Ten things I hate about you

Paul has left me. Yesterday morning before I was awake, he packed his bags and took off. In order to cope, I have decided to write a list of ten things that I hate about him. This way, I will not miss him. I will be happy that he is gone.

Here goes:
  1. I hate the way he asks me questions non-stop in the morning before I am fully awake.
  2. I hate the way he talks so loud on the phone that whoever he is talking to does not actually need to use the phone to hear him.
  3. I hate that when he goes shopping, he buys enough inventory to survive a nuclear holocaust.
  4. I hate the way he shouts out all of the answers to Jeopardy before I have fully understood the question.
  5. I hate that he is never jealous.
  6. I hate the way he snores.
  7. I hate that he makes me eat vegetables.
  8. I hate that he calls our floor cleaner a Swifter, instead of a Swiffer.
  9. I hate the way he makes me call my pot belly a “sexy belly”.
  10. I hate that I miss him.
There, I feel much better. He can rot for all I care. Now, when I am feeling sad, I can just re-read this list and feel stronger, independent and so not in love.  You can help.  Read the list again with me.

  1. I love the way he asks me questions non-stop in the morning before I am fully awake.
  2. I love the way he talks so loud on the phone that whoever he is talking to does not actually need to use the phone to hear him.
  3. I love that when he goes shopping, he buys enough inventory to survive a nuclear holocaust.
  4. I love the way he shouts out all of the answers to Jeopardy before I have fully understood the question.
  5. I love that he is never jealous.
  6. I love the way he snores.
  7. I love that he makes me eat vegetables.
  8. I love that he calls our floor cleaner a Swifter, instead of a Swiffer.
  9. I love the way he makes me call my pot belly a “sexy belly”.
  10. I hate that I miss him.
Oh, I see what you just did there. But I will go on hating that I miss him, until he returns from school vacation with the kids next weekend. Until then, I so hate love him.


Sleepless on Sutherland Road

Avoid caffeine.......


Random Act equals a Major Award!

We are sitting street-side in a night club patio, tropical drinks in hand while the West Hollywood moon peeks through swaying palm trees. A Latin beat thumps in the background as I notice Paul’s gaze shift from me to somewhere in the middle distance. There is a look of wanton desire in his eyes as evidenced by his dark saucer-like pupils. It is reflexive, primal.

“See something you like?” I say bitterly.

“I’m sorry sweetie, I just couldn’t help myself.”

How could I blame him? We are surrounded by them as they parade down the street showing off their strong bodies, detailed impeccably. Here is a young sleek one. Here is a powerful muscular one that cruises like a predator decked out in leather. Every time they pass he checks out their rear end. It is a disgusting display of obsession.

“That one is a Rolls Royce Phantom, $400,000, forgive me I just can’t help myself.” He says.

“You might want to wipe up that drool.” I say while turning my head, marveling at the disparity between the haves and have-nots that exist within the space of one hundred feet here on Santa Monica Boulevard. While he salivates over Aston-Martins, and Bentley Continentals, I can’t take my eyes off of these poor boys that have spent all of their money on gym memberships and nutritional supplements, leaving scant resources for clothing. Indeed, some of them have only enough funds for one article of clothing, skimpy underwear. But they dance, God bless them, living in the now.

“He needs to eat, give him something.” Paul says knowing that it is not in my nature to ignore anyone in need.

“But he’ll only spend it on a nipple piercing, a strategically placed tattoo or steroids.” I offer up the oft-cited argument.

“Go ahead.”

I will do it dammit! I will ignore my doubts that he will spend the money foolishly and provide him with enough funds to buy a cheeseburger so that he may not be embarrassed by his six percent body fat that barely covers his rippling abdomen muscles. My heart is like the shining beacon of truth that is the Hollywood sign in the distance.

I pull out a few dollars, a pittance really, and walk up to one of the poor boys that dances on his sad little stage. As I get closer I realize that he has already spent money on nipple piercings and a tattoo that undulates down the side of his V shaped torso. I shake my head; at least this money will not be spent on those trivial things. But then I realize there is a flaw in my plan. He has no pockets! Where will he store the money? I experience an “A-ha moment” as I carefully tuck the bills inside the strap of his pitifully skimpy briefs. He is afraid that he will lose the money as he guides my hand deeper.

