In my 32 years I have learned that people (those of us with "issues") have different reactions to the fear of intimacy. My personal reaction is to run out to cute stores and blow my wad on really cute bags (which are now a bottom line for me, because bags and purses are like men after a certain point of inebriation - they ALL look cute and I have no ability to discern which one will still suit me the next day.) Sometimes, to sober up, I'll ask shop owners if said cute purse was made by slave labor in China and they'll look at me like, "Hello?! Are we on planet earth?" At which point I begin the Guilt Appeasement Process by pulling statistics out of my ass about how despite rampant poverty and disesase in third world countries, the family unit is a lot more functional and people are a lot "happier" than in the more advanced Prozac-conscious countries like the US. Anyway, that whole process is a lot easier than looking someone in the eye who knows me beyond and beneath the "fabulous" level and saying, "my feelings are hurt...shit."

So last night I went to a party and there was this guy who I know who I spent some QT time with on his fortieth birthday, and his fear of intimacy is so great that he couldn't stand in front of me and have a conversation. He had to be facing another direction as if he were fighting off hoards of women with his body (even though nobody was standing in front of him), while he turned to me and asked me if I had tried the yogurt dip. That's some fear of intimacy, I'd say.

The United States, as a country, expresses a communal national fear of intimacy by invading other countries with NineWest, and the French Connection. That way Americans don't have to confront their own fear of differences when they go to other countries and people are dressed differently.

Just for today, I can allow everyone to cope with their fear of intimacy in their own way.

I used to think God was this giant benevolent man in the sky with a white beard who loved me more than anyone on earth. Then, when I got older and realized that life kind of blows sometimes and also (coincidentally) got into 12-step, he became a judgemental sadist who randomly punished me or rewarded me, but pretended it was all based on how well I was workin' the steps and making amends for the human error of living and breathing (but I'm not bitter). And then I discovered all the New Age schools of Torment, that torture you with the idea that your thoughts create reality as you know it (you're sick? you got in a car accident? Well, you cated it. Take some responsibility, pal).

Having since gone insane with ideas of just what and where God is, I decided that just for today, a quality understanding of a higher power is limited to one area of my life and that is when I am shopping.

What I have learned in my twenty years of puttering around malls and cute shopping streets, is that the secret to a good purchase lay in choosing the store with a good vibe. If you stand outside of the store, sort of lurk around the doorway, you can learn a lot without ever setting foot inside and then being stuck making awkward conversation with clerks or sales associates. For instance, you won't find me setting foot in Abercrombie & Fitch, and it's not just because I'm in the wrong age bracket. It's because the vibe in there reeks of child labor and country club discrimination. It's in the music that throbs in your ears, the texture of the clothes, and the lily white prep school kids (someone told me they were sued for keeping the people of color in the stock room, I don't know what happened since).

Other stores, or "dream stores" as my friend Martha calls them have a more gentle, hip and fair trade kind of vibe. Sometimes, when I am walking around, they will literally call my name, and then I am led, by my "higher power" to buy pure fabulousness and sass (and it's not me, but my higher power). If I knew how to do this in other parts of my life, trust me I would, but it seems that my spirituality is most easily accessed in my consumerism...sorry, mom. At least it's somewhere...right?

Just for today, I let God guide my shopping.

I'm an ignorant American. Clearly, I am, because I thought that Australia was all kangaroos and leathery skin. Little did I realize that the local hip bohemians wear clothes designed and manufactured here in Oz that far hipper and fabulous than the cookie cutter designer labels or the just plain weird outfits I find in Los Angeles.

I had no idea how much I had internalized American imperialism. Not only are the ladies more fashionably dressed, but every intersection has a buzzer sound when the green walk light goes on. And, of course, as in every country, everyone knows more about my country than I know about theirs. Who's your prez? Hmmmm, interesting.

Just for today, I can accept that I am an ignorant Ameircan.

#1: I'm having some serious coffee issues. I'm used to drinking jet fuel in the morning. The local idea of coffee is a shot of mild espresso. I have to ask for five of these in a cup with no milk and even that tastes like de-caf to me. Now I am resisting the urge to go the Starbuck's here because I find it unfortunate that American culture spreads like wild fire, or cancer. It's not that I don't like Starbuck's or "The Simpson's" or "Star Wars," or the "The Eagles," but why do I have to hear "Hotel California" blaring out of a bar on every remote corner of earth? I think I should write a movie about a woman who tries to find a society untouched by American culture and ends up going insane because she has traveled to a far away indigenous mountain culture in Northern Brazil and hears Brittney Spears coming out of someone's hut. The world has gotten so small, there's just no escaping the barage of Americanaism (to coin a new word).

#2: There must be something in the air here, or in the food or the athleticism, but the guys are so good-looking (and the women, but I mostly notice the guys)! There are no fat people like the giant extra-large-french-fries people in the US.

