Making new friends

I made a new friend today.

Well, actually, it's more that he was determined to make me his new friend.

I was sitting at the bus stop this morning, minding my own business, reading the paper and trying to keep my gigundous suitcase from toppling over onto the sidewalk. I saw him coming from the corner of my eye before he spoke, but I had no where to go. I was stuck.

He sauntered up from the dry cleaner's door behind me, lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Bus hasn't come yet?" he said in his thick, Mongolian (I learned a few minutes later) accent. When I politely said that no, I was still waiting, and went back to reading my paper, he didn't seem to take the hint.

After introducing himself, and then telling me that he had only been working for the dry cleaners behind us for about four months, he suggested he could give me his email address and I could write him sometime. "No thank you," I said, smiling at him. Again, he offered, and again, I declined, silently begging the bus to hurry up and get to the stop. When we finally saw it in the distance, he relented, heading back to his retreat on the stoop of the dry cleaner's.

"I'll see you around," he said as I boarded the bus.

I think I need a new bus stop.

Shave and a Haircut (two bits)

Mansour, I'm so sorry, but I can't see you anymore.

I know, I've been with you for two long years. And you've been wonderful--you really have been--but the truth is that I found someone new. Someone who takes his time with me; who makes sure I am completely satisfied before we're finished. A man who has enough confidence to tell me his opinion and offer solutions to my problems. Someone who makes me feel like I'm the most beautiful woman in the world. I've found the spring in my step again. Just one half hour with my beautiful new man, and I am unstoppable.

Not that I never felt special with you. We've been through some tough times, after all. You encouraged me to stop being so stuffy and professional. To have more fun. And you started me down a wonderful path of growth. But it wasn't enough. I need more attention than you can give. I need someone who can nurture that daring side. Someone who truly cares about my roots.

Demien came into my life at just the right moment. I was ready for a change. My friends had met him, and said he would be great for me.

He wasn't just great, he was perfect. Attentive, thoughtful, communicative. Not the least bit pushy. When he held my head in his hands, gently massaging my scalp, I thought I was in heaven. And when we were done, my hair had never looked better.

So I'm sorry Mansour. Breaking up is never easy, but I know you'll be OK. It's just time to step it up to the next level.

My hair is ready for it.

Gettin lucky!

No, I only wish it were the gettin lucky that YOU'RE thinking of.

Last night, I had a weird dream. As with most of my night visions, only snippets of particular images survived the fog of sleep to stay with me during the day. And it was a disturbing image: Looking at myself naked in the mirror, I found I was covered in body hair. Like a man.

Of course, I had to know what this all meant. So in consulting the wonder's of Al Gore's Internet, I have discovered that

"To find hair on some unusual part of your body promises a steady increase in material wealth."

Woo hoo! Not that I'm materialistic or anything (OK, not TOO materialistic), but BRING IT ON!

Christmas Shopping

Last night, I finally decided it was time to start my Christmas shopping.

Well, technically, I've been buying odds and ends for my shopping list throughout the month--a gift here, stocking stuffer there--but I had yet to embark on my annual shop-a-thon. In years past, I would go out and knock all my gift buying out at once. I was planning to do it tomorrow night (coincidentally, the last night before I leave for southeastern Ohio where shopping is virtually nonexistant), but when I started plotting my route in my head, I realized I might not have enough time to get to every store I needed to hit.

I decided to make one quickie trip last night. Just an in-and-out-dash for one single gift.

We all know how those kinds of trips end up. An hour later, I was still aimlessly wandering the aisles of Target (not my intended destination) in a shopper's haze. I was surprised, however, by the absence of pushing, shoving, trampling, and general bad manners that I've become so accustomed to around the holidays. Everywhere I looked, I saw well behaved shoppers. Even the checkout lines, though long, found last minuters like myself waiting patiently. I found myself wondering: Is there something in the air? Is the Christmas music extra intoxicating this year? Are people just in a better mood for a change?

Though I didn't finish all my errands last night, I think I won't mind so much going out tonight. In fact, maybe I'll even take my time.

What's worse

than getting a new neighbor with a piano?

Getting a new neighbor with a piano who doesn't know how to play it. And doesn't even try very hard.

I am certain this is karma for my obnoxious dog.

Bus Creeps

I ride the bus to the metro every day. And because, as my mother likes to say, I am a creature of habit (or that I like my fur-lined rut, whichever you prefer), I ride the bus the same time every day.

During my waits, there is a cast of characters I see from time to time. There's the quirky lady who always makes me laugh with her outfits (today, on a 25-degree morning, it was a short skirt and cowboy boots); there's the young, professional woman who always has good reading material; the boisterous older black woman who always wants to chat; or the cute 20-something guy I can never seem to make eye contact with.

I don't see these folks every day. Sometimes no one waits with me at the stop. Sometimes it's a gaggle of people. But I run into this handful of folks every once in a while. But of all people I share a commute with, one stands out above the rest--creepy middle-aged man.

Creepy middle-aged man is the guy you always avoid at parties: his gaze lingers just a little too long in the innappropriate places; he stands just a little too close; his hair just a little too greasy. Whenever I see him at the stop, I always scoot as far away as possible. He was there this morning, but as I was engrossed in the paper and the baseball saga that is unfolding in our lovely city, I didn't notice him.

Until I got on the bus.