“There, there my good man, no one will take your money.” I say magnanimously.

He flashes a grateful smile, ridiculously perfect and white, hugs me and then sadly, flexes his biceps for me as if to say I will spend this money on more steroids. But I don’t care. I have selflessly practiced a random act of kindness. There was nothing in it for me. The universe will respond.


And the universe did respond! I have received a Major Award from Angie at Angie Uncovered. If you don’t read her blog, you should. It’s funny, heartfelt and thought provoking. I will practice another random act of kindness by passing this award on to three other great blogs I think you should read. But as a part of the award, I am required to tell you five random facts about me first. Consider it my awkward rambling award acceptance speech:

It's all about me

1. I was married to a woman for twenty two years and to a man, a wonderful, sexy, patient, car obsessed man for two years now. This makes me uniquely qualified to bestow my marital advice to anyone and everyone. And I'd like to start with Mr. Santorum.

2. The first time I gave a go-go boy some cheeseburger money, he fell off the bar and on top of me. I developed a rare but documented fear called Twink-a-fall-a-phobia. Paul's response? “Thank goodness it wasn’t a big ol’ bear bar.” I am happy to report that I am recovering through intense immersion therapy.

3. I have body issues. When you grow up hating what is on the inside, it’s only a matter of time before you project it to the outside. I am working through this and now I can say that I think my rack is pretty awesome. They’re real and they’re spectacular!

4. When I take a piece of clothing off of a hanger, I have to place the empty hanger in another spot with all of the other empty hangers. If they are mixed, Earth will explode.

5. Suck it Jesus! (That’s a Kathy Griffin reference, don’t get up in arms, all of my hoards of religious right readers)

When I was in California I had the pleasure to meet the following three blogger award winners. Come on down! Run down the aisle while the camera focuses on all of your jiggling awesomeness. The Price is right:

And the winner is award goes to

Becca at I’m Pretty Sure That: When Becca enters the room, she brings the sun with her. Her smile and laugh could warm Jack Frost’s heart. She is lovely. If I were single and straight, I would marry her. Her blog is snarky, tearful, personal and her recount of overheard conversations hilarious. .

Elizabeth at Flourish in Progress: When Elizabeth enters the room, she brings the moon; mysterious, beautiful beyond imagination she walks in beauty like the night. Her blog is wildly popular, hilarious and got it’s start from taking a year off from shopping. She was inspired by the Happiness Project and now she inspires countless minions weekly with her Monday Dares. Don’t drink anything when you read her blog, or it will come out of your nose when you guffaw.

Jim at A Southerner in San Francisco: Jim is a handsome star that seems to have discovered the fountain of youth. (Seriously Jim, give me your secret). Could it be his diet of southern fried delicacies like fried lasagna, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Cheerwine? Check out his blog to find out. His posts are near and dear to my heart because he hails from my hometown of Greensboro, North Carolina and lives in my adopted home town of San Francisco. He weaves the two together beautifully.

And so I have practiced yet another random act of kindness by giving you, my readers, the sun, the moon and the stars, with a generous side of go-go boys.

I bet the universe responds big time!




Strange Attractors

The sun paused to admire its scattered reflection like millions of brilliant diamonds on the bay. Time stretched its arms deep into the blue infinity. We planted the seeds of forever.
When the moon lounged on her back we clung to each other, lips to neck, your arms pulling me into orbit. Like the fog I poured myself over you. In the morning mist our seeds sprouted, clinging to the earth on the edge of the hill. Their blooms measured the days kissed by sun and fog and the whisper of butterfly wings.

Set into motion our fractal arcs danced.

This is a 100 word response to DIY Romance's February Invitation.  Click on the link and express your own voice!



I received a very special e-mail today. It was addressed quite formally, “Dear William Dameron”. There are few people who refer to me using my first name and last name; mostly it is my Nigerian friends seeking assistance with cashing a check. But this e-mail was not from them. It was from a publisher. Had the e-mail been addressed as “Dear Bill” or “Dear Mr. Dameron”, I might have thought oh, yay! But because it was addressed as “Dear William Dameron” I thought oh shit, because anyone who addresses me this way is not human. They are robots. Robots send rejection e-mails.

