Easter

I loathe Peeps. They are the bane of mankind. They are a sign of the apocolypse. And the fact that they are associated with a religious holiday? One of renewal and rebirth? Is a perversion of faith.

On the other hand, Cadbury does its best to overcome the unholiness of Peeps. Cream Eggs are the best things ever. And the chocolate candy covered eggs aren't bad, either.

The coconut nest, with jelly bean eggs, is also a perennial favorite. As long as there are no black eggs.

I saw a bag of black jelly beans yesterday. Unholy.

But they were countered by coconut filled Hershey Kisses.

Who knew the candy aisle was the newest battleground between good and evil?

Chemistry

Chemistry is such a strange thing. Some times you have it. Some times you don't. Sometimes it grows. Sometimes it disappears. Or hibernates, only to burst into the open at inappropriate times.

Can chemistry be forced? Can you make yourself want something so much that you fake yourself into it? I mean, you can meet someone. Someone you think is absolutely perfect for you. They're considerate. Mostly, anyway. They're kind. They are good parents or children or friends. They're employed. They laugh. They like the same things you do...the same restaurants, bars, bowling alleys, parks, hiking trails, whatever.

But...something just...isn't there. There's no spark. There's no...connectivity. There's an invisible barrier though which that magic just can't get through. Sometimes, the barrier is there from the start. Sometimes, it appears later, like a garage door closing.

Can you act like the barrier isn't there? Can you do that to the point where there isn't a barrier at all? Just because you know that person is really good for you?

Stay-At-Home Mom

Remember a year and a half ago? When I removed staples from my friends' floor? Because they were getting their hardwoods refinished?

So I'm at the bar about a month ago. Because, honestly? Where else would I go? I'm sitting there with Linda and Jocelyn. This is Jocelyn's first time really going out since she had her first child. She keeps saying, "I have to be home by 9:30." It is about 11 by this time.

There's a table of guys across the way. They aren't bad-looking. One's kind of cute.

Jocelyn, in an effort to recapture her misspent youth, calls the guy over. And he comes. A wealth of uncomfortable conversation ensues. However, he is cute. And funny. And employed. And decently dressed. And not employed in law enforcement. All the things I'm currently looking for in a man.

And he seems...into me, strangely enough. It had been so long since someone had actually chatted me up in a bar, I almost didn't know what to do. Or how to act.

He asked what we did for a living. We go around the table, giving answers. I thought Jocelyn might shrivel up and die when forced to admit that she is a stay-at-home mom. I had to give her credit. I was waiting for "personal shopper" or "set designer" to pop out of her mouth. I wouldn't have pimped her out. I don't think.

So we ask what he does. He owns a floor-finishing company.

Jocelyn's eyes get wide. "You own *insert name of company*?"
"Yeah," he answers.
"You did our floors. Over at *insert address*."
"Oh yeah!"
"She ripped up those staples," she says, pointing at me.
We laugh.
"Hey," Jocelyn says, drinking her overpriced beer. "You live with your girlfriend, don't you?"
"Uh, no," the guy says, clearly uncomfortable.
"Yeah, yeah you do. You live at *insert address* with her. My husband drives by your house all the time."

So not only has she outed herself and her husband as crazy stalkers of their floor guy, she has effectively thrown a wrench into any further conversation I could possibly have with this guy.

The conversation winds down and he leaves. Obviously. No numbers exchanged. No meaningful looks exchanged.

He doesn't live with his girlfriend, we later learned, although he may still be dating her.

He may, however, have his own stay-at-home mom parked across the street, watching every move he makes.

Wandering

I'm feeling really distracted these days. I don't really know why. Like I need to make some decisions in my life. Where I'm going. What I'm doing. For how long. Where I'm going to do the things I'm going to do. Whether I can be happy doing what I'm doing.

I have a hard time concentrating on any one thing for any period of time. When I'm on the phone with friends, I'm thinking of a million things I should be doing. I wake up in the middle of the night and make lists of things I need to do when I wake up. And, when I wake up, I'm too busy to do them.

My friend's mom copes with this by thinking of current stars, then matching them with old, possibly dead, celebrities that they'll look like in the future. Britney Spears=Judy Garland. Zac Efron=Tony Curtis. That brings her inner peace.

Instead, I distract myself with thoughts of what I could be doing, rather than what I should be doing. I think of moving to the desert. Opening a bakery. Sleeping under the stars in a black, black sky. Watching sunsets and sunrises with religious intensity. Actually going outside for longer than it takes to get from my office door to my car between the months of November and May. Watching flowers open and close with the sun.

I distract myself with thoughts of people I knew. Things of done. Places I've gone. I think of the night I kissed that boy in the middle of the street. The one who wanted me to stay, even though I couldn't. I think about what would have happened if I'd been a little bit braver, a little more sure of myself, a little less nice.

I need to stop distracting myself. I need to either live this life or make a new one.

Sunday Morning

I saw this postcard on Post Secret.

It isn't mine.

But it could be.

The Elephant in the Room

I visited an old friend of mine from school last week. The last time I saw her, she was just getting the hang of nursing her newborn baby girl. This time, we picked up that little girl from school while the little brother I'm not sure I knew she had slept in the car seat beside me. The years pass quickly.