When I board the bus, there are usually only a handful of people there. Plenty of open seats, particularly in the back of the bus. Today, there were two empty double seats that faced forward; the rest had one person in them. I took one of the empty doubles. The cute boy took the other empty double. The other women all opted for seats in the front. And then I noticed Creepy Middle-Aged Man step onto the bus.

At first, he walked to the back of the bus. I dug out my paper to get back to reading. Then, suddenly, from nowhere, Creepy Middle-Aged Man sat down in the other half of my seat.

Does anyone else think it's weird that someone you don't know would sit with you instead of in any of the 50 other vacant seats on the bus? The frightening thing is that he's done this before. Once he even did it when there were other vacant double seats on the bus.

Typically, when I see Creepy Middle-Aged Man at the stop with me, I'll claim a seat and then plop my bag down next to me just so he won't be tempted to take the seat. But since I didn't see him, I wasn't prepared.

He doesn't try to talk to me, but still... there's just something extremely uncomfortable in the whole situation. It's not that I mind sitting next to someone, it's that I don't want to sit next to someone who JUST GOT ON WITH ME and I DON'T KNOW.

I am I just crazy, or does anyone else think this is weird???

You know you're boring when...

...your therapist falls asleep during your appointment. No shit, I swear there was a brief moment where I thought she was just contemplating what I had said (as it was intensely thought provoking) but then she flitted her eyes and snapped her head, definitely catching herself mid-snooze.

Good grief, I need a more interesting life.

Happy Bowladays

I spent yesterday afternoon in a bowling alley. Whenever someone suggests bowling, I'm always excited. It always sounds like so much fun--eating bad food, drinking beer, wearing gross rental shoes--until I actually attempt to bowl. Then the true horror begins. I've never been able to master the skill of rolling a ball in a straight line. Needless to say, my scores per game yesterday were lucky to flirt with 60.

For those of you who are just as bad at bowling as I am (and I am exceptionally bad), what better way to send a holiday greeting than with a bowling-themed Christmas card?

Toaster=Hot, who knew?

Yesterday, one of my vendors at work stopped by to drop off a holiday gift. It was a giant, frozen pastry ring. Clearly not something I could eat on my own (OK, clearly not something I SHOULD eat on my own), I decided today to heat it up and share it with my department.

We have a toaster oven in our office kitchen, and though it is relatively new, it never seems to do an adequate job of heating or toasting anything. I turned the temperature up as high as it would go and threw the pastry inside, hoping it wouldn't take too long to defrost.

Fifteen minutes later, I checked on the pastry. I reached into the toaster to feel the crust (which was still cold). To get a better grip and feel the bottom, I lifted up one of the pastries, accidentally bumping the back of my hand on the roof of the toaster. Although it didn't hurt, I heard a faint "ssszzzzz" and immediately smelled the tell-tale burned flesh smell.

I yanked my hand out and looked down at my fingers. A white crusty substance was on two of them. What was in the toaster? I wondered. I went to brush the crust off, only realizing then that it was actually what was left of the top layer of skin on my fingers.

Still in no pain whatsoever, I calmly walked to the sink and doused my fingers in cold water. Strange. I found a band-aid and covered up the raw spot, which finally had begun to sting a bit. The smell, unfortunately, has stayed with me.

Don't you think that would justify having an early morning eggnog cocktail?

Not-so-Curly Girl

So at the insistence of a friend with a gorgeous mound of shining, bouncing curls, I set out to discover my inner "Curly Girl." I've always had wavy hair, but have fought with it constantly--either trying desperately to banish the wave and resulting frizz halo or futilely coaxing the curl to make a more prominent appearance. Looking at my pal's luscious locks, I couldn't resist the temptation of her promises. She handed me the bible for every girl with curly hair and encouraged me to follow the advice it laid out. She said I would see results. That I should unlock my inner curly girl.

Well, today, my anemic, Shirley-Temple wannabe 'do is less than glamorous. And I'm hoping the Curly Girl practice won't leave my head out to dry.

In the meantime, I found some reading for other gals out there who fight the fuzz--a collection of blogs for other Curly Girls.

Pass the hair gel and diffuser, please.

Score!

The cute boy on the way to work actually remembers my name! It's the little things on Monday morning that you have to appreciate, truly.

Randomness

Why is it randomness only seems to happen when you're not looking for it?

Witness two of the larger random experiences in my life: visiting my first-ever "girl doctor" and discovering he happens to be a longtime pal of my grandfather; or more recently, having a long, relaxing bike ride disrupted by witnessing the bike accident of a very freshly extinguished (and still smoldering) flame.

But when you WANT something random to happen--like bumping into the cute guy you've seen a couple of times on your morning commute--fuggedaboudit.

UGGly fashion

I hate Ugg boots. They've made my blood boil at each new viewing even since their introduction back into fashion a couple years ago. Even adorable Kate Hudson couldn't convince me to like them. Not that I'm any kind of fashionista--I think my last shopping trip was last MLK day--but they just don't GO with anything. So when I got on the elevator this morning next to a lovely young woman wearing a sassy skirt and full-on, lace-up Uggs, I almost gagged.

Why the aversion to this trend? They remind me of the "fashionable" puffy boots I wore in 1984 in tribute to little Cindel in the "Ewok Adventure." (Don't remember it? It was a made-for-TV movie about Star Wars' Ewoks.) Running around in the woods, pretending I was a human girl stuck on Endor was the only thing that made me feel like those boots were cool back then. Somehow, even the thought of running around in them in the woods can't make them cool for me today.



They still make me shudder.