I celebrated my three-day weekend by breaking down and buying a pair of capri pants with the ties at the bottom. I had no choice...literally. I couldn't find any other types of pants in the stores! Why do Americans insist on wearing uniforms that match their racial/socio-economic demographic? It was fascinating in Australia to see stores that sold different styles of clothes, guided by the groundbreaking concept that perhaps people want to look different from their friends and family. It's fine for 12-year-old girls to look like clones of each other, but God help me if I'm aspiring to imitate a Gap ad at 32 (which is why I refused to ever do the Ug boots/skirt deal.)

I was told this weekend that I am beginning to look like a grown-woman, which is a relief because judging by my slightly latent maturity, I was starting to fear that I would end up like one of those fifty-something women who wear barrets in their hair. (note to self: don't do the pony tail thing...). I'm all for capitalism and fashion, but as in everything...I just want some choices.

Just for today, I'm irritated by shopping in LA.

Please note: I am aware that my chronic ruminations on relationships is turning my blog into a venue for maudlin whining and that there are other things besides my lack of a personal life worthy of comment (Prison scandal in Iraq? The new Al Gore?). But, just bear with me...(for today).

At one point in the blur of days that qualifies as my life, I had an on-again, off-again boyfriend. It was dysfunctionally perfect for about a year, until, at one off-again point, he decided to go and get a full-time girlfriend. The nerve! So insensitive. Just because someone tells you that they want to end communication entirely is no reason to shut the door on a relationship. But I guess he wasn't as studied in the language of indirectness as I am. Of course, in retrospect, I realized that he was GREAT, and that I was living on Planet Stupid (why is the word "stupid' so funny to me lately?) and that I had totally *&@ up and taken for granted a warm, loving man because I had projected onto him all the negative stereotypes of men I had accumulated in my many lifetimes. I decided to see the relationship as a rare working heater or furnace in the snow storm of my life.

Anyway, I started having dreams about him and in one dream his new girlfriend actually came into my house and told me to turn off the HEATER (this is the honest to God truth!). Won't need a shrink to interpret that dream!

Just for today, I accept that my dreams leave no room for interpretation.

The good thing about remaining forever clueless about relationships (i.e., single) is that I can safely stand in judgment of all relationships and annoy my married friends with my little theories founded on irritating self-help books on dating and relationship. Even though I am convinced that these books are written by a bunch of silly sillies who secretly wish they could write Dr. Seuss-style poetry about blue fish and androgynous beings with big feet, but have settled for dissertations on "I feel" statements in faithless resignation, I read them in the hopes of finding a full-proof way to find a relationship that doesn't require me to freeze-frame myself (cuz that's tiring).

Some of these books seem to side with Pat Benatar's 80's hit "Love is a Battlefield." Those books contend that we are destined to find someone who matches our own drama like a lock and key, so we can "work through our issues", and if you happened to be raised by the anti-christ...well, then that's a bummer. Then there is the school of "Calling in The One" which says that we can actually find "The One" with whom love will be a towering blossom of peace and tranquility, and the reason you haven't found it yet is because you're not yet a towering blossom of peace and tranquility yourself.

None of these books say that I'll manifest a relationship by eating lots of red vines while watching Shrek II, but I'm keeping the faith...

Just for today, I accept my cluelessness about relationships.

I just read somewhere that it's "disturbing for women to hold onto the dewey beauty of their early 20's"....hmmm, I had not thought of that time of my life as a period of high-ranking beauty, quite frankly. Unless you consider bad eyebrows, weird fashion sense, and a general disconnection from most forms of joy, attractive. Sure, some young angry men and creepy older men, apparently, did. Ok, so maybe it was the dewey skin that framed my deer-in-the-headlights-I-have-no-clue-whatsoever exression (though, truth be told, my skin has always been kind of dry). I just wouldn't get too nostalgic about a time when I had a negative emotional IQ and was impressed by guys who openly admitted to loving porn and hating their mothers in equal measure (though, let's face it, where would the porn industry be without guys who hated their mothers?). Am I missing something? Cuz all I have to say is thank God for time passing. The only thing I'm holding onto from my early twenties is a dresser that I bought at a yard sale and that conveniently fits in my closet, my Thelma n' Louise poster, and my first garbage can (which has to be symbolic of something...though, what, I don't know.)

Just for today, I am grateful to be older.