#3: We haven't seen any aboriginal people in town. They must live in the outskirts. Why are dark skinned people oppressed all over the world? When are white people going to be oppressed?

#4: Nothing makes me as crazy as a bad internet connection.

#1: I showed up at the Qantas check-in counter and announced to the ticket agent that I was on a plane leaving to Melbourne. Flight number? What? Itinerary? What? Visa? What? Hotel name? Details, details...it always works out and it did.

#2: My fifteen hour flight flew by in a flash, and I didn't even have to pop a Xanex..so what if I was drooling? People who travel with me always resent my ability to curl up into a ball and sleep like a baby on any moving mode of transport.

#3: There's something about jet lag that reminds me of getting high in junior high school. It's disorienting, alienating, but strangely fun.

#4: Oh, and I almost forgot the most important thing... the guys are REALLY cute!

#5: Internet cafe's are kind of intense.

I was putting out vibes towards Frame Store Guy (who looks about 25 and has tatooes all up and down his arms...not, by some standards, husband material...but who am I to judge...) Anyway, I was putting out the vibes and seeing if I still got the stuff, and then I realized, I think I got it...but is this really the appropriate place to put it? And I then I had the I'm Officially in My Thirties Epiphany, that being a sexual being on this planet who is in touch with her sexuality, is a lot more about discretion than anyone ever talks about (i.e., Sex and the City). So much of the sex out there (from what I've heard...) seems to be about everything but celebrating (let alone respecting) the creative force of that energy. I'm not saying that boredom, insecurity, guilt, and a mis-directed desire for power, are bad reasons to have sex, just not my choices (for today). 'Cuz being empowered is really just good timing, and saying "no" is the only thing that makes "yes" a choice at all. It's so much easier to have rules and regulations about husband prospects, or lover prospects, but it always seems more complicated in real life.

It's really an art form, if you ask me (and I'm assuming that you are asking).

Just for today, I'm empowered to not flirt with Frame Store Guy.

Yeah, yeah, I know all the complaints. Everyone has a freakin' blog, and what sort of person parades around her innermost thoughts and feelings for the world to peek in on. Do you want to know who? Well, I'll tell you.

Who Blogs

1) Me. (That's who).
2) People blessed with an excessive amount of "realness" whose expression can't find an outlet in a society fixated on the pursuit of joyless perfection as defined by some white dudes who drink too much and have more money than God.
3) People with too much time on their hands (I'm not saying that's me, but I can see how that could happen).
4) People who screw around at work (I'm not saying that's me, either, but sometimes I do blog at work, yes...and that's helpful to my overall productivity...so I have read).
5) People acting out against members of their dysfunctional family of origin (definitely me).
6) People whose souls want to be heard (definitely me, when I have access to it).

Why I Blog

1) Because I don't want to grow up and squeeze myself into a life that seems (to me) to be a little box whose sides are called "Wife," "Mother," "Daughter," and "Insert Profession," and which is taped up with "Volunteer Work" and "Cable TV" and "Weekly Hair Salon Appointments" and "Sale at Williams Sonoma" (yech). Given the choice that my "Black and White Thinking" gives me, I'd much rather be the inappropriately confessional writer who dreams of one day making more money than God through her blog (which is interesting, because I didn't think God had to pay for very much...maybe just coffee once in a while).
2) Because it takes me a while to think of come backs and by then it's just waaaaay to late!
3) Because if I don't, I end up filling up little pieces of paper in my purse with random sentences and thoughts like "Crazy Angry Man at 12 Step Meeting" or "Did I know John in a past life?" and it takes me about five minutes to remember the origin before I realize that there is no where else this thought would be relevant...except in a blog!
4) Because my soul begs to be seen and sometimes I find my soul when I'm writing.

Just for today, I am empowered to blog and I can ignore all the critics who would like to silence me (why do they care anyway?...can't they just not visit my site?)

Without going into the obvious sexual associations of buying a new bed and chucking the old (and when I say chucking, I'm talking dumpster), I will say that I suffered what seems like an inordinate amount of grief over doing away with a material object. It's not just all the old energy of old boyfriends (which is actually a GREAT reason to get rid of it), but it's also the family members who slept on it and just the old me. I had it for X number of years, (OK, and I'm not usually embarrassed to write about anything), and that is too long for anyone to own one bed. Anyway, not only did I cry, but I suffered from serious physical symptoms (not IBS), and felt depressed for a full day. All over a stupid bed...

Just for today, I release my old bed.

Several people in my life have recently brought to my attention the fact that I seem "uncomfortable" with commitment. While it is true that my proximity to many adult maturity milestones (marriage, kids, career,etc.), is slightly akin to my proximity to the moon...I still feel that my fear of commitment is somewhat reasonable. For instance, what happens if I commit to something and then I change my mind? I'm screwed! What happens if I commit to a relationship and then realize that I don't want to be in it anymore? Then it's a big ole mess! And then put kids and a mortgage in the mix, and you have an existential dillema. No, thank you.

