

And, he’s engaged to a wonderful, talented, creative, gorgeous man.

If they approve gay marriage in the United States, then I’ll be subject to true heartbreak. Sure, a cynic could say that if there’s gay marriage, there’ll eventually be gay divorce. But, the whole concept of marriage is supposed to be deeper, it’s supposed to be for life, it’s supposed to be forever. Before the whole movement and fight for marriage equality existed, the gays had an out. If we can’t REALLY be married, then there’s ALWAYS a chance that something could happen. If we fell in love with someone who might already have a boyfriend, we could just keep logging on to Facebook and check their relationship status. Eventually, be it a few weeks, months or years, it would change. It was practically guaranteed. There was always hope.

But, with gay marriage as a real thing, it’s different. It’s more substantial. It’s more concrete. It’s all more real. It’s more final. That applies to the marriage and the resulting heartache for the person who sees someone they love getting married.

Truth be known, I’ve got better things to do. I have jokes to tell to someone. I have destinations to experience with someone. I have movies to curl up on the couch with someone and watch. I have gut-wrenching goodbyes to family members to make and then a shoulder to cry on. I have children to adopt and parent with someone. I have ordinary days to share. I have thousands of better ways to spend my time then hurting because the one I love is marrying someone else.

That’s reason three I’m against gay marriage.

When it comes down to it, gay marriage just causes problems. Someone has to make sure the white picket fence is freshly painted. Someone has to clean the BBQ after all those backyard cookouts with friends and family. Someone has to dust all those picture frames in the hallway that commemorate a lifetime together. Someone has to help you clean up messes. Someone has to help you remember things. Someone gets their heart really broken.

Without gay marriage, you don’t have those problems.

Is enough ever enough?

I recently discovered the magic that is Mystic Tan – the spray-on tanning system. Years ago, I had tried it, but the experience of stepping into a phone booth and getting sprayed up and down while forced to hold my breath brought to mind images of concentration camps and torture devices.

Thinking it was a bit too traumatic to repeat often, I switched to tanning beds. Why I thought microwaving myself in a coffin was a better alternative, I’ll never quite understand. But, through time, I repeatedly was reminded of the realities of skin cancer and, even worse, increased aging effects that tanning beds caused. With the risk of looking my actual age, I decided to quit tanning altogether and embrace my white, Swedish skin.

This all worked fine and dandy until I was invited to a fancy event. Lambda Legal was holding its inaugural Landmark Dinner at the W Hotel. And not only was this an oo-la-la event at a hoity toity establishment, but as with all events where the majority of the attendees are gay, this one had a theme. All. White. This meant that I not only could not drink red wine at the event, but that I had to do something to distinguish my skin pigmentation from the clothes I would wear. I needed color, and I needed it now. Considering the lesser of two evils, I knew it was time to return to the Mystic Tanning torture chamber. This time, however, I have to say, not only did I brave the spray chamber and love the results, but I started going back for more.

Today, when I walked into the Palm Beach, no one was at the front counter. After a quick 30 second wait, the sales clerk on duty came around the corner, and immediately, I diverted my eyes. It was uncomfortable to look at him. He wasn’t deformed. He wasn’t scarred. He wasn’t missing a limb. He was drastically over tanned.

I realize any good retail establishment will encourage their employees to use and promote their product while on duty and in their everyday lives. That’s why the CEO created the employee discount. You go to the Gap, you’ll see the sales clerks wearing Gap clothes. You go to Taco Bell, you’ll see a few people working there who look like they eat it often. But, at this Palm Beach Tan with this sales clerk, it wasn’t just that he had stayed out in the sun too long or spent too much time in a bed. He tanned too often and too long. I thought his belt buckle should say “Samsonite.”

That’s when I realized I had to be careful. I liked Mysticing and the way it made the flab look toned, but if I grew to like it too much, I’m going to look like a carry on (I’m too short for a checked bag). Clearly, this guy, he didn’t stop. He thought he needed more. He looked in the mirror and although he saw his skin the darkest brown the crayon box could possibly offer, he thought, “I’m still too white.” None of his friends stopped him; there was no tanervention. He didn’t believe he was tan enough, and no one corrected him.

It’s not just him, and it’s not just tanning. I thought about other people and other areas of life… from tanning to travel, from swimming to sex, from eating to exercise. Do we know when to say when? Is enough ever enough?

Thinking about this guy and his tandiction is like me and sushi. Take me to a sushi restaurant, and I’ll clean them out of every roll. Roll after roll, I pick, I dip and I swallow. Every time, I admittedly reach a possible off ramp on the highway to Sushitown. I see a way to stop where I am. There’s a hint, a whisper of being full. Pleasantly pleased with what I had without a pressing need for more. But, then, something louder, overpowering and almost primal calls out for more! “More Yellowtail!” “More Salmon!” “More Spicy Tuna!” The brief moment of being satisfied has passed with the knowledge that there is MORE sushi out there to be had. I can’t possibly give up on my quest now when there is literally an ocean of fish out there ready to be served!