My social life fell to record-breaking lows the other night when I found myself eating an In-n-Out Burger in my car in the parking lot in front of my ATM machine. It all came about in a perfectly logical way. I was hungry, had just worked out, In-n-Out was close, I was low on cash, and, because I was low on cash, needed to go to the ATM. But the actual manifestation of it all was so far from everything I aspire to in my personal life that it felt like the gods wept in pity (though I don't need anyone's pity…at least not yet). It's one thing to eat alone in my apartment where no one can see me watching "The Bachelor" (boy, that show is so-scripted) and checking my e-mail for the 30th time that day. But 1) eating in my car; 2) food that cost under $5.00 (I don't care how Christian and pious the owners of In-n-Out are); and 3) while looking over my shoulder for both the threat and company of some would-be ATM lurker, made my aloneness a little too freakishly public. Newsflash for me: we are social animals. Definitely time to sound the alarms.

A woman told me yesterday that the happy-n'-single state to seriously-ready-to-squeeze-out-the-puppies state can "turn on a dime." That dime did an instant flip when I realized that if I inserted a couple of kids, my parking lot/In-n-Out experience would feel more fun-loving (hell, another warm body would feel more fun-loving.) Please note: when I was in my twenties, I thought women who wrote and talked about this wanted a family needed to Get A Life...(times change after I differentiated...more on that later).

Just for today, I am over the single life.

It occurred to me in a moment of clarity that I have never experienced as much peace from detaching with love, or loving my enemy as I have from telling my enemy to #*@! off AND THEN loving him/her from the safe distance of total absence from my life. I just think there is a big giant chunk of information missing in the new age patter on how to conduct human relationships in a society where the government can't even come up with a logical sounding lie to justify unfathomable acts of aggression for...(still not sure). I guess it just doesn't sound very evolved to publish a book called "The Language of Telling People to #*@ Off." And this is where I envy mafia men (minus the whole violence and corruption thing) because there's no confusion about boundaries (from what I've gleaned from TV, movies, and DeNiro's work). You're either in or you're out. It gives me a feeling of peace that hundreds hours of therapy, meditation, yoga, and organic food have yet to produce.

Just for today, I can let go of resentment in my own (somewhat twisted) way.

Welcome to my new redesigned blog page! Talk about stressful! This application sure isn't for those challenged in reading manuals and directions! Thanks to Jared Planas for having the patience to figure out issues while I tore my hair out.

Just for today, I can be grateful for awesome friends who don't cry when faced with technical challenges, but meet them with loving patience.

I would just like to thank the producers of "The Swan" for setting the women's movements so far back it resembles the time when the earth was just a steamy rock of volcanic ash and two micro organisms made love by a river of hot lava. At least in times past, corsets and chastity belts could be removed in privacy, and if a man inserted a knife into a woman's body it was still considered an act of punitive violence and not an action for which a woman would well up with tears of gratitude and think that she was "finally, doing something for herself." I'm all for hanging out at the Prescriptives make-up counter with the 18-year-old girls who lecture me in earnestness about warm and cold tones, and I'm all over the Victoria Secret semi-annual bra sale, and there are times when I regret the purchase of Trader Joe's chile-lime chips (though not many), but if I ever let a man or woman pick at me like an ice sculpture or mold me like a pile of play-dough, please someone call the paramedics. I'd rather be a squishy ball of laugh lines and cellulite, than a walking, glossy, heavily medicated art project by some porn-addict who still has issues with his mother. (Please note: when I said I wanted to thank the producers, I was being sarcastic.)

Just for today, I can feel angry at the mysoginy in reality TV.

Many years ago (when I was more clueless and far less fabulous) I asked an older married woman if it was alright that I never offered to foot the bill on dates. She looked at me with compassionate condescension and said, "Kiddo, that's a date. A date is as follows: he asks you out and he pays." And then she went off about flying on a Concorde and other fabulousness that I hope to one day experience before I'm married or too squishy to make any kind of dating seem glamorous (though like Gloria Steinem, I plan to be sexy till I hit 70...at which point I say enough is enough!). Anyway, this woman was happy to support my habit of mooching off poor schlubs who asked me out thinking they might get some play (more on that later).

A few years ago, my aunt, who is a self-made millionaire and who never married or had children, and who goes helicopter skiing after work, found my whole dating philosophy bizarre and foreign, and ultimately, irrelevant. "Why don't you just split it 50/50, or whoever makes more money pays a little more?" Another valid point.

