I spent the morning sitting next to Evil Flash Programmer for moral support while he hacked away at his Evil Flash Code. I have no idea what he's doing, but my job is to display the requisite amount of hysteria when things get too calm. I'm quite sure he wants me dead at this point. However, a death threat from Evil Flash Programmer is like an eyelash falling on my toe, so I'm not too worried (I'll just make sure somebody walks me to my car). One things fo sho - nobody can accuse the Middle Class White Man of not working hard enough...

One thing I've realized throughout this whole (hellacious) process of managing The Project is that my aversion to responsibility is totally justified. Who needs this kind of stress?! I don't.

Just for today, I'm really tired.

I went home to visit family and friends this weekend and ended up going out to dinner two nights in a row with two separate Couple Friend(s) (are they units?). On BOTH occasions, my Couple Friend(s) pulled the ole Secret Blind Date stint, characterized beautifully on the first episode of Sex and the City (LOVE THAT SHOW!), by busting out with a Surprise Mystery Guest (who happens to be male and single) and not telling me till the last possible moment (as in, the second I arrived at the house/restaurant)...ok, so, uh, no weirdness here...(did I mention this happened two nights in a row?!)...

With all due respect to my beloved Friend(s), whatever happened to the Awkward Third Wheel Dinner Date? It used to be cool (or maybe just in my head) for me to hang out with my girlfriend and her husband/boyfriend, or my girlfriend and guyfriend (who are now equally friends of mine because after he moved to Pheonix she and I hung out), without a sorta-date hanging around. Is my single company so loathsome to my Couple Friend(s) that they must scramble through their index of Single Guy Friends just to share some cider and fried calamari (or Pinot and Herb Chicken)? I have to say, in regards to these fine young men, I was not the picture of open-mindedness...about as open as the book of Wordsworth poems from college that decorates my bookshelf and that I cracked maybe once in fifteen years (I took the class because poems are short...FYI: "Romantic" poetry is not about love, but blades of grass, streams, and repressed male homosexual longings...so boring...). In other words, at one point, my one engaged friend leaned over said, "You just don't seem like you're looking for a relationship..."

Did I mention that I hate being set up?

Just for today, I can have dinner with Couple Friend(s), and their Single Male Friends.

Evil Flash Programmer and I exchanged "words" this morning in the kitchen (I was scrounging around for some oatmeal in a kitchen filled with everything but...) when he called my most recent schedule for The Project a "fantasy" schedule. Needless to say, I didn't respond well to this. He later told me that he was just "teasing." I told him that he shouldn't "tease" me about things that cause me back pain and could cost me my job. He eventually apologized (so evil) and asked me what I would give for some oatmeal. I offered $1, at which point he pulled some Quaker Instant Oatmeal Express from the supply closet (as if I couldn't walk into the supply closet and find my own damn oatmeal) and told me he would give it to me for $1 worth of patience. I agreed (because I really wanted that oatmeal) and now I'm doling out my patience in $.05 increments until The Project is completed and I can retreat to a chiropractor's office. However, at the end of the day Evil Flash Programmer did say that I had spent $1.00 and that The Project is on schedule...

Just for today, I can be patient at work.

I just got back from the Farmer's Market and am filled with high-minded, judgmental, moral disgust with the vibe of Casual Glamour (have all the hippy's been exterminated from Santa Monica?) that hangs over what was originally intended to be an earthy place to buy produce. You would think that these women were born with self-pedicuring toes and it was a child's birth right to have an air-conditioned stroller and organic arugula (do babies really need lettuce anyway?). They could at least give it up once in a while for all the Vietnamese pedicurist and El Salvadorian nannies who hold their world together like the crazy glue on my tore-up salsa shoes...(sigh). I think everyone needs to get over themselves (including myself).

Just for today, I'm annoyed.