My friend Angie suggested that I dialogue with my inner child about my fears of commitment to find out what she's feeling.

Me: Hey! So, how are you?

Inner Child: What?! You want to talk to me now? After all these years? Fuggetabutit.

Me: Hey, what's up with that language?! Let's show a little respect.

Inner Child: Lady, I don't even know you.

Me: Look, I know I have alienated you quite a bit lately, made you do chores, haven't taken you shopping...wait! I bought you a whole bunch of clothes and a new stereo!

Inner Child: You still haven't gotten cable. And what about my guitar lessons? And I want a Jelly Kelly bag and some new Danskos, and more french fries and Ben & Jerry's! You're way behind!

Me: Hey, kiddo! If you weren't sleeping in on Saturday mornings, maybe we'd be farther along! And enough with the junk food.

Inner Child: I don't need a lecture.

Me: Ok, I can see that you have some anger towards me. Maybe I haven't been there for you quite like you would like. But I want to make it up to you. I really do. I'm going to treat you like the angel you are. Just please don't throw any more fits when I meet a nice guy or sit down to write. 'kay?

Inner Child: I'll take a large Mocha with whip cream.

Me: Deal.

Just for today, I can dialogue with my inner child about my fears of commitment.

I saw a play called "Dinner With Friends" the other night (which somehow won the Pulitzer, though to me it felt like a slightly glorified Movie of the Week). It’s about Martha's Vineyard WASPs who get all bent out of shape when their friends divorce and break-up their little bourgeois-Martha-Stewart-catalogue social scene. The writer went for the whole ambiguous, "let the audience determine what I mean because not taking a stand makes my writing profound."

ANYWAY, at the end of the play the old married couple are angry that their good friends have divorced and are having great sex in new relationships, and I guess all of this is what passes for tragedy and drama in the Bush Administration. God forbid, we write and watch plays about fear, mis-directed anger, and the hang-over guilt of being a petulant world super-power. So, you’re friends have rejected the oppressive suburban illusion of security and are having better sex than you are…big deal!

ANYWAY AGAIN (I keep getting tangential), aside the fact that Yuppies getting a divorce is not really tragedy, the play ends with the married couple trying to justify and rekindle their marriage and because it's ambiguous (the writer was being "complicated") we don't know if it's happy or sad. My friend, who supports the institution of marriage, thought that that the whole thing ended on a sweet note. I, on the other hand, thought the play ended with the couple awakening to the fact that they had metaphorically chained themselves to a cement block and were spiritually rotting on their path to stagnation (to be slightly dramatic).

I’m not entirely sure if I have a point, but I think it might be this…GENERALLY, most representations of marriage look not-fun to me. Many of my friends feel differently. And what I want to know is, why is that? Did I miss a class? When did I not get socialized to support the institution of marriage? I mean I do want kids, and I do want to fall in love with my soul mate, and I do want a summer house. It's just that placid domestic bliss looks more placid than blissful.

I know I’m going to have to marry my soul mate from many lifetimes over to keep the gig because I’m missing the gene that gives people an emotional attachment to the DREAM of MARRIAGE. And that just sort of narrows the pool.

Just for today, I accept my slightly negative view on the institution of marriage.

Every time I talk to my one friend she has a different relationship status. "We're totally in love!" or "We're just good friends!" or "It's totally over!" I'm totally cool with whatever she does because I understand that it's a "process."

I no longer have a problem with my girlfriends (or guy friends) sharing with me about their bad relationship woes and then going back for more. The truth is, the only way to know what a good relationship is, is to experience a lot of bad and mediocre ones, whether it be in one particular relationship, or in multiple ones that are really the same one with different names and faces. (And, hey, I admit that it takes two to Tango, and that as fabulous as I am, I may have been more than one guys bad relationship...cuz, if it ain't right, it ain't right on both sides...see? I'm mature.)

It never works to just ditch the guy, because you'll meet him again five seconds later at the coffee shop, making you a latte, or at your friend's birthday party, or the gym, or New Year's party, or wherever you go. Because it's not the guys problem, the problem is that when we have self-esteem issues, they emit vibrational pheromones out of our pores (pardon this sloppy mixed metaphor).

As cornball and cheezeball as it sounds, the only way to let go is with...guess?...it's not a jeapardy question...(if you've done a lot of therapy)...yes, we all know, people...it looks like a heart...yes, it's with LOVE! In my experience, the relationship isn't over until you can say "He's a great guy, and (perhaps) someday will be a great husband or boyfriend (with varying degrees of counseling)," and you have to mean it, cuz you can't fool the universe.