OK, enter me, age 32. At some point in time, I hope to see my body enter a process of distortion and uncontrollable growth known as pregnancy. After the lucky suckers come sloshing out of me (forever distorting my vagina), I vow to work with mind, body and soul to be the best madre humanly possible. Due to advances in self-esteem, I know I will be. Therefore, in exchange for an invitation by an eligible Hombre to coffee, a meal, or ticket for passage on glamorous modes of transport, I will consider the possibility of bearing his child. I do this without guilt or self-doubt or great philosophical questioning of feminism and the state of contemporary women's roles (note to self: research stats on salaries of female CEOs)...because I know that unless there are GIANT leaps in biotechnology, my children will be sloshing out of MY VAGINA and not HIS VAGINA.

If such advances emerge, I vow to restructure dating plan.

Just for today, I feel secure in the logic detailing my dating boundaries.

Name: Stella

Age: Forty minus eight in counting (32)

Relationship Status: Techincally Single (Currently separated from endless pattern of nebulous, ill-defined relationships)

Food Choice: Anything that will clear sinuses

Previous Occupation: Unpaid Professional

Residence: Mac OS 10

Phone: Purposely Unlisted (formerly the number of celebrated gay male escort Dean Cooper...please see web site for new listing).

Font Family: Comic Sans MS, Courier New

Five Year Plan: Shed the last vestiges of fear and guilt so as to better chanel love and hope into our disconnected society...then I want to have a couple of kids. Manifest money, house, relationship, travel, and unawavering love with powerful vision board made out of pictures cut out from magazines.

Have you every been arrested?: Not in my skill set.

Special Skills: Guessing at content of Korean e-mails, catching grapes and M & M's in my mouth, singing office Karaoke quietly enough so as not to disturb office-mates.

Just for today, I can fill out applications honestly.

When I was in my phase of reading formulaic dating books (written by people who whose lives are apparently lived north of the cerebellum), I made many lists about what I wanted in a partner that included things like:

Attractive
Educated
Financially Stable
Family Values
And Blah, Blah, Blah, Boring, Boring, Boring

Many of these lists amounted to the creation of a very nice nice male robot. Throw in a sense of humor and I could have a nice witty robot. What ever happened to coziness? None of those books every discuss the importance general cozinesss, of a good relationship turning you into all the things you want in another. The truth is I've seen cozier reality television shows and happier Iraqui prisoners than certain attractive, educated, financially stable people with family values in bad relationships.

I'm so over image I think I'm going to have to move to a tropical country, and live in a hut and fish for my food (not true, I still get my eyebrows done and wear Prescriptives Exact Matchstick Warm Buff 14...so worth the $40).

Just for today, I accept and value the importance of coziness in a relationship.

Since I've taken enough antibiotics to turn my blood into astringent, I am now relegated to scouring the Internet for strange cures for sinus infections from the frightening depths of cyberspace. Yesterday, I irrigated my sinuses with a remedy that some guy in Spokane swears by and another sinus sufferer from Taos claims causes brain damage. I'm trying it out because anything is better than feeling like my brain is floating in a swimming pool, and nothing is less attractive than beginning my conversations with "My sinuses..." One thing I've discovered is that the Internet is a fabulous place to find bizarre home remedies concocted by people who believe that all we need to cure any disease is hydrogen peroxide, acetyl alcohol, baking soda, and quetips. Accordingly, all other treatments are ploys on the part of the pharmaceutical companies. There are many sites that swear that, if used properly, hydrogen peroxide could cure cancer, AIDs, and broken hearts. Not bad for $.50 a bottle.

Just for today, I say screw doctors and put my health in the hands of the Internet.

According to some sources, we are all concentrated points of energy that have slowed down enough to become solid physical matter (think about how H20 can be air, mist, water, or ice cubes) and no matter whether we live or die, breathe or not, we will always be some version of that energy. (We can be ice cubes or a cloud.) Hence, there is no death and all illness is an illusion because we can consciously change that state of energy with our minds by taking away our belief in it (I think)....So, why isn't this helping me kick out a sinus infection? I tried believing that my blocked sinuses were an illusion created by my mind and it worked fine up until the caffeine and Codeine wore off, and then my head started to feel not only very real, but like the most real part of my whole life.

Another metaphysical perspective espouses that we get sick to call attention to certain parts of our lives and that we can learn from our illnesses where we are blocked emotionally or spiritually. So, maybe my sinuses can't separate O2 from all the pollen and pollutants in the air because I can't sort out of healthy people from the ones who suck me dry.

Other sources say that we can heal our bodies by sending love to the parts that are sick. "Listen, sinuses, I know that I live in the city of Los Angeles and not in some pristine moutain top, but cut me some slack here because I really do appreciate how well you do your job and keep oxygen flowing in my veins (is that how it works? I'm not really sure), but I promise to pay more attention to you from here on out."