Because I am not a robot, I take rejection personally. Somewhere along the lines of my nature and nurture programming, I was wired to accept rejection as a wholesale approach as opposed to a piecemeal thing. If you reject a part of me, I’ll just go ahead and throw the baby out with the bathwater and assume that I am not partially inept, but completely inept.

You might ask why not just learn from this experience? Irrational thoughts are by definition not rational thoughts. The funny thing is that when you are thinking irrationally, you do not know this. And by funny, I do not mean humorous. I mean strange. Immediately following the rejection, little annoyances and inconveniences became major hassles. On my drive home I drove around my condo twenty times looking for a parking spot. Psychologists say that I could have turned this into a positive.  I could have viewed the hike to my condo from my parking spot as a lovely little walk.

I say fuck Psychologists.

But I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. I chose to go to the gym in order to work out some of my negative thoughts and stress; a healthy approach to battling my demons. But those demons were one step ahead of me.

My demon thoughts manifested themselves as young fitness models. They posed and pumped iron. They grunted and said “look at me. Look at what you are not. Look at what you will never be, you fat little man. Even if we are dumb and cannot write, we look like brick shit-houses.”

They followed me into the locker room where they paraded their youth and firmness.

On my walk home from the gym I bought cookie dough.

Now, there is normally not a day so fine that it could not be brightened by a package of chocolate chip cookie dough, a bottle of red wine and some “Real Housewives”. But today, I found the relative fame and fortune of the Atlanta belles irritating. Take away the makeup, the hair and the mansions and you are left with some bitchy women with little discernible talent. Well, except for Kandi, she can write songs, but she sings like a smurf. If these women could make something of themselves, how un-talented was I? That question called for another bottle of wine.

And then, it all faded back to black.

“Oi, wake up!”

I’m not sure if it was the wine, the cookie dough or the despondent feelings that brought her to me, but when Amy Winehouse appears to you in a dream/vision, you’d best be listening.

“You feeling sorry for your-self?”

“That I am, Amy, that I am.”

“Ah, yeah, I know that feelin’ well, I do. But look ‘ere, you won’t find what you’re looking for in that bottle of wine. No, no, no, it’s in ‘ere.” She said pointing to her chest.

“Your bra?”

“Nah, you dolt! Not litra-lee; it’s in your ‘eart.”

After deciphering her cockney accent I began to think it was mostly BS.

“No it ain’t! Yeah, I can read minds, it comes with the terra-tory. Look, they gave me this beehive hairdo, Egyptian eyes and compared me to Ronnie Spector, but I was always me. The music was me. You think I just popped up on stage and became famous straight away? No, no, no. I paid my dues, I did and them was heavy dues. You be yourself because there ain’t no one else like you. Not them pretty boys, or them robot rejection letter writers that ain’t got no feelings. You write from your ‘eart and stay true to voice. It’s painful but it’ll happen.”

She looked down, adjusted her bra strap, made a quick sniffling sound and placed her hands on her hips. Then she looked directly at me. “You got a man?”

“Yes I do.”

“He’s a good man?”

“To know him is to love him.”

“Someone’s been listenin’ to my bonus tracks.” She smiled at my reference and then started to fade away. “You’re lucky to ‘ave a man like that Dear Mr. William Dameron, you must be somethin’ special.”

“Wait, before you go. Why you? Why me?” I asked her.

“I’m the fuckin’ tooth fairy in reverse. You place an empty bottle under your pillow and I leave you one of my teeth.”

She smiled to reveal more holes than a pair of her fishnet stockings. I couldn’t help thinking that there were too many empty bottles in this world and not enough teeth. Somewhere between a robot and Amy Winehouse is the sweet spot of emotions.

The morning sun splashed its light like cold water on my face. I sat up and reached under my pillow. No tooth, no bottle. I opened my notebook computer, smiled, and began to draw a picture.

I say fuck robots.

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