So, instead of getting mad at my friend's boyfriend, I say "Girlfriend, you keep working on your issues and stay in your process! (which doesn't quite sound the same with a ghetto accent, but you know what I mean.)"

Just for today, I accept the processes of my life and those of my friends.

Since the liabilities of aging are painfully obvious and frequently noted, I would like to focus on the positive side of getting older. I guess when people are young, they feel compelled to do and say what I would call (from my own experience) some pretty dumbass things. The blessings of getting older and being more conscious is that I don't have to do these things in this lifetime and, God willing, in the lifetimes to come.

The following is a list of things I never have to do again (thank God!).

1) Wear ridiculous shoes that destroy my feet, cost exorbitant sums of money, and put me in physical danger when crossing the street or even just standing.
2) Wake up at 6:45 to wash, blow, curl and (yes, we're talkin' early 80's) spray my hair.
3) Steal candy and make-up from Long's drug store.
4) Apologize for being smart, clever, or just myself (especially on dates).
5) Put groceries on a credit card because I spent my cash on lethal Charles David pumps.
6) Feel sorry for people who are assholes to me because they clearly had bad childhoods to behave that way (and, consequently, forget to feel sorry for myself for clearly having a bad childhood that keeps me feeling sorry for people who are assholes to me).
7) Hang out in bad relationships for what feels like eons multiplied by light years.
8) People worship.
9) Compare and despair (though, I'm hard pressed to totally give this up).
10) Drink vanilla extract for the alcohol content (my friend puked).
11) See if I can squeeze my car into a tight spot between two expensive SUVs in front of a crowd.
12) Eat another Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookie.
13) Have bad sex (if it's not riveting, I'd rather have ice cream).

This list is only just beginning.

Just for today, I'm cool with aging.

It's never been on my list of priorities, because I was never before able to fully understand what long-term committed relationships are for (besides having kids). Since I've seen and been in so many mediocre-to-far-less-than-mediocre relationships, it's taken a long time to create any kind of "Vision." Because without a vision, my life is nothing more than an inflatable raft being thrust about the sea in a storm. And Other People's Opinions or what other people think I should do because it justifies the decisions they've made in their own life, are the waves that crash down on me with giant loads of guilt and shame.

I know what I don't want in a relationship.

List of What I Don't Want in a Relationship

1) A son.
2) A father.
3) A pet.
4) A siamese twin.
5) A babysitter.
6) An accessory.
7) A stand-up comic.
8) An encyclopedia.
9) A movie critic.
10) A TV guide.

It really goes beyond the limits of even my own imagination, to be perfectly honest. An adult relationship between two people, free of any need for manipulation, or expectations to conform to a rigid list of behavior patterns, based on free will, grounded in reality and the mutual desire to shoot for every type of expansion possible in life (material, spiritual, emotional, etc.) It's really a lot to heap on anyone. But it's too late to go back. It's sort of like what my father used to say about powder snow. Once he got a taste of it, he couldn't go back to skiing on ice and slush. He would just rather not ski at all.

Similarly, I just can't do the old dance routines anymore without large doses of irony.

Just for today, I have a kind of a vision for a relationship.

I spent the other day with my mom, having lunch, going shopping, before we picked up my sister from school. She took one look at me and said, "Why do you have all of those black things in your teeth?" I looked in the mirror and, sure enough, there couldn't possibly be more black peppercorns in my teeth. It looked almost like I had holes in my teeth. So, I immediately asked my mom why she let me walk around all day looking like that and she replied, "Because I didn't want to embarrass you." As if walking around with black peppercorns all over my teeth is without embarrassment. As if walking around town with someone (let alone your off spring) with food in their teeth is without embarrassment. Unconditional love can indeed sometimes go too far.

To this day, real friends let me know when I have food in my teeth. I don't care how bad the damage is, just let me know....please!

It started out simply enough, he was like "Yar, I'll be pulling into the dock by your apartment, so how about we go git some grub." So I was like, "Ok, that's cool...just try to scale down the outfit and leave the eye patch and sword at home." So we go to a local Sushi place and he immediately pipes in with, "I think our children should be home schooled." What?! Dude, I agreed to go out with you because you're a pirate. That means you're out on the open seas the majority of the time, not available for a committed relationship. And then he's like, "Well, I've worked through a lot of stuff in therapy and am ready to create space for a loving, intimate connection with another human being...yar." He even said that he's willing to sell his ship and go apply for a job at Disneyland or Vegas, or as an extra in a movie. (But I know that he'll never take in as much as he would as a pirate...material girl that I am). So, I finally had to tell him that I was in over my head, and was not ready for that kind of relationship. He seemed to take it OK, but as we were getting ready to leave he pulled a small knife on the waiter for taking so long with the bill. I guess I had a lot of preconceived notions about pirates, but I now see that even they have needs.

Just for today, I can accept pirates as multi-dimensional human beings.