Just for today, I can use metaphysical ideas to kick the sinusitis.

When I find myself whistling "I'm All Out of Love," by Air Supply it's a good sign that my love life is on the downswing. Conversely, I know things are good in that department when I'm humming "I Never Knew Love This Before" by Stephanie Mills. I know that I'm not really having fun talking to someone when I have "Should I Stay or Should I Go" by the Clash in my head. I know I'm feeling inspired and healthy when I burst out "I Sing the Body Electric" in my car. And I know I'm at work doing web design when I'm belting out "Dreamweaver" (which happens about once a week).
I know I'm feeling guilty when I find myself singing the version of the "Our Father" that I learned from Sister Anne when I was seven. It goes, "...and lead us not into tempta-a-tion, but de-liver us from E-e-vil." We had to sing the word "Evil" over and over again to get the notes right. In the end, it sort of seemed like a song about Evil, but almost in a way that made Evil sound good. Especially when sung by a bunch of seven-year-olds about to make their first communion. Twenty-five years later I still can't get the lyrical sound of the word "Evil" out of my head.

Just for today, I can pay attention to the songs that the voices in my head are singing.

Watching that much (7-8 hours) of Sex and the City really drummed into my
head how much pressure Society puts on women to get married. It's such a
big deal for a woman in her thirties to be unmarried that it's worthy of six
whole seasons!

There's a line in the fourth season when Carrie is engaged to Aidan and she's telling everyone about her fears and doubts and Charlotte tells Carrie that all brides-to-be feel scared, and Carrie says, "why don't they speak up?"

It made me realize that none of my friends who are married ever expressed any fears or doubts about marriage. And that's kind of scary to me. (So are "perfect" relationships where no one argues, those are really scary...) Just like it's OK for men to be competitive or ambitious, it's OK for them to show fear of commitment...but the women I know act like it's an afront to their choice of partners, to not seem wildly happy (and maybe it is). It's scary because it's all going to hit the fan once the placenta hits the floor and they are overwhelmed with post-partum depression (otherwise known as, Not Getting Out Any Time Soon). Not me. I'd rather have mild depression along the way. That way I know it's real life. But my friends insist on being happy. I guess they aren't as comfortable with an outward display of bitterness as I am. It's probably not very ladylike. I have dated a few men who would find it more attractive if I didn't feel the need to express myself quite so much. And I do fear sometimes that my having an active mind whose thoughts I can't stop myself from communicating, automatically disqualified me from more than one marriage pools (and much polite society...hence the blog...but I digress again!)

The truth is, for many years, pregnant women made me nauseated, weddings gave me IBS (sans an open bar), and women with toddlers looked like they may as well be behind bars. Now it all looks vaguely tolerable. I've got a little further to go to get to desirable. And that's the troof. Thank you S.I.T.C. Without your wonderful episodes I wouldn't be so conscious of how programmed I am by this country led by white Christian freaks! Thank you Samantha for showing me how repressed I am! Thank you Miranda for being a great mirror to my bitterness! Thanks Carrie for being one of the only other women I know who expresses ambivalence about marriage! Thanks Charlotte for showing me how empty the marriage fantasy is (though I pretty much already knew).

Thank God for the gay men who created Sex and the City...(I know there were wonderful women writers on the show, but it does seem that penises and creative control go hand in hand - so to speak).

Just for today, I am grateful for Sex and the City.

If there's one thing I've learned from watching the entire second and fourth season of Sex and the City in one sitting, it's this: Mr. Big is already outdated (for me). Just like my G3 PowerBook (same one as Carrie's), and all technology, male archetypes (or stereotypes) evolve constantly and the whole big business, cigars, limos, and commitmentphobia, just kind of reeks of the late 90's, early 00's. Maybe he just wasn't that original to begin with, or isn't my "type." Or maybe I have my own experiences with guys who made mucho dinero but who had yet to build any substantial personal value system that makes a guy a Man. So if money, arrogance, and emotional unavailability aren't attractive to me, I guess I will give the Carrie/Mr. Big relationship points for good sexual chemistry, but....really, would that carry six whole seasons and an ongoing relationship in TV Land?

I think the truth is that I don't find jerks attractive anymore. Horay, for me, but since I live through the lives of fictitious television characters, I wish Carrie had ended up with Aiden or Berger.

Just for today, I can find nice guys attractive and not see the big deal in Mr. Big.