I have wonderful friends but rarely do they stop me. In the past, they have not intervened to remind me that while there are in fact oceans full of fish, I do not have to eat them all by myself… in one night… at one meal. More often than not, they allow me to over order and over indulge. I’m not sure if they merely are amused by my almost magical ability to make the sushi disappear or if they are counting down the days before I balloon up and they can start showing ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures to the Guiness Book of World Records. (Do they still MAKE the Guiness Book of World Records or is that now more like the Guiness Website of World Records? With everything seemingly going paperless, I wonder…)

The over tanning and the over sushi-ing… these are all fine and dandy. I mean, sure, one can cause skin cancer while the other could quickly lead to morbid obesity. But what I’m wondering now, if we don’t know when enough is enough with tanning and sushi, do we know when it is with love? There are a lot of drugs out there, but none so intoxicating and none so addicting as love. Do we know when we’ve had enough? Do we know when we’ve been given just what we need? Or, are we going to always want more?

I ask for myself and I ask for others because as the famous lyrics of Joni Mitchell say (which I may not have quite understood until this moment), “I’ve been on both sides now.”

There have been times, rare as they may be, but there have been times when I’ve been given a choice—held the upperhand in the relationship. As we know, the upperhand in any relationship typically is the person that has the least to lose. The one who cares the least of the relationship’s outcome has the most power. Once every blue moon, that person has been me, and before me, available to me, has been a guy who was vying for my affections. And, since I’m typing these words at home alone on a Saturday night, clearly, I’ve passed on those opportunities.

For the most part, I stand by those decisions. Thinking of who those guys have been and what they were offering, I think the option of sitting at home alone on a Saturday night is a wiser choice. For the most part, that is… Tonight, I think of one, one of the ones that was at a period of time available to me, for me… right now, he and his boyfriend of three years are dining in a café with friends in Paris. I think of another who is out celebrating the birthday of a friend and is loved by many, successful in his career, creative, beautiful and fun.

For some reason, the ones I’m thinking of now, the ones that ‘got away’ were not enough for me at the time. And, while at the time, my line of thinking reasoned it out, at this exact moment, I can’t provide one good reason that I ever let either one of those guys go. Whatever didn’t seem right at the time seems perfect to me now. Sure, I can console myself now and say, ‘well, if it had been meant to be, I’m sure it would have happened, no matter what I did.” But, that’s a self-pacifying lie, like its okay to put on a little holiday weight because the winter clothes cover it up; just something to make me feel better. Hindsight is truly 20/20, and today I clearly see that I fucked up.

I know what I did because I see it from the flip side. Other guys (and I’m sure girls, for those that play on that team) make the same types of choices and decisions. They see someone and decide for whatever reason that they aren’t enough. Yes, everyone needs to have standards. Yes, everyone needs to have a checklist and ideas of what they want. But through marketing and movies and being forced fed how to define beauty and relationships, have we lost the ability to know when enough is enough? Am I subconsciously waiting to meet someone on the Empire State Building while a Harry Connick Jr. song places to a swell?

It’s hard to believe with a resume full of one after another of failed starts to relationships that I will ever have what I desire most. My track record is not good. While there have been the blue moon moments when I’ve been able to make the final call, 9 times out of 10, its the other guy who has the upperhand. So far, everyone has been consistent and passed on what I have to offer. Being that I am the common denominator in this scenario, it calls for some introspection for which I have a natural gift. I look and see what I’m bringing, and I scratch my head out of confusion, like a mathematical word problem on the SAT. I don’t get it.

Here I am: I’m in my thirties. I have a successful career. In my spare time, I do well using talents performing in theatre. And, in the meantime, I bought my own house, keep in pretty good shape, and managed not to develop any sort of chemical dependency that requires rehab. Sure, I realize I’m getting into my upper-thirties. No, I’m not the tallest person on the planet. Yes, that cowlick in the back of my head may be developing into a bald spot. No, my house isn’t completely furnished, and I can’t afford a maid or lawn service. But, all in all, I don’t find the package I have to present revolting.

Yet, for guy after guy, that’s not enough. Like me and sushi, the thought all the other fish in the sea is too overwhelming, and they want more. The truth is, I do it with sushi and men, so why shouldn’t they? It’s nothing I can judge. It’s just something I have to learn and deal with and rise above.

How wearing it can become as I try to remind myself everyday that what I have to offer (and what each person has to offer) is amazing—amazing in its uniqueness, in its rarity, in its imperfect perfection. How draining it can be to maintain hope that a man will truly sign up for the deal I’m offering… although almost every guy that I have ever gone out with since I jumped into the dating pool 8 years ago has found me in some way lacking.

Even more exhausting is when I focus on measuring up to others’ expectations, be they realistic or impossible. Like a kindergartner in a college class, eventually, in some way, I’d fail every time. Trying to be taller than I am, richer than I am, tanner than I am, stronger than I am, funnier than I am, smarter than I am, younger than I am… is impossible.

There is no more than what I am. And for someone, somewhere, someday, that is going to be more than enough.

that girl

I went on a date last night... one that had been basically 5 years in the making that finally happened, and I'm pretty sure that I turned into 'that girl' -- with the annoying laugh and all. Fast forward to 3:55 on the clip below and you'll know what I mean:



Not my finest moment.