We hung out under the bright western sun, digging our feet into the sand, surrounded by cacti in the backyard. The dog stuck his head under my skirt, as dogs do. A hummingbird darted around the flowers that would only be out for a week or two before the heat got too violent for them and they wilted away into memory.

Our conversation covered years. The night the power went out and she went to the hotel with her shady boyfriend. The fact that no one knows where said shady boyfriend is these days. The fates of all the dogs we'd had during school, that the dumbest of them all is apparently the only survivor. Who has had children. Who ran into who at the Ikea in San Diego. Trying to remember the name of the hot guy with the homely girlfriend who never spoke to anyone until the last month of school, when they broke up.

We talked about our jobs, moving from office to office. Whether our decisions were right or not so much. Whether we had regrets going to school for so long and having so little, or so much, to show for it. Whether anyone has made it big, or busted badly.

I asked about her family, her parents, her kids, her brother. We talked about my mom and dad.

The entire time I was there, not once, did she ask if I was seeing anyone. Not once.

And this isn't the first time this has happened. I must admit that it is rare for my friends to ask this question. Many of them know I won't really provide much information, even if they do ask. And, sometimes, you just have to ask at the right time. But she didn't ask at all.

I haven't quite figured out why. I've narrowed it down to a few options:

1) She, and all the other people I went to school with, have decided I'm gay. They don't want to know it and, therefore, are carefully avoiding any conversation having to do with sexuality and/or dating with me. They know I'm liberal, so...who knows?

2) They think I can't get a date. They don't want to bring up reminders of my painful dateless status, much like you won't mention to the poor girl in the cubicle next to you that she has really bad breath. You don't want to embarrass her any more than she already is.

3) I'm Morrissey. Or Mother Theresa. Or Jon Brennan from Real World Los Angeles. No sex for me.

4) I've officially passed the age where someone can politely ask that kind of question anymore.

The funny thing is, had she asked? I probably would have told her way more than anyone else. Because there are some things you can only tell people that have known you forever and whom you only see evey so often. They don't judge you, or at least not as harshly. They're pretty much always on your side. And they automatically hate the jerk that dumped you so unceremoniously, because they never had the misfortune of meeting him.

Good Deed

I found a dog yesterday. A little Schnauzer. He ran across the street when I turned down the access road by my condo.

I stopped the car, turned on my hazard lights and got out. He sat there, looking at me. I talked to him a bit, as I walked up to him. He just looked at me with big liquid eyes. He shivered in the cold. So I picked him up.

I couldn't believe he let me, but I did. And I put him in the car. I don't think he rides in the car too much. He slid all over the seat as I drove around the neighborhood, looking for someone who looked like they might be looking for a dog. But then I turned on the seat warmer. He stopped shivering.

I ended up taking him to the fire station around the corner. They were incredibly nice about the whole thing. They called the animal shelter, agreed to keep the dog, went out with me to the car to get him. The dog, at that point, really liked the heated seats and did NOT want to get out. We corralled him and I carried him into the station.

He really started shivering when we got inside. It wasn't from the cold. He was terrified.

I cried when I drove away.

During the day, I stopped at the shelter to ask if I could take his picture to post around my neighborhood. He is clearly someone's much-loved pet. His ears were cropped, his coat trimmed. It looked like he just slipped his leash and ran right off. The girl at the desk gave me her name and told me to ask specifically for her, since they didn't usually give people information on the dogs they turn in, for some reason.

I spent much of the day trying to figure out whether my cat would get along with this dog. Whether I could keep them seperate and introduce them to each other gradually. Whether I could get home at lunch to walk him. Whether I knew anyone who could give him a good home.

I called again, later in the afternoon. She told me that he never even made it into the shelter, that the owners called and they were told to pick him up at the fire station. So he made it home safe.

I don't know whether to be happy or disappointed.

The West

I just came back from Arizona. I've never been before. I almost didn't come back. I loved all of it. I loved the lack of trees but the proliferation of cacti. I loved the rocks and dirt and absence of mud. I loved the dry wind, the dry air and my dry sinuses. I loved the way the margaritas taste a little bit tangier, the beer a slight bit wheatier.

I got lucky on the planes there, for the most part. No one next to me on the first flight. But the clouds kept me from seeing the ground. And Denver? From the east? Is mighty flat. And boring. And then, all of a sudden? There's a airport! Right there! In the middle of BFE. I remember reading about this airport when it opened. No one got their luggage. The baggage carosels never worked right. I hoped that they'd gotten things straightened out in the interim, because every liquid I owned was in my checked baggage, down to hand lotion and chapstick. Because it resembles plastique. Or something.

Flying to Phoenix, I couldn't see the ground--someone else had the window seat. But, on the way out, I got to watch Arizona and New Mexico pass underneath me to my heart's content. It was like watching a Rand McNally map go by. Completely amazing, for someone who grew up in the gentle greens and browns of the midwest, with a quick nod to Georgia's red clay. I imagined Mad Max driving aimlessly in the desert wasteland below. It was gorgeous.

Of course, the man in the seat in front of me for the entire last leg insisted on putting his seat all the way back. And I was in front of the exit row, so I couldn't recline at all. His adult son sat next to me, so I couldn't even kick the back of his seat with impunity. Very disappointing. I had to content myself with imagining garroting him with my headphone wires.