A few months I ago I became friends with Super Precise Salsero who, after the initial honeymoon phase of dancing together, decided that he needed to help me with my direly needed salsa edu-ma-cation (he and Salsa Guru both). It was all good at first because I try to be open to critique, but after a certain point it became a dysfunctional relationship. Nothing I did could please him. I couldn't "get it" (stay on the beat to his satisfaction) and he couldn't accept the white girl in me who still listens to the Immaculate Collection (not that I'm ashamed of my love for Madonna). After one particularly hellacious dance, we decided to have an amicable salsa divorce (in the middle of the song...so embarrassing). However, with time and space we both realized that maybe we should give this dance relationship another shot. He's a good guy and a great dancer, definitely not a Fellini Character [my friend calls odd weird salsa guys F.O.F.'s (Fellini On the Floor)]. Now we're like a divorced couple staying together for the kids (salsa), he keeps his mouth shut and I count like a mofo. If I screw up, he smiles politely and says nothing, because forgetting to close the refrigerator is not such a big deal (have I wrung this metaphor dry?)...

Just for today, I can dance with Super Precise Salsero.

Last night, a girl at the salsa club had a seizure and they stopped the music (literally), cleared the room and called an ambulance. After the drama died down (the girl was fine), it was business as usual and the DJ commanded us to come back in and dance like we were kids in grade school being directed back to class after a fire drill...those salseros are so serious...(I was the first one back on the dance floor).

Salsa Guru has given his stamp of approval on my recent wardrobe purchases. I informed him that it's not hard to build a good salsa wardrobe since salsa clothes seem to fall in the under $20 Marshall's/Ross bucket. If it's something you wouldn't be caught dead in at work (or even around work people) or that a 13-year-old girl without proper parenting would cherish, it's appropriate salsa gear...slutty, flashy, cheezeball...

Salsa Guru did offer some hope in the Relentless Salsero School of Dancing Philosophy (all men dance salsa to get girls in bed) when he told me that as salseros improve they take a stronger interest in dancing (than in women) and adopt a, "Let them come to me..." attitude. I told him most guys seem to think they're already there...

Just for today, I am a salsa addict.

Whenever I feel really depressed I wonder...were a life something we could buy as a package at a store (from birth to death) would mine sit on the discount shelf for an eternity? More importantly, what store would carry it? (silly question...Targae, of course.) Taking into consideration the true ingredients that make a quality life (a strong sense love and belonging, self-esteem, faith, peace), I think the lives that get the most attention (Donald Trump, Angelina Jolie, Britney Spears...whoever people talk about...) would probably be sitting next to the dysfunctional ash trays at the 99 cent store in front of the lady who talks to herself about scouring pads. The lives of who some might call "oppressed peoples," or people who drool on themselves (because public drooling requires a great sense of security...am I going to go to hell for writing this?) would be found at Bloomingdale's and Barney's. The lives of women with no facial expressions and giant Mercedes Benz purses might probably be found at Sav-On (a more expensive Target) or even Smart and Final (again, not cheap)...and so on and so on...

I might have overstated my point (you think?), which is that in my older age I envy not those with more expensive crap, but those who have some personal peace.

Just for today, I have too much time on my hands.

Yesterday, an honest mistake turned into a web of lies when I started the wash without realizing that someone's clothes were still in there. My choices were to let the wash run through again and tell her about my mistake, or wring them out, stick them in the dryer, and hope she never noticed. A mature person would be honest and the experience would be an opportunity for bonding with a neighbor around our mutual humanity, but living in chronic fear and anxiety as I do, I panicked and did the latter. What resulted was a conversation in which I listened to and commiserated with her concerns about how the machines must be broken (why else would her laundry be wet?) and said things like, "...must be buggy...do you want any quarters? (desperate plea to ease my guilt)...anything I can do?" I'm generally compulsively honest about my mistakes, but this one involved a whole cover-up scheme that I just couldn't process, let alone explain to a neighbor I've said little more than "hello" to, on a Saturday morning...(sigh). Evil Flash Programmer would be proud.

In case you're wondering why I would write about this for the whole world (and possibly Washing Machine Lady) to read, I'll just say that after four years of blogging what I've learned is that unless someone is my friend or relative (more likely) or a spammer (Asian Porn, Mature Blond Cunt...I know they read my blog) most people have better things to do than read about my neuroses (unless I beg and plead)...

Just for today, I can blog honestly about my duplicity.

Today was a test of my ability to practice grace under pressure amidst some high-drama stress and mucho chaos (I had to hunt one person down in the bathroom and call people back from their lunch break...I would hate me, too). I told Evil Flash Programmer that I'm starting my drinking problem at Hip Graphic Designer's barbeque next weekend. He thinks it's high time already, since I'm all talk and no action (except for 4th of July...).