RomCom 101

Every year sometime in between Thanksgiving and New Years, I like to watch all the movies I own that tie in to the holiday season. And, every year, I’m surprised by how many movies that includes.

Of course, there are the obvious ones like “White Christmas,” “Miracle on 34th Street” (don’t hate me, but I prefer the remake with Elizabeth Perkins and Dylan McDermott over the original—which is an unfair statement as I have not watched the original in its entirety), and “A Christmas Story” (even though I’m bound to watch it at some point when TNT plays is on a 24 loop every Christmas Eve). But, beyond the flat out, in your face Christmas movies, I own tons of other movies that have pivotal moments or scenes set around the time of the holidays… thankfully, most of them are romantic comedies, so this tradition I’ve established for myself is one that I thoroughly enjoy.

Every year, the holiday movie tour also includes: “While You Were Sleeping” (“I should have got a blue spruce, they’re lighter.”), “You’ve Got Mail” (“…unwrapping funky ornaments made of popsicle sticks and missing my mother so much I almost couldn’t breathe…”), “The Holiday” (“I suppose I think about love more than anyone really should.”), “When Harry Met Sally…” (one of the best lines ever: “And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”), and “Love Actually” (my current favorite: “Because it’s Christmas, and at Christmas, you always tell the truth.”)

Of course, the holiday movie tradition would not be complete without a viewing of “Sleepless in Seattle.” Seriously, hands down, one of the best romantic comedies ever made. Brilliant in so many ways, it is all about the best part of the relationship—how time, obstacles and situations were overcome to bring two soul mates together.

But, whether it’s time or age or experience that have made me cynical and disillusioned, this year, as I watched one of my favorite movies of all time, I saw something new. There’s an element to that movie that always slipped by me until the Christmas of 2009.

Meg Ryan was a total, crazy stalker in that movie.

Just look at the plot: she hears this guy on the radio. Develops a crush. (So far, so good. We’ve all done that much… I mean, I’ve been known to watch “White Collar” on USA and pretend that Matt Bomer is charming me directly as opposed to whatever character he’s talking to. I own my crazy.). But, then… she writes him a letter. Then… she hires a private detective to follow Tom Hanks around and take pictures. And then… THEN… when all that is not enough, she flies across the country to see him. From Baltimore to Seattle, she flies to go to his house, knock on his door and introduce herself. But, when he isn’t home, she follows him in her rented car and watches (hiding around a corner, mind you) as he plays with his son on the beach.

She did everything but boil a rabbit.

But, we excuse it. Why? We excuse it because she’s Meg Ryan (well, early ‘90s Meg Ryan… I think if present day Meg Ryan was pulling that shit, someone would put out a restraining order). We excuse it because it was written by Norah Ephron. We excuse it because a Harry Connick Jr. song was playing in the background.

Apparently, with just the right elements, stalking can be not only okay but fucking romantic.
While writing this in my favorite Starbucks (where my better writing typically originates), there have been about five guys that I’d gladly hire a private detective to follow (wait… new one just came in… make that six). By nature… or perhaps by nurture since I’ve watched these romantic comedies repeatedly for years… I have a tendency to make, shall we say, an “extra effort” to get to know someone. I don’t have scratches on my arms from hiding in the bushes outside where they live or anything, but I have been known to visit a particular facebook page several times a day. And there was that one time when I scaled the wall to a gated community to see if someone’s car was there… but that was YEARS ago…

Who can blame me? Aside from the unavoidable stalking nature displayed in Sleepless in Seattle, look at While You Were Sleeping. Sweet, Oscar-nominated Sandra Bullock lied to the guys’ entire family, claiming to be his fiancé. And, even with the huge charade and tangled web of lies that she put into motion, at the end, she still ends up marrying the brother and becoming a part of the family, to everyone’s blessing. Forget the fact that for three weeks she was fabricating a lie about their son who was in a coma. All water under the bridge, I suppose. Why? Because she’s Sandra fucking Bullock.

And, that’s just using the romantic comedies with a holiday tie-in. That excludes movies like Meg Ryan/Matthew Broderick’s “Addicted to Love” in which they actually put cameras to spy on the objects of their affection. Or “French Kiss” in which Meg Ryan flies to France (a longer trip this time) to (once again) spy on her ex-fiancé and his new girlfriend. Or the ‘80’s classic, “Overboard” in which Kirk Russell basically kidnaps Goldie Hawn and makes her his servant to clean his house and take care of his boys all in an effort to recoup money for a carpentry job that she didn’t pay him for.

No wonder I’m still single and utterly screwed up in the love department. I’ve tried to learn and model my dating life after romantic comedies in which lying, stalking and minor misdemeanors are not only accepted by considered, in the end, utterly charming and completely irresistible. I’ve earned an “A” in RomCom 101, but like geometry, it has no baring in the real world.

Meanwhile, if I happen to call a guy more than twice in one week, my friends widen their eyes, put up their hands as if they are attempting to stop a stampeding herd of horses and say I need to slow down.

But, in my perspective, using Meg Ryan as a measuring stick (which I’ve done most of my life since high school to my late 20s), I’m doing pretty damn good.