I've heard it said that if it weren't for deadlines, nothing would get done...but does that include the addiction created by the deadline?

Just for today, I can function under pressure (at whatever cost to my body, mind, and spirit).

After Salsa Guru told me that he thought I was dressed like a "grandma" a few weeks ago, I had to re-evaluate my relationship to the traditional Latina sexy outfit. At best, salsa clothes are a celebration of female sexuality. At worst, a vomitous explosion of rhinestone, sequins, and lace on a scanty piece fabric that you gotta own like there's no tomorrow if you want to pull it off. Without the right attitude, one can very well end up looking like the fashion equivalent of plastic covered furniture in a room filled with chotchkies and lace doilies (possibly charming in an unintentional way, but not quite the goal in mind...). Without the right mixture of subtlety and confidence (not to mention quality dancing), an outfit can go from fabulous to tacky in the amount of time it takes a balloon to deflate when it's let loose from a helium tank. In the end, I realize that it's all in the woman and not the clothes, but in the time in between (because we all have our off nights), there is the obsessive search for the perfect salsa outfit (which doesn't exist). The tank top that felt totally sexy and fabulous one night, may feel dated a week later. The glitter dress that I hated, could suddenly provide the right hint of cheezy Forever 21 glamour. And while salsa clothes tend to come from the sales rack (they will be drenched in sweat) there is the occasional night where you want to stave off that cheap-o vibe and own something semi-quality.

Just for today, I can shop for salsa clothes.

I told Evil Flash Programmer that it took me a year to realize the extent of his evilness and he's lucky about that because his friendship is a rare exception to my anti-evil policy. He went on to say that he married his wife because she has chosen to be with him despite his inherent evilness. I responded that that's what all married men say and that's probably why I'm not married (that and the fact that I'm not sure I want to see the same person every day...)...

Just for today, I can be honest with my friend, Evil Flash Programmer.

I celebrated the 4th of July at a party that was a throwback to my college days. At least, I acted like a freshman at her first keg party...with slightly less dignity. I'm not someone who believes that drinking and dancing mix, (because I take my salsa very seriously and it's really hard to spin with a buzz), but as soon as I caught glimpse of the porta-potties, kegs, and make-shift backyard dance floor that was soon sardine-packed with people, I realized that this was no regular salsa night...That combined with the fact that in the past week at least five people have told me that I seem to stressed out and need to loosen up, led to a night that may just be the beginning of my long overdue drinking problem. I have to say, in my stressed-out, over-worked, over-shopped, over-salsa-ed mode, I had totally lost touch with the beauty of getting wasted. Not to mention, I get why people drink and dance. It may not look good, but it's way too much fun...

However, the night did not come without collateral damage, which included: even more trashed salsa shoes (don't ask me why I walked home in them), one even more bruised toe (the same injured toe got nailed four times), the loss of my cute little jacket (my boss said that you know you had a good time when you lose something...), some grains of dignity (at this point, I don't care...besides, does dignity come in grains?), and a lot of inappropriate comments that I hope people were too drunk to remember (I told Relentless Salsero what I call him...he doesn't seem to mind, but he is changing his tactic and claiming that he was joking all along...whateva!).

Just for today, I am free to act like a twenty-year-old.

I've been in a salsa slump. It happens. Nothing in life can remain consistently awesome. Here are the signs:

1) Not feeling salsa-y (Salsa Guru told me that I was dressed like a "Grandma" on Saturday night...)
2) I spend my Ladies' Stylin' opportunity trying to mitigate my eternal wardrobe malfunctions (making sure top covers boobs, bra isn't at my waist, etc.).
3) Experiencing "who cares?" vibe.
4) Being drenched in sweat no longer feels sexy, but a sign that I have some kind of glandular problem.
5) Losing all sense of social decorum in declining unappealing dance offers ("Are you @#$ kidding me?!")
6) Rather than be inspired by awesome dancers, I wonder how they keep their hair in such a perfect bun (anything I put in my hair flies out at some mysterious moment).

Just for today, I can have a salsa slump.